a dash from diamond city, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ the setting is south africa, during the boer war. two young men are sent from mafeking with important despatches which they have to get back to the general at kimberley, travelling through boer-occupied country, and meeting with many mishaps. just before they finally arrive they are both severely wounded, and are unconscious for a fortnight. luckily the despatches, which had been sewn into a jacket, now filthy and blood-stained, are still to be found, though there had been the idea that the jacket would most probably have been thrown away, as it wasn't at first anywhere to be found. there are other threads in the story, for instance there's one about illicit-diamond-dealing, and of course we meet boers and kaffirs, as well as english people. there is the usual well-written sequence of tense moments we get from this author. a good read, and a nice audiobook if you prefer that. nh ________________________________________________________________________ a dash from diamond city, by george manville fenn. chapter one. three white ones. tick, _tap, tap_--_tap, ticker_--_ticker--tapper_--_tapper_; _tick_--_teck, tacker--tap_ went a typewriting machine, and _scratch_--_scratch_ went two pens, in one of the minor offices connected with that vast wealth-producing industry known as the de beers diamond-mines, where, seated at desk and table, three young men were hard at work, one manipulating the typewriter, one writing a letter, and the third making entries in a fat leather-covered book with broad bands and a big letter distinguishing it upon the back. the words: "minor office in a diamond-mine," naturally suggest wealth, turkey carpets, french-polished furniture, and plate-glass; but the office in question was an example of simplicity, for its walls were mud and its roof corrugated-iron, while the roughness of the interior was only slightly softened down by a lining of what a carpenter calls matchboarding. in spite of its vast wealth, kimberley is still little better than a moving camp, and holds out few prospects of ever becoming a magnificent town. the interior of that newly-created office, allowing for the tapping of the typewriter and the scratching of the pens, was very quiet; but outside there was the strange sound produced by the mingling of voices with trampling feet and the distant whirr and rattle of machinery, till a clock began striking, followed by the clangour of a bell, and then all was changed. "time!" shouted the manipulator of the typewriter, springing from his stool to stretch his wiry six feet of length, at the same time spoiling a keen, manly face by distorting it with a yawn. the clerk who had been bending over the thick account-book ceased making entries, applied the blotting-paper, and closed the book with a bang, to turn round and display a pink-and-white, fat, smooth face, disfigured by nearly white eyebrows and lashes and curly whitey-brown hair. as he stood up he yawned and wrinkled his fat face a good deal; but the wrinkles died down into a smile which gave him a meek and mild appearance, the said smile being doubled directly after by his taking a little round shaving-glass out of his desk, propping it up by means of a contrivance behind, and then, by the help of a pocket-comb, proceeding to rearrange his hair, which, from the resistance offered, appeared to be full of knots and kinks. the last to leave his desk was a manly-looking young fellow who appeared to be twenty, but who possessed documentary evidence that he was only eighteen. he neither stretched nor yawned, but drew himself up with a sigh of relief, and, after carefully locking up the letters he had written, he turned to the typist. "going out, ingleborough?" he said. "yes; i shan't be long. i must go on to the compound. back in--" "five minutes?" dashed in his questioner. "no; that i shan't," said the young man smartly; "but i will not exceed fifteen. get out my rifle and belts, west." "all right," was the reply, and as the door closed the young clerk crossed to a plain deal cupboard in the corner of the office, threw open the broad door, and revealed an arms-rack with some twenty of the newest-pattern rifles standing ready for use, and bayonets and bandoliers to match each breech-loading piece. a peculiarly innocent baby-like look came over his companion's face as he opened his desk and took out a little flat oblong mahogany case and said softly: "going to play at soldiers again? only to think of oliver west, esquire, learning to shoulder arms and right-about face when a drill-sergeant barks at him." "look here, anson," cried the young fellow warmly; "is that meant for a sneer?" "me sneer?" protested the plump-looking cherubic clerk. "oh dear, no! i never indulge in sneers, and i never quarrel, and i never fight." "humph!" ejaculated the rifle-bearer. "i only think it's all braggadocio nonsense for a lot of fellows to go wasting time drilling and volunteering when they might acquire such an accomplishment as this." as the speaker addressed his warlike companion he tapped the lid of his case, opened it, and revealed three joints of a flute lying snugly in purple-velvet fittings, and, taking them out, he proceeded to lick the ends all round in a tomcat sort of way, and screwed them together, evidently with a great deal of satisfaction to himself, for he smiled softly. "bah! it's a deal more creditable to be prepared to defend the place against the boers. better join us, anson." "me? no, thank you, unless you start a band and make me bandmaster." "we shall want no music," said west, laughing. "the boers will give us plenty of that with their guns." "nonsense! it's all fudge," said the flautist, smiling. "there'll be no fighting, and even if there were i'm not going to shoulder a rifle. i should be afraid to let it off." "you?" cried west, staring into the smooth, plump face. "why, you once told me you were a first-rate shot." "did i? well, it was only my fun," said the clerk, placing his flute to his lips and beginning to run dumb scales up and down, skilfully enough as to the fingering, but he did not produce a sound. "i say, don't you begin to blow!" cried west, looking rather contemptuously at the musician and forcing himself to restrain a laugh at the grotesque round face with the eyes screwed-up into narrow slits. "oh, no one will come here now," was the reply. "i get so little practice. i shall blow gently." directly afterwards he began to run up and down, playing through some exercise with which he was familiar extremely softly; and then by way of a change he began what is technically known as "double-tonguing." this was too much for oliver west. he had stood rubbing first one rifle and then the other with a slightly-oiled rag to get rid of specks of rust or dust, every now and then stealing a glance at the absurdly screwed-up face, feeling the while that a good hearty laugh would do him good, but determined to maintain his composure so as not to hurt the performer's feelings. but the double-tonguing was too much. _tootle-too, tootle-too, tootle, tootle-too_ went the performer, running up the gamut till he reached the octave and was about to run down again, but he stopped short, lowered his instrument, and turned from a warm pink to a deep purply crimson, for west suddenly burst out into a half-hysterical roar of laughter, one which he vainly strove to check. "i--i--i--i beg your pardon," he cried at last. "thank you," snorted out anson; "but i don't see anything to laugh at." "i couldn't help it, anson. you did look so--so comic. such a face!" "did i?" cried the musician angrily. "such a face, indeed! you should see your own. your grin looked idiotic: half-way between a bushman and a baboon." "thank you," said west, calming down at once, and feeling nettled in turn. "oh, you're quite welcome," said anson sarcastically. "i have heard about casting pearls before swine; but i never saw the truth of the saying before." "thank you again," said west, frowning. "but if i were you i would not waste any more of my pearls in such company." "i do not mean to," said anson, with his eyes glittering. he got no farther, though he was prepared to say something crushing, for the door was flung open and their fellow-clerk came back quickly. "hullo!" he cried, "flute and hautboy. i say, sim, put that thing away and don't bring it here, or i shall have an accident with it some day. you ought to have stopped him, noll. but come out, both of you. there's some fun in the compound. they're going to thoroughly search half-a-dozen kaffirs, and i thought you'd like to see." "been stealing diamonds?" cried anson excitedly. "suspected," replied ingleborough. "i'll come too," said anson, and he began to rapidly unscrew his flute, but so hurriedly that in place of separating the top joint from the next he pulled it open at the tuning-slide, changed colour, and swung himself round so as to turn his back to his companions, keeping in that position till his instrument was properly separated and replaced in its case, whose lid he closed, and then turned the key. "i'm ready," he cried, facing round and buttoning his jacket over the little mahogany case. "do you take that shepherd's pipe to bed with you?" said ingleborough scornfully. "generally," replied the fat-looking clerk innocently. "you see, it's so nice when one wakes early, and i have learned to blow so softly now that i can often get an hour's practice before i have my morning's bath." "how delightful for the other boarders! you're at dick tomlin's house, aren't you?" "yes," said anson. "have they any room for another boarder, sim?" "i--i really don't know, but i'll ask, if you like, this evening." "no, no; don't, please," cried ingleborough. "perhaps it might be too strong for me. i ought to go through a course of bagpipes first." anson had fastened two buttons of his jacket so as to hold the flute-case from slipping, and now he fastened another button, smiling pleasantly the while. "that's meant for a joke," he said. "quite right," cried ingleborough abruptly. "come along." he stepped out, closely followed by west, and anson called after them: "with you directly," as the door swung to. "don't do that again," whispered west. "what?" "say anything to chaff old anson. did you see how he behaved?" "i saw him smile like a chinese mandarin ornament. that's all." "i saw him smile and look smooth; but he can't bear a joke. his hands were all of a tremble as he buttoned up his jacket, and there was a peculiar look in his eye. it's not good policy to make enemies." "nonsense! he's a poor slack-baked animal. i wonder they ever had him here." west glanced back; but anson had not yet left the office. "relative of one of the directors," said west quickly; "and i've noticed several things lately to make me think he does not like us." "oh, if you come to that," said ingleborough, "so have i. that's quite natural, for we don't like him. one can't; he's so smooth and soft. but why doesn't he come? i'll just give him a minute after we get up to the compound gate, and if he is not there then he'll have to stay outside." "here he comes," cried west, and the next minute their fellow-clerk joined them, just as they got up to a gate in the high fence of the enclosure where the kaffir workers about the diamond-mines were kept to all intents prisoners till they had served the time for which they had engaged. "haven't kept you two waiting, have i?" said anson, with a pleasant smile directed at both. "no, no, all right," replied west, and directly after they were admitted to the compound, just in time to find that half-a-dozen of the stalwart kaffir workers were standing perfectly nude awaiting the examination about to be made by some of the officers--an examination which they seemed to look upon as a joke, for they laughed and chatted together. "looking as innocent as old anson, only not so white," whispered ingleborough. "but we shall see." chapter two. black innocents. the examination of the men was not a pleasant duty, but it was carried out in the most matter-of-fact way by a couple of experienced white men, who began at once. "now, you," cried the one who seemed to be the head; "this way." the big black spoken to stepped forward at once, smiling good-temperedly, and stopped by a heavy wooden stool, upon which he planted a foot, and in obedience to orders separated his toes in turn to show that he had no diamonds hidden between them. then he was seized by the searchers, the first holding the black's head on one side while his companion took hold of the lobe of the right ear and twisted it about, ending by thrusting in a small wooden scoop and afterwards turning it to act as a sound. "don't seem to have a diamond in there," said anson, smiling and looking very innocent, but deeply interested. "turn him over." but the searchers had not waited for anson's words, and were already turning the black's head over, the man yielding himself to every push and thrust, smiling good-humouredly the while, though the treatment was decidedly rough. "nothing in the other ear," said anson, smiling at west. "shouldn't wonder if he's got ever so many tucked in his cheeks, like a monkey pouches nuts." this time it seemed as if the same idea had struck the searchers, for the black was ordered to open his mouth, and a big coarse finger was thrust in, and the interior of the mouth was carefully explored, without result. "here, i know," whispered anson, rubbing his hands together. "oh, the artfulness of the beggar!" "where are they, then, old double-cunning?" cried ingleborough contemptuously. "stuck with gum in amongst his woolly hair--i say, isn't it fun?" "rather disgusting," replied west. "i shouldn't like the job." "oh, i don't know," said anson; "it sets me thinking, and it's interesting. hah! i was right." he stood rubbing his hands together in his childish enjoyment, while one of the searchers carefully passed his hands all over the black's head, but found no small diamonds tangled up amongst the curly little knots of hair. "well, i did think he'd got some there," continued anson.--"oh, of course! one might have guessed it before." this was upon the black's head being forced back a trifle, while a pinch of snuff was blown through a pea-shooter right into the prisoner's nose, making him sneeze violently. but still no diamonds made their appearance, and after a little further search the man was set at liberty, giving place to another supposed culprit. this man came up smiling and confident, opening his mouth wide, to display its state of innocency and a magnificent set of teeth at the same time. "take care! he bites," said ingleborough banteringly; and anson, who had pressed to the front, started back in horror, to be greeted with a burst of laughter. "how fond you are of a joke!" he cried, smoothing his face. at the same moment one of the searchers sent a puff of snuff in the black's face, with the result that he was seized with a violent burst of coughing and sneezing. "two--three--four!" cried anson excitedly, and, springing forward, he picked up three of the diamonds ejected by the black, who, after a little further search, yielded up a couple of very small stones from one ear, and was marched off for punishment. "i do like this!" said anson, rubbing his hands together. "what brutes of thieves they are!" "yes, you ought to take to searching," said west, smiling. "you'd make a capital detective." "think so?" said the young man, growing serious directly. "you're not chaffing me, are you?" "chaffing? not at all! i mean it," replied west. "well, do you know," said anson, in a confidential way, "i don't think i should make a bad one. i know i should like it better than the work i do now. but look what a big strong fellow this one is. i wonder whether he has any." "half-a-dozen, i daresay," said west, looking curiously at another stalwart black, who came forward slowly and unwillingly to take the place of the second man, set aside for punishment. "n-n-no," said anson thoughtfully. "i don't think this one has any." "why?" asked west. "i can't say," replied anson dreamily. "i only know that i don't think he has any." and, as it happened, the most rigid examination failed to discover any of the gems. but, all the same, the culprit was set aside for punishment, two of the watchers present at the examination declaring that they had seen him put his hand to his mouth and swallow something. the next man, upon being summoned to the stool, came up boldly and displayed a child-like eagerness to prove his innocence, opening his mouth widely and passing his fore-fingers round between gums and cheeks, thrusting his little fingers into his ears, and then bending down and going through the motion of one washing his head. but he did not wash any gems out of his shock of little nubbly curls. "no got no dymons, boss," he cried. "me go now, boss?" "no," said the chief searcher sharply. "clap that foot of yours upon the stool." the black stared at him hard and shook his head. "do you hear?" cried the searcher. "clap that right foot upon the stool." the black stared at him vacantly, shook his head again, and turned to the second searcher, who translated the order into the man's own tongue. at this the black smiled and nodded. then, turning to the chief searcher, he placed his bare left foot upon the stool. "no, no: the other," cried the stern official, pointing to the right foot, and the order was emphasised by his assistant. once more the black looked intelligent, placed both his feet upon the ground, changed them several times by shuffling them about, and once more placed his left foot upon the stool. anson chuckled with delight, and turned to west. but this act on the part of the black was too much for the chief searcher's composure. "up with the black scoundrel's foot!" he roared, and his assistant seized the black's ankle, and gave it such a vigorous hoist that the man's equilibrium was upset, so that, though the foot was planted firmly on the stool, he fell over backwards, leaving his support upon the stool, where it was probed by the searchers, who were not at all surprised to find a large stone hidden between the little and the next toe. "there's a blackguard!" cried anson excitedly, turning to his companions. "he ought to be well flogged, and no mistake. well, i never!" the last words were uttered in disgust at the man's behaviour, for he burst into a hearty laugh as if thoroughly enjoying the discovery, professing at the same time to be utterly astonished. "how come there?" he cried. "'tick 'tween um toe--so." he illustrated "so" by stamping his foot down over and over again and raising it up, the last time cleverly picking an ordinary pebble from the ground with his toes, and holding it out as easily as if he had used his fingers and thumb. but his action had no effect upon those around, who were well used to the kaffirs' tricks, and received everything with the grimmest of looks as they passed their prisoner along for punishment, and finally ordered forward the last man. this prisoner took west's attention from the first, for he was a well-built, keenly intelligent-looking fellow, who seemed quite awake to his position and behaved throughout with a calm air of conscious innocence. it struck west, too, that the kaffir kept on gazing very hard at anson, as if attracted by his gently-smiling, innocent-looking face, and as if he were silently pleading to the most amiable-looking personage of the party to intercede for him and save him from punishment. anson, however, did not appear to notice the man's eager looks, being too much interested in the search for illicitly-acquired stones, and eagerly watching every phase of the proceedings, his eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed with pink at every fresh discovery, while he rubbed his hands and looked from one to the other with all the pleasure of some big, fat, stupid child. "now then," cried the chief searcher roughly; "come along." the kaffir quietly submitted to the rough handling he experienced in being forced up to the stool, and, anticipating the order, he opened his mouth; but the under-searcher roughly told him to "shut up," and he closed his fine white teeth with an audible snap, while the search was commenced at his feet, the toes being carefully examined without result. then his closely-knotted hair, which looked as if it would have made, if he were scalped, good trimmings of astrachan wool for the collar and cuffs of an english gentleman's overcoat, was carefully searched by well-trained fingers; the ears were probed and inspected; nostrils searched and given a final wring between thumb and finger as if he were being insulted in old-fashioned style by pulling his nose; and lastly, his cheeks were felt outside and in, and the searchers, who looked puzzled, made the black kneel down and remain for some time in that position, with his mouth wide open and head thrown back so that the sun shone right into his great mouth. "he's all right!" said anson enthusiastically. "you've got the wrong pig by the ear this time. i thought this fellow looked honest." the kaffir darted a grateful look at the speaker, which told plainly enough that he comprehended the words, and anson replied with a smile. "ah, you ought to be on this job, mr anson," said the chief searcher sarcastically. "you'd be invaluable here." anson laughed good-humouredly. "you're bantering," he said; "i know. but i should like it, and i fancy i could find the diamonds quickly enough if a man had hidden any." "find them then now," said the man who had spoken. "come on." there was a general laugh here, in which anson joined. "nay," he said good-humouredly; "get another subject who has some hidden. that chap has none, unless he has swallowed some." "what would you do then, squire?" said the man. "shoot him, and make a _post-mortem_ exam?" "ugh! horrid!" cried anson, with a look of the most intense disgust. "but i say, i mean it. fetch another chap, and let me examine him. i should like to, really." "why don't you search this one?" said ingleborough contemptuously, and west laughed. anson winced and turned upon them half-angrily. but he changed his manner before he had finished speaking, and his face broke up into a broad smile. "because i don't want to be laughed at by you chaps and called a fool," he said. "i'm not stupid enough as it is to believe he has any diamonds hidden." "well, i am," said ingleborough coolly. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed anson mockingly. "you go on with the search then, and find them." "there is no need," said ingleborough coldly; "those two know what they're about." he was wrong in saying "two," for the under-searcher now continued the examination, and anson's eyes were screwed-up and twinkled again upon seeing the man give up at the end of another two minutes and shrug his shoulders. "no go," he said, turning to his companion. "someone has been too clever here." "look again," said his chief. "no: i shan't look any more. i've done." west's eyes were resting upon the kaffir, and he saw the man draw in a deep slow breath which made his broad chest expand, retaining the air for a minute and then slowly ejecting it. "ah! you'll never make a first-class searcher, jem," said the head man. "i never did profess to be so smart as you are," retorted the other sharply. "no, jemmy, you never did," said his chief; "but you ought to have found something here." "why, you don't think he has any about him, do you?" cried the man, who was staggered by his chief's cool, confident way of speaking. "yes, i do," said the chief, "and so does mr ingleborough there. don't you, sir?" ingleborough nodded shortly, and west saw the kaffir's eyes flash, while when he turned to anson he saw that his fellow-clerk's face looked cold and hard. but anson's aspect changed the next moment, as soon as he saw he was observed, and he said, with a broad grin: "wish i was a betting man: i could easily win half-a-crown or two over this." but it struck west that there was a ring of insincerity in the tone of his voice, and the hard look began to come like a grey shadow over his fat pink cheeks as he saw the chief searcher go closer up to the kaffir, bring his hands down heavily upon the man's shoulders, and stand facing him and looking him full in the eyes. there was utter silence now. the kaffir stood for a moment firmly gazing back into his white holder's eyes; but it manifestly required a strong effort, and west felt sure that he saw a quiver like a shadow of dread run down the black, making his knees slightly shake. the whole thing was momentary, and the looker-on could not feel sure. then the searcher spoke. "you're a clever one," he said, with a harsh laugh, "and you don't mind hurting yourself to do a bit of the illicit. turn round." he gave the kaffir a sharp thrust with one hand, a pull with the other, and the man stood with his back to the lookers-on. chapter three. rather suspicious. what followed was performed with the quick dexterity of a clever surgeon, the searcher bending down, grasping the great firm muscles of the kaffir's right leg about mid-way between hip and knee, and pressing hard with his two thumbs, when to the surprise of west a small perpendicular slit opened and a good-sized diamond was forced out, to fall upon the ground and be received by the under-searcher, while the wound closed up again with all the elasticity of a cut made in a piece of indiarubber. "bravo!" cried west, and then he held his breath as he saw the clever manipulation performed upon the kaffir's other leg, a second diamond being forced out of the man's elastic muscle, to be secured in turn. "that will do," said the chief searcher, after a quick glance down the kaffir's arms, the man scowling and looking depressed as he was marched away. "almost a pity you didn't back your opinion heavily, mr anson, eh?" added the official. "well, i am deceived," said anson, wrinkling up his forehead. "who'd ever have thought of that?" "the kaffirs, seemingly," said ingleborough coolly? and he smiled in anson's disconsolate face. "but it's wicked," cried anson, "downright wicked for a man to cut himself like that for the sake of a bit of glittering glass. i say, mustn't it hurt very much?" "can't say," said west merrily. "try!" "what, me?" cried anson, looking startled and involuntarily thrusting his hands down to touch the parts in question. "oh no! it's horrible what people will do for the sake of gain." "quite sure you wouldn't like to try, mr anson?" said the searcher. "i'll do it for you if you like. only wants a very sharp knife and a good hard pinch to numb the muscle; then it's done in a few minutes--one good cut, the stone pressed in, and the cold surface makes the skin contract." anson's face seemed to curdle up, and two creases formed, one round each corner of his mouth, as if putting it between parentheses, as he shook his head. "look here," he said, "what's the good of bantering so? are you going to search any more men?" "no," said the official; "that's the lot." "but are you going to punish them?" "oh yes! they'll have to take their dose for it, sir; you may be sure of that. we're going to be more and more severe over this illicit-diamond-dealing." "are you?" said anson innocently. "we just are. it'll be a shooting matter soon if it can't be stopped otherwise." "how horrid!" said anson. "but i say, these men don't deal illicitly, do they?" "they wouldn't if a set of scoundrels did not set them on to steal, so that they could buy of the poor ignorant savages, giving them shillings for what they sell for pounds." "how sad it seems!" said anson thoughtfully. "and how innocent you seem!" said west, laughing. "yes, it's charming," cried ingleborough. "why, you know all about it." "i?" cried anson. "oh, of course i know something about it. i've heard of the illicit-diamond-dealing, and read about it; but it has all gone in at one ear and out at the other. you see, i devote so much time to music. that and my work at the office keep me from taking much notice of other things. politics, for instance, and the rumours of war. do you think it at all likely that there will be any fighting, west?" "i can't say," was the reply; "but we're going to be perfectly ready for the boers in case there is, and it's quite time we were off, ingleborough, if we intend to answer at the roll-call." "hah! yes," cried the young man addressed. "better come with us, anson." the latter shook his head, and his companions separated from him at the gate. "better come," said ingleborough again. "join, and then you'll be on the spot if we do form a band." "oh no!" said anson, smiling. "you make up your minds at headquarters to form a band, and then, if you like, i'll come and train it." "he's a rum fellow," said west, as the two young men fell into step. "ah," said ingleborough roughly, "i am afraid master anson's more r. than f." "more r. than f?" said west questioningly. "if you must have it in plain english, more rogue than fool." "well, i fancy he isn't quite so simple as he pretends to be." "bah! i'm not a quarrelsome fellow, but i always feel as if i must kick him. he aggravates me." "nice soft sort of a fellow to kick," said west, laughing. "ugh!" ejaculated ingleborough, and his foot flew out suddenly as if aimed at the person of whom they spoke. "don't know anything about diamonds! what things people will do for the sake of a bit of glittering glass! look here, west, for all his talk i wouldn't trust him with a consignment of stones any farther than i could see him." "don't be prejudiced!" said west. "you don't like him, and so you can only see his bad side." "and that's all round," replied ingleborough laughing. "no; i don't like him. i never do like a fellow who is an unnatural sort of a prig. he can't help being fat and pink and smooth, but he can help his smiling, sneaky manner. i do like a fellow to be manly. hang him! put him in petticoats, with long hair and a bonnet, he'd look like somebody's cook. but if i had an establishment and he was mine, i should be afraid he'd put something unpleasant into my soup." "never mind about old anson," said west merrily, "but look here. what about that illicit-diamond-buying? do you think that there's much of it taking place?" "much?" cried his companion. "it is tremendous. the company's losing hundreds of thousands of pounds yearly." "nonsense!" "it's a fact," said ingleborough earnestly; "and no end of people are hard at work buying stolen diamonds, in spite of the constant sharp look-out kept by the police." "but i should have thought that the licences and the strict supervision would have checked the greater part of it." "then you'd have thought wrong, my boy. i wish it did, for as we are going on now it makes everyone suspicious and on the look-out. i declare that for months past i never meet any of our people without fancying they suspect me of buying and selling diamonds on the sly." "and that makes you suspicious too," said west quietly. ingleborough turned upon him sharply, and looked him through and through. "what made you say that?" he said at last. "previous conversation," replied west. "humph! well, perhaps so." chapter four. rumours of war. the diamond-fields horse had drilled one evening till they were tired, and after it was all over, including a fair amount of firing, the smell of blank cartridges began to give way to the more pleasant odour of tobacco smoke, the officers lighting their cigars, and the privates filling up their pipes to incense the crisp evening air. "i'm about tired of this game," said one of a group who were chatting together; "there's too much hard work about it." "yes," said another. "someone told me it was playing at soldiers. i don't see where the play comes." "look at the honour of it," said another. "we shall be defending the town directly from an attack by the boers." there was a burst of laughter at this, and when it ended the first speaker broke out contemptuously with: "the boers! we shall have to wait a longtime before they attack us." "i don't know so much about that," said the man who had spoken of the attack. "i believe they mean mischief." "bosh!" came in chorus. "ah, you may laugh, but they've got majuba hill on the brain. the idiots think they fought and thrashed the whole british army instead of a few hundred men. here, ingleborough, you heard what was said?" the young man addressed left off chatting with west and nodded. "you went to pretoria with the superintendent of police about that diamond case, and you were there a couple of months." "yes," said ingleborough. "what of that?" "why, you must have seen a good deal of the boers then!" "of course i did." "well, what do you say? will they fight if it comes to a row?" "certainly they will!" replied ingleborough. there was a derisive laugh at his words, and west flushed a little on hearing it, as the volunteers gathered round. "bah! it's all bluff!" cried a voice. "they know that by holding out they can get what they want. they'd cave in directly if we showed a bold front." "moral," said west; "show a bold front." "that's what we're doing," said one of the men; "but there's too much of it. some of the officers have war on the brain, and want to force the soldiering element to the very front. we've done enough to show the doppers that we should fight if there was any occasion. there was no drilling going on when you were at pretoria, eh, ingleborough?" "yes, there was, a good deal," said the young man slowly. "they did not make any fuss, but in a quiet way they were hard at work, especially with their gun drill." "gun drill!" cried one of the group contemptuously. "what, with a few rusty old cannon and some wooden quakers?" there was a roar of laughter at this, and west coloured a little more deeply with annoyance, but ingleborough shrugged his shoulders, turned his little finger into a tobacco-stopper, and went on smoking. "the boers are puffed-up with conceit," he said gravely, "and they believe that their victory at majuba hill has made them invincible; but all the same they've got some level-headed men amongst them, and i believe before long that it will come to a fight and that they will fight desperately." his hearers laughed. "what for?" shouted one. "to drive the british out of south africa, seize cape colony and natal, and make the country a dutch republic." there was a momentary silence before someone cried: "i say, ingleborough, are you going mad?" "i hope not," said the young man quietly. "why?" "because you are talking the greatest bosh i've heard for months!" "i don't think i am," said ingleborough gravely. "i know that the boers are terribly inflated with vanity and belief in themselves, but they have wisdom in their heads as well." "i've never seen any of it!" said the previous speaker. "bah! rubbish! they drive us out of south africa! why, that would mean taking rhodesia too." "of course," replied ingleborough, "and that's what they believe they are going to do." "with popguns?" "no," said ingleborough gravely; "but with their rifles. do you know that they can at any time arm a hundred thousand men with the best magazine-rifles in the world?" "no!" came in chorus. "we don't." "and that they have a magnificent force of artillery, which includes such guns as would dwarf any that we could bring against them, thoroughly outrange ours, and that in addition they have a great number of repeating-cannon--maxims and nordenfelts? above all, they have a vast supply of ammunition." "where did they get it from?" cried one. "the moon," shouted another, and there was a roar. "the fellow's a regular boer himself," shouted a man behind; and there was a hiss raised, followed by a menacing groan, which made west's blood tingle as he closed up to his friend's side. "the old story," said ingleborough contemptuously, "you can't bear the honest truth." "yes, we can," cried one of the men; "but we can't bear lies. do you think we are fools to believe your cock-and-bull stories about magazine-rifles and guns that would dwarf all that the british army could bring up against the boers?" "you can do as you like about believing," said ingleborough coldly. "i have only told you what i learned for myself when i was staying in pretoria." "and do you mean to tell us that the boers have guns like that?" "i do," said ingleborough. "then where did they get them?" "from the great french and german makers, from creusot and krupp." "and how did they get them up to pretoria?" "from the cape and delagoa bay." "what nonsense!" cried another voice. "their arms and ammunition would have been stopped at once. what do you say to that?" "the boers are slim," said ingleborough. "hundreds of tons of war material have been going up-country for years as ironmongery goods and machinery. they have a tremendous arsenal there, and they mean to fight, as you'll see before long." the hissing and threatening sounds ceased, for there was so much conviction in the tone adopted by the speaker that his hearers began to feel uneasy and as if there might be something in the declarations, while, upon ingleborough turning to west with: "come oliver, let's get home!" the little crowd of volunteers hedged the pair in, and the man who had been the most ready to laugh laid a hand upon his arm. "hold hard a minute," he cried frankly. "i felt ready to laugh at you and chaff all your words; but i'm not going to be a dunder-headed fool and shut my eyes to danger if there really is any. look here, ingleborough: are you an alarmist, or is there really any truth in what you have said?" "it is all true," replied the young man calmly. "well, then, i for one will believe you, my lad; for, now you have spoken out as you have, i begin to put that and that together and i feel that the boers have been playing dark." "they have been playing dark," said ingleborough warmly, "and i should not be surprised to hear any day that they had declared war and found us anything but prepared." "they only want to be free," said a voice. "free?" cried ingleborough. "yes, free to do exactly what they please: to tax every stranger, or outlander, as they call us, for their own benefit: to rob and enslave the unfortunate natives, and even murder them if it suits their hand. free? yes, look at their history from the first. why, their whole history has been a course of taking land from the original owners by force." that very night rumours reached kimberley which sent a tingle into the cheeks of every man who had joined in the demonstration against ingleborough: though the greatest news of all had not yet arrived, that the transvaal government had thrown down the glove and made the advance. chapter five. an ugly charge. as everyone knows, the declaration of war was not long in coming, and the news came like a thunderclap to all in kimberley, where those who had been in doubt as to the wisdom of the preparations previously made were the loudest in finding fault because more had not been done. "but do you think it's true, ingle?" said west. "think what is true?" "that the boers have invaded natal." "i'm sure it is," was the reply; "and before very long we shall have them here." "why should they come here?" said west. "because they have plenty of gold at johannesburg, and they want to utilise it for settings to our diamonds, my lad. they're a nice, modest, amiable people, these boers, with very shrewd eyes for the main chance. they'll soon be down here to take possession, so if you feel at all uncomfortable you had better be off south." "is that what you are going to do?" asked west quietly. "i? of course not! i shall keep with the volunteers." "of course," said west; "and i shall too." ingleborough smiled grimly and went on with his work, west following suit, and they were busy enough till "tiffin-time" that morning. their "tiffin" went on as usual; but out in the town there was a buzz of excitement which resembled that heard in a beehive when some mischievous boy has thrust in a switch and given it a good twist round before running for his life. so eager and excited did everyone seem that west could hardly tear himself away from the main street, which was full of talking groups, everyone seeming to be asking the same question--"what is to be done first?"--but getting no reply. "we ought to fortify the place," said west to himself, and full of this idea, which he intended to propound to ingleborough and anson as soon as he reached the office, he hurried in that direction, all the faster from the fact that he had been so interested in the busy state of the streets that he had overstayed his time. on approaching the office door the conscious blood rose to his cheeks, for he could hear an angry voice speaking, upon which he could only place one interpretation--namely, that one of the principals was finding fault severely because he, the guilty one, was not back to his time. "what a fool i am!" muttered west. then, pulling himself together, he stepped forward, muttering again: "must take my dose like a man." the next moment he had opened the door quickly, entered and closed it, and then stood staring in wonder at the scene before him. for there was no angry principal present--only his two fellow-clerks: ingleborough stern and frowning, and anson with his ordinarily pink face turned to a sallow white, and, instead of being plump and rounded, looking sunken and strange. "what's the matter?" said west, for anson, who had the moment before been talking rapidly, suddenly ceased. "you're not quarrelling, are you?" he continued, for no one replied. "oh well, i'll be off till you've done." "no, don't go," cried anson, springing forward and grasping his arm. "let go!" cried west. "i don't want to be mixed up with any quarrels; but you might have got them over outside. there, i'm off." "stop where you are!" cried ingleborough. "you have a perfect right to hear what i have said, and you're welcome." "yes, stop where you are, west," cried anson, clinging to the young fellow's arm. "i believe that the war scare has sent ingle off his head. you never heard such a bit of scandal as he is trying to hatch up. i believe it's all out of jealousy." "no, you do not," said ingleborough coldly. "but i do," cried anson. "it's scandalous. he's trying to ruin me." "how?" "by hatching up a story which, if it got to the principals' ears, would mean me being turned off neck and crop, no matter how innocent i am." "how what?" replied ingleborough ironically. "innocent? why, i've suspected you for some months past." "oh, my gracious!" cried anson. "hark at him! he does mean it--he must mean it, unless we can bring him to his senses, west. you will help me, won't you?" "how can i tell till i know what it's all about? what's the quarrel, ingle?" "ask him," answered the young man addressed, frowning. "very well, then; i'll ask him. what's the row, anson?" "i have hardly patience to tell you, west," was the reply. "but i suppose i must, though it makes my face burn with shame." "humph!" grunted ingleborough. "then it is something you are ashamed of?" said west quickly. "me? oh no, west; i'm not ashamed. i've nothing to be ashamed of: only being accused by a fellow-clerk, a brother-clerk, i might say, of doing a terrible thing." "and did you?" said west sharply. "i? good gracious, no! i was out in the main street about half-an-hour ago, being of course interested in the news, when i saw a couple of kaffirs talking, and it made me wonder what would become of them if it came to fighting, and i naturally enough asked the poor fellows whether they'd stay in kimberley or go back to their own country." "well?" said west, for the speaker stopped. "well, that's all as far as i'm concerned," said anson; "only just then ingleborough, who is never happy without he's mixing himself up somehow with the police folk, and who must have been watching me in a miserable underhanded way, suddenly pounced upon me; and you'll never believe it, my dear west, he actually accused me of illicit-diamond-buying from the kaffirs." "and that means very severe punishment," said west. "well, were you doing it?" "was i? oh, for shame, west! how could you think such a thing possible? my dear fellow, i couldn't do such a thing? is it likely?" "ingleborough says it is," replied the young man addressed, shortly. "yes, but only because he is absurdly jealous of me, and dislikes to see me in the office. it would ruin me for ever if it were reported, and he says he is going to, although i have been begging and praying him not to do such a thing. what do you say?" "if it's true, and ingleborough says it is, i don't see how he could help, reporting your conduct to the directors." "but it isn't true!" cried anson, almost in a whine. "oh, west, how can you? you know i couldn't do such a thing!" "do you mean to say that you are quite innocent?" "oh, quite!" cried anson. "it was as i told you. i only asked the two poor hard-working fellows what they meant to do, and then to my utter astonishment ingleborough pounced upon me with that terrible charge. help me, my dear friend, to make him see that he has deceived himself!" "do you hear, ingle?" cried west sympathetically. "it is a terrible charge to bring against a fellow." "terrible!" said ingleborough sternly. "and you have thought what it means?" "of course." "his dismissal and imprisonment?" "yes." "but--" "there is no room for buts, my lad," said ingleborough harshly. "diamond-buying from the natives is, as we all well know, penal; and we know, too, that it is our duty to help to protect the property of our employers, and to see that the laws are obeyed." "of course, my dear ingleborough," said anson; "and that's what i have always tried to do, as you know." "i know that you have been playing a false game for months--that is, i feel perfectly sure you have, though i cannot prove it. but this i can prove: that you were buying stolen diamonds from two natives this afternoon, all parties choosing the time because you believed the excitement would secure you from notice." "oh, west, hark at him!" cried anson, in a piteous tone. "ingleborough, you don't know how wrong you are!" "that's true!" said their fellow-clerk. "look here, anson," cried west angrily; "what's the good of going on like a great girl--oh-ing, and making weak appeals? why don't you speak out like a man? is it true, or is it not, that you bought these diamonds?" "it's all a mistake of ingleborough's and as false as false can be! i couldn't do such a thing!" "nor yet throw them away as soon as you found that you were seen?" "of course not!" cried anson excitedly. "what are these, then?" cried ingleborough sternly, as he took a couple of rough crystals from his trousers pocket and held them out in his hand to the astonished gaze of his comrades. "those?" said anson, whose face began to turn of a sickly green; "they look like diamonds." "yes: they are the two that you threw away, and which i went and picked up." "oh!" cried anson, with a piteous groan; "hark at him, west! i wouldn't have believed that a man could have been so base as to hatch up such a plot as this to ruin his brother-employe. west, i assure you that i never set eyes upon those diamonds before in my life. it's all a cruel, dastardly plot, and i--oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! is it possible that a man can be so base?" he took out his handkerchief and applied it to his eyes, uttering a low piteous groan the while. "you hear this, ingleborough?" said west. "yes, i hear," said ingleborough sourly, as he thrust the gems back in his pocket. "so do you, and you know now what it is my duty to do." west was silent. "oh, do speak and help me!" cried anson. "don't stand by and see me ruined, west! you know how he has taken up lately with the new superintendent of police, and been always with him, and watching the poor natives till he is half a detective himself, and goes about suspecting innocent people. i am innocent, west, and it's all a horrible mistake of his, or a cruel trick to ruin me; and i'm afraid i've been mistaken in him altogether, and that it is a wicked conspiracy." "ingleborough wouldn't do a mean thing!" said west warmly. "that's what i want to believe," whined anson; "but he's got hold of two diamonds, and he's going to charge me with buying them, and he'll get me sent to cape town breakwater." "not if you are innocent!" said west. "well, that's what i am, and he can't prove that i've any of the precious stones about me. come and search me if you like!" "you will be searched by the police authorities," said ingleborough sternly. "what!--oh, it's abominable!" cried anson. "here, west, aren't you going to do anything to help an innocent man?" "what can i do," said west, "but look on? i'll tell you this, though: i don't believe it possible of you! there must be some mistake!" "thank you for nothing," cried anson bitterly. "it's the old story--and you call yourself a friend! well, i'm not going to be bullied. i've given you both a chance to own that you are all wrong; but you always were both of you dead against me. i'll do now what i ought to have done at once--go to the principals. i shall get justice there." saying this, he clapped on his hat, giving it a fierce cock on one side, passed out, and banged the door after him. ingleborough paid no heed to his companion's enquiring look, but crossed quickly to the window and looked out. "anson thinks he is going to make a bolt," said ingleborough, half to himself; "but he'll soon find out his mistake." "how?" said west eagerly. "norton is outside with a couple of the police," ingleborough replied. "but this is very horrible!" cried west. "once more, are you quite sure that you have not made a mistake?" "quite! i am certain!" "but is it wise to be so certain?" "yes," replied ingleborough quietly. "surely i can believe my own eyes!" "but might he not have been questioning the kaffirs, as he said?" "certainly," replied ingleborough, with a grim smile; "but i do not see why he should receive two diamonds from them and give them money in exchange, and lastly why he should flick the two diamonds away into the dust as soon as he caught sight of me. do you?" "no," said west thoughtfully. "well, i am very sorry. what will be the next proceeding?" "the next thing in an ordinary way would be that the scoundrel would bolt; but, as he must have found out by this time that he is carefully watched, he will no doubt go straight to the principals and brave it out by telling them his own tale and trying to persuade them that i have hatched up a conspiracy against him." "and of course he will not be believed," replied west thoughtfully; "for it is next door to high treason for anyone to be found buying diamonds illicitly from the natives." "high treason?" cried ingleborough, laughing. "why, my dear boy, it's much worse than regicide. the authorities in kimberley look upon diamond-smuggling or stealing as the blackest crime in the calendar." "hallo!" cried west just then. "so soon?" for there was a sharp rap at the door, and a man entered to announce that the principals of the great company desired the presence of ingleborough and west directly. "i don't see why they want me!" said west. "i know nothing about the matter." "you'll have to go all the same," said ingleborough. "he has dragged your name into the case, and he trusts to you to speak in his behalf." "and of course i shall," said west; "for i'm horribly sorry for the poor fellow. he couldn't withstand the temptation to buy the diamonds for a mere nothing and sell them at a heavy price." "i don't want to be malicious, noll," said ingleborough; "but i've for some time been under the impression that master anson was a humbug. there, come along! of course i don't like a piece of business like this; but we must make rogues go to the wall. you're too soft-hearted, noll, my boy." "perhaps so," replied the lad; "but i'd rather be so than too hard-hearted." chapter six. a vain search. west saw at once upon entering the presence of the principals that things appeared bad for anson, who stood facing a table at which three of the directors of the great company were seated, all looking very stern. they signed to ingleborough and west to stand upon their right-- anson was facing them to the left. then there was a brief colloquy in a low tone between the three directors, ending in one of them saying aloud: "you speak." the gentleman thus addressed turned to ingleborough. "mr anson has sought this interview with the directors, mr ingleborough, to inform us that you have made up a malicious tale about his having been engaged in illicit-diamond-buying. of course, if you could prove such a charge, it was your duty to inform us." "of course, sir," replied ingleborough; "but, though i have for some time suspected him, this affair only occurred during our tiffin-time this morning, and as soon as we returned to the office i felt bound to accuse him as my fellow-clerk, and tell him what i intended to do." "so as to give him, if guilty, a good chance to conceal the diamonds or escape?" "oh no, sir," said ingleborough quietly. "i took proper precautions against that." "indeed?" said the director. "what did you do?" "mr superintendent norton is a friend of mine, sir, and i went to him at once. he and two of his keenest men have been carefully watching anson ever since." "humph! quite right," said the director, and he glanced at anson, who was smiling contemptuously then; but west had seen him wince sharply when ingleborough mentioned the superintendent's name. "well," continued the director, "let us hear your version of this business." "really, gentlemen," cried anson, "i ought to have the assistance of a law officer and--" "stop, mr anson," said the director sharply; "we have heard you all through. have the goodness to be silent now while mr ingleborough gives us his statement." "but legal assistance, sir." "you can have as much as you like, sir, as soon as the matter is brought before the magistrates. we must first of all hear what mr ingleborough has to say. now, sir, have the goodness to tell us everything you know about this business." ingleborough made his statement perfectly clearly, and it was listened to in silence, and the diamonds were produced. afterwards the three directors spoke together in a low tone of voice for a few minutes, ending by turning to anson to tell him that he must consider himself for the present as suspended from all further duty in connection with the company's business. "we have no desire to proceed to extremities, mr anson," he said in conclusion, "and every opportunity will be given you to clear yourself; but in the meantime you must consider yourself under supervision, and your lodgings will be searched." "i protest, sir," cried the young man warmly. "you have no right to order such a thing to be done without magisterial authority." "then we will assume the right, mr anson, as it is a question of our property being stolen by our black employes and finding a purchaser in one of our clerks. mr west, as the superintendent is keeping an eye upon anson, i presume he is here?" "i passed him at the door as i came in, sir," answered west. "have the goodness to call him in." anson winced; but he faced the tall stern-looking officer of police as he entered and heard the reason for his being called in. "then you wish a search to be made, gentlemen?" said the superintendent. "certainly." "look here," cried anson fiercely; "there's law for everybody. i'm not your servant any longer, for i refuse to stay with such a pack of tyrannical dividend-making scoundrels." "that will do," growled the superintendent, in a low, deep voice. "keep a civil tongue in your head. you'll do no good for yourself by this." "you mind your own business," cried anson, turning upon the officer so fiercely that west wondered at the change in his fellow-clerk's manner. "all right: i will," said the officer, seizing him sharply. "here, what are you going to do?" cried anson, in alarm. "search you, my lad," was the reply. "then i call everyone present to witness that this is illegal. i'm not going to stand quietly by and be treated like a worm." "leave off wriggling, then," said the officer. "i won't. i refuse to be treated like one of the black labourers." "look here, sir," said the officer sternly; "i don't want to treat you like a kaffir unless you behave like one. you are charged with illicit buying, and your game's up; so the best thing you can do is to produce everything you have on you and have done with the matter." "search me if you dare," cried anson, still keeping up his defiant manner. "right: i dare," said the officer. "mr ingleborough, be ready to lend a hand if i want it." "if john ingleborough dares to lay a hand on me i'll send a bullet through him." in an instant ingleborough's hand came down heavily upon anson's shoulder and gripped him fast. "never mind him, norton. it's all bluff. he is unarmed." "armed or unarmed," said the superintendent, "i'm going to search him," and directly after a quick pair of hands were busy going through the suspect's pockets. "urrr!" he growled, showing his white teeth between his thick red lips, as he cast off thoroughly the mask of servile humility he had previously worn; "it's lucky for you that i am unarmed. but search away. go on. i'll have heavy damages for this dastardly assault and defamation of character, and the public shall know all about the games carried on by this beautiful diamond syndicate. curse you all--masters and men! you shall pay for it, and, as for you, john ingleborough, look out for yourself. yes, and you too, oliver west, you miserable sneak. i always hated you." "hadn't you better save your breath, anson?" said west quietly. "you're only making everybody believe you guilty." "let 'em," cried the suspect, whose plump round face was now distorted with impotent rage. "i'll be even with all of you for this." "humph! nothing in his pockets; nothing sewn in the seams of his clothes, nor in the band of his trousers," muttered the searcher. then aloud: "now then, hold up!" anson behaved like a horse, or, as west and ingleborough afterwards laughingly said, like an ass, lifting to order each foot in turn for the bottoms of his trousers to be examined and the heels of his boots, which had not been bored nor plugged. "he has nothing upon him, gentlemen," said the officer, at last. "but you have not thoroughly searched him," said one of the directors, frowning. "oh yes, sir," replied the officer; "a party like this wouldn't carry diamonds about him same as a kaffir would. he wouldn't play any tricks with his person by slitting or swallowing: he knows too much about the risks. you can be perfectly satisfied that he has nothing about him. i was, as soon as i had turned out his pockets." "they'll be satisfied before they've done," sneered anson. "i should like to see his desk and stool in the office where he has worked, gentlemen," continued the officer. "yah!" snarled anson. "yes: go on; search everywhere. perhaps you'd like to search the place where i lodge?" "afterwards," said the officer quietly. chapter seven. anson rebounds. west saw his fellow-clerk wince slightly again, though it passed unnoticed by the others, and directly after the whole party adjourned to the office, the superintendent's men following them, and, without doing anything to excite attention, forming a guard at the door. "there's nothing here," said the superintendent in a low tone to ingleborough and west. "how do you know?" said the former. "by his manner. he's all brag and bounce!" "yes," said ingleborough; "but you don't know your man." "look here!" cried anson; "none of that! search if you like, but no plotting and planning there! i don't see why they shouldn't be charged too. search their desks as well as mine. perhaps you'll find some illicit-diamonds there." west started, for a strange suspicion shot through his breast. "if you do they'll swear i put 'em there, and the superintendent will believe them." "you scoundrel!" cried west passionately, and anson uttered a low sneering laugh; but his face grew set directly, as the officer turned upon him. "which is your desk, sir?" he said sharply. "search them all!" was the reply. "which is his desk?" said the superintendent to west now. the young man made no reply, and ingleborough pointed it out. "friends and brother-workers!" said anson, in a sneering manner. "look here, noble employers, play fair! let's have all the desks and the whole place searched." no one spoke, and after a cursory examination of the tall stool in front of the desk the officer picked up a thick silver-mounted rattan cane thrust in a stand by the side of the desk in company with three umbrellas. "yours?" he said, turning to the suspect. "yes, and one of the umbrellas too. the worst one's mine. that dandy silk one is west's. the handles of all three are sure to unscrew and are hollowed out to hold diamonds, no doubt." "of course," said the officer, and after a glance at the umbrellas he turned the thick heavy cane over in his hands, noticing that in addition to a silver cap there was a thick silver ring about six inches from the top. "oh yes, that's hollow too," cried anson mockingly, "and stuffed full of diamonds, i daresay.--ah! mind you don't cut your fingers!" for the officer, as he held the thick cane in both hands, tried to unscrew the top part, thickest by the ring, and, after yielding a little, he gave it a sharp tug, drawing out about a foot of a bright blue damascened sword, and then thrusting it back with an impatient "pish!" "a sword-stick," said the officer. "well, why not?" cried anson. "i don't carry a revolver." the officer thrust the cane into the stand, and then, with anson watching him keenly, raised the lid of the broad flat desk, turned over some books and papers, measured its depth outside and in to make sure that there was no false bottom, and then brought out the clerk's little flat mahogany box, anson grinning sneeringly as the lid was opened and the joints of the flute lay exposed to view. "now you've got 'em, sir!" cried anson, with a mocking laugh. "blow through them, and you'll find it's all wind." the superintendent turned the box upside down, and the joints were left upon the top of the desk, except that the top joint with its gaping mouth-hole stuck in the velvet fitting, but looked the most hollow of the set. "there's nothing here, gentlemen," said the officer, replacing the other joints and gravely closing the desk. "oh, nonsense!" cried anson, jeering. "you haven't half looked. perhaps, though, young west has the whole swag in his desk." "would you like to examine the other desks, gentlemen?" said the officer. "no, certainly not," said the leading director sharply; "we have no wish to insult our employes." "only one," snarled anson. "do you call this fair play?" west drew a breath full of relief, and glanced at ingleborough, who made no sign, but stood looking stolidly at the officer. "i'm quite satisfied, gentlemen," said the latter. "there is nothing here. do you charge mr anson with illicit dealing?" "you have not searched his apartments yet," said the chief director. "we wish to have further proofs first." anson opened his mouth a short distance as his chief spoke, and closed it again with a sharp little snap. "you wish the prisoner's rooms to be searched then, gentlemen?" "i'm not a prisoner," cried anson angrily. "i've neither been charged nor taken into custody." "certainly!" said the director sternly. "search mr anson's rooms preliminary to his being charged and taken into custody. mr west, go in front with the superintendent to show the way. i do not wish to make a procession, to create excitement and make us the observed of all." "i understand, sir. mr anson will walk in advance with me, and you can follow as you please. there is no need for mr west to walk with us. i know the way!" "of course!" snarled anson. "mr ingleborough's doing, i suppose. then i have been watched." "yes, my doing," said the person named. "as soon as i suspected you of illicit dealing i kept an eye upon you and told mr norton here what i thought." "cowardly, sneaking cur!" cried anson, grinding his teeth. "no, sir," cried the director sternly: "faithful servant of the company." "where are your proofs that i am not?" cried anson fiercely. "not found yet," said the officer; "but with all your cunning i daresay we shall trace them." "go on," said anson. "i'm ready for you." the next minute the whole party were straggling through the camp-like town towards the outskirts, to gather together at the very ordinary shed-like house of mud wall and fluted corrugated-iron roofing, where the wife of one of the men at the mine stared in wonder at the party, and then looked in awe at her lodger, her eyes very wide open and startled as she grasped what the visit meant. "oh, mr anson, what have you been a-doing of?" she cried, and burst into tears. west looked at the poor woman with a feeling of pity, and then felt disposed to kick anson for his brutality, for the clerk's gesture was that of an ill-tempered cur: he literally snapped at her. "out of the way, you idiot!" he cried, "and let this police-constable and his party come by." west saw the directors exchange glances before following the superintendent into the little house, leaving the two clerks to the last, the police-constables remaining watchfully at the door. "master anson is regularly cutting the ground from under him, ingle," said west softly. "yes: the fool! i take it to be a tacit confession. you don't think i've made a mistake now?" west shook his head and looked distressed, but said nothing. "of course he'll never come back to us, and he knows it, or he'd never put on this defiant manner. hark at him!" for at that moment the object of their thoughts shouted loudly: "here, you two spies, what are you waiting behind for? come in and help search the place." west frowned and hung back, but ingleborough laid a hand on his shoulder. "come along," he said; "you must help me to see it through! it isn't pleasant, but it's part of one's duty." the next minute they were in anson's combined bed and sitting room, a very ordinary-looking place, with the simplest of furniture and plenty of suggestions all round of spots where an ingenious man might have hidden a little fortune in diamonds; for the mud walls were lined with matchboard, the ceiling was of the same material, and then there was the floor, where in any part a board could have been lifted and a receptacle made for the precious crystals, without counting the articles of furniture, including the bedding. "i'm sorry i have no more chairs, gentlemen," said the tenant banteringly. "sit on the table, and three of you can make a sofa of the bed. never mind tumbling it! you'll do nothing compared to mr superintendent norton when he begins. i say, though, you should have given me notice of all this, and then i'd have had a carpenter here to skin the walls and ceiling so as to have made everything nice and easy for you. i say, mr norton, you'll want a pickaxe and shovel directly, won't you?" the directors had paid no heed to the speaker's bantering remarks, but the superintendent was getting hot, tired, and annoyed by the constant chatter of the man he was longing to arrest; and, though he had treated everything so far with calm indifference, his lack of success in his search for something incriminating in such places as experience had taught him were in favour with those who carried on diamond-smuggling began now to tell upon his temper, and he turned sharply upon the speaker: to snap out words which showed that his thoughts ran on all-fours with those of ingleborough. "look here, young man!" he said; "i don't know whether you are aware of it, but you are hard at work building up a black case against yourself, and if you're not careful you'll find yourself before long working out your two years as a convict on the cape town breakwater." "i shall!" cried anson. "what for? where's your evidence? you've got a jumped-up cock-and-bull story made by a fellow-clerk who says one thing while i say another. you've only his word for it. you've found no diamonds on me, and you've found none in my lodgings." "not yet," said the superintendent meaningly. "oh, i see! not yet! go on, then, pray! i'm not paid by time, so i can afford to lose a few hours. search away! perhaps our clever friend ingleborough can tell you where to look. perhaps he wouldn't like to, though. it would hurt his feelings to accuse a brother-clerk of being an illicit trader. but don't mind me, ingle. it's good sport for you. why don't you help, and think you're a good little boy playing at `hot boiled beans and very good butter' again? now then, norton's going across to the other side. you should call out `colder' when he's going away from the place, and `warmer' when he gets nearer. then `hot,' and last of all `burning.' come, keep up the game!" "i should just like to ram that pair of clean socks between your teeth, my fine fellow, and keep it there with a leather strap," muttered the officer; and, as if about to put his wish into practice, he stooped and picked up the closely rolled-up pair of socks lying with some other articles of attire placed freshly washed upon a shelf by anson's landlady. "now then," cried anson boisterously, "cry `burning,' somebody: there must be some diamonds inside that!" the directors frowned, and ingleborough and west looked on angrily as the officer dashed the soft woollen ball back upon the heap and then went on with his search for nearly an hour. by this time the lookers-on were as much disgusted as the superintendent. "i'm very sorry, gentlemen," he cried; "but i can do no more. there is nothing else to be done unless we have my men in and regularly strip the wood-work down." "oh, pray have them in, then," cried anson. "if i were you i'd--" "silence, sir!" cried the chief director fiercely, and anson stared. "we have not the slightest doubt of your guilt. your conduct all through has proved it. that will do, mr norton." "you think the evidence sufficient to justify an arrest, gentlemen?" "we will consult together," replied the director who had just spoken, "and communicate our decision to you." "what, aren't you satisfied yet?" cried anson mockingly. "quite," replied his chief; "and of course, sir, your post is vacant. for the present, mr norton, you will keep an eye upon this man, and see that he does not leave the town." "unless i'm very much mistaken, sir," said the superintendent, "neither our friend here nor anyone else will leave kimberley for some time to come." "is it so bad as that?" "yes, sir. the boers are gradually closing in, i am told. but i'll keep an eye on mr anson here all the same." five minutes later the party were on their way back to the mine buildings, where the first thing that west heard was that the boers were gathering in great force, and, as far as could be judged, were making the diamond city their objective. troubles were gathering fast, and news kept on coming hotter and hotter. west and ingleborough were back in their places at the office, talking over the war news and mingling with it the scenes they had just gone through. "norton promised me he'd call in here when he left the governors," said ingleborough. "then he must have forgotten it," replied west, "for he has been with them quite an hour. i say, i didn't know that you were such a friend of the superintendent." "well, i'm not in the habit of talking much," said ingleborough, smiling. "but i do like him; he's such a straightforward, manly fellow, and i take so much interest in the way he runs down criminals. i often wish i had joined the detectives who have this diamond-smuggling in hand." "pst! here he is!" said west quickly, for there were steps outside, and directly after a sharp rap at the door. "may i come in, ingleborough?" "yes. _entrez_! west said you'd gone." "did he? you knew i was not?" ingleborough nodded. "what have they decided?" he asked. "to let the matter drift for the present: only i'm to keep an eye on the scoundrel. they say that we shall all have our hands full enough directly in strengthening the town, and they're right. i'm afraid we're going to have a warm time." "think they'll attack us?" asked west. "safe to. now's the time for you volunteers to show what you're made of, for i believe that the enemy will make straight for kimberley. our getting the diamond-fields has always been a sore point with them, and we shall have our work cut out to save them." "yes," said ingleborough thoughtfully, "and if i'm not mistaken, you'll have more cause to watch anson than for smuggling. he has his knife into the company." "exactly," said norton; "and if he can make friends with and help the enemy, he will." "you mean he'll be a dangerous spy in the camp?" said west excitedly. "that's it, mr west; but if he plays that game and is caught his punishment will not be a couple of years on the breakwater." "no," said ingleborough: "the military will deal with him then." "how?" asked west, whose veins began to tingle and a cold shuddering sensation to run down his spine. "a couple of lines of infantry, a volley of musketry, and--" "finis," said the superintendent. "good day. i don't wish him any harm; but i feel pretty sure he'll run straight into some trap. that sort of fellow always does." the next minute the door had closed upon the superintendent, and the two young men sat thoughtfully looking in each other's eyes. "only a few hours ago, and we three were calmly working together," said west sadly; "and i looked upon anson as an unsatisfactory fellow whom i never could like, but whose worst faults were being a cringing kind of bore and a perfect nuisance with his flute." "and i as a smooth hypocrite whom one ought not to trust," said ingleborough. "and now he's gone, and we're to have the boers at us and most likely have to soldier in real earnest. hallo! here's norton back again." for there was a quick step outside, and the door was thrown open. but it was not the superintendent's face that met their eyes, for their late fellow-clerk stepped boldly in. "how are you, gentlemen?" he said, with a strong emphasis upon the last word. "so i've got the sack; but i'm not going to leave my property behind." he stepped to his desk and took out his flute-case, tucked it under his arm, and then drew the sword-cane and umbrella from the stand, giving the pair a maliciously triumphant look. "can't afford to leave the sword-stick as a memento for you, ingle, nor the flute for sneaky west. goodbye, both of you. look out for our next merry meeting. ta, ta!" neither of the young men replied, but sat gazing fixedly at the speaker till he passed out, banging the door. but only to open it again to look in and utter the one word: "cads!" then the door was banged, and west leaped from his stool and made a dash. "stop, stupid!" thundered out ingleborough, supplementing his words by a bound and flinging his arm round his companion's chest. "let the brute go. you don't want to kick him?" "but i do," shouted west, struggling. "let go." "keep still," growled ingleborough, and then, "why, noll," he cried, "i do believe--" "what?" said west, cooling down and looking wonderingly in his companion's excited eyes, for ingleborough had stopped short. "that flute--that sword-cane--" "well, he has got them. bah! i'm glad you stopped me from punching his head. let him have them; they're his." "yes," said ingleborough; "but the handle of the cane and the top joint of the flute. there was room for a dozen big diamonds in each." "what! then let's go and stop him!" "yes; we could but be wrong. come on." "hah! listen," cried west, and a sound arose which turned their thoughts in a different channel, for it was like the first note of the coming war. the trumpet rang out the "assemblee" and thrilled both through and through, sending them to the arm-press for rifle and bandolier. clerking was over for many months to come. the pen was to give way to the modern substitute for the sword. chapter eight. volunteers volunteer. rumours that proved to be false and rumours that proved to be true were plentiful enough during the following fortnight; and in that time kimberley was transformed from a busy mining camp in which the black and white inhabitants were constantly going and coming like ants in a hill to a town whose siege was imminent, and whose people thought of nothing but preparing for the enemy, and whose talk was of rifle, cartridge, and trench. but there was something done beside talk, the people loyally joining with the small military garrison in preparing for the defence of the place; and, while one portion worked to strengthen every spot that would form a redoubt, the other strove as long as was possible to get in stores to enable the defenders to hold out if they were besieged. for the determination was strong to save the enormous wealth of the place from the enemy whose borders were so short a distance from their lines. drilling and instruction in the use of arms were carried on almost night and day, and in a very short time the military element seemed to have pretty well swallowed up the civil, while each hour found the people more ready to meet the first rush of the dogs of war. it was a most unsuitable place for defence, being a mere mining camp pitched in a wide bare plain, the only part suitable for turning into a keep being the huge mound cast up by the excavations in the search for diamonds; and this was fortified to the best of the defenders' ability almost from the first. but the situation had its advantages as well as failings, for the flat, open, desert-like land stretched right away on all sides, giving an enemy no undue advantages in the shape of kopje or ravine to turn into a natural fortress from which the town could be attacked. the place, then, was a fair example of weakness and strength, the latter, however, daily growing, in the shape of a stern determination to give the boers a very warm reception when they did attack. so the days glided rapidly by, with authentic news at first fairly abundant, but invariably of a very serious nature, and whenever they were off the new duties they had to fulfil, the said news was amply discussed by the two young men, who from their prior preparation had stood forward at once as prominent members of the semi-military force. "be patient," said ingleborough laughingly, one evening; "there'll be plenty of fighting by-and-by. i'd no idea you were going to develop into such a fire-eater." "fire-eater? absurd! i only feel deeply interested in all we are doing." "that's right, noll! so do we all; but let's have no rashness. remember all the drill and discipline. that's where we shall be able to tell against the enemy. they can use their rifles well enough; but they are an undisciplined mob at the best. by the way, have you run against the flute-player lately?" "no, but i met the people with whom he lodges yesterday. they knew me again, and came up as if wanting to speak." "what about?" "oh, they began by talking about the war and asking me whether i thought it would last long." "to which you said _no_, eh?" "i only said that i hoped not, and then they volunteered the information that they believed anson was going to leave the town for the south." "indeed?" said ingleborough sharply. "what made them think that?" "because their lodger had packed up all his little belongings and had bought a wagon and a span of oxen, which he kept just outside." "well, he'll lose them if he doesn't look out. he'll find himself between two fires. either the oxen will be seized for stores, or the boers will cut them off. the fellow must be either desperate or mad." "in a fright, i should say," said west. "i don't think he would stomach the fighting." "oh, it's all nonsense! the report this evening was that the boers are closing round us fast. he'll be stopped by one side or the other. norton ought to know of this, though." "i daresay he does know already," said west; "for he told me the other day that he was keeping his eye on our friend." "so he did," said ingleborough thoughtfully. "he has some idea of catching him trying to communicate with the enemy. if he does, master simon will not get off so easily as he did over the diamond business. well, i'm tired, and i shall go to bed. let's sleep while we can. there's no knowing what a day will bring forth!" "you are right," said west. "you think we shall really come to close quarters?" "yes, and very close quarters too. i've expected it before now." nothing happens so surely as the unexpected, someone once said; and it was so the very next day. military drill was, as intimated, constantly going on; but that next morning there was a larger gathering than usual, the principal part of the regulars being drawn up in lines with the volunteer defenders--in all, a goodly show. it was to some extent a general inspection; but after it was over the men were formed up as three sides of a hollow square, and the colonel in command addressed the men, complimenting them upon their behaviour, and then giving them the contents in a great measure of the despatches he had received from headquarters, in combination with the reports of the scouts and from the outposts. he concluded by saying that in a few hours they would, in all probability, be completely shut off from communication with the south, for the boers were closing round them in great force, and that until they were relieved they would be called upon to hold kimberley, making a brave defence to save so important a town from falling into the hands of the invader. here he was stopped by a tremendous burst of cheering, which hindered him from saying, as he intended, that they must be of good heart and full of trust that the general in command would soon send help. but the enthusiastic cheering taught the commandant plainly that the men before him needed no "heartening up," and he smiled with satisfaction as he felt convinced that every call he made upon them would be answered. what followed was short and to the point. he thanked them, made a few remarks about his determination that no boers should drag the british flag from where it fluttered, told the garrison that he was proud to say that they had an ample supply of provisions and military stores, and that the boers had only to make their first attack to find how they had deceived themselves about the british surrender at majuba hill. here there was another deafening burst of cheers. finally he made a fresh allusion to the well-known town farther north which was being surrounded by the enemy even as they were being shut in there. "it will be a race," he said, "between us as to which town will first beat the boers off; and the victors will then have the glorious task of going to the relief of the others." after this the regulars were marched off to their quarters, leaving the volunteers standing fast; and the commandant now summoned their officers to his side. as it happened, this was within a few yards of the spot where west and ingleborough were drawn up in the line, and every word the commandant spoke came to them clear and plain. "i have another little business to speak about, gentlemen," he said, "in connection with a second despatch which was enclosed to me this morning within my own. it is a letter of instructions i am ordered to convey to our brave brother-in-arms now in command at mafeking; and, on thinking the matter over, i concluded that it would be unwise to select one of my own men to carry that despatch, from their want of knowledge of the country and people, and far better to apply to you gentlemen to recommend to me a thoroughly trustworthy man or two, who, regardless of all obstacles, would carry the despatch, bringing to bear force or cunning so as to evade the enemy's scouts, for the road is sure to swarm with them, even if it is not occupied by the boers in force. it is possible, too, that mafeking may be completely invested when he or they reach its neighbourhood; but i must have a despatch-rider who will look upon even that as a trifle to be overcome or crossed, and who will not rest until the despatch is safely placed in colonel baden-powell's hands. let me be fully understood: i want messengers who will be ready to fight if necessary or fly if needs be, but only to rebound and try in another direction--in short, men who will button up this despatch and say: `it shall be placed in baden-powell's hands by hook or crook as soon as a swift horse can cover the ground.' this is what i want, and it is urgent, or it would not be placed in my hands to deliver with such stern commands. it means life or death to hundreds, if not thousands. so now then, whom do you know that will, with the assistance of a brave comrade, risk his life and carry my despatch?" a dead silence, which lasted many seconds, fell upon the group, but at last the volunteer colonel spoke out. "i am not prepared to name anyone, sir," he said, "and i flinch from sending any man in my regiment upon so terribly perilous a journey, for it means almost to a certainty being shot down, for the bearer of the despatch will be bound to hurry on and pay no heed to challenges to stop." "certainly," said the commandant, frowning; "but surely--" "one moment, sir; i was about to say that the fairest way would be to call for volunteers, and then select the two most likely men." "well," said the commandant, "do that then, and let the men fully understand that it is a most dangerous task. mind, too, that he must be a good and a rather reckless rider, able to bear fatigue, and above all determined to do this thing for the honour of his country and the saving of his brother men.--yes, my lad, what is it?" for west, whose face had flushed deeply and whose blood tingled in his veins, had taken four steps forward out of the ranks, and now stood with his hand raised to the salute. "give me the despatch, sir," he said. "i'll take it." "you?" cried the commandant wonderingly, as his eyes ran over the speaker. "you are very young. but are you a good rider?" "i think i can ride anything well enough, sir." "splendid rider," said a deep voice, and ingleborough strode to the young man's side. "he'll do it, sir, if any man can; and i'll go with him to help him in the task if you'll give me orders." "hah!" ejaculated the commandant. "yes, i know you, mr ingleborough. you belong to the police?" "oh no, sir; i am only on friendly terms with the superintendent, and have been on expeditions with him." "and you think your young friend would be a good man to carry the despatch?" "i would trust him if i were in power, sir." "then i will," said the commandant, after a long and searching look at west. "be at my quarters in fifteen minutes' time, both of you, and we will have further talk on the matter." the young men exchanged looks as they resumed their places in the ranks, west's countenance betokening the wild excitement he felt, while ingleborough, who looked perfectly calm and contented, just gave him a smile and a nod. a few minutes later they were dismissed, and the two young men had hard work to get free from their brother volunteers, who surrounded and cheered them loudly, one of the officers proposing that they should be chaired back through the town. but they escaped this on the ground of their orders to go to the commandant's quarters, and were at last set free, to hurry away. the next minute they encountered anson, who had heard and seen all, and passed them without a word, but wearing a peculiarly supercilious and meaning smile which broadened into a grin of contempt that made west writhe. "bless him!" said ingleborough. "do you know what the pleasant look means?" "that he will not be happy till i've thrashed him." "no," said ingleborough; "he has evidently heard all, and has made up his mind that he is going to have a pleasant revenge." "how? in what way?" cried west. "he thinks the boers will shoot us: that's all." "ah!" cried west. "but we will not let them, my dear boy," said ingleborough coolly. "they're slim, as they call it; but two can play at that game." "yes, but look: here's mr allan coming to say that we can't go," said west excitedly, for the chief director was approaching and raised his hand to stop them, signing to them directly after to come to his side. "looks as if he is going to put a stopper on our patriotism," growled ingleborough. "we've been reckoning without our host." chapter nine. four-legged help. "here, you two boys," cried the director; "i've just heard of this wild project. are you mad, west?" "i hope not, sir." "but, my good lad, i really--i--that is--bless my soul! it's very brave of you; but i don't think i ought to let you go." "i heard you say, sir, that everyone ought to be ready to devote his life to the defence of the country." "eh?" cried the director. "to be sure, yes, i did--in that speech i made to the volunteers; but then you're not everybody, and--er--er--you see, what i said was in a speech, and sometimes one says more then than one quite means." "there'll be no work doing in the office, sir," said ingleborough; "and i hope you will not place any obstacles in the way of our going." "oh no, my dear boys! i feel that i must not; but i don't like you to run such a terrible risk." "we must all run risks, sir," said west gravely. "and i beg your pardon: our time is up for seeing the commandant," said ingleborough, referring to his watch. "yes, i heard you were to go to him," said the director. "but it sounds very rash. there, go on, and come to me afterwards." they parted, and a few minutes later the young men were ushered into the commandant's room. "then you have not repented, my lads?" he said, smiling. "no, sir," replied west, speaking for both; "we are quite ready to go." "then i must take you both at your word. but once more i give you both the opportunity to draw back if you like." "thank you, sir," replied west; "but if you will trust us we will take the despatch." "very well," said the commandant, turning very stern and business-like. "here is the despatch. it is a very small packet, and i leave it to your own ingenuity to dispose of it where it cannot be found if you have the bad luck to be captured. it must be sewn up in your pockets, or fitted into your hats, or hidden in some way or other. i leave it to you, only telling you to destroy it sooner than it should fall into the enemy's hands." "we'll consult together, sir, and decide what to do," replied west, looking frankly in the officer's eyes; "but--i have heard of such a thing being done, sir--" "what do you mean?" said the commandant sternly. "that to ensure a despatch not falling into the enemy's hands the bearer learned its contents carefully and then burned it." "hah! yes. that would make it safe," cried the officer, with a satisfied look. "but, no, it could not be done in this case. i have no right to open the despatch, and i do not know its contents. you must take it as it is, and in the event of disaster burn or bury it. destroy it somehow. it must not fall into the enemy's hands. here." "i understand, sir," said west, taking the thick letter in its envelope, as it was extended to him; and the commandant heaved a sigh as if of relief on being freed of a terrible incubus. "there," he said, "i shall tie you down to no restrictions other than these. that packet must somehow be placed in the hands of the colonel commandant at mafeking. i do not like to name failure, for you are both young, strong, and evidently full of resource; but once more: if you are driven too hard, burn or destroy the packet. now then, what do you want in the way of arms? you have your rifles, and you had better take revolvers, which you can have with ammunition from the military stores. do you want money?" "no, sir; we shall require no money to signify," said ingleborough quietly. "but we must have the best horses that can be obtained." "those you must provide for yourselves. take the pick of the place, and the order shall be made for payment. my advice is that you select as good a pair of basuto ponies as you can obtain. they will be the best for your purpose. there, i have no more to say but `god speed you,' for it is a matter of life and death." he shook hands warmly with both, and, on glancing back as soon as they were outside, they saw the commandant watching them from the window, whence he waved his hand. "he thinks we shall never get back again, noll," said ingleborough, smiling; "but we'll deceive him. now then, what next?" "we must see mr allan," replied west. "then forward," cried ingleborough. "we must see old norton too before we go, or he'll feel huffed. let's go round by his place." they found the superintendent in and ready to shake hands with them both warmly. "most plucky!" he kept on saying. "wish i could go with you." "i wish you could, and with a hundred of your men to back us up," said west laughingly. "you ought to have a couple of thousand to do any good!" said the superintendent: "but even they would not ensure your delivering your despatch. by rights there ought to be only one of you. that would increase your chance. but it would be lonely work. what can i do for you before you go?" "only come and see us off this evening." "i will," was the reply, "and wish you safe back." "and, i say," said ingleborough: "keep your eye on that scoundrel." "anson? oh yes: trust me! i haven't done with that gentleman yet." directly after they were on their way to the director's room, and as they neared the door they could hear him pacing impatiently up and down as if suffering from extreme anxiety. the step ceased as they reached and gave a tap at the door, and mr allan opened to them himself. "well," he said, "has the commandant decided to send you?" "yes, sir," replied west. "i'm very sorry, and i'm very glad; for it must be done, and i know no one more likely to get through the boer lines than you two. look here, you'll want money. take these. no questions, no hesitation, my lads; buckle on the belts beneath your waistcoats. money is the sinews of war, and you are going where you will want sinews and bones, bones and sinews too." in his eagerness the director helped the young men to buckle on the two cash-belts he had given them. "there," he said; "that is all i can do for you but wish you good luck. by the time you come back we shall have sent the boers to the right-about, unless they have captured kimberley and seized the diamond-mines. then, of course, my occupation will be gone. goodbye. not hard-hearted, my boys; but rather disposed to be soft. there, goodbye." "now then," said west, "we've no time to spare. what are we going to do about horses?" "we've the money at our back," replied ingleborough, "and that will do anything. we are on government service too, so that if we cannot pay we can pick out what we like and then report to headquarters, when they will be requisitioned." but the task proved easy enough, for they had not gone far in the direction of the mines when they met another of the directors, who greeted them both warmly. "i've heard all about it, my lads," he said, "and it's very brave of you both." "please don't say that any more, sir," cried west appealingly, "for all we have done yet is talk. if we do get the despatch through there will be some praise earned, but at present we've done nothing." "and we're both dreadfully modest, sir," said ingleborough. "bah! you're not great girls," cried the director. "but you are not off yet, and you can't walk." "no, sir," said west; "we are in search of horses--good ones that we can trust to hold out." "very well; why don't you go to someone who has been buying up horses for our mounted men?" "because we don't know of any such person," said west. "do you?" "to be sure i do, my lad, and here he is." "you, sir?" cried ingleborough excitedly. "why, of course; i heard that you were, and forgot in all the bustle and excitement of the coming siege. then you can let us have two? the commandant will give an order for the payment." "hang the commandant's payments!" cried the director testily. "when young fellows like you are ready to give their lives in the queen's service, do you think men like we are can't afford to mount them? come along with me, and you shall have the pick of the sturdy cob ponies i have. they're rough, and almost unbroken--what sort of horsemen are you?" "very bad, sir," replied ingleborough: "no style at all. we ride astride though." "well, so i suppose," said the director, laughing, "and with your faces to the nag's head. if you tell me you look towards the tail i shall not believe you. but seriously, can you stick on a horse tightly when at full gallop?" "oliver west can, sir," replied ingleborough. "he's a regular centaur foal." "nonsense! don't flatter," cried west. "i can ride a bit, sir; but ingleborough rides as if he were part of a horse. he's accustomed to taking long rides across the veldt every morning." "oh, we can ride, sir," said ingleborough coolly; "but whether we can ride well enough to distance the boers has to be proved." "i'll mount you, my boys, on such a pair of ponies as the boers haven't amongst them," said the director warmly. "do you know my stables--the rough ones and enclosure i have had made?" "we heard something about the new stabling near the mine, sir," said west; "but we've been too busy to pay much heed." "come and pay heed now, then." the speaker led the way towards the great mine buildings, and halted at a gate in a newly set-up fence of corrugated-iron, passing through which their eyes were gladdened by the sight of about a dozen of the rough, sturdy little cobs bred by the basutos across country, and evidently under the charge of a couple of kaffirs, who came hurrying up at the sight of their "baas," as they termed him. here ingleborough soon displayed the knowledge he had picked up in connection with horses by selecting two clever-looking muscular little steeds, full of spirit and go, but quite ready to prove how little they had been broken in, and promising plenty of work to their riders if they expected to keep in their saddles. "be too fresh for you?" said the owner. "we shall soon take the freshness out of them, poor things!" said ingleborough. "would you mind having them bridled and saddled, sir?" the order was given, and, after a good deal of trouble and narrowly escaping being kicked, the kaffirs brought the pair selected up to where the despatch-riders were standing with the director. ingleborough smiled, and then bade the two kaffirs to stand on the far side of the ponies, which began to resent the kaffirs' flank movements by sidling up towards the two young men. "ready?" said ingleborough, in a low, sharp tone. "yes." "mount!" they both sprang into their saddles, to the intense astonishment of the ponies, one of which made a bound and dashed off round the enclosure at full speed, while the other, upon which west was mounted, reared straight up, and, preserving its balance upon its hind legs, kept on snorting, while it sparred out with its fore hoofs as if striking at some imaginary enemy, till the rider brought his hand down heavily upon the restive beast's neck. the blow acted like magic, for the pony dropped on all-fours directly, gave itself a shake as if to rid itself of saddle and rider, and then uttered a loud neigh which brought its galloping companion alongside. "humph!" ejaculated their new friend; "i needn't trouble myself about your being able to manage your horses, my lads. will these do?" "splendidly, sir," cried west. "there they are, then, at your service!" and, after a few directions to the kaffirs about having them ready when wanted, the party left the enclosure and separated with a few friendly words, the despatch-bearers making once more for the commandant's quarters to report what they had done so far, and to obtain a pass which would ensure them a ready passage through the lines and by the outposts. they were soon ushered into the commandant's presence, and he nodded his satisfaction with the report of their proceedings before taking up a pen and writing a few lines upon an official sheet of paper. "that will clear you both going and returning," said he, folding and handing the permit. "now then, when do you start?" "directly, sir," said ingleborough, who was the one addressed. "no," said the commandant. "you must wait a few hours. of course it is important that the despatch be delivered as soon as possible; but you must lose time sooner than run risks. if you go now, you will be seen by the enemy and be having your horses shot down--perhaps share their fate. so be cautious, and now once more goodbye, my lads. i shall look forward to seeing you back with an answering despatch." this was their dismissal, and they hurried away to have another look to their horses, and to see that they were well-fed, before obtaining a meal for themselves and a supply of food to store in their haversacks. "there's nothing like a bit of foresight," said ingleborough. "we must eat, and going in search of food may mean capture and the failure of our mission." the time was gliding rapidly on, the more quickly to west from the state of excitement he was in; but the only important thing he could afterwards remember was that twice over they ran against anson, who seemed to be watching their actions, and the second time west drew his companion's attention to the fact. "wants to see us off," said ingleborough. "i shouldn't be surprised when we come back to find that he has eluded norton and gone." "where?" said west. "oh, he'll feel that his chance here is completely gone, and he'll make for the cape and take passage for england." "if the boers do not stop him." "of course," replied ingleborough. "it's my impression that he has smuggled a lot of diamonds, though we couldn't bring it home to him." "i suppose it's possible," said west thoughtfully. "but isn't it likely that he may make his way over to the enemy?" ingleborough looked at the speaker sharply. "that's not a bad idea of yours," he said slowly; "but, if he does and he is afterwards caught, things might go very awkwardly for his lordship, and that flute of his will be for sale." "flute for sale? what do you mean? from poverty?--no one would employ him. oh! i understand now. horrible! you don't think our people would shoot him?" "perhaps not," said ingleborough coldly; "but they'd treat him as a rebel and a spy. but there, it's pretty well time we started. come along." within half an hour they were mounted and off on their perilous journey, passing outpost after outpost and having to make good use of their pass, till, just as it was getting dusk, they parted from an officer who rode out with them towards the boers' encircling lines. "there," he said, "you've got the enemy before you, and you'd better give me your pass." "why?" said west sharply. "because it has been a source of protection so far: the next time you are challenged it will be a danger." "of course," said ingleborough. "give it up, oliver." "or destroy it," said the officer carelessly: "either will do." "thanks for the advice," said west, and they shook hands and parted, the officer riding back to join his men. "you made him huffy by being suspicious," said ingleborough. "i'm sorry, but one can't help being suspicious of everything and everybody at a time like this. what do you say about destroying the commandant's pass?" "i'm divided in my opinion." "so am i," said west. "one moment i think it best: the next i am for keeping it in case we fall into the hands of some of our own party. on the whole, i think we had better keep it and hide it. let's keep it till we are in danger." "chance it?" said ingleborough laconically. "very well; only don't leave it till it is too late." "i'll mind," said west, and, as they rode out over the open veldt and into the gloom of the falling night, they kept a sharp look-out till they had to trust more to their ears for notice of danger, taking care to speak only in a whisper, knowing as they did that at any moment they might receive a challenge from the foe. "what are you doing?" said ingleborough suddenly, after trying to make out what his companion was doing. "not going to eat yet, surely?" "no--only preparing for the time when i must. look here." "too dark," said ingleborough, leaning towards his companion. "very well, then, i'll tell you: i'm making a sandwich." "absurd! what for?" "i'll tell you. you can't see, but this is what i'm doing. i've two slices of bread here, and i'm putting between them something that is not good food for boers. that's it. i've doubled the pass in half, and stuck it between two slices. if we have the bad luck to be taken prisoners i shall be very hungry, and begin eating the sandwich and the pass. i don't suppose it will do me any harm." "capital idea," said ingleborough, laughing. "that's done," said west, replacing his paper sandwich in his haversack, and a few minutes later, as they still rode slowly on, ingleborough spoke again. "what now?" he said. "making another sandwich," was the reply. "another?" "yes, of the mafeking despatch." "ah, of course; but you will not eat that?" "only in the last extremity." "good," said ingleborough, "and i hope we shall have no last extremes." he had hardly spoken when a sharp challenge in boer-dutch rang out, apparently from about fifty yards to their left, and, as if in obedience to the demand, the two basuto ponies the young men rode stopped suddenly. ingleborough leaned down sidewise and placed his lips close to his companion's ear. "which is it to be?" he said. "one is as easy as the other--forward or back?" "one's as safe as the other," replied west, under his breath. "forward." they were in the act of pressing their horses' sides to urge them on when there was a flash of light from the position of the man who had uttered the challenge, and almost immediately the humming, buzzing sound as of a large beetle whizzing by them in its nocturnal flight, and at the same moment there was the sharp crack of a rifle. chapter ten. anson's blessing. "bless 'em!" said anson to himself that same evening, "i don't wish 'em any harm. i only hope that before they've gone far the boers will challenge them. "i can almost see it now: getting dark, and an outpost challenges. `come on, gallop!' says old ingle, and they stick their spurs into their nags and are off over the veldt. then _crack, cracky crack_, go the rifles till the saddles are emptied and two gallant defenders of kimberley and brave despatch-riders lie kicking in the dust. "ugh! how. i should like to be there with my flute. i'd stand and look on till they'd given their last kick and stretched themselves out straight, and then i'd play the `dead march' in `saul' all over 'em both. don't suppose they'd know; but if they could hear it they wouldn't sneer at my `tootling old flute'--as ingle called it--any more. "urrrr! i hated the pair of 'em. ingle was a hound--a regular sniffing, smelling-out hound, and noll west a miserable, sneaking cur. beasts! so very good and nice and straightforward. hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth--yes, millions' worth of diamonds being scraped together by the company, and a poor fellow not allowed to have a handful. i don't say it's the thing to steal 'em; but who would steal? just a bit of nice honest trade--buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest. it's what the company does, but nobody else ought to, of course. who's going to ask every kaffir who comes to you and says: `buy a few stones, baas?' `where do you get 'em from?' not me. they've as good a right to 'em as the company, and if i like to do a bit of honest trade i will, in spite of the miserable laws they make. hang their laws! what are they to me? illicit-diamond-buying! police force, eh? a snap of the fingers for it! "a bit sooner than i expected," mused the flute-player. "a few months more, and i should have made a very big thing if the boers hadn't upset it all and master ingle hadn't been so precious clever! never mind: it isn't so very bad now! i'll be off while my shoes are good. i don't believe the boers have got round to the south yet, and, if they have, i don't believe it'll matter. say they do stop me, it'll only be: `who are you--and where are you going?' down south or west or anywhere, to do a bit of trade. i'm sloping off--that's what i'm doing--because the british are trying to force me to volunteer to fight against my old friends the boers. i'll soft-soap and butter 'em all over, and play 'em a tune or two upon the flute, and offer 'em some good tobacco. they won't stop me." the quiet, plump, thoughtful-looking muser was on his way to a farm just beyond the outskirts of kimberley, as he walked slowly through the darkness, hardly passing a soul; and he rubbed his hands softly at last as he came in sight of a dim gleaming lantern some distance ahead. "all ready and waiting," he said softly, and now he increased his pace a little in his excitement, but only to stop short and look back once or twice as if to make sure that he was not followed. but, neither seeing nor hearing anything, he rubbed his hands again, muttered to himself something about wiping his shoes of the whole place, and went on quickly. "das you, baas?" said a thick guttural voice just above the lantern. "yes, this is me," replied anson. "team in-spanned?" "yaas, baas: big long time ago. not tink baas come." "but i said i would," replied anson. "got the water-barrel slung underneath?" the man grunted, anson gave an order or two in a low tone, and in response to a shout a dimly-seen team of great bullocks roughly harnessed to the dissel boom and trek tow of a long covered-in wagon began to trudge slowly along over the rough track which led to the main road leading south. a second man led the way, while the kaffir with the light swung himself up onto the great box in front of the wagon and drew out an unusually long whip, after hanging his horn lantern to a hook in the middle of the arched tilt over his head. "baas come alon' heah?" said the man. "no, go on, and i'll walk behind for a bit," said anson, in a low tone of voice. "go on quietly, and keep off the track. go straight away till i tell you to turn off." the kaffir grunted, and the oxen plodded on at their slow two-mile-an-hour rate, leaving the last sign of occupation far behind, anson twice over giving instructions to the man who was leading which way to steer, the result being that the creaking wagon was driven right away south and west over the open veldt, avoiding the various farms and places till kimberley was left far behind. it was a bright starlit night, and the long procession of big bullocks looked weird and strange in the gloom, for at times they seemed to be drawing nothing, so closely did the tilt of the great lightly-loaded wagon assimilate with the drab dusty tint of the parched earth and the dusky-coloured scrub which the great wheels crushed down. the driver sat on the box with his huge whip, his shoulders well up and his head down, driving mechanically, and seeming to be asleep, while the voorlooper kept pace with the leading oxen, and hour after hour passed away without a word being spoken. so the night wore on, the only watchful eyes being those of anson, who kept on straining them forward right and left, while his ears twitched as he listened for the sounds which he knew would be uttered by a boer vedette. but no challenge came, and the fugitive breathed more freely as the stars paled, a long, low, sickly streak began to spread in the east, and the distance of the wide-spreading desolate veldt grew more clear. "i knew they wouldn't be on the look-out," said anson to himself, in an exulting fashion. "hah! i'm all right, and i wonder how west and ingle have got on." it was growing broad daylight when the thoughtful-looking ex-clerk climbed up to the side of the driver. "how far to the fontein?" he said. "one hour, baas," was the reply. "is there plenty of grass?" "plenty, baas. bullock much eat and drink." the information proved quite correct, for within the specified time--the team having stepped out more readily, guided as they were by their instinct to where water, grass, and rest awaited them--and soon after the great orange globe had risen above what looked like the rim of the world, the wagon was pulled up at the edge of a broad crack in the dusty plain, where the bottom of the spruit could be seen full of rich green grass besprinkled with flowers, through which ran the clear waters of an abundant stream. a fire was soon lighted, a billy hung over it to boil, and anson, after watching the team, which had dragged their load so well and so far, munching away at the juicy grass, began to get out the necessaries connected with his own meal. "hah!" he said softly, as he rubbed his hands; "sorry i haven't got my two fellow-clerks to breakfast: it would have been so nice and ugh!" he growled, shading his eyes to give a final look round, for there in the distance, evidently following the track by which he had come through the night, there was a little knot of horsemen cantering along, and from time to time there came a flash of light caused by the horizontal beams of the sun striking upon rifle-barrel or sword. anson's hands dropped to his sides, and he looked to right, left, and behind him as if meditating flight. then his eyes went in the direction of his oxen, freshly outspanned, but he turned frowningly away as he felt that even with the team already in their places, the lumbering bullocks could not have been forced into a speed which the horses could not have overtaken in a few yards at a canter. then he shaded his eyes again to have a good look at the party of horsemen. "police," he said, in a hiss. "yes, and that's norton. _hfff_!" he drew in his breath, making a peculiar sound, and then, as if satisfied with the course he meant to pursue, he went back to the fire and continued his preparations for his meal, apparently paying no heed to the party of mounted police till they cantered up and came to a halt by the wagon. "hallo, constables!" cried anson boisterously; "who'd have thought of seeing--why, it's you, mr norton!" "yes," said the superintendent. "you seem surprised!" "why, of course i am. got something on the way? anyone been smuggling stones?" "yes," said the officer shortly. "sorry for them then, for i suppose you mean to catch 'em." "i do," said the officer warningly. "that's right; i'm just going to have some breakfast: will you have a snack with me?" "no, thank you. i'm on business." "ah, you are a busy man, mr norton; but let bygones be bygones. have a snack with me! you're welcome." "i told you i was on business, master anson. now, if you please, where are you going?" "where am i going?" said anson warmly. "why, down south. what's the good of my staying in kimberley?" "i can't answer that question, sir. where's your pass?" "pass? what pass?" "your permit from the magistrate to leave the town." "permit? nonsense!" cried anson. "i'm turned out of the mine offices, and i'm not going to sit and starve. no one will give me work without a character. you know that." the superintendent nodded. "perhaps not," he said; "but you are still a suspect, and you have no right to leave the town." "i'm not a prisoner," said anson defiantly, "and i'm going on my lawful way. what have you to say to that?" "in plain english, that i believe you are going off to escape arrest and to carry off your plunder." "my what? plunder? why, it's sickening! didn't you come to my place and thoroughly search it?" "i did search your room, but found nothing, because i believe you had everything too well hidden. now then, if you please, what have you got in your wagon?" "nothing but provisions and my clothes! why?" "because of your sudden flight." "my sudden what?" said anson, laughing. "you know what i said, sir. your sudden flight!" "my sudden nonsense!" cried anson angrily. "i have told you why i came away." "yes," said the superintendent; "but i'm not satisfied that this move does not mean that you have smuggled diamonds here with you to carry to where you can dispose of them." "well, it's of no use to argue with a policeman," said anson coolly. "you had better make another search." chapter eleven. another search. "that's just what i'm going to do, master anson," was the reply, given sternly. "all right," said anson nonchalantly. "search away; but, if i was in the police and had a good tip given me as to where the plunder i was after had been planted, i don't think i should waste time hunting blind leads, and letting the real culprits have plenty of time to get away." "but then you are not in the police, sir," said the superintendent, with a nod. "so first of all i'll let my men run over you and your kaffirs." "wait till i've lit a cigar first," said anson, taking out a case, and then laughing, for the police officer was watching him keenly. "that's right; there are three or four diamonds in every one of these cigars, and as i smoke you'll notice that i don't burn much of the end i light, but that i keep on biting off bits of the leaf till i get to the diamonds, and then i swallow them." he held out his cigar-case, and the superintendent took it and began to feel the cigars, till anson burst out laughing. "don't pinch them too hard," he cried, "or you'll break them, and then they won't draw." the officer returned the cigar-case with an angry ejaculation, and glanced round as if hesitating where to begin, while the horses of his men began to imitate the action of the oxen, nibbling away at the rich grass surrounding the pleasant spring. "i say, robert," said anson, and the superintendent started at the familiar nickname: "i'd look smart over the business, for the boers have been here lately to water their horses, and if they should by any chance come back it might mean a journey for you and your men to pretoria." "and you too, if they did come," said the officer surlily. "oh, i don't know," said anson airily. "i don't believe they would stop a man with an empty wagon going south on a peaceful journey." "they'd take you and your wagon and span, sir," said the officer sternly. "look here, i don't believe the boers would behave half so badly to me as my own people have done. but aren't you going to search?" "yes," said the superintendent sharply. "your rifle, please." anson unslung it from where it hung in the wagon, and the officer took it, examined the stock and the plate at the end of the butt, to be sure that there were no secret places scooped out of the wood, before he opened the breech and withdrew the ball cartridges, holding the empty barrels up to his eyes. "that's right," cried anson; "but have a good look round for squalls--i mean boers. gun-barrels don't make half bad things to squint through when you haven't got a binocular." "bah!" said the superintendent angrily, replacing the cartridges and closing the breech with a snap. "but you have a pair of glasses slung across your shoulder, sir. have the goodness to pass the case here." anson obeyed willingly enough, giving his slung case up for the rifle that was returned. "there you are," he said, "and when you've done i suppose you'd like to search my clothes and my skin. but i haven't anything there, and i haven't cut myself to slip diamonds inside my hide, and there are none in my ears or boots." "it's my duty to have you searched all the same," said the superintendent. "here, two of you go carefully over mr anson, while you three hitch up your horses there and make a close search throughout the wagon." anson chuckled as the men began promptly to pass their hands over his clothes, turn out his pockets, and haul off his boots, their chief, after satisfying himself that the binocular case had no false bottom or precious stones inside the instrument itself, looking searchingly on. satisfied at last that his captive had nothing concealed about him, and frowning heavily at the malicious grin of contempt in which anson indulged, the superintendent turned to the men examining the oxen so as to satisfy himself that none of the heavy dull brutes had been provided with false horns riveted over their own and of greater length so as to allow room for a few diamonds in each. then the dissel boom was examined to see if it had been bored out somewhere and plugged to cover the illicitly-acquired diamonds thrust in. but no: the great pole of the wagon was perfectly solid; there were no stones stuck in the grease used to anoint the wheels; there was no sign anywhere outside the wagon of boring or plugging; and at last the superintendent, after carefully avoiding anson's supercilious grin, turned to give a final look round before giving up the search. was there anywhere else likely? yes; there were the bags of mealies and the water-cask slung beneath the wain, both nearly full, the cask to give forth a sound when it was shaken, and the sacks ready to be emptied out upon a wagon sheet and shed their deep buff-coloured grains, hard, clean, and sweet, in a great heap, which was spread out more and more till they were about two deep, but showed not a sign of a smuggled stone. "fill the bags again, my lads," said the police superintendent, "and let's have a look at what's inside the wagon." "we've searched everything there," said a sergeant gruffly. "i have not," replied the superintendent sharply. "let me see." "but you haven't looked in the water-cask," said anson mockingly; "turn the water out on to the wagon sheet. it won't stay there, of course; but we can easily get some more. do you think diamonds would melt in water?" "try one and see," cried the superintendent angrily, as he turned away, to stand looking on while every article that could by any possibility have been made to act as a vehicle to hide smuggled diamonds had been examined and replaced. "we've been sold, eh?" said the sergeant, looking up in his superintendent's eyes at last. "it seems like it," was the reply. "there's nothing here." just then anson, who had been lighting a fresh cigar, came up to him smilingly. "haven't done, have you?" he said. "yes: quite," was the gruff reply. "oh, i am sorry you haven't had better luck," said anson, in a mock sympathetic tone. "it must be terribly disappointing, after expecting to make a big capture." "very," said the superintendent, looking the speaker searchingly in the eyes. "well, i said something to you before, but you took no notice." "oh yes, i did." "but you didn't act on my tip. it seems like playing the sneak, but that's what they did to me, so i don't mind paying them back in their own coin." "pay whom?" "the two who informed on me to save their own skins." "i do not understand you." "oh dear, what fools you clever men are!" "what do you mean?" "bah! and you call yourself a police officer. i'd make a better one out of a dutch doll." "once more, what do you mean?" "rub the dust out of your eyes, man." "there's none there." "tchah! your eyes are full of the dust those two threw there. can't you see?" "no." "well, i am surprised at you," cried anson; "and after such a hint too! can't you see that they've been a-playing upon you--setting you off on a blind lead to keep your attention while they went off with a big parcel of diamonds?" "what! west and ingleborough?" "to be sure! what should they want to volunteer for, and risk capture by the boers, if they hadn't something to gain by it?" "well, they had something to gain--honour and promotion." "pish!" cried anson; "they want something better than that! you've been had, squire. you've been set to catch poor innocent, lamb-like me, and all the while those two foxes have been stealing away with the plunder." "what!" cried the superintendent. "i spoke plainly enough," said anson, smiling pleasantly. "yes, you spoke plainly enough," said the superintendent; "but it's nothing to laugh at, sir." "why, it's enough to make a cat laugh. well, i wish you better luck," said anson, "and if you do catch up to oliver west i hope you'll slip the handcuffs on him at once and make him part with his smuggled swag." "you may trust me for that," said the superintendent grimly. "i shall," said anson, smiling broadly. "glad you came after me, so that i could put you on the right track." "so am i," said the police officer, with a peculiar look. "and i'm sorry i cut up so rough," continued anson, smiling, as he apologised; "but you know, it isn't nice to be stopped and overhauled as i have been." "of course it isn't," said the officer drily; "but in my profession one can't afford to study people's feelings." "no, no, of course not. but don't apologise." "i was not going to," said the superintendent; "i'm sorry, though, to find out that west is such a scamp. why, ingleborough must be as bad." "or worse," said anson, grinning. "yes, because he's older. why, i quite trusted that fellow." "ah, you're not the first man who has been deceived, sir." "of course not; but by the way, mr anson, why didn't you say something of this kind in your defence when ingleborough charged you before the directors?" "why didn't i say something about it? why, because i didn't know. it only came to me too late. but there, you know now; and, as i said before, i wish you luck and a good haul, only unfortunately they've got a good start and you'll have your work cut out. going? goodbye then." "goodbye?" said the superintendent, using the word as a question. "yes, of course. i'm going to chance it. i don't suppose we shall meet any boers." "no; i don't think you'll meet any boers," said the officer, in so meaning a way that anson grew uneasy. "why do you speak like that?" he said sharply. "only that it isn't goodbye, mr anson." "not goodbye? yes, it is. i'm off to the south at once." "no, sir; you're going north with me. you area suspected person, mr anson. i am not altogether satisfied with my search, nor yet with your very ingenious story." "then search again?" cried anson excitedly. "not here, sir. i'll have a careful look over the wagon when we get back to kimberley." "you don't mean to say you are going to drag me back to kimberley?" "i do, sir, and you ought to be thankful, for you'd never pass through the boers' lines further south." "but you have thoroughly searched me and my wagon." "i have told you that i am not satisfied," said the officer coldly; "and, even if i were, i should take you back with me all the same." "why? what for?" "to face this mr west and his companion if we capture them and bring them back." "but what's that to me?" "only this: you are the informer, and will have to give evidence against them when they are examined. now, please, no more words, mr anson; you are my prisoner. quick, boys! get the team in-spanned and the wagon turned the other way." "but breakfast," said anson, with a groan. "i must have something to eat." "the billy is boiling," said the sergeant to his chief, in a confidential tone, "and the bullocks would be all the better for an hour's feed, sir." the superintendent looked sharply towards the fire and the prisoner's provisions, and shaded his eyes and gazed for some minutes south. "you're right," he said. "send two men off a good mile forward as outposts, and let the oxen feed.--now, mr anson, i'll take breakfast with you if you'll have me for a guest." "yes; i can't help myself," said the prisoner bitterly; "and suppose i shan't have a chance given me to make your tea agreeable with something i have in the wagon." "no; i don't think you will, sir, thanks." "but i can sit and wish you luck, my friend, and my wish is this--that a commando may swoop down upon you and your gang." "thanks once more," said the superintendent grimly. "there, sit down, sir, and i'll preside and send you your breakfast." this was done, the repast made, and, as soon as two of the constables had finished, they were sent off to relieve their rear-guard, sending them on to have their meal, and with orders to fall back towards the wagon a quarter of an hour after the relief had been made. all this was duly carried out, the oxen in-spanned, and the wagon began its lumbering course back towards kimberley, the black driver and voorlooper taking their places in the most unconcerned way, as if it were all in the day's work, while anson, after eating voraciously, had a fit of the sulks, watching narrowly the movements of the police. after a moment's indecision he climbed upon the box in the front of the wagon and in doing so glanced at his rifle, which hung in its slings close to his head. "six of them," he said to himself, as he smiled pleasantly. "i could bring down the chief and one more easily; but that wouldn't scare the rest away. odds are too heavy, and one don't want to be taken and hanged. they are so particular about a policeman being hurt! never mind; i daresay my luck will turn--fool as i was to try that dodge on about those two going off with the smuggled loot. i'll wait. here goes to whistle for the boers, as the sailors do for wind." saying this, he drew out the little mahogany case which held his flute, and coolly took the pieces and fitted them together, before crossing his legs upon the rough seat and beginning to blow, keeping up a series of the most doleful old scotch and irish laments, while the oxen plodded on and the police rode by the wagon side, listening and looking in vain for any sign tending to point out the fact that the flautist was a dishonest dealer in the coveted crystals which were so hard to get, but all the same keeping a keen look-out for danger in the shape of advancing boers. chapter twelve. in the thick of it. the report of the rifle was magical in its effect upon the basuto ponies, each rearing up on its hind legs and striking out with its forefeet; but the same punishment was meted out by the riders--namely, a sharp tap between the ears with the barrels of the rifles--and the result was that beyond fidgeting they stood fairly still, while _flash, flash, flash_, three more shots were fired. the bullets whizzed by with their peculiar noise, sounding quite close, but probably nowhere near the riders--those who fired judging in the darkness quite by sound. "let's keep on at a walk," whispered west; but, low as his utterance was, the sound reached an enemy's ears. "mind what you're about!" said someone close at hand, evidently mistaking the speaker for a friend; "one of those bullets went pretty close to my ear. whereabouts are they?" "away to the right," whispered ingleborough, in dutch. "come on then," said the former speaker. "_ck_!" the pony the man rode made a plunge as if spurs had been suddenly dug into its sides, and the dull beat of its hoofs on the dusty soil told of the course its rider was taking. west was about to speak when the rapid beating of hoofs came from his left, and he had hard work to restrain his own mount from joining a party of at least a dozen of the enemy as they swept by noisily in the darkness. "what do the fools think they are going to do by galloping about like that?" said ingleborough gruffly. "if they had kept still they might have caught us. hallo! firing again!" three or four shots rang out on the night air, and away in front of the pair the beating of hoofs was heard again. "why, the country seems alive with them," whispered west. "hadn't we better keep on?" "yes, we must chance it," was the reply. "no one can see us twenty yards away." "and we ought to make the most of the darkness." "hist!" whispered ingleborough, and his companion sat fast, listening to the movements of a mounted man who was evidently proceeding cautiously across their front from left to right. then the dull sound of hoofs ceased--went on again--ceased once more for a time, so long that west felt that their inimical neighbour must have stolen away, leaving the coast quite clear. he was about to say so to ingleborough, but fortunately waited a little longer, and then started, for there was the impatient stamp of a horse, followed by a sound that suggested the angry jerking of a rein, for the animal plunged and was checked again. as far as the listeners could make out, a mounted man was not forty yards away, and the perspiration stood out in great drops upon west's brow as he waited for the discovery which he felt must be made. for a movement on the part of either of the ponies, or a check of the rein to keep them from stretching down their necks to graze, would have been enough. but they remained abnormally still, and at last, to the satisfaction and relief of both, the boer vedette moved off at a trot, leaving the pair of listeners once more free to breathe. "that was a narrow escape!" said west, as soon as their late companion was fairly out of hearing. "yes. i suppose we ought to have dismounted and crawled up to him and put a bullet through his body," answered ingleborough. "ugh! don't talk about it!" replied west. "i suppose we shall have plenty of such escapes as this before we have done." "you're right! but we can move on now, and--hist! there are some more on the left." "i don't hear anyone. yes, i do. sit fast; there's a strong party coming along." west was quite right, a body of what might have been a hundred going by them at a walk some eighty or ninety yards away, and at intervals a short sharp order was given in boer-dutch which suggested to west commands in connection with his own drill, "right incline!" or "left incline!" till the commando seemed to have passed right away out of hearing. "now then," said west softly, "let's get on while we have the chance." the words were hardly above his breath, but in the utter stillness of the night on the veldt they penetrated sufficiently far, and in an instant both the despatch-riders knew what the brief orders they had heard meant, namely that as the commando rode along a trooper was ordered to rein up at about every hundred yards and was left as a vedette. for no sooner had west spoken than there was a sharp challenge to left and right, running away along a line, and directly after the reports of rifles rang out and bullets whizzed like insects through the dark night air. many flew around and over the heads of the fugitives; for the moment the discovery was made west and ingleborough pressed their ponies' sides and went forward at full gallop to pass through the fire in front of them. it was close work, for guided by the sounds of the ponies' hoofs, the boers kept on firing, one shot being from close at hand--so close that the flash seemed blinding, the report tremendous. this was followed by a sharp shock, the two companions, as they tore on, cannoning against the vedette, west's pony striking the horse in his front full upon the shoulder and driving the poor beast right in the way of ingleborough's, with the consequence that there was a second collision which sent the boer and his horse prostrate, ingleborough's pony making a bound which cleared the struggling pair, and then racing forward alongside of its stable companion, when they galloped on shoulder to shoulder. they were followed by a scattered fire of bullets, and when these ceased west turned in his saddle and listened, to hear the heavy beat of many hoofs, telling of pursuit; but the despatch-riders were well through the line, and galloped on at full speed for the next half-hour, when they slackened down and gradually drew rein and listened. "can't hear a sound!" said west. "nor i," replied ingleborough, after a pause. "so now let's breathe our nags and go steadily, for we may very likely come upon another of these lines of mounted men." a short consultation was then held respecting the line of route to be followed as likely to be the most clear of the enemy. "i've been thinking," said ingleborough, "that our best way will be to strike off west, and after we are over the river to make a good long detour." west said nothing, but rode on by his companion's side, letting his pony have a loose rein so that the sure-footed little beast could pick its way and avoid stones. "i think that will be the best plan," said ingleborough, after a long pause. still west was silent. "what is it?" said his companion impatiently. "i was thinking," was the reply. "well, you might say something," continued ingleborough, in an ill-used tone. "it would be more lively if you only gave a grunt." "humph!" it was as near an imitation as the utterer could give, and ingleborough laughed. "thanks," he said. "that's a little more cheering. i've been thinking, too, that if we make this detour to the west we shall get into some rougher country, where we can lie up among the rocks of some kopje when it gets broad daylight." "and not go on during the day?" "certainly not; for two reasons: our horses could not keep on without rest, and we should certainly be seen by the boers who are crowding over the vaal." west was silent again. "hang it all!" cried ingleborough. "not so much as a grunt now! look here, can you propose a better plan?" "i don't know about better, but i was thinking quite differently from you." "let's have your way then." "perhaps you had better not. you have had some experience in your rides out on excursions with mr norton, and i daresay your plan is a better one than mine." "i don't know," said ingleborough shortly. "let's hear yours." "but--" "let's--hear--yours," cried the other imperatively, and his voice sounded so harsh that west felt annoyed, and he began: "well, i thought of doing what you propose at first." "naturally: it seems the likeliest way." "but after turning it over in my mind it seemed to me that the boers would all be hurrying across the border and scouring our country, looking in all directions as they descended towards kimberley." "yes, that's right enough. but go on; don't hesitate. it's your expedition, and i'm only second." "so i thought that we should have a far better chance and be less likely to meet with interruption if we kept on the east side of the vaal till it turned eastward, and then, if we could get across, go on north through the enemy's country." "invade the transvaal with an army consisting of one officer and one man?" "there!" cried west pettishly. "i felt sure that you would ridicule my plans." "then you were all wrong, lad," cried ingleborough warmly, "for, so far from ridiculing your plans, i think them capital. there's success in them from the very cheek of the idea--i beg your pardon: i ought to say audacity. why, of course, if we can only keep clear of the wandering commandos--and i think we can if we travel only by night--we shall find that nearly everyone is over the border on the way to the siege of kimberley, and when we stop at a farm, as we shall be obliged to for provisions, we shall only find women and children." "but they'll give warning of our having been there on our way to mafeking." "no, they will not. how will they know that we are going to mafeking if we don't tell them? i'm afraid we must make up a tale. perhaps you'll be best at that. i'm not clever at fibbing." "i don't see that we need tell the people lies," said west shortly. "then we will not," said his companion. "perhaps we shall not be asked; but if we are i shall say that we are going right away from the fighting because we neither of us want to kill any boers." "humph!" grunted west. "what, doesn't that suit you? it's true enough. i don't want to kill any boers, and i'm sure you don't. why, when you come to think that we shall be telling this to women whose husbands, sons, or brothers have been commandoed, we are sure to be treated as friends." "we had better act on your plan," said west, "and then we need make up no tales." "wait a minute," said ingleborough. "pull up." west obeyed, and their ponies began to nibble the herbage. "now listen: can you hear anything?" west was silent for nearly a minute, passed in straining his ears to catch the slightest sound. "nothing," he said at last. "nothing," said his companion. "let's jump down!" west followed his companion's example, and swung himself out of the saddle. "now get between the nags' heads and hold them still. you and they will form three sides of a square: i'm going to be the fourth." "what for?" "to light a match." "oh, don't stop to smoke now," said west reproachfully. "let's get on." "who's going to smoke, old jump-at-conclusions? i'm going to carry out our plan." _scratch_! and a match blazed up, revealing ingleborough's face as he bent down over it to examine something bright held in one hand-- something he tried to keep steady till the match burned close to his fingers and was crushed out. "horses' heads are now pointing due north," he said. "keep where you are till i'm mounted. that's right! now then, up you get! that's right! now then! right face--forward!" "but you're going east." "yes," said ingleborough, with a little laugh, "and i'm going with west or by west all the same. we must keep on till we get to the railway, cross it, and then get over the border as soon as we can." "what, follow out my plan?" "of course! it's ten times better than mine. look here, my dear boy, you are a deal too modest. recollect that you are in command, and that my duty is to obey." "nonsense!" "sense, sir; sound sense. i've got enough in my head to know when a thing's good, and you may depend upon my opposing you if i feel that you are going to act foolishly. once for all, your idea's capital, lad; so let's get on as fast as we can till daybreak, and then we can lie up in safely in the enemy's country." in due course the railway was reached, a breeze springing up and sweeping the sky clear so that they had a better chance of avoiding obstacles in the way, and as soon as they were well over the line the ponies were kept at a canter, which was only checked here and there over broken ground. this, however, became more plentiful as the night glided away, but the rough land and low kopjes were the only difficulties that they encountered on the enemy's side of the border, where they passed a farm or two, rousing barking dogs, which kept on baying till the fugitives were out of hearing. at last the pale streak right in front warned them that daylight was coming on fast, and they searched the country as they cantered on till away more to the north a rugged eminence clearly seen against the sky suggested itself as the sort of spot they required, and they now hurried their ponies on till they came to a rushing, bubbling stream running in the right direction. "our guide, noll," said ingleborough quietly; "that will lead us right up to the kopje, where we shall find a resting-place, a good spot for hiding, and plenty of water as well." all proved as ingleborough had so lightly stated; but before they reached the shelter amongst the piled-up masses of granite and ironstone, with shady trees growing in the cracks and crevices, their glasses showed them quite half-a-dozen farms dotted about the plain. they were in great doubt as to whether they were unseen when they had to dismount and lead their willing steeds into a snug little amphitheatre surrounded by rocks and trees, while the hollow itself was rich with pasturage such as the horses loved best, growing upon both sides of the clear stream whose sources were high up among the rocks. "you see to hobbling the ponies, noll," said ingleborough, "while i get up as high as i can with my glass and give an eye to the farms. if we've been seen someone will soon be after us. we can't rest till we know. but eat your breakfast, and i'll nibble mine while i watch. don't take off the saddles and bridles." west did as he was requested, and ate sparingly while he watched the horses browsing for quite an hour, before ingleborough came down from the highest part of the kopje. "it's all right," he said. "let's have off the saddles and bridles now. have you hobbled them well?" "look," said west. "capital. i didn't doubt you; but you might have made a mistake, and if we dropped asleep and woke up to find that the ponies were gone it would be fatal to your despatch." "yes; but one of us must keep watch while the other sleeps." "it's of no use to try, my lad. it isn't to be done. if we're going to get into mafeking in a business-like condition we must have food and rest. come, the horses will not straggle away from this beautiful moist grass, so let's lie down in this shady cave with its soft sandy bottom and sleep hard till sunset. then we must be up and away again." "but anxiety won't let me sleep," said west. "i'll sit down and watch till you wake, and then i'll have a short sleep while you take my place." "very well," said ingleborough, smiling. "what are you laughing at?" said west, frowning. "i was only thinking that you had a very hard day yesterday and that you have had an arduous time riding through the night." "yes, of course." "well, nature is nature! try and keep awake if you can! i'm going to lie flat on my back and sleep. you'll follow my example in less than an hour." "i--will--not!" said west emphatically. but he did, as he sat back resting his shoulders against the rock and gazing out from the mouth of the cave where they had made themselves comfortable at the beautiful sunlit veldt, till it all grew dark as if a veil had been drawn over his eyes. it was only the lids which had closed, and then, perfectly unconscious, he sank over sidewise till he lay prone on the soft sand, sleeping heavily, till a hand was laid upon his shoulder and he started into wakefulness, to see that the sun had set, that the shadows were gathering over the veldt, and then that ingleborough was smiling in his face. "rested, old man?" he said. "that's right. the nags have had a splendid feed, and they are ready for their night's work. i haven't seen a soul stirring. come on! let's have a good drink of water and a feed, and by that time we ought to be ready to start." "we ought to cross the vaal before morning," said west. "i doubt it," was the reply, "for it will be rather a job, as we shall find the enemy about there. if we get across to-morrow night we shall have done well." "but we shall never get to mafeking like this." "it's going to be a harder task than you thought for when you volunteered so lightly, my dear boy; but we've undertaken to do it, and do it we will. it isn't a work of hours nor days. it may take us weeks. come along! i'm hungry, and so are you." "but tell me," said west, "how long have you been awake?" "not above a quarter of an hour. we must have sleep and rest as well as food. when we've had the last we shall be ready for anything through the night." and so it proved as they rode on properly refreshed, meeting with no adventure, but being startled by the barking roars of lions twice during the night, which came to an end as they reached a very similar kopje offering just such accommodation as they had met with on the previous morning. "hah!" said ingleborough. "just enough prog left for a rough breakfast. to-morrow we shall have to begin travelling by day, so as to pay a visit to some farm, for we can't do as the nags do, eat grass when they can get it and nibble green shoots when they can't. now then, my dear noll, the orders for to-day are: sleep beneath this projecting shelf." "but i say," said west, a minute or so later, "is your rifle charged? you were wiping the barrels as we rode along." there was no reply, for ingleborough was fast asleep, and west soon followed his example. chapter thirteen. after a lapse. oliver west was sleeping soundly that night from sheer fatigue; but all the same his slumber was not pleasant, for though his body was resting his brain was hard at work. before an hour had passed he was conscious of being cold, and in a dreamy way he felt that he ought to do what under the circumstances was impossible: that is to say, put more clothes over him, or, failing them, as he had no more, roll himself over and over in the blanket that he had brought strapped to his saddle-bow and only thrown over him when he lay down to sleep. but his body was so steeped in sleep that he did not stir, and suffered from the freezing air of the night--so tremendous a change from the torrid heat of mid-day out on the veldt. later on, about midnight, the impression came upon him that he could hear a lion far away, seeming to make the earth quiver beneath him by giving forth in the fierce beast's strangely ventriloquial way its awe-inspiring roar, so puzzling to the listener as to whether it is far off or near. and even in his dreamy state west found himself doubting that it could be a lion's roar that he heard so near to where civilisation had driven off most of the savage beasts of the plain. but the roar came again, nearer, and in his dreams he felt sure that he was right, and he recalled, still sleeping, the fact that now and then the king of beasts followed one or other of the straggling herds of antelopes quite close to the boers' farms. then the curious barking roar ceased, and with it consciousness for some time. all at once he found himself wide awake, lying upon his back, and gazing straight up through the transparent darkness at the stars. he lay for some moments wondering what had awakened him, perfectly still, and listening intently for steps or the trampling of horses, feeling sure that the boers were close at hand. instinctively his hand was reached out to grasp the rifle, which he had laid by his side and covered from the dew or hoar frost, whichever might come, by throwing over it part of his blanket. as he touched it the cold perspiration began to start from every pore, for there was a whiff of hot breath upon his face, and he could dimly see that some large animal was stretching down its muzzle towards him, and for a few brief moments he lay as if paralysed, expecting to feel himself seized and dragged away, for now came back with keen clearness the recollection of having heard the distant roaring of a lion. he had hardly grasped this when once more, from somewhere near, the lion's terrifying cry arose, evidently, as he thought in a flash, one of the companions of the huge beast at his side. in an instant now he had grasped the truth, for as the distant lion roared there came from his right the peculiar stumbling movement of one of the hobbled horses striving to get closer to where there would be human companionship, if not protection. "poor beast!" thought west, as his fascinated eyes stared at the dim shape above him, so close that it shut out from him the light of the stars. then the half-paralysed listener saw clearly, for the beast raised its head and uttered a low whinnying cry, which was answered from the direction where the other hobbled pony was moving. "woho, my boy!" whispered west, with the blood now tingling through his veins, and as the pony whinnied softly again west raised himself up with his rifle in his right hand and stretched out his left for it to come in contact with the soft warm muzzle of his pony, which pressed against it, the poor brute uttering a low sigh. quite a minute then passed, the two ponies remaining motionless, and west listening with every nerve on the strain, knowing as he did that a lion must be in very close proximity, and fully expecting every moment that there might be a tremendous bound and the savage brute would alight either upon him or upon one of the poor shivering beasts. then, from evidently pretty close at hand, there was a low muttering growl, the barrel of west's rifle fell into his left hand as he held the weapon pistol-wise and fired low down in the direction of the sounds. at the flash and in company with the report there was a yelping snarl and a couple of angry roars in quick succession. west fired again as nearly as he could judge where the beast would be, and the next moment ingleborough was kneeling by his side. "what is it--lions?" he panted. "yes," whispered west, whose fingers were busy re-loading, and he listened for the next sound, but only to hear a deep sighing breath on either side, telling that the horses had been too much terrified to start away, or else felt that they would be safer with their masters, and that to try to gallop off meant the springing of a savage enemy upon their backs. the silence continued for nearly a minute, and then there was a vicious snarling, apparently some fifty yards away, while without a moment's hesitation ingleborough raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired as nearly as he could judge at the spot from whence the noise came. he fired twice, the shots being so close together as almost to be like one for a while. then after a perceptible interval they were echoed from the walls of a distant kopje, and again from another, before they died away. "that has startled the lions," said ingleborough; "but i'm afraid it will startle the boers and bring them to see what's the matter." "yes, the lions are gone," said west. "hark at that! who says horses have no sense?" for the _crop, crop, crop_ of the browsing animals had begun again from close at hand, and the comrades stood listening for some little time while the otherwise unbroken stillness once more reigned. "what's to be done?" said west. "shall we make a start at once, or wait for daylight?" "i was thinking," replied ingleborough. "if we start now we have the advantage of the darkness to hide us, but the disadvantage too, for we may go blundering right into the midst of some commando. i don't think the firing could do us any harm, after all, for the enemy would not be able to tell where the sounds came from. i think we had better stay where we are and wait for morning." "i think so too," said west, with a sigh of relief; "but one of us ought to watch in case the lions come back." "they will not come back!" said ingleborough decisively. "from what i know of their habits they'll have been too much scared to risk their lives again. you hit one of them; there's no doubt about that." "you think there was more than one?" "i should say it was a family party of an old lioness and two or three half-grown cubs." "then we may lie down and sleep again?" "yes; we must trust to our luck, noll; there's a good deal of chance in these affairs." west hesitated for a few minutes, and then followed his companion's example, lying awake for some time thinking of what a strange change this was from his quiet life in the offices of the company; and then, as he began to ponder over what might be to come, the subject grew too difficult for him and he fell fast asleep. but he was the first to awaken in the grey dawn, to find that the horses were close at hand, browsing away contentedly enough, and ready to neigh softly and submit to his caress when he walked up to them; while, as soon as he had satisfied himself that they had not suffered in any way, he walked in the direction in which he had fired during the night, to find footprints in several directions, and in one place the dust among some stones torn up and scattered, as if one of the brutes had fallen on its side and scratched up the earth. plainer still in the way of proof of what had happened, there were spots and smudges of blood, giving thorough evidence that one of the lions had been wounded by the chance shot, and had fallen, and struggled fiercely to regain its feet. he had just arrived at this conclusion when ingleborough found him. "hallo!" cried his companion; "that was a good blind shot, noll. well done, lad! a full-grown lion too! look at its pads. it must have had a nasty flesh-wound to have bled like this." "do you think it'll be lying anywhere near, half-dead, or quite?" "no! a cat has nine lives, they say; and really this kind of beast is very, hard to kill. look, there are the pugs, along with those of three more, all half-grown, going right away yonder into the open veldt. we might hunt 'em down, but we don't want to, eh?" "absurd! we want to get on at once. can you see any pug, as you call it, of boers?" "no. i've had a good look round, and as soon as we've had a mouthful we'll be off. i say, it's wonderful, isn't it, how one can sleep out here on the veldt?" "surrounded by dangers!" replied west. then laconically: "yes." their scanty meal was soon eaten and washed down with a draught of pure water, after which they both climbed to the top of the highest part of the kopje to take a good survey of the surrounding plain. "there's nothing in sight," said ingleborough quietly; "so we'll hurry on at once while our shoes are good." the ponies looked as fresh as ever when they were saddled and ready to start, and after an examination of the compass ingleborough pointed out that they ought to keep along north-east to strike the vaal somewhere that evening, and then go along its southern bank till a ford was reached, after which their journey would be north by west. "but we must be on the look-out for some lonely farm to-day," said west. "we ought to well fill our haversacks before we start again." "never fear; we shall find plenty of food for sale so long as we have money to show the boer ladies. ready?" "yes," replied west, and together they sprang into their saddles and rode down the slope, their horses carefully picking their way among the stones, till the open veldt was reached. they then struck off at a quiet canter towards a rocky ridge so as to put that between them and the kopje where they had slept, in case by any possibility their shots had been heard and a party of the enemy should ride up to it to make a search and in the course of it see them in the distance riding away. "and that would mean pursuit, a race, and the fastest horses to win," said west. "as they generally do when there is fair play," replied ingleborough quietly. "keep a sharp look-out forward, and i'll keep on casting an eye back at the kopje." the ridge was only about a couple of miles distant from their previous night's resting-place, proving to be fairly high, but with a gradual slope: while just as they reached the spot where the ascent began ingleborough turned in his saddle from a long look-out backwards. "this is like wringing one's own neck," he cried. "now then, let's canter up this bit, and as soon as we have topped it we need not be so cautious. ready?" "yes," cried west. "then off! steady! no galloping; a gentle canter." it was fortunate for the pair that they did not breathe their horses, but rode up the gentle slope at a regular lady's canter, to find the ridge pleasantly fringed with a patch of open woodland, through which their steeds easily picked their way, and on to the farther slope, which was more dotted with forest growth; but there was nothing to hinder their rate of speed--in fact, the horses began to increase the pace as a broad grassy stretch opened before them. the moment they passed out of the woodland on to the open space west uttered a word of warning and pressed his pony's side, for the first glance showed him that they had come right upon a boer laager which was in the course of being broken up. oxen were being in-spanned, men were tightening the girths of their ponies, and preparations were in progress everywhere for an advance in some direction. chapter fourteen. man-hunting. whatsoever this may have been, the sudden appearance of the two fresh horsemen decided the course of some thirty or forty, who stood about for a few moments staring wonderingly at the pair flying down the descent, before mounting in some cases, in others seizing their rifles and flinging themselves upon the ground to load rapidly and take aim. "mind how you go, noll!" shouted ingleborough. "a fall means being taken prisoner now!" he had hardly shouted the words before the bullets came buzzing about their ears like bees after disturbers on a hot swarming day in old england. "take care!" cried west excitedly. "it will be a long chase; so don't press your nag too hard. lie down on your horse's neck; the bullets are coming more and more, and we shan't be safe for another mile." "bah! it's all nonsense about their marksmanship," cried ingleborough, who seemed to be suffering from a peculiar kind of elation in which there was no feeling of fear. "let them shoot! we're end on to them, and have a clear course! they're trained to shoot springbok, i suppose, when they get a chance; but they haven't had much experience of galloping men. fire away, you cowardly brutes!" he roared, as if he fancied that the enemy could hear him. "i don't believe you could hit a runaway railway truck or a cantering furniture-van, let alone a horse with a man on its back." "ah!" cried west, at that moment, as he turned from looking back and snatched off his broad-brimmed hat. "noll, boy, don't say you're hit!" cried ingleborough passionately. "no," said west, drawing his breath with a peculiar sound. "i've escaped; but i thought i'd got it! i felt as if my hat was being snatched off, and something touched my ear." "turn your head this way!" said ingleborough huskily. "wait a moment!" replied west, who had passed his hat into his rein hand, to afterwards clap his right to his head and draw it away. "first blood to them!" he said, with a mocking laugh. "here, we must ease up and let me bandage it," said ingleborough. "no, thanks: that's a likely tale with the bullets flying like this! keep on, man; we've got a fair start! let's get past those trees forward yonder; they'll shelter us a bit!" "but your wound, my lad?" "they've only nicked the edge of my ear. it will stop bleeding of itself. there's nothing to mind!" ingleborough watched him eagerly as he spoke, and seeing for himself that there was only a feeble trickle of blood from the cut ear, he pressed on in the required direction. "give me warning," he cried, "if you feel faint, and we'll pull up, dismount, and cover ourselves with our horses while we try what practice we can make if they come on." "_if_ they come on!" said west bitterly. "look for yourself; they're already coming!" ingleborough turned his head sharply, to see that a line of galloping men had just been launched from the boer laager to the right and left, and were streaming in single file down the slope, leaving ample room between them for their dismounted companions to keep up a steady fire upon the fugitives. "that's their game, is it?" said ingleborough, between his teeth. "very well, then, we must make a race of it and see what our picked ponies can do." "that's right!" cried west. "let's open out a little!" "right, and give them less to aim at! the bullets are flying wildly now. ten yards apart will do." they separated to about this distance, and at a word from west each nipped his pony's flanks with his knees and rose a little in the stirrups, with the result that the wiry little animals stretched out greyhound fashion and flew over the veldt as if thoroughly enjoying the gallop. "steady! steady!" shouted west, at the end of ten minutes. "we're leaving the brutes well behind, and the bullets are getting scarce. don't let's worry the brave little nags! with a start like this we can leave the boers well behind." ingleborough nodded after a glance backward and followed his companion's example, drawing rein so that their steeds settled down into a hand-gallop, still leaving their pursuers farther behind. the ground was now perfectly level, stretching for three or four miles without an obstacle, and then the horizon line was broken by one of the many kopjes of the country, one which lay right in their line of flight. "what about that?" said west. "shall we make for it and get into shelter ready for using our rifles?" "i don't like it!" replied ingleborough. "there might be another party there, and then it would be like galloping into another hornets' nest." "i don't like it either," said west; "but we must think of our horses, and by the time we get there half of this pursuing lot will have tailed off, while i don't believe the rest will come on if we shoot pretty true from behind some rock." "that's right!" said ingleborough. "we mustn't let them keep us on the run, for the horses' sake." "look out!" said west, in warning tones. "what is it?" "they're pulling up and dismounting," replied west. "here come the bullets again." for as he spoke the buzzing, whizzing notes of danger overhead, which had for some minutes ceased, began to utter their warnings again, but in a very irregular way, which brought forth the remark from ingleborough that their enemies' hands were unsteady from their sharp ride. "the more need then for us to get into a sheltered place where we can rest a few minutes before they can come up," said west. "let's have another sharp gallop and get well among the rocks: it will be riding out of range and getting more in advance before they mount again." "right, general!" cried ingleborough banteringly; and once more they tore over the veldt, pursued only by the bullets, for the following boers had dismounted to a man. "keep a little wider," said west, laughing outright at his companion's word "general." "don't let's give them a chance by riding so close together!" "right! fine manoeuvre!" replied ingleborough; and they went on towards the kopje at full speed, both feeling a wild kind of exhilaration as the wind rushed by their cheeks, and the plucky little horses stretched out more and more as if enjoying the race as much as their riders. strange terms "exhilaration" and "enjoying," but none the less true. for there was no feeling of dread, even though the bullets kept on whizzing by them to right, to left, in front, far behind; now high overhead, and more often striking up the dust and ricochetting into space, to fall neither knew where. every leaden messenger, it it reached its mark, meant a wound; many would have resulted in death had they struck the fugitives. but the excitement made the rush one wild gratification, combined with a kind of certainty that they would escape scot-free; and they laughed aloud, shouting words of encouragement to their ponies and cries of defiance and derision at the unsuccessful riflemen. "why, we could do better ourselves, noll!" cried ingleborough. "so these are your puffed-up boers whom writers have put in their books and praised so effusively! my word, what a lot of gammon has been written about rifle-shooting! i believe that cooper's deerslayer with his old-fashioned rifle was a duffer after all, and the wonderful shots of the trappers all bluff." "perhaps so!" shouted west, rather breathlessly; "but these fellows can shoot!" "not a bit!" "well, my ear has stopped bleeding; but it smarts as if someone was trying to saw into the edge." "never mind; it's only gristle!" said ingleborough. "i don't mind, but if the boer who fired that bullet had only held his rifle a hair's breadth more to the left the scrap of lead would have gone into my skull." "of course; but then he did not hold his rifle a hair's breadth more to the left. by jingo!" "what's the matter?" "don't quite know yet. it feels quite numb and free from pain. i don't think i'm hit. i half fancy the poor pony has it, for he gave a tremendous start. all right; keep on! the bullet struck my rolled-up blanket, and it has gone into the saddle. i can feel the little hole." "what a narrow escape!" cried west anxiously. "come, you must own that they can shoot straight! if that bullet had gone a trifle higher it would have gone through your loins." "to be sure! and a little higher still, through between my shoulders; a trifle more, through the back of my head; and again a trifle more, and it would have gone above me. as it is, there's a hole in my saddle, and i'm all right." "thank heaven!" cried west. "i did," said ingleborough, "but in a quiet way! yes, lad, they can shoot; but it's a hard mark to hit--a galloping man end on. they'd be better if we were going at right angles to the shot!" "now then, another five minutes, and we shall be beyond the range of their rifles." "and in another you had better give the word to slacken speed, for the ground will be getting rough. why not give it now? they've ceased firing." "ease down then to a gentle canter," cried west, in reply, and their panting steeds were checked so that for the last mile of their retreat they progressed at an easy ambling pace which enabled the horses to recover their wind, while the precipitous sides of the eminence in front grew clearer to the eye and gave ample proof of being able to furnish nooks which would afford them and their horses security, while enabling the friends a good opportunity for returning the compliment to the boers as far as bullets were concerned. west said something to this effect after taking his glass from where it was slung and looking back, to see that the enemy was remounting and continuing the pursuit. "not they!" replied ingleborough. "they're too fond of whole skins to run risks! they'll lie down in holes and corners to fire at us, but they will not attack us if we are well in cover, and they find we can hold our rifles straight." "then we must!" said west quietly. "only we shall want a bit of rest first, for my nerves are all of a quiver, and the blood feels as if it was jumping in my veins." "come along then! we'll soon find a place where we can lie down behind the stones! the sooner the better too, for i'm beginning to feel rather murderous." "murderous!" cried west. "yes: don't you? i'm not going to be shot at for nothing! look here, nolly, my lad, life's very sweet, and i value mine. i'm peaceably disposed enough, but these brutes have invaded our country, and you've had proof that they are trying their level best to make us food for the crows. under the circumstances don't you think it's time for the lambs--meaning us--to turn upon the butchers--meaning the boers--and let _them_ feed the crows instead?" "don't talk in poetical metaphors, ingle," said west, with a grim smile. "if it comes to the point, we'll make our rifles speak in a way that will keep the enemy from stopping to hear the end of what they have to say." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed ingleborough; "who's talking metaphorically now?" "i've done," said west. "walk!" he cried loudly, and they drew rein, to let the ponies pick their way up the commencement of a slope dotted with small stones, while but a short distance farther on the front of the castle-like kopje was gashed with little gorges and ravines, offering plenty of places where horses and men might hide. "rather awkward if we were to find that there were some more of the enemy here!" said west, as the nature of the ground forced him to follow his companion, instead of their riding abreast. he had hardly spoken when it was as if a trumpet had rung out a challenge from one of the little gorges in front, and west answered by shouting: "right-about face!" and leading the way back. it was no trumpet, but the loud neigh of a boer horse, while shot after shot was fired as they galloped away, fortunately being able to shelter themselves from the fire by striking off to the right as soon as they were clear of the stones, the higher ones proving their salvation, being in the way of the enemy's aim. "out of the frying-pan into the fire!" cried ingleborough; "and the fire's going to be hotter than the pan." "yes," cried west. "give them their head! gallop right for the river now." chapter fifteen. a despatch-rider's work. "hurrah!" cried west, as soon as they were once more well out in the open, their horses breathed, and ready to answer to any demand made upon them by their riders. "keep abreast, and open out more. faster! faster! we have only a short start this time." "but we'll make the best of it," cried ingleborough, between his teeth. "bend down well! the firing has begun!" "it is speaking for itself," said west grimly, as the buzzing whirr of the bullets began again, while faintly heard there came, half smothered by the thudding of their own horses' hoofs, the clattering of boer mounts being led out over the stones of the ravine in which they had been hid. "see any more of the old party?" cried west, as they rode well out now on to the level. "no; we've turned off so much that they are quite in our rear." "then the way's clear for the river?" "if we can reach it, lad," said ingleborough; "and if we do it may be in flood, or impassable where we hit it." "or a hundred other things," cried west angrily, as they tore along at full gallop now, with the bullets flying round them. "don't begin to prophesy evil! i say we're going to leave the boers far behind and escape." "i can't look at our chance in the same flowery light as you do, my boy," replied ingleborough. "my breakfast wasn't good enough to inspire me with so much hope, and i should advise you to open your haversack." "nonsense! i could not eat now!" "but you must be ready to if you don't begin, my lad. my advice is that you get ready to eat those sandwiches, for you mustn't let the good verbal meat inside get into the enemy's hands." ingleborough had hardly spoken before his horse suddenly checked, throwing him forward upon its neck and nearly sending him off. but he clung to it desperately, while the poor beast's next act was to rear up, pawing hard at the air. in spite of the difficulty, ingleborough shuffled himself back into the saddle, speaking encouraging words to the shivering animal, which kept on pawing at the air for a few moments and just gave its rider time to throw himself off sidewise before it went right over backwards, struck out with all four legs in the air, and then subsided--motionless. west drew rein instantly as he tore by, and cantered back, reckless of the whistling bullets which were flying around. "beg their pardon!" cried ingleborough, struggling to his feet after a heavy fall. "i retract my words." "hurt?" cried west excitedly. "rather! ground is pretty hard!" "here," cried west, leaping off; "jump into my saddle, and i'll hold on by the mane and run." "nonsense! absurd! don't be a fool!" cried ingleborough angrily. "the game's up for me! jump up and gallop again! don't let the brutes take you too." "likely!" said west, taking out his handkerchief and beginning to fold it bandage fashion. "your head's bleeding. let me tie this round." "let it bleed!" cried ingleborough angrily, and picking up his soft felt hat, which had fallen in the dust, he stuck it on tightly. "that's bandaged!" he said. "now then, be off before it's too late." "of course; that's just what you would have done!" said west quietly. "never mind what i would have done," cried ingleborough angrily. "ride for your life!" "do you take me for a dutchman?" said west coolly. "oh, you fool--you fool!" cried ingleborough, stamping his foot angrily. "you'll be too late! no, they're dismounting. now then, up with you and make a dash." west gave a glance to right and left, to see that some twenty of the enemy had leaped from their horses and were advancing, while twice as many more, who covered them with their rifles, came slowly on, shouting to him the dutch for "hands up!" the position was perilous, though the chances were even still about being taken or riding clear if he went at full gallop; but west did not stir. "no, thankye, old fellow," he said. "it would be such dull work riding alone. what do you say to taking cover amongst the bushes?" "bah! cover for the front, and none for flank or rear!" "we could squat down back to back," said west coolly, "and shoot a few of them first. i want to fight the brutes with their own weapons." "once more, will you make a bolt of it?" cried ingleborough faintly. "no--i--will--not!" said west slowly and distinctly, and then, making a dash, he caught his comrade round the waist, letting him sink gently down upon the sand and stones, for his legs had given way and his face turned ghastly. "thanks, old man," said ingleborough, with a feeble smile and his eyes looking his gratitude. he lay still now, with his countenance seeming to grow fixed and hard; but west opened his water-flask and poured a few drops between the poor fellow's lips, when he began to revive at once, and lay perfectly still while his comrade removed his hat and proceeded to bind the ready-folded handkerchief tightly about the bleeding wound, caused by sharp contact with a stone when he fell. "west," groaned ingleborough, recovering now a little, "once more, lad, think, think; never mind me! mount; never mind the firing; ride for your life!" "once more, old fellow," said west, through his teeth, "i won't leave you in the lurch!" "but the despatches, lad. i am only one, and they are to save a thousand." "ah!" cried west, springing to his feet as if the object of his journey had been driven out of his head by the excitement of the moment, and he took a step towards his horse, just as, to his intense surprise, ingleborough's mount suddenly threw up its muzzle, made a plunge, and found its feet, shook itself violently, and whinnied, as if it had just recovered from being stunned. "here, make one effort," cried west, seizing the steed's bridle and leading it to where its rider lay. "look--your pony's all right again! can you mount?" "no," said ingleborough faintly, as he made an effort to struggle to his knees, but only fell back with a groan. "can't! feel as if my neck's broken and my shoulder numbed. now will you make a dash while you can?" west hesitated, and duty mastered friendship and humane feeling for his companion. he was but one, and the despatch might deal with the lives of a thousand men in peril of their lives. "yes, i must go!" he groaned, making for his horse; but he was too late. for though the boers, apparently from a feeling that they were quite sure of their prey, had advanced slowly and cautiously, each man with his rifle presented and finger on trigger, their movements showed plenty of cunning. they had opened out so as to get round the horses, watching the young man's actions all the time, and when he at last made for his mount they were close up, and rifle-barrels bristled around, every muzzle threatening and grim. "throw up your hands!" came in chorus from a score of throats, and directly after the same order was given in fair english by two of the ragged, unkempt, big-bearded enemy. west looked fiercely round like a hunted animal brought to bay by the hounds, waiting to seize the first one that sprang, and ground his teeth with rage; but he paid no heed to the men's words. "throw up your hands!" roared one of the men. "throw up your own!" said west defiantly, and then to his bitter annoyance he started on one side, for there was a flash, simultaneously a whizz close to his face, and instantly the sharp report of a rifle. recovering from the sudden shock to his nerves caused by his previous unbelief that the enemy would be so cowardly as to fire upon a perfectly helpless prisoner, west swung himself round to face the man who had fired at him from such close quarters that the flash of the powder had scorched his cheek. the boer was busily thrusting a fresh cartridge into the breech of his piece, and as he met the young man's eyes he burst out into a coarse and brutal laugh. "throw up your hands, then, you cursed rooinek!" he cried, "or i'll blow out your brains!" "not if i die for it!" cried west. "you cowardly cur!" and turning as the boers closed him in, he continued, with bitter contempt, and speaking in their own tongue: "i suppose you are a specimen of the brave peasant farmers making a struggle for their liberty!" "you keep a civil tongue in your head, young man," growled out one of the party in english, "unless you want to feed the crows!" "you keep your cowardly gang in order first before you dictate to me!" cried west, turning upon the speaker sharply. "do you call it manly to fire at close quarters upon a party of two?" "no!" said the man shortly, as he turned round and said a few angry words in the boer jargon--words which were received by some with angry growls, while the major portion remained silent and sullen. "you're not our cornet! mind your own business, before you're hurt!" cried the man who had fired, taking a few steps towards the spot where west stood, and, seizing him savagely by the throat, he tried to force him to his knees. but he tried only with one hand--his left--his right being engaged by his rifle, and to his utter astonishment the prisoner retorted by kicking his legs from under him and flinging him upon his back. a yell of anger arose from some, and of delight from others, all looking on while the discomfited boer sprang up with a cry of rage, cocked his rifle, and, taking quick aim, would have fired point-blank at the prisoner had not his act been anticipated by the boer who had before spoken. quick as thought he sprang upon his companion, striking the presented rifle upwards with a blow from his own, and then grasping the infuriated man by the collar. "none of that!" he cried fiercely in dutch. "cornet or no cornet, i'm not going to stand by and see a cowardly murder done! we've got to fight, brother burghers, but we'll fight like soldiers and men. our name's been stained enough by what has been done already." "here, you'd better go and fight for the rooineks," cried the discomfited boer fiercely. "i'm going to fight for my home and country, brothers," cried west's defender, "the same as you are: not help to murder a helpless boy who has behaved like a brave man." the portion of the force who had seemed disposed to side against the speaker were disarmed by his words, and there was a general cheer at this, while the cause of the trouble growled out: "you're a traitor to your country, and the commandant shall hear of this." "no, no, no, no!" came in chorus. "serves you right." west made no resistance now, as his defender signed to him to give up his rifle, which, plus the bandolier, was handed over with a sigh, ingleborough's having already been taken away. the next thing done was to search the prisoners' pockets--watch, purse, and pocket-book being taken away, but the inner belts containing the greater part of their money were entirely overlooked, while west stood breathing hard, his face wrinkled up and an agonising pain contracting his heart, for the boer who had defended him unbuttoned the flap of his haversack, thrust in his hand, and brought out a couple of cake loaves, and then, one after the other, two carefully wrapped-up sandwiches, standing for a few moments with them in his hand, hesitating, while ingleborough, who had recovered his senses, darted a meaning look at his suffering companion. "it's all over with our expedition!" he said to himself. "why didn't poor noll eat his sandwiches?" the moments were as agonising to him as to west, who could only stand in silence; but, having become somewhat versed in the tricks of those who fought the law through his friendship with norton, an idea crossed his mind, and turning in a faint appealing way to the boer who seemed to be holding in suspense the scales of success and failure, he said: "don't take our bit of provisions away! we're prisoners; isn't that enough?" the boer fixed him with his eyes, noted his pallid face and the blood trickling down from the cut caused by his fall, and then, as if satisfied and moved by a feeling akin to compassion, he nodded his head, thrust the cake and the sandwich-like papers back into west's haversack, and let it swing again under the young man's arm. "lucky for them we're not hungry!" he said, in his own tongue, "or we shouldn't have left them much." "why don't you make them eat it?" cried the man who had fired. "for aught we know, it may be poisoned." "bah!" cried their friend, who had done the pair so good a turn; "let them be!" a couple of the boers then approached with reins, but, in spite of the opposition that had taken place, the man who had taken west's part again interfered, just as they proceeded to raise ingleborough to bind his hands behind his back. "there is no need!" said the man sharply. "can't you see that he is too weak to stand? help him upon his horse, and one go on either side to keep him in the saddle." then turning to west, he continued: "mount; but you will be shot down directly if you attempt to escape." "i am not going to leave my friend," said west coldly. "i could have galloped away had i wanted to. let me walk by his side to help him." the man looked at the speaker searchingly and then nodded, west taking the place of one of the boers, who placed himself just behind him with rifle ready. then the little party moved off towards the kopje where the prisoners had been surprised. "how are you?" asked west, as soon as they were in motion. "i feel as if i were somewhere else!" was the half-laughing, half-bitter reply. "all use seems to have been completely knocked out of me, and the hills and kopjes go sailing round and round." "that will soon pass off," said west, and then after a short pause: "well, we're prisoners after all. it does seem hard now we have got so far! i wonder where they'll send us?" "it does not much matter!" said ingleborough. "anywhere will do, if i can lie down and rest till this dreadful swimming and confusion passes off. as soon as it does we'll escape--to eat the sandwiches," he added meaningly. "if we can," said west; "but don't talk about them again! oh, ingle, i wish i had your sharp wits." "pooh! where there's a will there's a way," said ingleborough faintly. "you might have escaped, but as you insisted upon being taken to share my lot i was obliged to do something, and now i must do nothing but think of how to get away." the effort of talking was evidently too much for the poor fellow, and west confined himself to keeping him upright in the saddle, from which he would certainly have fallen but for his comrade's willing arm. west was so fully occupied by his task, the two boers offering not the slightest aid, that he paid no heed to the fact that their captors led them right round to the far side of the kopje, and then through a narrow gap of the rocks into a natural amphitheatre, wherein there was ample room for the formation of a great laager, the wagons being arranged in an irregular ellipse, thoroughly hidden from the veldt outside, while the rocks of the kopje roughly formed a rampart of vast strength, and apparently quite impregnable. west took in all he could as he and his companion in misfortune were led through and within the barricade of wagons to where the horses and cattle were securely tethered, while a burst of cheering saluted the returning party as soon as it was seen that they had prisoners and a couple of likely-looking mounts. it was a surprise, for no one journeying across the veldt could for a moment have supposed that so secure a natural stronghold existed behind the rocky barriers. the next minute the prisoners saw their sturdy ponies tied up to the tail of one of the great wagons, so near that west began to wonder whether when darkness came it would be possible to creep to their side, cut them free, mount, and make a old dash for liberty. but a glance at ingleborough showed him that this would be impossible, for the poor fellow had sunk over sidewise as soon as he had been lifted out of the saddle, and lay perfectly inert and with his eyes half-closed. west knelt down by him and, taking his slung water-bottle, he raised his injured companion's head a little and began to trickle, a few drops at a time, a little water between the sufferer's lips. he was occupied in this way when he noted that a large group of the boers had approached, one of whom, a short sturdy-looking individual, with swarthy skin and thick black beard plentifully sprinkled with grey, suddenly said, in good english: "what is the matter with him--shot?" "no," replied west. "his horse was struck, and reared up, and my friend was thrown heavily upon his head." "oh, is that all?" said the boer nonchalantly. "let him sleep it off! but listen, you: we shoot prisoners who try to escape." "i shall not try to escape and leave him," said west coldly. the boer commandant, for such he proved to be, gave him a keen look and then turned away to speak to one of the men, the result of the orders he gave being that ingleborough was carried to one of the wagons forming the laager, and west ordered to follow and wait upon his friend, who, after his injury had been carefully bathed and bandaged, sank into a swoon-like sleep, leaving west to sit thinking of their position and pondering upon the fact that the two basuto ponies were tethered in sight of where he sat, and that he still had the treasured-up despatches safe. his great trouble now seemed to be whether he should conceal the papers about his person or leave them in the haversack carelessly hung from the side of the wagon-tilt, lest he should be searched again and with a more serious result than the loss of watch and purse. night came at last, with the difficulty still unsolved, and a yet more serious one to keep him awake. it was this: ought he to wait till well on in the night, and then creep out by the sentry on duty outside, get to one of the ponies, and try and steal away? and the time glided on, with the question still unanswered. there was the horse, and there was the despatch; but there were also the boers by the hundred, hemming him completely in, and, even if he were disposed to leave ingleborough to his fate, any attempt seemed to be mad to a degree. chapter sixteen. after a rest. west started up into wakefulness the next morning from a dream in which he was galloping for his life with the boers in full pursuit, and then he sighed and wondered when and how he had dropped asleep, for he could only recall being miserable, awake, and puzzled as to what to do, and then all seemed to have become blank till he was awakened by his captors' busy stir and the crackling of the fires being lighted. west's first steps were to see to his companion, who did not seem to have moved, and the first feeling was one of satisfaction; but directly afterwards he felt uneasy, for ingleborough seemed to be unnaturally still, and a shiver ran through him as he leaned over where his friend lay on the floor of the wagon, to place a hand upon the injured man's forehead below the bandage which made him look so ghastly. then came reaction as it was proved that the sufferer had only been in a deep sound sleep. for ingleborough's eyes opened, to gaze at him wonderingly. "what's the matter? oh, it's you, noll!" "yes; you startled me!" "eh? what did i do?" "you lay so still!" "did i? oh, of course. i've been very fast asleep, i suppose. what time it is--nearly sundown?" "no, it's morning--sunrise." "i'm blessed! what, have i slept all night?" west nodded and smiled. "soundly, i suppose!" he said. "but how are you?" "horribly stupid and muddled! i don't quite make out! oh yes, i do now. i came down such a quelch that it knocked all the sense out of me, and my head feels all knocked on one side. but tell me: what about the despatch?" "i have it all right so far!" "that's good. where are our ponies?" "tied up yonder to the wheel of a wagon." "that's good, too, lad! then all we've got to do is to help ourselves to them the first chance and ride away." "yes," said west drily, "the first chance; but will there be a first chance?" "why not? it's of no use to look at the black side of things! where there's ill luck there's always good luck to balance it, and we're bound to have our share of both. we had the bad yesterday; the good will come to-morrow, or next day, or the day after--who knows? we were not killed. you had your ear nicked and i had a bad fall which will cure itself as fast as the slit in your ear grows up. i call it grand to have saved the despatch! are they going to give us any breakfast?" "hah!" sighed west; "you've done me good, ingle. i was regularly in the dumps." "keep out of them, then!" was the reply. "you didn't expect to get your message delivered at mafeking without any trouble, did you?" "no, no, of course not! then you think we might make a dash for it some time?" "of course i do; but i don't suppose the chance will come to-day. let's hope that our next move may take us nearer our goal, for i don't suppose the boers will take us with them. they'll send us prisoners to pretoria, i suppose; and we must make our dash somewhere on the road." ingleborough was right: the chance for the dash did not come that day, nor the next, nor the next. for the boer commando did not stir from the natural stronghold which had been made its halting-place. in fact, two fresh parties, for which there was plenty of room, joined them, and a good deal of business went on: men going out on expeditions and returning: wagons laden with provisions and ammunition and two big field-pieces arriving, as if the force was being increased ready for some important venture--all of which busy preparation took place under the eyes of the two prisoners, who, while being fairly well treated in the way of rations, were carefully guarded. "one would like to know a little more what it all means!" said ingleborough. "as it is, one seems to be quite in the dark!" "and we're doing nothing!" sighed west. "oh, it's terrible! i must begin to stir, even if it is only to bring about another check." "what would be the good of that?" "ease to one's brain!" said west passionately. "here have i been trusted with this mission and am doing nothing, while all the time the poor fellows at mafeking must be watching despairingly for the despatch that does not come." "look here, old lad," said ingleborough sympathetically; "when a fellow's chained down hand and foot it's of no use for him to kick and strain; he only makes his wrists and ankles sore and weakens himself, so don't do it! believe me, the proper time to act is when they take you out of your chains! it's very depressing, i know; but what can't be cured--" "must be endured. i know, ingle; but here we are prisoners, and i can't help getting more hopeless." "but you must! things can't go on like this much longer! either our troops will come here and attack the boers, or the boers will go and attack the british. just have patience and wait!" "but here we are, just as we were nearly a week ago, and nothing has happened." "oh yes, something has!" said ingleborough, with a smile. "i've got well again! the first morning i couldn't have mounted my pony and ridden off even if they had brought it to the end of the wagon here and said: `be off!' to-day i could jump on and go off at full gallop. do you call that nothing?" "no, of course not!" said west. "there, you must forgive me! i'm very discontented, i know; but you see why." "to be sure i do! i say, though, you've been at that satchel! the sandwiches are gone." west nodded. "haven't eaten them, have you?" "no, they're sewed up in the belt of my jacket. i did it two nights ago, and i'm living in hopes that they will not search us again." "that's it, is it? well, i'm glad you did that! there, keep a good heart; something is sure to happen before long!" "i only hope it may; even evil would be better than this miserable state of inaction. i think till i feel half-mad." "well, we won't hope for the evil, only for something in the way of change, if it's only to pay a visit to pretoria gaol." "what!" "only so as to get some news to give to old norton when we get back. it will interest him. i wonder whether he's keeping his eye on master plump-and-pink. well, i am blessed!" "what is the matter? are they making a move?" cried west excitedly, for ingleborough had sprung to the end of their wagon prison to stand looking out. "someone has!" cried ingleborough angrily. "look here! why, old norton must have been asleep." chapter seventeen. bad shillings always come back. west stepped to his companion's side, looked out between the rough curtains of the wagon, and saw a group of mounted boers surrounding a freshly-arrived wagon with its long team of bullocks, the black voorlooper at the head and the driver with his enormous whip on the box. "well," said west, after a sharp glance, "there's a fresh load of provisions, i suppose! what of it?" "rub your eyes, lad, and look again." "they don't want rubbing." "well, of all the fellows! look there, beyond those mounted men who escorted the wagon in--there where the commandant and the dismounted party are talking together." "yes, i see where you mean; but what has it to do with us? i don't-- yes, i do. why, it's anson!" cried west excitedly. "anson it is! i began to think you were going blind!" "but how strange! they have taken him prisoner then. look here; we're not going to have him with us." "it doesn't look as if he is a prisoner," said ingleborough; "they all seem too friendly. i believe the scoundrel has deserted from the town and come to join the boers. what has old norton been about?" "is it possible?" "oh, it's possible enough, if old norton has been to sleep. rats desert sinking ships!" "kimberley isn't a sinking ship!" said west indignantly. "i don't know so much about that, lad! there is a very small force ready to defend it; it's a long way from help; and, as we see here, the enemy is swarming down upon it from all directions. you see, it's so far from our forces and so near to the free state border." "ah, there he is plainly enough, laughing with the commandant! look, he clapped him on the shoulder!" "yes, i give him credit for anything!" said ingleborough. "i shouldn't wonder if he was in full correspondence with the boers and is ready to sell us as well as buy diamonds. as likely as not, he has slipped away with his swag so as to escape before the fighting begins. but how norton can have let him get away is more than i can understand!" "well, it's plain enough that he's here!" said west; "and i can't help feeling glad that he is not a prisoner, for if he had been put with us it must have come to a quarrel. look here, seeing what the treacherous thief is, we ought to denounce him to the commandant." "don't do anything of the kind! what good would it do?" "but he is such a despicable wretch!" "what's that to you?" "ingleborough!" "oh yes, i know what you're ready to say; but you've got something else to do besides playing the virtuous part of denouncing master anson as a diamond-dealer. besides, i don't believe the boers would think any the less of him if they believed you." "they couldn't help believing our evidence!" said west. "nonsense! it isn't your business!" "it's every honest man's business!" cried west hotly. "not if he is on government service with a despatch to deliver in mafeking," said ingleborough, with a peculiar look at his companion. "hah!" cried west; "you are right again! but--oh!" "oh, what?" "why, he was present when we volunteered to carry the despatch!" "to be sure, so he was!" cried ingleborough excitedly. "then as soon as he knows we have been captured he'll denounce me to the commandant as the bearer of the message, and oh, ingle, we shall be searched again!" "yes," was the thoughtful reply; "and you've got it on you. we might change jackets, but that would be no good. could you rip it out of yours?" "yes, of course, in a few moments." "then you'd better." "not now; it's too late. we must wait for a better opportunity." "but--" "no, no, i tell you," cried west excitedly; "look, he's not a prisoner. the scoundrel has recognised us and is coming here. why, ingleborough, he's a traitor--a rebel. no wonder he got through the boer lines. look! there can be no doubt about it; he has joined their side. those men, the boer leaders, the commandants and field-cornets, cannot know that he is a thief." "but they soon shall!" answered ingleborough hoarsely. "no, no, keep quiet," whispered west; "he's laughing with them and coming here. don't say a word; wait! it's my advice now." "if i can!" muttered ingleborough. "the skunk! he's sending the blood dancing through my veins! he must be denounced, and if he begins to say a word about your volunteering to bear the despatch i'll let him have it hot and strong." "why, you seem to have completely turned your coat!" said west bitterly. "i have! what we have just been saying has stirred up all my bile. but i wish i could turn your coat too--out of the wagon." "why not?" said west, as a thought occurred to him, and running to the other end of the vehicle, stripping off his jacket as he did so, he thrust out his head and called to the sentry whose duty it was to guard against any attempt to escape. "what is it?" said the man quietly. "take my coat and hang it on the rocks yonder," he said. "i've been sleeping in it night after night, and it's all fusty and damp. out yonder, right in the sun." the request was so simple and reasonable that the man nodded, took the jacket, and was turning to go away. "don't let anyone meddle with it," said west; "it's my only one, and i don't want a kaffir to carry it off." "he'd better not try!" said the boer, with a meaning laugh, and he bore the jacket right away to where the sun was beating hotly upon the rock, where the next minute the garment was spread out. "talk about me having a ready wit in an emergency!" said ingleborough merrily; "why, i'm a baby to you, west, my son! there: i'm proud of you." "oh, but the risk!" whispered the young man. "that precious garment lying carelessly yonder!" "carelessly? that's just the way to keep it safe. who'd ever think of examining the coat lying out there?" "the first man who goes near it!" "the first rogue, and he'd only feel in the pockets. but there's no fear: that sentry would fire at any thief who tried to steal! that's safe enough!" "i wish i could think so!" replied west. "the first thing when they come will be to ask me what i have done with my jacket." "pooh! in that loose, dark flannel shirt they'll never think of it. i thought they'd have been here, though, before now." they had to wait for some little time still, for the boers had gathered about the new-comer, forming a half-circle, evidently to listen while anson talked to them earnestly, his gesticulations suggesting to ingle borough, rightly or wrongly, that he was describing the arrangements for defence made by the british garrison at kimberley, which he had so lately left; and as he spoke every now and then the listeners nodded, slapped the stocks of their rifles, turned to make remarks to one another, and gave the speaker a hearty cheer. "oh, you beauty!" growled ingleborough. "i can't hear a word you say; but i'm as certain as if i were close up that you're telling those chuckle-headed dutch that all they've got to do is to march straight in and take kimberley, for they'll find it as easy as kissing their hands." "if he is telling them the weak points it's downright treason," said west bitterly, after a glance out of the wagon in the direction of the rocks on which lay his jacket. "it's stand him up with a firing party, and a sergeant with a revolver to finish the work if it isn't quite done," said ingleborough. "the cowardly scoundrel: he'll be getting his deserts at last! i say, though, isn't it sickening? a blackguard like that, who doesn't stop at anything to gain his ends!" for anson had finished speaking and the boers had closed round him, patting him on the back and pressing forward one after the other to shake his hand, while he smiled at them in his mildest, blandest way. after a few more friendly words the ex-clerk began slouching slowly up, followed by half-a-dozen of the principal men, till he was close to the tail of the prison wagon where west and ingleborough were seated trying to look perfectly indifferent, but the former with his heart beating heavily and a flush coming hotly into his cheeks, when the boers stopped short, leaving anson to speak, listening the while as if they anticipated a little amusement from their new friend the informer hailing the prisoners in the wain. "hullo!" cried anson, with one of his most irritating smiles--one full of the triumph over them he enjoyed and the contempt he felt, "hullo! who'd have thought that the virtuous west and the enthusiastic sham detective ingleborough would have come out here to join the boers? but don't tell me. i know: i can see how it is. you've both been bled, and that's let some of the bounce out of you." he stopped for a moment for those he insulted to reply, but as they both sat looking at him in cool contempt he went on jeeringly: "the boers know what they're about, i see. when a horse has the megrims they bleed him in the ear, and judging that the same plan would do for a donkey they've bled cocky west there, and bull-headed ingleborough on the skull." west's face grew of a deeper red, and he drew in a long deep breath, for those of the boers who understood english burst into a hearty laugh at this sally of the renegade's. "well, i'm glad of it!" continued anson, taking the boers' laughter as so much approval. "it was all you wanted, bully west, and i daresay, now that you've come to your senses, you'll make a decent boer. there, i'll give you a recommendation for a clerkship, for you do really write a decent hand." "say thanks," growled ingleborough, with a sneer which told of his contempt; "he will no doubt have plenty of interest. he has come up to lead the boer army's band and give lessons on the flute." anson started as if he had been stung. "quiet, man, quiet!" whispered west to ingleborough; but it was in vain. chapter eighteen. the ringing of the shilling. people make their plans in cold blood and forget all about them when the blood grows hot. it was so here. west had made up his mind what to do while cool, but acted just in the fashion he had cried out against to his companion. for as soon as anson lounged up to them in his supercilious jaunty way, west's cool blood warmed, grew hot at the scoundrel's contemptuous look of triumph, and at the insult respecting the boers boiled over. "how dare you!" he raged out. "keep your distance, you contemptible cur, or, prisoner though i am, i'll give you such a thrashing as shall make you yell for mercy!" "hullo! what does this mean?" said one of the boer officers, closing up, followed by the others. "the prisoner is a bit saucy!" said anson contemptuously. "you did not bleed him enough!" "you know these two?" asked the officer. "well, in a way," said anson, in a haughty, indifferent tone. "they were a pair of underlings where i was engaged at the diamond-mines. insolent bullying fellows, both of them! but you'll tame them down." the boer leader nodded. "a bit sore at being taken prisoners!" he said. "no," cried west; "it is the fortune of war, sir. we are englishmen, and we made a dash to escape kimberley, and got through your investing lines." "to carry despatches to the rooineks?" "no," replied west. "your men searched us and found no despatches." "messages then. you were going to the british forces?" "we should have joined them after a time, perhaps," said west, speaking more coolly. "he's lying!" said anson sharply. "have them searched again!" the boer commandant nodded, gave the order, and half-a-dozen of his men came forward, after which the prisoners were ordered out of the wagon, and they let themselves down, when they were thoroughly searched from head to heel--of course, without result, and the boer chief turned frowningly to anson. "they must have hid the letter somewhere about the wagon then!" "two of you get in and search!" said the commandant. this was carefully carried out, and the men descended. "then they must have destroyed their message before you took them," cried anson, "or somehow since." "they were carefully searched as soon as they were taken," observed one of the field-cornets. "yes," said the commandant, "and i saw it done. well, they will not carry any news to mafeking. tell them that the british are being swept into the sea east and south, and their rule is at an end. i want brave men who can ride and fight, so if they like to join the federal forces and do their duty there will be a prosperous time for them. if they refuse there will be a long imprisonment, perhaps something worse." "mr anson, the renegade, need not trouble himself, sir," said west quietly. "neither my companion nor i will do as he has done." "you had better!" said anson sneeringly. "it's a grand chance for you now your characters are gone and the i.d. detectives are after you." ingleborough looked at the speaker sharply; but anson made believe not to notice it and went on. "you've no character now, either of you," he continued coolly. "old norton came after me as i was trekking south, utterly sick of the english lot. he came on the old pretext: that i had bought diamonds and was carrying them off. he searched again, and then i told him the simple truth--that you two had volunteered to carry despatches so as to get clear off with the swag you had acquired--after accusing me; but he professed not to believe me, and took me back to kimberley, but the very next day he started off with half-a-dozen men to fetch you back, and i came away." "with the diamonds you had hidden?" said ingleborough sharply. "perhaps," replied anson coolly. "so, you see, you had better join our party, for even if you escaped it would only be for the police superintendent to get hold of you both, and if he did, you wouldn't find him such an excellent friend." "wants thinking about!" said ingleborough drily. "but `our' party--`our'?" "yes," said anson coolly. "i've made up my mind to belong to the right owners of the country for a long time past. we've got the gold at johannesburg, and the diamonds at kimberley are ours by right, and we're going to have them." there was a murmur of satisfaction from the boers at this, and anson went on nonchalantly: "that is one reason why i consented to serve the company in such a beggarly position. i wanted to learn all i could about the mining so that it might come in useful when we of the boer party took possession." "and then, i suppose," said ingleborough, "you'll expect to be manager-in-chief?" "well, i don't go so far as that," said anson; "but, with my knowledge of the management of the mining business, i feel sure my boer friends will find it to their advantage to retain me high up on the staff. you see, there are so many things in the way of checking losses which i have mastered." "stopping the illicit-diamond-buying and selling, for instance," said ingleborough sarcastically. "exactly!" replied anson, apparently without noticing the sarcasm; "and i've been thinking that no doubt i could put a good thing in both your ways. of course, we have been bad enough friends; but i'll pass over all that if you'll serve me as faithfully as you did the company. what do you say?" "say?" cried west. "stop! hold hard, oliver!" cried ingleborough, stopping him short; "this is a thing that can't be settled in a minute. we want time. all i say now, mr anson, is that i'm glad we bear such a good character, seeing that we are illicit-diamond-dealers escaping with the plunder that we haven't got." "exactly!" said anson. "very well, then, i'll give you till to-morrow night to think it over, and you'll soon see which side your bread's buttered." "don't stop me, ingle," said west hotly. "i can't stand this. i must speak. this--" a sharp report from behind the wagon checked further words, and every man made a rush for this place or that in full expectation that a sudden attack had been made upon the laager within the rocky walls. at the same moment a kaffir of the blackest type and with his hair greased up into the familiar zulu ring bounded into sight, tripped, fell upon his hands, sprang up again, ran on, and disappeared, whilst a rush was made for the man who fired, leaving anson and the prisoners together. the next minute west's blood felt as if it was running cold in his veins as he saw, only a few yards from him and close to the stone upon which his jacket had been stretched, the sentry slowly re-loading his pistol. but the coat was gone. west had hard work to repress a groan. "my orders were to fire at anyone i saw stealing," said the man surlily, and west heard every word. "well, who was stealing?" asked one of the officers. "a kaffir," replied the sentry. "i'd got a jacket stretched out upon the stones yonder, to get aired in the sunshine, and i only took my eyes off it for a minute, when i saw a foot rise up from behind a stone, grab hold of the coat with its toes--" "nonsense!" cried the officer; "a foot could not do that!" "not do it?" said the man excitedly. "it had to do it; and it was creeping away, when i fired, and the black sprang up and ran." "where's the jacket?" the officer's question woke an echo in west's breast, and he started, for it was just as if the question was repeated there, and it seemed to be echoed so loudly that he fancied those near must have heard it. "he's got it, i suppose," said the sentry coolly. "carried it away, and a bullet too somewhere in his carcass." a miserably despondent feeling attacked west at these words, for he had clung to the hope that he might be able to recover the despatch, succeed in escaping and delivering it in safety, however late; while now the desire to get away died out, for how could he return to kimberley and confess that he had failed? he turned to glance at ingleborough, who met his eyes and then shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: "it's a bad job, and i pity you." at that moment a hand was clapped heavily upon west's shoulder, and the boer who had saluted him so roughly pointed to the wagon, and he saw that his companion was being treated in the same way, while, the scare being over, upon their walking back and preparing to climb in, they were called upon to stop. naturally the prisoners obeyed, and, turning, they found the group of boers in earnest conversation once more with anson, who at the end of a few minutes nodded decisively and approached his two old fellow-clerks, making west's heart begin to thump with excitement and his eyes gleam, for the despair he felt at the loss he had sustained made him ready to turn fiercely upon the first enemy who addressed him. "take it calmly!" whispered ingleborough. "let me diplomatise. you'll do no good by making a row." "take it calmly!" whispered back west, "and at a time like this! i can't!" "look here, you two," said anson coolly. "let's have no more bones about the matter. these gentlemen say they have too much to think about to bother over any shilly-shallying on the part of a couple of prisoners. you know it's a good chance, and i've told them you'll both join along with me. just tell them out and out you will." "you miserable renegade, how dare you!" cried west fiercely. "here, what does that mean?" cried the boer commandant sharply. "shamming!" replied anson, with a contemptuous laugh. "they're going to join us, knowing, as they do, that the game is all up at kimberley; but they put on all this make-believe. they want to be able to say that they were forced to serve, so as to hedge--so as to make it all comfortable with their consciences, as they call them." "it is false!" cried west furiously--"a tissue of lies! don't believe him; this man is no better than a miserable contemptible thief!" "what!" shouted anson, lowering the rifle he carried and taking a step forward with what was intended to be a fierce aspect. but he only took one step, being checked suddenly by the action of west, who, regardless of the weapon, sprang at him, and would have wrenched away the rifle had he not been seized by a couple of the boers, who held him fast. "pooh! i don't want to shoot the wretched cad!" said anson contemptuously. "an old fellow-clerk of mine! he's savage and jealous of my position here! he always was an ill-tempered brute!" "but he says that you are a thief!" said the boer commandant sternly. "pooh! a spiteful man would say anything!" cried anson contemptuously. "look here, sir, i've watched the boer troubles from the first: i've seen how the english have been trying to find an excuse for seizing the two republics: i know how they got possession of the great diamond-mines by a trick arranged with the surveyors of the boundaries." there was a low murmur of assent here from the gathering crowd of boers who had now surrounded him. "yes," he said, raising his voice, "i knew all the iniquities of the british government--how the english had seized the diamond-fields, and how they were trying to get the gold-mines, and as soon as the war broke out i made up my mind to join the people fighting for their liberty." there was a burst of cheering from the few who could follow the speaker, and then a roar as soon as his words were explained to the crowd, while anson looked round with his fat face growing shiny, as he beamed upon his hearers. "yes," said the boer leader coldly; "but this young man, who knows you, charges you with being a thief." "all cowardly malice!" cried anson contemptuously, and giving his fingers a snap. "a thief?--a robber?--nonsense. pooh! i only dealt in and brought away with me a few of the stones, which were as much mine as theirs. i was not coming away from the enemy empty-handed. i said to myself that i'd spoil the egyptians as much as i could, and i did." there was a shout of delight at this, and one of the field-cornets gave the speaker a hearty slap on the shoulder. "yes, i brought some away," continued anson, rejoicing fatly in the success of his words; and, raising his voice, he said, first in english and then in boer-dutch: "i brought some away, and i wish i had brought more." there was a fresh and a long-continued roar of delight, repeated again and again, giving the speaker time to collect his thoughts, and as soon as he could gain silence he continued. "look here," he said: "i came and joined the boers because i believed their cause to be just; and i said to myself, knowing what i do of the secrets of the diamond-mines, i will be the first as soon as kimberley is taken to show the commandants where the british tyrants have hidden away the stones that belong of right to the boers, the stones that have been stolen from the earth--the land they fought for and won with their blood from the savage black scum who infested the country. i know where the stones are hidden away, and i can, if you like, lead you to what the british think you will never find. but if you are going to believe the words of this malicious boy, and consider me to be a common thief, i've done. you can have the few paltry stones i brought away to sell and pay for my bread and meat till the war is over, and let me go. i don't want to act as your guide into kimberley! it's nothing to me! i have told you what i did; and what is more, i'd do it again!" "yes," said ingleborough, in a whisper to west, as he sat holding his hand to his injured head: "i believe him there." west nodded, and the next minute they saw anson being led away in triumph by a crowd of boers; but the commandant, with half-a-dozen more who seemed to be officers, and the man who had defended them when they were captured, remained close by the prisoners, talking together. soon after, the commandant approached them, glanced at ingleborough, who lay back, evidently in pain, and then turned to west: "you heard what your old friend said?" "yes," replied west. "it is all true?" "his base confession is," said west boldly. "the man is a detected illicit-diamond-dealer." "he only bought what the british wrongly claimed!" said the boer warmly. "what right had they to make laws forbidding people to buy what was freely given up by the earth for the benefit of all?" "it is of no use for me to argue about the matter!" said west coolly. "i shall never convince you, and you will never convince me." "oh yes, i should, after you had come to your senses! there, we are not brutes, only men fighting for our liberties, and i like you, for you are brave and manly. why not join our cause? it is just." west looked the boer full in the eyes, thinking the while that the man spoke in all sincerity and belief that his cause was right. "well, what do you say?" cried the boer. west tightened his lips and shook his head. the boer frowned and turned to ingleborough. "well," he said, "you join us, and you will not repent. prove faithful, and you will gain a place of trust among us!" west listened for his comrade's reply. "oh, i can't join without him," said ingleborough. "he's master, and i'm only man!" "then he was bearer of the despatch--what that man anson said was true?" "oh yes, that part of his story was true enough." "that you were despatch-riders on the way to mafeking--you two?" "quite right." "and you two had been diamond-dealers, and brought away a quantity?" "just as many, as we schoolboys used to say, as you could put in your eye with the point of a needle. all a lie! anson was putting his own case. all we brought away was the despatch." "then where is it?" said the boer sharply. "i don't know; i was not the bearer," said ingleborough quietly, "but you know where it is now?" "i--do--not," said ingleborough firmly. "i have not the slightest idea where it is!" "then you have sent it on by someone else?" "no," said ingleborough. "there, you know that we have failed, and if you set us at liberty, all we can do is to go back to kimberley and say what has happened." "you will not go back to kimberley," said the boer, speaking with his eyes half-closed, "and if you did it would only be to go into prison, for the diamond city is closely besieged, and if not already taken it will in a few days be ours. there, go back to your wagon, and spend the time in thinking till i send for you again. the choice is before you--a good position with us, or a long imprisonment before you are turned out of the country." he pointed towards their temporary place of confinement, and then turned away, while a couple of the boers marched them to the wagon and left them in the sentry's charge. chapter nineteen. the sky clears. once more in the wagon, one ox a pair of despondent prisoners, hot in temper as well as in person with the excitement of what he had so lately gone through, west cast himself down upon the floor ready to groan, while his more experienced, harder comrade sat down cross-legged to think. "if i only knew where the coat was!" said west, with a groan. "hah!" sighed ingleborough. "i'm afraid it's gone for ever! that kaffir was one of the boers' slave-like servants, of course, or he wouldn't have been in the camp; and after the attempt at theft, if he was not too badly wounded, he would bolt right off for his own people. it's a sad business, old lad: but i don't think you need fear that it will fall into the boers' hands." "no, i don't fear that!" replied west. "but it is the misery and shame of the failure that worries me! i did so mean to succeed!" "hah! yes," sighed ingleborough again; "but someone said--hang me if i know who!--`'tis not in mortals to command success.' you're only a mortal, old fellow, and you must make the best of it." west groaned. "it's horribly hard; just, too, as i had hatched out a way of escape," continued ingleborough. "i don't want to escape now." "what? you don't mean to join the boers as old fat face suggested?" "why not?" said west dismally. "i dare not go back to kimberley." "you daren't turn traitor to your country, and, though you feel right down in the dumps, you dare go back to kimberley and walk straight to the commandant and speak out like a man, saying: `i did my best, sir; but i failed dismally!'" "ah!" sighed west. "and he would reply: `well, it's a bad job, my lad; but it's the fortune of war.'" west held out his hand as he sat there tailor-fashion by his friend in the bottom of the wagon, and there was a warm grip exchanged. "bravo, boy! you're coming round! i knew it. you only wanted time." "thank you, ingle! now then, what was your idea of escaping?" "oh, a very simple one, but as likely to succeed as to fail." "tell me at once! it will keep me from thinking about that miserable despatch." "and the jacket! you and i will have to take turn and turn with mine when the cold nights come, unless we pretend to lovely anson that we are going to stop, and ask him to get you a fresh covering for your chest and back." "oh, none of that, ingle! i can't bear lying subterfuges. i'd sooner bear the cold of the bitter nights." "don't use big words, lad! subterfuge, indeed! say _dodge_--a war dodge. but about my plan! you have noticed that for some reason they have not taken our ponies away." "yes, they are still tethered to the wheel ox that wagon. what of that? it would be impossible to get to them and ride out unchallenged." "oh no: not my way!" "what is your way?" said west excitedly. "last night was dark as pitch." "yes; but there are double lines of sentries about." "with sharp eyes too; but there was a commando rode out, evidently to patrol the country and look out for our people." "yes; i heard them ride away." "and i heard them come back at daybreak; but i was too lazy to get up." "i don't see what you are aiming at," said west wearily; "but i suppose you have some good idea--i hope a plausible one." "i think it is, old lad," said ingleborough, speaking now in a low whisper. "suppose when that commando musters after dark--i am supposing that one will go out again to-night--suppose, i say, when it musters we had crept out of the wagon and crawled as far as that one where our ponies are tethered?" west's hand stole forward to grip his comrade's knee. "ah, you're beginning to grasp it!" said ingleborough. "then, as i still have my knife, suppose i cut the reins and we mounted." "and joined the muster?" said west, in a hoarse whisper. "it isn't a dragoon troop, with men answering the roll-call and telling off in fours from the right." "no, just a crowd!" said west excitedly. "exactly! there's only one reason why we shouldn't succeed." "what's that?" "we don't look rough and blackguardly enough." "oh, ingle, i quite grasp it now!" "i've been quite aware of that, old lad, for the last minute--that and something else. i don't know what will have happened when the war is over, but at present i don't wear a wooden leg. oh, my knee! i didn't think your fingers were made of bone." "i beg your pardon, old fellow!" "don't name it, lad! i'm very glad you have so much energy in you, and proud of my powers of enduring such a vice-like--or say vicious--grip without holloaing out. next time try your strength on anson! why, your fingers would almost go through his fat." "ingle, we must try it to-night." "or the first opportunity." "why didn't you think of that before we lost the despatch?" "hah! why didn't i? suppose it didn't come!" west rose and crept to the end of the wagon and looked out. "the ponies are still there," he whispered, and then he started violently, for a voice at the other end of the wagon cried: "hallo, you two!" west turned, with his heart sinking, convinced that the man must have heard. "i'm just off sentry!" the boer said good-humouredly. "i must have shaved that kaffir somewhere and not hurt him much. as soon as i was relieved i went and had a good look for him; but there wasn't so much as a drop of blood." "poor wretch!" thought west. "lucky for him!" said ingleborough, in dutch. "but i made the beggar drop the jacket," said the boer, laughing; and, to the delight of the prisoners, he sent it flying into the wagon. that was all, and the sentry strode away, just as west bounded upon the recovered garment like a tiger upon its prey. "say bless him!" whispered ingleborough. "oh, ingle!" groaned his companion, in a choking voice: "i can feel the despatch quite safe." "hah!" ejaculated ingleborough. "and such a little while ago i was ready to curse fate and the very hour i was born!" "and very wrong of you too, my son!" said ingleborough, in tones which betrayed some emotion. "cursing's a very bad habit, and only belongs to times when wicked old men lived in old-fashioned plays and indulged in it upon all kinds of occasions, especially when they had sons and daughters who wanted to marry somebody else." "oh, ingle! oh, ingle! the sky doesn't look so covered with black clouds now." "by no means, my lad! i can see enough blue sky to make a dutchman a pair of breeches--for dutchman let's say boer. i say, what do you say to going out on patrol to-night?" "yes, yes, of course! but we have no guns!" "nor bandoliers, and that's a fact! well, it's of no use to think of getting our own back again, even if we said we repented and meant to join the boers at once." "they wouldn't trust us!" "too slim! fools if they did!" "then it is hopeless!" said west. "someone would notice it at once!" "yes," said ingleborough, "and those were beautiful rifles too. but look here: i could see a way out of the difficulty, only you are so scrupulous. one mustn't tell a diplomatic fib." "i can't stand telling an outrageous lie, even under stern necessity!" said west, pulling down his jacket after putting it on. "and you are so horribly honest!" "yes," said west bitterly. "i have not, as anson declared, been busy buying illicit-diamonds. but why do you say this--what do you mean?" "i meant that i'd have risked it as soon as it was dark, and crept away to steal a couple of the boers' mausers--just like a cat--mouser after mauser--i say, what a horrible joke!" west was silent. "they say they're splendid pieces; but it would be a terrible theft, because i should take the bandoliers too." west was still silent. "i say, lad," whispered ingleborough, laughing gently: "you couldn't object to my stealing the rifles that would be used to kill our men." "how would you manage?" whispered west. "hah!" sighed ingleborough, relieving his breast of a long pent-up breath, as he looked up at the arched-in wagon-tilt: "this fellow's very nearly as wicked as i am." "don't--don't joke!" said west: "the matter is too serious. how would you manage?" "never you mind, old very particular! leave that to me! by the way, though, before i lie down and have a good nap, in case i should be out all night, i don't think there is the slightest probability of our joining the boer forces, do you?" "not the slightest!" answered west drily. "there'll be plenty of traitors to their country without us!" five minutes later ingleborough, whose head troubled him more than he owned to, was sleeping soundly, leaving west thinking deeply over the prospects of a daring escape, and every now and then glancing out and across the laager to make sure that the ponies had not been moved, as well as to fix the position of every wagon well in his mind ready for the time when his comrade and he would be stealing across in the dark, and thinking at times that the boers must be mad to leave their prisoners' mounts tethered in sight of their temporary prison. "but they're altogether mad!" he mused, "or they would never have dared to defy the power of england in the way they have done!" this thought had hardly passed through his mind when he saw a group of the laager's occupants come by the prison wagon, each with a couple of well-filled bandoliers crossbelt-fashion over his breast, and rifle slung, making for the range forming one side of the laager. they broke up into twos and threes, and as they approached they unslung their weapons and took off their cartridge-belts to place them beneath the wagon-tilts, while they settled down to prepare a meal before having a rest. "just come off duty!" thought the prisoner, and, with his heart beating fast, he sat watching two of the men and then gazing hard at the nearest wagon, piercing in imagination the thick canvas covering spread over the arching-in hoops, and seeing, as he believed, exactly where two mauser rifles and the boers' bandoliers had been laid. "why, if it were dark," he thought, "i could creep out and secure those two rifles as easily as possible--if they were not taken away!" west's face turned scarlet, and it was not from the heat of the sun upon the wagon-tilt, nor from the sultry air which passed in from one end and out at the other. he drew a deep breath and moved towards ingleborough to tell him of the burning thoughts within him; but his comrade was sleeping so peacefully that he shrank from awakening him. "he'll want all his strength!" thought west, and then he fell to wondering whether or not they would succeed. the plan was so wonderfully simple that it seemed very possible, but-- yes, there were so many "buts" rising up in the way. the slightest hitch would spoil all, and they would be detected and subjected to the roughest of usage, even if they were not shot. but it was worth the risk, and the thinker's heart began to beat faster, and his hand stole to the part of his jacket where he had hidden the despatch, and as he did so he mentally saw himself and his companion riding through the darkness with the boers, and waiting for an opportunity to dash off, taking the enemy so by surprise that they would be off and away and well into the gloom before they could be followed. once well mounted, with the open veldt before them, and the darkness for their friend, he felt that it would go hard if they did not escape. he had come to this point, and was full of a wild exhilaration, feeling at heart that the venture only wanted the dash with which they would infuse it, when his attention was taken up by seeing the boer leader with about half-a-dozen of his field-cornets pass by the open end of the tent and cross the laager. he watched them with some anxiety, and then all at once his heart began to sink with a sudden attack of despair, for two of the party went off in front, unfastened the reins by which the two basuto ponies were tethered to the wagon-wheels, and led them to where the boer leader and the rest had halted, prior to putting the little animals through their paces as if to test their powers in connection with some object in view. a castle in the air dashed down into nothingness, and he uttered a low groan, which made ingleborough start up with a wondering look in his eyes. chapter twenty. how to escape. "what's wrong?" said ingleborough, in a whisper. "look out at the bottom of the wagon," was west's reply. ingleborough rose to his knees, and at a glance grasped the meaning of his companion's troubled look. "going to adopt our little basutos for their own use, eh?" he said coolly. "well, i wonder they haven't done it before! bah! there are plenty more horses about! what worries me is how i'm to get a couple of rifles and the ammunition. i was rather too cock-a-hoop about that when i talked to you, for these beloved dutch cuddle up their pieces as if they loved them with all their hearts." west smiled. "oh, don't do that because i said cuddled." "i smiled because i see the way to get a couple of rifles as soon as it's dark," said west, and he told what he had noted. "then there's no reason for you to look glum. i'll get a couple of horses somehow if you'll get the guns. here, i'd whistle or sing if i were not afraid of taking the sentry's attention. we're all right, lad, and that bit of sleep has taken away the miserable pain in my head which i keep on having since my fall. now then, what are they going to do with those ponies?" sitting well back, the prisoners watched all that went on, and saw the ponies mounted and put through their paces by a couple of big boers of the regular heavy, squat, dutch build. "bah! what a shame!" whispered ingleborough; "it's murdering the poor little nags. a regular case for the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. those fellows want a couple of dray-horses to carry them." "yes, and they've found it out," said west softly. for as they looked on they saw the two boers pull up after a canter up and down the full length of the laager, and then drop clumsily off, with the result that the ponies spread out their legs and indulged in a good shake which nearly dislodged their saddles. then a couple more of the onlookers tried the little mounts, but stopped after one trot up and down, and a general conversation ensued, resulting in the ponies being led off and tied up again in the same place, making west's heart beat as fast as if he had been running hard, while all the time he tried to crush down a feeling of elation, lest he should be premature in his hopefulness and be met with a fresh disappointment, for, though he saw the reins fastened in the same places, there was plenty of time before dark for the ponies to be removed. just then their examination of the boers' proceedings was brought to an end by one of their captors bringing the roughly-prepared portion of food that was served out to them every day. it was rough, but good of its kind, for the boers seemed to like to live well, and they did not stint their prisoners, who, at a word from ingleborough, fell to at once. "appetite or no appetite, eat all you can," he said. "we may have to work very hard to-night, and shall need all our strength." there was a fair amount left after they had done, and this was carefully tied up ready for taking with them if they were successful that night. after this there was nothing more to be done but to wait till darkness fell, and they sat back watching while the sentry was again changed, when the fresh man visited the wagon, to climb in, look carefully round, and eye them suspiciously before returning to his post. "does that fellow suspect anything?" whispered west. "of course; but nothing fresh. he comes on duty under the full impression that we mean to escape if we can, and he feels that if we attempt it his duty is to send a bullet through each of us." "then you don't think he suspects that we are going to make an attempt to-night?" "pooh! how could he? but look! there goes anson! not coming here, is he?" "no: going to his own wagon! i say, ingle, do you think he has any illicit-diamonds with him?" "i'm sure of it! he could not, according to his nature, have come away without robbing the company somehow. i only wish i had the searching of his wagon! i suppose norton did not have a chance!" "yes, look! he has gone to his wagon. where should you search if you had the chance?" "not quite sure yet!" said ingleborough gruffly. "but don't talk to me. i want to think of something better than diamonds." "you mean liberty?" "that's right. and now, once for all, we don't want to make any more plans: each knows what he has to do, and as soon as it is dark he has to do it." "no," said west gravely; "your part must wait until i have managed to get the rifles." "well, yes; i must not be in too great a hurry. but i say, wouldn't it be better for us to go together to the horses, and hide by them or under them till the boers muster?" "but suppose the sentry takes it into his head to come and examine the wagon, and gives the alarm?" "oh, don't suppose anything!" said ingleborough impatiently. "we must chance a good deal and leave the rest to luck." west nodded, and fixed his eyes upon the wagon he had previously singled out, noticing that the boers who occupied it were lying right beneath, sleeping, each with a rolled-up blanket for a rug. a little later he saw a big heavy-looking kaffir come up, look underneath at the sleepers, and then go off for a short distance, to lie down upon his chest, doubling his arms before him so as to make a resting-place for his forehead, and lying so perfectly motionless that it became evident that he also was asleep. the evening was closing in fast now, and the men began to move about more as if making preparations for some excursion which they had in view. "that looks well!" said ingleborough. "there's going to be some movement to-night. all was so still half-an-hour ago that i began to think we should have to put off our attempt." "oh, don't say that!" said west. "we _must_ go!" further conversation was checked by the coming of the sentry to look in upon them, scowling heavily before he slouched away. ten minutes or so later the darkness began to fall, increasing so fast that within half-an-hour the laager would have been quite black if it had not been for a lantern inside a wagon here and there; but, in spite of the darkness, the camp began to grow more animated, a buzz of conversation seeming to rise from the wagons like the busy hum of the insects outside. all at once, as ingleborough was going to draw his companion's attention to this fact, he felt a hand steal along his arm to grip his hand. then it was withdrawn, a very faint rustling followed, and the listener felt that he was alone. "good luck go with him!" he muttered. "i wonder whether he'll succeed?" leaning a little forward, he seemed to strain his ears to listen, though he felt that this was absurd, till all at once it struck him that he heard the soft sound of stealthy steps approaching from the other end of the wagon, and, creeping towards the sounds, he felt more than heard two men approaching, and as he got his head over the wagon-box he heard a whisper. "anson and the sentry!" he said to himself. "the spy, come to find out whether we're safe. yes, that was anson's whisper! then we're done if he brings a lantern and finds me alone." he paused for a moment or two, asking himself what he should do; and then the idea came. subsiding into a reclining position, he suddenly gave his thigh a sharp slap and started as if the blow had roused him up. "don't go to sleep, stupid!" he said aloud. "one can't sleep all these awful long nights! oh dear me, this is precious dull work. i wish we had a lantern and a box of dominoes! i wonder whether there is a box in the laager?" "bother!" he said, in a low smothered tone, with his hands covering his face. "i wish you wouldn't! i was dreaming about old anson and that he'd got ten thousand pounds' worth of diamonds in a bag aboard his wagon." "like enough!" continued ingleborough, in his natural voice. "ha, ha, ha!" he laughed. "i should like to serve the beggar out!" "how?" he said, in the smothered sleepy voice. "how? i'll tell you how it might be done if he had got them. find out where his wagon is in the laager, and then wait till the sentry's asleep, and crawl out of this thing, and nobble the lot." "rubbish!" "not it! we could get them easily enough and bring them back here. nobody would suspect us! but there would be no getting them away! i say, are you asleep again?" "no," said west quietly. "what's the matter with you? are you talking in your sleep? i was afraid to come in, thinking someone was with--" he got no farther, for ingleborough clapped a hand over his mouth and continued. "heigho! what bosh one does talk! i wish there wasn't a blessed diamond in the world!" he removed his hand, and feeling that there was some reason for all this, west said quietly: "why?" "why? see what a lot of trouble they cause! this fighting is as much about the diamond-fields as anything, and--hullo! how you startled me?" it was quite true: he was horribly startled, feeling that their plan was spoiled, for there was a faint sound at the end of the wagon and the door of a lantern was suddenly opened, throwing the light within, and giving the prisoners a glance of the sentry's and anson's faces looking in. "all right?" said the sentry, in his own tongue. "oh yes, all right!" replied ingleborough; "but look here: you might as well leave us that lantern! we won't set fire to the bed-curtains, i promise you!" "no," said the boer, and with a chuckle he closed the door of the lantern and walked whistling away to his companion. "anson!" said west, with his lips close to ingleborough's ear. "yes: the fox! how you startled me! i didn't hear you come! i was keeping up a sham conversation, for they were stealing down upon us to catch us on the hop! you failed, then, or were you obliged to turn back?" "neither: i succeeded!" "what? you got the rifles?" "yes." "then they must have seen them when the light was thrown in!" "no," said west quietly; "they are outside, leaning against the near hind wheel." "west, lad, this seems too good to be true. how did you manage?" "easily enough. i had marked down one wagon--the one i pointed out to you while it was light--and as soon as i dropped down from here i went on my hands and knees to crawl towards it. you know what a short distance it was, and by going very slowly i passed two others where the boers were sitting outside talking. this was easy enough, for they were so much interested in their conversation that they took no notice of any noise i made." "and they couldn't see you?" "i couldn't see them," replied west; "so, of course, they did not see me." "go on." "i did," said west, "and then i thought it was all over, for the next wagon faced in another direction, and i saw what i had not seen before-- a lantern was hanging in front over the driver's box, and it sent a dull path of light forward on the ground, and i stopped, for i had to cross that path, and i felt that i must be seen." "tut-tut-tut!" clicked ingleborough. "but after a few moments i recollected how much my drab brown jacket was like the soil, and i determined to risk it." "and crawled on?" "yes, but not on my hands and knees. i lay flat on my chest and worked myself along upon my hands and toes. it was only about a dozen yards where it was light, but it seemed like a mile." "never mind that!" said ingleborough impatiently. "you did it unheard?" "yes; but a man sitting in the wagon suddenly moved when i was half across, and i was about to spring up, thinking that he was searching for his rifle." "phew!" whistled ingleborough softly. "it was well i did not; for directly after, to save getting up and opening his lantern, the boer struck a match, and as i lay perfectly still, fully expecting to be shot, the whole place seemed to be lit up, and instead of hearing a rifle cocked i smelt a whiff of strong coarse tobacco, and i felt that i was safe." "go on and get it over!" whispered ingleborough. "you are making my hands feel wet." "i lay some time before i dared to move." "that you didn't, for you weren't gone long." "well, it seemed an hour to me: and then i crept on and out of the light into the black darkness again, rose to my hands and knees, wondering whether i was going right, and the next minute my hand rubbed softly against a wagon-wheel, and i knew i was right." "bravo!" whispered ingleborough. "i rose up directly, and began to feel about carefully for the tilt, and once more my heart seemed to rise to my mouth, for from under the wagon there came a dull deep snoring, and i felt it was impossible to do more for fear of being heard." "but you made a dash for it?" "no: i waited to get my breath, for i was just as if i had been running. but as soon as i could i went on feeling along the edge of the tilt, and then my heart gave a jump, for my hand touched the barrel of a rifle and directly after that of another." "hurrah!" panted out ingleborough, and west went on. "i began to draw the first towards me, but, as soon as i did, to my horror the other began to move, and i felt that if i kept on the second one would fall and wake the sleeping boers. so i reached up with my other hand, got well hold, and drew both together. but it was terrible work, for they would not come readily, because the bandoliers were hanging to them, and as i pulled i fully expected that something would catch and discharge one of the pieces, to alarm the whole laager for certain, even if it did not kill me. but by lifting and easing and turning the rifles over i at last got the two pieces nearly out, when they suddenly seemed to be held fast, and i stood there gradually getting drenched with perspiration." "why, the edge of the tilt must have caught them!" said ingleborough excitedly. "yes, that's what i found to be the case, and by turning them over again they came free, and i was standing by the wheel with what we wanted." "hah!" sighed ingleborough. "but even then i had a chill, for the snoring ceased and the sleeper began to mutter, taking all the strength out of me, till i felt that even if he or they beneath the wagon should rouse up i could escape through the darkness if i was quick." "so you slung the rifles and bandoliers over your shoulders, went down on your hands and knees, and crept back?" "no, i did not. i felt that there was not time, and that i had better trust to the darkness to escape, so i just shouldered the pieces and stepped out boldly walking across the broad path of light." "good; but you should have struck off to your right, so as to get where it would be more feeble." "i thought of that," said west quickly; "but i dared not, for fear of missing our wagon. so i walked boldly on, and almost ran against a boer." "tut-tut-tut! did he stop you?" "no: he just said: `mind where you are coming!' and passed on." "well?" said ingleborough. "that's all. i marched along to the wagon here and stood the rifles up before venturing to get in, for i fancied that you were talking in your sleep and would bring the sentry upon us. there, i've got the arms, and i don't want such another job as that." "pooh! nonsense, lad! the game has only just begun! you ought to feel encouraged, for you have learned and taught me how easy the rest of our job will be! just a little cool pluck, and we shall succeed!" "very well!" said west. "i'm ready! what next?" "we must lie down and wait till we hear the commando on the stir, and then--" "yes," said west softly; "and then?" "let's wait and see!" chapter twenty one. everything comes to the man who waits. what seemed like a couple of the weariest hours they had ever passed went slowly by, with everything quite still in the laager; and at last west, who was lying on his back, side by side with his companion, whispered: "they're not going on patrol to-night. we must creep out and escape on foot." "without knowing the way through the entrance among the rocks, and with dozens of sentries about? can't be done!" "pst!" whispered west, for his quick hearing had detected the approach of someone, and directly after a light was flashed in under the tilt, a little whispering followed after the dull rays were shut off, and once more there was silence. the pair lay a good five minutes without attempting to move or speak, and then west whispered: "two sentries." "no: one and fathead." "how do you know? i daren't look, for fear they should see the gleam of my eyes." "i could smell him." "scented--out here?" "yes; i believe he'd put some scent on his handkerchief and some pomatum on his hair even if he were going to be shot." "hist! listen," said west quickly; "they're on the stir." ingleborough started up, for a voice was heard giving an order, and it was as if a stick had suddenly been thrust into a beehive and stirred round. "right!" said ingleborough, in a low tone. "now's our time! take a long deep breath, and let's make the plunge. it will be all right if you keep close to me!" west instinctively drew a long breath without thinking of his companion's advice, for it was to him like a reflection of old boyish days when he summoned up his courage to take a plunge into deep water while wanting faith in his powers as a swimmer. but it was only the making of the plunge. following ingleborough, he dropped off the end of the wagon, boldly led him to the rifles, and together in the darkness they slipped on the bandoliers, two each, crossbelt-fashion, slung their rifles behind, put on their broad felt hats well down over their eyes, and then, imitating the boer's heavy slouching walk, they hurried on through the laager in the direction of the horses. it was, if possible, darker than ever, and they passed several boers, quite half of whom were leading horses, and one of them startled and encouraged them by growling out in dutch: "now then--look sharp, my lads!" "we will!" whispered ingleborough, as soon as they had passed on; "but oh, if the ponies are gone!" in another minute they knew that they were still safely tethered as they had seen them last, while a little search at the end of the empty wagon brought busy hands in contact with their saddles and bridles. "oh, it's mere child's play!" whispered ingleborough, as they hurried back to the ponies, which recognised their voices and readily yielded to being petted, standing firm while the saddles were clapped on and they were girthed. "ready?" said west. "yes. shall we lead them to where the muster is being made?" "no; let's mount and ride boldly up!" said west. the next minute they were in the saddle, and, stirred by the natural instinct to join a gathering of their own kind, both ponies neighed and ambled towards the spot where about fifty men were collected, some few mounted, others holding their bridles ready for the order to start. there was a startler for west, though, just as they were riding towards the gathering patrol, one which communicated itself to ingleborough, for all at once out of the darkness on their left a voice exclaimed: "here, piet, have you moved my rifle?" "no," came back. then after a pause: "here, what does this mean? mine's not where i left it! come, no nonsense! we may want them at any time! you shouldn't play tricks like this; it might mean a man's life!" the intending fugitives heard no more, their horses hurrying them from the spot, expecting to hear an alarm raised at any moment; but this did not occur. it was too dark for the recognition of faces, and the men were for the most part sleepy and out of humour at being roused up, so that they were very silent, thinking more of themselves than of their fellows. there was one trifling episode, though, which was startling for the moment, for west's pony, being skittish after days of inaction, began to make feints of biting its nearest neighbour, with the result that the latter's rider struck at it fiercely and rapped out an angry oath on two in company with an enquiry delivered in a fierce tone as to who the something or another west was that he could not keep his pony still. fortunately, and setting aside all necessity for a reply, a hoarse order was given, causing a little confusion, as every dismounted man climbed into his saddle, and the next moment there was a second order to advance, when the leading couple went forward and the rest followed, dropping naturally into pairs, fortunately without west and his companion being separated. then began the loud clattering of hoofs upon the stony way, while they wound in and out amongst ponderous blocks of granite and ironstone, trusting to the leading horses, whose riders were warned of danger in the darkness by the sentries stationed here and there. before they were half-way clear from the rocks of the kopje, both west and ingleborough were fully convinced that to have attempted to escape on foot in the darkness must have resulted in failure, while minute by minute their confidence increased in the ultimate result of their ruse, for it was evident that the couple of boers next to them in front and in rear could have no more idea of who they were than they could gain of their neighbours. for every man's time was fully taken up in providing for his own and his mount's safety--much more in seeking his own, for the sure-footed ponies were pretty well accustomed to looking after themselves in patches of country such as in their own half-wild state they were accustomed to seek for the sake of the lush growth to be found bordering upon the sources of the streams. there was not much conversation going on, only the exchange of a few hoarse grunts from time to time, sufficient, however, to encourage the two prisoners to think that they might venture upon an observation or two in boer-dutch, both imitating their captors' tones and roughness as far as they could. but they did not venture upon much, and carefully avoided whispers as being likely to excite suspicion. "have you any plans as to the next start?" said west. "only that we should go off north-west as soon as we are well on the open veldt, and gallop as hard as we can go." "which is north-west?" "hang me if i have the slightest idea! have you?" "no. but it does not matter. let's get clear away if we can, and shape our course afterwards when the sun rises." "capital plan! anything more?" "i've been thinking," answered west, "that if we turn off suddenly together the whole troop will go in pursuit at once, and then it will be the race to the swiftest." "of course! it always is!" "oh no," said west drily; "not always: the most cunning generally wins." "very well, then we shall win, for we are more cunning than these dunder-headed boers." they rode on in silence after this for a few minutes, gradually feeling that they were on level ground, over which the ponies ambled easily enough; but they could not see thirty yards in any direction. "look here," said ingleborough gruffly: "you've some dodge up your sleeve! what is it?" "only this," replied west; "i've been thinking that if we can get a hundred yards' clear start, and then strike off to right or left, we can laugh at pursuit, for they will have lost sight of us and will not know which way to pursue." "yes, that's right enough, but how are you going to get your hundred yards' start?" "i'll tell you how i think it can be done," and, bending over towards his companion, west mumbled out a few words in the darkness and ingleborough listened and uttered a low grunt as soon as his friend had finished. then there was utter silence, broken only by the dull clattering sound of the horses' hoofs upon the soft dusty earth, west listening the while in the black darkness till he heard ingleborough upon his left make a rustling noise caused by the bringing round and unslinging of his rifle, followed by the loading and then the softly cocking of the piece. "ready?" said ingleborough, at last. "yes," was the reply. "then one--two--three--and away!" said ingleborough softly. at the first word west began to bear upon his horse's rein, drawing its head round to the right, and at the last he drove his heels sharply into the pony's flanks and wrenched its head round so suddenly that the startled little beast made a tremendous bound off towards the open veldt, its sudden action having a stunning and confusing effect upon the line of boers. "hi! stop!" roared ingleborough directly, shouting in the boer-dutch tongue, while as west tore on his companion stood up in his stirrups, fired two shots after him in succession, and then with another shout he set spurs to his pony and dashed off as fast as his mount would go. the fugitives plunged one after the other into the darkness on the little column's flank, and the burghers saw them for a few moments ere they disappeared and their ponies' hoofs began to sound dull before they recovered from the stupor of astonishment the suddenness of the incident had caused. then a voice shouted fiercely: "a deserter! fire and bring him down!" "no: stop!" shouted the leader, in a stentorian voice. "do you want to shoot your faithful brother?" there was a murmur of agreement at this, and the rustle and rattle of rifles being unslung stopped at once. "who is the burgher who followed the traitor?" continued the leader. there was no reply, only a low muttering of voices as the boers questioned one another. "wait," continued the officer in command. "i daresay our brother has wounded him and will bring him back in a few minutes." the boers waited with their little force drawn up in line and facing the black far-stretching veldt, every man wondering which two of their party had been traitor and pursuer, and naturally waited in vain. chapter twenty two. query: freedom? the dash for liberty had been well carried out, west getting his sturdy pony into a swinging gallop before he had gone far, and keeping it up straight away till he could hear ingleborough's shout in close pursuit, when he drew rein a little, till in its efforts to rejoin its companion the second pony raced up alongside. "bravo, west, lad!" panted ingleborough, in a low tone that sounded terribly loud in their ears, which magnified everything in their excitement. "it's a pity you are not in the regulars!" "why?" "you'd soon be a general!" "rubbish!" said west shortly. "don't talk or they'll be on us! can you hear them coming?" "no; and i don't believe they will come! they'll leave it to me to catch you. i say, i didn't kill you when i fired, did i?" "no," said west, with a little laugh, "but you made me jump each time! the sensation was rather queer." "i took aim at an angle of forty-five degrees with the horizon or thereabouts, to be exact," said ingleborough pedantically; "and those two, my first shots with a mauser rifle, no doubt have travelled a couple of miles at what they call a high trajectory. but what glorious luck!" "yes; i never dared to hope that the plan would succeed so well." "talk about humbugging anyone--why, it was splendid!" "but oughtn't we to go off at right angles now?" said west anxiously, as he turned himself in his saddle and listened. "quite time enough to do that when we hear them tearing along in full pursuit, and that will not be to-night." "think not?" "i feel sure of it, lad! of course they can't hatch it out in their thick skulls that their two prisoners were the actors in this little drama: they can't know till they get back that we have escaped." "of course not." "and you may depend upon it that they'll stand fast for about a quarter of an hour waiting for me to come back, either with my prisoner alive or with his scalp--i mean his rifle, ammunition, and pony." "and when they find that you don't come back?" said west, laughing to himself. "then they'll say that you've taken my scalp and gone on home with it: think it is just the fortune of war, and promise themselves that they'll ride out by daylight to save my body from the aasvogels and bury it out of sight." "and by degrees they will put that and that together," said west, "and find that they have been thoroughly tricked." "yes, and poor anson will distil pearly tears from those beautiful eyes of his, and we shall not be there to see them rolling down his fat cheeks. west, lad, i never yet wanted to kill a man." "of course not, and you don't now!" "that's quite correct, lad; but i should like to be a grand inquisitor sitting on master anson for his renegade ways and superintending in the torture-chamber. my word, shouldn't he have the question of the water; no, the rack; or better still, the extraction of his nails. stop a minute: i think hanging from the ceiling by his wrists with a weight attached to his ankles, and a grand finish-off with the question of fire would be more fitting. bless him for a walking tallow sausage, wouldn't he burn!" "ugh! don't be such a savage!" cried west angrily. "you wouldn't do anything of the kind. i should be far more hard-hearted and cruel than you'd be, for i would have him tied up to the wheel of a wagon and set a kaffir to flog him with a sjambok on his bare back." "oh!" exclaimed ingleborough sharply. "what's the matter?" "and i've come away without having the oily rascal stripped of his plunder." "what! his diamonds?" "yes. i know he has a regular pile hidden in that wagon of his, and, what's more, i know where to look and find them." "where?" "never you mind till the time comes! i have a sort of prescient idea that some day we shall face that fellow again with the circumstances reversed; and then i'm going to have his loot cleared out." and this and much more as the fugitives cantered easily along through the darkness, giving their ponies their heads and letting them increase the distance more and more, till all at once west broke the silence by exclaiming: "i say, ingle, is it really true?" "is what really true--that master anson's a fat beast?" "no, no; that we have escaped and are riding away at full liberty to go where we please? it seems to me like a dream, and that in the morning we shall awake and find ourselves once again in that dreary wagon." "partly true, partly imaginary," said ingleborough bluntly. "what do you mean?" said west, in a startled tone. "it's true that we've made a jolly clever escape, thanks to you; but it isn't true that we're at liberty to go where we like." "why not?" said west wonderingly. "because you've got that despatch in your jacket somewhere, i hope." "yes," said west, after running his hand down a seam. "it's safe enough!" "well, that despatch says we must go to mafeking; so we're prisoners to duty still." "of course!" said west cheerily. "but look here: it's of no use to tire our ponies. we're far enough off now to let them walk, or dismount and let them graze till we know which way to steer." "it's all right; keep on, lad! we're steering as straight as if we had a compass. i believe the ponies know where we want to go, and took the right line at once." "nonsense! you don't believe anything of the kind. what makes you think we're going in the right direction?" "because the clouds yonder thinned out a bit half-an-hour ago, and i saw three dim stars in a sort of arch, and continuing the line there was another brighter one just in the place where it ought to be. i know them as well as can be of old: the big one sets just in the north-west." "are you sure of that?" cried west eagerly. "as sure as that i bore off a little to the right as soon as i saw that star, so as to turn more to the north and straight for mafeking. i don't guarantee that we are keeping straight for it now the stars are shut out; but we shall know as soon as it's day by the compass." "why don't we strike a light and examine it now?" said west eagerly. "because we haven't a match!" replied ingleborough. "didn't our sturdy honest captors take everything away but my knife, which was luckily in my inner belt along with my money?" "to be sure!" sighed west. "and if we had matches we dare not strike them for fear of the light being seen by one of the boer patrols." "yes," said west, with another sigh. "i suppose they are everywhere now!" at that moment the ponies stopped short, spun round, almost unseating their riders, and went off at full speed back along the way they had come; and it was some minutes before they could be checked and soothed and patted back into a walk. "the country isn't quite civilised yet," said west; "fancy lions being so near the line of a railway. hark; there he goes again!" for once more the peculiar barking roar of a lion came from a distance, making the air seem to quiver and the ponies turn restless again and begin to snort with dread. "steady, boys, steady!" said ingleborough soothingly to the two steeds. "don't you know that we've got a couple of patent foreign rifles, and that they would be more than a match for any lion that ever lived?" "if we shot straight!" said west banteringly. "there he goes again! how near do you think that fellow is?" "quiet, boy!" cried ingleborough, leaning forward and patting his pony on the neck, with satisfactory results. "how far? it's impossible to say! i've heard performers who called themselves ventriloquists, but their tricks are nothing to the roaring of a lion. it's about the most deceptive sound i know. one time it's like thunder, and another it's like bottom the weaver." "like what?" cried west. "the gentleman i named who played lion, and for fear of frightening the ladies said he would roar him as gently as a sucking dove. now then, what's to be done?" "i don't know," said west. "we did not calculate upon having lions to act as sentries on behalf of the boers." "let's bear off more to the north and try to outflank the great cat." changing their course, they started to make a half-circle of a couple of miles' radius, riding steadily on, but only to have their shivering mounts startled again and again till they were ready to give up in despair. "we'd better wait till daybreak," said west. "there's no occasion to," said ingleborough, "for there it is, coming right behind us, and we're going too much to the west. bear off, and let's ride on. i don't suppose we shall be troubled any more. what we want now is another kopje--one which hasn't been turned into a trap." "there's what we want!" said west, half-an-hour later, as one of the many clumps of rock and trees loomed up in the fast lightening front. "yes," said ingleborough sharply, "and there's what we don't want, far nearer to us than i like." "where?" asked west sharply. "straight behind us!" "why, ingle," cried west, in despair, "they've been following us all through the night!" "no," said ingleborough, shading his eyes with his hand; "that's a different patrol, i feel sure, coming from another direction." "what shall we do?" "ride straight for that kopje; we're between it and the patrol, and perhaps they won't see us. if they do we must gallop away." "but suppose this kopje proves to be occupied?" said west. "we don't want to be taken prisoners again." "that's the truest speech you've made for twenty-four hours, my lad," said ingleborough coolly, "but, all the same, that seems to be the wisest thing to do." "make for the kopje?" "yes, for we want water, shelter, and rest." "but if the boers are there too?" "hang it, lad, there aren't enough of the brutes to occupy every kopje in the country; some of them must be left for poor fellows in such a mess as we are." "ride on and chance it then?" "to be sure!" was the reply; and they went on at a steady canter straight for the clump in front, a mile or so away, turning every now and then to watch the line of horsemen which seemed to be going at right angles to their track. just as they reached the outskirts of the eminence the leading files of the patrol bore off a little and the fugitives had the misery of seeing that the enemy they wished to avoid seemed to be aiming straight for the place they had intended for a refuge, while to have ridden out to right or left meant going full in sight of the patrol. to make matters worse, the sun was beginning to light up the stony tops of the kopje, and in a very few minutes the lower portions would be glowing in the morning rays. "cheer up!" said ingleborough; "it's a big one! now then, dismount and lead horses! here's cover enough to hide in now, and we may be able to get round to the other side without being seen." "and then?" "oh, we won't intrude our company upon the enemy; let's ride off as fast as we can." chapter twenty three. false alarms. the bottom and surroundings of the eminence afforded plenty of cover, and the fugitives pushed on in and out among dense patches of low growth, and, leading their sure-footed little ponies, they climbed over and around piles and masses of stone that would have been difficulties even to mules, while twice over west scaled a slope so as to carefully look down and backward at the enemy. this he was able to do unseen, and came down again to report that the patrol was still making for the kopje as if for rest, but that their movements were too careless and deliberate for those of an enemy in pursuit. the far side of the pile of granite and ironstone was reached in safety, placing the fugitives about a quarter of a mile from the boers in a direct line, but quite a mile of intricate climbing if measured by the distance round; and they paused in a green patch full of refreshing beauty, being a wide ravine stretching up into the height, and with a bubbling stream of water running outward and inviting the ponies at once to take their fill. "this settles it at once!" said ingleborough, letting his bridle fall upon his mount's neck. "yes; we can go well in yonder, leading the ponies along the bed of the stream. there is plenty of cover to hide half a regiment." "of boers," said ingleborough shortly. "it will not do for us." "why?" said west, staring. "we can hide there till they have gone." "my dear boy," said ingleborough; "can't you see? the beggars evidently know this place, and are making for it on account of the water. we saw none on the other side." "very well," said west sharply; "let's ride off, and keep the hill between us and them." "too late!" said ingleborough. "this way; come on!" for as he spoke there was the loud beating noise of many hoofs, indicating that the whole or a portion of the commando was coming at a gallop round the opposite side of the kopje from that by which the fugitives had come; and to have started then would have meant a gallop in full sight of a large body of men ready to deliver a rifle-fire of which they would have had to run the gauntlet. "we're entering another trap," said west bitterly, as they led their reluctant ponies along the bed of the stream, fortunately for them too stony for any discoloration to be borne down to show the keen-eyed boers that someone had passed that way, and at the same time yielding no impress of the footprints of man or beast. as far as the fugitives could see, the ravine went in a devious course a couple of hundred yards into the eminence, but, as it proved, nearly across to the other side. it was darkened by overhanging trees and creepers, which found a hold in every ledge or crack of the almost perpendicular sides, and grew darker and darker at every score of yards; but the echoing rocks gave them full notice of what was going on near the entrance, the voices of the boers and the splashing noise of their horses' feet coming with many repetitions to drown any sound made by their own. "it isn't a bad place!" said ingleborough, as they hurried on, with the ravine growing more narrow and the sides coming more sharply down into the water. "it strikes me that we shall find the water comes out of some cave." five minutes later ingleborough proved to be quite correct, for they paused at a rugged archway between piled-up fern-hung blocks, out of which the water rushed in a fairly large volume, but not knee-deep; and, upon leaving his horse with his comrade and boldly wading in, west found that the cave expanded as soon as the entrance was passed, so that the spring ran outward along a narrow stony bed, and on either side there was a bed of sand of considerable width. "come along!" said west. "the water gets shallower, and there is a dry place on either side." ingleborough waded in at once, but unfortunately the ponies shrank from following, and hung back from the reins, one of them uttering a loud snort, which was repeated from the interior so loudly that the second animal reared up wildly and endeavoured to break away. west dashed back though directly and relieved his companion of one of the refractory beasts, when by means of a good deal of coaxing and patting they were finally got along for some yards and out onto the sandy side, where they whinnied out their satisfaction and recovered their confidence sufficiently to step towards the running waters and resume their interrupted drink. "rifles!" said ingleborough shortly, when west unslung his and stood ready, following his companion's example as he stood in the darkness with his piece pointing out at the bright stream with its mossy and fern-hung framing. "did you hear anyone coming?" whispered west. "no, but they must have heard our ponies and be coming on," was the reply. "let them come; we can keep the whole gang at bay from here!" but five minutes' watching and listening proved that they had not been heard, for the boers were too busy watering their horses, the voices of the men and the splashings and tramplings of the beasts coming in reverberations right along the natural speaking-tube, to strike clearly upon the listeners' ears. three several times the fugitives stood on guard with rifles cocked, ready to make a determined effort to defend their post of vantage, for the voices came nearer and nearer, and splashing sounds indicated movements out towards the mouth of the ravine; but just when their nerves were strained to the utmost, and they watched with starting eyes a corner round which the enemy would have to turn to bring them within range, the talking and splashing died out, and they simultaneously uttered a sigh of relief. "i couldn't bear much of this, ingle," said west, at last. "i half think that i would rather have them come on so that we could get into the excitement of a fight." "i don't half think so, lad; i do quite," replied ingleborough. "but you don't want to fight?" "of course not; i don't want to feel that i've killed anybody; but at the same time i'd rather kill several boers than they should kill me. however, i hope they will not attack us, for if they do i mean to shoot as straight as i can and as often as is necessary. what do you say?" west was silent for a few moments, during which he seemed to be thinking out the position. at last he spoke: "i have never given the boers any reason for trying to destroy my life, my only crime being that i am english. so, as life is very sweet and i want to live as long as i can, i shall do as you do till they get disheartened, for i don't see how they can get at us, and--" "here, quick, lad!" whispered ingleborough, swinging round. "we're attacked from behind!" west followed his example, feeling fully convinced that the boers had after all seen them seek refuge in the cavern, and had taken advantage of their knowledge of the place to creep through some tunnel which led in from the other side, for there was a strange scuffling and rustling sound a little way in, where it was quite dark. with rifles pointed towards the spot and with fingers on triggers, the two friends waited anxiously for some further development, so as to avoid firing blindly into the cavern without injury to the enemy while leaving themselves unloaded when their foes rushed on. "can't be boers!" said ingleborough, at the end of a minute, during which the noise went on; "it's wild beasts of some kind." "lions," suggested west. "oh no; they'd go about as softly as cats! more like a pack of hyaenas trying to get up their courage for a charge!" "if we fired and stood on one side they'd rush out!" replied west. "yes," said ingleborough grimly; "and the boers would rush in to see what was the matter. that wouldn't do, for it's evident that they don't know we're here." "but we must do something, or they'll injure the horses! why!" cried west excitedly; "it must be that they've pulled the poor beasts down and are devouring them." "without our little basutos making a kick for life? nonsense! they'd squeal and kick and rush out. ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" to west's astonishment his companion burst into a prolonged fit of gentle laughter. "here, come along!" he said. "of all the larky beggars! here, you two ruffians, stow that, or you'll smash up those saddles!" ingleborough dashed in, followed at once by west, and as they got in further from the cave's mouth they dimly saw their mounts spring up from having a good roll and wriggle upon the soft dry sand to rest their spines and get rid of the larvae of some worrying pernicious horse-fly. the moment the two ponies were on all-fours they gave themselves a vigorous shake, and then whinnied softly and advanced to their riders with out-stretched necks, expectant of a piece of bread or some other delicacy with which they had been petted from time to time. "why, you larky little rascals!" cried ingleborough, patting the two beasts affectionately; "what do you mean by frightening us out of our seven senses? i mean frightening me, for you weren't scared a bit--eh, west?" "frightened? it was horrible! i can understand now why the boers can't bear being attacked from behind!" "of course! i say, though, no wonder children are afraid of being in the dark." he turned to the ponies, and said: "look here, my lads, i suppose you don't understand me, but if you could take my advice you'd lie down to have a good rest. it would do you both good, and if the firing did begin you'd escape being hit." to this one of the ponies whinnied softly, and then moved gently to its companion's side, head to tail, bared its big teeth as if to bite, and began to draw them along the lower part of the other's spine, beginning at the root of the tail and rasping away right up to the saddle, while the operatee stretched out its neck and set to work in the same way upon the operator, upon the give-and-take principle, both animals grunting softly and uttering low sounds that could only be compared to bleats or purrs. "they say there's nothing so pleasant in life as scratching where you itch," said west, laughing. "my word! they do seem to enjoy it." "poor beggars, yes!" replied ingleborough. "i believe there's no country in the world where animals are more tortured by flies than in africa. the wretched insects plunge in that sharp instrument of theirs, pierce the skin, and leave an egg underneath; the warmth of the body hatches it into what we fishing boys called a gentle, and that white maggot goes on eating and growing under the poor animal's coat, living on hot meat always till it is full-grown, when its skin dries up and turns reddish-brown, and it lies still for a bit, before changing into a fly, which escapes from the hole in the skin it has eaten and flits away to go and torture more animals." "and not only horses, but other animals!" said west quietly. "horses only? oh no; the bullocks get them terribly, and the various kinds of antelopes as well. i've seen skins taken off blesboks and wildebeestes full of holes. and there you are, my lad; that's a lecture on natural history." "given in the queerest place and at the strangest time a lecture was ever given anywhere," said west. "it is very horrible, though, for the animals to be tortured so!" "yes," said ingleborough thoughtfully; "but the flies must enjoy themselves wonderfully. they must have what people in england call a high old time, and--eh? what's the matter?" "be ready!" whispered west. "someone coming; there's no mistake now!" chapter twenty four. a real alarm. ingleborough drew in his breath with a hiss, and once more stood on his guard with his comrade right in the darkness, and in front of the two ponies, where a good view of the stream outside and the corner rock fringed with ferns could be obtained. for voices could be heard as of two men talking together, while plash, plash, plash their footsteps in the water echoed for some moments from the rocky sides of the chasm, before they came leisurely into sight round the corner and stood knee-deep looking straight into the cave, little thinking of the peril in which they were, for a couple of rifles covered them, and the slightest pressure upon the triggers would have sent the long thin bullets upon their errand to pierce the boers through and through. but no pressure came, those within the cavern seeing clearly enough from the men's careless manner that they felt perfectly safe and were upon no unusual errand. they were roughly enough clad, and their outer garments showed that they had been slept in for some time and exposed to all kinds of weather; but there was something about their mien, and more in the words they let fall, which showed them to belong to a superior type of boer. "yes, there it is," said one of the two in boer-dutch, "just as it was ten years ago when i was here on a hunting trip. the source is perennial, and beautiful water. that's why i wanted dietz to come out of our way." "does it go in far?" "about a hundred yards, and there the water suddenly gushes out of the floor; but there are some nasty holes about, plunging down no one knows how deep, and i shouldn't like to venture in without a light." "why didn't we bring a lantern?" "because we don't want to go burrowing into the kopje." "speak for yourself. i do!" said the second man. "here, i've got plenty of matches--come along." "no, thank you," said the first. "one never knows what may be in a place like that." west pinched his companion's arm. "what is likely to be there?" "who can tell? a lioness and her full-grown cubs, perhaps, or a pack of jackals! worse still, snakes or some of the wandering bushmen with bows and poisoned arrows." "hardly likely!" said the second boer. "i think very likely," said the first speaker, peering so steadfastly into the cavern that for a few moments west felt certain that they were seen. "one of the kaffir tribes would not enter that place to save their lives." "why?" "because they believe that a great water demon hides in the spring who rises up and seizes anyone who approaches, drags him down, and devours him." "all of which must be perfectly true!" answered the other boer, with a sneer. "of course you are a believer?" "i'm a full believer in its being dangerous to go into caves without proper lights," said the first speaker coldly, "and i think we are undergoing risks enough every day from the rooineks' rifles and their lancers' spears, without chancing a fall down some horrible pit." "where there is a water demon!" said his companion, with another sneer. "just for the sake of gratifying a little idle curiosity." "oh, very well then! i don't like to come to such a natural curiosity without exploring; so here goes alone." the next moment the first speaker had stretched out his hand and barred his companion's way with his rifle. "what do you mean by that?" cried the boer. "to stop you going." "what!" cried the other. "i shall go if i please!" "no!" said the first speaker sternly. "i order you not!" "you--you order me?" cried the other wrathfully. "yes; recollect that you are a soldier for the time being, and under my command. i order you not to go, for we have too much need of all our brave burghers to defend the country to let any man risk his life in a foolhardy adventure." "pish!" "silence!" said the other sternly. "i am going back. had i known of this, i would not have let you come!" "look here," said the other insolently, "we are not on duty now, and once for all i tell you that while i serve i am not going to put up with bullying from any man who is a step above me in the ranks." the first speaker looked at him sternly, and ingleborough placed his lips close to west's ear. "look here," said ingleborough, "if we shoot, both take aim at that obstinate brute, and give the other a chance to run for his life!" a nod was the only answer, as both listened to what was said further. "you fellows, because you get made field-cornets by a bit of luck, don't know how to contain yourselves, and--" "back to your horse!" said the first speaker, the veins in whose forehead stood out in a network beneath his flap-brimmed hat, while his voice sounded full of suppressed fury. "back yourself!" cried the other. "i'll obey your orders in the field, but we of the free state are getting tired of the overbearing ways of you men of the transvaal. put down your rifle, sir! by all that's holy, if you hold it towards me in that threatening way, i'll send a mauser bullet through you. if i die for it, i will." at that moment, just as there seemed to be every possibility of a deadly encounter between the two men, there was a loud hail from beyond the rock, and, as it was not replied to, another cry was heard, in company with loud echoing splashes in the water, and half-a-dozen boers waded into sight, evidently in a high state of excitement. "hullo there!" shouted the foremost, "didn't you hear us call? we began to think you had fallen into an ambush! quick, back with you: there's a patrol of the rooineks out yonder coming this way, the mounted men with the spiked poles." "many or few?" said the man addressed as the field-cornet, and, apparently forgetting his anger in the excitement, he began to hurry away from the cavern mouth, talking loudly the while. "i'll see! if they'll come on, we'll stay here; if not, we might try and surround them and capture the whole gang!" the next minute the walls of the gully were echoing the hurried splashing made by the party, as the last of them turned the corner and disappeared across the veldt. "phew! what a pity!" said ingleborough, taking off his hat to wipe his forehead. "a pity!" cried west. "what: the news that some of our people are near?" "no, no; i meant that the row came to an end. i was in hopes that we were going to have a new version of the kilkenny cats, and two enemies of old england were going to tear each other to pieces and leave only a tail behind." "oh, be serious, ingle!" said west excitedly. "we might venture out now." "don't be rash! we've got to find out what they mean to do." "come along then, and let's leave the horses where they are. we must try and climb up somewhere to see what is going on." "very well, but take care! these are awfully breakneck walls to mount." "yes, but it has to be done! why not up that crack?" west pointed to a rift half-full of wiry-looking shrubs mingled with ferns, which ran up the rocky wall of the gully diagonally. "think you can do it?" "yes, it's easier than it looks. let's try!" "right!" said ingleborough. "up you go!" west waded across to the side, slinging his rifle as he went, then pulling his hat on tightly, he reached up as high as he could, and drew himself up a foot or two. then, carefully taking advantage of the angles and edges of projecting rocks for his feet and getting hand-hold of the tough shrubs, he was soon up twenty feet above the rushing stream. "come along!" he said. "it's not bad climbing!" "matter of opinion," replied ingleborough, "but here goes!" and he began to mount, while west went on. "oh yes," he said, "it's all right! why, it puts one in mind of the lady--i say, lad, ugh!--that was slippy!" "hold on then!" cried west excitedly, for one of ingleborough's feet glided over the edge of a stone, which yielded, and he was left hanging by his hands, to strive to get a footing. "get out!" said ingleborough, panting. "that's better. just as if i shouldn't hold on! think i wanted a cold bath?" "you gave me quite a turn!" said west. "will you leave it to me? i can manage it!" "go on, you vain young coxcomb! so can i manage it! if you don't look out, i'll be up first! well, what are you stopping for?" "look down there!" said west. ingleborough held on tightly while he twisted his head to see that the two ponies had hurried out of the cave to wade to the place where they had started from, and were looking up wonderingly. "ha, ha!" laughed ingleborough. "they're afraid of being left behind! here, you two, be off back into your stable," he continued, getting hold of a loose piece of rock with the intention of dropping it into the water to scare the lookers-on. "no, no, don't do that!" said west softly. "you may scare them into cantering down into the midst of the boers!" "right," said ingleborough, replacing the stone. "i don't suppose they'll mind." at that moment one of the ponies whinnied, and the other took up the cry of discontent. "quiet, will you? look here!" said ingleborough, speaking as if in the full belief that the two animals understood every word. "if you make that row, you'll have the boers down upon us, and that will mean new masters, with worse treatment than you get from us! that's settled them," continued ingleborough, speaking again to his companion, and as it happened the two animals did not repeat their challenging cry, but began to nibble at the greenery overhanging the water. meanwhile the climbing grew more difficult as the adventurers got higher and more excited, for all at once the rapid crack-crack-crack of rifles began telling of attack and defence, and making the climbers strain every effort to get to the top, which was at last accomplished by west, who drew himself over the edge of the rocks and lay panting for a few moments before looking down. "can't you manage it?" he said; for ingleborough had come to a stand some twenty feet below. "no!" was the reply. "my right foot has slipped into a crack here, and is wedged tight. don't wait for me! go on, only let's have all the news as soon as you can!" west's first idea was to lower himself down; but, feeling that one was enough to find out all they wanted, he obeyed his comrade's orders and went on climbing upon all-fours what was now an easy slope with plenty of cover in the shape of bushes and huge blocks of stone. a few minutes brought him to the top of the kopje, whence he had a clear view of all that was going on, while the firing was now general. he saw at a glance that the boers had not attempted to hold the natural stronghold, for upon discovering their numbers, the half-troop of lancers, some thirty in number, had begun to retire, and the boers, of whom there seemed to be about a hundred and fifty, were streaming out in two directions, evidently with the intention of surrounding and taking them prisoners, both sides keeping up a steady fire the while. west stopped no longer than was necessary to satisfy himself that the boers were getting rapidly farther and farther from the kopje, and then hurried back down the slope to the top of the gully, where, leaning over, he found ingleborough busy at work, apparently driving his rifle-barrel down into a crevice. "ahoy!" cried west. "hallo there! what news, lad?" "small party of lancers in full retreat, and the boers very strong in pursuit. they're a mile away now." "then we shall get no help from our people; but, if they are taking the enemy away, that's all we want. coming down?" "yes," said west, lowering himself over the edge very cautiously, for it was terribly dangerous work, and ingleborough shivered and hung back, watching him till his companion reached the ledge where he had been checked. "hah!" sighed ingleborough; "that's better. i've been wishing for the last five minutes that the stream below was ten feet deep!" "why?" panted west, who was breathless from his exertions. "for you to fall into! but now help me to get my boot! i'm afraid to lever it out with my rifle-barrel, for fear of bending it." "let me try!" said west, and, thrusting his arm down into the crack, he got well hold of the boot, gave it a jerk sidewise, and it was free. "look at that now!" said ingleborough. "my word! it's a fine thing to have been born clever. how did you do it?" "pulled it out," replied west, smiling. "of course; but _i_ couldn't! it took me all my time to get it unlaced and to draw out my foot. stuck, for it was so wet!" in another five minutes, while the cracking of the rifle-fire was growing more distant, the boot was replaced, the dangerous descent continued, with several slips and slides, each saving his friend in turn from a bad fall, and the pair reached the water only minus a little skin, to be welcomed by their ponies, who came up to them at once, ready to be led cautiously to the entrance of the gully. but there was no need for the extra care, inspection proving that no boers were left behind, and that they were too far distant now to distinguish what went on at the resting-place they had left. "think they'll make the lancers prisoners?" said west, after they had stood scanning the level veldt for some minutes. "not unless they can surround them, and i should give our cavalry credit for being too cautious to let them do that!" said ingleborough. "now then, what do you say for another try mafeking-ward?" "forward!" was the reply, and after a glance at the compass to lay down their course, the friends mounted and, refreshed, though not much rested, they cantered off, making a bee-line almost due north, with the intention of cautiously approaching some farm on their way to purchase food. chapter twenty five. at tante ann's. it was growing dark before a suitable place presented itself, this being a typical boer farm in a very desolate part of the veldt, the spot having been evidently chosen by its occupants on account of the tiny kopje and abundant supply of water welling out, besides being a perfect spot for the branch of farming the owner carried on, there being pen after pen of ostriches, the great foolish-looking large-eyed birds staring at the two horsemen wonderingly as they approached the door where the owner stood looking distant and glum, as he smoked his big pipe. yes, he said, he would sell them some provisions for themselves and corn for their horses if they had money to pay for what they wanted. this was at once produced, and the farmer looked on after summoning a huge kaffir to help with the horses and get out the corn; while his fat wife, after coming to the door to glare at the visitors, condescended to put on a kettle to prepare them tea, and see if there was a chicken that could be killed and broiled, and some eggs for frying. there were several bits of consultation carried on by the husband and wife from time to time, and everything showed that the visitors were far from welcome. "never mind," said ingleborough; "all we want is a good meal, and we shall be off in the morning as soon as it is light." "that shed with the iron roof is to be our bedroom, i suppose?" said west. "yes, and we're lucky to get that and a few sacks." just then the boer came slowly sidling up, smoking hard the while, to know if they had seen anything of the war, and he seemed deeply interested on hearing that a skirmish had been going on not so many miles from his farm. "why are you two not fighting?" he said suddenly. "because we don't want to," was west's smiling reply. "but you are englanders?" said the boer. "yes, but all englanders don't want to fight," said west, while ingleborough looked on, quite unmoved. "oh, don't tell, me!" said the boer, shaking his head. "they all want to fight and kill the boers before robbing them of their homes and farms. don't tell me--i know!" he walked away to where the kaffir was seeing to the horses, and west noticed that he took a good deal of notice of them, glanced two or three times in the direction of his visitors, and then ran his hands down their legs in a most professional way, narrowly escaping a kick from west's steed, before he walked thoughtfully back to his rough--looking house, into which he was careful not to allow his guests to enter. "we're to share the stable with the nags," said ingleborough; "but it doesn't matter. let's go and see how they are getting on," he continued, as the boer disappeared indoors. "we can't afford to have them fed on some of his lordship's refuse. i know something of the tricks of these gentlemen of old." they entered the rough stable, where the big kaffir was standing on one side and greeted them with a heavy scowl. "well, jack," said ingleborough, "are the ponies eating their corn?" "yes, baas," said the black gruffly; "eat um all fast." "ah, i thought so," said ingleborough quietly, sniffing and blowing on the musty trash. "do you feed your horses on stuff like this?" he turned so sharply on the kaffir that the man shrank as if from a blow; but his questioner smiled. "not your fault, i suppose?" "baas say, `give ponies thaht,'" he replied apologetically. "of course, my lad," said ingleborough, drawing out a shilling and slipping it into the black's hand. "now you get some of the best corn, and see that the horses eat it. you understand?" "yes, baas," said the man, with a sharp click, as his eyes glistened and he showed his white teeth in a satisfied grin. "soon my baas go away, give them good to eat." "is your baas going away?" "iss; saddle pony; go away." as the black spoke he pointed to the farther end of the long mud-walled shed, where another pony was tied up. just then the shrill voice of the boer vrouw was heard calling, and the kaffir gave a shout in reply. "tant' ann want um," he said, and he ran out, joined the lady at the door, and was dismissed to get some fuel from a heap, while the farmer came out, smoking away, and ingleborough left the shed with west as if to join him. "are you going to give him your opinion?" said west. "no: we can't afford to quarrel. the kaffir will take care of our nags now, and get another tip for his pains." the next minute they were close up to their host, who had evidently been thinking over the words which had last been exchanged. "you englanders," he said, "think you are very clever; but the boers beat you before, and they're going to beat you more this time, and drive you all into the sea." "very well!" said west, smiling. "i hope they'll give us time to get into the ships." "perhaps!" said the boer, smoking more rapidly in his excitement. "but it's all going to be dutch now! no more english!" "all right," said ingleborough; "but i want my supper very badly." "want to eat? yes; come in! the vrouw says it is nearly ready." "that's right; then let's have it." "you can come in the house," continued the farmer, and ingleborough raised his eyebrows a little in surprise. but a greater surprise awaited the pair on entering the mud-floored room to find quite a decent meal awaiting them on the table, and their sour-looking heavy hostess ready to wait on them with a kind of surly civility. the pair were too hungry to think of anything then but appeasing their appetite, and they made a good meal, their host making no scruple about bringing a stool to the table and taking a larger share than either. he said little, but his little keen eyes examined everything in connection with his visitors' costume, paying most heed to their weapons, while his wife saw to the wants of all from time to time, retiring at intervals to a second room which led out of the first and seemed to have been added quite lately. "you'll want to sleep soon?" said the farmer inquiringly, when the meal was ended. "yes, the sooner the better," said ingleborough, rising; an example followed by west; "and we shall be off in the morning early. we'll take a couple of these cakes." the boer nodded. "shall i sell you some biltong?" he said. "yes, certainly." "i will have it ready. where are you going now?" "to look at the ponies." "oh, they are all well. my kaffir has seen to them." "but i suppose we are to sleep out there?" said ingleborough. "no," said the boer; "you can sleep there," and he pointed to a rough-looking bed in one corner of the room. "my kaffir sleeps with the horses. my vrouw and i sleep in the other room." "then as soon as we can we should like to turn this dining-room into our bedroom," said ingleborough. "but we'll look at our ponies first." the boer grunted and proceeded to refill his pipe, while the two young men went out and across to the rough shelter, where they found their ponies looking evidently the better for a good feed, and the kaffir grinning and ready to pat their plumped-out figures, the ponies taking the touch of his hand as a friendly caress. "eat a big lot," said the kaffir, in the boer tongue. "ah, like this," and he held a native basket for their inspection, at the bottom of which was a specimen of the corn with which the ponies had been fed. "that's right, jack! capital; hard as shot! there's another shilling for you!" the kaffir grinned again with delight as he took the money. "good baas!" he said. "two good baas! baas want boy, jack come 'long with you!" "not this time, my lad!" "very glad to come 'long with good baas!" said the man, in a disappointed tone of voice. "no, we can't take you, my lad," said west, patting the big fellow on the shoulder. "have the ponies saddled at daylight. we're going early." the black nodded his head, and the pair, weary enough now from their long journey, and drowsy after their hearty meal, strode slowly back to the house, to find that the table had been cleared, save that a couple of big bread cakes lay on one end alongside of a little pile of biltong, the sun-dried mahogany-looking strips of ox-flesh so much in use among the rough farmers of the veldt. the dirty-looking room smelt hot and stuffy, but a little window at the back had been thrown open, and the soft air blowing from off miles of plain made the place a little more bearable. a common lamp had been lighted, and a streak of light came from beneath the ill-fitting door which led into the other room, from which the low murmur of voices could be heard as the young men entered talking cheerily together. this announced their return, and the door creaked upon its hinges, giving entrance to the farmer, who pointed to the next day's provisions and significantly held out his hand. "how much?" said west, and the man demanded an unconscionable amount, which made the pair exchange glances. but ingleborough nodded as much as to say: "pay the thief!" and the money was handed over and taken with a grunt. after this the boer passed into the next room, closing the door after him; but it did not prevent the acid voice of the vrouw from reaching the visitors' ears as if to protest. "the old scoundrel won't hand over the plunder," said ingleborough, with a chuckle. "i hope she'll give him what we didn't--a thorough good tongue-thrashing." he had hardly spoken when he found that he had jumped at a wrong conclusion, for the door was pulled open again and the boer reappeared. "tante ann says you are to make haste and put out the lamp," he growled, "for she don't want to be burned in her bed." "all right, uncle," replied ingleborough. "good night, and bless you for a fine specimen of the noble, freedom-loving boer. say good night to tante too, and tell her that our sleeping chamber is the very perfection of domestic comfort." "hunk!" ejaculated the farmer, and he disappeared again. "i wonder that he did not turn upon you," said west, rather reproachfully; "he must have understood that you were speaking sarcastically." "not he," said his companion. "thick-headed, muddy-brained brute; more like a quadruped than a man! the kaffirs are gentlemen to some of these up-country farmers, and yet they are the slaves." "too tired to discuss moral ethics!" said west sleepily; "but really this place is awful. agricultural implements in one corner, sacks of something in another, horns, saddles, tools--oh, i'm too sleepy to go on. hallo! he has taken those two rifles away that were slung over that low cupboard." "to be sure; so he has! afraid we should steal them, perhaps, and be off before he woke! i say, did you notice how he examined ours?" "yes; i fancied he had noticed that they were mausers." "oh no. they were fresh to him. well, i'm going to take care that he doesn't help himself to them. i don't know what you're going to do, but i'm going to lie down on one side of that bed just as i am, bandolier and all, and i vote we lay the rifles between us." "i shall do the same," said west. "what do you say to leaving the door and window open for the sake of the fresh air? no fear of lions here?" "i don't know so much about that, but we should get some warning from the horses and oxen. bah! it's not likely. what now?" there was a heavy thumping at the door leading into the other room, and the vrouw's shrill voice was heard ordering them to put out the light. "tell her, west, that her royal commands shall be instantly obeyed by her obedient slaves." "shan't," replied west. "that will quiet her," and he turned out the light, putting an end to its abominable emanation of coarse petroleum, while the soft starry light of a glorious night stole in, showing the shapes of door and windows. "hah! that's better!" said ingleborough, making the rough bedstead creak as he laid himself gently down. "i hope none of these cartridges will explode. oh, how i can sleep!" "and so can i," sighed west, "even dressed up like this," after laying his rifle alongside of his companion's, straight down the middle of the bed. "we didn't tell jack the kaffir to bring our shaving-water at daybreak," said ingleborough, who now that he was in a horizontal position seemed to have suddenly grown wakeful. "i say." "well?" "i wonder how our dear friend anson is!" west made no reply. "i say! west!" "oh, don't talk, please. i want to sleep." "all right, you shall, till i see the pearly dawn streaming in through that little window at the back here. i say, though, if you hear me turn round in the night and the cartridges begin to pop, just wake me up, or there may be an accident." west again made no reply. "and we should have tante ann waking up, when there would be a greater explosion still. there, good night!" "good night." then silence, save that the cry of some prowling creature far out on the veldt sounded wonderfully like the baying of a dog. chapter twenty six. a dark visitor. an hour must have passed away, during which neither of the weary bearers of the despatch moved. then in a low whisper west spoke. "asleep, ingle?" "asleep? no," was whispered back. "i can't close my eyes." "neither can i." "why not?" "over tired and excited, i suppose. all this is so strange too." "what have you been thinking about?" "at first i could only think of the despatch and wonder whether we should get it to mafeking. then i began thinking of that black out in the stable and what he said." "about his master wanting his pony saddled?" whispered ingleborough. "yes. what did he want his pony saddled for at that time of night?" "how strange!" said ingleborough. "that's what kept on bothering me!" "ingle." "yes." "do you think that fellow meant treachery?" "i don't know; but i'd believe in any treacherous act on the part of a boer." "would he be likely to ride off somewhere to where there is a commando?" "for the sake of getting us taken prisoners or shot?" "or so as to get possession of our ponies! i saw him examining them as if he liked them." "so did i." there was silence again, and west spoke. "ingle," he said, "i can't sleep here; the despatch seems to be sticking into me to remind me of my duty. we shall rest better in our saddles than on this wretched bed. what do you say--the free cool air of the veldt, or this stuffy, paraffiny room?" "let's be off, and at once!" "we will. we can slip out quietly without waking these people, and most likely we are misjudging the man, who has the regular racial hatred of the british." "perhaps; but we must be careful, for if he heard us going to the shed and meddling with the horses he'd likely enough begin blazing away at us with his rifle." at that moment west clutched his companion's arm, for they heard no sound, but all at once the dark silhouette of a man's head appeared framed in the little back window against a background of starry points which glistened like gold. ingleborough's hand stole to his rifle, which he grasped, as both held their breath; but he did not attempt to raise it, for the head was thrust inside, and a voice whispered the one word: "baas." "yes," said west softly. "what is it, my lad?" "my baas take pony and ride away. go to fetch fighting boer to shoot good baas. you and good baas him." "ah?" said west. "iss. jack put saddles on basuto ponies; put bridles on basuto ponies. good baas both come and ride away. tant' ann never hear nothing. sleep all night." "and if we go what will your baas do to you when he comes and finds the ponies gone?" said west. "bad baas never see me again! going home to my country to-night." "ah, that's better!" said ingleborough. "here, take the two rifles, and we'll get out here. jack, my lad, you're a trump, and you shall have five two-shilling pieces for this, to buy new blankets." the kaffir chuckled and clicked with satisfaction as he stood holding the rifles till ingleborough slipped out, west pausing to cram the bread cakes and biltong into their satchels, after which he too slipped out, and the trio hurried towards the stables. "how far has your baas to ride to the fighting boers?" west asked the kaffir. "long ride," replied the black. "many boers yesterday, many boers other day, many boers come in morning with baas." "then we're all right for a good start," said ingleborough. "i say, west, you're always taking me into some trap: hadn't i better lead?" "you are leading now," replied west. "how do we know that there are not a dozen of the enemy in the stable?" "what! oh, nonsense! come along!" the ponies whinnied as they entered, and the black struck a match and lit a wagon lantern, showing that they were ready bridled and their heads tied up to a rail, while examination proved that the saddles were properly girthed ready for a start. "here, stop a minute!" said ingleborough, as the man began to unfasten the reins attached to the ponies' heads. "here, i promised you five two-shilling pieces," and he counted them out ready in his hand, making the black's eyes sparkle with delight in the lamplight. "stop," said west sharply; "the poor fellow's losing his place, such as it is, by helping us. i have our expenses money, and i shall give him a sovereign." "well, he deserves it," said ingleborough, as west pushed back his companion's hand containing the silver coins with his left, and held out the sovereign, which looked very bright and new in the yellow light shed by the lantern. a sudden change came over the kaffir's face at once. instead of the grinning white teeth and twinkling eyes his lips were drawn tightly over his teeth, and a scowl contracted his eyes. "no, no, no," he cried, with child-like petulance, in the boer-dutch, sadly mutilated. "no want one. say five big shillings." "what!" cried west. "why, this is worth twice as much." "no, no," cried the man angrily. "want to cheat poor black kaffir. no, no; olebo want to help white baas! white baas want cheat poor black zulu!" "poor old chap!" said ingleborough, laughing merrily; "his education has been sadly neglected. here, jack--olebo, or whatever your name is--take the sovereign, and you shall have the five two-shillings pieces as well." "eh? no cheat zulu boy?" cried the man doubtingly. "no, all right; catch hold. there, now you can buy many blankets, and may you never be tricked any worse!" "hah! yes; buy lot, take home!" and the white teeth were shown again as the coins were gripped fast, including the sovereign, which was held up first to the light. "white shilling? no: yellow farden." "all right; but take it to an honest man, my lad. now then, untie those reins." the black turned to obey, but stopped short and stood staring away through the open side of the shed for a few moments, with the light shining full upon his face, showing his starting eyes, open mouth, and dilated quivering nostrils. "what's the matter? can he hear a lion?" whispered west. "here, stop, stop!" cried ingleborough. "finish your job!--we've paid him too well and too soon. he's off to run amok among the brandy and blanket dealers." for the black had darted outside, but in the gloom they saw him suddenly throw himself down and lay one ear to the ground. "yes, he can hear a lion," grumbled ingleborough; "but the ponies haven't caught it yet." he had hardly finished speaking before the kaffir sprang up again and dashed into the shed, where he reached up and dragged something from the rafters which proved to be an elephant-hide shield with three assegais secured to the hand-hold inside. "baas hold this!" he said excitedly. "boer coming. olebo hear horses!" half throwing the weapons to ingleborough, who caught them, and leaned them against his side while he examined the charges of his rifle, an action imitated by west, the kaffir rapidly unfastened the reins, setting the ponies' heads free, and then darted at the lantern, opened the door, and blew out the light. "now come 'long," he whispered, and taking the ponies' heads he placed himself between them and led them along, stopping the next moment to hold them steady while their riders mounted. "olebo run 'long with two baas show the way," he said. "basuto ponies tumble over ostrich pens." "hah! good idea!" said west, and, listening now, he fancied he made out the sound of a troop of horse in the distance; but ingleborough said he could hear nothing yet. leaving themselves to the guidance of the kaffir, they found to their surprise that, instead of striking straight off, he led them to the house, and then round to the back, where the little window by whose means he had stolen close to where they lay and given the alarm stood open. "here, take your shield!" said ingleborough. "wait a bit!" replied the black, chuckling. "hist! you'll have the old vrouw hear." "no," said the black confidently; "fast asleep. wicked old witch! throw kettle at kaffir, hot water burn back! wait a bit; you see!" dependent as they were on the man's guidance through the darkness amongst the enclosures, the fugitives left him to himself for a few moments, wondering what he was about to do. they soon knew, for he stopped the ponies close to the little window, left their heads, and went close up, to begin fumbling about his spare garments, whence came the chink of the coins he had just received. "matches," he said, and west made out that he took a few from the box he held in his hand, and then reached in at the window, chuckling softly. "ingle," whispered. west, with horror in his voice. "what's the matter?" "do you know what he's doing?" "nobbling a couple of the blankets because he isn't going to stay for his wages?" "no; i'm sure he has emptied the match-box on the straw mattress, and is going to burn down the house." "nonsense!" _crack_! went a match by way of endorsement of west's words, and the next moment the little flame began to burn inside the kaffir's hands, lighting up his exulting countenance as he waited till the splint of wood was well alight. "what are you going to do?" said west hoarsely, as he leaned forward and laid his right hand upon the black's shoulder. "don't shake light out!" was the answer. "olebo going make big fire, roast tant' ann! big fat witch, soon burn!" as the kaffir finished he lowered one hand, leaving the match blazing brightly, and he was in the act of leaning in to apply it to the little heap of matches he had placed upon the loose straw mattress, when a sharp snatch at his shoulder jerked him back, and the burning splint dropped to the ground. "ah-h-ah!" growled the man savagely, and he drew another match across the box he still held. "none of that!" growled ingleborough sternly. "wicked old witch!" said the black, in remonstrance. "burn olebo! don't give him enough to eat! no good!" "you come along," cried west. "i can hear the boers coming fast. now then, lead the horses clear of the pens!" chapter twenty seven. night on the veldt. the kaffir grunted, and began what ingleborough afterwards called "chuntering," but he obeyed at once, leading the ponies at a quick walk in and out amongst several ostrich enclosures, till they were quite a quarter of a mile from the farm, from which there came the buzz of voices and the occasional stamp of a horse on the still night air. "no more wire fence!" said their guide, and indicating that they should urge the ponies forward he took his shield and spears from ingleborough, caught hold of the mane of west's pony, and then as they broke into a canter, ran lightly by the animal's side, talking softly, and now and then breaking out into a merry laugh. "ought burn tant' ann!" he said. "wicked old witch! very fat! make her good vrouw!" "i'm afraid jack's morals are sadly in need of improvement, lad," said ingleborough at last. "what a horrible idea!" replied west, with a shudder; "and the worst of it is that the fellow seems to consider that it would have been a good piece of fun." "yes, it is his nature to, as we are told of the bears and lions in the poems of dr watts. i dare say the old woman had been a horrible tyrant to the poor fellow!" "but the hideous revenge!" "which hasn't come off, my lad! but the black scoundrel's ideas are shocking in the extreme, and i would not associate with him much in the future. here! hi! olebo, stop!" the young man drew rein, and the black looked up enquiringly. "lie down and listen for the boers!" the kaffir nodded, and trotted a dozen yards away from the side of the ponies, threw himself down, listened, jumped up, and repeated the performance three times at greater distances before returning. "no hear!" he said. "gone other way." "it would be safe then to strike a match and look at the compass," suggested west, and, taking out his box, he struck a light, shaded it in his slouch hat, and then held the little pocket compass to it. "well, which way are we going?" "due east." "then we'll turn due north, and travel that way till to-morrow night, and see what that brings forth." starting off again, they journeyed on, sometimes at a walk, sometimes at an easy canter, so as to save the horses as much as possible, while the kaffir kept up, seeming not in the slightest degree distressed, but ready to enter into conversation at any time, after changing from one side to the other so as to hold on by a different hand. "soon be daylight now," said west; "but i hope this fellow does not expect to keep on with us, does he?" "oh no, i don't think so for a moment. we'll pull up before sunrise at some sheltered place and have a good look-out for danger before letting the ponies graze and having breakfast. let's see what happens then!" but the sun was well up before a suitable kopje came in sight, one so small that it did not appear likely to contain enemies, but sufficiently elevated to give an observer a good view for miles through the clear veldt air. "looks safe!" said ingleborough; "but burnt english children fear the boer fire. let's have a good circle round." this was begun, and the black instantly grasped what was intended, and hanging well down from west's stirrup-leather, he began to search the ground carefully for tracks, looking up from time to time and pointing out those of antelopes, lions, and ostriches, but never the hoof of horse or the footprint of man. "no boer there!" he said. "no one come. good water," he continued, pointing to the slight tracts of grass which had sprung up where a stream rising among the rocks was losing itself in the dry soil, but which looked brighter and greener as it was nearer to the kopje, which was fairly furnished with thorn-bush and decent-sized trees. "any boers hiding there?" said west sharply. "boers ride there on ponies!" replied the kaffir decisively, as he pointed down at the drab dust. "no ponies make marks." "that's enough," said ingleborough. "come along." without hesitation now they put their mounts to a canter, rode up to the pleasant refreshing-looking place, and after leaving the ponies with the kaffir and climbing to one of the highest points, took a good look round. this proved that there was not a mounted man in sight, and they descended to select a spot where there was plenty of herbage and water for their steeds, when they sat down and began to breakfast. "nothing like a fine appetite," said west, after they had been eating for some little time; "but this biltong is rather like eating a leg of mahogany dining-table into which a good deal of salt gravy and furniture oil has been allowed to soak." "yes, it is rather wooden," said ingleborough coolly. "must wear out a man's teeth a good deal." "eland," said the kaffir, tapping his stick of the dried meat on seeing his companions examining and smelling the food. "old baas shoot eland, olebo cut him up and dry him in the sun. good." "well, it isn't bad, o child of nature! but i say, how far do you mean to come with us?" "no go any more," replied the man. "go olebo kraal, see wife. give her big shilling and little yellow shilling.--good?" he brought out the sovereign from where it had been placed, and held it up. "good? yes," said west, and he set to work to try and explain by making the black bring out a florin and then holding up his outspread ten fingers, when the man seemed to have some idea of his meaning. "look here, i'll get it into his benighted intellect; but i should have thought that he would have known what a sovereign was worth." just then the kaffir nodded sharply, after examining the coin. "gold?" he said, in dutch. "of course," said ingleborough, taking out a sovereign and ten more florins, which he placed in a heap and at a short distance from the little pile he laid down the sovereign. "look here, olebo," he said, taking up the ten florins. "buy four blankets!" the kaffir nodded, and his instructor replaced the heavy coins in his pocket to take up the sovereign. "now, see here," said ingleborough, holding it out. "buy four blankets." "ah!" cried the delighted black, snatching out his own treasured coins, the gold in one hand, the silver in the other. "buy four blankets for olebo wife," he cried, holding forward the silver. then putting it behind him he held out the sovereign: "buy four blankets for olebo." "now we've got it," cried west, laughing, and watching the way in which the black hid his cash away. "i say," he continued, to his companion, speaking in english, "where does he put that money to keep it safe?" "i dunno," said ingleborough. "it seems to come natural to these kaffirs to hide away their treasures cunningly. see how artful they are over the diamonds! he doesn't put the cash in his trousers pockets, nor yet in his waistcoat, nor yet his coat, because he has neither one nor the other. i expect he has a little snake-skin bag somewhere inside his leather-loincloth. but here, i'm thirsty; let's have some water!" as he spoke ingleborough sprang up and walked towards the head of the spruit, followed by his companions, and they passed the two ponies, which were hard at work on the rich green herbage along the border of the stream. then, getting well ahead of them, all lay down and thoroughly quenched their thirst. "now," said west, "what next? we ought to go on at once," and he unconsciously laid his hand upon the spot where the despatch was hidden. "no," replied ingleborough, "that won't do. we seem safe here, and we must hasten slowly. we're ready enough to go on, but the ponies must be properly nursed. they want more grass and a rest." "the sun is getting hot too," said west, in acknowledgment of his comrade's words of wisdom. "we'll stop till evening, lad," continued ingleborough, "and take it in turn to sleep in the shade of those bushes if we can find a soft spot. we had no rest last night." "i suppose that must be it," replied west, and he joined in a sigh on finding a satisfactory spot beneath a mass of granite from which overhung a quantity of thorn-bush and creeper which formed an impenetrable shade. the black followed them, noting keenly every movement and trying hard to gather the meaning of the english words. "two baas lie down long time, go to sleep," he said at last, in broken dutch. "olebo sit and look, see if boer come. see boer, make baas wake up." "no," said west; "you two lie down and sleep. i'll take the first watch." ingleborough made no opposition, and after west had climbed up to a spot beneath a tree from which he could get a good stretch of the veldt in view, the others lay down at once and did not stir a limb till west stepped down to them, when the kaffir sprang up without awakening ingleborough. "olebo look for boers now," he said. west hesitated, and the kaffir grasped the meaning of his silence. "olebo come and tell baas when big old baas go to fetch boers," he said. "so you did," cried the young englishman warmly, "and i'll trust you now. mind the ponies don't stray away." the black showed his beautiful, white teeth in a happy satisfied laugh. "too much grass, too much nice water," he said. "basuto pony don't go away from baas only to find grass." "you're right!" said west. "wait till the sun is there!" he continued, pointing to where it would be about two hours after mid-day, "and then wake the other baas." the kaffir nodded, and west lay down to rest, as he put it to himself, for he was convinced that he would be unable to sleep; but he had not lain back five minutes, gazing at the sunlit rivulet and the ponies grazing, before his lids closed and all was nothingness till he was roused by a touch from ingleborough. the sun was just dipping like a huge orange ball in the vermilion and golden west. "had a good nap, old fellow?" "oh, it's wonderful!" said the young man, springing up. "i don't seem to have been asleep five minutes." "i suppose not. well, all's right, and blackjack is waiting to say good-bye. he wants to start off home." the kaffir came up from where he had been patting and caressing the ponies, and stood looking at them as motionless in the ruddy evening light as a great bronze image. "olebo go now," he said, turning his shield to show that the remains of his share of the provisions were secured to the handle by a rough net of freshly-plaited grassy rush. "olebo see baas, both baas, some day." he accompanied the words with a wistful look at each, and before they could think of what to say in reply he turned himself sharply and ran off at a rapid rate, getting out of sight as quickly as he could by keeping close to the bushes, before striking out into the veldt. "humph! i suppose they are treacherous savages, some of them," said ingleborough thoughtfully; "but there doesn't seem to be much harm in that fellow if he were used well." "i believe he'd make a very faithful servant," said west sadly. "i'm beginning to be sorry we let him go." "so am i. we shall feel quite lonely without him. but the despatch." "ah, yes, the despatch!" said west, pulling himself together. "now then, boot and saddle, and a long night's ride!" "and a good day's rest afterwards! that's the way we must get on." a quarter of an hour after, they had taken their bearings by compass and mounted, when the well-refreshed ponies started off at once in a brisk canter, necessitating the drawing of the rein from time to time; and then it was on, on, on at different rates beneath the wonderfully bright stars of a glorious night, during which they passed several farms and one good-sized village, which were carefully avoided, for they had enough provisions to last them for another day, and naturally if a halt was to be made to purchase more it would have to be at a seasonable time. "yes," said ingleborough laughingly, "it would be a sure way of getting cartridges if we wanted them and roused up a boer farmer in the night. he would soon give us some, the wrong way on." "yes," said west, "and there would be the dogs to deal with as well. hark at that deep-mouthed brute!" for just then the cantering of their ponies had been heard by the watch-dog at one of the farms, and it went on baying at them till the sounds grew faint. then it was on and on again till a strange feeling of weariness began to oppress them, and they had to fight with the desire which made them bend forward and nod over their ponies' necks, rising up again with a dislocating start. at the second time of this performance west made a great effort and began watching his companion, to see that he was just as bad. then the intense desire to sleep began to master the watcher again. "hi, ingle!" he cried. "rouse up, and let's walk for a mile or two." "yes, yes.--what's that?" cried ingleborough, springing off his pony and cocking his rifle. for there was a sudden rushing noise as of a great crowd of animals, of what kind it was still too dark to see; but it was evident that they had come suddenly upon a migratory herd of the graceful-limbed antelopes that had probably been grazing and had been startled into flight. "pity it was not light!" said ingleborough, with a sigh. "we could have got some fresh meat, and then at the first patch of wood and pool of water we could have had a fire and frizzled antelope-steaks." but a couple of hours later, when they halted for their rest and refreshment, it was stale cake, hard biltong, and cool fresh water. "never mind, we're miles nearer mafeking!" said west. "how many more nights will it take?" the answer to that question had not been arrived at when they dropped asleep, lulled by the sound of rippling water and the _crop, crop, crop_ made by the grazing ponies, and this time their weariness was so great that sleep overcame them both. ingleborough was to have watched, but nature was too strong, and both slept till sundown, to rise up full of a feeling of self-reproach. chapter twenty eight. a loud report. days of rest and nights of travel succeeded, during which the despatch-riders began to wonder at the ease with which they progressed. "i thought it would be twice as hard a task!" said west. "here have we been two days without a sign of a boer! we must be very near mafeking now." "yes, very," said ingleborough drily; "nearer than i thought. halt!" he drew rein as he spoke, west's pony stopping short at the same time as its companion. they had been riding steadily on through the night, and now as the ponies stood side by side they stretched out their necks in the soft cool darkness, and the sound of their cropping told that they were amongst grass. "why did you pull up?" said west, in a cautious whisper. "for you to hear how near we are to mafeking now." "near?" "yes; can't you hear the firing?" "no," said west, after a few moments' pause. "yes, now i do," he cried eagerly, for all at once there was a dull concussion as if a blow had been delivered in the air. "a heavy gun," cried west excitedly. "hist!" "i forgot," said west softly. "that must be one of the siege guns," he continued. "yes," said ingleborough, "and it must be near daybreak, with the bombarding beginning. be careful; perhaps we are nearer the enemy than we thought." at the end of a couple of minutes there was the dull concussion of another heavy gun, and this was continued at intervals of ten or fifteen minutes during the next hour, while the adventurers advanced cautiously at a walk, keeping a sharp look-out through the transparent darkness for a patch of rocks or woodland which might serve for their next halt. but day had quite dawned before a suitable place of refuge presented itself, in the shape of one of the low kopjes. "dismount!" whispered ingleborough sharply, and they spent the next ten minutes carefully scanning the district round in full expectation of seeing some sign of the enemy. but nothing worse was in view than two or three of the scattered farms of the open veldt, and in the distance a dark indistinct patch which appeared to be a herd of grazing cattle, but so distant that neither could be sure. on their way to the patch of rock and brush that was to be their last resting-place before making a dash for the beleaguered town, they struck upon the trail going north and south, and in two places scared off vultures from the carcass of an unfortunate ox, shrunken and dried in the sun till little but the bones and hide were left. they were too distant to make out the smoke, but steadily increasing fire told plainly enough that they were quite near enough for a dash into the town when darkness set in that night. "you think then that this will be the best way?" said west, as they reached their shelter without seeing a sign of danger. "i am not sure yet!" replied ingleborough. "in fact, i'm very doubtful whether we should not fail, for the place is certain to be surrounded by the enemy, and we should very likely be ridden or shot down." oliver west laid his hand upon the despatch, pressing it so that the paper crackled beneath the cloth. "then we had better ride in as near as we dare, and then try and creep in at the darkest time." "let's pray for the clouds to be thick then!" said ingleborough; "for the moon's getting past the first quarter. last night would have done exactly." "but we were not here. hark at the firing!" "yes; it sounds as if mafeking will be taken before we get there!" "for goodness' sake don't talk like that!" "don't let's talk at all then. let's get well into shelter. but i see no sign of water yet." neither did the speaker after they had carefully explored the rocky hillock, but fortunately there was an ample supply of succulent grass for the ponies, which were soon after luxuriating in a good roll, before grazing contentedly away, while their riders, after another examination of the place and glance round from the highest point, had to satisfy themselves with a very scanty shelter and a much scantier meal. "never mind," said ingleborough; "we shall be breakfasting in luxury to-morrow morning, i hope, with our appetites sharpened by the knowledge that we have achieved our task." "i hope so!" said west gravely. "but don't doubt, my lad," cried ingleborough cheerily. "don't be downhearted now we are so near!" "i can't help it!" replied west. "i feel on thorns, and my state of anxiety will grow worse and worse till we get there. hark at the firing!" "i can hear," said ingleborough coolly. "be very deaf if i couldn't! there, that's the last scrap of cake, so let's drown our troubles in sleep. you have first turn!" "no," replied west. "i feel too anxious to sleep! you begin." "can't," was the reply. "if anything, i feel more anxious than you do. i couldn't rest!" "i wish we could canter gently on till we were seen by the boers, and then go on full gallop right into the town!" said west. "would it be too dangerous?" "just madness!" replied ingleborough. "no; it must be done with guile. they would cut us off for certain." "i'm afraid so!" said west. "very well, then, we must wait for the evening." "and sit wakeful," said ingleborough. "yes," said west. "sleep is impossible!" and sit there wakeful they did, hour after hour, their only satisfaction being that of seeing their weary horses enjoying a good feed untroubled by the increasing heat, or the cares which harassed their masters. for as the sun rose higher the distant firing increased, till it was evident that a terrible attack was going on, and in his weariness and despair no words on the part of ingleborough had any effect upon west, who felt convinced that before they could continue their journey mafeking would have fallen into the enemy's hands. there was no further talk of sleep. the heat, flies, hunger, and a burning thirst were either of them sufficient to have kept them awake, without the terrible feeling of anxiety and the alarms caused by bodies of horsemen or lines of wagons journeying in the direction they were waiting to take. again and again parties of the boers seemed to be coming straight for the hiding-place, and west and his companion crept on hands and knees towards their ponies, getting hold of their reins, and then crouching by them ready to mount and gallop for their lives should the necessity arise. but it did not, and in a strangely-feverish dreamlike way the day glided on and evening at last came, bringing with it wafts of cooler air and, what was of more consequence to them still, a feeling of hope, for though the firing still went on, it had dwindled down into the slow steady reports of one heavy piece discharged at about the same rate as when they had first heard the firing in the morning. "and it tells its own tale with truthful lips!" said ingleborough. "the town is still holding out, and the defenders have ceased to reply." "because they are nearly beaten!" said west sadly. "by no means, you croaking old raven!" cried ingleborough cheerily. "it's because they want to save their ammunition! they only want to fire when they have something worth firing at. as for the enemy, they have the whole town to shoot at, and keep on pitching their shells in at random. there, don't be grumpy!" "i can't help it!" cried west passionately. "give me credit for having kept up well till now. it's because we are so near success that i feel everything so keenly." "i know, old fellow, and you may trust me!" said ingleborough. "i didn't play a false prophet's part just to encourage you. i'm speaking the simple truth! just a little more patience, and you shall deliver your despatch." "if i could only feel that!" cried west. "it may be the saving of mafeking to receive news perhaps of help being on the way." "be patient then! it will soon be night, and then we'll mount and make our final dash!" "no," said west bitterly; "we shall have to make it now. look." chapter twenty nine. hard pushed. ingleborough shaded his eyes and turned very grave, for on gazing in the direction pointed out by his companion's finger he saw a column of horsemen creeping over the veldt as if coming straight for their resting-place, while as they came nearer the eager watchers could make out that the party were guarding a long train of wagons drawn by great teams of oxen. they found that there were two other teams, not of oxen, but of ponies similar to their own, and not dragging the great tilt-covered wagons, but something heavy and comparatively small. "guns!" said ingleborough laconically. "yes, and heavy guns too!" cried west. "you're right, lad; and they will not come near us. it's an ammunition train, and they'll go straight for mafeking! that's another false alarm!" ingleborough was quite right, for the distant train crept slowly on along the track till it grew dim and distant as the sun sank lower and finally disappeared in the haze of dust. but the troubles of the despatch-bearers were not at an end, and they lay watching the west with its great masses of lit-up clouds, glorious in their colouring, till the last bright lights had died out, before they turned to look in the direction of the east. and then west drew his companion's attention to the fact that behind them the sky was perfectly clear, and the pale moon, a couple of days past the first quarter, was gradually growing brighter and brighter in what promised to be a perfectly unclouded night. "yes," said ingleborough coolly; "we shall have a glorious time for our ride." "a glorious night for the boer outposts to take aim at us as we ride in." "no," said ingleborough coolly. "i think not!" "what do you mean?" said west, turning sharply upon his companion. "you have some fresh idea?" "well, yes. being in such a pickle as this sets a man sharpening his wits to try and make them keen." "of course. what are you going to do?" "wait a bit and see!" replied ingleborough coolly. "i'm sharpening still." west turned away impatiently, to go, stooping as low as he could, towards his pony, which was straggling away, and bring it back to the bushes which had helped to hide them all the day, after which they sat in silence for about an hour, until it was quite plain that the night was as dark as it was likely to be. then in a nervous excited way he turned to ingleborough again. "yes," said the latter, without waiting for west to speak; "it will grow no darker unless we wait hours for the moon to set, and by that time i hope we shall be in mafeking." "what do you mean to do then?" "mount and ride steadily on at a gentle canter till we get in touch with that ammunition train." "but we shall be challenged by their rear-guard." "perhaps," said ingleborough coolly; "perhaps not. i reckon on getting pretty close up without. if we are challenged, i want you to do as i tell you." "of course," replied west. "anything to fulfil our task!" "ready?" "and waiting!" "then mount!" their ponies were waiting patiently by their sides, and the next minute they had sprung into the saddles and rode off in the direction taken by the train. west asked no questions, for he was full of confidence in his long-tried companion, and with the ponies well-refreshed and eager from their rest, they rode steadily on, keeping a sharp look-out for danger, but meeting with no adventure for quite a couple of hours, by which time both felt that they must be getting near to the end of their journey. but they had nothing to guide them, for they were off the track, and even had they been on, it would have been impossible to follow it in the strange eerie light shed by the quarter-moon. once they had evidence that they were in all probability going right, for a horrible odour suddenly assailed their nostrils, making them press their ponies' sides and go past something indistinct at a gallop, holding their breath till they were well beyond what was in all probability the body of some wretched horse or ox that had died of overwork and exhaustion. "we must keep on now!" whispered ingleborough. "i feel that we are going right." "but the boer laagers and outposts!" whispered back west. "somewhere ahead, lad; but we must leave something to chance. we are, say, within half-a-dozen miles of mafeking, so i put it; perhaps not more than two or three. keep a sharp look-out for lights." "the enemy's?" "or friends'," replied ingleborough. "there's a good deal of chance now, and we must trust a little to our luck." "in other words, you mean make a bold dash?" "yes, but not a blind one! i want to put a little gumption into what we do! you'll trust me?" "i will!" "forward then, and give the ponies their heads!" west gave vent to a deep low "hah!" of satisfaction, and away they went, with their mounts seeming to exult in the freedom from pressure on their bits, keeping close together, and bounding along over the level veldt as if perfectly familiar with the way, though their riders knew it to be bespread with pitfalls in the shape of the burrows made by the aardvarks and other animals that made the wide open veldt their home. the moon shone brightly now, though the light was puzzling, and the distance ahead looked strange and weird; but the pace at which they were going had a peculiarly exhilarating effect upon both of the riders, who seemed to share the excitement of their ponies. for, guesswork though it was, west felt that mafeking must lie right ahead, and as they dashed on he began to feel a kind of certainty that if left to themselves their sagacious steeds would take them right into the town. a good four miles must have been passed over in this way, and at last a fresh sensation began to attack west, filling him with anxiety lest they should be going in the wrong direction. for he argued that they must before now, if right, have come upon signs of the besiegers, and he was in the act of leaning over towards ingleborough to make him acquainted with his fears, when all doubt was chased away by a loud challenge from his right, followed by a flash and a report. that one shot was the opening note of an overture, for directly after the balls began whistling over their heads, and the first reports grew into a loud rattle followed by the trampling of horses and loud shouting. "it's all right," said ingleborough coolly; "they're firing at random. it's impossible to take aim on a night like this! can you see them?" "no; only the flashes!" said west excitedly. "that's enough! then they can't see us! we're through their lines too, for they're firing behind us, and i'll back our horses to beat theirs in a race." reports now began to ring out on their right, and directly after they came from their left. "shall we shout?" whispered west. "no. what for?" "we must be getting among our own people!" "no such luck, my lad! keep steadily on! ah! poor beast!" "what is it?" said west excitedly, as his mount stopped short, obeying its natural instinct and the love of companionship of a gregarious animal. for ingleborough's pony had suddenly uttered a peculiar neighing cry, reared up, and fallen backwards. "are you hurt?" whispered west again. "no; i just escaped! quick; jump down." west was on his feet directly, and ingleborough grasped his arm. "i'd say ride for it alone, lad," he whispered, with his lips close to his companion's ear; "but my way is safest. now down on your hands and knees and let's play wild dog or baboon!" "i don't understand you!" whispered west. "never mind; do as i do!" and the next minute they were going along on hands and knees over the level ground, feeling it quiver with the trampling of galloping horses all round, while the flashing of rifles and the crackling reports seemed to be coming from all directions. so near to them came some of the horsemen that west felt certain they must be seen; but there was no hail, no whistling bullet, and, wearisome though the way of progression was to the muscles and painful to hands and knees, west kept on side by side with his companion till the firing began to drop off and then ceased, though the hurrying to and fro of horses still went on. "it was sooner than i intended," said ingleborough at last; "but i meant for us to dismount at last and crawl. if we are seen the enemy will take us for hyaenas or dogs." he had hardly whispered these words before a shot was fired from, their left, the bullet whistling over them, when to the astonishment of west, ingleborough uttered a snarling yelp, followed by an excellent imitation of a dog's bark. "do as i do!" he whispered, and the next moment he had thrown himself upon his side and lay perfectly still. "what folly!" west was disposed to say; but he followed his companion's example, letting himself sink sidewise like a dying quadruped, feeling the despatch crackle beneath him as he lay listening to the trampling of horses growing more distant, and waiting for ingleborough to speak. "seems a stupid sort of dodge!" said the latter at last; "but i thought it better to let them think we were hyaenas than human beings." "but we had a narrow escape of being shot!" replied west. "yes, and escaped. if they had taken us for human beings we should have been either shot or taken prisoners. now we're safe!" "safe, with this bright moon shining ready to show every movement?" "then why move until we are safe, lad? the enemy will not come near us so long as they think we are dead animals." "but if they make out what we are--how then?" "how then?" said ingleborough, with a low sarcastic laugh. "why, then they'll behave like boers, and come and see if there's anything worth taking in our pockets. they are sweet people! but wait a bit. as soon as they are farther off we'll continue our journey." "without our horses?" "yes; poor beasts! i'm sorry they're gone; but daybreak will show us that we are close to mafeking, i feel sure. we'll crawl on as far as we can, and then get up and run for our lives." "yes; but you know how clever they are at bringing down a running buck!" "some of them!" said ingleborough drily. "well, if i am brought down, don't hesitate a moment: out with your knife, rip open my jacket, get the despatch, and run on." "do you mean that?" "of course." "what about you? are you to be left wounded here on the veldt?" "yes: until the despatch reaches the proper hands. then come and save me if you can." "i understand," said ingleborough drily. "that's if matters come to the worst! let's hope they will not!" he raised his head a little and had a good look round as soon as he had finished speaking, for all was now very still, and as far as he could make out in the eerie light there was not a boer within sight. "now then," he said softly; "let's go on! no, no; not like that. crawl, man, crawl." he only spoke in time, for west was about to spring up. then their painful imitation of some quadruped recommenced, west following his comrade patiently and unquestioningly till a change seemed to come over the light. "morning coming fast!" said west. "the sooner the better," was the reply; "for i'm not sure that we are going right." "i'm sure we're going wrong," said west quickly. "why?" "because we are going straight for that great wagon laager." "yes; there's mafeking, with its corrugated-iron roofs, off to our right." "hah!" ejaculated west, for at that moment there was a flash from the front of the laager they were approaching, followed by a tremendous roar and a hissing sound overhead, as a shell winged its way towards the town, whose outskirts were certainly not more than a couple of miles away. "we've wasted ever so much strength," said ingleborough; "but never mind: we know exactly where we are. it's about two miles' run to the nearest houses. what do you say--go on crawling, or make a dash?" "it will be broad daylight directly," replied west, "then we shall be discovered, and become the mark for every rifle within range. i say let's get up and walk steadily on till we see that we are discovered, and then run for our lives." "wait a moment! do you know how we shall find out that we are discovered?" "yes," said west coolly; "we shall have the bullets whistling about us." "well, you are cool!" said ingleborough. "that's it; and in addition we shall have some of the mounted boers coming at full gallop." "perhaps," said west; "and perhaps the mafeking outposts will begin firing to cover us. now then, i feel breathless to begin, for it's rapidly getting lighter. come on!" they rose quietly, and set off, making straight for the nearest building--a long, low, broad place with a corrugated-iron roof which seemed to be perfectly deserted; but it had one advantage--it was the nearest object to where they were, and it would, if they could reach it, form cover from which they could fire upon any mounted boer who came in pursuit. then with the day broadening rapidly they walked steadily on, with shell after shell arching over their heads, to fall and burst far in advance, right away in the town; but there was no sign of pursuit for quite ten minutes, and not a friend anywhere visible in the outskirts the fugitives approached. "now then," shouted ingleborough suddenly; "be cool, and as you run unsling your rifle and be ready for a shot, for i'm going to fight to the last." "make for that shed?" "yes. forward; here they come." away they went, for west at his companion's warning had looked sharply round, to see about a score of mounted boers dashing after them at full gallop, and the fugitives had hardly got into the full swing of their stride before they heard _cracky crack, crack_, the reports of rifles far in the rear, and _ping, ping_, _ping_, the whistling buzz of the thin bullets, several of which came unpleasantly near. "open out half-a-dozen yards," said ingleborough, "and lessen their mark! think we shall reach that shed?" "no," said west coolly. "it's farther off than i thought. let's stop at that clump yonder, and lie behind it to fire back." "very well; but they'll ring round us and we shall be taken in flank and rear." "not till we've brought down two of them," said west, through his teeth. "two apiece," said ingleborough. "now then, put on a spurt, and let's get to that heap, or they'll be down upon us before we're half-way to the shed. run!" they did run, with all their might; but out on the open veldt distances are horribly deceiving, especially in the early morning light, and to the despair of the fugitives the boers came rapidly nearer, while the clump of earth for which they made seemed to be as distant as ever. the only thing they made out was that it became more diffused, and they plainly saw that it was a long ridge of earth freshly thrown up, evidently from a ditch beyond. "why, it's a long rifle-pit," cried ingleborough. "run, lad, run; we must do it now!" but the pursuing boers were coming on fast, and the fugitives felt that in a minute or so they would be overtaken. there was something, though, in their favour, for as the enemy converged upon them the firing from a distance ceased, those who were using their rifles fearing to hit their own friends. "it's of no use; we can't do it!" panted west, as ingleborough, now that there was no need to try and diminish the mark at which the boers fired, closed in again. "not two hundred yards away now!" said ingleborough hoarsely. "let's turn and have a couple of shots at them!" cried west. "no: we should be bound to miss. run, run!" it was not the distance but the pace that was killing, and ingleborough was right. to have stopped and turned to fire, with their pulses throbbing, breath coming in a laboured way, every nerve and muscle on the jump, must have resulted in missing; and the next moment the enemy would have ridden over them and they would have been either shot or prisoners. knowing this, they tore on till the rifle-pit was only a hundred yards away. the foremost boers spread out like a fan not fifty yards distant, and came on at full gallop, with the result appearing certain that before the fugitives had torn on despairingly another score of yards their enemies would be upon them. "my despatch!" groaned west to himself, and then aloud: "halt! fire!" true to his comrade in those despairing moments, ingleborough obeyed the order, stopped short, swung round, and following west's example, he was in the act of raising his rifle to his shoulder with his quivering hands, when-- _crack, cracky crack, crack, crack, crack_, half-a-dozen flashes and puffs of smoke came from over the ridge of the low earthwork in front, emptying four saddles, while one horse went down headlong, pierced from chest to haunch by a bullet, and the fleeing pair saw the rest of their pursuers open out right and left, to swing round and gallop away back, pursued by a crackling fire which brought down six more before they were out of range. meanwhile twice over the big gun from its earthwork far away sent a couple of shells right over the fugitives' heads on their way to the beleaguered town, and a few seconds later a cheery english voice had shouted: "cease firing!" then a dozen men came hurrying out of the rifle-pit where they had lain low, to surround the exhausted pair. "hands up!" shouted their leader loudly. "who are you--deserters?" "deserters!" cried west hoarsely, as he pressed his left hand upon his breast and let his rifle fall to the ground. "despatch--kimberley-- water--for heaven's sake--help!" he sank upon his knees, for everything seemed to be swimming round him before he became quite blind. but he could hear still as he swooned away, and what he heard was a hearty british cheer. chapter thirty. at the goal. "it has more than paid for it all!" said west that night, when they lay down to rest after a wildly-exciting day. "yes," replied ingleborough, laughing. "i felt quite jealous!" "i don't believe you!" said west sharply. "you couldn't; they all made as much fuss over you as they did over me, from the chief downward!" "well, i suppose they did; but i began to have the horrors once!" "horrors?" "yes; knowing as i did that they must be short of food, i began to think that they were welcoming us so warmly because we were something good to eat, and all the feasting was the beginning of fattening us up." "of course you did!" said west drily. "i say though," continued ingleborough; "if it is not a state secret, what was it the chief said to you when he took you aside?" "oh, it's no secret from you!" replied west. "let's have it then!" "well, first of all, it was a lot of flattery." "flattery?" "yes, about being so brave, and bringing the kimberley despatch through the boer lines." "that was not flattery. you did bring the despatch to its destination very bravely." "so did you!" said west sharply. "oh, very well, so did i then! it was _we_ if you like! being buttered is not an unpleasant sensation when you can honestly believe that you deserve it; and, without being vain, i suppose we can feel that our consciences are at rest." "never mind that!" said west hurriedly. "i don't like being buttered, as you call it. the chief said then that he should have to send another despatch back to kimberley, and that he should ask us to take it." "what a cracker!" cried ingleborough. "cracker--lie? i declare he did!" "i don't believe you." "very well!" said west stiffly. "no; it is not very well! come now, he didn't say anything about _us_. he said you. confess: the truth!" west began to hesitate. "he--well--perhaps not exactly in the words i said." "that will do, sir!" cried ingleborough. "you are convicted of cramming--of making up a fictitious account of the interview. he did not allude to me." "but he meant to include you, of course!" "no, he did not, noll; he meant you." "i say he meant both of us. if he did not, i shan't go!" "what!" "i shall not go a step out of the way without my comrade!" "what!" cried ingleborough, holding out his hand. "well, come, i like that, lad, if you mean it." "if i mean it, ingle!" said west reproachfully. "all right, old chap! you always were a trump! there, _we'll_ take the despatch back! and now no more butter! we're very brave fellows, of course, and there's an end of it. i say, i wonder how anson is getting on." "the miserable renegade!" cried west. "i should like to see the scoundrel punished!" "well, have patience!" said ingleborough, laughing. "it's a very laudable desire, which i live in hopes of seeing gratified. but don't you think we might as well go to sleep and make up for all we have gone through?" "yes, but who is to sleep with all this terrible bombarding going on?" "i for one!" said ingleborough. "i'm getting quite used to it! but i say, i can see a better way of making a fortune than keeping in the diamond business." "what is it?" said west carelessly. he was listening to the roar of the enemy's guns and the crash of shells, for the boers were keeping up their bombardment right into the night. "i mean to go into the gunpowder trade, and--oh dear, how--" west waited for the words that should have followed a long-drawn yawn, but none came, for the simple reason that ingleborough was fast asleep. ten minutes later, in the face of his suggestions to the contrary, and in spite of the steady regular discharge of artillery, sending huge shells into the place, west was just as fast asleep, and dreaming of anson sitting gibbering at him as he played the part of a monkey filling his cheeks with nuts till the pouches were bulged out as if he were suffering from a very bad attack of mumps. the odd part of it was that when he took out and tried to crack one of the nuts in his teeth he could not, from the simple fact that they were diamonds. chapter thirty one. bad for one: good for two. "it's a bad job--a very bad job," said west, with a sigh, as he mounted one of the pair of very excellent ponies that had been provided for the despatch-riders by the gallant chief in command at mafeking, with the laughing comment that the two brave little animals ought to consider themselves very lucky in being provided with two such masters, who would take them right away from the beleaguered town, where, if they stayed, their fate was bound to be that they would be minced into sausages or boiled down into soup. they were two beautiful little beasts; but west always sighed and said it was a bad job whenever he mounted, for his heart was sore about the pony he had lost before they entered mafeking. "i say, young fellow," said ingleborough, with one of his grim smiles: "how much longer are you going to stay in mourning?" "stay in mourning?" said west, staring, as he bent forward to pat his mount's back. "yes: for those two ponies we lost; because it seems to me very absurd! to begin with, it's downright folly to bemoan the loss of one pony when you have been provided with another equally good; secondly, it is more absurd to bemoan a pony at all; and thirdly, it is the most absurd thing of all to be mourning for one that in all probability is not dead." "oh, they're both dead enough by this time!" said west bitterly. "mine may be, for it was hit; but from the way it reared up and kicked out it had no bones broken, and these basuto ponies are such hardy little beasts that i daresay it got better; while yours was so good that you may depend upon it some boer has it nipped tightly between his legs, and is making the most of it." "i hope you are right!" said west. "and there, i will not mourn for them, as you call it, any more, but make the best of things. let's see; this is the sixth day out from mafeking." "seventh," said ingleborough correctively. "of course; so it is, but i lose count through being so intent upon the one idea of getting back to kimberley. do you think we shall manage to get through the boer lines?" "think? why, we've got to get through them. we shouldn't be long if we could only ride straight away, and not be always running right on to some fresh party who begin to make game of us directly." "that's rather an ambiguous way of speaking, ingle," said west, laughing, as he caressed his pony. "if anybody else heard you he would think you meant that the boers bantered and chaffed us." "but nobody else does hear us, and you think that i mean that they begin to pump out bullets at us just as if we were a pair of springboks. i say, i'm beginning to think that we are leading a charmed life, for it is wonderful what escapes we have had from their long-carrying rifles." "i'm beginning to think in a much more matter-of-fact way," replied west; "and i think this, that five hundred yards' range is quite long enough for any rifle used on active service. i know that when one takes aim beyond that distance one is very doubtful of hitting." "i feel so after half that distance," replied ingleborough, and then: "hullo! see something?" "yes; i thought we were going to have a good long ride in peace this morning, but look yonder!" the two young men drew rein and leaped to the ground, each hurriedly getting out his glass, for the commandant at mafeking had supplied them with fresh ones, to steady it by resting it upon the saddle he had just quitted, their well-trained ponies standing perfectly motionless. "what do you make of it?" said ingleborough, scanning a mistily-seen dark line right away beneath the sun. "wagons trekking," replied west quietly. "friends?" "who can say? i think not. reinforcements and stores on the way to the besiegers, i should think." "i'm afraid you are right! well, we had better let the nags feed while we lie down and watch, for i don't think they have seen us yet." "very well," said west. "i'm tired of so much running away!" the next minute they were lying amongst some stones and their ponies grazing, ingleborough coolly filling his pipe and lighting it with a burning-glass, but keeping a watchful eye upon the long train of wagons and horsemen plodding along at the customary rate of about two miles an hour, and ready at any moment to spring upon his pony in case a party of the enemy should make up their minds to try and drive in the two ponies when they caught their eye. this he knew was doubtful, for it was beginning to be a common sight upon the veldt--that of a wounded or worn-out horse or two picking up a scanty living from the grass and green points of the shrubs, while an investigation generally proved that the poor brutes were not worth the trouble of the ride. still, on the other hand, the suspicious nature of the boers might prompt them to see whether riders were near the grazing animals, and an opportunity for capturing a prisoner or two be theirs. the pair kept a keen look-out; but it seemed for a long time that they were to be left in peace, the long line of wagons and horsemen plodding steadily onward, completely blocking the way the bearers of the kimberley despatch had to take. at last, though, just after west had expressed his opinion that the boers were too intent upon getting their heavy guns on towards mafeking, ingleborough, unnoticed by his companion, made a sudden movement, dropping his pipe and altering the small lenses of his field-glass, through which he lay gazing, supporting himself upon his elbows. "hah!" said west, who was similarly occupied; "they've got four heavy guns and a tremendous lot of stores. wouldn't one of our generals give something to have his men so arranged that he could cut them off in all directions! the country is so open, and not a kopje in sight. what a prize those guns would be!" "yes," said ingleborough sharply; "but there is no british force at hand, so they are going to surround us instead." "what!" cried west excitedly. "that they are, and no mistake!" continued ingleborough, slewing himself round so as to look in a different direction. "you don't mean--oh, ingle! three strong bodies coming from behind, north and south. why, we're trapped!" "we are, my lad; for here they come from the front." west turned his glass again in the direction of the long line of wagons after his look round, to see that a party of the boers were riding out straight for them. "trapped; but we must dodge between the wires, eh?" cried west, who, like his companion, had made at once for where his pony was grazing. "hah! look out, ingle!" ingleborough was looking out, but left helpless. west had caught his pony, but his companion had startled the other by the suddenness of his approach, and, throwing up its head, the little animal cantered off with his rider after him. "stop, stop!" shouted west. "you only scare the brute more." "right!" said ingleborough sadly, and he stopped short and began to return. "there!" he cried, as west sprang into his saddle; "you have the despatch. off with you through that opening! i won't hinder you! i'll turn prisoner again for a change." "lay hold of my pony's tail and run! i'll keep him to a canter, and change with you as soon as you're tired!" said west, scanning the opening between the end of the boer line and the party of horsemen away to his left who were making straight for them, lying towards the middle of the line, where the big guns were being dragged along. "no good!" said ingleborough. "off with you, and save your despatch!" "can't leave you, old fellow! do as i tell you!" cried west. "hook on!" "i will not! they won't kill me if i throw up my hands! save your despatch if you can!" "obey orders, sir!" roared west fiercely, "and don't waste time! i'm going to trot after your mount, and he'll join us." "hah! bravo, sharp brains!" cried ingleborough excitedly, and twisting the long thick hair of the pony's tail about his left hand he ran lightly after his companion, the pony west rode uttering a shrill neigh as they went off, which made the other stop, cock up its ears, answer, and come galloping after them, so eager to join its fellow that it brushed close past ingleborough, who caught the rein without trouble. "right!" he shouted, and the next minute he was in the saddle, with the ponies cantering along side by side. "more to the left!" cried west. "the boers are bearing away to cut us off!" this was plain enough, and the fugitives saw that if a fresh party started from the end of the long line they were bound to be cut off. "never mind," cried ingleborough; "we may get away! those fellows are quite a mile from us, and their mounts will be pumped out if they push forward like that. easy, easy! let the ponies go their own pace!" settling down into a canter, the fugitives now began to look away to their left, where they had seen the other parties closing them in from their flank and rear. "hallo! where's the rest of the enemy?" cried west. "yonder, out of sight! the ground lies lower there; but i say, these fellows are coming on at a tremendous rate! gallop or they'll cut you off." "then we'll gallop!" cried west. "we, old fellow! just as if i were going to leave you behind!" "very nice of you," said ingleborough merrily; "but you're not fit for a despatch-rider. you're about the worst i ever knew of!" "because i won't forsake a friend?" "friend be hanged! there's no friendship in wartime. ah, here come some of the flankers." "yes, i see them," said west; "but what does this mean?" for all at once the galloping party on their right--that which had come straight from the centre of the boer line--began to pull up until all were halted in the middle of the plain. "they see their companions coming," said ingleborough, "and that we are safely cut off. well, it is giving us a better chance!" "but they're turning and folding back," cried west excitedly. "here come the others, full gallop! look, look, how they're opening out! gallop full speed now! no, no. look, look! why, ingle, those are not rifles they're carrying--they're lances." "you're dreaming!" growled ingleborough. "never mind what they're carrying; they're going to cut us off, and we've got to save that despatch!" "and we shall save it too!" cried west, his voice sounding full of exultation. "those are our lancers--a regiment of them!" "you're right!" cried ingleborough excitedly now, and he began to draw rein. "look at the boer line. there's proof! they're turning back from the front and hurrying up their rear so as to form laager round their big guns. hurrah!" he yelled, rising in his stirrups to wave his hat. "and hurrah a hundred times more!" yelled west, following his companion's example, as he saw now in no less than four directions little clouds of horsemen moving over the widely-spreading plain. the next minute they had their glasses out and were watching the boers-- a line no longer, but broken up into what at first seemed to be wild confusion, out of which order began to form, for whoever was in command of the reinforcements on their way to mafeking possessed enough soldierly knowledge of what was the best thing to be done under the circumstances. as the wagons in front were wheeled round to retire upon the centre formed by the four heavy guns, and those from the rear were hurried up to join in making a great square, cloud after cloud of mounted men galloped forward to seize upon any patch of shelter to hold against the advancing british force. "it's well meant," said ingleborough, without taking his eyes from his glass; "but they will not have time to form a strong laager. why, our men will be among them before a quarter of an hour is past." "before ten minutes!" cried west, in wild excitement. "hurrah! trapped this time! look right across the laager; there are men coming on there!" it was so, and ingleborough cheered wildly again. for the british general must have had abundant information of the coming convoy, and had taken his precautions and made his plans so accurately as to timing the advance that he had completely surrounded the long line with cavalry and mounted infantry, who now raced for the laager, heedless of the fire opened upon them by the boers. the enemy only fired a few shots, and then, finding themselves taken in front, flank, and rear, made for their horses and took flight in every direction, but not before the lancers got among them and dotted the veldt with horse and man. the boer commander and those with gun and wagon worked well, bringing their heavy guns to bear on the main advance; but they were not directed at masses of men in column or line, but at a cloud of cavalry covering the plain and mingled with the enemy's own flying horse, so that before a second discharge could be belched forth from the two large guns which were re-loaded, the lancers, hussars, and volunteer light horse were among the gunners, and it was every man for himself, _sauve qui peut_. west and ingleborough were so intent with their glasses, watching the utter rout of the boers, that they did not see a body of lancers bearing down upon them at a gallop, and the noise of the scattered firing kept up by the boers drowned the trampling of hoofs, till there was a shout which made the two despatch-bearers start round in their saddles, to see a dozen sun-browned, dust-covered lancers galloping at them with weapons levelled, headed by a young officer waving them on with his flashing sword. "up hands!" yelled ingleborough, and glass and hat were thrust on high. it was only just in time, the officer raising his sword as he reined up by west and caught his arm. "hallo!" he roared, as his men surrounded the pair with lances at their breasts; "who are you?" "despatch-riders--mafeking to kimberley," cried west. "where are your despatches then?" cried the officer sharply. "here!" cried west. "yah!" cried the young officer. "i thought i'd caught two boer generals directing the fight. what a jolly sell!" "you've got something better among you!" said ingleborough, joining in the laugh which rose among the men. "have we? what?" "there are four heavy guns yonder, and a tremendous wagon train." at that moment trumpet after trumpet rang out, and the men burst into a wild cheer, for the mounted boers were scattering in all directions, flying for their lives, and it was plain enough that a tremendous blow had been inflicted upon a very strong force, the capture of the convoy being complete, and those in charge who had not succeeded in reaching their horses readily throwing down their arms. "we'll, we've whipped!" said the young officer of lancers, taking off his helmet to wipe his streaming face. "they can't find fault with us at home for this, my lads! here, open out; we must join in driving these ragged rascals back on the centre. here, you two," he cried, turning to west and his companion, "i must take you both in to my chief, for i don't know that i ought to take your bare word." "well, i don't think there's much of the dopper about either of us." "no," said the officer, "but the boers have got the scum of europe and america with them, and you may be two little bits." "want our rifles?" said west coolly. "no; but don't try to bolt, either of you: it would be dangerous. my boys are rather handy with the lance!" "so i see!" said west, glancing at the points glistening at the tops of the bamboo shafts, several of which looked unpleasantly red. "and so i felt," said ingleborough grimly, "for one of them pressed my ribs." chapter thirty two. down by the spruit. the trumpets were ringing out again to call the various parts of the force together, a couple of regiments being sent in pursuit of the only body of the defeated boers which showed any cohesion, the greater part of those who had reached their horses and escaped doing this to a great extent singly, and the rest of that day was passed in gathering in the wagons, disarming the prisoners, and making all secure in the laager, which was now formed about a spruit that offered an ample supply of good fresh water. the capture proved to be far greater than was at first surmised, for in addition to the four heavy guns with their wagons and special ammunition, scores of the great lumbering dutch wagons were full of rifles and cartridges. besides these, there was an ample supply of ordinary stores, and, in addition to the many spans of oxen, hundreds of captured horses and several flocks of sheep. by night all was made secure in the great camp, and the despatch-riders were made welcome at the mess presided over by the cavalry general, who with his staff eagerly listened to the adventurers' account of their journey, and to their report of the state of beleaguered mafeking. that night the pair slept in peace in the well-guarded camp after debating about their continuance of their journey the next morning. but when morning came the general demurred to letting them go. "you must wait a day longer," he said, "until my boys have done more, to clear the way, for your road must be full of revengeful boers, the remains of the force we defeated yesterday, and i am certain that neither you nor your despatch would reach kimberley if i let you go!" "we are very anxious to be off, sir," said west, in a disappointed tone. "and i am very anxious that the kimberley people should have your good news, my lad," said the general, smiling, "and the news too of how we have taken the guns and stores meant to be used against mafeking; but, as i have told you before, i don't want the news you are to carry to be found somewhere on the veldt, perhaps a year hence, along with some rags and two brave young fellows' bones." "thank you, sir," said west quietly; "but when do you think we might continue our journey?" "that depends on the reports i get in from the men still away in pursuit." the men in camp were in high glee, for they had been struggling hard for weeks to get to conclusions with the enemy, but without success, while now their highest expectations had been more than fulfilled; but there was plenty of sorrow to balance the joy, many poor fellows having met their end, while the number of injured in the hospital ambulances and tents made up a heavy list. west and ingleborough saw much of this, and spent no little time in trying to soften the pangs endured by the brave lads who lay patiently bearing their unhappy lot, suffering the agony of wounds, and many more the miseries of disease. there was trouble too with the prisoners, and west and his companion were present when a desperate attempt to escape was made by a party worked upon by one of their leaders--a half-mad fanatical being whose preachings had led many to believe that the english conquerors were about to reduce the boers to a complete state of slavery. the attempt failed, and the leader was one of those who fell in the terrible encounter which ensued. both west and ingleborough were witnesses of the resulting fight, for the attempt was made in broad daylight, just when such a venture was least expected, and, after those who seized upon a couple of score of the captured horses and tried to gallop off had been recaptured, the young men worked hard in helping to carry the wounded to the patch of wagons that formed the field hospital. "ugh!" said west, with a shudder, after he and ingleborough had deposited a terribly-injured boer before one of the regimental surgeons; "let's get down to the spruit and wash some of this horror away." "yes," said ingleborough, after a glance at his own hands; "we couldn't look worse if we had been in the fight! horrible!" "it's one thing to be in the wild excitement of a battle, i suppose," said west; "but this business after seems to turn my blood cold." ingleborough made no reply, and the pair had enough to do afterwards in descending the well-wooded, almost perpendicular bank to where the little river ran bubbling and foaming along, clear and bright. "ha!" sighed west; "that's better! it was horrible, though, to see those poor wretches shot down." "um!" murmured ingleborough dubiously. "not very! they killed the sentries first with their own bayonets!" "in a desperate struggle for freedom, though! but there, i'm not going to try and defend them!" "no, don't, please!" said ingleborough. "i can't get away from the fact that they began the war, that the free state had no excuse whatever, and that the enemy have behaved in the most cruel and merciless way to the people of the towns they have besieged." "all right! i suppose you are right; but i can't help feeling sorry for the beaten." "feel sorry for our own party then!" said ingleborough, laughing. "why, noll, lad, we must not holloa till we are out of the wood. this last is a pretty bit of success; but so far we have been horribly beaten all round." "yes, yes; don't talk about it," said west sharply; "but look over there. we needn't have been at the trouble of scrambling down this almost perpendicular place, for there must be a much easier spot where that fellow is walking up." "never mind; we'll find that slope next time, for we shall have to come down again if we want a wash." they sat down chatting together about the beautifully peaceful look of the stream, while ingleborough lit his pipe and began to smoke. "it does seem a pity," said ingleborough thoughtfully, exhaling a cloud of smoke: "this gully looks as calm and peaceful as a stream on old dartmoor at home. my word! i wish i had a rod, a line, and some flies! there must be fish here. i should like to throw in that pool and forget all about despatch-bearing and guns and rifles and men using lances. it would be a treat!" "it looks deep and black too in there," said west. "yes, a good day's fishing in such a peaceful--ugh! come away. let's get back to the camp." "why? what's the matter?" cried ingleborough, starting up, in the full expectation of seeing a party of the enemy making their way down the farther bank to get a shot at them. but west was only pointing with averted head down at the deep black pool, and ingleborough's face contracted as his eyes took in all that had excited west's horror and disgust. for there, slowly sailing round and round just beneath the surface, were the white faces of some half-dozen boers, wounded to the death or drowned in their efforts to escape the british cavalry, and washed down from higher up by the swift stream, to go on gliding round and round the pool till a sudden rising of the waters from some storm should give the stream sufficient power to sweep them out. chapter thirty three. that base coin. "let's see; this will take us round by the hospital wagons," said ingleborough. "i vote we go round the other way, for we don't want any more horrors now!" they chose a different direction to return to their temporary quarters in the camp, one which took them round by the row upon row of captured wagons and the roughly-made enclosure into which the prisoners had now been herded, and where they were doubly guarded by a strong party of mounted infantry, who had stringent orders to fire at the slightest sign of trying to escape. "they'll accept their lot now, i expect," said ingleborough. "who are these with this next lot of wagons? non-combatants, i suppose!" "yes; drivers of the provision wagons and traders," replied west. "why, that's the man we saw going up out of the spruit." "yes," said ingleborough, and as he spoke west noted that the man who had been seated at the front of one of the wagons suddenly turned his back and walked round to the other side. west turned to ingleborough. ingleborough turned to west. they stood looking enquiringly in each other's eyes for a few moments before the latter said suddenly: "which way will you go?" "left," said ingleborough. "and i'll go right." they started at once, walking towards the wagon that had taken their attention, ingleborough making for the front where the man had disappeared, and which necessitated passing the team of bullocks crouching down to ruminate over the fodder that had been cut for them, while west hurried round by the rear, the young men timing themselves so exactly that they met after seeing a pair of stout legs disappear between the fore and hind wheels of the wagon where the man they sought to face had dived under. quick as thought, west and ingleborough separated and ran back lightly and quickly, this time to come upon the man they sought just as he was getting heavily upon his legs again, evidently in the belief that he had not been recognised. he was thoroughly roused up to his position, though, by ingleborough's heavy hand coming down upon his shoulder and hoisting him round to face the pair. "hallo, anson!" cried ingleborough banteringly; "this is a pleasant surprise!" while west's eyes flashed as he literally glared in the cowardly scoundrel's face, which underwent a curious change as he glanced from one to the other, his fat heavy features lending themselves to the dissimulation, as he growled out slowly: "don't understand." "what!" cried ingleborough, in the same bantering tone; "don't you know this gentleman--mr oliver west?" "don't understand!" was the reply, and directly after: "goodnight, englishmen; i'm going to sleep!" the next moment the heavy-looking fellow had turned his back again, stepped to the front part of the wagon, and sprawled over part of the wood-work as he tried to draw himself on to the chest before getting inside. but ingleborough was a strong man, and he proved it, for, stepping behind the man, he caught him by the collar of his jacket and the loose part of his knicker-bocker-like breeches, and dragged him off the wagon, to plant him down in front of west. the result was that their prisoner began to rage out abusive words in dutch, so loudly that in the exasperation he felt, ingleborough raised his right foot and delivered four kicks with appalling vigour and rapidity--appalling to the receiver, who uttered a series of yells for help in sound honest english, struggling the while to escape, but with his progress barred by west, who closed up and seized him by the arm. the outcry had its effect, for the called-for help arrived, in the shape of a sergeant and half-a-dozen men, who came up at the double with fixed bayonets. "what's all this?" cried the sergeant sharply, as he surrounded the party. "only a miracle!" cried ingleborough. "this so-called boer, who could not speak a word of english, has found his tongue." "what are you, prisoner--a boer?" cried the sergeant. "ah, yah, yah," was the reply, gutturally given; "piet retif, boer." "well, sir, orders are that the boer prisoners are not to be ill-used," said the sergeant. then, turning to the prisoner: "this your wagon and span?" "ah, yah, yah, piet retif." "he says yah, yah, sir," said the sergeant, "which means it is his wagon." "oh yes, it is his, i believe," said ingleborough. "then what have you against him?" "only that he's a renegade englishman, a man who deserted from kimberley to the boers." "it's a lie, sergeant," cried the man excitedly. "that's good english," cried ingleborough. "i told you i had worked a miracle; now perhaps i can make him say a little more. he's an illicit-diamond merchant and cheat as well, and his name is not piet retif, but james anson, late clerk to the kimberley company. what do you say, west?" "the same as you," replied west. "it is a lie!" cried the man. "piet retif, dealer in mealies and corn." "mealies and corn!" cried ingleborough scornfully. "the man is what i say: an utter scoundrel, cheat, and, worse than all, a renegade and deserter to the boers." anson's jaw dropped, and his face seemed to turn from a warm pink to green. chapter thirty four. another start. before anson's jaw had time to return to its place the sergeant and his men sprang up to attention, looking as stiff as if on parade. west was the first to see the reason, and he nudged ingleborough, just as a stern voice asked what was wrong. "bit of a row, sir, between the two despatch-riders and this prisoner, sir," replied the sergeant. "prisoner charges these two gentlemen with assaulting him. says he's a boer!" the new-comer, who had four officers in attendance upon him during what was apparently a tour of inspection of the camp, turned sharply on the two friends. "i cannot have the prisoners ill-treated," he said. "why is this?" "because he is not a boer, sir," said ingleborough sharply. "this man was in the company's office with us at kimberley. he is little better than a thief, or worse, for he is a receiver of stolen goods, an englishman, an illicit buyer of diamonds, and a renegade who gave information to and deserted to the boers." "that will do," said the general. "half of your charges would condemn him. sergeant, see that this prisoner is carefully guarded. he will be tried later on. i am too busy to attend to such matters now." anson gave vent to a gasp, after listening to the general's orders for his safe custody. but, though he was listening to the orders given, his eyes were otherwise employed. they were half-closed, but fixed intently upon west, and they did not quit his face till the sergeant clapped him on the shoulder, saying: "now, mr piet retif, this way!" then he started violently, and was marched off to be placed with certain of the prisoners who were the most carefully guarded. "did you notice anything in particular just before anson was led off?" said ingleborough. "no. poor wretch. i'm sorry for him!" "keep your sorrow for a more worthy object, my lad, and mind and give that fellow a wide berth if ever he gets his liberty again." "which he will, of course." "well, perhaps so, for the company can't give the diamond-buyer all they would like! but when he does get free, you be careful!" "why, what harm can he do me?" "can't say," said ingleborough abruptly; "but something or another ill you may take it for granted he will do. i've been watching his face, and read what it means! of course, he doesn't like me, for i've been fighting against him all along; but somehow he seems to hate you, and, mark my words, he'll try his best to do you a mischief! he gives you the credit of being the cause of all this trouble!" "but i've not been!" said west. "no; i've done the scoundrel ten times the mischief that you have, for i disliked him from the very first day we met. he was too oily for me, and i always thought that he would turn out a bad one. i'm the culprit, but he means to let me alone and to take all the change out of you! that's all--only don't give him a chance!" "not i; but we shall not see much more of him, i suppose." "what? there'll be a trial in a day or two, and i've got a pill for my gentleman." "what do you mean--not a lead pill?" "tchah! nonsense. i mean to ask for the scoundrel's wagon to be searched. i was afraid they would let him go back to it." "the wagon? of course," said west thoughtfully. "i had forgotten that." the young men's eyes met as if they were trying to read each other's thoughts; but no more was said then, and the next morning west and ingleborough were summoned to the general's wagon. "good morning," said the officer sharply. "your despatches are, of course, very important, and it is urgent that they should be delivered at once?" "yes, sir," said west eagerly. "then we may go on at once?" the general smiled. "no," he replied; "all through the night scouts and natives have been coming in, and in general from different sources one has a great variety of news; but in this case, coming from parts widely asunder, i get the same announcement. stung by the defeat i have given them and the loss of their convoy and big guns, they have been collecting in great force, evidently to try and surround me in turn and recover all they have lost." "then we had better make a dash for it at once, sir, before the way is completely closed," said west. "the way is completely closed, young man," said the general gravely. "east, west, north, and south, there are strong commandos with guns, and there is only one way open for you." "and that is?" said west excitedly, for the general had stopped. "by going nearly due west, and cutting your way through." "cutting our way through!" said west blankly, and he turned to look at ingleborough for an explanation, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders. "ah, you are both puzzled!" said the general, smiling. "you want to know how you are to cut your way through! i'll tell you: by keeping with me and letting my fellows clear the road for you!" "but--" began west. "there is no `but' in the matter, sir," said the general. "you are both willing messengers; but you cannot do impossibilities. if you go on in your own way you will be either shot down or captured, and in either case your despatches will fall into the enemy's hands." "unless i destroyed them first!" said west bitterly. "of course. that is what you would try to do, my lad, if you had time. but as you would naturally defer that till the last extremity, the probabilities are that this necessary task would be left undone. rifle-bullets fly very swiftly, and the boers' traps are cleverly set, as our people are finding to their cost." "but the despatches must be delivered, sir," said west excitedly, "and it is my duty to go on at any risk!" "and mine to do two things, young gentleman," said the general, speaking very sternly. "one is, to assist you in the task you have in hand; the other, as i find that kimberley is being hard pressed, to try and cut my way through to the help of the brave people who are holding it against great odds. now, as the two objects work together, your way must be with us. i may not be able to force my way through, but i can certainly see you well on your way." "then we are to stop with your cavalry brigade, sir?" said west, in disappointed tones. "certainly, as long as i am making a forward movement, which will commence at once. if i find it necessary to diverge from the course laid down, on account of the extent of the convoy i have captured and the number of prisoners, i shall give you fair warning, so that you may make a dash for yourselves. there, gentlemen, i am busy. you will attach yourselves to my staff, and help keep a watch over the loot in diamonds." taking this to be a dismissal, the two young men retired to talk the matter over in their own quarters. "i don't like it!" said west excitedly. "we have our orders as to what we are to do about the despatch! ought we to let a cavalry general override those instructions?" "i suppose so," replied ingleborough. "perhaps, after all, he is right." "right?" "well, he knows from good information the state of the country, and we do not. it would be better for your despatch never to be delivered than for it to fall into the enemy's hands." "of course!" "then why not take matters as you find them? are we not going to take news for our general over yonder, and reinforcements as well?" "yes, i hope so," replied west; "but one does not like when one's plans are made to have them interfered with." "of course not," said ingleborough, laughing; "but we started with fixed plans from kimberley, and we've been interfered with and baffled ever since." "but we did get the despatch to mafeking!" "yes, even when it seemed quite hopeless; and we're going to get the answer back to kimberley yet." "i hope so," said west gloomily. "bah! what a grumbler you are, noll! nothing seems to satisfy you! haven't we turned the tables completely upon that fat pink innocent?" west nodded his head. "isn't he prisoner instead of us?" "yes, that's true!" "and hasn't he proved your innocence and his own guilt before those officers?" "yes, he has done that!" said west, with his puckered face smoothing out. "then just confess that you are a growling, discontented, hard-to-satisfy young humbug." "i do--frankly!" cried west, laughing outright. "come, that's something; and i begin to think that i will forgive you and stick to you after all, instead of following out my own ideas." "your own ideas?" said west, looking at his companion enquiringly. "what were those?" "well," said ingleborough, in his dry stolid manner; "shakespeare was a very able man." "my dear ingle," cried west, staring, "whatever has shakespeare got to do with your plans?" "everything, you young ignoramus. doesn't he say something about there being a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, will lead to fortune?" "i believe so; but i wish he could point out the tide that would take our live barque safe into kimberley." "ah, but you see he does not; his works were written for people living in a wet country where there are plenty of rivers and seas. he didn't know anything about the veldt, and, in fact, he was not very strong in his geography, or he wouldn't have written about the sea coast of bohemia." "there," cried west, "you're getting into one of your long-winded arguments, and i'm waiting to hear your plans!" "oh, they are only these!" said ingleborough very gravely. "being a poor man and seeing the tide at its height, i thought to myself that there could be no harm in annexing a rogue's plunder when it is as plain as the nose on one's face that we have as good a right to it as all the officers and tommy atkinses of this brigade. i came to the conclusion that i'd get you to stand in with me on fair halves principle, and go off with the diamonds in that barrel, calling at kimberley as we go to leave that despatch, and then going on to the cape, and then home." "no, you did not, ingle," said west quietly; "so don't talk bosh! look, they're striking tents, inspanning, and getting off." "by george! so they are. and hallo! what does this mean--an attack?" "a battery of horse artillery guns," cried west. "then we are going on in real earnest." "yes," said ingleborough, "and so our friends the boers will find." chapter thirty five. the net and the fish. the start was made more quickly than either west or ingleborough had anticipated; in fact, the celerity was wonderful considering that the cavalry brigade was burdened with the great convoy of wagons captured from the boers. but there was a keen soldier in command, and one who knew how to be ready for every emergency likely to occur in an enemy's country. as the two despatch-riders mounted their ponies, the cavalry regiments were in motion, some taking up ground in advance and on the flanks, while two more, a lancer and a dragoon regiment, stood fast ready for action as rear-guard, giving the six-gun battery an opportunity to off-saddle and rest their horses, fresh from a twelve-mile march that morning. the wagon lines were in perfect order, steadily moving off after two of the big newly-captured guns, freshly manned by picked crews, the other two being reserved for the centre of the train and taking up their position easily enough, drawn as they were by double teams of sturdy ponies which made them far more mobile than would have been the case if trusted to the slow-moving oxen. "they won't attempt to use those guns if we are attacked," said west, as he watched the preparations going on; "our men will be quite ignorant of how to work them." "our men will try if the necessity comes," said ingleborough confidently; "and that's half the battle!" "yes," said west; "but it's hardly likely that the enemy will attack so well-armed a body of men." "they will, though, and do us no end of mischief if they get the chance." but the general for the first three days gave the enemy no chance, for he carefully avoided kopjes and broken ground, keeping out a cloud of mounted men scouting in every direction, and camping each night on the banks of some spruit. in fact, every military precaution was taken on defensive principles, for the captured convoy was too valuable for any risks to be run by attacking one or other of the commandos trying to hem in the brigade. it was soon found that the boers were in motion in front, rear, and on both flanks, awaiting an opportunity to swoop down and stampede sheep, cattle, and horses, spread confusion amongst the men, and so open up a chance to re-capture the guns and stores. but no chances were given, for everything had been arranged, and during seven days' march west had a fine experience in the manoeuvring of a cavalry brigade. so, in fact, had the enemy, but theirs was at a bitter cost. finding that the british force would not attack any of the natural strongholds nor step into any of the traps contrived at river crossings where the perpendicular banks were filled with trench, pit, and shelter, but that the carefully-guarded convoy went on slowly towards safety day after day, the enemy became more daring, changed their tactics, and gathered together for attacks, getting their guns into action ready for their own captured artillery to be halted, and with a few well-directed shots at a tremendously long range to put the carefully planted guns out of action and compel a rapid retreat. if they surrounded the convoy in their thousands with knots of mounted riflemen, there was a rush, a flying cloud of dust kicked up, and away went half the horse artillery battery to one knoll, the other half to another, and before the intention of the general could be grasped the shells were falling fast among those knots, bursting and untying them in an appalling way which littered the dry earth with dead horses and men; while, whenever a bolder dash than usual was made to capture either of the half-batteries, the boers found that, mobile as they were, the british cavalry could nearly double them in swiftness of evolution, and lancers and hussars cut them up and sent them flying in every direction. day after day this went on, with the result that the reinforcements the enemy received were pretty well balanced by the constant dribbling away of ambulance wagons loaded with wounded men. "isn't it splendid?" ingleborough kept on saying. "why, we could go on journeying like this for months. i like this defensive game! chess is nothing to it!" "so do the boers like a defensive game!" "yes," said ingleborough, laughing. "did you hear what one of the boers taken said to the officer in command of the prisoners' guard?" "no. i did not catch it; but i saw our men laughing. what was it?" "he said our officers did not fight fair, and when our man asked him what he considered was fair fighting, the scoundrel gave him to understand that we ought to attack them when they were well entrenched in a kopje ready to shoot all our men down." "well," said west, "what did our officer say?" "laughed at him, and told him that if they were so very anxious to fire at targets we would arrange butts for them with a series of mantlets and a good supply of the bisley running deer. but that wasn't the best of it," said ingleborough, laughing; "what do you think the fellow said?" "i don't know," said west, who was watching the evolutions of a couple of the light horse volunteer regiments and as many of the lancers, for, tired of the plodding life of keeping with the tremendous baggage train for a whole week, the two friends had ridden out in advance over a wide open series of rolling downs covered with dry scrubby growth, parched to greyness by the torrid sun. ingleborough laughed heartily for a few moments. "there they go," he said, pointing to the leading troop of the hussar regiment as it disappeared over a ridge about a mile in advance. "let's make for that wave-like place." "very well," said west; "i suppose we shall be safe there!" "safe enough, of course, for our men have swept it clear! forward! how the ponies enjoy a gallop! but i didn't tell you what the miserable ruffian said." "no," cried west, enjoying the motion as much as the ponies. "this is delightful after all that slow walking; but we had better turn back when we have seen what those fellows are about! now, what did the boer say?" "said he had always heard we were cowards at majuba; now he knew for himself." "the insolent hound!" cried west. "what did our officer say?" "that it was lucky for the boer that he was a prisoner, for if he had been free he would have tasted a flogging from the flat of a sabre. but hullo! where are our men?" cried ingleborough, as they reached the crown of the low ridge and looked down at a strip of open veldt, beyond which was another ridge. "gone over there!" said west quietly. "they must have galloped!" "shall we follow, and come back with them?" said ingleborough. "we may as well," was the reply; "they must be trying to cut off some of the boers." "or going in for a charge to scatter them, for we want no more prisoners. come on, then; i should like to see the charge!" the ponies seemed to share their desire, for, answering a slight pressure on their flanks, they spread out and went down the slight slope like greyhounds, avoiding as if by instinct the holes and stones with which the veldt was dotted away in front. "steady, steady!" cried west. "we don't want to overdo it!" "of course not," shouted ingleborough; "but my word, what delicious air, and what a place for a gallop! i should like to see a herd of antelope appear on that ridge to the left. i should be obliged to go after them; we might get one for the officers' mess." "there they are, then!" cried west. "where?" said ingleborough. "coming over that continuation of the ridge a mile away to the left. no: mounted men! ingle, old chap," cried west excitedly, "they're the party our men have cut off! they've headed them, and they're trying to escape by this opening!" "by jingo! no!" cried ingleborough. "our men have gone off to the right, i believe, and those boers have seen us. noll, old fellow, we've come a bit too far. steady! right turn! now off and away, or somebody else will be cut off or shot; perhaps both of us, for we're in for it once more." "oh no," said west coolly; "be steady, and we'll show the boers how english fellows ride!" "yes, but hang it all! it's showing the beggars how we ride away." "never mind; we must ride for the convoy." "but we can't," cried ingleborough savagely; "there's another party cutting us off." "forward then over the ridge in front! our fellows must have gone over there." "no, i don't think they did." "then we will," cried west excitedly; "that must be south and west. forward for kimberley; it can't be far now; and let's deliver the despatch." "hold hard! look before you leap!" shouted ingleborough; and, rising in his stirrups, he gave a hasty glance round, to see boers here, boers there, in parties of from six to a dozen, spreading out as they came along at a gallop, forming more and more of a circle, till there was an opening only in one direction--to the south-west--and after grasping this fully he turned to west as he settled himself in his saddle. "why, noll, lad," he cried, "it's like the drawing of a seine-net in cornwall, with us for the shoal of mackerel. they've got it nearly round us, and if we don't start, in another ten minutes we shall be enclosed. it looks fishy, and no mistake!" "then come on!" cried west. "off with you, but at a gentle gallop. we must nurse our nags, for the obstinate brutes will make it a long chase." as he spoke he pressed his pony's sides, and away they went together at a long easy gallop, their mounts keeping so close together that the riders' legs nearly touched, and the brave little animals taking stride for stride and needing no guidance, the best management being to give them their heads and perfect freedom to avoid all the obstacles which came in their way in the shape of rock, bush, and the perilous holes burrowed in the soil by the south african representatives of our rabbits. once settled down in their saddles, with the opening in the boer net straight before them, the fugitives had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation, and this ensued in the calmest matter-of-fact way concerning the predicament in which they had landed themselves. "it's very awkward, noll!" said ingleborough. "but, to use your favourite argument, it seems all for the best," replied west. "we can easily reach the open ground yonder before the enemy, and then ride right away." "if," said ingleborough. "if they don't stop when they find us likely to go through the horns of the dilemma they have prepared for us." "and lie down and begin shooting?" "exactly! their bullets will go faster than our ponies!" "yes, but we shall put them at full speed, and they will find it hard to hit us at a gallop." "i hope so!" said ingleborough. "my word! how they are coming on!" "yes; but they will not get within five hundred yards of us!" cried west excitedly. and so it proved, for as the horns of the partly-finished circle drew nearer, that nearness proved to be nearly a thousand yards from point to point, while half-way between, and with their ponies racing over the ground stretched out like greyhounds, the two despatch-riders dashed through, forcing the enemy to alter their course as they were left behind. "that's done it!" cried west joyously. "now then for kimberley; it can't be very far away!" "sit close!" cried ingleborough. "they'll fire now if they can do so without hitting their friends." west glanced back to his right, and saw the truth of his companion's words, for the next minute the firing was commenced on both sides, the bullets coming over their heads with their peculiar buzzing sound, and the dusty soil being struck up here and there as the fugitives tore along. "this will put their shooting to the test!" cried west, leaning forward to pat his pony's neck. "yes; it will puzzle the best of them!" replied ingleborough. "i'm not afraid of their marksmen, but i am of the flukes. however, we're in for it! easy now! we're getting more and more ahead as they close in. there, those behind are obliged to leave off firing for fear of hitting their friends." ingleborough was right, for after another useless shot or two the firing ceased, and it became a chase where success, barring accidents, would rest with the best and freshest horses. knowing this, the fugitives eased their ponies all they could after placing a greater distance between them and their pursuers, but keeping a good look-out ahead and to right and left, knowing full well as they did that the appearance of fresh boers ahead would be fatal to their progress. half an hour glided by, during which first one and then the other glanced back, but always with the same result of seeing that some two or three dozen of the enemy were settled down to a steady pursuit. "how long do you think they will keep this up?" said west at last. "well, if they are french mercenaries they'll give up directly; if they are germans they'll stick to our heels for hours; but if they're all free staters or transvaal boers they'll go on till they drop or we do. the stubborn, obstinate mules never know when they are beaten!" "then they're not french adventurers!" said west. "nor yet germans!" said ingleborough. "no; we've got the genuine boer after us; and it's going to be a long chase." "how far do you think it is to kimberley?" "just as far as it is from kimberley to here!" replied ingleborough gruffly. "thank you for nothing!" snapped out west. "what's the good of giving foolish answers?" "what's the good of asking foolish questions? look here, lad, we may as well look the position in the face." "of course." "very well, then; we've got a score and a half or so of boers after us, meaning to take us prisoners or shoot us down." "oh yes, that's plain enough!" "very well! then as to distance to kimberley, the general has dodged in and out so to avoid the enemy that, though i know a little about the country, i'm regularly puzzled as to where we are. i think it lies out here, but whether kimberley is five miles away or a hundred i don't know. what i do know is that the surest way of getting there is to make right away west for the railway. once we can hit that--" "yes, i see, and if we keep it on our right, riding south, we shall get there." "that's correct, my lad, but recollect this: we left the town invested, and you may depend upon it that the enemy are round it in greater strength than ever, so that how we are to get through their lines when we reach them i don't know." "neither do i!" said west. "but we did not know how we were to get into mafeking! still we did it, and we're going to do this somehow." "ah, somehow!" "look here," said west, after another glance back at their pursuers: "do you think you could put matters in a blacker light if you were to try?" "to be frank, old fellow," said ingleborough, laughing, "i really don't think i could!" "no more do i!" "but look here: it's as well always to look the blackest side full in the face. then you know the worst at once, and can act accordingly. hooray! one to us!" shouted ingleborough, glancing back. "what is it? i see one of the enemy broken down and another pulled up to help him. it's two to us." "there, you see now the good of looking at the worst of it." "it's quite cheering!" cried west. "not very, for the rest are making a spurt." "let them!" said west. "our ponies are full of go. we will not push them unless absolutely obliged." "words of wisdom! a long, steady pace wins. keep on; we can afford to lose a little ground, for we have been gaining for some time!" chapter thirty six. close pursuit. hour after hour passed, and the chase continued over the wide rolling veldt, the fugitives making their course more and more westerly so as to hit the railway, hoping every time they reached the top of one of the wave-like ridges to find that they were close at hand. but it was always the same--veldt, veldt, veldt, stretching on towards the horizon, with a village or farm once in a way, and the enemy always at the same distance behind, keeping doggedly on. twice over, though, the fugitives had scraps of encouragement from one of their pursuers pulling up, and in each case another drew rein and stopped with him. at last a spruit was reached, with the fresh bubbling water tempting the escaping pair to alight in a way only to be understood by one who has been similarly situated. it was just after the boers had pulled up to let their horses walk after a long ascent, and they were still going on at the same pace, when west checked his pony. "it's of no use; we must drink," he said. "dismount, unsling your rifle, and get behind that stone and try and hold the enemy in check while i water the horses and fill the bottles." ingleborough said nothing, only obeyed, and the next minute west was leading the ponies down to the shallow crossing, leaving his companion with his rifle-barrel resting upon the big stone that formed a natural breastwork. seeing that the pair had stopped, the boers began to press forward, even after ingleborough had fired twice; but the next shot made them pull up short, open out, and take up position, beginning to return the fire then. a few minutes later the horses had had a good drink, the bottles were re-filled, and all was ready on the far side of the spruit for continuing the flight. west shouted to his companion, who placed a block of stone about the size of his head upon the natural breastwork and fired twice, dropping down directly after and wading to the side of the gully, where he threw himself upon his breast, drank deeply, and then waded across to rejoin his companion. then they were off again at a canter, getting a good quarter of a mile on their road before the boers discovered by a careful flanking approach that they had given up their defence of the spruit and dashed on. "they'll be after us now at full speed!" said west, as he stood up in his stirrups gazing back. "no," said ingleborough; "they'll stop there, i daresay, for an hour to give their horses water and rest, thinking that they can lull us into the belief that they have given up the pursuit; and then they'll come on again, following us steadily so as to trap us as soon as it is dusk." "i don't think you are right," said west; "but it is of no use to argue about it. we shall see!" the day wore on and they saw nothing but the wide-spreading brown veldt, with no sign of the great river, no mountain ridge or other object familiar to ingleborough during his travels through the country. "no," he said, in reply to a question from west, "i can't make out anything, only that we are going south-west. the country is so big, you see. all i can say is that we must be going right. we're making for the river, and we can't do better. it may be many, many miles away still!" "well, let's keep on. there's one comfort: the enemy don't seem to be after us." "no," said ingleborough, after a good look back, and speaking very drily; "they don't seem to be, but i don't trust them. they mean to run us down; but we'll give them their work first." in this spirit the fugitives rode steadily on hour after hour till the evening came, and then there was nothing for it but to look out for some halting-place with cover and feed for the ponies. "we can't keep on without giving them a rest," said ingleborough; "for we may have to ride all day to-morrow." "what?" cried west. "you surely don't think we're so far off still?" "i don't know anything, lad," replied ingleborough; "for, as i said before, the country is so big, and it is quite possible that we may have two or three days' journey before us yet." "but food--rest?" faltered west. "my eyes are wandering everywhere in search of food," replied ingleborough, "and i keep on hoping to come upon a farmhouse somewhere in sight. that will mean food, either given, bought, or taken by threatening with our rifles. as to the rest, we'll have that when we get into kimberley." night fell without a sign of spruit, pool, or farm; but it was a bright, clear time, with the stars giving them sufficient light to keep on in the hope that was growing desperate that they must soon come upon some stream. but they hoped in vain, and the ponies at last began to grow sluggish and indisposed to proceed whenever some patch of bush was reached in the midst of the dried-up expanse. "there, it's of no use," said ingleborough; "we may as well let the poor brutes browse upon such green shoots as they can find! they'll be all the fresher for the halt. as for us, we must feed upon hope and the remembrance of the good things we have had in the past." "don't let's give up yet!" replied west. "it is cool travelling, and every mile brings us nearer to safety." "very well; but we shall find it hard work to get the ponies along." so they rode on, with their mounts growing more and more sluggish for a while, and then west suddenly uttered an exclamation. "what is it?" cried ingleborough. "your nag?" "yes; he has suddenly begun to step out briskly." "so has mine," said ingleborough. "it's all right. give yours his head--they sniff water. i half fancy i can smell it myself; the air comes so cool and moist." just then one of the ponies snorted, and the pair broke into a canter which lasted for about a quarter of a mile, when they dropped into a walk, for the ground was encumbered with stones; but almost directly a pleasant refreshing odour of moist greenery saluted the riders' nostrils, and then the ground was soft and yielding beneath the ponies' hoofs, then rough and gravelly, and the next minute the riders were gazing down at the reflected stars, which became blurred as the ponies splashed into water and then lowered their muzzles to drink. "a great pool?" said west. "no; hark!" west listened, to hear the rippling trickle of running water. "a river!" he said excitedly. "yes, and it may be the vaal. if not, it will be one of the streams running into it." "and we must keep on this side and follow it down." "well, no," said ingleborough, with a little laugh; "seeing that the boers are after us, i think it will be safer to follow it down from the other side." "very well! what shall we do--get down and wade?" "i would rather keep dry," replied ingleborough. "let's wait till the ponies have drunk sufficient, and then try if it is safe enough for them to walk across. i think it will be, for you can hear how shallow it is!" "yes," said west; "close in here; but what is it farther out?" he stood up in his stirrups and followed the reflection of the stars for some distance. "it's a big river, ingle," he said, "and it would be madness to try and ford it in the dark." "very well; let's get a good drink as soon as the ponies have had their share, and then follow the river down till we come upon a place where they can graze and we can rest." this plan was followed out, the ponies being hobbled at a spot where there seemed to be plenty of feed, while amongst the dense bushes and rugged stones which barred their way a snug resting-place was soon found, where, after cautiously making their way down to the river bank and allaying their thirst, the fugitives lay down to rest, listening to the sound of falling water not far away. then, in perfect forgetfulness of boers, despatches, and all the dangers of their way, both dropped into the deep sleep produced by exertion--a sleep which lasted till the sun was once more beginning to flood the earth with light. chapter thirty seven. rough work. it was the sound of a deep breath which put an end to west's slumber, and he opened his eyes to lie staring at two more, big, brown, soft, and peaceful-looking, not a foot away from his own. it was some moments before full wakefulness came and he realised where he was, and that it was his pony, well-fed and rested, mutely asking him whether he was not going to mount and ride off again. it was then that the thought of danger asserted itself, and he raised his head and looked sharply around, to see that they were amongst stones and bushes where; the bank went precipitously down to a beautiful winding river flowing amongst abundant verdure. close by him lay ingleborough, still fast asleep, and beyond him the other pony, still cropping away at the rich green growth which sprang up among the stones. then, as far as he could see, west made out nothing but the beauty of the spot upon which they had stumbled in the darkness of the night. he rose to his knees stiffly enough, and was in the act of getting upon his feet, realising that the beautiful greenery formed a riband on either side of the river, beyond which was the open veldt, when he dropped down again to reach out and grasp ingleborough's shoulder, for in his rapid glance he had caught sight of a party of mounted men out in the full sunshine about half-a-mile away. they were walking their horses, and it seemed for certain to be the whole or a portion of the enemy of the previous day, for he recalled, what had not struck him at the time, that one of the boers was mounted upon a grey horse, and one of the others he could see from where he watched was similarly mounted. "plenty of grey horses about, of course!" he muttered; "but this seems to be the one i saw yesterday." "what's the matter?" said ingleborough. "hist! keep quiet!" replied west. "the boers are upon us! look!" ingleborough rose cautiously, took a long earnest look through his glass, and put it back. "yes, there they are," he said coolly; "there's that chap again on the white pony. good job we didn't try to ford the river in the darkness. why, we should have been swept away." west glanced for a moment in the direction of the stream, and grasped the truth of his companion's words, before scanning their position and taking it in at once. "we can't get over yonder," he said quickly. "no," replied ingleborough. "that cuts two ways. neither can they attack us from that quarter; so our rear is safe." "we shall not be able to escape north," continued west. "no; we are shut in there." "nor yet south, for they would pick us off easily before we could get through the rough ground to gallop away." "quite right, lad; and they are advancing on our front. noll, my boy, there is only one thing to be done." "what is that?" "turn that patch of rocks there into our fort, and hold out till they've shot us down, or we've shot them, or they've made us surrender." "what about provisions?" "plenty of water," said ingleborough coolly, nodding towards the river. "we're nearly famished now." "yes, lad! i certainly feel as if i could peck a bit of something if i had the chance. but come, there's no time for talking. there's a ready-made fort for us, and the next thing is to get the ponies into cover. i say, i was right! i knew that the enemy would stick doggedly to our trail till they ran us down." "look here!" cried west: "i'm going to crawl to those rocks and try and cover you while you follow with the ponies." "no need," replied ingleborough; "the poor things have eaten till they can eat no more, and they'll follow us right enough. let's try and get under cover before we are seen." west hesitated for a moment, for the thought arose that the boer party might ride away and try to find a ford, but a glance showed him that in the brief period which had passed since he awoke and saw them the enemy were much nearer, and, following his companion's example, he began to crawl on all-fours towards the clump of rocks pointed out, the horses quietly following them. they had about fifty yards to go through a cover of bushes and lumps of rugged stone, but before they were half-way there west cried impatiently: "i don't like it; the boers must see the horses directly. let's mount and make a dash for it." "very well!" replied ingleborough quietly. "perhaps it would be best!" "then as soon as you are up we must ride towards them till we are clear of these bushes, and then off we go to the right." "good; but it must be sharp work, for of course they will see us the moment we are up!" answered ingleborough. "we must risk it, ingle," said west. "we never could keep them at bay. let's have action: it would be horrible to be lying behind a rock with the sun beating down upon us. now then, get hold of your rein!" there was a few moments' pause while the pair crept alongside of their ponies. then west drew a deep breath and cried: "mount!" as he uttered the word he glanced over his pony's back at the advancing enemy, and saw that they had caught sight of the two animals, halted, and were in the act of taking aim at them. but neither west nor ingleborough paused, raising a foot to the stirrup and being in the act of springing up, when the reports of about a dozen rifles rang out, and west's rein was jerked out of his hand as he was thrown upon his back, while his pony made a series of tremendous bounds, the last of which took it into the river with a plunge of about a dozen feet right into a deep pool. the water splashed on high, glittering in the sunshine, and the next minute the unfortunate beast was floating slowly away towards the swift current, just feebly pawing at the water, and on raising its head it fell again with a heavy splash. "they can shoot well!" said ingleborough coolly. west turned his gaze from the dying pony, irritated beyond measure by his companion's easy-going coolness, and then saw the full extent of their trouble, for ingleborough's pony had sunk upon its knees and then lain gently over upon its side, to die instantly without a struggle, one of the boers' bullets having passed right through its brain. "might have been worse!" continued ingleborough. "they did not hit us! come along, lad! they can't see us now. follow me, and let's creep to the fort. keep down, lad; keep down." west had involuntarily dropped on all-fours as ingleborough spoke, and none too soon, for another dozen bullets came rattling over them, cutting the twigs and spattering amongst the rocks, while several passed close to them with a buzzing sound. "there!" cried ingleborough the next minute. "no question now about what we're going to do. here's our fort; there's plenty of water; and the boers have shot our provisions ready for us. we must cut some of the meat up for biltong, and eat as much as we can while the rest of it is fresh." "for heaven's sake don't talk of eating!" cried west. "look here: let's creep along through the cover and try and get away." "on foot, followed by mounted men? no good; we should be pumped out in less than a couple of hours!" "then let's make the brutes pay dearly for what they've done!" cried west angrily. "now ingle, let's prove to them that we can use our rifles too! i'm going to shoot every horse i can." "very well: so am i; and if that does not beat them off i'm going to bring down man after man till the rest of them run for their lives. got a good place?" "yes," said west, whose rifle-barrel rested in a crack between two stones. "then fire away; but don't waste a shot!" "trust me!" cried west grimly. "now then, fire; and remember the despatch!" he took careful aim as he spoke, and drew trigger, with the result that one of the boer ponies stopped short, spun round, flung its rider, and galloped madly away. the next moment ingleborough's rifle cracked, and a second pony began to walk on three legs, while the party opened out, galloping so as to form a half-circle about their enemies, the two ends resting on the river bank and forming a radius of about three hundred yards. "sixteen more ponies to bring down," said ingleborough; "and those two dismounted men will take cover and begin to stalk us." "that's what the whole party will do!" said west bitterly. "we shall hit no more ponies: they'll get them all into cover, and then come creeping nearer and nearer." at that moment ingleborough fired again right in front where one of the boers dismounted among some trees. "there's one more though," said ingleborough, for the poor brute he had fired at reared up and then fell, to lie kicking on its flank. "try for another yourself, lad!" before he had finished speaking west had fired again, and another pony was hit, to come tearing towards them, dragging its dismounted rider after it, for the man clung to the reins till he was jerked off his feet and drawn along the ground some fifty yards, when his head came in contact with a stone, and he lay insensible, his pony galloping for another hundred yards and then falling, paralysed in its hindquarters. and now the boers' bullets began to rattle about the stones which protected the hidden pair, keeping them lying close and only able to fire now and then; but they got chances which they did not miss of bringing down, killing, or disabling five more of the enemy's ponies, which upon being left alone began to graze, and naturally exposed themselves. maddened by their losses and inability to see their foes, the boers kept reducing the distance, creeping from stone to bush and from bush to stone, rendering the defenders' position minute by minute one of greater peril. but the danger did not trouble west. it only increased the excitement from which he suffered, and, with his eyes flashing in his eagerness, he kept on showing the boers where he lay by firing at every opportunity, religiously keeping his aim for the ponies, in the full belief that before long the boers would retire. "it's no good to play that game!" cried ingleborough suddenly, and he made a quick movement, turning a little to his right and firing. there was a hoarse yell, and a man sprang up not above a hundred yards away, dropped his rifle, and turning round he began to stagger away. "you are firing at the boers, ingle," cried west excitedly. "yes: it was time!" growled ingleborough, through his teeth, with his voice sounding hoarse and strange. "i've hit three. two haven't moved." "what's the matter?" asked west, in a tone of anxiety, for he felt that something serious had happened to his comrade. "don't talk," growled ingleborough angrily. "look! those two. fire!" two of the boers away to west's left front had suddenly sprung up, and bending low were running towards him, evidently making for a patch of bush, out of which a mass of grey stone peered, not a hundred yards from the young men's shelter. feeling now that it was life for life, west glanced along the barrel of his rifle, waiting till the boers had nearly reached their goal, and then, just as the second dashed close behind his leader, west drew trigger, shivering the next moment, for as the smoke rose he saw one of the men lying upon his face and the other crawling back on all-fours. "good shot!" said ingleborough hoarsely, and then he uttered a deep groan. "ingle, old fellow, what is it?" cried west. the only answer he obtained was from his comrade's piece, for the latter fired again, and another boer sprang into sight not a hundred yards away, fell upon his knees, and then rolled over. "ingle, old fellow," cried west; "don't say you're hurt!" "oh!" groaned ingleborough. "wasn't going to, old man; but that last brute got me." "hurt much?" "much? it's like red-hot iron through me. oh, if i only had some water!" "water?" cried west, springing up. "yes; i'll get some." _crack, crack, crack_! half-a-dozen rifles rang out in different directions, and in an instant west suffered for his thoughtless unselfish act, for he felt as if someone had struck him a cruel blow with a sjambok across the face from the front, while someone else had driven the butt of his rifle with all his force full upon his shoulder-blade--this blow from the back driving him forward upon his knees and then causing him to fall across ingleborough. then for a few moments everything seemed as a blank. "hurt much?" came the next minute, as if from a distance. "hurt? no!" said west huskily, and he made an effort and rose to his knees. then, stung to rage by an agonising pain which stiffened him into action, he levelled his rifle once more, took a quick aim at a couple of the boers who were running towards them in a stooping position, fired, and distinctly saw one of the two drop to the ground. the next moment someone fired over his shoulder, and the other went down, just as west's rifle dropped from his hand and he fell over sideways, yielding to a horribly sickening sensation, followed by a half-dreamy fancy that someone had felt for and got hold of his hand, to grip it in a way that was at first terribly painful--a pang seeming to run up from hand to shoulder. the pain appeared to grow worse and worse, then deadened, and came again, and so on, like spasms of agony, while all the time the firing went on from all around. "poor old ingle!" was about his last clear thought; "they've killed him, and now they're firing till they've quite frightened me! oh, how they keep on shooting! get it over, you cowardly brutes--nearly a score of you against two! oh!" he groaned then: "if i could only have delivered my despatch!" his left hand was raised painfully to his breast to feel whether the paper was still safe; but the pain of the effort was sickening, and his hand glided over something wet and warm and sticky. "poor old ingle! blood!" flashed through his brain, as the rifle reports rang out from very close now, and then all was blank. the end of everything seemed to have come. chapter thirty eight. the surgeon's words. "bad enough, poor fellow; but i think i can pull them both round. nothing vital, you see, touched, and these mauser bullets make wonderfully clean wounds!" "and the other?" "bad flesh-wounds--great loss of blood. i just got at that artery in time." west heard these words spoken by someone whose head kept getting in his way as he lay staring up at the great bright stars directly overhead, and it seemed very tiresome. he tried to speak and ask whoever it was to move aside; but his tongue would not stir, and he lay perfectly still, trying to think what it all meant, and in a dull far-off sort of way it gradually dawned upon him that the people near him were talking about the boers he had somehow or another and for some reason shot down. then, as he thought, the calm feeling he was enjoying grew troubled, and he began to recall the fact that he had been shooting somebody's ponies to supply somebody else with food, and that he must have been mad, for he felt convinced that they would not be nice eating, as he had heard that the fat was oily and the flesh tasted sweet. besides which, it would be horrible to have to eat horseflesh at a time when his throat was dry with an agonising thirst. then the terrible thought forced itself upon him that while shooting down ponies he had missed them and killed men instead, and once more all was blank. the next time the power of thinking came to the poor fellow all was very dark, and a jarring pain kept running through him, caused by the motion of his hard bed, which had somehow grown wheels and was being dragged along. cattle were lowing and sheep bleating. there were shouts, too, such as he knew were uttered by kaffir drivers, and there were the crackings of their great whips. after a while he made out the trampling of horses and heard men talking, while in an eager confused way he listened for what they would say about those two wounded boers, one of whom had nearly bled to death before that artery was stopped. these, he felt, must be the boers he shot when he ought to have shot ponies. and as he got to that point the trouble of thinking worried his brain so that he could think no more, and again all was blank. at last came a morning when west woke up in a great room which seemed to be familiar. there were nurses moving about in their clean white-bordered dresses, and he knew that he was in some place fitted up as a hospital. several of the occupants of the beds wore bandages suggestive of bad wounds, and to help his thoughts there came from time to time the dull heavy reports of cannon. he did not recollect all that had preceded his coming yet; but he grasped the fact that he had been wounded and was now in hospital. he lay for a few minutes with his brain growing clearer and clearer, and at last, seeing one of the nurses looking in his direction, he tried to raise one hand, but could not. the other proved more manageable, and in obedience to a sign the nurse came, laid a hand upon his forehead, and smiled down in his face. "your head's cooler!" she said. "you're better?" "yes," he replied: "have i been very bad?" "terribly! we thought once that you would not recover." "and ingleborough?" "ingleborough? oh, you mean your companion who was brought in with you?" west nodded: he could not speak. "well, i think he will get better now!" "but his wound: is it so bad?" "he nearly bled to death; but you must not talk much yet." "only a little!" said west eagerly. "pray tell me, he will get better?" "oh yes: there's no doubt about it, i believe." "oh, thank goodness!" cried west fervently. "but what place is this?" "this? why, kimberley, of course!" "ah!" cried west excitedly, and his hand went to his breast. "my jacket!" "your jacket?" said the nurse. "oh, that was all cut and torn, and soaked with blood. i think it has been burnt." "what!" cried west. "oh, don't say that!" "hush, hush! what is this?" said a deep, stern voice. "patient delirious, nurse?" a quiet, grave-looking face was bent over west's pillow, and the poor fellow jumped at the idea that this must be the surgeon. "no, sir; no, sir!" he whispered excitedly, catching at the new-comer's arm. "i am better: it is only that i am in trouble about my clothes." "clothes, eh?" said the doctor, smiling. "oh, you will not want clothes for two or three weeks yet." "not to dress, sir," whispered west excitedly; "but i must have my jacket. it is important!" "why?" said the surgeon, laying his hand upon the young man's brow soothingly. "i was bringing on a despatch from mafeking when i was shot down, sir," whispered west excitedly. "it was sewn up for safety in the breast." "indeed?" said the doctor, laying his fingers on the lad's pulse and looking keenly in his eyes. "yes, sir, indeed!" said west eagerly. "i know what i am saying, sir." "yes, you are cool now; but i'm afraid the jacket will have been burned with other garments of the kind. of course, the contents of the pockets will have been preserved." "oh, they are nothing, sir," cried west piteously. "it is a letter sewn up in the breast that i want. it is so important!" "well, i'll see!" said the doctor gravely, and, signing to the nurse who had been in attendance, he left the ward, with west in a state of feverish anxiety. at last, to west's intense satisfaction, the horribly blood-stained garment was brought in, and his hand went out trembling to catch it by the breast, fully expecting to find the missive gone. "yes," he cried wildly, "it is here!" "hah!" cried the doctor, and, taking out his knife, he prepared to slit it up, but west checked him. "no," he panted: "the commandant. send for him here!" "my good lad, he is so busy, he would not come! let me cut out the message and send it to him." "no," said west firmly; "i will not part from it till he comes." "but really--" "tell him a wounded messenger from mafeking has a letter for him, and he will come." west was right: the magic word mafeking brought the commandant to his bedside; and as soon as he came up he stopped short and made what little blood poor west had left flush to his face, for he cried: "hullo! why, it is our illicit-diamond-dealer! i thought we were never to see you again!" "it is not true!" cried west. "the man who denounced me lied!" "then you have been to mafeking?" "yes, sir: mr ingleborough and i." "and brought back a despatch?" "yes, sir: here it is!" "where?" said the commandant, glancing down at the stained tunic on the bed. "open it now, sir," said west to the doctor, who took out his knife again, slit the cloth, and drew out the big letter, terribly soaked with its bearer's blood. "bravo! brave messenger!" cried the commandant, grasping west's hand before tearing open the packet and finding enough of the despatch unstained to allow him to decipher the principal part of the text. "hah!" he cried, when he had finished, "on the whole good news; but," he continued, glancing at the date, "you have been a long time coming." "have i, sir? we lost no time!" "the poor fellow has been lying here for a fortnight, sir," said the surgeon. "a fortnight ago? why, that was the day when the reconnoitring party returned with the captured sheep and cattle. yes, i remember now: they had a brush with the boers up the river. of course, yes: they were attracted by the firing, and saved two young englishmen. you are one of them?" "yes, sir." "well done, then! our raiding party did good work, though they did have a desperate fight afterwards to get through the boer lines. getting better?" "yes, sir," said west, with a sigh of relief: "now that i have got my despatch safely into your hands!" "but what about your bad character?" "it was a false accusation, sir!" cried west indignantly. "the man who denounced me was the criminal himself." "well, you have done your duty so truly that i believe you in preference to him." "but i shall be able to fully clear myself, sir, soon, for this man is a prisoner now with the cavalry brigade. has that come into the town yet, sir, with the prisoners, guns, and the convoy they captured?" "hah!" cried the commandant: "this is news indeed! has the brigade captured all you say?" "yes, sir," said west, and he told all that had taken place up to the time of he and ingleborough being cut off and chased by the boers. "we knew nothing of this!" said the commandant. "we are prisoners ourselves; but your news gives us hope of a speedy release, for the general is not one to let the grass grow under his feet." "he is not, sir!" said west. "then you shall bring me and the man who accused me face to face." "the sooner the better, my lad!" said the commandant warmly. "how soon will he be up, doctor?" "within a fortnight, i hope, sir!" was the reply. "then goodbye for the present, my lad!" said the commandant. "your long-delayed despatch will send a thrill of hope through all here in kimberley, for it breathes nothing but determination to hold the boers at bay." "may i say one word more, sir?" said west excitedly. "what do you think, doctor?" "he has said enough, sir, and if he talks much more we shall have the fever back. well, perhaps he'll fret if he does not get something off his mind." "what is it, then?" said the commandant. "i had a brave comrade to ride with the despatch, sir." "to be sure, yes, i remember. what about him? not killed, i hope?" "no, sir, but badly wounded, and lying somewhere here." "poor fellow! i must see him. there must be promotion for you both." "if you would see him, sir, and speak to him as you have spoken to me," said west, with the weak tears rising to his eyes. "of course, yes! there, shake hands, my lad: you have done splendidly! don't worry about the diamond charge! i can feel that it was a contemptible lie! now, doctor, take me to your other patient." "ha!" sighed west, nestling back on his pillow with a calm look of content in his eyes, which closed directly after for a sleep that lasted ten hours at the least. chapter thirty nine. anson in a hole--and something else. "don't worry about the diamond charge!" said the commandant; but oliver west did, day after day, though he got better fast and was soon able to go and sit with ingleborough, who slowly recovered, as a man does who has had nearly all the life-blood drained from his body. west worried, and ingle borough did too; for those were anxious days, those in kimberley, which brought strong men low, even near to despair, while the wounded, weak, and sick were often ready to think that relief would never come. west and ingleborough recovered from their wounds only gradually, to suffer with the rest, returning to duty when really unfit, while the deadly work went on, the men braving the shell and shot with more spirit when they knew that the women and children were safe within the mines. then came the day of relief, and with it the feeling that a long night of misery and despair had ended; and that night west and ingleborough grasped hands, the former's pale sallow face lighting up with something of his old look, as he exclaimed: "now, if the general would only march in with his prisoners, and bring anson before us face to face!" everything, the proverb says, comes to the man who waits, and certainly it was so here, for the day did come when the general rode in at the head of his dashing cavalry brigade, and, what was more, with the prisoners, and with them anson, very much reduced in weight. there was something more than mere eagerness to be freed from an accusation which led the two young men down to the general's camp next morning to wait until they could see him in their turn. on their way they sought out the sergeant who had had anson under his charge, and he grinned at them in recognition. "you were about right, gentlemen," he said, "about that prisoner." "what about him?" said west eagerly. "about his being an englishman. i've seen a lot of him along with the other prisoners, and he's as english as can be. piet retif! why, he's got james anson written on the tails of his shirts--that is, what he's got left." "but look here, sergeant," said ingleborough anxiously: "what about his wagon?" "oh, that's all right, sir! loaded up." "has he had the run of it?" "not he, sir. he wanted to, but i only let him get some under-toggery, shirts and such. i couldn't refuse him that!" "did he go alone?" "yes, sir." "quite?" "well, not quite, sir, because i was with him." "hah!" sighed ingleborough, in a tone full of relief. "i've stuck to him, by the general's orders, ever since. like a leech, sir," said the sergeant, in conclusion--"like a leech." the cavalry general welcomed the young men warmly, and, as it happened, the same four officers were with him, ready to join in the greeting. "i never expected to see you two fellows again," said one of them, laughing. "i was out with my men when you were cut off. why, you must have had a very narrow escape!" "of course," said the general, laughing; "but that has been the fashion: we have all had narrow escapes. well, you got safely in with your despatch?" "we got in with our despatch, sir!" said west rather grimly, "but not safely;" and he briefly told their adventures. "bravo! well done!" was chorussed. "why, you two will have to join the regulars!" said the general. "we can't have men like you for volunteers! think it over, and, if you decide to join, come to me, and i'll see what i can do! now then, don't want to be rude; but i have no time for ordinary visitors. you sent word in that you wanted to see me on important business. what is it?" "you speak," said ingleborough, and west began. "we want to know about the prisoner taken that day, sir--the man who said he was a boer." "i remember," cried the general. "i have him safe." "when is he to be tried, sir?" "can't say; he will be handed over to the authorities who see to such things now. you said he was a renegade who had joined the boers." "yes, sir, after being charged with illicit-diamond-dealing with the kaffirs working at the great kimberley mines; and we want you to give orders for the wagon he had with him to be searched." "his wagon searched?" cried the general. "how am i to know which wagon he had?" "the sergeant knows where it is, sir," replied west; "and we could recognise it directly." "but why do you want it searched--what for?" "for diamonds, sir, that he brought away from kimberley, and which you have brought back." "h'm! diamonds, eh? this sounds interesting!" said the general. "you think he has some there?" "we both believe he has, sir, and of great value." "what do you say, gentlemen?" "oh, let's have the search made by all means!" cried one of the officers, laughing. "it may mean salvage and loot, and all sorts of good things!" "very well! take the matter up, and i'll see the search made! let the prisoner be present, of course. i'll be ready in half-an-hour." punctually to the minute the general was ready, and he walked down through the temporary camp to where the wagon stood among scores of others, while the sergeant and four men stood by with anson, who looked shifty and uncomfortable, wincing suddenly as he caught sight of west and ingleborough, and then gazing sharply about at the mounted lancers on duty as patrols, for the prisoners were many, and there had been several attempts at escape. the general looked at him sharply, and then at the wagon. "is that your wagon, prisoner?" "it was till you took it!" replied the young man surlily. "what do you say, sergeant?" "yes, sir," answered the sergeant, with military brevity. "i marked it with my knife the day that it was taken." as he spoke he laid a finger upon a couple of notches he had made in the wood-work. "now then," said the general, "before i have the wagon examined--" anson's eyes twitched. "repeat the charge you made against this man!" continued the general. ingleborough now firmly repeated almost word for word what he had before said, and charged anson with being an illicit-diamond-dealer. "and upon what do you base this charge?" said the general sternly. "the personal knowledge of myself and friend here," replied ingleborough. "all lies, general," cried anson excitedly. "those two are charging me with what they did themselves. they were illicit-diamond-dealers, and when they were found out they tried to plant the crime on me. all lies!" "crime? yes," said the general thoughtfully. "yes; i suppose it is one of the greatest crimes that a man can commit in kimberley. all lies, eh! well, sir, not all, for it is evident from your speech that you are an englishman and not a boer. i judge too that you were in the company's office at kimberley." "oh yes, general," said anson; "that is true, and through the plotting of these two men i was turned out of my situation." "and then deserted to the boers?" "no, general. i was obliged to do something for a living, so i bought a wagon to go in for trade; but i was captured by the boers and they have kept me a prisoner ever since. then you fought the boers and beat them, and took me prisoner again. that's why i'm here." "an englishman--prisoner to your own countrymen? why did you not declare what you were? what did he say his name was, sergeant?" "said he was a boer and his name was piet retif, sir," said the sergeant, with a look of disgust at anson's fat face. "yes; that looks black against him!" said the general. "he is taken with the boers, while those who charge him are men of trust, being chosen to bear despatches." "because they were not found out, sir!" cried anson. "there never was a worse pair of cheats and tricksters." "perhaps not!" said the general. "so you were a prisoner with the boers, my man?" "yes, general, and very glad to see the british troops come up and gain such a success." "you said that you was a dealer in mealies and corn," growled the sergeant. "well, a man must do something for his living." "of course," said the general. "well, you look simple and innocent enough." "i am, sir, really!" cried anson. "and never engaged in illicit-diamond-dealing?" "me, sir? never," cried anson virtuously. "i was only charged by those two to save themselves! then they got on, and i was trampled down." "and joined the boers out of revenge, eh?" "no, sir: it was all fate and accident." "well, fate is very unkind to us sometimes, my man," said the general. "that is your wagon and span of oxen, you say?" "yes, sir." "well, you have prospered by your change. what did you say you traded in?" "provender, sir--mealies and corn." "and you?" cried the general, turning sharply to west. "what do you think he deals in?" "i believe he deals in diamonds, sir," replied west. "why?" said the general. "for one reason, sir, because my friend, in whom i have perfect faith, caught him in the act." "yes: anything more?" "i know him to be a cowardly liar, sir, and--" "oh!" groaned anson. "i never heard anything like it." "go on," said the general. "lastly, sir, because he set it about that i had volunteered to carry a despatch to mafeking so as to get away with the diamonds i had smuggled." "and did you?" said the general. "i got away to mafeking with the despatch!" said west, smiling. "and where are the diamonds in question?" "my friend and i believe that they are in james anson's wagon," said west bitterly, for he felt bitter then against the traitor, whose proceedings he recalled when they were prisoners. later on he felt a little sorry for his words. "oh!" cried anson, throwing up his hands and looking appealingly at the general, who fixed him with his eyes. "well," he said; "what have you to say to this?" "it's abominable, sir--it's atrocious--it's cruel!" "then you have no smuggled diamonds with you?" "no, sir," cried anson excitedly. "they charged me once before, and had my wagon searched by the police." "and did the police find any?" "no, sir, not one! it was a blind, sir, so that they might carry off theirs by throwing the police off the scent. i'll be bound to say they have a lot with them now!" "well, i doubt that!" said the general, smiling. "where would they carry them?" "oh, sir, you don't know what artful tricks are played!" said anson eagerly. "oh, i've heard of a few since i came to south africa; but i don't think it likely that a couple of despatch-riders would carry many illicit-diamonds with them!" "have the butts of their revolvers examined, sir, and the stuffing of their saddles," cried anson. "i have heard of the butts of rifles being bored to hold a lot." "so have i!" said the general; "but i fancy a wagon would be more likely to supply hiding-places!" "oh yes, sir, but the police inspector searched my wagon, and did not find any." "you would have no objection, of course, being perfectly innocent," said the general, "to some of my men searching your wagon?" "of course, i shouldn't like it, sir, but--" "but? ah, you mean conquest gives me the right of search?" "it's like casting a slur on a man's character, sir." "but it makes it shine out the brighter when you are proved to be innocent! here, sergeant, this case begins to be interesting! search our friend's wagon." anson tried to master a wince, and merely shrugged his shoulders, standing with his hands in his pockets while the sergeant and his men commenced their task, examining every part of the wagon while the officers waited patiently, lighting up and smoking their cigars until the sergeant came back to make his report. "well, what have you found?" "nothing but these, sir," replied the sergeant stiffly. "tucked away behind the doubled tilt they were, sir," and the man held out a revolver, anson's sword-stick, and his little mahogany flute-case. "humph! no diamonds, sergeant?" "not so much as a pin or ring, sir," replied the man. "are these yours, mr piet retif?" said the general. "the walking-stick and the flute-case are mine," said anson coolly. "the pistol must be the driver's. i had a rifle; but your men took that away." "nothing else?" said the general. "nothing else, sir. we looked everywhere," replied the sergeant, and he offered his superior the objects he had brought; but the general shrugged his shoulders and looked at his officers, who each examined the revolver, stick, and flute-case, and passed them back to the sergeant. "well, gentlemen," said the general, turning to west and ingleborough: "you hear. what have you to say now?" "the prisoner owned to these things being his!" said ingleborough. "no, i didn't!" said anson sharply. "revolver isn't mine." "only lent to you, perhaps," said ingleborough, taking the weapon from the sergeant's hands and cocking it, making anson wince. "i'm not going to fire," said ingleborough, smiling contemptuously, as he held the pistol in both hands with his thumb-nails together on the top of the butt. then, pressing the cock sidewise, the butt opened from end to end upon a concealed hinge, showing that it was perfectly hollowed out and that half-a-dozen large diamonds lay within, closely packed in cotton wool. anson turned clay-coloured. "'tisn't mine!" he cried. "i know nothing about it!" "well, never mind," said the general; "it is ours now. an interesting bit of loot, gentlemen!" there was a murmur of voices at this, and as soon as the pistol had been handed round the butt was closed with a sharp snap, and the general turned to ingleborough again. "well, sir," he said: "is that all?" "i am not sure," replied ingleborough; "but i am suspicious about that stick." "you think it is hollowed out?" "yes, sir," said ingleborough, and, taking it in his hands, he drew it apart, dragging into the light from its sheath a handsome damascened three-edged blade, which he held against the cane, proving that the blade went right down to the ferrule at the end. "what about the handle?" said one of the officers eagerly, as ingleborough thrust back the blade into its cane sheath. "that is what i suspect!" said ingleborough, and he carefully examined the silver-gilt tip, but twisted and turned it in vain, for there seemed to be no way of opening it, till all at once he tried to twist the sheath portion beneath the double ring which divided hilt from sheath, when the handle turned for about half-an-inch and was then drawn off, disclosing a hollow shell lining which held another deposit of diamonds packed in cotton wool. "more loot, gentlemen!" said the general, smiling. "what comes next?" "the flute," cried two voices together, and ingleborough opened the case, showing the three joints fitting tightly in the velvet-lined compartments. "a silent musical instrument!" said the general, smiling. "can anyone play the overture to the crown diamonds?" said one of the _aides-de-camp_ merrily. "this is the overture!" said another, and ingleborough took out two joints in turn, perfectly empty, fitted them together, and then took out the top joint, to put that in its proper position, before raising the instrument to his lips and running up and down the gamut. "nothing there," said the general. but ingleborough lowered the flute, held it in both hands, and drew it apart at the tuning-slide, held it sidewise, and then unscrewed the top plug, showing an opening, out of which he shook a magnificent gem of great size and perfect make. "bravo!" cried the general excitedly. and then: "i'm afraid, mr dealer in mealies and corn, the judgment will go dead against you. have you done?" he continued, turning to ingleborough. "not quite, sir!" replied the latter. "come, west, don't let me get all the credit for unmasking the scoundrel." "look here," cried anson viciously, "i protest against being called a scoundrel! those are my private savings, invested in what were bought honestly." "i think, sir, you had better keep your tongue silent until we have quite done!" said the general. then, turning to the two young men, he bade them go on. "come, west," said ingleborough, "you suspect where our friend who is no scoundrel has hidden more diamonds, do you not?" "well, yes," said west, rather unwillingly, for the whole business disgusted him. "speak out, then! i am sure it is in the same place as i think he has more plunder; but you shall have your turn now." "no, no; go on," said west warmly. "if you suspect that there is some place unsearched," said the general sternly, "speak out, sir." "then i believe, sir," said west, "that if the water-cask that is slung under the wagon is opened you will find a number of diamonds hidden there!" there was a burst of excitement at this, everyone present speaking save the sergeant, who did a bit of pantomime which meant: "of course!" for he bent down and gave his leg a sounding slap. "yes," said ingleborough; "that is where i meant." "why, i thought o' that once," cried the sergeant, "and then i says to myself: `that's too stoopid a place; no one would hide diamonds where they're sure to be found'; but i crept underneath on my hands and knees and gave it a swing so as to make the water wash about inside. that satisfied me, and i came away." "you have hit the mark, mr west," said the general, smiling. "there is no doubt about it! look at the prisoner's face!" anson tried hard to pull it back into its normal shape, for he had been gazing at west with a malignant look that meant anything from a rifle-shot to a stab with a bayonet. "now, sergeant, see if you can do better this time!" cried the general, as anson's mouth shut with a click. then he stood fast with his brow wrinkled and his hands clenched, waiting expectantly with the rest of those present until the cask was set free from the raw-hide reins by which it was slung under the hind part of the wagon, and then rolled out, giving forth the regular hollow sound of a barrel half-full of liquid. "only sounds like water!" muttered the sergeant, and he set it running, to soak into the dry ground, and draining out as much as he could, before giving an order to the nearest man to take hold of one end while he raised the other, both men looking stern and severe in the extreme. then together they gave the cask a lusty shake, and the sound which followed was that of some shovels full of pebbles rattling in the inside. the next minute they had set the cask down on end with a grin of delight, which was taken up by their fellows, while a satisfied smile dawned upon the faces of the _aides-de-camp_. "here, stop that fellow!" shouted one of the officers, for, in spite of his heaviness, anson proved that he could be active enough upon occasion, and this was one; for, seizing his opportunity, he dived under the wagon, and by the time the soldiers had run round to the other side he was off, dodging in and out among the wagons in the mad idea that he could escape; but before he had gone a hundred yards he came out suddenly upon a mounted man, and the next instant he went sprawling over a lance-shaft, and the steel-shod butt end was planted upon his back to keep him from rising. "pity you should have taken all that trouble!" said the sergeant, as he came panting up, followed by his men, "because we might want you to tell us all a bit about the value of them stones! now then, up with you. let him get up, lancer! and see here, my lad, if you cut and run again--being a prisoner caught in the act of trying to escape--my men have orders to fire, and you're so broad and fat that they are sure to bring you down first shot." anson glared at the men's rifles and fixed bayonets, but he said nothing, marching back between the men to the spot where he had left the general and his old fellow-clerks; but the barrel had been carried to a place of safety, and those who had witnessed his discomfiture had gone. half-an-hour later he had been marched out of the camp, and was under lock and key in the military prison, a sentry being posted at the door. chapter forty. winding up. the adventures of oliver west and his friend ingleborough were pretty well at an end; and it was time, for between wounds and exposure they had been brought to a state which necessitated plenty of rest and comforts to enable them to quite recover themselves. of feasting, praising, and complimenting they had their fill--more than enough, west said, for he declared that the hues of returning health which were coming into his cheeks were only blushes caused by the way in which people talked about his bravery, dash, "and all that stuff." ingleborough took it all more contentedly. "i don't mind their praising us!" he said. "frankly, i rather like it; and, without bragging, i think we did earn it all!" "well, we did run some risks!" said west; "and of course it's much nicer for our friends to know that we escaped and are alive and well." "and a jolly deal nicer for us too. but what do you say to joining the army? after what the general said i think we might both get commissions." "perhaps," said west; "but it's doubtful now that everything is settling down. i feel disposed to invest my share of the loot and to stop on with the company after the splendid offer they have made me. hadn't you better do the same?" "i'm nearly half disposed to, noll," replied ingleborough; "but more than half inclined to go into the police altogether. i've had an invitation, and i think the life would suit me better than settling down to a desk. yes, this settles it! i shall go on to norton and say `yes.'" "well, i'm sorry," said west; "but at the same time i'm glad, for you'll make a splendid officer!" "here, hold hard! i don't want to hear you begin puffing me. by the way, you heard the news about fatty anson?" "no, not a word!" cried west excitedly. "promoted." "nonsense! what a shame!" "it's a fact, my lad! he has just received his commission in mrs partington's brigade." "what!" cried west. "oh, this is some bit of chaff!" "oh no!" said ingleborough, laughing. "it's a fact. the regiment employed by the old lady to help her keep out the atlantic with a mop." "bah! you mean that he has been sentenced with other convicts to help to build the cape breakwater?" "good boy! quite right! for five years!" replied ingleborough. "well," said west thoughtfully, "i suppose he deserves it, and i hope he will become a better fellow when he has served his time." now or never or, the adventures of bobby bright. a story for young folks by oliver optic author of _the boat club_, _all aboard_, _in doors and out_, etc. boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: lee, shepard & dillingham, greene street to my nephew, charles henry pope. this book is affectionately dedicated. preface the story contained in this volume is a record of youthful struggles, not only in the world without, but in the world within; and the success of the little hero is not merely a gathering up of wealth and honors, but a triumph over the temptations that beget the pilgrim on the plain of life. the attainment of worldly prosperity is not the truest victory, and the author has endeavored to make the interest of his story depend more on the hero's devotion to principles than on his success in business. bobby bright is a smart boy; perhaps the reader will think he is altogether too smart for one of his years. this is a progressive age, and any thing which young america may do need not surprise any person. that little gentleman is older than his father, knows more than his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and drive a : horse. he orders "one stew" with as much ease as a man of forty, and can even pronounce correctly the villanous names of sundry french and german wines and liqueurs. one would suppose, to hear him talk, that he had been intimate with socrates and solon, with napoleon and noah webster; in short, that whatever he did not know was not worth knowing. in the face of these manifestations of exuberant genius, it would be absurd to accuse the author of making his hero do too much. all he has done is to give this genius a right direction; and for politics, cigars, : horses, and "one stew," he has substituted the duties of a rational and accountable being, regarding them as better fitted to develop the young gentleman's mind, heart, and soul. bobby bright is something more than a smart boy. he is a good boy, and makes a true man. his daily life is the moral of the story, and the author hopes that his devotion to principle will make a stronger impression upon the mind of the young reader, than even the most exciting incidents of his eventful career. william t. adams. dorchester, nov. , . contents. chap. i.--in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse. chap. ii.--in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic. chap. iii.--in which the little black house is bought, but not paid for. chap. iv.--in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another. chap. v.--in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars. chap. vi.--in which bobby sets out on his travels. chap. vii.--in which bobby stands up for certain "inalienable rights." chap. viii.--in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street. chap. ix.--in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory. chap x.--in which bobby is a little too smart. chap. xi.--in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale. chap. xii.--in which bobby astonishes sundry persons, and pays part of his note. chap. xiii.--in which bobby declines a copartnership, and visits b---- again. chap. xiv.--in which bobby's air castle is upset, and tom spicer takes to the woods. chap. xv.--in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again. chap. xvi.--in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good." chap. xvii.--in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune. chat. xviii.--in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods. chap. xix.--in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray. chap. xx.--in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again. chap. xxi.--in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never." chapter i. in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse. "by jolly! i've got a bite!" exclaimed tom spicer, a rough, hard-looking boy, who sat on a rock by the river's side, anxiously watching the cork float on his line. "catch him, then," quietly responded bobby bright, who occupied another rock near the first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout, and, without any appearance of exultation, proceeded to unhook and place him in his basket. "you are a lucky dog, bob," added tom, as he glanced into the basket of his companion, which now contained six good-sized fishes. "i haven't caught one yet." "you don't fish deep enough." "i fish on the bottom." "that is too deep." "it don't make any difference how i fish; it is all luck." "not all luck, tom; there is something in doing it right." "i shall not catch a fish," continued tom, in despair. "you'll catch something else, though, when you go home." "will i?" "i'm afraid you will." "who says i will?" "didn't you tell me you were 'hooking jack'? "who is going to know any thing about it?" "the master will know you are absent." "i shall tell him my mother sent me over to the village on an errand." "i never knew a fellow to 'hook jack,' yet, without getting found out." "i shall not get found out unless you blow on me; and you wouldn't be mean enough to do that;" and tom glanced uneasily at his companion. "suppose your mother should ask me if i had seen you." "you would tell her you have not, of course." "of course?" "why, wouldn't you? wouldn't you do as much as that for a fellow?" "it would be a lie." "a lie! humph!" "i wouldn't lie for any fellow," replied bobby, stoutly, as he pulled in his seventh fish, and placed him in the basket. "wouldn't you?" "no, i wouldn't." "then, let me tell you this; if you peach on me i'll smash your head." tom spicer removed one hand from the fish pole and, doubling his fist, shook it with energy at his companion. "smash away," replied bobby, coolly. "i shall not go out of my way to tell tales; but if your mother or the master asks me the question, i shall not lie." "won't you?" "no, i won't." "i'll bet you will;" and tom dropped his fish pole, and was on the point of jumping over to the rock occupied by bobby, when the float of the former disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "you have got a bite," coolly interposed bobby, pointing to the line. tom snatched the pole, and with a violent twitch, pulled up a big pout; but his violence jerked the hook out of the fish's mouth, and he disappeared beneath the surface of the river. "just my luck!" muttered tom. "keep cool, then." "i will fix you yet." "all right; but you had better not let go your pole again, or you will lose another fish." "i'm bound to smash your head, though." "no, you won't." "won't i?" "two can play at that game." "do you stump me?" "no; i don't want to fight; i won't fight if i can help it." "i'll bet you won't!" sneered tom. "but i will defend myself." "humph!" "i am not a liar, and the fear of a flogging shall not make me tell a lie."' "go to sunday school--don't you?" "i do; and besides that, my mother always taught me never to tell a lie." "come! you needn't preach to me. by and by, you will call me a liar." "no, i won't; but just now you told me you meant to lie to your mother, and to the master." "what if i did? that is none of your business." "it is my business when you want me to lie for you, though; and i shall not do it." "blow on me, and see what you will get." "i don't mean to blow on you." "yes you do." "i will not lie about it; that's all." "by jolly! see that horse!" exclaimed tom, suddenly, as he pointed to the road leading to riverdale centre. "by gracious!" added bobby, dropping his fish pole, as he saw the horse running at a furious rate up the road from the village. the mad animal was attached to a chaise, in which was seated a lady, whose frantic shrieks pierced the soul of our youthful hero. the course of the road was by the river's side for nearly half a mile, and crossed the stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods from the place where the boys were fishing. bobby bright's impulses were noble and generous; and without stopping to consider the peril to which the attempt would expose him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or let the animal dash him to pieces on the bridge. "now or never!" shouted he, as he leaped from the rock, and ran with all his might to the bridge. the shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and seemed to command him, with an authority which he could not resist, to stop the horse. there was no time for deliberation; and, indeed, bobby did not want any deliberation. the lady was in danger; if the horse's flight was not checked, she would be dashed in pieces; and what then could excuse him for neglecting his duty? not the fear of broken limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden and violent death. it is true bobby did not think of any of these things; though, if he had, it would have made no difference with him. he was a boy who would not fight except in self-defence, but he had the courage to do a deed which might have made the stoutest heart tremble with terror. grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the fence, he planted himself in the middle of the bridge, which was not more than half as wide as the road at each end of it, to await the coming of the furious animal. on he came, and the piercing shrieks of the affrighted lady nerved him to the performance of his perilous duty. the horse approached him at a mad run, and his feet struck the loose planks of the bridge. the brave boy then raised his big club, and brandished it with all his might in the air. probably the horse did not mean any thing very bad; was only frightened, and had no wicked intentions towards the lady; so that when a new danger menaced him in front, he stopped suddenly, and with so much violence as to throw the lady forward from her seat upon the dasher of the chaise. he gave a long snort, which was his way of expressing his fear. he was evidently astonished at the sudden barrier to his further progress, and commenced running back. "save me!" screamed the lady. "i will, ma'am; don't be scared!" replied bobby, confidently, as he dropped his club, and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as he was on the point of whirling round to escape by the way he had come. "stop him! do stop him!" cried the lady. "whoa!" said bobby, in gentle tones, as he patted the trembling horse on his neck. "whoa, good horse! be quiet! whoa!" the animal, in his terror, kept running backward and forward; but bobby persevered in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed him, so that he stood quiet enough for the lady to get out of the chaise. "what a miracle that i am alive!" exclaimed she when she realized that she stood once more upon the firm earth. "yes, ma'am, it is lucky he didn't break the chaise. whoa! good horse! stand quiet!" "what a brave little fellow you are!" said the lady, as soon as she could recover her breath so as to express her admiration of bobby's bold act. "o, i don't mind it," replied he, blushing like a rose in june. "did he run away with you?" "no; my father left me in the chaise for a moment while he went into a store in the village, and a teamster who was passing by snapped his whip, which frightened kate so that she started off at the top of her speed. i was so terrified, that i screamed with all my might, which frightened her the more. the more i screamed, the faster she ran." "i dare say. good horse! whoa, kate!" "she is a splendid creature; she never did such a thing before. my father will think i am killed." by this time, kate had become quite reasonable, and seemed very much obliged to bobby for preventing her from doing mischief to her mistress; for she looked at the lady with a glance of satisfaction, which her deliverer interpreted as a promise to behave better in future. he relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, patted her upon the neck, and said sundry pleasant things to encourage her in her assumed purpose of doing better. kate appeared to understand bobby's kind words, and declared as plainly as a horse could declare that she would be sober and tractable. "now, ma'am, if you will get into the chaise again, i think kate will let me drive her down to the village." "o, dear! i should not dare to do so." "then, if you please, i will drive down alone, so as to let your father know that you are safe." "do." "i am sure he must feel very bad, and i may save him a great deal of pain, for a man can suffer a great deal in a very short time." "you are a little philosopher, as well as a hero, and if you are not afraid of kate, you may do as you wish." "she seems very gentle now;" and bobby turned her round, and got into the chaise. "be very careful," said the lady. "i will." bobby took the reins, and kate, true to the promise she had virtually made, started off at a round pace towards the village. he had not gone more than a quarter of a mile of the distance when he met a wagon containing three men, one of whom was the lady's father. the gestures which he made assured bobby he had found the person whom he sought, and he stopped. "my daughter! where is she?" gasped the gentleman, as he leaped from the wagon. "she is safe, sir," replied bobby, with all the enthusiasm of his warm nature. "thank god!" added the gentleman, devoutly as he placed himself in the chaise by the side of bobby. chapter ii. in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic. mr. bayard, the owner of the horse, and the father of the lady whom bobby had saved from impending death, was too much agitated to say much, even to the bold youth who had rendered him such a signal service. he could scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy brought him; it seemed too good to be true. he had assured himself that ellen--for that was the young lady's name--was killed, or dreadfully injured. kate was driven at the top of her speed, and in a few moments reached the bridge, where ellen was awaiting his arrival. "here i am, father, alive and unhurt!" cried ellen, as mr. bayard stopped the horse. "thank heaven my child!" replied the glad father, embracing his daughter. "i was sure you were killed." "no, father; thanks to this bold youth, i am uninjured." "i am under very great obligations to you, young man," continued mr. bayard, grasping bobby's hand. "o, never mind, sir;" and bobby blushed just as he had blushed when the young lady spoke to him. "we shall never forget you--shall we, father?" added ellen. "no, my child; and i shall endeavor to repay, to some slight extent, our indebtedness to him. but you have not yet told me how you were saved." "o, i merely stopped the horse; that's all," answered bobby, modestly. "yes, father, but he placed himself right before kate when she was almost flying over the ground. when i saw him, i was certain that he would lose his life, or be horribly mangled for his boldness," interposed ellen. "it was a daring deed, young man, to place yourself before an affrighted horse in that manner," said mr. bayard. "i didn't mind it, sir." "and then he flourished a big club, almost as big as he is himself, in the air, which made kate pause in her mad career, when my deliverer here grasped her by the bit and held her." "it was well and bravely done." "that it was, father; not many men would have been bold enough to do what he did," added ellen, with enthusiasm. "very true; and i feel, that i am indebted to him for your safety. what is your name, young man?" "robert bright, sir." mr. bayard took from his pocket several pieces of gold, which he offered to bobby. "no, i thank you, sir," replied bobby, blushing. "what! as proud as you are bold?" "i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "bravo! you are a noble little fellow! but you must take this money, not as a reward for what you have done, but as a testimonial of my gratitude." "i would rather not, sir." "do take it, robert," added ellen. "i don't like to take it. it looks mean to take money for doing one's duty." "take it, robert, to please me;" and the young lady smiled so sweetly that bobby's resolution began to give way. "only to please me, robert." "i will, to please you; but i don't feel right about it." "you must not be too proud, robert," said mr. bayard, as he put the gold pieces into his hand. "i am not proud, sir; only i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "not paid, my young friend. consider that you have placed me under an obligation to you for life. this money is only an expression of my own and my daughter's feelings. it is but a small sum, but i hope you will permit me to do something more for you, when you need it. you will regard me as your friend as long as you live." "thank you, sir." "when you want any assistance of any kind, come to me. i live in boston; here is my business card." mr. bayard handed him a card, on which bobby read, "f. bayard & co., booksellers and publishers, no. ---- washington street, boston." "you are very kind, sir." "i want you should come to boston and see us too," interposed ellen. "i should be delighted to show you the city, to take you to the athenaeum and the museum." "thank you." mr. bayard inquired of bobby about his parents, where he lived, and about the circumstances of his family. he then took out his memorandum book, in which he wrote the boy's name and residence. "i am sorry to leave you now, robert, but i have over twenty miles to ride to-day. i should be glad to visit your mother, and next time i come to riverdale, i shall certainly do so." "thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor woman, but she will be glad to see you." "now, good by, robert." "good by," repeated ellen. "good by." mr. bayard drove off, leaving bobby standing on the bridge with the gold pieces in his hand. "here's luck!" said bobby, shaking the coin. "won't mother's eyes stick out when she sees these shiners? there are no such shiners in the river as these." bobby was astonished, and the more he gazed at the gold pieces, the more bewildered he became. he had never held so much money in his hand before. there were three large coins and one smaller one. he turned them over and over, and finally ascertained that the large coins were ten dollar pieces, and the smaller one a five dollar piece. bobby was not a great scholar, but he knew enough of arithmetic to calculate the value of his treasure. he was so excited, however, that he did not arrive at the conclusion half so quick as most of my young readers would have done. "thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed bobby, when the problem was solved. "gracious!" "hallo, bob!" shouted tom spicer, who had got tired of fishing; besides, the village clock was just striking twelve, and it was time for him to go home. bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the gold pieces up in the corner of his handkerchief, he threw the broken rail he had used in stopping the horse where it belonged, and started for the place where he had left his fishing apparatus. "hallo, bob!" "well, tom?" "stopped him--didn't you?" "i did." "you were a fool; he might have killed you." "so he might; but i didn't stop to think of that. the lady's life was in danger." "what of that?" "every thing, i should say." "did he give you any thing?" "yes;" and bobby continued his walk down to the river's side. "i say, what did he give you, bobby?" persisted tom, following him. "o, he gave me a good deal of money." "how much?" "i want to get my fish line now; i will tell you all about it some other time," replied bobby, who rather suspected the intentions of his companion. "tell me now; how much was it?" "never mind it now." "humph! do you think i mean to rob you?" "no." "ain't you going halveses?" "why should i?" "wasn't i with you?" "were you?" "wasn't i fishing with you?" "you did not do any thing about stopping the horse." "i would, if i hadn't been afraid to go up to the road." "afraid?" "somebody might have seen me, and they would have known that i was hooking jack." "then you ought not to share the money." "yes, i had. when a fellow is with you, he ought to have half. it is mean not to give him half." "if you had done any thing to help stop the horse, i would have shared with you. but you didn't." "what of that?" bobby was particularly sensitive in regard to the charge of meanness. his soul was a great deal bigger than his body, and he was always generous, even to his own injury, among his companions. it was evident to him that tom had no claim to any part of the reward; but he could not endure the thought even of being accused of meanness. "i'll tell you what i will do, if you think i ought to share with you. i will leave it out to squire lee; and if he thinks you ought to have half, or any part of the money, i will give it to you." "no, you don't; you want to get me into a scrape for hooking jack. i see what you are up to." "i will state the case to him without telling him who the boys are." "no, you don't! you want to be mean about it. come, hand over half the money." "i will not," replied bobby, who, when it became a matter of compulsion, could stand his ground at any peril. "how much have you got?" "thirty-five dollars." "by jolly! and you mean to keep it all yourself?" "i mean to give it to my mother." "no, you won't! if you are going to be mean about it, i'll smash your head!" this was a favorite expression with tom spicer, who was a noted bully among the boys of riverdale. the young ruffian now placed himself in front of bobby, and shook his clinched fist in his face. "hand over." "no, i won't. you have no claim to any part at the money; at least, i think you have not. if you have a mind to leave it out to squire lee, i will do what is right about it." "not i; hand over, or i'll smash your head!" "smash away," replied bobby, placing himself on the defensive. "do you think you can lick me?" asked tom, not a little embarrassed by this exhibition of resolution on the part of his companion. "i don't think any thing about it; but you don't bully me in that kind of style." "won't i?" "no." but tom did not immediately put his threat in execution, and bobby would not be the aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass his assailant. tom took this as an evidence of the other's desire to escape, and struck him a heavy blow on the side of the head the next instant the bully was floundering in the soft mud of a ditch; bobby's reply was more than tom had bargained for, and while he was dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero ran down to the river, and got his fish pole and basket. "you'll catch it for that!" growled tom. "i'm all ready, whenever it suits your convenience," replied bobby. "just come out here and take it in fair fight," continued tom, who could not help bullying, even in the midst of his misfortune. "no, i thank you; i don't want to fight with any fellow. i will not fight if i can help it." "what did you hit me for, then?" "in self-defence." "just come out here, and try it fair?" "no;" and bobby hurried home, leaving the bully astonished, and discomfited by the winding up of the morning's sport. chapter iii. in which the little black house is bought but not paid for. probably my young readers have by this time come to the conclusion that bobby bright was a very clever fellow--one whose acquaintance they would be happy to cultivate. perhaps by this time they have become so far interested in him as to desire to know who his parents were, what they did, and in what kind of a house he lived. i hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when i inform them that bobby lived in an old black house which had never been painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and which, in a word, was quite far from being a palace. a great many very nice city folks would not have considered it fit to live in, would have turned up their noses at it, and wondered that any human beings could be so degraded as to live in such a miserable house. but the widow bright, bobby's mother, thought it was a very comfortable house, and considered herself very fortunate in being able to get so good a dwelling. she had never lived in a fine house, knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart things which very rich and very proud city people consider absolutely necessary for their comfort. her father had been a poor man, her husband had died a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to keep the demons of poverty and want from invading her humble abode. mr. bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in riverdale. he never got more than a dollar a day, which was then considered very good wages in the country. he was a very honest, industrious man, and while he lived, his family did very well. mrs. bright was a careful, prudent woman, and helped him support the family. they never knew what it was to want for any thing. poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something which they are not, or to have something which they have not. every person, who has an energy of character, desires to get ahead in the world. some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by the dozen, desire to be what they consider rich. but their idea of wealth is very grand. they wish to count it in millions of dollars, in whole blocks of warehouses; and they are even more discontented than the day laborer who has to earn his dinner before he can eat it. bobby's father and mother had just such an ambition, only it was so modest that the merchant would have laughed at it. they wanted to own the little black house in which they resided, so that they could not only be sure of a home while they lived, but have the satisfaction of living in their own house. this was a very reasonable ideal, compared with that of the rich merchants i have mentioned; but it was even more difficult for them to reach it, for the wages were small, and they had many mouths to feed. mr. bright had saved up fifty dollars; and he thought a great deal more of this sum than many people do of a thousand dollars. he had had to work very hard and be very prudent in order to accumulate this sum, which made him value it all the more highly. with this sum of fifty dollars at his command, john bright felt rich; and then, more than ever before, he wanted to own the little black house. he felt as grand as a lord; and as soon as the forty-nine dollars had become fifty, he waited upon mr. hardhand, a little crusty old man, who owned the little black house, and proposed to purchase it. the landlord was a hard man. every body in riverdale said he was mean and stingy. any generous-hearted man would have been willing to make an easy bargain with an honest, industrious, poor man, like john bright, who wished to own the house in which he lived; but mr. hardhand, although he was rich, only thought how he could make more money. he asked the poor man four hundred dollars for the old house and the little lot of land on which it stood. it was a matter of great concern to john bright. four hundred dollars was a "mint of money," and he could not see how he should ever be able to save so much from his daily earnings. so he talked with squire lee about it, who told him that three hundred was all it was worth. john offered this for it, and after a month's hesitation, mr. hardhand accepted the offer, agreeing to take fifty dollars down and the rest in semi-annual payments of twenty-five dollars each, until the whole was paid. i am thus particular in telling my readers about the bargain, because this debt which his father contracted was the means of making a man of bobby, as will be seen in his subsequent history. john bright paid the first fifty dollars; but before the next instalment became due, the poor man was laid in his cold and silent grave. a malignant disease carried him off, and the hopes of the bright family seemed to be blasted. four children were left to the widow. the youngest was only three years old, and bobby, the oldest, was nine, when his father died. squire lee, who had always been a good friend of john bright, told the widow that she had better go to the poorhouse, and not attempt to struggle along with such a fearful odds against her. but the widow nobly refused to become a pauper, and to make paupers of her children, whom she loved quite as much as though she and they had been born in a ducal palace. she told the squire that she had two hands, and as long as she had her health, the town need not trouble itself about her support. squire lee was filled with surprise and admiration at the noble resolution of the poor woman; and when he returned to his house, he immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten bushels of potatoes, two bags of meal, and a firkin of salt pork. the widow was very grateful for these articles, and no false pride prevented her from accepting the gift of her rich and kind-hearted neighbor. riverdale centre was largely engaged in the manufacturing of boots and shoes, and this business gave employment to a large number of men and women. mrs. bright had for several years "closed" shoes--which, my readers who do not live in "shoe towns" may not know, means sewing or stitching them. to this business she applied herself with renewed energy. there was a large hotel in riverdale centre, where several families from boston spent the summer. by the aid of squire lee, she obtained the washing of these families, which was more profitable than closing shoes. by these means she not only supported her family very comfortably, but was able to save a little money towards paying for the house. mr. hardhand, by the persuasions of squire lee, had consented to let the widow keep the house, and pay for it as she could. john bright had been dead four years at the time we introduce bobby to the reader. mrs. bright had paid another hundred dollars towards the house, with the interest; so there was now but one hundred due. bobby had learned to "close," and helped his mother a great deal; but the confinement and the stooping posture did not agree with his health, and his mother was obliged to dispense with his assistance. but the devoted little fellow found a great many ways of helping her. he was now thirteen, and was as handy about the house as a girl. when he was not better occupied, he would often go to the river and catch a mess of fish, which was so much clear gain. the winter which had just passed, had brought a great deal of sickness to the little black house. the children all had the measles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that mrs. bright could not work much. her affairs were not in a very prosperous condition when the spring opened; but the future was bright, and the widow, trusting in providence, believed that all would end well. one thing troubled her. she had not been able to save any thing for mr. hardhand. she could only pay her interest; but she hoped by the first of july to give him twenty-five dollars of the principal. but the first of july came, and she had only five dollars of the sum she had partly promised her creditor. she could not so easily recover from the disasters of the hard winter, and she had but just paid off the little debts she had contracted. she was nervous and uneasy as the day approached. mr. hardhand always abused her when she told him she could not pay him, and she dreaded his coming. it was the first of july on which bobby caught those pouts, caught the horse, and on which tom spicer had "caught a tartar." bobby hastened home, as we said at the conclusion of the last chapter. he was as happy as a lord. he had fish enough in his basket for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, and money enough in his pocket to make his mother as happy as a queen, if queens are always happy. the widow bright, though she had worried and fretted night and day about the money which was to be paid to mr. hardhand on the first of july, had not told her son any thing about it. it would only make him unhappy, she reasoned, and it was needless to make the dear boy miserable for nothing; so bobby ran home all unconscious of the pleasure which was in store for him. when he reached the front door, as he stopped to scrape his feet on the sharp stone there, as all considerate boys who love their mothers do, before they go into the house, he heard the angry tones of mr. hardhand. he was scolding and abusing his mother because she could not pay him the twenty-five dollars. bobby's blood boiled with indignation, and his first impulse was to serve him as he had served tom spicer, only a few moments before; but bobby, as we have before intimated, was a peaceful boy, and not disposed to quarrel with any person; so he contented himself with muttering a few hard words. "the wretch! what business has he to talk to my mother in that style?" said he to himself. "i have a great mind to kick him out of the house." but bobby's better judgment came to his aid; and perhaps he realized that he and his mother would only get kicked out in return. he could battle with mr. hardhand, but not with the power which his wealth gave him; so, like a great many older persons in similar circumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather than impulse. "bear ye one another's burdens," saith the scripture; but bobby was not old enough or astute enough to realize that mr. hardhand's burden was his wealth, his love of money; that it made him little better than a hottentot; and he could not feel as charitably towards him as a christian should towards his erring, weak brother. setting his pole by the door, he entered the room where hardhand was abusing his mother. chapter iv. in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another. bobby was so indignant at the conduct of mr. hardhand, that he entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even think of the gold he had in his pocket. he loved his mother; he knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters; that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made him feel very bad to near her abused as mr. hardhand was abusing her. it was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him. she had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much greater. bobby knew also that mr. hardhand was aware of all the circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course. as our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him. "there is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "why don't you set him to work, and make him earn something?" "bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow bright. "humph! i should think he was. a great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!" and mr. hardhand looked contemptuously at bobby. "i am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with spirit. "yes, you are. why don't you go to work?" "i do work." "no, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river." "i don't." "you had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "he is saucy." "i should like to know who taught you manners, mr. hardhand," replied bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion. "what!" growled mr. hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness. "i heard what you said before i came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her." "humph! mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice. "don't bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his mother. "saucy, marm? you ought to horsewhip him for it. if you don't, i will." "no, you won't!" replied bobby, shaking his head significantly. "i can take care of myself." "did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped mr. hardhand. "don't, bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother. "i should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother," continued bobby, who could not restrain his anger. "your mother owes me money, and she don't pay it, you young scoundrel!" answered mr. hardhand, foaming with rage. "that is no reason why you should insult her. you can call _me_ what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while i'm round." "your mother is a miserable woman, and--" "say that again, and though you are an old man, i'll hit you for it. i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to mr. hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import. he was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother's good name. i am not sure that i could excuse bobby's violence under any other circumstances. he loved his mother--as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and mr. hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her--epithets which no good son could calmly bear applied to a mother. besides, bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men. he had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother. "be calm, bobby; you are in a passion," said mrs. bright. "i am surprised, marm," began mr. hardhand, who prudently refrained from repeating the offensive language--and i have no doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed. "this boy has a most ungovernable temper." "don't you worry about my temper, mr. hardhand; i'll take care of myself. all i want of you is not to insult my mother. you may say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names." mr. hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. he changed his tone and manner at once. "you have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the door. "no, sir; i am sorry to say that i have been able to save only five dollars since i paid you last; but i hope--" "never mind, marm, never mind; i shall not trouble myself to come here again, where i am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. no, marm, i shall not come again. let the law take its course." "o, mercy! see what you have brought upon us, bobby," exclaimed mrs. bright, bursting into tears. "yes, marm, let the law take its course." "o bobby! stop a moment, mr. hardhand; do stop a moment." "not a moment, marm. we'll see;" and mr. hardhand placed his hand upon the latch string. bobby felt very uneasy, and very unhappy at that moment. his passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal of mischief by his impetuous conduct. then the remembrance of his morning, adventure on the bridge came like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious gold,--doubly precious now, because it would enable him to retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. with a trembling hand he untied the knot which secured the money. "here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in her hand. "why, bobby!" exclaimed mrs. bright. "pay him, mother, pay him, and i will tell you all about it by and by." "thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! where did you get it, bobby?" "never mind it now, mother." mr. hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached the widow. "i shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said mrs. bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket. "yes, marm." mr. hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table, indorsed the amount on the back of the note. "you owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "it must be paid immediately." "you must not be hard with me now, when i have paid more than you demanded." "i don't wish to come here again. that boy's impudence has put me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied mr. hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command. "there was a time when i was very willing to help you. i have waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer than i would have waited for anybody else." "your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the widow, modestly. "that's true; but very few people would have waited as long as i have for the principal. i wanted to help you--" "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, interrupting him. "don't be saucy, my son, don't," said mrs. bright, fearing a repetition of the former scene. "_he_ wanted to help us!" ejaculated bobby. it was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of mr. hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit. he was a malicious and revengeful man. he did not consider the great provocation he had given bobby for his violent conduct, but determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. he was a wicked man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her family out of house and home. mrs. bright knew this, and bobby knew it too; and they felt very uneasy about it. the wretch still had the power to injure them, and he would use it without compunction. "yes, young man, i wanted to help you, and you see what i get for it--contempt and insults! you will hear from me again in a day or two. perhaps you will change your tune, you young reprobate!" "perhaps i shall," replied bobby, without much discretion. "and you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. you have not done your duty to him. you have been remiss, marm!" continued mr. hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power he wielded. "that will do, sir; you can go!" said bobby, springing from his chair, and approaching mr. hardhand. "go, and do your worst!" "humph! you stump me--do you?" "i would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. go along!" "now, don't, bobby," pleaded his mother. "i am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the law shall lake its course;" and mr. hardhand rushed out of the house, slamming the door violently after him. "o bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed mrs. bright, when the hard-hearted creditor had departed. "i could not help it, mother; don't cry. i cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; and i thought when i heard him do it a year ago, that i couldn't stand it again. it is too bad." "but he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do then?" "don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. i have friends who are rich and powerful, and who will help us." "you don't know what you say, bobby. sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely bring that." "leave it all to me, mother; i feel as though i could do something now. i am old enough to make money." "what can you do?" "now or never!" replied bobby, whose mind had wandered from the scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every day. "now or never!" muttered he again. "but bobby, you have not told me where you got all that gold." "dinner is ready, i see, and i will tell you while we eat." bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge. the fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she thanked god that she was the mother of such a son. she felt more confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining years. bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door step. his mind was absorbed, by a new and brilliant idea; and for half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking. "now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road towards riverdale centre. chapter v. in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars. a great idea was born in bobby's brain. his mother's weakness and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than they had ever been before. she was in the power of her creditor, who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and her own hard earnings. but this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted son understood it. it was not the hard work alone which she was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed bobby; it was that a wretch like mr. hardhand could insult and trample upon his mother. he had just heard him use language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it. he cared not for himself. he could live on a crust of bread and a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as mr. hardhand. yet what could he do? he was but a boy, and the great world would look with contempt upon his puny form. but he felt that he was not altogether insignificant. he had performed an act, that day, which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very few men would have undertaken. there was something in him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. it was a tower of strength within him. it told him that he could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life. a great many people think they can "do wonders." the vanity of some very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before, and never would know but for them. but bobby's something within him was not vanity. it was something more substantial. he was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune. self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. he was thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. he wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second. a legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him strength for the great purpose in his mind. his was a holy and a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do wonders." what bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. it is enough now that he meant to do something. the difficulty with a great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. they wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. their lives are spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes. now, bobby bright repudiated the micawber philosophy. he would have nothing to do with it. he did not believe corn would grow without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook. i am not going to tell my young readers now how bobby made out in the end; but i can confidently say that, if he had waited for "something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself and all the world. it was "now or never" with bobby. he meant to do something; and after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the "old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint." bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid step. he was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step quick. but as he approached squire lee's house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to be very uneasy. when he reached the great gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. i cannot tell what the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but if he was searching for any thing in them, he did not find it; for after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of them against his chest, and in an audible voice exclaimed,-- "now or never." all this pantomime, i suppose, meant that bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at squire lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite expression, they were conquered and driven out. marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back door--bobby's idea of etiquette would not have answered for the meridian of fashionable society--he gave three smart raps. bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he waited a response to his summons. it seemed that he still had some doubts as to the practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty daughter annie, a young miss of twelve. "o bobby, is it you? i am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the little lady. bobby blushed--he didn't know why, unless it was that the young lady desired to see him. he stammered out a reply, and for the moment forgot the object of his visit. "i want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books the expressman was to bring up from boston for me. will you go?" "certainly, miss annie, i shall be very glad to go for _you_," replied bobby with an emphasis that made the little maiden blush in her turn. "you are real good, bobby; but i will give you something for going." "i don't want any thing," said bobby, stoutly. "you are too generous! ah, i heard what you did this forenoon; and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what you did. i always thought you were as brave as a lion; now i know it." "the books are at the express office, i suppose," said bobby, turning as red as a blood beet. "yes, bobby; i am so anxious to get them that i can't wait till pa goes down this evening." "i will not be gone long." "o, you needn't run, bobby; take your time." "i will go very quick. but, miss annie, is your father at home?" "not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back by the time you return." "will you please to tell him that i want to see him about something very particular, when he gets back?" "i will, bobby." "thank you, miss annie;" and bobby hastened to the village to execute his commission. "i wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for," said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form. "in my opinion, something has happened, at the little black house, for i could see that he looked very sober." either bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he was in a hurry to see squire lee; for the squire's old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker. "you should not have run, bobby," said the little maiden when he placed the books in her hand; "i would not have asked you to go if i had thought you would run all the way. you must be very tired." "not at all; i didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he; but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had been very much exaggerated. "has your father returned?" "he has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. come in, bobby." bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which annie offered him. "how do you do, bobby? i am glad to see you," said the squire, taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon him--a smile which cheered his heart more than any thing else could at that moment. "i have heard of you before to-day." "have you?" "i have, bobby; you are a brave little fellow." "i came over to see you, sir, about something very particular," replied bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the topic. "indeed; well, what can i do for you?" "a great deal, sir; perhaps you will think i am very bold, sir, but i can't help it." "i know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire. "i didn't mean that, sir," answered bobby, blushing up to the eyes. "i know you didn't; but go on." "i only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or something of that kind." "o, no, far from it. you cannot be presuming or impudent. speak out, bobby; any thing under the heavens that i can do for you, i shall be glad to do." "well, sir, i am going to leave riverdale." "leave riverdale!" "yes, sir; i am going to boston, where i mean to do something to help mother." "bravo! you are a good lad. what do you mean to do?" "i was thinking i should go into the book business." "indeed!" and squire lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the young aspirant. "i was talking with a young fellow who went through the place last spring, selling books. he told me that some days he made three or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week." "he did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so much." "i know i can make twelve dollars a week," replied bobby, confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of great things. "i dare say you can. you have energy and perseverance, and people take a liking to you." "but i wanted to see you about another matter. to speak out at once, i want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and bobby blushed, and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness. "sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire. "i knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his heart sinking within him. "but i don't, bobby. you want this money to go into business with--to buy your stock of books?" "o, no, sir; i am going to apply to mr. bayard for that." "just so; mr. bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you saved?" "yes, sir. i want this money to pay off mr. hardhand. we owe him but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it is not paid by tomorrow noon." "the old hunks!" bobby briefly related to the squire the events or the morning, much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted man. the courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months. "very well, bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it to him. "thank you, sir. may heaven bless you! i shall certainly pay you." "don't worry about it, bobby. pay it when you get ready." "i will give you my note, and--" the squire laughed heartily at this, and told him, that, as he was a minor, his note was not good for any thing. "you shall see whether it is, or not," returned bobby. "let me give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much i owe you from time to time." "you shall have your own way." annie lee, as much amused as her father at bobby's big talk, got the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and signed the note. "good, bobby! now promise that you will come and see me every time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along." "i will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light heart bobby tripped away home. chapter vi. in which bobby sets out on his travels. squire lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in riverdale. he had taken a great fancy to bobby, and often employed him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and such chores about the place as a boy could do. he liked to talk with bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for one with a small head. if there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. he declared that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was; and as for bobby bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and he was satisfied that he would make something in good time. he was not much astonished when bobby opened his ambitious scheme of going into business for himself. but he had full faith in his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a brilliant life. he often said that bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that he would trust him with any thing he had. perhaps he did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning, when one of the neighbors told him about bobby's stopping the horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth time. it was not an idle remark. sixty dollars was hardly worth mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away that amount. but as a matter of investment,--bobby had made the note read "with interest,"--he would as readily have let him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that he would soon have the means of paying him. bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. mrs. bright was very sad. perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new difficulty. "come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said bobby in his usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "there is the money, and you will be forever quit of mr. hardhand to-morrow." "what, bobby! why, where did you get all this money?" asked mrs. bright, utterly astonished. in a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then informed his mother that he was going to boston the next monday morning, to commence business for himself. "why, what can you do, bobby?" "do? i can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little book merchant. "you are a courageous fellow! who would have thought of such a thing?" "i should, and did." "but you are not old enough." "o, yes, i am." "you had better wait a while." "now or never, mother! you see i have given my note, and my paper will be dishonored, if i am not up and doing." "your paper!" said mrs. bright, with a smile. "that is what mr. wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it." "you needn't go away to earn this money; i can pay it myself." "this note is my affair, and i mean to pay it myself with my own earnings. no objections, mother." like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any objections. she was conscious of bobby's talents; she knew that he had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. it is true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that beset him. she determined to do her whole duty towards him, and she carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation. she counselled him to think of her when he felt like going astray. bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. he did not speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bugbears out of things which she knew had no real existence. the next day, mr. hardhand came; and my young readers can judge how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow bright offered him the sixty dollars. the lord was with the widow and the fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. the note was given up, and the mortgage cancelled. mr. hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of july; but when bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent, even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the subject of conversation. he did not dare to say any thing saucy to the widow this time. he had lost his power over her, and there stood bobby, who had come to look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was. the business was all settled now, and bobby spent the rest of the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. he visited all his friends, and went each day to talk with squire lee and annie. the little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he would bring his stock to riverdale, for she was quite as much interested in him as her father was. monday morning came, and bobby was out of bed with the first streak of dawn. the excitement of the great event which was about to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. he was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great city. his mother was up before him. she was even more sad than he was, for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him, and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his safety. as he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and the good lessons she had before imparted. she particularly cautioned him to keep out of bad company. if he found that his companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would steal, and he had better forsake them at once. this was excellent advice, and bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his sorrowing heart. "here is three dollars, bobby; it is all the money i have. your fare to boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to pay the expenses of your first trip. it is all i have now," said mrs. bright. "i will not take the whole of it. you will want it yourself. one dollar is enough. when i find mr. bayard, i shall do very well." "yes, bobby, take the whole of it." "i will take just one dollar, and no more," replied bobby, resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars. "do take it, bobby." "no, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent." taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a start. "good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "i shall try and come home on saturday, so as to be with you on sunday." then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. he had seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little himself. it is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother, especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder that bobby, who had hardly been out of riverdale before, should weep. but he soon restrained the flowing tears. "now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward. it was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he did now was to give character to his whole future life. it was a bright and beautiful morning--somehow, it is always a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. he will see clouds and storms before he has gone far--let him have a fair start. he had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. his road lay by the house of his friend, squire lee; and as he was approaching it, he met annie. she said she had come out to take her morning walk; but bobby knew very well that she did not usually walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him god speed on his journey. at any rate, he was very glad to see her. he said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help laughing in his face. then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands again with annie, and resumed his journey. his heart felt lighter for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not both; for annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger. after a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station. the cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour. "why should i give them a dollar for carrying me to boston, when i can just as well walk? if i get tired, i can sit down and rest me. if i save the dollar, i shall have to earn only fifty-nine more to pay my note. so here goes;" and he started down the track. chapter vii. in which bobby stands up for "certain inalienable rights." whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish" policy for bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one settle the point to suit himself. his cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. he had always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably often walked more than twenty miles in a day. about ten o'clock, though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself. he had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without injury to himself. after resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. at twelve o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of the city. his heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side, he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his considerate mother had placed in his bundle. thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where a sign, "no passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther progress. unlike many others, bobby took this sign literally, and did not venture to cross the bridge. having some doubts as to the direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with him, which bobby was glad to accept. they crossed the milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long walk he had taken--forgot riverdale, his mother, squire lee, and annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting scene. the common beat riverdale common all hollow; he had never seen any thing like it before. but when the wagon reached washington street, the measure of his surprise was filled up. "my gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher. "we have high fences here," he replied. "where are all these folks going to?" "you will have to ask them, if you want to know." but the wonder soon abated, and bobby began to think of his great mission in the city. he got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly-dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. it was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him. it was more like herr grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than any thing substantial. the men and women were like so many puppets. they did not seem to be doing any thing, or to be walking for any purpose. he got out of the butcher's cart at the old south. his first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets. he did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot. "all right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "i am here. now's my time to make a strike. now or never." he pulled mr. bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind. now, numbers were not a riverdale institution, and bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. a little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store. "f. bayard," he read; "this is the place." "country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment. "just so, my beauty!" said bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy. "what a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street. "no matter, rag-tag! we'll settle that matter some other time." but bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible. a spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered. "mr. bayard keep here?" asked bobby. "well, i reckon he does. how are all the folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin. "how are they?" repeated bobby, the color flying to his cheek. "yes, ha-ow do they dew?" "they behave themselves better than they do here." "eh, greeny?" "eh, sappy?" repeated bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman. "what do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk, indignantly. "what do you mean by greeny?" "i'll let you know what i mean!" "when you do, i'll let you know what i mean by sappy." "good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation. "you will learn better by and by, timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town." "you seem to be a gentleman, sir," said bobby, approaching the salesman. "i wish to see mr. bayard." "you can't see him!" growled timmins. "can't i?" "not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for bobby's discrimination. "he will be at liberty in a few moments." "i will wait, then," said bobby, seating himself on a stool by the counter. pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner, and timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an occasional glance of hatred at him. he had evidently found that "country" was an embryo american citizen, and that he was a firm believer in the self-evident truths of the declaration of independence. bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had been to defend his "certain inalienable rights." "you do a big business here," suggested bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced the uncourteous clerk that he meant well. "who told you so?" replied timmins, gruffly. "i merely judged from appearances. you have a big store, and an immense quantity of books." "appearances are deceitful," replied timmins; and perhaps he had been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from the country. "that is true," added bobby, with a good-natured smile, which, when interpreted, might have meant, "i took you for a civil fellow, but i have been very much mistaken." "you will find it out before you are many days older." "the book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued bobby, without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last remark. "humph! what's that to you?" "o, i intend to go into it myself." "ha, ha, ha! good! you do?" "i do," replied bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of the clerk. "i suppose you want to get a place here," sneered timmins, alarmed at the prospect. "but let me tell you, you can't do it. bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for, you can move on as fast as you please." "i guess i will see him," added bobby quietly. "no use." "no harm in seeing him." as he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began to turn over the leaves. "put that book down!" said the amiable mr. timmins. "i won't hurt it," replied bobby, who had just fixed his eye upon some very pretty engravings in the volume. "put it down!" repeated mr. timmins, in a loud, imperative tone. "certainly i will, if you say so," said bobby, who, though not much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle. "i _do_ say so!" added mr. timmins, magnificently; "and what's more, you'd better mind me, too." bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would not have been so bold if he had not. some people like to threaten after the danger is over. then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books lying on the counter. he had already made up his mind to have one, in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was waiting, that he would purchase one. he meant to do things methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was with the intention of buying it. "put that book down!" said mr. timmins, encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero. "i want to buy one." "no, you don't: put it down.". "what is the price of these?" asked bobby, resolutely. "none of your business!" chapter viii. in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street. it was mr. bayard. he had finished his business with the gentleman by his side, and hearing the noise of the scuffle, had come to learn the occasion of it. "this impudent young puppy wouldn't let the books alone!" began mr. timmins. "i threatened to turn him out if he didn't; and i meant to make good my threat. i think he meant to steal something." bobby was astonished and shocked at this bold imputation; but he wished to have his case judged on its own merits; so he turned his face away, that mr. bayard might not recognize him. "i wanted to buy one of these blank books," added bobby, picking up the one he had dropped on the floor in the struggle. "all stuff!" ejaculated timmins. "he is an impudent, obstinate puppy! in my opinion he meant to steal that book." "i asked him the price, and told him i wanted to buy it," added bobby, still averting his face. "well, i told him; and he said it was too high." "he asked me twenty-five cents for it." "is this true, timmins?" asked mr. bayard, sternly. "no, sir, i told him fourpence," replied timmins boldly. "by gracious! what a whopper!" exclaimed bobby, startled out of his propriety by this monstrous lie. "he said twenty-five cents; and i told him i could buy one up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents. can you deny that?" "it's a lie!" protested timmins. "riverdale," said mr. bayard. "are you from riverdale, boy?" "yes, sir, i am; and if you will look on your memorandum book you will find my name there." "bless me! i am sure i have seen that face before," exclaimed mr. bayard, as he grasped the hand of bobby, much to the astonishment and consternation of mr. timmins. you are--" "robert bright, sir." "my brave little fellow! i am heartily glad to see you;" and the bookseller shook the hand he held with hearty good will. "i was thinking of you only a little while ago." "this fellow calls me a liar," said bobby, pointing to the astonished mr. timmins, who did not know what to make of the cordial reception which "country" was receiving from his employer. "well, robert, we know that he is a liar; this is not the first time he has, been caught in a lie. timmins, your time is out." the spruce clerk hung his head with shame and mortification. "i hope, sir, you will--" he began, but pride or fear stopped him short. "don't be hard with him, sir, if you please," said bobby. "i suppose i aggravated him." mr. bayard looked at the gentleman who stood by his side, and a smile of approbation lighted up his face. "generous as he is noble! butler, this is the boy that saved ellen." "indeed! he is a little giant!" replied mr. butler, grasping bobby's hand. even timmins glanced with something like admiration in his looks at the youth whom he had so lately despised. perhaps, too, he thought of that scripture wisdom about entertaining angels unawares. he was very much abashed, and nothing but his silly pride prevented him from acknowledging his error, and begging bobby's forgiveness. "i can't have a liar about me," said mr. bayard. "there may be some mistake," suggested mr. butler. "i think not. robert bright couldn't lie. so brave and noble a boy is incapable of a falsehood. besides, i got a letter from my friend squire lee by this morning's mail, in which he informed me of my young friend's coming." mr. bayard took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and selected the squire's from among them. opening it, he read a passage which had a direct bearing upon the case before him. "'i do not know what bobby's faults are,'"--the letter said,--"'but this i do know: that bobby would rather be whipped than tell a lie. he is noted through the place for his love of truth.'--that is pretty strong testimony; and you see, bobby,--that's what the squire calls you,--your reputation has preceded you." bobby blushed, as he always did when he was praised, and mr. timmins was more abashed than ever. "did you hear that, timmins? who is the liar now?" said mr. bayard, turning to the culprit. "forgive me, sir, this time. if you turn me off now, i cannot get another place, and my mother depends upon my wages." "you ought to have thought of this before." "he aggravated me, sir, so that i wanted to pay him off." "as to that, he commenced upon me the moment i came into the store. but don't turn him off, if you please, sir," said bobby, who even now wished no harm to his discomfited assailant. "he will do better hereafter: won't you, timmins?" thus appealed to, timmins, though he did not relish so direct an inquiry, and from such a source, was compelled to reply in the affirmative; and mr. bayard graciously remitted the sentence he had passed against the offending clerk. "now, robert, you will come over to my house and dine with me. ellen will be delighted to see you." "thank you, sir," replied bobby, bashfully, "i have been to dinner",--referring to the luncheon he had eaten at brighton. "but you must go to the house with me." "i should be very glad to do so, sir, but i came on business. i will stay here with mr. timmins till you come back." the truth is, he had heard something about the fine houses of the city, and how stylish the people were, and he had some misgivings about venturing into such a strange and untried scene as the parlor of a boston merchant. "indeed, you must come with me. ellen would never forgive you or me, if you do not come." "i would rather rest here till you return," replied bobby, still willing to escape the fine house and the fine folks. "i walked from riverdale, sir, and i am rather tired." "walked!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "had you no money?" "yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but dr. franklin says that 'a penny saved is a penny earned,' and i thought i would try it. i shall get rested by the time you return." "but you must go with me. timmins, go and get a carriage." timmins obeyed, and before mr. bayard had finished asking bobby how all the people in riverdale were, the carriage was at the door. there was no backing out now, and our hero was obliged to get into the vehicle, though it seemed altogether too fine for a poor boy like him. mr. bayard and mr. butler (whom the former had invited to dine with him) seated themselves beside him, and the driver was directed to set them down at no. ---- chestnut street, where they soon arrived. though my readers would, no doubt, be very much amused to learn how carefully bobby trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mirrors, the elegant chandeliers, and the fantastically shaped chairs and tables that adorned mr. bayard's parlor, the length of our story does not permit us to pause over these trivial matters. when ellen bayard was informed that her little deliverer was in the house, she rushed into the parlor like a hoiden school girl, grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy cheeks, and behaved just as though she had never been to a boarding school in her life. she had thought a great deal about bobby since that eventful day, and the more she thought of him, the more she liked him. her admiration of him was not of that silly, sentimental character which moon-struck young ladies cherish towards those immaculate young men who have saved them from drowning in a horse pond, pulled them back just as they were tumbling over a precipice two thousand five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a house seven stories high, bearing them down a ladder seventy-five odd feet long. the fact was, bobby was a boy of thirteen and there was no chance for much sentiment; so the young lady's regard was real, earnest, and lifelike. ellen said a great many very handsome things; but i am sure she never thought of such a thing as that he would run away with her, in case her papa was unneccessarily obstinate. she was very glad to see him, and i have no doubt she wished bobby might be her brother, it would be so glorious to have such a noble little fellow always with her. bobby managed the dinner much better than he had anticipated; for mr. bayard insisted that he should sit down with them, whether he ate any thing or not. but the rubicon passed, our hero found that he had a pretty smart appetite, and did full justice to the viands set before him. it is true the silver forks, the napkins, the finger bowls, and other articles of luxury and show, to which he had been entirely unaccustomed, bothered him not a little; but he kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed how mr. butler, who sat next to him, handled the "spoon fork," what he did with the napkin and the finger bowl, so that, i will venture to say, not one in ten would have suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor of a _millionnaire_. dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, where bobby unfolded his plan for the future. to make his story intelligible, he was obliged to tell them all about mr. hardhand. "the old wretch!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "but, robert, you must let me advance the sixty dollars, to pay squire lee." "no, sir; you have done enough in that way. i have given my note for the money." "whew;" said mr. butler. "and i shall soon earn enough to pay it." "no doubt of it. you are a lad of courage and energy, and you will succeed in every thing you undertake." "i shall want you to trust me for a stock of books on the strength of old acquaintance," continued bobby, who had now grown quite bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of the costly furniture, as he did in the "living room" of the old black house. "you shall have all the books you want." "i will pay for them as soon as i return. the truth is, mr. bayard, i mean to be independent. i didn't want to take that thirty-five dollars, though i don't know what mr. hardhand would have done to us, if i hadn't." "ellen said i ought to have given you a hundred, and i think so myself." "i am glad you didn't. too much money makes us fat and lazy." mr. bayard laughed at the easy self-possession of the lad--at his big talk; though, big as it was, it meant something. when he proposed to go to the store, he told bobby he had better stay at the house and rest himself. "no, sir; i want to start out to-morrow, and i must get ready to-day." "you had better put it off till the next day; you will feel more like it then." "now or never," replied bobby. "that is my motto, sir. if we have any thing to do, now is always the best time to do it. dr. franklin says, 'never put off till to-morrow what you can do to day.'" "right, robert! you shall have your own way. i wish my clerks would adopt some of dr. franklin's wise saws. i should be a great deal better off in the course of a year if they would." chapter ix. in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory. "now, bobby, i understand your plan," said mr. bayard, when they reached the store; "but the details must be settled. where do you intend to go?" "i hardly know, sir. i suppose i can sell books almost any where." "very true; but in some places much better than in others." mr. bayard mentioned a large town about eighteen miles from the city, in which he thought a good trade might be carried on, and bobby at once decided to adopt the suggestion. "you can make this place your head quarters for the week; if books do not sell well right in the village, why, you can go out a little way, for the country in the vicinity is peopled by intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who can afford to buy books." "i was thinking of that; but what shall i take with me, sir?" "there is a new book just published, called 'the wayfarer,' which is going to have a tremendous run. it has been advertised in advance all over the country, so that you will find a ready sale for it. you will get it there before any one else, and have the market all to yourself." "the wayfarer? i have heard of it myself." "you shall take fifty copies with you, and if you find that you shall want more, write, and i will send them." "but i cannot carry fifty copies." "you must take the cars to b----, and have a trunk or box to carry your books in. i have a stout trunk down cellar which you shall have." "i will pay for it, sir." "never mind that, bobby; and you will want a small valise or carpet bag to carry your books from house to house. i will lend you one." "you are very kind, sir; i did not mean to ask any favors of you except to trust me for the books until my return." "all right, bobby." mr. bayard called the porter and ordered him to bring up the trunk, in which he directed mr. timmins to pack fifty "wayfarers." "now, how much will these books cost me apiece?" asked bobby. "the retail price is one dollar; the wholesale price is one third off; and you shall have them at what they cost me." "sixty-seven cents," added bobby. "that will give me a profit of thirty-three cents on each book." "just so." "perhaps mr. timmins will sell me one of those blank books now; for i like to have things down in black and white." "i will furnish you with something much better than that;" and mr. bayard left the counting room. in a moment he returned with a handsome pocket memorandum book, which he presented to the little merchant. "but i don't like to take it unless you will let me pay for it," said bobby, hesitating. "never mind it, my young friend. now you can sit down at my desk and open your accounts. i like to see boys methodical, and there is nothing like keeping accounts to make one accurate. keep your books posted up, and you will know where you are at any time." "i intend to keep an account of all i spend and all i receive, if it is no more than a cent." "right, my little man. have you ever studied book-keeping?" "no, sir, i suppose i haven't; but there was a page of accounts in the back part of the arithmetic i studied, and i got a pretty good idea of the thing from that. all the money received goes on one side, and all the money paid out goes on the other." "exactly so; in this book you had better open a book account first. if you wish, i will show you how." "thank you, sir; i should be very glad to have you;" and bobby opened the memorandum book, and seated himself at the desk. "write 'book account' at the top of the pages, one word on each. very well. now write 'to fifty copies of wayfarer, at sixty-seven cents, $ . ,' on the left hand page, or debit side of the account." "i am not much of a writer," said bobby, apologetically. "you will improve. now, each day you will credit the amount of sales on the right hand page, or credit side of the account; so, when you have sold out, the balance due your debit side will be the profit on the lot. do you understand it?" bobby thought a moment before he could see through it; but his brain was active, and he soon managed the idea. "now you want a personal account;" and mr. bayard explained to him how to make this out. he then instructed him to enter on the debit-side all he spent for travel, board, freight, and other charges. the next was the "profit and loss" account, which was to show him the net profit of the business. our hero, who had a decided taste for accounts, was very much pleased with this employment; and when the accounts were all opened, he regarded them with a great deal of satisfaction. he longed to commence his operations, if it were only for the pleasure of making the entries in this book. "one thing i forgot," said he, as he seized the pen, and under the cash account entered, "to cash from mother, $ . ." "now i am all right, i believe." "i think you are. now, the cars leave at seven in the morning. can you be ready for a start as early as that?" asked mr. bayard. "o, yes, sir, i hope so. i get up at half past four at home." "very well; my small valise is at the house; but i believe every thing else is ready. now, i have some business to attend to; and if you will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we will go home then." "i shall want a lodging-place when i am in the city; perhaps some of your folks can direct me to one where they won't charge too much." "as to that, bobby, you must go to my house whenever you are in the city." "law, sir! you live so grand, i couldn't think of going to your house. i am only a poor boy from the country, and i don't know how to behave myself among such nice folks." "you will do very well, bobby. ellen would never forgive me if i let you go any where else. so that is settled; you will go to my house. now, you may sit here, or walk out and see the sights." "if you please, sir, if mr. timmins will let me look at some of the books, i shouldn't wish for any thing better. i should like to look at the wayfarer, so that i shall know how to recommend it." "mr. timmins _will_ let you," replied mr. bayard, as he touched the spring of a bell on his desk. the dapper clerk came running into the counting-room to attend the summons of his employer. "mr. timmins," continued mr. bayard, with a mischievous smile, "bring mr. bright a copy of 'the wayfarer.'" mr. timmins was astonished to hear "country" called "mister," astonished to hear his employer call him "mister," and bobby was astonished to hear himself called "mister;" nevertheless, our hero enjoyed the joke. the clerk brought the book; and bobby proceeded to give it a thorough, critical examination. he read the preface, the table of contents, and several chapters of the work, before mr. bayard was ready to go home "how do you like it, bobby?" asked the bookseller. "first rate." "you may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish it." "thank you, sir; i will be careful of it." "you may keep it. let that be the beginning of your own private library." his own private library! bobby had not got far enough to dream of such a thing yet; but he thanked mr. bayard, and put the book under his arm. after tea, ellen proposed to her father that they should all go to the museum. mr. bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at the drolleries perpetrated there. he had a good time; but it was so late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should oversleep himself in the morning. he did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of the rest of the family were stirring. an early breakfast was prepared for him, at which mr. bayard, who intended to see him off, joined him. depositing his little bundle and the copy of "the wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store. the porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though bobby insisted upon doing it himself. the bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu. in a little while bobby was flying over the rail, and at about eight o'clock, reached b----. the station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the week. taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. it must be confessed that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. the battle of life was before him. he was on the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into the contest. it was victory or defeat. "march on, brave youth! the field of strife with peril fraught before thee lies; march on! the battle plain of life shall yield thee yet a glorious prize." it was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to do so. he was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was determined to conquer. he had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "the wayfarer" for sale. his heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused before the door. "now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate, and made his way up to the door. he felt some misgivings. it was so new and strange to him that he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther. but his irresolution was of only a moment's duration. "now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door. it was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not promise much. "good morning, ma'am. can i sell you a copy of 'the wayfarer' to-day? a new book, just published." "no; i don't want none of your books. there's more pedlers round the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month," replied the old lady petulantly. "it is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral." bobby had read the preface, as i before remarked. "it will suit you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read something with a moral." bravo, bobby! the lady concluded that her face had a moral expression, and she was pleased with the idea. "let me see it;" and she asked bobby to walk in and be seated, while she went for her spectacles. as she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more elaborate recommendation of its merits. he was sure it would interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes; it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one dollar. "i'll take it," said the old lady. "thank you, ma'am." bobby's first victory was achieved "have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a two dollar bill. "yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar, and put the two in its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "thank you, ma'am." bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house, encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with undiminished hope. chapter x. in which bobby is a little too smart. the clouds were rolled back, and bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. it requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished. two new england shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. it gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale. the old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. he gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. he had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. in short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly. but it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and bobby turned from the past to the future. there were forty-nine more books to be sold, so that the future was forty-nine-times as big as the past. he saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him; and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. it would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing any thing. there were three men at work in the shop--one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. they looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger. "can i sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold. "well, i don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "it takes a pretty smart fellow to sell any thing in this shop." "then i hope to sell each of you a book," added bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker. opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men. "it isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'the wayfarer' is decidedly _the_ book of the season." "you don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely." "do they? they steal my thunder then." "you are an old one." "only thirteen. i was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot." "what do they fasten them with?" "they don't fasten them at all." "there are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally. "no; they are all shoemakers in our town." "you can take my hat, boy." "you will want it to put your head in; but i will take one dollar for that book instead." the man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book. "won't you take one?" asked bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age. "no; i can't read," replied he, roguishly. "let your wife read it to you then." "my wife?" "certainly; she knows how to read, i will warrant." "how do you know i have got a wife?" "o, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time." "has you, tom," added the oldest shoemaker. "i cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench. bobby looked at the third man with some interest. he had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions. he was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book. he was a different kind of person from the others, and bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination. "you will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the others. bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work. for five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man to finish his investigation into the merits of "the wayfarer." something told him not to say any thing to this person; and he had some doubts about his purchasing. "i will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed bobby the dollar. "i am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said bobby, as he closed his valise. "when i come this way again i shall certainly call." "do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop." "i shall take no credit to myself. the fact is, you are men of intelligence, and you want good books." bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself. "eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "pretty good hour's work, i should say." bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of b----. inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell. "is mr. whiting in?" asked bobby, who had read the name on the door plate. "colonel whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door. "i should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy." "walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him. she conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor. in a moment colonel whiting entered. he was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. he looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if julius caesar or napoleon bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of b----. "good morning, colonel whiting. i hope you are well this beautiful morning," bobby began. i must confess i think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in chestnut street, and that he had just sold four copies of "the wayfarer." he was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys. the nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech. "i have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'the wayfarer'--a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season." my young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from boston in the cars. it would be quite natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider how he should address people into whose presence his calling would bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to encounter. the one he had just "got off" was designed for the "upper crust." when he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant, frowning nabob, and with a low bow, offered him a copy of "the wayfarer." "boy," said colonel whiting, raising his arm with majestic dignity, and pointing to the door,--"boy, do you see that door?" bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished replied that he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation thereof. "do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage at the cool impudence of the boy. "certainly i do, sir; my eyesight is excellent." "then use it!" "thank you, sir; i have no use for it. probably it will be of more service to you than to me." "will you clear out, or shall i kick you out?" gasped the enraged magnate of b----. "i will save you that trouble, sir; i will go, sir. i see we have both made a mistake." "mistake? what do you mean by that, you young puppy? you are a little impudent, thieving scoundrel!" "that's your mistake, sir. i took you for a gentleman, sir; and that was my mistake." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw her arms around his neck. "the jade!" muttered he. "i have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to restore him at once to himself. "it was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in apology. "no, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true; but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. i heard the whole of it." "pert?" said bobby to himself. "what the deuse does she mean by that?" "very well, you little minx; i will pay the penalty." "come here, master pert," said the lady to bobby. bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much embarrassed. "my uncle,", she continued, "is one of the best hearted men in the world--ain't you, uncle?" "go on, you jade!" "i love him, as i would my own father; but he will sometimes get into a passion. now, you provoked him." "indeed, ma'am, i hadn't the least idea of saying any thing uncivil," pleaded bobby. "i studied to be as polite as possible." "i dare say. you were too important, too pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in the world. now, if you hadn't studied to be polite, you would have done very well." "indeed, ma'am, i am a poor boy, trying to make a little money to help my mother. i am sure i meant no harm." "i know you didn't. so you are selling books to help your mother?" "yes, ma'am." she inquired still further into the little merchant's history, and seemed to be very much interested in him. in a frolic, a few days before, bobby learned from her, colonel whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time he got into a passion. "now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the lady. "'the wayfarer.'" "how many have you in your valise?" "eight." "very well; now, uncle, i decree, as the penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock." "i submit." "'the wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book: and i can name at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, uncle." colonel whiting paid bobby eight dollars, who left the contents of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart again. chapter xi. in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale. our hero had learned a lesson which experience alone could teach him. the consciousness of that "something within him" inclined him to be a little too familiar with his elders; but then it gave him confidence in himself, and imparted courage to go forward in the accomplishment of his mission. his interview with colonel whiting and the gentle but plain rebuke of his niece had set him right, and he realized that, while he was doing a man's work, he was still a boy. he had now a clearer perception of what is due to the position and dignity of those upon whom fortune has smiled. bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not strange that he should sometimes fancy he was a man. he had an idea, too, that "all men are born free and equal;" and he could not exactly see why a nabob was entitled to any more respect and consideration than a poor man. it was a lesson he was compelled to learn, though some folks live out their lifetimes without ever finding out that. "'tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men." some people think a rich man is no better than a poor man, except so far as he behaves himself better. it is strange how stupid some people are! bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, and he felt as independent as the declaration of independence itself. but then the beautiful lady had told him that he was pert and forward; and when he thought it over, he was willing to believe she was right, colonel whiting was an old man, compared with himself; and he had some faith, at least in theory, in the spartan virtue of respect for the aged. probably the nabob of b---- would have objected to being treated with respect on account of his age; and bobby would have been equally unwilling to acknowledge that he treated him with peculiar respect on account of his wealth or position. perhaps the little merchant had an instinctive perception of expediency--that he should sell more books by being less familiar: at any rate he determined never again to use the flowery speeches he had arranged for the upper crust. he had sold a dozen books; and possibly this fact made him more willing to compromise the matter than he would otherwise have been. this was, after all, the great matter for congratulation, and with a light heart he hurried back to the railroad station to procure another supply. we cannot follow him into every house where his calling led him. he was not always as fortunate as in the instances we have mentioned. sometimes all his arguments were unavailing, and after he had spent half an hour of valuable time in setting forth the merits of "the wayfarer," he was compelled to retire without having effected a sale. sometimes, too, he was rudely repulsed; hard epithets were applied to him; old men and old women, worried out by the continued calls of pedlers, sneered at him, or shut the door in his face; but bobby was not disheartened. he persevered, and did not allow these little trials to discompose or discourage him. by one o'clock on the first day of his service he had sold eighteen books, which far exceeded even his most sanguine expectations. by this time he began to feel the want of his dinner; but there was no tavern or eating house at hand, and he could not think of leaving the harvest to return to the railroad station; so he bought a sheet of gingerbread and a piece of cheese at a store, and seating himself near a brook by the side of the road, he bolted his simple meal, as boys are very apt to do when they are excited. when he had finished, he took out his account book, and entered, "dinner, cents." resuming his business, he disposed of the remaining six books in his valise by the middle of the afternoon, and was obliged to return for another supply. about six o'clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as the family were sitting down to tea. he recommended his book with so much energy that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him, and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea. bobby accepted the invitation, and in the course of the meal, the good lady drew from him the details of his history, which he very modestly related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not the boy to boast of his exploits. his host was so much pleased with him, that he begged him to spend the night with them. bobby had been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the matter had given him no little concern. he did not wish to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there. these high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging. if i had been there i should have told him that a man loses nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself. he must eat well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well. but i suppose bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so. i could not have said any thing to such a powerful argument; so i am very glad the mechanic's wife set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in her house. he spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken. before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, "by twenty-six wayfarers, sold this day, $ . ." he had done a big day's work, much bigger than he could hope to do again. he had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at this rate he should be out of books the next day. at first he thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to do so. what he had might last till friday or saturday. he intended to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on his return without expense. this was considerable of an argument for a boy to manage; but bobby was satisfied with it, and went to sleep, wondering what his mother, squire lee, and annie were thinking of about that time. after breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels. he was as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed "the wayfarer" with so much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited. people seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him, he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist it. the result of the day's sales was fifteen copies, which bobby entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction. he had outdone the boy who had passed through riverdale, but he had little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant. he often thought of this boy, from whom he had obtained the idea he was now carrying out. that boy had stopped over night at the little black house, and slept with him. he had asked for lodging, and offered to pay for it, as well as for his supper and breakfast. why couldn't he do the same? he liked the suggestion, and from that time, wherever he happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the meal he required, and he always proposed to pay for what he had, but very few would take any thing. on friday noon he had sold out. returning to the railroad station, he found that the train would not leave for the city for an hour; so he improved the time in examining and balancing his accounts. the book sales amounted to just fifty dollars, and after his ticket to boston was paid for, his expenses would amount to one dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his favor of fifteen dollars. he was overjoyed with the result, and pictured the astonishment with which his mother, squire lee, and annie would listen to the history of his excursion. after four o'clock that afternoon he entered the store of mr. bayard, bag and baggage. on his arrival in the city, he was considerably exercised in mind to know how he should get the trunk to his destination. he was too economical to pay a cartman a quarter; but what would have seemed mean in a man was praiseworthy in a boy laboring for a noble end. probably a great many of my young readers in bobby's position, thinking that sixteen dollars, which our hero had in his pocket, was a mint of money, would have been in favor of being a little magnificent--of taking a carriage and going up-town in state. bobby had not the least desire to "swell," so he settled the matter by bargaining with a little ragged fellow to help him carry the trunk to mr. bayard's store for fourpence. "how do you do, mr. timmins?" said bobby to the spruce clerk, as he deposited the trunk upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy the four-pence. "ah, bobby!" exclaimed mr. timmins. "have you sold out?" "all clean. is mr. bayard in?" "in the office. but how do you like it?" "first rate." "well, every one to his taste; but i don't see how any one who has any regard for his dignity can stick himself into every body's house. i couldn't do it, i know." "i don't stand for the dignity." "ah, well, there is a difference in folks." "that's a fact," replied bobby, as he hurried to the office of mr. bayard, leaving mr. timmins to sun himself in his own dignity. the bookseller was surprised to see him so soon, but he gave him a cordial reception. "i didn't expect you yet," said he. "why do you come back? have you got sick of the business?" "sick of it! no, sir." "what have you come back for then?" "sold out, sir." "sold out! you have done well!" "better than i expected." "i had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow night; and i thought you would have books enough to begin the next week with. you have done bravely." "if i had had twenty more, i could have sold them before to-morrow night. now, sir, if you please, i will pay you for those books--thirty-three dollars and fifty cents." "you had better keep that, bobby. i will trust you as long as you wish." "if you please, sir, i had rather pay it;" and the little merchant, as proud as a lord, handed over the amount. "i like your way of doing business, bobby. nothing helps a man's credit so much as paying promptly. now tell me some of your adventures--or we will reserve them till this evening, for i am sure ellen will be delighted to hear them." "i think i shall go to riverdale this afternoon. the cars leave at half past five." "very well; you have an hour to spare." bobby related to his kind friend the incidents of his excursion, including his interview with colonel whiting and his niece, which amused the bookseller very much. he volunteered some good advice, which bobby received in the right spirit, and with a determination to profit by it. at half past five he took the cars for home, and before dark was folded in his mother's arms. the little black house seemed doubly dear to him now that he bad been away from it a few days. his mother and all the children were so glad to see him that it seemed almost worth his while to go away for the pleasure of meeting them on his return. chapter xii. in which bobby astonishes sundry persons and pays part of his note. "now tell me, bobby, how you have made out," said mrs. bright, as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "you cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days." "i have done pretty well, mother," replied bobby, mysteriously; "pretty well, considering that i am only a boy." "i didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night." "i sold out, and had to come home." "that may be, and still you may not have done much." "i don't pretend that i have done much." "how provoking you are! why don't you tell me, bobby, what you have done?" "wait a minute, mother, till i have done my supper, and then i will show you the footings in my ledger." "your ledger!" "yea, my ledger. i keep a ledger now." "you are a great man, mr. robert bright," laughed his mother. "i suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you coming." "not exactly, mother." "perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you was on the road." "perhaps he did; i didn't see him, however. this apple pie tastes natural, mother. it is a great luxury to get home after one has been travelling." "very likely." "no place like home, after all is done and said. who was the fellow that wrote that song, mother?" "i forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign parts. my sake! bobby; one would think by your talk that you had been away from home for a year." "it seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "i miss home very much. i don't more than half like being among strangers so much." "it is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from home." "i must pay my debts, any how. don't i owe squire lee sixty dollars?" "but i can pay that." "it is my affair, you see." "if it is your affair, then i owe you sixty dollars." "no, you don't; i calculate to pay my board now. i am old enough and big enough to do something." "you have done something ever since you was old enough to work." "not much; i don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a hardhand twitted me about it. by the way, have you heard any thing from him?" "not a thing." "he has got enough of us, i reckon." "you mustn't insult him, bobby, if you happen to see him." "never fear me." "you know the bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us." "i should pray that the old nick might get him." "no, bobby; i hope you haven't forgot all your sunday school lessons." "i was wrong, mother," replied bobby, a little moved. "i did not mean so. i shall try to think as well of him as i can; but i can't help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard time we should have of it." "we must thank the lord that he has given us so many good and true men." "such as squire lee, for instance," added bobby, as he rose from the table and put his chair back against the wall. "the squire is fit to be a king; and though i believe in the constitution and the declaration of independence, i wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon his head." "he will receive his crown in due time," replied mrs. bright, piously. "the squire?" "the crown of rejoicing, i mean." "just so; the squire is a nice man; and i know another just like him." "who!" "mr. bayard; they are as near alike as two peas." "i am dying to know about your journey." "wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;" and bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and wash the dishes. "you needn't help now, bobby." "yes, i will, mother." some how our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. a week in town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. it starches them up so stiff that sometimes they don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor of supporting them in childhood. bobby was none of this sort. we lament that he had a habit of talking big--that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years. but he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem. he was always blushing when any body spoke a pretty thing about him. probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother. he had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house. some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade. they think of little else. they "play shop" before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens. they are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word. we saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince--boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem. undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. our hero was shrewd. he always got the best end of the bargain; though, i am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows. we have made this digression so that my young readers may know why bobby was so much given to big talk. the desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things. it was not a bad fault, after all. boys need not necessarily be frivolous. play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his grammar and arithmetic. it not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life. it need not be supposed, because bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play. at a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game. when the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. it was a beautiful article, and mrs. bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by bobby's informing her how it came into his possession. "here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book. mrs. bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts. "fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry. "yes, mother; and i sold them all." "fifty dollars!" "but i had to pay for the books out of that." "to be sure you had; but i suppose you made as much as ten cents a piece on them, and that would be--let me see; ten times fifty--" "but i made more than that, i hope." "how much?" the proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars. "gracious! three dollars a day!" "just so, mother. now i will pay you the dollar i borrowed of you when i went away." "you didn't borrow it of me." "but i shall pay it." mrs. bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result. if she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and energy. her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days' work. she could scarcely believe the evidence other own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big. it was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's affairs. he had intended to call upon squire lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day. after breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit. there was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire's door. he was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him. besides, annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the monday preceding. i don't think that bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart. in coming from the house he had placed his copy of "the wayfarer" under his arm, for annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from reading his book. of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter. each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him. "well, bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted. "pretty fair," replied bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there. "where have you been travelling?" "in b----." "fine place. books sell well there?" "very well; in fact, i sold out all my stock by noon yesterday." "how many books did you carry?" "fifty." "you did well." "i should think you did!" added annie, with an enthusiasm which quite upset all bobby's assumed indifference. "fifty books!" "yes, miss annie; and i have brought you a copy of the book i have been selling; i thought you would like to read it. it is a splendid work, and will be _the_ book of the season." "i shall be delighted to read it," replied annie, taking the proffered volume. "it looks real good," she continued, as she turned over the leaves. "it is first rate; i have read it through." "it was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile. "i shall never have so much business on my mind that i cannot think of my friends," replied bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that it astonished himself. "i was just thinking what i should read next; i am so glad you have come." "never mind her, bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed squire lee, laughing. "now, pa!" "then i shall bring her one very often." "you are too bad, pa," said annie, who, like most young ladies just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the immaculateness of human love, or human friendship. "i have got a little money for you, squire lee," continued bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed. he took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department" extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of ten dollars which he had carefully reserved for his creditor. "never mind that, bobby," replied the squire. "you will want all your capital to do business with." "i must pay my debts before i think of any thing else." "a very good plan, bobby, but this is an exception to the general rule." "no, sir, i think not. if you please, i insist upon paying you tea dollars on my note." "o, well, if you insist, i suppose i can't help myself." "i would rather pay it, i shall feel so much better." "you want to indorse it on the note, i suppose." that was just what bobby wanted. indorsed on the note was the idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his mind. there was something gratifying in the act to a man of business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred obligation,--he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to pay one's debts,--and as the squire wrote the indorsement across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever before. "'pay as you go' is an excellent idea; john randolph called it the philosopher's stone," added squire lee, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "that is what i mean to do just as soon as i can." "you will do, bobby." the young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea that his mother would wait for him. chapter xiii. in which bobby declines a copartnership and visits b---- again. after dinner bobby performed his saturday afternoon chores as usual. he split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. the day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very light. after digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. he was fond of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that daniel webster, and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this exciting sport. no doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our hero was a great man. he had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his line into the water, before he saw tom spicer approaching the spot. the bully had never been a welcome companion. there was no sympathy between them. they could never agree, for their views, opinions, and tastes were always conflicting. bobby had not seen tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should not be regarded with much favor. tom was malicious and revengeful, and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. he was prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur. there was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's presence decidedly unpleasant at this time--an event that had occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received from his mother. tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. he had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed it in one of the bureau drawers. the next day it could not be found. spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that tom had taken it; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. no money was found upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the stores in riverdale centre. the affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused tom of the theft. he did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation. tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely while he deposited the bills under the clothing. no one else could have taken it. these were the proofs. but people generally believed that spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors. every body knew that tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation. bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainty would steal if he got a good chance. our hero's judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there. "hallo, bob! how are you?" shouted tom, when he had come within hailing distance. "very well," replied bobby, rather coolly. "been to boston, they say." "yes." "well, how did you like it?" continued tom as he seated himself on the rock near our hero. "first rate." "been to work there?" "no." "what have you been doing?" "travelling about." "what doing?" "selling books." "was you, though? did you sell any?" "yes, a few." "how many?" "o, about fifty." "you didn't, though--did you? how much did you make?" "about fifteen dollars." "by jolly! you are a smart one, bobby. there are not many fellows that would have done that." "easy enough," replied bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy. "yon had to buy the books first--didn't you?" asked tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade. "of course; no one will give you the books." "what do you pay for them?" "i buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative. "that business would suit me first rate." "it is pretty hard work." "i don't care for that. don't you believe i could do something in this line?" "i don't know; perhaps you could." "why not, as well as you?" this was a hard question; and, as bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. he was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction. "you see, tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and i dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. we sell them for a dollar apiece." "humph! you needn't be so close about it. i'll bet i can find out." "i have no doubt you can; only, you see, i don't want to tell what i am not sure they would be willing i should tell." tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat. "you say you sold fifty books?" "yes." "well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents apiece." bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly exposed the momentous secret. he had not given tom credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of it. "you sold them at a dollar apiece. thirty from a hundred leaves seventy. they cost you seventy cents each--didn't they?" "sixty-seven," replied bobby, yielding the point. "enough said, bob; i am going into that business, any how." "i am willing." "of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested tom, who had not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view. "we could do nothing together." "i should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is done." "you can find out for yourself, as i did." "don't be mean, bob." "mean? i am not mean." "i don't say you are. we have always been good friends, you know." bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which expressed all he meant to say. "you hit me a smart dig the other day, i know; but i don't mind that. i was in the wrong then, and i am willing to own it," continued tom, with an appearance of humility. this was an immense concession for tom to make, and bobby was duly affected by it. probably it was the first time the bully had ever owned he was in the wrong. "the fact is, bob, i always liked you; and you know i licked ben dowse for you." "that was two for yourself and one for me; besides, i didn't want ben thrashed." "but he deserved it. didn't he tell the master you were whispering in school?" "i was whispering; so he told the truth." "it was mean to blow on a fellow, though." "the master asked him if i whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it. but he told of you at the same time." "i know it; but i wouldn't have licked him on my own account." "_perhaps_ you wouldn't." "i know i wouldn't. but, i say, bobby, where do you buy your books?" "at mr. bayard's, in washington street." "he will sell them to me at the same price, won't he?" "i don't know." "when are you going again?" "monday." "won't you let me go with you, bob?" "let you? of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business." bobby did not like the idea of having such a co-partner as tom spicer, and he did not like to tell him so. if he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel. the fish bit well, and in an hour's time bobby had a mess. as he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. he could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there tom begged him to stop a few moments. our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors. we have no doubt a journal of bobby's daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly. on monday morning bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for boston. he fully expected to encounter tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. as before, he stopped at squire lee's to bid him and annie good by. the little maiden had read "the wayfarer" more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it. she promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library. bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following saturday, when he returned. "when he had shaken bands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious reflection. "did you hear about tom spicer?" asked squire lee. "no, sir; what about him?" "broken his arm." "broken his arm! gracious! how did it happen?" exclaimed bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of tom since he had left home. "he was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the ground." "i am sorry for him," replied bobby, musing. "so am i; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened. if i had any boys, i would lock them up in their chambers if i could not keep them at home sundays." "poor tom!" mused bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him. "it is too bad; but i must say i am more sorry for his poor mother than i am for him," added the squire. "however, i hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives." bobby bade the squire and annie adieu again, and resumed his journey towards the railroad station. his thoughts were busy with tom spicer's case. the reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent. he pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him. the young merchant did not walk to boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather. before noon he was at b---- again, as busy as ever in driving his business. the experience of the former week was of great value to him. he visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of propriety. he was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him. the net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased. mr. bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. mr. timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when bobby asked the price of moore's poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent. less than the retail price. the little merchant, was on the point of purchasing it, when mr. bayard inquired what he wanted. "i am going to buy this book," replied bobby. "moore's poems?" "yes, sir." mr. bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work--morocco, full gilt--and handed it to our hero. "i shall make you a present of this. are you an admirer of moore?" "no, sir; not exactly--that is, i don't know much about it; but annie lee does, and i want to get the book for her." bobby's checks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion. "annie lee?" said mr. bayard with a quizzing smile. "i see how it is. rather young, bobby." "her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has annie, for that matter. squire lee would be a great deal more pleased if i should make annie a present than if i made him one. i feel grateful to him, and i want to let it out some how." "that's right, bobby; always remember your friends. timmins, wrap up this book." bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that he should give annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to yield the point. that evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. that evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and annie received that elegant copy of moore's poems. chapter xiv. in which bobby's air castle is upset and tom spicer takes to the woods. during the next four weeks bobby visited various places in the vicinity of boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the whole of the debt he owed squire lee. he had the note in his memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great purpose afforded him much satisfaction. now he owed no man any thing, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the best people in the world. the little black house was paid for, and bobby was proud that his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to her hard creditor. mr. hardhand could no longer insult and abuse her. the apparent results which bobby had accomplished; however, were as nothing compared with the real results. he had developed those energies of character which were to make him, not only a great business man, but a useful member of society. besides, there was a moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained. motives determine the character of deeds. that a boy of thirteen should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his mother was a vastly greater thing. many great achievements are morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true hero. our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. as one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. the little black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice paris-green blinds would make a palace of it, and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place into a paradise. yet bobby was audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself that they should be obtained. in conversation with mr. bayard a few days before, that gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that bobby should visit the state of maine the following week. on the banks of the kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for books. this time the little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they were all sold. on monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station. as usual, he called upon squire lee, and informed annie that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. she hoped no accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success. without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for bobby was a great friend of hers. that elegant copy of moore's poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve. after he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey. of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose he was wondering how wide the kennebec river was, or how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. nothing of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say romantic. "hallo, bob!" shouted some one from the road side. bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. the imagination is buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars sometimes. it was so with bobby. he was building up some kind of an air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down, _slap_, upon terra firma. he looked up and saw tom spicer seated upon the fence. in his hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for bobby's coming. he had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it would be. bobby had called upon him two or three times during his confinement to the house; and tom, either truly repentant for his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had "turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy. bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would never want friends while he was true to himself. the right side, he declared, was always the best side. he quoted several instances of men, whose lives he had read in his sunday school books, to show how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed to forsake him. tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it was "now or never." if he put it off, he would only grow worse, and the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would be to do it. tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had reformed. for these reasons bobby had come to regard tom with a feeling of deep interest. he considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work. nevertheless bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave tom was not as cordial as it might have been. "hallo, tom!" he replied, rather coolly. "been waiting for you this half hour." "have you?" "yes; ain't you rather late?" "no; i have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long. "come along then." "where are you going, tom?" asked bobby, a little surprised at these words. "to boston." "are you?" "i am; that's a fact. you know i spoke to you about going into the book business." "not lately." "but i have been thinking about it all the time." "what do your father and mother say?" "o, they are all right." "have you asked them?" "certainly i have; they are willing i should go with _you_." "why didn't you speak of it then?" "i thought i wouldn't say any thing till the time came. you know you fought shy when i spoke about it before." and bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire. to the good and true man life is a constant battle. temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight. bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. it was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. there was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. he was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtleties. judging tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run--that he wouldn't "stand fire." he had not been drilled. heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. to go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. he lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers, on the field of battle. tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. he had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might. "march on! in legions death and sin impatient wait thy conquering hand; the foe without, the foe within-- thy youthful arm must both withstand." bobby had great hopes of him. he felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it. "well, tom, where are you going?" asked bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other. "i don't know. you have been a good friend to me lately, and i had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business." "i should be very willing to do so: but what can i do for you?" "just show me how the business is done; that's all i want." "your father and mother were willing you should come--were they not?" bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason too. he had called at tom's house, the day before, and they had gone to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word about his going to boston. "when did they agree to it?" "last night," replied tom, after a moment's hesitation. "all right then; but i cannot promise you that mr. bayard will let you have the books." "i can fix that, i reckon," replied tom, confidently. "i will speak a good word for you, at any rate." "that's right, bob." "i am going down into the state of maine this time, and shall be gone three or four weeks." "so much the better; i always wanted to go down that way." tom asked a great many questions about the business and the method of travelling, which bobby's superior intelligence and more extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire satisfaction of the other. when they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the direction of riverdale. tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him. in a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it. "by jolly!" exclaimed tom; "my father!" "what of it?" asked bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of his companion. tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence, fled like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road. was it possible? tom had run away from home. his father had not consented to his going to boston, and bobby was mortified to find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they left riverdale. but he was glad the cheat had been exposed. "that was tom with you--wasn't it?" asked mr. spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse. "yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go with me," replied bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of mr. spicer's fiery eyes. "he lied! the young villain! he will catch it for this." "i would not have let him come with me only for that. i asked him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were." "you ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed the man who was with mr. spicer. bobby had some reason for believing him. the fact that tom had reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. to have explained this would have taken more time than he could spare; besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance mr. spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he had got rid of tom. mr. spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the fence, went to the woods in search of tom. bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in a moment was on his way to the city. chapter xv. in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again. bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. it seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as those of tom spicer could be false. he had just risen from a sick bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious reflection. tom had promised fairly, and bobby had every reason to suppose he intended to be a good boy. but his promises had been lies. he had never intended to reform, at least not since he had got off his bed of pain. he was mortified and disheartened at the failure of this attempt to restore him to himself. like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. he did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this world than one would be willing to believe. with this sage reflection, he dismissed tom from his mind, which very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so ruthlessly upset. then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by angels like annie lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live in. she could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she could not steal, or do any thing else that was bad; and the prospect was decidedly pleasant. it was very agreeable to turn from tom to annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned on clouds of gold and purple. i do not know what impossible things he imagined, or how far up in the clouds, he would have gone, if the arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts, and pitched him down upon the earth again. bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission, to perform which dreaming could not accomplish. however pleasant it may be to think of the great and brilliant things which one _will_ do, to one of bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to perform them. we all dream great things, imagine great things; but he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. bobby's fine imaginings were pretty sure to bring out "now or never," which was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he had said it. therefore, when the train arrived, bobby did not stop to dream any longer. he forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let annie lee slip from his mind for the time being. those towns upon the kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before him, for it was with them he had to do. grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. "got off slick--didn't i?" said tom spicer, placing himself by bobby's side. "you here, tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at his late companion. it was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his heart bobby wished him any where but where he was. he foresaw that he could not easily get rid of him. "i am here," replied tom. "i ran through the woods to the depot, and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. the old man couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that." "but you ran away from home." "well, what of it?" "a good deal, i should say." "if you had been in my place, you would have done the same." "i don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our first duties." "i know that; and if i had had any sort of fair play, i wouldn't have run away." "what do you mean by that?" asked bobby, somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other. "i will tell you all about it by and by. i give you my word and honor that i will make every thing satisfactory to you." "but you lied to me on the road this morning." tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. but he had a purpose to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal. "i am sorry i did, now," answered tom, with every manifestation of penitence for his fault. "i didn't want to lie to you; and it went against my conscience to do so. but i was afraid, if i told you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't be willing i should come with you." "i shall not be any more willing now i know all about it," added bobby, in an uncompromising tone. "wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame me." "of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business; but let me tell you, tom, in the beginning, that i won't go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother." "pooh! what's the use of talking in that way?" tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. he knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant. "you had better return home, tom. boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. take my advice, and go home," added bobby. "to such a home as mine!" said tom, gloomily. "if i had such a home as yours, i would not have left it." bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. he was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. his home was not pleasant. he who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed. tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. his one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. he did not know what to do. "i am sorry for you, tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but i don't see what i can do for you. i doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents." "i don't want you to help me run away. i have done that already." "but if i let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. besides, since you told me those lies this morning, i haven't much confidence in you." "i couldn't help that." "yes, you could. couldn't help lying?" "what could i do? you would have gone right back and told my father." "well, we will go up to mr. bayard's store, and then we will see what can be done." "i couldn't stay at home, sure," continued tom, as they walked along together. "my father even talked of binding me out to a trade." "did he?" bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view. "what are you stopping for, bob?" "i think you better go back, tom." "not i; i won't do that, whatever happens." "if your father will put you to a trade, what more do you want?" "i won't go to a trade, any how." bobby said no more, but determined to consult with mr. bayard about the matter; and tom was soon too busily engaged in observing the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of any thing else. when they reached the store, bobby went into mr. bayard's private office and told him all about the affair. the bookseller decided that tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to bobby all the more just because he knew that tom's mother, though a drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. mr. bayard further decided that bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey. he also considered it his duty to write to mr. spicer, informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing bobby from any agency in his escape. while mr. bayard was writing the letter, bobby went out to give tom the result of the consultation. the runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed. but bobby, though he would gladly have done any thing for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused, to have any thing to do with him until he obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother's consent. tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger." his bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and bobby could not but feel sorry for him. duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done "now or never." during the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey. he must take the steamer that evening for bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by mr. bayard and ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. the bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded. the last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn. our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed any thing bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position. he seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer. how powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution. when he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery. after all, there was something rather comical in the affair. the steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water. then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. but the wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast. he had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people in riverdale were about. "all them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell. "i have just settled," said bobby, alluding to his comfortable seat. but the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he thought himself insulted. he did not appear to be a very amiable boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence. "i didn't say any thing that need offend you," replied bobby. "i meant nothing." "you lie! you did!" he was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly floored him. some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant. "strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck the blow. "tom spicer!" exclaimed bobby, astonished and chagrined at the presence of the runaway. chapter xvi. in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good." a gentleman, who was sitting near bobby when he made the remark which the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame, and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if tom's zeal had been properly directed. as it was, the waiter retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant. "how came you here, tom?" asked bobby, when the excitement had subsided. "you don't get rid of me so easily," replied tom, laughing. bobby called to mind the old adage that "a had penny is sure to return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have said it. "i didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly knowing what to say or do. "i suppose not; but as i didn't mean you should expect me, i kept out of sight. only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so soon. i like you, bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me, and i wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you." "you only made matters worse." "that is all the thanks i get for hitting him for you." "i am sorry you hit him, at the same time i suppose you meant to do me a service, and i thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions." "that sounds better. i meant well, bob." "i dare say you did. but how came you here?" "why, you see, i was bound to go with you any how or at least to keep within hail of you. you told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after i left the shop, what should i see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall. it said, 'bath, gardiner, and hallowell,' on the bill; and i knew that was where you meant to go. so this afternoon i hunts round and finds the steamboat. i thought i never should have found it, but here i am." "what are you going to do?" "going into the book business," replied tom, with a smile. "where are your books?" "down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it." "where did you get them?" "bought 'em, of course." "did you? where?" "well, i don't remember the name of the street now. i could go right there if i was in the city, though." "would they trust you?" tom hesitated. the lies he had told that morning had done him no good--had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance. "i paid part down, and they trusted me part." "how many books you got?" "twenty dollars worth. i paid eight dollars down." "you did? where did you get the eight dollars?" bobby remembered the money tom's father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum. tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer. "my mother gave it to me." "your mother?" "yes, _sir_!" replied tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying. "but you ran away from home." "that's so; but my mother knew i was coming." "did she?" "to be sure she did." "you didn't say so before." "i can't tell all i know in a minute." "if i thought your mother consented to your coming, i wouldn't say another word." "well, she did; you may bet your life on that." "and your mother gave you ten dollars?" "who said she gave me ten dollars?" asked tom a little sharply. that was just the sum his father had lost, and bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion. "you must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books. your fare to boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more." "i know that; but look here, bob;" and tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "she gave me thirteen dollars." notwithstanding this argument, bobby felt almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part of his capital. "i will tell you my story now, bob, if you like. you condemned me without a hearing, as jim guthrie said when they sent him to the house of correction for getting drunk." "go ahead." the substance of tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer. his father and mother did not agree, as any one might have suspected. his mother, encouraged by the success of bobby, thought that tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the money to buy his stock of books. bobby had not much confidence in this story. he had been deceived once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's consent. but tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and meant to do well. he declared, by all that was good and great, bobby should never have reason to be ashamed of him. our little merchant was troubled. he could not now get rid of tom without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. he did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the latter. besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father would forgive him. one thing was certain, if he returned to riverdale he would be what he had been before. for these reasons bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not behave himself, he would leave him at once. before morning he had another reason. when the steamer got out into the open bay, bobby was seasick. he retired to his berth with a dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the midst of his brains. he had never felt so ill before in his life, and was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere seasickness ailed him. he told tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the cabin, and was very sure that bobby would die before morning, if we may judge by the fuss he made. the captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to throw tom overboard if he didn't stop his noise. the steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but he promised to do something for his relief, and tom went with him to his state room for the desired remedy. the potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy, which bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent spirits, at first refused to take. then tom argued the point, and the sick boy yielded. the dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his relief, and in a little while he felt better. tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. the boat pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that bobby did not sleep long, and when he woke he found tom ready to assist him. but our hero felt better, and entreated tom to go to sleep again. he made the best of his unpleasant situation. sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of riverdale and the dear ones there. his mother was asleep, and annie was asleep; and that was about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. he could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle building do not agree. the gold and purple clouds would be black in spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy sea. as often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick. he went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. when he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that he had got out of that scrape. but before he could dress himself, he heard a terrible racket on deck. the steam whistle was shrieking, the bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. it was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen. then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. tom was not there; he had gone on deck. bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful thing a wreck was, when tom appeared. "what's the matter?" asked bobby, with some appearance of alarm. "fog," replied tom. "it is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet." "is that all?" "that's enough.' "where are we?" "that is just what the pilot would like to know. they can't see ahead a bit, and don't know where we are." bobby went on deck. the ocean rolled beneath them, but there was nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. the lead was heaved every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to let go the anchor. there they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not "lift." hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few hours' time. after breakfast, the passengers began to display their uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names, because he would not go on. almost every body grumbled, and made themselves miserable. "nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his sensation of ennui. "nothing to read, eh?" thought bobby. "we will soon supply that want." calling tom, they went down to the main deck, where the baggage had been placed. "now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books. "now or never." "i am with you," replied tom, catching the idea. the books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with bobby's assistance he soon got at them. "buy 'the wayfarer,'" said bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "best book of the season; only one dollar." "that i will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "i would give five dollars for any thing, if it were only the 'comic almanac.'" others were of the same mind. there was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of "the wayfarer." tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock. the fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours, and driving away that dreadful ennui which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer. about the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at bath. chapter xvii. in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune. bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. they then proceeded to brunswick, where their success was equally flattering. thus far tom had done very well, though bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. he would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when bobby checked him, he promised to do better. at brunswick tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. this money seemed to burn in his pocket. he had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as bobby did, careful to save every penny he could. "come, bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride--what do you say?" proposed tom, on the day he finished selling his books. "i can't spare the time or the money," replied bobby, decidedly. "what is the use of having money if we can't spend it? it is a first rate day, and we should have a good time." "i can't afford it. i have a great many books to sell." "about a hundred; you can sell them fast enough." "i don't spend my money foolishly." "it wouldn't be foolishly. i have sold out, and am bound to have a little fun now." "you never will succeed if you do business in that way." "why not?" "you will spend your money as fast as you get it." "pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. that is not much." "considerable, i should say. but if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. i make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if i don't begin, i shall never do it." "i don't mean to spend all i get; only a little now and then," persisted tom. "don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. besides, when i have any money to spare, i mean to buy books with it for my library." "humbug! your library!" "yes, my library; i mean to have a library one of these days." "i don't want any library, and i mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, i shall go alone--that's all." "you can do as you please, of course; but i advise you to keep your money. you will want it to buy another stock of books." "i shall have enough for that. what do you say? will you go with me or not?" "no, i will not." "enough said; then. i shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me." "consider well before you go," pleaded bobby, who had sense enough to see that tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out. he then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. what he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin. "to-day i am going to send one hundred dollars to mr. bayard," continued bobby; "for i am afraid to have so much money with me. i advise you to send your money to your employer." "humph! catch me doing that! i am bound to have a good time, any how." "at least, send the money you owe him." "i'll bet i won't." "well, do as you please; i have said all i have to say." "you are a fool, bob!" exclaimed tom, who had evidently used bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him. "perhaps i am; but i know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. if you will go, i can't help it. i am sorry you are going astray." "what do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said tom, angrily. this was tom spicer, the bully. it sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him. "we had better part now," added our hero, sadly. "i'm willing." "i shall leave brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. i hope no harm will befall you. good by, tom," "go it! i have heard your preaching about long enough, and i am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me." bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while tom made his way towards a livery stable. the boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride. our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to mr. bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with tom spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. at the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter. he felt sad about tom. the runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. but if he meant to be wild again,--for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"--it was well that they should part. by the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. his usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as squire lee had declared they would be. his pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from demosthenes down to the present day. our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at augusta. he had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to mr. bayard. it was wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day. he had heard nothing from tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him--and this time it was indeed a misfortune. "hallo, bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations. "ah, tom, i didn't expect to see you again," replied bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion. "i suppose not; but here i am, as good as new. have you sold out?" "no, not quite." "how many have you left?" "about twenty; but i thought, tom, you would have returned to boston before this time." "no;" and tom did not seem to be in very good spirits. "where are you going now?" "i don't know. i ought to have taken your advice, bobby." this was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion--as who does not when the erring confess their faults? "i am sorry you did not." "i got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to brunswick," continued tom, rather sheepishly. "and spent all your money," added bobby, who could readily understand the reason why tom had put on his humility again. "not all." "how much have you left?" "not much," replied he, evasively. "i don't know what i shall do. i am in a strange place, and have no friends." bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity. "i will stick by you this time, bob, come what will. i will do just as you say, now." our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. he did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made tom so humble. he was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. he could not desert him now he was in difficulty. "you shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to boston together. have you money enough left to pay your employer?" tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind. "i don't know how it will be after i have paid my expenses to boston," he replied, averting his face. bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season. "now, tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and i will take those upon this side. you shall have the profits on all you sell." "you are a first rate fellow, bob; and i only wish i had done as you wanted me to do." "can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house. tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "the wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. how glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the state of maine! wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful kennebec! poor bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him. as he walked along, thinking of riverdale and its loved ones, tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book. "here, bob, is a ten dollar bill. i believe i have sold ten books for you," said tom, after they had walked some distance. "you had better keep the money now; and while i think of it, you had better take what i have left of my former sales;" and tom handed him another ten dollar bill. bobby noticed that tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank. "then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill. "about that;" and tom glanced uneasily behind him. "what is the matter with you, tom?" asked bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment. "nothing, bob; let us walk a little faster. we had better turn up this street," continued tom, as with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated. bobby began to fear that tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. tom perceived them at the same moment. "run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn. bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him. "grab him," said one of them, "and i will catch the other." the man collared bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which tom had sold his last book. "what do you mean by this?" asked bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected. "we have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold. no sooner was the grasp of the man removed, then bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. but his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. to make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop. in a few moments the other man returned dragging tom in triumph after him. by this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store. bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could. "i should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly. the crowd laughed in derision. "this is the chap that stole the wallet, i will be bound," said one, pointing to tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate. "he is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper. "_i_ haven't stole any wallet," protested bobby, who now understood the whole affair. the names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. they were searched, and upon tom was found the lost wallet, and upon bobby two ten dollar bills, which, the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. the evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail. poor bobby! the inmate of a prison! the law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the state reform school. bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. he had been the companion of tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune. at the end of three days they reached the town in which the reform school is located, and were duly committed for their long term. poor bobby! chapter xviii. in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods. the intelligence of bobby's misfortune reached mr. bayard, in boston, by means of the newspapers. to the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the state of maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." the reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. it was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. it was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. the paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers. the writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. no doubt he believed bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. but, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article. mr. bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. he understood the case at a glance. tom spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. he was sure that bobby had had no part in stealing the money. one so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. it was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense. he was very much disturbed. this intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. he was confident that bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of tom spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. he was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation. squire lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. he immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect bobby's liberation. the squire was even more confident than mr. bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. they agreed to proceed immediately to the state of maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. the bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in maine as in massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in boston to the governor and other official persons in maine. we will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the reform school, where bobby and tom were confined. the latter took the matter very coolly. he seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing bobby the companion of his captivity. he even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. he was satisfied. "you know i didn't steal the money, or have any thing to do with it," said bobby. "some of it was found upon you, though," sneered tom, maliciously. "you know how it came there, if no one else does." "of course i do; but i like your company too well to get rid of you so easy." "the lord is with the innocent," replied bobby, "and something tells me that i shall not stay in this place a great while." "going to run away?" asked tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look. "i know i am innocent of any crime; and i know that the lord will not let me stay here a great while." "what do you mean to do, bob?" bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. he had a purpose in view. his innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. he prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. he felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. he was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity. knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. he had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. but now his clothes would be changed. he thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall. it so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. after his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. he was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. no officer was with them, and bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions. "not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply. "i should think the fellows would clear out." "not so easy a matter. there is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway." "they must catch him first." "no fellow ever got away yet. they always caught him before he got ten miles from the place." this was an important suggestion to bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design. in his conversation with the boys, he obtained, the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. he perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake. a short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun. he carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity, which would aid him in his flight. the boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. they seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel. bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. he was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm. one afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. this was a disagreeable announcement; for bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. but about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity. "now or never!" said bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "now's my time." as he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. after he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. his heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. annie lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief. he had been four days an inmate of the reform school, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. he had not for a moment despaired of getting away. he reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. the night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. a certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it. he walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. there was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. he could not understand it. he had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before. he walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the state reform school. he had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it. bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again. "now or never!" muttered he. "it will never do to give it up so." for an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water. the sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired, he did not feel able to walk any more. he deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. he needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet. bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. his comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. after finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the great guardian above, he lay down to rest. the owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest. he could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. he thought of a thousand things, but he could not _think_ himself to sleep, as he was wont to do. at last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept. chapter xix. in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray. nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens. bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. for a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. he felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. he was bobby bright--but bobby bright in trouble. he was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed. it did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. his first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. he could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. it was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. his only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it. following the direction of the creek, he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. he had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. if any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured. this was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. he had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began, to feel faint for the want of food. on the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance. his heart beat with apprehension. perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. at any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the reform school, and who had probably heard of his escape. as it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. how he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious ginger-bread he carried in his cart! hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. he had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. the wagon was close at hand. "now or never," thought he; but this time it was not _now_. the risk was too great. if he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while. "now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him. he waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. the danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. he was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. but then a new difficulty presented itself. there was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. he was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. what should he do? it was a trying moment. if he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. if he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him. he chose the latter course. the instinct of his being was to do every thing in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision. "good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man. "good morning. where are you travelling?" this was a hard question. he did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie. "down here a piece," he replied. "travelled far to-day?" "not far. good morning, sir;" and bobby resumed his walk. "i say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot. "i can hardly tell you," replied bobby, summoning courage for the occasion. "well, i suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile. bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the reform school. that smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. but the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it. "i am in a hurry, so i shall have to leave you." "not just yet, young man. perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly. there was a temptation to give a false name; but is it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace. "excuse me, sir, but i can't stop to talk now." "in a hurry? well, i dare say you are. i suppose there is no doubt but you are master robert bright." "not the least, sir; i haven't denied it yet, and i am not ashamed of my name," replied bobby, with a good deal of spirit. "that's honest; i like that." "honesty is the best policy," added bobby. "that's cool for a rogue, any how. you ought to thought of that afore." "i did." "and stole the money?" "i didn't. i never stole a penny in my life." "come, i like that." "it is the truth." "but they won't believe it over to the reform school," laughed the man. "they will one of these days, perhaps." "you are a smart youngster; but i don't know as i can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from." "yes, you can," replied bobby, promptly. "can i?" "yes." "how?" "by letting me go." "eh; you talk flush. i suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the kennebec dries up." "cash on the nail," replied bobby. "you look like a man with a heart in your bosom."--bobby stole this passage from "the wayfarer." "i reckon i have. the time hasn't come yet when sam ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. but to help a thief off--" "we will argue that matter," interposed bobby. "i can prove to you beyond a doubt that i am innocent of the crime charged upon me." "you don't look like a bad boy, i must say." "but, mr. ray, i'm hungry; i haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon." "thunder! you don't say so!" exclaimed sam ray. "i never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards." sam ray took bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature. "now, mr. ray, let me tell you my story," said bobby. "i don't know as it's any use. now you have eat my bread and butter, i don't feel like being mean to you. if any body else wants to carry you back, they may; i won't." "but you shall hear me;" and bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale." when he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. sam looked out of the window, as almost every body does in the country when a carriage passes. "by thunder! it's the reform school wagon!" exclaimed he. "this way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed. the carriage stopped at the house; but sam evaded direct reply, and the superintendent--for it was he--proceeded on his search. "heaven bless you, mr. ray!" exclaimed bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. "o, you will find sam ray all right," said he, warmly pressing bobby's proffered hand. "i ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so." "you are an angel!" "not exactly," laughed sam. our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. sam ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw tom spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake. "now, sonny, i like you; i will be sworn you are a good fellow; and i mean to help you off. so just come along with me. i make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. you see, i have got a good boat down the creek, and i shall just put you aboard and take you any where you have a mind to go." "may heaven reward you!" cried bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness. "o, i don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man--and i am dead sure you will be a great man--just think now and then of sam ray, and it's all right." "i shall remember you with gratitude as long as i live." sam ray took his gun on his shoulder, and bobby the box of provision which mrs. ray had put up, and they left the house. at the bridge they got into a little skiff, and sam took the oars. after they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, bobby felt secure from further molestation. sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner. "now, my hearty, nothing short of uncle sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner. "you have been very kind to me." "all right, sonny. now tumble aboard." bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings. in a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft. "now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean. "i don't know," replied bobby. "i want to get back to boston." "perhaps i can put you aboard of some coaster bound there." "that will do nicely." "i will head towards boston, and if i don't overhaul any thing, i will take you there myself." "is this boat big enough to go so far?" "she'll stand anything short of a west india hurricane. you ain't afeerd, are you?" "o, no; i like it." the big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. bobby had unlimited confidence in sam ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." there was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys. they ate their dinners from the provision box; sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend they were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on. "now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night." "i am not sleepy; but there is one thing i will do; and bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills. "put them up, sonny," said sam. "i want to make you a present of ten dollars." "you can't do it." "nay, but to please me." "no, sir!" "well, then, let me send it to your good wife." "you can't do that, nuther," replied sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him. "you must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and i insist upon making it up to you." "you can't do it." "i shall feel bad if you don't take it. you see i have twenty dollars here, and i would like to give you the whole of it." "not a cent, sonny. i ain't a heathen. that schooner ahead is bound for boston, i reckon." "i shall be sorry to part with you, mr. ray." "just my sentiment. i hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that i took a fancy to, and i hate to let you go." "we shall meet again." "i hope so." "please to take this money." "no;" and sam shook his head so resolutely that bobby gave up the point. as sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to boston. her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend. "good by, mr. ray," said bobby, as the schooner filled away. "take this to remember me by." it was his jackknife; but sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it. bobby did not cease to wave his hat to sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness. chapter xx. in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again. fortunately for bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. he was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor, he made himself useful to the best of his ability. though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with sam ray that the schooner arrived off boston light. the captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel. "thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said bobby. "none at all. we must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do." "i should be very glad to get up this morning." "you shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat. "i will pay my passage now, if you please." "that is paid." "paid?" "i should say you had worked your passage. you have done very well, and i shall not charge you any thing." "i expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think i have done enough to pay it, why, i have nothing to say, only that i am very much obliged to you." "you ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one." "i like the sea, though i never saw it till a few weeks since. but i suppose my mother would not let me go to sea." "i suppose not. mothers are always afraid of salt water." by this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in boston. with a beating heart he made his way up into washington street. he felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. he could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in riverdale. how his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! no; she never could have thought that. _she_ knew he would not steal, if no one else did. and annie lee--would she ever smile upon him again? would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? he could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. would not mr. bayard frown upon him? would not even ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her? bobby had thought of all these things before--on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night onboard the schooner. but now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him. "i am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need i fear? my good father in heaven will not let me be wronged." yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of mr. bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. he could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him. "now or never," said he, as he turned round. "i will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it." mustering all his courage, he entered the store. mr. timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him. "hallo, bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit. "good morning, mr. bigelow," replied bobby with as much boldness as he could command. "i didn't know as i should ever see you again. you have been gone a long while." "longer than usual," answered bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "is mr. bayard in?" "he is--in his office." bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. mr. bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. with his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. he almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point. "mr. bayard," said he, in faltering tones. "bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame. grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, bobby would have thought it hurt him. he did not think so now. "my poor bobby! i am delighted to see you!" continued mr. bayard. bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. the unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him. "don't cry, bobby; i know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "it was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now." but bobby could not help crying, and the more mr. bayard, attempted to console him, the more he wept. "i am innocent, mr. bayard," he sobbed. "i know you are, bobby; and all the world knows you are." "i am ruined now; i shall never dare to hold my head up again." "nonsense, bobby; you will hold your head the higher. you have behaved like a hero." "i ran away from the state reform school, sir. i was innocent, and i would rather have died than staid there." "i know all about it, my young friend. now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over." bobby blowed and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by mr. bayard's side. the bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero. "do you see this, bobby? it is your free and unconditional pardon." "sir! why--" "it will all end well, you may depend." bobby was amazed. his pardon? but it would not restore his former good name. he felt that he was branded as a felon. it was not mercy, but justice that he wanted. "truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued mr. bayard; "and this document restores your reputation." "i can hardly believe that." "can't you? hear my story then. when i read in one of the maine papers the account of your misfortune, i felt that you had been grossly wronged. you were coupled with that tom spicer, who is the most consummate little villain i ever saw, and i understood your situation. ah, bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow." "i left him at brunswick because he began to behave badly; but he joined me again at augusta. he had spent nearly all his money, and did not know what to do. i pitied him, and meant to do something to help him out of the scrape." "generous as ever! i have heard all about this before." "indeed; who told you?" "tom spicer himself." "tom?" asked bobby, completely mystified. "yes, tom; you see, when i heard about your trouble, squire lee and myself--" "squire lee? does he know about it?" "he does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of you than ever before. he and i immediately went down to augusta to inquire into the matter. we called upon the governor of the state, who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you." "of me!" exclaimed bobby, startled to think he had sold a book to a governor. "yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he was the chief magistrate of the state. at any rate, he was very much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. well, we followed your route to brunswick, where we ascertained how tom had conducted. in a week he established a very bad reputation there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. the squire testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your devotion to your mother. in short, we procured your pardon, and hastened with it to the state reform school. "on our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening. every effort was made to retake you, but without success. ah, bobby, you managed that well." "they didn't look in the right place," replied bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel happy again. "by the permission of the superintendent, squire lee and myself examined tom spicer. he is a great rascal. perhaps he thought we would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing about it. he gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in the crime. we wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before a justice of the peace. you shall read it by and by." "may heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!" exclaimed bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "i did not deserve so much from you, mr. bayard." "yes, you did, and a thousand times more. i was very sorry you had left the institution, and i waited in the vicinity till they said there was no probability that you would be captured. the most extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a person to be found who had seen or heard of you. i was very much alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any information concerning you." "i am sorry you had so much trouble. i wish i had known you were there." "how did you get off?" bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and mr. bayard pronounced his skill worthy of his genius. "sam ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the bookseller, when he had finished. "i shall remember him; and only that i shall be afraid to go into the state of maine after what has happened, i should pay him a visit one of these days." "there you are wrong. those who know your story would sooner think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing any thing to injure your feelings. those who have suffered unjustly are always lionized." "but no one will know my story, only that i was sent to prison for stealing." "there you are mistaken again. we put articles in all the principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing your innocence beyond a peradventure. go to augusta now, bobby, and you will be a lion." "i am sure i had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily as this." "innocence shall triumph, my young friend." "what does mother say?" asked bobby, his countenance growing sad. "i do not know. we returned from maine only yesterday; but squire lee will satisfy her. all that can worry her, as it has worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of your escape." "i will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. i will take the noon train home." "a word about business before you go. i discharged timmins about a week ago, and i have kept his place for you." "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, thrown completely out of his propriety by this announcement. "i think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to travel about the country. i was talking with ellen about it, and she says it shall be so. timmins's salary was five hundred dollars a year, and you shall have the same." "five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated bobby, amazed at the vastness of the sum. "very well for a boy of thirteen, bobby." "i was fourteen last sunday, sir." "i would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it, and you shall have it." probably mr. bayard's gratitude had something to do with this munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and energy far beyond his years. he further informed bobby that he should have a room at his house, and that ellen was delighted with the arrangement he proposed. the gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the midst of his rejoicing be remembered that his own integrity had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. he had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns. he was happy--very happy. what made him so? not his dawning prosperity; not the favor of mr. bayard; not the handsome salary he was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross, if he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness. he had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. he had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to principle made a heaven within his heart. it was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new situation on the following week. after settling with mr. bayard, he found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was perfectly satisfactory. by the noon train he departed for riverdale, and in two hours more he was folded to his mother's heart. mrs. bright wept for joy now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's misfortune. it took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, and she was almost beside herself when bobby told her about his new situation. after tea he hastened over to squire lee's; and my young readers can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter. for the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east; and annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever read. perhaps it was because bobby was the hero. it was nearly ten o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire made him promise to come over the next day. chapter xxi. in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never." the few days which bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. his plans for the future too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams. i have before hinted that bobby was addicted to castle building, and i should pity the man or boy who was not--who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "as a man thinketh, so is he," the psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it. what a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain. even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. it fires his brain, it nerves his arm. it stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress. we must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. what napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of europe trembled before him. what howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity. bobby dreamed great things. that bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before mrs. bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot. "now or never," replied bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "this is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if i can make it so." then he had to dream about his business in boston and i am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like mr. bayard, living in an elegant house in chestnut street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them. a great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness, and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." it will never come to them. they are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success. bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor. he spent a liberal share of his time at squire lee's where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's house. annie read moore's poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself. in connection with tom spicer's continued absence, which had to be explained, bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the consequence was, that he became a lion in riverdale. the minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of hearing his story; but bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. he had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was any thing but pleasant to him. on monday morning he took the early train for boston, and assumed the duties of his situation in mr. bayard's store. but as i have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, i cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. he applied himself with all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. early in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post, mr. bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the instruction he required. his intelligence and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of him. by the advice of mr. bayard, he attended an evening school for six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. he took dr. franklin for his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man. every saturday night he went home to riverdale to spend the sabbath with his mother. the little black house no longer existed, for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. his mother, after a couple of years, at bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six hundred dollars. his kind employer boarded him for nothing, (much against bobby's will, i must say,) so that every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses. * * * * * eight years have passed by since bobby--we beg his pardon; he is now mr. robert bright--entered the store of mr. bayard. he has passed from the boy to the man. over the street door a new sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,-- bayard & bright, booksellers and publishers. the senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. mr. bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though every thing is directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city. his integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. the man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his friends and true to his god. mrs. bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in herself and happy in her children. bobby--we mean mr. bright--has hardly missed going to riverdale on a saturday night since he left home, eight years before. he has the same partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when he comes home. of course squire lee and annie were always glad to see him when he came to riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in riverdale that our hero did not go home on sunday evening when the clock struck nine. but as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go with us to mr. bayard's house in chestnut street. what! annie lee here? no; but as you are here, allow me to introduce mrs. robert bright. they were married a few months before, and mr. bayard insisted that the happy couple should make their home at his house. but where is ellen bayard? o, she is mrs. bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large book establishment in new york. bobby's dream had been realised, and he was the happiest man in the world--at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. he had been successful in business; his wife--the friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had woven--had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises. he had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success--not his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. these were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success. he had made himself a man,--this was his real success,--a true, a christian man. he had lived a noble life. he had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation--principle. it is the rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move. robert bright is happy because he is good. tom spicer, now in the state prison, is unhappy,--not _because_ he is in the state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of his soul. he has fed the good that was within him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. he is a body only; the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. he loves no one, and no one loves him. during the past summer, mr. bright and his lady took a journey "down east." annie insisted upon visiting the state reform school; and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on that eventful night. afterwards they called upon sam ray, who had been "dead sure that bobby would one day be a great man." he was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced himself. they spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his departure, mr. bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate manner that he could not help accepting it. squire lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy as when annie and her husband come to riverdale to spend the sabbath. he is fully of the opinion that mr. bright is the greatest man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he should be elected president of the united states one of these days. the little merchant is a great merchant now. but more than this, he is a good man. he has formed his character, and he will probably die as he has lived. reader, if yon have any good work to do, do it now, for with you it may be "now or never." note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: in an instant sam was off at full speed, crying, "stop thief!" at the full strength of his lungs.] the adventures of a country boy at a country fair by james otis author of toby tyler etc. illustrated boston charles e. brown & co. copyright, , by charles e. brown & co. s. j. parkhill & co., printers boston contents. chapter. i.--a young fakir ii.--an old fakir iii.--a friend iv.--uncle nathan v.--the fair vi.--a clue vii.--the clerk viii.--the jewelry fakir ix.--a brave rescue x.--an encounter xi.--long jim xii.--a discovery xiii.--amateur detectives xiv.--the rendezvous xv.--sam's adventures xvi.--missing xvii.--a terrible night xviii.--a narrow escape xix.--the arrest xx.--a proposition xxi.--with the burglars xxii.--a disaster xxiii.--a second arrest xxiv.--a third arrest xxv.--on bail xxvi.--the fakirs' party xxvii.--in hiding xxviii.--a failure xxix.--the testimonial xxx.--the trial xxxi.--an arrival xxxii.--in conclusion _the adventures of a country boy at a country fair._ chapter i. _a young fakir._ "i'm going to try it. deacon jones says i can have the right to run both things for ten dollars, and uncle nathan is going to lend me money enough to get the stock." "what scheme have you got in your head now, teddy hargreaves?" and mrs. fernald looked over her spectacles at the son of her widowed sister, who was literally breathless in his excitement. "i'm going to run a cane an' knife board at the peach bottom fair, and try to make money enough to pay the debt mother owes on the place." "you're crazy--mad as a march hare! the idea of a child like you setting yourself up to earn three or four hundred dollars, when your father worked all his life and couldn't get so much together." mrs. fernald really appeared to be angry, and she really believed there was good cause why she should lose her temper. the thought that little teddy--a "whiflet" she called him--should set up his opinion in such matters against his elders, and attempt to earn in one season an amount which seth hargreaves had never been able to repay during his thirty-six years of life, was so preposterous that the good lady looked upon the boy's assertion as positive proof that he was not only ready but willing to "fly in the face of providence." "i shall try it all the same," teddy replied in a most provokingly matter-of-fact tone, "an' i'm going down to see uncle nathan this very minute." "very well, and i consider it my bounden duty to advise your mother to keep you in the house until the fair is ended," aunt sarah said, as she took from its peg the well-worn gingham sun-bonnet. teddy had no desire to prolong the conversation, which had been begun simply because his aunt insisted on knowing where he had been, but hurried away from the gate on which he had been swinging while mrs. fernald questioned him, as if fearful lest she might try to detain him until the matter could be settled according to her own ideas of propriety. "i can have the right to run what i want to, every day the fair lasts, for ten dollars, an' now, if you lend me fifteen, i'll be all right," the boy cried as he burst into nathan hargreaves' store, just as the old gentleman was adding a trifle more sand to the sugar, in order to compensate for what might possibly have been spilled by the careless clerk. "oh, it's fixed, eh? and you're really goin' to turn fakir?" uncle nathan asked, wrinkling his face into the semblance of a laugh, but remaining silent, as if fearing to waste even such a cheap thing as mirth. "what's a fakir?" "a man, or a boy, for that matter, who goes out to sell things as you count on doin', if i'm fool enough to let you throw away fifteen good dollars of mine." "but you promised to lend me the money." "an' i'm going to do it; but that don't make me any less a fool jest because i'm holdin' to my word. tell me what you count on doin', an' then we'll come down to the business end of the scheme." "i'll pay the ten dollars i've got to deacon jones for the right to run the games, an' with what you lend me i'm goin' to waterville an' buy a whole lot of knives an' canes. there's a storekeeper over there who promises to sell that kind of goods for less than they cost him." "an' he's lyin' when he says it. people don't do business for the fun of it; but that's neither here nor there so far as our trade is concerned. i'm goin' to give you the fifteen dollars now--it's a power of money for a boy of your size, teddy--, an' if you make anything, as i allow you will, i'm to have eighteen dollars back; don't forget that part of the trade." "i'll stand to what i agreed, uncle nathan, and you shall be paid the very day the fair closes." "here it is," and with a sigh which was almost a groan uncle nathan took from a fat calfskin wallet three five-dollar bills, adding, as he handed them to teddy: "be careful of it, my boy, for i'm puttin' almost too much confidence in a child of your size, an' nobody knows how distressed i'd be if anything happened to prevent your paying it back." teddy placed the money carefully in the inside pocket of his vest, and, after promising for at least the hundredth time that it should be repaid by the close of the following week, hurried home confident in the belief that he was on an extremely short road to wealth. mrs. hargreaves was by no means as sanguine as her son concerning the success of the scheme, and actually appeared frightened when teddy showed her the money he had received from his uncle nathan, who was reputed to be the "closest-fisted" merchant to be found within a day's ride of peach bottom run. "if you should lose it, teddy, and be unable to pay him back at the exact time you promised, it would be the undoing of us, for we could never expect to get another dollar. i know he is not generous, but have always believed that if we should be in yet more straitened circumstances he would give us some assistance. he has neither charity nor mercy for any one who does not pay a little more than his just debts--" "but i shall give back every cent of this, mother, so don't look as if you were in such distress. i want to go to waterville to buy my stock in the morning, an' am counting on walking. it's only seven miles, an' i'll save fifty cents by traveling on shanks' mare." "i will have breakfast ready by four o'clock; but you must come back on the stage, teddy." "yes, if i feel very tired; but i don't know of any easier way to earn a dollar than by walking both ways." the young "fakir" believed he knew exactly what kind and amount of stock he wished to purchase on the following day, therefore he had no preparations to make for the journey save to get his limbs in the best possible condition for the tramp by retiring very early, in order to "scoop in" plenty of sleep. the thought of the success which should attend him in his new venture kept his eyes open a long while after getting into bed, and when he finally succeeded in crossing over to the land of nod, dreams of the fortune to be made during the coming week visited his brain, and remained there until his mother's voice summoned him to breakfast. the sun had not yet come up from behind the hills when he was trudging sturdily along over the dusty road, carrying a generous luncheon tied in a snowy-white napkin, and with his money secured by many pins in the lining of his cap. "be careful not to lose it, for your uncle nathan would never forgive you," his mother had said, and he cried cheerily, as he walked swiftly down the lane to the highway: "there's no fear of anything like that happening; the bills can't get away without my knowing it so long as they stay here," and teddy pulled his cap yet more closely down on his head. in a trifle more than two hours he was at waterville, wondering why the stores were not open, no matter how early it was, when such an important customer as himself came to town. since the merchants were evidently ignorant of his arrival, as was evidenced by the fact that their places of business yet remained closed, there was no more profitable occupation for him than to eat a second breakfast, which he proceeded to do, using a hand-truck on the depot-platform as a seat. the train which left new york on the evening before had arrived some time previous, and the station was temporarily deserted by all save a boy of about teddy's age, who was walking to and fro in an aimless manner. by the time the young "fakir" had finished his second biscuit he noticed that the stranger was watching him narrowly, and, holding forth the napkin with its generous store, he asked: "have one?" "i don't care if i do," said the boy, carelessly, and he continued: "i reckon you live 'round here?" "no, i jest come up from peach bottom run, an' am waiting for the stores to be opened." "why, you're from the same place where the fair is goin' to be held." "no; i live at the run, an' the fair is over to peach bottom, most five miles from my house. are you goin' there?" "i should reckon i was. why, i'm goin' to help run it." "you are?" and teddy's mouth opened wide in astonishment. "yes, sir-ree, an' you fellers will be jest about crazy when i tell you what i've come to do." "don't flash it upon us too quick, for we wanter kind of keep our wits about us till the fun is over." the tone of sarcasm in teddy's voice appeared to nettle the stranger. "i've come down here to give away a steamboat what's worth five hundred dollars." "then there ain't any need for you to go any farther, 'cause i'm willin' to take it now." "if you won't be so smart i'll tell you about it," was the dignified reply. "there's a firm out in detroit what's goin' to do that very thing to the feller that can guess how much she weighs, an' i've been hired to help the man who is comin' down to peach bottom to show off a lot of boats." "what are you goin' to do?" and now teddy was interested. "row around in the creek while he looks out for the stuff in the fair. it won't be any more'n fun, an' if you'll come over i'll take you out." "i don't s'pose you could help me guess how much the steamer weighs, could you?" "there ain't anybody as can do that, 'cause you see she ain't built yet; but you can find out all about it by lookin' on the fair grounds for the circulars what the davis boat and oar company of detroit will throw around, an' if there's somethin' else you wanter know jest ask for sam balderston; all the folks will know me before i've been there very long." "i'm going to work at the fair myself," teddy replied, and then, in response to his new friend's questions, he gave him all the particulars of his proposed venture. "i reckon you'll get along all right, an' come out way ahead, if some of these smart fakirs don't try to get the best of you. say, why can't i go to your house, an' stay till it's time to go over to the fair? i'll pay my way." "if mother's willin', i'd like to have you, an' i don't believe she'll care. now, i've got to buy my stuff. where'll i meet you afterward?" "i'm goin' with you," sam said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "i know a good deal about such things, an' won't see you cheated." teddy hardly thought he was in need of any assistance; but since he did not want to offend this fellow who was concerned in giving away a steamboat, he could not well refuse, therefore the two started up the street together. chapter ii. _an old fakir._ sam had very much advice to give during the short walk, and while the greater portion of it was worthless, there were bits which might be of value to the young "fakir." "don't buy anything till you have seen all there is in town, an' then you'll know which is the cheapest," sam repeated several times, with an air of wisdom, and teddy believed this to be a good idea. with this object in view the two boys walked from store to store, examining that particular quality of canes and knives which teddy thought would be best suited to his purpose, and sam had no hesitation in criticising the goods boldly, until more than one of the clerks lost his temper entirely and refused to show the full stock. "if you go on this way, sam, we won't get the business done to day, an' i want to send the stuff down in the stage, which leaves here at three o'clock." "there'll be plenty of time for that; i know what i'm about. now, if you had sent your money to me, i'd got you a dandy lot in new york for almost nothing." "seein's how i didn't even know your name till a couple of hours ago, there wasn't much chance for me to do that, an' i guess i'll make out well enough here if you don't keep on raisin' a fuss with the clerks." "i won't so much as yip ag'in, if that's the way you look at it. the question is, which store you're goin' to buy from?" "there's a place near the depot that wasn't open when we came past. let's go there, an' then i'll make up my mind." sam, feeling a trifle injured because his advice had not been fully appreciated, said nothing more until they were near the station, and then, seeing a train approaching, he proposed that they stop for a few minutes. "jest as likely as not there'll be people on it whom i know goin' to the fair, an' you want to get acquainted with all the fakirs, so's they'll help you along now an' then." "the stage goes at three." "an' it ain't more'n ten now. come on!" sam cried, triumphantly, as he motioned for teddy to come nearer. sam had already quickened his pace, and teddy was forced to follow, or injure the feelings of one whom he believed held a responsible position in the peach bottom exhibition. among the passengers alighting from the train as the boys arrived was a man who carried a large package enveloped in green cloth, and sam whispered, excitedly: "i'll bet that's an old fakir, and if he is we want to let him know who we are." teddy failed to understand exactly why this was necessary; but his companion seemed so positive on the point that he remained silent. this particular passenger appeared to have plenty of time at his disposal. he placed his package at one end of the platform, lighted a pipe, and then walked to and fro as the remainder of the travelers dispersed. "you foller me, an' we'll find out who he is," sam whispered, when he thought a fitting opportunity had come, and then advanced boldly toward the stranger. "goin' to the fair?" he asked. "yes; what of it?" "nothin', only i s'pose you know you've got to take another train here." "if i didn't why would i be loafin' around this dead place?" "i jest spoke of it 'cause this feller an' i are goin' there, too," and sam waved his hand in the direction where teddy was standing. "i s'pose there'll be other boys besides you at the fair, eh?" "but we belong to it. i'm to give a steamboat away, an' he's goin' to run a cane an' knife board. we're waiting here to buy the stock." [illustration: the three notes were handed to the generous stranger.] "oh, you are, eh?" and now the man appeared to be interested. "i reckon you're goin' to spend as much as a dollar?" "one? why, he's got fifteen, an' the whole of it will be spent before the stage leaves. we know something about the business an' don't count on gettin' an outfit for nothing." "i thought you was a fakir," the man said, in a more friendly tone, as, unobserved by the worldly-wise sam, he made a peculiar gesture to a stranger immediately in the rear. "that's what i am," was the proud reply, "an' i'll make things hum over at peach bottom before i leave the town. you see i thought i'd speak to you, 'cause all of us fellers should know each other." "you're right, an' it's mighty lucky you did strike up an acquaintance, for i can give you a big lift. i've helped many a boy into the business when they had money enough to help themselves." the last dozen words were spoken in a loud tone, as if for the benefit of the stranger in the rear; but instead of waiting to hear more the latter turned abruptly and walked toward the package with a green covering at the end of the platform. "i knew we oughter talk with you." "did you count on buying your stuff in this one-horse town?" the man asked as teddy approached, and the latter replied: "there wasn't any other place i could go to, 'cause it costs too much for a ticket to new york." "how big a stock do you want?" "all i can get for fifteen dollars. don't you think that will be enough?" "it depends," the stranger replied, reflectively. "if you buy the goods here you'll have to pay such a big price that it won't be much of a pile. now, if--i've got the very thing in mind! you'll remember the day you saw me if my plan works. i know a fakir here who has a fine layout that he wants to sell. you can get fifty dollars' worth of stuff for--well, he asks twenty; but i'll say you are friends of mine, an' the chances are you can make a trade." "that would be a regular snap!" sam cried, and teddy's eyes glistened at the thought of thus procuring a full outfit so cheaply. "i'll do what i can for you," the man said, in a patronizing tone. "at any rate, i'll make him come down in his price, and if there's any balance it can be paid after the fair has been opened long enough for you to take in some money." "if business is good, i'm willing to do what is right," teddy replied; "but i must pay uncle nathan first." "how much do you owe him?" "fifteen dollars." "why, bless my soul, it'll be a pretty poor fair if you can't make five times that amount in the first two days." "where can we see the man?" sam asked, eager that his wonderfully good trade should be consummated at the earliest possible opportunity. "i don't know; but he's somewhere in the town. give me your cash, an' i'll hunt him up inside of half an hour. the stuff is right here in the baggage-room, and you can ship it on the stage without any trouble." just for an instant teddy hesitated to part with what seemed to him like an enormous amount of money; but then came the thought that an old fakir would not wrong a young one--and he considered himself such. after some little difficulty he succeeded in extracting all the pins, and the three notes were handed to the generous stranger almost at the same moment that the green-covered package disappeared from the edge of the platform simultaneously with the departure of the second stranger. "wait right here for me," the man said, as he put the money in his pocket. "i've got too much work to do to spend any very great amount of time hunting you fellows up in case you don't stay in one place." after thus cautioning them, the old fakir walked slowly away, and sam said: "it was lucky you fell in with me, teddy, for i know how these things are worked, an' can give you a good many pointers before the fair is over. why, you'll have a first-class outfit for about half what it's worth." "yes, it's a good chance; but i can't see why he didn't take us with him if he was in a hurry, an' then he wouldn't have had to come back." "he's got to do that anyway, for his stuff is here," sam replied, pointing toward where he had last seen the man's package; but it was no longer there. "i guess the baggage-master has taken it in," he added; "but you needn't be afraid of losin' your money while i'm with you." then sam occupied his companion's attention by telling of his many alleged wonderful exploits, and an hour passed before his story was concluded. in the meantime one train had arrived and departed; another was on the point of leaving the depot, bound for peach bottom, when teddy cried as he leaped to his feet: "see! i'm certain that's the man who has got my money!" "where?" "on the platform of the front car!" before he could say anything more the train steamed out, leaving the would-be young fakir staring at it in distress and consternation. "of course it wasn't him," sam said, confidently, when the last car had disappeared from view. "the stuff he was goin'to buy for you is here in the baggage-room, 'cause he said so, an' we'll see him before long." [illustration: "see! i'm certain that's the man who has got my money."] teddy's suspicions had been aroused, and he was not easily quieted. the thought that it was possible he might have lost the money loaned him by uncle nathan was sufficient to cause the liveliest fear, and he said, decidedly: "i'm going to know where that man's baggage went to." "how'll you find out?" "ask the baggage-master." "don't make a fool of yourself. it would be nice for an old fakir like that man to know you thought he'd steal your money." "i don't care what he knows, so long as i get my fifteen dollars back." teddy, trembling with apprehension and excitement, went into the baggage-room and asked there if a green-covered package had been taken in by any of the attendants. no one had seen such an article, and all were positive there was nothing of the kind remaining in their charge. then he asked if a bundle of canes had been left there, and to this question there was a most decided negative. "the hangers-on at the fairs haven't begun to come yet," the baggage-master said, "and when they do come, we sha'n't have any of their stuff to handle, for it will all be transferred across the platform without being brought in here. what is the matter? anything gone wrong?" the lump which had been rising in teddy's throat was now so large that it was with difficulty he could say: "a man has run off with fifteen dollars of mine, an' uncle nathan will jest about kill me!" chapter iii. _a friend._ the baggage-master immediately displayed the utmost sympathy for the victim of the old fakir's seductive scheme, and sam was loud in his denunciations of a brother in the craft who would serve them in such a shabby manner. "you leave him to me, an' i'll show you what can be done," that young gentleman said, and teddy replied, reproachfully: "i've left too much to you already. if you hadn't thought it was necessary to make the acquaintance of every fellow who was going to the fair i'd have my fifteen dollars in my cap now." "i'll get them back for you." "how?" "i can't say jest now; but you wait an' see what i can do." inasmuch as teddy must account first to his mother and afterward to uncle nathan for that amount, the confident assertion of his friend failed to give him any mental relief, and he said, quite sharply: "you thought it was all right to give the money to him, an' if you didn't know any more than a country boy who'd never even heard of such fellows, i can't see how you can do much toward helping." at this point the baggage-master, who had been listening to the conversation, broke in with the sage remark: "it's no use for you fellows to fight over what has been done. the money is gone; there's no doubt about that; but it may be you can get it back." "how?" teddy asked, eagerly. "by notifying the police, and it is possible that they may find your man long before the fair is ended." "but even if they should, how can i pay uncle nathan the eighteen dollars he wants, after givin' deacon jones the ten which i promised?" "that, of course, is a question i cannot answer," the officer of the company replied, not unkindly; "but it will certainly be better to get some of the money back than to lose the whole." "of course it will," sam said, promptly, after waiting a few seconds without hearing any reply from teddy. "tell us what to do, an' i'll see to the whole thing." "hello! what kind of a meeting are you holding here?" a cheery voice cried, and, looking up, the disconsolate teddy saw a merchant whose stock he had been examining a short time previous. in a few words the baggage-master explained the condition of affairs. "can nothing be done?" the merchant asked. "it is barely possible. the fact of the matter is that the two swindlers left on the last train, and this boy's money has gone with them beyond a doubt." then the merchant turned to the would-be fakir and asked for further particulars, which were readily given, the latter saying, as he finished the sad story: "uncle nathan is bound to raise a big row, an' i won't be able to help mother, as i counted on doing; but i s'pose it serves me right." "i'm not so sure of that, lad, for all of us are liable to be taken in at some time or another. it is possible you may make money at the fair, and i will give you credit to the amount you lost. go to the store, show this slip, and get what you think may be needed." while speaking the merchant had been writing on a piece of paper torn from his memorandum book, and when he handed it to teddy the almost heartbroken boy read the following words: the bearer, edward hargreaves, is entitled to credit, thirty days' time, on all he may need, to the extent of thirty dollars. john reaves. "but i only lost fifteen dollars," teddy said, as he read the order. "i so understood; but you may need more, therefore i have made the amount sufficiently large. don't hesitate to buy what is wanted, and whether you ever find the swindler or not, i feel very positive my bill will be paid." teddy tried to thank the merchant, but that lump in his throat was still too near his mouth to admit of many words, and sam whispered: "don't say anything more about it. you've struck the biggest kind of luck, and the safest way is to hold your tongue." even had it been possible to speak, teddy could not have said all that was in his heart, and before sam had time to give any further advice the merchant boarded a train which was just starting for new york, leaving the young fakir and his newly-made friend to settle matters among themselves. "you're in big luck," the latter said, consolingly. "what's the difference if you have lost fifteen dollars so long as you know how to get thirty dollars' worth of goods to start in business?" "but this bill will have to be paid, and uncle nathan must have his money; that leaves me forty-five dollars in debt." "s'pose'n it does? you're bound to make a good deal more'n that, an' i'm here to help you through." teddy came very near saying that if sam had not been there the fifteen dollars would still be reposing beneath the lining of his cap; but he succeeded in checking himself, and the reproachful words remained unspoken. at this point in the conversation the baggage-master insisted that information of the swindler should be given to the police, and, whether they desired to do so or not, the boys were forced to accompany him to headquarters. here it is possible their story might have been told without exciting more than ordinary interest if the name of the kindly-disposed merchant had not been used; but that was sufficient to awaken a decided interest, and every detail was written down carefully. "we will try to get the money for you," the chief said. "several of my men will be at the fair, and if you see this fellow again, information must be given to them immediately." teddy had but little hope that any good would result by this means, but he promised faithfully to do as requested, and then the boys were at liberty to finish the business which had been interrupted so disastrously. so much time had been wasted that it was necessary to move around very lively in order to have the goods ready before the stage should leave, and teddy did a great deal toward expediting matters by explaining to the clerk at the store on which he had the order for credit exactly what he proposed to do. the young man understood at once the kind of goods which would be needed, and without listening to the many suggestions made by sam selected a good assortment of both knives and canes. "ain't you getting more than thirty dollars' worth?" teddy asked, as the clerk continued to add to the pile. "i think not. these are all cheap goods, you know, and make a big show without amounting to any very great value. i will put in cotton cloth enough for the cane board, and as many rings as you will need unless business should be very brisk." the clerk was bent on making the bill exactly the size of the order, and when the prices had been figured out teddy had invested just thirty dollars in a stock which must bring in a profit of at least fifty per cent. in order to admit of his paying the debts already contracted. the goods were to be put on the stage by the salesman, and there was nothing further for the boys to do but decide on their manner of traveling to the run. "after losin' fifteen dollars, i reckon there's only one thing for me to do," teddy said, as they left the store. "i'm goin'to walk; but you can do as you please." "s'pose'n we both ride? you're bound to make a pile of money before the fair is over, an' can afford---- by jinks! there's that fakir now!" in an instant sam was off at full speed, crying: "stop thief!" with the full strength of his lungs, as he pursued a man carrying a bundle covered with green cloth. such an appeal was well calculated to arouse every idler in the immediate vicinity, and before teddy fully understood what had happened not less than twenty men and boys were in chase of the stranger, who, strange to say, had not quickened his pace. the thought that it might yet be possible to regain his money lent unusual speed to the would-be fakir's heels, and he was among the foremost when the man suddenly halted, turned squarely around, and asked: "what is the matter with you people? do you want me?" "i guess we do," a policeman replied, as he seized the stranger by the collar. "somebody yelled for us to stop the thief, and you must be the man." "who says i am?" was the angry question. by this time both teddy and sam had discovered the latter's mistake. the only point of resemblance between this stranger and the one who stole the money was that both carried packages covered with green cloth; but while the first bundle was bulky and apparently heavy, this was small and readily held under the man's arm. sam did not wait to explain matters. fearing lest he might get into serious trouble because of the mistake, he slipped quietly away, leaving teddy to bear the brunt of the accused's wrath. the latter realized that something must be done at once, for the greater portion of the crowd was looking inquiringly at him, and he said, in a voice which was far from steady: "i didn't do the hollerin'; but a feller who was with me when a man stole my money thought you must be the one." "where is he?" the stranger asked, advancing threateningly. "i don't know. he ran away when he saw it was a mistake." the crowd immediately began to disperse. the policeman called down quite the reverse of blessings on sam's head, and then walked away, leaving teddy and the stranger comparatively alone. "i don't know as it does any harm to have a lot of fools chasing a man," the latter said, "but it might give him a bad name in his work." "i'm very sorry, sir, but you see----" "i'm not blaming you, my boy, since it was the other fellow who did the mischief. tell me how you lost your stuff." "my what?" "your stuff--money." "oh!" and teddy at once gave the stranger a detailed account of all that had happened, the latter saying, as the story was concluded: "i wouldn't be afraid to bet my head that long jim was the duck who played the trick. i know he came here, headed for the fair grounds, and it's jest about his style of working." "do you think there's any chance i'll get it back?" "he shall give up if i see him. i'll be at the fair myself, working a neat little game, and will see you there." with this remark the stranger walked away, and teddy went toward the depot once more, feeling quite certain he had made a friend who would aid him in his new venture. chapter iv. _uncle nathan._ when teddy reached the depot he was not obliged to hunt very long for sam, for that young gentleman crept out from behind a pile of baggage on seeing his friend was alone, and asked, in a hoarse whisper: "what did that feller do to you?" "nothing; but that don't prove we should get out of another scrape so easily, and you must be careful, or we'll be in no end of trouble before the fair is ended." "i was only tryin' to catch your money." "it surely wouldn't have done any harm if you had found out whether that was the man or not before you started the whole crowd after him." "that's right, rub it into a feller when he tries to do you a good turn," sam said, sarcastically, and then remembering an instant later that he proposed to be this boy's guest, he added, "i was only lookin' out for you, an' so long as there's been no harm done we needn't talk about it. do you still mean to walk home?" "there's nothing else to be done, if we want to get to the run to-night, for the stage left while we were chasing that man." this was exactly what he did not want to do; but, under the circumstances, there was no help for it, and the young gentleman who expected to form such a prominent portion of the fair set out by the side of the friend whom he had injured while thinking to do him a favor. at the end of a trifle less than three hours, when both were footsore, hungry, and weary, the boys arrived at teddy's home, and mrs. hargreaves made the stranger welcome despite the inconvenience caused by his coming. not until after sam had retired did teddy tell his mother of the theft, and for several moments the widow was in great mental distress; but finally she viewed the matter in a more cheerful light, and it was resolved that uncle nathan should not be told of the mishap. "it would only make him angry," mrs. hargreaves said, "and you must pay him before the merchant who was so kind to you gets his money; but i am terribly afraid, teddy, that the whole scheme will be a failure." the amateur fakir assured her as best he could, and when they retired that night both teddy and his mother were in a comparatively contented frame of mind. the following day was sunday, on which not even the all engrossing topic of cane-boards and knives was to be discussed; but before the family had finished breakfast the arrival of a stranger forced them into worldly topics. the newcomer was none other than the man whom sam had accused of being the thief, and he explained the cause of his visit by saying: "i have reason to believe that long jim, the fakir who got away with your son's money, will be over here to-night, because the hotels at peach bottom are crowded, and it is possible he may be forced to give up the stuff." although not exactly understanding what he meant, the widow insisted on his coming into the house, and he laid the details of his plan before teddy and sam. "i'll hang around here for him," the stranger said, "and you shall say if he is the man who did you up; after that i'll take a hand in the business, and it'll be queer if between us all we can't make him do the square thing, more especially since the rest of his gang haven't come yet." as might be expected, teddy was excited by the prospect of recovering the money which he had believed was lost beyond reclaim, and plans were at once laid to trap the dishonest fakir. while this conversation was being carried on uncle nathan came in to learn how his nephew had succeeded in town, and the stranger introduced himself as frank hazelton, a dealer in jewelry, which was to be on exhibition during the coming week at the fair. the old man was delighted to make the stranger's acquaintance, for he fancied there would be an opportunity for him to take the agency of a valuable line of goods without the outlay of any money, and in a very few moments the two were fast friends. uncle nathan not only monopolized nearly all the conversation, but insisted on showing mr. hazelton around the village, and actually forced the latter to accompany him, despite the fact that it was sunday, when an honest merchant is not supposed to so much as think of business. on the following day it would be necessary for those who had purchased the privilege of doing business on the fair grounds to be present, ready to select their different sites for working, and very shortly after the sun sank behind the hills sam and teddy retired in order to be ready for an early start next morning, since the first stage left the run at half-past five. it lacked fully an hour of that time when the boys were called to breakfast by mrs. hargreaves, and in less than fifteen minutes they were at the table eating a hearty breakfast, which was interrupted by the appearance of uncle nathan, who looked as if he had not been in bed since the evening previous. "i've been robbed!" he cried, passionately, "and this is what comes of trying to help my nephew enter a disreputable line of business. i believe you induced that man to come here, explaining all about my store, simply that he might act the burglar. and it wouldn't take much to make me think you had agreed to divide with him the ill-gotten gains," he added, shaking his fist in the direction of teddy, who was so astounded by the news as to be literally incapable of movement. "what do you mean, nathan?" mrs. hargreaves cried. "just what i said! my store was robbed last night, and your precious son knows the thief better than i do!" "you mean the man who came here yesterday?" the widow asked, while teddy and sam gazed at the old man in open-mouthed astonishment. "of course i do; who else could it be? didn't i take him over there yesterday, and didn't i explain just how difficult it was to deposit money in a bank, because a man would have to pay a dollar to go to waterville an' back, or trust the stage driver to do the business?" by this time teddy had recovered something like composure, and he said, gravely: "we have no means of knowing what you said to mr. hazelton, but if you told him all your business, that is no concern of ours. you insisted on his going away with you, and we haven't seen him since." "but you lied to me about my money." "in what way?" "you never said a word about its being stolen." "if i never said a word i couldn't have told a lie. he has evidently given the whole story; but what happened in waterville has nothing to do with the robbery of your store." "oh, it hasn't, eh? well, i'm beginning to think it was a job cooked up by all hands to get the best of me." "if it had been," and now teddy was on his feet, looking the angry old man squarely in the face, "why wouldn't i have said something about it in order to make the story seem straighter? a merchant in waterville trusted me for the goods i wanted after he heard the money was gone, and i count on paying you before i do him." "oh, you do, eh? well, it's mighty doubtful whether you or this precious friend of yours will ever see the fair, for i'm going to get out a warrant for the whole lot before i'm done with this thing." "would you arrest teddy when he has been in this house ever since you left here yesterday morning?" mrs. hargreaves cried. "i'll have my money back, and the sooner your smart son tells me where it is, the sooner he can go about his business; but he must first pay me back my eighteen dollars." "i only borrowed fifteen, uncle nathan, and that you will get before next wednesday. if you want to arrest me, go ahead; but i promise that you'll be sorry for it." "so you threaten, do you? that's what comes of trying to help an ungrateful boy! i knew he was going to the bad from the first minute he talked about having a cane-board," the old man added, as he turned to the widow, "and i predict that he'll come to no good even if he manages to get out of this scrape." "you thought it was a good idea for me to do as i proposed," teddy replied, standing his ground bravely, "and was willing to loan me the money, provided i would pay you three dollars for the use of fifteen for one week." "that's right; throw in my teeth what i wanted to do in order to help you along, and call me an old skinflint. i am old enough to expect such things from such as you." "i haven't called you any names, nor do i intend to do so; i only wanted mother to know the truth of the business between us. do you really believe i had any hand in breaking into your store?" "if you didn't your friends did, and that amounts to the same thing, as you'll soon find out. i'll have a warrant issued for the arrest of the whole crowd, if you don't tell me the truth this very minute." "but i don't know anything, uncle nathan." "i'll have the truth out of you before the day is ended," the old man cried, angrily, and without saying or doing anything save to shake his fist in the direction of his nephew and sam he left the house. as yet none of the little party knew the full extent of what had happened, but before uncle nathan was fairly out of the yard a neighbor came around to tell mrs. hargreaves that the old man's store had been entered by burglars on the night previous, and a large amount of money, together with the most valuable goods, had been carried away. it is not difficult to imagine the consternation which seized upon the little party after uncle nathan's departure. teddy was so overwhelmed that it was literally impossible for him to say a word, and sam shook like one in an ague fit at the thought that he might be carried off to jail before it was possible for him to astonish the people by his skill as an oarsman. "you must not think of leaving here until we know what your uncle proposes to do," mrs. hargreaves said, as she returned to the dining-room after talking with the neighbor. "of course i know that neither of you two boys had anything to do with the robbery; but you must not run away." "i've got to leave, no matter what the old fool says," sam replied. "i don't know how the folks would get along if i didn't show up, an' it won't do to disappoint them." "are you going?" teddy asked, and sam replied in a voice which trembled despite all his efforts to make it sound firm: "of course i am. you don't allow i'm such an idiot as to stay till he can have me arrested, an' if you're sensible, both of us will go." "i must stay here, an' lose all my chances of making money," teddy said, gloomily. "all right, then i'm off, an' after i once get on the fair grounds i'll bet that old duffer won't get hold of me." sam did not propose to lose any time. he had no baggage, and in a very few moments after so deciding he was walking up the road over which the stage would pass, while teddy, with a heavier heart than he had ever known before, waited for his uncle to send the officers of the law to carry him to prison. chapter v. _the fair._ it seemed to teddy as if everything pleasant in life had departed from him as he waited for the return of uncle nathan accompanied by the officers of the law, and neither he nor his mother had any idea that the visit would be long delayed. the widow had every proof, even if her heart had not told the truth, that her son was innocent of the charge which the angry old man made. she knew both he and sam remained in the house during the entire day previous to the robbery, and it would have been almost impossible for them to have left during the night without her knowledge; but at the same time it was only reasonable she should be distressed in mind as to the final outcome of the matter. one, two, three hours passed, and yet no arrest had been made. teddy no longer hoped to play the part of fakir at the fair; but yet he fancied it might be possible to sell his stock, which had already been forwarded by the stage, to some more fortunate fellow, and in order to do this it was necessary he should be on the grounds at the earliest possible hour; but the charge made by his uncle held him a voluntary prisoner. at eight o'clock a neighbor, whose love of gossip was greater than her desire for housework, came to the garden gate to say that she had just heard the justice of the peace refuse to issue a warrant for either of the boys, and she added to this information her belief that it, the burglary, was a judgment upon uncle nathan for presuming to talk business on the sabbath. when this busybody had departed, mrs. hargreaves said, as she re-entered the house: "there is no longer any reason, teddy, why you shouldn't carry out your plans. every one in this village knows where to find you in case a warrant is granted, which doesn't now seem possible, and it is better to go ahead as you proposed, knowing that your mother is certain you are innocent of any wrongdoing." teddy's one desire had been to be on the fair grounds, and when this advice was given from "a fellow's best friend," he started at once, saying as he left the house: "i'll come back if there's nothing to do; but there's no reason to worry if you don't see me until saturday, for i shall stay jest as long as things run smooth." ten minutes later, while he was trudging along the dusty road with no other idea than that he would be forced to walk the entire distance, a friend in a wagon overtook him, proposed that he ride, and before the fair grounds were reached he had heard all the particulars of the robbery. it appeared that the burglars must have effected an entrance to uncle nathan's store after midnight saturday, and when the proprietor arrived on the following morning there was absolutely no clue to the thieves. "they must have had a wagon to take away all the old man says he has lost," teddy's informant added, as the story was concluded, "and because of that the justice refused to issue a warrant for the man who slept at the hotel last night. of course the idea that you knew anything about it was all in that old fool's eye." "then nobody has been arrested?" teddy exclaimed, in surprise. "of course not, an' more than one in town hopes he'll never see hide nor hair of his goods or money; but between you an' me i don't believe he's lost half as much as he tries to make out." to this last assertion teddy gave but little heed; the all absorbing thought in his mind was as to whether he would actually be arrested for the crime, and this was sufficient to prevent any speculations as to the amount of loss, or his former dreams of the future. arriving at the fair grounds, he found everything in a state of confusion. goods were arriving and being put in place; men were quarreling for this or that vantage ground, and carpenters were busy in every direction. as a matter of course, he knew that all this would be changed on the following day when the visitors began to arrive; but, nevertheless, it gave him a homesick feeling which he could not suppress, and, for a time, prevented him from attending to his own interests. "hello! what are you sittin' there for?" a voice cried, after he had remained inactive near the entrance nearly an hour, debating in his own mind whether or not it would be worth the while to unpack the goods which he knew were awaiting his call somewhere on the grounds. looking up quickly he saw sam, self-possessed and jaunty as at the first moment he met him in waterville, but wearing an air of considerably more importance. "have you gone to work yet?" he asked, listlessly. "of course not; there's nothin' for me to do till the folks begin to come in to see how well i can row a boat. what did the old duffer do?" "do you mean uncle nathan?" "of course." "he hasn't had anybody arrested yet; but there's no knowin' how soon he'll begin." "he'd better not try it on me," sam said, with an assumption of boldness. "i've found a feller here that's goin' to show off rifles, an' i can borrow as many as i want if he does any funny business." "would you shoot anybody?" "you jest stay till an old lunatic comes along sayin' i've helped to rob him when your mother knows where i was, an' see what i'll do," sam replied, in a really bloodthirsty tone as he turned to walk away, and then, as if reconsidering the matter, he stopped long enough to say, "wait here a minute, an' i'll show you a feller what knows a thing or two." inasmuch as teddy had no idea of moving from the position he had taken up near the gate it was not irksome to do as the exhibitor of boats requested, and without troubling his head as to who this very important person might be, he remained at the precise spot until sam returned with a boy who appeared to be a year or two older than himself. "this is dan summers, an' he's here to help show off a dandy rifle made in chicopee falls down in massachusetts, or some such place. he'll help us out of the scrape if anybody can." dan looked as if this introduction was disagreeable to him rather than otherwise, and after nodding to teddy, he said, in an explanatory tone: "i'm here to help the man what exhibits goods from the stevens arms company, that's all; but i don't see how i could be of any help if you fellers have got in a fuss." "neither do i," teddy replied, and then to show that no one could aid him, he told the whole story, including all that uncle nathan had said. "i wouldn't let that worry me," dan said, philosophically, when the tale was ended. "if you want to make any money out of this fair it is time you was lookin' out for a stand, an' i know of the best place on the grounds. come with me now, an' you can get it before the crowd of fakirs have a chance to take it up." teddy, rather liking the appearance of this boy, resolved to follow his advice, and signified the same by slipping down from the stack of exhibits, as he said: "show it to me an' i'll get right to work, for there's forty-five dollars i've got to pay back, no matter what uncle nathan makes up his mind to do." "that's the way to talk," sam cried, approvingly, and forthwith he proceeded to take charge of his two acquaintances, resolved that lack of energy should not prevent him from sharing in their triumphs, if indeed, they had any. dan professed to have had considerable experience with fairs, and the manner in which he proceeded to work showed that there had been no boasting on his part. he selected a spot where nearly all of the visitors would be forced to pass in order to see the cattle or the racing, and set about putting up a stand for teddy in the most approved manner. he ordered sam here and there to such places as he had seen an accumulation of lumber, and so well did he work, after borrowing an ax and a hatchet from a "candy butcher," that it was not yet noon when teddy had an inclosure sufficiently large for his purpose; the cloth was in place and the holes cut for the canes, so that it would be but the work of a few moments to make everything ready when business should begin. "you can't do the whole thing yourself if there is anything like the crowd that ought to come," dan said, "and i advise you to hire a clerk." "where'll i find one?" teddy asked, helplessly. "take some of the fellers from your own village; but be sure they're honest, for after business begins there won't be any chance to watch 'em." teddy thought he could find the proper party before the following day, and then came the question of where they were to sleep. "i've got that all fixed," sam said, confidently. "the man what runs the museum in that big tent is a friend of mine, an' he won't say a word if we stay under the canvas to-night." "how long have you known him?" teddy asked, warned by previous experience that sam's statements were not always to be depended upon. "i never saw him till this morning; but that don't make no difference so long as he's willin' for us to stay there." "we'll go over an' look around," dan said, leading the way, and to the surprise of at least one of the party it was found that master sam's statement was absolutely correct. the proprietor of the museum was more than willing to allow the boys to sleep under his canvas, for the very good reason that they would act as sentinels in lieu of those he had neglected to hire, and all three went away in search of a place where they could obtain meals during the expected five days of excitement and money-making. this was even a more simple matter than the first. at a boarding-house nearly opposite the main entrance to the grounds they could be accommodated at a reasonable rate, and the preliminaries had been settled. it only remained now to welcome the visitors, and get from them as much money as possible. teddy almost forgot the terrible fact that his uncle nathan might yet have him arrested, and sam acted as if such a thing had never been possible. it is true all three of the boys discussed the possibility of finding the money which had been stolen from teddy; but neither thought of connecting the two crimes as the work of one person. during the afternoon teddy looked around in the hope of seeing the man, unjustly accused of the theft, who had promised to aid him; but as yet he had not put in an appearance, and it seemed as if all the choice places would be taken before he arrived. it was anything rather than sport to wander around the almost deserted grounds, and at an early hour, after partaking of a remarkably poor supper, the three boys sought the seclusion granted by the mildewed canvas of the alleged museum of the "world's wonders." a goat, a wax baby, two or three snakes, an alligator, and a contortionist, who was none other than the proprietor of this magnificent array of "marvels," made up the entire list of curiosities; but the tent would shelter the young fakirs from the wind and dew, and it was possible they might sleep as soundly as at home. chapter vi. _a clue._ sam and dan, who had worked at many fairs and been forced to sleep in far less desirable places, thought it was a rare piece of good fortune to get such comfortable quarters free; but the prospect of lying on the ground all night was far from pleasing to teddy. he looked around for some spot softer than another; but there was no choice, and he said to himself: "there's one satisfaction about it, i'm better off on the ground than i would have been if uncle nathan had succeeded in having me arrested and put in jail." this thought caused the interior of the tent to seem less disagreeable, and he almost persuaded himself that it would be sport to stay all night in a museum with a real contortionist as host. dan had thrown himself at full length on the ground where he could watch the proprietor of this "enormous exhibition" cook his supper on an oil-stove, and sam, anxious about other people's affairs as usual, devoted his entire time to asking questions regarding the business. "how do you count on gettin' along when the crowds get here? you can't sell tickets an' act too." "i've got a barker an' a clown coming to-morrow; it was no use to pay 'em wages for layin' around when there was nothing to be done but put up the tent." "what's a 'barker?'" sam asked, in surprise. "why, the man who stands outside an' does the talking, of course." then, his supper having been cooked and eaten, the host amused himself and his guests by telling of his experience in the show business; relating stories and talking of the different fakirs he had met. "when i started out," he said, "i made up my mind that a fortune could be made in one season. i bought a fine tent; had lots of performers, about twenty animals, and a dozen cases of stuffed birds and other curiosities. we struck hard luck from the sendoff, an' first the woman with an iron jaw gave me the shake because she got tired of waiting for the salary that never came. two of the bears grew so disgusted with the bad business that they died, and one after another of the people skipped, till i was pretty nigh alone. a sheriff in harmer seized the cases, another levied on my live stock, and it has only taken two seasons to bring the show down to where you see it." this was not pleasing information for teddy, who was obliged to make such a large amount of money in order to free himself from debt, and he asked: "isn't it possible to make money at every fair? i thought the fakirs got rich in a little while." "so did i before i went into the business. a fellow may make a big stake this week and lose it all at the next stand. if you strike bad weather, or a crowd that hasn't got any money, it's up-hill work to pull in the entrance fee. now, i have to pay a hundred dollars for this privilege, because i've got a big tent, and it wouldn't be any more if i had a show to compare with it in size. it'll take a good many ten-cent pieces to make that up." this plain statement of facts caused teddy to figure how many nickels he must receive before the capital invested and stolen would be returned, and the result was far from gratifying. "the eighteen dollars which must be given to uncle nathan, the thirty i owe in waterville, and ten i paid for the privilege of running the boards makes eleven hundred and sixty five-cent pieces. i'll never see so many customers as that, and aunt sarah was right when she called me a fool for thinking of going into the business," he said to himself, as his companions began to make their preparations for the night. it is useless to "cry over spilled milk," however, and this he realized in time to prevent himself from being plunged into the lowest depths of despondency. it was barely possible business would be exceptionally good, he argued mentally, and if hard work could accomplish the desired result he must be successful. dan was already lying down with his head toward the side of the tent and his feet near the oil-stove, which had been left burning because of the dampness, and teddy crawled over by the side of him. sam had decided to sleep by the side of his host, probably with the idea that he might appear to be on terms of greater intimacy, and all hands gave themselves up to slumber. the excitement of the morning and subsequent labor had so tried teddy that, despite the hardness of his bed, he fell asleep in a very few moments, and it was not yet nine o'clock when all the inmates of the tent, save the goat, and possibly the alligator and snakes, were wrapped in blissful unconsciousness. half an hour later a terrific yell from sam caused the remainder of the party to spring to their feet in alarm. "what's the matter?" dan cried. "somebody has got into the tent and been poundin' me with a club! i'm pretty near killed." the faint glow cast by the oil-stove was not sufficient to illumine any portion of the tent, and the host made all haste to light a lantern, after which dan proceeded to search for the supposed intruder; but before he had taken a dozen steps the proprietor of the museum burst into a hearty laugh. "funny, ain't it?" sam cried, angrily. "i s'pose you'd laugh if i'd been killed in your old tent!" this savage remark appeared to excite the man's mirth rather than check it, and while he was thus enjoying himself teddy and dan stood gazing at him in surprise. it was several minutes before the man could speak, and then he said, as he pointed to the goat who stood a short distance away calmly munching some potato parings: "that's the fellow who has been beating your friend with a club. i always let him loose at night, and he has walked over our dying boy." sam insisted that he had been beaten with a club; but on examining his clothing two spots of fresh earth were found, showing where the animal had stepped. a hoof-print on the sleeve and another directly on the breast of his coat comprised the full amount of damage done. the boy who had believed himself so dangerously wounded now grew angry, and, leaping to his feet, declared he would not remain in the tent another minute unless the goat was tied. "there's nothing to prevent your bunking somewhere else," the owner of the animal replied, quite sharply. "billy always has had the liberty of the tent at night, and i reckon he won't lose it now." sam started toward the entrance; but before reaching it he realized that he would be punishing no one but himself, and slowly turned back, saying as he approached the stove: "it's too late to hunt for lodgings now, an' i s'pose i'll have to make the best of it." "i guess you will," the host replied, quietly, and the angry sam lay down on the seat of the baggage wagon, to insure himself against another visit from "billy." this incident had driven the desire for sleep from the eyelids of teddy and dan, and they remained awake some time after the loud breathing of their companions told that the visit from the goat had been temporarily effaced from their minds. now teddy discovered what a hard, uncomfortable bed the bare earth was, and after tossing about for half an hour, he whispered to dan: "do you suppose it would be any better in the wagon?" "no; you'll get used to it in a little while, and the ground is softer than a board." teddy was about to reply when the sound of voices from the outside attracted his attention, and then came the crackle as of a match being lighted. two or more men had halted near the canvas within a few feet of where the boys were lying, evidently that they might be sheltered from the wind while getting their pipes or cigars in working order. a moment later both the listeners heard one of the newcomers say: "i don't think it will be safe for you to show up very much while we stay here." "why not? if them boys recognize me it will be an easy matter to frighten 'em into holdin' their tongues, and there's goin' to be good pickin's this week." "but what's the use of runnin' any risk? we've made a fairly good haul already, an' it's better to get safe off with that than stick our noses where it'll be hard work to pull them back." teddy was in the highest possible excitement. in the tone of the second speaker's voice he recognized the man who had stolen his money, and he punched dan with his elbow to assure himself that the latter was listening. "keep quiet," dan whispered, and then the conversation on the outside was continued. "i'll take good care to keep shady, an' you see what can be done to-morrow." [illustration: the boys crept through the flap of the tent and followed the two men.] "will you promise not to leave the house till after dark?" "i thought you had more nerve; but so long as you haven't i reckon i'll promise, for this is bound to be a fat thing, and i don't want to lose the whole of it. "when these country jays begin to send their stuff home i'll have ours shipped, an' there's little danger it'll be overhauled, more especially since the old man couldn't get a warrant for the only one he suspects. it's a safe bet that hazelton has a pretty good idea who did the job, an' if they make trouble for him he'll most likely tell what he thinks." "there's no call to be afraid of him after he has worked a couple of days, for those he ropes in would do all they could to have him arrested." the last portion of this remark was almost indistinguishable, owing to the fact that the men were walking away, and when the sound of their footsteps could no longer be heard teddy said: "those are the men who robbed uncle nathan's store, an' i'm certain one of them got my money." "would you know their voices if you heard them again?" "sure; but why don't we find out where they are going? it wouldn't be a hard job." "are you willin' to sneak after them?" "of course i am. come on!" the boys arose softly and crept through the flap of the tent without awakening the sleepers. the night was dark and cloudy, and it was impossible to see any very great distance in either direction; but dan had taken especial heed to the course taken by the men, and he started off without hesitation. "we ought to have a club or something to protect ourselves in case they should see us," teddy whispered. "we won't get near enough to let them do much mischief. do you see two sparks over there? they are the lighted ends of cigars, an' our men are behind them." dan quickened his pace; but he had failed to calculate the distance correctly, and was much nearer the game than he had suspected. "be careful they don't see us," he said, in a low tone, and in another instant the boys were directly in front of the men. teddy started back in alarm; but he was too late. in an instant the sparks flashed before his eyes, and he fell to the ground unconscious just as dan succeeded in warding off the blow of a fist which was aimed at him. chapter vii. _the clerk._ when teddy recovered from the vicious blow which had rendered him unconscious he saw dan lying on the ground beside him, but no one else was near. it was as if they had been fighting with phantoms of the brain, save for the fact that both bore the most indisputable signs of having been assaulted by beings of true flesh and blood. one of dan's eyes was closed as if by a violent blow, and teddy bled freely from the ear, the crimson fluid telling eloquently of the exact location of that superior force which had caused so many stars to dance before his mental vision. "we got through with that part of it mighty quick," dan said, ruefully, as he rose to his feet. "there wasn't anything slow about the way they struck out after we made fools of ourselves by running into them, eh?" "i don't understand how it all happened. it wasn't more than three seconds from the time i first saw them before there was a regular set of fireworks dancing in front of my eyes." "it so happens that they saw us first," dan replied, as he rubbed his head. "those men were the thieves, and what i said showed them that we were on the scent." "where are they now?" "you'll have to ask that question of someone else," dan said, with a grimace of pain. "the last thing i know was when the tall fellow landed one square on my nose, and before i recovered both were out of sight. we have done harm rather than good, for now they know we overheard the conversation, an' we'll be mighty lucky if this is all we get before the fair comes to an end." "suppose we tell the police now?" "what can you say to them? we heard those men talking about something which may have had nothing to do with the robbery, and want to have them arrested. on what grounds will we ask for a warrant? besides, if nathan hargreaves was my uncle, i would let him fight his own battles." "but i owe him eighteen dollars." "what of that? he wouldn't take a penny off if you got your head broke while trying to find his money, and after all that has happened i think we have good reason to let him severely alone." "i'm willing to go back to the tent," teddy said, as he began to feel faint, and dan aided him during the short walk, both staggering as they came through the flap, meeting their host near the entrance, who asked, sharply: "what has been going on? i counted on helping a party of boys, rather than giving my tent up to a lot of roughs, as you appear to be." in the fewest possible words dan explained what had happened, and in addition told all the story of teddy's losing his money, together with the accusation made by uncle nathan. "i'm sorry i said a word," and the proprietor of the museum did really appear to be grieved. "it makes no difference whether you got a whipping or not, the guilty parties are here, and you can count on my help in turning them up." "that's what i'm afraid we sha'n't be able to do," teddy replied; "we tried our best to-night, and got the worst of it." "there is plenty of time between now and saturday. i'll do all any man can, an' it'll be strange if we don't get some proof before the fair closes." "how did you know we were out?" dan asked. "i saw you go, and there was no reason why i should kick; but i began to be afraid you were up to something crooked. now i know the whole story, i'll do my best to help you out of the scrape. go to sleep, and we'll talk the whole matter over in the morning." this was good advice, but not easily followed. both the boys began to feel the effects of the blows received from the thieves, and the pain resulting therefrom was not conducive to repose. they did manage to close their eyes in slumber now and then, however, and when the day broke mr. sweet, the proprietor of the museum, was standing ready to minister to their necessities. "you haven't got exactly the right kind of faces to bring very big business," he said, cheerily; "but i reckon we can make a change in the general appearance. use this plentifully as a bath, and before business opens you'll be respectable members of society." it was certainly necessary for them to do something toward improving their appearance. teddy's ear was swollen to nearly twice its natural size, and dan had an eye which was rapidly blackening. thanks to the application provided by the owner of the museum, these evidences of a fight were rapidly reduced, and when sam awoke they looked little the worse for wear, although he readily discovered that something serious had happened while he was wrapped in slumber. "what has been goin' on?" he asked, suspiciously. "nothing much," dan replied, with a forced laugh. "the goat walked over us, and we're kinder used up, that's all. are you ready to go to breakfast?" it was evident that sam did not believe this explanation, but since he said nothing more about it, the two actors in the previous night's adventures held their peace; therefore it would not be in his power to betray any secrets. breakfast was eaten at an early hour, and the young fakirs returned to the grounds in time for teddy to meet the first visitors. under dan's instructions he continued to cry out: "here's where you can get a cane or a knife for nothing! three rings for five cents, and every time you throw it over the mark you get what you ring! three for five, and every cane or knife you ring is yours!" it was yet too early for the exhibits to be opened, therefore teddy had the assistance of his friends in reclaiming the rings thrown, and after nearly four dollars had been taken in with a loss only of a ten cent cane, the amateur fakir began to understand that it would be necessary for him to have a clerk. "you're bound to do a good business this week," dan said, at about eight o'clock. "sam and i must go now to attend to our own work, an' if you see some fellow who can be trusted, i advise you to hire him, or there'll be considerable trade lost, for when these people want to spend their money they won't wait for you to hunt up assistants." "yes, i reckon there's more'n a thousand who are jest aching to see how i can row in one of them dandy boats," master sam added; "but if you get into any kind of a scrape, an' don't know how to get out, come to me. i'll see you through, no matter how good business is." these two friends and advisers had hardly left him when a particular chum from the run came up, and knowing he could be trusted, teddy immediately made a trade for his services. tim jones accepted the offer of ten cents on each dollar which might be taken in, and straightway engaged himself as teddy's clerk, promising faithfully to account for every penny he should receive. "i know you are honest," the proprietor of the board said to his friend, "and i want you to help me on the square, so i'm willing to give a fair price, for i may have to be away a good deal of the time." "you mean that nathan hargreaves is goin' to have you arrested?" "why do you say that?" "because he's tellin' around town at the run that you know who robbed his store, an' says he'll have a warrant out, if he has to go to waterville for it." "that is where he's making a great big mistake, tim; but if he should do anything of the kind i expect you to do your best here," and teddy spoke very solemnly, for he really believed his uncle would succeed in having him arrested. "i don't know positively who broke into his store; but dan an' i heard enough last night to make us believe we can find the thieves if we have time to work it out." "i'd let him hustle to get the stuff, if it was my pudding," tim replied with emphasis, and then as a party of young fellows bent on spending money approached the board he began to cry, as lustily as might have been expected from any old fakir: "here's where you get 'em, three rings for a nickel, and every cane or knife you ring is yours; all for the small sum of five cents!" convinced that he had a capable clerk, who was willing to work hard in order to earn an additional percentage, teddy contented himself with making change for the rush of customers, which continued unabated until nearly ten o'clock and then came a lull, when he was able to watch the other fakirs around him. up to this point business had continued in the most promising manner, and if it held out as well there would be no difficulty in his paying all the money he owed, even although there might be no very large profit. "i only want to get out square," he said to himself, while nursing his injured ear; but this experience led him to believe it was possible to do very much toward helping his mother, and already had he begun to dream of large returns, despite the fifteen dollars out of which he had been swindled. it was just when his customers had gone to other parts of the ground, and after teddy had figured up the amount of money taken in, showing that there was nearly eight dollars in the treasury with an offset only of one twenty-cent knife and two ten-cent canes lost, that the young fakir saw hazelton standing some distance away beckoning to him. "look out sharp for things, tim," he cried, as he vaulted over the railing and ran to the side of the man whom he believed to be a friend. "did anything happen last night?" the latter asked. teddy told him the whole story, keeping back not one incident. "i heard quite so much in the hotel where i board. it is long jim and his partner who have done the job of which both you and i are accused. as for your uncle, he isn't worth a minute's thought; but i'm going to get to work, an' what he says may go against me, so you and i must turn those fellows up if we can." "ain't your business honest?" teddy asked, in surprise. "well, when we come right down to dots, i don't suppose it is. watch me when i leave here, and you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. i may want to leave my satchel with you for a while, and i reckon you're willing to take care of it?" "of course i am. i'll do anything you ask." "better wait and see the game first, but don't forget that we've got to turn up the two men who whipped you and your friend last night, or stand the chance of being hauled up for the robbery ourselves." "did you say anything to uncle nathan to make him think you would break into his store?" "no; i only played him for a jay, as you shall see me do with two or three hundred of these smart fellows here, and he jumped down on me because there was no one else on whom to fasten the crime. i've got to go, now. don't forget to hurry back to your cane-board when you see i'm getting through with my first stand, for i want to leave my stuff with somebody whom i can trust." chapter viii. _the jewelry fakir._ teddy's curiosity regarding the kind of business which hazelton proposed to do was so great that, for the time being, he forgot his own venture in watching this supposed friend. the jewelry fakir disappeared amid the crowd for a few moments, reappearing in a carriage drawn by a fancifully decorated horse, and the gaudy trappings caused the sightseers to stop, believing something interesting or curious was to be seen. hazelton introduced himself as an agent for a large manufacturing company, and proposed to dispose of "samples" of their goods in a manner which would be satisfactory to all. he began by throwing away great numbers of cheap rings made to imitate gold, and as the boys scrambled for them he complained that the older members of the throng--those people whom he particularly wished should test the merits of his wares--were getting nothing. "i can change that," he said, after hesitating a moment, as if to devise some plan. then holding up half a dozen pairs of cuff-buttons, he continued: "i am allowed to give away only six of these. what gentleman will advance twenty-five cents for one of these sets, knowing the money will be returned to him? by that means i shall place the goods where they will do the most good." in a short time the necessary number of purchasers was found, each having paid a quarter of a dollar, and then, with great ostentation, the fakir returned to every one the money he had given. a similar performance was gone through with in the case of ten seal rings, and by that time the crowd were in a state of high excitement, for they were getting supposedly valuable goods by simply loaning this agent their money for a short time. the fakir then held up a lot of watch-chains, asking who would give him a dollar for one, but in this instance he made no mention of returning the money. believing these also were to be given away, every man scrambled to pass up his dollar before the supply should be exhausted, and fully two hundred dollars was taken in by the generous "agent." then, as the demand ceased, hazelton produced from his valise what appeared to be a heavy gold watch. wrapping it in paper, and attaching it to a chain, he cried: "who wants to take another, and receive as a present what i have fastened to the end of it; but on the condition that this paper shall not be removed until i give permission?" a young fellow standing near teddy made all possible haste to pass the fakir a dollar and receive the prize. then the remainder of the crowd clamored for more to be put up in the same manner, and hazelton disposed of at least a hundred before the clamorous throng could be appeased. while this was being done teddy saw the young fellow slyly remove the paper and examine his goods. a look of anger and disappointment overspread his face as a cheap, empty locket, fashioned on the outside something like the case of a watch, was revealed to view. twenty cents would have been an extravagantly high price for what he had paid a dollar; but it was possible the agent would return the money as he had done in the previous cases, and the victimized fellow held his peace. hazelton was now ready to take a hurried departure. no more dollars were passed up, and quickly seizing the reins, he said: "i have not represented these goods to be gold; but they are a fine imitation, and mr. nathan hargreaves, of peach bottom run, will probably act as my agent for the sale of them. you can get what may be wanted from him if you need any more." the last words were hardly spoken before he drove quickly through the throng, leaving his dupes in a daze, from which they did not recover until he was lost to view. now teddy understood what the "give-away" game was, and he also knew that it was far from being honest, although hazelton had really made no promises which he did not fulfill. some of the victims were angry, and vowed to flog "that feller within an inch of his life" before sunset; others bore their loss philosophically, and turned away with the remark that the fakir was "a cute one," while the majority hastened off lest they should be suspected of being victims. teddy returned to his cane-board feeling sad because he had been so mistaken in this particular man, and had hardly reached there when hazelton, on foot, came from the side of the fair grounds opposite where he had disappeared, saying hurriedly, as he handed the boy a black satchel somewhat resembling a sample case: "look out for this! all my money is in it." without waiting for an answer the man was gone, and the young fakir was in no slight distress at being the custodian of so much wealth. after considerable discussion with tim he decided to leave it behind the cane-board where it would be screened from view, and then a crowd of customers suddenly appearing, he was so busy during the next half hour that he hardly had time to think of that which had been intrusted to his keeping. not until trade grew dull once more did hazelton appear, looking decidedly well pleased with himself, and, standing where the passers-by could not hear, he asked: "well, what do you think of the give-away game now?" "it looks to me like a swindle," teddy replied, bluntly. "the things you sold were not worth half what you got for them." "six cents apiece for the chains, and five for the lockets is what i pay by the quantity," the fakir said, with a laugh. "but you made the people think they were getting real watches." "i was mighty careful to say nothing of the kind. they thought they saw a watch, and i told them i would make each purchaser a present of what was on the chain. their idea was to get the best of me, and in that i didn't lose very much. it's a case of setting a thief to catch a thief, and the smartest man comes out ahead." "but why did you leave all the money with me?" "because it sometimes happens that my customers make a kick, and try to get back their stuff by force, so i don't carry much cash in my pockets while i am on the fair grounds." "of course you are all through now. you can't expect to do the same thing over again." "that's exactly what i shall do in about an hour, only in a different portion of the inclosure, and you'll see that i can catch just as many suckers as before." then, in order to be rid of the satchel, for it seemed as if he was really concerned in the swindle so long as it remained in his keeping, teddy said he wanted to see what dan and sam were doing. "go ahead; i'll stay near by where i can keep an eye on the stuff, so you needn't let that worry you." as a matter of fact, the boy was not eager to leave his place of business; but having said so, it was necessary to go, or let hazelton understand exactly why the remark had been made. cautioning tim to "keep his eyes open for trade," he walked across the grounds to the building where dan was employed, and found that young gentleman displaying the good qualities of a peculiar-looking weapon. "this is the model pocket rifle," dan was saying to a party of gentlemen. "the shoulder-rest is detachable, and you can buy an effective weapon for a trifle over fifteen dollars, as---- hello, teddy, how's business?" he added, suddenly, on observing his friend, and the two had an opportunity for conversation, while the curious ones were examining the rifle. teddy gave a brief account of what had already been done, and then asked: "can't you get off a few minutes and go with me to see what sam is doing?" it was not difficult for dan to get a short leave of absence, and the two went directly to the creek where their acquaintance, who proposed to make himself the central figure of the fair, was rowing around in a jaunty looking craft. sam wore a sailor's shirt, turned away at the throat, and tied with a black silk handkerchief, while on the breast of the garment was worked the name "davis boat and oar co., detroit, mich." the same legend being printed in gold on the band of his straw hat. sam had evidently been expecting his friends, for he espied them before they reached the shore, and, rowing to the bank, insisted they should take a sail. "come on, it's all right," he said. "it don't make any difference whether i carry passengers or not so long as the boat is kept goin', an' i want to show you somethin' fine in the way of rowin'." neither of the boys cared very much about accepting the invitation; but he was so persistent that they finally stepped on board as the easiest manner of settling the matter. "i tell you what it is, fellers," he said, as he pulled out into the stream, "i'm jest makin' things hum around here. these folks have never seen any kind of style put into rowin', an' i'm knockin' their eyes out." "don't give it to them too strong, or they may want to keep you here as an ornament after the fair closes, and then the rest of the world would suffer," dan said, with a laugh, and sam replied: "you fellers can make fun; but what i say is straight," and then he made preparations for giving an exhibition. "watch me now, an' you'll learn a thing or two about boats." during the next ten minutes he pulled as if in a race, first up and then down the stream, until sheer lack of breath forced him to stop. "i hope you haven't set the keel on fire," dan said, solicitously. "there's no question but that you made good time, though i'm inclined to think the build of the boat had considerable to do with the speed. this one looks as if she would row herself." "that's all you know about it. if i hadn't been a first-class hand at----" "see there!" teddy cried, excitedly, as he pointed toward the shore. "that's the man who got my fifteen dollars. pull in, sam, an' pull for all you are worth!" the oarsman delayed only long enough to gaze in the direction indicated, where he saw the old fakir whom they had met with such great loss at waterville, and then he bent himself to the task. "do you believe it will be safe to tackle him after last night?" dan asked. "i'm going to, and if he don't get away from me i'll ask some of the crowd to help me have him arrested," teddy replied, grimly. the little craft was a considerable distance from the shore. sam was so excited that he only thought of landing in the shortest possible space of time, and instead of keeping a lookout for other boats, rowed vigorously, as if he were the only oarsman on the stream. teddy and dan sat motionless, with their eyes fixed on the man, and thus it happened that no one on board saw a double ender, in which were three ladies and two gentlemen, come around a bend in the creek directly in sam's course. there was a shout from the bank, three shrill screams of terror, and then a crash as the two craft came together with terrific force. the occupants of both boats were thrown into the water as the frail timbers were splintered, and the spectators on the bank acted as if panic-stricken. chapter ix. _a brave rescue._ sam was a fairly good swimmer, and as soon as he found himself in the water he struck out for the shore, paying no attention to any one else until he had assured his own safety. one of the gentlemen in the other craft did the same selfish thing, while the other, unable to help even himself, was trying to keep his head above water by resting his chin on an oar and piece of planking. the women were in imminent danger of being drowned, for there was no other boat near at hand which could be sent to the rescue, and the throng of spectators was in that unreasoning state of fear and excitement which prevents people from being of any service at such a time. when teddy and dan came to the surface after having been thrown from their seats, they were within a few feet of each other, and the latter asked: "can you swim?" "yes; don't pay any attention to me, but do what you can toward saving those women." "will you help me?" "of course; but i can't take care of more than one." both boats had disappeared, and nothing save a few fragments showed where they had gone down. teddy thought only of aiding the struggling women, for there was no question that the man with the oar could take care of himself, at least until those on the bank should be sufficiently composed to do something effective, and he swam to the nearest struggling being, clasping her firmly under one arm as he said: "don't make a row; but keep perfectly quiet, an' i'll take you ashore." half-unconscious as she was, the woman attempted to grasp him by the neck, and for several seconds he had all he could do to prevent her from choking him to death; but after two or three kicks judiciously administered, he succeeded in making her understand that her life as well as his own depended upon her remaining passive, and from that moment all went well. the employees of the company which had the boats on exhibition flung into the water several life-saving arrangements of cork and canvas, and by dint of much persuading he induced her to trust to one of these while he went to the assistance of dan, who had been carried beneath the surface more than once by the struggles of the woman whom he was trying to save. by this time a boat was brought up from around the point, and as these two helpless ones were taken on board both the boys swam to the rescue of the last of the party who had sunk beneath the surface for the third time. teddy, now nearly exhausted by his efforts, was the first to grasp her; but if it had not been for dan the struggle would have been useless, since his strength was so far spent that he could not have brought her above the water unaided. by their united efforts, however, she was taken on board the boat in a state of unconsciousness, and they made their way to the shore cheered by the shouts of the assembled multitude. weak, almost exhausted beyond the power to stand upright, they landed a few seconds in advance of the craft, and the reception received was enough to have nerved stronger men to a semblance of strength. it was not until they were in the private apartments allotted to the davis company that either fully understood how weak he was, and then willing hands aided them to recuperate. hot flannels, warm drinks, and dry clothes were contributed by the different exhibitors, until, as teddy said, they looked like "circus clowns;" but they were in fairly good bodily condition, and it appeared as if the involuntary bath had done them no real injury. outside the building the people were shouting themselves hoarse in praise of the two boys who had saved three lives, and sam stood bowing acknowledgments as if he had been the chief actor in the thrilling scene. the difference between the real and the pretended life-savers was readily understood, however, when dan and teddy made their appearance, looking decidedly the worse for their struggles, and the cheers which went up would have been ample reward for the most praise-loving person in the world. they looked like anything rather than reputable employees as they appeared in the borrowed garments; but as teddy said, they couldn't stay in the building until their clothes were dried, and it was absolutely necessary he should attend to his business. dan's duties necessitated his remaining near the creek; but teddy was forced to go back to his cane-board, and the crowd which followed him was good evidence of the money he would make. during two hours after he returned from this thrilling adventure the cane-board had more customers than could conveniently be attended to, and it is safe to say that he then handled a larger amount than he had ever before seen. "at this rate it won't take long to square up things, and you shall have a fair portion of the profits, tim," he said, when there was an opportunity for him to speak with his clerk without being overheard by the customers. "it's a lucky thing for us that them boats were smashed," tim said, devoutly, as he handed his employer half a dollar to change. "we might have stood here with our tongues hangin' out all day an' never seen a quarter of this money if you hadn't known how to swim." "you are right to a certain extent; but i can't take all the credit of this spurt, because more than half the people are trying to get a cane for nothing." "in the same way they thought to swindle mr. hazelton out of a watch," tim replied, with a smile; "but we won't fight about what brings trade so long as it comes with the cash." up to this time teddy had no very definite idea of how much money had been taken in, and he was thinking it would be a good idea to ascertain, when a gruff, familiar voice from the rear asked: "are the wages of sin as much as they should be?" turning quickly he saw uncle nathan, and replied: "i don't know exactly what they should be; but, perhaps, you do." "whatever i may know now, i remember that it was not allowed i should insult my elders either by plainly spoken words or insinuations," the old man said, sternly. "neither would i have done such a thing if you had not given me the provocation; but when i promised to pay three dollars for the use of fifteen one week, you did not seem to think that amount would be the wages of sin." "at the time i had no idea you would conspire with others to rob me of my hard-earned savings." "you know very well, uncle nathan, that i haven't done any such thing. on the night your store was robbed i staid in the house, and hadn't left it when you came to tell us the news." "every person of your class has some such excuse ready in case of an emergency; but that kind of talk will not do with me. if you meant to do the square thing, why was i not told you lost the money i lent you?" "because i knew you would raise an awful row, thinking possibly it would not be paid back." "have i yet any assurance that it will be?" the old man asked, in a fury. "do you need it now?" "i always need my own." "and in this case, if i pay you at once, do you think it right to charge me three dollars for the use of fifteen lent two days ago?" "that was what you promised, and the world gauges a man by the way he keeps his word." "i owe the storekeeper in waterville thirty dollars; but i told him you must be paid first, and so you shall." "then give me the money now," uncle nathan snarled. "that is exactly what i am willing to do," teddy replied, calmly; "but if you can't trust me i have reason to be suspicious of you, so give me a receipt for the amount, and the matter can be settled." the old man literally glared at his nephew for an instant, and then, eager to have the cash in his possession, he wrote a receipt, handing it to the young fakir, as he said, angrily: "now, let me see if you can settle the bill." since the mishap on the creek, where teddy had covered himself with glory, business had been so good that he had more than twice that amount, and, emptying the contents of his money bag on a board, he proceeded to select the required sum. uncle nathan watched him jealously, his eyes twinkling enviously, and when the money was placed in his hand he counted it twice over before delivering up the written acknowledgment. "are you certain all this has been honestly earned, teddy?" he asked, gravely. "how else could i have got it?" "there are many ways. while i would not be willing to take my oath to it, several of these ten-cent pieces look very much like those i lost night before last." "do you mean to say i had anything to do with robbing your store?" and now that this particular debt had been canceled teddy felt very brave. "i know that such an amount of money has not been earned honestly, and, what is more, my eyes have been opened to the character of your friends." "if you mean mr. hazelton, he is as much your friend as mine, for you were with him all day sunday." "that is exactly who i do mean," uncle nathan replied, with provoking deliberation. "i have seen his method of doing business since i came into this fair, and know he is nothing more than a deliberate swindler." "but one with whom you were perfectly willing to go into partnership," a voice in the rear of teddy cried sharply, and the jewelry fakir stepped directly in front of uncle nathan. "i told you exactly how i worked, and you offered to put up even money with me, growing angry when i said you would be of no use in the business. if it is swindling, you were mighty eager to have a hand in the same business." "i don't want to talk with you," uncle nathan said, as he put teddy's eighteen dollars carefully in his pocket. "then why do you come around here trying to bully this boy? he had no idea of what i was going to do until he saw me work, while you understood the whole plan. make any trouble for him, and i will get up here and tell every person who comes along that you wanted to be my partner." "do it," the old man said, angrily. "after having cheated so many people out of their money, who will believe a word you say?" at the same time, however, uncle nathan took good care to leave this particular spot, and hazelton stepped to the rear of the board where he could talk privately with teddy. chapter x. _an encounter._ first of all, the jewelry fakir wanted to hear the particulars of the accident on the lake, and teddy began by telling him the primary cause of the trouble. "i reckon all three of us lost our heads when we saw that man; i know i did and we were so eager to get on shore that we paid no attention to anything else. have you seen him?" "who? long jim? no; but the boys say he is here somewhere running the swinging ball game." "what is that?" "a wooden ball is swung on two short uprights about eight inches apart, and between them, in the center, stands a small peg. you pay ten cents for the privilege of swinging the ball, and if it hits the peg when it comes back after leaving your hand, you get a dollar." "i should think that would be easy enough to do." "well, don't try it with such an idea or you'll go broke mighty quick. it looks simple; but it isn't accomplished very often." "have you done anything since i left here?" "yes, and scooped in as much as i had any right to expect. i don't want to spoil to-morrow's business, so sha'n't make another pitch, but will spend my time trying to find jim." "what good can that do?" "i still count on making him give back your fifteen dollars, if nothing more. i reckon your uncle nathan won't try again to get a warrant out for us, and so i sha'n't bother my head about learning anything regarding the robbery." "he'll make things just as disagreeable as he can; there's no question about that." "well, let him, and we'll see who comes out ahead. trade is beginning to pick up, and you'd better attend to your customers." hazelton walked away, and from that moment until nearly nightfall teddy had all the business both he and his clerk could attend to. nearly every one had something to say about the accident on the creek, and the young fakir was forced to tell the story over and over again, until he really got tired of repeating the details. when nearly all of the visitors had left the grounds teddy made up his cash account, and the sum total surprised both himself and tim. including the amount paid uncle nathan he had taken in fifty-five dollars and twenty cents. ten per cent. of this was paid to the clerk, and he found himself possessed of the magnificent sum of thirty-one dollars and seventy cents. "at this rate we shall be rich before the end of the week," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "that's a fact; but it don't seem right for me to take so much," tim replied, as he wrapped the five dollars and a half which had been given him in his handkerchief. "that was the agreement, an' we'll stick to it." "but when you promised ten cents on every dollar neither of us believed trade would be half so good." "you're right; i thought if we got one-third as much business would be booming; but that has nothing to do with our bargain. you've hung right on here, without even stopping for anything to eat, an' are entitled to what you've been paid. everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd to-morrow, an' so we stand a chance to make considerable more. are you going home to-night, or do you count on staying here?" "i've got to let the folks know where i am, for when i left it was allowed i'd be back by sunset. to-morrow i'll come prepared to stay the rest of the week." "there'll be plenty of stages running, an' you can afford to ride both ways after this day's work. i want to send some of this money home to mother, for it ain't safe to carry so much around with me." "am i to take it?" "yes, an' you can tell her all that has happened. ask her to come over thursday, an' see for herself that we're getting rich." twenty-five dollars was tied in a bundle with many wrappings of paper, and tim started off, looking almost afraid at being the custodian of so much wealth. it was necessary teddy should pack up his entire stock until next morning, and this he proceeded to do as soon as he was alone. mr. sweet had given him permission to bring his goods into the museum tent, and his only trouble was how everything could be carried without assistance. before he was ready for departure, however, sam came up, and the question of transportation was settled. "well, how do you feel now?" teddy asked, cheerily, for the knowledge that he had already taken in nearly enough to pay his debts caused him to feel very jolly. "i allers get the worst of everything," sam replied, disconsolately. "you an' dan made a big strike when you tumbled into the water, an' i've had a blowin' up; come mighty near losin' my job into the bargain." "why?" "'cause the boss says that i was careless an' reckless, an' that i couldn't earn enough in a month to pay for the two boats i've smashed." "are they lost entirely?" "no, of course not. we pulled 'em out a little while ago, an' it cost so very much to fix both. the folks in the other boat were as much to blame as me." "they certainly were not keeping any better lookout, and, as a matter of fact, i suppose i'm more at fault than any one else, for if i hadn't sung out about the fakir it wouldn't have happened." "that's what i told the boss; but he's chuck full of foolish talk about the bravery he says you an' dan showed, an' is tryin' to get up what he calls a testimonial for you." "a what?" teddy cried, in surprise. "i heard him say testimonial; but if you know what that means you can go to the head." "i don't, and i hope it won't amount to anything. i've been paid enough for what was done by the boom it gave my business." "of course, you an' dan are bound to have the best end of it." "why didn't you stop an' do the same thing?" "'cause i had sense enough to look out for myself first." "but you know how to swim." "what of that? it's mighty risky catchin' hold of people in the water, an' i don't mean to take any chances. how much have you made to-day?" when teddy told him, the expert in rowing looked decidedly envious. "you've got all that money in one day?" "yes; but i sent the most of it home to mother." "it's funny what luck some folks have, when them as knows the business twice as well don't much more'n earn their salt," sam said, as if to himself, and before he could continue dan arrived. he wore his own clothes, and carried those teddy had left in the boat-house. "these were dry, so i brought 'em up. you needn't carry back the ones you borrowed till to-morrow, so sam's boss says." then dan asked concerning business, and by the time all three had finished discussing this very important matter the knives and canes were packed ready for removal. each boy took a load, carried it to the tent where mr. sweet was figuring up his receipts for the day, and then went to supper, returning half an hour later so tired that there was no desire on the part of either to do anything other than sleep. the proprietor of the museum was in very good spirits. he had taken in one hundred and six dollars and eighty cents, and said, in a tone of satisfaction: "i reckon this fair will pan out all right. trade is bound to be better to-morrow, and thursday is always the biggest of the week. i hear you boys have been distinguishing yourselves. tell me about it." dan related the incident of the day very modestly, interrupted now and then by sam, who was eager to pose as a hero also, and mr. sweet expressed himself as being well satisfied with their behavior. "chasing a thief and getting a whipping in the night, and then saving the lives of three people the next day is record enough for one week, so you'd better not try for any more adventures," he said, with a laugh. now that the incident of the previous night had been spoken of so openly, it was necessary sam's curiosity should be satisfied, and dan was forced to tell the story. while he was doing so, and listening to the oarsman's comments, teddy had an opportunity to see the "barker" and clown who arrived that morning. neither was a very prepossessing-looking man. they were lying on the ground some distance from the boys, as if bent on minding their own business, and there was no real reason for an unfavorable opinion concerning them. but little time was spent in conversation on this evening. every one was thoroughly tired, and each sought for a soft spot on which to pass the night. as before, sam crawled up on the wagon to be out of harm's way when the goat should be unfastened, while dan and teddy lay down in very nearly the same place as before. "i don't fancy we shall hear many secrets between now and morning, no matter how many men come around here to talk," the former said, laughingly. "it won't take me two minutes to fall asleep, and the noise that can awaken me then will have to be very great." teddy's only reply was a yawn, and in even less time than dan had mentioned he was wrapped in slumber. shortly after the proprietor of the exhibition began to make his preparations for retiring, and the clown asked: "how did that row start this afternoon?" "half a dozen of the village toughs tried to get in without paying, and i had to polish one of 'em off," the barker replied. "you must have done it pretty quick, for when i got out there the thing was over," mr. sweet said. "the fellow was more than half-drunk, an' it wasn't a very big job. they threaten to come back and clean the whole show out." "yes, i've heard such threats made before; but never lost much sleep worrying about it." ten minutes later all the human occupants of the tent were enjoying a well-earned rest, and the goat had about concluded it would be a profitless job to prospect for anything more to eat, when the sound of footsteps could have been heard from the outside. had mr. sweet been awake he would have decided that these late visitors were trying to find the flap of the tent, for they walked cautiously around the canvas twice, and then a sharp knife was thrust through the fabric. an instant later sam awoke his companion with a yell that would have done credit to any indian. some one had given him such a blow as sent him from the seat to the ground, and the remainder of the party leaped to their feet only to be confronted by a large party of half-drunken toughs who had come to avenge the insult received during the afternoon. chapter xi. _long jim_. teddy's first thought when he was awakened by sam's yells was that the officers of the law were coming to arrest him for the robbery committed at uncle nathan's store; but in a very few seconds he understood that this was not the case. he and dan had been sleeping some distance from the remainder of the company; therefore, when the hand-to-hand struggle began they were out of it entirely, and owing to the darkness could not be seen by the assailants; but sam's cries served to show the mob where he was, and one after another pounded him when they failed to find any of the other occupants. while one might have counted twenty teddy and dan stood motionless, undecided as to what should be done, while the din caused by the combatants and the screaming boy were almost deafening, and then the latter said: "we've got to take a hand in this row, teddy. mr. sweet has given us the chance to sleep here, and the least we can do is to help as much as possible, for it appears to me that his men are getting the worst of it." a broken tent-peg was lying on the ground near at hand, and dan added, as he seized it: "try to light one of the lanterns so we can see which is an enemy, and then sail in." it seemed to teddy as if he would never be able to follow these instructions. he had plenty of matches; but in his excitement one after another was extinguished until he fancied half an hour must have elapsed before the wick was ignited. the faint glow of light served to show one of the intruders teddy's form, and the latter had but just succeeded in hanging the lantern on the center-pole when it became necessary to defend himself. the drunken bully made a lunge at him, which he managed to avoid by jumping aside, and in another instant he had seized the man by the waist, doing his best to throw him. from this moment teddy knew nothing more of the row than that portion in which he was immediately concerned. he was able to prevent the man from striking by hugging close to his body, and the two swayed here and there in the effort to gain the mastery. now and then they came in contact with the other combatants, one or both receiving a chance blow, but no especial injury was done to either. had the man been sober, teddy must have been overcome in a very short time; but as he was far from being steady on his feet the odds were about even, and the boy succeeded in holding his own until the others had retreated or been so disabled that it was no longer possible for them to continue the assault. fully thirty minutes had elapsed from the time sam first sounded the alarm before the occupants of the tent could count themselves as victors, and then mr. sweet and the clown pulled teddy's adversary away, throwing him bodily out of the tent after administering summary punishment. during all this time the other exhibitors who intended to sleep on the grounds had been gathering around the canvas, but no one cared to risk his precious body by entering until it was certain the battle had been ended. then the tent was filled with sympathizing friends, who endeavored to ascertain the amount of injury done, but were interrupted in the work by the proprietor, who cried, angrily: "clear out of here, every mother's son! you didn't dare to come in when it would have been possible to help us, and there's no need of you now. we were attacked by a crowd of men from the town, who proposed to clean the show out because we wouldn't let them in free, and that's all there is to it." not until the last visitor had unwillingly departed did the little party pay any attention to their wounds, and then the result of the engagement was ascertained. the barker had a broken nose, but it would not prevent him from doing a full share of talking on the following day. the clown's eye looked rather bad, and mr. sweet's cheek had been cut, but these were only trifling mishaps. teddy had come out of the affray comparatively uninjured; dan showed nothing worse than a bruise under the left ear, and while sam appeared to be unscathed, he declared that he had been pounded until every inch of his body felt like jelly. "you squealed fairly well for a fellow who was so badly done up," mr. sweet said, with a laugh, as he proceeded to dress the barker's wounded nose, "and i reckon you'll be all right by morning. light some of the other lanterns so i can see what i'm about, and during the remainder of the night we'll stand guard, for no one can say how soon those scoundrels may attempt to pay us a second visit, although i think they had a full dose this time." how the assailants had fared no one was able to form a very good opinion. the general belief among the occupants of the tent, however, was that they had received such severe punishment that there would be no further attack on this night, at least. when the wounds had been dressed, mr. sweet said, as he took up a position near the flap: "you fellows had better try to go to sleep now. i'll keep awake for a while, and then call some one to relieve me. dan, can't you borrow one of those queer-looking rifles you are exhibiting, and bring it with you to-morrow night?" "i might get the one i use for shooting at a target; but you wouldn't think of trying to kill a man, would you, mr. sweet?" "i could do a good deal toward scaring them, and if a crowd insisted on forcing an entrance, i'd take mighty good care that one would carry away a bullet to remember me by." "i'll bring the rifle," dan replied, and teddy whispered: "when i came here to run a cane-board i didn't count on being obliged to do any fighting." "i don't reckon there'll be much more here. the managers of the fair will see to it that those fellows are put where they can't do any additional mischief, for the exhibitors must be protected, and we shall be safe enough, except something else comes up to make a row." then the sore, tired party lay down in search of slumber once more, and, strange as it may seem after the exciting events, all save the sentinel were soon wrapped again in slumber. each in turn was aroused to do his share of guard duty before morning came; but no enemy appeared, and at sunrise the three boys went across the grounds to the boarding-house, where, as dan said: "the price was twice as big as the breakfast." teddy had his place of business ready for the reception of customers before the first stage-load of visitors arrived, and when tim came he had already taken in nearly a dollar. "what's the news?" he asked, as the clerk appeared, looking radiant and happy at the thought of earning as much money as on the previous day. "your mother was pretty nigh wild when i told her what we took in yesterday, an' says she'll be here sure on thursday. there's no more news of your uncle nathan's goods, an' he's still tryin' to have you arrested; but your mother says not to be afraid, 'cause she has talked with a lawyer, an' don't think there'll be any trouble. i told the folks at home that the old skinflint made you pay three dollars interest on the money what was stole, an' everybody in town will know it before night." tim was forced to stop his story to wait upon a party of young gentlemen who were eager to get dollar canes for five cents, and the booths adjoining teddy's place of business had not yet been opened when he announced that there were four dollars in the money box. "we're bound to have a big day," tim said, confidently. "the band from the run is comin' over this mornin', an' if the city people hear about it you bet they'll jest crowd in to hear the music. there'll be [----] of the boys to see you, but take my advice an' don't let 'em have any rings on credit, for i wouldn't trust the best of the whole lot at fair time. i'm goin' to stay till friday; do you s'pose that man will let me sleep in his tent with you fellers?" teddy promised to inquire, and then advised tim to have a look at the grounds before business began to be rushing, and the clerk was glad to take advantage of the proposition. he started off with the air of one who owned the entire inclosure, and was hardly lost to view amid the fast-gathering throng when teddy was literally dazed by seeing long jim, the very man who had robbed him in waterville, lounging along toward his stand. not until the fakir stood directly in front of the boy did he appear to recognize him, and then he would have turned quickly away but for the latter's cry: "somebody hold that man till i get a constable! he stole my money." realizing that a flight across the grounds with hundreds of men and boys crying "stop thief!" in full pursuit would be disastrous, long jim turned to face his young accuser. "what do you mean by saying such a thing?" he asked, angrily. "if you wasn't so small i'd make you eat the words." "i was big enough for you to steal from, and i want my money." it was only natural that a crowd should gather after such an accusation, and long jim looked around for some means of escape, but, realizing that he could not well get away while so many were near, he stepped close to teddy, as he whispered: "if you say another word i'll smash your face, you young whelp! hold your tongue if you want to leave here alive." "i'll say exactly what's true. give me my money, or i'll find some one to have you arrested!" "the boy is a liar, and, what is more, has just robbed his uncle's store, if what they say over at the run be true," the fakir said, excitedly, as he turned to face the crowd. "i don't want to hurt him; but i won't be insulted by a thief, so the best thing for me to do is to leave." saying this, he walked deliberately away, and the curious ones, who a moment previous had been friendly to teddy, began to sympathize with the man. "don't let him off!" the boy cried, starting to follow, and then remembering that he would be forced to leave his wares at the mercy of the crowd, turned back, while long jim continued straight across the grounds unmolested. "it looks like it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black," an old farmer said, and his immediate circle of friends laughed heartily, while the younger portion of the crowd gazed earnestly at teddy, believing they saw before them a fullfledged burglar. chapter xii. _a discovery._ with feelings of mingled anger, vexation and disappointment, teddy stood silent and motionless for several moments after long jim disappeared, striving to keep the tears from his eyes. it seemed hard enough to be swindled out of fifteen dollars, but to be held up as a thief by the very man who had done him the wrong, and to be stared at as a criminal by the curious, was an aggravation of misfortune. just for one instant he made up his mind to tell the whole story to the bystanders, but before there was time for him to speak he realized that many of them would think he was trying to shield himself by an untruth against just accusations, therefore he remained quiet, not making the slightest effort to influence trade. fortunately he was soon aroused from this very disagreeable frame of mind by a very pleasing incident. the band from the run arrived, and to the young fakir's surprise marched directly to his booth, the leader saying, in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by every one in the immediate vicinity as the musicians halted about ten feet away: "we have been hired to play on the grounds to-day, teddy, and left home half an hour earlier than the specified time for the sole purpose of giving you a serenade to show that, whatever your uncle may say, the folks at the run are positive there isn't a shadow of truth in his ridiculous story. we know what you are working for, and intend to help you along as much as possible." then the musicians began to play, while, as a matter of course, every one who came up wanted to know why the band was there instead of on the stand built for its especial accommodation, and there were people enough who had heard the leader's remarks to explain matters to the newcomers. the immediate result was that instead of believing him to be a burglar, the same ones who fancied a few moments previous that he looked guilty, were now quite positive he was a victim. tim arrived while the serenade was in progress, and when teddy explained the situation, he exclaimed, gleefully: "well, by jinks! this jest knocks the spots outer everything! trade will hum after this, or i'm a duffer." and the clerk's prediction was verified in a very short time. when the musicians had concluded the concert they laid aside their instruments, and during the next ten minutes every man of them threw rings at the canes or knives so rapidly that both teddy and his assistant had all they could do to wait upon the throng. then, giving the signal for the march to be resumed, the leader said to the young fakir: "don't get discouraged, my boy, no matter what happens. if you have any trouble it can't last long, for you've plenty of friends at the run, and after what happened here yesterday there should be a good many on the grounds." the kind-hearted musicians marched away without giving teddy an opportunity to thank them, and as if to atone for their previously spoken harsh words the bystanders devoted themselves with unusual zest to the task of winning a cane worth a dollar by an outlay of five cents. it was nearly an hour before trade began to grow dull again, and both the boys were quite willing to rest a few moments. "at this rate we stand a chance of getting rich before the fair closes," teddy exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction. "i wonder what uncle nathan would have said if he'd been here to hear the leader?" "i'll tell you," a disagreeable but familiar sounding voice replied from the rear of the stand where its owner had been concealed by an adjoining booth, and nathan hargreaves stalked into view with a comically tragic air. "things have come to a pretty pass when a man's own relations, an' them as he has set up in business with his own hard-earned money, try to bring scorn and reproach upon him. you are a snake in the grass, teddy hargreaves, an' not content with helpin' rob me, concoct such a disgraceful scene as i have jest witnessed." "what could i have had to do with it?" teddy cried, in surprise. "i didn't know they were going to give me a lift." "of course you did; i ain't blind if i am such a fool as to put you in the way of makin' so much money. there wasn't a man in that band who'd have countenanced the speech the leader made if you hadn't been workin' on their sympathies. but your race won't be much longer. don't think that i've stopped all proceedings, for it may be that you're shoved into jail this very day unless you make a clean breast of the whole thing." "i've got nothing to tell simply because i don't know anything; but i believe the same man who took my fifteen dollars robbed your store. dan and i heard him and another fellow talking, and in trying to find out something for your benefit got knocked down." "what did they say? who are they?" the old man asked, eagerly, his bearing toward teddy changing very suddenly. "tell me! tell your poor, old uncle, who'll be mighty near the poor-house, if he don't get his own again." this appeal touched teddy's heart immediately, but tim said, half to himself, taking good care uncle nathan should hear him, however: "more'n a hundred robberies like that wouldn't make him poor. why, down at the run folks say you'd hardly miss what's been taken." "those who make that kind of talk are only shiftless people with never a dollar of their own, consequently they don't know the value of one," the old man cried, angrily. "it's all very well for a set of loafers who are mad with me because i wouldn't give them credit to say such things. do you suppose i'd spend my time runnin' around the country huntin' for the thieves if i hadn't lost a power of money?" "you'd be willin' to run pretty far if there was a nickel at the end of the road," tim retorted, but before he could say anything more teddy motioned for him to be silent. "are you goin' to tell me who the robbers are?" uncle nathan asked, in a wheedling tone, as he turned once more toward his nephew. "i don't know the men whom i suspect, except by sight, but it's more than possible we may find out enough to warrant their arrest before the fair closes." the old man insisted on knowing at once, and alternately coaxed and threatened, but all to no purpose. teddy positively refused to make a statement until he had more proof, and recognizing the fact that he might hurt his own cause by insisting, uncle nathan said, in a most affectionate tone: "i must go now, teddy, but i'll see you again before night. if you'll do all you can to help find them scoundrels i'll never say that you had anything to do with the crime." "you'd no business to make any such talk, for you knew it was impossible for me to take any hand in it, even if i'd wanted to be a thief." "there's a good deal of circumstantial evidence," the old man said, solemnly, as he turned to leave, "an' it stands you in hand to do all a boy can to clear your own skirts. i'm goin' to give you a chance, an' promise there won't be any arrest made to-day at all events." "there's a good reason why you promise that," tim cried, angrily, as uncle nathan walked away. "you tried mighty hard, but couldn't get a warrant, an' there ain't a justice of the peace between here an' waterville as would grant one without any other evidence than what you can say." "don't make him angry, tim. he's feeling bad about his money, an' you can't blame him for trying to find out who has got it." "i don't blame him for that, but what i'm kickin' about is that he keeps naggin' at you when there's no reason for it." "most likely he thinks there is." "he can't; it's only the wretched old skinflint's way of gettin' even with the world, an' so he picks on a feller what he believes can't strike back." "i wish i could find out who the robbers are, and where the goods have been hidden." "well, i don't. it serves him right to lose 'em, an'---- hello! here comes that feller what helps exhibit the rifles! i wonder what he wants at this time of day, jest when business is beginnin' to be rushin'." dan was evidently in a high state of excitement, for he forced his way through the crowds, regardless of possible injury to himself or others, and did not slacken speed until he stood in front of the cane-board, breathless and panting. "what's up?" teddy asked, in surprise. "the fakir who got your money, an' another man, who i think is the same one we heard talkin' outside the tent, have jest bought a boat from the davis company. sam saw 'em, an' ran over to tell me while the bargain was bein' made. he's watchin' down there till we can get back." "i don't believe it would do any good for me to say another word to long jim. he went past here this mornin', an' i only made a bad matter worse by trying to make him give back what he stole." "we ain't countin' on doin' that, but i believe they're gettin' ready to cart away the goods what were stole from your uncle nathan. perhaps we can foller without bein' seen, an' get on to the whole snap. could you get off for the balance of the day?" and now teddy was quite as excited as dan. "yes, an' so can sam." "are you goin' to help find his goods after all that old duffer has threatened?" tim asked, impatiently. "i'll do what i can," was the decided reply. "do you think you will be able to get along alone to-day?" "i could do it easy enough by hirin' a boy to pick up the rings, but i hate to see you make a fool of yourself, teddy." "you'll think different later. come on, dan. i'll be back as soon as i can, tim," and then the young fakir urged his friend in the direction of the creek. "it won't do to go anywhere near the boat-house," dan said. "sam is up the bank a long piece where the willows hide him. he's keepin' his eye on the craft they bought, so it can't be taken away without his seein' it." by mingling with the crowd it was possible to make their way to the desired spot without being seen, save by those with whom they came into immediate contact, and in a few moments the watcher was joined by his friends. "now i want you fellers to let me manage this case," sam said, pompously. "i know more 'bout detective business than both of you put together, an' if you'd only told me what was up the other night we'd had the whole thing settled." "have you seen the men?" dan asked, impatiently. "lots of times. the old fakir is loafin' around close by the landin', an' the other one must 'a gone off for somethin'. the davis company told me i could take any of the boats, an' the minute the thieves start we'll jump right on their trail." chapter xiii. _amateur detectives._ it was fated that the thrilling work of running down and capturing the thieves should not be begun until after considerable delay. "now, i wonder what he is up to?" dan said, when it was no longer possible to see the supposed burglar. "why is it that you can't let me do this thing?" sam asked, angrily. "if you keep meddlin' we'll never fix matters." "i don't see that i'm interfering," dan replied, in surprise. the three boys watched this one particular boat in silence for ten minutes or more, seeing long jim now and then, and just as they believed he was about to step on board the man walked toward the exhibition buildings, and was soon lost to view amid the throng of people. "you was gettin' ready, too, i could tell that by your eye." "i'll have to give in that you're the smartest feller in this section of the country, sam, an' that's a fact." "of course it is," the amateur detective replied, complacently, thinking dan's sarcasm was really praise. "if i have my own way i can turn up the biggest thief that ever walked on two legs; but you mustn't bother me, or things may go wrong." if the matter had not been so serious to him teddy would have laughed long and often at the dignity and superior knowledge assumed by this fellow, who, since he made his acquaintance, had done nothing more difficult than to get himself into trouble; but, under the circumstances, he was so deeply interested in the outcome of the business that there was no room in his mind for mirth. "dan," he said, "let you and i walk around two or three minutes. we'll stay close by so that sam can give us the signal in case the men show up, and we may find hazelton." "don't tell him what we're doin'," the amateur detective cried, sharply. "why not?" "'cause it's likely he'll want to meddle with our business, an' then my work will be spoiled." "i won't say a word to him until after seeing you again," teddy replied as he led dan away, and added when they were where it would be impossible for sam to hear them: "see here, it's foolish for us to think of trying to follow those men if he's to be allowed to make a fool of himself. with him believing he's the greatest detective in the country, something wrong is sure to happen, an' we may never get another chance of finding out about the burglary." "don't fret about that," dan replied, confidently. "it won't do any harm to let him swell a little now while he's keeping watch; but when the real work begins it won't take long to sit on him." "then there will be a row." "i'll attend to his case; but i don't think there'll be anything for us to do yet awhile. the men are evidently in no hurry to leave, and most likely intend to wait till the crowd begins to go." "then why should all three of us stay on watch?" "we won't. go back to your cane-board, and i'll tell sam to come for you when the burglars put in an appearance. he'll have time to do that, an' while he's gettin' a boat ready you can come for me." "will it be safe to trust him?" "yes, indeed," dan replied, with a laugh. "he's havin' an awful good time thinkin' he's the greatest detective in the world, and couldn't be hired to leave that clump of willows so long as the men keep out of sight." teddy was not so confident, and insisted on going back with dan while the arrangement was made. when the matter was explained sam appeared to be perfectly satisfied. "that's all right," he said, readily. "i can see to this thing alone; but i'll let you fellers know the minute anything happens. don't tell any of the constables what i'm up to, or they'll want to have a finger in the pie." convinced that he would be informed of any change in the situation, teddy returned to the cane-board just in time to aid tim in attending to a rush of customers who were spending their money liberally. "what made you come back?" the clerk asked, in surprise. "i've hired a feller for a quarter to pick up rings, an' am gettin' along first rate." teddy briefly explained the condition of affairs, and then there was little opportunity for conversation until considerably past noon, when trade dropped off very decidedly for a while. in order that he might have a glimpse of the other fakirs and rest himself at the same time, tim was sent to see if sam was yet at his self-selected post of duty, and teddy took advantage of the opportunity to ascertain the amount of his receipts. to his great surprise he found nearly forty dollars in the money-box, and from this he took thirty with which to pay the merchant in waterville who had given him credit for his stock. "it has turned out to be a mighty good venture, even if aunt sarah was so sure i'd make a fool of myself by tryin' it. all the money i make now will be clear profit, and it looks as if i'd be able to help mother quite a bit." [illustration: "they're getting ready to start!" he said, breathlessly.] "well, how is business?" a voice asked, in a cheery tone, and, looking up, teddy saw his sole remaining creditor. "i'm glad you've come," he cried, bundling the thirty dollars up in a piece of paper. "i'd jest counted this out for you, an' when you take it i'll be free from debt." "but i don't want the money," the merchant replied. "i only came around to see if you were successful." "i've already made more than i reckoned on, an' it'll be a favor if you take this, 'cause i don't like to have so much around." then teddy explained the condition of his business affairs, not forgetting to tell of the accusation made against him by his uncle nathan, and the merchant said, as he concluded: "i heard the whole story, my boy, and have already talked with mr. hargreaves, whom i met a few moments ago. i do not think he can do anything to you, because you have made many friends here. the money i will take, as it is not well to keep it where it might be stolen; but can give you no receipt until i get home." "that'll be all right," teddy replied, contentedly; "you trusted me with the goods, an' it would be funny if i couldn't wait for a receipted bill. it's through you that i've had the chance to make so much, an' i want you to know i feel grateful." "i believe that, and am more than pleased to have put you in the way of getting a start in the world. come to see me when the fair closes, and it is possible i may show you an opportunity of learning to be a merchant on a large scale, rather than a fakir whose method of getting a living is very precarious, regardless of the fact that he sometimes makes very great profits." it can be readily understood that teddy accepted the invitation, and then, trade commencing once more, the gentleman walked away, leaving the proprietor of the cane-board with the pleasing consciousness that he was free from debt, and with quite a large amount of money in his mother's keeping. tim returned very shortly after the merchant's departure, and reported that sam was still on duty. "the boat hasn't been moved nor have the men showed up again," he said. "that feller acts as if he thought he was bigger than the president. he told me he could be the greatest detective that ever lived if it wasn't that folks made him show off at rowin' 'cause he had so much style about him. i don't think he's so very wonderful; but, of course, i never saw many out an' out detectives." "and you don't see one when you met him. i'm sure he'll get dan an' me in trouble before this thing is ended." "then why don't you let him go off alone? that's what i'd do with such a chump." "i can't, because----" the sentence was not concluded, for at that moment dan came up at full speed. "they're gettin' ready to start!" he said, breathlessly. "i saw 'em go by the buildin', an' run over to tell sam that i'd fetch you. our boat is a long distance up the creek, an' we'll have to hurry, or run the chance of missing their craft." there was no delay on teddy's part, despite the misgivings he had regarding sam. one parting injunction to tim on the subject of business, and then he followed dan at full speed toward the creek on such a course as would bring them fully a quarter of a mile above the boat-house outside the fair grounds. sam had made everything ready for the journey by the time they arrived, and was so excited that he could no longer speak of his own wonderful powers as a thief-catcher. "one of you fellers had better row while i steer," he said, seating himself in the stern sheets and taking the tiller-ropes. "if they see the way i handle the oars they'll know exactly who's after them, an' then the game'll be up." "don't worry yourself about that," dan replied, calmly. "neither teddy nor i knows anything about a boat, except it may be to steer, so you'll have to hump yourself." sam grumbled considerably about taking so many risks; but he finally moved over to the bow and his companions took their seats aft. "i won't put any style to it, an', perhaps, that'll keep 'em from knowin' i'm on their trail," he said, and immediately began rowing in such a bungling fashion that dan said, sharply: "look here, if you're goin' to pull this boat, do it, or we'll go back. at this rate, you'll have everybody at the fair watching to see what kind of chumps have been allowed to risk their lives. we've got no time to spare, either; for we must get on the other side of the creek where it will be possible to watch the men without getting too near." "i'll take care of that part of the business," sam replied, loftily, and dan immediately put into operation his plan of "sitting" on the amateur detective. "you do your share, and that will be enough. teddy and i propose to take a hand in this ourselves." "then i might as well go back." "you can, if you want to." it so chanced that he had no such desire, and with the air of one whose feelings have been deeply wounded he rowed steadily on, dan steering, until they were where it was possible to have a full view of a long stretch of the creek. [illustration: "there they are!" teddy said.] "there they are!" teddy said, pointing down stream to where a boat was being pulled close to the left bank. "they have stopped, and it looks as if something was being taken on board!" "it is a portion of the goods they stole!" dan cried. "stop rowing, sam, and if nothing happens we'll soon know where the whole lot is to be hidden." chapter xiv. _the rendezvous._ that dan's surmise was correct could be seen a few moments after, while the boys, partially concealed by the overhanging bank, watched the proceedings with but little danger of being discovered. on the shore were a number of packages in a cart, and these the supposed burglars loaded into the boat with the utmost haste. if this lot comprised all that had been taken from uncle nathan his loss must have been greater than he stated, and teddy said, after watching several moments in silence: "i reckon this is only part of what they took; but i'm puzzled to know how it could have been brought so far. the idea of carting goods over here to find a place in which to hide them is a queer one, when all the thieves had to do was slip down the river in a skiff, an' before morning they'd be beyond reach of the officers." it surely was strange that the men should have done so much useless labor, and the only solution to the apparent mystery was offered by sam, who said, with an air of superior wisdom: "they've done it to throw me off the scent. that fakir we saw in waterville must have known who i was." "how does it happen he had the nerve to come here when he knew you counted on showing the people who visited this fair your skill in rowing?" dan asked, with a laugh. "i reckon he didn't think i was tellin' the truth." it was useless to attempt to make sam acquainted with himself. he had such a remarkable idea of his own abilities, despite the scrapes he was constantly getting into, that the most eloquent orator would have been unable to convince him he was anything more than a very egotistical boy, with little save his vanity to recommend him to the notice of the general public. in five minutes the boat at the opposite bank had received as much of a cargo as her owners wished to carry, and then the men began to row leisurely down the river. "now, go slow, sam, and don't turn around to look, or they may suspect we are following them," dan said, warningly. "i'll keep you posted about what they are doing, and you can tell us afterward what ought to have been done. pull moderately, for we don't want to get very near while it is light enough for them to see us." the chase was not a long one. by keeping the boat's head to the bank and moving leisurely as boys who were bent only on pleasure might have done, the pursuers evidently caused no suspicions as to their purpose, and after about a mile had been traversed the burglars turned up a narrow waterway which led to a barn or shed built on the meadows for the storing of marsh hay. there were plenty of ditches near at hand into which the amateur detectives could run their craft unobserved, and as the pursued left the creek dan steered into one of these. here their heads hardly came above the bank, and all three could see the men carrying their cargo to the building. "we've got 'em now," said sam, triumphantly, as the first of the packages was taken on shore, "an' the sooner we nab both the better." "how do you intend to set about such a job?" teddy asked. "go right up an' tell 'em we've been on their track." "and in less than two minutes you would get a worse pounding than the toughs gave you last night." sam appeared to realize the truth of this statement, for he had no further suggestions to offer, and dan said, after some reflection: "i think the best thing we can do will be to go back to the fair. if those fellows find us here the jig will be up; but it isn't likely they've got the whole of their plunder with them, and intend to come here again. we'll talk with some one and find out a good plan, or keep our eyes peeled to learn what they mean to do with the goods. if they propose simply to hide them until there is a chance to get the lot away safely, we shall have the key to the situation an' can take plenty of time deciding what should be done." sam did not again propose to make any attempt at intimidating the men, and teddy thought dan's scheme a wise one. "they'll come here more than once before the week is ended; you know they spoke of moving the stuff when the exhibitors got ready to leave, an' we'd better go back to the grounds before those fellows have finished their work." sam pulled out of the water-course into the creek without a murmur; but when they were on the way back, and he felt at liberty to display his true "style," courage returned. "i knew you fellers wasn't any good on detective work," he said, scornfully. "if i'd had charge of the case we should have them men tied hand an' foot in the bottom of this boat." "how would you have got 'em there?" dan asked. "that's my business. jest because i've let you into this thing there's no reason why i should give all my secrets away, is there?" "not a bit of it, an' you keep them locked up in your heart, for if teddy an' i knew the plans we might get into a bad scrape." "well, what are you goin' to do now?" "nothing until after we have talked with those who know more than we do about such things." sam immediately relapsed into silence. his superior knowledge had been scorned, and he proposed to let his companions understand that he was not pleased with them. by the time the boys reached the bend in the creek they could see the boat in which were long jim and his companion, half a mile behind, and dan said: "those fellows don't know me. when we land you and sam had better keep out of sight, while i try to find out where they go after striking the fair ground." "all right. it's time i helped tim, an' you'll come to the cane-board if there is anything to tell." "so i don't amount to anything, eh?" sam asked, sulkily. "of course you do; but it would be foolish to make a show of yourself to long jim, who would remember you. keep rowing around in the boat as if you were at work, and there'll be no chance for suspicion." by this time the little craft was at the landing stage of the boat-house, and two of the party leaped out, leaving the third feeling that he had been unjustly deprived of a very large portion of his rights. "if them fellers think they're goin' to get the best of me they're makin' a big mistake, an' i'll show 'em so before night. they don't know any more about bein' detectives than a cat; but both will be mightily surprised before mornin', or i'm mistaken." then, instead of rowing around the creek as dan had suggested, sam pulled out into the middle of the stream, looking wondrous wise and determined as he awaited the coming of those whose secret he had partially discovered. meanwhile teddy and dan, without the slightest suspicion of what their friend proposed to do, separated at the landing stage, the former making all haste to reach his cane-board, where he found tim doing a thriving business, and standing near by was hazelton. "where have you been?" the jewelry fakir asked, solicitously. "i've come here two or three times without finding you, and had almost begun to believe old nathan succeeded in getting a warrant." teddy was undecided as to whether he should tell this acquaintance of all he had seen or not; but, after some deliberation, and in view of the fact that he also had been accused of the burglary, concluded to do so. "we've found out where long jim is hiding the stuff he stole from my uncle," he said, and then explained what had been done during the last hour. hazelton was surprised that so much information had been gained; but he was able to cause teddy an equal amount of astonishment. "i don't believe the packages you saw came from the old man's store. i heard, about two hours ago, that a store here in town was robbed last night, and it isn't dead sure, after your uncle's accusations, and what i have done on the fair grounds, that i sha'n't be arrested on suspicion. most likely the goods taken down the creek were stolen here; but i don't understand why those fellows should work so boldly." "probably they think, as one of them said the other night, while so many articles are being carried to and fro." "very likely that may be true, and now comes the question of what shall be done regarding the information you have gained. i stand in a mighty delicate position, and, quite naturally, want to save myself, if possible, for even an arrest when there is little or no proof, ain't to be contemplated calmly." "you ought to know better than i how we should go to work. dan an' i thought there would be plenty of time, for if those fellows were going to skip very soon they wouldn't have taken the trouble to carry the stuff down there, where it could not be gotten away quickly." "i'll think the matter over, teddy, and come back here in a couple of hours," hazelton said, after a moment's thought. "don't tell anyone what you found out until after seeing me again." this conversation had been carried on at the rear of the cane-board, where the customers could not overhear it, and when the jewelry fakir walked toward the exhibition building it was necessary to satisfy tim's curiosity regarding what had been accomplished. "i don't s'pose it's any of my business," the latter said, when teddy concluded the story; "but i wouldn't be afraid to bet all i shall earn this week that you'll have trouble with that feller before the scrape is over. he knows so awful much that somethin' tough is bound to happen." teddy did not think there was any good cause for alarm, more especially since he felt confident dan would keep an eye on the oarsman, and during the next two hours he thought of nothing save earning money, for customers were plenty, and even with the assistance of the boy tim had engaged it was all he and his clerk could do to wait upon those who were anxious to win a cane or knife. now and then some of the other fakirs would visit him; but, as a rule, all were so busy that there was little time for the exchange of compliments, and even the cry of "three rings for five cents, with the chance to get a dollar cane or knife for nothing!" was not needed to stimulate trade. it was two hours from the time of his return when dan came up looking decidedly uneasy, and teddy did not stop to make change for the man who had just patronized him, before he asked, hurriedly: "now, what's up?" "sam is missing." "what do you mean? how can that be?" "he was to row around the creek near the landing; but for the last hour no one has seen him, and, what is more, the boat can't be found. long jim an' his friend haven't come ashore, as near as i can make out, an' it looks to me as if that foolish sam has got into trouble through trying to play detective." chapter xv. _sam's adventures._ in order to explain sam's absence, and one or two other incidents in their regular sequence, it is necessary to go back to the moment when, his friends having landed, the amateur detective was left to his own devices. his first impulse was to report his arrival to the manager of the boat exhibit, and then go about his routine duties, but before this very proper plan could be carried into effect he chanced to see hazelton on the shore. "now, what's he layin' around there for?" sam asked of himself. "i'll bet dan or teddy has given the whole snap away, an' he's come to pull in the burglars. it's a mighty mean trick for them to play after i've worked the case so far that there's nothing to do but nab 'em. he'll get all the praise, an' folks won't know the job was managed by me." the longer sam thought of this apparent ingratitude and treachery on the part of teddy and dan the more angry he grew, and it did not require many moments' thought for him to succeed in convincing himself that he had been very shabbily treated. continuing to talk to himself, or rather at the tiller, on which his eyes were fixed, he added: "folks have said so much about their savin' them women from drownin', when i mighter done the same thing if i'd been willin' to make a fool of myself, that they want to scoop in everything; but i could stop this little game by jest goin' ahead on my own hook. if i sneaked down the creek an' brought back the stuff them men have been hidin' people would begin to know how much i understand about detective work." this appeared in his mind as the most brilliant scheme he had ever conceived, and in a very few seconds sam decided that it should be carried into effect. first, and with no very well-defined idea of why such a course was necessary, he rowed cautiously to and fro past the landing stage, scrutinizing closely every face he saw, and mentally hugging himself because of the excitement which would be caused by his return with the stolen property. then he turned the boat, and began to row down the creek, stopping every few seconds to gaze around in such a mysterious manner that the suspicions of any one who observed him would have been instantly aroused. in this manner, which he believed the only true way for a first-class detective to approach his prey, sam had rowed less than half a mile when he saw long jim and his companion returning. now the time had come when true cunning was necessary, and the amateur detective began to display it by pulling the boat sharply around, heading her for an indentation on the opposite shore. here he ran her bow aground, and lying at full length in the bottom, peered out at the men in the most stealthy manner. they had already taken notice of his erratic movements, and now regarded him intently, but, without checking the headway of their own craft, in a few minutes were beyond sight around the bend. "there," sam said, with a long-drawn breath of relief, as he arose to a sitting posture, "if teddy an' dan had been here them fellers would have tumbled to the whole racket, but i've put 'em off the scent, an' will have plenty of time to do my work." he pulled out from the shore once more, gazed long and earnestly up and down the creek, and then, in the same ridiculous manner as before, continued the journey. the trip which should have consumed no more than an hour even with the most indolent oarsman, was not completed until twice that time had elapsed, and then fully fifteen minutes were spent by this very cautious boy in landing. he pulled his boat up high out of the water, and, in order to conceal her, heaped such a pile of dry grass on top of her that it must have attracted the attention of any one passing, more especially those who were familiar with the creek. this done he went toward the barn after the fashion of an old-time stage villain, halting at the slightest sound, and peering in every direction, fancying himself surrounded by foes. not until he had circled completely around the barn twice did he venture to enter, and then, much to his disappointment, there was nothing to be seen. the building appeared to be absolutely empty, and even his eagle eye failed to discover any traces of recent occupancy. "well, this is mighty funny," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "them fellers surely brought a lot of stuff in here, but they must have carried it out again." having expended so much labor and time in reaching this place, he did not intend to return until after making a thorough search, however, and to this end he investigated one possible hiding-place after another, pulling up the boards of the rude flooring, and peering into places where nothing larger than a mouse could have been hidden. during this time the burglars were returning with all possible speed. sam's actions, both as he came down the creek, and also while screening himself from view, were so suspicious that, guilty as the men were, they immediately concluded what was very near the truth. long jim recognized the boy as having been with teddy when the bargain for the imaginary cane-board was made, and instead of returning to the fair grounds the two watched, from a point of vantage on the bank, until master sam had landed. his purpose was now evident, and it was necessary the burglars should resort to desperate measures to prevent the loss of their ill-gotten gains as well as to save themselves from imprisonment. when they arrived where it was possible to look into the barn, sam was on his knees scraping away the dirt which appeared to have been recently disturbed, and they heard him say in a tone of exultation: "i've got to it at last, an' now we'll see what teddy an' dan have to say when i flash the whole lot of stuff up with nobody to help me. i reckon----" he did not finish the sentence, for at that moment long jim stepped directly in front of him, as he asked: "did you leave anything here, my son?" "no--i--i--that is--you see----" sam was so frightened that he could not say another word. it seemed as if his tongue was swollen to twice its natural size, while his throat was parched and dry, and to make bad matters worse, he had entirely neglected to invent a plausible excuse for his presence there in case of an interruption. "i asked if you'd left anything here?" long jim repeated, very mildly. "well--well---- you see i jest come down to--to---- i thought, perhaps, i might find something, but it's time i was gettin' back to the fair, 'cause the folks will be needin' me." as he spoke he attempted to back toward the door, but before taking half a dozen steps a cry of fear burst from his lips, for a heavy hand was laid with no gentle force on his shirt collar, and he staggered forward helplessly. "that's an invitation for you to hold on a bit, an' have a little conversation with two gentlemen who are mighty curious to know why you came here," long jim said, grimly. "you're goin' to tell us the whole partic'lars, or there won't be enough left of you to be seen under a microscope." sam made no reply. he was literally dazed with fear, and just at that moment he thought the life of a detective very disagreeable. "come, speak up, an' be quick about it," the man cried, fiercely. "we've got no time to waste on sich cubs as you, an' in about two minutes you'll get worse'n we served out the other night." "that wasn't me follerin' you from the museum tent," sam said, quickly, thinking possibly this fact might work in his favor. "who was it?" "teddy an' dan." "who is dan?" "a feller who works for the stevens arms company up at the fair." "why did they follow us?" "teddy wanted to get back the money he gave you to buy a cane-board with." "if he knows what's wise for him he'll stop any such rackets, or he may get more'n he bargains for." then the second man, who still held firmly to sam's collar, asked, as he shook his prisoner vigorously: "how did you know we had been here?" "us fellers saw you come down in a boat." "so all three are in the secret, eh?" sam's only thought was that he might possibly save his own skin, and he replied in the affirmative, although he must have known that by such answer he was destroying his friends' chances of recovering the goods. "where are the fools now?" long jim asked, angrily. "up at the fair." "what do they intend to do?" "get somebody to arrest you." "then we've got to skip mighty lively, phil," and long jim looked up at his companion. "yes; but if my advice had been follered we wouldn't be in this scrape. you was the only one the cubs knew, an' by keepin' out of sight we mighter finished the work that's been laid out. you're so pig-headed that a yoke of oxen couldn't keep you in hidin'." "there's no use fightin' about it now; for we've got to get a move on us in short order. it won't do to let this boy have a chance to give the alarm." "of course not. lash him up somewhere so he can't make a noise, an' his chums will come before he starves to death." "don't do that!" sam cried, in an agony of terror. "i won't say a word about your catchin' me here, an' i'll do anything you say." "oh, you're a nice plum to make promises, ain't you. it didn't take much persuadin' to make you go back on your friends, an' that's enough to show whether you can be trusted. get the rope out of the boat, phil, an' then we'll make ready for a long jump." phil obeyed, grumbling as he went because his partner had refused to take his advice, thus plunging both of them into danger, and long jim turned his attention to the prisoner once more. "before we leave this part of the country for good i'm goin' to give you somethin' to remember us by so's you won't go 'round stickin' your nose into other people's business agin." "what are you goin' to do?" sam asked, his face growing even paler than before. "give you the worst floggin' a boy ever had. i'd do it now if there wasn't so much work to be got through." sam had sufficient sense to know that all his pleadings for mercy would be in vain, and he held his peace until phil returned with a long coil of rope which had been used as a boat's painter. one of the beams at the end of the barn served as a post to which to lash the prisoner, and here the amateur detective was made fast in such a skillful manner that he could not so much as move his arms. "shall we gag him now?" phil asked, and long jim replied: "no, there's time enough. "he can't make any one hear if he yells his best, an' i've got a little business to settle before he's trussed up for good." chapter xvi. _missing._ when dan informed teddy that sam was missing, and suggested the possibility of the burglars having gotten him in their power, both the boys were decidedly alarmed; but the matter ceased to appear as serious after it had been discussed in all its bearings. "long jim wouldn't have dared to spirit him away when there are so many people around," teddy said, after a long silence, during which he was trying to imagine what sam might have done. "besides, what would be the good of taking him if we were left behind?" "perhaps they count on hauling us in, too." "that isn't to be thought of for a moment. they don't want to burden themselves with a lot of boys when every effort must be made to get the stolen property out of this section of the country before they are discovered." "i'll allow all that sounds reasonable, but where is sam?" "of course i don't know. do you think he would dare to go down the river again after we landed?" "no, indeed; he's too much of a coward for that. if there's been any funny business it was done when the men got back." "then we have no need to worry, for there are hundreds of people on the bank of the creek all the time, an' sam would know enough to yell if anybody tried to steal him." the idea that the amateur detective might be stolen seemed so comical to dan that he gave way to mirth, and what had promised to be a most sorrowful visit speedily became a merry one. "he had permission to remain away from the exhibition building during the rest of the day," teddy finally said, "an' most likely he's goin' to take advantage of it by roaming around the grounds, exercising his detective faculties. he'll turn up at the museum to-night all right, with a big yarn to tell about his supposed adventures." "i reckon you're right; but i did get a little rattled when his boss asked me where he was. i'll come back this way when it's time to go to supper." "wait a minute. i'm mighty hungry now, an' business has been so good that i can afford to treat to sandwiches an' lemonade, if you'll go with me over to the grand stand. i'll bring you back something, tim," he added, as he leaped over the railing. dan said he could remain away half an hour from the rifle exhibit, and teddy was now so easy in mind concerning money matters that he resolved to have thirty minutes of sport. the boys first made a tour of that portion of the grounds where the fakirs were congregated, stopping a moment to see the whip dealer lashing a pine stake to show the quality of his goods, and then watching the "great african dodger," who thrust his woolly head through an aperture in a canvas screen for all those to throw balls at who were inclined to pay the price. then they stopped at the "envelope game," where were spread on a stand a large collection of cheap, gaudy goods, each bearing a printed number, every one supposed to correspond with those contained in a box of envelopes, and this fakir was doing a big business, as was shown by the fact that he could afford to hire a barker, who cried continually at the full strength of his lungs: "come up now, and try your luck! here's where we have all prizes and no blanks! ten cents buys an envelope, with the privilege of drawing for yourself, so there can be no job put up against you, and every number calls for some one of the many valuable articles in the layout. here's a gentleman who spends only ten cents and gets a pair of those beautiful, triple-plated, double-expansion, fine pure metal cuff buttons, worth two dollars at some stores!" "come on!" dan said, impatiently. "that fellow is almost as big a snide as hazelton." "how do you make that out? i can see a lot of things that cost more than a dollar. look at the silver watch, and the revolver." "that may be all very well; but no one except a fellow who is interested in the business gets any of those articles." "you can select any envelope you choose." "that's right; but the ones with the numbers calling for the big prizes are lying flat in the box where nobody can get them. if you should accuse the man of cheating he would turn the whole thing upside down, and then, of course, they could be found. here comes a fellow who i know is cappin' for that fakir. watch how he does it." the apparent stranger approached the stand, and after some talk as to how the game was run, invested ten cents. the man did not open the envelope he drew; but handed it to the fakir, who, pretending to look at the card it contained, shouted: "number fifty-four. the gentleman has drawn that beautiful solid silver watch worth fifty dollars, and i will give him thirty for his bargain." the stranger showed his prize to the crowd that clustered around him, and business was increased wonderfully, for it had apparently been proven that the game was conducted fairly. "now watch him," dan said, as the stranger walked away with his prize ostentatiously displayed, and the two boys followed a short distance off, until they saw him halt behind a booth, where he turned the article won over to a barker who had approached. "that's the way it is done," dan said, "and when we come back you'll see the same watch on the layout." teddy was rapidly being initiated in the tricks of the fakirs, and the more he saw the more firmly was he resolved not to follow the business longer than the present week, although he believed his own game to be an honest one. the cheap jewelry dealer; the man who had been selling the remnants of a stock of knives made by a manufacturer who "had bankrupted himself by putting into them too expensive material;" the fakir with the dolls which were to be knocked down by balls thrown from a certain distance, with a prize of one cigar if the customer could tumble two over, and the peanut-candy dealer were visited in turn, and then the boys were attracted by the sound of hazelton's voice. he was plying his peculiar trade again, and by the appearance of the crowd was meeting with great success. "let's see how he gets out of it this time," teddy suggested, and dan agreed. the fakir had arrived at that point where he was giving away the supposed watches, and the boys listened until they saw his preparations for departure. "what beats me is how he gets clear every time," dan whispered. "i should think after he had swindled four or five hundred, some of them would lay for a chance to get even with him." "he says they do, an' that's why he left his satchel with me." hazelton recognized the boys just as he was telling that nathan hargreaves might possibly act as his agent after the close of the fair, and nodded pleasantly, as he gathered up the reins; but this was one of the occasions when he was not to be allowed to go scot free. two stalwart-looking fellows were standing near the head of the horse, and when the fakir would have driven off they seized the bridle, one of them shouting: "come down with that money! this is the second time i've seen you do us countrymen up to-day, and now you've got to square things." hazelton swung his whip around, striking the speaker full in the face, and causing the horse to plunge and rear, but yet the fellows kept their hold. the whip was pulled from the fakir's hand, and in an instant it appeared as if a riot had begun. those who had been content to keep secret the fact of having been swindled now grew bold as they saw there was a leader in the movement, and more than a hundred leaped forward to seize the representative of the alleged jewelry manufacturers. "he'll be killed!" teddy shouted, and would have attempted to go to the assistance of the man who had been kind to him, despite the fact that he could not have aided him in any way against so many; but for the fact that dan pulled him back, as he shouted: "can't you see that it would be fifty to one if you should go in that crowd? we couldn't help him, and what's the use of gettin' a big lickin' for nothing? besides, what would become of your business if the people here thought you were his partner?" before dan ceased speaking teddy realized how useless would be any effort of his, and he remained passive, trying to get a glimpse of the ill-fated fakir. the numbers who beset him completely hid hazelton from view. the carriage had been overturned by the first desperate rush of the victims, and the horse was clearing a space around himself by the free use of his heels. "they'll commit murder!" teddy cried. "i don't believe it'll be quite as bad as that; but he won't be likely to give away any more lockets while this fair lasts." as a matter of fact, hazelton was not left to fight the battle alone. like every other fakir engaged in that peculiar business, he had several partners whose duty it was to mingle with the crowd for the purpose of intimidating any who might be disposed to make trouble, and these had closed in upon him, while some of the more timid spectators shouted for the constables. [illustration: "run as you never did before, teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!"] once teddy caught a glimpse of the unfortunate man; his glossy hat was gone, his clothing torn, and his face covered with blood. "i can see him now!" he cried, "and it looks as if they had about used him up, for----" before he could finish the sentence a stranger rushed toward him, and showing the familiar black satchel in his hand, said hurriedly: "get out of here with that. hazelton will see you some time this evening. don't stop a minute!" before the boy could reply the stranger was forcing his way through the struggling, yelling crowd, in order to aid his partner, and teddy said in dismay: "now we are in a muss. here is all his money, an' if anybody sees us with it we'll have a tough time." "you can't throw it away, an' we must sneak off," dan said, and the expression on his face told how distressed he was that such a responsibility had been thrust upon them. "shall we go back to the stand?" "no, that would never do, for then they would be sure to vent their anger on you. go up to the museum; mr. sweet knows hazelton, an' may be willin' to help him by keeping the satchel till the row is over." these words had been spoken as the boys were trying to make their way through the fringe of spectators which had hemmed them in since the fight began, and after some difficulty they succeeded; but at the same moment one of the combatants, who had received more than his share of punishment, emerged close by their side. he saw hazelton's satchel, and recognized it. "come here, fellows! two little villains are making off with the money! that's what we want!" he at once started in pursuit, as did several others, and dan cried, as he helped carry the burden: "run as you never did before, teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!" chapter xvii. _a terrible night._ at just about the same moment when teddy and dan were running with hazelton's money at full speed toward the museum tent, with the chance of escape very much against them, sam was in a decidedly painful frame of mind. after he had been securely tied the two men conversed in low tones for several minutes, and then, as if having arrived at some definite conclusion, began to make preparations for leaving the place. at the same spot where sam had been interrupted while scraping away the dirt they proceeded to dig with a shovel which phil procured from somewhere outside the building, and during this labor the prisoner could hear fragments of the conversation. once long jim ceased his work long enough to say: "when you come to look at the matter quietly it doesn't seem as if we'd got into sich a very bad scrape. you can manage to bring the rest of the stuff down the creek between now an' friday mornin' and i've got a plan for givin' anybody who may come after us a good clue to the boy's disappearance." phil made some remark which sam could not hear, and his companion replied in a louder tone: "it can all be done so's to make folks think we've gone up the creek, an' we've got to lay low for a while, which won't be a hard job while the weather is warm." "but i don't like the idea of totin' that cub with us so long." "i'll take care of him, an' will make him earn his board, or somethin's bound to break." from this time until several packages were unearthed sam could hear nothing; but what had already been said was sufficient to convince him that he was to have a very unpleasant experience, and for at least the hundredth time he fervently wished he had never so much as heard of detective work. after the goods had been brought to light the earth was replaced in the excavation and pounded down carefully. then fully half an hour was spent digging in different places, probably for the purpose of misleading any one who might come there in search of plunder, for phil said in a tone of satisfaction as he ceased the apparently aimless labor: "it'll take at least a day before all of these suspicious looking spots have been investigated, an' in the meanwhile, unless we're chumps, we shall know what's goin' on. i'll take one load to the boat; make sure the coast is clear, an' then the three of us can carry the balance. have the boy ready for a quick move, an' see to it that he can't give an alarm." "i'll knock his head off if he so much as thinks of such a thing," and as phil disappeared with a portion of the plunder long jim began to unfasten sam's bonds, saying as he did so: "we've made up our minds to hold you with us a few days 'cause you're sich jolly company. if you obey orders an' keep your mouth shut there's a chance of gettin' outer this scrape mighty easy; but i'd slit your throat in a jiffy if you tried to give us the slip or made any noise." sam made no reply; but his captor could see very plainly that the boy was nearly paralyzed with fright, and it was safe to infer he would follow the instructions given to the letter. phil returned in a very short time and reported: "the coast is clear. there's not a craft to be seen on the creek, an' we can leave without danger." the rope had been removed from sam's limbs, and long jim proceeded to load him down with bundles until he staggered under the weight. "now, see that you walk a chalk line," the burglar said, fiercely. "foller phil, an' i'll keep behind to make sure there are no tricks played. remember what i promised!" the men could carry the remainder of the goods in one load, and the three went out of the barn hurriedly, sam not daring to so much as lift his eyes from the ground lest long jim's threat should be carried into execution. arriving at the water's edge the boat was loaded, the prisoner ordered to take his place at the oars, and then the final preparations were made. phil uncovered the boat in which sam had come, launched and overturned her. then taking the hat from the unresisting boy's head, threw it far out in the channel, afterward giving the little craft a shove which sent her a long distance from the shore. next the two oars were sent after the hat, and phil said with a laugh: "the current ain't very strong; but with the aid of the wind i reckon that stuff will drift up to the fair grounds before dark." sam's despair was already so great that it did not seem as if it could be increased; but the last vestige of hope fled when he realized that these things had been done in order to make it appear as if he were dead. "teddy and dan won't think of huntin' for me after the boat is found," he thought, "an' these men are sure to kill me before this scrape is over!" the two burglars seated themselves comfortably in the stern-sheets, the packages being placed at the bow to trim the craft properly, and long jim said, sternly: "you've been showin' off your skill as an oarsman for two or three days, an' we want you to do it now. put in your best licks, for it'll be tough if we don't get through the water mighty fast." even sam's worst enemy would have pitied him at this moment. no galley slave chained to his seat could have been more utterly helpless, and he exerted himself to the utmost in order to please those who professed to be so willing to punish or kill. every stroke of the oars took them farther away from the fair grounds, and each puff of wind carried the evidences of the prisoner's death nearer the only ones who might take the trouble to search for him. not until fully an hour had passed did the burglars give any sign of a desire to end the journey, and then long jim said: "we must be six miles from the fair grounds by this time, an' that is as far as you'll want to pull to-night, phil. there should be plenty of good hidin'-places in this bit of woods, an' i think we'd better haul up." "all right. steer her into that ditch over there, an' we'll look around." thus far in his experience as a detective this was the only thing sam had had for which to be thankful. his arms were so tired that it seemed as if he could not have pulled another stroke, and his clothes were literally wet from the perspiration that came from his body. phil went ashore, leaving his companion to watch the almost exhausted prisoner, and in a few moments the former shouted: "load that cub up, an' bring him over here. this is a capital place to locate in for a couple of days." staggering under the heavy burden long jim placed on his shoulders the amateur detective was forced on through the underbrush in advance of his captor until the two arrived at a perfect tangle of cedars. phil returned to the boat for the remainder of the goods, and all the plunder was placed inside the thicket where the foliage was so dense that one might have passed within a few feet of the spot and not had any suspicion men were hidden there. a tiny brook ran past one side of the hiding-place, and sam took advantage of the opportunity to check his raging thirst while the men were laying plans for the future. "i'll go back soon after sunset," phil said, as he lighted his pipe and proceeded to make himself comfortable. "we can leave the boy here to look out for the stuff, an' you'd better come with me up to the barn so's to learn if any one visits the place. i shall be back before morning, an' you can let me know if the coast is clear." "shall you try to finish the job we were talkin' about?" "no; things are so hot jest now that it won't pay to take any more risks than are absolutely necessary. what we want is to get out of this portion of the country as soon as possible." "all right. i'll leave you to manage the rest of the business, an' promise to follow orders." "i think it's about time you said that, jim. if my plans had been carried out in the first place we wouldn't be in sich a muss; but could be havin' the cream of the pickin's at the fair." "well, what's the use of harpin' on that all the time? the thing has been done, an' we've got to make the best of it. do you think it'll be safe to leave this cub here alone while we're away?" "it will be when i get through with him," was the grim reply, and sam, terrified by the vagueness of this remark, more even than he had been by the plain language previously used, cried, piteously: "please don't leave me here alone to-night! i'll pull the boat, an' do everything you say, without so much as yippin'." "them as starts out in the detective business have to take what comes, 'specially when their own foolishness brings it about. you joined our party of your own accord, my son, an' must put up with what we choose to give." sam said nothing more. he was reaping what he had sowed, and decided that matters could not be much worse even if he was caught trying to escape, therefore he resolved to take desperate chances in an effort to give his captors the slip. there was no opportunity to make the attempt, on this night at least, for when phil had finished smoking he proceeded in a very methodical manner to secure the prisoner. sam was ordered to seat himself on the ground, with his back to the trunk of a cedar-tree, and he was fastened skillfully, with his elbows tied back in such a manner that he could not bring his hands together. both feet were bound, and then, with a sudden movement, phil forced the boy's mouth open, shoving into it a short piece of pine wood about an inch and a half in diameter. this was secured in such a manner that the prisoner could not free himself from the uncomfortable bridle, neither would it be possible for him to make the slightest outcry. "now, don't shout for help while we are gone, an' unless the bears eat you up we shall meet again about daybreak," phil said, with a coarse laugh as he and jim went out of the thicket toward the creek. poor sam had never thought of the possibility that there might be bears in this section of the country until the burglar suggested it, and he was so terrified as not to realize it was impossible there could be any dangerous animals in such a thickly-settled portion of the state. therefore, in addition to the danger to be apprehended from his captors, he had constantly before his mind this new cause for fear. the rustling of the leaves, the flight of a bird as it sought a perch for the night, or the soughing of the wind among the branches were to him so many proofs that a violent death would be his before morning. if the beginning of the hours of darkness was so terrible it can well be fancied how he suffered before another day dawned. chapter xviii. _a narrow escape._ neither teddy nor dan had any hope of reaching the museum tent before their pursuers could overtake them, and although both knew what might be the result if they were taken with the jewelry fakir's money and goods in their possession, they did not for a moment think of abandoning the property. the cries of those in the rear attracted the attention of the spectators elsewhere on the grounds, and without waiting to learn the cause of the trouble hundreds of men and boys joined in the chase, all shouting at the full strength of their lungs: "stop thief! stop thief!" the distance to be traversed was nearly a quarter of a mile; but the many turns the boys were forced to make in order to avoid those who were ready to capture them doubled this, and they were yet very far from the goal when a burly, red-faced man jumped in front of them. it seemed as if capture was inevitable; but teddy resorted to the last means of defense, and was successful. letting go his hold of the satchel he lowered his head, leaped forward with full force, striking the officious stranger full in the stomach. the man, not anticipating such an attack at a moment when he almost had his hands upon the supposed thieves, was bowled over like a nine-pin, and, jumping quickly aside, teddy caught hold of the satchel once more. by this time both the boys were so nearly winded that speech was well nigh impossible; but dan managed to gasp admiringly: "you're a dandy, old fellow," and then, with one supreme effort, increased his pace a trifle. it was fortunate that there were no spectators in front of mr. sweet's tent when the boys came in sight of it. the barker was lounging in a chair outside, and on catching a glimpse of the boys recognized them immediately. the crowd in pursuit would have told a duller man than he professed to be that there had been some serious trouble, and, running to meet the boys as if to intercept them, he cried: "circle around the canvas, an' crawl underneath, so's that gang won't see where you've gone!" the fugitives understood the scheme at once, and making a short detour as if to avoid him, dashed under the guy-ropes at one end, gaining the interior of the tent before the pursuers arrived. mr. sweet had just started toward the flap to ascertain the cause of the commotion when the boys entered, and, thinking himself about to be attacked, leaped quickly back as he seized an ironbound stake. "oh, it's you, eh?" he said, on recognizing the intruders. "what's up? are you the thieves they're yellin' for?" teddy was hardly able to speak; but he held up the satchel, as he panted: "hazelton's--they're killin' him--he--wants--this--saved." "yes, i understand it now. jump into the wagon an' get under the stuff there. i'll take the valise. them kind of fakirs are bound to come to grief sooner or later, an' honest people get into a muss tryin' to help 'em. i'd like to see the fair where them kinds of games wasn't allowed; but don't s'pose i ever shall, although it's always promised." while mr. sweet had been grumbling, and at the same time concealing the satchel under the box containing the snakes, the boys were doing their best to hide themselves beneath the litter of ropes and canvas which had been carelessly thrown into the wagon. in the meantime the pursuers came up, discovered the unpleasant fact that the fugitives were no longer in sight, and began to parley with the barker. "i tried to catch 'em," the boys heard the latter say; "but they got around the tent before i had time to find out what the matter was." "they've gone inside!" one of the crowd shouted. "don't let's allow swindlers to get the best of us so easy!" "that's the way to talk!" another cried. "we'll have 'em out if the show has to come down!" at this moment mr. sweet, looking calm and undisturbed, emerged from the flap. "bring out them boys, or down comes your tent!" a man yelled. "i reckon the wisest plan for you to pursue is to wait till i find out what all this means," the proprietor of the museum said loudly, at the same time beckoning the barker and the clown to his side. "it looks to me as if this was the same gang who came here last night tryin' to clean us out, an' warrants for their arrest are in the hands of the constables now. i paid one hundred dollars for the privilege of exhibitin' here, an' that means i'm to have all the protection the managers of this fair and the authorities of the town can give me. i've warned you off; but if you still want to finish up the work of last night, an' the constables don't come in time, there are three of us here who are good for twice that number of your gang, an' when a man gets a tap over the head with one of these he's not in it any longer!" mr. sweet flourished the heavy stake as he spoke, and his employes showed that they were armed in the same manner. "we didn't come to disturb you," one of the crowd said, in a milder tone, as the greater number fell back before the threats made of invoking the aid of the law. "all we want is a valise two boys brought here, for in it is quite a pile of our money." "how did they get it from you?" the proprietor of the museum asked for the purpose of gaining time in the hope the constables would put in an appearance. "we were swindled by a jewelry agent, an' are goin' to get back our own." "oh, you are, eh? well, i haven't got the stuff; but if you allow yourselves to be swindled, will you help matters by turning thieves? you can sue the man who has done you up; but there's a penalty for stealing, as you will find out if you keep on in this way." the less impetuous among the pursuers understood that the showman was speaking only the truth, and, now that they had an opportunity for reflection, began to be ashamed of the part they were playing. one by one walked away without making any further remonstrance, and in a short time only a dozen or so remained in front of the tent. all these were young men, and several had been drinking, therefore the danger was not yet past. "you stand here and brain the first man who attempts to enter," mr. sweet said, as he disappeared inside the tent. then hurrying to where teddy and dan were hidden, he whispered: "it may be possible that in order to avoid a row i shall be obliged to let this gang in. there is no one behind the canvas, and you can slip out readily. go directly back where you belong, an' if anybody accuses you of being the boys who brought away the valise deny it. i'm goin' to make a big bluff about lookin' for constables, an' the minute you hear me talking, move lively." "what about hazelton's money?" teddy asked. "he'll find it here when he dares to come for it." an instant later the fugitives heard him say from the outside: "i propose to call for help in case you very respectable young gentleman should take a notion to break in and steal." "all we ask is that you'll turn out them boys," one of the party replied, angrily, "for, whether it's stealing or not, we're bound to have that fakir's money." "that part of it is nothing to me. there are no boys inside, an' if you want to go in one at a time, so there'll be no chance of gettin' the best of me an' destroyin' my property, i don't think there'll be any objection made." "now's our time before they come?" dan whispered, as he slipped softly down from the wagon, and teddy followed. it was but the work of a moment to raise the canvas and step out. there was absolutely no one in sight. the tent had been erected near the edge of the grounds, and there was nothing in the vicinity to attract the sightseers. "we'll get over the fence, an' come in through the main gate. it's better to pay for admission than to let people suspect we were the ones who have been chased." "go on; i'll stay close at your heels." five minutes later they were walking along the dusty road looking as innocent as possible, and feeling comparatively safe. "do you suppose any one will know us?" teddy asked after they had trudged some distance in silence. "there can't be much danger of that. all the crowd saw were our backs, and, besides, after those fellows cool off they'll be ashamed of themselves. i don't reckon you'll have any trouble; but i may get it hot from the boss because i've been away so long." "i guess there won't be much danger of that; but if anything should happen come to my stand. after what has happened i reckon i can afford to whack up with you on some of the profits, especially since every one says to-morrow is to be such a big day. where do you suppose hazelton is?" "he must have had a chance to get off when the men started for us; but i'll bet he don't look as nice as he did this morning." by this time the boys were at the ticket-office, and, paying the price of admission, they walked into the inclosure without attracting the slightest attention. on the way to his place of business teddy chanced to think of the errand on which they had started out, and he bought a generous supply of sandwiches for dan, tim, and himself. when the two arrived at the cane-board business was at its height, and the clerk and his assistant were having quite as much as they could do to attend to the customers. this saved teddy the necessity of entering into any explanation while strangers were near, and he immediately went to work, not having an idle moment until nearly nightfall, when the greater portion of the visitors had departed. "where did you and dan go that you staid away so long?" tim asked as he and teddy began to pack up the stock of canes and knives. "oh, it's a long story; i'll tell you all about it while we are eating supper," teddy replied, with a significant look in the direction of the assistant. tim understood that there was some secret regarding the matter, and he at once proceeded to get rid of a possible eavesdropper by saying to the assistant: "here's the money i promised. there's no need of your stayin' any longer." "shall i come to work in the morning?" tim looked toward his employer, and the latter said: "yes, of course, if it is pleasant weather. everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd than ever, an' i reckon we shall have work enough for all hands." the boy had but just taken his departure when dan approached, looking very mournful. "have you been bounced?" teddy cried, excitedly. "not a bit of it; but look here," and dan held up a straw hat. "that's poor sam's! his boat has been found bottom up, an' this, with one of the oars, was fished out of the creek a few moments ago. while we were talking rough about him the poor boy was drowning!" chapter xix. _the arrest._ teddy was dazed by the tidings and apparent proof of sam's death. without being able to explain why, it seemed as if the amateur detective was not the sort of a boy who might be expected to depart this life suddenly, and the news saddened him wonderfully. "just think," he said, "the poor fellow wouldn't try to save the women because of the danger of approaching a drowning person, and in such a short time he himself is at the bottom of the creek." "if he has got any folks some word ought to be sent to them." "i never heard him say whether he had or not. will any one search for the body?" "the man who represents the davis company says he will have men out in the morning, if it is possible to hire any; if not, there will be plenty wanting a job by saturday, and he can then get all he wants. it's bound to be a long search, for there's no telling where the boat capsized." nothing save sam's untimely fate was spoken of during the time they were packing up the goods and carrying them to the tent, and then mr. sweet, after having been told the sad news, said, without commenting upon it: "you boys had better go to supper now, an' get back before dark, for there's no knowin' but that some of those fellows who called on me may be waiting to take their revenge out on you." "how did you get rid of them?" dan asked. "that part of it was as easy as rollin' off a log, after you boys were out of sight. i let 'em in one at a time, an' the chumps never tumbled to the fact that you had gone under the canvas. they came to the conclusion you must have climbed over the fence, an' we didn't take the trouble to show them the mistake. it was a close shave, though. at one time, when i was talkin' so loud about stealing, i thought we'd have the toughest kind of a row." "is the money all right?" "it's jest where i left it, an' won't be touched till he comes to claim it, unless you boys want to take charge of the property." "indeed we don't," teddy replied, quickly. "i've had all i want of such caretaking." "then go to supper, an' hurry back." the boys waited only long enough to stow their goods in the wagon, and then mr. sweet's advice was acted upon. as a matter of course tim wanted to know what the proprietor of the museum had been talking about, and as they were walking across the grounds teddy told the whole story, concluding by saying: "it was a little the worst scrape i ever got into; but after the money had been placed in our hands, and the man who left it went off, we couldn't do different from what we did." "that hazelton had no business to get you into such a row," tim replied, indignantly. "why didn't he hang on to the stuff, an' take his lickin' like a man?" "i don't think he knew it was to be given to us. the fellow who did it had seen him leave the satchel with us once, most likely, an' when there was danger of being robbed, believed we could look out for it again. it's the last time such a thing will happen, for i'm going to tell hazelton that i don't want to be mixed up in his business." at this point dan changed the subject of conversation by speculating upon the way in which sam met his death, and this topic was such a mournful one that nothing else was thought of until the party returned to the tent once more. then came the question of how much money had been taken in during the day, and after figuring up the amount he had spent, teddy reckoned the cash on hand, announcing the result as follows: "countin' what i paid out, we've taken sixty-one dollars an' seventy cents since morning. it don't seem reasonable, but a feller has to believe it after seein' the money." "you'll have a much better trade to-morrow, if it is fair, and you're not recognized as one of the boys who helped to get hazelton's money away," mr. sweet said, cheerily. "i predict that the receipts will figure up hard on to a hundred dollars." teddy gasped like a person who is suddenly submerged in cold water at the thought of earning so much, and he realized that if such should be the case he would be able to assist his mother very materially. "i'll pay you, tim, before i get so dazzled as to forget it," he said, with a laugh, and the clerk felt almost as rich as his employer when he received six dollars and seventeen cents for a day's labor which came very near being sport. "i only wish the fair held on for six months," he said gleefully. "it seems too bad that there are only two days more, for saturday never counts." "you can go to the holtown fair, and try it for yourself. i'll give you what stock we have left on hand." "then i'll do it," tim replied, emphatically, and straightway he began to speculate as to the enormous amount of money he would earn. teddy tied his money in as compact a package as possible, intending to give it to his mother when she should arrive on the morrow, and mr. sweet had advised that all hands "turn in" early, when the flap was raised, admitting a man who appeared to be covered with adhesive plaster and bandages. not until the newcomer had approached within the circle of light cast by the lantern did the occupants of the tent recognize him as the jewelry fakir, and teddy cried in surprise: "why, mr. hazelton! we didn't expect to see you to-night!" "did you think i was dead?" "it looked as if you would be killed for a certainty, and you did get pretty well done up." "yes; as the reports of the prize fights put it, 'i'm badly disfigured, but still in the ring.' was the money taken away all right?" "mr. sweet has hidden it." "and how did you come out of the scrape?" "if it hadn't been for the folks here we should have fared about the same as you did." "i'm sorry, my boy, that you were dragged into the matter, and it wouldn't have happened if i'd understood what kelly was going to do. he knew you could be trusted, and so turned it over; but it was a mean situation to put you in." "it wasn't pleasant for any of us," mr. sweet said; "but you can thank the boys for hanging on to the bag as if it had been their own. most fellows of their age would have dropped it long before reaching here. how did you get off?" "when the cry was raised that the money had gone the greater portion of the crowd started in pursuit, an' my partners and i managed to hold our own until a couple of constables came up. they took charge of the team, and gave us a chance to slip through the gates." "what are you going to do now? try it to-morrow?" "with this face? well, i should say not. there is a fellow here who has bought my right to the privilege, and i shall leave peach bottom early in the morning." "that's about the best thing you can do, and i'd advise that you don't spend much time out of doors until then." "i'm not intending to. it was necessary to come here, and, unless you object, i'll stay a while so's they will have time to sober up a bit." "you're welcome to what we've got, even if i don't like your way of doing business." "i want to straighten matters with the boys, and if they----" hazelton did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the canvas flap was pushed aside and a man entered with an unmistakable air of authority. "hold on there, friend," mr. sweet shouted. "we don't allow visitors at this time of night." "i understand that, but reckon you won't make any very big kick when i tell you that i'm one of the deputy sheriffs of this county, and have come to serve a warrant." "on whom?" "frank hazelton, who claims to be an agent for a firm of jewelry manufacturers. i believe you're the man," he added, approaching the disfigured fakir. "you've got that part of it straight enough, but what am i to be arrested for?" "you are suspected of being concerned in the burglary which was committed in this town last night." hazelton did not express nearly as much surprise as the boys, who were really dazed by the announcement. "so hargreaves has finally succeeded," the fakir said half to himself, and the officer replied, quickly: "this has nothing to do with old nathan's affair, although it does look as if the two burglaries were committed by the same person." hazelton remained silent several seconds, during which time the sheriff waited patiently for him to say he was ready to go, and then he asked: "can i speak to one of these boys in private. it has nothing to do with the charge, but i want him to aid me in getting a good lawyer." "i am sorry to say i must hear all that is talked about, however trifling it may be." "well, i don't suppose it can make much difference," and without rising from his seat, hazelton continued, "teddy, you believe i had nothing to do with this thing?" "i can tell what i heard those----" "don't tell anything yet a while; at least, not now. i want you to do this for me: after the fair closes go to that merchant who was so kind to you, and explain to him the whole affair, including your suspicions. ask him to direct you to the best attorney in the county; get all the money from mr. sweet that may be needed, and pay the lawyer's fee. send him to me as soon afterward as possible. it is nothing more serious than lying in jail a few days, and that won't be such a great hardship, now i've got this face on me." "shall i----" "there is no need of saying anything more," hazelton interrupted, fearing the boy was about to speak of the money the proprietor of the museum had hidden. "the merchant will understand and advise if you tell him everything--that is, i think he will; but in case he refuses, talk with some one else whom you can trust." as he finished speaking the fakir arose to his feet, motioned to the officer, and walked directly out of the tent without so much as bidding the others goodby. no one spoke until after he had been absent several minutes, and then teddy asked, with a long-drawn sigh: "do you think he will come out all right, mr. sweet?" "that's hard to say, for i don't know how much proof they may have against him. it's his business that has done a great deal toward inducing a magistrate to issue the warrant, for once a man shows himself to be a swindler, anything else can readily be believed of him." "but what about his money?" dan asked. "that is to be handed over to teddy." "what have i got to do with it?" the boy asked, in amazement. "he told us that as plainly as he dared to talk before the officer, and we'll count it out, after which his stock in trade shall be buried, for i want nothing to do with it." chapter xx. _a proposition._ teddy had the most decided objections to taking charge of hazelton's money, and for several reasons. in the first place he did not want to have the responsibility, and again, the fact of its being in his possession seemed to make him a partner in the business. mr. sweet was determined, however. he insisted that hazelton had stated this as plainly as was possible under the circumstances, and, despite the boy's protests, immediately began the transfer. "it shall be done in such a way that he can't accuse you of having taken any," the proprietor said, as he pulled the satchel from its hiding-place and broke the lock open with a hatchet. "we'll count it in the presence of all hands, and each one shall give teddy a written statement of how much was found." an exclamation of surprise burst from tim's lips as the receptacle was spread out on the ground, for it appeared to be literally crammed with money. mr. sweet separated the silver from the bank notes, spreading both on the ground where they could be seen by every person present, and then he counted them slowly, taking care that the spectators were following his every movement. "i make it three hundred an' forty-eight dollars," he announced. "if there's anybody here who ain't sure that's right, say so now." each member of the party had seen the amount counted, and agreed with the result as declared by mr. sweet, who forthwith wrote the following: we, the undersigned, have seen a valise belonging to frank hazelton broken open, and certify that three hundred and forty-eight dollars, the only money found therein, was handed by jacob sweet to edward hargreaves in conformance with the orders, as we understood them, from the said frank hazelton. "now i want every one to sign that," mr. sweet said, as he handed his lead-pencil first to the barker, "and then teddy and i will have some proof of the amount." it required quite a while for all to conform with the wishes of the proprietor of the museum, owing to the fact that several of the party were far from being skillful penmen, but the task was finally accomplished, and as the money was handed to teddy, the latter asked, ruefully: "what shall i do with it? i'm afraid of losing so much." "that's a risk hazelton is bound to take. fasten it in your clothes somehow, an' be sure you don't get into any row where it can be stolen." by the aid of many pins, and with the assistance of both dan and tim, teddy finally succeeded in disposing of the money about his person in such a way that it was not an unusual burden, and then mr. sweet insisted that all hands should try to get some rest in order to be fresh for the supposedly enormous amount of work to be done on the following day. teddy lay down on the ground with the others, but it was many hours before his eyes were closed in slumber. sam's untimely death, the guardianship of so much money, and his own business affairs all served to keep his eyes open until nearly midnight, when he fell into a sleep so troubled by frightful dreams that it was far from being restful. it seemed as if he had but just lost consciousness when mr. sweet aroused him with the information that the "big" day of the fair was breaking. "turn out an' get your breakfast before sunrise, for on this morning the early bird will pick up many a penny while the lazy ones are yet in bed, an' fakirs must make hay when the sun shines." teddy was on his feet in an instant, and half an hour later, having broken his fast, he was at the booth with his clerk and dan, the latter volunteering his assistance until the exhibition buildings should be opened. the proprietor of the museum had advised him well; the receipts of the cane and knife boards were nearly five dollars before more than half of the booths were in condition for trade, because the trains were running unusually early in order to accommodate the crowds, and when dan felt obliged to leave, business was so good that the proprietor, clerk, and assistant were all working industriously. "if i can get off i'll see you about noon," dan said, as he walked away, and teddy replied: "be sure to come, for mother will be here, and i want you to meet her." from that time until nine o'clock the crowd increased in numbers, and as teddy said during a lull in business, "it seemed as if the grounds were so full that no more could get in." when mrs. hargreaves arrived her son could pay little attention to her, but he proposed that she should amuse herself by looking at the different exhibits until nearly noon, when he stated that he would take an hour off, no matter how great a rush of customers might be around his booth. "i earned sixty dollars yesterday, an' before night i'll have a hundred more, so there's little doubt that this week's work as a fakir will enable me to pay all you owe on the house," he whispered, triumphantly, and his mother walked away, hardly daring to believe what teddy had told her. during the next hour it seemed as if a steady stream of money was flowing into the box, and teddy was feeling confident that mr. sweet's prediction would prove to be correct, when the one especial man he wanted to see came up with a folded paper in his hand. it was the merchant from waterville, and he said, as he handed the document to the boy: "here is the receipted bill, and i am more than glad to see you doing so well." "can i talk with you for five minutes?" teddy asked, hardly noticing the paper as he put it in his pocket. "as long as you want to. what is the matter? running out of stock?" "oh, no, your clerk made such a good selection for me that i've got all i shall need. this is something more important." then teddy hurriedly told the merchant how and where he had first met hazelton; explained fully what the latter's business was; of the accusations made by uncle nathan; what he and dan had heard and seen, and concluded by repeating the request made by the fakir as he was led away to jail. "are you willing to do anything for him?" the boy asked, as his story was finished. "i can't say it is a matter which appeals very strongly to my sympathies, because of the swindles he perpetrated, but if it is an unjust accusation something should be done to help him. the one lawyer above all others who can be of assistance came over with me this morning. i will see him, and later in the day you shall have a call from us." "before you go i wish you would take this money," teddy said, earnestly. "it is too large an amount for me to carry around, and it will be safe with you." the merchant consented to take charge of hazelton's ill-gotten gains, and teddy felt decidedly relieved when the cash was in another's keeping, and he had nothing of more value than an acknowledgment of the same to look after. "in this matter i shall recognize no other order than yours," the merchant said when the transaction was concluded, "and if the fakir should succeed in regaining his liberty he must come to you for the necessary document. "i don't care how it is fixed so long as the money is not in my hands," teddy replied, in a tone of satisfaction, and then he was called upon to attend to another rush of customers, every one of whom was eager to be waited upon first. another hour passed, and it was more evident than before that mr. sweet had been correct when he stated the sum which should be taken in at the cane-board. teddy, having breakfasted early, was so hungry that he was on the point of going out to buy a supply of sandwiches, when another visitor arrived. this was no less a personage than uncle nathan, and he greeted his nephew with the utmost cordiality, as he said: "it looks to me as if you were makin' a power of money here, teddy. i had no idea these triflin' games would so attract the people." glad to be on pleasant terms with the old man once more, teddy stated that they had been at work very hard since the first train arrived, and concluded by saying: "i took over sixty dollars yesterday, and mr. sweet says it'll come near to a hundred to-day." "sixty dollars!" the old man cried. "are you telling me the truth, teddy hargreaves?" "of course i am, an' i've got the money in my pocket to prove it." "why, at this rate you'll soon be a rich man, for you don't seem to lose much of the stock." "we buy a good many canes or knives back. when a man puts a ring over one that he don't want we take it in, and give him five more chances. in that way there is very little goes out compared to the amount of money received." uncle nathan looked around at the players for a moment, and then in a very confidential tone he whispered: "see here, teddy, don't you want a partner? i'll pay for the stock you bought, an'----" "i've already done that out of yesterday's receipts," teddy cried. "all the bills are settled, an' what comes in now is clear profit." "but suppose i stood here an' called up the people i know, don't you think it would make business better?" "and if it should, do you think we could attend to more customers? every minute i talk with you is so much money lost, for the other fellers can't pick up rings an' make change fast enough." "does that mean you don't want to go into business with me?" the old man asked, angrily. "no; but it means that there would be no reason for doing such a thing. i've got no debts, an' there are more customers than can be attended to on so small a board. if you'd made the proposition last monday it would have been different, but now you can't expect me, after taking all the risk, to divide after the work has been done." "who lent you the money to start, teddy hargreaves?" uncle nathan cried, his face growing purple with rage. "you did." "and how have you repaid such generosity? how----" "i gave you three dollars for the use of fifteen two days," was the prompt reply. "but how have you repaid me for remaining inactive after my money was stolen?" "that was something which did not concern me, therefore i had nothing to repay." "it has a great deal to do with you, as shall be shown before this day is ended, unless you consent to take me as an equal partner in this enterprise. your friend in crime has been arrested, and i can swear that he turned over to you his ill-gotten gains. one word from me at this time and you will be in the same prison." the fact of his having been threatened before made teddy bold, and he said, quietly: "i won't pay you for holding your tongue, uncle nathan, so do whatever you choose." "i will inform the authorities of all i have learned this morning, and we shall see what the result will be," the old man cried, in a fury, as he walked away, and despite the bold bearing he had assumed teddy firmly believed that if the magistrate who issued the warrant for hazelton's arrest should know he was in possession of the fakir's money, he would be brought before a bar of justice to explain matters. chapter xxi. with the burglars. it is well to look in upon sam during his enforced vigil of wednesday night. for at least two hours after the burglars had departed he thought of nothing save that he would soon be killed, and, perhaps, devoured by wild animals. then the pain in his jaw and limbs became so great, owing to the tightly bound cords and his inability to move, that his sufferings overcame the fear to a certain extent, and he had not even the poor consolation of being able to give vent to an audible groan. notwithstanding the mental and bodily torture he did sleep occasionally during the night, which appeared to be of twenty-four hours' duration, and never had he heard a sweeter sound than when his captors approached, the hum of their voices reaching him before the noise of their footsteps. the burglars were laden with packages of what appeared to be merchandise, and by the faint light of the coming day sam could see that they looked heated and tired. "well, how's our detective?" long jim asked, with a laugh, as he threw himself on the ground by the boy's side. "has he decided to arrest his victims, or will he give them a little show of leaving the country?" as a matter of course sam could not make any reply; but the expression in his eyes must have told of the suffering which he was forced to endure, for phil said, as he began to untie the rope holding the gag in place: "there's no need of keepin' him trussed up any longer, an' i reckon it'll be a relief to have a chance to use his tongue once more." even when he was free the prisoner was unable to do more than roll upon his side. his limbs were so stiff and cramped that he had no power over them, and he could not have risen to his feet just at that moment if his life had depended upon it. jim seemed to think all this was very comical, for he laughed loudly at the prisoner's helplessness, and suggested that if he intended to follow the business of a detective to practice remaining in one position in order to avoid such a complete collapse when fortune should again be so unkind to him as she had been in this particular case. when the burglar's mirth finally ceased the two men lighted their pipes, and proceeded to enjoy a season of repose after so much fatiguing work, while sam was left to recover as best he might. fully half an hour elapsed before he succeeded in crawling to the brook where he quenched his thirst, and then his one desire was for sleep. stretched out on the ground within a few feet of his captors the blissful unconsciousness of slumber came upon him, and the sun was high in the heavens before he awoke. long jim was seated on the turf, his back against a tree, and a quantity of food spread out in front of him; but phil was not in sight. "well, it strikes me you've been takin' things mighty comfortable," the man said, with a grunt. "don't give yourself so far over to a life of pleasure as to forget that i promised to give you the greatest floggin' of your life before we part, for then you won't be so much surprised when it comes." the sight of the food caused sam to realize how very hungry he was, and, regardless of the subject introduced by jim, he asked, timidly: "can't i have somethin' to eat?" "i don't think you can, my son. in the first place you haven't earned it, an' then, again, my partner an' i may need all the grub we've got on hand." then, as if reconsidering his determination, the man selected two small crackers, tossing them to sam as he cut a slice of boiled ham for himself. "that's more'n you deserve," he said, as the prisoner began to devour them eagerly; "so don't count on gettin' another bite to-day." sam literally devoured the food, and then went once more to the brook to wash down the dry repast. it seemed as if the crackers increased rather than satisfied his hunger, and he watched jim eagerly as the latter finished a generous meal of meat, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs. the burglar lighted his pipe, and paid no attention to the hungry boy, who now had ample time for reflection. he remembered that this was the important day of the fair, and pictured to himself teddy and dan at their work enjoying themselves at the same time they were making money. then he thought of what he might be doing if the detective fever had not taken so firm a hold upon him, and, despite all efforts to prevent it, the tears coursed down his cheeks, plowing wide furrows in the dirt with which his face was encrusted. this painful revery was not prolonged. shortly before noon phil came into the hiding-place, his face wearing an expression of entire satisfaction. "i reckon we needn't be afraid any one will be here lookin' for us now our detective has been drowned," he exclaimed. "what's up?" jim asked. "hazelton, the fakir, has been arrested for the burglary at peach bottom, an' men are draggin' the creek to find the body of the boy who worked for the davis boat company." sam actually shuddered at the thought that people were looking for his corpse, and it gave him an "uncanny" feeling, this idea that he was numbered with the dead. "when was the arrest made?" jim asked. "last night. old nathan from the run says the fakir turned over a lot of money to the boy who was goin' to buy your cane-board, an' it looks very much as if he would be locked up with the man whom people believe is his partner." "nothin' said about what the cubs saw at the barn?" "not a word." "then we can count on havin' the balance of this week in which to leave the country." "as much as that, if not more. another load will get the stuff together; but i've been thinkin' we'd better bury it here, an' not try to move a thing for a month or two." "in that case we'd be obliged to take that specimen along," and jim pointed with a contemptuous gesture toward sam. "it wouldn't do to let go of him while there was a chance of his givin' the game away." "i'll 'tend to that part of it, an' guarantee he won't be in condition to make us much trouble," phil said so confidently that sam began to shake as with an ague fit, for it seemed positive to him this burglar had decided upon his murder. "if things were so comfortable like why don't you try to make a dollar, for i reckon there's a big crowd at the fair?" "the grounds are packed; but it ain't exactly safe to do much business," and phil told of the assault upon hazelton. "the whole boilin' of 'em now think everybody's tryin' to work some swindle," he added, "an' the consequence is that it would go hard with any feller who should slip up. we've done enough for one week, an' i'd rather not take chances till this stuff is off our hands." "do you count on goin' back agin to-day?" "what's the use?" "i only asked, for you're managin' this whole thing now." "my idea was to sneak up alone to-night; take on the balance of the stuff, an' then lay low till saturday evenin', when we'll make the big break." "it's goin' to be mighty dull business sittin' here with nothin' to do," jim replied, in a tone of complaint. "i don't see how we can fix it much quicker, unless we go to-morrow, while there are so many around." it was evident jim did not relish the idea of leaving everything to his companion, and the latter so understood the expression on his friend's face, for he said, angrily: "you're cookin' up some foolish scheme now, an' in spite of all i can do to prevent it we'll probably succeed in gettin' nabbed before matters are arranged as they should be." "oh, you're too smart, that's what ails you. take all the soft snaps, an' leave me here to suck my thumbs without even the chance of movin' around." "if you think it's sich a snap to row up there an' back, why don't you try your hand." "that's jest what i'm willin' to do. anything's better'n stayin' here, an' i'd like you to have a taste of it." sam, who was expecting each moment to see the thieves come to blows, understood at once that this arrangement did not please phil; but he made no further objection than to say: "if you wasn't so blamed careless i'd like to have you do a share of the hard work; but it's ten to one you'll contrive to let everybody know you are there." "i may not be so all-fired smart as you think you are, but i ain't quite a fool. why, i've managed bigger things than this when you was around beggin' for something' to eat, 'cause you was too chicken-hearted to do this kind of work." "you'd better not say too much; i've stuck by you when worse men would have a' given you the cold shake, an' don't intend to take any guff, especially since i've had sich hard work to get us out of the scrape you jumped into." "i shall talk, an' if you don't want to listen, there are plenty of places to lay off in outside of this." then the two thieves glared at each other several moments in silence, and finally phil said, with a mirthless laugh: "we won't fight till this job is finished. go an' get the balance of the stuff, an' we'll make a break whenever you are ready; but after one pull up an' back there'll be somebody besides me who'll think it hard work." then, in order to heal the breach which had opened between them, phil produced a suspicious looking black bottle from his pocket, and handed it without comment to his partner. "why didn't you bring this out before, an' then, perhaps, the business would 'a' looked different?" jim growled, as he drank long and deep; "but it won't make any difference about my goin' up the creek." "that's all right; i'm satisfied." as the two men began to drink a great hope sprang up in sam's heart that they would become so stupefied by the liquor that he might make his escape. they had not thought it necessary to replace the bonds which had cost him so much suffering, and at the first signs of unconsciousness he resolved to make one dash for liberty, either by taking to the boat, or attempting to make his way toward the fair grounds on that side of the creek. there was no such good fortune in store for the prisoner, however. the men drank themselves into the most friendly humor, and then the supply of liquor was exhausted. after advising jim not to start until sunset, phil lay down to sleep, and sam thought it wise to feign slumber also, lest the wakeful burglar should take it into his head to administer the promised flogging in order to pass the time more agreeably. chapter xxii. _a disaster._ teddy was decidedly uncomfortable in mind after uncle nathan departed. by a combination of circumstances which could not well have been avoided, he had been made to appear as a confederate of hazelton, and if all the facts concerning his relations with the fakir should become known public opinion would he against him. he did not allow these forebodings to interfere with business, however. customers were plenty; the nickels were coming in as rapidly as he could make change, and tim had no hesitancy in saying that mr. sweet had set their receipts of one day considerably too low. "we've done twice as much as we did yesterday at this time, an' i'm countin' on gettin' twelve or fifteen dollars as my share of this day's work." "it looks as though you wouldn't be disappointed, and that's a fact. i wish i knew where we could get a few more canes, for we've lost quite a good many this morning." "there's no time to go to waterville; but we can shorten the board by putting the uprights closer together, an' that'll make the layout look all right. here comes your mother, an' if you want to go off with her i'll promise to keep things goin' here." that was exactly what teddy did want to do. he felt that it was necessary she should know the true condition of affairs, and he could not talk with her confidentially near the cane-board, therefore when she came up he proposed that they walk toward the grand stand, where the waterville band was doing its best to put in the shade the performances of the musicians from the run. "you are looking worried, teddy," mrs. hargreaves said, as they moved away in the proposed direction. "what is the matter? isn't business as good as you expected?" "it is a great deal better; but uncle nathan has been here again, and this time i'm afraid it is in his power to do me some harm." then teddy told his mother all that had happened, explaining in detail the suspicions which might be aroused against him, and she was quite as disturbed as he when the recital was finished. "i will talk with him myself," she said, after some thought. "don't do anything of the kind, for then he will be worse than ever, thinking he can frighten me into giving half of all i have made, and that i won't do, no matter how many warrants he gets out." "but teddy, don't you think----" mrs. hargreaves was interrupted by a cry from a half-intoxicated man who halted directly in front of the young fakir, and shouted to some of his companions in the rear: "here he is! this is the sneak who helped take that jewelry swindler's money away. i saw him then, an' can swear to his face." as a matter of course the tone as well as the words was sufficient to attract a crowd in this place where the throng was so dense that one could only make his way from one portion of the grounds to the other with the greatest difficulty, and for a moment, while teddy stood unable to decide what should be said or done, every person looked at him threateningly. "his partner has been arrested, an' we'll serve him in the same way," the man continued, as he advanced toward the boy. "why do you want to talk to me like that?" teddy cried, looking around in vain for a friend. "there are plenty of people here who know me, for i live down at the run, an' never swindled anybody." "that's a lie!" the man replied, fiercely, seizing the boy by the collar. "it's the truth!" mrs. hargreaves cried. "i'm his mother, and we have lived at the run ever since he was born. deacon jones is our neighbor, and he can answer for the truth of it." [illustration: "i tell you to let go of him. he is an acquaintance"] "i'll see whether he can or not," and the bully was about to drag teddy away, aided by his half-intoxicated friend, when a familiar voice from the outskirts of the crowd cried: "hold on there! what are you about?" "i've caught the feller what sneaked away the jewelry swindler's money, an' am goin' to put him with his partner." "you are going to take your hand off his collar this instant, or get yourself into trouble," and the merchant from waterville forced his way through the throng until he stood by teddy's side. "is that you, mr. reaves?" the bully asked, in surprise. "well, you don't want to interfere in this business, for the boy is a bad one all the way through. he was deep enough to get the best of us yesterday; but he won't be so lucky now." "i tell you to let go of him. he is an acquaintance of mine whom i would trust a good deal sooner than some whom i see now." "but you are makin' a big mistake, mr. reaves, for i saw him makin' off with the valise where our money had been put." it was evident the bully had considerable respect for the merchant, for he released his hold on teddy; but was determined that the boy's alleged character should be made known to all in the vicinity. "i happen to know all about that affair," mr. reaves replied, as he led teddy and his mother out of the throng, "and if you want the full particulars of the affair come to my store when you are more sober than now." a very large number of those present were acquainted with the merchant, and for the majority his statement was sufficient to absolve teddy of wrongdoing; but a few, among whom were the intoxicated party and his friends, vowed to sift the matter more thoroughly before the fair came to an end. mrs. hargreaves was terribly excited, and at once insisted that teddy should go home with her immediately, regardless of how much money he was making; but mr. reaves said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if such incidents were of everyday occurrence: "it would be foolish for him to do that, more especially since it would be a tacit acknowledgment of guilt, and, besides, his business here is too valuable to be abandoned simply because a drunken rowdy chooses to make trouble. i was on my way to see him; i have found a lawyer who will under-take hazelton's case, and he can at the same time give teddy some good advice." then the merchant introduced mr. harvey as the most prominent attorney in the county, and, offering mrs. hargreaves his arm, added: "we will go toward the cane-board, and give them an opportunity to talk. "there is a great deal to be said which cannot interest us, and when they are done we shall be readily found." the widow could do no less than comply, and as soon as they were comparatively alone the lawyer said to teddy: "now, i want you to begin and tell me the whole story from the time your money was stolen until this minute. don't omit any particulars because you may chance to think they are not important; but give every detail, and thus i shall be made acquainted with your own case as well as that of hazelton." teddy obeyed this command to the letter. he dwelt upon the most minute transaction or trifling movement at sufficient length to give the listener a clear idea of all that had happened, and laid bare his own business affairs, even to the extent of making the lawyer acquainted with the amount of receipts each day. "i don't suppose it makes any difference what i think," he said, in conclusion; "but i am almost certain mr. hazelton did not have anything to do with the robbery, and even if i had suspected him, that which dan and i heard while we were in the museum tent would have convinced me that the men whom we saw on the creek are the thieves." "i believe as you do, my boy, and will send a man to the barn you speak of this very night, although so much time has now elapsed that i have no hope of finding anything criminating. however, regardless of what may happen, i believe we can show that the fakir was not the guilty party, and, to guard against a possible attack by your uncle, it will be necessary to know exactly where we can get bail in case you should be arrested." "then he can take me to jail?" teddy asked, with quivering lips. "if he proves what he claims to know there is no question that he will be able to cause your arrest; but whether he can send you to prison is an entirely different matter. i would now like to have a talk with mr. reaves, and shall see you before i leave the grounds. do not be frightened; but continue your business as usual, and in a few moments i will give you full particulars as to what must be done in the event anything happens." teddy understood this to be an intimation that the interview was at an end, and he started toward the cane-board, the lawyer asking as he followed him: "how shall i find your friend dan?" "go down to the exhibit of the j. stevens arms and tool company in that yellow-roofed building, and you will see him showing model pocket rifles. i will go with you if you think there is any chance of missing him." "i can find him without difficulty. do not leave your place of business until after i have seen you again." by this time they had arrived at the cane-board, where mrs. hargreaves, looking decidedly relieved in mind, was talking with mr. reaves. the lawyer invited the merchant to accompany him, and as the two walked away mrs. hargreaves said: "after talking with mr. reaves i will take back what i proposed regarding taking you home. it is not possible that anything but the right shall conquer in a case like this, and i believe you will come out all right, as a boy should who has always been as obedient and loving as you. it is time for me to be going now; but i will come back again in the morning." "then take this money with you, for i don't want any more in my pockets than is absolutely necessary," and teddy counted out the contents of the box which served him as a "safe." there was but little time for any lengthy leave-taking. the customers were plenty; tim and his assistant had been working several hours without cessation, and teddy felt that it was his duty to relieve them. "you can trust mr. reaves, whatever happens," his mother said, as she kissed him goodby, "and i shall be back to-morrow to learn if you are all right." "don't worry about me," teddy replied, cheerily. "uncle nathan can't have everything his own way, and he will soon discover that fact." it seemed to teddy that his mother had but just left him, when a party of young men who had been talking in an apparently friendly manner directly in front of his place of business, suddenly began to quarrel, and before he was aware of what had happened his booth was overturned, and a fierce battle being waged upon the ground which he fancied belonged temporarily to him because of the money paid to the managers of the fair as rent. canes, knives, rings, and timbers were thrown violently about, and, while trying to save the property, teddy and his clerk received several severe blows intended for some of the combatants. chapter xxiii. _a second arrest._ when the fight began teddy's first thought was that it had been prearranged by some one who wanted to do him an injury without taking the chances of being arrested on a charge of malicious mischief. tim believed it to be a scheme for robbing the money box, and while the combatants were struggling close around him he emptied the contents into his trousers pockets, regardless of the chance blows received meanwhile. that both were wrong in their conjectures could be told later, as the fight assumed the proportions of a small riot, and the battle ground was soon shifted to an open space in front of the exhibition buildings. it was nothing more than a causeless row such as is often witnessed at fairs where intoxicating beverages are sold, and which start from comparatively nothing, illustrating the proverb: "see what a great fire a little spark can kindle." "this is goin' to knock our hundred dollars in the head," tim said, ruefully, as he began to gather up the scattered stock when the combatants had surged to and fro until they were some distance from the wrecked cane-board. "it'll take an hour to straighten things out, an' all that time will be the same as lost." "it might be worse," teddy replied, philosophically, "and, besides, we shouldn't be able to do any business while that row is going on. if you hadn't thought of the money it might have been lost, for there were so many close around me that i couldn't get at the box." "oh, if you want to pick somethin' good out of the trouble, i'll help. this will give us a chance to shorten the board so the stock won't look quite so small." the young fakirs were ready for business in considerably less time than they had fancied would be the case. nearly every one on the grounds was attracted by the riot, and among those who came to the scene of the conflict was dan. instead of watching the struggling, yelling throng, he helped teddy and tim restore the booth to order, and with such aid as the assistant could give the work was done very quickly. before the spectators had quieted down sufficiently to turn their attention to sport once more everything was ready for business, and when the constables had taken the ringleaders in the fight away, money began once more to roll into teddy's coffers. before dan returned to his own work he heard of all that had occurred since morning, and his comments on uncle nathan's behavior were more forcible than polite. "he's an old fool what oughter be rode on a rail till he can't see, an' i'm goin' over to the run before i start for home jest to give the duffer a piece of my mind." "i don't believe that would do either you or him any good," teddy replied, laughingly. "i don't know what effect it'll have on him; but i'll feel a mighty sight better. he shows himself to be the worst swindler on the grounds when he tries to scare you into givin' him half you've made, for that's what his talk means." "if he don't do any worse than threaten i won't say a word; but he's so mad there's no knowin' what'll happen." "the lawyer will see that you pull through all right; but if trouble should come, be sure to send for me. i'll manage to get off somehow." with this assurance dan hurried back to the exhibition buildings, and teddy was free to assist tim in waiting upon the customers. during the remainder of the afternoon the young fakirs had quite as much as they could attend to, and then, just as trade had so fallen off that tim could wait upon the customers alone with the aid of the assistant, teddy received a call from mr. harvey, the lawyer. "come here behind the booth where we can talk without being overheard," he said, peremptorily, and the boy obeyed at once, asking before the attorney had time to speak: "do you know if uncle nathan is goin' to do anything?" "he is certainly trying very hard, and in case he should succeed in getting a warrant, you will demand of the officer who serves it to be taken directly to deacon jones. mr. reaves and i have just had a talk with him, and in our absence he will render such assistance as you may require." "that sounds as if you believed uncle nathan would be able to do as he threatened." "it is well to be prepared for any emergency, since no man can say exactly what may happen. during the night two constables will go to the barn on the marshes where you saw the burglars carry some of the goods, although i do not think any good is liable to result from the visit, for the men have probably been frightened away by this time. enough may be found, however, to prove the truth of your story, and that will be sufficient to give the thick-headed authorities an inkling that their judgment as to who the burglars are is not infallible." "have you seen mr. hazelton yet?" "no; but i shall call on him before going home. the best thing which could happen now for all concerned would be the arrest of the man you call long jim, and to that end both you and dan must keep a sharp lookout, for it is barely possible he may be bold enough to come on the grounds again." "but what could we do in case we did see him?" "follow him quietly until you meet a constable, and then insist that he be arrested for swindling you out of fifteen dollars. there is not sufficient proof to connect him with the robbery here or at the run; but i will take care that he is held long enough as a common swindler to enable us to sift the other matter. let me see, you said dan was with you at the time of the transaction in waterville?" "no; it was poor sam, and now that he is dead i'm the only one who saw long jim there. do you know if they have found sam's body?" "i think not; men have been dragging the creek all day, and the probabilities now are that some time will elapse before it can be recovered. i want you to be very careful during the remainder of to-day and to-night. go to the tent where you sleep before dark, and do not venture outside under any provocation, no matter what message may be brought." "what do you mean?" teddy asked, in surprise. "nothing particular; i am only taking precautions, that is all. i shall be here to-morrow, and will see you then." the lawyer turned to go, and had just passed out from behind the end of the booth when teddy seized his arm, pulling him back very suddenly. "there's long jim now!" he whispered, excitedly. "see! that man over there by the striking machine!" it was indeed the burglar whose partner had warned him against visiting the fair, or even showing himself in the vicinity during the daytime. it could be plainly seen that he was decidedly under the influence of liquor, and he swaggered to and fro as if in his drunken brain was the idea that no one would dare cause him trouble. "are you certain there is no mistake?" the lawyer asked, as he watched the man. "i'd be able to recognize him anywhere, no matter how he was dressed, an' so would dan, for sam an' me pointed him out two or three times." "then the hardest portion of our work is finished. i shall have him arrested on the charge of swindling you, and can arrange it without the formality of first getting a warrant. it is now more necessary than ever that you should remain where i can find you readily at any hour of the day or night." "except when i go for supper, i'll be here or in the tent," teddy replied, and then there was no further opportunity for conversation. long jim had started leisurely, and on anything rather than a straight course, toward the grand stand, and mr. harvey followed so near that he could have placed his hand on the burglar's shoulder. teddy watched until the two were lost to view amid the throng, and then said to himself, with a sigh: "i'll bet the lawyer can't find a constable, an' that long jim gets clear somehow. but what i don't understand is how he dares to come here." he would have run down to tell dan of the startling news had it not been for mr. harvey's injunction to remain in the places designated, and he was so nervous that only with the greatest difficulty could he wait upon an impatient customer. an hour passed, and nothing had been heard from either the lawyer or the burglar. the visitors remained later on this day than usual; but the tardy ones were departing, and it was with a decided sense of relief that teddy began to pack up his stock for the night. dan arrived before the work was finished, and his excitement was great when he learned of what had happened. "can't we go somewhere to find out if the man was arrested?" he asked, eagerly. "i promised to be on hand in case the lawyer should want me." "then we'll get the stuff to the tent, go to supper, an' afterward i'll snoop 'round to hear the news." all hands worked rapidly, and in ten minutes the three boys were at the boarding-house, eating as if each moment were of the utmost importance, when they overheard a conversation between two men at the next table which caused them no slight degree of relief and pleasure: "who was that drunken fellow constable ford lugged off this evening?" one of the men asked, and the other replied: "a man who swindled a boy over at waterville out of fifteen dollars." "i didn't see any boy in the crowd." "he wasn't there. lawyer harvey recognized the fellow, and insisted on his arrest, sayin' that the 'squire already knew about the case." "i thought at first it might be some one who had been robbing the stores around here." "oh, the burglar has been caught already, an' laid in jail since yesterday." "but he was only arrested on suspicion." "there'll be proof enough to convict him, i reckon, an' if there isn't he ought to be sent to jail for six months because of what he has done on the grounds." then the conversation was changed to a subject in which the boys had no interest, and dan whispered to teddy: "that settles long jim, an' now if your lawyer is as smart as he appears to be it won't take long to show that hazelton didn't have anything to do with the burglar tryin' to get me in jail," teddy replied, with a sigh. "of course it will. things are turning out all right after all, an' if poor sam hadn't been drowned we'd have a reg'lar celebration to-night." chapter xxiv. _a third arrest._ when the boys returned to the museum tent from supper they had a long and interesting story to tell mr. sweet; but to their surprise, after the recital was concluded, he said calmly: "i knew all of that except about the burglar's arrest." "why, how did you hear it?" dan asked. "the lawyer an' the merchant have been over here twice since noon, pumpin' me about hazelton, an' tryin' to find out how you boys have behaved yourselves." "why did they want to know anything about us?" teddy asked, in surprise. "so's to make sure your stories were straight. when men like them take hold of a thing they don't want to run any chances of bein' fooled. what has been done about sam?" dan could best answer this question, and he replied: "the body hasn't been found; but i heard the manager of the davis boat company's exhibit say that he should keep men at the work of draggin' the creek till the work was finished. i can't get through my head how he happened to capsize the craft, for she didn't seem to be cranky." "that is something none of us will ever know," mr. sweet replied, solemnly, and then, as if to change the mournful subject, he asked: "how did business pan out to-day, teddy?" "i'll count up. we must have come pretty near to what you predicted; but we would have done a great deal better if it hadn't been for the big row. that made us lose at least an hour, to say nothin' of havin' six canes broken just when we needed every one in order to make a good show." then teddy and tim emptied the contents of their pockets on a piece of canvas, and the other occupants of the tent waited patiently for the result to be announced. "it's ninety-four dollars and forty-five cents," the former said, after counting the money twice as if doubtful of the first result. "that's a big sum of money, but there's no chance of a mistake." "you can figure that the row cost you six dollars," mr. sweet replied, puffing vigorously at his pipe. "i haven't been 'tendin' out on fairs these eight years without bein' able to name the amount of such a business as yours." "we'd have had twenty-five more but for that row," tim said, decidedly. "you're wrong there, my boy," and the proprietor of the museum wore an air of one who "knows it all." "that is about as much as two boys can take in, an' you don't want to kick, for i've seen lots of fakirs come on to a fair ground with a better cane-board than yours an' not get expenses. be thankful for what you've earned, an' hope that you can pay expenses to-morrow, for there won't be any too much money floatin' around after such a business as we've had to-day." "i'm more than satisfied," teddy replied, as he set aside the amount due tim, and the latter appeared to be more than contented with having earned nine dollars and forty-four cents so easily. "you can suck your thumbs from now out," the barker said, philosophically, "for the backbone of trade has been broken, an' the peach bottom fair is already numbered with the things of the past." "don't you think we'll do anything more?" teddy asked. "oh, yes, there'll be a little to pick up until to-morrow night, but it won't amount to anything near like what has already been done, although it'll be clear profit." "since i am more than satisfied, there's no chance of being disappointed," teddy replied, and at that moment the head of a stranger appeared between the flaps of canvas. "is there a boy named teddy here?" the newcomer asked. "well, what do you want of him?" and mr. sweet sprang to his feet as if anticipating trouble. "nothing more than what hazelton wanted me to say," was the reply, as the stranger entered, evidently thinking his search was at an end. "and what is that?" the proprietor of the museum asked, motioning teddy to remain silent. "there's no need of all this secrecy with me, for i'm hazelton's partner in everything except the give-away game," the stranger said, with a laugh. "it appears a man has been arrested by a party whom this boy teddy knows, and i'm to say that he is to come to jail very early to-morrow morning." even now mr. sweet's suspicions were not allayed, and he asked, cautiously: "could you tell me what he's wanted for?" "lawyer harvey will be there, and is going to talk with him where hazelton can hear what is said." "is that all?" "everything; and if you see the boy, can i depend on your repeating the message?" "under the circumstances there can be no harm in taking every precaution," the proprietor of the museum replied, "and if your errand is finished, i may as well say that this is the boy teddy whom hazelton sent you to see." "that's all right; there was no need of pointing him out; but since you have done so, i simply want to ask if he can spare the time to do as hazelton and the lawyer wish?" "of course i can," and now teddy spoke for himself. "say that if nothing happens i'll be there." "have you heard whether your uncle has succeeded in getting a warrant?" the stranger asked. "no; but mr. harvey seemed to think he might be able to do so, and i don't want to make any promises that can't be carried out." "then i'll count on your being there, but since leaving the jail i've heard enough to warrant my advising you to remain under cover to-night." "why?" "those fellows who started the fight when you got away with the money are swearing vengeance. i don't think it's likely they'll attack the tent, for, owing to the representations made by the lawyer, there'll be a big force of constables on duty to-night; but if you should venture outside the grounds it might be impossible to keep any engagement in the future." "i wasn't thinkin' of leaving here," teddy replied; but the mere fact that he ought not do so made him feel very uncomfortable. "i couldn't be in any worse fix if i had committed some big crime," he said, bitterly, "and it is tough to feel like a criminal when a fellow is only trying to earn honest money." "it isn't the rule that honest people fare the best," the stranger replied, with a laugh; "but i hope you'll come out on the top of the heap. at all events, my business here is finished and i'll go." the folds of canvas dropped behind him, and mr. sweet said, musingly: "it beats all how you boys have succeeded in getting yourselves mixed up in this affair. if i didn't know all the circumstances i'd say there must be some fire where there is so much smoke." "the smoke isn't of our makin', an' teddy's uncle can be blamed for the most of it," dan said, angrily. "i only wish he was here to know my opinion of him." "are you talkin' about me?" uncle nathan asked, as he pushed aside the canvas and entered without so much as asking permission. "that's exactly what i was doing," dan replied, without any show of fear, "an' if you've been sneakin' 'round to listen, there's no need of my tellin' over ag'in jest what i think of a man who tries to frighten an honest boy into givin' up half of what he has made." "an honest boy?" the old man repeated, with a sneer, and teddy whispered to his friend: "don't say anything to make him angry, for i'll only get the worst of it." "of course you will," uncle nathan replied, having overheard the words. "when an ungrateful wretch like you conspires to rob the hand that has fed him he must expect to get the worst of it." "i never took from you the value of a cent," teddy said, stoutly, and dan cried as he sprang to his feet: "if there has been any attempt at robbery, you're the guilty one, for you've tried to steal half the money he made by threatening to have him arrested if he didn't divide his profits." "that was only a business proposition," the old man replied, not in the least abashed, "and he has aided others in stealing from me." "what do you want here?" mr. sweet cried, angrily. "this is my tent; i have paid for the privilege of putting it upon these grounds, and have the right to prevent such old hypocrites as you from entering without paying an admission." "look out that you do not come within reach of the law," uncle nathan replied, threateningly, stepping back quickly, as if expecting an attack. "i am here armed with the right to take this boy, and shall exercise it despite all that may be said. come in, mr. officer." in response to this call a constable entered, and teddy's heart sank within him, for he understood that the long-deferred arrest was about to be made. "there is your prisoner," the old man said, vindictively, as he pointed to the boy, "and the sooner you take him to jail where he belongs the sooner we shall be rid of a viper." [illustration: as the constable approached him, teddy said, "i demand to be first taken to deacon jones!"] teddy's grief and fear were so great that he could not speak, and even dan appeared to have been made dumb by this show of authority; but mr. sweet was somewhat accustomed to such scenes, and he demanded: "show me the warrant. i do not propose to let any one be taken out of my tent by such an old reprobate as that until i am satisfied it is done under the sanction of the law." "convince yourself," uncle nathan replied, as the constable held out a folded document. "that will show under what authority we act." sweet read it carefully, and handed it to the officer as he said to the old man: "this shows that the constable has the right to take teddy to prison; but as certain as there will be a sun in the sky to-morrow so certain will i aid him in making you suffer for doing this thing. you know he had nothing to do with the burglary committed at your store, and have only had this issued in the hope of defrauding him of what he has earned honestly." "talk is cheap," uncle nathan said, impatiently. "officer, take your prisoner away unless you count on stayin' here all night." the short parley between the proprietor of the museum and the accuser gave teddy time to think of what the lawyer had said, and he added, as the constable approached him: "i demand to be first carried to deacon jones'." "now what kind of a bee have you got in your bonnet?" the old man cried, displaying both surprise and fear. "i say you are to go to jail, an' that settles it." "if he wants to see the deacon i'm bound to take him there," the constable said. "who's been makin' sich foolish talk to you?" uncle nathan screamed. "lawyer harvey told me what the law was, an' i don't intend to get into any fuss by deprivin' a prisoner of his rights," was the stolid reply. chapter xxv. on bail. when uncle nathan learned that the celebrated lawyer had made preparations for this move on his part he was literally beside himself with rage, and vowed that the warrant should be served and the prisoner taken to jail immediately, or he would see to it that the constable was deprived of his commission without delay. "i've served the warrant," the man said, quietly, "an' now the prisoner is in my custody. you have no more to say what shall be done with him than that goat, so shut your mouth." "i'll shut yours so close it won't be opened again for a month!" the old man screamed. "do as i tell you, or take the consequences." "and i'm goin' to give you the same advice," mr. sweet cried, as he advanced toward uncle nathan threateningly. "now the boy has been arrested, you are an intruder here, an' i'll give you thirty seconds in which to get out; after that we'll make an example of such a reprobate." "i'll go when i get ready, an' not a minute before. lay a hand on me an' i'll have a warrant for you." "if you can get it, well and good. i now order you out for the last time. in thirty seconds i'll guarantee you won't be in condition to walk." while their employer had been speaking the barker and the clown silently ranged themselves by his side, ready for any commands which might be given, and the infuriated old man had sufficient sense left to let him understand it would be unsafe to linger. "i'll serve you out before this thing is ended," he cried, shaking his fist in impotent rage as he went toward the flap, and dan, who could control himself no longer, replied: "you'd better begin on me, for i'm goin' to tell this thing to everybody who comes to the fair to-morrow, an' from what i've heard it wouldn't take much coaxin' to get the band from the run up here, so's i could sing it. you're havin' a good time now; but there'll be a different side to the matter to-morrow." mr. sweet had followed uncle nathan so closely, literally turning him out, that he could not reply while inside the canvas; but once in the open air, he made threats that would have frightened any one who did not know the motive by which they had been inspired. meanwhile the constable appeared disposed to take matters in the most comfortable manner. he asked teddy why he wished to see deacon jones, and the boy said: "i don't know; but mr. harvey told me that if anything happened to-night i was to see the deacon." "then we'll go there. are you ready?" teddy thought of his money, and, fearing lest it might be taken from him, asked if he could hand something to mr. sweet. "i think not," was the undecided reply. "the deacon will know, an' whatever he says i'll stand by." "don't bother about anything just now," the proprietor of the museum said. "we'll all go with you, an' there'll be plenty of time to make necessary arrangements before you're taken to jail." although the lawyer had assured him he could be involved in no serious trouble, the mere fact that he was under arrest sufficed to make teddy wretched, and like one under sentence of death, he prepared to accompany the constable. dan and tim intended to join the party, as was shown by their remaining very close to the prisoner, and only the barker and the clown were left to care for the tent. uncle nathan was met on the outside, and he immediately began to insist that the boy be taken to jail at once; but the officer paid no attention to his ravings. "if you don't hold your tongue i'll knock the whole top of your head off," mr. sweet whispered, brandishing his fists in the most threatening manner, and the old man cried, excitedly: "mr. officer, i call upon you to bear witness that this man is threatening my life, and insist that you protect me from insult." "i've nothing to do with you," the constable replied, with a laugh. "the warrant has been served, an' all you've got to do is hold your horses till the case is called up in court." "wait till i get home once more, an' then we'll see that he's got a good deal to do with the case," tim cried. "i'll spend every minute from then for a week tellin' the folks that he only did this to make teddy give up half of what he made, an' it'll be a pretty poor kind of a chump who'll do any more tradin' at his store." uncle nathan stepped toward the boy who had spoken so boldly as if he would inflict the direst punishment then and there; but he probably realized that this would prejudice his case, and contented himself by saying: "we'll see whether the people at the run will believe a couple of boys who have been in league with burglars, for you mustn't forget, tim jones, that i have proof you helped teddy to carry away the burglar's money." "if it'll do you any good i'll own up to the fact now," the boy replied. "it can't be so bad to do that as it is to arrest your own nephew because he won't give you half his money." "don't say anything more," teddy whispered to his friend. "it's only makin' matters worse, an' he's got the upper hand of us all jest now." "i don't know whether he has or not," the valiant tim replied; "but at the same time it'll do him a world of good to let him hear the truth." at this point uncle nathan appeared to understand that he was not coming out victor in this battle of tongues, and he wisely held his peace, saying not another word until the little party arrived at the home of deacon jones. the manager of the fair was resting after a particularly hard day's work. more than one of the citizens of peach bottom had openly said he was responsible for the riot by allowing liquor to be sold on the grounds, and his greeting of the visitors was not calculated to assure the frightened teddy. "well, what do you want?" he cried, roughly, as they entered his library. "if it's anything concerning the fair i won't open my mouth. a man can't be driven to death with work and then disturbed at all hours of the night, simply to give the fools in this town a chance to make trouble." "all i know about it is that i arrested this boy, and he insisted on being brought to you, saying it was lawyer harvey's advice," the constable began, and the angry deacon immediately began to appear interested. "is this your nephew, nathan?" he asked of the old man, who now had a smirk of confidence on his face. "i'm sorry he is, deacon, an' after i set him up in business he goes ag'in me by givin' information to burglars, who rob me." "and you have had him arrested?" "i felt obliged to in the interest of society." "that's a lie," mr. sweet interrupted, angrily. "he tried to make the boy pay him half he earned on the fair grounds, and has done this thing only because teddy refused." "we won't go into the details of the case, because i am not a magistrate," the deacon replied, with a majestic wave of the hand. "mr. officer, tell the 'squire that i am prepared to go bail to any amount, and ask if the business can't be conducted here, for i'm too tired to go out of doors unless it is absolutely necessary." "what?" the old man screamed. "will you answer for that little villain's appearance at court?" "that's what i said, nathan. this affair is none of my business other than i have stated; but i must say you are goin' a leetle too far, not only in my opinion, but in that of others, an' it may prove a costly job for somebody before it's finished." the old man was literally speechless. he could not understand why the deacon should have turned against him so suddenly, and the last words made him decidedly uneasy. he was not to be silenced without a struggle, however. after the first surprise had died away he said, with a comical assumption of dignity: "i will see whether i'm to be browbeaten in this manner. the 'squire does not dare to release the boy on bail, and i shall tell him so." with these words he left the house hurriedly, and the constable said to the deacon: "if you will write a line to the 'squire, saying that you're ready to go bail, i do not think there will be any necessity of troubling you again to-night." this suggestion was immediately acted upon, and the weary manager of the fair penned the following words: i am ready to enter security to any amount for the appearance at court of edward hargreaves, and if you should not consider my bond sufficient, i am empowered to say that john reaves, of waterville, will add his name, therefore there can be no good reason for committing him to jail, since we are both responsible for the prisoner until the bond can be executed. a. jones. having received this the constable departed with the prisoner and his friends, and once on the outside he said, confidently: "the matter is settled, no matter how much old nathan may rave. both mr. reaves an' the deacon have got the 'squire by the nose, and he must dance to their fiddlin'." that this assertion was correct teddy realized a few moments later when he was ushered into the 'squire's dining-room, and the latter, without paying the slightest attention to the prisoner, said to the officer: "i have just heard that you served the warrant i issued, and then took the boy to deacon jones' house. is that correct?" "straight as a string, 'squire. lawyer harvey told him if anything happened to go there, an' i thought he had a right to look up bail before being lugged off to jail. here's what the deacon's got to say about it." the 'squire took the paper which the officer held out, and after reading it, said benignly: "you were quite correct in doing what you did, mr. constable. this is quite sufficient guarantee that he will be produced when wanted, and you may let him go. give me the papers, and i will indorse them." after this formality had been gone through with the constable said to mr. sweet: "that settles the matter so far as teddy is concerned, and with such men as the deacon, mr. reaves, and lawyer harvey to back him, i don't believe old nathan will make any too much out of this job." "you are free to go where you please," the 'squire added, and the young fakir with his friends left the house, wondering very much at the amount of influence which, unsolicited, had been exerted in teddy's behalf. as for the boy himself, he was far from feeling comfortable in mind. unless the burglary could be brought home to long jim it did not seem possible that hazelton could be set free, and this last was absolutely necessary in order to establish his own innocence. it was a great consolation for him to be with such good friends, however, and each in turn tried to cheer him, but without success until mr. sweet said: "there's no question of your getting out of the scrape with flying colors, and to celebrate i'm goin' to give a regular dinner party to every decent fakir on the grounds. come over, boys, an' help me get ready. business has been so good to-day that i can afford to indulge in a little extravagance." chapter xxvi. _the fakirs' party._ the idea of a party in the museum tent, where there would be no guests save fakirs, struck teddy as being very comical, and he laughed heartily despite the fact that he was still virtually a prisoner in the meshes of the law; but at the same time he did not think mr. sweet was really in earnest when he made the proposition. it was not many moments, however, before he understood that the party was to be given in the most elaborate manner possible. on arriving at the tent mr. sweet sent the bouncer out with invitations to such of the fakirs as remained on the grounds all night, or lived in the immediate vicinity, and at the same time the clown started for the town in order to purchase refreshments. "now, you boys are to take right hold an' help the best you know how," the proprietor of the museum said as he pulled off his coat and vest preparatory to making ready for the feast. "if them as comes want to sit down it must be on the ground, owing to the lack of chairs, therefore it don't make much difference if the table is a trifle high." [illustration: "we have only one knife," said mr. sweet, to the amusement of the boys, "and it must serve for all hands."] to the surprise of the boys he proceeded to convert the wagon into a "festal board" by first pulling it into the center of the tent, and then removing the sides. over the floor of this newspapers were spread, and two plates, three forks, one knife, and four tin dippers were placed on the impromptu cloth. "the provisions will be cut ready for eating," mr. sweet explained, "so one knife must serve for all hands, and it won't hurt any of the crowd if they're obliged to take turns using the dippers." the clown returned before the guests began to assemble. he brought cold sausage, sliced ham, cold fried potatoes, sweet crackers, cake, pie, and a quantity of lemons and sugar. contrary to his expectations, mr. sweet did not think this assortment sufficient for the kind of a dinner he proposed to give, and the messenger was forced to return in search of cheese, pickled pig's feet, sardines, and milk for the coffee. matters were in a decided state of confusion when the first of the guests arrived. mr. sweet, not troubled by the absence of dishes, had placed the various articles on the wagon-table in the brown paper coverings as they had been received, and it was upon his skill as a maker of coffee that he based his reputation as a host. therefore everything was neglected for this one important thing, and the proprietor was standing over the oil stove with a look of grave responsibility on his face when the owner of the envelope game and his assistant arrived. "the boys will take care of you," he said, hurriedly, bending over the huge pot to inhale the odor, in order to know exactly how the berries were adapting themselves to the infusion, and, much to his surprise, teddy found himself the one especial feature of the party. all on the ground had evidently heard of his arrest, for each new arrival asked concerning the events of the evening, and, what was more to the purpose, so far as he was concerned, all seemed to think his troubles were only temporary. "you'll come out of it all right," the manager of the largest sandwich booth said, confidently, as he entered with his hat on one side of his head and a cigar held in his mouth at an angle of forty-five degrees. "i heard of your uncle last year, when he tried to make trouble for a friend of mine in the spittoon game, an' you can bet your bottom dollar that the people here are not going to take much stock in what he says." "it seems they did, so far as to issue a warrant for my arrest," teddy replied, with a mirthless smile. "but that won't amount to anything. i hear you have got john reaves as a friend, an' he comes pretty near runnin' things to suit himself in peach bottom. he helped my friend out of the scrape your uncle put him into, an' folks say there's no love lost between him an' nathan hargreaves." "i want to get out of my trouble simply on the ground that i am not guilty," teddy replied. "if i am charged with aiding burglars, there's precious little consolation in being set free simply because people do not like the man who made the charge." "nobody believes you guilty, and for the matter of that i'm certain hazelton had nothing to do with the job. his game ain't exactly square; but he don't go around breaking into stores." teddy was on the point of telling that long jim had been arrested because of the burglaries committed; but he remembered in time that this fact was as yet a secret, and remained silent. the man who leased the only "great african dodger" was the next to arrive, and he also seemed to think it necessary to condole with the young fakir in his troubles, as did the remainder of the guests, and by the time all were assembled teddy began to think his experience was only such as every other person in the tent had undergone at some time in his career. "you see this is the way the matter stands," the whip man said, confidentially, while mr. sweet was bending all his energies to mixing the lemonade. "people think fakirs are the worst class of men in the world, whereas, if the matter was sifted right down, they'd find the class as a whole was honest because they couldn't afford to be otherwise. i'm not talking now about those who run strong games, like hazelton; but ourselves who do a legitimate business. you've got canes an' knives to sell, while i deal in whips; now all we want is a fair show to dispose of our goods, an' we know everything must be done on the square, or there's bound to be trouble sooner or later, consequently we keep straight, an' take all the abuse which those who have come to swindle the folks deserve. why, what, i ask you, would the managers of these fairs do if they couldn't get us to come up with our money for privileges? they couldn't pay expenses, an' that's the whole amount of the story. they run after us, an' yet when we come there's the same old howl about swindlers." the man talked until he was literally forced to stop for lack of breath, and teddy had not so much as spoken; but proved a good listener, which was all his condoler appeared to expect of him. when the clown returned with the last installment of eatables there was nothing to prevent the assembled crowd from partaking of mr. sweet's hospitality. the coffee was done to a turn; the lemonade was neither too sour nor too sweet, and the proprietor of the museum summoned his guests to the feast by saying: "now turn to an' fill yourselves up. it ain't often i do this sort of thing; but somehow or other i've got a reg'lar admiration for our cane-board fakir, an' after comin' out as he has to-night it seems only right we should kinder spread ourselves. there's no liquor in the tent, which is as it should be, for i'm a temperance man, an' them as wants it can make hogs of themselves somewhere else. take hold hearty, an' remember that this layout is in honor of them as did a good turn to the whole gang by savin' the lives of the women what would likely have drowned if there hadn't been any fakirs in the country." this was an unusually long speech for the proprietor of the museum, and when it was ended he set an example to his guests by attacking the eatables as if he had not indulged in a square meal since the fair was opened. each person present imitated him, and tim whispered to teddy, when his mouth was so full of cake that it was only with the greatest difficulty his words could be understood: "this is what i call a great snap, an' when i've been fakin' at the fairs long enough to get some money ahead i'll give fellers like us a good chance to fill up, the same as mr. sweet has done." dan was equally enthusiastic. in all his experience, which extended over two years at the very least, he declared that he had never seen so much done for a boy, and concluded by saying: "there's no question, teddy, but that you're a big gun here, an' i'll advise you to keep right on in this business." "i've had enough of it," was the reply. "such times as these are very nice; but think of what may happen when i'm brought up for trial. who knows but uncle nathan can succeed in makin' folks think i'm guilty of helpin' the burglars, an' then what'll be the consequences?" "i know he can't do anything of the kind, an' that's enough," was the confident reply; but yet it failed to satisfy the boy who had been bound over to appear at court. the entire party appeared to be having the jolliest kind of a jolly time; but ever before teddy's mental vision came the picture of himself in prison, and even the fact that long jim had been arrested failed to render him confident as to the final result. again and again was he called upon to reply as one after another wished him good luck in the case, and the amount of lemonade which was consumed on each occasion caused the clown to make a third visit to the town in order to purchase the wherewithal to satisfy the demands of the guests. it was nearly midnight when the last of the revelers departed and the boys were called upon to help set the interior of the tent to rights. "it hasn't been sich a bad time after all," mr. sweet said, musingly, as teddy and dan aided him in wheeling the wagon into place. "a man can remember an evening like this with pleasure, when liquor has been kept out of the bill of fare, an' who shall say that we're not better off than if our legs were so tangled as to make walking an impossibility?" the barker's red nose was slightly elevated, much as if its owner could explain why spirits were superior to lemon-juice and water; but mr. sweet's question remained unanswered, and the party set about making the final preparations for the night. "poor sam ain't here to be troubled by the goat, so we can set him loose," the proprietor of the museum said as he unfastened the rope from the neck of his pet. "he'll have a great time pickin' up odds an' ends between now an' daylight, an' then feel so lazy that it'll be hard work to make him do his tricks." "do you suppose uncle nathan will be around in the morning?" teddy asked as he lay down by the side of dan and tim. "not a bit of it; he got sich a dose to-night that i don't count on seem' him ag'in till this fair is ended, an' then i'm going to take a trip over to the run for the express purpose of givin' him a piece of my mind." "but suppose he should come, what shall i say?" "pay no attention to the old fool, an' above all, don't let him trap you into talking. mr. harvey will be here to-morrow, an' he can post you better than ever i could." "don't fuss about the thing at all," dan replied, philosophically. "there's plenty here who know you hadn't anything to do with the burglaries, an' he won't have as much as a friend by the time the trial is ended." "dan comes pretty nigh being right," mr. sweet added, "an' now i want all hands to go to sleep, for there's one more day of this fair, an' we need to be somewhere near fresh, because to-morrow the dollars won't tumble without a good deal of coaxing. good-night." chapter xxvii. _in hiding._ that the incidents may be related as nearly as possible in the order of their occurrence it is time to return to the spot where the burglars are in hiding. it will be remembered that we last saw sam after phil had fallen asleep, and he was feigning unconsciousness lest long jim, having nothing else to do, should take it into his ugly head to administer the promised flogging. although sam's eyes were apparently closed, he took good care to keep strict watch on the burglar; but for what seemed a very long time he saw nothing to cause any apprehensions, and was just on the point of going to sleep in reality when jim asked, as he gave the boy a vicious kick on the side: "where's the grub?" "i don't know. you put it away after finishing your dinner." "oh, i remember now," and the burglar, still considerably more than half stupefied by the amount of liquor he had drunk, arose to his feet so unsteadily that it seemed as if only the lightest touch would be necessary to send him headlong. after a short search the man found that which he wanted, and proceeded to make a hearty meal, regardless of the hungry glances which the boy bestowed upon him. "don't think i'm goin' to give you any," he said, with a leer, as he concluded the repast, "you're lucky to be alive, an' that's enough for sich a duffer. i'll put this stuff back, an' you'll have every bone in your body broken if you so much as smell of it." sam made no reply. he had already learned that there are very many times when silence is indeed "golden." "i've made up my mind to see what can be done at the fair," jim said, as he lighted his pipe with great deliberation. "phil thinks he's the only smart man in the world, an' it's time to show him what a mistake he's been makin' all his life. why don't you say something?" he cried, angrily, as sam continued silent. "i don't know what you want me to say. if you're goin' that settles it; i sha'n't be any better off." "you can stake your life on that, for while i'm a gentleman an' behave myself as such, phil is a reg'lar brute, an' will make things mighty uncomfortable for a sneak like you." sam thought, but was very careful not to say, that it was hardly possible for a boy to have a worse master than the alleged gentleman in front of him, and the burglar continued, as he arose to his feet: "i want to leave without wakin' phil, but you must do it as soon as i push off from the shore, for we don't intend to give you a chance of slipping away. i shall watch mighty close, an' if he isn't on his feet before i'm a dozen yards out into the creek you'll get a reminder from this," and the man ostentatiously displayed a revolver. "i don't count on runnin' off," sam, replied, thoroughly frightened by the threat. "i can stay here till you get ready to let me go, because i've got to, an' i'm not sich a fool as to git into any worse scrape." "now you're talkin' somethin' like sense, an' if you keep on in this way i'll see to it that you don't have any harder time than a detective oughter expect; phil will be on his ear when he knows i've gone, an' you must tell me all he says. remember that if he isn't on his feet before i've got beyond range, i'll use your head for a target." with this threat the burglar staggered out of the thicket, and sam began to speculate as to whether he should make one supreme effort to escape before his other captor awakened. a second glance at the weapon decided him in the negative, however, and he meekly stepped to the edge of the woods in order to obey the instructions given. despite jim's apparent intoxication he watched the boy closely, still holding the revolver ready for use, and after pushing the boat into the stream he cried: "now go ahead, an' let me see him in about two minutes, or i'll fill you full of bullets." if sam had been a brave boy he would have made a dash for liberty at this moment; but he was in nearly every sense of the word a coward, and obeyed the order literally. "who's there?" phil asked, angrily, as the boy shook him vigorously. "jim told me to make you get up, or he'd shoot," sam replied, meekly. "make me get up? what time is it?" "i don't know; but it doesn't seem to be more than three o'clock." "where's jim?" "jest startin' for the fair grounds, an' if you don't show yourself pretty soon he's sure to shoot me." "there wouldn't be any particular harm in that, for you deserve it; but it can't be possible the fool is goin' to show himself in daylight when more than one is lookin' for him." "that's what he said," and sam, fearing lest the half-drunken burglar would begin his pistol practice, seated himself behind the largest tree that might protect him from the bullets. now that phil was awake, he did not lose any further time in talking, but ran out to where he could command a view of the creek, and once more sam had an opportunity for escape which he did not dare to embrace. "come back here, an' don't make a fool of yourself," jim's partner cried, angrily, as he saw the man pulling leisurely from the bank. "what's crawlin' on you? don't i know my business?" "not if you count on goin' up there before dark." "that's jest what i intend to do, so don't screech so much." "come back, i tell you, or it'll be all up for both of us!" "i've been in this business long enough to know it," was the reply, as jim continued to row, increasing each instant the distance between himself and the shore. "now, don't spoil a good thing," phil said, pleadingly, and, understanding that this conversation might be continued for a short time, sam plucked up sufficient courage to make an attack upon the provisions. he took from the general store a large piece of cheese, some crackers and as much meat as he believed would suffice to make a hearty meal, after which he hid the lot near the tree behind which he was hiding. then he crept back to his former position, and listened to the conversation between his captors. phil alternately coaxed and threatened his partner; but all to no purpose, as could be told by the tones of the latter's voice while he pulled up stream, and the baffled burglar returned to the camping place absolutely furious with rage. "this comes of my bein' so foolish as to bring that fool liquor," he said half to himself. "it's mighty lucky he didn't know i had more than one bottle." then he took from one of his pockets a second flask, refreshing himself with a portion of the contents before asking: "what did he say to you?" "nothin' except that he was goin' up to the fair," sam replied, timidly. "but what made him tell you to waken me?" "i s'pose that was so i couldn't have a chance to run away." "what else did he say?" "that i was to tell him jest how you took his leavin'." "well, if he's lucky enough to get back, tell him i said he was the biggest fool that ever walked on two legs. them chums of your'n are sure to spot him, an' it's ten to one he's pinched before sunset." sam did not understand what the man meant by the term "pinched," but under the circumstances he hardly thought it safe to inquire, and the angry burglar continued: "we'll make ready to get out of this if he isn't back by daylight, an' while there's nothin' else to do you'd better put that stuff under ground, for there's no knowin' now when we'll be able to take it away." the spade was near at hand ready for use, and while phil alternately smoked and drank from the bottle, sam set about burying the plunder. this man was quite as hard a taskmaster as the one who had just departed, and the boy was forced to work as he had probably never done before, until sufficient of an excavation had been made to conceal the goods. under the direction of the burglar sam covered the different packages with earth; did his best to hide all traces of his work, and when it was so dark that he could no longer see to move about was allowed to rest. during this time phil had been drinking and smoking, with the result that he could hardly speak plainly when the task was accomplished, and so intoxicated did he appear to be that sam thought it safe to eat the food he had concealed. "keep on talkin' so's i'll know where you are, or on goes the ropes an' gag again," phil cried, and the boy obeyed, repeating over and over the same words in order to satisfy his suspicious captor. after eating a hearty meal, sam succeeded in mustering sufficient courage to admit of his thinking about attempting to escape. from the manner in which the burglar spoke he knew it could not be very much longer before the man would be so completely under the influence of liquor as to render him helpless, and he said to himself: "if i could get the rope around his hands an' legs i'd soon be out of this place." "what's that you are saying?" phil cried, angrily. "nothin'; i was only doin' as you told me, talkin' so's you'd know where i was." "i'll save all that trouble," and the man lurched to his feet as he picked up the rope. "please don't tie me ag'in," sam pleaded. "i won't try to git away." "i'll go bail that you don't after i'm through with you. put out your hands." phil was yet capable of mischief, even though his brain was clouded, and sam did not dare to disobey. he suffered himself to be tied without making any remonstrance, and as the burglar staggered to his former resting place, the boy tested the bonds. previously he had been lashed in such a manner that it was impossible to move hand or foot, but now he soon realized that he could do both, and the happy thought came that he might free himself with but little difficulty if a favorable opportunity for escape should present itself. "now you're fixed," phil said, half to himself, "an' i may as well take things comfortable till we're certain that that fool of a jim is settled." "are you goin' to leave here to-night?" sam asked, more for the purpose of learning how far the man was on the road to intoxication than for information. "if he ain't here by twelve o'clock we'll know the jig is up, an' skip so's to be out of the way before any one can come sneakin' around for the stuff." "then if jim isn't back by that time, an' he keeps on drinkin', i'll take all the chances," sam said to himself, and from that instant he strained every nerve to learn how nearly the burglar had succeeded in making a worse brute of himself than nature intended. chapter xxviii. _a failure._ tired though teddy was, a long time elapsed after the conclusion of the fakirs' feast before he could close his eyes in slumber. now that the excitement of the party had died away, the fact that he was a prisoner, suffered to remain outside the prison only because men of wealth were willing to guarantee he would respond to the call of the court, came into his mind even more vividly than at the time of the arrest, and despite all the words of cheer which had been spoken he really began to believe uncle nathan could show plausible proof of his guilt. under almost any other circumstances he would have speculated upon what should be done with the large amount of money he had already earned, and rejoiced at the thought that he could supply his mother with what she might need for the present, at all events. the profits of the cane and knife boards were hardly thought of on this night while the one painful fact stood before him so prominently and menacingly. his companions had been asleep many hours before slumber visited his eyelids, and so heavy was his heart even while in dreamland that he awoke with the first dawn of day, and aroused the others to the last day's work they would be called upon to do at the peach bottom fair during the present season. "why is it that you have turned out so early?" mr. sweet asked, in a sleepy tone, rising to his feet as the only effectual method of driving the drowsiness from his eyelids. "i sha'n't feel much like sleeping till i know how the case is coming out," teddy replied, sadly. "there is no need to worry with such friends as you have got. put it right out of your mind until business closes to-night, for there's a big pile of work to be done if you expect to make much money." "i wish i could," teddy said, with a long-drawn sigh as he aroused tim and dan. half an hour later the three boys were eating what it was believed would be their last meal in the very unsatisfactory boarding-house, and teddy's place of business was the first opened on that morning. there were no more early visitors; but the fakirs who had been present at the feast on the evening previous gathered around, all appearing very eager to spend money, and trade was as lively as it had been on any other morning. the crowd bought rings and threw them recklessly until each man had spent considerably more than a dollar, when teddy suddenly realized that this sudden passion for canes only arose from a desire to aid him. then he said, decidedly: "there's no need of you fellows doin' this. i know you want to see me out of the scrape; but i've made a lot of money already, an' don't want to take yours." "you can't have too much, my boy," one of them said with a laugh, "and we want to see you go away with a pile. trade has been boomin' for all hands, an' it would be kinder rough if we couldn't have a little fun now the fair is the same as over." this did not satisfy teddy, and he continued to expostulate against the generosity; but all to no purpose. the fakirs played until a sufficient number of visitors had arrived to warrant their opening the other booths, and then tim and teddy were left alone, dan having started for the exhibition building some time previous. until ten o'clock there was no more than work enough to keep one boy moderately busy, and teddy experienced a deep sense of relief as mr. harvey came up to the stand with a cheery "good morning." "i hear that your uncle nathan succeeded in carrying out his threat," the visitor said, as if speaking about what was a very trifling matter. "yes, sir; an' do you think he can send me to prison?" "not a bit of it. you are under bail, and i venture to predict that he will not carry it to court, for he has sufficient sense to know it may prove a very expensive job. we sent our men to the barn on the marshes last night." "what did you find?" teddy asked, eagerly. "more than i expected. there were no goods in the building, but some have evidently been buried there, and this fact, together with the evidence that boats have been drawn up on the shore recently, proves your story as to what was seen when you boys followed the two men to be correct." "the other fellow has run away, i suppose." "i think he is yet in the immediate vicinity, otherwise jim would be willing to talk." "have you seen him since he was arrested?" "i have just come from the jail. i told him of the evidence we already had to connect him with the burglary, and that we should push him hard in the interest of you and hazelton. he understands that there is an opportunity to turn state's witness, but he absolutely refuses to speak on any subject. therefore i fancy his partner has not yet got away." "then there has been no good done in arresting him," teddy said, mournfully. "that is where you are making a mistake. i have prepared an affidavit for you and dan to swear to, and shall endeavor to have a warrant issued at once charging him with burglary, so he can't give us the slip in case he gets clear in the matter of swindling." "do you want dan an' i now?" "yes; go after him. i will only keep you ten or fifteen minutes." teddy turned to go toward the exhibition buildings, but halted an instant to ask: "have you seen my uncle this morning?" "no, but i shall do so later in the day, and after we have a little conversation i do not think he will be so eager to see you in prison." the lawyer's confident manner had very much to do with taking the load of sorrow from teddy's mind, and he looked almost cheerful as he asked of the manager of the stevens exhibit that dan be allowed to accompany him, explaining the reason for making the request. "of course he can go," the gentleman replied, readily. "trade won't be so good to-day but that he can be spared as well as not, and even if it was rushing, he should have permission to leave." when the boys were at the cane-board once more mr. harvey hurried them away to the magistrate's office, and there a long document was read, which described in detail all they had seen on the day when sam first gave an exhibition of his skill as a detective. they marveled not a little that the lawyer should have remembered so well every trifling incident. nothing, however apparently unimportant, had escaped him, and, as dan said: "it is written down better than if he had really been with us." this document was sworn to and signed by both, after which mr. harvey told them that they might return to work, adding as he turned to teddy: "the man who has been arrested on your complaint will have a hearing to-morrow, and it is absolutely necessary you should be at this office as early as nine o'clock. i don't know whether dan will be allowed to tell what he has heard sam say regarding the matter, but he had better come with you." "i'll be on hand," the young fakir replied. "do you know when i'm to be tried?" "that case won't come up for some time in view of the evidence your lawyer is collecting," the 'squire said. "don't worry about it, for i think the real burglars will soon be caught." "an' does mr. hazelton have to stay in jail all the time?" "there is no other way out of it, since he hasn't got friends who can go bail for him." teddy wanted very much to ask permission to see the prisoner, but inasmuch as he was accused of being equally guilty with the fakir it hardly seemed just the proper thing to make the request, and he left the office, followed by dan, who said, as they gained the open air: "you ain't goin' to have half so much trouble as you think, teddy. anybody can see that even the 'squire is on your side, although he did issue the warrant, an' the proof must be mighty strong to make any of 'em believe you did anything against the old miser. but this keeps us here on the grounds another day, doesn't it?" "yes, an' if mr. sweet packs up his tent to-night, we'll have to hunt for a place to sleep in the village." "that don't worry me very much. i've made a good week's work out of the fair, an' can afford to spend a little money." "i shall pay all the bills, of course," teddy replied, quickly. "it wouldn't be any more'n right because you are goin' to stay to help me." dan was quite positive he would pay his own bills, and his companion equally certain he should not; but there was little chance for discussion, since they had arrived opposite the grand stand by this time, and were hailed by deacon jones, who looked as if he considered himself the one important personage on the grounds as he said: "i want both of you boys to be here at exactly two o'clock. don't fail to come, no matter how much business you may have on hand." "what's the matter?" teddy asked, immediately thinking some new trouble threatened him. "there will be plenty of time for explanation after you get here," was the mysterious reply, and then the deacon signified that the interview was at an end by turning to speak with some gentlemen who had been watching the boys closely. "what do you suppose is up now?" teddy asked with a sigh, and dan replied, mournfully: "i'm sure i don't know," but in his own mind he was convinced that the deacon intended to surrender the boy whose surety he had appeared willing to become on the evening previous. teddy was so disturbed by dismal forebodings that dan was very careful to hide his suspicions, since it could do only harm to discuss them, and the two parted, feeling as if uncle nathan had outwitted mr. harvey. on retuning to his place of business teddy did not have the heart to wait upon the customers, and after telling tim what had been said to him, he added: "i can't work; it's no use to try. there must have been something new come up, an' i won't be able to show that i'm innocent of robbing the store." dan could give him no consolation, for he also felt that matters were approaching a dangerous crisis, and he simply said: "loaf around, old fellow, an' i'll look out for the work here. try to put it out of your mind, for things won't be made better by worryin' over 'em." just at this moment teddy's mother arrived. she had heard all the particulars concerning the arrest and subsequent release, therefore began at once to sympathize with her son. "then you know what the deacon is goin' to do?" teddy asked. this was something of which mrs. hargreaves was ignorant, but upon being told, appeared even more distressed than her son, thus increasing instead of lightening his troubles. chapter xxix. _the testimonial._ it was impossible for teddy to follow tim's advice to "loaf around." his heart was so full of sorrow that his greatest desire was to go where those who might believe he had been a partner of the burglars could not see him; but since that was impossible, if he intended to obey the deacon's injunctions and present himself at the grand stand at the specified time, the next best thing was to remain behind the booth where his mother tried her best to cheer him. "it can't be possible that anything to your disadvantage has occurred, teddy," she said as she held his hand for mutual sympathy. "mr. reaves would have sent me word at once if that had happened." "perhaps he doesn't know about it. uncle nathan may have been talking with the deacon again, an' turned him against me." "i don't believe it would be possible for him to do such a thing. his reputation is not so good that people could put faith in all he says, more especially in regard to this case." "then if he didn't do it some one else has, an' that makes it all the worse," teddy replied, as he tried to force back the tears. at this moment the sorrowing ones were startled by hearing the voice of the man whom they had every reason to call their enemy, and an instant later uncle nathan stood before them. "well," he said in what sounded more like a snarl than anything else, "you see the old skinflint did jest what he promised, an' he'll see to it that the deacon don't stay on your bail very long unless i get my rights." "what do you mean by your rights?" mrs. hargreaves asked. "i lent this ungrateful boy the money to start him in a business where he's made more in a week than i ever could in a year. then he helped people to rob me, an' after all that i made what any man must call a fair offer. see how much i've lost by him, an' then think of my offerin' to straighten everything out by goin' in as his partner." "why didn't you do this before the fair opened?" "i couldn't tell how it would turn out," the old man began, and then realizing that he was admitting something to his discredit, he added, quickly, "i mean i hadn't lost my money then, an' never suspected how he would wrong me." it seemed as if these last words drove teddy to desperation, and he no longer-remembered the respect due to age. "look here," he cried, angrily, rising, and standing directly in front of uncle nathan, "if you believe i'm a burglar, you can't want to be my partner. it was only after the fact of my having made considerable money was known that you offered any trade. if the venture had been a losing one you are the last person who would have taken hold of it. now i'm under arrest on a charge made by you, who know i am innocent, an' we'll put an end to all this talk. don't come where my mother and i am; do the very worst you can, an' some day i'll have my innings." "you threaten, eh?" "that's exactly what i'm doing. i have leased this piece of ground until to-morrow, and warn you that it'll be mighty uncomfortable if you show your nose here again. go now an' go quick!" "that's right, teddy," tim shouted in a tone of delight from the opposite side of the booth. "give it to him hot, an' i'll do my share. if you don't want to tackle the job till after the trial, say the word an' i'll sail in, for it gives me a pain to see him around." teddy made no reply to this generous offer; but uncle nathan stepped back very quickly as if fearing an immediate attack. "you won't be so bold to-morrow," he snarled, shaking his fist in impotent rage, and then he disappeared from view amid the crowd that had begun to gather. both teddy and his clerk thought it very singular that business should be so good on this day, when the majority of the other fakirs were comparatively idle, and also in view of what had been said against the proprietor of the cane-board. yet the people gathered around by scores, all intent on patronizing the boys, and at the same time embracing every opportunity to display their good will. teddy and his mother remained partially screened from the gaze of the curious until nearly two o'clock, when dan, looking decidedly troubled, arrived. "i suppose we've got to go to the grand stand an' find out what the deacon wants," he said, mournfully. "my boss told me that we must be there on time, an' we might as well start." "i want to have it over as soon as possible," teddy replied. "nothin' that comes can be any worse than waitin' here thinkin' of what may happen." the two boys walked either side of mrs. hargreaves as they went to meet the deacon, and it seemed very much as if the majority of the people present knew what was about to occur, for the sad-visaged party was followed by crowds of the visitors as they walked steadily onward. it was exactly two o'clock when they arrived at the stairway leading to the grand stand, and there they were met by the leader of the band from the run, who said with a mysterious manner as he opened a gate leading to the track in front of the judges' stand: "you are to come this way." "where's the deacon?" teddy asked. "waiting for you." without further explanation the musician led the three to a spot where all could see them, and to the intense surprise of the sorrowful-looking party, the throng assembled on the benches greeted them with the most hearty applause. "you are to come with me, mrs. hargreaves," the conductor said, as he escorted her to one of the front seats, and teddy and dan stood as if stupefied, gazing in dismay at the sea of faces in front of them. before the boys had sufficiently recovered from their bewilderment to be able to speculate upon what was to happen deacon jones came down the steps until he reached a place where all could see him and there began a speech which caused at least two of that assemblage to gaze at him in open-mouthed astonishment. the manager of the fair did not intend to neglect any opportunity of making himself conspicuous, and he delivered an eloquent address, looking first at the boys and then at the audience, which cannot be given here because of lack of space. he first explained to the spectators that teddy had taken upon himself the business of fakir simply that he might aid his widowed mother. then he detailed the loss of the fifteen dollars, and finally broached the one important matter, that of the scene on the creek, when the three women were rescued from drowning. by this time the cheeks of teddy and dan were flaming red, and if he had been charging them with the most atrocious crimes they could not have looked more guilty or uncomfortable. "as you all know," he said, in conclusion, "we have met here to see bravery and a spirit of self-sacrifice rewarded. on behalf of the ladies whose lives were saved by these little heroes i am about to present edward hargreaves and daniel summers with one hundred dollars each. in addition to that amount the managers of the fair and several gentlemen who do not care to have their names made public, have made up a purse of one hundred and eighty dollars to be divided equally between them. it is most gratifying to me that i have been selected as the instrument through whom this testimonial is presented, and in behalf of my brother officers as well as myself i will state that these brave boys have the freedom of the grounds whenever the peach bottom fair is open." as he concluded, the deacon walked with a majestic bearing down to the bewildered boys, presented each with a well-filled pocketbook and then waved his hand as a signal for the band, every member of which did his best to make the music heard above the rounds of applause intended for the blushing fakirs. in the meantime the people came down from the benches to congratulate the life-savers, and for fully an hour the two were forced to remain there listening to words of praise which they felt were not warranted by their exploit on the creek. among the most welcome of these enthusiastic visitors was jacob sweet, and he said, heartily: "i heard of this little performance jest in time to get here before that long-winded speech was begun; but what pleases me the most is that i was ahead of the whole gang, an' started our little blow-out when it wasn't known you had so many friends. i'll see you to-night, of course, an' i must go now, for the bouncer has been around tellin' that you've been sleepin' in my tent, an' i count on a good payin' crowd this afternoon." it was considerably past three o'clock when the boys and mrs. hargreaves returned to the cane-board, looking very much different than when they left it, and tim cried as they came up: "i've heard all about it, an' what i want to know is, where was old nathan while that speechifyin' was goin' on?" "i saw him when we first arrived," mrs. hargreaves replied, "but he left a few moments later, although i have no doubt that he remained where he could hear all that was said without being seen." "that's where he was wise. it wouldn't be very pleasant for him to show himself now, 'cause everybody is down on him after what the deacon said." dan was obliged to return to his duties, and he whispered to teddy before leaving: "i tell you what it is, old feller, this has been a reg'lar puddin' for us, an' i'd give a good deal to see another jest like it." "you're all right, but i expect after this uncle nathan will be so mad he'll make me a pile of trouble." "don't worry about that; his claws are cut now. i'll be back in time to go to supper." when he departed teddy had an opportunity to say a few words to his mother before she returned home on the stage, which was advertised to leave at four o'clock, and while he did this all thought of being under arrest was put far from his mind because of the joy at what he was now able to perform. "never mind what happens to me," he whispered. "i've now got nearly money enough to pay off all we owe, an' it has been earned honestly, too, although i believe they paid a big price for what dan an' i did on the creek." "i'm thinking more of the praise you earned than the money, teddy. it was very sweet to hear the deacon say so much to you before all those people." "then both of us will be awfully jolly to-night, an' to-morrow i'll be home, an' bring dan with me." "invite him to stay just as long as he wishes, and i will have a nice supper ready when the last stage arrives." teddy gave his mother nearly all the money he had, including the "testimonial," and as she walked away he said to tim: "i'm willin' to be arrested, an' put into jail a good many days for the sake of being able to help her as i can do now." chapter xxx. _the trial._ it was only natural that both teddy and dan should feel highly elated after this public expression of admiration which culminated in the presentation of the purse, but they immediately returned to attend to their several duties when the ceremonies were finished. dan went back to the exhibition as if he had done nothing worth remembering, and in less than half an hour from the time the deacon concluded his flowery speech it would have required a very ardent student of humanity to discover that anything out of the natural course of events had taken place. at the cane-board teddy waited upon his customers as before, and without the slightest sign of having been honored by the magnates of the fair, while dan fired at the target as if he had been a boy with no other claim upon the public's attention than his ability to hit a mark. yet it must be confessed that both experienced a very pleasing sense of having satisfied the public, and each, in his own peculiar way, knew he had risen a little above the average boy. there can be no question that any one placed in the same position must have felt gratified by the many expressions of friendship and good-will with which these two were literally overwhelmed, and it would have been more than could be expected of human nature had they remained unmoved under the extravagant flattery which was showered upon them immediately after the close of deacon jones' speech. although there was not quite as much money flowing into the box as on the day previous, teddy was more than pleased with the receipts, because every penny seemed to express just such an amount of good-will. until nearly nightfall he remained at the booth, answering questions upon the same subject till it seemed to have been worn threadbare, and then, however great his desire to earn money, he felt a positive sense of relief that his connection with the peach bottom fair had finally come to an end. "this is the last time you an' i will pack up the stuff," he said to tim as they put into condition for removal the cane and knife boards. "i promised to give you all that was left, and you're more than welcome to it." "but you surely don't mean to give me the whole lot," tim cried in surprise. "that's exactly what i'm going to do, and i sincerely hope when you make a stand you'll meet with the same good friends i have here." "i can't take these things unless you'll allow me to pay something toward what they cost." "look here, tim," teddy said, earnestly, "you have shown yourself to be a friend of mine, an' every cent that has come in here you've accounted for. now, whatever may happen, i'm through bein' a fakir; but if you want to follow the business, i can only hope you'll come out all right. we'll carry this to mr. sweet's tent, an' i'll only be so much the better pleased, and in case you don't, i'm bound to help you in every way. besides, i promised to pay a certain percentage on the profits; that is yet to be settled." "it never will be," tim replied in the most decided tone. "if i take these goods i've got more than a fair share, an' won't listen to anything else." "very well, we'll leave it that way. you now own everything, an' i owe you lots of good-will." on this basis the remnants of the two boards were packed up for removal, and when they were about to take the goods to mr. sweet's tent dan arrived. "how much business did you do to-day?" he asked. teddy delayed sufficiently long to count the receipts, and then replied: "forty-one dollars and fifteen cents. that gives tim four-eleven, an' i get more than would have been the case but for the testimonial this afternoon. the folks crowded around to see me, rather than to get the canes, an' so business has picked up better than any one expected." "it don't make any difference how the money came in so long as you have got it," dan replied, philosophically, "an' now the question is what are we to do for supper, since we paid our bill at the boarding-house this afternoon?" "have you got any idea?" "of course, or else i wouldn't have asked the question. let's invite mr. sweet, the bouncer, and the clown to some restaurant down town, an' try to give them as good a time as we had last night." this proposition met with teddy's approval, and the party was made up as he suggested, the cost being divided between the two boys who had been the recipients of the public testimonial. not until a late hour in the evening did these festivities come to an end, and then the party retired to the museum tent, where they remained undisturbed until the present season of the peach bottom fair had come to an end. it was an unusually late hour for fakirs to arise when mr. sweet awakened the boys as he said: "turn out now, lads, an' get your stuff ready for removal. i'm sorry to part company, but we can't stay here forever, an' the museum must be forty miles the other side of waterville by monday morning." dan had completed and been paid for his work with the stevens company, therefore he had nothing to do; teddy no longer claimed any interest in the canes and knives left over from the week's work; consequently he was free to go where he pleased, and tim had his goods in such a condition that they could be removed at any moment, which prevented him from feeling any anxiety regarding the future. thus it was that all three of the boys were at liberty to assist the proprietor of the museum, and this they did with a will until the arrival of lawyer harvey caused them to think of what had almost been forgotten in the bustle and confusion of breaking camp. "we are due at the 'squire's office at nine o'clock, and it is time you boys were getting over that way," he said, briskly; "our case won't come up to-day, but it has been decided to give hazelton a hearing, and i am very much afraid he's going to get the worst of it." "what do you mean?" teddy asked, anxiously. "well, you see i have not been able to get any information in addition to what you boys furnished, and there seems little doubt that the 'squire must perforce bind him over for trial. the fact that he has deliberately swindled so many people will work against him, and we can do very little to save him." "what will be the result of his being bound over?" teddy asked. "he must remain in jail, unless he can get bail, until next fall." "but that in itself will be a terrible punishment." "true; yet it cannot be avoided. if he had worked honestly the case would be different; but now he will be fortunate even to get out in the fall." "yet uncle nathan says i am equally guilty." "we can easily show you had nothing to do with the robbery, and that is our only care this morning." "what about long jim?" "he remains silent, refusing to answer the simplest questions, and unless he speaks hazelton must be bound over; the 'squire can pursue no other course." believing as they did that hazelton was innocent of the charge upon which he had been arrested, both teddy and dan felt it was a great hardship for the fakir to remain so long in prison; but since it was beyond their power to give him any relief, neither expressed an opinion other than has been recorded. mr. harvey had come for them to accompany him to the squire's office, and since there was nothing to detain them they set out, after first bidding mr. sweet a cordial 'goodby, for he had announced his intention of leaving peach bottom on the noon train. "i shall see one or both of you at some time in the future," he said, with considerable feeling, "an' there'll be no complaint to make if i never fall in with worse boys." the bouncer and the clown also had something to say in the form of an adieu, and when the boys left the proprietor of the alleged wonderful museum it was like parting with an old friend, for he had shown himself to be a "very present help in time of trouble." tim did not propose to start for the run until his companions had concluded their business; his goods were packed ready for removal, and there was nothing better for him to do than accompany them to the court-room where it seemed as if all they might say would result only in a long term of imprisonment for hazelton before he could be tried on the baseless charge brought against him, simply because of the disreputable business in which he was engaged. mr. harvey had little or nothing to say during the walk to the 'squire's office, and arriving there the jewelry fakir was seen looking thoroughly despondent. "can i speak with him?" teddy asked the lawyer. "what do you want to say?" "nothing in particular, except to tell him how bad i feel because we could do nothing to clear him." "very well; but do not talk long, for it may prejudice your own case. the people whom he has swindled are here to see that some form of punishment is meted out to him, and it can do you no good to be seen acting as a consoler." this possibility troubled teddy very little since he was confident of his own innocence, and he approached the prisoner as he said: "i wish i could do something, mr. hazelton, to prove you as innocent as i believe you to be." "there's no need of that, my boy. i've put you in a hole already, and you've done more for me than some others who call themselves friends." "i know it was long jim who committed the burglary; but how can it be proven now?" "there was only one way, and that was to catch the real thieves with their plunder. mr. harvey tells me his attempt was a failure, an' it wouldn't surprise me if i was not only remanded for trial, but received a sentence for something of which i am absolutely innocent. i don't profess to be very good, my boy, as you may understand after seeing me work on the fair grounds; but i never yet descended to do such things as i am charged with now." "i am certain of that," and teddy pressed the prisoner's hand in token of friendship, "and only wish it was possible to aid you." "you have already done more than my partners did," was the grateful reply, and then further conversation was prevented as the 'squire called the assembly to order. it was not a regular court of law; but one would have thought it the most dignified judicial body in the country had he seen the air with which the 'squire took his seat at the head of the long table as he called the case. "that settles hazelton," dan whispered as teddy left the prisoner and rejoined his friends. "somebody has got to suffer in order to make the law come out square, an' he's the feller what'll have to stand the brunt of everything." chapter xxxi. _an arrival._ lawyer harvey did not neglect anything which might work to the advantage of his client; but in the face of the evidence his efforts appeared to be in vain. uncle nathan, who arrived just as the case was called, swore to the fact that hazelton had been in his store on the sunday afternoon prior to the robbery, and that he had told the prisoner of his keeping large amounts of money in the building, because of the difficulty and expense of sending the cash to the waterville bank. he also testified that hazelton seemed unusually interested in everything pertaining to the store, and asked many questions relative to his (the witness') habits, such as the time when business usually began, how late he remained in the building at night, as well as several other things which now seemed as if the information had been sought simply for the purpose of knowing when would be the safest time to commit the crime. "how much did you lose?" mr. harvey asked. "i don't know for certain; but i stand willin' to give fifty dollars if the goods can be recovered, an' if my nephew would tell all he knows----" "that will do, mr. hargreaves," the lawyer said, sharply. "teddy is not under examination, and until he is we do not care to hear your opinion concerning him." "i reckon i can tell what i want to, can't i, 'squire?" "you must confine yourself to this particular case. as to whether there is sufficient evidence to bind the prisoner over does not concern the charge against your nephew, at least not to the extent of your telling what you think." "i thought, perhaps, if he heard me say i'd give fifty dollars to know where the goods were, an' knew i'd swear to it, he might confess, for he has shown himself to be powerful fond of a dollar." "that appears to be a peculiarity of some of his relatives," mr. harvey said, dryly, and at this remark the spectators laughed heartily, while the old man growled: "i didn't come here to be told that i was a miser; but it seems even men who call themselves gentlemen think sich things are all right." "if you have no other evidence to give we will not detain you," the lawyer said, sharply; and as uncle nathan returned to his chair near the door the proprietor of the hotel at the run was called upon to testify. what he said was in favor of the prisoner rather than otherwise. he swore to the fact that the prisoner spent the night on which the burglary was committed at his house; that he pretended to retire at an early hour, and started for peach bottom on the first stage. under mr. harvey's skillful cross-examination the landlord admitted that unless a man got out of the window he could not have left the house without the knowledge of the watchman, who kept the keys and remained in the office all night. it was also shown that hazelton brought and carried away with him, so far as was known at the hotel, nothing but a small traveling satchel. then several people from the run were called to prove that the fakir was really in the town on this particular sunday, and the driver of the stage testified that the prisoner rode with him the entire distance to peach bottom. the landlord of the hotel where hazelton boarded during the fair week, or so much of it as he was at liberty, swore to the fact that the prisoner had never brought any quantity of baggage to his house, and appeared to be very regular in his habits. so far as he (the landlord) knew, the fakir remained in his room nearly all the time, except while on the exhibition grounds. this ended the testimony, and mr. harvey argued that there was really no evidence to connect the prisoner with the crime. "that he conducted a game which could hardly be called honest is admitted," he said; "but it has nothing to do with the case. prejudice should not be allowed to take the place of facts, and i insist that my client be released." "i reckon there's sufficient ground for suspicion," the 'squire replied, "an' i don't see any other way out of it. a jury must decide, an' i shall hold him in the sum of three thousand----" at this moment the dignity of the court received a severe shock, as a most unseemly disturbance suddenly occurred at the door, and the 'squire paused to learn who was so bold as to disturb the representative of the law at the very instant when he was delivering an opinion. "it's nobody but a boy," uncle nathan replied as he held the door firmly closed, while the would-be visitor kicked so vigorously as to threaten the destruction of the panels. "bring him in here, an' we'll see whether such a row can be kicked up in a court of law with impunity." "better let me throw him into the street," uncle nathan snarled. "mr. constable, bring that boy before me," the 'squire said, sternly, and an instant later, to the consternation of all those who had seen him, the boy who was supposed to have been drowned two days before entered, looking decidedly the worse for having existed so long without water and soap. "why, it's sam, an' he ain't dead!" teddy cried as he rose to his feet. "of course i ain't; but it wouldn't been many days before i turned into a corpse if i hadn't got away from them thieves," the amateur detective replied. "who are you, an' what do you want here?" the 'squire asked, sternly, as he rapped on the table for the spectators to remain silent. "why, i'm sam balderston, the feller who come to the fair to work for the davis boat an' oar company of detroit, an' if what long jim told me was true, folks have been tryin' to find me in the creek." "this is the boy who was reported to have been drowned on the day when those lads," here the lawyer pointed to teddy and dan, "claim to have seen two men carrying goods into an old barn on the marshes. i fancy he can give us information relative to the true burglars." "you bet i can," and now that he was the central figure in the scene, all sam's old assurance returned. "if you mean the fellers what broke into teddy's uncle's store, i can flash one of them up. the other come to the fair an' didn't get back, so phil thought he was arrested." "who do you mean by the other fellow?" mr. harvey asked. "why, long jim, the same man what swindled teddy out of his fifteen dollars at waterville." "have you been with him since your disappearance?" "most of the time he hung around, an' then ag'in phil was there." "who is phil?" "long jim's partner. they've got a slat of stuff what has been stole 'round here, an' i know where all of it is." "tell the 'squire the whole story." this was sam's opportunity, and, in order to cover himself with glory, he slaughtered the truth in the most shocking manner. "well," he said, in a consequential way, "when dan an' me an' teddy saw the thieves carryin' stuff down to that old barn i wanted to rush in an' arrest both; but the other fellows was scared an' come ashore to talk with hazelton so's he'd tell 'em what to do. then i jes' made up my mind to carry on the job myself, an' went back." "where?" the 'squire asked. "to the barn to get the stuff. while i was diggin' it up the men come back, an' the minute they saw who was on their trail they got frightened." "and who was on their trail?" the 'squire interrupted. "why, me, of course. they rushed in, an' i had the awfullest row; but it was two to one, an' so i got the worst of it. they had to work mighty hard before gettin' me tired, an' then all the stuff was dug up an' put in the boat. my craft was upset an' sent adrift, so's to make it look as if i was dead, an' we went down the creek six or seven miles, where we hid in the woods. phil came back here after more goods what had been stolen, an' they was goin' to skip the country, when there was a big row, an' long jim allowed he'd come to the fair once more. phil was mad, an' got pretty drunk, an' after that i had my innings. i turned to an' lashed him up same's i'd been; but we had an' awful fight. it takes more'n one man to git away with me." "where is this fellow now?" the 'squire interrupted again. "down the creek, tied up so's he can't hardly breathe, an' he must be pretty near sober by this time." "if he was very drunk i do not understand how he could have fought so hard." "well, he did; but i got the best of him, an' what's more, i know where all the stuff that's been stolen is hid." "mr. constable, bring into court the prisoner who is charged with swindling, and let us see if this extraordinary boy can identify him," the 'squire said, with an unusual amount of dignity. "if it's long jim, you bet i can," sam said, as he turned toward the spectators that they might have a good opportunity of seeing such a wonderful detective as he claimed to be. teddy and dan could hardly control their impatience to speak privately with sam. as a matter of course, they understood that he was embellishing the story, and both were eager to make him tell the exact truth. just at that moment, however, sam had no time to spend on ordinary boys. he had come out of a bad scrape with apparently flying colors, and intended to enjoy his triumph to the utmost before sinking back to his rightful plane. the jail was near at hand, and sam had not exhibited himself as much as he desired when long jim was brought in. on seeing the boy the burglar gave a start of surprise, and allowed the incriminating question to escape his lips: "has phil been pinched, too?" "i took care of that business, an' we'll bring him in some time to-day. say, what about that awful lickin' you was goin' to give me?" "i'll cut your throat before this job is finished," was the angry reply, and there was no longer any necessity of asking sam if he recognized the prisoner. "you say you can show us the stolen goods, and the other burglar is where the officers can get him?" mr. harvey asked. "that's just what i can do," sam replied, proudly. "then you will have earned fifty dollars, for mr. hargreaves has promised, even sworn, that he will pay that amount for the return of his property," mr. harvey continued. "he might as well give me the money now, for i'm ready to turn the stuff up, an' when there's more big detective work to be done, come to me." "i don't know about payin' any reward till i'm certain the little villain isn't one of the thieves himself, an' is doin' this to swindle me," uncle nathan cried, quickly. "he shall have the reward if the story is true," the 'squire replied. "you can't go back on what you've sworn to, an' must pay up. mr. constable, get two or three men an' go with this boy. don't lose sight of him for a minute until he has given all the information in his power." chapter xxxii. _in conclusion._ sam was led away before either teddy or dan could speak privately with him; but they went at once to congratulate hazelton on his apparently happy escape, and, in response to mr. harvey's request, the 'squire said: "the prisoner can remain here, or in your custody, until the party returns. if the boy has told the truth there is nothing for me to do but discharge him, and i am really glad that he has come out so fortunately." "don't think i'll ever forget what you've done for me," hazelton whispered to teddy. "but it isn't me at all. sam seems to have fixed everything." "i've got an idea that i know pretty near the truth of the whole story, never mind how he tells it. at all events, we've no reason to complain, for if the goods and the other burglar are found, we are out of our trouble. your uncle's charges can't hold after that." it was, as teddy now realized for the first time, a happy conclusion to the troubles of both, and his heart was lighter than it had been at any time since the accusation was made. there was no question that those who had gone with sam would be absent several hours, and the little party in the court-room had more time at their disposal than could well be occupied by the discussion of their affairs. after the different phases of the case had been gone over in detail, hazelton asked teddy: "how did you come out at the fair?" "i haven't figured up; but i know i've made a good deal, an' it must be almost enough, countin' the money deacon jones gave us, to pay the debt on the place." until this moment teddy had had so much on his mind that the principal cause of his turning fakir was absent from his mind; but now, with nothing better to do, he began to count up the week's work, announcing the result a few moments later by saying: "i took in two hundred an' fifty-two dollars an' fifty cents during the week. out of that must come the money i lost at waterville, what i paid uncle nathan, the privilege, the money i paid mr. reaves for the stock, tim's wages, an' my board. that leaves one hundred an' forty-five dollars an' ninety-eight cents. with what came in from the testimonial i'll have enough to pay off the debt on the house, an' pretty near eight dollars for myself, which is what i call a big week's work." "i'm glad you have made it," hazelton replied, heartily. "there is a little matter between you an' i which yet remains to be settled, and when that has been done you should be considerably better off." "i don't want you to do a thing," teddy said, quickly. "so many people have helped me since the fair opened that it seems as if i was nothing more or less than a beggar." "you come very far from deserving that title," the fakir replied, and then the entrance of mr. reaves interrupted the conversation. after talking with the lawyer, the merchant said to teddy: "i am more than pleased to learn that you will be freed from all your troubles in a short time. next week i shall be in need of a clerk, and if you wish to take the situation it shall be left open until you are ready to go to work. the wages are six dollars a week for the first year, with an increase as soon as you can earn it, and i will really be pleased to have you in my employ." "i'd like to come," teddy replied; "but it don't seem just right to leave mother." "there is no necessity of doing so. you can ride back and forth on the stage, unless your mother should decide, as i think she will eventually, to make her home in waterville." "if she approves of the plan i'll come to work next week." "make it two weeks, so that there'll be plenty of time to arrange matters, and i will expect you," the merchant replied in a tone which showed that he was more than satisfied with the arrangement. "i only came over to see if you needed any assistance; but mr. harvey says you'll soon be free from the charge your uncle made, therefore i will go back at once." about an hour after the merchant departed sam and the constables returned with phil and the stolen goods. the amateur detective was in the best possible spirits, and now that the burglar had been apprehended through his assistance the boy felt absolutely certain he was the greatest detective in the country. as a matter of course, there was nothing the 'squire could do save discharge hazelton from custody, and after mr. harvey had given his word that he would take care sam should appear when wanted as a witness, the boy rejoined his friends, saying as he did so: "if you fellers had done as i wanted you'd be way up now, the same as i am. of course, i don't blame you for being afraid; but when you go out on such work the only way is to hold on." "i wonder how long you'd have held on if the men hadn't made you stay with them?" dan asked. "who told you that?" sam said. "if i staid, it was because i knowed it wouldn't be long until i got the upper hand of the gang, an i've done it." before the party separated, and while uncle nathan was identifying the goods which had been stolen from him, mr. harvey insisted that the reward should be paid, and although it was very much like drawing a tooth, the old man was finally induced to make his word good. "it's a pile of money, but i earned it," sam said, as he tucked uncle nathan's grudgingly bestowed cash in his trousers pocket. "there ain't many 'round this part of the country who could have done what i did, an' it's only right detectives should be well paid." then, with many protestations of friendship, the lawyer started for home, after returning to hazelton the money which teddy had given mr. reaves for safekeeping, and the fakir said as he walked out of the court-room with the four boys: "now, i want you to come with me, until my business is settled, and then i'll shake the dust of peach bottom from my feet in the shortest possible time." not understanding what he meant, the boys accompanied him to the nearest jewelry store, and there he bought two silver watches, which he presented to teddy and dan, as he said: "these are only to remind you that i am grateful for what has been done. it isn't much of a present; but it will suffice to show i'm not ungrateful. some time in the future i may meet you again, and then the full debt shall be paid if i'm solid enough to do it." he was gone almost before the astonished boys could thank him, and with his departure this story should properly be concluded, since teddy has made his last appearance as a fakir. a few more words, and "the end" shall be written. sam, still believing himself especially designed for a detective, is yet displaying his "style" as an oarsman in the employ of the davis boat and oar company, and he believes he has guessed the weight of the yacht which is so soon to be given away. dan accepted an offer from mr. reaves last week, and he and teddy are learning the same business, both looking forward to the time when they shall own a store equally as large. uncle nathan is still at the run, but his trade has decreased very materially, and hazelton has not been seen since the day he left peach bottom; but it is quite possible that when the fair opens this season all the fakirs may again meet the country boy who made such a successful venture at the country fair. [the end.] [illustration: state st. kilby st.] charles e. brown & co.'s publications, boston. ridpath's united states. cloth . sheep . half morocco . size of volumes - / Ã� - / inches. [illustration: the united states a history john clark ridpath l.l.d.] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. charles e. brown & co.'s publications boston. hall's ireland, vols. in . cloth . sheep . half morocco . size of volumes / Ã� / inches. [illustration: ireland its history scenery and people] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. charles e. brown & co.'s publications, boston. miss parloa's cook book. cloth, silver and black side and back . size of volumes - / Ã� - / inches. [illustration: miss parloa's cook book] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. * * * * * transcriber's note: [----] denotes a word missing in the original text. [illustration: "i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." _p. ._] now or never or the adventures of bobby bright _a story for young folks_ oliver optic _new edition_ new york the mershon company publishers entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. copyright, , by william t. adams. now or never. to my nephew charles henry pope this book is affectionately dedicated preface the story contained in this volume is a record of youthful struggles, not only in the world without, but in the world within; and the success of the little hero is not merely a gathering up of wealth and honors, but a triumph over the temptations that beset the pilgrim on the plain of life. the attainment of worldly prosperity is not the truest victory; and the author has endeavored to make the interest of his story depend more on the hero's devotion to principles than on his success in business. bobby bright is a smart boy; perhaps the reader will think he is altogether too smart for one of his years. this is a progressive age, and anything which young america may do need not surprise any person. that little gentleman is older than his father, knows more than his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and drive a : horse. he orders "one stew" with as much ease as a man of forty, and can even pronounce correctly the villanous names of sundry french and german wines and liqueurs. one would suppose, to hear him talk, that he had been intimate with socrates and solon, with napoleon and noah webster; in short, that whatever he did not know was not worth knowing. in the face of these manifestations of exuberant genius, it would be absurd to accuse the author of making his hero do too much. all he has done is to give this genius a right direction; and for politics, cigars, : horses, and "one stew," he has substituted the duties of a rational and accountable being, regarding them as better fitted to develop the young gentleman's mind, heart, and soul. bobby bright is something more than a smart boy. he is a good boy, and makes a true man. his daily life is the moral of the story, and the author hopes that his devotion to principle will make a stronger impression upon the mind of the young reader, than even the most exciting incidents of his eventful career. william t. adams. contents chapter page i. in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse ii. in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic iii. in which the little black house is bought, but not paid for iv. in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another v. in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars vi. in which bobby sets out on his travels vii. in which bobby stands up for certain "inalienable rights" viii. in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street ix. in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory x. in which bobby is a little too smart xi. in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale xii. in which bobby astonishes sundry persons, and pays part of his note xiii. in which bobby declines a copartnership, and visits b---- again xiv. in which bobby's air castle is upset, and tom spicer takes to the woods xv. in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again xvi. in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good" xvii. in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune xviii. in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods xix. in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray xx. in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again xxi. in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never" now or never or the adventures of bobby bright chapter i in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse "by jolly! i've got a bite!" exclaimed tom spicer, a rough, hard-looking boy, who sat on a rock by the river's side, anxiously watching the cork float on his line. "catch him, then," quietly responded bobby bright, who occupied another rock near the first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout, and, without any appearance of exultation, proceeded to unhook and place him in his basket. "you are a lucky dog, bob," added tom, as he glanced into the basket of his companion, which now contained six good-sized fishes. "i haven't caught one yet." "you don't fish deep enough." "i fish on the bottom." "that is too deep." "it don't make any difference how i fish; it is all luck." "not all luck, tom; there is something in doing it right." "i shall not catch a fish," continued tom, in despair. "you'll catch something else, though, when you go home." "will i?" "i'm afraid you will." "who says i will?" "didn't you tell me you were 'hooking jack'?" "who is going to know anything about it?" "the master will know you are absent." "i shall tell him my mother sent me over to the village on an errand." "i never knew a fellow to 'hook jack,' yet, without getting found out." "i shall not get found out unless you blow on me; and you wouldn't be mean enough to do that;" and tom glanced uneasily at his companion. "suppose your mother should ask me if i had seen you." "you would tell her you have not, of course." "of course?" "why, wouldn't you? wouldn't you do as much as that for a fellow?" "it would be a lie." "a lie! humph!" "i wouldn't lie for any fellow," replied bobby, stoutly, as he pulled in his seventh fish, and placed him in the basket. "wouldn't you?" "no, i wouldn't." "then let me tell you this; if you peach on me, i'll smash your head." tom spicer removed one hand from the fish pole and, doubling his fist, shook it with energy at his companion. "smash away," replied bobby, coolly. "i shall not go out of my way to tell tales; but if your mother or the master asks me the question, i shall not lie." "won't you?" "no, i won't." "i'll bet you will;" and tom dropped his fish pole, and was on the point of jumping over to the rock occupied by bobby, when the float of the former disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "you've got a bite," coolly interposed bobby, pointing to the line. tom snatched the pole, and with a violent twitch, pulled up a big pout; but his violence jerked the hook out of the fish's mouth, and he disappeared beneath the surface of the river. "just my luck!" muttered tom. "keep cool, then." "i will fix you yet." "all right; but you had better not let go your pole again, or you will lose another fish." "i'm bound to smash your head, though." "no, you won't." "won't i?" "two can play at that game." "do you stump me?" "no; i don't want to fight; i won't fight if i can help it." "i'll bet you won't!" sneered tom. "but i will defend myself." "humph!" "i am not a liar, and the fear of a flogging shall not make me tell a lie." "go to sunday school--don't you?" "i do; and besides that, my mother always taught me never to tell a lie." "come! you needn't preach to me. by and by, you will call me a liar." "no, i won't; but just now you told me you meant to lie to your mother, and to the master." "what if i did? that is none of your business." "it _is_ my business when you want me to lie for you, though; and i shall not do it." "blow on me, and see what you will get." "i don't mean to blow on you." "yes, you do." "i will not lie about it; that's all." "by jolly! see that horse!" exclaimed tom, suddenly, as he pointed to the road leading to riverdale centre. "by gracious!" added bobby, dropping his fish pole, as he saw the horse running at a furious rate up the road from the village. the mad animal was attached to a chaise, in which was seated a lady, whose frantic shrieks pierced the soul of our youthful hero. the course of the road was by the river's side for nearly half a mile, and crossed the stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods from the place where the boys were fishing. bobby bright's impulses were noble and generous; and without stopping to consider the peril to which the attempt would expose him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or let the animal dash him to pieces on the bridge. "now or never!" shouted he, as he leaped from the rock, and ran with all his might to the bridge. the shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and seemed to command him, with an authority which he could not resist, to stop the horse. there was no time for deliberation; and, indeed, bobby did not want any deliberation. the lady was in danger; if the horse's flight was not checked, she would be dashed in pieces; and what then could excuse him for neglecting his duty? not the fear of broken limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden and violent death. it is true bobby did not think of any of these things; though, if he had, it would have made no difference with him. he was a boy who would not fight except in self-defence, but he had the courage to do a deed which might have made the stoutest heart tremble with terror. grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the fence, he planted himself in the middle of the bridge, which was not more than half as wide as the road at each end of it, to await the coming of the furious animal. on he came, and the piercing shrieks of the affrighted lady nerved him to the performance of his perilous duty. the horse approached him at a mad run, and his feet struck the loose planks of the bridge. the brave boy then raised his big club, and brandished it with all his might in the air. probably the horse did not mean anything very bad; was only frightened, and had no wicked intentions towards the lady; so that when a new danger menaced him in front, he stopped suddenly, and with so much violence as to throw the lady forward from her seat upon the dasher of the chaise. he gave a long snort, which was his way of expressing his fear. he was evidently astonished at the sudden barrier to his further progress, and commenced running back. "save me!" screamed the lady. "i will, ma'am; don't be scared!" replied bobby, confidently, as he dropped his club, and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as he was on the point of whirling round to escape by the way he had come. "stop him! do stop him!" cried the lady. "whoa!" said bobby, in gentle tones, as he patted the trembling horse on his neck. "whoa, good horse! be quiet! whoa!" the animal, in his terror, kept running backward and forward; but bobby persevered in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed him, so that he stood quiet enough for the lady to get out of the chaise. "what a miracle that i am alive!" exclaimed she, when she realized that she stood once more upon the firm earth. "yes, ma'am, it is lucky he didn't break the chaise. whoa! good horse! stand quiet!" "what a brave little fellow you are!" said the lady, as soon as she could recover her breath so as to express her admiration of bobby's bold act. "o, i don't mind it," replied he, blushing like a rose in june. "did he run away with you?" "no; my father left me in the chaise for a moment while he went into a store in the village, and a teamster who was passing by snapped his whip, which frightened kate so that she started off at the top of her speed. i was so terrified that i screamed with all my might, which frightened her the more. the more i screamed, the faster she ran." "i dare say. good horse! whoa, kate!" "she is a splendid creature; she never did such a thing before. my father will think i am killed." by this time, kate had become quite reasonable, and seemed very much obliged to bobby for preventing her from doing mischief to her mistress; for she looked at the lady with a glance of satisfaction, which her deliverer interpreted as a promise to behave better in future. he relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, patted her upon the neck, and said sundry pleasant things to encourage her in her assumed purpose of doing better. kate appeared to understand bobby's kind words, and declared as plainly as a horse could declare that she would be sober and tractable. "now, ma'am, if you will get into the chaise again, i think kate will let me drive her down to the village." "o, dear! i should not dare to do so." "then, if you please, i will drive down alone, so as to let your father know that you are safe." "do." "i am sure he must feel very bad, and i may save him a great deal of pain, for a man can suffer a great deal in a very short time." "you are a little philosopher, as well as a hero, and if you are not afraid of kate, you may do as you wish." "she seems very gentle now;" and bobby turned her round, and got into the chaise. "be very careful," said the lady. "i will." bobby took the reins, and kate, true to the promise she had virtually made, started off at a round pace towards the village. he had not gone more than a quarter of a mile of the distance when he met a wagon containing three men, one of whom was the lady's father. the gestures which he made assured bobby he had found the person whom he sought, and he stopped. "my daughter! where is she?" gasped the gentleman, as he leaped from the wagon. "she is safe, sir," replied bobby, with all the enthusiasm of his warm nature. "thank god!" added the gentleman, devoutly, as he placed himself in the chaise by the side of bobby. chapter ii in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic mr. bayard, the owner of the horse, and the father of the lady whom bobby had saved from impending death, was too much agitated to say much, even to the bold youth who had rendered him such a signal service. he could scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy brought him; it seemed too good to be true. he had assured himself that ellen--for that was the young lady's name--was killed or dreadfully injured. kate was driven at the top of her speed, and in a few moments reached the bridge, where ellen was awaiting his arrival. "here i am, father, alive and unhurt!" cried ellen, as mr. bayard stopped the horse. "thank heaven, my child!" replied the glad father, embracing his daughter. "i was sure you were killed." "no, father; thanks to this bold youth, i am uninjured." "i am under very great obligations to you, young man," continued mr. bayard, grasping bobby's hand. "o, never mind, sir;" and bobby blushed just as he had blushed when the young lady spoke to him. "we shall never forget you--shall we, father?" added ellen. "no, my child; and i shall endeavor to repay, to some slight extent, our indebtedness to him. but you have not yet told me how you were saved." "o, i merely stopped the horse; that's all," answered bobby, modestly. "yes, father, but he placed himself right before kate when she was almost flying over the ground. when i saw him, i was certain that he would lose his life, or be horribly mangled for his boldness," interposed ellen. "it was a daring deed, young man, to place yourself before an affrighted horse in that manner," said mr. bayard. "i didn't mind it, sir." "and then he flourished a big club, almost as big as he is himself, in the air, which made kate pause in her mad career, when my deliverer here grasped her by the bit and held her." "it was well and bravely done." "that it was, father; not many men would have been bold enough to do what he did," added ellen, with enthusiasm. "very true; and i feel that i am indebted to him for your safety. what is your name, young man?" "robert bright, sir." mr. bayard took from his pocket several pieces of gold, which he offered to bobby. "no, i thank you, sir," replied bobby, blushing. "what! as proud as you are bold?" "i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "bravo! you are a noble little fellow! but you must take this money, not as a reward for what you have done, but as a testimonial of my gratitude." "i would rather not, sir." "do take it, robert," added ellen. "i don't like to take it. it looks mean to take money for doing one's duty." "take it, robert, to please me;" and the young lady smiled so sweetly that bobby's resolution began to give way. "only to please me, robert." "i will, to please you; but i don't feel right about it." "you must not be too proud, robert," said mr. bayard, as he put the gold pieces into his hand. "i am not proud, sir; only i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "not paid, my young friend. consider that you have placed me under an obligation to you for life. this money is only an expression of my own and my daughter's feelings. it is but a small sum, but i hope you will permit me to do something more for you, when you need it. you will regard me as your friend as long as you live." "thank you, sir." "when you want any assistance of any kind, come to me. i live in boston; here is my business card." mr. bayard handed him a card, on which bobby read, "f. bayard & co., booksellers and publishers, no. --, washington street, boston." "you are very kind, sir." "i want you should come to boston and see us, too," interposed ellen. "i should be delighted to show you the city, to take you to the athenæum and the museum." "thank you." mr. bayard inquired of bobby about his parents, where he lived, and about the circumstances of his family. he then took out his memorandum book, in which he wrote the boy's name and residence. "i am sorry to leave you now, robert, but i have over twenty miles to ride to-day. i should be glad to visit your mother, and next time i come to riverdale, i shall certainly do so." "thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor woman, but she will be glad to see you." "now, good by, robert." "good by," repeated ellen. "good by." mr. bayard drove off, leaving bobby standing on the bridge with the gold pieces in his hand. "here's luck!" said bobby, shaking the coin. "won't mother's eyes stick out when she sees these shiners? there are no such shiners in the river as these." bobby was astonished, and the more he gazed at the gold pieces, the more bewildered he became. he had never held so much money in his hand before. there were three large coins and one smaller one. he turned them over and over, and finally ascertained that the large coins were ten dollar pieces, and the smaller one a five dollar piece. bobby was not a great scholar, but he knew enough of arithmetic to calculate the value of his treasure. he was so excited, however, that he did not arrive at the conclusion half so quick as most of my young readers would have done. "thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed bobby, when the problem was solved. "gracious!" "hallo, bob!" shouted tom spicer, who had got tired of fishing; besides, the village clock was just striking twelve, and it was time for him to go home. bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the gold pieces up in the corner of his handkerchief, he threw the broken rail he had used in stopping the horse where it belonged, and started for the place where he had left his fishing apparatus. "hallo, bob!" "well, tom?" "stopped him--didn't you?" "i did." "you were a fool; he might have killed you." "so he might; but i didn't stop to think of that. the lady's life was in danger." "what of that?" "everything, i should say." "did he give you anything?" "yes;" and bobby continued his walk down to the river's side. "i say, what did he give you, bobby?" persisted tom, following him. "o, he gave me a good deal of money." "how much?" "i want to get my fish line now; i will tell you all about it some other time," replied bobby, who rather suspected the intentions of his companion. "tell me now; how much was it?" "never mind it now." "humph! do you think i mean to rob you?" "no." "ain't you going halveses?" "why should i?" "wasn't i with you?" "were you?" "wasn't i fishing with you?" "you did not do anything about stopping the horse." "i would, if i hadn't been afraid to go up to the road." "afraid?" "somebody might have seen me, and they would have known that i was hooking jack." "then you ought not to share the money." "yes, i had. when a fellow is with you, he ought to have half. it is mean not to give him half." "if you had done anything to help stop the horse, i would have shared with you. but you didn't." "what of that?" bobby was particularly sensitive in regard to the charge of meanness. his soul was a great deal bigger than his body, and he was always generous, even to his own injury, among his companions. it was evident to him that tom had no claim to any part of the reward; but he could not endure the thought even of being accused of meanness. "i'll tell you what i will do, if you think i ought to share with you. i will leave it out to squire lee; and if he thinks you ought to have half, or any part of the money, i will give it to you." "no, you don't; you want to get me into a scrape for hooking jack. i see what you are up to." "i will state the case to him without telling him who the boys are." "no, you don't! you want to be mean about it. come, hand over half the money." "i will not," replied bobby, who, when it became a matter of compulsion, could stand his ground at any peril. "how much have you got?" "thirty-five dollars." "by jolly! and you mean to keep it all yourself?" "i mean to give it to my mother." "no, you won't! if you are going to be mean about it, i'll smash your head!" this was a favorite expression with tom spicer, who was a noted bully among the boys of riverdale. the young ruffian now placed himself in front of bobby, and shook his clenched fist in his face. "hand over." "no, i won't. you have no claim to any part of the money; at least, i think you have not. if you have a mind to leave it out to squire lee, i will do what is right about it." "not i; hand over, or i'll smash your head!" "smash away," replied bobby, placing himself on the defensive. "do you think you can lick me?" asked tom, not a little embarrassed by this exhibition of resolution on the part of his companion. "i don't think anything about it; but you don't bully me in that kind of style." "won't i?" "no." but tom did not immediately put his threat in execution, and bobby would not be the aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass his assailant. tom took this as an evidence of the other's desire to escape, and struck him a heavy blow on the side of the head. the next instant the bully was floundering in the soft mud of a ditch; bobby's reply was more than tom had bargained for, and while he was dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero ran down to the river, and got his fish pole and basket. "you'll catch it for that!" growled tom. "i'm all ready, whenever it suits your convenience," replied bobby. "just come out here and take it in fair fight," continued tom, who could not help bullying, even in the midst of his misfortune. "no, i thank you; i don't want to fight with any fellow. i will not fight if i can help it." "what did you hit me for, then?" "in self-defence." "just come out here, and try it fair!" "no;" and bobby hurried home, leaving the bully astonished and discomfited by the winding up of the morning's sport. chapter iii in which the little black house is bought but not paid for probably my young readers have by this time come to the conclusion that bobby bright was a very clever fellow--one whose acquaintance they would be happy to cultivate. perhaps by this time they have become so far interested in him as to desire to know who his parents were, what they did, and in what kind of a house he lived. i hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when i inform them that bobby lived in an old black house which had never been painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and which, in a word, was quite far from being a palace. a great many very nice city folks would not have considered it fit to live in, would have turned up their noses at it, and wondered that any human beings could be so degraded as to live in such a miserable house. but the widow bright, bobby's mother, thought it was a very comfortable house, and considered herself very fortunate in being able to get so good a dwelling. she had never lived in a fine house, knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart things which very rich and very proud city people consider absolutely necessary for their comfort. her father had been a poor man, her husband had died a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to keep the demons of poverty and want from invading her humble abode. mr. bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in riverdale. he never got more than a dollar a day, which was then considered very good wages in the country. he was a very honest, industrious man, and while he lived, his family did very well. mrs. bright was a careful, prudent woman, and helped him support the family. they never knew what it was to want for anything. poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something which they are not, or to have something which they have not. every person, who has any energy of character, desires to get ahead in the world. some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by the dozen, desire to be what they consider rich. but their idea of wealth is very grand. they wish to count it in millions of dollars, in whole blocks of warehouses; and they are even more discontented than the day laborer who has to earn his dinner before he can eat it. bobby's father and mother had just such an ambition, only it was so modest that the merchant would have laughed at it. they wanted to own the little black house in which they resided, so that they could not only be sure of a home while they lived, but have the satisfaction of living in their own house. this was a very reasonable ideal, compared with that of the rich merchants i have mentioned; but it was even more difficult for them to reach it, for the wages were small, and they had many mouths to feed. mr. bright had saved up fifty dollars; and he thought a great deal more of this sum than many people do of a thousand dollars. he had had to work very hard and be very prudent in order to accumulate this sum, which made him value it all the more highly. with this sum of fifty dollars at his command, john bright felt rich; and then, more than ever before, he wanted to own the little black house. he felt as grand as a lord; and as soon as the forty-nine dollars had become fifty, he waited upon mr. hardhand, a little crusty old man, who owned the little black house, and proposed to purchase it. the landlord was a hard man. everybody in riverdale said he was mean and stingy. any generous-hearted man would have been willing to make an easy bargain with an honest, industrious, poor man, like john bright, who wished to own the house in which he lived; but mr. hardhand, although he was rich, only thought how he could make more money. he asked the poor man four hundred dollars for the old house and the little lot of land on which it stood. it was a matter of great concern to john bright. four hundred dollars was a "mint of money," and he could not see how he should ever be able to save so much from his daily earnings. so he talked with squire lee about it, who told him that three hundred was all it was worth. john offered this for it, and after a month's hesitation mr. hardhand accepted the offer, agreeing to take fifty dollars down, and the rest in semi-annual payments of twenty-five dollars each until the whole was paid. i am thus particular in telling my readers about the bargain, because this debt which his father contracted was the means of making a man of bobby, as will be seen in his subsequent history. john bright paid the first fifty dollars; but before the next instalment became due, the poor man was laid in his cold and silent grave. a malignant disease carried him off, and the hopes of the bright family seemed to be blasted. four children were left to the widow. the youngest was only three years old, and bobby, the oldest, was nine, when his father died. squire lee, who had always been a good friend of john bright, told the widow that she had better go to the poorhouse, and not attempt to struggle along with such fearful odds against her. but the widow nobly refused to become a pauper, and to make paupers of her children, whom she loved quite as much as though she and they had been born in a ducal palace. she told the squire that she had two hands, and as long as she had her health, the town need not trouble itself about her support. squire lee was filled with surprise and admiration at the noble resolution of the poor woman; and when he returned to his house, he immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten bushels of potatoes, two bags of meal, and a firkin of salt pork. the widow was very grateful for these articles, and no false pride prevented her from accepting the gift of her rich and kind-hearted neighbor. riverdale centre was largely engaged in the manufacturing of boots and shoes, and this business gave employment to a large number of men and women. mrs. bright had for several years "closed" shoes--which, my readers who do not live in "shoe towns" may not know, means sewing or stitching them. to this business she applied herself with renewed energy. there was a large hotel in riverdale centre, where several families from boston spent the summer. by the aid of squire lee, she obtained the washing of these families, which was more profitable than closing shoes. by these means she not only supported her family very comfortably, but was able to save a little money towards paying for the house. mr. hardhand, by the persuasions of squire lee, had consented to let the widow keep the house, and pay for it as she could. john bright had been dead four years at the time we introduce bobby to the reader. mrs. bright had paid another hundred dollars towards the house, with the interest; so there was now but one hundred due. bobby had learned to "close," and helped his mother a great deal; but the confinement and the stooping posture did not agree with his health, and his mother was obliged to dispense with his assistance. but the devoted little fellow found a great many ways of helping her. he was now thirteen, and was as handy about the house as a girl. when he was not better occupied, he would often go to the river and catch a mess of fish, which was so much clear gain. the winter which had just passed had brought a great deal of sickness to the little black house. the children all had the measles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that mrs. bright could not work much. her affairs were not in a very prosperous condition when the spring opened; but the future was bright, and the widow, trusting in providence, believed that all would end well. one thing troubled her. she had not been able to save anything for mr. hardhand. she could only pay her interest; but she hoped by the first of july to give him twenty-five dollars of the principal. but the first of july came, and she had only five dollars of the sum she had partly promised her creditor. she could not so easily recover from the disasters of the hard winter, and she had but just paid off the little debts she had contracted. she was nervous and uneasy as the day approached. mr. hardhand always abused her when she told him she could not pay him, and she dreaded his coming. it was the first of july on which bobby caught those pouts, caught the horse, and on which tom spicer had "caught a tartar." bobby hastened home, as we said at the conclusion of the last chapter. he was as happy as a lord. he had fish enough in his basket for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, and money enough in his pocket to make his mother as happy as a queen, if queens are always happy. the widow bright, though she had worried and fretted night and day about the money which was to be paid to mr. hardhand on the first of july, had not told her son anything about it. it would only make him unhappy, she reasoned, and it was needless to make the dear boy miserable for nothing; so bobby ran home all unconscious of the pleasure which was in store for him. when he reached the front door, as he stopped to scrape his feet on the sharp stone there, as all considerate boys who love their mothers do, before they go into the house, he heard the angry tones of mr. hardhand. he was scolding and abusing his mother because she could not pay him the twenty-five dollars. bobby's blood boiled with indignation, and his first impulse was to serve him as he had served tom spicer, only a few moments before; but bobby, as we have before intimated, was a peaceful boy, and not disposed to quarrel with any person; so he contented himself with muttering a few hard words. "the wretch! what business has he to talk to _my_ mother in that style?" said he to himself. "i have a great mind to kick him out of the house." but bobby's better judgment came to his aid; and perhaps he realized that he and his mother would only get kicked out in return. he could battle with mr. hardhand, but not with the power which his wealth gave him; so, like a great many older persons in similar circumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather than impulse. "bear ye one another's burdens," saith the scripture; but bobby was not old enough or astute enough to realize that mr. hardhand's burden was his wealth, his love of money; that it made him little better than a hottentot; and he could not feel as charitably towards him as a christian should towards his erring, weak brother. setting his pole by the door, he entered the room where hardhand was abusing his mother. chapter iv in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another bobby was so indignant at the conduct of mr. hardhand, that he entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even think of the gold he had in his pocket. he loved his mother; he knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters; that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made him feel very bad to hear her abused as mr. hardhand was abusing her. it was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him. she had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much greater. bobby knew also that mr. hardhand was aware of all the circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course. as our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him. "there is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "why don't you set him to work, and make him earn something?" "bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow bright. "humph! i should think he was. a great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!" and mr. hardhand looked contemptuously at bobby. "i am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with spirit. "yes, you are. why don't you go to work?" "i do work." "no, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river." "i don't." "you had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "he is saucy." "i should like to know who taught _you_ manners, mr. hardhand," replied bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion. "what!" growled mr. hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness. "i heard what you said before i came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her." "humph! mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice. "don't, bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his mother. "saucy, marm? you ought to horsewhip him for it. if you don't, i will." "no, you won't!" replied bobby, shaking his head significantly. "i can take care of myself." "did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped mr. hardhand. "don't, bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother. "i should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother," continued bobby, who could not restrain his anger. "your mother owes me money, and she doesn't pay it, you young scoundrel!" answered mr. hardhand, foaming with rage. "that is no reason why you should insult her. you can call _me_ what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while i'm round." "your mother is a miserable woman, and----" "say that again, and though you are an old man, i'll hit you for it. i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to mr. hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import. he was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother's good name. i am not sure that i could excuse bobby's violence under any other circumstances. he loved his mother--as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and mr. hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her--epithets which no good son could calmly hear applied to a mother. besides, bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men. he had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother. "be calm, bobby; you are in a passion," said mrs. bright. "i am surprised, marm," began mr. hardhand, who prudently refrained from repeating the offensive language--and i have no doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed. "this boy has a most ungovernable temper." "don't you worry about my temper, mr. hardhand; i'll take care of myself. all i want of you is not to insult my mother. you may say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names." mr. hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. he changed his tone and manner at once. "you have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the door. "no, sir; i am sorry to say that i have been able to save only five dollars since i paid you last; but i hope----" "never mind, marm, never mind; i shall not trouble myself to come here again, where i am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. no, marm, i shall not come again. let the law take its course." "o, mercy! see what you have brought upon us, bobby," exclaimed mrs. bright, bursting into tears. "yes, marm, let the law take its course." "o, bobby! stop a moment, mr. hardhand; do stop a moment." "not a moment, marm. we'll see;" and mr. hardhand placed his hand upon the latch string. bobby felt very uneasy and very unhappy at that moment. his passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal of mischief by his impetuous conduct. then the remembrance of his morning adventure on the bridge came like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious gold,--doubly precious now, because it would enable him to retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. with a trembling hand he untied the knot which secured the money. "here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in her hand. "why, bobby!" exclaimed mrs. bright. "pay him, mother, pay him, and i will tell you all about it by and by." "thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! where _did_ you get it, bobby?" "never mind it now, mother." mr. hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached the widow. "i shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said mrs. bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket. "yes, marm." mr. hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table, indorsed the amount on the back of the note. "you owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "it must be paid immediately." "you must not be hard with me now, when i have paid more than you demanded." "i don't wish to come here again. that boy's impudence has put me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied mr. hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command. "there was a time when i was very willing to help you. i have waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer than i would have waited for anybody else." "your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the widow, modestly. "that's true; but very few people would have waited as long as i have for the principal. i wanted to help you----" "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, interrupting him. "don't be saucy, my son, don't," said mrs. bright, fearing a repetition of the former scene. "_he_ wanted to help us!" ejaculated bobby. it was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of mr. hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit. he was a malicious and revengeful man. he did not consider the great provocation he had given bobby for his violent conduct, but determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. he was a wicked man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her family out of house and home. mrs. bright knew this, and bobby knew it too; and they felt very uneasy about it. the wretch still had the power to injure them, and he would use it without compunction. "yes, young man, i wanted to help you, and you see what i get for it--contempt and insults! you will hear from me again in a day or two. perhaps you will change your tune, you young reprobate!" "perhaps i shall," replied bobby, without much discretion. "and you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. you have not done your duty to him. you have been remiss, marm!" continued mr. hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power he wielded. "that will do, sir; you can go!" said bobby, springing from his chair, and approaching mr. hardhand. "go, and do your worst!" "humph! you stump me,--do you?" "i would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. go along!" "now, don't, bobby," pleaded his mother. "i am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the law shall take its course;" and mr. hardhand rushed out of the house, slamming the door violently after him. "o, bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed mrs. bright, when the hard-hearted creditor had departed. "i could not help it, mother; don't cry. i cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; and i thought when i heard him do it a year ago, that i couldn't stand it again. it is too bad." "but he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do then?" "don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. i have friends who are rich and powerful, and who will help us." "you don't know what you say, bobby. sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely bring that." "leave it all to me, mother; i feel as though i could do something now. i am old enough to make money." "what can you do?" "now or never!" replied bobby, whose mind had wandered from the scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every day. "now or never!" muttered he again. "but, bobby, you have not told me where you got all that gold." "dinner is ready, i see, and i will tell you while we eat." bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge. the fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she thanked god that she was the mother of such a son. she felt more confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining years. bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door step. his mind was absorbed by a new and brilliant idea; and for half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking. "now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road towards riverdale centre. chapter v in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars a great idea was born in bobby's brain. his mother's weakness and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than they had ever been before. she was in the power of her creditor, who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and her own hard earnings. but this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted son understood it. it was not the hard work alone which she was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed bobby; it was that a wretch like mr. hardhand could insult and trample upon his mother. he had just heard him use language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it. he cared not for himself. he could live on a crust of bread and a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as mr. hardhand. yet what could he do? he was but a boy, and the great world would look with contempt upon his puny form. but he felt that he was not altogether insignificant. he had performed an act that day, which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very few men would have undertaken. there was something in him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. it was a tower of strength within him. it told him that he could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life. a great many people think they can "do wonders." the vanity of some very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before and never would know but for them. but bobby's something within him was not vanity. it was something more substantial. he was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune. self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. he was thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. he wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second. a legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him strength for the great purpose in his mind. his was a holy and a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do wonders." what bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. it is enough now that he meant to do something. the difficulty with a great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. they wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. their lives are spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes. now, bobby bright repudiated the micawber philosophy. he would have nothing to do with it. he did not believe corn would grow without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook. i am not going to tell my young readers now how bobby came out in the end; but i can confidently say that, if he had waited for "something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself and all the world. it was "now or never" with bobby. he meant to do something; and after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the "old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint." bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid step. he was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step quick. but as he approached squire lee's house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to be very uneasy. when he reached the great gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. i cannot tell what the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but if he was searching for anything in them, he did not find it; for after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of them against his chest, and in an audible voice exclaimed,-- "now or never." all this pantomime, i suppose, meant that bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at squire lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite expression, they were conquered and driven out. marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back door,--bobby's ideas of etiquette would not have answered for the meridian of fashionable society,--he gave three smart raps. bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he awaited a response to his summons. it seemed that he still had some doubts as to the practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty daughter annie, a young miss of twelve. "o, bobby, is it you? i am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the little lady. bobby blushed--he didn't know why, unless it was that the young lady desired to see him. he stammered out a reply, and for the moment forgot the object of his visit. "i want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books the expressman was to bring up from boston for me. will you go?" "certainly, miss annie, i shall be very glad to go for _you_," replied bobby, with an emphasis that made the little maiden blush in her turn. "you are real good, bobby; but i will give you something for going." "i don't want anything," said bobby, stoutly. "you are too generous! ah, i heard what you did this forenoon; and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what you did. i always thought you were as brave as a lion; now i know it." "the books are at the express office, i suppose," said bobby, turning as red as a blood beet. "yes, bobby; i am so anxious to get them that i can't wait till pa goes down this evening." "i will not be gone long." "o, you needn't run, bobby; take your time." "i will go very quick. but, miss annie, is your father at home?" "not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back by the time you return." "will you please to tell him that i want to see him about something very particular, when he gets back?" "i will, bobby." "thank you, miss annie;" and bobby hastened to the village to execute his commission. "i wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for," said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form. "in my opinion, something has happened at the little black house, for i could see that he looked very sober." either bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he was in a hurry to see squire lee; for the squire's old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker. "you should not have run, bobby," said the little maiden, when he placed the books in her hand; "i would not have asked you to go if i had thought you would run all the way. you must be very tired." "not at all; i didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he; but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had been very much exaggerated. "has your father returned?" "he has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. come in, bobby." bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which annie offered him. "how do you do, bobby? i am glad to see you," said the squire, taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon him--a smile which cheered his heart more than anything else could at that moment. "i have heard of you before, to-day." "have you?" "i have, bobby; you are a brave little fellow." "i came over to see you, sir, about something very particular," replied bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the topic. "indeed; well, what can i do for you?" "a great deal, sir; perhaps you will think i am very bold, sir, but i can't help it." "i know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire. "i didn't mean that, sir," answered bobby, blushing up to the eyes. "i know you didn't; but go on." "i only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or something of that kind." "o, no, far from it. you cannot be presuming or impudent. speak out, bobby; anything under the heavens that i can do for you, i shall be glad to do." "well, sir, i am going to leave riverdale." "leave riverdale!" "yes, sir; i am going to boston, where i mean to do something to help mother." "bravo! you are a good lad. what do you mean to do?" "i was thinking i should go into the book business." "indeed!" and squire lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the young aspirant. "i was talking with a young fellow who went through the place last spring, selling books. he told me that some days he made three or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week." "he did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so much." "i know i can make twelve dollars a week," replied bobby, confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of great things. "i dare say you can. you have energy and perseverance, and people take a liking to you." "but i wanted to see you about another matter. to speak out at once, i want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and bobby blushed, and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness. "sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire. "i knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his heart sinking within him. "but i don't, bobby. you want the money to go into business with--to buy your stock of books?" "o, no, sir; i am going to apply to mr. bayard for that." "just so; mr. bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you saved?" "yes, sir. i want this money to pay off mr. hardhand. we owe him but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it is not paid by to-morrow noon." "the old hunks!" bobby briefly related to the squire the events of the morning, much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted man. the courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months. "very well, bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it to him. "thank you, sir. may heaven bless you! i shall certainly pay you." "don't worry about it, bobby. pay it when you get ready." "i will give you my note, and----" the squire laughed heartily at this, and told him that, as he was a minor, his note was not good for anything. "you shall see whether it is, or not," returned bobby. "let me give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much i owe you from time to time." "you shall have your own way." annie lee, as much amused as her father at bobby's big talk, got the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and signed the note. "good, bobby! now promise that you will come and see me every time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along." "i will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light heart bobby tripped away home. chapter vi in which bobby sets out on his travels squire lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in riverdale. he had taken a great fancy to bobby, and often employed him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and such chores about the place as a boy could do. he liked to talk with bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for one with a small head. if there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. he declared that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was; and as for bobby bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and he was satisfied that he would make something in good time. he was not much astonished when bobby opened his ambitious scheme of going into business for himself. but he had full faith in his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a brilliant, life. he often said that bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that he would trust him with anything he had. perhaps he did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning, when one of the neighbors told him about bobby's stopping the horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth time. it was not an idle remark. sixty dollars was hardly worth mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away that amount. but as a matter of investment,--bobby had made the note read "with interest,"--he would as readily have let him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that he would soon have the means of paying him. bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. mrs. bright was very sad. perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new difficulty. "come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said bobby, in his usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "there is the money, and you will be forever quit of mr. hardhand to-morrow." "what, bobby! why, where did you get all this money?" asked mrs. bright, utterly astonished. in a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then informed his mother that he was going to boston the next monday morning, to commence business for himself. "why, what can you do, bobby?" "do? i can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little book merchant. "you are a courageous fellow! who would have thought of such a thing?" "i should, and did." "but you are not old enough." "o, yes, i am." "you had better wait a while." "now or never, mother! you see i have given my note, and my paper will be dishonored, if i am not up and doing." "your paper!" said mrs. bright, with a smile. "that is what mr. wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it." "you needn't go away to earn this money; i can pay it myself." "this note is my affair, and i mean to pay it myself with my own earnings. no objections, mother." like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any objections. she was conscious of bobby's talents; she knew that he had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. it is true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that beset him. she determined to do her whole duty towards him; and she carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation. she counselled him to think of her when he felt like going astray. bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. he did not speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bug-bears out of things which she knew had no real existence. the next day, mr. hardhand came; and my young readers can judge how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow bright offered him the sixty dollars. the lord was with the widow and the fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. the note was given up, and the mortgage cancelled. mr. hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of july; but when bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent, even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the subject of conversation. he did not dare to say anything saucy to the widow this time. he had lost his power over her, and there stood bobby, who had come to look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was. the business was all settled now, and bobby spent the rest of the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. he visited all his friends, and went each day to talk with squire lee and annie. the little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he would bring his stock to riverdale, for she was quite as much interested in him as her father was. monday morning came, and bobby was out of bed with the first streak of dawn. the excitement of the great event which was about to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. he was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great city. his mother was up before him. she was even more sad than he was, for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him, and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his safety. as he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and the good lessons she had before imparted. she particularly cautioned him to keep out of bad company. if he found that his companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would steal, and he had better forsake them at once. this was excellent advice, and bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his sorrowing heart. "here is three dollars, bobby; it is all the money i have. your fare to boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to pay the expenses of your first trip. it is all i have now," said mrs. bright. "i will not take the whole of it. you will want it yourself. one dollar is enough. when i find mr. bayard, i shall do very well." "yes, bobby, take the whole of it." "i will take just one dollar, and no more," replied bobby, resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars. "do take it, bobby." "no, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent." taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a start. "good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "i shall try and come home on saturday, so as to be with you on sunday." then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. he had seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little himself. it is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother, especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder that bobby, who had hardly been out of riverdale before, should weep. but he soon restrained the flowing tears. "now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward. it was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he did now was to give character to his whole future life. it was a bright and beautiful morning--somehow it is always a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. he will see clouds and storms before he has gone far--let him have a fair start. he had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. his road lay by the house of his friend, squire lee; and as he was approaching it, he met annie. she said she had come out to take her morning walk; but bobby knew very well that she did not usually walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him god speed on his journey. at any rate, he was very glad to see her. he said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help laughing in his face. then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands again with annie, and resumed his journey. his heart felt lighter for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not both; for annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger. after a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station. the cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour. "why should i give them a dollar for carrying me to boston, when i can just as well walk? if i get tired, i can sit down and rest me. if i save the dollar, i shall have to earn only fifty-nine more to pay my note. so here goes;" and he started down the track. chapter vii in which bobby stands up for "certain inalienable rights" whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish" policy for bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one settle the point to suit himself. his cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. he had always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably often walked more than twenty miles in a day. about ten o'clock, though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself. he had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without injury to himself. after resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. at twelve o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of the city. his heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side, he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his considerate mother had placed in his bundle. thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where a sign, "no passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther progress. unlike many others, bobby took this sign literally, and did not venture to cross the bridge. having some doubts as to the direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with him, which bobby was glad to accept. they crossed the milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long walk he had taken--forgot riverdale, his mother, squire lee, and annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting scene. the common beat riverdale common all hollow; he had never seen anything like it before. but when the wagon reached washington street, the measure of his surprise was filled up. "my gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher. "we have high fences here," he replied. "where are all these folks going to?" "you will have to ask them, if you want to know." but the wonder soon abated, and bobby began to think of his great mission in the city. he got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. it was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him. it was more like herr grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than anything substantial. the men and women were like so many puppets. they did not seem to be doing anything, or to be walking for any purpose. he got out of the butcher's cart at the old south. his first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets. he did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot. "all right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "i am here. now's my time to make a strike. now or never." he pulled mr. bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind. now, numbers were not a riverdale institution, and bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. a little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store. "f. bayard," he read; "this is the place." "country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment. "just so, my beauty!" said bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy. "what a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street. "no matter, rag-tag! we'll settle that matter some other time." but bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible. a spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered. "mr. bayard keep here?" asked bobby. "well, i reckon he does. how are all the folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin. "how are they?" repeated bobby, the color flying to his cheek. "yes, ha-ow do they dew?" "they behave themselves better than they do here." "eh, greeny?" "eh, sappy?" repeated bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman. "what do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk indignantly. "what do you mean by greeny?" "i'll let you know what i mean!" "when you do, i'll let you know what i mean by sappy." "good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation. "you will learn better by and by, timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town." "you seem to be a gentleman, sir," said bobby, approaching the salesman. "i wish to see mr. bayard." "you can't see him!" growled timmins. "can't i?" "not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for bobby's discrimination. "he will be at liberty in a few moments." "i will wait, then," said bobby, seating himself on a stool by the counter. pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner, and timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an occasional glance of hatred at him. he had evidently found that "country" was an embryo american citizen, and that he was a firm believer in the self-evident truths of the declaration of independence. bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had been to defend his "certain inalienable rights." "you do a big business here," suggested bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced the uncourteous clerk that he meant well. "who told you so?" replied timmins, gruffly. "i merely judged from appearances. you have a big store, and an immense quantity of books." "appearances are deceitful," replied timmins; and perhaps he had been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from the country. "that is true," added bobby, with a good-natured smile, which, when interpreted, might have meant, "i took you for a civil fellow, but i have been very much mistaken." "you will find it out before you are many days older." "the book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued bobby, without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last remark. "humph! what's that to you?" "o, i intend to go into it myself." "ha, ha, ha! good! you do?" "i do," replied bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of the clerk. "i suppose you want to get a place here," sneered timmins, alarmed at the prospect. "but let me tell you, you can't do it. bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for, you can move on as fast as you please." "i guess i will see him," added bobby, quietly. "no use." "no harm in seeing him." as he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began to turn over the leaves. "put that book down!" said the amiable mr. timmins. "i won't hurt it," replied bobby, who had just fixed his eye upon some very pretty engravings in the volume. "put it down!" repeated mr. timmins, in a loud, imperative tone. "certainly i will, if you say so," said bobby, who, though not much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle. "i _do_ say so!" added mr. timmins, magnificently; "and what's more, you'd better mind me, too." bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would not have been so bold if he had not. some people like to threaten after the danger is over. then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books lying on the counter. he had already made up his mind to have one, in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was waiting, that he would purchase one. he meant to do things methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was with the intention of buying it. "put that book down!" said mr. timmins, encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero. "i want to buy one." "no, you don't; put it down." "what is the price of these?" asked bobby, resolutely. "none of your business!" "is that the way you treat your customers?" asked bobby, with a little sternness in his looks and tones. "i say i want to buy one." "put it down." "but i will not; i say i want to buy it." "no, you don't!" "what is the price of it?" "twenty-five cents," growled timmins, which was just four times the retail price. "twenty-five cents! that's high." "put it down, then." "is that your lowest price?" asked bobby, who was as cool as a cucumber. "yes, it is; and if you don't put it down, i'll kick you out of the store." "will you? then i won't put it down." mr. timmins took this as a "stump;" his ire was up, and he walked round from behind the counter to execute his threat. i must say i think bobby was a little forward, and i would have my young readers a little more pliant with small men like timmins. there are always men enough in the world who are ready and willing to quarrel on any provocation; and it is always best not to provoke them, even if they are overbearing and insolent, as mr. timmins certainly was. "hold on a minute before you do it," said bobby, with the same provoking coolness. "i want to buy this book, and i am willing to pay a fair price for it. but i happen to know that you can buy them up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents." "no matter," exclaimed the indignant clerk, seizing bobby by the coat collar for the purpose of ejecting him; "you shall find your way into the street." now bobby, as i have before intimated, was an embryo american citizen, and the act of mr. timmins seemed like an invasion of his inalienable rights. no time was given him to make a formal declaration of rights in the premises; so the instinct of self-preservation was allowed to have free course. mr. timmins pulled and tugged at his coat collar, and bobby hung back like a mule; and for an instant there was quite a spirited scene. "hallo! timmins, what does this mean?" said a voice, at which the valiant little clerk instantly let go his hold. chapter viii in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street it was mr. bayard. he had finished his business with the gentleman by his side, and hearing the noise of the scuffle, had come to learn the occasion of it. "this impudent young puppy wouldn't let the books alone!" began mr. timmins. "i threatened to turn him out if he didn't; and i meant to make good my threat. i think he meant to steal something." bobby was astonished and shocked at this bold imputation; but he wished to have his case judged on its own merits; so he turned his face away, that mr. bayard might not recognize him. "i wanted to buy one of these blank books," added bobby, picking up the one he had dropped on the floor in the struggle. "all stuff!" ejaculated timmins. "he is an impudent, obstinate puppy! in my opinion he meant to steal that book." "i asked him the price, and told him i wanted to buy it," added bobby, still averting his face. "well, i told him; and he said it was too high." "he asked me twenty-five cents for it." "is this true, timmins?" asked mr. bayard, sternly. "no, _sir_! i told him fourpence," replied timmins, boldly. "by gracious! what a whopper!" exclaimed bobby, startled out of his propriety by this monstrous lie. "he said twenty-five cents; and i told him i could buy one up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents. can you deny that?" "it's a lie!" protested timmins. "riverdale," said mr. bayard. "are you from riverdale, boy?" "yes, sir, i am; and if you will look on your memorandum book you will find my name there." "bless me! i am sure i have seen that face before," exclaimed mr. bayard, as he grasped the hand of bobby, much to the astonishment and consternation of mr. timmins. "you are----" "robert bright, sir." "my brave little fellow! i am heartily glad to see you;" and the bookseller shook the hand he held with hearty good will. "i was thinking of you only a little while ago." "this fellow calls me a liar," said bobby, pointing to the astonished mr. timmins, who did not know what to make of the cordial reception which "country" was receiving from his employer. "well, robert, we know that _he_ is a liar; this is not the first time he has been caught in a lie. timmins, your time is out." the spruce clerk hung his head with shame and mortification. "i hope, sir, you will----" he began, but pride or fear stopped him short. "don't be hard with him, sir, if you please," said bobby. "i suppose i aggravated him." mr. bayard looked at the gentleman who stood by his side, and a smile of approbation lighted up his face. "generous as he is noble! butler, this is the boy that saved ellen." "indeed! he is a little giant!" replied mr. butler, grasping bobby's hand. even timmins glanced with something like admiration in his looks at the youth whom he had so lately despised. perhaps, too, he thought of that scripture wisdom about entertaining angels unawares. he was very much abashed, and nothing but his silly pride prevented him from acknowledging his error and begging bobby's forgiveness. "i can't have a liar about me," said mr. bayard. "there may be some mistake," suggested mr. butler. "i think not. robert bright couldn't lie. so brave and noble a boy is incapable of a falsehood. besides, i got a letter from my friend squire lee by this morning's mail, in which he informed me of my young friend's coming." mr. bayard took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and selected the squire's from among them. opening it, he read a passage which had a direct bearing upon the case before him. "'i do not know what bobby's faults are,'"--the letter said,--"'but this i do know: that bobby would rather be whipped than tell a lie. he is noted through the place for his love of truth.'--that is pretty strong testimony; and you see, bobby,--that's what the squire calls you,--your reputation has preceded you." bobby blushed, as he always did when he was praised, and mr. timmins was more abashed than ever. "did you hear that, timmins? who is the liar now?" said mr. bayard, turning to the culprit. "forgive me, sir, this time. if you turn me off now, i cannot get another place, and my mother depends upon my wages." "you ought to have thought of this before." "he aggravated me, sir, so that i wanted to pay him off." "as to that, he commenced upon me the moment i came into the store. but don't turn him off, if you please, sir," said bobby, who even now wished no harm to his discomfited assailant. "he will do better hereafter: won't you, timmins?" thus appealed to, timmins, though he did not relish so direct an inquiry, and from such a source, was compelled to reply in the affirmative; and mr. bayard graciously remitted the sentence he had passed against the offending clerk. "now, robert, you will come over to my house and dine with me. ellen will be delighted to see you." "thank you, sir," replied bobby, bashfully, "i have been to dinner"--referring to the luncheon he had eaten at brighton. "but you must go to the house with me." "i should be very glad to do so, sir, but i came on business. i will stay here with mr. timmins till you come back." the truth is, he had heard something about the fine houses of the city, and how stylish the people were, and he had some misgivings about venturing into such a strange and untried scene as the parlor of a boston merchant. "indeed, you must come with me. ellen would never forgive you or me, if you did not come." "i would rather rest here till you return," replied bobby, still willing to escape the fine house and the fine folks. "i walked from riverdale, sir, and i am rather tired." "walked!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "had you no money?" "yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but dr. franklin says that 'a penny saved is a penny earned,' and i thought i would try it. i shall get rested by the time you return." "but you must go with me. timmins, go and get a carriage." timmins obeyed, and before mr. bayard had finished asking bobby how all the people in riverdale were, the carriage was at the door. there was no backing out now, and our hero was obliged to get into the vehicle, though it seemed altogether too fine for a poor boy like him. mr. bayard and mr. butler (whom the former had invited to dine with him) seated themselves beside him, and the driver was directed to set them down at no. --, chestnut street, where they soon arrived. though my readers would, no doubt, be very much amused to learn how carefully bobby trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mirrors, the elegant chandeliers, and the fantastically shaped chairs and tables that adorned mr. bayard's parlor, the length of our story does not permit us to pause over these trivial matters. when ellen bayard was informed that her little deliverer was in the house, she rushed into the parlor like a hoiden school girl, grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy cheeks, and behaved just as though she had never been to a boarding school in her life. she had thought a great deal about bobby since that eventful day, and the more she thought of him, the more she liked him. her admiration of him was not of that silly, sentimental character which moonstruck young ladies cherish towards those immaculate young men who have saved them from drowning in a horse pond, pulled them back just as they were tumbling over a precipice two thousand five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a house seven stories high, bearing them down a ladder seventy-five odd feet long. the fact was, bobby was a boy of thirteen and there was no chance for much sentiment; so the young lady's regard was real, earnest, and lifelike. ellen said a great many very handsome things; but i am sure she never thought of such a thing as that he would run away with her, in case her papa was unnecessarily obstinate. she was very glad to see him, and i have no doubt she wished bobby might be her brother, it would be so glorious to have such a noble little fellow always with her. bobby managed the dinner much better than he had anticipated; for mr. bayard insisted that he should sit down with them, whether he ate anything or not. but the rubicon passed, our hero found that he had a pretty smart appetite, and did full justice to the viands set before him. it is true the silver forks, the napkins, the finger bowls, and other articles of luxury and show, to which he had been entirely unaccustomed, bothered him not a little; but he kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed how mr. butler, who sat next to him, handled the "spoon fork," what he did with the napkin and the finger bowl, so that, i will venture to say, not one in ten would have suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor of a millionaire. dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, where bobby unfolded his plan for the future. to make his story intelligible, he was obliged to tell them all about mr. hardhand. "the old wretch!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "but, robert, you must let me advance the sixty dollars, to pay squire lee." "no, sir; you have done enough in that way. i have given my note for the money." "whew!" said mr. butler. "and i shall soon earn enough to pay it." "no doubt of it. you are a lad of courage and energy, and you will succeed in everything you undertake." "i shall want you to trust me for a stock of books, on the strength of old acquaintance," continued bobby, who had now grown quite bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of the costly furniture, as he did in the "living room" of the old black house. "you shall have all the books you want." "i will pay for them as soon as i return. the truth is, mr. bayard, i mean to be independent. i didn't want to take that thirty-five dollars, though i don't know what mr. hardhand would have done to us, if i hadn't." "ellen said i ought to have given you a hundred, and i think so myself." "i am glad you didn't. too much money makes us fat and lazy." mr. bayard laughed at the easy self-possession of the lad--at his big talk; though, big as it was, it meant something. when he proposed to go to the store, he told bobby he had better stay at the house and rest himself. "no, sir; i want to start out to-morrow, and i must get ready to-day." "you had better put it off till the next day; you will feel more like it then." "now or never," replied bobby. "that is my motto, sir. if we have anything to do, now is always the best time to do it. dr. franklin says, 'never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day.'" "right, robert! you shall have your own way. i wish my clerks would adopt some of dr. franklin's wise saws. i should be a great deal better off in the course of a year if they would." chapter ix in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory "now, bobby, i understand your plan," said mr. bayard, when they reached the store; "but the details must be settled. where do you intend to go?" "i hardly know, sir. i suppose i can sell books almost anywhere." "very true; but in some places much better than in others." mr. bayard mentioned a large town about eighteen miles from the city, in which he thought a good trade might be carried on, and bobby at once decided to adopt the suggestion. "you can make this place your headquarters for the week; if books do not sell well right in the village, why, you can go out a little way, for the country in the vicinity is peopled by intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who can afford to buy books." "i was thinking of that; but what shall i take with me, sir?" "there is a new book just published, called 'the wayfarer,' which is going to have a tremendous run. it has been advertised in advance all over the country, so that you will find a ready sale for it. you will get it there before any one else, and have the market all to yourself." "'the wayfarer'? i have heard of it myself." "you shall take fifty copies with you, and if you find that you shall want more, write, and i will send them." "but i cannot carry fifty copies." "you must take the cars to b----, and have a trunk or box to carry your books in. i have a stout trunk down cellar which you shall have." "i will pay for it, sir." "never mind that, bobby; and you will want a small valise or carpet bag to carry your books from house to house. i will lend you one." "you are very kind, sir; i did not mean to ask any favors of you except to trust me for the books until my return." "all right, bobby." mr. bayard called the porter and ordered him to bring up the trunk, in which he directed mr. timmins to pack fifty "wayfarers." "now, how much will these books cost me apiece?" asked bobby. "the retail price is one dollar; the wholesale price is one third off; and you shall have them at what they cost me." "sixty-seven cents," added bobby. "that will give me a profit of thirty-three cents on each book." "just so." "perhaps mr. timmins will sell me one of those blank books now; for i like to have things down in black and white." "i will furnish you with something much better than that;" and mr. bayard left the counting room. in a moment he returned with a handsome pocket memorandum book, which he presented to the little merchant. "but i don't like to take it unless you will let me pay for it," said bobby, hesitating. "never mind it, my young friend. now you can sit down at my desk and open your accounts. i like to see boys methodical, and there is nothing like keeping accounts to make one accurate. keep your books posted up, and you will know where you are at any time." "i intend to keep an account of all i spend and all i receive, if it is no more than a cent." "right, my little man. have you ever studied book-keeping?" "no, sir, i suppose i haven't; but there was a page of accounts in the back part of the arithmetic i studied, and i got a pretty good idea of the thing from that. all the money received goes on one side, and all the money paid out goes on the other." "exactly so; in this book you had better open a book account first. if you wish, i will show you how." "thank you, sir; i should be very glad to have you;" and bobby opened the memorandum book, and seated himself at the desk. "write 'book account,' at the top of the pages, one word on each. very well. now write 'to fifty copies of "wayfarer," at sixty-seven cents, $ . ,' on the left-hand page, or debit side of the account." "i am not much of a writer," said bobby, apologetically. "you will improve. now, each day you will credit the amount of sales on the right hand page, or credit side of the account; so, when you have sold out, the balance due your debit side will be the profit on the lot. do you understand it?" bobby thought a moment before he could see through it; but his brain was active, and he soon managed the idea. "now you want a personal account;" and mr. bayard explained to him how to make this out. he then instructed him to enter on the debit side all he spent for travel, board, freight, and other charges. the next was the "profit and loss" account, which was to show him the net profit of the business. our hero, who had a decided taste for accounts, was very much pleased with this employment; and when the accounts were all opened, he regarded them with a great deal of satisfaction. he longed to commence his operations, if it were only for the pleasure of making the entries in this book. "one thing i forgot," said he, as he seized the pen, and under the cash account entered, "to cash from mother, $ . ." "now i am all right, i believe." "i think you are. now, the cars leave at seven in the morning. can you be ready for a start as early as that?" asked mr. bayard. "o, yes, sir, i hope so. i get up at half past four at home." "very well; my small valise is at the house; but i believe everything else is ready. now, i have some business to attend to; and if you will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we will go home then." "i shall want a lodging place when i am in the city; perhaps some of your folks can direct me to one where they won't charge too much." "as to that, bobby, you must go to my house whenever you are in the city." "law, sir! you live so grand, i couldn't think of going to your house. i am only a poor boy from the country, and i don't know how to behave myself among such nice folks." "you will do very well, bobby. ellen would never forgive me if i let you go anywhere else. so that is settled; you will go to my house. now, you may sit here, or walk out and see the sights." "if you please, sir, if mr. timmins will let me look at some of the books, i shouldn't wish for anything better. i should like to look at 'the wayfarer,' so that i shall know how to recommend it." "mr. timmins _will_ let you," replied mr. bayard, as he touched the spring of a bell on his desk. the dapper clerk came running into the counting room to attend the summons of his employer. "mr. timmins," continued mr. bayard, with a mischievous smile, "bring mr. bright a copy of 'the wayfarer.'" mr. timmins was astonished to hear "country" called "mister," astonished to hear his employer call him "mister," and bobby was astonished to hear himself called "mister." nevertheless, our hero enjoyed the joke. the clerk brought the book; and bobby proceeded to give it a thorough, critical examination. he read the preface, the table of contents, and several chapters of the work, before mr. bayard was ready to go home. "how do you like it, bobby?" asked the bookseller. "first rate." "you may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish it." "thank you, sir; i will be careful of it." "you may keep it. let that be the beginning of your own private library." his own private library! bobby had not got far enough to dream of such a thing yet; but he thanked mr. bayard, and put the book under his arm. after tea, ellen proposed to her father that they should all go to the museum. mr. bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at the drolleries perpetrated there. he had a good time; but it was so late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should over-sleep himself in the morning. he did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of the rest of the family were stirring. an early breakfast was prepared for him, at which mr. bayard, who intended to see him off, joined him. depositing his little bundle and the copy of "the wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store. the porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though bobby insisted upon doing it himself. the bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu. in a little while bobby was flying over the rail, and at about eight o'clock reached b----. the station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the week. taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. it must be confessed that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. the battle of life was before him. he was on the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into the contest. it was victory or defeat. "march on, brave youth! the field of strife with peril fraught before thee lies; march on! the battle plain of life shall yield thee yet a glorious prize." it was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to do so. he was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was determined to conquer. he had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "the wayfarer" for sale. his heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused before the door. "now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate, and made his way up to the door. he felt some misgivings. it was so new and strange to him that he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther. but his irresolution was of only a moment's duration. "now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door. it was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not promise much. "good morning, ma'am. can i sell you a copy of 'the wayfarer' to-day? a new book, just published." "no; i don't want none of your books. there's more pedlers round the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month," replied the old lady, petulantly. "it is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral." bobby had read the preface, as i before remarked. "it will suit you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read something with a moral." bravo, bobby! the lady concluded that her face had a moral expression, and she was pleased with the idea. "let me see it;" and she asked bobby to walk in and be seated, while she went for her spectacles. as she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more elaborate recommendation of its merits. he was sure it would interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes; it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one dollar. "i'll take it," said the old lady. "thank you, ma'am." bobby's first victory was achieved. "have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a two-dollar bill. "yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar and put the two in its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "thank you ma'am." bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house, encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with undiminished hope. chapter x in which bobby is a little too smart the clouds were rolled back, and bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. it requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished. two new england shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. it gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale. the old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. he gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. he had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. in short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly. but it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and bobby turned from the past to the future. there were forty-nine more books to be sold; so that the future was forty-nine times as big as the past. he saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him, and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. it would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing anything. there were three men at work in the shop--one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. they looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger. "can i sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold. "well, i don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "it takes a pretty smart fellow to sell anything in this shop." "then i hope to sell each of you a book," added bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker. opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men. "it isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'the wayfarer' is decidedly _the_ book of the season." "you don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely." "do they? they steal my thunder then." "you are an old one." "only thirteen. i was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot." "what do they fasten them with?" "they don't fasten them at all." "there are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally. "no; they are all shoemakers in our town." "you can take my hat, boy." "you will want it to put your head in; but i will take one dollar for that book instead." the man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book. "won't you take one?" asked bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age. "no; i can't read," replied he roguishly. "let your wife read it to you, then." "my wife?" "certainly; she knows how to read, i will warrant." "how do you know i have got a wife?" "o, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time." "has you, tom," added the oldest shoemaker. "i cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench. bobby looked at the third man with some interest. he had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions. he was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book. he was a different kind of person from the others, and bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination. "you will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the others. bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work. for five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man to finish his investigation into the merits of "the wayfarer." something told him not to say anything to this person; and he had some doubts about his purchasing. "i will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed bobby the dollar. "i am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said bobby, as he closed his valise. "when i come this way again i shall certainly call." "do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop." "i shall take no credit to myself. the fact is, you are men of intelligence, and you want good books." bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself. "eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "pretty good hour's work, i should say." bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of b----. inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell. "is mr. whiting in?" asked bobby, who had read the name on the door plate. "colonel whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door. "i should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy." "walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him. she conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor. in a moment colonel whiting entered. he was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. he looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if julius cæsar or napoleon bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of b----. "good morning, colonel whiting. i hope you are well this beautiful morning." bobby began. i must confess i think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in chestnut street, and that he had just sold four copies of "the wayfarer." he was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys. the nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech. "i have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'the wayfarer'--a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season." my young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from boston in the cars. it would be quite natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider how he should address people into whose presence his calling would bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to encounter. the one he had just "got off" was designed for the "upper crust." when he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant, frowning nabob, and, with a low bow, offered him a copy of "the wayfarer." "boy," said colonel whiting, raising his arm with majestic dignity, and pointing to the door,--"boy, do you see that door?" bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished, replied that he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation thereof. "do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage at the cool impudence of the boy. "certainly i do, sir; my eyesight is excellent." "then use it!" "thank you, sir; i have no use for it. probably it will be of more service to you than to me." "will you clear out, or shall i kick you out?" gasped the enraged magnate of b----. "i will save you that trouble, sir; i will go, sir. i see we have both made a mistake." "mistake? what do you mean by that, you young puppy? you are a little impudent, thieving scoundrel!" "that is your mistake, sir. i took you for a gentleman, sir; and that was my mistake." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw her arms around his neck. "the jade!" muttered he. "i have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to restore him at once to himself. "it was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in apology. "no, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true; but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. i heard the whole of it." "pert?" said bobby to himself. "what the deuce does she mean by that?" "very well, you little minx; i will pay the penalty." "come here, master pert," said the lady to bobby. bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much embarrassed. "my uncle," she continued, "is one of the best-hearted men in the world--ain't you, uncle?" "go on, you jade!" "i love him, as i would my own father; but he will sometimes get into a passion. now, you provoked him." "indeed, ma'am, i hadn't the least idea of saying anything uncivil," pleaded bobby. "i studied to be as polite as possible." "i dare say. you were too important, too pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in the world. now, if you hadn't _studied_ to be polite, you would have done very well." "indeed, ma'am, i am a poor boy, trying to make a little money to help my mother. i am sure i meant no harm." "i know you didn't. so you are selling books to help your mother?" "yes, ma'am." she inquired still further into the little merchant's history, and seemed to be very much interested in him. in a frolic, a few days before, bobby learned from her, colonel whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time he got into a passion. "now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the lady. "'the wayfarer.'" "how many have you in your valise?" "eight." "very well; now, uncle, i decree, as the penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock." "i submit." "'the wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book; and i can name at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, uncle." colonel whiting paid bobby eight dollars, who left the contents of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart again. chapter xi in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale our hero had learned a lesson which experience alone could teach him. the consciousness of that "something within him" inclined him to be a little too familiar with his elders; but then it gave him confidence in himself, and imparted courage to go forward in the accomplishment of his mission. his interview with colonel whiting and the gentle but plain rebuke of his niece had set him right, and he realized that, while he was doing a man's work, he was still a boy. he had now a clearer perception of what is due to the position and dignity of those upon whom fortune has smiled. bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not strange that he should sometimes fancy he was a man. he had an idea, too, that "all men are born free and equal;" and he could not exactly see why a nabob was entitled to any more respect and consideration than a poor man. it was a lesson he was compelled to learn, though some folks live out their lifetimes without ever finding out that. "'tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men." some people think a rich man is no better than a poor man, except so far as he behaves himself better. it is strange how stupid some people are! bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, and he felt as independent as the declaration of independence itself. but then the beautiful lady had told him that he was pert and forward; and when he thought it over, he was willing to believe she was right. colonel whiting was an old man, compared with himself; and he had some faith, at least in theory, in the spartan virtue of respect for the aged. probably the nabob of b---- would have objected to being treated with respect on account of his age; and bobby would have been equally unwilling to acknowledge that he treated him with peculiar respect on account of his wealth or position. perhaps the little merchant had an instinctive perception of expediency--that he should sell more books by being less familiar; at any rate he determined never again to use the flowery speeches he had arranged for the upper crust. he had sold a dozen books; and possibly this fact made him more willing to compromise the matter than he would otherwise have been. this was, after all, the great matter for congratulation, and with a light heart he hurried back to the railroad station to procure another supply. we cannot follow him into every house where his calling led him. he was not always as fortunate as in the instances we have mentioned. sometimes all his arguments were unavailing, and after he had spent half an hour of valuable time in setting forth the merits of "the wayfarer," he was compelled to retire without having effected a sale. sometimes, too, he was rudely repulsed; hard epithets were applied to him; old men and old women, worried out by the continued calls of pedlers, sneered at him, or shut the door in his face; but bobby was not disheartened. he persevered, and did not allow these little trials to discompose or discourage him. by one o'clock on the first day of his service he had sold eighteen books, which far exceeded even his most sanguine expectations. by this time he began to feel the want of his dinner; but there was no tavern or eating house at hand, and he could not think of leaving the harvest to return to the railroad station; so he bought a sheet of gingerbread and a piece of cheese at a store, and seating himself near a brook by the side of the road, he bolted his simple meal, as boys are very apt to do when they are excited. when he had finished, he took out his account book, and entered, "dinner, cents." resuming his business, he disposed of the remaining six books in his valise by the middle of the afternoon, and was obliged to return for another supply. about six o'clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as the family were sitting down to tea. he recommended his book with so much energy, that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him, and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea. bobby accepted the invitation, and in the course of the meal the good lady drew from him the details of his history, which he very modestly related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not the boy to boast of his exploits. his host was so much pleased with him, that he begged him to spend the night with them. bobby had been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the matter had given him no little concern. he did not wish to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there. these high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging. if i had been there i should have told him that a man loses nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself. he must eat well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well. but i suppose bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so. i could not have said anything to such a powerful argument, so i am very glad the mechanic's wife set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in her house. he spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken. before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, "by twenty-six 'wayfarers,' sold this day, $ . ." he had done a big day's work, much bigger than he could hope to do again. he had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at this rate he should be out of books the next day. at first he thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to do so. what he had might last till friday or saturday. he intended to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on his return without expense. this was considerable of an argument for a boy to manage; but bobby was satisfied with it, and went to sleep, wondering what his mother, squire lee, and annie were thinking of about that time. after breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels. he was as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed "the wayfarer" with so much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited. people seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him, he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist it. the result of the day's sales was fifteen copies, which bobby entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction. he had outdone the boy who had passed through riverdale, but he had little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant. he often thought of this boy, from whom he had obtained the idea he was now carrying out. that boy had stopped over night at the little black house, and slept with him. he had asked for lodging, and offered to pay for it, as well as for his supper and breakfast. why couldn't he do the same? he liked the suggestion, and from that time, wherever he happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the meal he required; and he always proposed to pay for what he had, but very few would take anything. on friday noon he had sold out. returning to the railroad station, he found that the train would not leave for the city for an hour; so he improved the time in examining and balancing his accounts. the book sales amounted to just fifty dollars, and, after his ticket to boston was paid for, his expenses would amount to one dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his favor of fifteen dollars. he was overjoyed with the result, and pictured the astonishment with which his mother, squire lee, and annie would listen to the history of his excursion. after four o'clock that afternoon he entered the store of mr. bayard, bag and baggage. on his arrival in the city, he was considerably exercised in mind to know how he should get the trunk to his destination. he was too economical to pay a cartman a quarter; but what would have seemed mean in a man was praiseworthy in a boy laboring for a noble end. probably a great many of my young readers in bobby's position, thinking that sixteen dollars, which our hero had in his pocket, was a mint of money, would have been in favor of being a little magnificent,--of taking a carriage and going up-town in state. bobby had not the least desire to "swell;" so he settled the matter by bargaining with a little ragged fellow to help him carry the trunk to mr. bayard's store for fourpence. "how do you do, mr. timmins?" said bobby to the spruce clerk, as he deposited the trunk upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy the fourpence. "ah, bobby!" exclaimed mr. timmins. "have you sold out?" "all clean. is mr. bayard in?" "in the office. but how do you like it?" "first rate." "well, every one to his taste; but i don't see how any one who has any regard for his dignity can stick himself into everybody's house. i couldn't do it, i know." "i don't stand for the dignity." "ah, well, there is a difference in folks." "that's a fact," replied bobby, as he hurried to the office of mr. bayard, leaving mr. timmins to sun himself in his own dignity. the bookseller was surprised to see him so soon, but he gave him a cordial reception. "i didn't expect you yet," said he. "why do you come back? have you got sick of the business?" "sick of it! no, sir." "what have you come back for, then?" "sold out, sir." "sold out! you have done well!" "better than i expected." "i had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow night; and i thought you would have books enough to begin the next week with. you have done bravely." "if i had had twenty more, i could have sold them before to-morrow night. now, sir, if you please, i will pay you for those books--thirty-three dollars and fifty cents." "you had better keep that, bobby. i will trust you as long as you wish." "if you please, sir, i had rather pay it;" and the little merchant, as proud as a lord, handed over the amount. "i like your way of doing business, bobby. nothing helps a man's credit so much as paying promptly. now tell me some of your adventures--or we will reserve them till this evening, for i am sure ellen will be delighted to hear them." "i think i shall go to riverdale this afternoon. the cars leave at half past five." "very well; you have an hour to spare." bobby related to his kind friend the incidents of his excursion, including his interview with colonel whiting and his niece, which amused the bookseller very much. he volunteered some good advice, which bobby received in the right spirit, and with a determination to profit by it. at half past five he took the cars for home, and before dark was folded in his mother's arms. the little black house seemed doubly dear to him now that he had been away from it a few days. his mother and all the children were so glad to see him that it seemed almost worth his while to go away for the pleasure of meeting them on his return. chapter xii in which bobby astonishes sundry persons and pays part of his note "now tell me, bobby, how you have made out," said mrs. bright, as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "you cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days." "i have done pretty well, mother," replied bobby, mysteriously; "pretty well, considering that i am only a boy." "i didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night." "i sold out, and had to come home." "that may be, and still you may not have done much." "i don't pretend that i have done much." "how provoking you are! why don't you tell me, bobby, what you have done?" "wait a minute, mother, till i have done my supper, and then i will show you the footings in my ledger." "your ledger!" "yes, my ledger. i keep a ledger now." "you are a great man, mr. robert bright," laughed his mother. "i suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you coming." "not exactly, mother." "perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you were on the road." "perhaps he did; i didn't see him, however. this apple pie tastes natural, mother. it is a great luxury to get home after one has been travelling." "very likely." "no place like home, after all is done and said. who was the fellow that wrote that song, mother?" "i forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign parts. my sake! bobby, one would think by your talk that you had been away from home for a year." "it seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "i miss home very much. i don't more than half like being among strangers so much." "it is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from home." "i must pay my debts, anyhow. don't i owe squire lee sixty dollars?" "but i can pay that." "it is my affair, you see." "if it is your affair, then i owe you sixty dollars." "no, you don't; i calculate to pay my board now. i am old enough and big enough to do something." "you have done something ever since you were old enough to work." "not much; i don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a hardhand twitted me about it. by the way, have you heard anything from him?" "not a thing." "he has got enough of us, i reckon." "you mustn't insult him, bobby, if you happen to see him." "never fear me." "you know the bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us." "i should pray that the old nick might get him." "no, bobby; i hope you haven't forgot all your sunday school lessons." "i was wrong, mother," replied bobby, a little moved. "i did not mean so. i shall try to think as well of him as i can; but i can't help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard time we should have of it." "we must thank the lord that he has given us so many good and true men." "such as squire lee, for instance," added bobby, as he rose from the table and put his chair back against the wall. "the squire is fit to be a king; and though i believe in the constitution and the declaration of independence, i wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon his head." "he will receive his crown in due time," replied mrs. bright, piously. "the squire?" "the crown of rejoicing, i mean." "just so; the squire is a nice man; and i know another just like him." "who?" "mr. bayard; they are as near alike as two peas." "i am dying to know about your journey." "wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;" and bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and wash the dishes. "you needn't help now, bobby." "yes, i will, mother." somehow our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. a week in town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. it starches them up so stiff that sometimes they don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor of supporting them in childhood. bobby was none of this sort. we lament that he had a habit of talking big, that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years. but he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem. he was always blushing when anybody spoke a pretty thing about him. probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother. he had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house. some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade. they think of little else. they "play shop" before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens. they are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word. we saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince; boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem. undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. our hero was shrewd. he always got the best end of the bargain; though, i am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows. we have made this digression so that my young readers may know why bobby was so much given to big talk. the desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things. it was not a bad fault, after all. boys need not necessarily be frivolous. play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his grammar and arithmetic. it not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life. it need not be supposed, because bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play. at a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game. when the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. it was a beautiful article, and mrs. bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by bobby's informing her how it came into his possession. "here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book. mrs. bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts. "fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry. "yes, mother; and i sold them all." "fifty dollars!" "but i had to pay for the books out of that." "to be sure you had; but i suppose you made as much as ten cents apiece on them, and that would be--let me see; ten times fifty----" "but i made more than that, i hope." "how much?" the proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars. "gracious! three dollars a day!" "just so, mother. now i will pay you the dollar i borrowed of you when i went away." "you didn't borrow it of me." "but i shall pay it." mrs. bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result. if she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and energy. her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days' work. she could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big. it was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's affairs. he had intended to call upon squire lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day. after breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit. there was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire's door. he was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him. besides, annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the monday preceding. i don't think that bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart. in coming from the house he had placed his copy of "the wayfarer" under his arm, for annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from reading _his_ book. of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter. each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him. "well, bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted. "pretty fair," replied bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there. "where have you been travelling?" "in b----." "fine place. books sell well there?" "very well; in fact, i sold out all my stock by noon yesterday." "how many books did you carry?" "fifty." "you did well." "i should think you did!" added annie, with an enthusiasm which quite upset all bobby's assumed indifference. "fifty books!" "yes, miss annie; and i have brought you a copy of the book i have been selling; i thought you would like to read it. it is a splendid work, and will be _the_ book of the season." "i shall be delighted to read it," replied annie, taking the proffered volume. "it looks real good," she continued, as she turned over the leaves. "it is first rate; i have read it through." "it was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile. "i shall never have so much business on my mind that i cannot think of my friends," replied bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that it astonished himself. "i was just thinking what i should read next; i am _so_ glad you have come." "never mind her, bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed squire lee, laughing. "now, pa!" "then i shall bring her one very often." "you are too bad, pa," said annie, who, like most young ladies just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the immaculateness of human love, or human friendship. "i have got a little money for you, squire lee," continued bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed. he took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department" extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of ten dollars, which he had carefully reserved for his creditor. "never mind that, bobby," replied the squire. "you will want all your capital to do business with." "i must pay my debts before i think of anything else." "a very good plan, bobby, but this is an exception to the general rule." "no, sir, i think not. if you please, i insist upon paying you ten dollars on my note." "o, well, if you insist, i suppose i can't help myself." "i would rather pay it, i shall feel so much better." "you want to indorse it on the note, i suppose." that was just what bobby wanted. indorsed on the note was the idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his mind. there was something gratifying in the act to a man of business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred obligation,--he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to pay one's debts,--and as the squire wrote the indorsement across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever before. "'pay as you go' is an excellent idea; john randolph called it the philosopher's stone," added squire lee, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "that is what i mean to do just as soon as i can." "you will do, bobby." the young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea that his mother would wait for him. chapter xiii in which bobby declines a copartnership and visits b---- again after dinner bobby performed his saturday afternoon chores as usual. he split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. the day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very light. after digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. he was fond of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that daniel webster, and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this exciting sport. no doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our hero was a great man. he had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his line into the water, before he saw tom spicer approaching the spot. the bully had never been a welcome companion. there was no sympathy between them. they could never agree, for their views, opinions, and tastes were always conflicting. bobby had not seen tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should not be regarded with much favor. tom was malicious and revengeful, and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. he was prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur. there was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's presence decidedly unpleasant at this time,--an event that had occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received from his mother. tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. he had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed it in one of the bureau drawers. the next day it could not be found. spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that tom had taken it; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. no money was found upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the stores in riverdale centre. the affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused tom of the theft. he did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation. tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely, while he deposited the bills under the clothing. no one else could have taken it. these were the proofs. but people generally believed that spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors. everybody knew that tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation. bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainly would steal if he got a good chance. our hero's judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there. "hallo, bob! how are you?" shouted tom, when he had come within hailing distance. "very well," replied bobby, rather coolly. "been to boston, they say." "yes." "well, how did you like it?" continued tom, as he seated himself on the rock near our hero. "first rate." "been to work there?" "no." "what have you been doing?" "travelling about." "what doing?" "selling books." "was you, though? did you sell any?" "yes, a few." "how many?" "o, about fifty." "you didn't, though--did you? how much did you make?" "about fifteen dollars." "by jolly! you are a smart one, bobby. there are not many fellows that would have done that." "easy enough," replied bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy. "you had to buy the books first--didn't you?" asked tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade. "of course; no one will give you the books." "what do you pay for them?" "i buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative. "that business would suit me first rate." "it is pretty hard work." "i don't care for that. don't you believe i could do something in this line?" "i don't know; perhaps you could." "why not, as well as you?" this was a hard question; and, as bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. he was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction. "you see, tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and i dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. we sell them for a dollar apiece." "humph! you needn't be so close about it. i'll bet i can find out." "i have no doubt you can; only, you see, i don't want to tell what i am not sure they would be willing i should tell." tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat. "you say you sold fifty books?" "yes." "well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents apiece." bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly exposed the momentous secret. he had not given tom credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of it. "you sold them at a dollar apiece. thirty from a hundred leaves seventy. they cost you seventy cents each--didn't they?" "sixty-seven," replied bobby, yielding the point. "enough said, bob; i am going into that business, anyhow." "i am willing." "of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested tom, who had not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view. "we could do nothing together." "i should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is done." "you can find out for yourself, as i did." "don't be mean, bob." "mean? i am not mean." "i don't say you are. we have always been good friends, you know." bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which expressed all he meant to say. "you hit me a smart dig the other day, i know; but i don't mind that. i was in the wrong then, and i am willing to own it," continued tom, with an appearance of humility. this was an immense concession for tom to make, and bobby was duly affected by it. probably it was the first time the bully had ever owned he was in the wrong. "the fact is, bob, i always liked you; and you know i licked ben dowse for you." "that was two for yourself and one for me; besides, i didn't want ben thrashed." "but he deserved it. didn't he tell the master you were whispering in school?" "i was whispering; so he told the truth." "it was mean to blow on a fellow, though." "the master asked him if i whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it. but he told of you at the same time." "i know it; but i wouldn't have licked him on my own account." "_perhaps_ you wouldn't." "i know i wouldn't. but, i say, bobby, where do you buy your books?" "at mr. bayard's, in washington street." "he will sell them to me at the same price--won't he?" "i don't know." "when are you going again?" "monday." "won't you let me go with you, bob?" "let you? of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business." bobby did not like the idea of having such a copartner as tom spicer, and he did not like to tell him so. if he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel. the fish bit well, and in an hour's time bobby had a mess. as he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. he could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there tom begged him to stop a few moments. our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors. we have no doubt a journal of bobby's daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly. on monday morning bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for boston. he fully expected to encounter tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. as before, he stopped at squire lee's to bid him and annie good by. the little maiden had read "the wayfarer" more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it. she promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library. bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following saturday, when he returned. when he had shaken hands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious reflection. "did you hear about tom spicer?" asked squire lee. "no, sir; what about him?" "broken his arm." "broken his arm! gracious! how did it happen?" exclaimed bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of tom since he had left home. "he was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the ground." "i am sorry for him," replied bobby, musing. "so am i; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened. if i had any boys, i would lock them up in their chambers if i could not keep them at home sundays." "poor tom!" mused bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him. "it is too bad; but i must say i am more sorry for his poor mother than i am for him," added the squire. "however, i hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives." bobby bade the squire and annie adieu again, resumed his journey towards the railroad station. his thoughts were busy with tom spicer's case. the reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent. he pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him. the young merchant did not walk to boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather. before noon he was at b---- again, as busy as ever in driving his business. the experience of the former week was of great value to him. he visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of propriety. he was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him. the net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased. mr. bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. mr. timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when bobby asked the price of moore's poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent less than the retail price. the little merchant was on the point of purchasing it, when mr. bayard inquired what he wanted. "i am going to buy this book," replied bobby. "moore's poems?" "yes, sir." mr. bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work--morocco, full gilt--and handed it to our hero. "i shall make you a present of this. are you an admirer of moore?" "no, sir; not exactly--that is, i don't know much about it; but annie lee does, and i want to get the book for her." bobby's cheeks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion. "annie lee?" said mr. bayard with a quizzing smile. "i see how it is. rather young, bobby." "her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has annie, for that matter. squire lee would be a great deal more pleased if i should make annie a present than if i made him one. i feel grateful to him, and i want to let it out somehow." "that's right, bobby; always remember your friends. timmins, wrap up this book." bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that he should give annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to yield the point. that evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. that evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and annie received that elegant copy of moore's poems. chapter xiv in which bobby's air castle is upset and tom spicer takes to the woods during the next four weeks bobby visited various places in the vicinity of boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the whole of the debt he owed squire lee. he had the note in his memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great purpose afforded him much satisfaction. now he owed no man anything, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the best people in the world. the little black house was paid for, and bobby was proud that his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to her hard creditor. mr. hardhand could no longer insult and abuse her. the apparent results which bobby had accomplished, however, were as nothing compared with the real results. he had developed those energies of character which were to make him, not only a great business man, but a useful member of society. besides, there was a moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained. motives determine the character of deeds. that a boy of thirteen should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his mother was a vastly greater thing. many great achievements are morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true hero. our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. as one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. the little black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice paris-green blinds would make a palace of it; and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place into a paradise. yet bobby was audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself that they should be obtained. in conversation with mr. bayard a few days before, that gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that bobby should visit the state of maine the following week. on the banks of the kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for books. this time the little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they were all sold. on monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station. as usual, he called upon squire lee, and informed annie that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. she hoped no accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success. without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for bobby was a great friend of hers. that elegant copy of moore's poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve. after he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey. of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose he was wondering how wide the kennebec river was, or how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. nothing of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say romantic. "hallo, bob!" shouted some one from the road side. bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. the imagination is buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars sometimes. it was so with bobby. he was building up some kind of an air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down, _slap_, upon terra firma. he looked up and saw tom spicer seated upon the fence. in his hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for bobby's coming. he had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it would be. bobby had called upon him two or three times during his confinement to the house; and tom, either truly repentant for his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had "turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy. bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would never want friends while he was true to himself. the right side, he declared, was always the best side. he quoted several instances of men, whose lives he had read in his sunday school books, to show how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed to forsake him. tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it was "now or never." if he put it off, he would only grow worse, and the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would be to do it. tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had reformed. for these reasons bobby had come to regard tom with a feeling of deep interest. he considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work. nevertheless bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave tom was not as cordial as it might have been. "hallo, tom!" he replied, rather coolly. "been waiting for you this half hour." "have you?" "yes; ain't you rather late?" "no; i have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long. "come along then." "where are you going, tom?" asked bobby, a little surprised at these words. "to boston." "are you?" "i am; that's a fact. you know i spoke to you about going into the book business." "not lately." "but i have been thinking about it all the time." "what do your father and mother say?" "o, they are all right." "have you asked them?" "certainly i have; they are willing i should go with _you_." "why didn't you speak of it then?" "i thought i wouldn't say anything till the time came. you know you fought shy when i spoke about it before." and bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire. to the good and true man life is a constant battle. temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight. bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. it was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. there was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. he was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtilties. judging tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run--that he wouldn't "stand fire." he had not been drilled. heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. to go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. he lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers on the field of battle. tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. he had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might. "march on! in legions death and sin impatient wait thy conquering hand; the foe without, the foe within-- thy youthful arm must both withstand." bobby had great hopes of him. he felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it. "well, tom, where are you going?" asked bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other. "i don't know. you have been a good friend to me lately, and i had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business." "i should be very willing to do so; but what can i do for you?" "just show me how the business is done; that's all i want." "your father and mother were willing you should come--were they not?" bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason too. he had called at tom's house the day before, and they had gone to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word about his going to boston. "when did they agree to it?" "last night," replied tom, after a moment's hesitation. "all right then; but i cannot promise you that mr. bayard will let you have the books." "i can fix that, i reckon," replied tom, confidently. "i will speak a good word for you, at any rate." "that's right, bob." "i am going down into the state of maine this time, and shall be gone three or four weeks." "so much the better; i always wanted to go down that way." tom asked a great many questions about the business and the method of travelling, which bobby's superior intelligence and more extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire satisfaction of the other. when they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the direction of riverdale. tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him. in a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it. "by jolly!" exclaimed tom; "my father!" "what of it?" asked bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of his companion. tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence fled like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road. was it possible? tom had run away from home. his father had not consented to his going to boston, and bobby was mortified to find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they left riverdale. but he was glad the cheat had been exposed. "that was tom with you--wasn't it?" asked mr. spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse. "yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go with me," replied bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of mr. spicer's fiery eyes. "he lied! the young villain! he will catch it for this." "i would not have let him come with me only for that. i asked him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were." "you ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed the man who was with mr. spicer. bobby had some reason for believing him. the fact that tom had reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. to have explained this would have taken more time than he could spare; besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance mr. spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he had got rid of tom. mr. spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the fence, went to the woods in search of tom. bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in a moment was on his way to the city. chapter xv in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. it seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as those of tom spicer could be false. he had just risen from a sick bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious reflection. tom had promised fairly, and bobby had every reason to suppose he intended to be a good boy. but his promises had been lies. he had never intended to reform, at least not since he had got off his bed of pain. he was mortified and disheartened at the failure of this attempt to restore him to himself. like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. he did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this world than one would be willing to believe. with this sage reflection, he dismissed tom from his mind, which very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so ruthlessly upset. then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by angels like annie lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live in. she could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she could not steal, or do anything else that was bad; and the prospect was decidedly pleasant. it was very agreeable to turn from tom to annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned on clouds of gold and purple. i do not know what impossible things he imagined, or how far up in the clouds he would have gone, if the arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts, and pitched him down upon the earth again. bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission to perform which dreaming could not accomplish. however pleasant it may be to think of the great and brilliant things which one _will_ do, to one of bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to perform them. we all dream great things, imagine great things; but he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. bobby's fine imaginings were pretty sure to bring out a "now or never," which was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he had said it. therefore, when the train arrived, bobby did not stop to dream any longer. he forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let annie lee slip from his mind for the time being. those towns upon the kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before him, for it was with them he had to do. grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. "got off slick--didn't i?" said tom spicer, placing himself by bobby's side. "you here, tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at his late companion. it was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his heart bobby wished him anywhere but where he was. he foresaw that he could not easily get rid of him. "i am here," replied tom. "i ran through the woods to the depot, and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. the old man couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that." "but you ran away from home." "well, what of it?" "a good deal, i should say." "if you had been in my place, you would have done the same." "i don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our first duties." "i know that; and if i had had any sort of fair play, i wouldn't have run away." "what do you mean by that?" asked bobby, somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other. "i will tell you all about it by and by. i give you my word of honor that i will make everything satisfactory to you." "but you lied to me on the road this morning." tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. but he had a purpose to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal. "i'm sorry i did, now," answered tom, with every manifestation of penitence for his fault. "i didn't want to lie to you; and it went against my conscience to do so. but i was afraid, if i told you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't be willing i should come with you." "i shall not be any more willing now i know all about it," added bobby, in an uncompromising tone. "wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame me." "of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business; but let me tell you, tom, in the beginning, that i won't go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother." "pooh! what's the use of talking in that way?" tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. he knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant. "you had better return home, tom. boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. take my advice, and go home," added bobby. "to such a home as mine!" said tom, gloomily. "if i had such a home as yours, i would not have left it." bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. he was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. his home was not pleasant. he who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed. tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. his one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. he did not know what to do. "i am sorry for you, tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but i don't see what i can do for you. i doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents." "i don't want you to help me run away. i have done that already." "but if i let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. besides, since you told me those lies this morning, i haven't much confidence in you." "i couldn't help that." "yes, you could. couldn't help lying?" "what could i do? you would have gone right back and told my father." "well, we will go up to mr. bayard's store, and then we will see what can be done." "i couldn't stay at home, sure," continued tom, as they walked along together. "my father even talked of binding me out to a trade." "did he?" bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view. "what are you stopping for, bob?" "i think you had better go back, tom." "not i; i won't do that, whatever happens." "if your father will put you to a trade, what more do you want?" "i won't go to a trade, anyhow." bobby said no more, but determined to consult with mr. bayard about the matter; and tom was soon too busily engaged in observing the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of anything else. when they reached the store, bobby went into mr. bayard's private office and told him all about the affair. the bookseller decided that tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to bobby all the more just because he knew that tom's mother, though a drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. mr. bayard further decided that bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey. he also considered it his duty to write to mr. spicer, informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing bobby from any agency in his escape. while mr. bayard was writing the letter, bobby went out to give tom the result of the consultation. the runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed. but bobby, though he would gladly have done anything for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused to have anything to do with him until he obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother's consent. tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger." his bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and bobby could not but feel sorry for him. duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done "now or never." during the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey. he must take the steamer that evening for bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by mr. bayard and ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. the bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded. the last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn. our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed anything bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position. he seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer. how powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution. when he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery. after all, there was something rather comical in the affair. the steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water. then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. but the wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast. he had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people in riverdale were about. "all them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell. "i have just settled," said bobby, alluding to his comfortable seat. but the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he thought himself insulted. he did not appear to be a very amiable boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence. "i didn't say anything that need offend you," replied bobby. "i meant nothing." "you lie! you did!" he was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly floored him. some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant. "strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck the blow. "tom spicer!" exclaimed bobby, astonished and chagrined at the presence of the runaway. chapter xvi in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good" a gentleman, who was sitting near bobby when he made the remark which the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame, and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if tom's zeal had been properly directed. as it was, the waiter retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant. "how came you here, tom?" asked bobby, when the excitement had subsided. "you don't get rid of me so easily," replied tom, laughing. bobby called to mind the old adage that "a bad penny is sure to return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have said it. "i didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly knowing what to say or do. "i suppose not; but as i didn't mean you should expect me, i kept out of sight. only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so soon. i like you, bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me, and i wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you." "you only made matters worse." "that is all the thanks i get for hitting him for you." "i am sorry you hit him; at the same time i suppose you meant to do me a service, and i thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions." "that sounds better. i meant well, bob." "i dare say you did. but how came you here?" "why, you see, i was bound to go with you anyhow or at least to keep within hail of you. you told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after i left the shop, what should i see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall. it said. 'bath, gardiner, and hallowell,' on the bill; and i knew that was where you meant to go. so this afternoon i hunts round and finds the steamboat. i thought i never should have found it; but here i am." "what are you going to do?" "going into the book business," replied tom, with a smile. "where are your books?" "down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it." "where did you get them?" "bought 'em, of course." "did you? where?" "well, i don't remember the name of the street now. i could go right there if i was in the city, though." "would they trust you?" tom hesitated. the lies he had told that morning had done him no good--had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance. "i paid part down, and they trusted me part." "how many books you got?" "twenty dollars' worth. i paid eight dollars down." "you did? where did you get the eight dollars?" bobby remembered the money tom's father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum. tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer. "my mother gave it to me." "your mother?" "yes, _sir_!" replied tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying. "but you ran away from home." "that's so; but my mother knew i was coming." "did she?" "to be sure she did." "you didn't say so before." "i can't tell all i know in a minute." "if i thought your mother consented to your coming, i wouldn't say another word." "well, she did; you may bet your life on that." "and your mother gave you ten dollars?" "who said she gave me _ten_ dollars?" asked tom, a little sharply. that was just the sum his father had lost, and bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion. "you must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books. your fare to boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more." "i know that; but look here, bob;" and tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "she gave me thirteen dollars." notwithstanding this argument, bobby felt almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part of his capital. "i will tell you my story now, bob, if you like. you condemned me without a hearing, as jim guthrie said when they sent him to the house of correction for getting drunk." "go ahead." the substance of tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer. his father and mother did not agree, as any one might have suspected. his mother, encouraged by the success of bobby, thought that tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the money to buy his stock of books. bobby had not much confidence in this story. he had been deceived once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's consent. but tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and meant to do well. he declared, by all that was good and great, bobby should never have reason to be ashamed of him. our little merchant was troubled. he could not now get rid of tom without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. he did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the latter. besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father would forgive him. one thing was certain; if he returned to riverdale he would be what he had been before. for these reasons bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not behave himself, he would leave him at once. before morning he had another reason. when the steamer got out into the open bay, bobby was seasick. he retired to his berth with a dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the midst of his brains. he had never felt so ill before in his life, and was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere seasickness ailed him. he told tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the cabin, and was very sure that bobby would die before morning, if we may judge by the fuss he made. the captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to throw tom overboard if he didn't stop his noise. the steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but he promised to do something for his relief, and tom went with him to his state room for the desired remedy. the potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy, which bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent spirits, at first refused to take. then tom argued the point, and the sick boy yielded. the dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his relief, and in a little while he felt better. tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. the boat pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that bobby did not sleep long, and when he woke he found tom ready to assist him. but our hero felt better, and entreated tom to go to sleep again. he made the best of his unpleasant situation. sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of riverdale and the dear ones there. his mother was asleep, and annie was asleep; that was about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. he could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle building do not agree. the gold and purple clouds would be black in spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy sea. as often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick. he went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. when he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that he had got out of that scrape. but before he could dress himself, he heard a terrible racket on deck. the steam whistle was shrieking, the bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. it was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen. then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. tom was not there; he had gone on deck. bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful thing a wreck was, when tom appeared. "what's the matter?" asked bobby, with some appearance of alarm. "fog," replied tom. "it is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet." "is that all?" "that's enough." "where are we?" "that is just what the pilot would like to know. they can't see ahead a bit, and don't know where we are." bobby went on deck. the ocean rolled beneath them, but there was nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. the lead was heaved every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to let go the anchor. there they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not "lift." hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few hours' time. after breakfast, the passengers began to display their uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names, because he would not go on. almost everybody grumbled, and made themselves miserable. "nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his sensation of _ennui_. "nothing to read, eh?" thought bobby. "we will soon supply that want." calling tom, they went down to the main deck where the baggage had been placed. "now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books. "now or never." "i am with you," replied tom, catching the idea. the books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with bobby's assistance he soon got at them. "buy 'the wayfarer,'" said bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "best book of the season; only one dollar." "that i will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "i would give five dollars for anything, if it were only the 'comic almanac.'" others were of the same mind. there was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of "the wayfarer." tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock. the fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours and driving away that dreadful _ennui_ which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer. about the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at bath. chapter xvii in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. they then proceeded to brunswick, where their success was equally flattering. thus far tom had done very well, though bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. he would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when bobby checked him, he promised to do better. at brunswick tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. this money seemed to burn in his pocket. he had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as bobby did, careful to save every penny he could. "come, bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride--what do you say?" proposed tom, on the day he finished selling his books. "i can't spare the time or the money," replied bobby, decidedly. "what is the use of having money if we can't spend it? it is a first rate day, and we should have a good time." "i can't afford it. i have a great many books to sell." "about a hundred; you can sell them fast enough." "i don't spend my money foolishly." "it wouldn't be foolishly. i have sold out, and i am bound to have a little fun now." "you never will succeed if you do business in that way." "why not?" "you will spend your money as fast as you get it." "pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. that is not much." "considerable, i should say. but if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. i make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if i don't begin, i shall never do it." "i don't mean to spend all i get; only a little now and then," persisted tom. "don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. besides, when i have any money to spare, i mean to buy books with it for my library." "humbug! your library!" "yes, my library; i mean to have a library one of these days." "i don't want any library, and i mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, i shall go alone--that's all." "you can do as you please, of course; but i advise you to keep your money. you will want it to buy another stock of books." "i shall have enough for that. what do you say? will you go with me or not?" "no, i will not." "enough said; then i shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me." "consider well before you go," pleaded bobby, who had sense enough to see that tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out. he then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. what he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin. "to-day i am going to send one hundred dollars to mr. bayard," continued bobby; "for i am afraid to have so much money with me. i advise you to send your money to your employer." "humph! catch me doing that! i am bound to have a good time, anyhow." "at least, send the money you owe him." "i'll bet i won't." "well, do as you please; i have said all i have to say." "you are a fool, bob!" exclaimed tom, who had evidently used bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him. "perhaps i am; but i know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. if you will go, i can't help it. i am sorry you are going astray." "what do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said tom, angrily. this was tom spicer, the bully. it sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him. "we had better part now," added our hero, sadly. "i'm willing." "i shall leave brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. i hope no harm will befall you. good by, tom." "go it! i have heard your preaching about long enough, and i am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me." bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while tom made his way towards a livery stable. the boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride. our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to mr. bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with tom spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. at the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter. he felt sad about tom. the runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. but if he meant to be wild again,--for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"--it was well that they should part. by the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. his usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as squire lee had declared they would be. his pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from demosthenes down to the present day. our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at augusta. he had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to mr. bayard. it was wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day. he had heard nothing from tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him--and this time it was indeed a misfortune. "hallo, bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations. "ah, tom, i didn't expect to see you again," replied bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion. "i suppose not; but here i am, as good as new. have you sold out?" "no, not quite." "how many have you left?" "about twenty; but i thought, tom, you would have returned to boston before this time." "no;" and tom did not seem to be in very good spirits. "where are you going now?" "i don't know. i ought to have taken your advice, bobby." this was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion--as who does not when the erring confess their faults? "i am sorry you did not." "i got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to brunswick," continued tom, rather sheepishly. "and spent all your money," added bobby, who could readily understand the reason why tom had put on his humility again. "not all." "how much have you left?" "not much," replied he, evasively. "i don't know what i shall do. i am in a strange place, and have no friends." bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity. "i will stick by you this time, bob, come what will. i will do just as you say, now." our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. he did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made tom so humble. he was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. he could not desert him now he was in difficulty. "you shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to boston together. have you money enough left to pay your employer?" tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind. "i don't know how it will be after i have paid my expenses to boston," he replied, averting his face. bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season. "now, tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and i will take those upon this side. you shall have the profits on all you sell." "you are a first rate fellow, bob; and i only wish i had done as you wanted me to do." "can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house. tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "the wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. how glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the state of maine! wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful kennebec! poor bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him. as he walked along, thinking of riverdale and its loved ones, tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book. "here, bob, is a ten dollar bill. i believe i have sold ten books for you," said tom, after they had walked some distance. "you had better keep the money now; and while i think of it, you had better take what i have left of my former sales;" and tom handed him another ten dollar bill. bobby noticed that tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank. "then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill. "about that;" and tom glanced uneasily behind him. "what is the matter with you, tom?" asked bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment. "nothing, bob; let us walk a little faster. we had better turn up this street," continued tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated. bobby began to fear that tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. tom perceived them at the same moment. "run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn. bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him. "grab him," said one of them, "and i will catch the other." the man collared bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which tom had sold his last book. "what do you mean by this?" asked bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected. "we have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold. no sooner was the grasp of the man removed, than bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. but his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. to make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop. in a few moments the other man returned, dragging tom in triumph after him. by this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store. bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could. "i should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly. the crowd laughed in derision. "this is the chap that stole the wallet, i will be bound," said one, pointing to tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate. "he is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper. "_i_ haven't stole any wallet," protested bobby, who now understood the whole affair. the names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. they were searched, and upon tom was found the lost wallet, and upon bobby two ten dollar bills, which the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. the evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail. poor bobby! the inmate of a prison! the law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the state reform school. bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. he had been the companion of tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune. at the end of three days they reached the town in which the reform school is located, and were duly committed for their long term. poor bobby! chapter xviii in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods the intelligence of bobby's misfortune reached mr. bayard, in boston, by means of the newspapers. to the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the state of maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." the reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. it was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. it was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. the paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers. the writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. no doubt he believed bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. but, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article. mr. bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. he understood the case at a glance. tom spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. he was sure that bobby had had no part in stealing the money. one so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. it was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense. he was very much disturbed. this intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. he was confident that bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of tom spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. he was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation. squire lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. he immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect bobby's liberation. the squire was even more confident than mr. bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. they agreed to proceed immediately to the state of maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. the bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in maine as in massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in boston to the governor and other official persons in maine. we will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the reform school, where bobby and tom were confined. the latter took the matter very coolly. he seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing bobby the companion of his captivity. he even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. he was satisfied. "you know i didn't steal the money, or have anything to do with it," said bobby. "some of it was found upon you, though," sneered tom, maliciously. "you know how it came there, if no one else does." "of course i do; but i like your company too well to get rid of you so easy." "the lord is with the innocent," replied bobby; "and something tells me that i shall not stay in this place a great while." "going to run away?" asked tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look. "i know i am innocent of any crime; and i know that the lord will not let me stay here a great while." "what do you mean to do, bob?" bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. he had a purpose in view. his innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. he prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. he felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. he was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity. knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. he had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. but now his clothes would be changed. he thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall. it so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. after his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. he was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. no officer was with them, and bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions. "not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply. "i should think the fellows would clear out." "not so easy a matter. there is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway." "they must catch him first." "no fellow ever got away yet. they always caught him before he got ten miles from the place." this was an important suggestion to bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design. in his conversation with the boys, he obtained the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. he perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake. a short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun. he carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity which would aid him in his flight. the boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. they seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel. bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. he was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm. one afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. this was a disagreeable announcement; for bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. but about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity. "now or never!" said bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "now's my time." as he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. after he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. his heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. annie lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief. he had been four days an inmate of the reform school, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. he had not for a moment despaired of getting away. he reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. the night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. a certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it. he walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. there was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. he could not understand it. he had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before. he walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the state reform school. he had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it. bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again. "now or never!" muttered he. "it will never do to give it up so." for an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water. the sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired he did not feel able to walk any more. he deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. he needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet. bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. his comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. after finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the great guardian above, he lay down to rest. the owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest. he could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. he thought of a thousand things, but he could not _think_ himself to sleep, as he was wont to do. at last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept. chapter xix in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens. bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. for a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. he felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. he was bobby bright--but bobby bright in trouble. he was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed. it did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. his first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. he could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. it was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. his only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it. following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. he had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. if any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured. this was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. he had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began to feel faint for the want of food. on the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance. his heart beat with apprehension. perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. at any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the reform school, and who had probably heard of his escape. as it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. how he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious gingerbread he carried in his cart! hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. he had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. the wagon was close at hand. "now or never," thought he; but this time it was not _now_. the risk was too great. if he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while. "now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him. he waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. the danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. he was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. but then a new difficulty presented itself. there was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. he was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. what should he do? it was a trying moment. if he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. if he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him. he chose the latter course. the instinct of his being was to do everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision. "good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man. "good morning. where are you travelling?" this was a hard question. he did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie. "down here a piece," he replied. "travelled far to-day?" "not far. good morning, sir;" and bobby resumed his walk. "i say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot. "i can hardly tell you," replied bobby, summoning courage for the occasion. "well, i suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile. bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the reform school. that smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. but the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it. "i am in a hurry, so i shall have to leave you." "not just yet, young man. perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly. there was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace. "excuse me, sir, but i can't stop to talk now." "in a hurry? well, i dare say you are. i suppose there is no doubt but you are master robert bright." "not the least, sir; i haven't denied it yet, and i am not ashamed of my name," replied bobby, with a good deal of spirit. "that's honest; i like that." "'honesty is the best policy,'" added bobby. "that's cool for a rogue, anyhow. you ought to thought of that afore." "i did." "and stole the money?" "i didn't. i never stole a penny in my life." "come, i like that." "it is the truth." "but they won't believe it over to the reform school," laughed the man. "they will one of these days, perhaps." "you are a smart youngster; but i don't know as i can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from." "yes, you can," replied bobby, promptly. "can i?" "yes." "how?" "by letting me go." "eh; you talk flush. i suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the kennebec dries up." "cash on the nail," replied bobby. "you look like a man with a heart in your bosom,"--bobby stole this passage from "the wayfarer." "i reckon i have. the time hasn't come yet when sam ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. but to help a thief off----" "we will argue that matter," interposed bobby. "i can prove to you beyond a doubt that i am innocent of the crime charged upon me." "you don't look like a bad boy, i must say." "but, mr. ray, i'm hungry; i haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon." "thunder! you don't say so!" exclaimed sam ray. "i never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards." sam ray took bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature. "now, mr. ray, let me tell you my story," said bobby. "i don't know as it's any use. now you have eat my bread and butter, i don't feel like being mean to you. if anybody else wants to carry you back, they may; i won't." "but you shall hear me;" and bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale." when he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. sam looked out of the window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes. "by thunder! it's the reform school wagon!" exclaimed he. "this way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed. the carriage stopped at the house; but sam evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent--for it was he--proceeded on his search. "heaven bless you, mr. ray!" exclaimed bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. "o, you will find sam ray all right," said he, warmly pressing bobby's proffered hand. "i ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so." "you are an angel!" "not exactly," laughed sam. our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. sam ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw tom spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake. "now, sonny, i like you; i will be sworn you are a good fellow; and i mean to help you off. so just come along with me. i make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. you see, i have got a good boat down the creek, and i shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go." "may heaven reward you!" cried bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness. "o, i don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man--and i am dead sure you will be a great man--just think now and then of sam ray, and it's all right." "i shall remember you with gratitude as long as i live." sam ray took his gun on his shoulder, and bobby the box of provisions which mrs. ray had put up, and they left the house. at the bridge they got into a little skiff, and sam took the oars. after they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, bobby felt secure from further molestation. sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner. "now, my hearty, nothing short of uncle sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner. "you have been very kind to me." "all right, sonny. now tumble aboard." bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings. in a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft. "now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean. "i don't know," replied bobby. "i want to get back to boston." "perhaps i can put you aboard of some coaster bound there." "that will do nicely." "i will head towards boston, and if i don't overhaul anything, i will take you there myself." "is this boat big enough to go so far?" "she'll stand anything short of a west india hurricane. you ain't afeard, are you?" "o, no; i like it." the big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. bobby had unlimited confidence in sam ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." there was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys. they ate their dinners from the provision box; sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend. they were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on. "now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night." "i am not sleepy; but there is one thing i will do;" and bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills. "put them up, sonny," said sam. "i want to make you a present of ten dollars." "you can't do it." "nay, but to please me." "no, sir!" "well, then, let me send it to your good wife." "you can't do that, nuther," replied sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him. "you must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and i insist upon making it up to you." "you can't do it." "i shall feel bad if you don't take it. you see i have twenty dollars here, and i would like to give you the whole of it." "not a cent, sonny. i ain't a heathen. that schooner ahead is bound for boston, i reckon." "i shall be sorry to part with you, mr. ray." "just my sentiment. i hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that i took a fancy to, and i hate to let you go." "we shall meet again." "i hope so." "please to take this money." "no;" and sam shook his head so resolutely that bobby gave up the point. as sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to boston. her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend. "good by, mr. ray," said bobby, as the schooner filled away. "take this to remember me by." it was his jackknife; but sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it. bobby did not cease to wave his hat to sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness. chapter xx in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again fortunately for bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. he was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor he made himself useful to the best of his ability. though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with sam ray that the schooner arrived off boston light. the captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel. "thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said bobby. "none at all. we must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do." "i should be very glad to get up this morning." "you shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat. "i will pay my passage now, if you please." "that is paid." "paid?" "i should say you had worked your passage. you have done very well, and i shall not charge you anything." "i expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think i have done enough to pay it, why i have nothing to say, only that i am very much obliged to you." "you ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one." "i like the sea, though i never saw it till a few weeks since. but i suppose my mother would not let me go to sea." "i suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water." by this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in boston. with a beating heart he made his way up into washington street. he felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. he could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in riverdale. how his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! no; she never could have thought that. _she_ knew he would not steal, if no one else did. and annie lee--would she ever smile upon him again? would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? he could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. would not mr. bayard frown upon him? would not even ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her? bobby had thought of all these things before--on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on board the schooner. but now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him. "i am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need i fear? my good father in heaven will not let me be wronged." yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of mr. bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. he could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him. "now or never," said he, as he turned round. "i will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it." mustering all his courage, he entered the store. mr. timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him. "hallo, bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit. "good morning, mr. bigelow," replied bobby with as much boldness as he could command. "i didn't know as i should ever see you again. you have been gone a long while." "longer than usual," answered bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "is mr. bayard in?" "he is--in his office." bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. mr. bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. with his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. he almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point. "mr. bayard," said he, in faltering tones. "bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame. grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, bobby would have thought it hurt him. he did not think so now. "my poor bobby! i am delighted to see you!" continued mr. bayard. bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. the unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him. "don't cry, bobby; i know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "it was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now." but bobby could not help crying, and the more mr. bayard attempted to console him, the more he wept. "i am innocent, mr. bayard," he sobbed. "i know you are, bobby; and all the world knows you are." "i am ruined now; i shall never dare to hold my head up again." "nonsense, bobby; you will hold your head the higher. you have behaved like a hero." "i ran away from the state reform school, sir. i was innocent, and i would rather have died than stayed there." "i know all about it, my young friend. now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over." bobby blew and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by mr. bayard's side. the bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero. "do you see this, bobby? it is your free and unconditional pardon." "sir! why----" "it will all end well, you may depend." bobby was amazed. his pardon? but it would not restore his former good name. he felt that he was branded as a felon. it was not mercy, but justice, that he wanted. "truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued mr. bayard; "and this document restores your reputation." "i can hardly believe that." "can't you? hear my story then. when i read in one of the maine papers the account of your misfortune, i felt that you had been grossly wronged. you were coupled with that tom spicer, who is the most consummate little villain i ever saw, and i understood your situation. ah, bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow." "i left him at brunswick because he began to behave badly; but he joined me again at augusta. he had spent nearly all his money, and did not know what to do. i pitied him, and meant to do something to help him out of the scrape." "generous as ever! i have heard all about this before." "indeed; who told you?" "tom spicer himself." "tom?" asked bobby, completely mystified. "yes, tom; you see, when i heard about your trouble, squire lee and myself----" "squire lee? does he know about it?" "he does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of you than ever before. he and i immediately went down to augusta to inquire into the matter. we called upon the governor of the state, who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you." "of me!" exclaimed bobby, startled to think he had sold a book to a governor. "yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he was the chief magistrate of the state. at any rate, he was very much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. well, we followed your route to brunswick, where we ascertained how tom had conducted. in a week he established a very bad reputation there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. the squire testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your devotion to your mother. in short, we procured your pardon, and hastened with it to the state reform school. "on our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening. every effort was made to retake you, but without success. ah, bobby, you managed that well." "they didn't look in the right place," replied bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel happy again. "by the permission of the superintendent, squire lee and myself examined tom spicer. he is a great rascal. perhaps he thought we would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing about it. he gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in the crime. we wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before a justice of the peace. you shall read it by and by." "may heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!" exclaimed bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "i did not deserve so much from you, mr. bayard." "yes, you did, and a thousand times more. i was very sorry you had left the institution, and i waited in the vicinity till they said there was no probability that you would be captured. the most extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a person to be found who had seen or heard of you. i was very much alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any information concerning you." "i am sorry you had so much trouble. i wish i had known you were there." "how did you get off?" bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and mr. bayard pronounced his skill worthy of his genius. "sam ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the bookseller, when he had finished. "i shall remember him; and only that i shall be afraid to go into the state of maine after what has happened, i should pay him a visit one of these days." "there you are wrong. those who know your story would sooner think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing anything to injure your feelings. those who have suffered unjustly are always lionized." "but no one will know my story, only that i was sent to prison for stealing." "there you are mistaken again. we put articles in all the principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing your innocence beyond a peradventure. go to augusta now, bobby, and you will be a lion." "i am sure i had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily as this." "innocence shall triumph, my young friend." "what does mother say?" asked bobby, his countenance growing sad. "i do not know. we returned from maine only yesterday; but squire lee will satisfy her. all that can worry her, as it has worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of your escape." "i will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. i will take the noon train home." "a word about business before you go. i discharged timmins about a week ago, and i have kept his place for you." "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, thrown completely out of his propriety by this announcement. "i think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to travel about the country. i was talking with ellen about it, and she says it shall be so. timmins's salary was five hundred dollars a year, and you shall have the same." "five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated bobby, amazed at the vastness of the sum. "very well for a boy of thirteen, bobby." "i was fourteen last sunday, sir." "i would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it, and you shall have it." probably mr. bayard's gratitude had something to do with this munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and energy far beyond his years. he further informed bobby that he should have a room at his house, and that ellen was delighted with the arrangement he proposed. the gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the midst of his rejoicing he remembered that his own integrity had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. he had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns. he was happy--very happy. what made him so? not his dawning prosperity; not the favor of mr. bayard; not the handsome salary he was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross if he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness. he had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. he had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to principle made a heaven within his heart. it was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new situation on the following week. after settling with mr. bayard, he found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was perfectly satisfactory. by the noon train he departed for riverdale, and in two hours more he was folded to his mother's heart. mrs. bright wept for joy now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's misfortune. it took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, and she was almost beside herself when bobby told her about his new situation. after tea he hastened over to squire lee's; and my young readers can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter. for the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east; and annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever read. perhaps it was because bobby was the hero. it was nearly ten o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire made him promise to come over the next day. chapter xxi in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never" the few days which bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. his plans for the future, too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams. i have before hinted that bobby was addicted to castle building, and i should pity the man or boy who was not--who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "as a man thinketh, so is he," the psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it. what a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain. even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. it fires his brain, it nerves his arm. it stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress. we must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. what napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of europe trembled before him. what howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity. bobby dreamed great things. that bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before mrs. bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot. "now or never," replied bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "this is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if i can make it so." then he had to dream about his business in boston and i am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like mr. bayard, living in an elegant house in chestnut street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them. a great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." it will never come to them. they are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success. bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor. he spent a liberal share of his time at squire lee's, where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's house. annie read moore's poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself. in connection with tom spicer's continued absence, which had to be explained, bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the consequence was, that he became a lion in riverdale. the minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of hearing his story; but bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. he had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was anything but pleasant to him. on monday morning he took the early train for boston, and assumed the duties of his situation in mr. bayard's store. but as i have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, i cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. he applied himself with all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. early in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post. mr. bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the instruction he required. his intelligence and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of him. by the advice of mr. bayard, he attended an evening school for six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. he took dr. franklin for his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man. every saturday night he went home to riverdale to spend the sabbath with his mother. the little black house no longer existed, for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. his mother, after a couple of years, at bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six hundred dollars. his kind employer boarded him for nothing (much against bobby's will, i must say), so that every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses. * * * * * eight years have passed by since bobby--we beg his pardon, he is now mr. robert bright--entered the store of mr. bayard. he has passed from the boy to the man. over the street door a new sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,-- bayard & bright, booksellers and publishers. the senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. mr. bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though everything is directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city. his integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. the man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his friends, and true to his god. mrs. bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in herself and happy in her children. bobby--we mean mr. bright--has hardly missed going to riverdale on a saturday night since he left home, eight years before. he has the same partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when he comes home. of course squire lee and annie were always glad to see him when he came to riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in riverdale that our hero did not go home on sunday evening when the clock struck nine. but as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go with us to mr. bayard's house in chestnut street. what! annie lee here? no; but as you are here, allow me to introduce mrs. robert bright. they were married a few months before, and mr. bayard insisted that the happy couple should make their home at his house. but where is ellen bayard? o, she is mrs. bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large book establishment in new york. bobby's dream had been realized, and he was the happiest man in the world--at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. he had been successful in business; his wife--the friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had woven--had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises. he had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success--not his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. these were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success. he had made himself a man,--this was his real success,--a true, a christian man. he had lived a noble life. he had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation--principle. it is the rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move. robert bright is happy because he is good. tom spicer, now in the state prison, is unhappy,--not _because_ he is in the state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of his soul. he has fed the good that was within him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. he is a body only; the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. he loves no one, and no one loves him. during the past summer, mr. bright and his lady took a journey "down east." annie insisted upon visiting the state reform school; and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on that eventful night. afterwards they called upon sam ray, who had been "dead sure that bobby would one day be a great man." he was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced himself. they spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his departure, mr. bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate manner that he could not help accepting it. squire lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy as when annie and her husband come to riverdale to spend the sabbath. he is fully of the opinion that mr. bright is the greatest man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he should be elected president of the united states one of these days. the little merchant is a great merchant now. but more than this, he is a good man. he has formed his character, and he will probably die as he has lived. reader, if you have any good work to do, do it now; for with you it may be "now or never." [illustration: by england's aid by g. a. henty] the famous henty books the boys' own library mo, cloth g. a. henty has long held the field as the most popular boys' author. age after age of heroic deeds has been the subject of his pen, and the knights of old seem very real in his pages. always wholesome and manly, always heroic and of high ideals, his books are more than popular wherever the english language is spoken. each volume is printed on excellent paper from new large-type plates, bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an attractive ink and gold stamp. _price cents._ _a final reckoning_ a tale of bush life in australia _by england's aid_ the freeing of the netherlands _by right of conquest_ a tale of cortez in mexico _bravest of the brave_ a tale of peterborough in spain _by pike and dyke_ the rise of the dutch republic _by sheer pluck_ a tale of the ashantee war _bonnie prince charlie_ a tale of fontenoy and culloden _captain bayley's heir_ a tale of the gold fields of california _cat of bubastes_ a story of ancient egypt _cornet of horse_ a tale of marlborough's wars _facing death_ a tale of the coal mines _friends, though divided_ a tale of the civil war in england _for name and fame_ a tale of afghan warfare _for the temple_ a tale of the fall of jerusalem _in freedom's cause_ a story of wallace and bruce _in the reign of terror_ the adventures of a westminster boy _in times of peril_ a tale of india _jack archer_ a tale of the crimea _lion of st. mark_ a tale of venice in the xiv. century _lion of the north_ a tale of gustavus adolphus _maori and settler_ a tale of the new zealand war _orange and green_ a tale of the boyne and limerick _one of the th_ a tale of waterloo _out on the pampas_ a tale of south america _st. george for england_ a tale of crécy and poietiers _true to the old flag_ a tale of the revolution _the young colonists_ a tale of the zulu and boer wars _the dragon and the raven_ a tale of king alfred _the boy knight_ a tale of the crusades _through the fray_ a story of the luddite riots _under drake's flag_ a tale of the spanish main _with wolfe in canada_ the tale of winning a continent _with clive in india_ the beginning of an empire _with lee in virginia_ a story of the american civil war _young carthaginian_ a story of the times of hannibal _young buglers_ a tale of the peninsular war _young franc-tireurs_ a tale of the franco-prussian war the mershon company fifth avenue, new york rahway, n. j. flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill _three volumes, illustrated, bound in cloth, with a very attractive cover, price $ . per volume_ _when santiago fell; or, the war adventures of two chums_ captain bonehill has never penned a better tale than this stirring story of adventures in cuba. two boys, an american and his cuban chum, leave new york to join their parents in the interior of cuba. the war between spain and the cubans is on, and the boys are detained at santiago de cuba, but escape by crossing the bay at night. many adventures between the lines follow, and a good pen picture of general garcia is given. the american lad, with others, is captured and cast into a dungeon in santiago; and then follows the never-to-be-forgotten campaign in cuba under general shafter. how the hero finally escapes makes reading no wide-awake boy will want to miss. _a sailor boy with dewey; or, afloat in the philippines_ the story of dewey's victory in manila bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form--not as those in command witnessed the contest, but as it appeared to a real, live american youth who was in the navy at the time. many adventures in manila and in the interior follow, giving true-to-life scenes from this remote portion of the globe. a book that should be in every boy's library. _off for hawaii; or, the mystery of a great volcano_ here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. several boys start on a tour of the hawaiian islands. they have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest. _press opinions of captain bonehill's books for boys_ "captain bonehill's stories will always be popular with our boys, for the reason that they are thoroughly up-to-date and true to life. as a writer of outdoor tales he has no rival."--_bright days_. "the story is by captain ralph bonehill, and that is all that need be said about it, for all of our readers know that the captain is one of america's best story-tellers, so far as stories for young people go."--_young people of america_. "the story is excellently told, and will please any intelligent boy into whose hands it may fall."--_charleston (s. c.) news_. "we understand that captain bonehill will soon be turning from sporting stories to tales of the war. this field is one in which he should feel thoroughly at home. we are certain that the boys will look eagerly for the bonehill war tales."--_weekly messenger_. the mershon company fifth avenue, new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] mrs. l. t. meade's famous books for girls there are few more favorite authors with american girls than mrs. l. t. meade, whose copyright works can only be had from us. essentially a writer for the home, with the loftiest aims and purest sentiments, mrs. meade's books possess the merit of utility as well as the means of amusement. they are girls' books--written for girls, and fitted for every home. here will be found no maudlin nonsense as to the affections. there are no counts in disguise nor castles in spain. it is pure and wholesome literature of a high order with a lofty ideal. the volumes are all copyright, excellently printed with clear, open type, uniformly bound in best cloth, with ink and gold stamp. mo, price $ . . the following are the titles the children of wilton chase bashful fifteen betty: a schoolgirl four on an island girls new and old out of the fashion the palace beautiful polly, a new-fashioned girl red rose and tiger lily a ring of rubies a sweet girl graduate a world of girls good luck a girl in ten thousand a young mutineer wild kitty the children's pilgrimage the girls of st. wode's the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] edward s. ellis popular boys' books mo, cloth purely american in scene, plot, motives, and characters, the copyright works of edward s. ellis have been deservedly popular with the youth of america. in a community where every native-born boy can aspire to the highest offices, such a book as ellis' "from the throttle to the president's chair," detailing the progress of the sturdy son of the people from locomotive engigineer to the presidency of a great railroad, must always be popular. the youth of the land which boasts of a vanderbilt will ever desire such books, and naturally will desire stories of their native land before wandering over foreign climes. the volumes of this series are all copyright, printed from large, new type, on good paper, and are handsomely bound in cloth, stamped with appropriate designs. price $ . . the following comprise the titles down the mississippi from the throttle to the president's chair up the tapajos tad; or, "getting even" with him lost in samoa lost in the wilds red plume a waif of the mountains the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] the famous andrew lang fairy books the blue, red, green, and yellow fairy books never were there more popular books of fairy tales than these famous collections made by andrew lang. at his able hands the romantic literature of the world has been laid under contribution. the folk-lore of ireland, the romance of the rhine, and the wild legends of the west coast of scotland, with all the glamour and mystery of the scottish border, have contributed to this famous series of fairy tales. here are the tales that have delighted generations of children, some culled from old english versions of the eighteenth century, some modernized from quaint chap-books, and all handsomely and modernly illustrated. with the aid of a scholar such as mr. lang, the entire world has contributed to this famous series. there is material here for years of delight for children. each volume is profusely illustrated, printed on velvet-finished paper, bound in cloth, with a very attractive stamp in ink and gold. small mo, price cents. these books should be read in the following order: , the blue fairy book; , the red fairy book; , the green fairy book; , the yellow fairy book. the blue fairy book the red fairy book the green fairy book the yellow fairy book the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. "masterpieces of the world's literature" the premium library is extensively used by schools and colleges for supplementary reading. it is issued in attractive mo shape, paper covers, printed from clear, readable type, on good paper. many of the volumes are illustrated. they are published at the low price of _ten cents_ each, or books for one dollar. postage paid. special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities. . abbé constantin. ludovic halévy. . Ã�sop's fables. . black beauty. anna sewell. . bracebridge hall. irving. . childe harold's pilgrimage. byron. . coming race. bulwer. . cranford. mrs. gaskell. . crown of wild olive. ruskin. . discourses of epictetus. . dreams. olive schreiner. . dream life. ik marvel. . drummond's addresses. . emerson's earlier essays. . ethics of the dust. ruskin. . frankenstein. mrs. shelley. . uncle tom's cabin. mrs. stowe. . lady of the lake. scott. . lalla rookh. thomas moore. . lamb's essays of elia. . lamb's last essays of elia. . lamb's tales from shakespeare, i. . lamb's tales from shakespeare, ii. . lays of ancient rome. macaulay. . lays of scottish cavaliers. . light of asia. sir e. arnold. . longfellow's poems. . lowell's poems. . mornings in florence. ruskin. . one of the profession. m. white, jr. . paul and virginia. b. st. pierre. . pleasures of life. sir j. lubbock. . poe's poems. . princess. tennyson. . queen of the air. ruskin. . rab and his friends. dr. j. brown. . rasselas. johnson. . reveries of a bachelor. ik marvel. . representative men. emerson. . sartor resartus. carlyle. . scarlet letter. hawthorne. . sesame and lilies. ruskin. . ships that pass in the night. beatrice harraden. . st. mark's rest. ruskin. . thoughts from marcus aurelius antoninus. . tillyloss scandal. j. m. barrie. . twice-told tales, i. hawthorne. . twice-told tales, ii. hawthorne. . in memoriam. tennyson. . vicar of wakefield. goldsmith. . whittier's poems. . autocrat of breakfast table. holmes. . heroes and hero worship. carlyle. . mosses from an old manse, i. hawthorne. . mosses from an old manse, ii. hawthorne. . autobiography of benjamin franklin. . song of hiawatha. longfellow. . evangeline, and poems. longfellow. . sketch book. irving. . stickit minister. s. r. crockett. . house of the seven gables. hawthorne. . poetical works of robt. browning. . paradise lost. milton. . hamlet. shakespeare. . julius cæsar. shakespeare. . book of golden deeds. yonge. . child's history of england. dickens. . confessions of an opium eater. de quincey. . ten nights in a barroom. arthur. . treasure island. stevenson. . tanglewood tales. hawthorne. all of the above titles can also be supplied in our famous standard series, handsomely bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an artistic design, at _fifteen cents_ per volume, postage paid. special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities. the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [transcriber's note: the spelling of "engigineer" in the advertising pages has been retained.] none the tale of two bad mice for =w. m. l. w.= the little girl who had the doll's house [illustration] the tale of two bad mice by beatrix potter _author of 'the tale of peter rabbit,' &c._ [illustration] london frederick warne and co. and new york [_all rights reserved_] copyright by frederick warne & co. entered at stationers' hall. [illustration] once upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's-house; it was red brick with white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a front door and a chimney. it belonged to two dolls called lucinda and jane; at least it belonged to lucinda, but she never ordered meals. jane was the cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinner had been bought ready-made, in a box full of shavings. [illustration] [illustration] there were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and some pears and oranges. they would not come off the plates, but they were extremely beautiful. one morning lucinda and jane had gone out for a drive in the doll's perambulator. there was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet. presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a corner near the fire-place, where there was a hole under the skirting-board. tom thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again. tom thumb was a mouse. [illustration] [illustration] a minute afterwards, hunca munca, his wife, put her head out, too; and when she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out on the oilcloth under the coal-box. the doll's-house stood at the other side of the fire-place. tom thumb and hunca munca went cautiously across the hearthrug. they pushed the front door--it was not fast. [illustration] [illustration] tom thumb and hunca munca went upstairs and peeped into the dining-room. then they squeaked with joy! such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! there were tin spoons, and lead knives and forks, and two dolly-chairs--all _so_ convenient! tom thumb set to work at once to carve the ham. it was a beautiful shiny yellow, streaked with red. the knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth. "it is not boiled enough; it is hard. you have a try, hunca munca." [illustration] [illustration] hunca munca stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with another lead knife. "it's as hard as the hams at the cheesemonger's," said hunca munca. the ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rolled under the table. "let it alone," said tom thumb; "give me some fish, hunca munca!" [illustration] [illustration] hunca munca tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to the dish. then tom thumb lost his temper. he put the ham in the middle of the floor, and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel--bang, bang, smash, smash! the ham flew all into pieces, for underneath the shiny paint it was made of nothing but plaster! then there was no end to the rage and disappointment of tom thumb and hunca munca. they broke up the pudding, the lobsters, the pears and the oranges. as the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hot crinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burn either. [illustration] [illustration] tom thumb went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top--there was no soot. while tom thumb was up the chimney, hunca munca had another disappointment. she found some tiny canisters upon the dresser, labelled--rice--coffee--sago--but when she turned them upside down, there was nothing inside except red and blue beads. [illustration] [illustration] then those mice set to work to do all the mischief they could--especially tom thumb! he took jane's clothes out of the chest of drawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of the top floor window. but hunca munca had a frugal mind. after pulling half the feathers out of lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of a feather bed. with tom thumb's assistance she carried the bolster downstairs, and across the hearth-rug. it was difficult to squeeze the bolster into the mouse-hole; but they managed it somehow. [illustration] [illustration] then hunca munca went back and fetched a chair, a book-case, a bird-cage, and several small odds and ends. the book-case and the bird-cage refused to go into the mouse-hole. hunca munca left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle. [illustration] [illustration] hunca munca was just returning with another chair, when suddenly there was a noise of talking outside upon the landing. the mice rushed back to their hole, and the dolls came into the nursery. what a sight met the eyes of jane and lucinda! lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared; and jane leant against the kitchen dresser and smiled--but neither of them made any remark. [illustration] [illustration] the book-case and the bird-cage were rescued from under the coal-box--but hunca munca has got the cradle, and some of lucinda's clothes. she also has some useful pots and pans, and several other things. [illustration] [illustration] the little girl that the doll's-house belonged to, said,--"i will get a doll dressed like a policeman!" but the nurse said,--"i will set a mouse-trap!" [illustration] so that is the story of the two bad mice,--but they were not so very very naughty after all, because tom thumb paid for everything he broke. he found a crooked sixpence under the hearthrug; and upon christmas eve, he and hunca munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of lucinda and jane. [illustration] [illustration] and very early every morning--before anybody is awake--hunca munca comes with her dust-pan and her broom to sweep the dollies' house! the end. printed by edmund evans, the racquet court press, london, s.e. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/strongsteadyorpa alge strong and steady * * * * * * horatio alger's successful juvenile books ragged dick series. _complete in six volumes._ tattered tom series. a continuation of the ragged dick series. _first series, in four volumes, now ready._ _second series, in four volumes, preparing._ luck and pluck series. _first series, in four volumes, now ready._ _second series, in four volumes, preparing._ campaign series. _complete in three volumes._ each volume is sold, separate. ragged dick series. _complete in six volumes--in a box._ i. ragged dick; or, street life in new york. ii. fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. iii. mark, the match boy. iv. rough and ready; or, life among new york newsboys. v. ben, the luggage boy; or, among the wharves. vi. rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. _price, $ . per volume._ _tattered tom series._ first series _in four volumes_--_in box_. i. tattered tom; or, the story of a street arab. ii. paul, the peddler; or, the adventures of a young street merchant. iii. phil, the fiddler; or, the young street musician. iv. slow and sure; or, from the sidewalk to the shop. _price, $ . per volume._ second series. i. julius; or, the street boy out west. ii. the young outlaw; a story of the street,--oct., ' . _luck and pluck series._ first series _in four volumes_--_in box_. i. luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. ii. sink or swim; or, harry raymond's resolve. iii. strong and steady; or, paddle your own canoe. iv. strive and succeed; or, the progress of walter conrad. _price, $ . per volume._ second series. i. try and trust; or, the story of a bound boy. ii. bound to rise; or, how harry walton rose in the world. iii. up the ladder; or harry walton's success, in oct, ' . _campaign series._ i. frank's campaign. ii. paul prescott's charge. iii. charlie codman's cruise. _price, $ . per volume._ * * * * * * [illustration] luck and pluck series. by horatio alger, jr. luck and pluck. strong and steady; or, paddle your own canoe. by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick series," "tattered tom series," "luck and pluck series," "campaign series," etc. loring, publisher, cor. bromfield and washington streets, boston. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by a. k. loring, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. stereotyped and printed by rockwell & churchill, boston. to my young friends, washington and jefferson, _in the hope that they may emulate the virtues of the distinguished men whose names they bear_, this volume is affectionately dedicated. preface. "strong and steady" is the third volume of the "luck and pluck series." though the story is quite distinct from its predecessors, it is intended to illustrate the same general principle. walter conrad, the hero, is unexpectedly reduced from affluence to poverty, and compelled to fight his own way in life. undaunted by misfortune, he makes up his mind to "paddle his own canoe," and, declining the offers of friends, sets to work with a resolute will and persistent energy, which command success in the end. hoping that walter's adventures may prove of interest to his young readers, and win the same favorable verdict which has been pronounced upon his previous books, the author takes his leave for the present, with many thanks for the generous welcome so often accorded to him. october , . contents chapter page i. the essex classical institute. ii. in the cars. iii. at home. iv. jacob drummond, of stapleton. v. jacob drummond�continued. vi. future plans. vii. mr. drummond's humble roof. viii. walter makes a revelation. ix. how mr. drummond took the news. x. mr. drummond's store. xi. joshua stirs up the wrong customer. xii. after the battle. xiii. the arrow and the pioneer. xiv. a brilliant scheme. xv. ways and means. xvi. joshua tries keeping store. xvii. joshua's disappointment. xviii. walter finds himself in hot water. xix. the tables are turned. xx. in which joshua comes to grief. xxi. a new acquaintance. xxii. messrs. flint and pusher. xxiii. walter loses his money. xxiv. slippery dick. xxv. a hard customer. xxvi. business experiences. xxvii. a cabin in the woods. xxviii. strange acquaintances. xxix. danger threatens. xxx. the robber walks into a trap. xxxi. walter's escape. xxxii. a strange hiding-place. xxxiii. walter shows strategy. xxxiv. deliverance. xxxv. the last of jack mangum. xxxvi. joshua bids good-by to stapleton. xxxvii. conclusion. strong and steady; or, paddle your own canoe. chapter i. the essex classical institute. "you've got a nice room here, walter." "yes, you know i am to stay here two years, and i might as well be comfortable." "it's ever so much better than my room--twice as big, to begin with. then, my carpet looks as if it had come down through several generations. i'll bet the old lady had it when she was first married. as for a mirror, i've got a seven-by-nine looking-glass that i have to look into twice before i can see my whole face. as for the bedstead, it creaks so when i jump into it that i expect every night it'll fall to pieces like the 'one hoss shay,' and spill me on the floor. now your room is splendidly furnished." "yes, it is now, but father furnished it at his own expense. he said he was willing to lay out a little money to make me comfortable." "that's more than my father said. he told me it wouldn't do me any harm to rough it." "i don't know but he is right," said walter. "of course i don't object to the new carpet and furniture,"--and he looked with pleasure at the handsome carpet with its bright tints, the black walnut bookcase with its glass doors, and the tasteful chamber furniture,--"but i shouldn't consider it any hardship if i had to rough it, as you call it." "wouldn't you? then i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll change rooms. you can go round and board at mrs. glenn's, and i'll come here. what do you say?" "i am not sure how my father would look on that arrangement," said walter, smiling. "i thought you'd find some way out," said lemuel. "for my part, i don't believe you'd fancy roughing it any better than i." "i don't know," said walter; "i've sometimes thought i shouldn't be very sorry to be a poor boy, and have to work my own way." "that's very well to say, considering you are the son of a rich man." "so are you." "yes, but i don't get the benefit of it, and you do. what would you do now if you were a poor boy?" "i can't say, of course, now, but i would go to work at something. i am sure i could earn my own living." "i suppose i could, but i shouldn't want to." "you're lazy, lem, that's what's the matter with you." "i know i am," said lemuel, good-naturedly. "some people are born lazy, don't you think so?" "perhaps you are right," answered walter, with a smile. "now suppose we open our cæsar." "i suppose we might as well. here's another speech. i wish those old fellows hadn't been so fond of speech-making. i like the accounts of battles well enough, but the speeches are a bother." "i like to puzzle them out, lem." "so don't i. how much have we got for a lesson?" "two sections." while the boys are at work reading these two sections, two-thirds of the work being done by walter, whose head is clearer and whose knowledge greater than his companion's, a little explanation shall be given, in order that we may better understand the position and prospects of the two boys introduced. of lemuel warner, it need only be said that he was a pleasant-looking boy of fourteen, the son of a prosperous merchant in new york. walter conrad was from a small inland town, where his father was the wealthiest and most prominent and influential citizen, having a handsome mansion-house, surrounded by extensive grounds. how rich he was, was a matter of conjecture; but he was generally rated as high as two hundred thousand dollars. mrs. conrad had been dead for five years, so that walter, who was an only child, had no immediate relation except his father. it was for this reason, perhaps, that he had been sent to the essex classical institute, of which we find him a member at the opening of our story. being a boy of talent, and well grounded in latin, he was easily able to take a high rank in his class. lemuel warner had become his intimate friend, being in the same class, but considerably inferior to him in scholarship. they usually got their latin lessons together, and it was owing to this circumstance that lemuel made a better figure in his recitations than before walter became a member of the school. "there, that job's done," said lemuel, closing his book with an air of satisfaction. "now we can rest." "you forget the latin exercise." "oh, bother the latin exercise! i don't see what's the use of writing latin any way. english composition is hard enough. what's to be done?" "you know the doctor expects each boy to write a letter in latin, addressed to his father, not less than twelve lines in length." "it isn't to be sent home, is it? mr. warner senior, i reckon, would stare a little when he got his. he wouldn't know latin from cherokee." "possibly your latin won't differ much from cherokee, lem." "what's the use of being sarcastic on a fellow, and hurting his feelings?" said lem, laughing in a way to show that his feelings were not very seriously hurt. "i say, couldn't one crib a little from cæsar?" "not very well, considering the doctor is slightly familiar with that author." "i wonder whether cæsar used to write home to his father when he was at boarding-school. if he did, i should like to get hold of some of his letters." "they would probably have to be altered considerably to adapt them to the present time." "well, give me a sheet of paper and i'll begin." the boys undertook their new task, and finished it by nine o'clock. i should be glad to furnish a copy of lemuel's letter, which was written with brilliant disregard of grammatical rules; but unfortunately the original, afterwards considerably revised in accordance with suggestions from walter, has not been preserved. "i've a great mind to send my letter home, walter," said lemuel. "father expects me to write home every week, and this would save me some trouble. besides, he'd think i was getting on famously, to write home in latin." "yes, if he didn't find out the mistakes." "that's the rub. he'd show it to the minister the first time he called, and then my blunders would be detected. i guess i'd better wait till it comes back from the doctor corrected." "i expect to hear from home to-morrow," said walter. "why to-morrow in particular? do you generally get letters thursday?" "no, my letters generally come on saturday, and i answer them sunday. but to-morrow is my birthday." "is it? let me be the first to congratulate you. how venerable will you be?" "as venerable as most boys of fifteen, lem." "you're three months older than i am, then. do you expect a present?" "i haven't thought much about it, but i don't believe father will forget me." "can't you guess what you are likely to get?" "i can guess, but i may not be right. father promised to give me a gold watch-chain some time. you know i have a gold watch already." "yes, and a regular little beauty." "so it wouldn't surprise me much to get a chain for a present." "you're a lucky boy. my watch is silver, and only cost twenty dollars." "i dare say i should be just as happy with a silver watch, lem." "i suppose you wouldn't like to buy, would you? if so, i'll give you the chance. a fair exchange is no robbery." "no, i suppose not; but it wouldn't do to exchange a gift." "perhaps, if my watch were gold and yours silver, you wouldn't have any objections." "i don't think that would alter the case with me. a gift is a gift, whether it is more or less valuable." "how long have you had your watch, walter?" "ever since my thirteenth birthday." "i have had mine a year. i broke the crystal and one of the hands the very first day." "that was pretty hard usage, lem." "the watch had a pretty good constitution, so it has survived to the present day. but i'm getting sleepy, walter. it's the hard study, i suppose, that's done it. i must be getting back to ma'am glenn's. good-night." "good-night, lem." lemuel warner gathered up his books, and left the room. walter poked the fire, putting some ashes on, so that it would keep till the next morning, and commenced undressing. he had scarcely commenced, however, when a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and directly afterwards a knock resounded upon his door. wondering who his late visitor could be, walter stepped to the door, and opened it. chapter ii. in the cars. if walter was surprised at receiving a visit at so late an hour, he was still more surprised to recognize in the visitor dr. porter, the principal of the institute. "good-evening, conrad," said the doctor. "i am rather a late visitor. i was not sure but you might be in bed." "i was just getting ready to go to bed, sir. won't you walk in?" "i will come in for five minutes only." "take the rocking-chair, sir." all the while walter was wondering what could be the doctor's object in calling. he was not conscious of having violated any of the regulations of the institute, and even had he done so, it would be unusual for the principal to call upon him at such an hour. so he watched the doctor with a puzzled glance, and waited to hear him state his errand. "have you heard from home lately, conrad?" asked the doctor. "yes, sir, i received a letter a few days since." "did your father speak of being unwell?" "no, sir," said walter, taking instant alarm. "have--have you heard anything?" "yes, my boy; and that is my reason for calling upon you at this unusual hour. i received this telegram twenty minutes since." walter took the telegram, with trembling fingers, and read the following message:-- "dr. porter:--please send walter conrad home by the first train. his father is very sick. "nancy forbes." "do you think there is any danger, dr. porter?" asked walter, with a pale face. "i cannot tell, my boy; this telegram furnishes all the information i possess. who is nancy forbes?" "she is the house-keeper. i can't realize that father is so sick. he did not say anything about it when he wrote." "let us hope it is only a brief sickness. i think you had better go home by the first train to-morrow morning." "yes, sir." "i believe it starts at half-past seven." "i shall be ready, sir." "by the way, are you provided with sufficient money to pay your railway fare? if not, i will advance you the necessary sum." "thank you, sir, i have five dollars by me, and that will be more than sufficient." "then i believe i need not stay any longer," and the doctor rose. "don't think too much of your father's sickness, but try to get a good night's sleep. i hope we shall soon have you coming back with good news." the principal shook hands with walter and withdrew. when his tall form had vanished, walter sat down and tried to realize the fact of his father's sickness; but this he found difficult. mr. conrad had never been sick within his remembrance, and the thought that he might become so had never occurred to walter. besides, the telegram spoke of him as _very_ sick. could there be danger? that was a point which he could not decide, and all that remained was to go to bed. it was a long time before he got to sleep, but at length he did sleep, waking in time only for a hasty preparation for the homeward journey. he was so occupied with thoughts of his father that it was not till the journey was half finished, that it occurred to him that this was his fifteenth birthday, to which he had been looking forward for some time. the seat in front of our hero was for some time vacant; but at the woodville station two gentlemen got in who commenced an animated conversation. walter did not at first pay any attention to it. he was looking out of the window listlessly, unable to fix his mind upon anything except his father's sickness. but at length his attention was caught by some remarks, made by one of the gentlemen in front, and from this point he listened languidly. "i suspected him to be a swindler when he first came to me," said the gentleman sitting next the window. "he hadn't an honest look, and i was determined not to have anything to do with his scheme." "he was very plausible." "yes, he made everything look right on paper. that is easy enough. but mining companies are risky things always. i once got taken in to the tune of five thousand dollars, but it taught me a lesson. so i was not particularly impressed with the brilliant prospectus of the great metropolitan mining company, in spite of its high-sounding name, and its promised dividend of thirty per cent. depend upon it, james wall and his confederates will pocket all the dividends that are made." "very likely you are right. but it may be that wall really believed there is a good chance of making money." "of course he did, but he was determined to make the money for himself, and not for the stockholders." "i might have been tempted to invest, but all my money was locked up at the time, and i could not have done so without borrowing the money, and that i was resolved not to do." "it was fortunate for you that you didn't, for the bubble has already burst." "is it possible? i was not aware of that." "i thought you knew it. the news is in this morning's paper. there will be many losers. by the way, i hear that mr. conrad, of willoughby, was largely interested." "then, of course, he is a heavy loser. can he stand it?" "i am in doubt on that point. he is a rich man, but for all that he may have gone in beyond his means." "i am sorry for him, but that was reckless." "yes, he was completely taken in by wall. he's a smooth fellow." walter had listened with languid attention; still, however, gathering the meaning of what was said until the mention of his father's name roused him, and then he listened eagerly, and with a sudden quickening of the pulse. he instantly connected the idea of what he had heard with his father's sudden illness, and naturally associated the two together. "my father has heard of the failure of the company, and that has made him sick," he thought. though this implied a double misfortune, it relieved his anxiety a little. it supplied a cause for his father's illness. he had been afraid that his father had met with some accident, perhaps of a fatal nature. but if he had become ill in consequence of heavy losses, it was not likely that the illness was a very severe one. he thought of speaking to the gentlemen, and making some further inquiries about the mining company and mr. james wall, but it occurred to him that his father might not like to have him pry into his affairs, and he therefore refrained. when the gentlemen left the cars, he saw one of them had left a morning paper lying in the seat. he picked it up, and examined the columns until his eyes fell upon the following paragraph:-- "the failure of the great metropolitan mining company proves to be a disastrous one. the assets will not be sufficient to pay more than five per cent. of the amount of the sums invested by the stockholders, possibly not that. there must have been gross mismanagement somewhere, or such a result could hardly have been reached. we understand that the affairs of the company are in the hands of assignees who are empowered to wind them up. the stockholders in this vicinity will await the result with anxiety." "that looks rather discouraging, to be sure," thought walter. "i suppose father will lose a good deal. but i'll tell him he needn't worry about me. i shan't mind being poor, even if it comes to that. as long as he is left to me, i won't complain." walter became comparatively cheerful. he felt convinced that loss of property was all that was to be apprehended, and with the elastic spirits of youth he easily reconciled himself to that. he had never had occasion to think much about money. all his wants had been provided for with a lavish hand. he had, of course, seen poor people, but he did not realize what poverty meant. he had even thought at times that it must be rather a pleasant thing to earn one's own living. still he did not apprehend that he would have to do this. his father might have lost heavily, but probably not to such an extent as to render this necessary. so the time passed until, about half-past eleven o'clock, the cars stopped at willoughby station. the station was in rather a lonely spot,--that is, no houses were very near. walter did not stop to speak to anybody, but, on leaving the cars, carpet-bag in hand, jumped over a fence, and took his way across the fields to his father's house. by the road it would have been a mile, but it was scarcely more than half a mile by the foot-path. so it happened that he reached home without meeting a single person. he went up the door-way to the front door and rang the bell. the door was opened by nancy forbes, the house-keeper, whose name was appended to the telegram. "so it's you, master walter," she said. "i am glad you are home, but it's a sad home you're come to." "is father _very_ sick, then?" asked walter, turning pale. "didn't anybody tell you, then?" "tell me what?" "my dear child, your father died at eight o'clock this morning." chapter iii. at home. it was a terrible shock to walter,--this sudden announcement of his father's death. when he had left home, mr. conrad seemed in his usual health, and he could not realize that he was dead. the news stunned him, and he stood, pale and motionless, looking into the house-keeper's face. "come in, master walter, come in, and have a cup of hot tea. it'll make you feel better." a cup of hot tea was nancy's invariable remedy for all troubles, physical or mental. "tell me about it, nancy; i--i can't think it's true. it's so sudden." "that's the way i feel too, master walter. and only yesterday morning, too, he looked just as usual. little did i think what was to be." "when was he first taken sick?" walter had seated himself on a chair in the hall, and waited anxiously for an answer. "i didn't notice nothing till last night just after supper. richard went to the post-office and got your father's letters. when they came he took 'em into the library, and began to read them. there was three, i remember. it was about an hour before i went into the room to tell him the carpenter had called about repairing the carriage-house. when i came in, there lay your poor father on the carpet, senseless. he held a letter tight in his hand. i screamed for help. mr. brier, the carpenter, and richard came in and helped me to lift up your poor father, and we sent right off for the doctor." "what did the doctor say?" "he said it was a paralytic stroke,--a very bad one,--and ordered him to be put to bed directly. but it was of no use. he never recovered, but breathed his last this morning at eight o'clock. the doctor told me i must telegraph to your teacher; and so i did." "nancy, have you got that letter which my father was reading?" "yes, master walter, i put it in my pocket without reading. i think there must have been bad news in it." she drew from her pocket a letter, which she placed in walter's hands. he read it hastily, and it confirmed his suspicions. it was from a lawyer mr. conrad had asked to make inquiries respecting the great metropolitan mining company, and was as follows:-- "william conrad, esq. "dear sir:--i have, at your request, taken pains to inform myself of the present management and condition of the great metropolitan mining company. the task has been less difficult than i anticipated, since the failure of the company has just been made public. the management has been in the hands of dishonest and unscrupulous men, and it is doubtful whether the stockholders will be able to recover anything. "hoping you are not largely interested, i remain, "yours, very respectfully, "andrew holmes." walter re-folded the letter, and put it into his pocket. he felt that this letter had cost his father his life, and in the midst of his grief he could not help thinking bitterly of the unscrupulous man who had led his father to ruin. had it been merely the loss of property, he could have forgiven him, but he had been deprived of the kindest and most indulgent of fathers. "i should like to see my father," he said. we will not accompany him into the dark chamber where his father lay, unobservant, for the first time, of his presence. such a scene is too sacred to be described. an hour later he came out of the chamber, pale but composed. he seemed older and more thoughtful than when he entered. a great and sudden sorrow often has this effect upon the young. "nancy," he said, "have any arrangements been made about the funeral?" "no, walter, we waited till you came. mr. edson will be here in a few minutes, and you can speak with him about it." mr. edson, though not a professional undertaker, usually acted as such whenever there was occasion for his services. when he arrived, walter requested him to take entire charge of the funeral. "are there any directions you would like to give, walter?" asked mr. edson, who, like most of the villagers, had known walter from his birth. "no, mr. edson, i leave all to you." "what relations are there to be invited?" "my father had no near relatives. there is a cousin, jacob drummond, who lives in stapleton. it will be necessary to let him know." "would a letter reach him in time?" "it will be best to telegraph. stapleton is forty miles distant, and it is doubtful if a letter would reach there in time." "if you will write the telegram, walter, i'll see that it's sent right off." "i won't trouble you, mr. edson; you will have enough to attend to, and i can send richard to the telegraph office, or go myself. i shall feel better for the exercise." "very well, walter, i will do whatever else is necessary." chapter iv. jacob drummond, of stapleton. jacob drummond kept a dry-goods store in the village of stapleton. as the village was of considerable size, and he had no competitors, he drove a flourishing trade, and had already acquired quite a comfortable property. in fact, even had he been less favorably situated, he was pretty sure to thrive. he knew how to save money better, even, than to earn it, being considered, and with justice, a very mean man. he carried his meanness not only into his business, but into his household, and there was not a poor mechanic in stapleton, and scarcely a poor laborer, who did not live better than mr. drummond, who was the rich man of the place. no one, to look at jacob drummond, would have been likely to mistake his character. all the lines of his face, the expression of his thin lips, his cold gray eyes, all bespoke his meanness. poor mrs. drummond, his wife, could have testified to it, had she dared; but in this house, at least, the husband was master, and she dared not express the opinions she secretly entertained of the man to whom she was bound for life. at five o'clock on the afternoon of the day after mr. conrad's death, mr. drummond entered the house, which was on the opposite side of the street from the store. this was the supper hour, and supper was ready upon the table. a single glance was sufficient to show that mr. drummond was not a man to indulge in luxurious living. there was a plate of white bread, cut in thin slices, a small plate of butter, half a pie, and a plate of cake. a small pitcher of milk, a bowl of coarse brown sugar, and a pot of the cheapest kind of tea completed the preparations for the evening meal. certainly there was nothing extravagant about these preparations; but mr. drummond thought otherwise. his attention was at once drawn to the cake, and instantly a frown gathered upon his face. "are we going to have company to-night, mrs. drummond?" he asked. "not that i know of," answered his wife, in some surprise. "then why is it that you have put both pie and cake on the table?" "there was only half a pie, mr. drummond," said she, nervously. "well, there are but three of us. you can get three good-sized pieces from half a pie. that will be one for each of us. what would you have more?" "the cake is a cheap kind." "no cake is cheap, mrs. drummond. i take it you used eggs, butter, and sugar in making it." "yes, but--" "no buts, if you please, mrs. drummond. you are probably not aware that all these articles are very dear at present. until they get lower we need not have cake, except when company is present." that being the case, mr. drummond was not likely to be put to much expense on this score. they seldom had company, and those who came once were not anxious to come again. for even on such occasions mr. drummond could not forget his ruling principle. the overflowing hospitality which even in the humblest village households crowns the board with plenty when visitors are present, was never to be found there; and, besides, the visitors could not help having an uneasy suspicion that their host grudged them the niggardly entertainment he did provide. so for three years the stapleton sewing circle had met but once at the drummonds', and there was no immediate prospect of their meeting there for another three years. it may be supposed that mr. drummond was not fond of good eating. this, however, would be quite a mistake. when he dined or took tea out, he always did full justice to the different dainties which were provided, and quite seemed to enjoy them as long as they were furnished at the expense of another. "take away the cake, if you please, mrs. drummond," continued her husband. "you can save it for sunday evening." "i am afraid it will be dried up by that time." "if it is dry, you can steam it." "that spoils cake." "you seem very contrary to-night, mrs. drummond. i have continually to check you in your extravagant tastes. cake and pie, indeed! if you had your way, you would double my household expenses." mrs. drummond rose from the table, and meekly removed the offending cake. just then the third and only other member of the family entered. this was joshua drummond, the only son, now eighteen years of age, though he looked scarcely more than sixteen. he inherited his father's meanness, but not his frugality. he was more self-indulgent, and, though he grudged spending money for others, was perfectly ready to spend as much as he could get hold of for himself. chapter v. jacob drummond--continued. over joshua mr. drummond had less control than over his wife. the latter gave way meekly to his unreasonable requisitions; but joshua did not hesitate to make opposition, being as selfish and self-willed as his father, for whom he entertained neither respect nor affection. joshua looked around him disdainfully. "is this fast day?" he asked. "you know very well that fast day comes in april," said his father. "i only judged from the looks of the table," said joshua, not very respectfully. "you don't mean that we shall any of us suffer from the gout." "bread and butter and pie are good enough for anybody," said mr. drummond, stiffly. "i don't see any pie. excuse me, there is a little,--so little that i did not at first see it." this was too much for mr. drummond's temper. "unmannerly boy!" he exclaimed; "if you are dissatisfied with the fare you get at home, you can engage board elsewhere." "i would like to," muttered joshua, in a low voice, which his father chose not to hear. in silence he helped himself to bread and butter, and in due time accepted a piece of pie, which mrs. drummond made larger at the expense of her own share. harmony thus being restored, mr. drummond remarked, "i've had a telegram to-day from willoughby." "from willoughby?" repeated his wife. "isn't that where your cousin william conrad lives?" "he doesn't live there any longer. he's dead." "dead! when did he die?" "i don't know. yesterday, i suppose. the funeral is to be day after to-morrow." "shall you go?" "yes. it will cost me considerable; as much as five dollars or more; but he was my cousin, and it is my duty to go," said mr. drummond, with the air of a man who was making a great sacrifice. "he was rich, wasn't he?" asked joshua, becoming interested. "probably worth a hundred thousand dollars," said his father, complacently. "i should think he might have left me something," said joshua. "he never saw you, joshua," said his mother. "joshua stands a better chance of getting a legacy from one who doesn't know him, than from one who does," said mr. drummond, with grim pleasantry. "he leaves children, doesn't he, mr. drummond?" "one child--a boy. let me see, he must be fifteen by this time." "and his mother isn't living?" "no." "poor boy!" "he'll be a rich boy, mrs. drummond, and i'll tell you what, i shouldn't wonder if we had a good chance to know him." "how so?" "it's likely i will be appointed his guardian. i'm the nearest relative, so that will be the most proper course." "will he come here, then?" asked joshua. "very probably." "then i hope you'll live better, or he won't stand it." "when i require any advice from you, joshua, i will apply for it," said his father. joshua inwardly hoped that his father would be appointed guardian, as it might make a difference in the family living; and, besides, if his cousin were rich, he meant to wheedle himself into his confidence, in the hope of future advantage. "when shall you set out?" asked mrs. drummond. "to-morrow morning, i think," said her husband. "it will be hard to leave, but it's due to my cousin's memory." mr. drummond had become very punctilious all at once, considering that for the last dozen years mr. conrad, who had by no means admired him, had had little or no communication with him. but then he had died rich, and who knows what sort of a will he had left? at any rate, jacob began to feel a strong interest in him now. he might have put off going to willoughby till the morning train on the day of the funeral, for two o'clock was the hour fixed for the last ceremony; but he was in a hurry to learn all he could about the property, and secure, if possible, the guardianship for himself. this was the secret of his willingness to sacrifice time and money out of regard to his cousin's memory. the next day, therefore, he started, taking with him in his valise a lunch of bread and meat tied up in a piece of brown paper. he didn't intend to spend any more money than was absolutely necessary on tavern bills. shortly after his arrival, he called at the house of mourning. "i am jacob drummond, of stapleton, the cousin of the deceased," he explained to nancy, who opened the door to admit him. "is my young relative, mr. conrad's son, at home?" "yes, sir," said nancy, taking an inventory of his features, and deciding that he was a very disagreeable looking man. "will you mention my name to him, and say that i should like to see him?" mr. drummond was ushered into the parlor, where he had a little chance to look around him before walter appeared. "it's all nonsense wasting so much money on furniture," he mentally ejaculated. "the money spent is a dead loss when it might be drawing handsome interest." walter did not long keep him waiting. mr. drummond rose at his entrance. "i suppose you don't know me," he said; "but i was your father's nearest living relation." "mr. drummond, i believe." "yes, jacob drummond, of stapleton. you have probably heard your father speak of me?" "yes, sir," said walter. "i came as soon as i could after getting the telegram. i left my business to take care of itself. i wanted to offer you my sympathy on your sad loss." mr. drummond's words were kind, though the reference to his sacrifice in leaving his business might have been as well left out. still walter could not feel as grateful as he wanted to do. somehow he didn't fancy mr. drummond. "you are very kind," he said. "i mean to be. you know i'm your nearest relation now. i truly feel for you in your desolate condition, and though it may not be the right time to say it, i must tell you that i hope, when the funeral is over, you will accompany me home, and share our humble hospitality. mrs. drummond joins with me in the invitation." mrs. drummond had not been consulted in the matter, but her husband thought it would sound well to say so. "i have not had time to think of future arrangements," said walter; "but i thank you for your invitation." walter did not know the motives which induced mr. drummond to extend this invitation, but supposed it to be meant in kindness, and so acknowledged it. "my son joshua, too," said mr. drummond, "is longing to make your acquaintance. he is older than you, but not much larger. how old are you?" "i am fifteen." "you are well grown of your age; joshua is eighteen, but he will make a very pleasant companion for you. let me hope that you will accept my invitation." "thank you, mr. drummond; i will consult my friends about it." "i wonder how much board i could venture to ask," thought mr. drummond. "if i am his guardian, i can fix that to suit myself. a hundred thousand dollars would make me a rich man. that is, i could make money from it, without injuring the boy." mr. drummond asked a few more questions about mr. conrad's sickness and death. walter answered them, but did not think it necessary to speak of his losses by the mining company. mr. drummond was a stranger, and not a man to inspire confidence. so walter told as little as he could. at length the visitor, having exhausted inquiries, rose. "i shall be here to-morrow," he said. "i am stopping at the tavern. i shall return to stapleton after the ceremony. i hope you will make up your mind to go back with me." "i could not be ready so soon," answered walter, doubtfully. "i can wait till the next day." "that will not be necessary, mr. drummond. i shall have no difficulty in making the journey alone, if i conclude to accept your kind invitation." mr. drummond shook our hero's hand sympathetically, and at length withdrew. as he went down the avenue, he took a backward glance at the handsome mansion in which his cousin had lived. "that boy owns all that property," he said, half enviously, "and never worked a day for it. i've had to work for all my money. but it was foolish to spend so much money on a house. a third the sum would have built a comfortable house, and the rest might have been put at interest. if it turns out that i am the boy's guardian, i think i shall sell it. that'll be the best course." with these reflections mr. drummond pursued his way back to the village tavern, where he had taken the precaution to ascertain that he should be charged but a dollar and a quarter a day. he considered that a dollar would have been sufficient, but still it was proper to make some sacrifice to his cousin's memory. mr. conrad's mining speculation was not generally known in the village as yet, so that mr. drummond did not hear a word as to his loss of property. chapter vi. future plans. the funeral was over. mr. drummond, as indeed his relationship permitted, was one of the principal mourners. considering that he had not seen mr. conrad for five years preceding his death, nor during that time communicated with him in any way, he appeared to be very much overcome by grief. he kept his eyes covered with a large white handkerchief, and his movements indicated suppressed agitation. he felt that this was a tribute due to a cousin who had left over one hundred thousand dollars. when they had returned from the grave, mr. drummond managed to have a word with walter. "have you decided to accept my offer, and make your home beneath my humble roof?" he asked. "there has been no time to consult with my friends here, mr. drummond. i will let you know next week. i thank you at any rate for your kindness." "do come, walter," said his cousin, twisting his mean features into an affectionate smile. "with you beneath my humble roof, i shall want nothing to complete my happiness." walter thanked him again, wondering at the same time why mr. drummond's kindness did not affect him more sensibly. so jacob drummond went back to stapleton, still ignorant of the state of mr. conrad's affairs, and still regarding walter as a boy of great wealth. when the will was opened it was found to bear date two years back, before mr. conrad had plunged into the speculation which had proved so disastrous to him. he bequeathed all the property which he did possess to walter, with the exception of five hundred dollars, which were left as a legacy to his faithful house-keeper, nancy forbes. at the time the will was made, its provisions made walter heir to a large fortune. now it was quite uncertain how things would turn out. clement shaw, the village lawyer, an honest and upright man, was made executor, being an old and tried friend of the deceased. with him walter had a long and confidential conversation, imparting to him what he knew of his father's mining speculation and its disastrous result, with its probable effect in accelerating his death. "i knew something of this before, walter," said mr. shaw. "your father spoke to me of being largely interested in the great metropolitan mining company; but of the company itself and the extent to which he was involved i knew nothing." "i think my father must have been very seriously involved," said walter. "it may, perhaps, swallow up the whole property." "let us hope not. indeed, i can hardly believe that your father would have ventured in so deep as that." "he had every confidence in the company; he thought he was going to double his money. if only a part of his property was threatened, i don't think it would have had such an effect upon him." "i will thoroughly examine into the affair," said mr. shaw. "meanwhile, walter, hope for the best! it can hardly be that the whole property is lost. do not be too anxious." "do not fear for me on that account," said walter. "i always looked forward to being rich, it is true, but i can bear poverty. if the worst comes, and i am penniless, i am strong, and can work. i can get along as well as thousands of other boys, who have to support themselves." walter did not speak boastfully, but in a calm, confident way, that argued a consciousness of power. "yes," said the lawyer, regarding him attentively, "i think you are right there. you are just the boy who can make his own way; but i hope you will not be obliged to do so." "there is one thing i want to say, mr. shaw," said walter, "and that is about the money my father leaves in his will to nancy." "the circumstances were different. she will not expect it now; that is, of course, unless things turn out more favorably than we fear." "that is not what i mean. nancy must have the money, if there is so much left after settling the estate." "but suppose only five hundred dollars are left? of course i hope it will be much more, but we must think of all contingencies." "if only five hundred dollars are left, let nancy have them." "but, walter, consider yourself." "i am young and strong. nancy has spent her best years in my father's service, and she is no longer young. it is right that she should have some provision. besides, my father meant her to have it, and i want to carry out his wishes." "this is all very generous, walter; but i am afraid it is inconsiderate. it would not be your father's wish to provide even for nancy, however faithful she may have been, at the expense of his son." "it is right," said walter. "besides, mr. shaw, i find that nancy had laid up six hundred dollars, which she had deposited in my father's hands. that also must be paid, if there is enough to pay it; if not, i will take it upon myself to pay whenever i am able." "you're an excellent boy, walter," said mr. shaw. "i always had a good opinion of you, and i find it is more than deserved. i honor you for the resolution you have expressed, though i cannot quite agree with you about the five hundred dollars. as to the debt, that must be paid, if there is money enough to pay it. but we can leave the further discussion of this question for the present. now let us consider what is to become of you in the mean time. you were at the essex classical institute, i believe?" "yes, sir." "you would like to go back again, i suppose." "no, mr. shaw. it is an expensive school, and while it is uncertain how my father's affairs will come out, i should not feel justified in going there." "perhaps you are right. of course you cannot stay here, and keep house by yourself. i would invite you to my own house, but my wife is an invalid, and i have to consider her in the matter." "thank you, mr. shaw; but i think perhaps i had better accept the offer of mr. drummond, of stapleton. he invites me to make my home at his house, and, for the present, perhaps, that will be the best arrangement." "i am not acquainted with mr. drummond. he is a relation, i believe." "yes, he is my father's cousin, and so, of course, my second cousin." "i think i saw him at the funeral." "yes, he was present." mr. shaw had seen jacob drummond, and had not been very favorably impressed by his appearance. still, his offer was not one to be hastily rejected, for no better reason than a little prejudice, which might prove unfounded. accordingly he said, "well, walter, as you say, i am not sure whether this may not be the best arrangement for you, that is, for the present. if you don't like to stay at stapleton, you can write me, and i will see what i can do for you." "thank you, mr. shaw." nancy was much troubled at the thought of parting from walter, whom she had known from his infancy; but a situation was immediately offered her in the village, and walter promised to take her as his house-keeper whenever he had a home of his own, and this comforted her, although it was likely to be a long time first, since our hero was at present but fifteen. "your six hundred dollars shall be paid, nancy," said walter, "as soon as father's affairs are settled." "don't bother yourself about that, master walter," said nancy. "i've got fifty dollars in my trunk, and i don't need the other at all. i can wait for it five years." "it won't be necessary to wait as long as that, nancy." "and so you are going to that mr. drummond's? i'm sorry for it. i don't like the man's looks at all." "he may be a good man. he was kind to invite me." "he isn't a good man," said nancy, positively. "he's got a mean sort of look to his face." "you mustn't try to prejudice me before i go to him, nancy." "you'll think as i do before you've been there a week," said nancy, shaking her head. "i took a good look at him when he was here, and i didn't like his looks." "he isn't very handsome," said walter, smiling; "but everybody can't be handsome." secretly he did not wonder much at nancy's prejudice. mr. drummond certainly was a mean-looking man. how he could be so nearly related to his father, who was a generous, open-handed, and open-hearted man, was surprising. still walter was just enough to reserve his judgment until his opportunities of judging were greater than at present. he wrote a brief letter to stapleton, to the following effect:-- "mr. drummond:-- "dear sir:--i will accept the invitation you were kind enough to extend to me, for the present, at least, and will come to stapleton about the middle of next week. you are the only relation of my father that i know of, and i think it would be his wish that i should go to you. if it should be inconvenient for you to receive me at that time, please write me at once. "yours, respectfully, "walter conrad." in return, walter received a letter couched in the most cordial terms, in which mr. drummond signed himself, "your affectionate cousin." he was delighted, he said, to think that he was about to receive, under his humble roof, the son of his revered and lamented cousin. chapter vii. mr. drummond's humble roof. "mrs. drummond," said her husband, "young mr. conrad will be here by four o'clock this afternoon. you will have a nice supper ready at five." "shall i have cake and pie both?" inquired mrs. drummond, doubtfully. "certainly. indeed, it may be as well to have two kinds of pie, say apple and pumpkin; and, as we have not had hot biscuit for some time, you may bake some." mrs. drummond looked at her husband as if she had doubts as to his sanity. such a luxurious meal was quite unheard of in the drummond household. "cake, two kinds of pie, and hot biscuit!" she repeated. "yes," he replied. "i am not in general in favor of such extra living, but it is well to pay some respect to the memory of my deceased kinsman in the person of his son. being the son of a rich man, he has been accustomed to rich living, and i wish him, on his advent into our family, to feel at home." mrs. drummond prepared to obey her husband's directions with alacrity. "joshua will get a good supper for once," she thought, thinking more of her son than of the stranger who was to enter the family. "how surprised he will be to see such a variety on the table!" not that joshua was strictly confined to the spare diet of his father's table. through his mother's connivance there was generally an extra piece of pie or cake in the pantry laid aside for him. had mr. drummond suspected this, he would have been very angry; but, being at the store the greater portion of the time, he was not aware of the extra indulgence. mr. drummond himself met walter at the depot. "i am delighted to welcome you to stapleton, my young friend," he said, shaking his hand cordially. "in the affliction which has come upon you, let me hope that you will find a haven of rest beneath my humble roof." "i wonder why he always speaks of his 'humble roof,'" thought walter. "does he live in a shanty, i wonder?" he made suitable acknowledgments, and proceeded to walk beside mr. drummond to the house which he termed humble. it did not deserve that name, being a substantial two-story house, rather ugly architecturally, but comfortable enough in appearance. "that is my humble dwelling," said mr. drummond, pointing it out. "it is not equal to the splendid mansion in which you have been accustomed to live, for my worldly circumstances differ widely from those of your late lamented parent; but i trust that in our humble way we shall be enabled to make you comfortable." "thank you, mr. drummond; i have no doubt of that. your house looks very comfortable." "yes, it is plain and humble, but comfortable. we are plain people. we are not surrounded by the appliances of wealth, but we manage, in our humble way, to get through life. that is my son joshua, who is looking out of the front window. i hope you may become good friends, considering how nearly you are related." walter raised his eyes, and saw joshua, whose small, mean features, closely resembling his father's, expressed considerable curiosity. walter secretly doubted whether he should like him; but this doubt he kept to himself. mr. drummond opened the outer door, and led the way in. "this is my wife, mrs. drummond," he said, as she approached, and kindly welcomed the young stranger. "i think i shall like her," thought walter, suffering his glance to rest for a moment on her mild, placid features; "she is evidently quite superior to her husband." "joshua, come here and welcome mr. conrad," said his father. joshua came forward awkwardly, and held out his hand with the stiffness of a pump-handle. "how dy do?" he said. "just come?" "yes," said walter, accepting the hand, and shaking it slightly. "are you tired with your journey, mr. conrad?" asked mrs. drummond. "perhaps you would like to be shown to your room." "thank you," said walter. "i will go up for a few minutes." "where are you going to put our young friend, mrs. drummond?" "in the spare chamber." "that is right. you will find some difference, mr. conrad, between our humble accommodations and the sumptuous elegance of your own home; but we will try and make it up by a hearty welcome." "i wish he wouldn't use the word _humble_ so much," thought walter. walter went upstairs, preceded by mr. drummond, who insisted on carrying his carpet-bag, for his trunk would not arrive till the next day, having been forwarded by express. "i say, mother," remarked joshua, "the old man's awfully polite to this young fellow." "you shouldn't speak of your father in that way, joshua." "oh, what's the odds? he is an old man, isn't he? i just wish he'd be as polite to me. i say, i hope he'll like his boarding-place. what are you going to have for supper?" "hot biscuit, cake, and two kinds of pie." "whew! won't the old man look like a thundercloud?" "that's what he told me to get. you do your father injustice, joshua." mrs. drummond knew in her secret heart that her husband was intensely mean; but she was one of those who like to think as well as possible of every one, and was glad of an opportunity to prove that he could, on rare occasions, be more generous. "father's brain must be softening," said joshua, after recovering in a measure from his astonishment. "i hope it will be permanent. isn't supper most ready?" "at five o'clock, joshua." "this young chap's got a lot of money, i suppose, and the governor's after some of it. that explains the matter." "i wish you wouldn't speak so disrespectfully of your father, joshua." "i won't if he'll keep on as he's begun. i'm glad this young conrad has come to board here. i'm going to get thick with him." "he seems like a very nice boy," said mrs. drummond. "i don't care what sort of a boy he is, as long as he's got the tin. i'm going to make him treat." "you must be considerate of his feelings, joshua. remember that he has just lost his father." "suppose he has, there's no need of looking glum about it." had jacob drummond died, joshua would have borne the loss with the greatest fortitude. of that there was no doubt. indeed, he would rather have hailed the event with joy, if, as he expressed it, the "old man did the right thing," and left him the bulk of his property. though such feelings did not do joshua much credit, it must be said in extenuation that his father was far from being a man to inspire affection in any one, however nearly related. at five o'clock they sat down to supper. "i hope, mr. conrad," said jacob, "you will be able to relish our humble repast." "humble again!" thought walter. he was about to say that everything looked very nice, when joshua broke in. "if you call this humble, i don't know what you'd say to the suppers we commonly have." mr. drummond, who desired, for this day, at least, to keep up appearances, frowned with vexation. "joshua," he said, "i desire that you will act in a more gentlemanly way, or else leave the table." as leaving the table on the present occasion would have been, indeed, a deprivation, joshua thought it wise not to provoke his father too far, at any rate until after he had made sure of his supper. he therefore left most of the conversation to his father. "have you ever been in stapleton before, mr. conrad?" asked mr. drummond. "no, sir; never." "it is not a large place, but it is growing; the people are plain, but they have kind hearts. i hope you may like the town after a while." "thank you, sir; i have no doubt i shall." "if you feel inclined for a walk, joshua will go out with you after supper, and show you the mill-dam, the church, and the school-house. he will also point out the store--it is only across the way--where, in my humble way, i try to earn a living. i shall be very glad if you will come in and take a look inside. i may be busy, for work has accumulated during my absence, but joshua will show you around." "thank you, sir." "will you have another cup of tea, mr. conrad?" asked mrs. drummond. "thank you." "may i ask, mr. conrad,--excuse my intruding the question,--who is left executor of your father's estate?" "mr. shaw, the lawyer in our village." "is he? do you have confidence in him?" "he is an excellent man, very honest and upright. he was an intimate friend of my father." "ah, indeed! i am glad of it. then he will consult your interests." "yes, sir, i feel quite safe in his hands." "i am so glad to hear you say so. so many lawyers, you know, are tricky." "mr. shaw is not tricky." "we have no lawyer here," pursued mr. drummond. "you will perhaps be surprised to hear it, but my humble services are frequently called into requisition, in administering and settling estates." "indeed, sir." "yes; but i am glad you have got a man you can trust. mrs. drummond, i think mr. conrad will have another piece of pie." supper was over at length, and walter, by invitation, went out to walk with joshua. chapter viii. walter makes a revelation. walter did not anticipate a very pleasant walk with joshua. the little he had seen of that young man did not prepossess him in his favor. however, having no other way of spending his time, he had no objection to the walk. "that's the old man's store just across the street," said joshua, as they emerged from the house. "your father's?" "of course. don't you see the name on the sign?" walter did see it, but never having been accustomed to speak of his own father as "the old man," he was not quite sure he apprehended joshua's meaning. "you were an only child, weren't you?" said joshua. "yes," said walter, soberly. [illustration] he could not help thinking what a comfort it would have been to him to have either brother or sister. he would have felt less alone in the world. "so am i," said joshua; adding, complacently, "between you and i, the old man has laid up quite a snug sum. of course it'll all come to me some day." "i am glad to hear it," said walter, rather wondering that joshua should have made such a communication to a comparative stranger. "to hear the old man talk," pursued joshua, "you'd think he was awful poor. he's stingy enough about everything in the house. there isn't a family in town that don't live better than we do." "i thought we had a very good supper," said walter, who experienced not a little disgust at joshua's charges against his father. "that was because you were with us. the old man laid himself out for the occasion." "i am sorry if any difference was made on my account." "well, i aint. it's the first decent supper i've eaten at home since the sewing circle met at our house three years ago." "is that the church?" asked walter, desirous of diverting the conversation into another channel. "yes, that's the old meeting-house. i hate to go there. the minister's an old fogy." "what is that i see through the trees? is it a river?" "no, it's a pond." "do you ever go out on it?" "not very often. i tried to get the old man to buy me a boat, but he wouldn't do it. he's too stingy." "i wouldn't talk so about your father." "why not?" "because he is entitled to your respect." "i don't know about that. if he'd treat me as he ought to, i'd treat him accordingly. he never gives me a cent if he can help it. now how much do you think he allows me a week for spending money?" "i can't tell." "only fifty cents, and i'm eighteen years old. isn't that mean?" "it isn't a very large sum." "of course not. he ought to give me five dollars a week, and then i'd buy my own clothes. now i have to take up with what i can get. he wanted to have his old overcoat, that he'd worn three winters, made over for me; but i wouldn't stand it. i told him i'd go without first." though these communications did not raise joshua in the estimation of walter, the latter could not help thinking that there was probably some foundation for what was said, and the prejudice against mr. drummond, for which he had blamed himself as without cause, began to find some extenuation. "when i talk to the old man about his stinting me so," continued joshua, "he tells me to go to work and earn some money." "why don't you do it?" "he wants me to go into his store, but he wouldn't pay me anything. he offered me a dollar and a half a week; but i wasn't going to work ten or twelve hours a day for no such sum. if i could get a light, easy place in the city, say at ten dollars a week, i'd go. there aint any chance in stapleton for a young man of enterprise." "i've thought sometimes," said walter, "that i should like to get a place in the city; but i suppose i couldn't get enough at first to pay my board." "you get a place!" exclaimed joshua, in astonishment. "i thought you was going to college." "father intended i should; but his death will probably change my plans." "i don't see why." "it is expensive passing through college; i cannot afford it." "oh, that's all humbug. you're talking like the old man." "how do you know that it is humbug?" demanded walter, not very well pleased with his companion's tone. "why, you're rich. the old man told me that your father left a hundred thousand dollars. you're the only son; you told me so yourself." "your father is mistaken." "what, wasn't your father rich?" asked joshua, opening his small eyes in amazement. "my father was unfortunate enough to get involved in a speculation, by which he lost heavily. i can't tell how his affairs stand till they are settled. i may be left penniless." "do you mean that?" asked joshua, stopping short and facing his companion. "i generally mean what i say," said walter, rather stiffly. joshua's answer was a low whistle of amazement. "whew!" he said. "that's the biggest joke i've heard of lately;" and he followed up this remark by a burst of merriment. walter surveyed him with surprise. he certainly did not know what to make of joshua's conduct. "i don't see any joke about it," he said. "i don't complain of being poor, for i think i can earn my own living; but it doesn't strike me as a thing to laugh at." "i was laughing to think how the old man is taken in. it's rich!" joshua burst into another fit of boisterous laughter. "how is he taken in?" "he thinks you're worth a hundred thousand dollars," said joshua, going off in another peal of merriment. "well, he is mistaken, that's all. i don't see how he is taken in." "he's been doing the polite, and treating you as if you was a prince of the blood. that's the reason he told the old woman to get up such a nice supper, he expected to get you to take him for a guardian, and then he'd have the handling of your money. won't he be mad when he finds out how he's been taken in? giving you the best room too! are you sure that none of the property will be left?" "probably not much." that walter listened with mortification and disgust to what joshua had told him about his father's selfish designs, is only what might be expected. it is always disagreeable to find out the meanness of those whom you have supposed kind to you for your own sake. this, to walter, who had been accustomed to an atmosphere of kindness, was a painful discovery. it was his first experience of the coldness and hollowness of the world, and to the sensitive nature of youth this first revelation is very painful and very bitter. "i am sorry to think that your father made such a mistake," he said, coldly. "i will take care to undeceive him." "what! you're not going to tell him, are you?" "certainly. i meant to do so; but i did not suppose he invited me just because he thought i was rich." "what for, then?" "being my father's cousin and nearest relation, it didn't seem very strange that he should have invited me on that account." "the old man's a shrewd one," said joshua, rather admiringly. "he knows which way his bread is buttered. he don't lay himself out for no poor relations, not if he knows it." "i am sorry if he has laid himself out for me under a mistake." "i aint. it's a good joke on the old man. besides, we all got a better supper by it. don't you tell him about it till to-morrow." "why not?" "because, if you do, we'll have a mean breakfast as usual. i just want him to think you're rich a little while longer, so we can have something decent for once." "i don't feel willing to deceive your father any longer. i have not willingly deceived him at all." "you're a fool then!" "look here," said walter, flushing a little, "i don't allow anybody to call me by that name." "no offence," said joshua, whose physical courage was not very great. "i didn't mean anything, of course, except that it was foolish to blurt it all out to-night, when there isn't any need of it. there isn't such an awful hurry, is there?" "i would rather your father knew at once." "to-morrow will be soon enough." "at any rate i shall tell him to-morrow, then. but i've got tired walking. suppose we go back." "just as you say." they went back together. mr. drummond was in the store, but mrs. drummond was at home. "you didn't go far," she said. "but i suppose you were tired, mr. conrad." "a little," answered walter. "i wonder," thought our hero, "whether she will change as soon as she finds out that i am poor?" somehow he felt that she would not. she seemed very different from her husband and son, and walter was inclined to like her better. joshua went out again soon, not having much taste for staying at home; and, as walter retired early, he did not see either him or his father again till the next morning at breakfast. chapter ix. how mr. drummond took the news. joshua's anticipations of a good breakfast were realized. as he entered the room where the table was set, he saw a dish of beefsteak, another of fried potatoes, and some hot biscuit. this with coffee was very much better than the breakfast usually provided in the drummond household. joshua burst into a fresh fit of laughter, thinking how his father had been taken in. "what's the matter, joshua?" asked his mother, who was the only one in the room besides himself. "oh, it's the richest joke, mother!" "what is?" asked mrs. drummond, perplexed. "i can't tell you now, but you'll find out pretty soon. ho, ho!" and joshua commenced to laugh again. "has mr. conrad come downstairs?" "i haven't seen mr. conrad this morning," answered joshua, imitating his mother's tone in repeating the name. just then walter entered, and said "good-morning." "good-morning, mr. conrad," said mrs. drummond. "i hope you slept well." "very well, thank you," said walter. mr. drummond here entered from the street, having been for an hour in the store opposite. "good-morning, mr. conrad," he said. "i trust you rested well, and can do justice to our humble repast. i have been in the store an hour. we who are not endowed with the gifts of fortune must be early astir." joshua tried to suppress a laugh, but not with entire success. "what are you snickering at, joshua?" demanded mr. drummond, in a displeased tone. "i don't know what mr. conrad will think of your manners." "you'll excuse them, won't you, mr. conrad?" asked joshua, beginning to chuckle again. knowing very well the source of his amusement, and feeling his own position to be an awkward one, walter was all the more resolved to impart to mr. drummond without delay the posture of his father's affairs. he did not answer joshua's appeal. "i don't see what has got into you this morning, joshua," said mrs. drummond, mildly. "you seem in very good spirits." "so i am," said joshua, with a grin. his father suspected that the unusual excellence of the breakfast had something to do with joshua's mirth, and was afraid he would let out something about it. this made him a little nervous, as he wanted to keep up appearances before his young guest. walter's appetite was not very good. his father's death weighed heavily upon him, and joshua's revelation of the night before was not calculated to cheer him. it was mortifying to think that mr. drummond's gracious manner was entirely owing to his supposed wealth; but of this he entertained little doubt. he was anxious to have the truth known, no matter how unfavorably it might affect his position with the drummonds. there were some, he knew, whose kindness did not depend on his reputed wealth. "you have a poor appetite, mr. conrad," said mr. drummond. "let me give you another piece of steak." "no, i thank you," said walter. "i'll take another piece, father," said joshua. "i have already helped you twice," said his father, frowning. "i'm hungry this morning," said joshua, who, knowing that he could not expect another as good breakfast, determined to do full justice to this. "if you are, you need not overeat yourself," said mr. drummond, depositing on his son's outstretched plate a square inch of meat. joshua coolly helped himself to fried potatoes, and appropriated a hot biscuit, much to his father's annoyance. he resolved to give joshua a private hint that he must be more sparing in his eating. he did not like to speak before walter, desiring to keep up with him the character of a liberal man. joshua understood his father's feelings, and it contributed to the enjoyment which he felt at the thought of how richly his father was sold. at length breakfast was over. "i must go back to the store," said mr. drummond. "joshua will look after you, mr. conrad. i hope you will be able to pass the time pleasantly." "if you can spare me five minutes, mr. drummond, i should like to speak to you in private," said walter, determined to put an end to the misunderstanding at once. "certainly. i can spare five or ten minutes, or more, mr. conrad. won't you walk into the parlor?" the parlor was a very dreary-looking room, dark, cold, and cheerless. a carpet, of an ugly pattern, covered the floor; there was a centre-table in the middle of the room with a few books that were never opened resting upon it. half-a-dozen cane-bottomed chairs stood about the room, and there were besides a few of the stock articles usually to be found in country parlors, including a very hard, inhospitable-looking sofa. as the drummonds did not have much company, this room was very seldom used. "take a seat, mr. conrad," said mr. drummond, seating himself. mr. drummond was far from anticipating the nature of walter's communication. indeed, he cherished a hope that our hero was about to ask his assistance in settling up the estate,--a request with which, it is needless to say, he would gladly have complied. "i don't suppose you know how i am situated," walter commenced. "i mean in relation to my father's estate." "i suppose it was all left to you, and very properly. i congratulate you on starting in the world under such good auspices. i don't, of course, know how much your father left, but--" "it is not certain that my father left anything," said walter, thinking it best to reveal every thing at once. "_what!_" exclaimed mr. drummond, his lower jaw falling, and looking very blank. "my father made some investments recently that turned out badly." "but he was worth a very large property,--it can't all be lost." "i am afraid there will be very little left, if anything. he lost heavily by some mining stock, which he bought at a high figure, and which ran down to almost nothing." "there's the house left, at any rate." "my father borrowed its value, i understand; i am afraid that must go too." now, at length, it flashed upon mr. drummond how he had been taken in. he thought of the attentions he had lavished upon walter, of the extra expense he had incurred, and all as it appeared for a boy likely to prove penniless. he might even expect to live upon him. these thoughts, which rapidly succeeded each other, mortified and made him angry. "why didn't you tell me this before, young man?" he demanded with asperity. his change of tone and manner showed walter that joshua was entirely right in his estimate of his father's motives, and he in turn became indignant. "when did you expect me to tell you, mr. drummond?" he said quickly. "i only arrived yesterday afternoon, and i tell you this morning. i would have told you last night, if you had been in the house." "why didn't you tell me when i was at willoughby?" "i had other things to think of," said walter, shortly. "the thought of my father's death and of my loss shut out everything else." "well, what are you going to do?" asked mr. drummond, in a hard tone. "i shall have to earn my own living," said walter. "i am well and strong, and am not afraid." "that is a good plan," said mr. drummond, who knew walter so little as to fear that he wanted to become dependent upon him. "when i was of your age i had my own living to earn. what do you propose to do?" "have you a vacancy for me in your store? joshua told me you wished him to go in." "you couldn't earn much, for you don't know anything of the business." "i should not expect to. i am perfectly willing to work for my board until i find out how my father's affairs are going to turn out." this proposal struck mr. drummond favorably. he judged that walter would prove a valuable assistant when he was broken in, for it was easy to see that he had energy. besides, it was desirable to keep him near until it was decided whether mr. conrad's affairs were really in as bad a state as his son represented. even if a few thousand dollars were left, mr. drummond would like the handling of that sum. then, again, no one knew better than mr. drummond that walter's board would cost him very little; for, of course, he would at once return to his usual frugal fare. "very well," he said; "you can go into the store on those terms. as you say, you've got your own living to earn, and the sooner you begin the better." walter had not said this, but he agreed with mr. drummond. it may be thought strange that our hero should have been willing to enter the employment of such a mean man; but he thought it wisest to remain in the neighborhood until he could learn something definite about his father's affairs. he prepared to go to work at once, partly because he didn't wish to be dependent, partly because he foresaw that he should be happier if employed. when mr. drummond and walter came out of the parlor, joshua was waiting in the next room, and looked up eagerly to see how his father bore the communication. he was disappointed when he saw that mr. drummond looked much as usual. "conrad has been telling me," said mr. drummond, "that his father lost a good deal of money by speculation, and it is doubtful whether he has left any property." "i am very sorry," said mrs. drummond; and walter saw and appreciated her look of sympathy. "as he will probably have to work for a living, he has asked for a place in my store," pursued mr. drummond, "and i have agreed to take him on trial. conrad, you may get your hat and come over at once." joshua whistled in sheer amazement. the affair had by no means terminated as he anticipated. chapter x. mr. drummond's store. mr. drummond's store was of fair size, and contained a considerable and varied stock of dry goods. not only the people of stapleton, but a considerable number of persons living outside the town limits, but within a radius of half-a-dozen miles, came there to purchase goods. besides mr. drummond there was a single salesman, a young man of twenty-two, who wore a cravat of immense size, and ostentatiously displayed in his bosom a mammoth breastpin, with a glass imitation diamond, which, had it been real, would have been equal in value to the entire contents of the store. this young man, whose name was nichols, received from mr. drummond the munificent salary of four hundred dollars per annum. having a taste for dress, he patronized the village tailor to the extent of his means, and considerably beyond, being at this moment thirty dollars in debt for the suit he wore. besides this young man, there had formerly been a younger clerk, receiving a salary of four dollars weekly. he had been dismissed for asking to have his pay raised to five dollars a week, and since then mr. drummond had got along with but one salesman. as, however, the business really required more assistance, he was quite willing to employ walter on board wages, which he estimated would not cost him, at the most, more than two dollars a week. "mr. nichols," said mr. drummond, "i have brought you some help. this is walter conrad, a distant relative." (had walter been rich, he would have been a near relative.) "he knows nothing of the business. you can take him in charge, and give him some idea about prices, and so forth." "yes, sir," said the young man, in an important tone. "i'll soon break him in." mr. nichols, who gave up what little mind he had to the subject of clothes, began to inspect walter's raiment. he had sufficient knowledge to perceive that our hero's suit was of fine fabric, and tastefully made. that being the case, he concluded to pay him some attention. "i'm glad you've come," he said. "i have to work like a dog. i'm pretty well used up to-day. i was up till two o'clock dancing." "were you?" "yes. there was a ball over to crampton. i go to all the balls within ten miles. they can't do without me." "can't they?" asked walter, not knowing what else to say. "no. you see there isn't much style at these country balls,--i mean among the young men. they don't know how to dress. now i give my mind to it, and they try to imitate me. i don't trust any tailor entirely. i just tell him what i want, and how i want it. higgins, the tailor here, has improved a good deal since he began to make clothes for me." "indeed!" "where do you have your clothes made?" "in willoughby. that's where i have always lived till i came here." "is there a good tailor there?" "i think so; but then i am not much of a judge." just then a customer came in, and mr. nichols was drawn away from his dissertation on dress. "just notice how i manage," he said in a low voice. accordingly walter stood by and listened. "have you any calicoes that you can recommend?" asked the woman, who appeared to be poor. "yes, ma'am, we've got some of the best in the market,--some that will be sure to suit you." he took from the shelves and displayed a very ugly pattern. "i don't think i like that," she said. "haven't you got some with a smaller figure?" "the large figures are all the rage just now, ma'am. everybody wears them." "is that so?" asked the woman, irresolutely. "fact, i assure you." "how much is it a yard?" "fifteen cents only." "are you sure it will wash?" "certainly." "i should like to look at something else." "i'll show you something else, but this is the thing for you." he brought out a piece still uglier; and finally, after some hesitation, his customer ordered ten yards from the first piece. he measured it with an air, and, folding it up, handed it to the customer, receiving in return a two-dollar bill, which the poor woman sighed as she rendered in, for she had worked hard for it. "is there anything more, ma'am?" "a spool of cotton, no. ." when the customer had left the store, nichols turned complacently to walter. "how did you like that calico?" he asked. "it seemed to me very ugly." "wasn't it, though? it's been in the store five years. i didn't know as we should ever get rid of it." "i thought you said it was all the rage." "that's all gammon, of course." "haven't you got any prettier patterns?" "plenty." "why didn't you show them?" "i wanted to get off the old rubbish first. it isn't everybody that would buy it; but she swallowed everything i said." "she seemed like a poor woman, who couldn't afford to buy a dress very often." "no, she doesn't come more than twice a year." "i think you ought to have given her the best bargain you could." "you don't understand the business, walter," said nichols, complacently. "mr. drummond," he said, going up to his employer, "i've just sold ten yards of those old-style calicoes." "very good," said mr. drummond, approvingly. "shove them off whenever you get a chance." "if that is the way they do business, i shan't like it," thought walter. "you can fold up those goods on the counter, and put them back on the shelves," said nichols. "customers put us to a great deal of trouble that way sometimes. mrs. captain walker was in yesterday afternoon, and i didn't know but i should have to get down all the stock we had before we could suit her." "why didn't you pick out something, and tell her it was all the rage?" said walter, smiling. "that wouldn't go down with her. she's rich and she's proud. we have to be careful how we manage with such customers as she is. that reminds me that her bundle hasn't gone home yet. i'll get you to carry it up right away." "i don't know where she lives." "it's a large, square white house, about a quarter of a mile down the road, at the left hand. you can't miss it." the bundle was produced, and walter set off in the direction indicated. he had only gone a few rods when he overtook joshua, who was sauntering along with a fishing-pole in his hand. "where are you going with that big bundle?" asked joshua. "to mrs. captain walker's." "i'll show you where it is. i'm going that way." joshua's manner was considerably less deferential than the day before, when he supposed walter to be rich. now he looked upon him as his father's hired boy. "isn't that bundle heavy?" he asked. "yes, rather heavy." "i wouldn't be seen carrying such a bundle." "why not?" "i feel above it." "i don't." "it's different with you--now i mean. my father's worth money, and i suppose you will be poor." "i don't mean to be poor all my life, but i shall have to work for all the money i am worth." "it'll take a good while to get rich that way. if your father hadn't lost his money, you could have fine times." "i don't know about that. i never cared so much about inheriting money." they were passing the village school-house. through the open windows floated the strain of a song which the children were singing. this was the verse which the boys heard:-- "it's all very well to depend on a friend,-- that is, if you've proved him true; but you'll find it better by far in the end to paddle your own canoe. to 'borrow' is dearer by far than to 'buy,'-- a maxim, though old, still true; you never will sigh, if you only will try to paddle your own canoe!" "that is going to be my motto," said walter. "what?" "'paddle your own canoe.' i'm going to depend upon myself, and i mean to succeed." "that's all very well, if you've got to do it; but i expect the old man will leave me twenty-five thousand dollars, and that's a good deal better than paddling my own canoe." "suppose your father should fail?" "there isn't any danger. he'll take good care of his money, i'll warrant that. i wish he wasn't so mighty stingy, for i'd like a little now. but there's captain walker's. i'll wait here, while you go and leave the bundle." walter performed his errand, and rejoined joshua, who had seated himself on the fence. "i'm going a-fishing," said joshua. "if you didn't have to work you could go with me." "i must hurry back to the store." so the two parted company. "i wish he'd been rich," thought joshua. "i'd have borrowed some money of him. it won't pay to be polite to him, now it turns out he isn't worth a cent." walter went back to the store with a lighter heart than before. there was something in the song he had heard which gave him new strength and hopefulness, and he kept repeating over to himself at intervals, "paddle your own canoe!" chapter xi. joshua stirs up the wrong customer. when walter went into the house to dinner, the appearance of the table indicated the truth of what joshua had told him. since mr. drummond had ascertained the pecuniary position of his visitor, he no longer felt it incumbent upon him to keep up appearances. corned beef and potatoes, and bread without butter, constituted the mid-day meal. this certainly differed considerably from the supper and breakfast of which walter had partaken. "sit right down, conrad," said mr. drummond. "eat your dinner as fast as you can, and go back to the store." it did not take walter long to eat his dinner. corned beef he had never liked, though now, having no choice, he managed to eat a little. "if you're through, you needn't wait for me," said mr. drummond. "we don't stand on ceremony here. tell nichols he may go to his dinner. i'll be right over; so, if there are any customers you can't wait on, ask them to wait." in the evening walter found that his carpet-bag had been removed from the spare chamber to a small, uncarpeted back room, furnished with the barest necessaries. he smiled to himself. "i shan't be in danger of forgetting my change of circumstances," he said to himself. he was tired, however, and, though the bed was harder than he had ever before slept on, he managed to sleep soundly. he was waked up early by mr. drummond. "hurry up, conrad!" said that gentleman, unceremoniously. "i want you to be up within fifteen minutes to open the store." walter jumped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. his position was so new that he did not at first realize it. when he did reflect that he was working for his board in a country store, he hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. he had begun to earn his living, and this was satisfactory; but he was working for a man whom he could neither like nor respect, and his pay was very poor of its kind. that was not so agreeable. walter was not a glutton, nor inordinately fond of good living, but he had the appetite of a healthy boy, and when he entered the room where breakfast was spread (this was after he had been in the store an hour), he did wish that there had been something on the table besides the remains of the corned beef and a plate of bread and butter. "do you take sugar and milk in your tea, walter?" asked mrs. drummond. "if you please." "i don't take either," remarked mr. drummond. "it's only a habit, and an expensive one. if you'd try going without for a week, you would cure yourself of the habit." "how intolerably mean he is!" thought walter, for he understood very well that the only consideration in mr. drummond's mind was the expense. "i don't think i shall ever learn to go without milk and sugar," said walter, quietly, not feeling disposed to humor his employer in this little meanness. "there isn't anything fit to eat on the table," grumbled joshua, looking about him discontentedly. "you are always complaining," said his father, sharply. "if you earned your breakfast, you wouldn't be so particular." "why can't you have beefsteak once in a while, instead of corned beef? i'm sick to death of corned beef." "we shall have some beefsteak on sunday morning, and not till then. i don't mean to pamper your appetite." "that's so!" said joshua. "not much danger of that." "if you are not satisfied, you can go without." "i will, then," said joshua, rising from the table. he knew very well that as soon as his father had gone to the store he could get something better from his mother. it had been a considerable disappointment to joshua to find that walter was poor instead of rich, for he had proposed to make as free use of walter's purse as the latter would permit. even now it occurred to him that walter might have a supply of ready money, a part of which he might borrow. he accordingly took an opportunity during the day to sound our hero on this subject. "walter, have you a couple of dollars about you to lend me for a day or two?" he asked, in a tone of assumed carelessness. "yes, i have that amount of money, but i am afraid i must decline lending." "why shouldn't you lend me? it's only for a day or two." but walter knew very well joshua's small allowance, and that he would not be able to return a loan of that amount, even if he were desirous of so doing, and he judged joshua so well that he doubted whether he would have any such desire. "you know my circumstances, joshua," he said, "and that i am in no position to lend anybody money." "two dollars isn't much. you said you had it." "yes, i have it; but i must take care of what little i have. i am working for my board, as you know, and have got to provide for all my other expenses myself; therefore i shall need all my money." "you talk as if i wanted you to _give_ me the money. i only asked you to lend it." "that's about the same thing," thought walter; but he only said, "why don't you ask your father for the money?" "because he wouldn't give it to me. he's as mean as dirt." "then where would you get the money to repay me in case i lent it to you?" "you're just as mean as he is," exclaimed joshua, angrily, not caring to answer this question. "a mighty fuss you make about lending a fellow a couple of dollars!" "it makes no particular difference to me whether you think me mean or not," said walter. "i have got to be richer than i am now before i lend money." joshua stalked away in a fret, angry that walter would not permit himself to be swindled. from that time he cherished a dislike to our hero, and this he showed by various little slights and annoyances, of which walter took little notice. he thoroughly despised joshua for his meanness and selfishness, and it mattered very little to him what such a boy thought of him. this forbearance joshua utterly misinterpreted. he decided that walter was deficient in courage and spirit, and it encouraged him to persevere in his system of petty annoyances until they might almost be called bullying. though walter kept quiet under these provocations, there was often a warning flash of the eye which showed that it would not be safe to go too far. but this joshua did not notice, and persisted. "joshua," said his mother one day, "i really think you don't treat walter right. you are not polite to him." "why should i be? what is he but a beggar?" "he is not that, for he works for his living." "at any rate he's a mean fellow, and i shall treat him as i please." but one day matters came to a climax. one afternoon there were a few young fellows standing on the piazza in front of mr. drummond's store. joshua was one of them, and there being no customers to wait upon, walter also had joined the company. they were discussing plans for a picnic to be held in the woods on the next saturday afternoon. it was to be quite a general affair. "you will come, walter, won't you?" asked one of the number. "no," said joshua; "he can't come." "i didn't authorize you to speak for me," said walter, quietly. "you didn't authorize me to speak for you?" repeated joshua, in a mocking tone. "big words for a beggar!" "what do you mean by calling me a beggar?" demanded walter, quietly, but with rising color. "i don't choose to give you any explanation," said joshua, scornfully. "you're only my father's hired boy, working for your board." "that may be true, but i am not a beggar, and i advise you not to call me one again." walter's tone was still quiet, and joshua wholly misunderstood him; otherwise, being a coward at heart, he would have desisted. "i'll say it as often as i please," he repeated. "you're a beggar, and if we hadn't taken pity on you, you'd have had to go to the poor-house." walter was not quarrelsome; but this last insult, in presence of half-a-dozen boys between his own age and joshua's, roused him. "joshua drummond," he said, "you've insulted me long enough, and i've stood it, for i didn't want to quarrel; but i will stand it no longer." he walked up to joshua, and struck him in the face, not a hard blow, but still a blow. joshua turned white with passion, and advanced upon our hero furiously, with the intention of giving him, as he expressed it, the worst whipping he ever had. walter parried his blow, and put in another, this time sharp and stinging. joshua was an inch or two taller, but walter was more than a match for him. joshua threw out his arms, delivering his blows at random, and most of them failed of effect. indeed, he was so blinded with rage, that walter, who kept cool, had from this cause alone a great advantage over him. joshua at length seized him, and he was compelled to throw him down. as joshua lay prostrate, with walter's knee upon his breast, mr. drummond, who had gone over to his own house, appeared upon the scene. "what's all this?" he demanded in mingled surprise and anger. "conrad, what means this outrageous conduct?" walter rose, and, turning to his employer, said, manfully, "joshua insulted me, sir, and i have punished him. that's all!" chapter xii. after the battle. without waiting to hear mr. drummond's reply to his explanation, walter re-entered the store. he had no disposition to discuss the subject in presence of the boys who were standing on the piazza. mr. drummond followed him into the store, and joshua accompanied him. he was terribly angry with walter, and determined to get revenged upon him through his father. "are you going to let that beggar pitch into me like that?" he demanded. "he wouldn't have got me down, only he took me at disadvantage." "conrad," said mr. drummond, "i demand an explanation of your conduct. i come from my house, and find you fighting like a street rowdy, instead of attending to your duties in the store." "i have already given you an explanation, mr. drummond," said walter, firmly. "joshua chose to insult me before all the boys, and i don't allow myself to be insulted if i can help it. as to being out of the store, there was no customer to wait upon, and i went to the door for a breath of fresh air. i have never been accustomed to such confinement before." "you say joshua insulted you. how did he insult you?" "i was asked if i would go to the picnic on saturday afternoon. he didn't wait for me to answer, but said at once that i couldn't come." "was that all?" "on my objecting to his answering for me, he charged me with being a beggar, and said that but for you i would have been obliged to go to the poor-house. if this had been the first time he had annoyed me, i might have passed it over, but it is far from being the first; so i knocked him down." mr. drummond was by no means a partisan of walter, but in the month that our hero had been in his employ he had found him a very efficient clerk. whatever walter undertook to do he did well, and he had mastered the details of the retail dry-goods trade in a remarkably short time, so that his services were already nearly as valuable as those of young nichols, who received eight dollars a week. therefore mr. drummond was disposed to smooth over matters, for the sake of retaining the services which he obtained so cheap. he resolved, therefore, to temporize. "you are both of you wrong," he said. "joshua, you should not have called conrad a beggar, for he earns his living. you, conrad, should not have been so violent. you should have told me, and i would have spoken to joshua." "excuse me, mr. drummond, but i don't like tale-bearing. i did the only thing i could." "ahem!" said mr. drummond, "you were too violent. i would suggest that you should each beg the other's pardon, shake hands, and have done with it." "catch me begging pardon of my father's hired boy!" exclaimed joshua scornfully. "i haven't got quite so low as that." "as for me," said walter, "if i thought i had been in the wrong, i would beg joshua's pardon without any hesitation. i am not too proud for that, but i think i acted right under the circumstances, and therefore i cannot do it. as for being a hired boy, i admit that such is my position, and i don't see anything to be ashamed of in it." "you are right there," said mr. drummond; for this assertion chimed in with his own views and wishes. "well, it seems to me you are about even, and you may as well drop the quarrel here." "i am ready to do so," said walter, promptly. "if joshua treats me well, i will treat him well." "you're mighty accommodating," sneered joshua. "you seem to think you're on an equality with me." "i am willing to treat you as an equal," answered walter, purposely misinterpreting joshua's remark. "oh, you are, are you?" retorted joshua, with a vicious snap of the eyes. "do you think you, a hired boy, are equal to me, who am a gentleman?" "i am glad to hear that you consider yourself a gentleman, and hope you will take care to act like one." "i'll give you the worst licking you ever had!" exclaimed joshua, clenching his fists furiously. "if it isn't any worse than you gave me just now, i can stand it," said walter. he was a little angry, also, and this prompted him to speak thus. joshua was maddened by this remark, and might have renewed the battle if his father had not imperatively ordered him to leave the store. "conrad," said mr. drummond, "you have behaved badly. i did not think you were so quarrelsome." "i don't think i am, sir; but i cannot stand joshua's treatment." "will you promise not to quarrel with him again?" "that depends on whether he provokes me." "of course i can't have you fighting with my son." "i don't care about doing it. if i find he won't let me alone, i have made up my mind what to do." "what?" "i will leave the store, and go back to willoughby; then i will decide what to do. i know that i have got to earn my own living, but i would rather earn it somewhere where i can be at peace." "humph!" said mr. drummond, who did not fancy this determination; "don't be too hasty. i will speak to joshua, and see that he doesn't annoy you again." with this assurance walter felt satisfied. he felt that he had won the victory and maintained his self-respect. there was one thing more he desired, and that was to go to the picnic. he would not have urged the request, but that he was well aware that joshua would report that he was kept at home by his desire. "it won't be very convenient for you to be away saturday afternoon," said mr. drummond, who was principled against allowing clerks any privileges. "you know we have more trade than usual on saturday afternoon." "i don't think we shall have next saturday," said walter; "everybody will be gone to the picnic." "if you insist upon going," said mr. drummond, reluctantly, "i must try to let you go." walter felt no scruples about insisting. he knew that he earned his limited pay twice over, and that his absence would do his employer no harm. he answered, therefore, "thank you, sir; i will be home at six o'clock, so as to be in the store all saturday evening." meanwhile joshua went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. he had not succeeded in humiliating walter as he intended, but had an unpleasant feeling that walter had got the better of him. he was very angry with his father for not taking his part, and was not slow in making his feelings known to his mother. "what's the matter, joshua?" asked mrs. drummond, observing the scowl upon his face. "matter enough! that beggar has been insulting me." "what beggar? i haven't seen any beggar about," answered mrs. drummond. "you know who i mean,--that upstart, conrad." "what's he been doing? i'm sure he's a very gentlemanly young man." "oh, yes, that's just the way. you take his part against your own son," said joshua, bitterly. "what's he been doing? you haven't told me." "he pitched into me, and tried to knock me over." "what for? i am surprised to hear it, he seems so polite and well-bred." "nothing at all. he sprung at me like a tiger, and all for nothing. he took me by surprise, so at first he got the advantage; but i soon gave him as good as he sent." "i am really sorry to hear this," said mrs. drummond, distressed. "are you sure you didn't say something to provoke him?" "i only said, when he was invited to go to the picnic saturday afternoon, that he wouldn't be able to leave the store." "i am afraid you said it in such a way as to offend him." "seems to me you think a good sight more of him than of me in the matter," grumbled joshua. "that's just the way with father. he wanted us both to beg each other's pardon. catch me begging pardon of a beggarly hired boy!" "he isn't any worse because your father hires him, joshua." "oh, yes, of course you stand up for him," said joshua, sneering. "now, joshua, you know i always take your part when you are right." so joshua continued to scold, and mrs. drummond to soothe him, until she found a more effectual way, by placing at his disposal half an apple-pie which was in the cupboard. in the evening she told walter that she was sorry there had been any difficulty between him and joshua. "so am i," said walter, frankly, for he was grateful for her gentle kindness. "i am sorry, if only for your sake, mrs. drummond." "i know he's provoking; but he don't mean what he says, mr. conrad." "i'll try to keep on good terms with him, mrs. drummond," said walter, earnestly, "if only in return for his mother's kindness." "i am sure joshua was hasty, and misjudged walter," said the mother to herself, trying to find an excuse for her son. chapter xiii. the arrow and the pioneer. after this joshua was more careful about annoying walter. though he was older, and a little taller than our hero, he had found to his cost that he was not a match for him in strength. he had also made the unwelcome discovery that walter did not intend to be imposed upon. so, though he ventured to sneer at times, he thought it best to stop short of open insult. there was also another motive which influenced him. his father forbade him in tones more decided than usual to interfere with walter, whose services he was anxious to retain in the store. mr. drummond also had another reason for this command. he thought that walter might be mistaken as to the state of his father's affairs, and that a few thousand dollars might be rescued by his executor from the ruin. in that case, there would be a chance of his obtaining control of walter's property during his minority. the picnic came off on saturday afternoon. the weather, which often throws a wet blanket upon the festivities of such occasions, was highly propitious, and several hundred persons, young and middle-aged, turned out _en masse_. the place selected for the picnic was a field of several acres, bordering upon a pond. this had been fitted up by the proprietor with swings, and a roofed building without sides, under which were placed rough board tables for the reception of provisions. a number of oak trees with their broad branches furnished shelter. besides these arrangements for enjoyment, there were two boats confined by iron chains, which were thrown around trees near the brink of the water. after enjoying the swing for a time, there was a proposition to go out in the boats. the boats could comfortably accommodate eight persons each. this number had been obtained, when joshua came up. "i'm going," he said unceremoniously. "you will have to wait till next time," said ralph morse. "we've got the full number." "no, i'm going this time," said joshua, rudely. "i don't believe there's room. we have eight already." "there's room for nine. if there isn't you can wait till next time yourself. besides, you want me to steer." "do you know how to steer?" "of course i do," said joshua, boastfully. "i guess we can make room," said mary meyer, who was always in favor of peaceful measures. joshua clambered in, and took his place as steersman. the other boat had already set off, and, as it happened, under the guidance of walter conrad, who had long been accustomed to managing a boat, having had one of his own at home. "they've got a great steerer on the other boat," said joshua, sneering. "it's your cousin, isn't it? doesn't he know how to steer?" "about as well as an old cat. he thinks he does, though." attention was thus directed to the other boat, which was making easy progress through the water. "i don't see but he manages well enough," said rudolph, after watching it for a moment. "oh, it's easy enough steering here. wait till we get out a little way." "where are you steering, joshua?" asked ralph, suddenly, for the boat nearly half turned round. the fact was that joshua himself knew very little about steering. in speaking of walter's want of skill, he had precisely described himself. "i understand what i'm about," answered joshua, suddenly reversing the direction, and overdoing the matter, so as to turn the boat half way round the other way. "i hope you do," said ralph, "but it don't look much like it." "i was looking at the other boat," joshua condescended to explain, "and the rudder slipped." walter's boat kept the lead. his perfect steering made the task easier for the rowers, who got the full advantage of their efforts. joshua, however, by his uncertain steering, hindered the progress of his boat. "can't we beat the other boat?" asked joseph wheeler, who was rowing. "i can row as well as either of those fellows." "so can i," said tom barry; "let's try." the boats were about five lengths apart, the rowers in the foremost boat not having worked very hard, when tom and joe began to exert themselves. their intention was soon manifest, and the spirit of rivalry was excited. "do your best, boys!" said walter. "they're trying to catch us. don't let them do it." the rowers of the two boats were about evenly matched. if anything, however, tom and joe were superior, and, other things being equal, would sooner or later have won the race. but joshua, by his original style of steering, which became under the influence of excitement even more unreliable, caused them to lose perceptibly. "can't you steer straight by accident, joshua?" asked tom, in a tone of vexation. "i know more about steering than you do, tom barry," growled joshua, getting red in the face, for he could not help seeing that he was not appearing to advantage. "show it, then, if you do," was the reply. "if we had your cousin to steer us, we could soon get ahead." this was very mortifying to joshua. he did not care to be outdone by any one, but to be outdone by walter was particularly disagreeable. "it isn't the steering, it's the rowing," he said. "you don't row even." "won't you try it, then," said joe, "and show us what you can do?" "no, i'd rather steer." joshua considered that the steersman's place was the place of honor, and he was not disposed to yield it. meanwhile walter, from his place in the first boat, watched the efforts of his rivals. he was determined to keep the lead which he had secured, and had little fear of losing it. "give way, boys!" he cried; "we'll distance them, never fear!" every moment increased the distance between the two boats, to the great satisfaction of those on board the "arrow," for that was the name of the head boat. just at the north-western corner of the pond there was an inlet of considerable length, but narrow. here the water was shallower than in the remainder of the pond. "shall we go in there?" asked walter. "yes, yes," said his fellow-passengers. accordingly he steered in, and shortly afterwards the "pioneer," joshua's boat, also entered. at this time the distance between the two boats was quite two hundred feet. the "arrow" pursued her way steadily to the head of the inlet, a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile; and then making a graceful turn, started on her homeward trip. the width of the inlet here was very much contracted. after making the turn the "arrow" met the "pioneer" after a little distance. there was abundant room for the boats to pass each other, if they had been properly managed. there was no fault in walter's steering, but, by an awkward blunder of joshua's, the "pioneer" veered in her course so that the "arrow" struck her, to use a nautical term, amidships. as she was being impelled rapidly at the time, the shock was considerable, and the fright still greater. the girls jumped to their feet screaming, and joshua himself turned pale with fright, but recovered himself sufficiently to call out angrily, "what made you run into us, you fool?" "it's your own fault, joshua," said tom barry, angrily. "you're the most stupid steerer i ever saw. what made you turn the boat?" "it's his fault," said joshua, doggedly. "let somebody else steer," said joe wheeler. "a baby could steer better than he." so a younger boy was put in joshua's place, much to his mortification, and he was degraded, as he considered it, to the rank of a passenger. "i'm going ashore," he said sourly. "let me out up here." "all right!" said tom barry. "i guess we can get along without you. here, you fellows on the "arrow," just wait a minute, till we've landed joshua, and we'll race you back." true to his determination, joshua jumped off at the head of the inlet, and the "pioneer" was turned by her new pilot. the "arrow" and the "pioneer" took their places side by side, and the race commenced. the boats were similar, and thus neither had the advantage on this score. but the rowers on the "pioneer" were on the whole stronger and more skilful than those on the "arrow." on the other hand, walter steered perfectly, while joshua's successor, though he made no bad blunder, was a novice. the result was that the race was a clear one. finally the "arrow" came in a length ahead, and walter felt with quiet satisfaction that the victory had been gained by his efforts. he thought once more of the song he had heard, and hoped that he would be as successful through life in paddling his own canoe. joshua went home sulky, and was not seen again on the picnic grounds. chapter xiv. a brilliant scheme. one morning, a few days later, joshua was walking moodily up the village road with his hands in his pockets. he was reflecting, in a spirit of great discontent, on the hardships of his situation. "here am i," he said to himself, "eighteen years old, and father treats me like a boy of ten. i'm most a man, and all he gives me for pocket-money is twenty-five cents a week. there's dick storrs, whose father isn't a quarter as rich as mine, gets a dollar a week. he's only sixteen, too." one important difference between himself and dick storrs did not occur to joshua. dick worked in a shoe-shop, and it was out of his own wages that his father allowed him a dollar a week. joshua earned nothing at all. "it's mean!" reflected joshua. "there aint a boy of my age in stapleton that's so meanly treated, and yet my father's the richest man in town. i wish i knew what to do to get a little money." at this moment he saw sam crawford approaching him. sam was perhaps a year younger than joshua. he had formerly lived in the village, but was now in a situation in new york, and was only in stapleton for a few days. "how are you, joshua?" said sam. "well enough," said joshua. "where are you going?" "i'm going round to the ice-cream saloon. won't you come with me?" "yes, if you'll treat. i haven't got any money." "you ought to have. the old man's got plenty." "that's so. but he's getting meaner every day. what do you think he allows me for spending money?" "i don't know. a dollar a week?" "a dollar! i should think myself lucky if i got anywhere near that. what do you say to twenty-five cents?" "you don't mean to say that's all he gives you?" "yes, i do." "why, i can't get along on ten times that. why don't you ask for more?" "i have, fifty times; but that's all the good it does." "if my father treated me like that, i'd cut his acquaintance." "i don't know as that would do me any good," said joshua, rather sensibly. "i wish i knew of any way of getting some money." "you might hire out to saw wood for the neighbors," said sam. "i haven't got so low as that," said joshua, haughtily. "of course i meant that in joke; but you might get a place, and earn some money." this suggestion, however, did not suit joshua, for it carried with it the idea of work, and he was as lazy as he was selfish; which is saying as much as can well be said on that point. "the old man ought to give me enough to spend, without work," he said. "he don't spend more than a third of his income." "he's saving it up for you." "i'm not likely to get it for a good many years," said joshua, who actually seemed to be angry with his father for living so long. however, though it is doubtful whether joshua would have been a dutiful or affectionate son under any circumstances, it must be admitted that mr. drummond had done very little to inspire filial affection. "look here!" said sam, suddenly, "i have an idea. did you ever buy a lottery ticket?" "no," answered joshua. "there's a fellow i know in new york that drew a prize of a thousand dollars, and how much do you think he paid for a ticket?" "i don't know." "five dollars. how's that for high?" "how long ago is that?" asked joshua, becoming interested. "only two months ago." "do you know him?" "yes, i know him as well as i know you. he is clerk in a store just opposite ours. when he got the money he gave half a dozen of us a big dinner at delmonico's. we had a jolly time." "a thousand dollars for five!" repeated joshua. "he was awfully lucky. what lottery was it?" "it was one of the delaware lotteries." "do you know the name of it?" "no, but i'll tell you what i'll do. the fellow i was speaking of gets lottery papers regularly. i'll ask him for one, and send it to you as soon as i get back to the city." "i wish you would," said joshua. "wouldn't it be splendid if i could draw a prize of a thousand dollars?" "i'll bet it would. it would make you independent of the old man. you wouldn't care much for his twenty-five cents a week then?" "no, i'd tell him he might keep it till he got rich enough to afford me more." "he'd open his eyes a little at that, i reckon." "i guess he would. when are you going back to the city?" "the last of this month. my time will be up then." "you won't forget to send me the paper?" "no, i'll remember it. come in and have an ice-cream. you can return the compliment when you've drawn a prize." "all right! is a thousand dollars the highest prize?" "no, there are some of two, three, and five thousand. then there are five-hundred-dollar prizes, and so along to five dollars. five hundred wouldn't be so bad, eh?" "no, i should feel satisfied with that. i would come up to new york, and spend a week." "if you do, just step in upon me, and i'll show you round. i know the ropes." "i wish i could," said joshua, enviously. "this is an awfully stupid place. i tried to get leave to go to the city last fall, but the old man wouldn't let me. he wasn't willing to spend the money." i hope none of my readers will so admire the character of joshua drummond as to imitate him in the disrespectful manner in which he speaks of his father. yet i am aware that many boys and young men, who are not without respect and affection for their parents, have fallen into the very discreditable way of referring to them as "the old man" or "the old woman." they may be sure that such a habit will prejudice against them all persons of right feeling. joshua and sam went into the ice-cream saloon, which was kept, during the summer only, in a small candy store, by a maiden lady who eked out a scanty income by such limited patronage as the village could afford. joshua plied his companion with further questions, to all of which he readily replied, though it is doubtful whether all the answers were quite correct. but sam, having been in the city a few months, wished to be thought to have a very extensive acquaintance with it, and was unwilling to admit ignorance on any point. early the next week sam returned to his duties in the city, and joshua awaited impatiently the promised lottery papers. sam did not forget his promise. on the third day after his departure a paper came to the village post-office, directed. "joshua drummond, esq., stapleton." this was promptly taken from the office by joshua, who had called on an average twice a day for this very paper. it proved to be printed on yellow paper, and fairly bristled with figures, indicating the large sums which were weekly distributed all over the country by the benevolent managers of the lottery. here was a scheme in which the principal prize was but a thousand dollars. however, the tickets were but a dollar each, and a thousand dollars for one was certainly a handsome return for a small outlay. there were others, however, in which the principal prize was five thousand dollars, and the tickets were, in due proportion, five dollars each. joshua went off to a somewhat secluded place, for he did not wish to be interrupted, and eagerly read the paper through from beginning to end. certainly the representations made were of a very seductive character. one might suppose, from reading the paragraphs sandwiching the several schemes, that the chances were strongly in favor of every holder of a ticket drawing a prize, though a little calculation would have shown that the chances of drawing even the smallest prize were scarcely more than one in a hundred. here, for instance, is one of the paragraphs:-- "a mechanic in a country town in new york state met with an accident which confined him to his home for three months. he had a large family of children, and had never been able to lay up any money. the consequence was, that the family was reduced to great distress, and he saw no resource except to try to borrow a little money, which would create a debt that he might be years in paying off. but fortunately, only a week before the accident, his wife had seen one of our advertisements. she had five dollars by her, which she had intended to appropriate to the purchase of a new dress. instead of doing this, a happy impulse led her to send for one of our tickets. she concealed this from her husband, however, thinking that he would blame her. what was her joy, when they were reduced to their last dollar, to receive from us intelligence that she had drawn a prize of two thousand dollars! the joy of the poor family can better be imagined than described. they were enabled at once to purchase the house in which they lived, and thus to lay the foundation of permanent prosperity. thus, as in numberless other cases, have we been the means of bringing joy to lucky households." now, this story was probably manufactured out of whole cloth. at any rate, even if true, for every such fortunate household there were a hundred to which the lottery had carried disappointment and privation. but of course the lottery managers could not be expected to allude to these, nor did joshua, as he greedily read such paragraphs, consider them. on the contrary, his imagination and cupidity were both excited, and he was foolish enough to suppose that his chances of success in case he invested would be very good indeed. chapter xv. ways and means. having decided to purchase a lottery ticket, the important question suggested itself, "where was he to obtain the necessary five dollars?" to most boys or young men of eighteen this would not have been a difficult question to solve. but to joshua it was a perplexing problem. if he saved his entire weekly allowance, it would take him twenty weeks to obtain the needed sum. this delay was not to be thought of. was there any pretext on which he could ask his father for five dollars? he could think of none that would be likely to succeed. had he been trusted with the purchase of his own clothes, he might have asked for a new coat and misapplied the money; but mr. drummond took care to order joshua's clothes himself from the village tailor, and never did so without grumbling at the expense he was obliged to incur. indeed, joshua was not able to boast much of his clothes, for his father was not disposed to encourage extravagance in dress. "perhaps mother may have the money," thought joshua. "if she has, i'll get it out of her." he resolved at once to find out whether any help was to be obtained from this quarter, and with this object turned his steps at once homeward. mrs. drummond was engaged in the homely employment of darning stockings when joshua entered the house. "you're home early, joshua," she remarked, looking up. "yes, mother. have you got anything good to eat?" "i baked a small pie for you in a saucer. i thought that was the best way. the other evening your father noticed that a piece was gone from the half pie that was taken from the supper-table." "how awful mean he is!" "you shouldn't say that of your father, joshua." "it's true, mother, and you know it. he's the meanest man in town." "i don't like to hear you talk in that way, joshua. don't forget that he is your father." "i wish he'd treat me like a father, then. i leave it to you, mother, if twenty-five cents a week isn't a miserable allowance for a fellow of my age." "it is rather small," said mrs. drummond, cautiously. "small! i should think it was. it's just about right for a boy of ten. that's just the way he treats me." "perhaps, if you would speak to your father about it, joshua--" "i have spoken to him, and that's all the good it does. he blows me up for my extravagance. extravagance on twenty-five cents a week!" "i'll speak to him myself, joshua," said his mother;--a heroic resolve, for she knew that the request would bring anger upon herself. "he won't mind your talk any more than mine. but i'll tell you what you can do to oblige me, mother." "well, joshua?" "i know of a way to make considerable money, and all i need to go into it is five dollars. if you'll lend me that, i'll pay it back to you as soon as i can. i think it won't be more than a fortnight." "what is the plan you are thinking of, joshua?" but upon this subject joshua thought it best to preserve a discreet silence. he knew that the lottery scheme would not impress his mother favorably, and that she would not lend the money for any such purpose. he was aware in what light lotteries are generally regarded. still his imagination had been inflamed by the stories he had read of other persons' luck, and he had succeeded in convincing himself that his own chance would be very good. thus he referred to it, in speaking to his mother, as if he were sure of obtaining a large amount for his investment. "i can't tell you just at present, mother," he said; "the fact is, somebody else is concerned in it, and i am not allowed to tell." "i hope, joshua, you have not allowed yourself to be imposed upon. you know you are not used to business." "i know what i'm about, mother. i'm not a baby. all i want is the money. can you lend me five dollars?" "i wish i could; but you know your father doesn't allow me much money. i get my dress patterns and most of what i want out of the store, so i don't need it." "you have to buy things for the house,--groceries, and so on." "we have a bill at the grocery store. your father pays it quarterly; so no money passes through my hands for that purpose." "then you haven't got the money, mother," said joshua, disappointed. "i haven't had as much as five dollars in my possession at one time for years," answered his mother. it was true that mr. drummond kept his wife uncommonly close. she was allowed to obtain a limited amount of goods from the store for her own wardrobe, but apart from that her husband appeared to think she had no need of money. more than once she wished she could have a little money at her control to answer occasional calls for charity. but on one occasion, having been indiscreet enough to give twenty-five cents and a good meal to a woman, sick and poor, who crawled to her door and asked for help, mr. drummond indulged in such a display of ill-humor at her foolish extravagance, as he called it, that she was forced afterwards to deny her generous impulses, or give in the most secret manner, pledging the recipient to silence. "i'm sorry i can't oblige you, joshua," said his mother. "will you have the pie?" "yes," said joshua, sullenly, for he was at a loss where next to apply, and felt that his scheme of sudden riches was blighted at its inception. notwithstanding his disappointment, however, he was able to dispose of the pie. after consuming it, he went out of doors, to reflect upon other ways of raising the necessary money. there was his cousin walter; he was quite sure that he had the money, but quite as sure that he would not lend it. besides, he would have hesitated to apply, on account of the dislike he had come to entertain for our hero. this dislike had been increased by the result of the boat race between the "pioneer" and the "arrow." he had occasion to know that the defeat of the former boat was generally ascribed to his own imperfect steering, and he also knew that walter had obtained considerable credit for his own performance in the same line. now joshua knew in his own heart that he could not steer, but he wanted the reputation of steering well, and it was very irksome to him to have to play second fiddle to walter. he had indicated his dislike ever since by refusing to notice or speak to walter, except in so far as it was absolutely necessary. of course walter noticed this want of cordiality, and was in a measure sorry for it; still he had become pretty thoroughly acquainted with joshua's character by this time, and this knowledge led him to feel that the loss of his friendship was not a very serious one. he had made some other acquaintances, in the village, with boys of his own age, in whose society he found considerable more pleasure than he was ever likely to do in joshua's. "he can go his way, and i'll go mine," he said to himself. "i'll paddle my own canoe, and he may paddle his. perhaps he will succeed better in that than in steering," he thought with a smile. help from walter, therefore, was not to be expected. was there any one else to help him? joshua thought doubtfully of his father's clerk, young nichols, who has already been introduced to the reader. he did not think there was much prospect of obtaining a loan from nichols; still there might be. at any rate there seemed no other resource, and he made up his mind to sound him. he stepped into the store one day when walter was absent on an errand, and his father was out also. "good-morning, joshua," said the salesman. "what's up this morning?" "nothing that i know of." "you have an easy time. nothing to do but to lounge about all day. you aint cooped up in a store fourteen hours a day." "that's so; but i suppose i'll have to begin some time." "oh, you're all right. your father's getting richer every year." "yes, i suppose he is; but that doesn't give me ready money now. the fact is, i'm hard up for five dollars. can't you lend it to me for a week? i'll give it back in a week, or ten days at any rate." "you couldn't come to a worse place for money," said nichols, laughing. "the fact is, i'm hard up myself, and always am. old jones, the tailor, is dunning me for this very suit i have on. fact is, my salary is so small, i have the hardest kind of work to get along." "then you can't lend me the money? it's for only a week i want it." "i've got less than a dollar in my pocket, and i'm owing about fifty dollars to the tailor and shoemaker. perhaps walter can lend you the money." "i shan't ask him," said joshua, shortly. "i'll go without first." "don't you like him?" "no, i don't. he's a mean fellow." nichols was privately of the opinion that the term described joshua himself much more aptly, but did not express his opinion. chapter xvi. joshua tries keeping store. the more joshua thought it over, the more convinced he was that a large sum of money was likely to come to him through the lottery, if he could only manage to raise money enough to buy a ticket. but the problem of how to get the necessary five dollars he was as far as ever from solving. while in this state of mind he happened one day to be in the store at noon, and alone. nichols, the head clerk, wished to go to dinner, and was only waiting for walter to get back from an errand. "i wish walter would hurry up," he grumbled. "my dinner will get cold." "i'll take your place till he gets back, mr. nichols," said joshua, with extraordinary kindness for him. [illustration] "much obliged, joshua," said the salesman. "i'll do as much for you another time. i don't think you'll have long to wait." "you'd better hurry off," said joshua. "i'd just as lief wait as not." "i never knew him so accommodating before," thought nichols, with a feeling of surprise. he seized his hat and hurried away. no sooner had he gone than joshua, after following him to the door, and looking carefully up and down the street, walked behind the counter with a hasty step, and opened the money-drawer. there was a small pile of bills in one compartment, and in the other a collection of currency. he took the bills into his hand, and looked over them. his hands trembled a little, for he contemplated a dishonest act. unable to obtain the money in any other way, he meant to borrow (that was what he called it) five dollars from the money-drawer, and expend it in a lottery ticket. singling out a five-dollar bill from the pile, he thrust it into his vest-pocket. he had scarcely done so when he was startled by hearing the door open. he made a guilty jump, but perceived, to his relief, that it was a woman not living in the village, but probably in some adjoining town. "what can i show you, ma'am?" he asked, in a flurried manner, for he could not help thinking of what he had in his vest-pocket. "i should like to look at some of your shawls," said the woman. joshua knew very little about his father's stock. he did know, however, where the shawls were kept, and going to that portion of the shelves, pulled down half a dozen and showed them to his customer. "are they all wool?" she asked, critically examining one of them. "yes," answered joshua, confidently, though he had not the slightest knowledge on the subject. "what is the price of this one?" asked the customer, indicating the one she had in her hand. "five dollars," answered joshua, with some hesitation. he knew nothing of the price, but guessed that this would be about right. "and you say it is all wool?" "certainly, ma'am." "i guess i'll take it. will you wrap it up for me?" this joshua did awkwardly enough, and the customer departed, much pleased with her bargain, as she had a right to be, for the real price of the shawl was nine dollars, but, thanks to joshua's ignorance, she had been able to save four. joshua looked at the five-dollar bill he had just received, and a new idea occurred to him. he replaced in the drawer the bill he had originally taken from it, and substituted that just received. "i won't say anything about having sold a shawl," he said, "and father'll never know that one has been sold. at any rate, not till i get money enough to replace the bill i have taken." just then a little girl came in and inquired for a spool of cotton. joshua found the spools, and let her select one. "how much is it?" asked the young customer. "ten cents." "mother told me it wouldn't be but six." "very well, if that is all you expect to pay, you shall have it for that." "thank you, sir;" and the little girl departed with her purchase. joshua now hurriedly folded up the shawls and replaced them on the shelves. he had just finished the task when walter entered. "are you tending store?" he said, in surprise. "yes," said joshua. "nichols got tired waiting for you, so i told him i'd stay till you got back." "i had some distance to go, and that detained me. did you have any customers?" "yes, i just sold a spool of cotton to a little girl." "i met her a little way up the road, holding the spool in her hand." "well," said joshua, "i guess i'll go, now you've got back." he went across the street to his father's house, and, going up into his own room, locked the door, not wishing to be interrupted. then, opening his desk, he took out a sheet of paper, and wrote a note to the address given in his lottery circular, requesting the parties to send him by return of mail a lottery ticket. he added, shrewdly as he thought, "if this ticket draws a prize, i will keep on buying; but if it don't i shall get discouraged and stop." "i guess that'll fetch 'em," thought joshua. he folded up the paper, and, inclosing the bill, directed it. the next thing to do was to mail it. now this seemed a very simple thing, but it really occasioned considerable trouble. the postmaster in a small village can generally identify many of the correspondents who send letters through his office by their handwriting. he knew joshua's, and such a letter as this would attract his attention and set him to gossiping. considering the circumstances under which he obtained the money, this was hardly desirable, and joshua therefore decided, though unwillingly, on account of the trouble, to walk to the next post-office, a distance of three miles, and post his letter there. he came downstairs with his letter in his pocket. "where are you going, joshua?" asked his mother. "going out to walk," said joshua, shortly. "i wanted to send a little bundle to mr. faulkner's, but that is too far off." "i'll carry it," said joshua. mrs. drummond was astonished at this unusual spirit of accommodation, for joshua was, in general, far from obliging. the truth was, however, that, though mr. faulkner lived over a mile and a quarter distant, it was on his way to the post-office. "thank you, joshua," said mrs. drummond. "i was afraid you wouldn't be willing to go so far." "i feel just like taking a long walk to-day, mother." "here is the bundle. i will bake a little pie for you while you are gone." so things seemed to be working very smoothly for joshua, and he set out on his three-mile walk in very good spirits. his walk he knew would make him hungry, and the pie which his mother promised him would be very acceptable on his return. arrived in front of mr. faulkner's, he saw frank faulkner, a boy of twelve, playing outside. "frank," called out joshua, "here's a bundle i want you to carry into the house. tell your folks my mother sent it." "all right," said frank, and he carried it in. joshua proceeded on his way, and finally reached the post-office. "give me a three-cent postage-stamp," he said to the postmaster. this was speedily affixed to the letter, and, after resting a short time, he set out on his walk homeward. reaching the house of mr. faulkner, he was hailed by frank, who was still playing outside. "where have you been, joshua?" joshua was not desirous of having it known where he had been, and he answered, in the surly manner characteristic of him, "what business is that of yours?" "where did you learn manners?" asked frank, who was a sturdy scion of young america, and quite disposed to stand up for his rights. "if you're impudent, i'll give you a licking," growled joshua. "next time you come along this way, you may take in your own bundles," retorted frank. "if i had a stick, i'd give you something you wouldn't like." "you'd have to catch me first," said frank. joshua's temper, which was none of the sweetest, was by this time roused, and he started in pursuit of frank, but the younger boy dodged so adroitly as to baffle his pursuit. in attempting to catch him, indeed, joshua stubbed his toe violently against a projecting root, and measured his length by the roadside. "who's down, i wonder?" asked frank, scrambling over the fence, where he felt safe. "i'll wring your neck some time, you young imp!" exclaimed joshua, gathering himself up slowly and painfully, and shaking his fist vindictively at frank. "i'll wait till you're ready," returned frank. "i'm in no hurry." at length joshua reached home, feeling tired and provoked, but congratulating himself that he had taken the first step towards the grand prize which loomed in dazzling prospect before his eyes. chapter xvii. joshua's disappointment. in due time, to joshua's great delight, the lottery ticket reached him. it was several days in coming, and he had almost given it up, but the sight of it raised his spirits to the highest pitch. it seemed to him the first step to a fortune. he began at once to indulge in dazzling visions of what he would do when the prize came to hand; how the "old man" would be astonished and treat him with increased respect; how he would go to the city and have a good time seeing the lions, and from henceforth throw off the galling yoke of dependence which his father's parsimony had made it so hard to bear. whenever he was by himself, he used to pull out the ticket and gaze at it with the greatest satisfaction, as the key that was to unlock the portals of fortune, independence, and happiness. he had been afraid that his appropriation of five dollars would be detected, and every time his father entered the house he looked into his face with some apprehension; but days rolled by, and nothing was heard. he congratulated himself that he had been able to sell the shawl for precisely the sum he needed, otherwise the money might have been missed that very night. as it was, neither the shawl nor the bill had been missed. about this time he received a letter from sam crawford, describing the gayeties of the city. it closed thus:-- "by the way, josh, when are you coming up to the city, to take a look at the lions? it's a shame that a young man of your age should be cooped up in an insignificant little village like stapleton. i wouldn't exchange the knowledge of the world i have obtained here for five hundred dollars! what a green rustic i was when i first came here! but it didn't take me long to find the way round, and now i know the ropes as well as the next man. i generally play billiards in the evening, and, if i do say it myself, i am rather hard to beat. when you come up, i'll give you a few lessons. i can't help pitying you for leading such a slow, humdrum life in the country. i should be moped to death if i were in your place. can't you induce the old man to fork over the stamps, and come up here, if only for a week?" this letter had the effect of making joshua very much disgusted with stapleton. brilliant visions of city life and city enjoyments flitted before his eyes, and he felt that nothing was needed to make a man of him except the knowledge of life which a city residence would be sure to give. "it's all true what sam says," he soliloquized. "a man can't learn anything of life here. no wonder he looks upon me as a green rustic. how can i be anything else in this miserable little village? but as for the old man's paying my expenses on a visit, he's too mean for that. but then there is the lottery ticket. just as soon as i get hold of my prize, i'll go on my own hook." i append a passage from joshua's reply to sam's letter:-- "there isn't any chance of the old man's forking over stamps enough to pay for my visit to new york. he's too thundering mean for that. all he cares for is to make money. _but i'm coming, for all that._ i've bought a lottery ticket, as you advised, and just as soon as i get hold of the prize, i shall come and make you a visit. i should like very much to learn billiards. i wish there was a billiard table in stapleton, though it wouldn't do me much good if there were, the old man keeps me so close. i shall be glad when i am twenty-one. i don't see why he can't let me have a few thousand dollars then, and set me up in business in the city. perhaps we could go in together as partners. however, there is no use in talking about him, for he won't do it. _but i may get hold of the money some other way._ would five thousand dollars be enough to set a fellow up in business in new york? "you will hear from me again soon. i hope i shall be able to write you that i am coming to see you. "your friend, "joshua drummond." it will be seen that joshua was willing to go into business for himself, though he did not care to take a situation. he had the idea, which i think is entertained by a large number of boys and young men, that an employer has nothing to do but to sit at his desk, count over his money, and order his clerks around. for such an employment as this joshua felt that he was well adapted, and would very much have enjoyed the sense of importance it would give him. but joshua made a great mistake. many employers look back upon the years which they passed as clerks as years of comparative leisure and ease, certainly of freedom from anxiety. they find that they have a heavy price to pay for the privilege of being their own masters, and the masters of others. but joshua was thoroughly lazy, and it was this feeling that dictated the wish which he expressed in his letter to sam crawford. the days passed very slowly, it must be acknowledged. joshua was in a restless and excited state. though he expected to draw a prize, he knew that there was a remote chance of failing to draw anything, and he wanted the matter decided. but at length the long-expected letter arrived. joshua did not like to open it in the post-office, lest it should attract the attention of the postmaster. he therefore withdrew to a place where he was not likely to be disturbed, and with trembling fingers opened the letter. something dropped out. "i wonder if it is a check?" thought joshua, stooping over and picking it up. but no, it was an announcement of the drawing. joshua's numbers,--for each lottery ticket contains three numbers,--were , , . but of the thirteen lucky numbers drawn out of sixty-five, neither of them was one. slowly it dawned upon joshua that he had drawn nothing, that his five dollars had been absolutely thrown away. but there was a letter. perhaps this would explain it. joshua read as follows:-- "dear sir:--we regret to say that we are unable to send you a prize this time. we hope, however, you will not be discouraged. some of our patrons who have been most fortunate have commenced by being unlucky. indeed, singularly enough, this is a general rule. let us cite an instance. mr. b----, of your state, bought his first ticket of us last spring. it turned out a blank. we wrote him not to be discouraged, but we did not hear from him for some weeks. finally he sent us a remittance for a ticket, adding that he sent it with a very faint hope of success. he was convinced that he was born to ill-luck. but what was the result? in less than a fortnight we had the pleasure and gratification of sending him five thousand dollars, minus our usual commission. suppose he had been discouraged by a first failure, you can see how much he would have lost. "hoping to hear from you again, and to send you in return better news, we subscribe ourselves, "very respectfully, "grabb & co." the effect of joshua's ill success was to make him very despondent. "it's all very well to say 'try again,'" he said to himself, "but where can i get the money? that five dollars is thrown away, and i've got nothing to show for it." he thought of all he had intended to do, and now his castles had crumbled, and all in consequence of this letter. he had been so sanguine of success. now he must write to sam that his visit to new york was indefinitely postponed, that is, unless he could induce his father to provide him with money enough to go. the prospect was not very encouraging, but he felt desperate, and he determined to make the attempt. accordingly, just after supper, he detained his father, just as he was returning to the store, and said:-- "father, i wish you'd let me go to new york on a visit." "what for?" asked mr. drummond, elevating his brows. "because i'm eighteen years old, and i've never been there yet." "then, if you've gone eighteen years without seeing the city, i think you can go a while longer," said his father, under the impression that he had made a witty remark. but joshua did not appreciate the humor of it. "i've lived in stapleton ever since i was born," grumbled joshua, "and have got tired of it. i want to see something of life." "do you? well, i'm sure i've no objection." "may i go then?" "yes." "when?" asked joshua, joyfully. "to-morrow, if you like; but of course you will pay your own expenses." "how can i?" exclaimed joshua, in angry disappointment. "i have no money." "then you can save up your allowance till you have enough." "save up on twenty-five cents a week! i couldn't go till i was an old man!" "i know of no other way," said mr. drummond, with provoking indifference, "unless you earn the money in some way." "you treat me like a little boy!" said joshua, angrily. "you are better off than i am. i have to work for all i get. you get your board, clothes, and pocket-money for nothing." "other boys go to new york when they are much younger." "i have told you you can go when you like, but you mustn't expect me to supply the money." mr. drummond put on his hat and crossed the street to the store, leaving joshua in a very unfilial frame of mind. chapter xviii. walter finds himself in hot water. two days later two women entered mr. drummond's store. one was joshua's customer, and she wore the same shawl which she had purchased of him. it happened that walter was out, but mr. drummond and nichols were both behind the counter. "have you got any more shawls like this?" asked the first lady, whom we will call mrs. blake. "mrs. spicer, who is a neighbor of mine, liked it so well that she wants to get another just like it." this was addressed to mr. drummond, who happened to be nearest the door. "did you buy this shawl of us?" asked mr. drummond. "yes, sir. i bought it about a fortnight ago, and paid five dollars for it." "five dollars! there must be some mistake. we never sell such a shawl as that for less than ten dollars." "i can't help it," said mrs. blake, positively. "i bought it here, and paid five dollars for it." "why, those shawls cost me seven dollars and a half at wholesale. it is not likely i would sell them for five." "i didn't buy it of you." "mr. nichols," said mr. drummond, "did you sell this lady the shawl she is wearing, for five dollars?" "no, sir; have not sold a shawl like that for two months. i know the price well enough, and i wouldn't sell it for less than ten dollars." "i didn't buy it of him, i bought it of a boy," said mrs. blake. "it must have been that stupid conrad," exclaimed mr. drummond, angrily. "wait till he comes in, and i'll haul him over the coals." "then you won't let my friend have another like it for five dollars?" "no," said mr. drummond, provoked. "i don't do business that way. i've lost nearly three dollars by that shawl of yours. you ought to make up the wholesale price to me." "i shan't do it," said mrs. blake. "if you've made a mistake, it's your lookout. i wasn't willing to pay more than five dollars." the two ladies were about to leave the store when mr. drummond said, "the boy will be back directly. i wish you would wait a few minutes, so that if he denies it you can prove it upon him." "i've got a call to make," said mrs. blake, "but i'll come in again in about an hour." they left the store, and mr. drummond began to berate the absent walter. he was provoked to find that he had lost two dollars and a half, and, if walter had been in receipt of any wages, would have stopped the amount out of his salary. but, unfortunately for this plan of reprisal, our hero received his board only, and that could not very well be levied upon. however, he might have some money in his possession, and mr. drummond decided to require him to make up the loss. "when did she say she bought the shawl, mr. nichols?" asked his employer. "about a fortnight ago." "will you look on the books, and see if you find the sale recorded? i am surprised that it escaped my attention." nichols looked over the book of sales, and announced that no such entry could be found. mr. drummond was surprised. though not inclined to judge others any too charitably, he had never suspected walter of dishonesty. "are you sure you looked back far enough?" he asked. "yes," said nichols; "to make sure, i looked back four weeks. the woman said only a fortnight, you know." "i know. then it seems conrad has concealed the sale and kept the money." "perhaps," suggested nichols, who rather liked walter, "he forgot to put it down." "if he did, he forgot to put the money in the drawer, for the cash and the sales have always balanced. he's an ungrateful young rascal," continued mr. drummond, harshly. "after i took him into my house and treated him as a son (this was not saying much, if joshua may be believed), he has robbed me in the most cold-blooded manner." why there should be anything cold-blooded in appropriating the price of the shawl, even had the charge been true, i cannot say, nor could mr. drummond probably, but he thought that the use of this term would make the offence seem more aggravated. even nichols was a little staggered by the evidence against our hero. he did not like to think him guilty, but it certainly seemed as if he must be. "what are you going to do about it, mr. drummond?" he asked. "i suppose i ought to have him arrested. he deserves it." "i hope you won't do that. he may be able to explain it." "if i do not proceed to extremities, it will be on account of his relationship, which i blush to acknowledge." the time had been, and that not long since, when mr. drummond felt proud of his relationship to the rich squire conrad of willoughby; but that was before his loss of property. circumstances alter cases. quite unconscious of the storm that was gathering, walter at this moment entered the store. "so you've got back!" said mr. drummond, harshly. "yes, sir." "you haven't been in any particular hurry. however, that was not what i wished to speak to you about. we have made a discovery since you went out." "have you, sir?" asked walter, rather surprised by the peculiar tone which mr. drummond saw fit to adopt. "yes, and not a very agreeable one." "i am sorry for that," said walter, not knowing what else was expected of him. "no doubt you are sorry," sneered mr. drummond. "i should think he would be, eh, mr. nichols?" "i am sorry also," said nichols, who, though rather weak-minded, was a good-hearted young man. "so am i sorry," said mr. drummond. "it strikes me i have most reason to be sorry, considering that the loss has fallen on me." all this was an enigma to walter, and he had not the faintest idea of what his employer meant. he inferred, however, that some blame was about to be laid upon him. "if you have no objection, mr. drummond," he said quietly, "perhaps you will tell me what has happened." "i have found out your ingratitude, conrad," said mr. drummond, preparing for a lecture, which he rather liked to indulge in, as his wife could have testified. "i have discovered how like a viper you have repaid me for my kindness. you didn't think i would find out, but your iniquity has providentially come to light. while i was loading you with benefits, you prepared to sting the hand of your benefactor." "i don't know what you are talking about, mr. drummond," said walter, impatiently. "i wish you would stop talking in riddles, and let me know in what way i resemble a viper." "did you ever witness such brazen effrontery, mr. nichols?" demanded mr. drummond, turning to his head salesman; "even when he is found out, he brazens it out." "wouldn't it be as well to tell him what is the matter, mr. drummond?" asked nichols, who was in hopes our hero would be able to prove his innocence. "won't you tell me, mr. nichols?" asked walter. "no," said mr. drummond, waving his hand; "it is my duty to tell him myself. i will do so briefly. walter conrad, when i admitted you into my house i little dreamed that i was harboring a thief." "a thief!" exclaimed walter, his eyes flashing with anger, and elevating his fist involuntarily. "who dares to call me a thief?" "no violence, conrad," said mr. drummond. "such a theatrical display of indignation and surprise won't help you any. we are not to be imposed upon by your artful demonstrations." "mr. drummond," burst forth walter, fairly aroused, "you are insulting me by every word you speak. i am no more a thief than you are." "do you call me a thief?" exclaimed mr. drummond, turning white about the lips. "no, i don't; but i have as much right to call you one as you have to charge such a thing upon me." "i can prove what i say," said his employer. "i have got you in a net." "it won't take me long to get out of any net you may set for me. i insist upon your telling me at once what you mean." "this language is rather extraordinary for a boy convicted of dishonesty to use towards his employer." "i am not convicted of dishonesty. mr. nichols, i appeal to you to tell me, what mr. drummond does not seem disposed to do, what is the meaning of this false charge which he has trumped up against me." "i am sure you can prove your innocence, conrad," said nichols, soothingly. "mr. nichols, will you do me the favor to be silent?" said his employer, sharply. "the matter concerns conrad and myself, and i don't choose that any one should communicate with him except myself. to come to the point, did you, or did you not, a fortnight since, sell one of those shawls, such as you see on the counter, for five dollars?" "i did not," said walter, promptly. "it might not have been exactly a fortnight. have you sold such a shawl within four weeks?" "i have not sold such a shawl since i have been in your employ, mr. drummond." "you hear what he says, mr. nichols," said mr. drummond. "you see how he adds falsehood to dishonesty. but that is not uncommon. it is only what i expected. do you mean to say, walter conrad, that you didn't sell such a shawl for five dollars (only half price), and, instead of entering the sale, put the money into your own pocket?" "i do deny it most emphatically, mr. drummond," said walter, impetuously, "and i challenge you to prove it." chapter xix. the tables are turned. "i shall soon be able to prove it," said mr. drummond. "the lady who bought the shawl came into the store half an hour since, and asked for another. when i told her that it would cost ten dollars, she said she only paid five for the one she had on. she then told us that she bought it of you a fortnight since." "how did she know my name?" "she did not mention your name. she said that it was a boy she bought it of, and of course that can only be you." "there is some mistake about this, mr. drummond. she has made a mistake. she must have bought it somewhere else." "she would not be likely to make such a mistake as this. besides, the shawl is like others i have. how do you account for that?" queried mr. drummond, triumphantly. "i don't pretend to account for it, and don't feel called upon to do so. all i have got to say is, that i did not sell the shawl, nor pocket the money." "i shouldn't be surprised if you had the money about you at this very moment." "you are mistaken," said walter, firmly. "show me your pocket-book." "my pocket-book is my own property." "you are afraid to show it. observe that, mr. nichols. does not that look like guilt?" "i am willing to show it to mr. nichols," said walter. he took it from his pocket, and handed it to nichols, who took it rather unwillingly. "open that pocket-book, mr. nichols, and show me what is in it." "shall i do so, walter?" asked nichols. "yes, mr. nichols. there is nothing in it that i am ashamed of." nichols opened the pocket-book and took out three bills. "what are those bills, mr. nichols?" asked his employer. "there is a one, here is a two, and here is--" nichols hesitated and looked disturbed--"here is a five." mr. drummond's mean face was radiant with exultation. "i told you so. i think we need no further proof. the stolen money has been found in conrad's possession, and his falsehood and dishonesty are clearly proved. hand me that five." "stop a minute, mr. drummond," said walter, coolly. "you are altogether too much in a hurry. you have proved nothing whatever. that five-dollar bill i brought from home with me, and i have kept it ever since, having no occasion to spend it." "do you think i will believe any such story?" asked his employer, with a sneer. "that is very plausible, conrad, but very improbable. i have no doubt whatever that the bill is the same one which was paid you for the shawl." "then you are entirely mistaken." "that remains to be seen. mr. nichols, i will relieve you of that pocket-book. as the shawl should have been sold for ten dollars, the entire contents will not be sufficient to pay for the loss i have sustained." "mr. nichols," said walter, "i forbid your giving that pocket-book to mr. drummond. he has no claim to it whatever. you may give it to me." "i forbid you giving it to conrad," broke in his employer. "i don't know what to do," said nichols, perplexed, looking from one to the other. "you know that it belongs to me, mr. nichols," said walter. "i--i think i had better lay it down on the counter," said nichols, by the way of compromise. walter, who was on the outside, sprang to the counter, and seized it just in time to prevent mr. drummond's obtaining it. the latter was very angry at his want of success, and exclaimed violently, "walter conrad, give me that pocket-book instantly." walter, who had put it in an inside pocket of his coat, coolly buttoned the coat and answered, "if you had any claim to it, mr. drummond, you would not have to speak twice; but as it is mine, i prefer to keep it." mr. drummond, though he had an irritable, aggravating temper, was not one to proceed to violence on ordinary occasions. but just now he was thoroughly provoked, and showed it. he sprang over the counter with an agility worthy of his youth, and advanced threateningly upon walter. "walter conrad," he exclaimed furiously, "how dare you defy me in this outrageous manner? do you know that i can have you arrested; but in consideration of your being a relation, i may be induced to spare you the penalty of the law if you will give me what money you have towards making up my loss." "so i would, if the loss had come through me. but i have already told you that this is not the case. i know nothing whatever about the shawl." "and this," said mr. drummond, folding his arms, "this is the viper that i have warmed in my bosom. this is the friendless orphan that i admitted beneath my roof, and made a companion of my son. this is the ungrateful serpent who has crept into my confidence, and abused it!" mr. drummond was an orator on a small scale, and the pleasure of giving utterance to this scathing denunciation caused him to delay his intention to obtain possession of the pocket-book by violence. walter ought to have been withered by this outburst of righteous anger, but he wasn't. he stood it very well, and did not seem in the least affected. "behold his hardened effrontery, mr. nichols," pursued mr. drummond, unfolding his arms, and pointing at our hero with quivering fore-finger. "i could not have believed that a boy of his years could be so brazen." "mr. drummond," said walter, "i am sustained by a consciousness of my innocence, and therefore what you say has no effect upon me. it doesn't seem to be very just to convict me without evidence, and sentence me without trial." "will you give up that pocket-book?" demanded mr. drummond, furiously, having indulged in his little flight of oratory, and being now ready to proceed to business. "no, sir, i will not," returned walter, looking him firmly in the face. mr. drummond made a dash for him, but walter was used to dodging, and, eluding his grasp, ran behind the counter. "mr. nichols, help me to catch him," said mr. drummond, quite red in the face. but nichols did not show any great readiness to obey. he let walter pass him, and did not make the least effort to retain him. mr. drummond was making ready to jump over the counter, when nichols, to his great relief, observed the ladies, already referred to, coming up the steps from the street. "mr. drummond, the ladies have returned," he said hastily. "aha!" said his employer, with exultation. "now we will be able to prove your guilt, you young rascal! here is the lady who bought the shawl of you." mrs. blake and her friend, mrs. spicer, here entered the store. mr. drummond went forward to meet them. his face was flushed, but he tried to look composed. "i am glad to see you back, ladies," he said. "you told me that you bought your shawl of a boy?" turning to mrs. blake. "yes, sir." "come forward, conrad," said mr. drummond, a malignant smile overspreading his face. "perhaps you will deny now, to this lady's face, that you sold her the shawl she has on." "i certainly do," said walter. "i never, to my knowledge, saw the lady before, and i know that i did not sell her the shawl." "what do you think of that, mr. nichols?" said mr. drummond. "did you ever witness such unblushing falsehood?" but here a shell was thrown into mr. drummond's camp, and by mrs. blake herself. "the boy is perfectly right," she said. "i did not buy the shawl of him." "what!" stammered mr. drummond. mrs. blake repeated her statement. "didn't you say you bought the shawl of the boy?" asked mr. drummond, with a sickly hue of disappointment overspreading his face. "yes, but it was not that boy." "that is the only boy i have in my employment." "come to think of it, i believe it was your son," said mrs. blake. "isn't he a little older than this boy?" "my son,--joshua!" exclaimed mr. drummond. "yes, i think it must be he. he's got rather an old-looking face, with freckles and reddish hair; isn't so good-looking as this boy." "joshua!" repeated mr. drummond, bewildered. "he doesn't tend in the store." "it was about dinner-time," said mrs. blake. "he was the only one here." "do you know anything about this, mr. nichols?" asked mr. drummond, turning to his head clerk. light had dawned upon nichols. he remembered now joshua's offer to take his place, and he felt sure in his own mind who was the guilty party. "yes, mr. drummond," he answered; "about a fortnight ago, as walter was rather late in getting back, joshua offered to stay in the store for a while. he must have sold the shawl, but he must have guessed at the price." "a mistake has been made," said mr. drummond, hurriedly, to the ladies,--"a mistake that you have profited by. i shall not be able to sell you another shawl for less than ten dollars." the ladies went out, and mr. drummond and his two clerks were left alone. "mr. drummond," said walter, quietly, "after what has happened, you will not be surprised if i decline to remain in your employ. i shall take the afternoon train to willoughby." he walked out of the store, and crossed the street to mr. drummond's house. chapter xx. in which joshua comes to grief. walter went up to his room, and hastily packed his trunk. he felt wronged and outraged by the unfounded charge that had been made against him. why, he argued, should mr. drummond so readily decide that he had cheated him out of five dollars? he felt that he could not, with any self-respect, remain any longer under the same roof with a man who had such a poor opinion of him. he was not sorry that his engagement was at an end. he had obtained some knowledge of the dry-goods business, and he knew that his services were worth more than his board. then again, though he was not particular about living luxuriously, the fare at mr. drummond's was so uncommonly poor that he did sometimes long for one of the abundant and well-cooked meals which he used to have spread before him at home, or even at his boarding-house while a pupil of the essex classical institute. he was packing his trunk when a step was heard on the stairs, and his door was opened by mr. drummond, considerably to walter's surprise. the fact is, that mr. drummond, on realizing what a mistake he had made, and that joshua was the real culprit, felt that he had gone altogether too far, and he realized that he would be severely censured by walter's friends in willoughby. besides, it was just possible that walter might, after all, recover a few thousand dollars from his father's estate, and therefore it was better to be on good terms with him. mr. drummond determined, therefore, to conciliate walter, and induce him, if possible, to remain in his house and employ. "what are you doing, conrad?" he asked, on entering walter's chamber. "packing my trunk, sir," said walter. "surely you are not going to leave us." "i think it best," said walter, quietly. "you won't--ahem!--bear malice on account of the little mistake i made. we are all liable to mistakes." "it was something more than a mistake, mr. drummond. what had you seen in me to justify you in such a sudden charge of dishonesty?" "almost anybody would have been deceived under the circumstances," said mr. drummond, awkwardly. "you did not give me an opportunity to defend myself, or rather you disbelieved all i said." "well, conrad, i was mistaken. i shall be glad to have you come back to the store as before." "thank you, mr. drummond, but i have decided to go back to willoughby for a short time. i want to consult mr. shaw about the future. it is time i formed some plans, as i shall probably have to earn my living." "don't you think you had better wait a few months?" "no, sir, i think not." "if you have made up your mind, all i have to say is that my humble dwelling will be ever open to receive you in the future. perhaps, after a short visit at your old home, you may feel inclined to return to my employment. i will give you a dollar a week besides board." mr. drummond looked as if he felt that this was a magnificent offer, for which walter ought to feel grateful. but our hero knew very well that he could command better pay elsewhere, and was not particularly impressed. still he wished to be polite. "thank you for your offer, mr. drummond," he said; "but i am not prepared to say, as yet, what i will do." "i hope," said mr. drummond, rather embarrassed, "you won't speak of our little difference to your friends at willoughby." "no, sir, not if you wish me not to do so." by this time the trunk was packed, and walter, locking it, rose from his knees. "if it won't be too much trouble, mr. drummond," he said, "i will send for my trunk to-morrow." "certainly. why won't you wait till to-morrow yourself?" "as i am ready, i may as well take the afternoon train." "very well; just as you think best." "i will go down and bid good-by to mrs. drummond." mrs. drummond had just come from the kitchen. she looked with surprise at walter and her husband, whose presence in the house at that hour was unusual. "what is the matter?" she asked. "conrad is going home a short time on business," explained mr. drummond. "when shall we see you back again, walter?" asked mrs. drummond. "that is uncertain," said walter. "it depends upon my plans for the future." "i have offered him increased pay," said mr. drummond, "if he will return to the store. i hope he may decide to do so. our humble roof will ever be ready to shelter him." considering that mr. drummond had not lately made any such hospitable references to the humble roof, his wife looked somewhat puzzled. just at that moment joshua, unconscious of the damaging discovery that had been made relative to himself, entered the room. "hallo! what's up?" he asked. it was the first time his father had seen him since the discovery of his dishonesty, and his anger was kindled. "you ought to be ashamed to show your face here, you young reprobate!" he exclaimed. joshua stared in amazement, and mrs. drummond exclaimed, "what makes you talk so, mr. drummond? what has he done?" "what has he done?" ejaculated mr. drummond, adding, rather ungrammatically, "he's a thief, that's what he's done." "how can you say such things of your own son?" "shut up, mrs. drummond; you don't know what you're talking about, or you wouldn't defend him. it would serve him right if i should flog him within an inch of his life." "if you try it," said joshua, sullenly, "i'll have you arrested for assault and battery." "take care, boy! or you may find yourself in custody for theft." "what do all these dreadful words mean?" asked mrs. drummond, distressed. "tell me, walter, if you know." "i would rather mr. drummond informed you," said walter. "i'll tell you, mrs. drummond," said her husband. "that boy sold a shawl a fortnight ago, when alone in the store, and pocketed the money." "who said i did?" asked joshua, boldly, though he looked a little pale. "the woman who bought it of you was in the store to-day." "did she say i sold it to her?" "yes." "did she know my name?" "no, but she described you." "so i did," said joshua, finding it advisable to remember. "i remember now i sold it for five dollars." "what made you keep the money?" "i didn't. i waited till conrad came into the store, and gave the money to him. what he did with it, i don't know. perhaps he forgot to put it in the drawer," he added, with a spiteful look at walter. "that's a lie, joshua drummond!" said walter, quietly, "and you know it is. i think your father knows it is also." "do you mean to say i lie?" blustered joshua. "i wouldn't if i wasn't obliged to; but in my own defence i am compelled to do so." "what could i want of the money?" demanded joshua, with a look of virtuous indignation. "i might as well ask the same question of myself; but that would be a poor defence. if you really want me to answer that question, i will do it." "go ahead, then," said joshua. "i hope my word is better than that of a beggar living on charity." "joshua!" said his mother, in a tone of remonstrance. "i think you wanted the money to buy lottery tickets with," said walter, calmly. joshua turned pale, and looked thunderstruck. "to buy lottery tickets with!" he gasped, staring at walter in dismay. "what's that?" asked mr. drummond, pricking up his ears. "your son can tell you," said walter. "what does this mean, joshua?" demanded his father, sternly. "it's a lie," said joshua, unblushingly. "have you bought no lottery tickets?" "no." "can you prove this charge which you have made against my son?" asked mr. drummond, turning to walter. "i can, but i am sorry to do so. i picked up this letter a day or two since, and intended to give it back to joshua, but it escaped my mind. i would not have exposed him if he had not tried to charge me with theft." he placed in mr. drummond's hands the letter already given, announcing to joshua that he had drawn a blank. mr. drummond read it with no little anger, for he detested lotteries. "unhappy boy!" he said, addressing joshua. "i understand now what became of the five dollars. this decides me to do what i had intended to do sooner. i have supported you in laziness long enough. it is time you went to work. next week you must go to work. i will take you into my store; but as i am not sure of your honesty, if i find you appropriating money to your own use, i will put you into a shoe-shop and make a shoemaker of you." this was an alarming threat to joshua, who had a foolish pride, which led him to look upon a trade as less respectable than the mercantile profession. he slunk out of the house, and mr. drummond went back to the store, while walter set out on foot for the railway station, three-quarters of a mile distant. chapter xxi. a new acquaintance. "give me a ticket to willoughby," said walter, offering the five-dollar bill which he had come so near losing. the ticket was handed him, and three dollars and seventy-five cents were returned to him. "how long are you going to stay away?" asked the station-master, with whom walter had some acquaintance. "i may not come back at all." "have you left drummond's store?" "yes." "isn't that rather sudden?" "a little so; but i didn't mean to stay long." the shriek of the locomotive now became audible, and walter went out on the platform. five minutes later found him occupying a seat, or rather half a seat, for there sat next to him a brisk, energetic-looking man, of about thirty years of age. he had been reading the morning paper, but apparently he had got through with it, for he folded it up, and put it in his pocket. "fine day," he said, briskly. "yes, sir, very fine," answered walter. "some people are affected by the weather; i am not," pursued his fellow-traveller. "i feel as smart one day as another." "it isn't quite so cheerful when it rains," observed walter. "i'm always cheerful. i've got too much business to do to mope. when a man's got enough to busy himself about, he hasn't time to be in the dumps." "there's a good deal in that," said walter. "of course there is. push along, keep moving, that's my motto. are you in business?" "no, sir, not at present." "i'm in the subscription-book business,--got an office in new york. we send out agents everywhere to canvass for our publication. lots of money in it." "is there?" "yes. i used to be an agent myself, and, though i say it, i don't think there are many agents that can get ahead of me. sometimes i used to make twenty dollars a day. at last i thought i'd like to settle down, so i bought a partnership, and now, instead of being an agent, i send out agents." "isn't twenty dollars a day pretty large for an agent to make?" asked walter. "yes, there are not many do it, but plenty make from five to ten right along. you look as if you would make a good agent." "what makes you think so?" asked walter. "you look smart." "thank you," said walter, laughing. "i am afraid you won't think so much of my ability when i tell you i have been working for the last three months for my board." "it's a shame. you'd better come with us. we'll do much better by you than that." "i am going to consult some friends about my future plans. if you are willing to tell me a little of your business, i will think of what you propose." "i have with me our latest publication. it's going like wildfire. just the thing to please the people. i'll show it to you." walter looked with interest while his new acquaintance drew out from a carpet-bag, which he had beneath the seat, a good-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. untying it, he produced a bulky octavo, in flashy binding, and abounding in illustrations. he opened the book and turned over the leaves rapidly. "it's stuffed full of illustrations, you see," said he. "the expense of the pictures alone was absolutely e-nor-mous!" he added, dwelling upon the last word by way of emphasis. "but we're going to make it pay. the sale will be immense. our agents already in the field report remarkable sales." "what's the title of the book?" asked walter, who had yet been unable to determine this point, by reason of the rapid turning of the pages. "'scenes in bible lands.' we include other countries besides palestine, and we've made a book that'll sell. most every family will want one." "what terms do you offer to agents?" "why, the book sells at retail at three dollars and fifty cents. of this the agent keeps one dollar and twenty-five cents. pretty good, isn't it?" "yes, i should think it was." "you see you have only to sell four copies a day to make five dollars. if you're smart, you can do better than that." it really did seem very good to walter, who couldn't help comparing it with the miserable wages he had received from mr. drummond. "i think that would pay very well," he said. "most paying business out," said the other. "say the word, and i'll engage you on the spot." "where would you want me to sell?" "i should like to have you go west. this way districts are mostly taken up. it would give you a good chance to travel and see the world." now walter was, like most young people, fond of new scenes, and this consideration was a weighty one. it would enable him to travel, and pay his expenses while doing so. "better say the word." "i can't now. i must see my friends first." "where are you going?" "to willoughby." "how long are you going to stay?" "i can't tell. a few days probably." "well, i'll give you the number of our office in new york. when you get ready, report to us there, and we'll put you in the field." to this walter assented, and asked several questions further, to which he received encouraging answers. the stranger gave him his card, from which our hero learned that he had made the acquaintance of mr. james pusher, of the firm of flint & pusher, subscription publishers, no. -- nassau st., new york. "good-by," said mr. pusher, cordially, when walter left the train for the willoughby station; "hope to see you again." "thank you," said walter; "very likely you will." taking his carpet-bag in his hand, for he had arranged to have his trunk come the next day, he walked over to the house of mr. shaw, his father's executor. mr. shaw was in his office, a little one-story building standing by itself a little to the left of his house. he was busily writing, and did not at once look up. when he saw who it was, he rose up and welcomed walter with a smile. "i'm very glad to see you, walter," he said. "i was just wishing you were here. when did you leave stapleton?" "this afternoon, mr. shaw. i have just reached willoughby." "and how did you like stapleton?" "tolerably well." "and mr. drummond,--how were you pleased with him?" "as to that," said walter, smiling, "i can't say that i liked him as well as i might." "i judged that from what i have heard of his character. he has the reputation of being very mean. a cent in his eyes is as large as a dollar appears to some men. how did he pay you for your services?" "i worked for board wages." "and pretty poor board at that, i imagine." "i had no fear of the gout," said walter. "the living isn't luxurious." "well, i'm glad you are back again. for the present i shall expect you to be my guest." this settled the embarrassing question which had suggested itself as to where he should stay. his late father's house was of course shut up, and he had no relatives in willoughby. "thank you, mr. shaw," he said. "for a few days i shall be glad to accept your kind offer. what progress have you made in settling the estate?" "i can give you some idea of how it stands. there will be something left, but not much. after paying all debts, including nancy's, there will certainly be a thousand dollars; but if you pay nancy's legacy, that will take half of this sum." "the legacy shall be paid," said walter, promptly, "no matter how little remains. i am glad there is enough for that." "i honor your determination, walter, but i don't think nancy will be willing to take half of what you have left." "then don't let her know how little it is." "there is a chance of something more. i have made no account of the great metropolitan mining stock, of which your father held shares to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, cost price. how these will come out is very uncertain, but i think we can get something. suppose it were only five per cent., that would make five thousand dollars. but it isn't best to count on that." "i shan't make any account of the mining stock," said walter. "if i get anything, it will be so much more than i expect." "that is the best way. it will prevent disappointment." "how long before we find out about it?" "it is wholly uncertain. it may be six months; it may be two years. all i can say is, that i will look after your interests." "thank you, i am sure of that." "now, as to your plans. you were at the essex classical institute, i think?" "yes, sir." "what do you say to going back for a year? it is not an expensive school. you could stay a year, including all expenses, for the sum of five hundred dollars." walter shook his head. "it would consume all my money; and as long as i am not going to college, my present education will be sufficient." "as to consuming all your money," said mr. shaw, "let me say one thing. i received many favors from your father, especially when a young man just starting in business. let me repay them by paying half your expenses for the next year at school." "you are very kind, mr. shaw," said walter, gratefully, "and i would accept that favor from you sooner than from any one; but i've made up my mind to take care of myself, _and paddle my own canoe_." "well, perhaps you're right," said the lawyer, kindly; "but at least you will accept my advice. have you formed any plans for the future?" chapter xxii. messrs. flint and pusher. now that he was again in his native village, walter realized how unpleasant had been his position at mr. drummond's from the new elasticity and cheerfulness which he felt. there had been something gloomy and oppressive in the atmosphere of his temporary home at stapleton, and he certainly had very little enjoyment in joshua's society. mrs. drummond was the only one for whom he felt the least regard. he passed a few days quietly, renewing old acquaintances and friendships. nancy forbes had gone to live with a brother, who was an old bachelor, and very glad to have her with him. her savings and the legacy left her by mr. conrad together amounted to a thousand dollars, or rather more,--sufficient to make nancy rich, in her own opinion. but she was not quite satisfied about the legacy. "they say, walter, that you'll be left poor," she said. "you'll need this money." "no, i shan't, nancy," answered walter. "besides, there's a lot of mining stock that'll come to something,--i don't know how much." "but i don't feel right about taking this money, walter." "you needn't feel any scruples, nancy. i can take care of myself. i can paddle my own canoe." "but you haven't got any canoe," said nancy, who did not comprehend the allusion. "besides, i don't see how that would help you to a living." walter laughed. "i shall get a canoe, then," he said, "and i'll steer it on to fortune." "at any rate," said nancy, "i will leave you my money when i die." "who knows but you'll marry and have a lot of children?" "that isn't very likely, walter, and me forty-seven a'ready. i'm most an old woman." so the conversation ended. nancy agreed, though reluctantly, to take the legacy, resolved some time or other to leave it to walter. if she had known how little he really had left, she would not have consented to accept it at all. the same evening walter sat in the lawyer's comfortable sitting-room, and together they discussed the future. "so you want to be a book agent, walter?" said mr. shaw. "i can't say i think very highly of this plan." "why not, mr. shaw?" "it will lead to nothing." "i don't mean to spend my life at it. i am more ambitious than that. but it will give me a chance to travel without expense, and i always wanted to see something of the world." "how old are you now?" "fifteen." "you are well-grown of your age. you might readily be taken for sixteen." "do you really think so?" asked walter, gratified, like most boys of his age, at being thought to look older than he really was. "yes; at sixteen i was smaller than you now are." "you see, mr. shaw, that, as i am so young, even if i spend a year at this business, i shall not be too old to undertake something else afterwards. in the mean time i shall see something of the world." "well, walter, i won't oppose you. if i had not so much confidence in you, i should warn you of the temptations that are likely to beset your youth, left, as you will be, entirely to yourself. of course you will be thrown among all kinds of associates." "yes, sir; but i think i shall be wise enough to avoid what will do me no good." "so i hope and believe. now, what is the name of this publisher you were speaking of?" "pusher. he's of the firm of flint & pusher." "i have heard of them. they are an enterprising firm." "i think i had better start pretty soon, mr. shaw. i shall enjoy myself better when i am at work." "next monday, then, if you desire it." it was then friday. on monday morning mr. shaw handed walter a pocket-book containing a roll of bills. "you will need some money to defray your expenses," he said, "until you are able to earn something. you will find fifty dollars in this pocket-book. there is no occasion to thank me, for i have only advanced it from money realized from your father's estate. if you need any more, you can write me, and i can send you a check or money-order." "this will be quite enough, mr. shaw," said walter, confidently. "it won't be long before i shall be paying my way; at least i hope so. i don't mean to be idle." "i am sure you won't be, or you will belie your reputation. well, good-by, walter. write me soon and often. you know i look upon myself as in some sort your guardian." "i will certainly write you, mr. shaw. by the way, i never thought to ask you about the furniture of my room at the essex classical institute." "it was purchased by the keeper of the boarding-house; at a sacrifice, it is true, but i thought it best to let it go, to save trouble." [illustration] "i should like to see lem," thought walter, with a little sigh as he called to mind the pleasant hours he had passed with his school-fellow. "i'll go back and pay the old institute a visit some time, after i've got back from my travels." walter reached new york by ten o'clock. though his acquaintance with the city streets was very limited, as he had seldom visited it, he found his way without much trouble to the place of business of messrs. flint & pusher. as they did not undertake to do a retail business, but worked entirely through agents, their rooms were not on the first floor, but on the third. opening the door of the room, to which he was guided by a directory in the entry beneath, walter found himself in a large apartment, the floor of which was heaped up with piles of books, chiefly octavos. an elderly gentleman, with a partially bald head, and wearing spectacles, was talking with two men, probably agents. "well, young man," said he, in rather a sharp voice, "what can i do for you?" "is mr. pusher in?" asked walter. "he went out for a few minutes; will be back directly. did you wish particularly to see him?" "yes, sir." "take a seat, then, and wait till he comes in." walter sat down and listened to the conversation. "you met with fair success, then?" inquired mr. flint. "yes, the book takes well. i sold ten in one day, and six and eight in other days." walter pricked up his ears. he wondered whether the book was the one recommended to him. if so, a sale of ten copies would enable the agent to realize twelve dollars and a half, which was certainly doing very well. just as the agents were going out, mr. pusher bustled in. his sharp eyes fell upon walter, whom he immediately recognized. "ha, my young friend, so you have found us out," he said, offering his hand. "yes, sir." "come to talk on business, i hope?" "yes, sir, that is my object in coming." "mr. flint," said mr. pusher, "this is a young friend whose acquaintance i made a short time since. i told him, if ever he wanted employment, to come here, and we would give him something to do." mr. flint, who was a slower and a more cautious man than mr. pusher, regarded walter a little doubtfully. "do you mean as an agent?" he said. "certainly i do." "he seems very young." "that's true, but age isn't always an advantage. he looks smart, and i'll guarantee that he is all he looks. i claim to be something of a judge of human nature too." "no doubt you're right," said mr. flint, who was accustomed to defer considerably to his more impetuous partner. "what's the young man's name?" "you've got me there," said mr. pusher, laughing. "if i ever knew, which is doubtful, i've forgotten." "my name is walter conrad," said our hero. "very good. well, conrad," continued mr. pusher, in an off-hand manner, "what are your wishes? what book do you want to take hold of?" "you mentioned a book the other day,--'scenes in bible lands.'" "yes, our new book. that would be as good as any to begin on. how's the territory, mr. flint?" mr. flint referred to a book. "most of the territory near by is taken up," he said. "does mr. conrad wish to operate near home?" "i would rather go to a distance," said walter. "as far as ohio?" "yes." "in that case you could map out your own route pretty much. we haven't got the west portioned out as we have the middle and new england states." "in other words, we can give you a kind of roving commission, conrad," put in mr. pusher. "that would suit me, sir," said walter. "still it would be best not to attempt to cover too much territory. a rolling stone gathers no moss, you know. there is one important question i must ask you to begin with. have you got any money?" "yes, sir, i have fifty dollars." "good. of course you will need money to get out to your field of labor, and will have to pay your expenses till you begin to earn something. fifty dollars will answer very well." "as i don't know very well how the business is managed," said walter, "i must ask for instructions." "of course. you're a green hand. sit down here, and i'll make it all plain to you." so mr. pusher, in his brief, incisive way, explained to walter how he must manage. his instructions were readily comprehended, and walter, as he listened, felt eager to enter upon the adventurous career which he had chosen. chapter xxiii. walter loses his money. walter, by advice of mr. pusher, bought a ticket to cleveland. there was a resident agent in this city, and a depository of books published by the firm. as walter would be unable to carry with him as large a supply of books as he needed, he was authorized to send to the cleveland agency when he got out, and the books would be sent him by express. "i will give you a letter to mr. greene, our agent in cleveland," said mr. pusher, "and you can consult him as to your best field of operations." the letter was hastily written and handed to walter. "good-by, mr. pusher," he said, preparing to leave the office. "good-by, my young friend. i shall hope to hear good accounts from you." so walter went downstairs, and emerged into the street. he had no particular motive for remaining in new york, and felt eager to commence work. so he went at once to the erie railway depot, and bought a through ticket to cleveland, via buffalo and niagara falls. though he had not much money to spare, he determined not to neglect the opportunity he would have of seeing this great natural wonder, but to stop over a day in order to visit the falls. he selected a comfortable seat by a window, and waited till the train was ready to start. he realized that he had engaged in rather a large enterprise for a boy of fifteen, who had hitherto had all his wants supplied by others. he was about to go a thousand miles from home, to earn his own living,--in other words, to paddle his own canoe. but he did not feel in the least dismayed. he was ambitious and enterprising, and confident that he could earn his living as well as other boys of his age. he had never been far from home, but felt that he should enjoy visiting new and unfamiliar scenes. so he felt decidedly cheerful and hopeful as the cars whirled him out of the depot, and he commenced his western journey. walter put his strip of railway tickets into his vest-pocket, and his porte-monnaie, containing the balance of his money, into the pocket of his pantaloons. he wished to have the tickets at hand when the conductor came round. he sat alone at first, but after a while a lady got in who rode thirty miles or more, and then got out. a little later a young man passed through the cars, looking about him on either side. he paused at walter's seat, and inquired, "is this seat taken?" "no, sir," said walter. "then, with your permission, i will take it," said the stranger. "tiresome work travelling, isn't it?" "i don't know," said walter. "i rather like it; but then i never travelled much." "i have to travel a good deal on business," said the other, "and i've got tired of it. how many times do you think i have been over this road?" "couldn't guess." "this is the fifteenth time. i know it like a book. how far are you going?" "to cleveland." "got relations there, i suppose?" "no," said walter; "i am going on business." he was rather glad to let his companion know that he, too, was in business. "you're young to be in business," said his companion. "what sort of business is it?" "i am an agent for flint & pusher, a new york firm." "publishers, aint they?" "yes, sir." walter's companion was a young man of twenty-five, or possibly a year or two older. he was rather flashily attired, with a cut-away coat and a low-cut vest, double-breasted, across which glittered a massive chain, which might have been gold, or might only have been gilt, since all that glitters is not gold. at any rate, it answered the purpose of making a show. his cravat was showy, and his whole appearance indicated absence of good taste. a cautious employer would scarcely have selected him from a crowd of applicants for a confidential position. walter was vaguely conscious of this. still he had seen but little of the world, and felt incompetent to judge others. "are you going right through to cleveland?" inquired the stranger. "no; i think i shall stop at buffalo. i want to see niagara falls." "that's right. better see them. they're stunning." "i suppose you have been there?" said walter, with some curiosity. "oh, yes, several times. i've a great mind to go again and show you round, but i don't know if i can spare so long a time from business." "i should like your company," said walter, politely; "but i don't want to interfere with your engagements." "i'll think of it, and see how i can arrange matters," said the other. walter was not particularly anxious for the continued society of his present companion. he was willing enough to talk with him, but there was something in his appearance and manner which prevented his being attracted to him. he turned away and began to view the scenery through which they were passing. the stranger took out a newspaper, and appeared to be reading attentively. half an hour passed thus without a word being spoken on either side. at length his companion folded up the paper. "do you smoke?" he asked. "no," said walter. "i think i'll go into the smoking-car, and smoke a cigar. i should like to offer you one if you will take one." "no, thank you," said walter; "i don't smoke, and i am afraid my first cigar wouldn't give me much pleasure." "i'll be back in a few minutes. perhaps you'd like to look over this paper while i am gone." "thank you," said walter. he took the paper,--an illustrated weekly,--and looked over the pictures with considerable interest. he had just commenced reading a story when a boy passed through the car with a basket of oranges and apples depending from his arm. "oranges--apples!" he called out, looking to the right and left in quest of customers. the day was warm, and through the open window dust had blown into the car. walter's throat felt parched, and the oranges looked tempting. "how much are your oranges?" he inquired. "five cents apiece, or three for a dime," answered the boy. "i'll take three," said walter, reflecting that he could easily dispose of two himself, and considering that it would only be polite to offer one to his companion, whose paper he was reading, when he should return. "here are three nice ones," said the boy, picking them out, and placing them in our hero's hands. walter felt in his vest-pocket, thinking he had a little change there. he proved to be mistaken. there was nothing in that pocket except his railway tickets. next, of course, he felt for his porte-monnaie, but he felt for it in vain. he started in surprise. "i thought my pocket-book was in that pocket," he reflected. "can it be in the other?" he felt in the other pocket, but search here was equally fruitless. he next felt nervously in the pocket of his coat, though he was sure he couldn't have put his porte-monnaie there. then it flashed upon him, with a feeling of dismay, that he had lost his pocket-book and all his remaining money. how or where, he could not possibly imagine, for the suddenness of the discovery quite bewildered him. "i won't take the oranges," he said to the boy. "i can't find my money." the boy, who had made sure of a sale, took back the fruit reluctantly, and passed on, crying out, "here's your oranges and apples!" walter set about thinking what had become of his money. the more he thought, the more certain he felt that he had put his porte-monnaie in the pocket in which he had first felt for it. why was it not there now? that was a question which he felt utterly incompetent to answer. "have you lost anything?" inquired a gentleman who sat just behind walter. looking back, he found that it was a gentleman of fifty who addressed him. "yes, sir," he said, "i have lost my pocket-book." "was there much money in it?" "about forty dollars, sir." "that is too much to lose. was your ticket in it also?" "no, sir; that i have in my vest-pocket." "where was your pocket-book when you last saw it?" inquired the gentleman. "in this pocket, sir." "humph!" commented the other. "who was that young man who was sitting with you a few minutes since?" "i don't know, sir." "he was a stranger, then?" "yes, sir; i never met him till this morning." "then i think i can tell you where your money has gone." "where, sir?" demanded walter, beginning to understand him. "i think your late companion was a pickpocket, and relieved you of it, while he pretended to be reading. i didn't like his appearance much." "i don't see how he could have done it without my feeling his hand in my pocket." "they understand their business, and can easily relieve one of his purse undetected. i once had my watch stolen without being conscious of it. your porte-monnaie was in the pocket towards the man, and you were looking from the window. it was a very simple thing to relieve you of it." chapter xxiv. slippery dick. it is not natural for a boy of walter's age to distrust those with whom he becomes acquainted even slightly. this lesson unfortunately is learned later in life. but the words of his fellow-traveller inspired him with conviction. he could think of no other way of accounting for his loss. he rose from his seat. "where are you going?" asked the old gentleman. "i am going to look for the thief." "do you expect to find him?" "he said he was going into the smoking-car." "my young friend, i strongly suspect that this was only to blind you. the cars have stopped at two stations since he left his seat, and if he took your money he has doubtless effected his escape." walter was rather taken aback by this consideration. it seemed reasonable enough, and, if true, he didn't see how he was going to get back his money. "i dare say you are right," he said; "but i will go into the smoking-car and see." "come back again, and let me know whether you find him." "yes, sir." walter went through two cars, looking about him on either side, thinking it possible that the thief might have taken his seat in one of them. there was very little chance of this, however. next he passed into the smoking-car, where, to his joy no less than his surprise, he found the man of whom he was in search playing cards with three other passengers. he looked up carelessly as walter approached, but did not betray the slightest confusion or sign of guilt. to let the reader into a secret, he had actually taken walter's pocket-book, but was too cunning to keep it about him. he had taken out the money, and thrown the porte-monnaie itself from the car platform, taking an opportunity when he thought himself unobserved. as the money consisted of bills, which could not be identified as walter's, he felt that he was in no danger of detection. he thought that he could afford to be indifferent. "did you get tired of waiting?" he asked, addressing our hero. "that's pretty cool if he took the money," thought walter. "may i speak to you a moment?" asked walter. "certainly." "i mean alone." "if you'll wait till i have finished the game," said the pickpocket, assuming a look of surprise. "something private, eh?" "yes," said walter, gravely. he stood by impatiently while the game went on. he was anxious to find out as soon as possible what had become of his money, and what was the chance of recovering it. at length the game was finished, and a new one was about to be commenced, when walter tapped his late companion on the shoulder. "oh, you wanted to speak to me, did you?" he said indifferently. "can't you wait till we have finished this game?" "no," said walter, resolutely, "i can't wait. it is a matter of great importance." "then, gentlemen, i must beg to be excused for five minutes," said the pickpocket, shrugging his shoulders, as if to express good-natured annoyance. "now, my young friend, i am at your service." walter proceeded to the other end of the car, which chanced to be unoccupied. now that the moment had come, he hardly knew how to introduce the subject. suppose that the person he addressed were innocent, it would be rather an awkward matter to charge him with the theft. "did you see anything of my pocket-book?" he said, at length. "your pocket-book?" returned the pickpocket, arching his brows. "why, have you lost it?" "yes." "when did you discover its loss?" "shortly after you left me," said walter, significantly. "indeed! was there much money in it?" "over thirty dollars." "that is quite a loss. i hope you have some more with you." "no, it is all i have." "i'm very sorry indeed. i did not see it. have you searched on the floor?" "yes; but it isn't there." "that's awkward. was your ticket in the pocket-book?" "no, i had that in my vest-pocket." "that's fortunate. on my honor, i'm sorry for you. i haven't much money with me, but i'll lend you a dollar or two with the greatest of pleasure." this offer quite bewildered walter. he felt confident that the other had stolen his money, and now here he was offering to lend him some of it. he did not care to make such a compromise, or to be bought off so cheap; so, though quite penniless, he determined to reject the offer. "i won't borrow," he said, coldly. "i was hoping you had seen my money." "sorry i didn't. better let me lend you some." "i would rather not borrow." walter could not for the life of him add "thank you," feeling no gratitude to the man who he felt well assured had robbed him. the pickpocket turned and went back to his game, and walter slowly left the car. he had intended to ask him point-blank whether he had taken the money, but couldn't summon the necessary courage. he went back to his old seat. "well," said the old gentleman who sat behind him, "i suppose you did not find your man?" "yes, i did." "you didn't get your money?" he added, in surprise. "no, he said he had not seen it." "did you tax him with taking it?" "no, i hardly ventured to do that." "did he show any confusion?" "no, sir, he was perfectly cool. still, i think he took it. he offered to lend me a dollar or two." "that was cool, certainly." "what would you advise me to do?" asked walter. "i hardly know what to advise," said the other, thoughtfully. "i don't want him to make off with my money." "of course not. that would be far from agreeable." "if he could only be searched, i might find the pocket-book on him." "in order to do that, he must be charged with the robbery." "that is true. it will be rather awkward for a boy like me to do that." "i'll tell you what you had better do, my young friend. speak to the conductor." "i think i will," said walter. just at that moment the conductor entered the car. as he came up the aisle walter stopped him, and explained his loss, and the suspicions he had formed. "you say the man is in the smoking-car?" said the conductor, who had listened attentively. "yes." "could you point him out?" "yes." "i am glad of it. i have received warning by telegraph that one of the new york swell-mob is on the train, probably intent on mischief, but no description came with it, and i had no clue to the person. i have no doubt that the man you speak of is the party. if so, he is familiarly known as 'slippery dick.'" "do you think you can get back my money?" asked walter, anxiously. "i think there is a chance of it. come with me and point out your man." walter gladly accompanied the conductor to the smoking-car. his old acquaintance was busily engaged as before in a game, and laughing heartily at some favorable turn. "there he is," said walter, indicating him with his finger. the conductor walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "what's wanted?" he asked, looking up. "you've looked at my ticket." "i wish to speak to you a moment." he rose without making any opposition, and walked to the other end of the car. "well," he said, and there was a slight nervousness in his tone, "what's the matter? wasn't my ticket all right?" "no trouble about that. the thing is, will you restore this boy's pocket-book?" "sir," said the pickpocket, blustering, "do you mean to insult me? what have i to do with his pocket-book?" "you sat beside him, and he missed it directly after you left him." "what is that to me? you may search me if you like. you will find only one pocket-book upon me, and that is my own." "i am aware of that," said the conductor, coolly. "i saw you take the money out and throw it from the car platform." the pickpocket turned pale. "you are mistaken in the person," he said. "no, i am not. i advise you to restore the money forthwith." without a word the thief, finding himself cornered, took from his pocket a roll of bills, which he handed to walter. "is that right?" asked the conductor. "yes," said our hero, after counting his money. "so far, so good. and now, slippery dick," he continued, turning to the thief, "i advise you to leave the cars at the next station, or i will have you arrested. take your choice." the detected rogue was not long in making his choice. already the cars had slackened their speed, and a short distance ahead appeared a small station. the place seemed to be one of very little importance. one man, however, appeared to have business there. walter saw his quondam acquaintance jump on the platform, and congratulated himself that his only loss was a porte-monnaie whose value did not exceed one dollar. i will only add that the conductor on seeing the pocket-book thrown away had thought nothing of it, supposing it to be an old one, but as soon as he heard of the robbery suspected at once the thief and his motive. chapter xxv. a hard customer. walter stopped long enough at buffalo to visit niagara falls, as he had intended. though he enjoyed the visit, and found the famous cataract fully up to his expectations, no incident occurred during the visit which deserves to be chronicled here. he resumed his journey, and arrived in due time at cleveland. he had no difficulty in finding the office of mr. greene, the agent of messrs. flint & pusher. he found that this gentleman, besides his agency, had a book and stationery business of his own. "i don't go out myself," he said to walter; "but i keep a supply of flint's books on hand, and forward them to his agents as called for. have you done much in the business?" "no, sir, i am only a beginner. i have done nothing yet." "i thought not. you look too young." "mr. pusher told me i had better be guided by your advice." "i'll advise you as well as i can. first, i suppose you want to know where to go." "yes, sir." "you had better go fifty miles off at least. the immediate neighborhood has been pretty well canvassed. there's c---- now, a flourishing and wealthy town. suppose you go there first." "very well, sir." "it's on the line of railway. two hours will carry you there." "i'll go, this afternoon." "you are prompt." "i want to get to work as soon as possible." "i commend your resolution. it speaks well for your success." walter arrived in c---- in time for supper. he went to a small public house, where he found that he could board for a dollar and a half a day, or seven dollars by the week. he engaged a week's board, reflecting that he could probably work to advantage a week in so large a place, or, if not, that five days at the daily rate would amount to more than the weekly terms. he did not at first propose to do anything that evening until it occurred to him that he might perhaps dispose of a copy of his book to the landlord in part payment for his board. he went into the public room after supper. "are you travelling alone?" asked the landlord, who had his share of curiosity. "yes," said walter. "not on business?" "yes, on business." "what might it be now? you are rather young to be in business." "i am a book-agent." "meeting with pretty good success?" "i'm just beginning," said walter, smiling. "if you'll be my first customer, i'll stop with you a week." "what kind of a book have you got?" walter showed it. it was got up in the usual style of subscription books, with abundance of illustrations. "it's one of the best books we ever sent out," said walter, in a professional way. "just look at the number of pictures. if you've got any children, they'll like it; and, if you haven't, it will be just the book for your centre-table." "i see you know how to talk," said the landlord, smiling. "what is the price?" "three dollars and a half." "that's considerable." "but you know i'm going to take it out in board." "well, that's a consideration, to be sure. a man doesn't feel it so much as if he took the money out of his pocket and paid cash down. what do you say, mrs. burton?" addressing his wife, who just then entered the room. "this young man wants to stay here a week, and pay partly in a book he is agent for. shall i agree?" "let me see the book," said mrs. burton, who was a comely, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. "what's the name of it?" "'scenes in bible lands,'" said walter. he opened it, taking care to display and point out the pictures. "i declare it is a nice book," said mrs. burton. "is there a picture of jerusalem?" "here it is," said walter, who happened to know just where to find it. "isn't it a good picture? and there are plenty more as good. it's a book that ought to be in every family." "really, mr. burton, i don't know but we might as well take it," said the landlady. "he takes it out in board, you know." "just as you say," said the landlord. "i am willing." "then i'll take the book. emma will like to look at it." so walter made the first sale, on which he realized a profit of one dollar and a quarter. "it's a pretty easy way to earn money," he reflected with satisfaction, "if i can only sell copies enough. one copy sold will pay for a day's board." he went to bed early, and enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep. he was cheered with hopes of success on the morrow. if he could sell four copies a day, that would give him a profit of five dollars, and five dollars would leave him a handsome profit after paying expenses. the next morning after breakfast he started out, carrying with him three books. knowing nothing of the residents of the village, he could only judge by the outward appearance of their houses. seeing a large and handsome house standing back from the street, he decided to call. "the people living here must be rich," he thought. "they won't mind paying three dollars and a half for a nice book." accordingly he walked up the gravelled path and rang the front-door bell. the door was opened by a housemaid. "is the lady of the house at home?" asked walter. "do you want to see her?" "yes." "then wait here, and i'll tell her." a tall woman, with a thin face and a pinched expression, presented herself after five minutes. "well, young man," she asked, after a sharp glance, "what is your business?" her expression was not very encouraging, but walter was bound not to lose an opportunity. "i should like to show you a new book, madam," he commenced, "a book of great value, beautifully illustrated, which is selling like wildfire." "how many copies have you sold?" inquired the lady, sharply. "one," answered walter, rather confused. "do you call that selling like wildfire?" she demanded with sarcasm. "i only commenced last evening," said walter, "i referred to the sales of other agents." "what's the name of the book?" "'scenes in bible lands.'" "let me see it." walter displayed the book. "look at the beautiful pictures," he said. "i don't see anything remarkable about them. the binding isn't very strong. shouldn't wonder if the book would go to pieces in a week." "i don't think there'll be any trouble that way," said walter. "if it does, you'll be gone, so it won't trouble you." "with ordinary care it will hold long enough." "oh, yes, of course you'd say so. i expected it. how much do you charge for the book?" "three dollars and a half." "three dollars and a half!" repeated the woman. "you seem to think people are made of money." "i don't fix the price, madam," said walter, rather provoked. "the publishers do that." "i warrant they make two-thirds profit. don't they now?" "i don't know," said walter. "i don't know anything about the cost of publishing books; but this is a large one, and there are a great many pictures in it. they must have cost considerable." "seems to me it's ridiculous to ask such a price for a book. why, it's enough to buy a nice dress pattern!" "the book will last longer than the dress," said walter. "but it is not so necessary. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'd like the book well enough to put on my parlor-table. i'll give you two dollars for it." "two dollars!" ejaculated walter, scarcely crediting the testimony of his ears. "yes, two dollars; and i warrant you'll make money enough then." "i should lose money," said walter. "i couldn't think of accepting such an offer." "in my opinion there isn't any book worth even two dollars." "i see we can't trade," said walter, disgusted at such meanness in a lady who occupied so large a house, and might be supposed to have plenty of money. he began to replace the book in its brown-paper covering. "i don't know but i might give you twenty-five cents more. come now, i'll give you two dollars and a quarter." "i can't take it," said walter, shortly. "three dollars and a half is the price, and i will not take a cent less." "you won't get it out of me then," retorted the lady, slamming the door in displeasure. walter had already made up his mind to this effect, and had started on his way to the gate. "i wonder if i shall meet many people like her," he thought, and his courage was rather damped. chapter xxvi. business experiences. walter began to think that selling books would prove a harder and more disagreeable business than he anticipated. he had been brought face to face with meanness and selfishness, and they inspired him with disgust and indignation. not that he expected everybody to buy his books, even if they could afford it. still it was not necessary to insult him by offering half price. he walked slowly up the street, wondering if he should meet any more such customers. on the opposite side of the street he noticed a small shoemaker's shop. "i suppose it is of no use to go in there," thought walter. "if they won't buy at a big house, there isn't much chance here." still he thought he would go in. he had plenty of time on his hands, and might as well let slip no chance, however small. he pushed open the door, and found himself in a shop about twenty-five feet square, littered up with leather shavings and finished and unfinished shoes. a boy of fourteen was pegging, and his father, a man of middle age, was finishing a shoe. "good-morning," said walter. "good-morning," said the shoemaker, turning round. "do you want a pair of shoes this morning?" "no," said walter, "i didn't come to buy, but to sell." "well, what have you got to sell?" "a subscription book, finely illustrated." "what's the name of it?" "'scenes in bible lands.'" "let me look at it." he wiped his hands on his apron, and, taking the book, began to turn over the leaves. "it seems like a good book," he said. "does it sell well?" "yes, it sells largely. i have only just commenced, but other agents are doing well on it." "you are rather young for an agent." "yes, but i'm old enough to work, and i'm going to give this a fair trial." "that's the way to talk. how much do you expect to get for this book?" "the price is three dollars and a half." "it's rather high." "but there are a good many pictures. those are what cost money." "yes, i suppose they do. well, i've a great mind to take one." "i don't think you'll regret it. a good book will give you pleasure for a long time." "that's so. well, here's the money;" and the shoemaker drew out five dollars from a leather pocket-book. "can you give me the change?" "with pleasure." walter was all the more pleased at effecting this sale because it was unexpected. he had expected to sell a book at the great house he had just called at, but thought that the price of the book might deter the shoemaker, whose income probably was not large. he thought he would like to know the name of the lady with whom he had such an unpleasant experience. "can you tell me," he inquired, "who lives in that large house a little way up the street?" "you didn't sell a book there, did you?" asked the shoemaker, laughing. "no, but i got an offer of two dollars for one." "that's just like mrs. belknap," returned the other. "she has the name of being the meanest woman for miles around." "it can't be for want of money. she lives in a nice house." "oh, she's rich enough,--the richest woman in town. when her husband was alive--old squire belknap--she wasn't quite so scrimping, for he was free-handed and liberal himself; but now she's a widow, she shows out her meanness. so she offered you two dollars?" "yes, but she afterwards offered twenty-five cents more." "then she must have wanted the book. she makes it her boast that no peddler ever took her in, and i guess she's about right." "i hope there are not many such people in town. if there are, i shall get discouraged." "we've got our share of mean people, i expect, but she's the worst." "well, i suppose i must be going. thank you for your purchase." "that's all right. if i like the book as well as i expect, i'll thank you." walter left the shoemaker's shop with considerably higher spirits than he entered. his confidence in human nature, which had been rudely shaken by mrs. belknap, was in a degree restored, and his prospects looked brighter than a few minutes before. "i wonder who'll make the next purchase?" he thought. he stopped at a plain two-story house a little further up the road. the door was opened by an old lady. "what do you want?" she asked. "i am agent for an excellent book," commenced walter. "oh, you're a peddler," broke in the old lady, without waiting to hear him through. "i suppose i may be called so." "are you the man that was round last spring selling jewelry?" "no, i have never been here before." "i don't know whether to believe you or not," said the old lady. "your voice sounds like his. i can't see very well, for i've mislaid my specs. if you're the same man, i'll have you took up for selling bogus jewelry." "but i'm not the same one." "i don't know. the man i spoke of sold my darter a gold ring for a dollar, that turned out to be nothing but brass washed over. 'twa'n't worth five cents." "i'm sorry you got cheated, but it isn't my fault." "wait a minute, i'll call my darter." in reply to her mother's call a tall maiden lady of forty advanced to the door, with some straw in her hand, for she was braiding straw. "what's wanted, mother?" she asked. "isn't this the same man that sold you that ring?" "la, no, mother. he was a man of forty-five, and this is only a boy." "i s'pose you must be right, but i can't see without my specs. well, i'm sorry you're not the one, for i'd have had you took up onless you'd give back the dollar." under the circumstances walter himself was not sorry that there was no chance of identifying him with his knavish predecessor. "what have you got to sell?" asked the younger woman. "a book beautifully illustrated, called 'scenes in bible lands.' will you allow me to show it to you?" "he seems quite polite," said the old lady, now disposed to regard walter more favorably. "won't you come in?" walter entered, and was shown into a small sitting-room, quite plainly furnished. the book was taken from him, and examined for a considerable length of time by the daughter, who, however, announced at the end that though she should like it very much, she couldn't afford to pay the price. as the appearance of the house bore out her assertion, walter did not press the purchase, but was about to replace the book under his arm, when she said suddenly, "wait a minute. there's mrs. thurman just coming in. perhaps she'll buy one of your books." walter was of course perfectly willing to wait on the chance of a sale. mrs. thurman was the wife of a trader in good circumstances, and disposed to spend liberally, according to her means. walter was not obliged to recommend his book, for this was done by the spinster, who was disinterestedly bent on making a sale. so he sat quiet, a passive but interested auditor, while miss nancy sprague extolled the book for him. "it does seem like an excellent book," said mrs. thurman, looking at the pictures. "just the thing for your delia," suggested miss nancy; "i am sure she would like it." "that reminds me to-morrow is delia's birthday." "then give her the book for a birthday present." "i had intended to buy her something else. still i am not sure but this would suit her quite as well." "i am sure it would," responded miss nancy. "then i will take it. young man, how much do you ask for your book?" "three dollars and a half." mrs. thurman paid the money, and received the book. "i am much obliged to you," said walter, addressing miss nancy, "for recommending my book." "you're quite welcome," said miss nancy, who felt some satisfaction at gaining her point, though it would not benefit her any. "i'm sure you are quite polite for a peddler, and i hope you'll excuse mother for making such a mistake about you." "that is of no consequence," said walter, smiling. "i think if your mother had had her glasses on she would not have made such a mistake." he left the house still farther encouraged. but during the next hour he failed to sell another copy. at length he managed to sell a third. as these were all he had brought out, and he was feeling rather tired, he went back to the tavern, and did not come out again till after dinner. he had sold three copies and cleared three dollars and seventy-five cents, which he was right in regarding as very fair success. chapter xxvii. a cabin in the woods. walter found a good dinner ready for him at twelve o'clock, which he enjoyed the more because he felt that he had earned it in advance. he waited till about two o'clock, and again set out, this time in a different direction. as it takes all sorts of people to make a world, so the reception he met with at different places differed. in some he was received politely; in others he was treated as a humbug. but walter was by this time getting accustomed to his position, and found that he must meet disagreeable people with as good humor as he could command. one farmer was willing to take the book if he would accept pay in apples, of which he offered him two barrels; but this offer he did not for a moment entertain, judging that he would find it difficult to carry about the apples, and probably difficult to dispose of them. however, he managed to sell two copies, though he had to call at twenty places to do it. nevertheless, he felt well repaid by the degree of success he met with. "five books sold to-day!" thought walter, complacently, as he started on his walk home. "that gives me six dollars and a quarter profit. i wish i could keep that up." but our young merchant found that he was not likely to keep up such sales. the next day he sold but two copies, and the day succeeding three. still for three days and a half the aggregate sale was eleven copies, making a clear profit of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. at the end of the week he had sold twenty copies; but to make up this number he had been obliged to visit one or two neighboring villages. he now prepared to move on. the next place at which he proposed to stop for a few days we will call bolton. he had already written to cleveland for a fresh supply of books to be forwarded to him there. he had but two books left, and his baggage being contained in a small valise, he decided to walk this distance, partly out of economy, but principally because it would enable him to see the country at his leisure. during the first five miles he succeeded in selling both books, which relieved him of the burden of carrying them, leaving him only his valise. walter was strong and stout, and enjoyed his walk. there was a freshness and novelty about his present mode of life, which he liked. he did not imagine he should like to be a book-agent all his life, but for a time he found it quite agreeable. he stopped under the shade of a large elm and ate the lunch which he had brought with him from the inn. the sandwiches and apples were good, and, with the addition of some water from a stream near by, made a very acceptable lunch. when he resumed his walk after resting a couple of hours, the weather had changed. in the morning it was bright sunshine. now the clouds had gathered, and a storm seemed imminent. to make matters worse, walter had managed to stray from the road. he found himself walking in a narrow lane, lined on either side by thick woods. soon the rain come pattering down, at first in small drops, but quickly poured down in a drenching shower. walter took refuge in the woods, congratulating himself that he had sold the books, which otherwise would have run the risk of being spoiled. "i wish there were some house near by in which i could rest," thought walter. the prospect of being benighted in the woods in such weather was far from pleasant. looking around anxiously, he espied a small foot-path, which he followed, hoping, but hardly expecting, that it might lead to some place of refuge. to his agreeable surprise he emerged after a few minutes into a small clearing, perhaps half an acre in extent, in the middle of which was a rough cabin. it was a strange place for a house, but, rude as it was, walter hailed its appearance with joy. at all events it promised protection from the weather, and the people who occupied it would doubtless be willing to give him, for pay of course, supper and lodging. probably the accommodations would not be first class, but our hero was prepared to take what he could get, and be thankful for it. accordingly he advanced fearlessly and pounded on the door with his fist, as there was neither bell nor knocker. the door not being opened immediately, he pounded again. this time a not particularly musical voice was heard from within:-- "is that you, jack?" "no," answered walter, "it isn't jack." his voice was probably recognized as that of a boy, and any apprehension that might have been felt by the person within was dissipated. walter heard a bolt withdrawn, and the door opening revealed a tall, gaunt, bony woman, who eyed him in a manner which could not be considered very friendly or cordial. "who are you?" she demanded abruptly, keeping the door partly closed. "i am a book-agent," said walter. "do you expect to sell any books here?" asked the woman, with grim humor. "no," said walter, "but i have been caught in the storm, and lost my way. can i stop here over night if the storm should hold on?" "this isn't a tavern," said the woman, ungraciously. "no, i suppose not," said walter; "but it will be a favor to me if you will take me in, and i will pay you whatever you think right. i suppose there is no tavern near by." he half hoped there might be, for he had already made up his mind that this would not be a very agreeable place to stop at. "there's one five miles off," said the woman. "that's too far to go in such weather. if you'll let me stay here, i will pay you whatever you ask in advance." "humph!" said the woman, doubtfully, "i don't know how jack will like it." as walter could know nothing of the sentiments of the jack referred to, he remained silent, and waited for the woman to make up her mind, believing that she would decide in his favor. he proved to be right. "well," she said, half unwillingly, "i don't know but i'll take you in, though it isn't my custom to accommodate travellers." "i will try not to give you much trouble," said walter, relieved to find that he was sure of food and shelter. "humph!" responded the woman. she led the way into the building, which appeared to contain two rooms on the first floor, and probably the same number of chambers above. there was no entry, but the door opened at once into the kitchen. "come up to the fire if you're wet," said the woman. the invitation was hospitable, but the manner was not. however, walter was glad to accept the invitation, without thinking too much of the manner in which it was expressed, for his clothes were pretty well saturated by the rain. there was no stove, but an old brick fireplace, on which two stout logs were burning. there was one convenience at least about living in the woods. fuel was abundant, and required nothing but the labor of cutting it. "i think i'll take off my shoes," said walter. "you can if you want to," said his grim hostess. he extended his wet feet towards the fire, and felt a sense of comfort stealing over him. he could hear the rain falling fiercely against the sides of the cabin, and felt glad that he was not compelled to stand the brunt of the storm. [illustration] he looked around him guardedly, not wishing to let his hostess see that he was doing so, for she looked like one who might easily be offended. the room seemed remarkably bare of furniture. there was an unpainted table, and there were also three chairs, one of which had lost its back. these were plain wooden chairs, and though they appeared once to have been painted, few vestiges of the original paint now remained. on a shelf were a few articles of tin, but no articles of crockery were visible, except two cracked cups. walter had before this visited the dwellings of the poor, but he had never seen a home so poorly provided with what are generally regarded as the necessaries of life. "i wonder what lem would say if he should see me now," thought walter, his thoughts going back to the essex classical institute, and the friend whose studies he shared. they seemed far away, those days of careless happiness, when as yet the burdens of life were unfelt and scarcely even dreamed of. did walter sigh for their return? i think not, except on one account. his father was then alive, and he would have given years of his own life to recall that loved parent from the grave. but i do not think he would have cared, for the present at least, to give up his business career, humble though it was, and go back to his studies. he enjoyed the novelty of his position. he enjoyed even his present adventure, in spite of the discomforts that attended it, and there was something exciting in looking about him, and realizing that he was a guest in a rough cabin in the midst of the woods, a thousand miles away from home. guarded as he had been in looking around him, it did not escape without observation. "well, young man, this is a poor place, isn't it?" asked the woman, suddenly. "i don't know," said walter, wishing to be polite. "that's what you're thinkin', i'll warrant," said the woman. "well, you're not obliged to stay, if you don't want to." "but i do want to, and i am very much obliged to you for consenting to take me," said walter, hastily. "you said you would pay in advance," said the woman. "so i will," said walter, taking out his pocket-book, "if you will tell me how much i am to pay." "you may give me a dollar," said the woman. walter drew out a roll of bills, and, finding a one-dollar note, handed it to the woman. she took it, glancing covetously at the remaining money which he replaced in his pocket-book. walter noticed the glance, and, though he was not inclined to be suspicious, it gave him a vague feeling of anxiety. chapter xxviii. strange acquaintances. an hour passed without a word being spoken by his singular hostess. she went to the window from time to time, and looked out as if expecting some one. at length walter determined to break the silence, which had become oppressive. it did not seem natural for two persons to be in the same room so long without speaking a word. "i should think you would find it lonely living in the woods away from any neighbors," he said. "i don't care for neighbors," said the woman, shortly. "have you lived here long?" "that's as people reckon time," was the answer. walter found himself no wiser than before, and the manner of his hostess did not encourage him to pursue his inquiries further on that subject. "you don't have far to go for fuel," was the next remark of our hero. "any fool might see that," said the woman. "not very polite," thought walter. he relapsed into silence, judging that his hostess did not care to converse. soon, however, she began to ask questions. "did you say you was a book-peddler?" she inquired. "i am a book-agent." "where are your books,--in that carpet-bag?" "no, i have sold all my books, and sent for some more." "where did you sell them?" "in c----." "have you come from there?" "yes, i started from there this forenoon." "where did you stop?" "at the tavern." "is your business a good one?" she asked, eying him attentively. "i have done very well so far, but then i have been at it only a week." "it's a good thing to have money," said the woman, more to herself than to walter. "yes," said walter, "it's very convenient to have money; but there are other things that are better." "such as what?" demanded the woman abruptly. "good health for one thing." "what else?" "a good conscience." she laughed scornfully. "i'll tell you there's nothing so good as money. i've wanted it all my life, and never could get it. do you think i would live here in the woods if i had money? no, i should like to be a lady, and wear fine clothes, and drive about in a handsome carriage. why are some people so lucky, while i live in this miserable hole?" she looked at walter fiercely, as if she held him responsible for her ill-fortune. "perhaps your luck will change some day," he said, though he had little faith in his own words. he wondered how the tall, gaunt woman of the backwoods would look dressed in silks and satins. "my luck never will change," she said, quickly. "i must live and die in some such hovel as this." "my luck has changed," said walter, quietly; "but in a different way." "how?" she asked, betraying in her tone some curiosity. "a year ago--six months ago--my father was a rich man, or was considered so. he was thought to be worth over a hundred thousand dollars. all at once his property was swept away, and now i am obliged to earn my own living, as you see." "is that true?" she asked. "yes, it is true." "how did your father lose his money?" "by speculating in mines." "the more fool he!" "my father is dead," said walter, gravely. "i cannot bear to hear him blamed." "humph!" ejaculated the woman; but what she intended to convey by this utterance walter could not tell. again the woman went to the window and looked out. "it's time for jack to be here," she said. "your son?" asked walter. "no, my husband." "he'll be pretty wet when he comes in," walter ventured to say; but his remark elicited no response. after a while his hostess said, in her usual abrupt tone, "i expect you are hungry." "yes," said walter, "i am, but i can wait till your husband comes." "i don't know when he'll come. likely he's kept." she took out from a small cupboard a plate of bread and some cold meat, and laid them on the table. then she steeped some tea, and, when it was ready, she put that also on the table. "set up," she said, briefly. walter understood from this that supper was ready, and, putting on his shoes, which were now dry, he moved his chair up. "likely you're used to something better," said the woman. this was true, but our hero politely said that the supper looked very good, and he did not doubt he would enjoy it. "that's lucky, for it's all you will get," said the woman. "there's not much use in wasting politeness on her," thought walter. "she won't give any in return, that's certain." the woman poured him out some tea in one of the cracked cups. "we haven't got no milk nor sugar," she said. "my man and i don't care for them." the first sip of the tea, which was quite strong, nearly caused a wry expression on walter's face, but he managed to control himself so far as not to betray his want of relish for the beverage his hostess offered him. the only redeeming quality it had was that it was hot, and, exposed as he had been to the storm, warm drink was agreeable. "there's some bread and there's some meat," said the woman. "you can help yourself." "are you not going to eat supper with me?" asked walter. "no, i shall wait for jack." she sat down in a chair before the fire, leaving walter to take care of himself, and seemed plunged in thought. "what a strange woman!" thought walter. "i wonder if her husband is anything like her. if he is, they must be an agreeable couple." he ate heartily of the food, and succeeded in emptying his cup of tea. he would have taken another cup if there had been milk and sugar, but it was too bitter to be inviting. "will you have some more tea?" asked the hostess, turning round. "no, i thank you." "you miss the milk and sugar?" "i like them in tea." "we can't afford to buy them, so it's lucky we don't like them." there was a bitterness in her tone whenever she talked of money, which led walter to avoid the topic. evidently she was a discontented woman, angry because her lot in life was not brighter. walter pushed his chair from the table, and sat down again before the fire. she rose and cleared the table, replacing the bread and meat in the cupboard. "where are you going next?" she asked, after a pause. walter mentioned the name of the place. "have you ever been there?" he asked. "yes." "is it a flourishing place?" "yes, good enough, but i haven't been there for a year. it may have burned down for all i know." "i wonder what sort of a woman she was when she was young?" thought walter. "i wonder if she was always so unsociable?" there was silence for another hour. walter wished it were time to go to bed, for the presence of such a woman made him feel uncomfortable. but it was too early yet to suggest retiring. at length the silence was broken by a step outside. "that's jack," said the woman, rising hastily; and over her face there came a transient gleam of satisfaction, the first walter had observed. before she could reach the door it was opened, and jack entered. walter looked up with some curiosity to see what sort of a man the husband of this woman might be. he saw a stout man, with a face like a bull-dog's, lowering eyes, and matted red hair and beard. "they are fitly mated," thought our hero. the man stopped short as his glance rested upon walter, and he turned quickly to his wife. "who have you got here, meg?" he asked, in a rough voice. "he was overtaken by the storm, and wanted me to take him in, and give him supper and lodging." "he's a boy. what brings him into these woods?" "he says he's a book-peddler." "where are his books?" "i have sold them all," said walter, feeling called upon to take a personal share in the conversation. "how many did you have?" "twenty." "how much did you charge for them?" "three dollars and a half apiece." "that's seventy dollars, isn't it?" "yes." "well, you can stay here all night if you want to. we aint used to keepin' a tavern, but you'll fare as well as we." "thank you. i was afraid i might have to stay out all night." "now, meg, get me something to eat quick. i'm most famished." while his wife was getting out the supper again, he sat down beside the fire, and walter had a chance to scan his rough features. there was something in his appearance that inspired distrust, and our hero wished the night were past, and he were again on his way. chapter xxix. danger threatens. after supper, which the man devoured like a wild animal, he proved more sociable. he tried in a rough, uncouth manner to make himself agreeable, and asked walter numerous questions. "do you like peddlin'?" he asked. "i can't tell yet," said walter. "i haven't been at it long enough." "you can make money pretty fast?" "i don't know. some days i expect to do well, but other days i may not sell any books. but i like travelling about from place to place." "i don't know but i should like travellin' myself," said jack. "hey, meg?" "anything better than staying in this miserable hole," said the woman. "i'm sick and tired of it." "well, old woman, maybe we'll start off soon. you couldn't get me a chance in your business, could you?" walter doubted strongly whether a rough, uneducated man like the one before him would be well adapted for the book business, but he did not venture to say so. "if you would like to try it," he said, "i can give you the name of the agent in cleveland. he is authorized to employ agents, and might engage you." "would he engage the old woman too?" "i don't know whether he has any female agents." "i couldn't do nothing sellin' books," said meg, "nor you either. if it was something else, i might make out." "well, we'll think about it. this aint a very cheerful place to live, as you say, and it's about time for a change." about nine o'clock walter intimated a desire to go to bed. "i have been walking considerable to-day," he said, "and i feel tired." "i'll show you the place you're to sleep in," said the woman. she lit a candle, and left the room, followed by walter. she led the way up a rough, unpainted staircase and opened the door of the room over the one in which they had been seated. "we don't keep a hotel," said she, "and you must shift as well as you can. we didn't ask you to stay." looking around him, walter found that the chamber which he had entered was as bare as the room below, if not more so. there was not even a bedstead, but in the corner there was a bed on the floor with some ragged bedclothes spread over it. "that's where you're to sleep," said the woman, pointing it out. "thank you," said walter. "there isn't much to thank me for. good-night." "good-night," said walter. she put the candle on the mantel-piece, for there was no bureau or table in the room, and went out. "this isn't a very stylish tavern, that's a fact," thought walter, taking a survey of the room. "i shall have a hard bed, but i guess i can stand it for one night." there was something else that troubled him more than the poor accommodations. the ill looks of his host and hostess had made a strong impression upon his mind. the particular inquiries which they had made about his success in selling books, and their strong desire for money, led him to feel apprehensive of robbery. he was in the heart of the woods, far away from assistance, and at their mercy. what could he, a boy of fifteen, do against their combined attack? he would have preferred to sleep in the woods without a shelter, rather than have placed himself in their power. under the influence of this apprehension, he examined the door to see if there was any way of locking it. but there was neither lock nor bolt. there had been a bolt once, but there was none now. next he looked about the room to see if there was any heavy article of furniture with which he could barricade the door. but, as has already been said, there was neither bureau nor table. in fact, there was absolutely no article of furniture except a single wooden chair, and that, of course, would be of no service. "what shall i do?" thought walter. "that man can enter the room when i am asleep, and rob me of all my money." it was a perplexing position to be in, and might have puzzled an older and more experienced traveller than our young hero. he opened his pocket-book, and, taking out the money, counted it. there were sixty dollars and a few cents within. "where shall i hide it?" he considered. looking about the room, he noticed a closet, the door of which was bolted on the outside. withdrawing the bolt he opened the door and looked in. it was nearly empty, containing only a few articles of little or no value. a plan of operations rapidly suggested itself to walter in case the room should be entered while he was awake. in pursuance of this plan he threw a few pennies upon the floor of the closet, and then closed the door again. next he drew from the pocket-book all the money it contained, except a single five-dollar bill. the bank notes thus removed amounted to fifty-five dollars. he then drew off his stockings, and, laying the bills in the bottom, again put them on. "he won't suspect where they are," thought walter, in a tone of satisfaction. "if he takes my pocket-book, i can stand the loss of five dollars." he put on his shoes, that he might be ready for instant flight, if occasion required it, and threw himself down on the outside of the coverlid. if our young hero, who, i hope, will prove such if the danger which he fears actually comes, could have overheard the conversation which was even then going on between jack and meg, he would have felt that his apprehensions were not without cause. when the woman returned from conducting walter to his room, she found her husband sitting moodily beside the fire. "well, meg," he said, looking up, "where did you put him?" "in the room above." "i hope he'll sleep sound," said jack, with a sinister smile. "i'll go up by and by and see how he rests." "what do you mean to do?" asked meg. "he has got seventy dollars in that pocket-book of his. it must be ours." his wife did not answer immediately, but looked thoughtfully into the fire. "well, what do you say?" he demanded impatiently. "what do i say? that i have no objection to taking the money, if there is no danger." "what danger is there?" "he may charge us with the theft." "he can't see me take it, when his eyes are shut." "but he may not be asleep." "so much the worse for him. i must have the money. seventy dollars is worth taking, meg. it's more money than i've had in my hands at one time for years." "i like money as well as you, jack; but the boy will make a fuss when he finds the money is gone." "so much the worse for him," said jack, fiercely. "i'll stop his noise very quick." "you won't harm the lad, jack?" said meg, earnestly. "why not? what is he to you?" "nothing, but i feel an interest in him. i don't want him harmed. rob him if you will, but don't hurt him." "what should you care about him? you never saw him before to-day." "he told me his story. he has had ill-luck, like us. his father was very rich, not long since, but he suddenly lost all his property, and this boy is obliged to go out as a book-peddler." "what has that to do with us?" "you mustn't harm him, jack." "i suppose you would like to have him inform against us, and set the police on our track." "no, i wouldn't, and you know it." "then he must never leave this cabin alive," said jack. "you would not murder him?" demanded meg, horror-struck. "yes, i would, if there is need of it." "then i will go up and bid him leave the house. better turn him out into the forest than keep him here for that." she had got half way to the door when her husband sprang forward, and clutched her fiercely by the shoulder. "what are you going to do?" he growled. "you shall not kill him. i will send him away." "i have a great mind to kill you," he muttered fiercely. "no, jack, you wouldn't do that. i'm not a very good woman, but i've been a faithful wife to you, and you wouldn't have the heart to kill me." "how do you know?" he said. "i know you wouldn't. i am not afraid for myself, but for you as well as this boy. if you killed him, you might be hung, and then what would become of me?" "what else can i do?" asked her husband, irresolutely. "threaten him as much as you like. make him take an oath never to inform against you. he's a boy that'll keep his oath." "what makes you think so?" "i read it in his face. it is an honest face, and it can be trusted." "well, old woman, perhaps you are right. the other way is dangerous, and if this will work as well, i don't mind trying it. now let us go to bed, and when the boy's had time to fall asleep, i'll go in and secure the money." chapter xxx. the robber walks into a trap. walter's feelings, as he lay on his hard bed on the floor, were far from pleasant. he was not sure that an attempt would be made to rob him, but the probability seemed so great that he could not compose himself to sleep. suspense was so painful that he almost wished that jack would come up if he intended to. he was tired, but his mental anxiety triumphed over his bodily fatigue, and he tossed about restlessly. it was about nine o'clock when he went to bed. two hours passed, and still there were no signs of the apprehended invasion. but, five minutes later, a heavy step was heard upon the staircase, which creaked beneath the weight of the man ascending. jack tried to come up softly, but it creaked nevertheless. walter's heart beat quick, as he heard the steps approaching nearer and nearer. it was certainly a trying moment, that might have tested the courage of one older than our hero. presently the door opened softly, and jack advanced stealthily into the chamber, carrying a candle which, however, was unlighted. he reckoned upon finding walter undressed, and his clothes hanging over the chair; but the faint light that entered through the window showed him that his intended victim had not removed his clothing. of course this made the task of taking his pocket-book much more difficult. "confusion!" he muttered. "the boy hasn't undressed." walter had closed his eyes, thinking it best to appear to be asleep; but he heard this exclamation, and it satisfied him of jack's dishonest intentions. the robber paused a moment, and then, stooping over, inserted his hand into walter's pocket. he drew out the pocket-book, walter making no sign of being aware of what was going on. "i've got it," muttered jack, with satisfaction, and stealthily retraced his steps to the door. he went out, carefully closing it after him, and again the steps creaked beneath his weight. "i'm afraid he'll come back when he finds how little there is in it," thought walter. "if so, i must trust to my plan." meg looked up with interest when her husband re-entered the room. she had been listening with nervous interest, fearing that there might be violence done. she had been relieved to hear no noise, and to see her husband returning quietly. "have you got the pocket-book?" she asked. "yes, meg," he said, displaying it. "he went to bed with his clothes on, but i pulled it out of his pocket, as he lay asleep, and he will be none the wiser." "how much is there in it?" "i'm going to see. i haven't opened it yet." he opened the pocket-book, and uttered a cry of disappointment. "that's all," he said, displaying the five-dollar bill. "he must have had more." "he did have more. when he paid me the dollar for stoppin' here, he took it from a roll of bills." "what's he done with 'em, the young rascal?" "perhaps he had another pocket-book. but that's the one he took out when he paid me." "i must go up again, meg. he had seventy dollars, and i'm goin' to have the rest. five dollars won't pay me for the trouble of stealin' it." "don't hurt the boy, jack." "i will, if he don't fork over the money," said her husband, fiercely. there was no longer any thought of concealment. it was necessary to wake walter to find out where he had put the money. so jack went upstairs boldly, not trying to soften the noise of his steps now, angry to think that he had been put to this extra trouble. walter heard him coming, and guessed what brought him back. i will not deny that he felt nervous, but he determined to act manfully, whatever might be the result. he breathed a short prayer to god for help, for he knew that in times of peril he is the only sufficient help. the door was thrown open, and jack strode in, bearing in his hand a candle, this time lighted. he advanced to the bed, and, bending over, shook walter vigorously. "what's the matter?" asked our hero, this time opening his eyes, and assuming a look of surprise. "is it time to get up?" "it's time for you to get up." "it isn't morning, is it?" "no; but i've got something to say to you." "well," said walter, sitting up in the bed, "i'm ready." "where've you put that money you had last night?" "why do you want to know?" demanded walter, eying his host fixedly. "no matter why i want to know," said jack, impatiently. "tell me, if you know what's best for yourself." walter put his hand in his pocket. "it was in my pocket-book," he said; "but it's gone." "here is your pocket-book," said jack, producing it. "did you take it out of my pocket? what made you take it?" "none of your impudence, boy!" "is it impudent to ask what made you take my property?" said walter, firmly. "yes, it is," said jack, with an oath. "do you mean to steal my money?" "yes, i do; and the sooner you hand it over the better." "you have got my pocket-book already." "perhaps you think i am green," sneered jack. "i found only five dollars." "then you had better give it back to me. five dollars isn't worth taking." "you're a cool one, and no mistake," said jack, surveying our hero with greater respect than he had before manifested. "do you know that i could wring your neck?" "yes, i suppose you could," said walter, quietly. "you are a great deal stronger than i am." "aint you afraid of me?" "i don't think i am. why should i be?" "what's to hinder my killin' you? we're alone in the woods, far from help." "i don't think you'll do it," said walter, meeting his gaze steadily. "you aint a coward, boy; i'll say that for you. some boys of your age would be scared to death if they was in your place." "i don't think i am a coward," said walter, quietly. "are you going to give me back that pocket-book?" "not if i know it; but i'll tell you what you're goin' to do." "what's that?" "hunt up the rest of that money, and pretty quick too." "what makes you think i have got any more money?" "didn't you tell me you sold twenty books, at three dollars and a half? that makes seventy dollars, accordin' to my reckonin'." "you're right there; but i have sent to cleveland for some more books, and had to send the money with the order." this staggered the robber at first, till he remembered what his wife had told him. "that don't go down," he said roughly. "the old woman saw a big roll of bills when you paid her for your lodgin'. you haven't had any chance of payin' them away." walter recalled the covetous glance of the woman when he displayed the bills, and he regretted too late his imprudence in revealing the amount of money he had with him. he saw that it was of no use to attempt to deceive jack any longer. it might prove dangerous, and could do no good. "i have some more money," he said; "but i hope you will let me keep it." "what made you take it out of your pocket-book?" "because i thought i should have a visit from you." "what made you think so?" demanded jack, rather surprised. "i can't tell, but i expected a visit, so i took out most of my money and hid it." "then you'd better find it again. i can't wait here all night. is it in your other pocket?" "no." "is that all you can say? get up, and find me that money, or it'll be the worse for you." "then give me the pocket-book and five dollars. i can't get along if you take all my money." jack reflected that he could easily take away the pocket-book again, and decided to comply with our hero's request as an inducement for him to find the other money. "here it is," he said. "now get me the rest." "i hid some money in that closet," said walter. "i thought you would think of looking there." no sooner was the closet pointed out than jack eagerly strode towards it and threw open the door. he entered it, and began to peer about him, holding the candle in his hand. "where did you put it?" he inquired, turning to question walter. but he had scarcely spoken when our hero closed the door hastily, and, before jack could recover from his surprise, had bolted it on the outside. to add to the discomfiture of the imprisoned robber, the wind produced by the violent slamming of the door blew out the candle, and he found himself a captive, in utter darkness. "let me out, or i'll murder you!" he roared, kicking the barrier that separated him from his late victim, now his captor. walter saw that there was no time to lose. the door, though strong, would probably soon give way before the strength of his prisoner. when the liberation took place, he must be gone. he held the handle of his carpet-bag between his teeth, and, getting out of the window, hung down. the distance was not great, and he alighted upon the ground without injury. without delay he plunged into the woods, not caring in what direction he went, as long as it carried him away from his dishonest landlord. chapter xxxi. walter's escape. though walter was in a room on the second floor, the distance to the ground was not so great but that he could easily hang from the window-sill and jump without injury. before following him in his flight, we will pause to inquire how the robber, unexpectedly taken captive, fared. nothing could have surprised jack more than this sudden turning of the tables. but a minute since walter was completely in his power. now, through the boy's coolness and nerve, his thievish intentions were baffled, and he was placed in the humiliating position of a prisoner in his own house. "open the door, or i'll murder you!" he roared, kicking it violently. there was no reply, for walter was already half way out of the window, and did not think it best to answer. jack kicked again, but the door was a strong one, and, though it shook, did not give way. "draw the bolt, i say," roared the captive again, appending an oath, "or i'll wring your neck." but our hero was already on the ground, and speeding away into the shelter of the friendly woods. if any man was thoroughly mad, that man was jack. it was not enough that he had been ingloriously defeated, but the most galling thing about it was that this had been done by a boy. "i'll make him pay for this!" muttered jack, furiously. he saw that walter had no intention of releasing him, and that his deliverance must come from himself. he kicked furiously, and broke through one of the panels of the door; but still the bolt held, and continued to hold, though he threw himself against the door with all his force. meanwhile his wife below had listened intently, at the bottom of the staircase, not without anxiety as to the result. she was a woman, and, though by no means of an amiable disposition, she was not without some humanity. she knew her husband's brutal temper, and she feared that walter would come to harm. part of her anxiety was selfish, to be sure, for she dreaded the penalty for her husband; but she was partly actuated by a feeling of rough good-will towards her young guest. she didn't mind his being robbed, for she felt that in some way she had been cheated out of that measure of worldly prosperity which was her due, and she had no particular scruple as to the means of getting even with the world. the fact that walter, too, had suffered bad fortune increased her good-will towards him, and made her more reluctant that he should be ill-treated. at first, as she listened, and while the conversation was going on, she heard nothing to excite her alarm. but when her husband had been locked in the closet, and began to kick at the door, there was such a noise that meg, though misapprehending the state of things, got frightened. "he's killing the poor boy, i'm afraid," she said, clasping her hands. "why, why need he be so violent? i told him not to harm him." next she heard jack's voice in angry tones, but could not understand what he said. this was followed by a fresh shower of kicks at the resisting door. "i would go up if i dared," she thought; "but i am afraid i should see the poor boy dying." she feared, also, her husband's anger at any interference; for, as she had reason to know, his temper was not of the gentlest. so she stood anxiously at the foot of the staircase, and continued to listen. meanwhile jack, finding he could not release himself readily, bethought himself of his wife. "meg!" he called out, in stentorian tones. his wife heard the summons and made haste to obey it. she hurried upstairs, and, opening the chamber door, found herself, to her surprise, in darkness. "where are you, jack?" she asked, in some bewilderment. "here," answered her husband. "where?" asked meg; for the tones were muffled by the interposition of the door, and she could not get a clear idea of where her husband was. "in the closet, you fool! come and open the door," was the polite reply. wondering how her husband could have got into the closet, and, also, what had become of walter, she advanced hastily to the closet-door, and drew the bolt. jack dashed out furiously, cursing in a manner i shall not repeat. "how came you here, jack?" asked his wife. "where's the boy?" it was so dark that he could not readily discover walter's flight. he strode to the bedstead, and, kneeling down, began to feel about for him. "curse it, the boy's gone!" he exclaimed. "why didn't you stop him?" this he said on supposition that walter had escaped by the stairs. "i don't know what you mean. i've seen nothing of the boy. wasn't he here when you came up?" "yes, he was, but now he's gone. he must have got out of the window," he added, with a sudden thought. "i don't understand it," said meg. "how came you shut up in that closet?" "the boy sent me in on a fool's errand, and then locked me in." "tell me about it, jack." her husband rehearsed the story, heaping execrations upon his own folly for being outwitted by a boy. "but you've got the pocket-book and the five dollars," said his wife, by way of comforting him. "no, i haven't. i gave them back to him, to get him to tell me where the rest of the money was. i meant to take it away from him again." "then he's escaped with all his money?" "yes," growled jack; "he's fooled me completely. but it isn't too late. i may catch him yet. he's hiding in the woods somewhere. if i do get hold of him, i'll give him something to remember me by. i'll learn him to fool me." "i wouldn't go out to-night, jack," said his wife. "it's most twelve." "if i don't go now, i'll lose him. go downstairs, meg, and light the candle." "did he have the money with him?" "he said he hid it." "then perhaps he left it behind him. he had to go away in a hurry." "that's so, meg. hurry down, and light the candle, and we'll hunt for it." the suggestion was a reasonable one, and jack caught at it. if the money were left behind, it would repay him in part for his mortification at having been fooled by a boy, and he might be tempted to let him go. what vexed him most was the idea of having been baffled completely; and the discovery of the money would go far to make things even. meg came up with the lighted candle; and they commenced a joint search, first in the closet, where they found the five pennies which walter had thrown on the floor, and, afterwards, about the room, and particularly the bedding. but the roll of bills was nowhere to be found. walter had, as we know, carried it away with him. this was the conclusion to which the seekers were ultimately brought. "the money aint anywhere here," said jack. "the boy's got it with him." "likely he has," said meg. "i'm goin' for him," said her husband. "go downstairs, meg, and i'll foller." "you'd better wait till mornin', jack," said his wife. "you're a fool!" he said, unceremoniously. "if i wait till daylight, he'll be out of the woods, and i can't catch him." "there isn't much chance now. it's dark, and you won't be likely to find him." "i'll risk that. anyhow, i'm goin' and so you needn't say any more about it." jack descended to the room below, put on his boots and hat, and, opening the outer door, sallied out into the darkness. he paused before the door in uncertainty. "i wish i knowed which way he went," he muttered. there seemed little to determine the choice of direction on the part of the fugitive. there was no regular path, as jack and his wife were the only dwellers in the forest who had occasion to use one, except such as occasionally strayed in from the outer world. there was, indeed, a path slightly marked, but this walter could not see in the darkness. nevertheless, as chance would have it, he struck into it and followed it for some distance. having nothing else to determine his course, it was only natural that jack should take this path. now that he was already started on his expedition, and found the natural darkness of the night deepened and made more intense by the thick foliage of the forest trees, he realized that his chances of coming upon walter were by no means encouraging. but he kept on with dogged determination. "i'd like to catch the young rascal, even if i don't get a penny of the money," he said to himself. he resolved, in case he was successful, first, to give his victim a severe beating, and next, to convey him home, and keep him for weeks a close prisoner in the very closet in which he had himself been confined. the thought of such an appropriate vengeance yielded him considerable satisfaction, and stimulated him to keep up the search. chapter xxxii. a strange hiding-place. meanwhile walter had the advantage of quarter of an hour's start of his pursuer. jack had indeed been released within five minutes, but he had consumed ten minutes more in searching for the money. it was too dark, however, to make rapid progress. still walter pushed on, resolved to put as great a distance as possible between the cabin and himself, for he anticipated pursuit, and judged that, if caught, he would fare badly for the trick he had played upon his host. he had proceeded perhaps half a mile when he stopped to rest. two or three times he had tripped over projecting roots which the darkness prevented his seeing in time to avoid. "i'll rest a few minutes, and then push on," he thought. it was late, but the excitement of his position prevented him from feeling sleepy. he wished to get out of the woods into some road or open field, where he would be in less danger of encountering jack, and where perhaps he might find assistance against him. he was leaning against an immense tree, one of the largest and oldest in the forest. walter began idly to examine it. he discovered, by feeling, that it was hollow inside. curiosity led him to examine farther. he ascertained that the interior was eaten out by gradual decay, making a large hollow space inside. "i shouldn't wonder if i could get in," he said to himself. he made the attempt, and found that he was correct in his supposition. he could easily stand erect inside. "that is curious," thought walter. "the tree must be very old." he emerged from the trunk, and once more threw himself down beside it. five minutes later and his attention was drawn by a sound of approaching footsteps. then came an oath, which sounded startlingly near. it was uttered by jack, who had tripped over a root, and was picking himself up in no very good humor. the enemy, it appeared, was close upon him. walter started to his feet in dismay. his first thought was immediate flight, but if he were heard by jack, the latter would no doubt be able to run him down. "what shall i do?" thought walter, in alarm. quickly the hollow trunk occurred to him. he seized his carpet-bag, and with as little delay as possible concealed himself in the interior. he was just in time, for jack was by this time only a few rods distant. walter counted upon his passing on; but on reaching the old tree jack paused, and said aloud, "where can the young rascal be? i wonder if i have passed him? i'll rest here five minutes. he may straggle along." with these words he sank upon the ground, in the very same place where walter had been reclining two minutes before. he was so near that our hero could have put out his hand and touched him. it was certainly a very uncomfortable situation for walter. he hardly dared to breathe or to stir lest his enemy should hear him. "he's led me a pretty tramp," muttered jack. "i'm as tired as a dog, but i'm bound to get hold of him to-night. if i do, i'll half kill him." "then i hope you won't get hold of him," walter ejaculated inwardly. he began to wish he had run on instead of seeking this concealment. in the first case, the darkness of the night would have favored him, and even if jack had heard him it was by no means certain that he would have caught him. now an unlucky movement or a cough would betray his hiding-place, and there would be no chance of escape. he began to feel his constrained position irksome, but did not dare to seek relief by change of posture. "i wish he'd go," thought our hero. but jack was in no hurry. he appeared to wish to waylay walter, and was constantly listening to catch the sound of his approach. at last a little relief came. a sound was heard, which jack suspected might proceed from his late guest. he started to his feet, and walked a few steps away. walter availed himself of this opportunity to change his position a little. "it isn't he," said jack, disappointed. "perhaps he's gone another way." he did not throw himself down this time, but remained standing, in evident uncertainty. at length walter was relieved to hear him say, "well, i shan't catch him by stopping here, that's sure." then he started, and walter, listening intently, heard the sound of his receding steps. when sufficient time had elapsed, he ventured out from his concealment, and stopped to consider the situation. what should he do? it was hardly prudent to go on, for it would only bring him nearer to the enemy. if he ventured back, he would be farther away from the edge of the woods, and might encounter meg, who might also be in pursuit. he did not feel in danger of capture from this quarter, but the woman might find means of communicating with her husband. on the whole, it seemed safest, for the present at least, to stick to the friendly tree which had proved so good a protector. he stood beside it, watching carefully, intending, whenever peril threatened, to take instant refuge inside. this was not particularly satisfactory, but he hoped jack would soon tire of the pursuit, and retrace his steps towards the cabin. if he should do that, he would then be safe in continuing his flight. jack pushed on, believing that our hero was in advance. it had been a fatiguing day, and this made his present midnight tramp more disagreeable. his hopes of overtaking walter became fainter and fainter, and nature began to assert her rights. a drowsiness which he found it hard to combat assailed him, and he found he must yield to it for a time at least. "i wish i was at home, and in bed," he muttered. "i'll lie down and take a short nap, and then start again." he threw himself down on the ground, and no longer resisted the approaches of sleep. in five minutes his senses were locked in a deep slumber, which, instead of a short nap, continued for several hours. while he is sleeping we will go back to walter. he, too, was sleepy, and would gladly have laid down and slept if he had dared. but he felt the peril of his position too sensibly to give way to his feelings. he watched vigilantly for an hour, but nothing could be seen of jack. that hour seemed to him to creep with snail-like pace. "i can't stand this watching till morning," he said to himself. "i will find some out-of-the-way place, and try to sleep a little." searching about he found such a place as he desired. he lay down, and was soon fast asleep. so pursuer and pursued had yielded to the spell of the same enchantress, and half a mile distant from each other were enjoying welcome repose. some hours passed away. the sun rose, and its rays lighted up the dim recesses of the forest. when walter opened his eyes he could not at first remember where he was. he lifted his head from his carpet-bag which he had used as a pillow, and looked around him in surprise; but recollection quickly came to his aid. "i must have been sleeping several hours," he said to himself, "for it is now morning. i wonder if the man who was after me has gone home?" he decided that this was probable, and resolved to make an attempt to reach the edge of the forest. he wanted to get into the region of civilization again, if for no other reason, because he felt hungry, and was likely to remain so as long as he continued in the forest. he now felt fresh and strong, and, taking his carpet-bag in his hand, prepared to start on his journey. but he had scarcely taken a dozen steps when a female figure stepped out from a covert, and he found himself face to face with meg. not knowing but that her husband might be close behind, he started back in alarm and hesitation. she observed this, and said, "you needn't be afraid, boy. i don't want to harm you." "is your husband with you?" asked walter, on his guard. "no, he isn't. he started out after you before midnight, and hasn't been back since. that made me uneasy, and i came out to look for him." "i have seen him," said walter. "where and when?" asked the woman, eagerly. it was strange that such a coarse brute should have inspired any woman with love, but meg did certainly love her husband, in spite of his frequent bad treatment. "it must have been within an hour of the time i left your house. he stopped under that tree. that was where i saw him." "did he see you?" "no, i was hidden." "how long did he stay?" "only a few minutes, to get rested, i suppose. then he went on." "in what direction?" "that way." "i am glad he did not harm you. he was so angry when he started that i was afraid of what would happen if he met you. you must keep out of his way." "that is what i mean to do if i can," said walter. "can you tell me the shortest way out of the woods?" "go in that direction," said the woman, pointing, "and half a mile will bring you out." "it is rather hard to follow a straight path in the woods. if you will act as my guide, i will give you a dollar." meg hesitated. "if my husband should find out that i helped you to escape, he would be very angry." "why need he know? you needn't tell him you met me." the woman hesitated. finally love of money prevailed. "i'll do it," she said, abruptly. "follow me." she took the lead, and walter followed closely in her steps. remembering the night before, he was not wholly assured of her good faith, and resolved to keep his eyes open, and make his escape instantly if he should see any signs of treachery. possibly meg might intend to lead him into a trap, and deliver him up to her husband. he was naturally trustful, but his adventures in the cabin taught him a lesson of distrust. chapter xxxiii. walter shows strategy. walter followed meg through the woods. he felt sure that he would not have far to go to reach the open fields. he had been delayed heretofore, not by the distance, but by not knowing in what direction to go. few words were spoken between him and meg. remembering what had happened at the cabin, and that even now he was fleeing from her husband, he did not feel inclined to be sociable, and her thoughts were divided between the money she was to be paid as the price of her services, and her husband, for whose prolonged absence she could not account. after walking for fifteen minutes, they came to the edge of the forest. skirting it was a meadow, wet in parts, for the surface was low. "where is the road?" asked walter. "you'll have to cross this meadow, and you'll come to it. it isn't mor'n quarter of a mile. you'll find your way well enough without me." walter felt relieved at the prospect of a speedy return to the region of civilization. it seemed to him as if he had passed the previous night far away in some wild frontier cabin, instead of in the centre of a populous and thriving neighborhood, within a few miles of several flourishing villages. he drew out a dollar-bill, and offered it to meg. "this is the money i agreed to pay you," he said. "thank you, besides." "you haven't much cause to thank me," she said, abruptly. "i would have robbed you if i had the chance." "i am sorry for that," said walter. "money got in that way never does any good." "money is sure to do good, no matter how it comes," said the woman, fiercely. "think of what it will buy!--a comfortable home, ease, luxury, respect. some time before i die i hope to have as much as i want." "i hope you will," said walter; "but i don't think you will find it as powerful as you think." his words might as well have remained unspoken, for she paid no attention to them. she seemed to be listening intently. suddenly she clutched his arm. "i hear my husband's steps," she said, hurriedly. "fly, or it will be the worse for you." "thank you for the caution," said walter, roused to the necessity of immediate action. "don't stop to thank me. go!" she said, stamping her foot impatiently. he obeyed at once, and started on a run across the meadow. a minute later, jack came in sight. "what, meg, are you here?" he said, in surprise. "yes; i got anxious about you, because you did not come home. i was afraid something had happened to you." "what could happen to me?" he retorted, contemptuously. "i'm not a baby. have you seen the boy?" he did not wait for an answer, for, looking across the meadow, he saw the flying figure of our hero. "there he is, now!" he exclaimed, in a tone of fierce satisfaction. "let him go, jack!" pleaded meg, who, in spite of herself, felt a sympathy for the boy who, like herself, had been unfortunate. he threw off the hand which she had placed upon his arm, saying, contemptuously, "you're a fool!" and then dashed off in pursuit of walter. walter had the start, and had already succeeded in placing two hundred yards between himself and his pursuer. but jack was strong and athletic, and could run faster than a boy of fifteen, and the distance between the two constantly diminished. walter looked over his shoulder, as he ran, and, brave as he was, there came over him a sickening sensation of fear as he met the fierce, triumphant glance of his enemy. "stop!" called out jack, hoarsely. walter did not answer, neither did he obey. he was determined to hold out to the last, and when he surrendered it would be only as a measure of necessity. "are you going to stop or not? you'd better," growled jack. [illustration] walter still remained silent; but his heart bounded with sudden hope as he saw before him a means of possible escape. only a few rods in advance was a deep ditch, at least twelve feet wide, over which a single plank was thrown as a bridge for foot-passengers. walter summoned his energies, and sped like a deer forward and over the bridge, when, stooping down, he hastily pulled it over after him, thus cutting off his enemy's advance. jack saw his intention, and tried to reach the edge of the ditch soon enough to prevent it. but he was just too late. baffled and enraged, he looked across the gulf which separated him from his intended victim. "put back that plank," he roared, with an oath. "i would rather not," said walter, who stood facing him on the other side, hot and excited. "i'll kill you if i get at you," said jack, shaking his fist menacingly. "what have i done to you?" asked walter, quietly. "why do you want to harm me?" "didn't you lock me up in the closet last night?" "you wanted to take my money." "i'll have it yet." "it was all i could do," said walter, who did not wish to excite any additional anger in his already irritated foe. "i haven't got but a little money, and i wanted to keep it." "money isn't the only thing you may lose," said the ruffian, significantly. "put back that plank. do you hear me?" "yes," said walter; "i hear, but i cannot do it." "you're playin' a dangerous game, young one," said jack. "perhaps you think i can't get over." "i don't think you can," said walter, glancing at the width of the ditch. "you may find yourself mistaken." walter did not answer. "will you put back that plank?" demanded jack, once more. "no," answered walter. "you'll be sorry for it then, you young cub!" said jack, fiercely. he walked back about fifty feet, and then faced round. his intention was clear enough. he meant to jump over the ditch. could he do it? that was the question which suggested itself to the anxious consideration of our hero. if the ground had been firm on the other side, such a jump for a grown man would not have been by any means a remarkable one. but the soft, spongy soil was unfavorable for a spring. still it was possible that jack might succeed. if he did, was there any help for walter? our hero took the plank, and put it over his shoulder, moving with it farther down the edge. an idea had occurred to him, which had not yet suggested itself to jack, or the latter might have been less confident of success. jack stood still for a moment, and then, gathering up his strength, dashed forward. arrived at the brink, he made a spring, but the soft bank yielded him no support. he fell short of the opposite bank by at least two feet, and, to his anger and disgust, landed in the water and slime at the bottom of the ditch. with a volley of execrations, he scrambled out, landing at last, but with the loss of one boot, which had been drawn off by the clinging mud in which it had become firmly planted. still he was on the same side with walter, and the latter was now in his power. this was what he thought; but an instant later he saw his mistake. walter had stretched the plank over the ditch a few rods further up, and was passing over it in safety. jack ran hastily to the spot, hoping to gain possession of the plank which had been of such service to his opponent, and want of which had entailed such misfortunes upon him. but walter was too quick for him. the plank was drawn over, and again he faced his intended victim with the width of the ditch between. he looked across at walter with a glance of baffled rage. it was something new to him to be worsted by a boy, and it mortified him and angered him to such an extent that, had he got hold of him at that moment, murder might have been committed. "put down that plank, and come across," he called out. walter did not reply. "why don't you answer, you rascal?" "you know well enough what i would say," said walter. "i don't care to come." "i shall get hold of you sooner or later." "perhaps you will," said walter; "but not if i can help it." "you're on the wrong side of the ditch. you can't escape." "so are you on the wrong side. you can't get home without crossing." "i can keep you there all day." "i can stand it as well as you," said walter. he felt bolder than at first, for he appreciated the advantage which he had in possessing the plank. true the situation was not a comfortable one, and he would have gladly exchanged it for one that offered greater security. still, on the whole, he felt cool and calm, and waited patiently for the issue. chapter xxxiv. deliverance. jack might have waded back again across the ditch without inflicting much additional damage upon his already wet and miry clothing; but he fancied that walter was in his power, and hoped he would capitulate. to this end, he saw that it was necessary to reassure him, and deceive him as to his own intentions. "come across, boy," he said, softening his tone. "you needn't be afraid. i didn't mean nothing. i was only tryin' to see if i couldn't frighten you a little." "i'm very well off where i am," said walter. "i think i'll stay where i am." "you won't want to stay there all day." "i'd rather stay here all day than be on the same side with you." "you needn't be afraid." "i am not afraid," said walter. "you think i want to hurt you." "i think i am safer on this side." "come, boy, i'll make a bargain with you. you've put me to a good deal of trouble." "i don't see that." "you locked me up in the closet, and you've kept me all night huntin' after you." "you were not obliged to hunt after me, and as for locking you up in the closet, it was the only way i had of saving my money." jack did not care to answer walter's argument, but proceeded: "now i've got you sure, but i'll do the fair thing. if you'll come across and pay me ten dollars for my trouble, i'll let you go without hurtin' you." "what's to prevent you taking all my money, if you get me over there?" "haven't i said i wouldn't?" "you might forget your promise," said walter, whose confidence in jack's word was by no means great. a man who would steal probably would not be troubled by many scruples on the subject of violating his word. "if you don't come, i'll take every cent, and give you a beating beside," said jack, his anger gaining the ascendency. "well, what are you goin' to do about it?" demanded jack, after a brief pause. "i'll stay where i am." "i can come over any time, and get hold of you." "perhaps you can," said walter. "i'll take the risk." "i'll wait a while," thought jack. "he'll come round after a while." he sat down, and taking a clay pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with tobacco, and commenced smoking. walter perceived that he was besieged, but kept cool, and clung to his plank, which was his only hope of safety. he began to speculate as to the length of time the besieging force would hold out. he was already hungry, and there was a prospect of his being starved into a surrender, or there would have been, if luckily his opponent had not been also destitute of provisions. in fact, the besieging party soon became disorganized from this cause. a night in the open air had given keenness to jack's appetite, and he felt an uncomfortable craving for food. "i wish meg would come along," he muttered. "i feel empty." but meg did not come. she stood for a few minutes in the edge of the woods, and watched her husband's pursuit of walter. she saw his failure to overtake his intended victim, and this made her easier in her mind. i do not wish to represent her as better than she was. her anxiety was chiefly for her husband. she did not wish him to commit any act of violence which would put him without the pale of the law. it was this consideration, rather than a regard for walter's safety, that influenced her, though she felt some slight interest in our hero. she went home, feeling that she could do no good in staying. jack resented her disappearance. "she might know i wanted some breakfast," he growled to himself. "as long as she gets enough to eat herself, she cares little for me." this censure was not deserved. meg was not a good woman, but she was devoted to the coarse brute whom she called husband, and was at any time ready to sacrifice her own comfort to his. two hours passed, and still besieger and besieged eyed each other from opposite sides of the bank. jack grew more and more irritable as the cravings of his appetite increased, and the slight hope that meg might appear with some breakfast was dissipated. walter also became more hungry, but showed no signs of impatience. at this time a boy was seen coming across the meadow. jack espied him, and the idea struck him that he might through him lay in a stock of provisions. "come here, boy," he said. "where do you live?" the boy pointed to a small farm-house half a mile distant. "do you want to earn some money?" "i dunno," said the boy, who had no objections to the money, but, knowing jack's shady reputation, was in doubt as to what was expected of him. "go home, and get a loaf of bread and some cold meat, and bring me, and i'll give you half a dollar." "didn't you bring your luncheon?" asked the boy. "no, i came away without it, and i can't spare time to go back." it occurred to the boy, noticing jack's lazy posture, that business did not appear to be very driving with the man whose time was so valuable. "perhaps mother won't give me the bread and meat," he said. "you can give her half the money." the boy looked across to walter, wondering what kept him on the other side. our hero saw a chance of obtaining help. "i'll give you a dollar," he called out, "if you'll go and tell somebody that this man is trying to rob me of all my money. i slept in his house last night, and he tried to rob me there. now he will do the same if he can get hold of me." "if you tell that, i'll wring your neck," exclaimed jack. "it's all a lie. the boy slept at my house, as he says, and stole some money from me. he escaped, but i'm bound to get it back if i stay here all day." "that is not true," said walter. "carry my message, and i will give you a dollar, and will, besides, reward the men that come to my assistance." the boy looked from one to the other in doubt what to do. "if you want your head broke, you'll do as he says," said jack, rather uneasy. "he won't pay what he promises." "you shall certainly be paid," said walter. "you'd better shut up, or it'll be the worse for you," growled jack. "go and get my breakfast quick, boy, and i'll pay you the fifty cents." "all right," said the boy, "i'll go." he turned, but when he was behind jack, so that the latter could not observe him, he made a sign to walter that he would do as he wished. fifteen minutes later jack rose to his feet. an idea had occurred to him. at the distance of a furlong there was a rail-fence. it occurred to him that one of these rails would enable him to cross the ditch, and get at his victim. he was not afraid walter would escape, since he could easily turn back and capture him if he ventured across. walter did not understand his design in leaving the ditch. was it possible that he meant to raise the siege? this seemed hardly probable. he watched, with some anxiety, the movements of his foe, fearing some surprise. when jack reached the fence, and began to pull out one of the rails he understood his object. his position was evidently becoming more dangerous. jack came back with a triumphant smile upon his face. "now, you young cub," he said, "i've got you!" walter watched him warily, and lowered the plank, ready to convert it into a bridge as soon as necessary. jack put down the rail. it was long enough to span the ditch, but was rather narrow, so that some caution was needful in crossing it. walter had moved several rods farther up, and thrown the plank across. though his chances of escape from the peril that menaced him seemed to have diminished since his enemy was also provided with a bridge and it became now a question of superior speed, walter was not alarmed. indeed his prospects of deliverance appeared brighter than ever, for he caught sight of two men approaching across the meadow, and he suspected that they were sent by the boy whom he had hired. these men had not yet attracted the attention of jack, whose back was turned towards them. he crossed the rail, and, at the same time, walter crossed the plank. this he threw across, and then, leaving it on the bank, set out on a quick run. "now i'll catch him," thought jack, with exultation; but he quickly caught sight of our hero's reinforcements. he saw that his game was up, and he abandoned it. his reputation was too well known in the neighborhood for the story he had told to the boy to gain credence. he was forced to content himself with shaking his fist at walter, and then, in discomfiture, returned to the woods, where he made up for his disappointment by venting his spite on meg. she would have fared worse, had he known that walter had found his way out of the wood through her guidance. chapter xxxv. the last of jack mangum. "what's the matter?" asked one of the two men as walter came up. "i got lost in the woods, and passed the night in that man's house," said our hero. "he tried to rob me, but i locked him in the closet, and jumped out of the window and escaped. this morning he got on my track, and would have caught me but for the ditch." "you locked him in the closet!" repeated the other. "how were you able to do that? you are only a boy, while he is a strong man." walter explained the matter briefly. "that was pretty smart," said peter halcomb, for this was the name of the man who questioned him. "you're able to take care of yourself." "i don't know how it would turn out, if you hadn't come up." "i happened to be at home when my boy came and told me that jack mangum had offered him fifty cents for some breakfast. he told me about you also, and, as i suspected jack was up to some of his tricks, i came along." "i am very much obliged to you," said walter, "and i hope you'll let me pay you for your trouble." "i don't want any pay, but you may pay my boy what you promised him, if you want to." "i certainly will; and i never paid away money with more pleasure. as i haven't had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon, i should like to have you direct me to the nearest place where i can get some breakfast." "come to my house; i guess my wife can scare up some breakfast for you. she'll be glad to see the boy that got the better of jack mangum." "how long has this jack mangum lived about here?" asked walter, after accepting with thanks the offer of a breakfast. "about five years. he's been in the county jail twice during that time, and there's a warrant out for him now. he's a confirmed thief. he'd rather steal any time than earn an honest living." "has he ever stolen anything from you?" "i've missed some of my chickens from time to time, and, though i didn't catch him taking them, i've no doubt he was the thief. once i lost a lamb, and i suppose it went in the same direction." "so there is a warrant out for him now?" "yes, and i expect he'll be taken in a day or two. in that case he'll have the privilege of a few months' free board in the county jail." "where is the jail?" "in t----." "that's the town i'm going to." "is it? do your folks live there?" "no, i'm travelling on business." "what's your business?" asked the farmer. the question was an abrupt one, but was not meant to be rude. in country towns everybody feels that he has a right to become acquainted with the business of any one with whom he comes in contact, even in its minutest details. walter understood this, having himself lived in a country village, and answered without taking offence:-- "i am a book-agent." "be you? how do you make it pay?" "pretty well, but i can tell better by and by; i've only been in it a week." "you're pretty young to be a book-peddler where do your folks live?" "in new york." "you've come some ways from home." "yes; i thought i should like to see the country." "how old are you?" "fifteen." "you'll make a smart man if you keep on." "i hope i shall," said walter, modestly; "but i am afraid you overrate me." "i'll tell you what i judge from. a boy of fifteen that can get the better of jack mangum is smart, and no mistake." "i hope i shall realize your prediction," returned walter, who naturally felt pleased with the compliment. like most boys, he liked to be considered smart, although he did not allow himself to be puffed up by inordinate ideas of his own importance, as is the case with many of his age. while this conversation was going on, they had been walking towards the farm-house in which peter holcomb lived. it was an humble one-story building, with an attic above. on each side of it were broad fields, some under cultivation; and there was an appearance of thrift and comfort despite the smallness of the house. "come in," said peter, leading the way. "john," he added, addressing the hired man, who had accompanied him, "you may go into the potato field and hoe. i'll be out directly." walter followed him into a broad, low room,--the kitchen,--in which mrs. holcomb, a pleasant looking woman, was engaged in cooking. "mary," said her husband, "can't you scare up some breakfast for this young man? he stopped at jack mangum's last night, and didn't like his accommodations well enough to stay to breakfast." "you don't say so," repeated mrs. holcomb her countenance expressing curiosity. "that's about the last place i'd want to stop at." "i shouldn't want to go there again," said walter; "but i didn't know anything about the man, or i would rather have stayed out in the woods." "well, mary, how about the breakfast?" "i guess i can find some," said she. "sit right down here, and i'll see what i can do for you." she went to the pantry, and speedily reappeared with some cold meat, a loaf of bread, and some fresh butter, which she placed on the table. "i've got some hot water," she said, "and, in about five minutes, i can give you some warm tea. it won't be much of a breakfast, but if you'll stop for dinner, i can give you something better." "it looks nice," said walter, "and i don't know when i have been so hungry." at this moment the farmer's boy, who had served as walter's messenger, came into the kitchen. "you got away," he said, smiling. "yes, thanks to you," said walter. "here is what i promised you." "i don't know as i ought to take it," said the boy, hesitating, though he evidently wanted it. "you will do me a favor by accepting it," said walter. "you got me out of a bad scrape. besides, you had a chance to earn some money from jack mangum." "i wouldn't have done anything for him, at any rate. he's a thief." finally peter, for he was named after his father, accepted the dollar, and, sitting down by walter, asked him about his adventure in the wood, listening with great interest to the details. "i wouldn't have dared to do as you did," he said. "perhaps you would if you had been obliged to." by this time the tea was steeped, and walter's breakfast was before him. he made so vigorous an onslaught upon the bread and meat that he was almost ashamed of his appetite; but mrs. holcomb evidently felt flattered at the compliment paid to her cookery, and watched the demolition of the provisions with satisfaction. "you had better stop to dinner," she said. "we shall have some roast meat and apple-pudding." "thank you," said walter; "but i have eaten enough to last me for several hours. can you tell me how far it is to the next town?" "about five miles. i'm going to ride over there in about an hour. if you'll wait till then i'll take you over." walter very readily consented to wait. he was rather afraid that if he ventured to walk he might find jack mangum waiting to waylay him somewhere in the road, and he had no desire for a second encounter with him. the farmer absolutely refused to accept pay for breakfast, though walter urged it. it was contrary to his ideas of hospitality. "we don't keep a tavern," he said; "and we never shall miss the little you ate. come again and see us if you come back this way." "thank you," said walter, "i will accept your invitation with pleasure, but i shall not feel like calling on mr. mangum." "i've no doubt he would be glad to see you," said peter holcomb, smiling. "yes, he was very sorry to have me leave him last night." walter thought he had seen the last of jack mangum; but he was mistaken. three days later, while walking in the main street of t----, with a book under his arm, for he had received a fresh supply from the agent at cleveland, he heard the sound of wheels. looking up, he saw a wagon approaching, containing two men. one of them, as he afterwards learned, was the sheriff. the other he immediately recognized as jack mangum. there was no mistaking his sinister face and forbidding scowl. he had been taken early that morning by the sheriff, who, with a couple of men to assist him, had visited the cabin in the forest, and, despite the resistance offered by jack, who was aided by his wife, he had been bound, and was now being conveyed to jail. he also looked up and recognized walter. his face became even more sinister, as he shook his fist at our hero. "i'll be even with you some day, you young cub!" he exclaimed. "not if i can help it," thought walter; but he did not answer in words. he was rather gratified to hear the next day that jack had been sentenced to six months' imprisonment. he felt some pity, however, for meg, who might have been a good woman if she had been married to a different man. chapter xxxvi. joshua bids good-by to stapleton. leaving walter busily engaged in selling books, we will glance at the drummond household, and inquire how the members of that interesting family fared after walter's departure. joshua's discontent increased daily. he was now eighteen, and his father absolutely refused to increase his allowance of twenty-five cents a week, which was certainly ridiculously small for a boy of his age. "if you want money you must work for it," he said. "how much will you give me if i will go into your store?" asked joshua. "fifty cents a week and your board." "i get my board now." "you don't earn it." "i don't see why i need to," said joshua. "aint you a rich man?" "no, i'm not," said his father; "and if i were i am not going to waste my hard-earned money on supporting you extravagantly." "there's no danger of that," sneered joshua, "we live meaner than any family in town." "you needn't find fault with your victuals, as long as you get them free," retorted his father. "if you'll give me two dollars a week, i'll come into the store." "two dollars!" exclaimed mr. drummond. "are you crazy?" "you think as much of a cent as most people do of a dollar," said joshua, bitterly. "two dollars isn't much for the son of a rich man." "i have already told you that i am not rich." "you can't help being rich," said joshua, "for you don't spend any money." "i've heard enough of your impudence," said his father, angrily. "if you can get more wages than i offer you, you are at liberty to engage anywhere else." "tom burton gets a dollar and a quarter a day for pegging shoes," said joshua. "he dresses twice as well as i do." "he has to pay his board out of it." "he only pays three dollars a week, and that leaves him four dollars and a half clear." "so you consider tom burton better off than you are?" "yes." "then i'll make you an offer. i'll get you a place in a shoe-shop, and let you have all you earn over and above three dollars a week, which you can pay for your board." joshua seemed by no means pleased with this proposal. "i'm not going to work in a shoe-shop," he said, sullenly. "why not?" "it's a dirty business." "yet you were envying tom burton just now." "it'll do well enough for him. he's a poor man's son." "so was i a poor man's son. i had to work when i was a boy, and that's the way i earned all i have. not that i am rich," added mr. drummond, cautiously, for he was afraid the knowledge of his wealth would tempt his family to expect a more lavish expenditure, and this would not by any means suit him. "you didn't work in a shoe-shop." "i should have been glad of the chance to do it, for i could have earned more money that way than by being errand-boy in a store. it's just as honorable to work in a shop as to be clerk in a store." though we are not partial to mr. drummond, he was undoubtedly correct in this opinion, and it would be well if boys would get over their prejudice against trades, which, on the whole, offer more assured prospects of ultimate prosperity than the crowded city and country stores. this conversation was not particularly satisfactory to joshua. as he now received his board and twenty-five cents a week, he did not care to enter his father's store for only twenty-five cents a week more. probably it would have been wiser for mr. drummond to grant his request, and pay him two dollars a week. with this inducement joshua might have formed habits of industry. he would, at all events, have been kept out of mischief, and it would have done him good to earn his living by hard work. mr. drummond's policy of mortifying his pride by doling out a weekly pittance so small that it kept him in a state of perpetual discontent was far from wise. most boys appreciate considerable liberality, and naturally expect to be treated better as they grow older. joshua, now nearly nineteen, found himself treated like a boy of twelve, and he resented it. it set him speculating about his father's death, which would leave him master, as he hoped, of the "old man's" savings. it is unfortunate when such a state of feeling comes to exist between a father and a son. the time came, and that speedily, when mr. drummond bitterly repented that he had not made some concessions to joshua. finding his father obstinate, joshua took refuge at first in sullenness, and for several days sat at the table without speaking a word to his father, excepting when absolutely obliged to do so. mr. drummond, however, was not a sensitive man, and troubled himself very little about joshua's moods. "he'll get over it after a while," he said to himself. "if he'd rather hold his tongue, i don't care." next joshua began to consider whether there was any way in which to help himself. "if i only had a hundred dollars," he thought, "i'd go to new york, and see if i couldn't get a place in a store." that, he reflected, would be much better and more agreeable than being in a country store. he would be his own master, and would be able to put on airs of importance whenever he came home on a vacation. but his father would give him no help in securing such a position, and he could not go to the city without money. as for a hundred dollars, it might as well be a million, so far as he had any chance of securing it. while he was thinking this matter over, a dangerous thought entered his mind. his father, he knew, had a small brass-nailed trunk, in which he kept his money and securities. he had seen him going to it more than once. "i wonder how much he's got in it?" thought joshua. "as it's all coming to me some day there's no harm in my knowing." there seemed little chance of finding out, however. the trunk was always locked, and mr. drummond carried the key about with him in his pocket. if he had been a careless man, there might have been some chance of his some day leaving the trunk unlocked, or mislaying the key; but in money matters mr. drummond was never careless. joshua would have been obliged to wait years, if he had depended upon this contingency. one day, however, joshua found in the road a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a ring. he cared very little to whom they belonged, but it flashed upon him at once that one of these keys might fit his father's strong-box. he hurried home at once with his treasure, and ran upstairs breathless with excitement. he knew where the trunk was kept. mr. drummond, relying on the security of the lock, kept it in the closet of his bed-chamber. "where are you going, joshua?" asked his mother. "upstairs, to change my clothes," was the answer. "i've got a piece of pie for you." "i'll come down in five minutes." joshua made his way at once to the closet, and, entering, began to try his keys, one after the other. the very last one was successful in opening the trunk. joshua trembled with excitement as he saw the contents of the trunk laid open to his gaze. he turned over the papers nervously, hoping to come upon some rolls of bills. in one corner he found fifty dollars in gold pieces. besides these, there were some mortgages, in which he felt little interest. but among the contents of the trunk were some folded papers which he recognized at once as united states bonds. opening one of them, he found it to be a five-twenty bond for five hundred dollars. five hundred dollars! what could he not do with five hundred dollars! he could go to the city, and board, enjoying himself meanwhile, till he could find a place. his galling dependence would be over, and he would be his own master. true it would be a theft, but joshua had an excuse ready. "it will all be mine some day," he said to himself. "it's only taking a part of my own in advance." he seized the gold and the bond, and, hastily concealing both in his breast-pocket, went downstairs, first locking the trunk, and putting it away where he found it. "what's the matter, joshua?" asked his mother, struck by his nervous and excited manner. "nothing," he answered, shortly. "are you well?" "i've got a little headache,--that is all." "perhaps you'd better not eat anything then." "it won't do me any harm. i'll take a cup of tea, if you've got any." "i can make some in five minutes." joshua ate his lunch, and, going upstairs again, came down speedily, arrayed in his best clothes. he got out of the house without his mother seeing him, and made his way to a railway station four miles distant, where he purchased a ticket for new york. he took a seat by a window, and, as the car began to move, he said to himself, in exultation, "now i am going to see life." chapter xxxvii. conclusion. three months later walter arrived at columbus, the capital of the state, after a business tour of considerable length, during which he had visited from twenty to thirty different towns and villages. he had now got used to the business, and understood better what arguments to employ with those whom he wished to purchase his book. the consequence was, that he had met with a degree of success which exceeded his anticipations. he had tested his powers, and found that they were adequate to the task he had undertaken,--that of earning his own living. he had paddled his own canoe thus far without assistance, and he felt confident that, if his health continued good, he should be able to do so hereafter. after eating supper, and spending an hour or two in the public room of the hotel, walter went up to his room. here he took out a blank-book, in which he kept an account of his sales and expenditures, and, taking a piece of paper, figured up the grand result. he wished to know just how he stood. after a brief computation, he said, with satisfaction, "i have sold two hundred and eighty books, which gives a gross profit of three hundred and fifty dollars. my expenses have been exactly two hundred and sixty-three dollars. that leaves me eighty-seven dollars net profit." this was a result which might well yield walter satisfaction. he was only fifteen, and this was his first business experience. moreover, he was nearly a thousand miles away from home and friends, surrounded by strangers. yet, by his energy and business ability, he had been able to pay all his expenses, and these, of course, were considerable, as he was constantly moving, and yet had made a dollar a day clear profit. "that is rather better than working for my board in mr. drummond's store," he reflected. "i am afraid it would have taken me a long time to make my fortune if i had stayed there. i wonder how my amiable cousin joshua is getting along." this thought led to the sudden recollection that he had written to mr. shaw, asking him to write to the hotel at columbus where he was now stopping, giving him any news that he might consider interesting. such a letter might be awaiting him. he went downstairs, and approached the clerk. "have any letters been received here for me?" he inquired. "what name?" asked the clerk. "walter conrad." "there is a letter for that address. it was received a week since." "give it to me," said walter, eagerly. he took the letter, and recognized at once in the address clement shaw's irregular handwriting. cut off, as he had been for over a month, from all communication with former friends, he grasped the letter with a sensation of joy, and hurried back to his room to read it quietly, and without risk of interruption. the letter ran as follows:-- "my dear young friend: i have just received your letter asking me to write you at columbus. i am glad to obtain your address, as i have a matter of importance to speak of. first, however, let me congratulate you on the success you have met with as a book-agent. it is not a business to which i should advise you to devote yourself permanently; but i have no doubt that the experience which you acquire, and the necessary contact into which it brings you with different classes of people, will do you good, while the new scenes which it brings before your eyes will gratify the natural love of adventure which you share in common with those of your age. when you set out, i had misgivings as to your success, i admit. it was certainly an arduous undertaking for a boy of fifteen; but you have already demonstrated that you are able to _paddle your own canoe_; and i shall hereafter feel confident of your success in life, so far at least as relates to earning your living. that you may also be successful in building up a good character, and taking an honorable position among your fellow-men, i earnestly hope. "i now come to the business upon which i wish to speak to you. "you will remember that a man named james wall was prominently identified with the great metropolitan mining company, by which your poor father lost his fortune. indeed, this wall, who is a plausible sort of fellow, was the one who induced him to embark in this disastrous speculation. i suspect he has feathered his own nest pretty well already, and that he intends to do so still more. i was surprised to hear from him some ten days since. i will not copy the letter, but send you the substance of it. he reports that in winding up the affairs of the company, there is a prospect of realizing two per cent. for the stockholders, which, as your father owned a thousand shares, would yield two thousand dollars. it may be some time, he adds, before the dividend will be declared and paid. he professes a willingness, however, to pay two thousand dollars cash for a transfer of your father's claims upon the company. "now, two thousand dollars are not to be despised; but, my impression is, that such a man as james wall would never have made such an offer if he had not expected the assets would amount to considerable more than two per cent. i am unwilling to close with the offer until i know more about the affairs of the company. here it has struck me that you can be of assistance. this wall lives in a town named portville, in wisconsin, on the shore of lake superior. i would suggest that you change your name, go at once to portville, and find out what you can. i can give you no instructions, but must trust to your own native shrewdness, in which i feel sure you are not deficient. if it should be necessary to give up your present business, do so without hesitation, since the other business is of more importance. i expect you to start at once; and i will write mr. wall that i have his offer under consideration. if you need money, draw upon me. "i hear that joshua drummond has run away from home, carrying away considerable money belonging to his father. the latter appears to lament the loss of his money more than of his son. "i remain your sincere friend, "clement shaw." this letter gave walter considerable food for reflection. he determined to wind up his book agency, and leave as soon as possible for portville. it was encouraging to think that, in any event, he was likely to realize two thousand dollars from the mining shares, which he had looked upon as valueless. besides, he felt there was good reason to hope they would prove even more valuable. three days later, having closed his accounts as agent, he started for portville. those of my readers who may desire to follow him in his new experiences, and learn his success, as well as those who feel desirous of ascertaining joshua drummond's fortunes, are referred to the next volume of this series, to be called strive and succeed; or, the progress of walter conrad. +--------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | | a table of contents has been added. | | | +--------------------------------------------------+ of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix _old sleuth's own._ no. . the twin ventriloquists; or, nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. [illustration: "great scott, the hound spoke!"] new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. the twin ventriloquists; or nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. copyright, , by parlor car publishing company. all rights reserved. new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. try murine eye remedy [illustration: murine for your eyes. an eye tonic.] to refresh, cleanse and strengthen the eye. to stimulate the circulation of the blood supply which nourishes the eye, and restore a healthful tone to eyes enfeebled by exposure to strong winds, dust, reflected sunlight and eye strain. to quickly relieve redness, swelling and inflamed conditions. murine is compounded in the laboratory of the murine eye remedy co., chicago, by oculists, as used for years in private practice, and is safe and pleasant in its application to the most sensitive eye, or to the eyes of a nursing infant. doesn't smart. murine is a reliable relief for all eyes that need care. your druggist sells murine eye remedies. our books mailed free, tell you all about them and how to use them. may be sent by mail at following prices. murine eye remedy c., c., $ . deluxe toilet edition--for the dressing table . tourist--autoist--in leather case . murine eye salve in aseptic tubes c., . granuline--for chronic sore eyes and trachoma . murine eye remedy co. no. nine east ohio street, chicago, u. s. a. the twin ventriloquists; or, nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. chapter i. nimble ike encounters an extraordinary adventure and two wonderful ventriloquists play parts against each other with astonishing results. "great cæsar!" the exclamation with which we open our narrative fell from the lips of nimble ike, one of the most remarkable ventriloquists that ever sent a human voice rambling around through space under the most extraordinary inflectional disguises. detectives disguise their appearance, but ventriloquists disguise their voices, and make them represent at will all manner of individualities, in the human or animal. nimble ike, as we have intimated, was a wonderful ventriloquist; he had played more pranks and worked more wonders with his talent than any other person possessed of the remarkable gift. he had paralyzed professionals and amazed amateurs, and with the aid of his marvelous vocal powers had performed many good deeds on the side of right and justice, forcing rogues to confessions and scaring schemers and roués out of their wits. he was a daring youth, possessing many talents other than the gift of ventriloquism to a remarkable degree. he had never met his match, and when not engaged in aiding some persecuted person or working with detectives he amused himself in various ways by an exercise of his powers. as stated, ike had never met his match either among professionals or amateurs. he stood number one as a ventriloquist wonder. he had been told of a youth who also possessed the gift in a most remarkable manner. he had never met the youth and was led to doubt the fact that there was another who came anywhere near him. one day ike, having nothing else to do, determined to visit the metropolitan museum in central park. he had been there before and enjoyed himself every time, but he had never attempted any of his pranks. on the occasion when we introduce him to our readers, he was standing beside a mummy case containing the linen-bound remains of some poor egyptian who died thousands of years ago, and he was deeply interested in the description and explanations offered by a sallow-faced gentleman who was a great scientist and egyptologist. an old maid teacher of an archæological turn of mind had chaperoned her class of young lady pupils and had secured the services of the sallow-faced man with the big spectacles to act as guide and expositor for the occasion. as stated, ike was greatly interested in what the professor had to say; he felt quite serious and was in no mood to amuse himself, when a most startling, soul-thrilling incident occurred. the professor had all the young ladies gathered close around him like so many serious mourners standing around the casket of a deceased friend. he had been descanting in a very earnest manner and finally said: "now, ladies, if that mummy could speak he would." here the professor stopped suddenly, his spectacles fell from his face, his hands went up and his face blanched, while the young ladies fell back trembling with terror, for, from the interior of the mummy case came the astounding announcement: "i can talk. what do you want me to tell you?" the words came clear and distinct, and they came, as appeared, directly from the lips of the mummy; and so realistic was the declaration that one might expect to see the lurid-looking object rise in its thousands of centuries old shroud and look forth from the sunken hollows where its eyes had once beamed forth. as stated, ike was standing near the mummy case, but the wonderful ventriloquist was as much amazed as any one. he did not believe the mummy spoke--he was too great an expert in vocal deceptions--but he was amazed all the same, and his amazement arose from the discovery that there was one living person besides himself who could produce such amazing results. he glanced around and there was only the one party who had been standing near the mummy, and that was the professor with the ladies gathered around him. some distance off a very trimly-built youth stood gazing at the stuffed birds in a case. our hero had not seen his face; he could not be the vocal deceiver, however, and the question arose, who had performed this marvelous trick? meantime the professor had gathered his spectacles from the floor and had to a certain extent recovered from his surprise and bewilderment, and he ejaculated: "that was most extraordinary." he beckoned the ladies about him once again, but they came forward very reluctantly and our hero, nimble ike, scanned their faces to learn which one of the pretty girls was the ventriloquist who had worked the great trick. all their faces wore an expression of surprise and alarm, and he was forced to conclude that the voice magician was not one of them, and his final conclusion was that the sallow-faced scientist was the culprit--yes, the sallow-faced man with the big nose and goggles had made the inviting statement, knowing that he could seemingly make the mummy talk. his surprise and alarm, our hero concluded, was all a pretense and a part of his little joke, and it was then that ike turning away uttered the ejaculation "great cæsar!" his blood was up; the professor was a wonderful ventriloquist, but ike determined to have some sport and give the professor ventriloquist, as he appeared to be, the surprise of his life. he determined to make the mummy do some tall talking and force the professor to a betrayal of genuine surprise. "yes," mentally concluded ike, "the next time you'll shed your goggles for fair." ike was in no hurry, however; he intended first to watch the professor and find out if he were really the vocal wonder. the young ladies finally gathered around, for the professor's talk had really been very interesting. he said: "young ladies, i wish to ask you a question. what scared you?" the ladies did not answer, and the professor again inquired: "were you scared by my demonstration or did you, ah--ah--well, did you hear a voice?" one of the young ladies answered: "we heard a voice." "you did?" "yes, sir." "then it was not a delusion; no, it was not a delusion, but it was one of the most extraordinary incidents that ever occurred since the days of miracles, or, to explain it on scientific grounds, we were all so engrossed on the subject under conversation that by some singular psychologic phenomena, our imaginations were momentarily spellbound by a concentration of all the nerve forces upon a given thought, and thereby our imaginations were abnormally stimulated to such a degree as to make the extraordinary deception possible." the girls stared, but did not comprehend the professor's explanation, although it was about as plain as scientific and medical explanations usually are. ike was unable to decide. the professor appeared to have fully recovered and again became rapt in the subject of his discourse. the young ladies also appeared to have recovered from their alarm and were deeply interested in all the professor said. ike, however, had lost all interest in the lecture. he was piqued, he did not understand how it could be that there was really another who possessed a ventriloquistic talent almost equal to his own. as stated, he watched the professor and finally the good man again arrived at a point when he said: "if that relic of the past centuries could speak he----" "i can speak," again came the voice from the mummy case. the professor stared, the ladies stared, but the expression of surprise was not equal to what it had been at the first exhibition. the professor, however, came to a dead stop, he looked slowly around and finally in a husky voice remarked: "i do not understand it." neither did ike, for he was convinced that the professor was not the acrobatic vocalist. the latter, however, was a man of nerve, a genuine scientist, and he said: "young ladies, do not be scared; that linen-wrapped object, that corpse, that has lain swathed in its funeral habiliments for over thirty centuries, says he can speak. we will let him talk." and from the mummy case came the statement: "i think a fellow who has been silent for thirty centuries should have a chance to get a word in." ike was "on to it." he was too great an expert not to fathom the mystery. he had met his match at last. he was fully assured that the lithe-looking chap who was studying the ornithological department was the ventriloquist, and our hero muttered: "you are having lots of fun, mister, but now i'll give you a scare." the ventriloquist stranger was still gazing in the bird case, when close to his ear came the startling announcement, seemingly from the bird case: "what's the matter with you? why do you disturb that poor old egyptian who has been asleep for over three thousand years?" ike's test brought its result. he saw the strange youth give a start. he turned about, but he did not look at the talking stuffed bird; he turned around to see who it was that had so cleverly matched him. it was a great game all round. the professor was bewildered, the ladies were bewildered, and the young fellow at the bird case, who had bewildered every one else, was himself bewildered. in fact, ike, the master, was the only one who at that moment held the key to the whole mystery, and knew just what it was all about. ike enjoyed his momentary triumph, and so for a few moments nothing startling occurred. the professor kept repeating, "this is most extraordinary," and the balance of his party evidently thought so. the young man who had been looking in the bird case, however, as it proved, was a "jim dandy," as the boys say. he was not to be kicked out so easily. he also, as our narrative will prove, was an expert and a very brave and resolute lad. he walked around looking into several cases for a few moments and then quietly edged over toward the mummy case around which still lingered the professor and his party, and ike realized that a most remarkable duel was portending--a duel between two wonderful vocal experts. our hero had fully identified the young man on whom he had retorted as the individual who had made the mummy speak. "i'll have first shot," thought ike, and as the young man passed close to a second mummy case and stood a moment looking at the bandaged face as a "throw off," the relic of a thousand years appeared to say to him in a hoarse whisper: "look out, young man, look out, you may get hit with a club made three thousand years ago." there was a perplexed look upon the young man's face for a moment, and then his bright, clear eyes wandered around and he too fell to a discovery, as he believed. the professor meantime had become exceedingly nervous and he said: "i believe i will adjourn the lecture for to-day." as the professor spoke, there came a voice from the mummy case saying: "yes, you had better adjourn it forever, for you don't know what you are talking about." the professor advanced close to the mummy case to gaze directly at the lips of the three-thousand-year corpse. he was determined to solve the mystery, but as he bent over the venerable object there came an unearthly yell that froze the blood in his veins. he leaped back, the young ladies ran screaming away and there would have been a great scene were it not that at the time there were no other persons in that particular department of the museum. the professor led the way down to the office to tell his wondrous tale, while the young man who had first started the joke approached and gazed intently on the face of our hero, the great nimble ike. the latter returned the gaze and for a few moments it was a duel of stare; neither appeared disposed to open the conversation, while in the mind of each there dawned a suspicion, and finally the young stranger mustered up sufficient courage to ask: "say, young fellow, who are you?" chapter ii. a mutual recognition follows between two wonderful ventriloquists and at once they commence together their extraordinary pranks. ike did not conclude to reveal his identity at once, and met the question with a similar one: "say, young fellow, who are you?" "i asked first." "did you?" "i did." "well?" "it's your place to answer." "do you want an answer?" "i do." "i'll tell you something: you asked the wrong person. go and ask that stuffed owl who i am." the young man stared. "you want an answer to your question?" "oh, come off," said the young stranger. "that settles it," said ike. there came a smile upon the face of the youth and he caused a voice to come like a halloo from away down the other end of the room, inquiring: "say, owl, who is this young chap?" ike was amazed, but the owl uttered its peculiar hoot and answered seemingly: "he's the devil himself." the halloo came again. "i thought so, for he is not square; he don't keep his promises." "why not?" asked the owl. "he promised you should tell who he was." there came a hoot and an owlish sort of laugh, with the statement: "his name is isaac andro." "nimble ike?" came the halloo. "yes;" and the owl added: "now it's your turn to keep your promise." the halloo came in answer: "i am jack the juggler." ike at once advanced, offering his hand and saying: "shake, old fellow, i am glad to meet you. i've heard about you." "and i've heard about you. i am delighted to meet you." "and i am delighted to meet you," answered ike. "we must be friends." "sure." "we can have a heap of fun." "we can." "we are against the deck." "we are." "will you visit me at my home?" said ike. "go with me now." "i will be delighted." "do you live in the city?" "i did live here, but i've broken up my home." the two wonderful lads wandered off together--ike the ventriloquist, and jack the juggler, also a ventriloquist and hypnotist. the two soon arrived at ike's house and the latter showed his guest all through his place, exhibiting his contrivances. ike ordered a meal sent in and the two remarkable geniuses sat down in a very social conversation. ike told his strange, weird story, all about the old necromancer and the mysterious box. and jack told all about himself, and finally ike said: "see here, we are two of a kind." "we are." "let's become partners." "i am agreed." "take up your abode with me." "on one condition." "name your condition." "i am to share the expense of living in this house." "agreed, as it don't cost much to live." neither of the lads had told their romance. they had only told the simple story of their lives, and when the meal was over they commenced by mutual consent to practice together, and so several days passed. ike with his unusual brightness invented a signal code so they could converse with each other and no one else understand their talk. one evening the two lads were playing a game of billiards together in a well-known billiard room, when a very handsome young fellow entered, whom ike at once introduced to jack as his friend, henry du flore. ike and du flore held a few moments talk and then du flore departed. the moment he was gone the ventriloquist said to his new comrade: "that young man is a detective." "he don't look like one." "he is a splendid officer, brave, shrewd and persistent. i have several detective friends, but i've taken quite a fancy to this young fellow and i am aiding him all i can." "is he a frenchman?" asked jack. "no, he is an american born. his father was an engineer on an ocean steamer. he was drowned when henry was quite a lad. henry was left an orphan at an early age, compelled to knock around and pick up a living as best he could. he got appointed on the police force, won promotion and is now a regular detective. i want him to make a great success, and i am aiding him all i can." "i took a fancy to him at the first glance," said jack. "i am glad of that." "yes, i am in with you and when we can do him a good turn we will." "i am much obliged to you, and we can aid him right now. he has been assigned to run down some burglars who are infesting a section of country over in jersey. the gang has become very daring. they are very expert and the losses of the people have been heavy; they have raised a fund which is offered as a reward for the capture of the thieves. the chief in new york is anxious to aid the officials across the river and has detailed my friend henry on the case. it will be a big thing for the young officer if he can run down those thieves." "we will secure the big thing for him," said jack. "i've had a little experience in detective work." "so i've heard." "when does he start in?" "i am to hear from him later." the two ventriloquists finished their game and walked over to a table where two experts were playing a great game in presence of quite a crowd of witnesses. ike and jack were both very fond of the game, although neither of them could play an expert game, with all their talents; their genius did not run in this direction. it is remarkable that a great many men who are expert in one direction are singularly deficient in others. there was a party of young smart alecs watching the game. they were very boisterous and demonstrative--really interfered with the players--and they were very unmannerly in several ways, pushing forward and crowding quieter people in a very rude manner. ike and jack fixed their eyes on the dudes and then exchanged glances; and that exchange of glances meant a little fun for the tricksters and discomfiture for the boisterous dudes, the sons of rich men who because of their social position were permitted to cut up their capers where better youths would have been kicked out of the place. the dudes every few moments would break through the crowd and go to the bar, and upon their return they would push through to the front, shoving others aside as though the balance of the beholders were mere serfs; and in pushing through upon one of their returns, ike became their victim. the young ventriloquist did not submit to be pushed so rudely and said: "see here, mister man, you should wear better clothes. you are such a pusher you should have gotten ahead in the world." the youth stared and the bystanders laughed. the joke was a good one. many times it could be applied in a crowd, for there are so many rude people who appear to think there is no one in the world besides themselves. "don't you like it?" demanded the pusher. "oh, yes, i like it," answered ike with a laugh. "it's quite an honor to be knocked around by a thing like you." "i'll punch you in the head if you say much." "oh, i won't say much. i'll be as quiet as a lamb. i won't even bleat. it's all right; excuse me for being in your way. i am proud--very proud--to be knocked aside, certainly." at that moment there came a voice asking: "why don't you rap that dude on the head?" the dude looked around to learn who had offered the bold suggestion, and then demanded: "who spoke then?" "i did," came a voice, but no one appeared to know just who the "i did" was. but there came the suggestion: "don't look so fierce. you're around to swipe pocketbooks, you are. i advise these gentlemen to be on the lookout." the three dudes all closed in close to each other. their faces were white with rage and they had just liquor enough in them to be anxious for a brawl, and one of them said: "i'll give a hundred dollars to know who spoke." "what will you give?" came the voice. ike stood still and apparently as mute as a sexton at a funeral. "you haven't got a hundred cents; you just hung your last drink at the bar." "you're a liar," came the declaration from one of the dudes. "and you're a thief, or let's see your money." the dude went down in his pockets, drew forth a roll and exclaimed, as he waved it aloft: "here's my money. a hundred to ten you are a liar, and a hundred to one you dare not show your face." "here i am." the voice sounded as though the speaker stood directly in the midst of the trio of dudes. the "chappies" looked at each other in amazement. "send for an officer," came a voice. "i've lost my pocketbook." it appeared as though the voice came from the opposite side of the crowd to where the dudes were standing. the dudes were dumfounded; indeed, the game was stopped and the owner of the billiard hall walked over to learn what the row was. very well, at this point the row commenced. one of the youths, calling the proprietor of the hall by name, said, or seemed to say: "you go away from here, you duffer. we own this place and don't want any of your interference." the declaration took the proprietor's breath away for a moment. he just stood and gazed, when another of the youths appeared to say: "charley, why don't you smash decker in the jaw? what business has he to come around here and interfere with our fun?" "who are you talking to?" demanded the proprietor, his face white with rage. "_you_," seemingly came the answer from the dude. the proprietor could stand no more. he made a rush. he did not care at that instant if the dudes were the scions of the governor of the state. he grasped the chap who it appeared had given him the insolence by the loose part of his trousers and the collar of his coat, and he walked him french fashion toward the door. the youth made a vigorous protest. his friends also joined in, when the bartender rushed from behind the counter and seized another of the "chappies," and a guest who was a vigorous fellow seized the third one; and then commenced a grand march toward the street door, and each one of the dudes was thrown into the street and a kick was administered to each as he was thrust out. poor dudes! they had not been guilty of the particular sin for which they suffered, but they deserved all they got, just the same, for they had made nuisances of themselves. jack and ike left the place. they were delighted with the rebuke they had administered, but the fun was not over. the three dudes were standing at the corner of the street talking over their grievances. they espied ike and jack and one of them said: "there are the fellows who drew us into this trouble." "let's hammer them." neither ike nor jack were formidable-looking chaps, and the dudes sailed for them. well, a lively scene followed. the two ventriloquists were both lithe, active athletes, and the way they polished off the "chappies" was a sight to behold, and they were having a heap of fun when suddenly both were seized by the collars of their coats and found themselves in the grasp of two stalwart policemen. neither lad was scared. they did not mind their arrest on such a trivial charge at all, and they were led off. ike asked by signal: "what shall we do?" "what do you think?" came the answer. "shall we be locked up and raise old cain in the station house, or shall we make these officers dance right here?" "let's make them dance," came the answer. the lads struck a good chance even as the word was passed. they were passing a tenement house and a man had just raised a window to close the shutters or something, when there came as though from the man a mad cry of "fire!" the officers stopped short, and again there came several cries, seemingly from different parts of the house. the officers let go their hold upon their prisoners. a fire in a tenement house was a far more serious matter than the arrest of two youths for fighting in the street. as stated, the lads were released, and they darted away to secure hiding places from which they could witness the fun and excitement, and there was excitement. one of the officers rapped for assistance and the second one ran to the fire-alarm box to give the signal, and officer number one made a rush to the house. he found the door open and he ran up the stairs shouting "fire! fire! fire!" the tenants rushed from their apartments and there followed a scene of wild confusion, and while the yelling and screaming were at their height two engines arrived, also a platoon of police, and the firemen of the engine company entered the house, but still there was no sign of either fire or smoke. a thorough examination followed. no signs of a fire could be discovered. the sergeant in charge of the platoon of police asked the two officers who had given the alarm where they had seen the fire. they protested they had not seen any fire, but that a man had raised the window of one of the front rooms and had shouted "fire!" the firemen meantime were thoroughly convinced that there was no fire, and they were mad at being called out on a fake alarm. they commenced to abuse the police, who protested that the cry had come from the house. the tenants had all returned to their rooms and they also had been loud in their protests and threatened to make a complaint at headquarters. "from what room did the cry come?" asked the sergeant. the two policemen pointed out the room. the sergeant, accompanied by the two officers, went up to the room. there were several very respectable men in the room and they all protested that they had given no alarm. all declared that they were prepared to swear that they had not. the sergeant was bothered, and said to the two patrolmen: "this matter must be explained." "we did hear a cry of fire." "no one else appears to have heard it." "we heard it." "where is your proof?" one of the officers said: "i wish we could find those two lads. they heard it." "we can't find them." the two men were ordered to report at the station house to answer charges for their lark, as the sergeant termed it. other men were put on the beat and our two ventriloquists crawled forth from their hiding-places and ike said: "that was a pretty severe joke." "yes, it was very amusing." "we must do something to save those men or they may be broke." "how can we do it?" "we can." "how?" "we'll rattle the sergeant on the same scheme," came the answer. chapter iii. the ventriloquists do rattle the sergeant and his platoon and again raise old cain in a most remarkable manner. the two vocal experts fell to the trail of the sergeant and his platoon, but kept well out of sight. they were determined to set the two patrolmen right after getting them in such a bad scrape. the whole charge against them was having claimed that they had overheard cries of fire. the sergeant was discussing the matter with the roundsman when suddenly from a private house before which at the moment they were passing came a series of wild, frantic screams, and the next instant the screams were followed by cries of "fire! fire!" "well," exclaimed the sergeant, "it's a fire this time. run to the alarm box and summon the engines." the roundsman dashed off to give the alarm and the sergeant ran up the stoop of the house and commenced to bang on the door with his club, and the two ventriloquists were enjoying the joke. the door of the house was opened by a gentleman enveloped in a dressing-gown, who in great excitement demanded: "what in thunder do you want?" with equal excitement the sergeant demanded: "where is the fire?" "what fire?" "the fire in this house." "there is no fire in this house." "then why in thunder did you yell 'fire, fire?'" "no one yelled fire. what is the matter with you?" the owner of the house discerned that it was a sergeant of police to whom he was talking. "have you gone crazy?" he asked. "gone crazy! no; but what did you mean by yelling fire?" "i did not yell fire. every one in this house has been in bed a long time." "who was it screamed?" "no one screamed." "do you mean to tell me you did not yell fire?" "no one yelled fire." "and no one screamed in this house?" "no one screamed." at that moment the engines reappeared and the owner of the house said: "i'll have this matter inquired into. if this is a joke you will find it an expensive one." the foreman of the engine company approached and demanded: "where is the fire?" "there is no fire," said the owner of the house. "no fire?" "no fire, and i don't know what the officer means by banging on my door and arousing my family at this hour of the night." "and i can't understand," said the foreman, "what he means by calling out the engines every five minutes on a false alarm." "there is my platoon of men, there is my roundsman. they will all testify they heard a cry of fire, followed by screams, coming from this house." "then your platoon of men and your roundsman will testify to a falsehood," said the house owner. "is there a fire in your house?" demanded the foreman of the engine company. "no, sir." "is there a fire anywhere around here?" "no, sir, not that i know of, unless it's in the upper story of these policemen." "say, sergeant, let me ask you one question: have you received orders to test our department by these false alarms?" "no, sir, i'll swear and prove that there came an alarm of fire from this house." "that's what your men said down at the tenement house. i reckon it's a night off for the police department, or else they all want a night off. but let me tell you, if you didn't receive orders to give these fake alarms i'll know the reason why you did give them; that's all." the sergeant was clear beat out. he apologized to the owner of the house, went down among his men and asked: "did you men hear those screams?" "we did," came the answer. "did you hear the cries of 'fire, fire?'" "we did," came the answer. "all right; we'll find out about this." "how are you going to find out all about it, sergeant?" popped in the roundsman. "i don't know." the roundsman was a friend of the two men who had been sent to the station house in disgrace, and he again asked: "how about jones and o'brien?" "i've been thinking about them." "we heard it; they claim they heard the cries. i don't see how they can be held responsible." "i don't know what to think of it." "can i advise?" "yes." "send the two men back on post and say nothing about the whole affair. that's my advice." "roundsman, it's all very strange." "it is." "it's one of the mysteries of the century." "it is." "i am not crazy. i'd think so, only we could not all go crazy." "i'll swear i heard the cries." the platoon started for the station house. the men were all greatly mystified, but a greater mystery was yet to confront them. the ventriloquists had been witnesses of the result of their pranks and determined to press the matter along. they followed the platoon at a safe distance, one of them going around the square so that they approached the station from opposite quarters. the men were just in the station; the last man was passing the door when right at his ears sounded a wild, unearthly yell, followed by the cry of "fire! fire! fire!" the man stood like one paralyzed, then the sergeant rushed into the street. not a soul was near, and yet even while he stood there again right at his ear sounded the weird cry, "fire! fire! fire!" the man was dumfounded. he stood and gazed in wild dismay. the sergeant at the desk came rushing forth, demanding: "what's the matter? where's the fire? what are you all standing here for?" "do you think there is a fire?" "didn't you hear the cry?" "yes; did you?" "i did." "then go find the fire. we've heard cries of fire all the night, but devil a fire can we find." jack and ike had had fun enough in that one direction and they started off toward ike's home. they had not gone far, however, when they struck another little adventure--a very peculiar one. indeed, possessing their singular talents they were continually running into adventures, as their gifts gave them great powers in every direction. a little girl had stopped a crabbed, sleek-looking old gentleman and had asked him for alms. the man had said: "go to the station house," and he spoke in cruel, hard tones. the girl with a sigh turned away, and ike said: "let's give that old skinflint a dose." "agreed," came the response. ike ran forward and dropped a silver dollar in the girl's hand and then slid along and joined jack. the two secured advantage ground, for the old gentleman had stopped to gaze in the windows of one of the great hotel restaurants. suddenly there sounded in his ears: "cruel, cruel old man!" the old gentleman looked around in every direction and saw no one near him, yet the words had sounded, as stated, close beside his ear. while he was still gazing again there came a voice, saying: "cold, cold-hearted!" the old gentleman looked around in an amazed manner, and with anger in his heart, but he saw no one. he became a little bewildered, when again there came a voice saying: "go to the station house! go to the station house!" the old man turned pale. it was the most mysterious incident of his whole life, and again came the words: "go to the station house!" the admonition sounded close in his ears, and yet there was not a living soul near him that he could see. he began to tremble, and again, even while he glanced around, the voice repeated: "please give me money for bread," and there came the response in exact imitation of the old man's tones: "go to the station." "great mercury!" ejaculated the man. "i am pursued by a phantom." "yes, you are pursued by a phantom, you who refused to give a poor child money for bread." "i'll give the next child i meet a dollar," murmured the old man in trembling tones. "you promise?" "i do." "all right; i'll leave you until my presence is required again. good-night." the old gentleman moved toward his home, and it is to be hoped he became a more charitable man. the two lads started on their way and were moving on up fifth avenue when ike, who was quick-eyed and observant, saw a man rush out of a hallway. the fellow's actions were suspicious and our hero remarked to his companion: "hello! jack, there is something going on here." the two lads determined to trail the man. they saw him go up the street, where he joined a second man. the ventriloquists stole up close, and both being lithe and active they were able to secure a position very near where the two men stood, and they heard one of them ask: "are you sure it's dead easy?" "yes." "are you sure you have the right house?" "yes." "that woman is very smart." "she is?" "yes." "how do you know?" "i've been watching her for weeks. there is something strange about her and her movements, but she's got the stuff; of that i am sure. she lives alone in that big house with only one servant--an old man--whom we can silence in about two minutes. she is a stranger in new york, and does not appear to have any friends. if we can get in there and away again we can make a big haul, and all in good movable swag. i'll bet she's got twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds alone, and where there are so many sparks there are other fireworks, you bet." ike and jack appreciated that, indeed, they had "tumbled on to a big thing." the men did not talk in particularly low tones; no one appeared to be near them. "we need a big haul." "we do." "i am run way down." "i am also." "we struck a big thing when we followed that woman from boston." "we did." "we are not known in new york and the scent will be on natives." "that's it exactly. we can get away with our haul, return to boston and read the papers and learn how these smart new york officers are closing in on the robbers." "yes, yes." both men laughed in a very complaisant manner, and one of them said: "it will prove the softest trick we ever played. we are in luck to strike a neat, clean affair like this." "we are, you bet. when will you work the racket?" "i've got all the points down. we'll jump in and do the job to-morrow night." "at what hour?" "well, about two o'clock is a good time." "where will we meet?" the man named a meeting-place. "i will be on deck." "we will have this all to ourselves." "we will." "and i tell you it's the easiest job we ever struck, and we'll make a big pull." "that will suit me to a dot." "the police here are on the watch, for crooks are running riot in new york just about these days." "so i see by the papers." "they are all too noisy about their jobs. we'll go it slow, easy and sure." "we will." the two men sauntered away and the two ventriloquists followed them. ike expressed a desire to learn where they "hung out," as he put it. the men went down to a small hotel on a side street and then the shadowers once more started for their home. on the way ike said: "jack, it's a great thing to possess our power." "yes, but it does not require our power to capture those fellows. all we have to do is notify the detectives and those men will be gobbled. any one could do that." "yes, but we can have some fun. you must learn that i like to do these things my own way and give those rascals a lesson beyond the mere punishment they will get for their crimes. do you know, i take a very serious view of housebreaking." "you do?" "yes, i do." "i am with you there." "it's something terrible to be securely sleeping, as one feels, and to have one or two of these devils steal into one's house to rob, and if need be do murder. robbers are a mean class, and i could never understand the sentiment of romance that is thrown about them. i look upon it as the most cruel and cold-blooded method adopted by any class of criminals." "i am with you, but you said you proposed to adopt a peculiar method in capturing these fellows." "yes." "you may lose them." "not if the court knows itself. they feel dead sure. they think they have everything dead to rights. they will move with less caution than usual. it appears there is a lady living in that house practically alone; from what we overheard she has many valuables. the chances are that if discovered there would follow a cruel murder. i tell you, my experience here in new york has been a strange one. just watch the daily papers and learn the number and variety of crimes that are committed. already there has been a call for an increase of the detective force, and it's needed; but in our humble way we'll do a neat job in the line of justice; yes, just once at least." "what is your plan?" "i'll think it out and reveal the whole business to you; but besides arresting these fellows and saving the lady, i want to give them the surprise of their life." "it's easy for us to surprise people. we are doing that all the time." "we'll give these fellows a big surprise--a stunner." "then you have decided on a plan?" "in outline." the two lads arrived at their home and were soon resting from their singular labors. on the following day ike revealed his plan and jack heartily fell into the whole scheme. jack loved surprises and enjoyed a good joke equally with the inimitable ike. ike owned a variety of animals, all of which were well trained. had he concluded to appear as a professional performer he would have astonished his audiences beyond all belief. among other possessions was an immense siberian bloodhound. he had owned the animal from its puppy days and it was one of the most remarkably trained dogs on earth. some men possess a peculiar talent for the training of animals. it is a special profession. ike possessed this special talent to a great degree. he and jack went forth. they had their breakfast at a near-by restaurant and played no pranks. both the ventriloquists were very particular; they only played their tricks and exercised their powers where there was a purpose to be gained. after their meal they proceeded down to a point where they met ike's new friend, the young detective whom our hero was anxious to serve. to him he said: "du flore, we've got a great catch for you." ike proceeded and related all that had occurred, and when he had concluded, du flore remarked: "this is very strange." "it is?" "yes." "how?" "i am already on that case." "you are?" "yes." "well, that is strange." "it is wonderful," said du flore. the latter was a rising man in the profession. he was a powerful young officer, and, as we have intimated, very brave and ambitious. "i've a strange story to tell you, ike," he said. "we are listeners." "it is a very strange story." "so you said, and repeating that fact is not opening up your story." "well, you see, in these prosaic days we seldom strike a romance just like the one i am about to relate. you remember a great wedding we had in new york about ten years ago?" "i don't," answered ike bluntly. "well, the daughter of a very rich man married a german nobleman, and a few years after their marriage they separated. she ran away from him. it is the old story: he and all his relatives felt themselves so much better than the young american girl. they insulted her in the grossest manner--and made her life miserable. she bore it for a long time, but being a full-blooded yankee woman, beautiful and spirited, she determined to stand it no longer. her father had been smart enough to secure all her fortune to herself during her life, and one bright morning she just dusted and left the count and his high-bred relatives to pay their own bills. she had done so for years and only received insults and snubs in return." "it's the fate, i reckon, of most of these rich american girls who are marrying foreigners," suggested ike. "yes, i reckon they could all tell sad tales a year after their marriage. this case, however, is a refreshing one, for in the end the yankee girl recovered from her blind adoration of rank and came down to a good common-sense view of the full value of money." "go on and tell the tale." "that is the story. she just skipped, and, as i said, left her high-born relatives by marriage to pay their own bills; and now i come to the american end of the strange romance." chapter iv. ike and jack listen to an odd narrative and with the detective lay plans to make a grand capture. du flore, continuing his narrative, said: "the lady has a son who some day will be a count if he lives, and she stole her own boy when she ran away, and she has put that lad up in new england with her yankee relatives, determined that if he lives there will be one count who has had a proper bringing up. she has just returned from a visit to her son. he is thriving finely, but one day while in boston she saw her husband and believes he saw her, and she fears he means her some harm. she left boston immediately, and on the train and boat became conscious that a man was dogging her steps. she believes the man to be a confederate of the count, but the story you tell me leads me to determine that the man was merely a common thief, attracted by her jewels and the prospect of a robbery. it was probably his intention to rob her on the road, but she, thinking her husband was on her track, was very careful and cautious. it appears, however, from what you tell me that the men have shadowed her down to her home and have made plans to rob and possibly murder her." "i reckon," said ike, "that this is the true solution. the count may show up later on." "i hope he does," said jack. "why, partner?" "well, we'll make his life miserable--make him feel that it is better to be in germany without a dollar than in new york with a million. we must protect this american woman, that is dead sure." "will we? we will, you bet; but now we have those thieves to look after and i have a plan," said ike. "what is your plan?" ike related his plan. the detective preferred to adopt another course for the capture of the rascals, but he was well aware of ike's wonderful ability, and for reasons thought it best to let the remarkable youth have his own way. later ike took du flore around to show him where the thieves were staying, and as good luck would have it he had a chance to point out one of the rascals. later du flore called upon the countess, and acting under ike's orders he let her indulge the idea that her house was to be visited by emissaries of her husband, and she said: "then i will flee away." "only to be pursued and shadowed again." "i have managed to keep out of his way for nearly two years." "that is all right, but we want to put these men out of the way. they are walking right into your power." "how?" "we can claim that they are burglars and scare the life out of them almost, and we may scare the whole party--count and all--back to germany." "i don't think they mean to do me any harm. the count is not a bad man. he believes, however, that he has a right to the child. he has a legal right, i believe, and i propose to keep the child away from him, at least for the present." "then the best plan is to let him go back to germany." "i do not understand why these men seek to enter my house." "they may think you have the child here, or it may be that they are thieves who have learned some facts from the count, and they may intend to rob you. at any rate, i have positive evidence that your house is to be invaded and i wish to place a guard here, and i will be at hand at the proper time. in these days, when so many strange crimes are occurring, it is always better to be on the right side every time." "i believe you exaggerate the danger, but as i am in your hands for my own protection i will agree to any plan that you may propose." "i will introduce two remarkable youths into your house. they will be accompanied by an immense hound. i ask you to permit them to do just as they think proper in adopting measures for the capture of two men who i am sure will make an attempt to enter your house. afterward i will have much to reveal to you, but at present i know i am acting in your best interests and in the interests of your son." du flore explained to the countess how the two youths would enter her house, and then departed. along about six o'clock in the evening, a poor-looking old man applied at the door of the house of the countess. he was admitted, and a little later quite a stylish young man also sought an entrance, and a little later still the poor-looking old man and the stylish youth were alone with the countess, who was disposed to ask them a great many questions. the lads were sorely tempted to give the countess a little initiation, but concluded to reserve their didos for the two thieves. at about eleven o'clock the countess retired to a room on the top floor. she proved very complaisant, doing in all things just as requested, although it was evident that she was a very spirited woman and wondrously handsome, as she was still under thirty. the two ventriloquists lay around until twelve o'clock, when they entered the bedroom proper of the countess, her vacated room for the occasion, and they went through a very amusing rehearsal with the hound. the lads were both very jubilant, for they were in their element--about to carry out a scheme which was a delight to them. "the robbers believe they are to have a walk-over," said jack. "they will," responded ike, a twinkle in his eyes; "a walk over to the station house, and then a smooth ride up to sing sing prison." "will your man be on hand?" "if he fails i'll act as his substitute. we are going to capture those robbers, and don't you forget it." thus the boys continued to talk until about two o'clock. both were on the alert, and ike said: "we are not to be disappointed, our game is here." sure enough, they could see the narrow gleam from a mask lantern. the burglars were at the open door of the room. a moment passed and an arm was thrust forward. the light from the mask lantern shot over the room. apparently, in the bed lay a sleeper. on the dressing bureau was a box, evidently a jewel case. a mirror permitted the two lads to see the movements and faces of the two rogues, and there came an expression of triumph and gratification to the face of both as their glance rested on the jewel case, and indeed the surroundings all appeared to indicate an "easy thing," as one of the fellows had put it the previous evening. they were very deliberate in their movements, and when satisfied that the road was clear they stepped into the room, their eyes fixed on the bed where the sleeper was supposed to be lying. they had arrived half-way across the floor toward the jewel case on the dressing bureau when suddenly an immense hound confronted them--arose before them as though he had suddenly come up through the floor. the men were both armed and carried their weapons ready for instant use, but they stood and glared. they were paralyzed, as it were, with astonishment. the thing was not quite so easy at that moment, but one can imagine their bewilderment when, as they stood and gazed, the dog appeared to say in a singularly doglike fashion, after a regular dog yawn: "i've got my eye on you fellows. don't attempt to use those revolvers or i'll chew you to mince-meat." one of the men managed to ejaculate: "great scott! the dog spoke!" the men were struck nerveless, and their terror and bewilderment increased when the dog appeared to say, with a strange, doglike laugh: "it's dead easy, old man; it's dead easy." the men's faces became ghastly and one of them in gasps managed to say: "it's the devil!" "no, you are the devils, and i am after you; yes, i am, dead sure. you miserable skunks, to steal into a house to rob!" the men were struck speechless and they lost all power to move voluntarily. they stood and trembled involuntarily, and the dog continued: "oh, isn't it dead easy? what a bully old swag you will carry to boston! the new york detectives will bark up the wrong tree, but i won't. no, no, you rascals, i'll bark you, and i am a new york detective lying around here for boston thieves. i reckon boston became too hot for you, and you thought you'd try your hands here; but, my dearies, when you get out of a new york jail i'd advise you to go to alaska. there it's dead easy for a good slide, but you can't slide back to boston from here with your swaggy--no, no. just watch my tail waggy, you villains." the men were just dead gone, and then the hound appeared to say: "i told you that you had barked up the wrong tree this time. i'll bark now." the dog did bark, and the latter was genuine. he had secured his signal and his bark was followed by the entrance of du flore, accompanied by a second officer, and the two detectives did not stand on any ceremony. they just clapped their irons on the two nerveless men, and then du flore said: "well, gentlemen, this was not so dead easy after all." with men to talk to the thieves to a certain extent recovered their nerve. it was too late to avoid them, but they did ask: "what is that?" they pointed toward the hound. "that is our chief of police," came the answer. the two burglars were carted off, and we will here state that their "dead easy" thing did land them in sing sing prison, for the proofs were dead against them. when the lady was informed of all the particulars she was greatly surprised and exceedingly grateful. a week passed. the two ventriloquists, having no serious business on hand, determined to have a little sport, and one day they visited the stock exchange, determined to throw a little confusion in among the brokers. they secured a good position at different points, and having arranged their programme prepared for active work. they saw one man who was conspicuous as a shouter, and as it appeared both formed a dislike for the fellow on appearances. he yelled a hundred of a fluctuating stock for sale. a man close at his arm appeared to make a bid. the fellow turned round sharply to accept. the man who had appeared to make the bid repudiated having done so, and the stock was again offered, seemingly bid in also by the same man, and when the seller again offered delivery the bid was repudiated. the seller had become enraged. he suspected he was being fooled. he became angry, words followed, and a crowd gathered around. the excitement ran high, when suddenly, right in the midst of the crowd, there occurred the loud barking of a dog and there was a general scatter, but no dog was seen. then there came the grunt of a pig and a dog appeared to attack the pig. the latter squealed and seemed to be running all around the room, and immediately there followed a regular barn-yard chorus. confusion reigned. all business came to a standstill and the question arose, who was doing the barking, the squealing, the cackling and the quacking? one accused another, rows followed, pandemonium reigned and amid the confusion the two authors of the whole trouble stole forth to the street. they had a heap of fun. an investigation would have followed, for the men believed the trick had been played by some of their members, but so general had been the confusion no proof could be obtained, and later the business of the exchange proceeded. "well, ike, that was high," said jack. "it was." the boys started to walk up the street, when they met a veiled lady who was walking rapidly along. ike stopped short and said: "jack, that means something." "the veiled lady?" "yes." "what makes you think so? there are plenty of veiled ladies knocking around every day." "that's so; but do you see that lady's excitement?" "how can i when she is veiled?" "but you can see it in her movements. let's follow her and learn what is up. i tell you we will be on to something before we know it and i'd like to do some one a good turn." "i'll let you investigate and i will go and do a little business i have on hand." the youths agreed to meet later. jack went his way, and ike, who was a persistent fellow, followed the lady. she turned into one of the large office buildings. the ventriloquist followed and saw her enter a lawyer's office. he remained in the hall, and it was fully an hour before the lady came forth. when she did her veil was raised. ike recognized that she was very beautiful and refined looking, and he saw also that she had been weeping. as she dropped her veil he fell to her trail. she descended to the street and with slower steps proceeded on her way. our hero was a good-looking chap. he had increased in strength and stature since first introduced to our readers in a former story, number of "old sleuth's own." he determined to follow and seize the first opportunity to speak to the pretty maid, who evidently was in some sort of trouble. while following her he was joined by jack, and a little later ike, who, as has been intimated, was observant, saw a man turn to follow the veiled lady. "hello!" he muttered, "the game is opening up. i wonder if that fellow is acquainted with the girl, or is merely following her on speculation?" the girl walked through nassau street as far as the city hall and boarded a fourth avenue car. jack and ike boarded the same car, and as the latter glanced in at the lady he saw that she was giving way to considerable emotion under her veil, and he also observed that the man who had started in to follow her had secured a seat directly opposite to her and had his evil eyes fixed upon her; for the lad discerned that the man did possess evil eyes. "jack," he said, "we are on to something, sure." "it looks so." the lady left the car at the park and started to walk through that great pleasure ground. the man left the car also and followed the girl, and it is needless to say that the two ventriloquists also followed on a double trail. "the lady acts very strangely," remarked jack. "she does." "and i've a suspicion." ike's eyes brightened up as he asked: "and what is your suspicion?" "she is going to throw herself into the lake. she is in trouble." "but why does the man follow her?" "i believe he is a rascal who means her no good." "and i mean to see that he does her no harm." "suppose she does plunge into the lake?" "we will fish her out." from the course that the lady took it did appear as though she really intended to drown herself, as jack had intimated. she finally, however, sat down on a bench near the water of the lake. the man stood off at a little distance watching her. the ventriloquists also lay off, ready to be at hand in case of emergency. chapter v jack and ike play a trick on a bad man and verify ike's suspicion that there was something up--the bad man takes a swim instead of the veiled girl. the girl removed her veil a moment and gazed into the waters of the lake and her beautiful face was revealed. the man who had been shadowing her had a chance to observe her beauty. ike had his eye upon the man and arrived at a conclusion. he concluded from the expression on the fellow's face that he was a villain and meant the beautiful girl no good. he was very handsomely dressed, wore diamonds of the biggest sort and altogether appeared like an individual whom a young girl would have good reason to fear. "jack," said our hero, "that fellow is a bad one. he means the girl no good." we write girl, for the veiled lady was but a mere girl, as revealed when her veil was removed. she had only removed her face covering for a moment. the man advanced toward her and the lads stepped closer, hiding in the shrubbery to the rear of the rustic seat where the girl had placed herself. as the man approached he said: "why, miss galt, good-morning." "i beg your pardon, sir," said the lady; "you have made a mistake." it was the old trick--merely a pretense to speak to the girl. "is it possible i have made a mistake?" said the man. "you have certainly made a mistake." if the man had been a gentleman he would have apologized and have moved on, but he said: "it's so strange. you are a perfect picture of the lady i know as miss galt." "i am not miss galt, sir, and you will please not address me further." "it's a beautiful day," said the man. the girl betrayed her surprise from under her veil, but made no reply, evidently believing the man would move on; but instead he approached nearer to her. the girl rose as though to walk away, when the man said: "excuse me, but are you sure you are not playing me a little trick? are you really not miss galt?" the girl started to move away, when the man looked around furtively and then boldly approached. the girl was terrified. she attempted to scream, when the man actually grasped her arm. she was paralyzed with fear; she could not scream. her eyes expressed her terror, her face became deathly pale, and no one can tell what might have occurred if at that critical moment ike and jack had not darted forth, and ike exclaimed: "hold on there! you scoundrel, what are you doing?" the man was large and apparently powerful. he glared at the two slender youths, and evidently concluded that with but little effort he could toss them both into the lake if so inclined. he said: "you two young rascals, how dare you address me?" he had released his hold upon the arm of the lady and the latter, woman-like, remained, hoping even in her weakness to be of some service to the two handsome youths who had interfered in her behalf. in a few moments, however, she learned that they did not need any assistance. these two young wonders were perfectly capable of taking care of the big insulter of womanhood. in reply to his words to them, the two ventriloquists gave him a laugh. he became enraged. he felt mean anyhow, as he had been caught in a contemptible act. he was prepared to become enraged very readily. "you laugh at me, you young rascals?" "certainly we do, you mean scoundrel." "you call me a scoundrel?" "that's what we call you." "you two rascals, get away from here or i'll hurt you." "you will?" "yes." "you can't hurt any one. you're a big fraud." the man moved toward the speaker, when a dog barked savagely at his heels. he leaped in the air and turned quickly, but there was no dog there. he supposed the fierce animal had skipped away, and with an oath he advanced another step toward the laughing and jeering lads, when again the dog barked savagely at his heels, and again he leaped in the air, but there was no dog visible. the man was confused, and ike said: "you are a villain. you should be lynched or ducked." "let's duck him," said jack. "it's a go," answered ike. the man gazed in amazement at their audacity, and he was about to make a rush, when seemingly there came a gruff voice behind him, preceded by a shrill whistle. "hold on there! what are you about?" the man thought that indeed a park policeman was at hand. he turned. he was standing near the edge of the water, for the ventriloquists had purposely changed their own position so as to draw him down in that direction. as he turned ike ran forward head first and made a clear dive straight at the small of the man's back. over he went, face forward, paralyzed by the blow, and then the two lads jumped on him. over and over they rolled him toward the water. at this instant the lady interfered, but her protest came too late. the man was rolled into the water about waist deep, and the water restored his strength, and there followed a mighty floundering as he struggled toward the shore. the boys roared with laughter. the man crawled out and made a rush for them, when again the dog barked at his heels, and he made a leap in the air; and as he turned and saw no dog, terror seized him, and a sudden impulse, for away he ran like a deer, all wet and dripping as he was. then ike advanced toward the veiled girl and said: "excuse us, miss, but he got just what he deserved. we saw him seize you and we made up our minds to scare him out. we will bid you good-morning. he will not molest you again." the girl stood and gazed in silence a moment and then said: "i thank you," and involuntarily she added: "oh, what shall i do?" "are you in trouble, miss?" asked ike. the girl had betrayed herself to a certain extent, and she answered: "yes, i am in great trouble." "possibly we can aid you." "no, no, you cannot aid me as readily and manfully as you did just now." "but possibly we can." the girl looked the two handsome lads over, and again she murmured, as though unable to control her emotions: "oh, what shall i do?" "we can help you." "no, you cannot help me." "yes, we can." "no, no; i wish you could. no one can help me; i am ruined." "come, we will walk away from here and you shall tell us your trouble. we can aid you. you will find out that we can." they were both bright-faced youths. they had just given an exhibition of their nerve and courage. "come, do not be afraid. we can aid you, no matter what your trouble." "it's so strange," murmured the girl. "what is so strange?" "that you should offer to aid me." "well, we can aid you. that's our mission in life." the girl did not understand the remark, but she was charmed with the two bright-faced, honest-looking lads. she said: "i am half inclined to tell you my trouble. i am a stranger in new york; i have no one to confide in. yes, i will tell you my trouble, but you cannot aid me." "i reckon we can aid you, no matter what the trouble may be." the girl walked away with the two ventriloquists, but occasionally she glanced back at the lake and both the youths were convinced that she had really intended suicide. when some distance away from the lake and in a retired part of the park, the girl said: "mine is a very strange story. i do not know as you will believe it." "we will believe anything you tell us," said ike gallantly. "a week ago i came on from san francisco. my father died a year ago; my mother has been dead for a long time. my father knew he was to die, as he had an incurable disease, and he gave me all his savings, converted everything he had into cash and placed it in my hands, and when it came near the last he told me after his death to come on here to new york. he said he once had a brother whom he had not seen or heard from for thirty years. 'my brother may still be living; if so he will be your friend and protector, and you will not be dependent upon him, as you will have five thousand dollars.' "after my father's death i remained in san francisco a year to complete my education, and then i started for new york. the money i had changed into non-registered bonds, and i put them in my trunk. i arrived in new york a week ago and went to a place to board that had been recommended to me by a friend in san francisco. last night i opened my trunk to look at the bonds and discovered to my horror that they were gone. i at once informed the landlady, who told me she could do nothing, that she knew nothing about my bonds. she evidently did not believe my story. she looks upon me as a swindler. i saw in this morning's paper the name of a lawyer. i called upon him to consult him, but first i went to the captain of police in my district. he evidently did not believe my story, and then, as i said, i went to the lawyer. i told my tale to him. he said he could do nothing for me--i must depend upon the police. he also, i think, did not believe my story. they look upon me as an adventuress. i have no proofs. i have no way to prove that i ever had the bonds. they have been stolen, and in claiming them i am losing my reputation. i am looked upon as a swindler myself. i tell you the truth. i did have the bonds and they have been stolen from me. i am ruined. no one will believe me. you do not believe my story." "yes, i do believe your story," said ike, "and we will recover your bonds." "you will recover them?" exclaimed the girl. "yes, we will recover them." "no, no; never," she said in a despairing tone. "we will see about that. when did you last see your bonds?" "the night after my arrival in new york." "where?" "in my trunk." "after you had arrived at your present boarding-house?" "yes." "is there any one in the house whom you suspect?" "i know not whom to suspect, but they were stolen after my arrival in that house. the landlady refuses to believe my story; the captain of police refuses to believe my story, and the lawyer to whom i went and offered one thousand dollars as a fee refuses to believe my story." "and my friend and i do believe your story, and we are the only ones who can aid you in recovering them. one would have to know you to believe your tale. it is indeed a strange one." "and you do not know me." "well, we have other reasons for believing your story. i tell you we will recover your bonds. you can rely upon my word." "how can you do it?" "we have our own method for going about it." "the landlady has hinted that she would like to have me leave the house. i have no money to go anywhere else, for all my money i had placed in my trunk and that is gone also." "how much money did you have?" "i had over two hundred dollars." "and it has been stolen?" "yes; whoever took the bonds took my money also, and my jewelry--for all my valuables were in my trunk." jack looked at ike in a dubious sort of way, for the story was becoming quite odd. ike, however, believed the tale. he said: "it's hard luck to lose all that way, but you shall have it returned to you." "i don't know what i shall do." "did you tell any one else in the house about your loss save the landlady?" "no, i have not said one word to any one else, and the landlady told me not to do so." ike was thoughtful a moment and then said: "i will find your bonds. in the meantime i believe it well for you temporarily to find another boarding-place." "i do not know where to go." "i can recommend you to a very nice, motherly lady who will see to your comfort." there came a look of sudden suspicion to the girl's eyes and she said: "i have no money. i do not know what to do." ike, as our readers know, possessed wonderfully quick and observant eyes, and he could discern in a most remarkable manner. "you need not bother about the money part of it. i know this lady well; she is a very reputable person, the widow of a man who was a great detective. she will be willing to wait for her pay until you recover your money and bonds." "but i may never recover them." "yes, you will recover them; on that point you can make your mind easy. when i and my friend here set out to accomplish a thing we never fail, and you shall satisfy yourself that the lady will really become your friend before you take up your home with her." ike had organized a great scheme. he was satisfied in his own mind that the money had been stolen either by the landlady or one of her boarders. he had a way of bringing people to a betrayal that was all his own. he held some further talk with the girl, and then asked: "what is your name?" the girl hesitated. "you need not fear to tell me your name. i will go with you if you choose to the captain of police and he shall vouch for my honor and loyalty." "it is not necessary," said the girl, who was really bright and self-reliant. "my name is sara sidney." "miss sidney," said our hero, "we will go to the home of the lady where i propose that you shall board while i am conducting the hunt for your missing bonds. you can satisfy yourself of her respectability before you remove to her home." the girl hesitated. "you need not hesitate. i will not only find your bonds, but i will find your uncle for you if he still be living, or his sons or daughters in case any of your cousins may be living." "why should you take all this trouble on my behalf?" "i will confide to you a secret: i am a sort of detective. it is my duty to look out for you." "i will go with you," said the girl. ike arranged to meet jack later on and proceeded with sara to the house of the lady where he proposed she should remain. the moment sara was introduced to the lady the latter won the girl's confidence, and our hero left his charge with his friend, and the latter arranged to go with sara and have her trunk removed. meantime ike met his comrade jack, and the latter said: "well, ike, i yield the palm to you. yes, sir, you are the most observant and quickest person i ever met. i thought i was great, but you are the greatest fellow on earth, in my opinion." "well, it is strange how we chanced to fall to this girl, so beautiful and so helpless." "yes, she is beautiful, and i will say that there are thousands of undeveloped romances in new york at this very moment." "yes, that is true; if a man desires to get into an adventure of a strange character he can easily do it here in this great metropolis." "say, ike, she is a beautiful girl." "she is indeed. have you fallen in love with her?" "i don't know." "i wish you'd find out," said ike, with a very meaning smile on his face. "hello! is that the case, ike?" "is what the case?" "are you dead gone so soon?" "i don't know how i am, but she is a lovely girl and her case is a peculiar one." "and you have promised to recover her bonds?" "i have." "you have undertaken a big job." "you think so?" "i do." "i'll get them." "you will?" "yes." "have you a plan?" "i have." "will you tell me your plan?" ike revealed his plan to jack, and the latter said: "well, i'll be shot if you haven't a head for a detective, and it's right here where our gifts come in." "yes, sir." "and you want me to aid you?" "sure." "when will you start in?" "at once." the same afternoon that the incidents occurred which we have related, ike, gotten up in good shape and furnished with a letter of introduction, called at the house where sara sidney had been robbed, and he succeeded in engaging board. he pretended to be an art student, and the first night he appeared at the dinner table he glanced around to take in the general appearance of his fellow boarders. he was just the lad to measure human faces. he had questioned sara very particularly about her fellow boarders in the house, and he was well posted when he sat down to the table, after the usual introduction in a general way. the people he found to be the usual representative class that one finds in a city boarding-house. there was the doctor who occupied the rear parlor, a lawyer, two lady typewriters, one a creature who knew it all from a to z. there were in all about twenty people in the house. ike went over them all. he studied in his quiet, cute way every face, and did not see one person whom he was led to suspect, and the sequel will prove how unerring was his facial study of those people. when the meal was about half through there came bouncing into the room a young man. he was a bold-faced, bumptious sort of a chap, and as he took his seat he ran his eyes over the people assembled and then asked: "where is miss sidney?" the landlady said: "she has left us." the young man was thoughtful a moment, and then asked: "when did she go?" "this afternoon." "what reason did she give for going?" there was an interested look in the young fellow's eyes as he asked the question. "she gave no reason." "where has she gone?" "i do not know." "i must find out," said the youth. "i was greatly taken with miss sidney; she was a very charming young lady. we shall miss her." at that instant there came the announcement: "miss sidney left the house because she was robbed." every one started. no one appeared to know who had spoken, but the young man gave a start, turned pale and asked in a voice that trembled perceptibly: "who says she was robbed?" at that moment the landlady returned to the room. she saw that something had gone wrong. "what is the matter?" she asked. no one answered, and there followed a moment's awkward silence, broken at length by the bumptious young man, who said: "some one stated that miss sidney left here because she had been robbed." the landlady's face flushed scarlet as she said: "who made the statement?" no one answered. "it's false," said the landlady, "and i should like to know who said she had been robbed." "i said so." the voice appeared to come from the old maid typewriter, and the landlady at once exclaimed: "miss gaynor, did you state that miss sidney left here because she was robbed?" "i did not," declared miss gaynor, indignantly. "i said so," came a voice from the far end of the table. the landlady looked in the direction indicated. an old man sat there and the voice was that of an old man. "did you say so, mr. smith?" "i did not, madam," declared the elderly gentleman in an angry tone. again there followed a silence, when the landlady remarked: "it's very strange; if any one makes such a charge, i wish they would come out and do so openly." "mr. goodlove made the statement," came a voice. mr. goodlove was the bumptious young man. he at once rose to his feet and in an indignant tone declared: "it's a lie, i did not make the statement. who says i did?" "i do," came the answer, and it appeared to come from the young lady typewriter number two, who was a pretty, delicate-looking young girl, quiet, modest, and least likely to speak out boldly. the man goodlove looked at her and demanded: "do you dare say i made the statement?" "i said nothing," she answered timidly, adding, "i did not speak at all." "what is all this ado about, anyhow?" came a voice. "mr. goodlove knows better than any one else that miss sidney was robbed; why does he pretend ignorance as to the cause of her leaving?" the young man turned ghastly. "who spoke then?" he asked. "oh, it's no use asking who spoke; you know all about the robbery." "whoever says that is a liar." the landlady was becoming greatly excited. she said: "miss sidney did claim that she was robbed, but i have proof that she is an adventuress and a blackmailer. she told me she had been robbed and she really wanted to work upon my sympathies. she did not possess anything to be robbed of, and i told her she had better go away." "you did right," said mr. goodlove. "i did not wish to tell you, madam, but i suspected all along that the minx was an adventuress." a voice came, saying: "you've changed your mind; you said she was a lovely girl and that you were very much taken with her. well, i reckon you did take." "who spoke?" demanded goodlove. "oh, you know who spoke, and you know more about this whole affair than any one else. the police are after you." the man wilted as he asked: "did miss sidney hint that i was the robber?" as goodlove spoke his eyes wandered around to learn who it was who had addressed him. "no, she didn't accuse any one; you have accused yourself. you were seen, however, to deposit a whole lot of gold." "she didn't have any gold," came the excited declaration. ike had _struck his man_ at last. it was a strange scene in that room at that moment, and the great mystery was who did the talking. no one appeared to know and there was great confusion, and it was because of the confusion that no one appeared to recognize, as stated, who was doing the talking. there came a voice demanding, when goodlove said she had no gold: "how do you know? were you rummaging in her trunk?" the man became confused; indeed, he looked as though about going into collapse. the most mysterious part of it all was the fact that no one knew who was doing the talking. the people looked into each other's faces and could not discern, and yet the voice sounded distinct and clear. some one was talking. who was it? during all this time ike was as mute as an owl after dawn. he looked around with an inquiring and surprised look upon his face, seemingly as greatly mystified as any one, and the voice pitilessly continued: "better be careful, mister man. the detectives have their eyes on you." goodlove turned to the landlady and almost yelled: "madam, send for an officer. this is going too far." "i will not have an officer in my house; no need." "but, madam, who is it insulting me?" "i do not know." the landlady was as much dazed and mystified as any one. the voice, however, ceased--became hushed; but a strange feeling pervaded those who had been witnesses and listeners during the strange scene. one after the other they rose and left the table and the room. goodlove and ike remained. the fellow looked over at ike sharply and said: "say, my friend, did you notice who used the insulting language?" the voice was again heard. it appeared to come from the hall and the words were: "that young man does not know anything about it. don't question him, you thief." goodlove rushed out to the hall. there was not a soul there. he ran up the stairs, but saw no one. each one of the boarders had either retired to his room or had gone out. ike left the table and passed goodlove in the hall. he did not speak to the man, but went to the hatrack, secured his hat and stepped out to the street. goodlove meantime entered the parlor and commenced pacing the floor. the landlady joined him. "madam," he said, "this is a most extraordinary occurrence." "it is, sir." "you were present. you know who made those insulting remarks." "i do not." "i will know, madam." "i hope you will be able to learn, for the occurrence will do me great injury unless the mystery is explained." "there is no mystery about it. you have an impudent rascal in your house. who is your new boarder?" "he came to me highly recommended." "it's all very strange, madam." "can it be possible," asked the landlady, "that the new boarder is a detective?" goodlove's face became ghastly. he walked more rapidly, and finally, seizing his hat from the hatrack, stepped out to the street. he had gone but a few steps, however, when a hand was laid on his shoulder--a heavy hand. the man would have shrieked if he had not been actually paralyzed with terror. "hello, goodlove," said the man who had seized him. "where are you going?" the man trembled, but could not answer. "well, we've got you, mister. but let me ask you, is this your first offense? if it is it's all the better for you, that's all. we may let up on you, but we've got you dead to rights." the man managed to gasp: "what do you mean?" "oh, come off! we've got you all right. we didn't close in on you until we had all the proof. where are the bonds you stole from miss sidney's trunk, and the money?" the detective talked in such a matter-of-fact tone, with such absolute assurance, that the culprit was all "broke up." he just wilted. "who says i stole the bonds?" "oh, come off! don't attempt that. old man, see here; do you want to be locked up? turn over the stolen property, and if this is your first offense i'll let you go; but if you attempt to deny or play 'possum i'll lock you up and you will go to sing sing prison; that's all." "how strange!" muttered the prisoner. "strange that you were found out?" "yes." "why, you fool, we knew all the time that you stole the bonds. thieves always get found out, but it depends upon how smart they are in getting away. crime never pays; criminals always come to a bad end. this is your first offense. you have learned a lesson that will last you all your life. it always pays to be honest; it's always a losing game to be dishonest. now what is your decision? will you go to jail or surrender the stolen property?" "if i surrender it will you let me off?" "as this is your first offense i will let you off, and as i do not wish to spoil your future chances i will say nothing about your guilt. but let me tell you, if you ever steal again you will surely be caught and will pay the full penalty." "i will surrender the property." chapter vi. ike recovers the bonds through his friend, detective du flore, and he and his fellow ventriloquist fall into new adventures. the property was surrendered--the bonds, all the jewelry and all the money to a cent--and placed in the hands of ike, who, when he met his "side partner" at their home, said: "well, jack, i didn't need you. i caught my fish easy." "yes, 'dead easy,' as the two robbers said." "they missed, i won." "you did." "so much for this adventure. to-morrow i will return the stolen property to the owner, and then----" "what then?" "we will lie around for a new adventure. we're having a heap of fun." "we are, and doing a heap of good even if i say it myself." on the day following the incidents we have related ike and jack in company called upon the young lady for whom they had done so great a service. she received them in the little parlor, but she appeared very anxious and careworn, and she said after the usual greetings: "i am very unhappy." "you are?" "i am." "why?" "i cannot remain here with this good lady when i am unable to pay for my board." "what will you do?" asked ike, a pleasant brightness in his eyes. "i do not know what i will do. i am already in her debt." "you are?" "yes; she paid my board bill at the last place when she went with me to get my trunk." "and you think you will not be able to pay her?" "i do not know what i will do." "you can pay her when you recover your stolen property." "i will never recover that." "did i not promise that i would recover it for you?" "yes, in the goodness of your heart you did; but the lady here, with whom i am staying, says the chances are very much against my ever recovering my property." "and has she intimated that you had better find another home?" "on the contrary, she has told me i can remain here as long as i please--until i find my uncle or secure a position that will enable me to earn my living." "you can set your mind at rest; when i promise a thing i usually keep my promise. i will not keep you in suspense. here is your property restored to you." the girl almost fainted, so great was her excitement. she could not speak for a full minute, but when she did find voice she exclaimed: "and you really have recovered all my property?" "you can recognize your own property; here it is." "this is wonderful." "it's jolly good, that's all. i said i would recover it and i've kept my word; and now you are independent." "oh, i am so grateful! how did you do it?" "well, we did it." "who was the thief?" "one of the boarders in that house." "who was the guilty party?" "whom would you suspect?" "no one; they all seemed good people." "and you had no suspicion?" "i did not suspect any one particular person." "a young man named goodlove was the thief." the girl stared. "he was the thief?" "yes." "i never would have suspected him, he was so kind to me. he was the only one to whom i told anything about myself." "yes, and he took advantage of your confidence in him to rob you." "i did not tell him i had any money." "he evidently suspected you did have, but all's well that ends well; and now you will remember i made you another promise." "you said you would find my uncle." "i said i would find him if he were living." "and can you succeed as you have in recovering this property?" "i can and will, if he is alive. and now can i advise you?" "yes." "make your home here for the present, until such time as we report as concerns the whereabouts of your uncle." "now that i can pay my board i will gladly remain here. i propose to take music lessons and become a teacher. i shall be self-supporting. i am pretty well advanced in music already." "that is good. can we call and see you occasionally?" "i shall always be delighted to have you call upon me; you have proved yourselves my real friends. but will you tell me how you managed to recover my bonds?" "not to-day; some day we will tell you all about it." "and goodlove--is he in jail?" "no, it was his first offense and we let him off. he will leave new york, however, and start afresh. i think he has learned a lesson and will become honest." on the day following ike and jack were at breakfast in a restaurant when they overheard the proprietor of the place and a customer discussing a great robbery that had taken place under the most startling circumstances. ike, after the meal, secured a paper and read the account. the robbery was indeed a very startling one. an old miser had lived in a tumble-down house for twenty-odd years. no one knew that he possessed one cent; indeed, his neighbors were not aware that he was the owner of the old tumble-down house in which he resided. he was seldom seen on the streets, then only at night. he never begged alms, lived in the most frugal manner, as was supposed, as no one could tell where he did procure his food. he occupied the little old house alone, and, as stated, had gone on for years, never attracting any attention until one morning through the police the startling announcement was made that the old man was really a possible millionaire. thieves had broken into his old house, chloroformed him and ransacked his apartments, and according to the old man's statement had carried off gold, bills, silver bonds, and securities to an amount which under all the circumstances appeared incredible. indeed, as it appeared, the police had been in possession of the facts of the robbery for several days, but they had doubted the old man's story, doubted that he had ever possessed any property at all, but later revelations established the truthfulness of the old man's statement beyond all question. as it also appeared, the old man had gone to south america when a very young man. he had returned to new york twenty years previous to the time of the robbery, and had then purchased the old house where, for reasons of his own, he had lived seemingly the life of a miser. the papers spoke of him in contemptuous tones as an old miser, and said by intimation that it served him right to be robbed. it was a just retribution visited upon a man who for the pure love of possession had denied himself the comforts of life just to accumulate his hoards, which were useless to him and the thousands of needy people whom he might have aided. the robbery had been a very mysterious one. no one had been seen by any one lurking in the vicinity of the house, but some time between midnight and morning three men, as the old miser declared, had entered his house, had chloroformed him and then had deliberately gone all through his apartments and had taken everything of value they could lay their hands on. after the robbery, as it appeared, the old man had refused to take any one into his house as a guard. he did not relish the visits of the police, but declared that everything portable of any value had been taken. he had been very methodical and had the numbers of most of his bonds, and the usual notifications were sent to dealers; but it was well known that quite a number of the securities were unregistered and negotiable. indeed, as it proved later, the old man was mistaken; the bulk of them were negotiable. besides the securities, jewels of great value and hoards of gold and silver were taken. ike and jack read over the account and later met their friend, detective du flore, who knew all about the case, and he said: "i was coming to see you. i wonder if we can get in on this job with any hope of success?" "i don't know about the hope of success," said ike, "but we can get in on the job." "i will tell you something privately: there is an immense reward offered. it will be the job of our lives if we can run down those plunderers." "we can try." "ike, you are a wonder, and hoping to have your aid i have had myself specially assigned to the case. my reputation for life will be made, and we will all receive a big sum of money. i owe my present reputation to you. the capture of those two burglars has set me away up, and if i can solve this mystery and run down the robbers i am a great man." "we will see what we can do." "it's a great case and some of the oldest men on the force are on it. i would like to prove a winner." "we will do the best we can." "you have a great head, ike." "thank you; i'll do the best i can." "what is your plan for a starter?" "i must have a chance to think the matter over. it will take me two or three days to make up my mind, but let me tell you, du flore, i have an idea that we can solve this mystery and get on the thieves." "we are just made for life if we can. when will you see me again?" "in a few days or in a few hours possibly," said ike. the detective and the ventriloquist separated, and as ike and jack walked away the former said: "jack, we've got a big job on hand. let's walk down and take a look at the old miser's house, for to-night we may wish to play burglar." "what do you mean?" "i am going to take great chances. i am going to get into that house." "sneak in?" "yes." "you will get into a scrape, i fear." "eh, jack, do you fear? i did not think you knew what fear meant." jack laughed and said: "don't take me so quick, ike. all i intended to convey was that we should be cautious. that house will be under surveillance. it might prove awkward if you were caught sneaking into the old man's place." "would you sneak in if you had a plan?" "to own up square, i would." "all right; we won't be caught, and if we do, with your brave aid we'll get out of the scrape. i've an idea--a very funny one. i won't tell it to you now, or even you might call me a crank. but i tell you, i am going to take big chances and get into the old man's house on the sly, in spite of the police, detectives and every one else. i've a scheme." the two lads arrived in the vicinity of the house and scanned the surroundings very carefully, and as they walked away ike said: "we have a chance for a joke on hand, jack." "yes, i am on to it." "what are you on to?" "we have been spotted and a detective is on our track." "yes, a snide. we'll give him a lesson." "when?" "oh, we'll shake him now, but to-night we'll show up again and have our fun, and with our fun we'll do some business." the ventriloquists were right. they had been spotted and a "snide" detective was on their track, and the youths did succeed in giving him the "shake," and they just kept under cover until night, when, having fully arranged for their adventures, they issued forth and proceeded again down to the old miser's house, and just as they suspected the "snide" detective got on to their track again, and the second time he started in to follow them he was satisfied he had struck something. as ike and jack walked away the former said: "now the fun commences. we will give that fellow a great steer." ike and jack were both well posted all over the city of new york, and they proceeded to a public-house which had been for years under the surveillance of the police. it was a regular thieves' resort and many a bad fellow had been trailed from that very house. once in the house they sat down at a table and called for their beer, and, as both suspected, in a few moments the "snide" entered. he pretended to be looking at everything else but the two youths, when in reality he was watching every movement. ike had been revolving in his mind how to give the fellow a layout. he knew the man well. he was a real "snide"--a detective beat--in fact, not a genuine detective, but the agent of a detective agency. he thought himself, however, very smart. ike, as stated, knew the house well, and knew that a number of very prominent politicians were in the habit of gathering in a back room on the second floor, where they indulged a little game of cards _for fun only_, and discussed their political plans. they were men away up politically, not thieves in the general sense of the word; at least, they were not liable to arrest, and they were very bold and resolute and had a very high idea of themselves. even while ike sat there he saw two of these men enter the place and pass through a rear side door to the hall. ike knew these men well. he was aware, as stated, that they met in this room to discuss their political plans. they were in session, and after a little while the "snide" who had been watching the two ventriloquists crossed over to the table where they were sitting and pretended to have met one of them before. "see here, mister," said ike, "you are barking up the wrong tree." the man gazed in astonishment. "we are not under glances now, but there's bigger game in this house." the "snide" recognized at once that the two young fellows were "on to him," as the saying goes. "who are you fellows anyhow?" he demanded. "oh, we're just out, we are. you have no use for us, nor we for you." "you say there's bigger game in this house?" "yes, there is." "give me the points." "oh, you can't work it alone." "i can't?" "no." "you give me the points and we will see if i can." "go and get your pard. it will take two of you, and i'll let you on to a big call. i want to get square; that's how i stand." "you put me on to a big lay and i'll make it worth your while." "you will?" "i will. you know me, don't you?" "i only know you are a cop, that's all." "did i ever have any dealings with you?" "never; but i want to get square. there are a couple of men in this house who swore us away once." our readers will bear in mind that both the ventriloquists were under a disguise that permitted them to play the role they were working at that moment. "what is the lay?" "oh, it's the old miser business. i knew the moment that thing came out who did that job." "it may be you did," said the detective wisely. "do you think we were in it?" "you may have been." "then take us, and we'll have the laugh on you and the real game will skip. i say i can set you on to a dead sure game to prove your arrest." "you can?" "i can." "how?" "when i agree i can do it easy enough, but you had better get a pard. these villains are wild fellows; they might do you up." "i'll take chances." "you will?" "i will." "all right; i'll give you the points." chapter vii. ike resorts to a very cunning trick and uses his great gift in a very remarkable manner--his joke is followed by startling results. the man's face beamed. he believed he was on to a big thing. we have not attempted to go into the full details and describe just how ike got down to his deception. we have just outlined the conversation, but for the purpose he had in view our hero talked straight to the point and his proposition was not an unreasonable one; it was just the dodge to hook a fellow of the stripe of the "snide." our hero knew just how to work his trick and adapted his plan to his man. ike had his fish well hooked, and then he became very confidential. he told his man to go to the rear room and play off so as not to attract attention. the man obeyed and a little later ike joined him, and then, after looking around furtively, still maintaining his play, he said: "in the rear room upstairs are the fellows who robbed the old miser. they are discussing a division of the swag. now, if you want proof i'll go up the stairs with you and you can overhear their talk and get all the points--get your men located." the detective's eyes bulged. he, of course, recognized the possibility that ike was giving him a "steer," and then again it was possible he was giving him the real facts. "you needn't take my word," said ike. "all you have to do is listen at the door. they are not looking for eavesdroppers. make sure of your points, then away with your information, get your aids and capture the whole gang. i'll teach those fellows to give it to me in the neck," concluded our wily hero. the "snide" and ike stepped into the hall and noiselessly moved up the stairs, and as they approached the door of the room where the politicians were the "snide" heard the murmur of voices. no ventriloquistic trick was ever played better in imitating the murmur of several voices behind a closed door, and as the "snide" drew close to the door a voice was heard to exclaim: "hold on! that is not a square deal." "what do you want--the earth?" came the retort. "no, but i want my share of the negotiable bonds," came the answer. "you fellows are taking all the easy things and giving me the registered ones. they're no good, you know, and i want you fellows to remember i fell to that old miser and it was i who put up the job. we made a good haul without any blood-letting. i want a square deal, i do. everything is hunky; we've given the police a dead steer away and we're all right. don't you fellows try to rob me, do you hear?" the "snide" heard and his face became radiant. he stepped away from the door and said to ike: "you go away. it's dangerous to be around here." little did the speaker know how dangerous it really was. he was destined to experience the full force of the danger in a most remarkable manner a few moments later, for ike managed to perform a second marvelous ventriloquistic trick--one of the most wonderful of all. he managed to make, seemingly, a woman scream in a shrill tone: "look out, in that room! there's a sneak peeping at the door." the words had hardly left the woman's lips, as it appeared, when the door opened. the "snide" was actually caught with his ear to the keyhole, so suddenly had the door opened. well, a scene followed. the politicians were really discussing a very important political matter. they looked upon the "snide" as a sneak who was merely seeking for information to steal it, and they were mad. indeed, there was danger around there just at that moment. as intimated, the politicians were mad; they believed this "ward heeler," as they mistook the "snide" to be, had gotten on to their whole little affair. they did not stand on ceremony--they just broke loose. they were all really toughs, and the way they went for mister snide was lovely to behold, especially had any one been present who really recognized what a mean sneak the "snide" was. "let me get at him," cried one politician. no one interfered. he was permitted to get at him and the first blow knocked the "snide" to the landing of the stairs. the second blow was a terrific kick which sent him headlong down the steps. he, fortunately for himself, did not break his neck in his descent, and gained his feet and made a rush into the bar on his way to the door to the street, but he did not get there before one of the politicians was at his heels. he received a kick that lifted him clear off the floor, then another man took a rap at him, and at each kick up he leaped involuntarily; so, with kicks and raps, he was knocked clear out to the street, and there stood the two ventriloquists to see him come forth. ike expected him, and the young fellow's expectations were not disappointed; a worse laying out no sneak ever received. the man fell helpless on the sidewalk, and when a policeman ran to his aid he told his tale and yelled: "arrest those men. they are the robbers of the old miser." the policeman believed the man drunk or crazy, and rapped for assistance, and when his mate joined him they toted him off to the station. all the way the man protested, and when he arrived at the station he told his tale to the sergeant. the latter was bound to give the story his attention. he led the man back to the resort and up to the room. the politicians had reassembled. the sergeant knocked for admission and was let in. well, a scene followed. the sergeant knew every man present in the room, knew that none of them were crooks, and he was confirmed in the impression that the man was drunk or crazy. the "snide" was led back to the station house and put in a cell. he yelled and protested, and no wonder. he foamed at the mouth in his excitement. the most partial observer would have counted him crazy. ike and jack, however, had accomplished their purpose. our hero said: "the road is clear now; that fellow was hanging around the old miser's house all the time. now i reckon i can make an entrance and interview the old man." the two ventriloquists proceeded down to the old house and arrived just in time to meet another embarrassment. a policeman entered the house just as they arrived in sight. "hello, ike," said jack; "what's that?" "a disagreeable discovery." "that fellow is probably going to remain in the house over night." "it looks so, and yet the papers said the old man had a guard and had declined to go to other quarters." "we must get rid of that fellow." "it is possible he will not remain there." the hour was about eleven o'clock and jack, after looking at his timepiece, said: "possibly he has just entered to see that everything is all right with the old man." the lads waited around for about an hour, when to our hero's delight he saw the policeman come from the house. the two young men had made a thorough search around the neighborhood and were convinced that there was no one on the watch. after the policeman had been gone some little time ike bade jack remain on the watch. the daring young man then leaped the gate of the old alleyway and passed around to the rear of the house. he saw the glimmer of a light shooting forth from the windows of the room on the second floor. he remained a moment studying the rear of the house, then descended the areaway and in a few moments managed to gain an entrance, although the door was bolted on the inside; but the woodwork had rotted and he easily gained an entrance, as stated. all was cold and damp. as he stepped inside the hallway he drew his mask lantern and glanced around. it was a dreary sight that met his view. "i reckon," he muttered, "the old man never comes down here and it is a wonder he is alive, living over all this filth and decay." on tiptoe ike ascended to the parlor floor. he entered the front parlor, and as he flashed his light around he experienced a shock of surprise. there were articles of great value lying around; marble statues had rolled from their pedestals and had fallen to the floor, and on the walls were very valuable paintings, their frames moldy and the pictures apparently ruined. there was one picture that had been covered, and at a glance our hero discerned that it had been cared for--the only article in the room which had evidently ever been dusted or cleaned. "a picture of the old fellow's wife," thought ike, and after a moment he added: "i will have a glance at it." the young man was doing a nervy piece of business, and yet he was as cool and deliberate as though in his own house. he moved about with great care and in a noiseless manner, and he advanced to the picture, removed the cloth, flashed his light upon it and recoiled as though gazing at an apparition. it was the one great surprise of his life. there he stood, as he supposed gazing upon a portrait of sara sidney, the beautiful girl whom he had served in such a signal manner. he stood gazing in rapt attention, and so engrossed was he that he did not observe a counter-light in the room, nor become aware of the presence of another until he was startled almost to a condition of terror when a voice demanded: "who are you, and what do you want here?" ike turned and beheld a strange-looking old man standing within a few feet of him. in his hand the old man held a light, and his deep, sunken eyes were illuminated with a strange gleam as their glance rested on the ventriloquist. "are you mr. ward?" "i am mr. ward," came the answer. "who are you?" "your friend." the old man chuckled and said: "you are here to rob me, i suppose; but, mr. burglar, there is nothing left for you. the scoundrels who came here before took everything--yes, everything." "i did not come here to rob--i came here to aid you." "to aid me?" "yes." "i don't need aid; if i do there is aid at hand." "you don't understand me." "well, let me understand you." "i came here as your friend." the old man chuckled again, and said: "i need no friends. i've lived many years independent of all friendship. but what do you think of that picture?" there came an eager light in the old man's eyes as he asked the question. "that picture is a mystery to me." "a mystery?" "yes." "why?" "i hardly dare tell you." "do you know anything about that picture?" "shall i speak right out?" "certainly." "i know the original of that picture." "young man, you lie, and you need not come here with any such wild story. hark you, i have but to give an alarm--touch a button--and i will have a whole platoon of police here." "you do not need the police." "how do i know?" "i will convince you." "you will convince me?" "i will." "do so." "i repeat, i know the original of that picture." "are you a maniac or a rogue?" "i am neither." "let me look in your face." ike stood with his face turned toward the strange old man. the latter thrust his light forward and carefully studied the ventriloquist's features. "you do not look like a rogue or a maniac." "i am neither." "then why did you force yourself into my house?" "i came here as your friend." "i need no friends." "yes, you need me." "i do?" "yes." "how is it i need you?" "i am going to do you a great service." "you are?" "i am." "how?" "i will recover your bonds and all the property stolen from you." the old man again laughed in a strange, weird manner, and said: "that is what they all told me. i have not yet seen my bonds and jewels." "we will talk about that later on. what i desire to know is, who is the lady whose portrait i see here?" "what business is it of yours who the lady is?" "i tell you i know the original." "then why do you ask me who she is?" the question was a cute one. "there is a mystery here." "is there?" "there is." the old man appeared to be a clear-headed, nervy individual, although he might be a miser. "what is the mystery?" "i said i knew the original of that picture." "you did." "i will say i know one for whom that picture might be taken as a portrait." "you do?" "i do." "who is the person?" the old man was again all eagerness and attention. "i will not say yet, but i would like to know who the real original of the picture is." "i would first like to know who you are and how you dared force an entrance into my house." "you shall know all about me later on." "oh, yes, that is what you said, but it is not satisfactory. you say you know one for whom that picture might be accepted as the portrait?" "i do." "the picture is mine." "i will not dispute that, but i tell you there is a mystery. i can see now that the party i know is not the original of the portrait, but the likeness is very remarkable--yes, wonderful. the party i know could be a twin sister." "say, young man, what is it you are trying to accomplish?" "on my honor, sir, i am telling the truth. is your real name ward?" the old man showed signs of great excitement as he demanded: "what business is it of yours who i am?" "is your real name sidney?" the old man uttered a cry, and advancing toward ike seized his arm and demanded: "what do you mean? who are you?" "we had better settle right down to full confidences, mr. sidney. i tell you i am your friend." "will you explain your words?" "i will." "do so." "i asked you if your name was sidney." "you did." "i know a young lady named sidney who could be taken for the original of that picture. i concluded she must be a family connection; indeed, i am in the habit of putting little bits of evidence together and i arrived at a conclusion, following a suspicion aroused by the strange resemblance; that's all. i am telling you the truth." "you look like an honest youth. come upstairs with me. we will talk this matter over. my name is ward; yes, my name is ward, but i once knew a man named sidney. he was the friend of my boyhood. i have not seen or heard from him for many, many years." "did he go to california?" "yes, he went to california. yes, yes, i remember he did; but come upstairs. i wish to talk to you." the old man led the way to the room on the second floor, and, remembering what he had seen in the lower part of the house, ike was surprised to behold the air of comfort and neatness presented in this apartment. "sit down," said the old man. ike obeyed and the old miser continued in an eager tone: "now tell me about this girl who you say is the daughter of my old friend sidney." chapter viii. ike makes a most remarkable discovery and also picks up clues which enable him to start out intelligently on a shadow for the bond thieves. ike had his own suspicions, but he did not project them. he was going very slow, as he hoped to draw the old man on and force him to a very startling confession. he told the story of sara sidney--told it in a straightforward, simple manner. the old man listened attentively and betrayed considerable emotion, and he muttered: "how unfortunate i have been robbed! how much i might have done for this daughter of my old friend! but alas! i am a poor man now--yes, a poor man." "all your wealth can be recovered." "oh, they all say that." "who says so?" "the detectives who have been here; but they will never recover one dollar. i will never get my property back." "that is what your niece said," projected ike suddenly. the old man almost screamed as he said: "my niece! what do you mean?" "i will speak plainly. i cannot be deceived--this man sidney was more to you than a friend. i recovered the stolen property of sara sidney; i will recover your property." "who are you, young man?" "you may call me the devil or tom walker if you choose, it makes no difference. i will recover your property, and now i tell you i know your name is sidney and the girl i know is your niece, and that accounts for the wonderful resemblance to the portrait of your daughter." the old man glared. ike, as our readers will observe, was pressing right ahead in his impressions. he had arrived at a conclusion and he was assuming a tone calculated to force the old man to an admission. he said: "you need not fear. your niece is independent; she will not become a burden to you. she is a brave, true, energetic young girl. she has some means--enough to maintain her until she is in a position to support herself by her labor. i tell you, when you see her you will be proud of her." the old man was very thoughtful for some moments but finally he said: "can i trust you, young man?" "yes, you can trust me." "my real name is sidney. i did have a brother who went to california. this is all very strange. i have not heard from my brother for nearly thirty years. if what you say is true this girl may be my niece. when can i see her?" "you cannot see her until i have caught the thieves and restored the property or come to you and admit that i have failed." the old man appeared dazed and ike said: "tell me your story. yon can trust me." "i believe i can," said the old man; "i will. i have admitted that my name is sidney, and that i am a brother of the sidney who went to california. i went to south america and while there met a young american girl, the daughter of the united states consul. she became my wife and one child was born to us; but alas! my wife died, carried off by fever, ere the child was a year old, and from that moment i devoted my life to my daughter. i am of humble birth, and i set to work to accumulate a great fortune for my child. i brought out masters from europe to educate her. she was beautiful, amiable, bright and accomplished, and i was happy. but alas! death came stealing along one night and wrapped its cold arms around my child, and i laid her beside her mother. from that moment i lost all ambition, all interest in life. i had heard many years previously that my brother was dead. i had never heard of his marriage and did not suppose he had left a child. strange fate! i live, but my child is gone; he has gone and his child lives. i converted all my wealth into bonds, money, jewels and securities, and i came home to america. they call me a miser, alas! in my own way, secretly, i have been aiding the poor and needy for twenty-odd years. the portrait you see is a portrait of my child. in the south, you know, girls mature very fast. she was but thirteen when she died. well, i have had no interest in life. i fear nothing, i have cared for nothing. i have only been waiting for death to come and claim me. his visit has been long delayed and now my wealth is gone. i did not care, but now i do care, for if you are not deceiving me i would have had something for the child of my brother; and you say she resembles the portrait. well, when my brother and i were boys we greatly resembled each other. and now listen to me: i accept your gage. i will not ask to see my niece until you have made good your promise; either you shall recover my fortune or you shall come to me and say you have failed." "it will be strange if i ever come to you and say that i have failed. you can trust me. i seek no reward, but i believe i can recover your fortune, and now i have a double motive for doing so." there came a quick, searching glance to the old man's eyes, but he said nothing until after an interval, when he declared: "recover the fortune and you shall not complain of your reward." "have you talked much to the detectives?" "i have not, because until now i was indifferent." "if i can secure the slightest clue i will promise success. have you any recollection of the appearance of either of the men?" "yes; i had a struggle with them before they chloroformed me." the old man proceeded and gave quite an accurate description of one of the men. "this is great!" said ike, and he asked: "where did the struggle take place?" "down in my parlor. i heard them down there as i heard you, despite your care, and there i met and fought them until overpowered." ike went down to the parlor. he spent one minute gazing at the portrait and then set to work. he had associated so much with detectives he had their methods down to a fine point; and besides, as our readers know, he was naturally a perfect wonder in shrewdness and cunning. he drew his mask lantern and the old man asked: "are you a detective?" "a sort of amateur," came the answer. ike got down on the floor, face forward, and flashed the light of his mask lantern over every inch of the carpet, asking questions of the old man as to just where the first grapple commenced, and soon he cried, "eureka!" the old man had become eagerly interested. "what have you found?" "all i need, added to your description." ike had come across several strands of hair. he rose from the floor and held the threads under the full glare of his lantern, and the old man exclaimed: "i remember; yes, i did grasp one of them by the hair and must have pulled a few locks." "hardly a few locks, but enough," said ike. the young ventriloquist obtained what he most desired. he had the description, as stated, and he knew the color of the hair of at least one of the robbers. let him find one of them and he well knew he would not only run down the men but the "swag." he felt quite jubilant, and after a long talk with mr. sidney, in which he gave the old gentleman very minute instructions, he passed out the front door, and as he did so a man seized him. "hello, young fellow! what are you doing in there?" came the question. "i am not in there; i am out here," answered ike coolly, and at the same instant jack ran up and said: "look out for that fellow, ike. he's a bad one." "i want you," said the man. ike suddenly drew his mask lantern, which he had not extinguished, and flashed the light straight in the fellow's face. the man uttered an oath, drew a revolver and made as if to strike ike a blow, but instead he received a rap on the head which felled him as though he had been hit with an iron bar. as the man fell ike leaped over his form and he and jack sped away. our hero had reasons for speeding away, for he believed he was on to a great thing. once out of sight jack asked: "what happened; ike?" "wonders upon wonders, jack; it's a night of wonders. i can't stop to tell you now; but who is that fellow? you said he was a bad one." "i'll tell you. while i was waiting for you i saw him and another man come stealthily down the street. i stole behind them and overheard their conversation. they were not looking for you, but some one else. i think when you came forth they mistook you for the man they were looking for." "they are not officers?" "no." "we must trail that fellow. he is probably associated with the robbers." the two ventriloquists worked a transform and separated, but both were making for the one objective point and both got on to the trail of the man whom jack had so opportunely knocked over just as he aimed a blow at ike. as intimated, they got on the trail of the man and followed him until he met a second man on the bowery. the latter had come from a saloon--a brilliantly illuminated gin palace. he stood right under the glare of the electric lights and ike had a clear, full view of him. "there's our man," said ike. "what do you mean, iky?" quickly ike stated that he had received a clue and that he identified the man standing in the doorway of the gin palace beyond all question as one of the burglars. "this is great!" said jack. "let's close in on him, and i'll try a little hypnotism on him." "you may have plenty of chance yet for the exercise of your mysterious power, jack." we will here state that jack had given ike an exhibition of his wondrous gift as a hypnotist. ike was the greater ventriloquist, but he did not possess the hypnotic power; while jack possessed it, as the readers of his former adventures as recorded in number of our series are aware, to a remarkable degree. ike was not naturally excitable. he was singularly cold-blooded, but upon discovering his man so soon his blood did course rather rapidly through his veins. there is one other fact we wish to state: burglars, as a rule, do not leave the great cities. they find them safer hiding-places than anywhere else, despite the great number of detectives hovering around. there are all sorts of burglars--the bunglers and the accomplished chaps who proceed on almost scientific principles. these men are strategic. they study out all their plans weeks in advance. they calculate all their chances, both to accomplish their burglaries and also to prepare for their retreat and hiding. ike calculated that the men who had robbed mr. sidney were accomplished and veteran crooks who would be likely to remain in the city, especially after making such a big haul; and when he secured the specific clue he calculated upon finding his man, but certainly did not hope to drop on him so soon. "what shall we do?" asked jack, after a few moments. "we will follow this fellow. he will go home by and by, and----" the lads did follow the man, but he did not go home, and they were destined to have quite a long shadow ere they ran their game down. they located him in his haunts, but did not trail to any permanent abiding-place; and finally, well on toward morning, they returned to their home well wearied out but hopeful. ike was sure the man would remain in the city and that he could locate him almost any time when he needed. it was late on the following afternoon when our hero visited sara sidney. he listened to a long and hopeful talk of the girl's plans. he did not say anything direct, but did project: "suppose you should find your uncle, and he should disapprove of your plans?" "i do not expect ever to find my uncle." "well, now, i once made you a promise." "i know you did, but remember, it is thirty years since my father saw his brother." "well, some men live to a pretty old age. i am sure i will find your uncle." "what makes you so certain?" "oh, it came to me in a vision. yes, i will make you a positive promise: i will find your uncle. i know that he is alive, or was a few weeks ago." the girl became quite interested, and she looked very animated and beautiful as she urged ike to tell her how he had learned that her uncle was living a few weeks previously. ike, however, did not tell his tale, but he hoped to tell her in the near future, and with it also add the wonderful narrative of the recovery of a great fortune. three weeks passed, and during that time either ike or jack or detective du flore was on the trail of the light-haired man whom our hero had identified as one of the robbers. one day jack asked: "ike, are you sure you have the right man?" "yes, i am sure, and we'll get down to him." "possibly the fellow knows we are on his track." "no, but he is well aware that detectives are liable to be on his track and he is playing away from his lair; but he'll go home sure." on the day following the conversation recorded ike was on the trail. all three did not "dog" the man at one time--they did so alternately. it was ike's "tour," as boatmen say, and the ventriloquist struck his "lay" at last. hope is the propelling force of energy, and it was constant hope that made our hero so persistent on the track of his man. often during the three weeks he had visited sara sidney. he enjoyed her importunity as she urged him to explain what he meant when he told her that he knew her uncle was still living. it was delightful to him. the girl was a constant charm to him when in her presence, and a memory of her sweet personality haunted him when he was away from her. yes, he had a strong motive for sticking to the trail, and, as intimated, he at length fell to a great lead. he had followed his man to staten island, or rather followed him on board one of the staten island boats, and then a great game commenced. he saw the thief wander all over the boat scanning the face of every man and woman on board, and the ventriloquist made a second discovery. he had seen the man exchange signals with a fine-looking lady on board, and as the burglar wandered around ike saw the lady watch him in a most intent manner, and he muttered as a great suggestion came to him: "at last! at last!" chapter ix. ike's pertinacity is rewarded in a most remarkable manner--he proves all theories and redeems all promises. the exchange of signals between the burglar and the woman was an incident of great significance to our hero. the burglar was a very gentlemanly looking and acting man--a fellow far above the usual personality of robbers. ike was after him, however, and in his own mind had arrived at a conclusion. a little time passed. the man made the circuit of the boat, appeared to be satisfied and returned to the cabin where the woman sat. he walked boldly up to her and they engaged in a very earnest conversation, while our hero muttered: "at last! at last!" when the boat reached the landing the woman went ashore alone, and ike was in a dilemma. he did not wish to lose sight of either of them. he believed he was not only on to the burglars, but also going direct toward the hiding-place of the stolen property. he decided to follow the woman, but knew how necessary it was to be very careful. we will here state that nearly all burglars have women confederates, and we will also state that the most romantic dénouements have time and again followed the running down of an expert burglar. burglars are not all vulgar, rough men. some of them are rascals possessing æsthetic tastes. the police records will show that many burglars have been married to very reputable women whom they have kept in total ignorance of their criminal life. it is upon the records that burglars have been known to be very fond of their families. of course, these cases are exceptions, as the usual housebreaker is a vulgar rascal. ike, however, knew of many singular romances connected with criminals and believed that he had fallen to one, a romance of a peculiarly exceptional character. as stated, he desired to follow the woman, but did not dare show his hand. he left the boat, however, and a few moments later saw the burglar pass around to the returning boat. it was evident he had met the woman and was about to return to new york. ike boarded the staten island rapid transit train. he had seen the woman go on the train and she rode to the third station, where she alighted. our hero was on the alert. he alighted from the train also. his disguise was a good one. again, in a rural district he could lay away back. he followed the lady until to his surprise he saw her enter a very handsome villa house, and then he remembered he had overheard just one word between the lady and the burglar. as he saw her enter that villa residence he fell to the significance of the man's words. he intended to visit the house that night, and our hero was put to his wits' end to decide upon his course in the emergency. two propositions were presented to him: was the stolen property in the villa, and did the man intend to come that night and take it away, or did he intend to remove it from some other place and hide it in the villa? the ventriloquist meditated a long time and finally decided he had the burglar located. he had the villa located. he had reason to believe the man was to visit the villa that night. the chances favored a double catch--the burglars and the "swag." ike determined to return to new york, notify jack and du flore and with them return to staten island and stand ready for a grand dénouement. before returning, however, he "piped" the house a bit and saw a man greet the woman as she stepped upon the grand piazza. he then returned to the station, muttering as he went: "it will be great luck if we capture both burglars and all the swag. great ginger! what a man the young detective du flore will be!" our hero arrived in the city, got in communication with his detective friend and told his story. du flore was all excitement. he said: "ike, you have got on to the whole business, sure, and you've done it all yourself. yes, that property is in that villa. we will have a great sensation for the public, who are never tired of great sensations, but we will give them a dandy this time, sure." ike, jack and the detective got themselves up in first-class disguises, and taking different boats proceeded singly to the island, where they all arrived just about dark. they met and our hero indicated the road to the villa, and some time later they were all laying low and on the watch near the house where they expected to make the capture of the season. it had been arranged between ike and jack to exchange signals, but it was some hours before they had the opportunity and then ike signaled that their man had arrived. our hero recognized his gait. the rogue went straight to the villa, which was illuminated on the first and second floors, and the woman evidently heard the step, for she came to the door to meet her friend. the ventriloquists and detective came together and held a few moments' conversation, and it was decided that ike should steal into the house, as he was the one most experienced in that sort of work. ike started right in. he had reconnoitered the house earlier in the day and knew just where to effect an entrance. he succeeded, and once in the house he went very slow. he saw no servants and decided they had all retired; or, as it proved later, had been granted a holiday, for only one servant was in the house. as it also proved, this servant was really a confederate and had retired. ike observed that all the lights on the lower floor had been extinguished, and he ascended to the second floor and fell to his old game of peep and listen. the man and woman were seated at a table. the latter was a sharp, shrewd-faced woman. ike heard the man say: "mosely will not be here to-night." "then what do you propose to do?" "look over the swag." "do you not think it risky?" "no, the detectives have given it up as a bad job." "how do you intend to make a division?" "the jewels are all yours. the money and bonds we will take." the woman's face betrayed her delight. "all right," she said; "such a division is agreeable to me. i will bring the bonds and let you count them over." "are all the windows tightly closed?" "we can close them." "do so." the woman did close all the windows, and then going to an adjoining room returned in a few moments, bearing in her arms, we will say, a bundle of bonds. ike well recognized the documents. he had seen so many bonds--indeed, had captured so many at different times from thieves. the woman laid the certificates on the table and the man said: "where are the jewels and the money?" "i thought they were to be my share." "certainly, but i wish to look them over. i wish to see the full amount of our great capture." the woman's face displayed a little disconcertion, but she went to the adjoining room and soon returned, bringing with her a jewel case and a bag which clinked, showing its contents to be gold. the man opened the bag and tossed gold and bills on the table, and his eyes glittered as his glance fell upon the wealth. ike had seen enough for the time being. he slid down the stairs, gave a signal and was joined by his friends. to them he told the wondrous news. he said: "we've got it all. it's right to our hands." as stated, he told the tale and then led his companions into the house. a programme had hastily been arranged. they all gathered at the door of the room. just one moment they stood and then there sounded a wild, weird shriek, and it appeared to be in the very room where the robber and his female pal were counting the gold and examining the jewels. the shriek had been sent forth with a purpose. both the man and the woman were paralyzed with terror, so sudden had come the yell, in all its shrill and piercing distinctness. as they stood and gazed du flore, armed with a pair of cocked revolvers, entered the room. the man attempted to draw a weapon, but du flore called out: "hold on there! you're covered." ike and jack entered the room. both were armed, and ike went directly to the woman and in a strange, weird voice said: "you do not wish to die." "throw up your hands," commanded du flore. the man did not obey. the click of a hammer sounded in his ears and he muttered: "it's all up with us, maggie. who is to blame?" du flore was a powerful fellow. he suddenly leaped forward and quicker than a wink struck the man a blow that felled him to the floor. the robber was unprepared, and fell as though shot; and jack, ever ready as usual, clapped the darbies on him while ike with singular dexterity performed the same service for the woman, and the job was over. it had been a bold, well-played game from first to last. the bonds and gold and jewels were scooped into a bag, the man and woman were led down the stairs, and a little later the whole party were on board one of the staten island ferryboats. jack remarked: "the servants in that house will wonder where their mistress is when they walk downstairs in the morning." the two prisoners were taken to headquarters, and within two hours the "pard" of the robber was captured on information which the chief of police secured from the woman. the mystery of the robbery had been solved, and on the following morning our hero proceeded to the home of mr. sidney. he found the old gentleman in his usual placid humor, but he did display just a little excitement when ike said: "i'm ready now to introduce you to your niece." the old man stared. "is it possible?" he ejaculated. "yes, sir, it is possible. it's true your fortune has been recovered--every bond, every dollar, every jewel." the old man stood a moment lost in deep thought, and finally he said: "this is indeed wonderful--yes, very wonderful!" "it is true, and now i go to prepare your lovely niece to receive you." ike did proceed to the home of sara sidney. he found the young lady in quite a happy mood, and her lovely face became radiant as she entered the little parlor where ike waited to meet her. "i am so glad you have come." "indeed!" "yes." "do you anticipate the news i have to tell you?" "i do not." "i have great news for you, but first let me tell you a strange tale." ike proceeded and told the tale of the robbery--told it as though he were merely relating an interesting story with which miss sidney had no connection--and proceeded and told how he and his friend jack, with detective du flore, had recovered all the stolen bonds, money and jewels. the girl listened and was deeply interested, evidently believing that jack was merely telling a tale of his success, and she said when he had concluded: "you are one of the greatest detectives on earth." "i will not lay claim to that distinction until i have found your uncle. you know i told you i had a clue." "yes, and it would be so strange if after all these years i should meet my father's brother, my uncle." "would you like to meet him?" "how can you ask such a question? do you know what it means to be alone in the world?" "yes, i know exactly what it means to be alone in the world. i am alone in the world. i do not know that i have a living relative on earth." "ike, you never told me your story." "shall i tell you my story?" "yes; i should be delighted to hear it." "i will tell it to you. all i can remember of my earliest days is that i was traveling around the world from city to city with a strange man who bade me call him uncle. he was a great magician. he taught me his trade. i had a natural aptitude for the business. i evidently possessed a gift in that direction, and he cultivated my natural gift so that i became a wonder to him and a wonder to myself. well, one day, without any previous warning, the old man announced to me here in new york that he was going away--to leave me. i was amazed and heart-broken. he had been in america a year when he made the announcement. he would not tell me why he deserted me; he would not tell me where he was going and would not assure me that i should ever see him or hear from him again. and what was stranger still, although i knew that he was rich--for together we had been very successful--he was leaving me practically penniless. all he gave me was five dollars, and when i reproached him he said: "'you can earn the money you need with your wonderful gift.' he gave me a great deal of good advice as concerned my conduct while making the struggle of life." "did you not ask him about your parentage?" "i did, but he refused to give me any information." "did he deny knowing about you?" "he indicated that he did know the story of my earliest life, but he refused to give me any information. he did say, however, that some day if i lived i would learn all about myself." "how cruel he was!" "it would appear so, but after all it is proved that he knew what he was talking about. he said i could earn all the money i needed with my great gift, and his words have proved true. i have not wanted for anything since the night he so strangely disappeared. before going he gave me a box and told me i must not open that box until i was twenty-one, or until such time as i might fall into some dreadful calamity; then, when all other means failed, i was to open the box." "and you have that box?" "i have." "you never opened it?" "i have never opened it." "oh, how i would like to see what is in that box!" said sara in an eager tone. "no doubt you are a true daughter of eve, but i will not open that box until i am one-and-twenty. i have never had any excuse for opening it, as far as having been overtaken by any dire calamity. my life has been pleasant and successful. i have been enabled to perform many good deeds for people who needed aid and assistance." "you did a wonderful deed for me." "i propose to do more for you. i propose to find your uncle." "but that box, ike?" "well, what about the box?" "are you sure it is safe?" "yes, i am sure it is safe." "oh, how i should like to be present when you open that box!" "maybe you can be," said ike. "oh, i should go wild in anticipation." "some day--not now--but some day i may propose a condition whereby you may earn the privilege of being present when i open that box." "no doubt it contains some wonderful secret." "it is possibly a secret concerning me. it may inform me that i am the unknown son of a beggar, or it may tell me that i am a prince, a lord or a duke." "a prince, ike! yes, it will inform you that you are a prince." "the prince of ventriloquists," said ike with a laugh--a very merry laugh. "oh, ike, you are really a lord or a duke," cried sara in tones of great enthusiasm. ike observed her enthusiasm, and, for reasons which our readers shall learn when we tell the story of the opening of the mysterious box, our hero was quite pleased, and the girl again said: "ike, remember your promise. you are to give me an opportunity to be present when you open that mysterious box. oh, how i would like to learn its secret! not for myself, but for you. it will be a great and pleasing discovery when you open that box." "maybe i have a great and pleasing disclosure to make to you now." the girl's face assumed a sudden pallor. "what do you mean, ike?" "i made you another promise. i told you i would find your uncle." "i see, i see! you have found him?" "yes, i have found him." "i know now why you told me the story of the old miser and the loss and recovery of his treasures." "you discern why i told?" "yes." "why did i tell you?" "i hardly dare answer." "do not fear. tell me what you suspect." "that old miser is my uncle?" "yes, sara, that old miser is indeed your uncle, and i have a great surprise for you." sara was thoughtful a moment and then asked: "are you sure he is my uncle?" "i am." "you have absolute proof?" "i have." "and i am the niece of a soulless miser!" murmured sara in a disconsolate tone. "no, he is not an old miser--he is a warm-hearted, generous man. i will tell you more about him later on." "but are you sure you have the proof?" "yes, i am sure." "tell me what the proof is." "i am going to show you the proof. i have a great surprise for you. come, put on your hat and cloak. you are to go with me and behold something that will make you stare." "i shall not stare at my uncle; and again, ike, i assure you i must have positive proof." "you shall have positive proof. this is a most strange and remarkable romance. it is fate. i am a strong believer in fate. i have encountered so many strange incidents during my short life. see my meeting with you; remember the tragic incidents that followed. you intended to drown yourself in the park lake." the girl's face became ghastly. "no, no, ike." "yes, i know." "i will admit the temptation to drown myself after the discovery of my loss was very great; but no, no, i would have recoiled at the last moment." "i am so glad to hear you say so. i do not think much of people who on the appearance of every little trouble rush to kill themselves. it shows lack of mind strength. but come; i am to take you to meet your uncle." the girl hesitated. she did not appear as glad as ike had thought she would be. the fact was, he did not know the lovely girl yet. he was to learn more about her later on, and there was to follow an intense romance as a result of his meeting with this lovely little lady from the far west. "come, your uncle awaits you." "does he know about me?" "yes." "does he accept the proof?" "he will when he sees you." "what do you mean?" "that is my little secret for the present. i tell you i still have in reserve a great surprise for you--the proof for you, the proof for him. it is a most remarkable coincidence, and here again fate comes in. yes, yes, there is a wonderful surprise for you." while ike was talking he could not keep his eyes off the face of the lovely girl. its changing expressions made her look wondrously beautiful. he was charmed--charmed as he had never been charmed before in all his life. we will not say yet that he had met his fate, but we will say that he was in a very dangerous position. our hero finally persuaded sara to go and prepare herself for the street, and together they started to go to the home of the old miser. when they arrived in front of the house the girl stood still; a shudder passed over her delicate frame and she said: "must i enter that old miserable-looking house to meet my uncle?" "yes, but i am surprised. i do not understand your reluctance." "never mind. i must go and i will." ike led the way into the house. he had completed all his arrangements for the meeting. he knew just what he was about. once in the house he led the fair girl into the parlor. there had been no cleaning done. everything was moldy, old and decaying as upon the night when ike first forced an entrance. the girl looked around in a disdainful manner, and again ike did not understand her mood. she did not appear even pleased when he had thought she would be so delighted. he dusted off a chair, bade her sit down and then he lit the gas; for there was gas in the old house. after lighting the gas he went to the covered picture and said: "sara, look at this and tell me how old you were when you sat for this picture." as he spoke he removed the cover and the beautiful face of the old man's dead daughter was revealed as pictured upon the canvas. it was a beautiful painting, and the resemblance to the living girl who gazed upon the face was marvelous. she did not speak--she could not speak. she just gazed with all her eyes. "this is something i did not promise to find," said ike; "but it is the proof that mr. sidney is your uncle. this is a portrait of his----" ike stopped short, and the girl gasped: "go on. of whom?" "mr. sidney's daughter--your cousin--the daughter whose place in his affections you are to supply; for she is dead, and that is why he lives the life which led people to believe that he was a miser. he is not a miser, but a kind, generous, liberal man, and in finding your uncle for you i have found one whom you can and will love." sara appeared to be completely overcome with astonishment. "i do not understand it," she said. ike had told the story of the robbery. he proceeded and told the previous history of mr. sidney, and when he had concluded he said: "it's all very strange and wonderful. indeed, mysterious are the ways of providence, but the most remarkable feature of this whole series of incidents, miss sidney, is the fact that the portending dénouement was all brought about through two very mean and contemptible robberies. but all's well that ends well, as i've often had occasion to say in the past, and i wish you to meet your uncle." ike had no reason, however, to go and call the old miser, for there occurred a most unexpected metamorphosis. our hero had just concluded the last remark above quoted when he chanced to turn, and there stood a fine-looking old gentleman, clean shaved, his hair cut and his attire perfect. ike started in amazement, for despite the startling metamorphosis he recognized mr. sidney. sara also beheld the old man, and she stood and gazed aghast. for a few moments both stood and gazed at each other as though they were looking upon a visitant from the grave. it was mr. sidney who broke the silence. he said: "indeed you have brought to me my child from the grave. i need no further proof. this is my niece." sara's voice was broken as she said: "no, no, there is no call for proof. it is wonderful--it is wonderful! it would appear that my father had come to me from his grave." "my dear child, your father and i were twin brothers. forty years ago we quarreled. the quarrel was due to me. i have mourned your father long before he went away to california, and now that he is dead this is more than i deserve that he should have left as his legacy to me a child to solace the remaining years of my life." a little later jack and du flore entered the room. many explanations followed and also a very enjoyable time. jack and ike had performed several great feats, but later they were led into another series of adventures together which we shall relate in number of "old sleuth's own," wherein our readers will learn the thrilling romance of the life of nimble ike, the most wonderful ventriloquist yet known in all the world, and also will be revealed the secret of the mysterious box. the end. note.--remember there are some charming stories in the back numbers of "old sleuth's own." back numbers are always in print. when books are ordered in advance they will be sent as soon as issued. eureka detective series [illustration] all of the books in the =eureka series= are clever detective stories, and each one of those mentioned below has received the heartiest recommendation. ask for the =eureka series= detective books. . inspector henderson, the central office detective. by h. i. hancock . his evil eye. by harrie i. hancock . detective johnson of new orleans. by h. i. hancock . harry blount, the detective. by t. j. flanagan . harry sharp, the new york detective. by h. rockwood . private detective no. . by john w. postgate . not guilty. by the author of "the original mr. jacobs" . a confederate spy. by capt. thos. n. conrad . a study in scarlet. by a. conan doyle . the unwilling bride. by fergus w. hume . the man who vanished. by fergus w. hume . the lone inn. by fergus w. hume . the world's finger. by t. hanshew . tour of the world in eighty days. by jules verne . the frozen pirate. by w. clark russell . mystery of a hansom cab. by fergus w. hume . a close call. by j. l. berry . no. ; a detective story. by arthur griffith . the sign of the four. by a. conan doyle . the mystery of the montauk mills. by e. l. coolidge . the mountain limited. by e. l. coolidge . gilt-edge tom, conductor. by e. l. coolidge . the mossbank murder. by harry mills . the woman stealer. by harry mills . king dan, the factory detective. by g. w. goode see other advertisement for other list of titles in the =eureka series=. you can obtain the =eureka series= books where you bought this one, or we will mail them to you, postpaid, for = = cents each. address all orders to j. s. ogilvie publishing co. rose street, new york transcriber's notes: italics represented with _underscores_. bold represented with =equals signs=. added table of contents. page , added missing comma after " c." page , changed "had became enraged" to "had become enraged" and "become angry" to "became angry." page , changed "mean time" to "meantime" for consistency. page , added missing open quotes to first two paragraphs on page. page , changed "starred" to "stared." page , changed "statemen" to "statement." page , changed "politicially" to "politically." page , changed "althugh" to "although." page , changed "aked" to "asked." page , changed "burlgars" to "burglars." page , changed "appeear" to "appear." [illustration: cover art] how a farthing made a fortune [illustration: "dick had to be busy." _p_. .] how a farthing made a fortune or "honesty is the best policy." by mrs. c. e. bowen _authoress of "jack the conqueror," "how paul's penny became a pound," "how peter's pound became a penny," "the brook's story," etc., etc._ _third edition._ london s. w. partridge & co. paternoster row. hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london and aylesbury. contents. chapter i. dick and the apples chapter ii. dick's mistake chapter iii. a new home chapter iv. life at denham court chapter v. the visitor at the lodge chapter vi. sir john's proposal chapter vii. returning good for evil illustrations "dick had to be busy." _p_. "i want to speak a word to you, my man." "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." susan and dick in the railway-carriage. the meeting of mr walters and dick. "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves." how a farthing made a fortune; or, "honesty is the best policy." chapter i. dick and the apples. few children, if any, who read this tale will probably be able to form any idea of such a wretched home as that in which lived little dick nason, the ragman's son. there are houses and rooms in some of the back streets in london where men, women, and children herd almost like wild beasts--haunts of iniquity and misery, and where the name of god is never heard except in the utterance of terrible oaths or execrations. such was roan's court, a place which gave the police continual trouble, and many a hard blow in the execution of their duty. the houses were let out in rooms, of which the upper ones were the most healthy, as possessing a little more light and air than the others; but the cellar floors were almost destitute of both these common luxuries of life, being sunk considerably below the level of the court, and the windows, consisting of four small panes of glass, begrimed with dirt, or if broken, as was generally the case, stuffed up with dirty rags or paper. it was in one of these cellar rooms that dick nason had been born, and in which he lived till he was twelve years old. _how_ he had lived, _how_ he had been fed, and _how_ clothed, it would be difficult to imagine. his mother had been a tidy sort of woman in her younger days, gaining her living as a servant in the family of a small tradesman. but she married a man who was not of sober habits, and who in consequence lost all steady employment, and sank lower and lower till he was reduced to the position of a ragman, going about to collect clothes, bones, rabbit-skins, and such odds and ends as he could scrape together from the servants. the trade was not an unlucrative one on the whole, but nason spent so much in drink, and his wife having fallen into the same bad habit, kept so little of what she could contrive to get from her husband for household purposes, that they seldom sat down to a regular meal, but scrambled on in a wretched way, becoming every year more degraded and more confirmed in their habits of intemperance. such was the home in which little dick was reared. fortunately he was the only child. his father took little notice of him. his mother was not without affection for him, but it was constantly deadened by the almost stupefied state in which she lived. the child seldom knew real hunger, for there was generally something to be found in the three-cornered cupboard to which he had free access, nor did he often get the hard words and blows that are so apt to fall to the lot of the unfortunate children of drinking parents. neither nason nor his wife were ranked amongst the more brawling and disorderly inhabitants of roan's court; though drink stupefied and rendered them helpless and good-for-nothing often for days together, especially after nason had had a good haul into his big clothes-bag, and had turned its contents into money. but as for the dirt, untidiness, and general discomfort of their abode, they might have won the prize in this respect had one been offered for the most wretched room. dick was a queer little figure to look at, though he had the brightest face possible. he used to be clothed entirely out of his father's rag-bag. nason had three of these bags, which hung up on three nails in their cellar room. one was blue, made of strong material, for the reception of old garments; the second, of stout canvas, was for rabbit-skins; and the third for bones. out of the blue bag used to come forth jackets, which were by no means worn out, as well as jackets well patched and darned. the latter always fell to dick's share, as the better ones were more valuable to turn into cash. as to the fit, that was considered to be utterly unimportant. if only they were large enough for dick to squeeze into them, or small enough for him to be able to walk about in them, that was deemed sufficient; so the little fellow would at one time be seen to be almost bursting through his things from their tightness, and at another he looked like a walking clothes-peg with his garments hanging loosely upon him. but it was all the same to dick, whether they were tight or loose, and his bright eyes and curly head were what people looked at most after all. dick's life for the first few years was a very free and easy one. he made dirt pies beautifully as soon as he was able to walk, being instructed in that art by some children a little older than himself who lived next door. then came the ball-playing age--for even the poorest youngsters contrive to get balls somehow or other--and dick had his to roll about long before he knew how to play with it. a little later on his amusement was to stroll about the streets, peep in at the shop windows, look longingly at the tempting piles of oranges and lollipops on the stalls at the corner of the street, and occasionally, but very rarely, produce a halfpenny from his pocket with which to purchase a scrap of the said lollipops, or one of the smallest and most sour of the oranges. but the greatest delight of dick's life was to go to covent garden market to look at the flowers, his love for which seemed born with him in a remarkable degree. he was in a perfect ecstasy of delight the first time he went there in company with some other children, who like himself had nothing to do but to stroll about the streets. what they looked at with indifference, dick gazed upon with rapture, and from that day he constantly found his way to the same spot, which was at no great distance from roan's court. he was there so often that his appearance became familiar to the stall-holders, and they sometimes employed him in running errands or doing little jobs for them, rewarding him with an apple or orange, or, if it were towards the evening, perhaps a bunch of flowers that had begun to fade. nothing ever pleased him so much as to have them to take home; and then he tenderly put them in a cracked mug on the window seat, where he could see them as soon as he awoke in the morning. in after years he used to say that his first idea of god was taken from those flowers; that their beauty carried off his mind in wonder as to the greatness of the power that made them. the strange contrast between them in all their loveliness and the dingy dirty room he lived in, had doubtless much to do with the effect they produced on his mind. dick knew little about religion. once or twice he had peeped into a church when service was going on, but had not cared to stay long; not at all understanding what he heard, and feeling rather alarmed at the man in the black gown whom he saw sitting near the door to keep order. but though dick was a stranger to both church and sunday-school, an instructor was raised up for him in a quarter no one would have expected. not far from covent garden, in a single room, lived an old man named john walters, who had a small pension from a gentleman whose servant he had once been, and who increased his means by doing a variety of jobs about the market, where he was quite an institution. this old man loved his god and loved his bible. he lived quite alone. his wife had been dead some years, and the only child he ever had, a boy, died of measles when he was about twelve years of age. perhaps it was the remembrance of this boy made him notice little dick as he lingered day after day about the market; but he might never have spoken to him had it not been for an incident which we will relate. one day as a woman from the country was beginning to put up her fruit and vegetables, she tripped and upset her basket of apples, which rolled away in every direction. dick was standing near and helped to pick them up. the woman was anxious to collect them all, for they were a valuable sort of apple which sold for a good price for dessert, and every one was precious. several rolled away to a distance and lodged under a heap of empty hampers. dick ran amongst the hampers and picked them up; as he did so he slipped three of them into the capacious pockets of the very loose clothes he had on, which had lately been produced from the blue bag and would have fitted a boy nearly twice his size. there was an eye above that saw him commit this theft, that almighty eye which never sleeps; but there was also a human one upon the little boy at the moment, and it was that of old john walters. he was standing very near, but was concealed by some tall shrubs. he saw dick turn round to look if any one could see him before he put the apples in his pocket, and this made him watch what he was about; and he also saw him go up to the woman with several apples in his hands, which he gave her. she warmly thanked him, and returned him one as a present for the trouble he had taken. it was getting late in the afternoon, and walters was soon going home. he felt unhappy about dick, who reminded him of his own boy. he thought he looked like a neglected lad who had no one to teach him how wrong it is to steal. he did not like to bring him into disgrace and trouble in the market by accusing him of taking the apples, neither did he feel it would be right in him to see a child steal and take no notice. "for," thought he, "if he goes on from one thing to another he may come to be a housebreaker in course of time; but if stopped now, a boy with such a face as that may become an honest, good man." then after a few minutes' thought he said to himself, "'tis one of christ's little ones, and so for the master's sake i'll have a try at him." meanwhile dick was devouring the apple the woman had given him, with the not unpleasant recollection that the pleasure to his palate would be repeated three times over, since he had three more in his pocket. i am afraid the said pleasure was in no way diminished by the consciousness that they were stolen. i do not mean to say that he was a thief habitually, for he was not. some boys make thieving a trade and exult in it. dick had sometimes purloined what was not his own, in the same manner that he had done the apples. he did not look out for opportunities, but if one such as this came in his way he did not try to resist the temptation. he was rather startled when he felt some one lay a hand firmly on his shoulder. it was the hand of john walters, who said to him-- "i want to speak a word to you, my man. come home with me and i'll give you a cup of tea. i'm going to have mine directly." dick looked up into his face. it was a very kindly one, though rough and furrowed with years; he did not feel afraid of it; so he went off with walters, for the cup of tea sounded tempting. it was not often such a chance fell in his way. he walked by the old man's side and answered all his questions as to his name, and where he lived, and what his father did, etc., and by the time walters knew all about him, they had arrived at the room which he rented in a small back street of some people who kept a little shop. it was but a humble abode, but it seemed a palace to dick compared with his own. in the first place, it was quite clean, for the woman of whom walters rented it was careful to keep it well swept, and he himself did all the tidying and dusting part. then the furniture was better than what dick was accustomed to see in any of the rooms in roan's court. there was a little round table in the middle of the room, and another at the side with two or three large books on it. [illustration: "i want to speak a word to you, my man."] and there was a cupboard in one corner and a narrow bedstead in another, and over the bedstead was laid a large tiger-skin which walters' master had given him many years before, and which served as an ornament by day and a warm covering for cold nights. also there was a shelf over the side table with a few books on it. walters was a good scholar, and had always been fond of reading, but of late years he had cared for few books except his bible and prayer-book, which gave evidence of being often used. walters told dick to sit down, and he gave him a book with some pictures of animals in it to look at whilst he made tea; but the boy could not help watching walters and his doings, which had greater attractions than his book, on the whole. first he put a match to the fire, which was laid ready for lighting. then he went out with his kettle and fetched some water. next he unlocked the cupboard, and brought out a tea-pot and two blue and white cups and saucers, and a half-loaf of bread and some butter. he set them on the table very tidily, and then going out again, he went into the little shop on the other side of the passage and bought two or three slices of bacon of his landlady, who sold provisions. these he fried in a little pan that was hung up by the fireside, and when the water was poured into the tea-pot, and the frizzling, delicious-smelling bacon was lifted off the fire and put on a dish on the table, dick's mouth watered so that he could scarcely wait to be told to begin and eat. "now then, dick, come along," said walters, and dick needed no second bidding. he pulled his chair in an instant close to the table, and taking his seat, looked ready for action. but old walters had something else to do before he would begin. he told dick he was going to say grace, and bade him stand, which he did, and looked rather wonderingly at the old man as he took his little black cap off his head, and raising his hands, asked god to bless the food his goodness had given them. the boy had never seen this done before, and it puzzled him; but the next moment he forgot all about it in the pleasure of satisfying his hunger with the bacon and bread, of which walters cut him a large slice. his kind-hearted host ate very little himself; but he enjoyed watching dick's satisfaction, and perhaps wished he had not to do so disagreeable a thing as to tell his young guest that he had seen him stealing. when tea was over, the methodical old gentleman washed up the cups and saucers and plates, and put everything away in the cupboard. then he said-- "now, dick, i have something to say to you--something you won't like half as much as eating the bacon. you have some apples in your pockets, which you stole from the woman when she dropped them and they rolled under the hamper. dick, it is a very shocking thing to be a thief, and yet you _are_ one!" poor dick's blue eyes grew enormous, and his cheeks became scarlet. he knew too well that when thieves were detected their fate was to be carried off to prison. he began to suspect he had been entrapped, and that walters was a policeman in disguise; yet it seemed strange if he were going to be punished that he should begin by giving him such a good tea. he had no time to collect his ideas, for walters was waiting for him to speak; he could only fly to the resource of trying to help himself by telling a falsehood, so he said that the woman had given them to him. "no, dick, that is untrue; she gave you one only, which you ate." more and more alarmed at finding how thoroughly acquainted walters was with the late transaction, dick began to cry and begged him to let him off. the kind-hearted old man drew the boy to his side, and told him he was not going to punish him or tell anybody about his theft; and when his tears were completely dried, he said-- "but there is one who does know it, my boy, and who will one day punish you for stealing and telling stories if you go on thus, and if you do not feel sorry for this and other naughty deeds you have done." and then he talked of things very new to little dick. he spoke of sin and of hell, and of jesus christ, and of repentance and heaven, in such simple words as came naturally to the old man, who was simple as a child himself, and yet was wiser and more learned in these precious truths than many a great scholar. he talked till the blue eyes brimmed over with tears again, but this time not with terror lest he was going to be sent to prison, but with sorrow for having done so wrongly. for dick had a very tender heart, and one that was quite ready to receive all that was said to him. he brought the three apples out of his pockets and asked walters to take them away from him. "but they are not mine; i can't take them," he said. "then i will throw them away," said dick. "that will not be right," said walters, "for they are not yours to throw away; they are the woman's." dick looked bewildered; he did not know what to do with them. "i think you ought to give them back to their owner," said walters. "i know her, and she is very kind and will forgive you directly, i am sure. if you are really sorry, you will be glad to take them back to her. suppose you leave them here till to-morrow, and then come, and i will go with you to her stall." dick promised, and then old walters kneeled down with the little boy by his side, and he prayed-- "o dear lord, forgive this young child for what he has done wrong, and help him not to steal and tell stories any more, for thy dear son jesus christ's sake. amen." then dick ran home, thinking all the way of what walters had been talking about. the next morning when he woke he saw his little mug of flowers standing on the window-sill, and the old thought came into his mind about god making such beautiful things, and he felt very sorry that he had offended god the day before, and ventured to say a little prayer to him himself, the very first that had passed his lips-- "o god, who made the flowers, please make me a good boy. i don't mean to steal apples any more, or tell stories." a little later on, dick learnt to ask for god's _help_ to keep him from stealing and lying and doing wrong things. and old walters had his prayer that morning about dick-- "o god, i am old and not able to do much for thee, but help me to teach the little boy thy ways. amen." he was very glad when dick came running in, for he was half afraid he might shirk the business of taking the apples back to the woman. it showed that he was really sorry, and willing to punish himself by doing a disagreeable thing; for it was of course very disagreeable to go and own that he had stolen the apples. let all children who read this little tale remember, that when we do any wrong thing, it is right that we should suffer for it. it is not enough merely to tell god we are sorry and to ask his forgiveness; we must prove to god and to ourselves that we really _are_ grieved for our sin by humbling ourselves to ask pardon of those to whom we have done wrong, and by trying to repair the wrong. if we shrink from this when it is in our power to do it, we may be pretty sure that our penitence is not of the kind to lead us to hope that our fault will be forgiven by god; and if he does not forgive our fault, then it will rise up before us in that day when all, both small and great, must appear before the judgment-seat of god. the woman, mrs. needham by name, was greatly surprised when walters came to her stall as she was laying it out, and told her that dick wished to return her three apples he had been tempted to put into his pockets the day before. poor dick scarcely said a word himself, he felt so frightened lest mrs. needham should be very angry; but she only spoke kindly to him, and said she hoped he would never do such a thing again. indeed, she was just going to give him back one of the apples; but walters was wiser, and shook his head at her and led dick away. he knew it would be bad for the boy to be rewarded for taking back the stolen fruit. that afternoon when mrs. needham and walters happened to be together for a few minutes, she talked to him about dick, and he told her how he had tried to show the boy the sin of stealing. "after all, though," said the soft-hearted woman, who was more kind than wise, "it was no such great thing he did. an apple or two he just slipped into his pocket when he had the chance, that was all." but walters turned to her, and laying his hand on her arm, said almost solemnly-- "and what turned adam and eve out of paradise and brought sin upon millions and millions of us, mrs. needham? why, the taking of an apple, and '_that was all!_'" "well, walters, you've your own way of talking about these things, and you understand them better than i do, because you're so bible-read." mrs. needham was prevented saying more, because a customer just then came up to purchase some of the very apples in question. chapter ii. dick's mistake. from that day dick had a friend in old walters--a very humble one, but of priceless worth to the neglected child. he encouraged him to come often to his room to see him, and finding he could not read, he commenced to try to teach him. he bought a spelling-book, and began what was in truth a most difficult and arduous task to one of his age. but dick was quick, and walters persevering, and in course of time the letters were mastered, and then came words of one syllable. after that progress was rapid. a copy-book next appeared on the scene, and the constant inky state of dick's fingers bore grimy testimony to the industry of both master and pupil. it was a proud day for them both when the boy could write his name quite legibly and neatly in the little prayer-book which walters had promised should be his whenever he could do so. but it was not only the art of reading and writing that dick was acquiring from his newly-found friend. lessons of far higher value were being constantly given to him by walters, whose heart was full of love for his saviour, and who longed to bring this little lamb into his fold, and secure him against all the temptations that, with such parents and in such a neighbourhood as roan's court, he would be subjected to as he grew older. fortunately for dick, his father's and mother's carelessness about him turned to good account by enabling him to be a great deal with walters. on sundays he went often with him to church, instead of as formerly playing all day in the court or back streets with other idle, uncared-for children. this was a real pleasure to him, for the music possessed as great a fascination for him as flowers. for some time things went on thus. dick was getting older and taller, and walters thought it was time for him to have some regular employment. he was so interested in the lad that he took a walk to roan's court one day to speak to his parents about him; but it was unfortunately an evening when they were neither of them quite in a state to be talked to on the subject. he left them in disgust, and with feelings of deep pity for their child. he did not know how to help him, for he lived his own lonely life, knowing scarcely any one; certainly no one who could be of use to dick. he consulted his landlady, but she could give no advice, and only remarked that "boys were troublesome creatures, and of no use whilst young." the poor woman had two of her own, for whom she had difficulty in providing, so she spoke feelingly. but though walters was unable to serve the lad in this respect, he had been unconsciously paving the way for a bright future for him by teaching him honesty and the fear of god. one morning as dick was going down the strand with another boy, they stopped to look in at a shop window just as a gentleman drew up his horse at the door, and looked round for some one to come and hold it whilst he entered the shop. dick ran forward and offered himself. the gentleman gave one look at his pleasant face and put the bridle into his hand, saying, "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." he was some time in the shop, which was a bookseller's, and he was looking over books. once or twice he came to the door to see that all was right with his horse, and finding that dick was holding him carefully, he gave him a nod and returned into the shop. dick thought his face was a very kind one. when he had finished his business and came out to remount his horse, he put his hand into his pocket and took out some coppers wrapped in paper, and giving them to dick, said-- "there, my lad, take these. i don't know how many pence you will find inside the paper, but the more there are the better for you." he was just going to ride off, when the shopman came to the door and asked him some question, to which he replied in a loud voice-- "let them be sent to no.-- grosvenor square." dick eagerly opened the paper; there were four pennies inside--and he stared with amazement, there was also a small, very bright yellow coin! he had only once or twice seen a sovereign in his life, and never had had one in his hand. his companion, a boy named larkins who lived near roan's court, uttered an exclamation. "why, dick, he's given you a bit of yellow money; you lucky fellow!" dick gave quite a shout of joy. [illustration: "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough."] he felt almost giddy, and as if a large fortune had fallen into his hands. "i tell you what, dick," said larkins, who secretly hoped he might come in for a share of the money, "don't you be looking at it like that here in the street, or people will think you've no business with it. yellow money doesn't often come to the like of us; and, i say, don't you go telling your father or mother of your luck, or they'll take it from you and go and spend it in drink." dick did not reply; he was wrapping up the coppers and the yellow bit as carefully in the paper as when they were given him, and he put the little parcel in his jacket pocket. "i say, dick," continued larkins, "what are you going to do with it? how shall you spend it? won't you go and have a good feed at the cook-shop to begin with?" dick heard, and a savoury thought about hot meat and potatoes crossed his mind; but he put it away again, for more important ideas were floating there. his countenance was grave and thoughtful. "i don't think," said he, "that the gentleman _meant_ to give me yellow money. he said there were pence inside the paper. i'm quite sure he did not know there was any gold there." "why, then, all the better for you that he made a mistake," said larkins. "what a lucky thing that he did not look to see what there was inside the paper before he gave it you!" time was, before he knew old walters, that dick would have thought so too, but now he could not feel any pleasure in taking possession of what it was not intended he should have. "i should like to give it back to the gentleman," he said. "it would be like stealing, i think, if i kept it." "well, you _would_ be a silly chap to do that," exclaimed larkins--"but one good thing is, you can't give it back; you don't know where he lives." "yes, i think i do," said dick. "he said that something was to be sent to no.-- grosvenor square; so he lives there, i daresay, and i can find him, perhaps." larkins' indignation was very great at his stupid folly, as he called it. his visions of being treated to a hot dinner at the cook-shop were melting away. then he tried ridicule: called him "a young saint," "pious dick," "parson dick," "preaching dick," but all to no purpose. at length dick escaped from his teasing by taking the turning which led to walters' lodging, whose advice he wished to ask. he was out. then he went and looked for him in the market, but he was not to be found. "i know he would tell me i ought to try and find the gentleman," he said to himself, "so i'll go at once." he knew his way about london pretty well, though it was not often he had been to the west end, and he had to ask his road once or twice before he could find grosvenor square. when he got there it was some time before he could discover the number he wanted, and when he did at last pause before no.--, he felt quite frightened at seeing what a grand house it was. the doors looked so tall, and the knockers so high up, it was impossible to reach them. then he remembered it would not be right for a poor boy to go to the front door, so he turned and went to the area gate and looked down the flight of steps that led to the kitchen. it took a great deal of courage to descend them and knock at the door below--more than he could all at once summon to his aid--and he stood irresolute, with the handle of the gate in his hand. he went down at length and knocked timidly at the kitchen door. no one came, so after some time he knocked again and louder. it was opened by a girl, who asked him what he wanted. "please, i want to see the gentleman who said he lived here," said dick. the girl stared, and made him repeat his words. this time he spoke rather plainer, and said he wanted to see a gentleman who had given him some money an hour or two ago, in the strand, for holding his horse. a servant in livery crossed the passage at this moment, and heard what he said. he came to the door and exclaimed harshly-- "and so, because he gave you some money, you have come here hoping to get more, you young vagabond. that's always the way with you beggars." "i'm not come to beg," replied dick, indignantly. "i'm come to give the gentleman money, not to ask him for it." "did the gentleman bid you come?" asked the man. "no," said dick. "did any one send you?" "no," was again the reply. "and yet you say you've come to give the gentleman money, and not to beg," said the servant. "now, youngster, take my advice--get off from here as fast as you can go, for it strikes me you are lurking about for no good. there's a bobby not far off who will come if i call him." he shut the door in dick's face, and the servant girl went back into the kitchen, and amused her companions by telling them that a boy had just come under the pretence of wanting to give some money to the master. "that's just what those young rascals do," remarked the cook. "they are taught by the thieves who employ them to go to gentlemen's houses with some pretence that shall get them admitted inside--and then, whilst waiting, they take notice of doors and windows and bolts and keys, and go and tell their masters, who know how to set to work at night with their instruments when they come to break in. i daresay that that boy has been taking stock of the lower part of the house, for now i think of it, i saw a boy some time ago standing on the top of the area steps and looking down at the door and windows. this lad is the same, no doubt. he'll be as likely as not to come to-night with a practised house-breaker or two and try to get in." "oh, dear!" exclaimed susan, the before-named girl, who slept in a room on the area floor with another kitchen domestic. "dear me, cook! do you really think so? i'm sure i shan't dare to go to bed to-night." "take the poker to bed with you, and never fear," said the cook. "i should take a real pleasure in bringing it down on the back of a man if he had got in. i wish i'd the chance." "then do please, cook, change rooms with me to-night," exclaimed poor susan, who was pale with fright, and too inexperienced in the study of human character to know that bragging was not courage. "i'm sure i should only scream if they came. i'm not brave like you." but cook shirked exchanging rooms, saying the reason was that she could not sleep comfortably in any bed but her own, or else she'd do it with the greatest of pleasure. while this conversation was going on in the kitchen, the innocent subject of it had ascended the steps, and was walking away from the house, when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs behind him, and, looking round, he saw the very gentleman he was in search of coming through the square at a rapid pace. dick recognised him in a moment, and was rejoiced to see him stop in front of no.--. he jumped off his horse, and, as he was about to enter the house, he caught sight of dick, who was bowing and trying to attract his attention. "ah, my little man," he said; "why, are not you the same small chap that held my horse in the strand this morning?" "yes, sir; and, please, i have come to tell you that you gave me yellow money by mistake amongst the pence--a whole sovereign! so i have brought it for you." and he took the little packet out of his pocket and held it to him. "what do you mean, my boy?" said sir john tralaway, for such was the name of the gentleman. "there surely was no gold amongst the coppers i gave you?" and he undid the paper. a smile passed over his lips as he examined the contents. then he looked attentively at dick. "and so," said he, "you have brought the money back to me because you thought i had given you more than i intended. how did you find out where i lived?" "i heard you tell the shopman to send some things to no.-- grosvenor square," said dick, "and so i thought i had better come here." "you are an honest, good boy," said sir john; "and though you have made a mistake, and taken a bright new farthing fresh from the mint for a sovereign, yet it is all the same thing in the sight of god, and in my eyes too, as if it had been indeed a piece of gold. did you ever see a sovereign?" he asked. "never but once or twice," replied dick, "and they looked exactly like that;" and he pointed to the bright yellow farthing in sir john's fingers. "your mistake is a very natural one, my boy. eyes more accustomed than yours to look at gold might easily have been deceived. now come in with me and tell me all about yourself, and where you learned to be so honest." sir john took him into a little room by the side of the hall door, and asked him many questions. he was a man of well-known benevolence, who was ever doing some deed of public or private charity. the circumstance of dick bringing him what he supposed to be a sovereign given by mistake touched him greatly. he listened with interest to what he told him about walters, who was evidently a character rarely to be met with in his class of life, and told dick to ask him to call and see him the next day at a given hour. when he dismissed him, he gave him half-a-crown, and said he should not lose sight of him. dick did not quite understand what he meant by that, but was sure it was something kind, and he ran off, one of the happiest little boys in all london. he had so much to tell walters, he scarcely knew where to begin. the old man was indeed pleased to hear that dick's principles had stood fire under a strong temptation, and he hoped he might find a friend in sir john at the very time he most needed one. the next morning, walters gave an extra brushing to his coat, an extra polish to his boots, and an extra smoothing to his sunday hat before setting forth to grosvenor square. he seldom now went near the mansions of the rich, though in former days his duties had lain amongst them almost entirely. sir john received him with great kindness, nay, even with respect, for what dick had said had filled him with admiration for him. walters told him about dick's miserable home, and of the sad example set him by his parents and the other inmates of roan's court. he mentioned his is love for flowers, which had first made him hover so constantly about covent garden market, and so had brought him under his notice. "then it is to you," said sir john, "that this little fellow is indebted for the high principle which brought him here yesterday with the supposed sovereign?" "it's little i have been able to do for him," replied the old man, "but god has blessed that little, and he has given the child a tender, teachable mind, and a grateful, loving heart. but i wish he could be taken out of that wicked roan's court, where they are a drunken, dishonest lot, and his parents are as good as no parents to him." "he _shall_ be taken away, my good man," replied sir john. "i will think the matter over, and see you again. i suppose his parents will not object to any plan for the boy's good?" "not they, sir john. they never look after him; they leave him to play about and shift for himself. i believe they would be glad enough to have him taken off their hands." "do you think he would like to be brought up as a gardener?" asked sir john. "as he is so fond of flowers, i should think his tastes would lie that way." "it would be just what would suit him," said walters. "the lad is wild after flowers. the first thing he did yesterday after you gave him half a-crown, was to go and spend a shilling of it in buying a rose-tree in a pot for my window. the little chap wanted to give me something, so he bought what he cared most about himself." "well, walters, you have been a true friend to this boy, and god will bless you for it; he shall be my care now, and i will try and follow up the good work you have begun. i have a plan in my head which, if it can be carried out, will, i think, be all you could wish for your little friend. will you come here again next monday and bring dick with you? and by that time i hope i shall have arranged matters." sir john was as good as his word. when walters and dick went to grosvenor square at the time appointed, he asked the boy whether he would like to live in the country, and learn gardening and the management of flowers. dick's face was worth looking at, so full was it of intense happiness at the idea. there was no occasion for him to express his assent in words. "i have a very clever head gardener at my country house," said sir john; "and i have written to him about you. i shall board you in his house; and if you continue to be a good boy, and try to please him by your attention and industry, i am sure you will be very happy with him and his wife; and in the gardens you will find yourself in the midst of abundance of your friends the flowers." sir john then gave walters money with which to buy dick two suits of clothes and such other things as he would require, and asked him to settle the matter with his parents. the london season being nearly over, the family were going out of town in a fortnight, and dick was to go down to denham court, sir john's country place, with some of the servants, a short time before the rest of the party. it was not in dick's power to say much by way of thanks; his heart was too full. but walters, who was scarcely less pleased, spoke for him. when they had left the house and were walking down the square, walters said-- "dick, you are proving the truth of those words in your copy-book which you wrote yesterday, that 'honesty is the best policy.'" chapter iii. a new home. we have now to request our readers to follow dick to a very different scene to that of roan's court. his parents were glad he had found such grand friends, and were quite willing to part with him. they were not improving in their habits, but rather the reverse. walters did as sir john had requested, and bought the boy suitable clothes and other necessaries for his new position in life. he looked so different when dressed in a cloth suit, with a white collar and black necktie, that he could scarcely be recognised for the same boy who had worn the old garments out of the blue clothes bag. the children in roan's court gathered round him when he first appeared in his new attire on the day he was to leave altogether, and stared at their old playmate with astonishment. a few of the elder ones, amongst whom was larkins (who had never got over the hot dinner disappointment), derided him, called after him "gentleman dick," and other nicknames. he was not sorry when he was fairly out of hearing, and on his way to walters, who had promised to go with him to grosvenor square, and say good-bye there. an omnibus was standing at the door when they arrived, which was to take the servants to the station. it was being loaded under the eye of a manservant. when he saw walters and dick, he directed them to go down into the kitchen, where all was bustle and confusion from the hurry of departure. amongst the servants going away was susan, who had been so terrified lest dick should prove an accomplice of burglars. she looked at him with very complacent feelings now, for sir john had told the story of the bright farthing, and explained that he had spoken truth when he said he wanted to give the gentleman some money and not to beg of him. with his usual kind thoughtfulness, the baronet had been anxious that the servants should feel an interest in their young fellow-traveller, who would naturally be strange and shy amongst them all. at length all was ready, and dick was told to take his place in the omnibus with the others. he was very sorry to say farewell to his dear old friend, who, in his turn, felt as if his home would be lonely without the bright, merry face he was so accustomed to see popping in constantly. "god bless you, my lad," he said. "never forget your prayers. remember, those are my parting words to you." then came the rumbling of the omnibus, and the arrival at the station; and after that the puffing of the steam-engine, and for the first time dick saw houses and churches rushing away from them, as it seemed to him. soon, great, busy london was left behind, and houses and churches only came at intervals, but green fields and trees took their place, and they were in the country, which was far more beautiful than dick's wildest dreams had ever pictured it. he was quite surprised that all the servants talked away to each other, and scarcely ever turned their heads to look out of the window. susan was the only one who seemed to understand his admiration. she was very kind, and gave him her place in the corner that he might see better; and she pointed out things to him, and told him the names of the places they passed through, for she had been so often backwards and forwards that the road was quite familiar to her and her fellow-servants. towards evening they arrived at a station, where they stopped. here an open carriage was waiting, large enough to hold them all, and the luggage followed in a cart. dick had a delightful place on the box between the driver and the footman, from which he could see the hedges and trees, etc., to perfection as they drove rapidly past them. after a drive of about a mile, they came in sight of a large mansion standing on a rising ground in the midst of beautiful gardens, which glowed with flowers of every colour. the carriage stopped at a lodge, and now dick was told he was to get down, as here he was to live with the gardener and his wife. a pleasant, motherly-looking woman appeared at the door, who was addressed as mrs naylor. she gave the servants a kindly greeting, and as the carriage drove on, took hold of dick's hand, and said she was sure he must be tired and hungry, and had better have some tea directly. she took him into a nice pleasant kitchen, where a table was spread with a substantial tea. her little lads came running in to look at the new boy, and to do justice to the viands. they were followed by mr naylor, the gardener--a tall, fine-looking man, with a rather grave face. [illustration: susan and dick in the railway-carriage.] he spoke kindly to dick, and said he had heard all about him from sir john, and he hoped he would be a good boy, and then he should be glad to have him to lodge in his house. dick thought he had never been so hungry or tasted such good food. after tea, mrs naylor showed him a room in which he was to sleep. it was very small, little more than a large closet, but there was in it everything he could want, and it had a window looking into a garden full of flowers. he was so thoroughly tired with his journey and with the day's excitement, that mrs naylor proposed he should go to bed, and he was thankful to do so. probably no little boy in england slept a sounder sleep or had a happier heart than our young hero that night. chapter iv. life at denham court. it will be easier for the reader to imagine than for me to describe the delight of a young london boy, removed from such a home as that of dick's in roan's court, to this in which he awoke the morning after his arrival. mrs naylor was disposed to be pleased with her young charge. her husband at first thought him too young and ignorant to have been worth transplanting from london to denham court. it was "one of sir john's whims," he said to his wife. however, the liberal board that they were to receive for him was not to be despised, and being so young was a fault which he would gradually grow out of. then as for his ignorance, he soon found it was not so great as he supposed. thanks to walters, he could read and write very fairly; and what astonished naylor greatly, was finding he knew the names of almost all the flowers in the gardens, and of some in the greenhouses. he had supposed he would not know a bit of groundsel from a fern, he said. but the mystery was explained when he found that he had been so constantly in covent garden market, where he had contrived to learn the different names of shrubs and flowers as few other boys would have done. there were a good many men employed about the grounds, and several boys, who came from the village every morning and returned home to their meals and to sleep at night. dick was looked at with curiosity at first, because sir john had sent him down from london and was boarding him at his head gardener's. it was all very new and strange to him, and he could not help feeling rather lonely at times. sir john and his family were gone to the sea for a little while, and were not expected till the shooting season began. dick rather longed to see sir john's kind face again, and he felt so grateful to him for his kindness that he thought he never could do enough to show his gratitude. the work that was given him in the gardens was easy enough. clearing the gravel walks of weeds, carrying in vegetables and fruit to the house, or sometimes--and this he liked best--helping one of the under gardeners to pot geraniums or other plants. one of his greatest treats was to be allowed to go through the hothouses and greenhouses with mr naylor, who began to grow fond of the intelligent lad, and to think that after all sir john knew what he was about when he sent him down to learn gardening. "he's an uncommon little chap," he said to his wife one day--"nothing seems to escape his observation; and if i tell him the name of a plant or flower he remembers it. most boys would forget it as soon as told. such a memory as he's got will do him good service some day." "he's a nice, good little fellow," remarked mrs naylor, "and so obliging. he's always ready to run errands for me of an evening, or to play with the little boys. i thought i shouldn't like having him when sir john first wrote about his coming, but i declare i'd sooner have him here than not. and as for ned and tommy, they follow him like their shadow whenever he's in the house." ned and tommy were mrs naylor's own two children. they were merry little fellows, several years younger than dick. to them he was a great acquisition. when the day's work was over, they were sure to be watching for him at the lodge gate, to claim his services in mending their paper kites, and to help to fly them when mended, as well as many other similar offices, such as good-natured older boys can execute for little ones. no wonder that mrs naylor's motherly feelings made her think she would sooner have dick as an inmate than not. when the days were beginning to shorten, and the first delicate tinge of autumn brown was stealing gently over the green foliage, it was announced that sir john and the family were coming home. they had been detained at the sea longer than was at first intended, owing to the illness of one of the young ladies. but now the day was fixed, and preparations were being made for them both within and without the house. even dick had to be busy. not a weed must be seen on the walks, not a dead leaf on the geranium beds. pot plants were to be placed in rows on either side of the broad terrace in front of the house, and others had to be carried into the drawing-room to fill the jardinière and baskets. also the conservatory adjoining the morning-room was to be adorned with choice flowers from the greenhouses. dick carried and fetched, carried and fetched, till his arms ached; but they might almost have dropped off before he would have given in, so pleased was he to have such a chance for seeing the tasteful and artistic way in which mr naylor arranged the different plants according to their colouring. when all was complete, mr naylor stepped to a little distance to see that the effect was quite to his mind, and he caught sight of dick standing in such enrapt admiration that he fixed his gaze on him for a moment rather than on the flowers. "well, dick," said he, "what do you think of it?" "oh, sir, it is beautiful! i could look at it for ever." "the boy is born to be a gardener," said mr naylor to himself. "he ought to begin and learn latin. i shall tell sir john so." all honour was due to worthy, honest-hearted mr naylor, that not a shade of jealousy crossed his mind about dick, although he hoped to bring up his two boys to his own profession. full of taste and intelligence himself, he quickly saw that the boy was naturally gifted with these qualities in no common degree, and felt they ought to be thoroughly cultivated. the next day the family arrived. dick was standing at the lodge, well pleased to be allowed to throw open the gates for the carriage to enter, and to receive a smile and nod from sir john as he sat inside it with his wife and daughters. the report that mr naylor was able to give of his charge was very satisfactory to the benevolent baronet, and he quite agreed with him that it would be well to let the boy have some education. there was an excellent village school in denham, and a superior schoolmaster. so it was arranged for dick to attend school every morning, and be in the garden in the afternoon. the schoolmaster also agreed to teach him latin three evenings in the week. "sir john never does things by halves," remarked mrs naylor to her husband. "he'll be the making of that boy, you'll see." "he'll help him to be the making of himself," replied naylor. "dick is a boy, if i mistake not, who will make good use of whatever advantages are held out to him." time went on. dick learnt quickly, and pleased his master. he was a favourite with most people from his good humour and readiness to oblige. sir john took great interest in his improvement; and his wife and daughter often stopped and spoke to the boy who had come to denham court under such peculiar circumstances. but go where we will, happen to us what will in this world, trouble of some sort is sure to crop up, and dick was not without his, even in his happy life at denham court. it seems strange that he could have an enemy, but so it was. there was a boy named george bentham, who was employed in the gardens, and who from the first had looked upon the london lad with jealousy and dislike. he saw that he was a favourite with sir john and with mr naylor, and being of a mean and selfish disposition, he took an aversion to him for this reason. to use his own expression, he liked to _spite_ him. that is to say, he never lost an occasion of saying or doing anything that he thought would be disagreeable to him; and it is wonderful how much petty tyranny may be exercised by one boy over another when opportunities are sought. for instance, he would sometimes hide his garden tools to cause him to waste time in searching for them, and so bring on him mr naylor's displeasure. one day in autumn, when dick had been industriously sweeping up the fallen leaves in one of the walks, and had gone to fetch a wheelbarrow to carry them away, he found that some one had, during his short absence, scattered the heaps which he had so carefully piled up at regular distances, so that his work had almost all to be done over again. he had been told to finish it by eleven o'clock, at which hour lady tralaway generally came to walk there, as being a sunny, sheltered spot. he did his very best to try and set it all right in time, but the leaves at the end of the walk were in a sadly untidy state when her ladyship appeared with one of her daughters. she remarked on the unswept state of the path, and asked dick to have it cleared earlier another day; and she repeated her request to mr naylor a little later, when she met him in the greenhouse. this caused mr naylor to reprove dick for idleness, and he seemed inclined to think that what he said about the leaves having been scattered was all an excuse, especially as dick could not say who had done it, though in his secret heart he felt quite sure he knew. another ill-natured trick that was played on dick by an unseen, though to him not an unknown hand, was when he one day left his slate for a few minutes on a seat just inside the lodge gate, on which was a difficult sum over which he had spent a long time the evening before, and had at last mastered, though with great difficulty. he had just started to go to school, slate and books in hand, when he remembered he had forgotten one of them, and ran back into the lodge to fetch it. he could not immediately find it, though he was not away from his slate for more than five or six minutes, and it stood precisely where he had left it when he returned. he snatched it up and ran off, but it was not till he had got near the school-house that he discovered the lower figures of the sum were all rubbed out carefully as with a sponge. he was sorely distressed, but could only tell the master of what had happened, and begged to be allowed to do it over again that evening. the master, accustomed to boys often making excuses at the expense of truth, reproved him for leaving his slate so carelessly about, and said he could not understand who would care to take the trouble to do such a thing as efface the figures just to get him into a scrape. dick saw he was not believed, and it distressed him a good deal. yet he could not tell his suspicions about george, for he had no proof that he had done it. he only knew that about that time he generally passed through the gate on his way back from breakfast, and he also knew that he would be quite ready to do him such a bit of mischief as this. old walters did not forget his little friend, nor did dick lose his warm, affectionate love for him. they exchanged letters from time to time, and the correspondence was very useful in keeping up in dick's mind the remembrance of all walters had taught him. sir john kindly sent for the old man when he was in town to give a favourable report of the boy, and tell him that mr naylor was well satisfied with him, and believed he would one day make a first-rate gardener, for that his good taste was something quite unusual, and his general intelligence of no ordinary stamp. "i should like him to be a great gardener some day," said walters; "and still more, i should like him to be a good man, with the fear of god ever before him." "i trust he will be both, my friend," said sir john. "how are his parents going on?" "worse than ever," said walters. "the mother is in such a wretched state of health from drinking that she is not likely to be long alive, and the father is seldom sober. i went lately to tell them i had heard from their boy, but they seemed very indifferent to what he was doing, and scarcely asked any questions about him. they will probably soon both be in the union." "then it is clear it is no use bringing up their son to london to see them," said sir john, "as i would have done had they been respectable. he is better to be quite separated from them under the circumstances." "far better, sir john. roan's court is no place for him now. the sooner he forgets the very existence of what goes on there the better. i should like to see my lad again some day, please god, but it's not likely, for i'm getting nigh to seventy, and though i'm hale and hearty as ever now, yet at my age i mustn't expect many more years. god bless you, sir john, for being such a friend to him; he's got strangely about my heart, and i shall pray for him whilst i live." chapter v. the visitor at the lodge. that spring, like other springs, passed away. the london season was longer than usual, for parliament had weighty and important matters to discuss, and families longing to be in the country were obliged to remain in hot, dusty london till august. amongst the number of these was that of sir john tralaway, who was an active member of the house of commons. but at length the house broke up, and without loss of time the great world fled from the heated atmosphere to go and enjoy either the mountain breezes of switzerland or the refreshing shades of english country houses. sir john's domestics went off as usual a day or two before the rest of the family, to make all ready for their arrival. no one was better pleased than dick that the season was over. he liked to see the ladies walking or riding about the grounds, and to have their kind smile and almost daily greeting. also he loved to have the encouraging word which was sure to be given by sir john when he had questioned naylor and the schoolmaster about him, and heard a good report. on the day when the servants were to arrive, mrs naylor told dick that she had a friend coming to visit them, and she should be glad if he would give up his room for the time. she proposed making him up a bed in her boys' room, at which arrangement the two youngsters expressed their warm approbation, for dick was as great a favourite with them as ever. when evening came he took care to be in the way to open the gate, and so be the first to give a welcome. the carriage came and turned in, but instead of driving on, it stopped at the lodge. the door behind was opened, and the footman assisted out an old gentleman, who wore a great-coat, notwithstanding its being a warm evening, and a well-brushed beaver hat. mrs naylor hastened out to receive him, but before she could speak dick had flown into walters' arms. it had been kind sir john's contrivance to give him a surprise. he had asked the naylors to receive him as their guest, and when he found their willingness to do so, he proposed to him to go down into the country with his servants, and spend several weeks under the same roof as dick. [illustration: the meeting of mr walters and dick.] he knew the pleasure it would give to both to be together again. he had desired that dick should not be told who was mrs naylor's expected guest. dick was more altered than walters. he had grown taller and stouter, and his cheeks were rounder and more rosy than they had been when he lived in roan's court. "now come in, mr walters," said mrs naylor, when the first surprise and greeting was over. "come in, we'll do our best to make you comfortable, and i'm sure i hope you'll spend a pleasant time here. it shan't be our fault if you don't. as for dick, i expect he won't sleep a wink to-night for joy." it was a pleasant reception, and when the old man went to bed in dick's little chamber, he kneeled and thanked god for this new and unexpected mercy that had been vouchsafed him. as for dick, far from fulfilling mrs naylor's prognostication that he would not sleep a wink, he was in so profound a slumber, at the hour when the other two lads awoke in the morning, that they had a delightful excuse for jumping on his bed and playing off a variety of tricks in order, as they said, to "arouse him thoroughly." very pleased and proud was dick to take his old friend over the gardens and numerous glass-houses, containing such fruits and flowers as he had never seen even in former days, when he had visited with his master at gentlemen's houses. dick had an entire holiday given him the day after walters' arrival, both from school and from gardening, and mr naylor told him to take his friend where he liked. such a permission made him feel of almost as much importance as if he were master of the estate himself. he found it difficult to limit his own pace to that of walters', so eager was he to go from one place to another, always assuring him the next thing he had to show was far better than any he had yet seen. walters' admiration quite satisfied him, for it was unbounded. chapter vi. sir john's proposal. a month passed, and still old walters was a visitor at the lodge. still he might be seen sitting on fine days under a wide-spreading oak-tree in the park, sometimes leaning forward with his chin resting on his stick, at others reading his large bible as it lay upon his knees. not unfrequently sir john might be observed sitting by his side, for he delighted in his remarks, so full of simple piety and humility, and consequently of instruction to himself. the high-born baronet was not above being edified by the conversation of the aged pilgrim, whose mind seemed ripening fast for the world which could not be far distant from him. but walters began to speak in earnest of returning to london. his feelings were sensitive and delicate, and though urged to remain longer, he would not take advantage of the kindness that proposed it. he said he had been permitted to spend a month of happiness amidst god's beautiful country works with his dear boy dick, but now the time was come for him to return to his room and his old ways in london. "and perhaps you feel more at home there than in any other place," said sir john one morning, when he had been talking to him on his favourite bench under the oak-tree. "you have lived there so many years that this country life may seem irksome to you after the long habit of the other." "nay," replied he, "london will seem very lonely after such a month as i have spent here in my boy's company, with everybody showing me such kindness. and i shall miss the trees and the flowers, and the songs of the birds. no, sir john, i could find it in my heart to wish i could end my days in the country, but god has willed it otherwise, and given me a home i do not deserve, although it is amongst the crowd and bustle and noise. besides, why did i say i should be lonely? shall i not have _him_"--and he uncovered his head, as was his wont, at the great name--"who died for me, and loves me, and will never leave me nor forsake me?" sir john was silent for a few moments; then he spoke to him on a subject he had been turning over in his mind for some days. "you are right, my worthy friend," he said; "no place can be lonely to you, and god will assuredly watch over you to the end. but suppose he were to point out that his way of doing so, as far as this world is concerned, would be to give you a home in the country, where you would be cared for in health and in sickness, and where the remainder of your years would pass in quietness and repose, would you not be willing to follow his leading?" "assuredly, assuredly," replied walters, not in the least seeing the drift of his remark. "but as such has not been his will, i thank him gratefully for my little room in town." "now listen to me, my friend," said the baronet. "it seems to me that just as it was put into my heart to take dick from the scenes of sin and temptation he was exposed to in roan's court, so now it is given me to have the privilege of making your last years far more comfortable than they would be in your lodging in town. the proposal i wish to make to you is this: i have a cottage in the village which i have given for her life to an attached faithful old servant, who lives there with her niece. it is larger than she requires, and she says she could quite well spare the little parlour and the bedroom over it, and that she would be very glad to have you as a lodger, and she and her niece would do their best to make you comfortable. i will take all the arrangements for you on myself, so you will only have to return to london to pack up your things and bid your present landlady good-bye, and then come back again to your new country home, where you may see dick every day." walters was silent. he could not speak. he took in all sir john's plan for him, and the lonely old man's heart leaped at the thought of living near the child of his love. at length he rose, and with a voice quivering with emotion, said-- "i thank you, i do indeed thank you, sir john. it seems too much, too much happiness for such an one as i am. but my whole life has been filled with mercies, and this may be going to be the crowning one. may i think over it? i am too old to be able all at once to decide. when i have been alone awhile i can better answer you." "take as long as you like to think it over," replied sir john--"there is no hurry whatever." then kindly shaking hands with him, he went away, for he saw that walters was a good deal overcome. yet he knew that though he left him, he would not be alone, but that he would seek the counsel and direction of him whom he had for so long made his dearest friend. chapter vii. returning good for evil. walters soon made up his mind, and with much thankfulness accepted sir john's offer of a home in denham. that gentleman took him to see the cottage in which he proposed he should occupy two rooms, and introduced him to good mrs benson, who, with her niece, promised to do all they could for his comfort. he could only exclaim every now and then, "too good, too good for me! who would have thought of such a home as this coming to me in my old age?" he went back to london, packed up his few goods and chattels, and bid good-bye to his friends in covent garden. he was well known there, and all were sorry to part with him, but glad to hear of his good fortune. his landlady regretted losing her quiet lodger, whose regular payments and steady habits she knew how to value. it was with quite a heavy heart she saw him into the cab that was to take him to the station. she did the last good office she could for him by putting into his hand a paper parcel containing some sandwiches, that he might not be hungry on the journey. dick's delight when he found his dear old friend was going to move to denham may be easily imagined. he only regretted that he had to go back to london at all. mrs benson was quite ready for him when he arrived one evening in the middle of october. dick went to meet him at the station in the conveyance sent by sir john to take him to the cottage, and was glad to be the one to lead him into the comfortable little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning and tea laid out on the round table. mrs benson followed, looking and saying kind things, and her niece bustled about to make the tea and toast the bread. it rather distressed him to be waited on thus; he had always been accustomed to do these things for himself; but he comforted his mind by saying that they must not think he should give them such trouble in future. in a very short time he was quite settled, and seeing that he would really prefer it, mrs benson allowed him to wait a good deal on himself, and to do in every respect as he had been accustomed. the neighbours soon learned to like the gentle, kind old man who was ever ready to perform any little service for them in his power, such as going on an errand, sitting with a sick child, or reading to an invalid of riper years. george bentham's character did not improve as he got older. he was so unsatisfactory in many ways that mr naylor would have dismissed him altogether, had it not been for sir john's kind desire to keep him on, for he knew the wages he gave were higher than he would obtain elsewhere. neither he nor naylor were aware of the dislike he had from the first taken to dick, who never named the annoyances he had to bear from him to any one except walters. "i have never done anything to him," he said one day; "yet he is always trying to spite me in every way he can. i really will begin and give it him back again. i know twenty ways in which i can do him a bad turn." "stop, stop, my boy," said walters, "i don't like to hear you speak so. that would be spite for spite. the dear master did not act so when they tried all they could to vex him. yet _he_ never did wrong in any way. you, on the contrary, are constantly standing in need of forgiveness from god. so you must learn to forgive even as you would be forgiven." "i will try," said dick, feeling rather ashamed of his speech. "do, my lad; but you won't be able to do it in your own strength, for it goes contrary to human nature. you must pray--nothing like prayer--and so you will find. and then, dick, there's another thing to remember. look here"--and walters turned over the leaves of the bible that was never far from his hand--"see this verse which the master spoke for the good of boys as much as for older people, 'do _good_ to them that hate you.' you see you must not be content with only forgiving." "but what can i do for george?" asked dick. "i never go near him if i can help--there isn't any good i can do him in any way." "yes, lad, you can say a prayer for him now and then; and if ever you see he needs a bit of help at any time, be you the one to offer it, and you'll get a blessing, take my word for it." they were sitting by the fireside in walters' little parlour. dick had been to take his latin lesson. as mrs benson's cottage lay on his way home, he had turned in to see walters. he was about to bid good-bye to him after these last words, but the old man stopped him and said-- "wait a bit, and i'll tell you something that will show you how bad a thing is spite or revenge. maybe it will prevent you ever feeling the desire to vex a person back because they vex you. it's a sad story, but you shall hear it, though the very telling of it gives me a pain all these long years after. "when i was a young man i was very fond of horses, and liked to be about them. my father wanted me to become a schoolmaster in a village, because i'd had a better education than most boys of my sort; but nothing would serve me but to go about the stables. so my father spoke to our squire about it, and he said i should go under his coachman, and so i did; and i got to understand horses, and could ride and drive them--according to my own thinking--as well as the coachman himself, when suddenly my master died and the establishment was all broken up. i returned home to wait till i could find another situation. just at this time a young man about my own age, named james bennett, came home out of place likewise. he had been, like myself, in a gentleman's stables, and had only left his place because the family had gone abroad. he and i had lived near each other as boys, and had had many a game together, but we had not met for three or four years, as he had been away in quite another part of england. we used to see one another pretty often, as we had neither of us much to do then but to idle about. "it so happened that just at this time a mr anderson, living about two miles off, wanted a groom quite unexpectedly, and a friend of mine called and advised me to lose no time in applying for the situation, as a new servant must be had instantly. james bennett happened to be in our cottage when i was told this, but he left it almost instantly. i lost no time, but went upstairs and put on my best clothes; and then i set out, to walk to newton hall, where mr anderson lived. i was anxious for the place, for i knew it was a good one; and as it had only become vacant a few hours, i felt i had a real good chance of getting it. when i arrived there i was shown in to mr anderson, who said i was a likely enough fellow, but that he had just seen another young man whom he had promised to take if his character satisfied him. 'you know him probably,' he said, 'for he comes from your village; his name is james bennett.' "i started with surprise and indignation. in an instant i saw just how it was. james had heard what my friend had said about mr anderson's situation being vacant, and advising me to lose no time in applying. he had quietly sneaked of and got before me; for, as i afterwards found, he had had a lift in a gig, whilst i walked all the way, so he had considerably the start of me. "i left the house full of angry feelings, and despising james from the bottom of my heart for his meanness; and i took care to tell him so. he could not defend himself, though he tried to make out it was all fair play, and a case of first go, first served. "he got the place and went to it directly, on good wages. i, on the other hand, could not hear of one anywhere. i used to see james ride by, exercising his new master's horse, and my thoughts were very bitter. "mr anderson had a daughter who was very delicate, and was ordered horse exercise. her father had bought her a beautiful creature which had arab blood in its veins--that means that it was high bred and full of spirit. now miss anderson had not yet been allowed to mount him because he had such a bad trick of shying when he came to any water. there was a certain pool which lay by the roadside between our village and mr anderson's house, which he would never pass without a great fuss. the former groom and mr anderson had tried in vain to cure him of the trick. james said he thought he should be able to do it, and he was proud to try. "so he took him in hand. every day he practised the animal. he tamed him at last so that he scarcely moved an ear when he saw the pond. i heard that after one day's more practice he meant to pronounce him quite cured. now all this time i was feeling angry, and longing to spite him for the trick he had played me. i grudged him the fame of having cured the horse of shying, for i knew i could have done it as well, and i was always thinking about the way he had stolen the place from me. "well, dick, satan saw now that was a fine time for him, and he made the most of it. he put into my heart to do a mean trick by which i thought to pay james back something of what i owed him. "i bought some crackers and put them in my pocket, and i walked to the place where the pond lay, a little before the time when i knew james would come with the horse. my idea was to conceal myself behind the thick hedge, and pull a cracker just at the moment the horse was passing the pond. i thought so to startle him that it would make him worse than ever about shying in future, and then all james's trouble would be thrown away, and he would not have the credit of curing him of the bad habit. "i crept behind the hedge and was completely hidden. after a time i heard horse's hoofs, and saw james come up. he walked by the pond, slowly at first, then he went quicker, and next he trotted. the pretty creature was quite quiet. then he went to a little distance, and put him into a canter. now was my time; i pulled my cracker just as he got to the pond. the horse sprang up into the air, bolted forward, and the next instant was running away fast and fleet as the very wind. i heard the hoofs going at a mad pace, and i knew his rider had lost all control over him. not for one moment had i intended to drive the horse wild like that. the most i had thought of was to cause him to prance and kick, and begin his old trick of not passing the pond. i felt no anxiety lest any real harm would come of it. i knew james was a good rider, and supposed he would give the horse his head for awhile and then pull him in. so i walked home, thinking i had paid master james off in some degree at all events. "we were just finishing dinner when a neighbour looked in, and asked if we had heard what had happened. he said that james bennett had been riding mr anderson's horse, and that it had run away with him and thrown him violently against a milestone; that he was taken up quite senseless, and it was feared there was concussion of the brain! he had been carried to a farmhouse close by, which there was little chance of his leaving alive. it was dreadful hearing for me. i felt as if i should have committed murder, if he died! not that i had wished really to harm him bodily in any way. i could comfort myself a little with that thought, but i had intended to do him a mischief of another kind; and now the ugliness of the sin of revenge rose up before me in its true colours, and i hated myself. "i kept my own secret. i argued that it could make matters neither better nor worse to tell what had made the horse run off. but i was very wretched. i walked to the farm towards evening to inquire after him. they said he was still insensible, and the doctor could give little hope. his parents were there, and mr anderson drove up as i was going away, having brought a second doctor with him. it was a comfort to know that he would be well cared for. the next day he had come to himself when i went to inquire, but there was no more hope than before. he lay in a very precarious state for a week, and then there was a change for the better. a few days more and the doctor said he would live, but that it would be many months probably before he would be well enough to go into service again. mr anderson was very kind, and promised to continue his wages to enable him to live at home till he was quite well. but he could not keep his place open for him, so he offered it to me. "i positively declined to accept it, much to mr anderson's surprise. i felt that i could not endure to reap any benefit from my wrong-doing. my conscience had been tormenting me ever since the accident, and i made up my mind that i would never take a situation as groom again, for the very sight of a horse made me uncomfortable. in a short time, thanks to my late mistress's recommendation, i obtained a place as personal servant to a gentleman who was going on the continent for a couple of years. now it seems natural that new countries and new ways should put what had just passed out of my head; but they didn't, though i certainly did enjoy travelling about very much. we went to france and germany, stopping for a time at all the principal cities, and then we went to italy and spent some time in rome. but notwithstanding the novelty of all around me i was not altogether happy. i believe i was beginning to feel what a sinful heart i had then, and i often longed to open my mind to some one, but there was nobody i knew to whom i liked to speak. however, god had his own designs for me, as you will hear. "my master visited venice on our return home, and from there he took an excursion through some mountains called 'the dolomites.' one day, as we were crossing a narrow plank thrown across a steep gorge, my foot slipped and i fell down a very considerable distance on to a hard rock, and it is wonderful that i was not killed on the spot. i was taken up senseless by some peasants who were fortunately near, and carried into a hut, where my master joined me, and he and they did all in their power to restore consciousness. i recovered my senses after awhile, but i had to lie in that hut for upwards of ten days, and during that time i looked back on my past life and saw how sinful i had been, and i trembled when i thought how death and i had been face to face when i fell into the gorge. my revengeful conduct towards james bennett stared me in the face in such black colours as it had never done before. 'what would have become of me had i been killed?' was my constant thought. "when i returned to england i went to live with a clergyman, who was a good and holy man, to whom, after awhile, i ventured to open my mind. he taught me what my saviour had done for me by his death, and how i might look for pardon through his merits, and grace and help for the future. i have told you all this, dick, that you may beware of ever wishing to give what is called 'tit for tat.' now go home, and whenever you say your prayers ask god to keep you from all malice and bitterness." this advice of walters came at a very opportune time, for not long after dick had occasion to bring it to mind. it was george bentham's duty to shut up the greenhouse windows at a certain hour in the afternoon, and mr naylor was extremely particular on this point. he had neglected it once or twice, and had been severely reprimanded but when a third time mr naylor found the windows open late, he took the duty away from him entirely, and gave it to dick in his presence, remarking that he felt sure he might trust him. george said nothing at the time, but his jealousy increased. he went away revolving in his mind how he could lower dick in mr naylor's opinion, and a way soon suggested itself. dick was surprised one evening after he had carefully closed the windows in the afternoon at the proper time, by mr naylor reproving him sharply when he came in to tea for having left one of them open. "indeed, sir, i shut them all," said dick. "you mean you _meant_ to do so, but were careless and forgot the end one," said mr naylor. "now don't get into the way of making excuses; better own your fault at once, and say you will be more careful in future; then i shall have hope that it will not happen again." dick said no more. he was puzzled, for he felt almost sure he _had_ shut that end window. yet how could it have got open again? no one ever went near the greenhouses in the afternoon after they were shut. he always turned the key on the outside when he went out, though he left it in the door by order, because mr naylor went his rounds towards evening, and then took the keys home with him. at length he was obliged to come to the conclusion that he must have overlooked that window without being aware of it. about a week afterwards a frost set in, and though it was sunny and fine for some hours, the air grew cold directly the sun began to decline, and dick received orders to close the windows earlier than customary, and he did so. the head gardener went the rounds as usual that afternoon before going home to tea. the cold was severe, and his vigilance for his plants was consequently greater than ever. as he came to the door of the greenhouse he thought he heard a slight noise within, and looked carefully about on opening the door, but could see nothing to have caused it, so thought it must have been fancy. when he examined the windows he found one of them wide open. "again!" he said to himself. "so that boy is as bad as the other, and must be trusted no more." he shut it, and a second time fancied he heard a noise, and listened, but all was still. when he went home he spoke more angrily to dick than he had ever done before, and desired him not to enter the greenhouses again, since he found he could not be trusted. "had i not gone in there," he said, "and seen that the window was left wide open, some of the choicest of the plants must have been frostbitten." "but indeed, indeed, i shut them every one, sir," exclaimed dick. "some one must have gone in after me, and opened that window. oh! it was too bad; it must have been done from spite." "i can scarcely believe that," said the gardener. "excuses of that sort won't help you." "it is not an excuse, sir. _do_ believe me, for indeed i shut all the windows carefully." "maybe the lad is right," said mrs naylor, who was fond of dick, and had always found him truthful. "perhaps some one has a grudge against him, and took that way of doing him a mischief." "have you any reason to suppose you have an enemy?" inquired mr naylor. "yes, i have, sir," replied dick. "who is it?" dick did not reply; he was not sure whether he ought to name him. but johnnie naylor, who with his brother was present, exclaimed-- "george bentham is his enemy, i think, for he said the other day he hated dick, because he was put over him about the windows just because he was a favourite." a new idea appeared to strike mr naylor. he seemed in deep thought for a moment. he was thinking of the noise he fancied he had heard. then taking down a lantern and lighting the lamp within, he strode off without a word, and took his way to the greenhouse. unlocking the door, he entered, and closed it after him. again there was a slight noise. this time he was sure that something alive was there besides himself, and he began to search. [illustration: "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves."] the house was a good-sized one, and he examined every corner, but in vain. then he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves which stood out a little way from the wall. a dark figure was there crouching down. it was george bentham, who, with a face white as ashes, came forth at mr naylor's command. "what are you doing here, sir?" he asked, in a voice of thunder. "i got locked in, sir." "and what brought you here at all?" the ready lie that he would fain have had rise to his lips, failed him from actual terror, and he was silent. "i will tell you why you are here," said the gardener. "you came to open that window in order to get an innocent companion into trouble, and to have it supposed that he was careless and had neglected his duty, and it is the second time you have done the base deed. you are a coward of the worst kind, and you shall come with me instantly to sir john himself, and hear his opinion of your conduct." then george found his voice, and implored mr naylor to punish him in any way rather than take him before sir john, but in vain. he marched him off without another word, and made him walk before him to the house, where he requested to see the baronet. very shocked and indignant was sir john at what he heard about the wretched boy before him, who did not attempt to deny that he had hoped to bring dick into disgrace, and so had slipped into the greenhouse to open the window, but had not time to escape before mr naylor came and locked him in. he had no way of getting out without breaking the windows, owing to their peculiar method of opening. he acknowledged that dick had never done him any harm, and could only say in reply to the questions put to him, that "he had never liked him." sir john dismissed him from his service on the spot, and told him his opinion of his conduct in terms which remained in his memory for many a day. dick was very glad when mr naylor told him the mystery about the open window had been cleared up; but to his credit be it spoken, he was really grieved to hear that george was to work no more in the gardens. he longed to plead for him, but knew it would be useless, as sir john and mr naylor were so seriously displeased. but when a little time had passed by, and george was still without regular employment, hanging about the village, often reminded by jeers and taunts of his mean conduct, dick felt more and more sorry for him, and at length he ventured to ask mr naylor if he would say a good word for him to sir john. "and so _you_ want him to be taken on again, do you?" was the reply. "that's queer, now." but queer as he thought it, naylor could appreciate dick's forgiving spirit, and admired it sufficiently to induce him to ask sir john if the boy might have another trial, and he obtained his consent. he took care to tell george who it was had pleaded for his return. the boy had avoided dick since his disgrace, but this generous conduct quite overcame him. though foreign to his own nature to act thus, he was touched and grateful, and actually thanked dick, and told him he was sorry he had behaved so shabbily to him. from that day the two lads were good friends. george never again annoyed dick. we must pass over the next few years of dick's history more rapidly. he did not disappoint the expectations of those who had done so much for him. he improved rapidly, and developed so strong a taste for landscape gardening that sir john and mr naylor advised him to lay himself out chiefly for that branch of the profession, and every aid was given him to do so. sir john thought that his steady character, united to considerable natural talent, well deserved encouragement. the result was, that when he grew to manhood he introduced him to the notice of several families of distinction, and he soon began to get a name and to acquire a considerable income. walters lived to see him married and prosperous, and ever true to the principles he had instilled into him as a child. at a good old age dear old john walters passed away to his rest. his death was calm and happy as his life had been. his remains lie in the little churchyard at denham, a plain white stone marking the spot. many still remember and speak of him with affection. amongst the number is sir john, now himself grown old. sometimes he has been heard to exclaim, as he pauses an instant before the grave-- "let my last end be like his!" catalogue of new and popular works published by s. w. partridge & co. new books. s. the grand chaco: a boy's adventures in an unknown land by g. manville fenn, author of "the crystal hunters," "nolens volens," "dick o' the fens," etc., etc. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra, gilt edges. s. d. each. ailsa's reaping; or, grape-vines and thorns. by jennie chappell, author of "wild bryonie; or, bonds of steel and bands of love," "for honour's sake," "her saddest blessing," etc., etc. illustrated, crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. six stories by pansy. third series. containing "the man of the house," "julia ried," "a new graft," "interrupted," "the pocket measure," and "the little fishers and their nets." imperial vo, pages. fully illustrated and well bound in cloth, with attractive coloured design on cover. _also first and second series uniform in style and price._ s. d. each. the young moose hunters: a backwoods-boy's story. by c. a. stephens. profusely illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra (uniform with "the red mountain of alaska.") olive chauncey's trust. by mrs. e. r. pitman, author of "vestina's martyrdom," "lady missionaries in foreign lands," etc. crown vo. cloth extra. illustrated. the lion city of africa: a story of adventure, by willis boyd allen, author of "the red mountain of alaska," "pine cones," etc., etc. twenty-four illustrations. crown vo. cloth extra. s. each. a way in the wilderness. by maggie swan. crown vo. handsome cloth cover. illustrated. her saddest blessing. by jennie chappell, author of "wild bryonie," etc., etc. handsomely bound in cloth. crown vo. illustrated. avice: a story of imperial rome, by eliza f. pollard. crown vo. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated. s. d. each. nella; or, not my own. by jessie goldsmith cooper. crown vo. illustrated. cloth extra. martin redfern's oath. by ethel f. heddle. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra. tamsin rosewarne and her burdens: a tale of cornish life. by nellie cornwall, author of "hallvard halvorsen," etc. illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra. nature's mighty wonders. by rev. dr. newton. new series. handsomely bound in cloth boards and beautifully illustrated. author's edition. the safe compass, and how it points. by rev. dr. newton. new series. handsomely bound in cloth boards and beautifully illustrated. author's edition. c. h. spurgeon: his life and ministry. by jesse page, author of "david brainerd," "henry martyn," etc. third edition. crown vo. pages. beautifully illustrated with full-page and other engravings. handsomely bound. cloth extra. four heroes of india: clive, warren hastings, havelock, lawrence. by f. m. holmes, author of "andrew garth's apprentices," "perseverance and success," etc. crown vo. pages. beautifully illustrated with full-page and other engravings. handsomely bound. cloth extra. madagascar: its missionaries and martyrs. by william j. townsend, author of "robert morrison, the pioneer of chinese missions," etc., etc. crown vo. pages. beautifully illustrated with full-page and other engravings. handsomely bound. cloth extra. s. each. una bruce's troubles. by alice price, author of "hamilton of king's," etc. illustrated by harold copping. crown vo. cloth extra. phil's frolic. by f. scarlett potter, author of "faith's father," etc. illustrated by w. rainey, r.i. crown vo. cloth extra. our den. by f. m. waterworth, author of "master lionel, that tiresome child." illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra. grannie's treasures, and how they helped her. by l. e. tiddeman. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra. recitations and concerted pieces for bands of hope, sunday schools, etc. compiled by james weston, author of "bible pictures and stories," "sunny hours, a picture story book for the young," etc., etc. crown vo. cloth extra. thoroughness: talks to young men. by thain davidson, d.d., author of "brave and true," "sure to succeed," etc., etc. small crown vo. cloth extra. sunbeam's pictures and stories: a picture story book for boys and girls. by d. j. d., author of "sunny faces," etc., etc. four full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. fcap. to. with coloured covers and full of illustrations. little rosebud's picture book: a picture story book for little folks. by j. d., author of "bright rays for cloudy days," etc. four full-page coloured and many other illustrations. fcap. to. with coloured covers and full of illustrations. coloured toy books. our playtime. a series of full-page and coloured vignettes, illustrating children at play, with descriptive letterpress. beautifully printed in seven colours in the best style of lithography. beautiful coloured cover, varnished. size / by / inches. our lifeboats: pictures of peril and rescue. a series of full-page and vignetted pictures of lifeboats, rocket apparatus, saving life at sea, and heroic exploits, with descriptive letterpress. beautifully printed in seven colours in the best style of lithography. size {unreadable} by / inches. d. each. new volumes. jean jacques: a story of the franco-prussian war. by isabel lawford. small crown vo. cloth extra. illustrated. dawson's madge; or, the poacher's daughter. by t. m. browne, author of "the musgrove ranch," etc. small crown vo. cloth extra. illustrated. d. each. noel's lesson. by meta. one christmas; or, how it came round. by jennie chappell d. each. the pretty "gift-book" series. with coloured frontispiece and illustrations on every page. paper boards. covers printed in five colours, and varnished. cloth boards, d. each. my pretty picture book. birdie's picture book. baby's delight. mamma's pretty stories. tiny tot's treasures. papa's present. pretty bible stories. baby's bible picture book. ethel's keepsake. out of school. pictures for laughing eyes. cheerful and happy. list of illustrated books, etc., classified according to prices. s. the crystal hunters: a boy's adventures in the higher alps. by g. manville fenn, author of "nolens volens; or, the adventures of don lavington," "dick o' the fens," etc. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra, bevelled boards, gilt edges. nolens volens; or, the adventures of don lavington. by george manville fenn, author of "dick o' the fens," "the golden magnet," etc. with fifteen illustrations by w. rainey. crown vo. pages. cloth extra, gilt edges. s. d. each. the pilgrim's progress. by john bunyan. illustrated with full-page and other engravings, drawn by frederick barnard, j. d. linton, w. small, and engraved by dalziel brothers. crown to. cloth extra, s. d. (gilt edges, s.) cousin mary. by mrs. oliphant, author of "chronicles of carlingford," "carita," "the makers of florence," etc. crown vo. cloth extra. illustrated by charles gregory, r.i. the eagle cliff: a tale of the western isles. by r. m. ballantyne, author of "fighting the flames," etc., etc. illustrated by w. h. groome. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. for honour's sake. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," etc., etc. illustrated by j. tresidder. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. gathered grain, consisting of select extracts from the best authors. edited by e. a. h. fourth edition. crown vo, cloth. hymn writers and their hymns. by rev. s. w. christophers. new edition. pages. crown vo. cloth extra. john winter: a story of harvests. by edward garrett, author of "occupations of a retired life," etc., etc. with eleven illustrations by s. reid and w. rainey. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. the lady of the forest. by l. t. meade, author of "scamp and i," "sweet nancy," etc. with several illustrations. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. living it down. by laura m. lane, author of "my lady di," "gentleman verschoyle," etc. illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. mad john burleigh: a story of heroic self-sacrifice. by mrs. charles garnett, author of "her two sons," etc., etc. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. more precious than gold. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," etc. with illustrations. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. robert aske: a story of the reformation. by e. f. pollard. illustrated by c. j. staniland, r.i. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. six stories by pansy. imperial vo. pages. fully illustrated and well bound in cloth, with attractive coloured design on cover, and six complete stories in each vol. vols. , , & , s. d. ea. the story of the bible. arranged in simple style for young people. one hundred illustrations. demy vo. cloth extra, s. d. (gilt edges, bevelled boards, s. d.) vashti savage. by sarah tytler. illustrated by robert barnes. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. wild bryonie; or, bonds of steel and bands of love. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," "more precious than gold," "for honour's sake," etc. illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. s. d. each. story of jesus. for little children. by mrs. g. e. morton, author of "wee donald," etc., etc. many illustrations. imperial mo. bible pictures and stories. old and new testament. in one volume. bound in handsome cloth, with eighty-nine full-page illustrations by eminent artists. mick tracy, the irish scripture reader. with engravings. fifteenth thousand. crown vo. cloth. a ride to picture-land: a book of joys for girls and boys. by r. v., author of "sunshine for showery days." with charming coloured frontispiece, and full of beautiful pictures for children. paper boards, with coloured design on cover. _a delightful picture book for little folks. a picture gallery by first-rate artists_. _the red mountain series. crown_ _vo. illustrated._ _handsomely bound in cloth boards._ _s._ _d. each._ red mountain of alaska. by willis boyd allen, author of "pine coves," "the northern cross," etc. with fifteen illustrations. pages. cloth extra. the young moose hunters: a backwoods-boy's story. by c. a. stephens. profusely illustrated. (uniform with "the red mountain of alaska.") olive chauncey's trust. by mrs. e. r. pitman, author of "vestina's martyrdom," "lady missionaries in foreign lands," etc. the lion city of africa: a story of adventures. by willis boyd allen, author of "the red mountain of alaska," "pine cones," etc., etc. twenty-four illustrations. by sea-shore, wood, and moorland: peeps at nature. by edward step, author of "plant life," "dick's holidays," etc. upwards of two hundred illustrations by harrison weir, w. rainey, r. kretschmer, f. giacomelli, theo. carreras, etc. grace ashleigh; or, his ways are best. by mary d. r. boyd. with eight full-page engravings by robert barnes. hamilton of king's. by alice price, author of "hilary st. john," "who is sylvia?" etc. with ten illustrations by a. pearse. eaglehurst towers. by emma marshall, author of "fine gold," etc. edwin, the boy outlaw; or, the dawn of freedom in england. a story of the days of robin hood. by j. frederick hodgetts, author of "older england," etc. "not wanted"; or, the wreck of the "providence." by eliza f. pollard, author of "robert aske," etc. leaders into unknown lands: being chapters of recent travel. by a. montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s., author of "h. m. stanley, the african explorer," etc. maps and illustrations. s. each. the home library. crown vo. pages. handsome cloth cover. illustrations. by pansy: three people. four girls at chautauqua. an endless chain. the chautauqua girls at home. wise and otherwise. the king's daughter. ruth erskine's crosses. ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. julia ried. the man of the house. by annie s. swan: mark desborough's vow. the better part. the strait gate. a way in the wilderness. by maggie swan. by jane m. kippen: edith oswald; or, living for others. ( pages.) florence stanley; or, forgiving, because much forgiven. a bunch of cherries. by j. w. kirton. the household angel. by madeline leslie. morning dew-drops. by clara lucas balfour. new and revised edition. profusely illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra. avice: a story of imperial rome. by eliza f. pollard. by jennie chappell: without a thought; or, dora's discipline. her saddest blessing. anecdotes in natural history. by rev. f. o. morris, b.a. with numerous illustrations. fcap. to. cloth extra. animals and their young. by harland coultas. with twenty-four full-page illustrations by harrison weir. fcap. to. cloth gilt, bevelled boards (uniform with "natural history stories"). natural history stories. by mary howitt. with thirty-two full-page engravings by harrison weir, l. huard, etc., and numerous smaller illustrations. f'cap. to. cloth gilt, bevelled boards. birds and their nests. by mary howitt. with twenty-three full-page illustrations, and numerous smaller woodcuts. fcap. to. cloth extra. dogs and their doings. by rev. f. o. morris, author of "a history of british birds," etc. with numerous illustrations. fcap. to. cloth extra. our dumb companions. by rev. t. jackson, m. a. one hundred and twenty illustrations. fcap. to. cloth extra. bible picture roll. containing a large engraving of a scripture subject, with letterpress for each day in the month. natural history picture roll. consisting of illustrated leaves, with simple large-type letterpress, suitable to hang up in the nursery, schoolroom, etc. sunny teachings: a coloured bible picture roll. size / by / inches. contains twelve beautifully coloured pictures of bible subjects, printed on good paper. mounted on roller, with cord for hanging, and with glazed coloured cover, s. _a treasure for the schoolroom or nursery_. s. d. each. _new popular biographies. crown_ _vo._ _pages. maps and_ _illustrations. cloth extra_, four heroes of india: clive, warren hastings, havelock, lawrence. by f. m. holmes, author of "andrew garth's apprentices," "perseverence and success," etc. c. h. spurgeon: his life and ministry. by jesse page, author of "samuel crowther, the slave boy who became bishop of the niger," etc., etc. michael faraday, man of science. by walter jerrold. florence nightingale, the wounded soldier's friend. by eliza f. pollard. the slave and his champions: sketches of granville sharp, thomas clarkson, william wilberforce, and sir t. f. buxton. by c. d. michael. two noble lives:--john wicliffe, the morning star of the reformation; and martin luther, the reformer. by david j. deane. ( pages.) "one and all." an autobiography of richard tangye, of the cornwall works, birmingham. with twenty-one original illustrations by frank hewett. ( pages.) david livingstone: his labours and his legacy. by arthur montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s., author of "h. m. stanley, the african explorer." henry m. stanley, the african explorer. by arthur montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s. ninth edition, enlarged. _new series of missionary biographies. crown_ _vo._ _pages._ _cloth extra. fully illustrated._ madagascar: its missionaries and martyrs. by william j. townsend, author of "robert morrison, the pioneer of chinese missions," etc., etc. david brainerd, the apostle to the north american indians. by jesse page. james calvert; or, from dark to dawn in fiji. by r. vernon. fully illustrated. henry martyn: his life and labours--cambridge, india, persia. by jesse page, author of "samuel crowther," etc., etc. john williams, the martyr missionary of polynesia, by rev. james j. ellis. lady missionaries in foreign lands. by mrs. e. r. pitman, author of "vestina's martyrdom," etc., etc. samuel crowther, the slave boy who became bishop of the niger. by jesse page, author of "bishop patteson, the martyr of melanesia." thomas j. comber, missionary pioneer to the congo. by rev. j. b. myers, association secretary, baptist missionary society, author of "william carey, the shoemaker who became the father and founder of modern missions." william carey, the shoemaker who became the father and founder of modern missions. by rev. j. b. myers, association secretary, baptist missionary society. robert moffat, the missionary hero of kuruman. by david j. deane, author of "martin luther the reformer," "john wicliffe," etc. james chalmers, missionary and explorer of rarotonga and new guinea. by william robson, of the london missionary society. robert morrison, the pioneer of chinese missions. by william john townsend, general secretary of the methodist new connexion missionary society, author of "the great schoolmen of the middle ages." bishop patteson, the martyr of melanesia. by jesse page. griffith john, founder of the hankow mission, central china. by william robson, of the london missionary society. _one hundred and ninety-five thousand of these popular volumes have already been sold_. _one shilling and sixpenny reward books_. _crown_ _vo. cloth extra. fully illustrated_. amaranth's garden. by m. s. haycraft, author of "a quarrel most unnatural," etc., etc. illustrated by w. rainey. a sailor's lass. by emma leslie, author of "the gipsy queen," "dearer than life," etc. the canal boy who became president. by frederic t. gammon. eleventh edition. thirty-first thousand. changing places; or, wilton fairlegh in animal-land. by gertrude jerdon, author of "keyhole country," etc. full of illustrations by w. ralston and other artists. clovie and madge. by mrs. g. s. reaney, author of "our daughters," "found at last," etc. the dairyman's daughter. by the rev. legh richmond, m. a. dora coyne; or, hid in the heart. by jessie m. f. saxby. illustrated by robert barnes. ellerslie house. a book for boys. by emma leslie. with eight full-page engravings. fine gold; or, ravenswood courtenay. by emma marshall. author of "eaglehurst towers," "a flight with the swallows," etc. gerald's dilemma. by emma leslie, author of "bolingbroke's folly," "the five cousins," etc. good servants, good wives, and happy homes. by rev. t. h. walker. hampered; or, the hollister family and their trials. by a. k. dunning. her two sons. a story for young men and maidens. by mrs. charles garnett, author of "mad john burleigh: a story of heroic self-sacrifice," etc. hilda; or, life's discipline. by edith c. kenyon. with numerous illustrations. hours with girls. by mrs. margaret e. sangster, author of "may stanhope and her friends," "splendid times," etc. how the village was won. by isabel s. robson. jack's heroism. a story of schoolboy life. by edith c. kenyon. the lads of kingston. by james capes story, author of "manchester house," etc. like a little candle; or, bertrande's influence. by mrs. haycraft, author of "little mother," etc. the little princess of tower hill. by l. t. meade, author of "sweet nancy," etc. the little woodman and his dog caesar. by mrs. sherwood. manchester house: a tale of two apprentices. by j. capes story. marigold. by l. t. meade, author of "lady of the forest," etc., etc. mrs. lupton's lodgings. by laura m. lane, author of "living it down," "heroes of every-day life," etc. our duty to animals. by mrs. c. bray, author of "physiology for schools," etc. intended to teach the young kindness to animals. cloth, s. d.; school edition, s. d. rag and tag. a plea for the waifs and strays of old england. by mrs. e. j. whittaker. sallie's boy. by jessie m. f. saxby, author of "dora coyne," etc., etc. satisfied. by catherine m. trowbridge. with ten illustrations by w. rainey. yvonne st. claire; or, won by patience. by eliza f. pollard, author of "robert aske," etc., etc. illustrated by w. rainey. christ and full salvation. by rev. j. b. figgis, m.a. new and cheaper edition. cloth. life truths. by the rev. j. denham smith. mo. cloth. (paper, fourteenth thousand, d.) women of the bible. old and new testament. in one volume. royal mo. cloth. s. each. _picture books for the young. fcap_. _to_. _with coloured covers,_ _and full of illustrations_. sunbeam's pictures and stories: a picture story book for boys and girls. by d. j. d., author of "sunny faces," etc., etc. four full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. little rosebud's picture book: a picture story book for little folks. by j. d., author of "bright rays for cloudy days," etc. four full-page coloured and many other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. sunny hours: a picture story book for the young. by james weston, author of "the young folks' picture book," etc., etc. with four full-page beautifully coloured and many other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. bright rays for cloudy days. pictures and stories for the little ones. by j. d., author of "smiles and dimples," etc. with four full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s. cloth, s. d. smiles and dimples; or, happy hours for little pets. by j. d., author of "merry times for tiny folks." with four beautifully coloured and many other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s. cloth, s. d. merry times for tiny folks. by j. d. with four beautifully coloured full-page and thirty-five other illustrations. coloured paper cover, s.; cloth, s. d. playtime pictures and stories. by uncle harry, author of "holiday hours in animal land." full of illustrations. coloured paper boards, s. cloth, s. d. bible pictures and stories. old testament. by d. j. d., author of "pets abroad," etc. with about forty-four full-page illustrations. coloured paper boards, s. cloth gilt, s. d bible pictures and stories. new testament. by james weston and d. j. d. with forty-five beautiful full-page illustration. by w. j. webb, sir john gilbert, and others. new edition. th thousand. fcap. to. illustrated boards, s. cloth extra, s. d. holiday hours in animal-land. by uncle harry. with forty-four full-page illustrations. coloured paper boards, s. cloth, s. d. second edition. coloured toy books. s. each. our playtime. a series of full-page and coloured vignettes, illustrating children at play, with descriptive letterpress. beautifully printed in seven colours in the best style of lithography. coloured cover, varnished. size / by / inches. our lifeboats: pictures of peril and rescue. a series of full-page and vignetted pictures of lifeboats, rocket apparatus, saving life at sea, and heroic exploits, with descriptive letterpress. beautifully printed in seven colours in the best style of lithography. size / by / inches. animals at home and abroad. fourteen coloured pages of animals drawn from life, with appropriate foot-lines. printed in seven colours, in the best style of lithography. beautiful coloured cover, varnished. size / by / inches. off to the fire; or, the fire brigade and its work. a series of full-page and vignetted pictures of fire scenes, escapes, saving life at fires, steamers and manuals in action, etc., etc., with descriptive letterpress. beautifully printed in seven colours in the best style of lithography. with coloured varnished cover. size / by / inches. _welcome in every nursery, and by children of all ages_. _one shilling reward books._ _fully illustrated_. _pages. crown_ _vo. cloth extra._ a flight with the swallows; or, little dorothy's dream. by emma marshall, author of "poppies and pansies," "silver chimes," etc. arthur egerton's ordeal; or, god's ways not our ways. by the author of "ellerslie house," etc. the babes in the basket; or, daph and her charge. with ten illustrations. the band of hope companion. a hand-book for band of hope members: biographical, historical, scientific, and anecdotal. by alf. g. glasspool. bible pattern of a good woman. by mrs. balfour. birdie and her dog, and other stories of canine sagacity. by miss phillips. bolingbroke's folly. by emma leslie, author of "a sailor's lass," etc., etc. cared for; or, the orphan wanderers. by mrs. c. e. bowen, author of "dick and his donkey," etc. children and jesus; or, stories to children about jesus. by rev. e. p. hammond. chine cabin. by mrs. haycraft, author of "red dave," "little mother," etc. dulcie delight. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," "for honour's sake," etc. fiddy scraggs; or, a clumsy foot may step true. by anna j. buckland, author of "love and duty," etc. fisher reuel: a story of storm, loss, and gain. by maggie symington. frank burleigh; or, chosen to be a soldier. by l. phillips. frank spencer's rule of life. by j. w. kirton, author of "buy your own cherries." frying-pan alley. by mrs. f. west. with illustrations by r. barnes. harold; or, two died for me. by laura a. barter, illustrated. crown vo. cloth extra. how a farthing made a fortune; or, "honesty is the best policy." by mrs. c. e. bowen. how paul's penny became a pound. by mrs. bowen, author of "dick and his donkey." how peter's pound became a penny. by the author of "jack the conqueror," etc. jack the conqueror; or, difficulties overcome. by the author of "dick and his donkey." jemmy lawson; or, beware of crooked ways. by e. c. kenyon, author of "jack's heroism." jenny's geranium; or, the prize flower of a london court. joe and sally; or, a good deed and its fruits. by the author of "ronald's reason." kindness to animals. by charlotte elizabeth. with numerous illustrations. the last of the abbots. by rev. a. brown. new edition. left with a trust. by nellie hellis, author of "the three fiddlers," etc., etc. the little bugler: a tale of the american civil war, by george munroe royce. (new edition.) marion and augusta; or, love and selfishness. by emma leslie, author of "ellerslie house," "the five cousins," etc. mind whom you marry; or, the gardener's daughter. by the rev. c. g. rowe. the mother's chain; or, the broken link. by emma marshall, author of "fine gold; or, ravenswood courtenay," etc. nan; or, the power of love. by eliza f. pollard, author of "avice," "hope deferred," etc. nan's story; or, the life and work of a city arab. by l. sharp. no gains without pains. a true story. by h. c. knight. only a little fault. by emma leslie, author of "water waifs," etc. poor blossom. the story of a horse. by e. h. b. sweet nancy. by l. t. meade, author of "scamp and i," "a band of three," etc. temperance stories for the young. by t. s. arthur, author of "ten nights in a bar room." toil and trust; or, life-story of patty, the workhouse girl. by mrs. balfour. wait till it blooms. by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," etc. who was the culprit? by jennie chappell, author of "her saddest blessing," "the man of the family," "dulcie delight," etc. books by rev. dr newton. new and cheap edition. pages. crown vo. prettily bound in cloth boards, s. each. bible jewels. bible wonders. the giants, and how to fight them. the great pilot and his lessons. rills from the fountain of life. specially suitable for sunday school libraries and rewards. brave and true. talks to young men by thain davidson, d.d., author of "talks with young men," "sure to succeed," "a good start," etc. small crown vo. cloth. biblical difficulties, and how to meet them. a series of papers by dr. clifford, dr. hiles hitchens, rev. f. b. meyer, and others. edited by f. a. atkins. small crown vo. cloth. daybreak in the soul. by the rev. e. w. moore, m.a., author of "the overcoming life." imperial mo. pages. cloth. my guest chamber; or, for the master's use. by sophia m. nugent, author of "the prince in the midst," etc., etc. imperial mo. pages. cloth. women of the bible. (old testament.) by etty woosnam, third edition. royal mo. cloth. women of the bible. (new testament.) by the same author. royal mo. cloth. d. each. fully illustrated. pages. small crown vo, cloth extra. jean jacques: a story of the franco-prussian war. by isabel lawford. dawson's madge; or, the poacher's daughter. by t. m. browne, author of "the musgrove ranch," etc. a boy's friendship. by jesse page, author of "that boy bob," etc. bel's baby. by mary e. ropes, author of "talkative friends," etc. benjamin holt's boys, and what they did for him. by the author of "a candle lighted by the lord." second edition. ben's boyhood. by the author of "jack the conqueror," etc. ben owen: a lancashire story. by jennie perrett. second edition. cousin bessie: a story of youthful earnestness. by clara lucas balfour. the five cousins. by emma leslie, author of "a sailor's lass," etc. for lucy's sake. by annie s. swan. grandmother's child. by annie s. swan. into the light. by jennie perrett. john oriel's start in life. by mary howitt. little mother. by margaret haycraft. the man of the family, etc. by jennie chappell, author of "more precious than gold," etc. mattie's home; or, the little match-girl and her friends. rosa; or, the two castles. by eliza weaver bradburn. _more than one hundred and thirty-four thousand of this attractive_ _series of ninepenny books have been sold_. d. each. _the "red dave" series of illustrated tales._ _thirty-five volumes, uniform. fcap_. _vo_. _pages._ _cloth extra._ red dave; or, "what wilt thou have me to do?" by m. s. macritchie. noel's lesson. by meta. one christmas; or, how it came round. by jennie chappell. greycliffe abbey; or, cecil's trust. by jennie perrett, author of "ben owen," etc. jessie dyson: a story for the young. by john a. walker. wanderings of a bible. by clara lucas balfour. harry's monkey: how it helped the missionaries; and other stories. herbert's first year at bramford. by the author of "dick and his donkey." no work, no bread. by the author of "jessica's first prayer." "vic:" the autobiography of a pomeranian dog. by alfred c. fryer, ph.d., m.a. third edition. lost in the snow; or, the kentish fishermen. by mrs. c. rigg. friendless bob; and other stories. come home, mother. by nelsie brook. maude's visit to sandybeach. by mrs. waller. dick and his donkey; or, how to pay the rent. by mrs. c. e. bowen. that boy bob, and all about him. by jesse page. snowdrops; or, life from the dead. with illustrations. leonard franklin, the watercress seller. by h. c. h. a. sybil and her live snowball. by the author of "dick and his donkey." to which is added "the story of the bird's nest." donald's charge. by harriet boultwood, author of "john farrar's ordeal," etc. dottles and carrie. by jesse page. carlos, and what the flowers did. barker's gardens. by jesse page, author of "that boy bob," "dottles and carrie," etc. two lilies and other stories. by jennie chappell. only a bunch of cherries. by emma marshall. dandy jim. by the same author. dick's schooldays. by jesse page. the pearly gates. by mrs. rigg. daybreak. by florence a. sitwell. toots: the autobiography of a persian cat. by alfred c. fryer, ph.d., m.a., author of "vic: the autobiography of a pomeranian dog," etc. the church mouse, and the young potato roasters. ronald's reason; or, the little cripple, and other stories. aunt kelly's christmas box; or, the mystery of a £ note. by jennie chappell. bright ben. the story of a mother's boy. by jesse page. buy your own cherries; and how sam adams' pipe became a pig. by j. w. kirton. d. each. partridge's cheap "pansy" series. imperial vo. pages. many illustrations. cover printed in five colours. new issues. interrupted. the pocket measure. little fishers and their nets. a new graft on the family tree. the man of the house. julia ried mrs. solomon smith looking on. links in rebecca's life. chrissy's endeavour. three people. four girls at chautauqua. an endless chain. the king's daughter. the chautauqua girls at home. wise and otherwise. ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. ruth erskine's crosses. the above numbers may also be had in three vols., cloth, s. d. each. the tiny library. books printed in large type. cloth. little chrissie; and other stories. harry carlton's holiday. a little loss and a big find. what a little cripple did. bobby. matty and tom. the broken window. john madge's cure for selfishness the pedlar's loan. letty young's trials. brave boys. little jem, the rag merchant. illustrated monthlies. the yearly volume, with coloured paper boards, and full of engravings, s. d. each; cloth, s. d. enlarged to eight pages. the british workman. an illustrated paper containing popular articles and stories inculcating religion, temperance, thrift, and the general well-being of the working classes. one penny monthly. the yearly volumes for , , , , , , and , may still be had as above. the five-year volume, to , may still be had, cloth gilt, gilt edges, s. d. the yearly volume, coloured cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the family friend. full of entertaining and useful reading, and beautiful illustrations. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with numerous engravings, ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth s.; gilt edges, s. d. the children's friend. with excellent serial and short stories, prize competition, puzzles, music, etc., and illustrations by the best artists. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for may still be had as above. the yearly volume, ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the infants' magazine. printed in clear, bold type, and containing charming pictures for the little ones. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, in ornamental cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. the friendly visitor. gospel stories and poems, printed in large type, and finely illustrated. one penny monthly ( pages). the yearly volumes for , , , , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with coloured cover and full of engravings, s.; gilt, s. each. the band of hope review. the leading temperance journal for youth, with striking illustrations by the foremost artists of the day. one halfpenny monthly. the yearly volumes for , , , and , may still be had as above. the yearly volume, with coloured cover, s. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. each. the mothers' companion. one penny monthly ( pages), fully illustrated. containing, in addition to serial stories and articles of general interest by popular writers, papers upon all matters relating to the management of the home. the yearly volumes for , , , , and , may still be had. , paternoster row, london. [transcriber's notes: this book contains a number of misprints. the following misprints have been corrected: [hazell, watson, and viney, ld. printers, london] --> [hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london] ["perseverence and success,"] --> ["perseverance and success,"] [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustration.] -> [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustrations.] in the catalog at the end of the book, near "our lifeboats:" the size of the book is described with two numbers, the first of which is unreadable. this has been replaced with {unreadable} an illustrations-list has been added after the contents-list ] provided by the internet archive [illustration: ] tom, the piper's son by anonymous price one half-penny. march, , webber street. [illustration: ] tom, the piper's son. |tom, he was a piper's son, `he learn'd to play when he was ```young; `the only tune that he could play `was over the hills and far away.= `tom, tom, the piper's son, ``stole a pig, and away he run; [illustration: ] `the pig was eat tom was beat, ``and tom ran roaring down ```the street.= `here is a long tailed pig, or a ```short tailed pig, all sorts of ```pigs for sale: `a boar pig, or a sow pig, or a ```pig with a curly tail.= [illustration: ] `all the little girls and boys ``were so delighted with his ```noise, `they'd dance and sing, while he ```did play ``over the hills and far away.= `tom now learn'd another tune, ``"the cow that jumped o'er the ```moon." [illustration: ] `it made the horned cattle prance, ``and caused the sleepy pigs to ```dance.= `tom saw a donkey pass along, `then played a little merry song; `the donkey danc'd about the ```road, `and soon was lighten'd of his ```load.= [illustration: ] `tom, next met a pretty lass, ``tending cows upon the grass `he tuned his pipe, which caused ```much fun.= `the cow, she danced, the maid ```she run. `dame trot went out to sell her ```eggs. `he used his pipe, and she her legs [illustration: ] `her eggs were very sadly broke, ``while wicked tom enjoy'd ```the joke.= `tom met the parson on his way, ``took out his pipe, began to ```play, `a merry tune, that led his grace ``into a very dirty place.= [illustration: ] `the mayor then said, he would ```not fail ``to send poor tommy off to jail `tom took his pipe, began to play, ``and all the court soon danc'd ```away.= `'twas quite a treat to see the rout ``how clerks and judges hop- ```ped about.= [illustration: ] `policeman grab, who held him ```fast, ``began to dance about at last; `whilst tom delighted at the ```fun, ``slipped out of court, and off ```did run.= ````finis. the coast of chance _by_ esther and lucia chamberlain with illustrations by clarence f. underwood [illustration: flora gilsey.] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company april * * * * * contents chapter page i the vanishing mystery ii a name goes round a table iii encounters on parade iv flowers by the way v on guard vi black magic vii a spell is cast viii a spark of horror ix illumination x a lady unveiled xi the mystery takes human form xii disenchantment xiii thrust and parry xiv comedy conveys a warning xv a lady in distress xvi the heart of the dilemma xvii the demigod xviii goblin tactics xix the face in the garden xx flight xxi the house of quiet xxii clara's market xxiii touche xxiv the comic mask xxv the last enchantment the coast of chance i the vanishing mystery flora gilsey stood on the threshold of her dining-room. she had turned her back on it. she swayed forward. her bare arms were lifted. her hands lightly caught the molding on either side of the door. she was looking intently into the mirror at the other end of the hall. all the lights in the dining-room were lit, and she saw herself rather keenly set against their brilliance. the straight-held head, the lifted arms, the short, slender waist, the long, long sweep of her skirts made her seem taller than she actually was; and the strong, bright growth of her hair and the vivacity of her face made her seem more deeply colored. she had poised there for the mere survey of a new gown, but after a moment of dwelling on her own reflection she found herself considering it only as an object in the foreground of a picture. that picture, seen through the open door, reflected in the glass, was all of a bright, hard glitter, all a high, harsh tone of newness. in its paneled oak, in its glare of cut-glass and silver, in the shining vacant faces of its floors and walls, there was not a color that filled the eye, not a shadow where imagination could find play. as a background for herself it struck her as incongruous. like a child looking at the landscape upside down, she felt herself in a foreign country. yet it was hers. she turned about to bring it into familiar association. there was nothing wrong with it. but its great capacity suggested large parties rather than close intimacies. in the high lift of its ceilings, the ample openings of its doors, the swept, garnished, polished beauty of its cold surfaces, it proclaimed itself conceived, created and decorated for large, fine functions. she thought whimsically that any one who knew her, coming into her house, would realize that some one other than herself had the ordering of it. she glanced over the table. it was set for three. it lacked nothing but the serving of dinner. she looked at the clock. it wanted a few minutes to the hour. shima, the japanese butler, came in softly with the evening papers. she took them from him. nothing bored her so much as a paper, but to-night she knew it contained something she really wanted to see. she opened one of the damp sheets at the page of sales. there it was at the head of the column in thick black type: at auction, february personal estate of elizabeth hunter chatworth consisting of---- she read the details with interest down to the end, where the name of the "famous chatworth ring" finished the announcement with a flourish. why "famous"? it was very provoking to advertise with that vague adjective and not explain it. she turned indifferently to the first page. she read a sentence, re-read it, read it again. then, as if she could not read fast enough, her eyes galloped down the column. color came into her cheeks. the grasp of her hands on the edges of the paper tightened. it was the most extraordinary thing! she was bewildered with the feeling that what was blazing at her from the columns of the paper was at once the wildest thing that could possibly have happened, and yet the one most to have been expected. for, from the first the business had been sinister, from as far back as the tragedy--the end of poor young chatworth and his wife--the bessie, who, before her english marriage, they had all known so well. her death, that had befallen in far italian alps, had made a sensation in their little city, and the large announcements of auction that had followed hard upon it had bred among the women who had known her a morbid excitement, a feverish desire to buy, as if there might be some special luck in them, the jewels of a woman who had so tragically died. they had been ready to make a social affair of the private view held in the "maple room" before the auction. and now the whole spectacular business was capped by a sensation so dramatic as to strain credulity to its limit. she could not believe it; yet here it was glaring at her from the first page. still--it might be an exaggeration, a mistake. she must go back to the beginning and read it over slowly. the striking of the hour hurried her. shima's announcement of dinner only sent her eyes faster down the page. but when, with a faint, smooth rustle, mrs. britton came in, she let the paper fall. she always faced her chaperon with a little nervousness, and with the same sense of strangeness with which she so frequently regarded her house. "it's fifteen minutes after eight," mrs. britton observed. "we would better not wait any longer." she took the place opposite flora's at the round table. flora sat down, still holding the paper, flushed and bolt upright with her news. "it's the most extraordinary thing!" she burst forth. mrs. britton paused mildly with a radish in her fingers. she took in the presence of the paper, and the suppressed excitement of her companion's face--seemed to absorb them through the large pupils of her light eyes, through all her smooth, pretty person, before she reached for an explanation. "what is the most extraordinary thing?" the query came bland and smooth, as if, whatever it was, it could not surprise her. "why, the chatworth ring! at the private view this afternoon it simply vanished! and--and it was all our own crowd who were there!" "vanished!" clara britton leaned forward, peering hard in the face of this extraordinary statement. "stolen, do you mean?" she made it definite. flora flung out her hands. "well, it disappeared in the maple room, in the middle of the afternoon, when everybody was there--and they haven't the faintest clue." "but how?" for a moment the preposterous fact left clara too quick to be calm. again flora's eloquent hands. "that is it! it was in a case like all the other jewels. harry saw it"--she glanced at the paper--"as late as four o'clock. when he came back with judge buller, half an hour after, it was gone." flora leaned forward on her elbows, chin in hands. no two could have differed more than these two women in their blondness and their prettiness and their wonder. for clara was sharp and pale, with silvery lights in eyes and hair, and confronted the facts with an alert and calculating observation; but flora was tawny, toned from brown to ivory through all the gamut of gold--hair color of a panther's hide, eyes dark hazel, glinting through dust-colored lashes, chin round like a fruit. the pressure of her fingers accented the slight uptilt of her brows to elfishness, and her look was introspective. she might, instead of wondering on the outside, have been the very center of the mystery itself, toying with unthinkable possibilities of revelation. she looked far over the head of clara britton's annoyance that there should be no clue. "why, don't you see," she pointed out, "that is just the fun of it? it might be anybody. it might be you, or me, or ella buller. though i would much prefer to think it was some one we didn't know so well--some one strange and fascinating, who will presently go slipping out the golden gate in a little junk boat, so that no one need be embarrassed." clara looked back with extraordinary intentness. "oh, it's not possible the thing is stolen. there's some mistake! and if it were"--her eyes seemed to open a little wider to take in this possibility--"they will have detectives all around the water front by to-night. any one would find it difficult to get away," she pointed out. "you see, the ring is an important piece of property." "of course; i know," flora murmured. a faint twitch of humor pulled her mouth, but the passionate romantic color was dying out of her face. how was it that one's romances could be so cruelly pulled down to earth? she ought to have learned by this time, she thought, never to fly her little flag of romance except to an empty horizon--never, at least, to fly it in clara's face. it was always as promptly surrounded by clara's common sense as san francisco would be surrounded by the police. but still she couldn't quite come down to clara. "at least," she sighed, "he has saved me an awful expense, whoever took it, for i should have had to have it." mrs. britton surveyed this statement consideringly. "was it the most valuable thing in the collection?" flora hesitated in the face of the alert question. "i--don't know. but it was the most remarkable. it was a chatworth heirloom, the papers say, and was given to bessie at the time of her marriage." the thought of the death that had so quickly followed that marriage gave flora a little shiver, but no shade of the tragedy touched clara. there was nothing but speculation in clara's eyes--that, and a little disappointment. "then they will put off the auction--if it is really so," she mused. "oh, yes," flora mourned, "they can put it off as long as they please. the only thing i wanted is gone--and i hadn't even seen it." "well, i wouldn't be too sure. there may be some mistake about it. the papers love a sensation." "but there must be something in it, clara. why, they closed the doors and searched them--_that_ crowd! it's ridiculous!" clara britton glanced at the empty place. "then that must be what has kept him." "who? oh, harry!" it took flora a moment to remember she had been expecting harry. she hoped clara had not noticed it. clara always had too much the assumption that she was taking him only as the best-looking, best-natured, safest bargain presented. "he will be here," she reassured, "but i wish he would hurry. his dinner will be spoiled; and, poor dear, he likes his dinner so much!" the faint silver sound of the electric bell, a precipitate double peal, seemed to uphold this statement. the women faced each other in a moment's suspense, a moment of expectation, such as the advance column may feel at sight of a scout hotfoot from the field of battle. there were muffled movements in the hall, then light, even steps crossing the drawing-room. those light steps always suggested a slight frame, and, as always, flora was re-surprised at his bulk as now it appeared between the parted curtains, the dull black and sharp white of his evening clothes topped by his square, fresh-colored face. [illustration: yes, he was magnificent, she thought.] "well, flora," he said, "i know i'm late," and took the hand she held to him from where she sat. her face danced with pleasure. yes, he was magnificent, she thought, as he crossed with his light stride to mrs. britton's chair. he could even stand the harsh lines and lights of evening clothes. he dominated their ugly convention with his height, his face so ruddy and fresh under the pale brown of his hair, his alert, assured, deft movement. his high good nature had the effect of sweetening for him even clara britton's flavorless manner. the "we were speaking of you," with which she saw him to his seat, had all the warmth of a smile, but a smile far in the background of flora's immediate possession. indeed, flora had seldom had so much to say to harry as at this moment of her excitement over what he had actually seen. for the evidence that he had seen something was vivid in his face. she had never found him so splendidly alive. she had never seen him, it came to her, quite like this before. she shook the paper at him. "tell us everything, instantly!" he gaily acknowledged her right to make him thus stand and deliver. he shot his hands into the air with the lightening vivacity that was in him a sort of wit. "not guilty," he grinned at her. "harry, you know you were in it. the papers have you the most important personage." "oh, not all that," he denied her allegation. "they had the whole lot of us cooped up together for investigation for as much as two hours. i thought i shouldn't have time to dress! i'm as hungry as a hawk!" he rolled it out with the full gusto with which he was by this time engaged on his first course. "poor dear," said flora with cooing mock-sympathy, "and did they starve it? but would it mind telling us, now that it has its food, what is true, and what was the gallant part it played this afternoon?" "well," he followed her whimsical lead, "the chief detective and i were the star performers. i found the ring wasn't there, and he found he couldn't find it." "don't you know any more than the paper?" flora mourned. "considerably less--if i know the papers." he grinned with a fine flash of even teeth. "what do you want me to say?" "why, stupid, the adventures of harry cressy, esquire. how did you feel?" "thirsty." "oh, harry!" she glanced about, as if for a missile to threaten him with. "upon my word! but look here--wait a minute!" he arrived deliberately at what was required of him. "never mind how i felt; but if you want to know the way it happened--here's your maple room." he began a diagram with forks on the cloth before him, and clara, who had watched their sparring from her point of vantage in the background, now leaned forward, as if at last they were getting to the point. "this is the case, furthest from the door." he planted a salt-cellar in his silver inclosure. "i come in very early, at half-past two, before the crowd; fail to meet you there." he made mischievous bows to right and left. "i go out again. but first i see this ring." "what was it like?" flora demanded. "like?" harry turned a speculative eye to the dull glow of the candelabrum, as if between its points of flame he conjured up the vision of the vanished jewel. "like a bit of an old gold heathen god curled round himself, with his head, which was mostly two yellow sapphires, between his knees, and a big, blue stone on top. soft, yellow gold, so fine you could almost dent it. and carved! even through a glass every line of it is right." he paused and ran the tip of his finger along the silver outline of his diagram, as if the mere memory of the precious eyes of the little god had power to arrest all other consideration. "well, there he was," he pulled himself up, "and i can't remember when a thing of that sort has stayed by me so. i couldn't seem to get away from it. i dropped into the club and talked to buller about it. he got keen, and i went back with him to have another look at it. well, at the door buller stops to speak to a chap going out--a crazy englishman he had picked up at the club. i go on. by this time there's a crowd inside, but i manage to get up to the case. and first i miss the spot altogether. and then i see the card with his name; and then, underneath i see the hole in the velvet where the god has been." flora gave out a little sigh of suspense, and even clara showed a gleam of excitement. he looked from one to the other. "then there were fireworks. buller came up. the detective came up. everybody came up. nobody'd believe it. lots of 'em thought they had seen it only a few minutes before. but there was the hole in the velvet--and nothing more to be found." "but does no one know anything? has no one an idea?" clara almost panted in her impatience. "not the ghost of a glimmer of a clue. there were upward of two hundred of us, and they let us out like a chain-gang, one by one. my number was one hundred and ninety-three, and so far i can vouch there were no discoveries. it has vanished--sunk out of sight." flora sighed. "oh, poor bessie chatworth!" it came out with a quick inconsequence that made clara--even in her impatience--ever so faintly smile. "it seems so cruel to have your things taken like that when you're dead, and can't help it," flora rather lamely explained. "i should hate it." harry stared at her. "oh, come. i guess you wouldn't care." his eyes rested for a moment on the fine flare of jewels presented by flora's clasped hands. "besides,"--his voice dropped to a graver level--"the deuce of it is--" he paused, they, both rather breathless, looking at him. he had the air of a man about to give information, and then the air of a man who has thought better of it. his voice consciously shook off its gravity. "well, there'll be such a row kicked up, the probability is the thing'll be returned and no questions asked. purdie's keen--very keen. he's responsible, the executor of the estate, you see." but clara britton leveled her eyes at him, as if the thing he had produced was not at all the thing he had led up to. "still, unless there was enormous pressure somewhere--and in this case i don't see where--i can't see what mr. purdie's keenness will do toward getting it back." harry played a little sulkily with the proposition, but he would not pick up the thread he had dropped. "i don't know that any one sees. the question now is--who took it?" "why, one of us," said flora flippantly. "of course, it is all on the western addition." "don't you believe it!" he answered her. "it's a confounded fine professional job. it takes more than sleight of hand--it takes genius, a thing like that!" flora gave him a quick glance, but he had not spoken flippantly. he was serious in his admiration. she didn't quite fancy his tone. "why, harry," she protested, "you talk as if you admired him!" at this he laughed. "well, how do you know i don't? but i can tell you one thing"--he dropped back into the same tone again--"there's no local crook work in this affair. it should be some one big--some one--" he frowned straight before him. he shook his head and smiled. "there was a chap in england, farrell wand." the name floated in a little silence. "he kept them guessing," harry went on recalling it; "did some great vanishing acts." "you mean he could take things before their eyes without people knowing it?" flora's eyes were wide beyond their wont. "something of that sort. i remember at one of the embassy balls at st. james' he talked five minutes to lady tilton. her emeralds were on when he began. she never saw 'em again." flora began to laugh. "he must have been attractive." "well," harry conceded practically, "he knew his business." "but you can't rely on those stories," clara objected. "you must this time," he shook his tawny head at her; "i give you my word; for i was there." it seemed to flora fairly preposterous that harry could sit there looking so matter-of-fact with such experiences behind him. even clara looked a little taken aback, but the effect was only to set her more sharply on. "then such a man could easily have taken the ring in the maple room this afternoon? you think it might have been the man himself?" his broad smile of appreciation enveloped her. "oh, you have a scent like a bloodhound. you haven't let go of that once since you started. he could have done it--oh, easy--but he went out eight, ten years ago." "died?" flora's rising inflection was a lament. "went over the horizon--over the range. believe he died in the colonies." "oh," flora sighed, "then i shall have to fancy he has come back again, just for the sake of the chatworth ring. that wouldn't be too strange. it's all so strange i keep forgetting it is real. at least," she went on explaining herself to harry's smile, "it seems as if this must be going on a long way off, as if it couldn't be so close to us, as if the ring i wanted so much couldn't really be the one that has disappeared." all the while she felt harry's smile enveloping her with an odd, half-protecting watchfulness, but at the close of her sentence he frowned a little. "well, perhaps we can find another ring to take the place of it." she felt that she had been stupid where she should have been most delicate. "but you don't understand," she protested, leaning far toward him as if to coerce him with her generous warmth. "the chatworth ring was nothing but a fancy i had. i never thought of it for a moment as an engagement ring!" by the light stir of silk she was aware that clara had risen. she looked up quickly to encounter that odd look. clara's face was so smooth, so polished, so unruffled, as to appear almost blank, but none the less flora saw it all in clara's eye--a look that was not new to her. it was the same with which clara had met the announcement of her engagement; the same look with which she had confronted every allusion to the approaching marriage; the same with which she now surveyed the mention of the engagement ring--a look neither approving nor dissenting, whose calm, considerate speculation seemed to repudiate all interest positive or negative in the approaching event except the one large question, "what is to become of me?" many times clara had held it up before her, not as a question, certainly not as an accusation; as a flat assertion of fact; but to-night flora felt it so directly and imperatively aimed at her that it seemed this time to demand an audible response. and clara's way of getting up, and standing there, with her gloves on, poised and expectant, as if she were only waiting an opportunity to take farewell, took on, in the light of her look, the fantastic appearance of a final departure. "i'm afraid," she mildly reminded them, "that shima announced the carriage ten minutes ago." "oh, dear, i'm so sorry!" flora's eyes wavered apologetically in the direction of the waiting japanese. clara's flicker of amusement made her hate herself the moment it was out. she could always depend on herself when she knew she was on exhibition. she could be sure of the right thing if it were only large enough, but she was still caught at odd moments by the trifles, the web of a certain social habit into which she had slipped, full grown on the smooth surface of her father's millions. clara's fleeting smile lit up these trifles to her now as enormous. it took advantage of her small deficit to point out to her more plainly than ever to what large blunders she might be liable when she had cut loose from clara's guiding, reminding, prompting genius, and chose to confront the world without it. to be sure, she was not to confront it alone; but, looking at harry, it came to her with a moment's qualm that she did not know him as well as she had thought. ii a name goes round a table for to-night, from the moment he had appeared, she had recognized an unfamiliar mood in him, and it had come out more the more they had discussed the chatworth ring. it was not in any special word or action on his part. it was in his whole presence that she felt the difference, as if the afternoon's scandal had been a stimulant to him--not through its romantic aspect, as it had affected her, but merely by the daring of the theft itself. she wondered, as he heaped her ermine on her shoulders, if harry might not have more surprises for her than she had supposed. perhaps she had taken him too much for granted. after all, she had known him only for a year. she herself was but three years old in san francisco, and to her new eyes harry had seemed an old resident thoroughly established. so firmly established was he in his bachelor quarters, in his clubs, in the demands made upon him by the city's society, that it had never occurred to her he had ever lived anywhere else. nor had he happened to mention anything of his previous life until to-night, when he had given her, in that mention of a london ball, one flashing glimpse of former experiences. impulsively she summed up the possibilities of what these might have been. she gave him a look, incredulous, delighted, as he handed her into the carriage. she had actually got a thrill out of easy-going, matter-of-fact, well-tubbed harry! it was a comradeship in itself. not that she would have told him. this capacity of hers for thrills she had found need always to keep carefully covered. in the days when she was a shoeless child--those days of her father's labor in shaft and dump--she had dimly felt her world to be a creature of a keen, a fairly cruel humor, for all things that did not pertain to the essence of the life it struggled for. the wonder of the western flare of day, the magic in the white eyes of the stars before sunrise, the mystery in the pulse of the pounding mine heard in the dark--of such it had been as ruthless as this new world that looked as narrowly forth at as starved a prospect with even keener ridicule. instinctively she had turned to both the hard, bright face they required. it seemed that in the world at large this faculty of hers was queer. and to be queer, to have anything that other people had not, except money, was to be open to suspicion. and yet from the first she had had to be queer. fatherless, motherless, alone upon the pinnacle of her fortune, she had known that such an extraordinary entrance, even at this rather wide social portal, would only be acceptable if toned down, glossed over, and drawn out by a personality sufficiently neutral, sufficiently potent, and sufficiently in need of what she had to give. the successive flickers of the gas-lamps through the carriage window made of clara's profile so hard and fine a little medallion that it was impossible to conceive it in need of anything. and yet it was just their mutual need that had drawn these two women together, and after three years it was still the only thing that held them. as much of a fight as she had put up with the rest--the people who had taken her in--she had put up the hardest with clara. yet of them all clara was the only one she had failed to capture. clara was always there in the middle of her affairs, but surveying them from a distance, and flora's struggle with her had resolved itself into the attempt to keep her from seeing too much, from seeing more than she herself saw. clara's seeing, thus far, had always been to help, but flora sometimes wondered whether in an emergency this help could be depended on--whether clara could give anything without exacting a price. their dubious intimacy had created for flora a special sort of loneliness--a loneliness which lacked the security of solitude; and it was partly as an escape from this that she had accepted harry cressy. by herself she could never have escaped. the initiative was not hers. but he had presented himself, he had insisted, had overruled her objections, had captured her before she knew whether she wanted it or not--and held her now, fascinated by his very success in capturing her, and by his beautiful ruddy masculinity. she did not ask herself whether women ever married for greater reasons than these. she only wondered sometimes if he did not stand out more brilliantly against clara and the others than he intrinsically was. but these moments when she was obliged to defend him to herself were always when he was not with her. even in the dusky carriage she had been as aware of the splendor of his attraction as now when they had stopped between the high lamps of the club entrance, and she saw clearly the broad lines of his shoulders and the stoop of his square-set head as he stepped swingingly to the pavement. after all, she ought to be glad to think that he was going to stand up as tall and protectingly between her and the world, as now he did between her and the press of people which, like a tide of water, swept them forward down the hall, sucked them back in its eddy, and finally cast them, ruffled like birds that have ridden a storm, on the more generous space of the wide, upward stair. from here, looking down on the current sweeping past them, the little islands of black coats seemed fairly drowned in the feminine sea around them--the flow of white, of pale blue and rose, and the high chatter, like a cage of birds, that for the evening held possession. "ladies' night!" harry cressy mopped his flushed face. "it's awful!" flora laughed in the effervescence of her spirits. she wanted to know, teasingly, as they mounted, if this were why he had brought two more to add to the lot. he only looked at her, with his short note of laughter that made her keenly conscious of his right to be proud of her. she was proud of herself, inasmuch as herself was shown in the long trail of daring blue her gown made up the stair, and the powdery blue of the aigrette that shivered in her bright, soft puffs and curls--proud that her daring, as it appeared in these things, was still discriminating enough to make her right. she could recall a time when she had not even been quite sure of her clothes. not clara's subdued rustle at her side could make her doubt them now; but her security was still recent enough to be sometimes conscious of itself. it was so short a time since all these talking groups, that made a personage of her, had had the power to put her quite out of countenance. the women who craned over their shoulders to speak to her--how hard she had had to work to make them see her at all! and now she did not know which she felt more like laughing at, herself or them, for having taken it so seriously. for, when one thought of it, wasn't it absurd that people out of nowhere should suppose themselves exclusive? and people out of nowhere they were, herself and all the rest of them. from causes not far dissimilar they had drifted or scrambled to where they now stood. it was a question of squatter rights. the first on the ground were dictators, and how long they could hold their claim against invaders a dubious cast of fate. for there were for ever fresh invasions, and departures; swift risings from obscurity, sudden fallings back into oblivion, brilliant shootings through of strange meteors; and in the tide of fluctuation, the things that were established or traditional upon this coast of chance were mere islands in the wash of ocean. it was amazing, it was almost frightening, the fluid, unstable quality of life; the rapid, inconsequent changes; yet it was also this very quality of transformation that most stirred and delighted her. and to-night it was not the picture exhibition, nor the function itself that elated her, but the fancy she had as she looked over the moving mass below her that the crowning excitement of the day, the vanishing mystery, hovered over them all. it was fantastic, but it persisted; for had not the chatworth ring itself proved that the most ordinary appearances might cover unimagined wonders? which of those bland, satisfied faces might not change shockingly at the whisper "chatworth" in its ear? she wanted to confide the naughty thought to harry. but no, he wasn't the one. if harry were apprehensive of anything at all it was only of being caught in too hot a crush. he saw no possibilities in the mob below except boredom. he saw no possibilities in the evening but his conventional duty; and flora could read in his eye his intention of getting through that as comfortably as possible. his suggestion that they have a look at the pictures brought the two women's eyes together in a rare gleam of mutual mirth. they knew he suspected that the picture gallery would be the emptiest place in the club, since to have a look at the pictures was what they were all supposed to be there for. that was so infallibly the note of their life, flora thought, as she followed up the wide sweep of the middle stair, and along the high-ceiled, gilded hall whose open arches overlooked the rooms below. the picture gallery was new, an addition; and the plain, narrow, unexpected door in this place, where all was high, arched, elaborate and flourished, was like a loophole through which to slip into a foreign atmosphere. this atmosphere was resinous of fresh wood; the light was thick with drifting motes; the carpets harshly new, slipping beneath the feet on the too polished floor; the bare bones of the place yet scarcely covered. but its quiet was after all comparative. there were plenty of people lingering in groups in the center of the gallery which was dusky, eclipsed by the great reflectors that circled the room, throwing out the pictures in a bright band of color around the walls. people leaning from this border of light back into the dusk to murmur together, vanished and reappeared with such fascinating abruptness that flora caught herself guessing what sort of face, where this nearest group stood just on the edge of shadow, would pop out of the dark next. she was ready for something extraordinary, but now, when it came, she was taken aback by it. it gave her a start, that toss of black hair, that long, irregular, pale face whose scintillant, sardonic smile was mercilessly upon the poor, inadequate picture-face fronting him. his stoop above the rail was so abrupt that his long, lean back was almost horizontal, yet even thus there was something elegant in the swing of him--in the careless twist of his head, around, to speak to the woman behind him. the light above struck blind on the glass in one eye, but the other danced with a genial, a mad scintillation. the light of it caught like contagion, and touched the merest glancer at him with the spark of its warm, ironic mirth. the question which naturally rose to flora's lips--"who in the world is that?"--she checked; why, she didn't ask herself. she only felt as she followed clara, trailing away across the floor, that the interest of the evening which had promised so well, beginning with the chatworth ring, had been raised even a note higher. her restive fancy was beginning again. all the footlights of her little secret stage were up. clara turned to the right, following a beckoning fan, and flora, dallying with her anticipation, reasoned that now they must circle the room before they should face him--the interesting apparition. it was a pilgrimage of which he on the other side was performing his half. perfunctorily talking from group to group, conscious now and again of the lagging clara or harry, she could nevertheless keep a sly eye on the stranger's equal progress. the flash of jet, and the voluble, substantial shoulders of the lady so profusely introducing him, were an assurance of how that pilgrimage would terminate, since it was ella buller who was parading him. she even wondered before which of the florid pictures at the far, other end of the room, as before a shrine, the ceremony would take place. she kept her eyes fixed on the paintings before her, and as she moved down from one to another, and the voices of the approaching group drew nearer, one separated itself from the general murmur, so clear, so resonantly carried, so clean-clipped off the tongue, that it stood out in syllables on the blur of sound which was ella buller's conversation. it had color, that voice; it had a quality so sharp, so individual that it touched her with a mischievous wonder that he dared speak so differently from all the world about him. then, six pictures away, she heard her own name. "why, flora gilsey!" it was ella's husky, boyish note. "i've been looking for you all the evening! how d'y'do, harry?" she waved her hand at him. "why, how d'y'do, mrs. britton? i wouldn't let papa go to supper until i'd found you. 'papa,' i said, 'wait; flora and harry will be here.' besides," she had quite reached flora's side by this time and communicated it in an impressive whisper, "i want you to meet my englishman." she looked over her shoulder, and largely beckoned to where the blunt and florid buller and his companion, with their backs to what they were supposed to be looking at, were exchanging an anecdote of infinite amusement. buller's expression came around slowly to his daughter's beckoning hand, but the englishman's face seemed to flash at the instant from what he was enjoying to what was expected of him. in the flourish of introductions, across and across, flora found herself thinking the reality less extraordinary than she had at first supposed. now that mr. kerr was fairly before her, presented to her, and taking her in with the same lively, impersonal interest with which he took in the whole room, "as if," she put it vexedly to herself, "i were a specimen poked at him on the end of a pin," it stirred in her a vague resentment; and involuntarily she held him up to harry. the comparison showed him a little worn, a little battered, a little too perfunctory in manner; but his genial eyes, deep under threatening brows, made harry's eyes seem to stare rather coldly; and the fine form of his long, plain face, and the sensitive line of his long thin lips made harry's beauty look,--well, how did it look? hardly callous. this mixed impression the two men gave her was disconcerting. she was all the more ready to be wary of the stranger. she had begun with him in the way she did with every one--instinctively throwing out a breastwork of conversation from behind which she could observe the enemy. but though he had blinked at it, he had not taken her up, nor helped her out; but had merely stood with his head a little canted forward, as if he watched her through her defenses. "but san francisco must seem so limited after london," she had wound up; and the way he had considered it, a little humorously, down his long nose, made her doubt the interest of cities to be reckoned in round numbers. "it's all extraordinary," he said. "you're quite as extraordinary in your way as we in ours." "oh," she wondered, still vexed with his inventory, "i had always supposed us awfully commonplace. what _is_ our way, please?" "ah," he said, measuring his long step to hers as they sauntered a little, "for one thing, you're so awfully good to a fellow. in london"--and he nodded back, as if london were merely across the room--"they're awfully good to the somebodies. it's the way you take in the nobodies over here that is so astonishing--the stray leaves that blow in with your 'trade,' and can't show any credentials but a letter or two, and their faces; and those"--his _diablerie_ danced out again--"sometimes such deucedly damaged ones." it was almost indecent, this parade of his nonentity! she wanted to say, "oh, hush! those are the things one only enjoys--never talks about." but instead, somewhere up at the top of her voice, she said: "oh, we always lock up our silver!" "but even then," he quizzed her, "i wonder how you dare to do it?" "perhaps we have to, because we ourselves are all--" ("without any credentials but those you mention,") she had been about to say--but there she caught herself on the very edge of giving herself and all the rest of them away to him; "--all so awfully bored," she mischievously ended with the daintiest, faintest possible yawn behind her spread fan. he looked as if she had taken him by surprise; then laughed out. "oh, that is the way they don't do here," he provoked her. "you mustn't, when i'm not expecting it." "then what are you expecting?" she inquired a little coolly. "well," he deliberated, "not expecting you to get me ready for a sweet, and then pop in a pickle; and presently expecting, hoping, anxiously anticipating, what you really care to say." he was expecting, she looked maliciously, more than he was likely to get; but the fact that he did see through her to that extent was at once delightful and alarming. she swayed back into the shadow beyond the dazzling line of light. she wanted to escape his scrutiny, to be able to look him over from a safe vantage-ground. but he wouldn't have it. an instant he stood under the torrent of white radiance, challenging her to see what she could--then followed her into her retreat. "shall we sit here?" he said, and she found herself hopelessly cut off and isolated with the enemy. she couldn't withhold a little grudging pleasure in the sharpness with which he had turned her maneuver, and the way it had detached them from the surrounding crowd. for there, in the dusky center of the room, it was as if they watched from safe covert the rest of their party exposed in the glare of light; though not, as flora presently noted, quite escaping observation themselves. for an instant harry turned and peered toward them with a look in his intentness that struck flora as something new in him, and made her wonder if he could be jealous. she turned tentatively to see if kerr had noticed it, and surprised his glance in a quick transition back to hers. "by your leave," he said, and took away her fan, which in his hand presently assumed such rhythmic motion that it ceased to be any more present to her than a delicate current of air upon her face. her face, which in the first place he had so well looked over, he now looked into with something more personal in his quest, as if under the low brows and crowding lashes there was a puzzle to solve in the timid, unassured glances of such splendid eyes. he was not, she felt sure, in spite of his light manipulation of her fan, a person who cared to please women, but one of that devastating sort who care above everything to please themselves, and who are skilful without practice; too skilful, she feared, for her defenses to hold out against if he intended to find out what she really thought. "aren't we supposed to be looking at the pictures?" she wanted to know. he turned his back on the wall and its attendant glare. "why pictures," he inquired, "when there are live people to look at? pictures for places where they're all half dead. but here, where even the damnable dust in the street is alive, why should they paint, or write, or sculpt, or do anything but live?" his irascible brows shot the query at her. again the proposition of life--whatever that was--was held up before her, and as ever she faltered in the face of it. "i suppose they do it here," she murmured, with a vague glance at the paintings around her, "because people do it everywhere else." his disparagement was almost a snarl. "that's the rotten part of it--because they do it everywhere else! as if there wasn't enough monotony in the world already without every chap trying to be like the next instead of being himself!" "ah!" her small, uncertain smile in the midst of her outward splendor was pathetic. "but it is different to you. you're a man. you're not one of us." "one of what? i'm a man. i'm myself. which, pardon me, dear lady, is just what you won't be--yourself." "but if you have to be what people expect?" she clung to her first principle of safety in the midst of this onslaught. "people don't want what they expect--if you care for that." he waved it away with his quick, white hand. "but you have to care, unless you want to be queer." her poor little secret was out before she knew, and he looked at it, laughing immoderately, yet somehow delightfully. "ah, if you think the social game is the game that counts! i had expected braver things of you. the game that counts, my girl," he preached it at her with his long white hand, "the game that is going on out here is the big, red game of life. that's the only one that's worth a guinea; and there's no winning or losing, there's no right or wrong to it, and it doesn't matter what a man is in it as long as he's a good one." "even if he is a thief?" the question was out of flora's lips before she could catch it. it was a challenge. she had meant to confound him; but he caught it as if it delighted him. "well, what would you think?" he threw it back at her. what hadn't she thought! how persistently her fancy had played with the question of what sort of man that one might be who had so wonderfully put his hand under a glass case and drawn out the chatworth ring. why, outwardly, he must have been like all the crowd around him, to have escaped unnoticed; but, inwardly, how much superior in power and skill to have so completely overreached them! "oh," she laughed dubiously, "i suppose he is a good one as long as he isn't caught." "what!" his face disowned her. "you think he's a renegade, do you? a chap in perpetual flight, taking things because he has to, more or less pursued by the law? bah! it's a guild as old, and a deal more honorable, than the beggar's. your good thief is born to it. it's his caste. it's in his blood. it isn't money that he wants. if he had a million he'd be the same. and it isn't a mania either. it's a profession." the englishman leaned back and smiled at her over the elegance of his long, joined finger-tips. she looked at him with a delighted alarm, with an increasing elation; but whether these arose from his lawless declarations and the singular way they kept setting before her more vividly moment by moment the possible character of the present keeper of the chatworth ring, or whether it was just the sight of kerr himself as he sat there that stirred her, she didn't try to distinguish. "but suppose he was your own thief," she urged; "took your own things, i mean," she hastily amended, "and suppose he turned out to be--some one you knew and liked--" she hesitated. she had come at last to what she really wanted to say. she had brought out a question that had been teasing her fancy at intervals all the while he had been talking, and he hadn't even heard it. he wasn't even looking at her. she had caught him off his guard. he was looking across her shoulder straight down the dim vista of the room to the little blaze of bordering light. he was looking at harry. no, harry was looking at him. harry was looking with a steady, an intent gaze, and kerr meeting it--it might have been merely the blank glare of his monocle--seemed, to flora, to meet it a little insolently. she fancied in the instant something to pass between the two men, something which, this time, she did not mistake for jealousy--a shade too dim for defiance or suspicion, a deep scrutiny that struggled to place something, some one. flora felt a sudden wish to break that curious scrutiny. it had broken her little moment. it had shattered the personal, almost intimate note that had been sounded between them. the look kerr turned back to her was vague, and stirred in her a dim resentment that he could drop it all so easily. "shall we join the others?" it was the voice with which she had begun with him, but her eyes were hot through their light mist of lashes, and he threw her a comprehending glance of amusement. "oh, no," he assured her, "we can't help ourselves. they are going to join us." ella buller, in the van of her procession, was already descending upon them. her approach dissipated the last remnant of their personal moment. her presence always insisted that there was nothing worth while but instant participation in her geniality, and whatever subject it might at the moment be taken up with. this conviction of ella's had been wont to overawe flora, and it still overwhelmed her; so that now, as she followed in the tail of ella's marshaled force, she had a guilty feeling that there should be nothing in her mind but a normal desire for supper. yet all the way down the great stair, "the corridors of time," where the white owl glared his glassy wisdom on the passings and counter-passings, she was haunted with the thought that harry had seen the extraordinary kerr before; not shaken hands with him, perhaps--perhaps not even heard his name; but somewhere, across some distance, once glimpsed him, and had never quite shaken the memory from his mind. for there was something marked, notable, unforgettable in that lean distinctiveness. against the sleek form of the men they met and shook hands with, he flashed out--seemed in contrast fairly electric. she saw him, just ahead of her where the crowd was thickening in the door of the supper-room, making way for clara through the press with that exasperating solicitude of his that was half ironic. and the large broadside offered by her elegant harry, matter-of-factly towing ella by the elbow, herself conscious of a curl or two awry, and judge buller tramping heavily at her side, all took on to her the aspect of a well-chosen peep-show with the satanic kerr officiating as showman. even the smooth and pallid clara, who usually coerced by her sheer correctness, failed to dominate this fantastic image; rather, she took on, as she was handed into the supper-room, the aspect of his chief exhibit. the room, hot, polished, flaring reflections of electric lights from its glistening floor, announced itself the heart of high festivity, through the midst of which their entrance made an added ripple. the flushed faces of the women under their flowers, under their pale-tinted hats, with their smiling recognitions to clara, to flora, to ella, smiled with a sharpened interest. it proclaimed that kerr was a stranger, and, in a circle which found itself a little stale for lack of innovations, a desirable one. exclamatory greetings, running into skirmishes of talk, here and there halted their progress, and even after they had settled about their table in the center of the room the attention of one and another was drawn over the shoulder to some special, trans-table recognition. apparently the dominant note of their party was ella's clamorous selection for the supper; but to flora the more real thing was the atmosphere of excitement and mystery she had been moving in all the evening. she was pursued by the obsession of something more about to happen--something imminent--though, of course, nothing would; at least, how could anything happen here, to them? and by "them," she meant herself and these people around her so stupidly talking--the eternal repetition of the story she had read out that evening to clara, and not one glimmer of light! she wondered if her obsession was all her own--or did it reach to one of them? certainly not ella; not judge buller, settled into his collar, choosing champagnes. clara? she had to skip clara. one never knew whether clara had not more behind her smooth prettiness than ever she brought to light. kerr? perhaps. with him she felt potentialities enormous. harry? never. harry was being appealed to by all the women who could get at him as to his part in the affair--what had been his sensations and emotions? but flora knew perfectly well he had had none. he was only oppressed by the attention his fame in the matter, and the central position of their table, brought upon him. protesting, he made his part as small as possible. "oh, confound it, if i can't get at my oysters!" he complained, leaning back into his group again with a sigh. "you divide the honors with the mysterious unknown, eh?" kerr inquired across the table. "hang it, there's no division! i'd offer you a share!" harry laughed, and it occurred to flora how much kerr could have made of it. "purdie'd like to share something," buller vouchsafed. "he's been pawing the air ever since crew cabled, and this has blown him up completely." "crew?" flora wondered. here was something more happening. crew? she had not heard that name before. it made a stir among them all; but if kerr looked sharp, clara looked sharper. she looked at harry and harry was vexed. "who's crew?" said ella; and the judge looked around on the silence. "why, bless my soul, isn't it--oh, anyway, it will all be out to-morrow. but i thought harry'd told you. the chatworth ring wasn't bessie's." it had the effect of startling them all apart, and then drawing them closer together again around the table over the uncorked bottles. "why," judge buller went on, "this ring is a celebrated thing. it's the 'crew idol'!" he threw the name out as if that in itself explained everything, but the three women, at least, were blank. "why celebrated?" clara objected. "the stones were only sapphires." kerr smiled at this measure of fame. "quite so," he nodded to her, "but there are several sorts of value about that ring. its age, for one." he had the attention of the table, as if they sensed behind his words more even than judge buller could have told them. "and then the superstition about it. it's rather a pretty tale," said kerr, looking at flora. "you've seen the ring--a figure of vishnu bent backward into a circle, with a head of sapphire; two yellow stones for the cheeks and the brain of him of the one blue. just as a piece of carving it is so fine that cellini couldn't have equaled it, but no one knows when or where it was made. the first that is known, the shah jehan had it in his treasure-house. the story is he stole it, but, however that may be, he gave it as a betrothal gift to his wife--possibly the most beautiful"--his eyebrows signaled to flora his uncertainty of that fact--"without doubt the best-loved woman in the world. when she died it was buried with her--not in the tomb itself, but in the taj mehal; and for a century or so it lay there and gathered legends about it as thick as dust. it was believed to be a talisman of good fortune--especially in love. "it had age; it had intrinsic value; it had beauty, and that one other quality no man can resist--it was the only thing of its kind in the world. at all events, it was too much for old neville crew, when he saw it there some couple of hundred years ago. when he left india the ring went with him. he never told how he got it, but lucky marriages came with it, and the crews would not take the house of lords for it. their women have worn it ever since." for a moment the wonder of the tale and the curious spark of excitement it had produced in the teller kept the listeners silent. clara was the first to return to facts. "then bessie--" she prompted eagerly. kerr turned his glass in meditative fingers. "she wore it as young chatworth's wife." he held them all in an increasing tension, as if he drew them toward him. "the elder chatworth, lord crew, is a bachelor, but, of course, the ring reverted to him on chatworth's death." "and lord only knows," the judge broke in, "how it got shipped with bessie's property. crew was out of england at the time. he kept the wires hot about it, and they managed to keep the fact of what the ring was quiet--but it got out to-day when purdie found it was gone. you see he was showing it--and without special permission." flora had a bewildered feeling that this judicial summing up of facts wasn't the sort of thing the evening had led up to. she couldn't see, if this was what it amounted to, why harry had changed his mind about telling them at the dinner table. she could not even understand where this belonged in the march of events in their story, but clara took it up, clipped it out, and fitted it into its place. "then there will be pressure--enormous pressure, brought to bear to recover it?" "oh-o-oh!" buller drew out the syllable with unctuous relish. "they'll rip the town inside out. they'll do worse. there'll be a string of detectives across the country--yes, and at intervals to china--so tight you couldn't step from kalamazoo to oshkosh without running into one. the thing is too big to be covered. the chap who took it will play a lone game; and to do that--lord knows there aren't many who could--to do that he'd have to be a--a--" "farrell wand?" flora flung it out as a challenge among these prosaic people; but the effect of it was even sharper than she had expected. she fancied she saw them all start; that harry squared himself, that kerr met it as if he swallowed it with almost a facial grimace; that judge buller blinked it hard in the face--the most bothered of the lot. he came at it first in words. "farrell wand?" he felt it over, as if, like a doubtful coin, it might have rung false. "now, what did i know of farrell wand?" "farrell wand?" kerr took it up rapidly. "why, he was the great johnnie who went through the scotland yard men at perth in ' , and got off. don't you remember? he took a great assortment of things under the most peculiar circumstances--took the tilton emeralds off lady tilton's neck at st. james'." "why, harry, you--" flora began. "you told us that," was what she had meant to say, but harry stopped her. stopped her just with a look, with a nod; but it was as if he had shaken his head at her. his tawny lashes, half drooped over watching eyes, gave him more than ever the look of a great, still cat; a domestic, good-humored cat, but in sight of legitimate prey. her eyes went back to kerr with a sense of bewilderment. his voice was still going on, expansively, brilliantly, juggling his subject. "he knew them all, the big-wigs up in parliament, the big-wigs on 'change, the little duchesses in mayfair, and they all liked him, asked him, dined him, and--great scott, they paid! paid in hereditary jewels, or the shock to their decency when the thing came out--but, poor devil, so did he!" and through it all buller gloomed unsmiling, with out-thrust underlip. "no, no," he said slowly, "that's not my connection with farrell wand. what happened afterward? what did they do with him?" kerr was silent, and flora thought his face seemed suddenly at its sharpest. it was clara who answered with another question. "didn't he get to the colonies? didn't he die there?" judge buller caught it with a snap of his fingers. "got it!" he triumphed, and the two men turned square upon him. "they ran him to earth in australia. that was the year i was there--' . i got a snapshot of him at the time." it was now the whole table that turned on him, and flora felt, with that unanimous movement, something crucial, the something that she had been waiting for; and yet she could in no way connect it with what had happened, nor understand why clara, why harry, why kerr above all should be so alert. for more than all he looked expectant, poised, and ready for whatever was coming next. "what sort of a chap?" he mused and fixed the judge a moment with the same stare that flora remembered to have first confronted her. "what sort? sort of a criminal," the judge smiled. "they all look alike." "still," clara suggested, "such a man could hardly have been ordinary--" "in the chain-gang--oh, yes," said buller with conviction. "oh! then the picture wasn't worth anything?" "why, no," buller admitted slowly, "though, come to think of it, it wasn't the chain-gang either. they were taking him aboard the ship. the crowd was so thick i hardly saw him, and--only got one shot at him. but the name was a queer one. it stuck in my mind." "but then," clara insisted, "what became of him?" "oh, gave them the slip," the judge chuckled. "he always did. reported to have changed ships in mid-ocean. hal, is that another bottle?" harry stretched his hand for it, but it stayed suspended--and, for an instant, it seemed as if the whole table waited expectant. had buller's camera caught the clear face of farrell wand, or only a dim figure? flora wondered if that was the question harry wanted to ask. he wanted--and yet he hesitated, as if he did not quite dare touch it. he laughed and filled the glasses. he had dropped his question, and there was no one at the table who seemed ready to put another. and yet there were questions there, in all the eyes; but some impassable barrier seemed to have come between these eager people, and what, for incalculable reasons, they so much wanted to know. it was not the genial indifference with which buller had dropped the subject for the approaching bottle. it seemed rather their own timidity that withheld them from touching this subject which at every turn produced upon some one of the eager three some fresh startling effect the others could not understand. they were restless; clara notably, even under her calm. flora knew she was not giving up the quest of farrell wand, but only setting it aside with her unfailing thrift, which saved everything. but why, in this case? and harry, who had been so merry with the mystery at dinner--why had he suddenly tried to suppress her, to want to ignore the whole business; why had he hesitated over his question, and finally let it fall? and why, above all, was kerr so brilliantly talking at ella, in the same way he had begun at flora herself? talking at ella as if he hardly saw her, but like some magician flinging out a brilliant train of pyrotechnics to hypnotize the senses, before he proceeds with his trick. and the way ella was looking at him--her bewildered alacrity, the way she was struggling with what was being so rapidly shot at her--appeared to flora the prototype of her own struggle to understand what reality these appearances around her could possibly shadow. never before had her sense of standing on the outside edge of life been so strong. it seemed as though there were some large, impalpable thing growing in the midst of them, around the edges of which they were tiptoeing, daringly, fearfully, each one for himself. but though it loomed so large that she felt herself in the very shadow of it, rub her eyes as she would, she couldn't see it. often enough in the crowds she moved among she had felt herself lonely and not wondered at it. but now and here, sitting among her close, intimate circle, her friends and her lover, it seemed like a horrible obsession--yet it was true. as clear as if it had been shown her in a revelation she saw herself absolutely alone. iii encounters on parade flora, before the mirror, gaily stabbing in her long hat-pins, confessed to herself that last night had been queer, as queer as queer could be; but this morning, luckily, was real again. her fancy last night had--yes, she was afraid it really had--run away with her. and she turned and held the hand-mirror high, to be sure of the line of her tilted hat, gave a touch to the turn of her wide, close belt, a flirt to the frills of her bodice. the wind was lightly ruffling and puffing out the muslin curtains of the windows, and from the garden below came the long, silvery clash of eucalyptus leaves. she leaned on the high window-ledge to look downward over red roofs, over terraced green, over steep streets running abruptly to the broken blue of the bay. she tried to fancy how kerr would look in this morning sun. he seemed to belong only beneath the high artificial lights, in the thicker atmosphere of evening. would he return again, with renewed potency, with the same singular, almost sinister charm, as a wizard who works his will only by moonlight? when she should see him again, what, she wondered, would be his extraordinary mood? on what new breathless flights might he not take her--or would he see her at all? it was too fantastic. the sunlight thinned him to an impalpable ghost. it was clara, standing at the foot of the stairs, who belonged to the morning, so brisk, so fresh, so practical she appeared. she held a book in her hand. the door, open for her immediate departure, showed, beyond the descent of marble steps, the landau glistening black against white pavements. it was unusual for this formal vehicle to put in an appearance so early. "i am going to drive over to the purdies'," clara explained. "i have an errand there." flora smiled at the thought of how many persons would be having errands to the purdies' now. it was refreshing to catch clara in this weakness. she felt a throb of it herself when she recalled the breathless moment at the supper table last evening. "oh, that will be a heavenly drive," she said. "please ask me to go with you. my errand can wait." "why, certainly. i should like to have you," said clara. but if she had returned a flat "no," flora would not have had a dryer sense of unwelcome. still, she had gone too far to retreat. after all, this was only clara's manner, and her buoyant interest in the expedition was stronger than her diffidence. mischievous reflections of the doctrine the englishman had startled her with the night before flickered in her mind, as they drove from the door. was this part of "the big red game," not being accommodating, nor so very polite? the streets were still wet with early fog, and, turning in at the presidio gate, the cypresses dripped dankly on their heads, and hung out cobwebs pearled with dew. she was sure, even under their dripping, that the "damnable dust" was alive. down the broad slopes that were swept by the drive all was green to the water's edge. the long line of barracks, the officers' quarters, the great parade-ground, set in the flat land between hills and bay, looked like a child's toy, pretty and little. they heard the note of a bugle, thin and silver clear, and they could see the tiny figures mustering; but in her preoccupation it did not occur to flora that they were arriving just in time for parade. but when the carriage had crossed the viaduct, and swung them past the acacias, and around the last white curve into the white dust of the parade-ground, clara turned, as if with a fresh idea. "wouldn't you like to stop and watch it?" "why, yes," flora assented. the brilliance of light and color, the precision of movement, the sound of the brasses under the open sky were an intermezzo in harmony with her spirited mood. the carriage stopped under the scanty shadow of trees that bordered the walk to the officers' quarters. clara, book in hand, alertly rose. "i'll just run up to the purdies' and leave this," she said. "then she really did want to be rid of me," flora mused, as she watched the brisk back moving away; "and how beautifully she has done it!" her eyes followed clara's little figure retreating up the neat and narrow board walk, to where it disappeared in overarching depths of eucalyptus trees. further on, beyond the trees, two figures, smaller than clara's in their greater distance, were coming down. flora almost grinned as she recognized the large linen umbrella that mrs. purdie invariably carried when abroad in the reservation, and presently the trim and bounding figure of mrs. purdie herself, under it. the purdies were coming down to parade--at least mrs. purdie was. but the tall figure beside her--that was not the major. she took up her lorgnon. it was--no it could not be--yet surely it _was_ harry! lazy harry, up and out, and squiring mrs. purdie to the review at half-past ten in the morning! "are we all mad?" flora thought. the three little figures, the one going up, the two coming down, touched opposite fringes of the grove--disappeared within it. on which side would they come out together? flora wondered. they emerged on her side with harry a little in advance. he came swingingly down the walk, straight toward her, and across the road to the carriage, his hat lifted, his hand out. "well, flora," he said, "this is luck!" "what in the world has got you out so early?" she rallied him. "came out to see purdie on business, and here you are all ready to drive me back." "that's your reward." he brushed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. "well, there's one coming to me, for i haven't found purdie." her eyes were dancing with mischief. "harry, i believe you're out here about the crew idol, too!" he shook his head at her, smiling. "i wouldn't talk too much about that, flora. it flicks poor purdie on the raw every time that--" his sentence trailed off into something else, for mrs. purdie and clara had come up. the book had changed hands, together, evidently, with several explanations, and mrs. purdie, with her foot on the carriage step, was ready to make one of these over again. "the major'll be so sorry. he's gone in town. it's so unusual for him to get off at this hour, but he said he had to catch a man. as mrs. britton and i were saying, he's likely to be very busy until this dreadful affair is straightened out. if you can only wait a little longer, mr. cressy," she went on, "i am expecting him every moment." "oh, it's of no importance," said harry, but he looked at his watch with a fold between his brows, and then at the car that was coming in. "well, at least, you'll have time to see the parade," said mrs. purdie. "i always think it's a pretty sight, though most of the women get tired of it." clara's face showed that she belonged to the latter class; but flora, too keenly attuned to sounds and sights not to be swayed by outward circumstances, was content for the time to watch, in the cloud of dust, the wheeling platoons and rhythmic columns. yet through all--even when she was not looking at him--she was aware of harry's restlessness, of his impatience; and as the last company swung barrackward, and the cloud began to settle over the empty field, he snapped his watch-case smartly, and remarked, "still no major." "why, there he is now!" mrs. purdie screamed, pointing across the parade-ground. flora looked. half-way down on the adjoining side of the parallelogram, back toward her, the redoubtable kerr was standing. she recognized him on the instant, as if he were the most familiar figure in her life. yet she was more surprised to see him here than she had been to see harry. she felt inclined to rub her eyes. it took a moment for her to realize that his companion was indeed major purdie. the major had recognized his wife's signaling umbrella. now he turned toward it, but kerr, with a quick motion of hand toward hat, turned in the opposite direction. in her mind flora was with the major who ran after him. the two men stood for a little, expostulating. then both walked toward the landau and the linen umbrella. the carriage group waited, watching with flagging conversation, which finally fell into silence. but the two approaching strolled easily and talked. even in cold daylight kerr still gave flora the impression that the open was not big enough to hold him, but she saw a difference in his mood, a graver eye, a colder mouth, and when he finally greeted them, a manner that was brusk. it showed uncivil beside the major's urbanity. the major was glad, very glad, to see them all. he was evidently also a little flurried. he seemed to know that they had all met kerr before. had it been at the moment of his attempted departure that kerr had told him, flora wondered? and had he given them as his excuse for going away? it hurt her; though why should she be hurt because a stranger had not wanted to cross the parade-ground to shake hands with her? he was less interested in her than he was in harry, at whom he had looked keenly. but harry's nervousness had left him, now that purdie was within his reach. he returned the glance indifferently. he stood close to the major--his hand on his shoulder. the major, with his bland blue eyes twinkling from clara to flora, seemed the only man ready to devote himself to the service of the ladies. "and what's the news from the front?" said clara gaily. kerr gave her a rapid glance; but the major blinked as if the allusion had got by him. "i mean the mystery--the chatworth ring," she explained. however lightly and sweetly clara said it, it was a little brazen to fling such a question at poor purdie, whose responsibility the ring had been. he received it amicably enough, but conclusively. "no news whatever, my dear mrs. britton." she smiled. "we're all rather interested in the mystery. flora has made a dozen romances about it." "oh, yes, yes," said the major indulgently. "it will do for young ladies to make romances about. it'll be a two days' wonder, and then you'll suddenly find out it's something very tame indeed." "why, have they fixed the suspicion?" said clara. there was a restless movement from kerr. "no, no, nothing of that sort," said the major quickly. harry passed his hand through his arm. "may i see you for five minutes, major?" the excellent major looked harassed. "suppose we all step up to the house," he suggested. "why, you're not going, man?" he objected, for kerr had fallen back a step, and, with lifted hat and balanced cane, was signaling his farewells. "do let us go up to the house," said clara. "and mrs. purdie, won't you drive up with me? flora wants to walk." flora stood up. she had a confused impression that she had expressed no such desire, and that there was room for three in the landau; but the mental shove that clara had administered gave her an impetus that carried her out of the carriage before she realized what she was about. some one had offered a hand to help her, and when she was on the ground she saw it was kerr, who had come back and was standing beside her. he was smiling quizzically. "i feel rather like walking, myself," he said. "do you want a companion?" she turned to him with gratitude. "i should be glad of one," she said quickly. she was touched. she had not thought he could be so gentle. harry was already moving off up the board walk with the major. the carriage was turning. kerr looked at the backs of the two women being driven away, and then at flora. "very good," he said, raising her parasol; "you are the deposed heir, and i am your faithful servant." "but indeed i do want to walk," she protested, a little shy at the way he read her case. "but you didn't think of it until she gave you the suggestion, eh?" he quizzed. "she probably had something to say to mrs. purdie that--" "my dear child," he caught her up earnestly, "don't think i'm criticizing your friend's motive. i am only saying i saw something done that was not pretty, though really, if you will forgive me--it was very funny." flora smiled ruefully. "it must have been--absurd. i am afraid i often am. but what else could i have done?" he seemed to ponder a moment. "i fancy _you_ couldn't have done anything different. that's why i came back for you," he volunteered gaily. the casual words seemed in her ears fraught with deeper meaning. her cheeks were hot behind her thin veil. they were strolling slowly up the board walk, and for a moment she could not look at him. she could only listen to the flutter of the fringes of the parasol carried above her head. she felt herself small and stupid. she could not understand what he could see in her to come back to. then she gave a side glance at him. she saw an unsmiling profile. the lines in his face were indeed extraordinary, but none was hard. she liked that wonderful mobility that had survived the batterings of experience. as if he were conscious of her eyes, he looked down and smiled; but vaguely. he did not speak; and she was aware that it was at her appearance he had smiled, as if that only reached him through his preoccupation and pleased him. and since he seemed content with this vague looking, she was content to move beside him silent, a mere image of youth and--since he liked it--of prettiness, with a fleeting color and a gust of little curls blowing out under a fluttering veil. but what was he thinking about so seriously between those smiling glances? not her problem, she was sure. yet he had stayed for her when he had not meant to stay. he had been anxious to get away since he had first sighted them. surely he must like her more than he disliked some other member of her party. or had he simply reached forth out of his kindness to rescue her, as he might have rescued a blind kitten that he pitied? "no," he had said, "_you_ could not have done anything different." they had almost reached the major's gate, and it was now or never to find out what he thought of her. she looked up at him suddenly, with inquiring eyes. "do you think i am weak?" she demanded. the lines of his face broke up into laughter. "no," he said, "i think you are misplaced." she knitted her brows in perplexity, but his hand was on the white picket gate, and she had to walk through it ahead of him as he set it open for her. of their party only the two women were in sight waiting on the diminutive veranda. clara had a mild domestic appearance, rocking there behind the potted geraniums. all the windows were open into the little shell of a house. trunks still stood in the hall, though the purdies had been quartered at the presidio for nine months. from the rear of the house came the sound of bowl and chopper, where the chinese cook was preparing luncheon, and the major's man appeared, walking around the garden to the veranda, with a cluster of mint juleps on a copper tray. in this easy atmosphere, how was it that the thread of restraint ran so sharply defined? clara and mrs. purdie were matching crewels; and, sitting on the top step flora instructed kerr as to the composition of the tropical glacier they were drinking. ten girls had probably so instructed him before, but it would do to fill up the gap. it was so, flora thought, they were all feeling. even the carriage, driving slowly round and round the rectangle of officers' row, added its note of restlessness. like a stone plumped into a pool the major and harry reëntered this stagnation. they were brisk and buoyant. harry, especially, had the air of a man who sees stimulating business before him. immediately all talked at once. "now that we've got you here, you must all stay to luncheon," mrs. purdie determined. it looked as if they were about to accept her invitation unanimously, but harry demurred. he had to be at montgomery street and jackson by one o'clock. "i hoped," he added, glancing at flora, "that some one was to drive me--part of the way, at least." flora, with an unruly sense of disappointment, yet opened her lips for the courteous answer. but clara was quicker. she rose. "yes," she said, "i'll drive you back with pleasure." harry's glimmer of annoyance was comic. "i have to be at the house for luncheon," clara explained to her hostess as she buttoned her glove, "but there is no reason why flora shouldn't stay." "oh, i should love to," flora murmured, not knowing whether she was more embarrassed or pleased at this high-handed dispensation which placed her where she wanted to be. but the way clara had leaped at her opportunity! flora looked curiously at harry. he seemed uneasy at being pounced upon, but that might be merely because he was balked of a tête-à-tête with herself. for while clara went on to the gate with their hostess he lingered a moment with flora. "may i see you to-night?" "all you have to do is to come." she gave him an oblique, upward glance, and had a pleasant sense of power in seeing his face relax and smile. she had a dance for that evening; but she thrust it aside without regret. for suppose harry should have something to tell her about the chatworth ring? she wondered if clara would get it out of him first on the way home. the four left on the veranda watched the two driving away with a sudden clearing of the social atmosphere. in vain flora told herself it was only the relief she always felt in getting free of clara. for in the return of the major's elderly blandishments, in kerr's kindlier mood, as well as in her own lightened spirits, she had the proofs that, with them all, some tension had relaxed. it seemed to her as if those two, departing, were bearing away between them the very mystery of the crew idol. iv flowers by the way flora liked this funny little dining-room with walls as frail as box-boards, low-ceiled and flooded with sun. it recalled surroundings she had known later than the mining camp, but long before the great red house. it seemed to her that she fitted here better than the purdies. she looked across at kerr, sitting opposite, to see if perhaps he fitted too. but he was foreign, decidedly. he kept about him still the hint of delicate masquerade that she had noticed the night before. out of doors, alone with her, he had lost it. for a moment he had been absolutely off his guard. and even now he was more off his guard than he had been last night. she was surprised to see him so unstudied, so uncritical, so humorously anecdotal. if she and the major, between them, had dragged him into this against his will he did not show it. she rose from the table with the feeling that in an hour all three of them had become quite old friends of his, though without knowing anything further about him. "we must do this again," mrs. purdie said, as they parted from her in the garden. "surely we will," kerr answered her. but flora had the feeling that they never, never would. for him it had been a chance touching on a strange shore. but at least they were going away together. they would walk together as far as the little car, whose terminal was the edge of the parade-ground. but just outside of the gate he stopped. "do you especially like board walks?" he asked. it was an instant before she took his meaning. then she laughed. "no. i like green paths." he waved with his cane. "there is a path yonder, that goes over a bridge, and beyond that a hill." "and at the top of that another car," flora reminded him. "ah well," he said, "there are flowers on the way, at least." he looked at her whimsically. "there are three purple irises under the bridge. i noticed them as i came down." she was pleased that he had noticed that for himself--pleased, too, that he had suggested the longer way. the narrow path that they had chosen branched out upon the main path, broad and yellow, which dipped downward into the hollow. from there came the murmur of water. green showed through the white grass of last summer. the odor of wet evergreens was pungent in their nostrils. they looked at the delicate fringed acacias, at the circle of hills showing above the low tree-tops, at the cloudless sky; but always their eyes returned to each other's faces, as if they found these the pleasantest points of the landscape. sauntering between plantations of young eucalyptus, they came to the arched stone bridge. they leaned on the parapet, looking down at the marshy stream beneath and at the three irises kerr had remarked, knee-deep in swamp ground. "now that i see them i suppose i want them," flora remarked. "of course," he assented. "then hold all these." he put into her hands the loose bunch of syringa and rose plucked for her in the purdies' garden, laid his hat and gloves on the parapet; then, with an eye for the better bank, walked to the end of the bridge. she watched him descending the steep bank and issuing into the broad shallow basin of the stream's way. the sun was still high enough to fill the hollows with warm light and mellow the doubles of trees and grass in the stream. in this landscape of green and pale gold he looked black and tall and angular. the wind blew longish locks of hair across his forehead, and she had a moment's pleased and timorous reflection that he looked like satan coming into the garden. he advanced from tussock to tussock. he came to the brink of the marsh. the lilies wavered what seemed but a hand's-breadth from him. but he stooped, he reached--oh, could anything so foolish happen as that he could not get them! or, more foolish still, plunge in to the knees! he straightened from his fruitless effort, drew back, but before she could think what he was about he had leaned forward again, flashed out his cane, and with three quick, cutting slashes the lilies were mown. it was deftly, delicately, astonishingly done, but it gave her a singular shock, as if she had seen a hawk strike its prey. he drew them cleverly toward him in the crook of his cane, took them up daintily in his fingers, and returned to her across the shallow valley. she waited him with mixed emotions. [illustration: he took the lilies up daintily, and returned to her.] "oh, how could you!" she murmured, as he put them into her hand. he looked at her in amused astonishment. "why, aren't they right?" they were as clean clipped off and as perfect as if the daintiest hand had plucked them. "oh, yes," she admitted, "they're lovely, but i don't like the way you got them." "i took the means i had," he objected. "i don't think i like it." his whole face was sparkling with interest and amusement. "is that so? why not?" "you're too--too"--she cast about for the word--"too terribly resourceful!" "i see," he said. if she had feared he would laugh, it showed how little she had gauged the limits of his laughter. he only looked at her rather more intently than he had before. "but, my good child, resourcefulness is a very natural instinct. i am afraid you read more into it than is there. you wanted the flowers, i had a stick, and in my youth i was taught to strike clean and straight. i am really a very simple fellow." looking him in the eyes, which were of a clear, candid gray, she was ready to believe it. it seemed as if he had let her look for a moment through his manner, his ironies, his armor of indifference, to the frank foundations of his nature. "but, you see, the trouble is you don't in the least look it," she argued. "so you think because i have a long face and wild hair that i am a sinister person? my dear miss gilsey, the most desperate character i ever knew was five feet high and wore mutton-chop whiskers. it is an uncertain business judging men by their appearance." she could not help smiling. "but most people do." "i don't class you with most people." she gave him a quick look. "you _did_ the first night." "possibly--but less and less ever since. you have me now in the state of mind where i don't know what you'll be at next." this was fortunate, she thought, since she had not the least idea herself, beyond a teasing desire to find out more about him. he had shown her many fleeting phases which, put together, seemed contradictory. she could not connect this man, so mild and amusing, strolling beside her, with the alert, whetted, combative person of the night before, or even with the aloof and reticent figure on the parade-ground. his very attitude toward herself had changed from the amused scrutiny of the first night into something more indulgent, more sympathetic. there was only one attitude on his part that had remained the same--one attitude toward one person--and her mind hovered over this. on each occasion it had stirred her curiosity and, though she had not admitted it, made her uneasy. why not probe him on the subject, now that she had him completely to herself? but as soon as silence fell between them she saw that wave of preoccupation which had submerged him during their walk from the parade-ground to the purdies' rising over him again and floating him away from her. he no longer even looked at her. his eyes were on the ground, and it was not until they had crossed the open expanse of the shallow valley and were climbing toward the avenue of cypress that she found courage to put her question. "have you and mr. cressy met before?" he raised his head with a jerk and looked at her a moment in astonishment. "do you mind if i answer your question american fashion by asking another?" he said presently. "what put it into your head that we may have met before?" "the way you looked at each other at the club, and again this morning." kerr shook his head. "you are an observant young person! the fact is, i've never met him--of that i'm certain, but i believe i've seen him before, and for the life of me, i can't think where. at the moment you spoke i was trying to remember." "was it in this country?" flora prompted, hopeful of fishing something definite out of this vagueness. "no, it was years ago. it must have been in england." he looked at her inquiringly, as if he expected her to help him. "oh, harry's been in england," she said quickly; and then, with a flashing thought, came to her the one scene harry had mentioned in his english experience. was it at a ball? the question came to her lips, but she checked it there. she remembered how harry had stopped her the night before with a nod, with a look, from mentioning that very thing. still she hesitated--for the temptation was strong. but no; it was only loyal to harry to speak to him first. "so you're not going to tell me?" kerr remarked, and she came back to a sudden consciousness of how her face must have reflected her thought. "no--not this time!" she said, smiling, though somewhat flushed. he knitted his brows at her. they had reached the arched gate, and the car that would carry her home was approaching. "ah, then, i am afraid it will be never," he said. was it possible this was their last meeting? did he mean he was going away? the questions formed in her mind, but there was no time for words. he had stopped the car with a flick of his agile cane, and handed her in as if he had handed her into a carriage; and not a word as to whether they would see each other again, though she hoped and hesitated to the last moment. her hand was in his for the fraction of a minute. then the car was widening the distance between them, and she was no longer looking into his face, which had seemed at their last moment both merry and wistful, but back at his diminishing figure, showing black against the pale presidio hills. v on guard he had so disturbed her, his presence had so obliterated other presences and annihilated time, that it took an encounter with clara to remind her of her arrangement for the evening. the dance? no, she had given that up. she had promised harry to be at home. clara wanted to know rather austerely what she intended to do about the dinner. this was dreadful! flora had forgotten it completely. nothing to be done but go, and leave a message for harry--apology, and assurance that she would be home early. she wondered if she were losing her memory. she appeared to be changing altogether, for the dinner--a merry one--bored her. what she wanted was to get away from it as soon as possible for that interesting evening. when she had made the appointment with harry she had been excited by the thought that he might tell her whether he had learned anything from the major that morning in the matter of the ring. but now she was more engrossed with the idea of asking about kerr--whether harry had really met him--if so, where; and, finally, why did not harry want her to mention that embassy ball? primed with these questions, she left immediately after coffee, arriving at her own red stone portal at ten. but coming in, all a-flutter with the idea of having kept him waiting when she had so much to ask, she found her note as she had left it. she questioned shima. there had been no message from mr. cressy. her first annoyance was lost in wonder. what could be the matter? if this was neglect on harry's part--well, it would be the first time. but she did not believe it was neglect. he had been too eager that morning. she went into the drawing-room--a dull-pink, stupendous chamber--knelt a moment before the flashing wood fire, then rose, and crossing to the window, looked anxiously out. she had a flight of fancy toward accidents, but in that case she would certainly have heard. the french clock on the mantel rang half-past ten. the sound had hardly died in the great spaces before she heard the fine snarl of the electric bell. she restrained an impulse to dash into the hall, and stood impatient in the middle of the room. he came in hastily, his lips all ready with words which hesitated at sight of her. "why, you're going out!" he said. she had forgotten the cloak that still hung from her shoulders. "no, i've just come in, and all my fine apologies for being out are wasted. how long do you think clara'll let you stop at this hour?" "clara isn't here," he said. "well, then your time is all the shorter." she was nettled that he should be oblivious of his lapse. their relation had never been sentimental, but he had always been punctilious. "i'm sorry," he said, arriving at last at his apology. "i couldn't help being late. i've had a day of it." he drew his hands across his forehead, and she noticed that he was in his morning clothes and looked as rumpled and flurried as a man just from the office. she relented. "poor dear! you do look tired! don't take that chair. it's more louis quinze than comfortable. come into the library. and remember," she added, when shima had set the decanter and glasses beside him, "you are to stay just twenty minutes." he took a sip of his drink and looked at her over the top of his glass. "i may have to stay longer if you want to hear about it." "oh, harry, you really know something? all the evening i've heard nothing but the wildest rumors. some say major purdie couldn't speak because some one 'way up knows more than she should about it. and somebody else said it wasn't the real ring at all that was taken, only a paste copy, and that is why they're not doing more about getting it back." "not doing more about getting it back?" harry laughed. "is that the idea that generally prevails? why, flora--" he stopped, waited a moment while she leaned forward expectant. "flora," he began again, "are you mum?" she nodded, breathless. "not a word to clara?" "oh, of course not." "well--" he twisted around in his chair the better to face her. "to-morrow there will be published a reward of twenty thousand dollars for the return of the crew idol, and no questions asked." "oh!" she said. and again, "oh, is that all!" she was disappointed. "i don't see why you and the major should have been so mysterious about that." "you don't, eh? suppose you had taken the ring--wouldn't it make a difference to you if you knew twenty-four hours ahead that a reward of twenty thousand dollars would be published? wouldn't you expect every man's hand to be against you at that price? if you had a pal, wouldn't you be afraid he'd sell you up? wouldn't you be glad of twenty-four hours' start to keep him from turning state's evidence? well--it's just so that he shan't have the start that the authorities are keeping so almighty dark about the reward. they want to spring it on him." flora leaned forward with knitted brows. "yes, i can see that, but still, just among ourselves, this morning--" harry smiled. "you've lost sight of the fact that it is just among ourselves the thing has happened." "oh, oh! now you're ridiculous!" "i might be, if the thing had happened anywhere but in this town; but think a moment. how much do we know of the people we meet, where they were, and who they were, before they came here? there's a case in point. it was not quite 'among ourselves' this morning." "harry, how horrid of you!" she was on the point of declaring that she knew kerr very well indeed; but she remembered this might not be the thing to say to harry. "my dear girl, i'm not saying anything against him. i only remarked that we did not know him." "don't _you_, harry?" he gave her a quick look. "why, what put that into your head?" "i--i don't know. i thought you looked at him very hard last night in the picture gallery. and afterward, at supper, don't you remember, you did not want me to mention your connection with something or other he was talking about?" "something or other he was talking about?" harry inquired with a frowning smile. "i think it was about that embassy ball--" "_i_ didn't want you to mention the embassy ball?" he repeated, and now he was only smiling. "my dear child, surely you are dreaming." she looked at him with the bewildered feeling that he was flatly contradicting himself. and yet she could remember he had not shaken his head at her. he had only nodded. could it be that her cherished imagination had played her a trick at last? but the next moment it occurred to her that somehow she had been led away from her first question. "then _have_ you seen him, harry?" she insisted. "no!" he jerked it out so sharply that it startled her, but she stuck to her subject. "and you wouldn't have minded my telling him you had been at that ball?" there was a pause while harry looked at the fire. then--"look here," he burst out, "did he ask you about it?" "oh, no," she protested. "i only just happened to wonder." he stared at her as if he would have liked to shake her. but then he rose from his frowning attitude before the fire, came over to her, sat on the arm of her chair, and, with the tip of one finger under her chin, lifted her face; but she did not lift her eyes. she heard only his voice, very low, with a caressing note that she hardly knew as harry's. "it isn't that i care _what_ you say to him. the fact is, flora, i suppose i was a little jealous, but i naturally don't like the suggestion that you would discuss me with a stranger." she knew herself properly reproved, and she reproached herself, not for what she had actually said to kerr of harry--that had been trivial enough--but for that wayward impulse she had to confide in this clear-eyed, whimsical stranger, as it had never occurred to her to confide in harry. she raised her eyes. "certainly i shall not discuss you with him." "is that a promise?" "harry, how you do dislike him!" "well, suppose i do?" he shrugged. "you've used up twice your twenty minutes," she said, "and clara will be scandalized." he stopped the caressing movement of his hand on her hair. "are you afraid of clara?" he asked. "mercy, yes!" she was half in earnest and half laughing. "but then i'm afraid of every one." he put his arm affectionately around her. "but not of me?" "oh," she told him, "you're a great big purring pussy-cat, and i am your poor little mouse." he thought this reply immensely witty, and flora thought what a great boy he was, after all. "now, really, you must go home," she urged, trying to rise. "but look here," he protested, still on the arm of her chair, "there's another thing i want to ask you about." and by the tip of one finger he lifted her left hand shining with rings. "you will have to have another one of these, you know. it's been on my mind for a week. is there any sort you haven't already?" she held up her hand to the light and fluttered its glitter. "any one that you gave me would be different from the others, wouldn't it?" she asked prettily. "oh, that's very nice of you, flora, but i want to find you something new. when shall we look for it? to-morrow, in the morning?" "yes, i should love it," she answered, but with no particular enthusiasm, for the idea of shopping with harry, and shopping at shrove's, did not present a wide field of possibility. "but i have a luncheon to-morrow," she added, "so we must make it as early as ten." "oh, you two!" at clara's mildly reproving voice so close beside them both started like conspirators. they had not heard her come in, yet there she was, just inside the doorway, still wrapped in her cloak. but there was none of the impetus of arrested motion in her attitude. she stood at repose as if she might have waited not to interrupt them. "don't scold flora," said harry, rising. "it's my fault. she sent me away half an hour ago. but it is so comfortable here!" flora couldn't tell whether he was simply natural, or whether he was giving this domestic color to their interview on purpose. she rather thought it was the latter. "to-morrow at ten, then!" he said cheerfully to flora. the stiff curtains rustled behind him and the two women were left together. "what an important appointment," said clara lightly, "to bring a man at this hour to make it." "oh, it is, awfully!" flora answered in the same key. "to choose my engagement ring." clara's delicate brows flew upward, and though clara herself made no comment, the quick facial movement said, "i don't believe it." vi black magic the memory of clara's incredulous glance remained with her as something curious, and she was not unprepared to be challenged when, the next morning, she hurried down the hall, drawing on her gloves. clara's door did open, but the lady herself, yawning lightly on the threshold, had this time no questions for her. "remember the luncheon," she advised, "and by the way, ella wants us to sit in their box to-night. don't forget to tell harry." flora threw back a gay "all right," but she was in danger of forgetting even the object of their errand, once she and harry were out in the bright glare of the street. the wind, keen and resinous from the wet presidio woods, blew at their back down the short block of pavement, and buffeted them, broadside, as they waited on the corner for the slow-crawling little car. in spite of the blustering air flora insisted on the side seat of the "dummy," and, catching her hat with one hand, pressing down her fluttering skirts with the other, she laughed, now sidelong at harry, now out at the dancing face of the bay. each succeeding cross-street gave up a flash of blue water. the short blocks slid by, first stone fronts and fresh lawns, stucco and tiles; then here and there corner lots, the great gray, towered, wooden mansions the stock-brokers of the "seventies" built, and below them, like a contingent of shabby-genteel relations, the narrow gray wooden faces of what was "smart" in the "sixties". it was a continuous progress backward toward the old, the original town. there was no stately nucleus. this town was a succession of widening ripples of progress, each newer, more polished than the last, but not different in quality from the old center that still teemed--a region of frail wooden rookeries full of foreign contending interests, haunted with the adventures of its feverish past. it had built itself on the hopes of a moment, and what spread from it still was the spell of the new, the changing, and the reckless. it drew still from the ends of the earth. the broad road in over the mountains, the broad road out over the ocean made it where it stood, touching all trades, a road-house of the world. some dim perception of this touched flora as the houses, gliding past, grew older, grayer, with steeper gardens, narrower streets, here and there even trees, lone, sentinel, at the edge of cobbled gutters. from the crest of the last hill they had looked a mile down the long gray throat of the street to where the ferry building lay stretched out with its one tall tower pricked up among the masts of shipping. half-way between their momentary perch and the ferry slips the street suddenly thickened, darkened, swarmed, flying a yellow pennon high above blackened roofs. and now, as they slipped down the long decline into the foreign quarter the pungent oriental breath of chinatown was blown up to them. she breathed it in readily. it was pleasant because it was strange, outlandish, suggesting a wide web of life beyond her own knowledge. she wondered what harry was thinking of it, as he sat with his passive profile turned from her to the heathen street ahead. she guessed, by the curl of his nostril, that it was only present to him as an unpleasant odor to be got through as quickly as possible; but she was wrong. he had another thought. this time, oddly enough, a thought for her. he gave it to her presently, abrupt, matter-of-fact, material. "that chinese goldsmith down there has good stuff now and then. how'd you like to look in there before we go on to what-you-call-'em's,--the regular place?" "you mean for a ring?" she was doubtful only of his being in earnest. "you have so many of the shrove kind," he explained. "i thought you might like it, flora; you're so romantic!" he laughed. "like it!" she cried, too touched at his thought for her to resent the imputation. "i should love it! but i didn't know they had such things." "now and then--though it is a rare chance." "but that will be just the fun of it," she hastened, half afraid lest harry should change his mind, "to see if we can possibly find one that will be different from all these others." she kept this little feeling of exploration close about her, as they left the car, a block above the green trees of the plaza, and entered one of the narrow streets that was not even a cross-street, but an alley, running to a bag's end, with balconies, green railings and narcissi taking the sun. a slant-eyed baby in a mauve blouse stared after them; and a white face so poisoned in its badness that it gave flora a start, peered at them from across the street. it made her shrink a little behind harry's broad shoulder and take hold of his arm. the mere touch of that arm was security. his big presence, moving agilely beside her, seemed to fill the street with its strength, as if, by merely flinging out his arms, samson-like, he could burst the dark walls asunder. in the middle of the block, sunk a little back from the fronts of the others, the goldsmith's shop showed a single, filmed window; and the pale glow through it proclaimed that the worker in metals preferred another light to the sun's. the threshold was worn to a hollow that surprised the foot; and the interior into which it led them gloomed so suddenly around them after the broad sunlight, that it was a moment before they made out the little man behind the counter, sitting hunched up on a high stool. "hullo, joe," said harry, in the same voice that hailed his friends on the street-corners; but the goldsmith only nodded like a nodding mandarin, as if, without looking up, he took them in and sensed their errand. he wore a round, blue chinese cap drawn over his crown; a pair of strange goggles like a mask over his eyes, and his little body seemed to poise as lightly on his high stool as a wisp, as if there were no more flesh in it than in his long, dry fingers that so marvelously manipulated the metal. save for that glitter of gold on his glass plate, and the grin of a lighted brazier, all was dark, discolored and cluttered. and the way harry bloomed upon this background of dubious antiquity! he leaned on the little counter, which creaked under his weight, in his big, fresh coat, with his clear, fresh face bent above the shallow tray of trinkets--doubtful jades, dim-eyed rings, dull clasps and coins--his large, fastidious finger poked among. he was the one vital thing in the shop. over everything else was spread a dimness of age like dust. it enveloped the little man behind the counter, not with the frailness that belongs to human age, but with that weathered, polished hardness which time brings to antiques of wood and metal. indeed, he appeared so like a carved idol in a curio shop that flora was a little startled to find that he was looking at her. chinamen had always seemed to her blank automatons; but this one looked keenly, pointedly, as if he personally took note. she told herself whimsically that perhaps it was his extraordinary glasses that gave point to that expression; and presently when he took them off she was surprised to see it seemed verily true. his little physiognomy had no more expression than a withered nut. but there was something about it more disturbing than its vanishing intelligence, something unexpected, and out of harmony with the rest of him, yet so illusive that, flit over him as her eye would, she failed to find it. "harry," she murmured to cressy, who was still stirring the contents of the box with a disdainful forefinger, "this little man gives me the shivers." "old joe?" harry smiled indulgently. "he's a queer customer. been quite a figurehead in chinatown for twenty years. say, joe, heap bad!" and with the back of his hand he flicked the tray away from him. the little man undoubled his knees and descended the stool. he stood breast-high behind the counter. he dropped a lack-luster eye to the box. "velly nice," he murmured with vague, falling inflection. "oh, rotten!" harry laughed at him. "you no like?" "no. no like. you got something else--something nice?" "no." it was like a door closed in the face of their hope--that falling inflection, that blank of vacuity that settled over his face, and his whole drooping figure. he seemed to be only mutely awaiting their immediate departure to climb back again on his high stool. but harry still leaned on the counter and grinned ingratiatingly. "oh, joe, you good flen'. you got something pretty--maybe?" the curtain of vacuity parted just a crack--let through a gleam of intense intelligence. "maybe." the goldsmith chuckled deeply, as if harry had unwittingly perpetrated some joke--some particularly clever conjurer's trick. he sidled out behind the counter, past the grinning brazier, and shuffled into the back of the shop where he opened a door. flora had expected a cupboard, but the vista it gave upon was a long, black, incredibly narrow passage, that stretched away into gloom with all the suggestion of distance of a road going over a horizon. down this the goldsmith went, with his straw slippers clapping on his heels, until his small figure merged in the gloom and presently disappeared altogether, and only the faint flipper-flap of his slippers came back growing more and more distant to them, and finally dying into silence. in the stillness that followed while they waited they could hear each other breathe. the little shop with the water-stained walls and the ancient odor--ancient as the empire of china--inclosed them like a spell cast around them by a vanishing enchanter to hold them there mute until his returning. they did not look at each other, but rather at the glowing brazier, at the gold on the glass plates, at the forms of people passing in the street, moving palely across the dim window pane, as distant to flora's eye as though they moved in another world. then came the flipper-flap of the goldsmith's slippers returning. the sound snapped their tension, and harry laughed. "lord knows how far he went to get it!" "across the street?" flora wondered. "or under it. and it won't be worth two bits when it gets here." he peered at the little man coming toward them down the passage, flapping and shuffling, and carrying, held before him in both hands, a square, deep little box. it was a worn, nondescript box that he set down before them, but the jealous way he had carried it had suggested treasure, and flora leaned eagerly forward as he raised the cover, half expecting the blaze of a jewel-case. she saw at first only dull shanks of metal tumbled one upon the other. but, after a moment's peering, between them she caught gleams of veritable light. her fingers went in to retrieve a hoop of heavy silver, in the midst of which was sunk a flawed topaz. she admired a moment the play of light over the imperfection. "but this isn't chinese," she objected, turning her surprise on harry. "lots of 'em aren't. these men glean everywhere. that's pretty." he held up a little circle of discolored but lusterful pearls--let it fall again, since it was worth only a glance. he leaned on the counter, indifferent to urge where value seemed so slight. he seemed amused at flora's enthusiasm for clouded opals. "they look well enough among this junk," he said, "but compare them with your own rings and you'll see the difference." she heard him dreamily. she was wishing, as she turned over the tumble of damaged jewels, that things so pretty might have been perfect. to find a perfect thing in this place would be too extraordinary to hope for. yet, taking up the next, and the next, she found herself wishing it might be this one--this cracked intaglio. no? then this blue one--say. the setting spoke nothing for it. it was a plain, thin, round hoop of palpable brass, and the battered thing seemed almost too feeble to hold the solitary stone. but the stone! she looked it full in the eye, the big, blazing, blue eye of it. what was the matter with this one? a flaw? she held it to the light. she felt harry move behind her. she knew he couldn't but be looking at it. for how, by all that was marvelous, had she for a moment doubted it? down to its very heart, which was near to black, it was clear fire, and outward toward the facets struck flaming hyacinth hues with zigzag white cross-lights that dazzled and mesmerized. just the look of it--the marvelous deep well of its light--declared its truth. "harry," she breathed, without taking her gaze from the thing in her hand, "do look at this!" she felt him lean closer. then with an abrupt "let's see it," he took it from her--held it to the light, laid it on his palm, looking sharply across the counter at the shopkeeper, then back at the ring with a long scrutiny. his face, too, had a flush of excitement. "is it--good?" flora faltered. "a sapphire," he said, and taking her third finger by the tip, he slid on the thin circle of metal. she breathed high, looking down at the stone with eyes absorbed in the blue fire. there was none of the cupidity of women for jewels in her look. it was the intrinsic beauty of this drop of dark liquid light that had captured her. it had mystery, and her imagination woke to it--the wistful mystery of perfect beauty. and perfect beauty in such a place! it was too beautiful. the feeling it brought her was too sharp for pure pleasure. it was dimly like fear. yet instinctively she shut her hand about the ring. she murmured out her wonder. "how in the world did such a thing come here?" "oh, not so strange," harry answered. he leaned on his elbow upon the counter, his head bent close to hers above the single, glittering point that drew the four eyes to one focus. "sailors now and then pick up a thing of whose value they have no idea--get hard up, and pawn it--still without any idea. these chaps"--and his bold hand indicated the shopkeeper--"take in anything--that is, anything worth their while; and wait, and wait, and wait until they see just the moment--and turn it to account." it might be because harry's eyes were so taken with the jewel that his tongue ran recklessly. he had spoken low, but flora sent an anxious glance to be sure the shopkeeper hadn't overheard. she had meant only to glance, but she found herself staring into eyes that stared back from the other side of the counter. that wide, unwinking scrutiny filled her whole vision. for an instant she saw nothing but the dance of scintillant pupils. then, with a little gasp she clutched at her companion's arm. "oh, harry!" his glance came quickly round to her. "why, what's the matter?" she murmured, "that chinaman has blue eyes." he looked at her with good-natured wonder. "why, flora, haven't you blue on the brain? i believe he has, though," he added, as he peered across the counter at the shopkeeper, whose gaze now fluttered under narrowed lids; "but why in the world should blue eyes scare you?" his look returned indulgently to flora's face. she could not explain her reason of fear to him. she could not explain it to herself more than that the eyes had seemed to know. what? she could not tell; but they had had a deadly intelligence. she only whispered back, "but he is awful!" "oh, i guess not," harry grinned, and turned his back to the counter, "only part white. makes him a little sharper at a bargain." but, in spite of his off-handedness, flora saw he was alert, touched with excitement. once or twice he looked from the shopkeeper to the sapphire. "do you like it, flora?" he said. "do you want it?" he spoke eagerly against her reluctance. "it is the most beautiful thing i ever saw, but--" she could not put it to him why she shrank from it. that feeling which had touched her at the first had a little expanded, the sense of the sapphire's sinister charm. she faltered out as much as she could explain. "it's too much for me." his shoulders shook with appreciation of this. "oh, i guess not! if you keep that up i shall be thinking you mean it is too much for me." it hadn't been in the least what she meant, but now that he had suggested it to her--"well, i shouldn't like it to be," she blushed, but she braved him. the ring of his laughter filled the little, dark, old shop, and made the proprietor blink. "oh, i guess not," he said again, and with that he seemed to make an end of her hesitations. there was not another objection she could bring up. she let him draw the ring off her hand with a mingled feeling of reluctance and relief. she saw him turn briskly to the shopkeeper. "now, joe, how much you want?" that much she heard as she turned away with a fear lest it might, and a hope that it would be, too much for him! she lingered away to the door, through whose upper glazed half she saw the street swarming and sunny, picked out with streamers of red and squares of green. the murmur of traffic outside was faint to her ears. the murmur of the two voices talking on inside the shop momently grew fainter. she looked behind her and saw them now in the back of the shop, close by the grinning brazier. the light of it showed what would have been otherwise dark. it showed her harry, straddling, hands in pockets, hat thrust back, a silhouette as hard as if cast in cold metal. the aspect of him, thus, was strange, not quite unlike himself, but giving her the feeling that she had never known how much harry smoothed over. perhaps men were always like that with men. still she looked away again because she felt she had taken a liberty in catching him when he was coming out so plain and coming out so positive to the shopkeeper, whom he seemed really to be bullying. she felt that, considering the sapphire, nothing that went on about it could be too extraordinary. and yet the tone their voices were taking on made her nervous. whatever they were arguing about, she found it hard to go on standing thus with her back to it, and for so long, while her expectancy tightened, and her unreasonable idea that she did not want the ring, more and more took hold of her. if he did not want to sell it, why not let it go--the beautiful thing! she thought she would call harry, and suggest it--but no. she hesitated. she would give them a chance to finish it themselves. she would count ten pigtails past the window first. she watched the last far into the distance, and still she was there, blowing hot and cold. she would call to harry--call out to him from where she stood, that she wouldn't have the thing. she turned, and there they were yet. they had not moved. the shadow of the gesticulating little chinaman danced like a bird on the wall, and before him harry glowed, immovable, but ruddy, as if the hard metal whereof he was cast was slowly heating through. the thought came to her then. harry was iron! the hard shade of his profile on the wall, the stiff movement of his lips, the forward thrust of his head on his shoulders gave her another thought. was harry also brutal? the sight of that brutality awake, feeding, as it were, on the fluttering little figure before it, distressed her. how long were they going on putting an edge to their argument? there was continually with her the fear that it might sharpen into a quarrel; for now the goldsmith had ceased his gesticulation and became suddenly immobile, and still harry was requiring of him the same thing. it was insisted upon, by all the lines of his stiff braced figure, and she had a fluttered expectancy that if the little man didn't do something quickly, now--now it would happen. what she expected of harry, a violent act or a quick relaxation of his iron mood, she had not time to consider, for the shopkeeper had moved. he was jerking his head, his thumb, and finally his arm in the direction of the long, dim passage--such a pointed direction, such a singular gesture, as to startle her with its incongruity. what had that to do with the price of the ring? and if it had nothing to do with the price of the ring, what had they been talking about? her small scruple against knowing what was going on behind her was forgotten. indeed, now she was oblivious of everything else. she was taking it in with all her eyes, when harry turned and looked at her. and, oddly enough, she thought he looked as if he wondered how she came there. she saw him return to it slowly. then, in a flash, he met her brilliantly. he came toward her out of the gloom, holding the ring before him, as if with the light of that, and the flash of his smile, he was anxious immediately to cover his deficit. "i had the very devil of a time getting it," he said. "the little beggar didn't want to let me have it." but there was a subsiding excitement in his face, and a something in his manner, both triumphant and troubled, which his explanation did not reasonably account for. had harry felt the touch of the same strange influence that the little shop, and the blue-eyed chinaman, and the sapphire, had wrought around her? or was it something more salient, the same thing that had suggested itself to her with the violent gesticulation of the shopkeeper at the passage--that some question other than the mere transfer of the ring had come up between them? "harry"--she hesitated--"are you quite sure it's all right?" "all right?" the sudden edge in his voice made her look at him. "why, it's genuine, if that's what you mean." it hadn't been, quite; but her meaning was too vague to put into words--a mere sensation of uneasiness. she watched harry turn the ring over, as if he were reluctant to let it go out of his hands. and then, looking at her, she thought his glance was a little uncertain. she thought he hesitated, and when he finally slid the ring over her finger, "i wouldn't wear it until it is reset," he said. "that setting isn't gold. it's hardly decent." "yes," she assented; "clara will laugh at us." "she won't if we don't show it to her until it's fit to appear. in fact, i would rather you wouldn't. as it is now, the thing doesn't represent my gift to you." she felt this was harry's conventional streak asserting itself. but even she had to admit that an engagement ring which was palpably not gold was rather out of the way. "you'd better keep it a day or two and look it over and make up your mind how you want it set, and then we'll spring it on them," he advised. but now it was finally on her finger, she did not want to think it would ever have to be taken off again. she drew her glove over it. the great facets showed sharp angles under the thin kid. she wished the sapphire were not quite so large, so difficult to reconcile with everything else. now that she had the perfect thing with her, clasping her so heavily around the third finger, she was half afraid it was going to be too much for her, after all. vii a spell is cast it was hers! she did not believe it. it had been done too quickly. it seemed to her she had hardly felt harry slip it on her finger before they had left the shop; that she had hardly shaken off the musty inclosed atmosphere, before harry had left her on the corner of california and powell streets--left her alone with the ring! still, she didn't believe she had it, even while she looked at the large lump it made under her glove. she kept feeling it with a cautious finger-tip. a trio of girls she knew flocked off the california street car and surrounded her. they were going to the white house for bargains in shirt waists. they wanted to carry her off in their company. they encompassed her in a chatter of lace and lingerie. there were held up to her all the interests of her every-day existence; but these seemed to have no part in her real life. they had never appeared more remote and trivial. she kept her conscious hand in the folds of her skirt. she would have liked to strip off her glove and show them the ring. it would have entertained them so much. to herself its entertainment was of the arabian nights--the way of its finding, its beauty in the false setting, the struggle over it in the shop--all were wine to her imagination. it was a thing to conjure adventure; it was a talisman of romance. she colored faintly as she mentally corrected herself. it was her engagement ring, and as such she had never once thought of it. strange, when all the forms of her engagement had been so well observed; when harry himself represented that side of life to which she had tried to form herself from as far back as the old days when her mother had made fun of her fancies. it must be right, she thought, this life of conventions and forms; and the queer way she saw things, something wrong in her. but because she knew herself different, and because she felt life without understanding it, she feared it. it was too big to take hold of alone. and she was so alone; and harry was so strong, so matter-of-fact; alone like herself, yet adequate in the world she was afraid of. she had accepted him as naturally, and yet as unreally, as she took all that life, and to the moment she had never questioned the wisdom or the happiness. she didn't question now. she only was shocked that so large a fact in her life as her engagement could be completely wiped out for the moment by a thing so trivial. it was not even the ring. it was the feeling she had about the ring. her imagination was always running away with her, as it had the night at the club. and here it was, still uncurbed, speeding her forward into fields of romance. she went over whole dramas--imaginary histories of chance and circumstance--woven about the ring, as she walked up and down the long, windy hills, westward and homeward, the blue bay on the one hand beaten green under the rising "trade," and the fog coming in before her. with the experience of the morning, and the exercise and the lively air, her spirits were riding high. from time to time she had the greatest longing to peep again at the sapphire, but not until the house door had closed after her did she dare draw off her glove and look. it was still glorious. what a pity she must take it off! yet that point harry had made about not showing it had been too sharp to be disregarded. but what could she say, supposing clara asked about the morning's expedition? at this thought all her spring deserted her, and she went slowly up the stair. perhaps clara had forgotten about it, and then it recurred reassuringly to her mind how seldom clara touched anywhere near the subject of her engagement. none the less, she went very softly down the hall, anxious lest clara might open her door and ask what she had brought home with her. but even in the refuge of her own rooms the ring encircled flora with unease. the light of it on her finger made her restless. it wasn't that she was apprehensive of it, but she could not forget it. she could hear the maid marrika moving about in the room beyond. she could hear the rustle of clothes carried to and fro. she knew there were things to dress for--a luncheon, and a bevy of teas--things which must be gone through with, things which at other times she had found sufficiently pleasurable. but now, try as she would to turn her mind to these, it persistently wandered back to the jewel. all the fine, simple pleasure of the morning was dazzled out by it. she slipped it off her finger on to the dressing-table, and it lay among her laces like a purple prism, cast by some unearthly sun in a magic glass. she had jewels, rubies even--the most precious--but nothing that gave her this sense of individual beauty, of beauty so keen as to be disturbing. she emptied her jewel casket in a glittering heap around it. it shone out unquenched. it had not been the dingy little shop, and the dingy little street, and the odds and ends of jade and tarnished silver that had made it of such a value. it seemed to her that any eye would fix it, any hand pluck it out first from that shining heap before her. marrika was coming in, and quickly flora swept the jewels and the sapphire back into the casket, turned the key upon them, and thrust it back in the far corner of the drawer. she would give every one a great surprise when the ring was properly set. she glanced nervously over her shoulder to see if marrika had noticed her action. the russian had been moving to and fro between the wardrobe and the dressing-table with a droning thread of song. and now she took up the combs and brushes, and filling her mouth with pins, began on the long river of yellow-brown hair that flowed down flora's back. the broad, pale face reflected beside her own in the mirror was reassuring by its serene indifference. she had soothing hands, marrika. it was a luxury to be dressed by her, a mental soporific. but to-day it wrought no relaxation in flora's tightened nerves. all the while she was being combed and laced and hooked her eyes were alertly on the dressing-table drawer, that remained a little open; and presently she caught herself vaguely speculating on how, after she had been fastened up and into her clothes so securely, she could dispose upon herself the sapphire. how had she arrived at this consideration? no course of reasoning led up to it. she was annoyed with herself. if she wasn't going to wear the ring on her finger, and show it, why did she want to take it with her at all? for fear it might be lost? lost, in her jewel box, in the back of the drawer! she blushed for herself. she looked severely at her guilty reflection in the mirror. perhaps she did look tall; yes, and outwardly sophisticated, but underneath that bold exterior flora knew she was only the smallest, youngest, most ridiculous child ever born. there were moments when this fact appeared to her more vividly than at others. one had been the other night when kerr's eyes had looked through and through her; and here she was again, when she was going to a girls' luncheon, and most wanted to feel competent, stared out of countenance by the wonderful eye of a ring. through the long afternoon it was more apparent to her than the faces of the people around her. she was restless to get back to it, but people talked interminably. at the luncheon they talked of kerr. flora knew these girls felt a little resentment that she had so easily captured harry cressy; for harry had been more than an eligible man in the little city. he had been an eligible personage. not that he had money; not that his family tree was plainly planted in their midst; but that without these two things he had achieved what, with these things, the people he knew were all striving for. he stood before them as the embodiment of what they most believed in--perfect bodily splendor, and perfect knowledge of how to get on with the world; and the fact that he wouldn't quite be one of them, but after five years still stood a little off--made him shine with greater brilliance, especially in the eyes of these young girls. it was hard, they seemed to feel, that such an apparently remote and difficult person should have succumbed so easily; and now that a new luminary of equal luster was apparent in their sky, flora felt their remarks a little triumphantly aimed at her. it was odd to her that they should envy her anything, especially those one or two exquisite flowers of old families, whose lovely eyes saw not one inch farther than her turquoise collar. and the way they talked of kerr, with flourishes, made her feel a faint, responsive irritation that he had talked to so many of them in exactly the same way. but between the threads of interest the table group wove together, kept flashing up her furtive desire to be away, to be at home, to see what had happened to the sapphire. of course, she knew that nothing could have happened; but she wanted to look at it, to open the casket and see the flash of it before her eyes. for was she quite sure that it was not one of those fairy gifts, which, put into the hand in a blaze of beauty, may be found in the pocket as withered leaves? yet her tenacious nets of duty caught and caught, and again caught her, so that when the carriage finally fetched her home it was between lighted street-lamps. they were dining early that night on account of the bullers' box party, but it was nearly eight o'clock before flora reached the house. and it was, of course, for that reason that she ran up-stairs--ran wildly, regardlessly, before the eyes of shima--and along the hall, her high heels clacking on the hard floors, and through her bedroom to the dressing-room, snatched open the table drawer, unlocked the casket with a twitch of the key--and, ah, it was there! it was really real! why, what had she expected? she was laughing at herself. she was gay in her relief at getting back to the sapphire, but at the same time she was already wondering what she should do about it that night--take it with her or leave it alone? dared she wear it on her finger under her glove? clara might notice the unfamiliar form of the jewel through the thin kid. harry's warning had been phrased conventionally enough, but the hints his words conveyed had expanded in her mind--fear not only of clara's laughter, that such a jewel had come from a junk shop, but of her wonder, her questions, her ability of getting out the story of the whole erratic proceeding, even to the strange pantomime between harry and the blue-eyed chinaman. clara was marvelous! flora watched her curiously across the table that evening, wondering what was that quality of hers by which she acquired. hitherto flora had accepted it as a fact without question, but now she had a desire to place it. it was not beauty, for though clara was pretty, like a polished greuze, she was colorless and flavorless, lacking the vivid heat of magnetism. more probably it consisted in a certain sort of sweetness clara could produce on occasions, a way she had of looking and speaking which flora could only describe as smooth. but smooth without texture or softness; smooth as quick-flowing water, smooth as glass--a surface upon which even caution might lose its equilibrium. for the danger in clara was that she was disarming. there was nothing antagonistic in her. one noticed her slowly. the flat tones of her voice made background for other people's conversations. the pale tints of her gown blended with the pale tones of her hair and flesh. beside clara's exquisite gradations flora felt herself without shades, a creature of violent contrasts and impulses. if clara had been going to carry the ring about with her she would have had a reason for it. but flora had nothing but a silly fancy. she made up her mind to leave the sapphire at home; but in her last moment in her room the resolution failed her. harry, of course, would be angry if he knew, but harry wouldn't see the thing under her glove. she came down to where clara was waiting for her, with the guilty feeling of a child who has concealed a contraband cake; but the way clara looked her over made her conscious that she had not concealed her excitement. clara was always cool. what would it be like, she wondered, to feel the same about everything? how would it seem to be no more elated by the expectation of listening to the most beautiful of tenors than over the next meeting of the decade club? was that what she was coming to in time? not to-night, she thought; and not, at least, while that talisman of romance clasped her around the third finger. viii a spark of horror they found harry waiting for them in the theater lobby. he had come up too late from burlingame to do more than meet the party there. the bullers were already in the box, he said, and the second act of _i' pagliacci_ just beginning. as they came to the door of the box the lights were down, the curtain up on a dim stage, and the chorus still floating into the roof, while the three occupants of the box were indistinguishable figures, risen up and shuffling chairs to the front for flora and clara. it was too dark to distinguish faces. but dark as it was, flora knew who was sitting behind her. she heard him speaking. under the notes of the recitative he was speaking to clara. the pleasure of finding him here was sharpened by the surprise. she listened to his voice, the mere intonation of which brought back to her their walk through the presidio woods as deliciously as if she were still there. then, as the tenor took up the theme, all talking ceased--ella's husky whisper, clara's smoother syllables, and the flat, slow, variable voice of kerr--the whole house seemed to sink into stiller repose; the high chords floated above the heads of the black pit like colored bubbles, and flora forgot the sapphire in the triple spell of the singing, the darkness, and the face she was yet to see. she felt relaxed and released from her guard by this darkness around her, that blotted out the sea of faces beneath, that dissolved the walls and high galleries, that obscured the very outline of the box where she sat, until she seemed to be poised, half-way up a void of darkness, looking into a pit in the hollowness of which a voice was singing. the stage was a narrow shelf of wood swung in that void, from which the voice sang, and a bare finger of light followed it about from place to place. the sweet, searching tenor notes, the semblance of passion and reality the gesticulating frenchman threw over all the stage, and the _crescendo_ of the tragedy carried her into a mood that barred out ella, barred out clara, barred out harry more than any; but, unaccountably, kerr was still with her. he was there by no will of hers, but by some essence of his own, some quality that linked him, as it linked her, to the passionate subtleties of life. he seemed to her the eager spirit that was prompting and putting forward this comedy and tragedy playing on before her. she heard him reasserted, vigorous, lawless, wandering, in the voice of the mimic strolling player addressing his mimic audience. the appeal of the tenor to the voiceless galleries, "underneath this little play we show, there is another play," seemed indeed the very voice of kerr repeating itself. and with the climax of the sharp tragedy in the middle of the comic stage she placed him again, but placed him this time in the mimic audience looking on, neither applauding nor dissenting; but rather as if he watched the play and played it, too. the lights went up with a spring. a wave of motion flickered over the house, the talking voices burst forth all at once, and she saw him, really saw him for the first time that evening, as in her fancy, part of the audience; as in her fancy, neither applauding nor dissenting, yet with what a difference! he leaned back in his chair, and leaned his head a little back, as if, for weariness, he wished there were a rest behind it; and how indifferently, how critically, how levelly he surveyed the fluttered house, and the figures in the box beside him! how foreign he appeared to the ardent spirit who had dominated the dark; how emptied of the heat of imagination, how worn, how dry; and even in his salience, how singularly pathetic! he was neither the satanic person of the first night, nor her comrade of the presidio hills. and if the expression of his face was not quite so cheap as cynicism, it was just the absence of belief in anything. she felt a lump in her throat, an ache of the cruelest disappointment, as though some masker, masking as the fire of life, had suddenly removed the covering of his face and showed her the burnt-out bones beneath. the shift from what she remembered him to what he now appeared was too rapid and considerable for her. she found herself looking at him through a mist of tears--there in the heart of publicity, in the middle of the circle of red velvet curtains! he turned and saw her. she watched a smile of the frankest pleasure rising, as it were, to the surface of his weary preoccupation. something had delighted him. why, it was herself--just her being there! and she could only helplessly blink at him. was ever anything so stupid as to be caught in tears over nothing! for the next moment he had caught her. she knew by the change of his look, interrogative, amused, incredulous. he straightened and leaned forward. "really," he said, "you must remember that little man has only gone out for a glass of beer." so he thought it was the tenor who had brought her to the point of tears. "ah, why do you say that?" she protested. he continued to smile indulgently upon her. "would you really rather believe it true?" "i don't know. but i wish _you_ hadn't thought of the beer." he brought the glare of his monocle to bear full upon her. "why not? it is all we make sure of." so he had taken that side of it. by his words as well as his looks he repudiated all the gallant show of romance he had paraded to her before, and had taken up the cause of the world as flatly as harry could have done. "oh, if to be sure is all you want," she burst out; "but you don't mean it! wouldn't you rather have something beautiful you weren't sure of, than something certain that didn't matter?" he nodded to this quite casually, as if it were an old acquaintance. "oh, yes; but the time comes round when you want to be sure of something. the sun never sets twice alike over mont pelee; but you can always get the same brand of lager to-day that you had the week before." he looked at her with a faint amusement. "and by your expression i take it you don't know how fine some of those brands are. life is not half bad--even when it is only a means to the beer." under these garish lights, in the middle of this theater of people, facing the bland, almost banal, stare of that monocle, it looked exceedingly probable that, after all, in spite of her dreaming, this was what life would prove to be. but she hated the thought, as she hated that kerr should be the one to show it to her; as she would have hated her ring if, after all its splendor in the shop, it should have turned out to be a piece of colored glass. "no, no! i won't believe you," she stoutly denied him. "there _is_ more in life than you can touch. you're not like yourself to say there is not." he laughed, but rather shortly. "my dear child, forgive me; i'm sulky to-night. i feel, as i felt at eighteen, that the world has treated me badly. i've lost my luck." the way his voice dropped at the last sounded to her the weariest thing she had ever heard. he settled back in his chair again, and looked moodily out across the brilliant house. "i'm sorry." her tone was sweetly vague. what could be the matter with him? then, half timidly, she rallied him. "if you go on like this, i shall have to show you my talisman." "oh, have you indeed a talisman?" he humored her. and it was as if he said, "oh, have you a doll?" he did not even turn his head to look at her. she was chilled. she felt the disappointment, that his quick smile had lightened, return upon her. she hardly noticed the rise of the curtain on the second little play, and the singing voices did not reach her with any poignancy. she was vaguely aware of movements in the box--of harry's coming in, of clara's little rustle making room for him, of the shift of ella's chair away from the business of listening, toward him, and her husky whisper going on with some prolonged tale of dull escapade; but to flora they all made only a banal background for the brooding silence of her companion. he had thrown his mood over her until she was ready to doubt even the potency of her talisman to counteract it. she felt of the stone. she drew off her glove and tried to look at it in the dim light, but couldn't get a gleam out of it. she was as impatient for the lights to go up that she might secretly be cheered by its wonder, as she had been that afternoon to get back from the luncheon, and make sure it was still in the drawer. she must see it in spite of clara at her right hand, whose little chiseled profile might turn upon her at any moment a full face of inquiry. she held her left hand low in the shadow of her chair; and if, as the lights went up again, there was any change in the sapphire, it was merely a sharper brilliance, as if, like an eye, it had moods, and this was one of its moments of excitement. in its extraordinary luster it seemed to possess a beauty that could not be valued; and she wanted to hold it up to kerr, to see if she couldn't startle him out of his mood--to see if he wouldn't respond to it, "yes, there is more in it than you can touch." she turned to him with the daring flash of timid spirits. it was so sharp a motion that he started instantly from his reverie to meet it, but his alacrity was mechanical. she felt the smile he summoned was slow, as if he returned, from a long distance, a little painfully to his present surroundings. the _intermezzo_ was playing, and to speak under the music he leaned so close his shoulder touched her chair. through that narrow space between them, almost beneath his eyes, she moved her hand--a gesture so slightly emphasized as to seem accident. he had started to speak, but her motion seemed to stop his tongue. he looked hard at her hand, and something violent in his intentness made her clutch the side of the chair. instantly she met his look, so fiercely, cruelly challenging, that it took her like a blow. for a moment they looked at each other, her eyes wide with fright, his narrowed to a glare under the terrible intentness of his brows. what had she done? what threatened her? what could save her in this sea of people? then, while she gazed, his challenge burned out to a pale hard scrutiny, that faded to no expression at all--or was it that any expression would have seemed dim after the terrible one that had flashed across his face? she was as shaken as if he had seized hold of her. if he had snatched the ring off her finger she wouldn't have been more shocked. the whole box must be transfixed by him, and the whole house be looking at nothing but their little circle of horror! she was ready for it. she was braced for anything but the fact which actually confronted her--that no one had noticed them at all. it was monstrous that such a thing could have been without their knowing! but there was no face in all the orchestra, the crowded galleries, or the tiers of boxes to affirm that anything had happened; no face in their own box had even stirred, but clara's, and that had merely turned from profile to the full, faintly inquiring, mild, and palely pink in the warm reflections of the red velvet curtains. and what could clara have seen, if she had seen at all, but flora a little paler than usual with a hand that trembled; and what worse could clara conjecture than that she was being silly about kerr? she turned slowly toward him, and looked at him with a courage that was part of her fear. but wasn't she, in a way, being silly about kerr? what had become of his expression that had threatened her? there was nothing left of it but her own violent impression--and the longer kerr sat there, talking from her to clara, from clara to judge buller, his eyes keeping pace with his light conversational flights, the less flora felt sure he had ever fixed her with that intensity. and yet the thing had actually happened. its evidence was before her. he had been silent. now he was talking. he had been absent. now she thought she had never seen him more vividly concerned with the moment. yet for all his cool looks and diffuse talk around the box, she felt uneasily that his concern was pointed at her, and that he would never let her go. he only waited for the cover of the last act to come back to her single-handed. she would have deflected his attack, but it was too quick, too unexpected for her to do more than sit helpless, and let him lift up her left hand, delicately between thumb and finger, as if in itself it was some rare, fine curio, and, bending close, contemplate the sapphire unwinkingly. she had an instant when she thought she must cry out, but how impossible in the awful publicity of her place--a pinnacle in the face of thousands! and after the first fluttered impulse came a certain reassurance in such a frank and trivial action. for all its intensity, how could it be construed otherwise than a lively if unconventional interest? it must have been her own fancy which had discerned anything more than that in his first look at her. and yet, when he had laid her hand lightly back, and readjusted his monocle, and looked out, away from her, across the black house, she didn't know whether she was more reassured or troubled because he had not spoken a word. yet the next moment he looked around at her. "we shan't meet every evening in such a way as this," he said, and left the statement dangling unanswerable between them. it sounded portentous--final. she wondered that in the middle of her fear it could strike such a sharp note of regret in her. she knew she would regret not meeting him again; and yet she shrank from the thought she could still want to meet him. by one look her whole feeling of sympathy, of reliance, of admiration, that had flowed out to him so naturally she had scarcely been aware of it, had been troubled and mixed with fear. she couldn't answer. she could only look at him with a reflection of her trouble in her face. "are you surprised that i thought of that?" he inquired. "it's not so odd as you seem to think that i should want to see you again. i don't want to leave it to chance; do you?" he shot the question at her so suddenly, with such a casual eye, and such dry gravity of mouth, that he had her admission out of her before she realized the extent of its meaning. and the way he took that admission for granted, and overlooked her confusion, made her feel that for the sake of whatever he was after he was intentionally ignoring what it did not suit his convenience to see. she knew he must have seen; that every moment while she had changed and fluttered his eye had never left her. "then when are you at home?" he asked her; and by his tone, he conveyed the impression that he was only making courteous response to some invitation she had offered him; though, when she thought, she had not offered it, he had got it out of her. he had got it by sheer impertinence. but none the less he had it. she couldn't escape him there. she answered somewhat stiffly: "fridays, second and fourth." he looked at her with a humorous twist of mouth. "what? so seldom?" she was impotent if he wouldn't be snubbed; but at the worst she wouldn't be cornered. "oh, dear, no--but people who come at other times take a chance." "does that mean that i may take mine to-morrow?" he was pressing her too hard. why was he so anxious to see her, as he had not been the first night or yesterday, or even ten minutes ago? she, who, ten minutes ago, would have been glad, now was doing her best to put him off. she was silent a moment, considering the conventions, and then, like him, she abandoned them. without a word she turned away from him. whatever she said, he had her. but, if she said nothing and still he came to-morrow, whatever she did then, he would have to take the consequences of his insistence. her only desire now was to evade him, lest he should force her out of her non-committal attitude. she wanted to shield herself from further pursuit. she couldn't escape yet, for the figures on the stage were still gesticulating and trilling, and the people around her, in the small inclosure where she sat, hemmed her in so that she could no more move away from kerr than if she had been that impaled specimen he had made her feel at their first meeting. the most she could do was to turn away, but even thus, with her eyes averted and her ears full of ella's voice, she was still acutely aware of him, sitting looking straight before him across the black house with a face worn, wary, weathered to any catastrophe, and such an air of being alertly fixed on something a long way off, that her silence made no more difference to him than her flutterings and her rudeness. and yet she knew he was only waiting; waiting his chance to get at her again and make her commit herself; and that, she was determined, should not happen. what had already happened, through its very violence, had left an impression like a dream. it seemed unreal, and yet it had made her forget everything else--the stage, the people around her, and even the very sapphire that had generated her inexplicable situation. she drew her glove over the ring. the lights were imminent. it would be hard to hide the great flash of the jewel. and besides, she didn't trust it. she couldn't tell in what direction it might not strike out a spark of horror next. the rustle of final departure was all over the house. the people in the box were stirring and beginning to stand up; and flora saw kerr turn and look at her. she wanted some one to stand between herself and kerr, and it was to harry that she turned; not alone that he was so large and adequate, but because she thought she saw in him an inclination to step into that very place where she wanted him. she saw he was a little sullen, and though she didn't suspect him quite of jealousy, she wondered if he had not a right to blame her for the appearance of flirtation that she and kerr must have presented. then how much more might he blame her for what she had actually done--for deliberately showing the sapphire to kerr! the very thought of it frightened her. she knew she was rattling to harry all the while he fetched her cloak and put it on her, and she was glad now of that ability she had cultivated in herself of making a smooth crust of talk over her seething feelings. she talked the harder, she even took hold of harry's arm to be sure of keeping him there between her and what she was afraid of, as they came out on the sidewalk and stood waiting in the windy night for the approach of their carriage lights. row upon row of street lamps flared in the traveling gusts. the midnight noises of the city were at their loudest; and half their volume seemed to be a scattered chorus of hoarse voices yelling all together like a pack of wolves. thin, ragged shapes shot in and out among the crowd, ducked under horses' feet and cut wild zigzags across the street like flying goblins. the sense of their cry was indistinguishable, but it was the same--the same inarticulate shape of sound on every tongue. first one throat, then another took up the raucous singsong shout, then all together again, as if the pack were in full cry on the scent of something. what was this fresh quarry of the press, flora wondered, that made it give tongue so hideously? the hunting note of it made her want to cover her ears, and yet she strained to catch its meaning. she had stooped her head to the carriage door, when harry stopped and took one of the damp papers from a crier in the pack. she saw the head-line. it covered half the sheet--the great figure that was offered for the return of the chatworth ring. ix illumination just when the two ideas had coalesced in her mind flora couldn't be sure. it had been some time in the first dark hour that she had spent wide awake in her bed. there had been two ideas distinctly. two impressions of the evening remained with her; and the last one, the great figures that had stared at her from the paper, the fact that had been harry's secret, made common now in round numbers, had for the moment swallowed up the first. for all the way home that sum was kept before her by clara's talk. she could remember nothing of that talk except that it hadn't been able for a moment to leave the chatworth ring alone. it had been aimed at harry, but it had fallen to flora herself to answer clara's quick speculations, for harry had been obstinately silent, though not indifferent, as if in his own mind he was as unable to leave it alone as clara. one with his silence, one with her talk, they had written the figures of the reward so blazingly in flora's mind that for the moment she could see nothing else. yet now she was alone her first adventure recurred to her. as soon as she was quiet in the dark there came back with reminiscent terror the look that kerr had given her in the box. she wasn't really afraid of kerr himself. she was afraid of the meaning of his look which she didn't understand. it only established in her mind a great significance for the sapphire, if it could produce such an expression on a human face. it had given him more than a mere expression. it had given him an impulse for pursuit, as if, like a magnet, it was fairly dragging him. he had covered his impulse by his very frankness, but she knew he had pursued her--that for the matter of seeing her again he had hunted her down. and what had followed that? why, she was back again to the great figures in the paper. at first it seemed as though she had taken a clean leap from one subject to another. she had in no way connected them. but all at once they were connected. she couldn't separate them. she didn't know whether she had been stupid not to have seen them so before, or whether she was stupid to see them so now. for the thought that had sprung up in her mind was monstrous. it startled her so broad awake that she sat up in bed to meet it the more alertly. she sat up trembling. she felt like one who has walked a long way in a wood, hearing crafty footsteps following in the bushes. and now the beast had sprung out, and she was panting, terrified, not knowing which way to run. the room was dark except for now and again the yellow square of light, from some passing cable car, traveling along the ceiling. the four walls around her, their dark bulks of furniture and light ripple of moving curtains, shut her up with this monster of her mind. the longer she looked at it the less she felt sure it was real, and yet it was before her. it was there with none of the loveliness of her first fancies about the ring. it was there with grisly reality. it had not been conjured up. it had sprung upon her from the solid actualities of the night. and, yes, of the day before--and the night before that. oh, she had known well enough that there had been something wrong at the goldsmith's shop. she had felt it even before she had seen the sapphire; and afterward how it had held them, both herself and harry! to have moved harry it must be something indeed! had he suspected it then, or had he only wondered? if he had suspected why hadn't he spoken of it? well, her appalling fancy prompted, hadn't he spoken of it?--though not to her. there flashed back to her the memory of him there in the back of the shop with the blue-eyed chinaman. how furiously he had assailed the little man! how uneasily, with what a dissatisfied air he had looked at the ring even after it was on her finger, as if, after all, he had not compassed what he had wanted. she could be almost sure that the monstrous idea which had just overtaken her had, however fleetingly, flashed before harry's mind in the goldsmith's shop. but surely he couldn't have entertained it for a moment. that was impossible, or he would never have let her take the sapphire--harry, who had seen the ring, the very crew idol itself, within the twenty-four hours. "a little heathen god curled round himself with a big blue stone on the top-of his head." harry hadn't said what sort of stone it was; but kerr had said it was a sapphire. there was a sapphire on her hand now. she touched it with her finger-tips cautiously, as if to touch something hot. so near to her! in the same room with her! on her own hand! it was too much to be alone with in the dark! she reached out softly, as if she feared to disturb some threatening presence lurking around her, and lit the small night lamp on the low table by her bed. the shade was yellow, and that contended with the blue of the sapphire, but couldn't break its light. with the first flash of its splendor in her face she felt certainty threatening her. she shook the ring quickly off her finger and it fell with a light clatter on the table's marble top--fell with the sapphire face down, and all its light hidden. she took it up again a little fearfully, as if it might have got some harm; and again while she looked at it it seemed to her that nothing that happened about this jewel could be too extraordinary. if only it had been less wonderful, less beautiful, she would not have felt so terribly afraid! she put it back on the table and for a moment held her hand over it, as if she imprisoned a living thing. then, without looking again, she got out of bed and went to the window. it overlooked the dark steep of the garden, the moving trees and the lighter plane of the water. she leaned out, far out. black housetops marched against the bay, and between them, light by light, her eyes followed the street-lamps down to the shore. if one could recover from such a nightmare as she had it would be by leaning out into and facing this wide soft dark. these shapeless roofs just below her the night made mysterious; and yet they covered people that she knew--her friends--kind, safe people! there had been nights when the city, through this very window, had seemed to her a savage place; but now the wicked fear that stood behind her--the fear that had got inside her house, that had slipped unseen through the circle of friends, that stood behind her now, filling her own room with its shadowy menace--had transformed the city into a very haven of security. oh, to escape out of this window into the innocent, sleeping city, away from the horror at her back! to look in from the outside and be even sure there was a horror! and if there was, to run away into the wide soft dark! but how did she know, her fantastic idea persisted, that the sapphire wouldn't follow her--the sapphire itself--the embodiment of her fear? then she dared not be driven out. but there was another way to be rid of it. the real idea occurred to her. how easy it would be to take it--that beautiful thing--and throw it; throw it as hard as she could, and let the night take care of it. the window was open, as if it stood ready, and there was the ring on the table. she went to it, looked at it a moment without touching it, holding her hands away. then with a little shiver she backed away from it and sat down on the foot of the bed. she looked pale and little, as if the eye of the ring, blazing under the feeble lamp, like the evil eye, had sapped her fire and youth. the only thing about her of any size and color was the heavy braid of hair fallen over her shoulder. she hugged her arms around her updrawn knees, and resting her chin upon them eyed the sapphire bravely. "what shall i do with you?" she somberly inquired of it. "you are a dreadful thing. i don't know where you came from nor what you are, but i am afraid--i am afraid you are--" she hesitated. the sapphire lay shining like some idol set up for worship, and in spite of herself its beauty moved her, if not to worship, at least to awe and fear. "i suppose you know i can't throw you away," she murmured, "and yet i can't keep you!" she pondered, chin in hand. to take it to harry! that seemed the natural thing to do--the simplest way to be rid of it. she hesitated. "if i only _knew_! if i only were sure!" she locked her fingers closer, staring hard. if it had been the whole crew idol, the undismembered god himself, then there would have been less terror, and one plain thing to do. she looked hard at the sapphire setting, as if she hoped to discover upon its brilliance some tell-tale trace of old soft gold; but there was only one great, glassy, polished eye, and out of what head it had come, whether from the forehead of the crew idol, or from that of some unheralded deity, who was there who could tell her? she tried to summon a coherent thought, but again it was only a flash out of the darkness. "kerr! why, he knows more than i." she looked at this stupidly for a moment as if it were too large to take in at once. of course he must have known! why hadn't she thought of that before? why hadn't she thought of it that first moment, when he had turned on her in the box with such terrible eyes? she drew in her shoulders, looking all around at the dim corners of the room which the lamp flame failed to penetrate. behind her present lively fear a second shadow was growing, more dim, more formless, more vast and dubious. what series of circumstances might have led up to kerr's knowledge she could not dream. he was one of whom nothing was incredible. from the first moment his face had shot into the light, from the moment she had heard his voice, like color in the level voices around him, she had been bewildered by his variety. he had caught her up to the clouds. he had whirled her along dubious levels, and more than once he had shown her that the lines she had supposed drawn so sharply between this and that could no more be discerned than meridians on green earth. if she had noticed any earnestness in him, it was his relish, his gusto for the whole of life. he had no theory to set up. just as it was he took it. if he persisted in requiring people to be themselves it was for no good to themselves, but for the pleasure he himself got out of it. if he made society into a little ball, and threw it away, it was only to show it could be done. and where, she asked herself in a summing up, might such a man not be found? but there were few places, indeed, in even the broadest plain of possibility, which could hold knowledge of so particular and piercing a quality as his look had implied. there had been so much more than curiosity or surprise in it. she could hardly face the memory of it, so cruelly it had struck her. there was no doubt in her mind that kerr had seen the ring. somewhere in the pageant of his experience he had met it, known it--but what he wanted of it-- she broke off that thought, and looked long at the little flame of the lamp. it was strange, but there was no doubt in her mind but that he wanted it. that had been the strongest thing in his look. she felt herself picking her way along a very narrow path, one step over either edge of which would plunge her chasms deep. now she snatched at a frail sapling to save herself. the fact that kerr knew her stone didn't prove it belonged to the crew idol. and if it didn't--if it wasn't the crown of the heathen god, then her whole dreadful supposition fell to pieces. but she hadn't proved it and the simplest way was just to ask kerr. her chance for that was the chance he had fought so hard for, the chance of their meeting the next day. she hadn't wanted that meeting when he had first asked her for it in the box. she had feared it then, and all the more she feared it now, because now she would have to do more than defend herself. she would take the offensive; she would make the attack, now that she had a question to ask. why should the thought of it frighten her? if this was not the crew sapphire she would be no worse off than she had been. if it was, her course would be clear. it seemed it should be simple, it should be easy to face kerr with her question; but she was possessed by the apprehension that it would be neither. would the question she had to ask be a safe thing to give him? and if she dared undertake it and should be overpowered after all--then everything would be lost. what the "everything" was she feared to lose would not come clear to her. the only thing that did emerge definitely from the agitation of her mind was the knowledge that this question that had been thrust upon her made it tenfold more difficult to meet kerr. and yet, to refuse to meet him now would be as cowardly as throwing the ring out of the window. x a lady unveiled she wakened in the morning to some one knocking. she thought the sound had been going on for a long time, but, now she was finally roused, it had stopped. this was odd, for no one came to her in the morning except marrika, and it was tiresome to be thus imperatively beset before she was half awake. now the knocking came again with a level, unimpatient repetition, and she called, "come in!" at which clara, in a pale morning gown, promptly entered--an apparition as cool and smooth and burnished as if she had spent the night, like a french doll, in tissue paper. clara's coming in in the morning was an unheard-of thing. flora was taken aback. "why, clara!" she was blank with astonishment. she sat up, flushed and tumbled, and still blinking. "i hope i didn't keep you knocking long." "oh, no, indeed; only three taps." clara looked straight through flora's astonishment, as if there had been no such thing in evidence. she drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. it was a rocking-chair, but it did not sway with her calm poise. in the fine finish of her morning attire, with her hands placidly folded on her knee, she made flora feel taken at a disadvantage, thus scarcely awake, disheveled and all but stripped. but clara, if she looked at anything but flora's eyes, looked only at her hands, one and then the other as they lay upon the coverlet. "it isn't so very late," she said, "but i have ordered your breakfast. i thought you would want it if you had that ten-o'clock appointment; and there is something i want to ask you before you go out." flora was conscious of a little apprehension. "it's about that place you talked of taking for the summer." she felt vaguely relieved, though she had had no actual grounds for anticipating an awkward question. "i came upon something in the oddest way you can imagine," clara pursued her subject. "had you any idea the herricks were in straits?" "the young herricks?" "oh, no! the old herricks, _the_ herricks, mrs. herrick whom you so much admire! of course, one isn't told; but they must be, to be willing to let the old place." "not the san mateo place?" said flora, with a stir of interest. she felt as astonished as if some confucian fanatic had set up his joss at auction. clara complacently nodded. "mrs. herrick spoke to me herself. they don't want any publicity about it, but she had heard that we were looking, and she did me the favor"--clara smiled a little dryly--"of telling me first." flora looked reflective. "i've never seen it, but they say it's beautiful." "it is, in a way," clara grudgingly admitted, "but it isn't new; and the ridiculous part is that she will let it only on condition that it shall not be done over. it is in sufficiently good shape, but it stands now just as colonel herrick furnished it forty years ago." "why, i should love that!" flora frankly confessed, and gave a wistful glance at the walls around her, wondering how long before the soft, dark bloom of time, of use and wont, should descend on their crude faces. "well," clara conceded, "at any rate we know it's genuine, and that's a consolation. the number of imitations going about and the way people pick them up is appalling! while i was getting that rug for you at vigo's yesterday, ella buller came in and bought three imitation bokharas, with the greatest enthusiasm. she buys quantities, and she's always taken in. it is enough to make one nervous about the people one sits next to at dinner there. one can not help suspecting them of being some of ella's bargains. i wonder, now, where she picked up that kerr." this finale failed to take flora off her guard. "at any rate, he is odd enough to be genuine," she said with a gleam of malice. "oh, no doubt of that," clara mildly assented, "but genuine what?" "why, gentleman at large," said flora, and quickly wanted to recall it, for clara's glance seemed to give it a double significance. "i mean," she added, "just one of those chronic travelers who have nothing else to do, and whose way must be paved with letters of introduction"--she floundered. "at least, that was the idea he gave of himself." she broke off, doubly angry that she had tried to explain kerr, and tried to explain herself, when the circumstances required nothing of the sort. she was sure clara had not missed her nervousness, though clara made no sign. her eyes only traveled a second time to flora's hands, as if among the flare of red and white jewels she was expecting to see another color. to flora's palpitating consciousness this look made a perfect connection with clara's next remark. "at least his manners are odd enough! there was a minute last night when he was really quite startling." flora felt a small, warm spot of color increasing in the middle of each cheek. she drew a long breath, as if to draw in courage. then clara had really seen! that smooth, blindish look of hers, last night, had seen everything! and here she was owning up to it, and affably offering herself as a confidante; and for what reason under the sun unless to find out what it was that had so startled kerr? flora felt like crying out, "if you only knew what that thing may be, you would never want to come nearer to it!" "i am afraid he annoyed you, flora." the girl looked into the kindly solicitude of clara's face with a hard, almost passionate incredulity. was that really all clara had supposed? "these continentals," she went on, now lightly swaying to and fro in her chair, "have singular notions of american women. they take us for savages, my dear." "then isn't it for us to show them that we are more than usually civilized? i can't run away from him like a frightened little native." "of course not; but that is where i come in; it's what i'm for--to get rid of such things for you." that small, cool smile made flora feel more than ever the immature barbarian of her simile. clara sat throwing the protection of her superior knowledge and capability around her, like a missionary garment; but flora could have laughed with relief. then clara merely supposed kerr had been impertinent. her little invasion had been really nothing but pure kindness and protection; and flora couldn't but feel grateful for it. last night she had thought herself so absolutely alone; and here was a friend coming forward again, and stepping between her and the thing above all others she was helpless about--the real world. clara had risen, and stood considering a moment with that same sweet, impersonal eye which flora found it hardest to comprehend. "what i mean," she explicitly stated, "is that if he should undertake to carry out his preposterous suggestion, and call this afternoon, i am quite ready, if you wish, to take him off your hands." this last took flora's breath away. it had not occurred to her that clara had overheard. it shocked her, frightened her; and yet clara's way of stating the fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, made flora feel that she herself was in the wrong to feel thus. for, after all, clara had been most tactful, most considerate and delicate in conveying her knowledge, not hinting that flora could have been in the slightest degree responsible for kerr's behavior; but simply sweetly taking it for granted that they, of course, were banded together to exclude this outlander. under her sense of obligation, and what she felt ought to be gratitude, flora floundered for words. "you're very kind," she managed to get out; and that seemed to leave her committed to hand kerr over, tied hand and foot, when she wasn't at all sure she wanted to. "then shall i tell mrs. herrick that you will consider the house?" said clara, already in the act of departure. "she is to call to-day to go into it with me more thoroughly. thus far we've only played about the edges." her eyes strayed toward the dressing-table as she passed it, and as she reached the door she glanced over the chiffonier. it was on the tip of flora's tongue to ask if she had mislaid something, when clara turned and smiled her small, tight-curled smile, as if she were offering it as a symbol of mutual understanding. curiously enough, it checked flora's query about the straying glances, and made her wonder that this was the first time in their relation that she had thought clara sweet. but there was another quality in clara she did not lose sight of, and she waited for the closing of a door further down the hall before she drew the sapphire from under her pillow. with the knocking at the door her first act had been to thrust it there. the feeling that it was going to be hard to hide was still her strongest instinct about it; but the morning had dissipated the element of the supernatural and the horrid that it had shown her the night before. it seemed to have a clearer and a simpler beauty; and the hope revived in her that its beauty, after all, was the only remarkable thing about it. her conviction of the night before had sunk to a shadowy hypothesis. she knew nothing--nothing that would justify her in taking any step; and her only chance of knowing more lay in what she would get out of kerr; for that he knew more about her ring than she, she was convinced. she was afraid of him, yet, in spite of her fear, she had no intention of handing him over to clara. for on reflection she knew that clara's offer must have a deeper motive than mere kindness, and she had a most unreasonable feeling that it would not be safe. she felt a little guilty to have seemed to take her companion's help, while she left her so much at sea as to the real facts. but, after all, it was clara who had forced the issue. she thought a good deal about clara while she was dressing. a good many times lately she had looked forward to the fall, the time of her marriage, when their rather tense relationship would be ended. this house in the country, which was to be her last little bachelor fling, was to be clara's last commission for her. think how she would, she could but feel as if she were ungratefully abandoning clara. clara had done so well by her in their three years together! there surely must be immediately forthcoming for such a remarkable person another large opportunity, and yet she couldn't help recalling their first encounter in the particularly dull boarding-house where clara was temporarily shelved; where, nevertheless, she had not conceded an inch of her class, nor a ray of her luster to circumstance. this surprising luster was the gloss of her body, the quality of her clothes and accessories, the way she traveled and the way she smiled. it was the bloom of luxury she kept about her person through all her varying surroundings. she had never to rise to the level of a new position; she was there already; and she never came down. flora knew it was for just her air of being ready that she had trusted clara, and for the three years of their association she had never failed to find her companion ready wherever their common interests were concerned. she had no reason for not trusting clara now, except the knowledge that, by her own approaching marriage, their interests would be separated, and her feeling that clara's prudence must already be by way of looking out for itself alone. yet clara would do a kindness if it did not inconvenience her, and surely this morning she had been kind. still flora felt she didn't want to reveal anything until she was a little surer of her own position. when she knew better where she stood she would know what she could confide to clara. meanwhile, if there was any one to whom she could turn now it would surely be harry. yet, if she did, what a lot of awkward explanations! she could not return the sapphire without giving a reason, and what a thing to explain--that she had not only worn it, but, in a freak, shown it to the one of all people he most objected to. nevertheless the most sensible thing clearly was to go through with it and confess to harry. then she must communicate with him at once. no--she would wait until after breakfast. there was plenty of time. kerr would not come until the afternoon. but after breakfast, she wondered if it wouldn't be as well to ring him up at luncheon time? then she would be sure of finding him at the club. meanwhile she dared not let the sapphire out of her grasp; and yet she could not wear it on her hand. she had thought of the tear-shaped pouch of gold which it was her custom to wear; but the slender length of chain that linked it to her neck was too frail for such a precious weight. at last she had fastened it around her neck on the strongest chain she owned, and thus she carried it all the morning under her bodice with a quieter mind than had been hers on the first day she had worn it, when there had been nothing to explain her uneasiness. she was quite sure she was going to give back the sapphire to harry, yet she couldn't help picturing to herself what her meeting with kerr would have been, supposing she had decided differently. as the morning slipped by she found herself doubting that he would come at all. her attitude of the night before had surely been enough to discourage any one. yet if he didn't come she knew that she would be disappointed. she was alone at luncheon, and in a dream. she glanced now and then at the clock. she rose only ten minutes before the hour that harry was in the habit of leaving the club. she went up-stairs slowly and stopped in front of the telephone. she touched the receiver, drew her hand back and turned away. she shut the door of her own rooms smartly after her. she did not try to--because she couldn't--understand her own proceeding. she merely sat, listening, as it seemed to her, for hours. but when at last kerr's card was handed in to her, it gave her a shock, as if something which couldn't happen, and yet which she had all along expected, had come to pass. in her instant of indecision marrika had got away from her, but she called the girl back from the door and told her to say to mrs. britton that mr. kerr had called, but that miss gilsey would see him herself. she started with a rush. half-way down the stairs she stopped, horrified to find what her fingers were doing. they were closed around the little lump that the ring made in the bosom of her gown, and she had not known it. what if she had rushed in to kerr with this extraordinary manifestation? what if, while she was talking to him, her hand should continue to creep up again and yet again to that place, and close around the jewel, and make it evident, even in its hiding-place? the time had come when she must even hide it from herself. and yet, to creep back up the stair when she made sure kerr must have heard her tumultuous downward rush! it would never do to soundlessly retreat. she must go back boldly, as if she had forgotten nothing more considerable than a pocket handkerchief. yet before she reached the top again she found herself going tiptoe, as if she were on an expedition so secret that her own ears should not hear her footsteps. but she went direct and unhesitating. it had come to her all in a flash where she would put the sapphire. the little buttoned pocket of her bath-robe. there it hung in the bath-room on one unvarying peg, the most immovable of all her garments, safe from the excursions of marrika's needle or brushes, not to be disturbed for hours to come. she passed through her bedroom, through her dressing-room into the bath-room. the robe was hanging behind the door. it took her a moment to draw out the ring and disentangle its chain, and while she was doing this she became aware of movings to and fro in her bedroom. she drew the door half open, the better to conceal herself behind it, and at the same time, through the widened crack of the jamb, to keep an eye on the dressing-room, and hurried lest marrika should surprise her. but nevertheless she had barely slipped the ring into the little pocket and refastened the flap, when clara opened the bedroom door and stood looking into the dressing-room. flora experienced a sharp start of surprise, and then of wonder. here was clara again seeking her out! here she stood, brushed and polished, and finished to a pitch of virtue, again taking flora at a disadvantage, hiding behind her own door. but at the least she was grateful that clara had not seen her. she stood a minute collecting herself. she wasn't doing anything she need be ashamed of, or that she need explain, or that need even awaken suspicion. but before she could take her courage in both hands and come out of her retreat, clara had reached the middle of the dressing-room, and stood still. her lifted veil made a fine mist above the luster of her eyes. she was perfect to the tips of her immaculate white gloves, and she wore the simple, sober look of a person who thinks himself alone. then it wasn't flora, clara was looking for! she was looking all around--over the surface of every object in the room. presently she went up to the dressing-table. she laid her gloved hands upon it, and looked at the small objects strewn over its top. she took a step backward and opened the top drawer. she reached into it, and delicately explored. flora could see the white gloves going to and fro among her white handkerchiefs, could see them find, open and examine the contents of her jewel-box. and the only thing that kept her from shrieking out was the feeling that this abominable thing which was being enacted before her eyes couldn't be a fact at all. clara took out an old pocket-book, shiny with years, shook from it a shower of receipts, newspaper clippings, verses. she let them lie. she took out a long violet box with a perfumer's seal upon it. it held a bunch of dried violets. she took out a bonbonnière of gold filigree. it was empty. a powder box, a glove box, a froth of lace, a handful of jewelers' boxes, a jewel flung loose into the drawer. this she pounced upon. it was a brooch! she let it fall--turned to the chiffonier; upended the two vases of venetian glass, lifted the lids of jars and boxes, finally came to the drawers. one by one she took them out, turned the contents of each rapidly over, and left them standing, gaping white ruffles and lace upon the floor. she took up daintily, in her white kid fingers, slippers, shook them upside down. she opened the door of the closet, and disappeared within. there was audible the flutterings of all the distressed garments, with little busy pauses. then clara came out, with her hat a little crooked; and stood in the middle of the room still with her absorbed and sober face, looking over the gaping drawers, pulled out and rifled, with their contents heaped up and streaming over the floor. her eye fell upon the waste basket. she turned it upside down, and stooped over the litter. she gathered it up in her white gloves and dropped it back. then, for the first time, she glanced at the bath-room door; stood looking at it, as if it had occurred to her to look in the soap dish. then she turned again to the room, to the dressing-table. she put back the paste-board jewelers' boxes, the jeweled pin, the laces, which she shook out and folded daintily, the glove and powder boxes, the gold bonbonnière, the long violet box, the leather pocket-book,--each deftly and unhesitatingly in the place from which she had taken it, and all the heaps of white handkerchiefs. one by one she laid back in the chiffonier drawers, the garments, properly and neatly folded, that she had so hastily snatched out of them. the sun, streaming full into the room, caught gleams in her pale hair, and struck blindingly upon the heaps of white around her, and made two dazzling points of her gloved hands that moved as deftly as hands uncovered. she slid back the last drawer into the chiffonier, and rose from her knees, lightly dusting off the front of her gown; went to the closet door and closed it. she stood before it a moment with a face perplexed and thoughtful, then turned alertly toward the outer door. as she passed the mirror she looked into it, and touched her hat straight again, but the action was subconscious. clara wasn't thinking of it. flora stood as if she were afraid to move, while clara crossed her bedroom, stopped, went on and closed the outer door behind her. and even after that soft little concussion she stood still, burning, choking, struggling with the overwhelming force of an affront whose import she did not yet realize. out in her sunny dressing-room all the outraged furniture stood meek and in order, frauding the eye to believe that nothing had happened! she felt she couldn't look things in the face a moment longer. she hid her face in the folds of her dressing-gown. why, she had thought that such things couldn't happen! she had thought that people's private belongings, like their persons, were inviolable. they all always talked, she had talked, about such things as if they were mere nothings. they had talked about the very taking of the crew idol as if it were a splendid joke! but she had not dreamed what such things were like when they were near. when they were held up to you naked they were like this! in the shame of it she could no more have faced clara than if she had surprised clara naked. she snatched the ring out of the pocket of her gown and clutched it in her hand. was there no place in the world where she could be sure of safety for this? with trembling fingers she fastened it again to the chain about her neck. she thought of kerr down-stairs waiting for her. well, she would rather keep it with her. then, at least, she would know when it was taken from her. still in the fury of her outraged faith, she passed through her violated rooms, and slowly along the hall and down the stairs. xi the mystery takes human form he turned from the window where he had presented a long, drooping, patient back, and his warm, ironic mirth--the same that had played with her the first night--flashed out at sight of her. but after a moment another expression mixed with it, sharpened it, and fastened upon her with an incredulous intentness. she stood on the threshold, pale, and brilliant still in her blaze of anger, equal, at last, to anything. kerr, as he signaled to her with every lineament of his enlivened face, his interest, his defiance, his uncontrollability, was not the man of her imaginary conversations. he was not here to be used and disposed of; but, as he came toward her, the new admiration in his face was bringing her reassurance that neither was she. the thought that her moment of bitter incredulity had made her formidable gave her courage to fight even him, of whom she was so much in awe; gave her courage even to smile, though she grew hot at the first words he spoke. "you should not be brave and then run away, you know." she thought of her rush up the stairs again. "i had to go back to see mrs. britton." (oh, how she had seen her!) it seemed to flora that everything she had been through in the last few moments was blazoned on her face. but he only looked a little more gravely at her, though his sardonic eye-brow twitched. "ah, i thought you only ran back to hide in your doll's house." she laughed. such a picture of her! "well, at any rate, now i've come out, what have you to say to me?" "now you've come out," he repeated, and looked at her this time with full gravity, as if he realized finally how far she'd come. she had taken the chair in the light of the eastern windows. she lay back in the cushions, her head a little bent, her hands interlaced with a perfect imitation of quietude. the dull satin of her slender foot was the only motion about her, but the long, slow rise and fall of her breath was just too deep-drawn for repose. he looked down upon her from his height. "i'm sorry i frightened you last night," he said, "but i'm not sorry i came, since you've seen me. you needn't have, you know, if you didn't want to. you could have stayed in the doll's house; and there, i suppose, you think i should never have found you--or _it_ again?" he was silent a moment, leaning on the chair opposite, watching her with knitted forehead, while her apprehension fluttered for what he should do next. he had done away with all the amenities of meeting and attacked his point with a directness that took her breath. "you know what i've come for," he said, "but now i'm here, now that i see you, i wonder if there's something i haven't reckoned on." he looked at her earnestly. "if you think i've taken advantage of you--if you say so--i'll go away, and give you a chance to think it over." it would have been so easy to have nodded him out, but instead she half put out her hand toward him. "no; stay." he gave her a quick look--surprise and approbation at her courage. he dropped into a chair. "then tell me about it." flora's heart went quick and little. she held herself very still, afraid in her intense consciousness lest her slightest movement might betray her. she only moved her eyes to look up at him questioningly, suspending acknowledgment of what he meant until he should further commit himself. "i mean the sapphire," he said. he waited. "yes," she answered coolly. "i saw that it interested you last night, but i couldn't think especially why. it's a beautiful stone." he laughed without a sound--shook noiselessly for a minute. "meaning that a gentleman shouldn't pounce upon any beautiful stone he may happen to see?" he got up and moved about restlessly in the little space between their two chairs. "quite so; lay it to my being more than a gentleman; lay it to my being a crack-brained enthusiast, a confounded beauty worshiper, a vicious curio dealer, an ill-mannered ass! but"--and he flashed around at her with a snap of his nervous fingers--"where did you get it?" for the life of her she couldn't help her wave of color, but through it all she clung to her festal smile. sheer nervousness made it easy. "well, suppose it was begged, borrowed, or--given to me? suppose it came from here or far away yonder? what's that to do with its beauty?" she gave him question for question. "did you ever see it before?" he never left off looking at her, looking at her with a hard inquiry, as if she were some simple puzzle that he unaccountably failed to solve. "that's rather neat, the way you dodge me," he said, dodging in his turn. "but i don't see it _now_. you're not wearing it?" she played indifference with what a beating heart! "oh, i only wear it off and on." "off and on!" his voice suddenly rang at her. "off and on! why, my good woman, it's just two days you could have worn it at all!" she stood up--stood facing him. for a moment she knew nothing except that her horrible idea was a fact. she had the eye of the crew idol, and this man knew it! yet the fact declared gave her courage. she could face his accusal if only he could give the reason for it. but after a moment, while they looked silently at each other, she saw he was not accusing her. he was threatening her and beseeching her indulgence in the same look. he opened his lips, hesitated, turned sharp about and walked away from her. she watched him with increasing doubt. after saying so much, was he going to say nothing more? she had a feeling that she had not heard the worst yet, and when he turned back to her from the other end of the room there was something so haggard, so harassed, so fairly guilty about him that if she had ever thought of telling him the truth of how she came by the ring she put it away from her now. but beneath his distress she recognized a desperate earnestness. there was something he wanted at any cost, but he was going to be gentle with her. she had felt before the potentiality of his gentleness, and she doubted her power to resist it. she fanned up all the flame of anger that had swept her into the room. she reminded herself that the greatest gentleness might only be a blind; that there was nothing stronger than wanting something very much, and that the protection of the jewel was very thin. but when he stood beside her she realized he held a stronger weapon against her than his gentleness, something apart from his intention. she felt that in whatever circumstance, at whatever time she should meet him he would make her feel thus--hot and cold, and happy for the mere presence of his body beside her. in a confusion she heard what he was saying. he was speaking, almost coaxingly, as if to a child. "i understand," he was saying. "i know all about it. it's a mistake. but surely you don't expect to keep it now. it will only be an annoyance to you." she turned on him. "what could it be to you?" kerr, planted before her, with his head dropped, looked, looked, looked, as if he gave silence leave to answer for him what it would. it answered with a hundred echoes ringing up to her from long corridors of conjecture, half-articulated words breathing of how extraordinary the answer must be that he did not dare to make. he looked her up and down carefully, impersonally, with that air he had of regarding a rare specimen, thoughtfully; as if he weighed such ephemeral substance as chance. "what will you take for it?" he said at last. she was silent. with a sick distrust it came to her that it was the very worst thing he could have said after that speaking silence. she stepped away from him. "this thing is not for sale." he stared at her with amazement; then threw back his head and laughed as if something had amused him above all tragedy. "you are an extraordinary creature," he said, "but really i must have it. i can't explain the why of it; only give the sapphire to me, and you'll never be sorry for having done that for me. whatever happens, you may be sure i won't talk. even if the thing comes out, you shan't be mixed up in it." he had come near her again, and the point of his long forefinger rested on her arm. she was motionless, overwhelmed with pure terror, with despair. he was smiling, but there was a desperate something about him, stronger than the common desire of possession, terrifying in its intensity. she looked behind her. the thick glass of the window was there, a glimpse of the empty street and the figure of a woman in a blowing green veil turning the corner. "why not give it to me now," he urged, "since, of course, you can't keep it? i could have it now in spite of you." everything in her sprang up in antagonism to meet him. "i know what you are," she cried, "but you shan't have it. you have no more right to it than i. you can't get it away from me, and i shan't give it to you." he had grown suddenly paler; his eyes were dancing, fastened upon her breast. his long hands closed and opened. she looked down, arrested at the sight of her hand clenched just where her breath was shortest, over the sapphire's hiding-place. he smiled. how easily she had betrayed herself! but she abated not a jot of her defiance, challenging him, now he knew its hiding-place, to take the sapphire if he could. but he did not move. and it came to her then that she had been ridiculous to think for an instant that this man would take anything from her by force. what she had to fear was his will at work upon hers, his persuasion, his ingenuity. she thought of the purple irises, and how he had drawn them toward him in the crook of his cane--and her dread was lest he meant to overcome her with some subtlety she could not combat. for that he was secret, that he was daring, that he was fearless beyond belief, he showed her all too plainly, since here he stood, condemned by his own evidence, alone, in the midst of her household, within call of her servants, and had the sublime effrontery to look at her with admiration, and, it occurred to her, even with a little pity. the click of a moving latch brought his eyes from hers to the door. "some one is coming in," he said in a guarded voice. it warned her that her face showed too much, but she could not hope to recover her composure. she hardly wanted to. she was in a state to fancy that a secret could be kept by main force; and she turned without abatement of her reckless mood and took her hand from where she had held it clenched upon her breast and stretched it out to mrs. herrick. the lady had stood in the doorway a moment--a long-featured, whitish, modeled face, draped in a dull green veil, a tall figure whose flowing skirts of black melted away into the background of the hall--before she came forward and met her hostess' hand with a clasp firm and ready. "i'm so glad to find you here," she said. she looked directly into flora's eyes, into the very center of her agitation. she held her tremulous hand as if neither of these manifestations surprised her; as if a young woman and a young man in colloquy might often be found in such a state of mind. flora's first emotion was a guilty relief that, after all, her face had not betrayed kerr. but she had no sooner murmured his name to mrs. herrick, no sooner had that lady's gray eyes lighted upon him, than they altered their clear confidence. the situation as reflected in flora looked naïve enough, but there was nothing naïve about kerr. the very perfection of his coolness, there in the face of her burning agitation, was appalling. oh, why couldn't he see, flora thought wildly, how it was damning him--how it was showing him so practised, so marvelously equal to any emergency, that his presence here among fleeces could be nothing less than wolfish? mrs. herrick's face was taking on an expression no less than wary. what he was, mrs. herrick could not dream. she could not even suspect what flora believed. but in the light of her terrible discovery flora dared not have him suspected at all. the chasms of distrust and suspicion that had been opening between them she forgot. in a flash she was ready to throw herself in front of this man, to cover him from suspicion, even though by so doing she took it upon herself. now, if she had ever in her life, she talked over the top of her feelings; and though at first to her ears her voice rang out horribly alone, presently mrs. herrick was helping her, adding words to words. it was the house they spoke of, the san mateo house, the subject about which flora knew mrs. herrick had come to talk; but to flora it was no longer a subject. it was a barrier, a shield. in this emergency it was the only subject large enough to fill the gap, and much as flora had liked the idea of it, she had never built the house so large, so vivid, so wonderfully towering to please her fancy as she was doing now to cover kerr. with questions she led mrs. herrick on to spin out the subject, to play it over with lights and shades, to beat all around it. and all the while she knew that kerr was watching her; watching her once again in dubious admiration. it was a look that made mrs. herrick seem ready at a movement of his to lay her hand on flora in protection. the lady's clear gray eyes traveled between flora's face and his. under their steady light there was a strange alertness, as if she sat there ready enough to avert whatever threatened, but anxious to draw her skirts aside from it, distrusting the quality, hating to have come in upon anything so dubious. when the hall door opened and closed she listened as if for a deliverer; and when clara appeared between the portières she turned to her and met her with a flash of relief, as if here at last was a safe quantity. clara was still wearing her hat, with the veil pushed up in a little mist above her eyes, and still had her white gloves on. the sight of mrs. herrick's hand soliciting the clasp of those gave flora a curious sensation. she looked from one face to another, and last at kerr's. she shut her eyes an instant. here was a thief. he was standing in her drawing-room now. she had been talking with him. she opened her eyes. the fact acknowledged had not altered the color of daylight. it was strange that things--furniture and walls and landscape--should remain so stolidly the same when such a thing had happened to her! for she had not only spoken with a thief, but she had shielded him. it struck her grotesquely that perhaps mrs. herrick's instinct was right, after all. wasn't clara the safest of the lot? clara at least kept her gloves on, while she herself was shamelessly arrayed on the side of disorder. she was clinging to a piece of property that wasn't hers, and whatever way she dressed her motives they looked too much of a piece with the operations of the original miscreant. flora saw the evil spirit of tragic-comedy. he fairly grinned at her. xii disenchantment then this was the end of all romance? she must turn her back on the charm, the power, the spell that had been wrought around her, and, horror-struck, pry into her own mind to discover what lawless thing could be in her to have drawn her to such a person, and to keep her, even now that she knew the worst, unwilling to relinquish the thought of him. his depravity loomed to her enormous; but was that all there was to be said of him? did his delicacy, his insight, his tempered fineness, count for nothing beside it? must their talks, their walking through the trees, the very memory of his voice, be lost inspiration? she couldn't believe that this one spot could make him rotten throughout. her mind ran back into the past. she could not recall a word, an action, or a glance of his that had shown the color of decay. he had not even been insincere with her. he had come out with his convictions so flatly that when she thought of it his nonchalance appalled her. he had been the same then that he was now. but the thing that was natural for him was impossible for her, and she had found it out--that was all. yet the mere consideration of him and his obsession as one thing was intolerable. she curiously separated his act from himself. she thought of it, not as a part of him, but as something that had invaded him--a disease--something inimical to himself and others, that mixed the thought of him with terrors, and filled her way with difficulties. now it was no longer a question of how to meet him, but of how she was not to. it was not his strength she feared, but her own weakness where he was concerned. her tendency to shield him--she must guard against that--and that disturbing influence he exercised over her, too evidently without intention. but he would be hard to avoid. this way and that she looked for a way out of her danger, yet all the while she was conscious that there was but one plain way of escape open to her. she could give the sapphire back to harry within the twenty-four hours. xiii thrust and parry my dear flora--i am going out early and shall not be back to dinner. clara. flora let the little note fall as if she disliked the touch of it. she was relieved to think she would not have to see clara that day. it was her desire never to see clara again. if only they could part here and now! how she wanted to shake the whole thing off her shoulders! how foolish not to have gone to harry when she had first made up her mind to! for why, after all, make him any explanations? suppose she should just take the ring to him and say: "it gives me the shivers, harry. let's take it back and get something else." if he didn't suspect the sapphire already, he would never suspect it from that. the worst he could do would be to laugh, to tease, to tell her she could not live up to her own romantic notions, since, after all, she had weakened and was wanting the usual thing. but there had been times when she had thought that he did suspect the sapphire. well, if he did, giving it back to him would practically be giving it back into public custody in the most decorous manner for a properly bred young woman. and how beautifully it would extricate her from her wretched situation! logically, there was no fault to be found with such a course. it was eminently sane and safe. yet it still appeared to her as if she were acting a coward's part. she was neither frankly giving the jewel to the authorities with the proper information, nor frankly handing it over to kerr. but she was trying to slip it back into the questionable nook from which it had been taken, and she grew hot at the thought of how kerr would despise her if he knew the craven course she was meditating. she seemed to hear him saying, "i had thought braver things of you." of course, that was his way of expecting that she would give him the ring. and she felt a sort of rage against him that he should want that, and only that, so very much. yet she didn't know what else she wanted him to want. every time she thought of kerr she found herself growing unreasonable; and she had to whip up her resolution with the hard facts of the case to prevent herself from drifting over on to his side completely. but did she really want harry to rid her of the ring? she would get hold of him first and then she would see what she would do. she stepped into the hall with all the confidence of one who has fully made up her mind to carry matters with a high hand; but at the telephone she hesitated. calling him up at such an hour of the morning demanding his attendance on such a fanciful errand--wouldn't he think it odd? no, he would think it the most natural thing in the world for her to be so flighty. reassured, she gave the club number and stood waiting, listening to the half-syllables of switched-off voices and the crossing click, click, that was bringing her fate nearer to her. she heard some one coming up the stairs and down the hall toward her. marrika stood stolid at her elbow. "mr. cressy," she pronounced. "yes, yes," said flora, with the club clamoring in her left ear. "he is down-stairs," said marrika. flora nearly let the receiver fall. harry here? what a piece of luck! but here on his own account, at such an hour--how extraordinary! "hello, hello," persisted the club. "what's wanted?" "why, i--" flora stammered. "it's a mistake; never mind. i don't want him now." she hoped that harry had not heard her as he came in, since it was his informal fashion to await her in the large entrance hall. she didn't want to spoil the chance he had given her of seeming offhand about the ring. but the hall was empty, and as she descended the stairs she amused herself with the fancy that shima had had a vision, and that she would still have to ring up the club and explain to the attendant that, after all, she wanted mr. cressy. then from the drawing-room threshold she caught sight of harry standing in the big bay window of the drawing-room, in the same spot where kerr had awaited her the afternoon before. harry was tall and large and freshly colored, and yet he did not fill the room to her as the other man had done. he met her, kissed her, and she turned her head so that his lips met her cheek close beside her ear. she did not positively object to his kissing her on the lips, but her instinct was strong to offer him her cheek. he had sometimes laughed at this, but now he resented it. he insisted on his privilege, and she was passive to him, conscious of less love in this than assertion of possession. "you are not going to burlingame, are you?" she asked him with her first breath. he looked down at her with a flushed and sulky air. "what difference would that make to you? i am, as it happens, but i suppose you think that's no reason for disturbing you so early." he was angry, but at what, she wondered, with creeping uneasiness. he held her and caressed her with a morose satisfaction, as if he had to make sure to himself that she was really his, and she permitted it and abetted it with a guile that astonished her. "what is the matter?" she urged. "are things going crookedly at burlingame?" "things are going as crooked as you please, but not at burlingame. sit over there," he said, nodding toward the window-bench; "i want to talk to you." harry had the air of one about to scold, and certainly flora thought if anybody was carrying matters with a high hand, it wasn't herself; but she didn't follow his direction. she continued to stand, while he, sitting on the table's edge, drumming the top of his hat, gloomily regarded her. "well?" she persisted, troubled by this look of his, and this silence. "look here," he began, "i have to be away a couple of days and i wish you'd do me a favor." flora's thought flew to the ring. was he going to ask for it back, to have it reset, as he had promised on the threshold of the goldsmith's shop? here might be the chance she had hoped for of getting rid of it. she grasped at it before she had time to waver. "i wonder if it's the very favor i was going to ask of you." but he didn't take it up. he seemed hardly to hear her, as if his mind was too much absorbed with quite another question--a question that the next moment came out flat. "what was that kerr doing here yesterday?" she was taken aback, so far had her apprehension of harry's jealousy slipped into the background in the last twenty-four hours. but her consciousness that harry was not behaving well, even for a jealous man, made her take it up all the more lightly. "why, he was calling, chatting, taking tea--what anybody else would do from four to six. what in the world gave you the idea that he was doing anything extraordinary?" "well," he said, "you shouldn't do the sort of thing that makes you talked about." "'that makes me talked about'?" it made her pause in front of him. "why, yes, it isn't like you. it's never happened before. look here. i drop into the bullers' yesterday; find clara sidled up to the judge; look around for you. 'hello,' i say, 'where's flora?' 'oh,' says she, 'flora's at home amusing mr. kerr.' 'amusing mr. kerr!'" he repeated. "that's a nice thing to hear." flora went red. she walked down the room from him to give her suddenly tumultuous heart time. however little he might guess the real trend of her interview with kerr, she couldn't hear him come near it without apprehension. she was angry, helplessly angry at harry that he had taken this moment for his stupid jealousy. but she was more angry at clara, since such a speech on clara's part wasn't carelessness. she had meant it to work upon him, and here he stood, like the fine animal that he was, smoldering with the suspicion of encroachment on his prey. she tried to laugh him out of it. "why, harry, i never saw you jealous before!" "it's all very well to say that--and you know i've never made a row about the other johnnies. i knew you didn't care for any of _them_." her eyes narrowed and darkened. "and you take it for granted i care for mr. kerr?" "oh, no, no!" he pushed his hand through his hair with an irascible gesture. "but it's plain enough you like him--you women always like a fellow that flourishes--but that's not the sort of man i care to see hanging around my girl." flora stood leaning on the table, breathing a little hurriedly, feeling rather as if she had been shaken. harry, standing with his hands in his pockets, looked not unlike the threatening image he had appeared in the back of the goldsmith's shop. "of course, the fellow can talk," he admitted, "and he has a manner. but lord knows where he comes from or who he is. why, even the bullers don't know." flora turned sharply on him. "who told you that?" "the judge. he picked him up at the club." "well," she kept it up, "some one had to introduce him there." harry smiled. "you wouldn't care to bow to some of those club members." "harry, do you know how you sound to me?" she was trembling at the daring of what she was going to say. "you talk as if you knew something against him." her statement seemed to bring him up short. "no, no, i don't," he said hastily. she made a little gesture of despair. how was she to count on harry if he was going to behave like this? how trust him when he was shuffling so? she made one more bold stroke to make him speak out. "harry, you _do_ know something about him! i know you have seen him before." "why, yes, i've seen him before. but that's got nothing to do with it." he looked surprised that she should seem to accuse him of it, and she wondered if he could have forgotten how he had denied it before. "and that isn't why you distrust him?" the devil's tattoo that he beat on his hat stopped. "i don't distrust him." "well, dislike him, then. when was it that you saw him before?" "isn't it enough for me to tell you that i don't want _you_ to see him?" "oh!" she turned away from him. every nerve in her was in revolt. then he really wasn't going to tell her anything. he was keeping her out of it as if she were a child. she had relied on him to return the ring. she had counted upon his indifference and good nature. and he was neither indifferent nor good-natured. all desire of even mentioning the ring to him left her; and as to giving him her confidence--these hints that he had thrown out about kerr--they might be mere jealousy--but he might have actual knowledge, knowledge that, with her own fitted to it, would make for him a complete figure. she caught her breath at the thought of how near she had come to actually betraying kerr. until that moment she had not realized that through all her waverings her one fixed intention had been not to betray him. harry had risen and was buttoning his overcoat. "you know you're never at home if you don't want to be," he said. she stood misleadingly drooping before him. but though her appearance was passive enough for the most exacting lover her will had never been in more vigorous revolt. she knew harry was taking her weariness for acquiescence, and she let him take it so. she even followed him into the hall, and with a vague idea of further propitiation, nodded away shima and opened the door for him herself. the fog was a chasm of white outside. harry turned on the brink of it. "by the way, where's clara?" "why, do you want to see her? she'll be out all day. she's dining with the willie herricks." "no, i don't want to see her, but, by the way, she's not dining with the willie herricks; she's dining with the bullers. i heard her make the engagement yesterday." "oh, no, harry, i'm sure you're mistaken." "well, it doesn't matter. all i want to know is, why did you show that ring to clara before it was set?" she was genuinely aghast. "i didn't," she flashed. "what made you think i had?" he shrugged. "well, she asked me where we got it. i don't see why women always talk those things over." he was looking at her inquiringly. "well, i haven't," she said quickly. "have you?" he looked out upon the fog. "told her where we got it, do you mean? no, i just chaffed her. i'd look out, if i were you. she strikes me as damned curious." he stood a moment on the threshold, looking from flora to the chasm of fog outside, as if he were choosing between two chances. "i think i'll take that ring this morning," he said slowly. the deliberate words came to her with a shock. but in the moment, while she looked into harry's moody face, she realized how impossible to make a scene over what must still be maintained as a trivial matter betwixt them--the mere resetting of a jewel; what should she do to put him off? she looked up at him, and saw with relief that his face was turned from her to the fog, as if he had forgotten her. then, still with averted head, as if he addressed the whiteness, or himself,--"no," he determined, "i won't. i'll take it when i come back." he pulled himself together with an effort, with a smile. "that is," he turned to her, "if you're in no great hurry about the setting? very well, then. in a day or two." he plunged away into the fog. a few rods from the door he disappeared, but she could still hear his footsteps growing thinner, lighter, passing away in the whiteness. xiv comedy conveys a warning she stood where he had left her in the open doorway, with the damp eddy of the fog blowing on her. she had had a narrow escape; but after the first fullness of her relief there returned upon her again the weight of her responsibility. there was no slipping out of it now, and it was going to be worse than she had imagined. so much had come out in the last half-hour that she felt bewildered by it. what harry had let slip about clara alarmed her. what in the world was clara about? with one well-aimed observation she had stirred up harry against kerr and against flora herself. and meanwhile she was running after the bullers. twice in two days, if harry was not mistaken, and she was even nearing another engagement. after all her fruitless mousings, clara had too evidently got on the scent of something at last. how much she knew or guessed as yet, flora could not be sure, but certainly, now, she couldn't let clara go. for that would be turning adrift a dangerous person with a stronger motive than ever for pursuing her quest, and the opportunity for pursuing it unobserved, out of flora's sight. clara was at it even now, and the only consolation flora had was that harry, at least, would not play into her hands. for harry had a special secret interest of his own. the last ten minutes of their interview had made that plain. his manner, when he had declared his intention of taking the ring, had been anything but the manner of a care-free lover merely concerned with pleasing his lady. then they were all of them racing each other for the same thing--the thing she held in her possession; and whether she feared most to be felled by a blow from harry, or hunted far afield by kerr, or trapped by clara, she could not tell. she stood hesitating, looking out into the obscurity of the fog, as if she hoped to read the answer there. presently she returned to the fact that shima was waiting to close the door. half-way across the hall she paused again, looking thoughtfully down the rose-colored vista of the drawing-room, and up at the broad black march of the stair. vague mysteries peered at her from every side. which should she flee from? which walk boldly up to and dispel? she went up-stairs slowly. she stood in her dressing-room absently before the mirror. she touched the hard, unyielding stone of the ring under the thin bodice of her gown. she recalled the morning when she had gone to get it, before anything had happened and the lure of life had been so exquisite. now that it had come near--if this indeed were life that she was laboring in--it was steep and crabbed, like the brown hills in summer, far off, like velvet, to climb, plowed ground and stubble. and yet she didn't wish herself back, but only forward. now she had no leisure to imagine, to pretend, to enjoy, only the breathless sense that she must get forward. the chattering clock on her mantel warned her of the passing time and set her hurrying into her walking-gown, her hat, her gloves, as if the object of her errand would only wait for her a moment longer. when, for the second time, she opened the house door, she didn't hesitate. she descended into the white fog that covered all the city. above her the stone façade of her house loomed huge and pinkish in the mist. her spirits rose with the feeling that she was going adventuring again, leaving that house where for the last two days she had awaited events with such vivid apprehensions. she hurried fast down the damp, glistening pavement, seeing long, dim gray faces of houses glimmer by, seeing figures come toward her through the fog, grow vivid, pass, and hearing at intervals the hoarse, lonely voice of the fog-horn at "the heads" reaching her over many intervening hills. she did not feel sure what she should do at the end of her journey or what awaited her there. she knew herself a most unpractised hunter, she, who, all her life, had been the most artful of quarries. a quarry she was still, but in this chase she had to come out and stalk the facts in order to see which way to run; if, she told herself in her exhilaration, she decided to run at all. she turned in at the low gate of imitation grill in front of an enormous wooden mansion, with towers and cupolas painted all a chill slate gray, with fuchsias, purple and red, clambering up the front. she rang, and was admitted into a hall, ornate and very high, with a wide staircase sweeping down into the middle of it. the maid looked dubiously at flora and thought miss buller was not at home, but would see. flora turned into the room on her left and sat down among the louis quinze sofas and potted palms with a feeling that miss buller was at home, and, for one reason or another, preferred not to be seen. she waited apprehensively, wondering whether ella was not seeing the world-in-general, or had really specified against herself. could it be that ella was one of those women whom harry had alluded to as running after kerr? in the short twenty-four hours every individual help she had counted upon had seemed to draw away from her--kerr, whose understanding she had been so sure of; clara, whose propriety had never failed; harry, whose comfortable good nature she had so taken for granted! it seemed as if the sapphire, whose presence she was never unconscious of, for all she wore it out of sight, had a power like the evil eye over these people. but if it could turn such as ella against her, why, the brussels carpet beneath her might well open and let her down to deeper abysses than judge buller's wine-cellar. she started nervously at the step of the maid returning. the message brought was unexpected. "miss buller says will you please walk up-stairs?" flora was amazed. that invitation would have been odd enough at any time, for she and ella were hardly on such intimate footing. but now she was ushered up the majestic stair, and from the majestic upper hall abruptly into a wild little cluttered sewing-room, and thence into a wilder but more spacious bedroom, large curtains at the windows, large roses on the carpet, and over all objects in the room a clutter of miscellaneous articles, as if ella's band-boxes, bureaus, and work-baskets habitually refused to contain themselves. from the midst of this ella confronted her, still in her "wrapper" and with the large puff of her hair a little awry. under it her face was curiously pink, a color deepening to the tip of her nose and puffing out under her eyes. "well, flora," she greeted her guest. "you were just the person i wanted to see. sit down. no, not there--that's my bird of paradise feather! oh, no, not there--that's the breakfast. well, i guess you'll have to sit on the bed." flora swept aside the clothes that streamed across it and throned herself on the edge of the high, white plateau of ella's four-poster. ella, for all her eager greeting, looked upon her friend doubtfully, and flora recognized in herself a similar hesitation, as if each were trying to make out, without asking, what thoughts the other harbored. "i was afraid i shouldn't see you at all," flora began at last. "well, you wouldn't if it hadn't happened to be you," said ella paradoxically. "look at me; did you ever see such a sight?" "you don't look very well," flora cautiously admitted. "why, ella, you've been crying!" "yes, i've been crying," said ella, mopping her nose, which still showed a tendency to distil a tear at its tip. "and it's perfectly awful to me to think you've been living so long in the same house with her." flora murmured breathlessly, "what in the world do you mean?" "if you don't know, i certainly ought to tell you. i mean clara," said ella distinctly. flora, sitting up on the edge of the high bed with the tips of her little shoes hardly touching the floor, looked at ella fascinated, her lips a little apart. ella had so exactly pronounced her own secret thought of clara. she was breathless to know what had been clara's performance at the bullers'. "of course i've always known she was like that," said ella, leaning back in her chair with an air of resignation. "she's always getting something. it's awful. it was the same even when we were at boarding-school. i suppose she never did have enough money, though her people were awfully nice; but she worked us all for invitations and rides in our carriages, and i remember she got lots through lillie lewis' elder brother, and he thought she was going to marry him, but she didn't. she married lulu britton's father; and i guess she worked him until he went under and they found there really was no money. so she's been living on people ever since." ella rocked gloomily. "but she does it so nicely," flora suggested. she still had the feeling that it was not decent to own up to these most secret facts of people's failings. "oh, yes, she's a perfect wonder," ella admitted grudgingly; "look at what she's done for you!" ella's gesticulation was eloquent of how much that had been. "but don't you imagine she cares about you any more than she cares about me!" ella began to cry again. "you were an awfully good thing for her, flora, and now that you're going to be married she's got to have something else. but i do think she might have taken somebody besides papa." flora gasped. "'taken!' ella, what do you mean?" "i mean married," said ella. "'married!'" for the time flora had become a helpless echo. "oh, not yet," ella defiantly nodded. "not while there's anything left of me." flora stammered. "oh, ella, no. oh, ella, are you sure?" she felt a hysterical impulse to giggle. "sure?" miss buller cried. "i should think so! why, she's simply making a dead set for him." this dénouement, this climax to her somber expectations, struck flora as something wildly and indecently ridiculous. "why, but it's impossible!" she protested, and began helplessly to laugh. "well, i'd like to know why?" ella snapped. "i'm sure papa is twice as rich as old britton was, and twice as easy." she went off into sobs behind her handkerchief. "oh, don't, ella, don't cry!" flora begged, petting the large expanse of heaving shoulders. "i didn't mean anything. i was just silly. of course it may be that she wants to marry him. but she never has before--at least, i mean, i don't believe she wants to now. what makes you think she does? what has she done?" "well," ella burst out, "why is she coming here all the time, when she never used to, and petting papa? why does she bother to be so agreeable to me when she never was before? why does she make me ask her to dinner, when i don't want to?" each question knocked on flora's brain to the accompaniment of ella's furious rocking. she could not answer them, and ella's explanation, absurd as it seemed, coming on top of her high expectations, wasn't impossible. it was like clara to have more than one iron in the fire; but when flora remembered the passionate intentness with which clara had demolished the order of her room, she couldn't believe that clara would pause in the midst of such pursuit to pounce on judge buller. "oh, ella," flora sympathetically urged, "i don't believe there's really any danger. and surely, even if she meant it, judge buller wouldn't be--" "oh, yes, he would," ella cut her short. "why, when she came yesterday he was just going out, and she went for him and made him stop to tea. think of it--papa stopping to tea! and he was as pleased as punch to have her make up to him. he hasn't the least idea of what she's after. papa isn't used to ladies. he's always just lived with me." this astonishing statement looking at flora through ella's unsuspecting eyes had nevertheless a pathos of its own. it conjured up a long vista of harmonious existence which the two, the daughter and the father, had made out of their mutual simplicity, and their mutual gusto for the material comforts which came comfortably. "but i'll tell you one thing," ella ended, still rocking vigorously; "if she comes here to-night to dinner when she knows i don't want her i shall tell her what i think of her, before she leaves this house! see if i don't." "don't do that, ella," flora entreated, "that would be awful." she was certain that such an interview would only end in clara's making ella more ridiculous than she was already. "let me speak to her. i don't mind at all," she declared bravely, and in a manner truly, though she was fully aware that speaking to clara would be anything but a treat. "oh, would you?" said ella eagerly. "i really would be awfully obliged. i hated to ask you, flora, but i thought perhaps you might be able to--to, well, perhaps be able to do something," she ended vaguely. "do you think you could?" "i'll speak to clara to-night," said flora heroically, "or to-morrow," she added; "i'm afraid i won't see her to-night." "well, i'll let you know if it makes any difference," said ella hopefully. flora knew that nothing either of them could say would make any difference to clara, or turn her from the thing she was pursuing; but by speaking she might at least find out if judge buller himself were really her object. and ella's wail of assured calamity, "papa has always been so happy with me," touched her with its absurd pathos. she kissed ella's misty cheek at parting. it wasn't fair, she thought remorsefully, for people like the bullers to be at large on the same planet with people like clara--and herself--and--and like--her thoughts ran off into the fog. at least, thank heaven, it was the judge clara was trailing and not kerr. the bells and whistles of one o'clock were making clangor as she ran up the steps of her house again. in the hall shima presented her with a card. she looked at it with a quickening pulse. "is he waiting?" "no, madam. mr. kerr has gone. he waited half an hour." down went her spirits again. yet surely after their last interview she ought not to be eager to meet him again. "in the morning," she thought, "and waited half an hour. how he must have wanted to see me!" she didn't know whether she liked that or not. "when did he come?" "at eleven o'clock." at this she was frightened; he had missed harry by less than half an hour. "he waited all that time alone?" "no. mr. cressy came." flora felt a cold thrill in her nerves. then harry had come back! what had he come for? "he also would wait," the japanese explained. flora gasped. "they waited together!" the japanese shook his head. "they went away together." she didn't believe her ears. "mr. kerr went away with mr. cressy?" the japanese seemed to revolve the problem of mastery. "no, mr. cressy accompanied mr. kerr." he had made a delicate oriental distinction. it put the whole thing before her in a moment. harry had been the resistant, and the other with his brilliant initiative attacking, always attacking when he should have been hiding, had carried him off. "what had he done, and how had he managed, when harry must have had such pressing reasons for wanting to stay?" ah, she knew only too well kerr's exquisite knowledge of managing; but why must he make such a reckless exposure of himself? did he suppose harry was to be managed? had he no idea where harry stood in this affair? in pity's name, didn't he know that harry had seen him before--had seen him under circumstances of which harry wouldn't talk? they were circumstances of which she knew nothing, and yet from that very fact there was left a horrible impression in her mind that they had been of a questionable character. xv a lady in distress she had returned, ready for pitched battle with clara, and on the threshold there had met her the very turn in the affair that she had dreaded all along--the setting of kerr and harry upon each other. these were two whom she had kept apart even in her mind--the man to whom she was pledged, with whom she had supposed herself in love, and the man for whom she was flying in the face of all her traditions. she had not scrutinized the reason of her extraordinary behavior; not since that dreadful day when the vanishing mystery had taken positive form in him had she dared to think how she felt about kerr. she had only acted, acted; only asked herself what to do next, and never why; only taken his cause upon herself and made it her own, as if that was her natural right. she could hardly believe that it was she who had let herself go to this extent. all her life she had been docile to public opinion, buxom to conventions, respectful of those legal and moral rules laid down by some rigid material spirit lurking in mankind. but now when the moment had come, when the responsibility had descended upon her, she found that these things had in no way persuaded her. they were not vital enough for her proposition. they had no meaning now--no more than proper parlor furniture for a castaway on a desert island. then this was herself, a creature too much concerned with the primal harmonies of life to be impressed by the modulations her decade set upon them. this was that self which she had obscurely cherished as no more real than a fairy; but at kerr's acclamation it had proclaimed itself more real than flesh and blood, and kerr himself the most real thing in all her life. then what was harry? the bland implacable pronouncement of shima had summoned him up to stand beside kerr more clearly than her own eyes could have shown him. surely she was giving to kerr what belonged to harry, or else she had already given to harry what ought to have been kerr's. that was her last conclusion. it was horrible, it was hopeless, but it was not untrue. it had crept upon her so softly that it had taken her unawares. she was appalled at the unreason of passion. unsought by him, unclaimed, in every common sense a stranger to him--how could she belong to him? and yet of that she was sure by the way he had unveiled her the first night, by the way he had quickened her dreaming into life. as many times as she had fancied what love was like she had never dreamed it could be like this. it was mockery that she could be concerned for one who only wanted of her--plunder. yet it was so. she was as tremblingly concerned for his fate as if she owned his whole devotion; and his fate at this moment, she was convinced, was in harry's hands. kerr, with his brilliant initiative, might carry him off, but kerr was still the quarry. for had not harry, from the very beginning, known something about him? hadn't he at first denied having seen him before, and then admitted it? hadn't he dropped hints and innuendoes without ever an explanation? she remembered the singular fact of the embassy ball, twice mentioned, each time with that singular name of farrell wand. and to know--if that _was_ what harry knew--that a man of such fame was in a community where a ring of such fame had disappeared--what further proof was wanted? then why didn't harry speak? and what was going on on his side of the affair? harry's side would have been her side a few days before. now, unaccountably, it was not. nor was kerr's side hers either. she was standing between the two--standing hesitating between her love of one and her loyalty to the other and what he represented. the power might be hers to tip the scales harry held, either to kerr's undoing, or to his protection. at least she thought she might protect him, if she could discover harry's secret. her special, authorized relation to him--her right to see him often, question him freely--even cajole--should make that easy. but she shrank from what seemed like betrayal, even though she did not betray him to kerr by name. then, on the other hand, she doubted how much she could do with harry. she wasn't sure how far she was prepared to try him after that scene of theirs. she had no desire to pique him further by seeing too much of kerr. on her own account she wanted for the present to avoid kerr. he roused a feeling in her that she feared--a feeling intoxicating to the senses, dazzling to the mind, unknitting to the will. how could she tell, if they were left alone together for a long enough space of time, that she might not take the jewel from her neck, at his request, and hand it to him--and damn them both? if only she could escape seeing him altogether until she could find out what harry was doing, and what she must do! meanwhile, there was her promise to ella. she recalled it with difficulty. it seemed a vague thing in the light of her latest discovery, though she could never meet clara in disagreement without a qualm. but she made the plunge that evening, before clara left for the bullers', while she was at her dressing-table in the half-disarray which brings out all the softness and the disarming physical charm of women. from her low chair flora spoke laughingly of ella's perturbation. clara paused, with the powder puff in her hand, while she listened to flora's explanation of how ella feared that some one might, after all these years, be going to marry judge buller. who this might be she did not even hint at. she left it ever so sketchy. but the little stare with which clara met it, the amusement, the surprise, and then the shortest possible little laugh, were guarantee that clara had seen it all. she had filled out flora's sketch to the full outline, and pronounced it, as flora had, an absurdity. but though clara had laughed she had gone away with her delicate brows a little drawn together, as if she'd really found more than a laugh, something worth considering, in ella's state of mind. flora was left with the uneasy feeling that perhaps she had unwittingly delivered ella into clara's hands; that ella, too, was in danger of becoming part of clara's schemes. danger seemed to be spreading like contagion. it was borne in upon her that from this time forward dangers would multiply. that nothing was going to be easier, but everything infinitely harder, to the end; and now was the time to act if ever she hoped to make way through the tangle. she heard the wheels of clara's departing conveyance. now was her chance for an interview with harry. she spent twenty minutes putting together three sentences that would not arouse his suspicions. she made two copies, and sent them by separate messengers, one to his rooms, one to the club, with orders they be brought back if he was not there to receive them. then--the miserable business of waiting in the large house full of echoes and the round ghostly globes of electric lights, with that thing around her neck for which--did they but know of it--half the town would break in her windows and doors. the wind traveled the streets without, and shook the window-casings. she cowered over the library fire, listening. the leaping flames set her shadow dancing like a goblin. a bell rang, and the shadow and the flame gave a higher leap as if in welcome of what had arrived. she went to the library door. in the glooms and lights outside shima was standing, and two messengers. it was odd that both should arrive at once. she stepped back and stood waiting with a quicker pulse. shima entered with two letters upon his tray. she had a moment's anxiety lest both her notes had been brought back to her, but no--the envelope which lay on top showed harry's writing. she tore it open hastily. harry wrote that he would be delighted, and might he bring a friend with him; a bully fellow whom he wanted her to meet? he added she might send over for some girl and they could have a jolly little party. flora looked at this communication blankly. was harry, who had always jumped at the chance of a tête-à-tête, dodging her? in her astonishment she let the other envelope fall. she stooped, and then for a moment remained thus, bent above it. the superscription was not hers. the note was not addressed to harry, but to her, and in a handwriting she had never seen before! again the peal of the electric bell. shima appeared with a third envelope. this time it was her own note returned to her. with the feeling she was bewitched she took up the mysterious letter from the floor and opened it. she read the strange handwriting: may i see you, anywhere, at any time, to-night? robert kerr. it was as if kerr himself had entered the room, masked and muffled beyond recognition, and then, face to face with her, let fall his disguise. she gazed at the words, at the signature, thrilled and frightened. she looked at harry's note, hesitated; caught a glimpse between the half-open doors of the two messengers waiting stolidly in the hall. waiting for answers! answers to such communications! she made a dash for the table where were pens and ink and on one sheet scrawled: "certainly. bring him," appending her initials; on the other the word "impossible," and her full name. then she hurried the letters into shima's hands, lest her courage should fail her--lest she should regret her choice. "anywhere, at any time, to-night," she repeated softly. why, the man must be mad! yet she permitted herself a moment of imagining what might have been if her answers had been reversed. but no, she dared not meet kerr's impetuous attacks yet. first she must get at harry. and how was that to be managed if he insisted on surrounding himself with "a jolly little party?" she found a moment that evening in which to ask him to walk out to the presidio with her the next morning. but he was going to burlingame on the early train. he was woefully sorry. it was ages since he had had a moment with her alone, but at least he would see her that evening. she had not forgotten? they were going to that dinner--and then the reception afterward? her suspicion that he was deliberately dodging wavered before his boyish, cheerful, unconscious face. and yet, following on the heels of his tendency to question and coerce her, this reticence was amazing. the next day would be lost with harry beyond reach--twelve hours while kerr was at the mercy of chance, and she was at the mercy of kerr. his tactics did not leave her breathing space. she felt as the lilies wavering just beyond his reach. she remembered his ingenuity. she thought of the blows of his cane. lucky for her she was not rooted like the lilies! the only safety was in keeping beyond his reach. yet when his card was brought up to her the next morning she looked at the printed name as wistfully as if it had been his face. it cost an effort to send down the cold fiction that she was not at home, and she could not deny herself the consolation of leaning on the baluster of the second landing, and listening for his step in the hall below. but there was no movement. could it be possible he was waiting for her to come in? hush! that was the drawing-room door. but instead of kerr, shima emerged. he was heading for the stair with his little silver tray and upon it--a note. oh, impudence! how dared he give her the lie, by the hand of her own butler! she stood her ground, and shima delivered the missive as if it were most usual to find one's mistress beflounced in peignoir and petticoats, hanging breathless over the baluster. "take that back," she said coldly, "and tell him that i am out; and, shima,"--she addressed the man's intelligence--"make him understand it." she watched the note departing. how she longed to call shima back and open it! there was a pause--then kerr emerged from the drawing-room. as he crossed the hall he glanced up at the stair and as much as was visible of the landing. he hadn't taken shima's word for it, after all! the vestibule door closed noiselessly after him, the outer door shut with a heavy sound. yet before that sound had ceased to vibrate, she heard it shut again. was he coming back? there was a presence in the vestibule very vaguely seen through the glass and lace of the inner door. her heart beat with apprehension. the door opened upon clara. flora precipitately retreated. she was more disturbed than relieved by the unexpected appearance. for clara must have seen kerr leave the house. three times now within three days he had been found with her or waiting for her. she wondered if clara would ask her awkward questions. but clara, when she entered flora's dressing-room a few moments later with the shopping-list, instead of a question, offered a statement. "i don't like that man," she announced. "who?" "that kerr. i met him just now on the steps. don't you feel there is something wrong about him?" "oh, i don't know," said flora vaguely. clara gave her a bright glance. "but you weren't at home to him." "i'm not at home to any one this morning," flora answered evasively, feeling the probe of clara's eyes. "i'm feeling ill. i'm not going out this evening either. i think i'll ring up burlingame and tell harry." it was in her mind that she might manage to make him stay with her while clara went on to the reception. "burlingame! harry!" clara echoed in surprise. "why, he's in town. i saw him just now as i was coming up." "are you sure?" "yes. he was walking up clay from kearney. i was in the car." "why that--that is--" flora stammered in her surprise. "then something must have kept him," she altered her sentence quickly. but though this seemed the probable explanation she did not believe it. harry walking toward chinatown, when he had told her distinctly he would be in burlingame! she thought of the goldsmith shop and there returned to her the memory of how harry and the blue-eyed chinaman had looked when she had turned from the window and seen them standing together in the back of the shop. "you do look ill," clara remarked. "why don't you stay in bed, and not try to see any one?" flora murmured that that was her intention, but she was far from speaking the truth. she only waited to make sure of clara's being in her own rooms to get out of the house and telephone to harry. it was not far to the nearest booth, a block or two down the cross-street. she rang, first, the office. the word came back promptly in his partner's voice. he had gone to burlingame by the early train. it was the same at the club. he must be in town, then, on secret business. she left the apothecary's and, with serious face, walked on down the street, away from her house. she was thinking that now she knew harry had lied to her. and it was the second time. but perhaps it was just because he thought her innocent that he was keeping her so in the dark. suppose she should tell him flatly what she had found out about him to-day? she walked rapidly, in her excitement, turning the troubling question over in her mind. she did not realize how far she had gone until some girl she knew, passing and nodding to her, called her out of her reverie. she was almost in front of the university club. a few blocks more and she would be in the shopping district. she hesitated, then decided that it would be better to walk a little further and take a cross-town car. a group of men was leaving the club. two lingered on the steps, the other coming quickly out. at sight of him, she averted her face, and, hurrying, turned the corner and walked down a block. her heart was beating rapidly. what if he had seen her! she looked about--there was no cab in sight--the best thing to do was to slip into one of the crowded shops, full of women, and wait until the danger had passed. once inside the door of the nearest, she felt herself, with relief, only one of a horde of pricers, lookers and buyers. she felt as if she had lost her identity. she went to the nearest counter and asked for veils. partly concealed behind the bulk of the woman next her, she kept her eye on the door. she saw kerr come in. how absurd to think that she could escape him! she turned her back and waited a moment or two, still hoping he might pass her by. then, she heard his voice behind her: "well, this is luck!" she was conscious of giving him a limp hand. he sat down on the vacant stool next her, laughing. "you are a most remarkably fast walker," he observed. "i had to buy a veil," flora murmured. "has it taken you all the morning?" she could see she had not fooled him. "i had a great many other things to do." she was resolved not to admit anything. "no doubt, but i wanted to see you very much last night, and again this morning. i may see you this evening, perhaps?" he was grave now. she saw that he awaited her answer in anxiety. "but--" she hesitated just a moment too long before she added, "i'm going out this evening." she started nervously to rise. "wait," he said in a voice that was audible to the shop-girl, "your package has not come." she looked at him helplessly, so attractive and so inimical to her. he swung around, back to the counter, and lowered his voice. "did you know i called upon you yesterday morning, also?" he asked. she nodded. "mr. cressy and i waited for you together. did he mention it to you?" "no." her lips let the word out slowly. "that's a reticent friend of yours!" the exclamation, and the truth of it, put her on her guard. "i can't discuss him with you," she said coldly. "yet no doubt you have discussed me with him?" "never!" "you haven't told him anything?" the incredulity, the amazement of his face put before her, for the first time, how extraordinary her conduct must seem. what could he think of her? what construction would he put upon it? she blushed, neck to forehead, and her voice was scarcely audible as she answered "no." but at that small word his whole mood warmed to her. "why, then," he began eagerly, "if cressy doesn't know--" "oh, but he--" flora stopped in terror of herself. "i can't talk of him, i must not. don't ask me!" she implored, "and please, please don't come to my house again!" he gave his head a puzzled, impatient shake. "then where _am_ i to see you?" "in a few days--perhaps to-morrow--i will let you know." she rose. she had her package now. she was getting back her courage. there was no further way of keeping her. but he followed her closely through the crowd to the door. "yes," he said quickly under his breath, "in a few days, perhaps to-morrow, as soon as you get rid of it, you won't mind meeting me! what are you afraid of? surely not me?" she was, but hotly denied it. "i am not afraid of you. i am afraid of them!" "of them!" he peered at her. "what are you talking about now?" ah, she had said too much! she bit her lip. they had reached the corner, and the gliding cable car was approaching. she turned to him with a last appeal. "don't ask me anything! don't come with me! don't follow me!" not until she was safely inside the car did she dare look back at him. he was still on the corner, and he raised his hat and smiled so reassuringly that she was half-way home before she realized that, in spite of all she had urged upon him, he had not committed himself to any promise. and yet, she thought in dismay, he had almost made her give away harry's confidence. she was seeing more and more clearly that this was the danger of meeting him. he always got something out of her and never, by chance, gave her anything in return. if he should seek her to-night she dared not be at home! any place would be safer than her own house. it would be better to fulfil her engagement and go to the reception with clara and harry. that was a house kerr did not know. it was awkward to have to announce this sudden change of plan after her pretenses of the morning, but of late she had lived too constantly with danger for clara's lifted eyebrows to daunt her. the mere trivial act of being dressed each day was fraught with danger. to get the sapphire off her person before marrika should appear; to put it back somehow after marrika had done; to shift it from one place to another as she wore gowns cut high or low--and every moment in fear lest she be discovered in the act! this was her daily manoeuver. to-night she clasped the chain around her waist beneath her petticoats. but marrika's sensitive fingers, smoothing over, for the last time, the close-fitting front of the gown, felt the sapphire, fumbled with it, and tried to adjust it like a button. "that is all right," flora said quickly. "nothing shows." was it always to make itself known, she thought uneasily, no matter how it was hid? she was ready early, in the hope that harry might come, as he had been wont to do, a little before the appointed hour. but he turned up without a moment to spare. clara was down-stairs in her cloak when he appeared. there was no chance for a word at dinner. but if she could not manage it later in the wider field of the reception, why, then she deserved to fail in everything. but she found, upon their arrival that even this was going to be hard to bring about. for she was immediately pounced upon--first, by ella buller. "why, flora," at the top of her voice, "where have you been all these days!" then in a hot whisper, "did you speak to her? it hasn't done one bit of good." "i think you are mistaken," flora murmured. "but be careful, and let me know--" she had only time for that broken sentence before she was surrounded; and other voices took up the chorus. she was getting to be a perfect hermit. she was forgetting all her old friends. and a less kindly voice in the background added, "yes, for new ones." she realized with some alarm that though she had forgotten her public, it had kept its eye on her. she answered, laughing, that she was keeping lent early, and allowed herself to be drifted about through the crowd by more or less entertaining people, now and then getting glimpses of harry, tracking him by his burnished brown head, waiting her opportunity to get him cornered. at last she saw him making for the smoking-room. connecting this with the drawing-room where she stood was a small red lounging-room, walls, floor and furniture all covered with crimson velvet. it had a third door which communicated indirectly with the reception-rooms, by means of a little hall. she was near that hall, and it would be the work of a moment to slip by way of it into the red room and stop harry on his way through. she had not played at such a game since, as a child, she had jumped out on people from dark closets, and harry was as much astonished as she could remember they had been. he was cutting the end of a cigar and he all but dropped it. "what in the world are you doing here alone?" he spoke peevishly. "i don't see how a crowd of men can leave such a bundle of fascination at large!" she made him a low courtesy and said she was preventing him from doing so. "it's very good of you, and you are very pretty, flora," he admitted with a grudging smile, "but i've got to see a man in there." his eyes went to the door of the smoking-room whence was audible a discussion of voices, and among them judge buller's basso. she was between harry and the door. laughingly, he made as if to put her aside, when the door through which she had entered opened again sharply; and kerr came in. "forgive me. i followed you," he began. then he saw harry. "i--ha--ha--i've been hunting for you, cressy, all the evening!" [illustration: "forgive me, i followed you."] harry accepted the statement with a cynical smile. it was too evidently not for him kerr had been hunting, and after the first stammer of embarrassment, the englishman made no attempt to conceal his real intentions. his words merely served him as an excuse not to retreat. "this is a good place to sit," he said, pushing forward a chair for flora. she sank into it, wondering weakly what daring or what danger had brought him into a house where he was not known, to seek her. he sat down in the compartment of a double settee near her. harry still stood with a dubious smile on his face. the look the two men exchanged appeared to her a prolongment of their earnest interrogation in the picture gallery; but this time it struck her that both carried it off less well. harry, especially, bore it badly. "did you say you were looking for me?" he remarked. "well, buller's been looking for _you_. he wants to know about some englishman that they're trying to put up at the club." "how's that? oh, yes! i remember." kerr shrugged. "never heard of him at home, and can't vouch for every fellow who comes along, just because he is english." "quite so!" said harry, with a straight look at kerr that made flora uncomfortable. "but judge buller has already vouched for that man," she said quickly, "so he must be all right." kerr inclined his head to her with a smile. "buller is easily taken in," said harry calmly. under the direct, the insolent meaning of his look flora felt her face grow hot--her hands cold. harry could sit there taunting this man, hitting him over another man's back, and kerr could not resent it. he could only sit--his head a little canted forward--looking at harry with the traces of a dry smile upon his lips. she thought the next moment everything would be declared. she sprang up, and, with an impulse for rescue, went to the door of the smoking-room. "judge buller," she called. there was a sudden cessation of talk; a movement of forms dimly seen in the thick blue element; and then through wreaths of smoke, the judge's face dawned upon her like a sun through fog. "well, well, miss flora," he wanted to know, "to what bad action of mine do i owe this good fortune?" she retreated, beckoning him to the middle of the room. "you owe it to the bad action of another," she said gaily. "your friends are being slandered." harry made a movement as if he would have stopped her, and the expression of his face, in its alarm, was comic. but she paid no heed. she laid her hand on harry's arm. "mr. kerr is just about to accuse us of being impostors," she announced. she had robbed the situation of its peril by gaily turning it exactly inside out. the judge blinked, puzzled at this extraordinary statement. harry was disconcerted; but kerr showed an astonishment that amazed her--a concern that she could not understand. he stared at her. then he laughed rather shakily as he turned to her with a mock gallant bow. "all women impose upon us, madam. and as for mr. cressy"--he fixed harry with a look--"i could not accuse him of being an impostor since we have met in the sacred limits of of st. james'." the two glances that crossed before flora's watchful eyes were keen as thrust and parry of rapiers. harry bowed stiffly. "i believe, for a fact, we did _not_ meet, but i think i saw you there once--at some embassy ball." the words rang, to flora's ears, as if they had been shouted from the housetops. in the speaking pause that followed there was audible an unknown hortatory voice from the smoking-room. "i tell you it's a damn-fool way to manage it! what's the good of twenty thousand dollars' reward?" flora clutched nervously at the back of her chair. she seemed to see the danger of discovery piling up above kerr like a mountain. the judge chuckled. "you see what you saved me from. they've been at it hammer and tongs all the evening. every man in town has his idea on that subject." "for instance, what is that one?" kerr's casual voice was in contrast to his guarded eyes. the judge looked pleased. "that one? why, that's my own--was, at least, half an hour ago. you see, about that twenty-thousand-dollar proposition--" they moved nearer him. they stood, the four, around the red velvet-covered table, like people waiting to be served. "the trouble is right here," said the judge, emphasizing with blunt forefinger. "the crook has a pal. that's probable, isn't it?" harry nodded. flora felt kerr's eyes upon her, but she could not look at him. "and we see the thing is at a deadlock, don't we? well, now," the judge went on triumphantly, "we know if any one person had the whole ring it would be turned in by this time. that is the weak spot in the reward policy. they didn't reckon on the thing's being split." "split? no, really, do you think that possible?" kerr inquired, and flora caught a glimmer of irony in his voice. "well, can you see one of those chaps trusting the other with more than half of it?" the judge was scornful. "and a fellow needs a whole ring if he is after a reward." he rolled his head waggishly. "oh, i could have been a crook myself!" he chuckled, but his was the only smiling face in the party. for kerr's was pale, schooled to a rigid self-control. and harry's was crimson and swollen, as if with a sudden rush of blood. his twitching hands, his sullen eyes, responded to judge buller's last word as if it had been an accusation. "it makes me damned sick, the way you fellows talk--as if it was the easiest thing in the world to--" he broke off. it was such a tone, loose, harsh and uncontrolled, as made flora shrink. as if he sensed that movement in her, he turned upon her furiously. "well, are we going to stand here all night?" he took her by the arm. she felt as if he had struck her. buller was staring at him, but kerr had opened the door through which she had entered, and now, turning his back upon harry, silently motioned her out. she had a moment's fear that harry's grasp, even then, wouldn't let go. indeed, for a moment he stood clutching her, as if, now that his rage had spent itself, she was the one thing he could hold to. then she felt his fingers loosen. he stood there alone, looking, with his great bulk, and his great strength, and his abashed bewilderment, rather pathetic. but that aspect reached her dimly, for the fear of him was uppermost. her arm still burned where he had grasped it. she moved away from him toward the door kerr had opened for her. she passed from the light of the crimson room into the dark of the passage. some one followed her and closed the door. some one caught step with her. it was kerr. he bent his dark head to speak low. "i don't know why you did it, you quixotic child, but you must not expose yourself in this way, for any reason whatsoever." the light of the crowded rooms burst upon them again. "oh," she turned to him beseechingly, "can't you get me away?" "surely." his manner was as if nothing had happened. his smile was reassuring. "i'll call your carriage, and find mrs. britton." when flora came down from the dressing-room she found clara already in the carriage, and kerr mounting guard in the hall. as he handed her in, clara leaned forward. "where is mr. cressy?" she inquired. "he sent his apologies," kerr explained. "he is not able to get away just now." clara could not control a look of astonishment. as the carriage began to move and kerr's face disappeared from the square of the window, she turned to flora. "have you and harry quarreled over that man?" flora's voice was low. "no. but harry--harry--" she stammered, hardly knowing how to put it, then put it most truly: "harry is not quite himself to-night." flora lay back in the carriage. she was dimly aware of clara's presence beside her, but for the moment clara had ceased to be a factor. the shape that filled all the foreground of her thought was harry. he loomed alarming to her imagination--all the more so since, for the moment, he had seemed to lose his grip. that was another thing she could not quite understand. that burst of violent irritation following, as it had, judge buller's words! if kerr had been the speaker it would have been natural enough, since all through this interview harry's evident antagonism had seemed strained to the snapping point. but poor judge buller had been harmless enough. he had been merely theorizing. but--wait! she made so sharp a movement that clara looked at her. the judge's theory might be close to facts that harry was cognizant of. for herself she had had no way of finding out how the sapphire had got adrift. but hadn't harry? hadn't he followed up that singular scene with the blue-eyed chinaman by other visits to the goldsmith's shop? why, yesterday, when he was supposed to be in burlingame, clara had seen him in chinatown. the idea burst upon her then. harry was after the whole ring. he counted the part she held already his, and for the rest he was groping in chinatown; he was trying to reach it through the imperturbable little goldsmith. but he had not reached it yet--and she could read his irritation at his failure in his violent outburst when judge buller so innocently flung the difficulties in his face. she knew as much now as she could bear. if harry did not suspect kerr, it would be strange. but--harry waiting to make sure of a reward before he unmasked a thief! it was an ugly thought! and would he wait for the rest now--now that the situation was so galling to him? might not he just decide to take the sapphire, and with the evidence of that, risk his putting his hand on the "idol" when he grasped the thief? the carriage was stopping. clara was making ready to get out. she braced herself to face clara, in the light, with a casual exterior--but when she had reached her own rooms she sank in a heap in the chair before her writing-table, and laid her head upon the table between her arms. in her wretchedness she found herself turning to kerr. how stoically he had endured it all, though it must have borne on him most heavily! how kind he had been to her! he had not even spoken of himself, though he must have known the shadows were closing over his head. any moment he might be enshrouded. if it came to a choice between having him taken and giving him the blue jewel, she wondered which she would do. in the gray hours of the morning she wrote him. she dared not put the perils into words, but she implied them. she vaguely threatened; and she implored him to go, avoiding them all, herself more than any; and, quaking at the possibility that he might, after all, overcome _her_, she declared that before he went she would not see him again. she closed with the forbidding statement that whether he stayed or went, at the end of three days she would make a sure disposal of the ring. she put all this in reckless black and white and sent it by the hand of shima. then she waited. she waited, in her little isolation, with the sapphire always hung about her neck, waited with what anticipation of marvelous results--avowals, ideal farewells, or possibly some incredible transformation of the grim face of the business. and the answer was silence. xvi the heart of the dilemma there is, in the heart of each gale of events, a storm center of quiet. it is the very deadlock of contending forces, in which the individual has space for breath and apprehension. into this lull flora fell panting from her last experience, more frightened by this false calm than by the whirlwind that had landed her there. now she had time to mark the echoes of the storm about her, and to realize her position. her absorption had peopled the world for her with four people at most. now she had time to look at the larger aspect. from the middle of her calm she saw many inexplicable appearances. she saw them everywhere, from the small round of clara's movement to the larger wheel of the public aspect. clara was taking tea with the bullers, and the papers had ceased to mention the crew idol. it had not even been a nine days' wonder. it had not dwindled. it had simply dropped from head-lines to nothing; and after the first murmur of astonishment at this strange vanishing, after a little vain conjecture as to the reason of it, the subject dropped out of the public mouth. the silence was so sudden it was like a suppression. to flora it shadowed some forces working so secretly, so surely, that they had extinguished the light of publicity. they must be going on with concentrated and terrible activity in cycles, which perhaps had not yet touched her. so, seeing major purdie among the crowd at some one's "afternoon" where she was pouring tea, she looked up at his cheerful face and high bald dome with a passionate curiosity. he knew why the press had been extinguished, and what they were doing in the dark. she knew where the sapphire was--and where the culprit was to be found. and to think that they could tell each other, if they would, each a tale the other would hardly dare believe. amazing appearances! how far away, how foreign from the facts they covered! but major purdie had the best of it. he at least was doing his duty. he was standing stiffly on one side, while she hesitated between, trying desperately to push kerr out of sight before she dared uncover the jewel. but he wouldn't move. in spite of all she had done, he wouldn't. across the room that very afternoon she caught the twinkle of his resisting smile. he had had her letter then for two days, and still he had come here, though he'd been bidden to stay away; though he had been warned to keep away from all places where she, or these people around her, might find him; though he had been implored to go, finally, as far away as the round surface of the world would let him. by what he had heard and seen in the red room that night, he must know her warning had not been ridiculous. and there was another threat less apparent on the face of things, but evident enough to her. it was the change in clara after she had begun her attack on the bullers, her appearance of being busy with something, absorbed with, intent upon, something, which, if she had not secured it yet, at least she had well in reach. and that thing--suppose it had to do with the crew idol; and suppose clara should play into harry's hands! for kerr's escape flora had been holding the ring, fighting off events, and yet all the while she had not wanted to lose the sight of him. well, now, when she had made up her mind finally to resign herself to the dreariness of that, might he not at least have done his part of it and decently disappeared? so much he might have done for her. instead of smiling at her across crowded tea-rooms, and obliquely glancing at her down decorous dinner-tables, and with the same fatal facility he had displayed in getting at her, now keeping away from her, out of all possible reach. he was playing her own trick on her, but her chances for getting at him again were fewer than his had been with her. she could not besiege him in his abode; and in the places where they met, large houses crowded with people, the eye of the world was upon her. for how long had she forgotten it--she who had been all her life so deferential toward it! even now she remembered it only because it interfered with what she wanted to do. for the eye of her small society was very keenly upon kerr. she realized, all at once, that he had become a personage; and then, by smiles, by lifted eyebrows, by glances, she gathered that her name was being linked with his. she was astonished. how could their luncheon together at the purdies', their words that night in the opera box, their few minutes' talk in the shop, have crystallized into this gossip? it vexed her--alarmed her, how it had got about when she had seen him so seldom, had known him scarcely more than a week. it was simply in the air. it was in her attitude and in his, but how far it had gone she did not dream, until in the dense crowd of some one's at-home she caught the words of a young girl. the voice was so sweet and so prettily modulated that at its first notes flora turned involuntarily to glimpse the speaker, a slender creature in a delicate mist of muslin, with an indeterminate chin and the cheek of a pale peach. "just think," flora heard her saying, "he went to see her three times in two days, but to-day, did you notice, he wouldn't look at her until she went up and spoke to him. i don't see how a girl can! harry cressy--" she moved away and the words were lost. flora looked after her. for the moment she felt only scorn for the creatures who had clapped that interpretation upon her great responsibility. these people around her seemed poor indeed, absorbed only in petty considerations, and seeing everything down the narrow vista of the "correct." her eyes followed the young girl's course through the room, easy to trace by her shining blond head, and the unusual deliciousness of her muslin gown. she stopped beside two women, and with a certain sense of pleasure and embarrassment flora recognized one of them--mrs. herrick. she caught the lady's eye and bowed. mrs. herrick smiled, with a gracious inclination in which her graceful shoulders had a part. it gave flora the sense mrs. herrick's presence always brought her, of protection, or security, and the possibility of friendship finer than she had ever known. she started forward. but mrs. herrick, presenting instantly her profile, drew the young girl's hand through her arm and moved away. flora winced as if she had received a blow. the other people who had heard the same gossip of her had been, on account of it, all the more amused, and anxious to talk to her. but mrs. herrick, though she bowed and smiled, did not want her too near her daughter; perhaps, herself, would have preferred not to speak to her. she felt herself judged--judged from the outside, it is true--but still there was justice in it. she had been flying in the face of custom, ignoring common good behavior, in short, sticking to her own convictions in defiance of the world's. and she must pay the penalty--the loss of the possibility of such a friend. but it was hard, she thought, to pay the price without getting the thing she had paid for. it was more like a gamble in which she had staked all on a chance. and never had this chance appeared more improbable to her than now. for if kerr valued the ring more than he valued his safety, what argument was left her? she thought--if only she had been a different sort of woman--the sort with whom men fall in love--ah, then she might have been able to make one further appeal to him--one that surely would not have failed. xvii the demigod on the third day she opened her eyes to the sun with the thought: where is he? from the windows of her room she could see the two pale points and the narrow way of water that led into the western ocean. had he sailed out yonder west into the east, into that oblivion which was his only safety, for ever out of her sight? or was he still at hand, ignoring warning, defying fate? "what difference can that make to me now?" she thought, "since whether he is here or yonder i've come to the end." she drew out the sapphire and held it in her hand. the cloud of events had cast no film over its luster, but she looked at it now without pleasure. for all its beauty it wasn't worth what they were doing for it. well, to-day they were both of them to see the last of it. to-day she was going to take it to mr. purdie to deliver it into his hands, to tell him how it had fallen into hers in the goldsmith's shop--all of the story that was possible for her to tell. for the rest, how she came to fix suspicion on the jewel, he might think her fanciful or morbid. it didn't matter as long as the weary thing was out of her hands. it couldn't matter! she had made it out all clear in her mind that this was the right thing to do. it hadn't occurred to her she had made it out only on the hypothesis of kerr's certainly going. it had not occurred to her that she might have to make her great moral move in the dark; or, what was worse, in the face of his most gallant resistance. in this discouraging light she saw her intention dwindle to the vanishing point, but the great move was just as good as it had been before--just as solid, just as advisable. being so very solid, wouldn't it wait until she had time to show him that she really meant what she said, supposing she ever had a chance to see him again? the possibility that at this moment he might actually have gone had almost escaped her. she recalled it with a disagreeable shock, but, after all, that was the best she could hope, never to see him again! she ought to be grateful to be sure of that, and yet if she were, oh, never could she deprive him of so much beauty and light by her keeping of the sapphire as he would then have taken away from her! she would come down then, indeed, level with plainest, palest, hardest things--people and facts. her romance--she had seen it; she had had it in her hands, and it had somehow eluded her. it had vanished, evaporated. it had come to her in rather a terrific guise, presented to her on that night at the club by the first debonair wave of the man's hand; and now he might have gone out through that white way into the east, taking back her romance as the fairy takes back his unappreciated gift. she leaned and looked through the thin veil of her curtains at the splendid day. it was one of february's freaks. it was hot. the white ghost of noon lay over shore and sea. beneath her the city seemed to sleep gray and glistening. the tops of hills that rose above the up-creeping houses were misted green. across the bay, along the northern shore, there was a pale green coast of hills dividing blue and blue. ships in the bay hung out white canvas drying, and the sky showed whiter clouds, slow-moving, like sails upon a languid sea. beneath her, directly down, through hanging darts of eucalyptus leaves, hemmed with high hedges, the oval of her garden showed her a pattern like a persian carpet. roofs sloped beyond it, and beyond these the diagram of streets and houses, and empty unbuilt grassy lots. she looked down upon all, as lone and lonely as a deserted lady in a tower, lifted above these happy, peaceful things by her strange responsibility. her thoughts could not stay with them; her eyes traveled seaward. she parted the curtains and, leaning a little out, looked westward at the white sea gate. a whistle, as of some child calling his mate, came sweetly in the silence. it was near, and the questing, expectant note caught her ear. again it came, sharper, imperative, directly beneath her. she looked down; she was speechless. there was a sudden wild current of blood in her veins. there he stood, the whistler, neither child nor bird, but the man himself--kerr, looking up at her from the gay oval of her garden. she hung over the window-sill. she looked directly down upon him, foreshortened to a face, and even with the distance and the broad glare of noon between them she recognized his aspect--his gayest, of diabolic glee. there lurked about him the impish quality of the whistle that had summoned her. "come down," he called. all sorts of wonders and terrors were beating around her. he had transcended her wildest wish; he had come to her more openly, more daringly, more romantically than she could have dreamed. all the amazement of why and how he had braved the battery of the windows of her house was swallowed up in the greater joy of seeing him there, standing in his "grays," with stiff black hat pushed off his hot forehead, hands behind him, looking up at her from the middle of anemones and daffodils. "come down," he called again, and waved at her with his slim, glittering stick. how far he had come since their last encounter, to wave at and command her, as if she were verily his own! she left the window, left the room, ran quickly down the stair. the house was hushed; no passing but her own, no butler in the hall, no kitchen-maid on the back stair. only grim faces of pictures--ancestors not her own--glimmered reproachful upon her as she fled past. light echoes called her back along the hall. the furniture, the muffling curtains, her own reflection flying through the mirrors, held up to her her madness, and by their mute stability seemed to remind her of the shelter she was leaving--seemed to forbid. she ran. this was not shelter; it was prison. he was rescue; he was light itself. the only chance for her was to get near enough to him. near him no shadow lived. the thing was to get near enough. she rushed direct from shadow into light. she came out into the sun, into the garden with its blaze of wintry summer, its whispering life and the free air over it. the man standing in the middle of it, for all his pot hat and gothic stick, was none the less its demigod waiting for her, laughing. he might well laugh that she who had written that unflinching letter should come thus flying at his call; but there was more than laughter, there was more than mischief in him. the high tide of his spirits was only the sparkle of his excitement. it was evident that he was there with something of mighty importance to say. was it that her letter had finally touched him? had he come at last to transcend her idea with some even greater purpose? she seemed to see the power, the will for that and the kindness--she could not call it by another word--but though she was beseeching him with all her silent attitude to tell her instantly what the great thing was, he kept it back a moment, looking at her whimsically, indulgently, even tenderly. "i have come for you," he said. "oh, for me!" she murmured. surely he couldn't mean that! he was simply putting her off with that. "i mean it, i mean it," he assured her. "this doesn't make it any less real, my getting at you through a garden. better," he added, "and sweet of you to make the duller way impossible." she took a step back. it had not been play to her; but he would have it nothing else. he, too, stepped back and away from her. "come," he said, and behind him she saw the lower garden gate that opened on the grassy pitch of the hill, swinging idle and open. the sight of him about to vanish lured her on, and as he continued to walk backward she advanced, following. "oh, where?" she pleaded. "with me!" such a guaranty of good faith he made it! she tried to summon her reluctance. "but why?" "we'll talk about it as we go along." his hand was on the gate. "we can't stop here, you know. she'll be watching us from the window." flora glanced behind her. the windows were all discreetly draped--most likely ambush--but that he should apprehend clara's eyes behind them! ah, then, he did know what he was about! he saw clara as she did. she would almost have been ready to trust him on the strength of that alone. still she hung back. "but my things!" she protested. she held up her garden hat. "and my gown!" she looked down at her frail silk flounces. was ever any woman seen on the street like this! "oh, la, la, la," he cut her short. "we can't stop to dress the part. you'll forget 'em." she smiled at him suddenly, looked back at the house, put on her hat--the garden hat. the moment she had dreaded was upon her. in spite of her warning reason, in spite of everything, she was going with him. beyond the looming roofs as they descended the hill she saw white sails sink out of sight. all the little panorama upon which she had looked down sprang up around her, large and living. he whistled to the car as he helped her down the last steep pitch, whistled and waved, and they ran for it. no time for back-looking, no time now for a faint heart. before she knew they were fairly crowded into the narrow front seat, and the long street was running up to them and streaming by. this was never the car one went out the front door to take. this creaked and crawled low, taking the corners comfortably, past houses with all their windows blinking recognition. hadn't it passed them so for twenty years? old houses in long gardens, and little houses creeping back behind their yards, not yet encroached upon by fresher ties of living. past all these and gliding down under high, ragged banks, green grass above with wooden stairways straggling up their naked faces; past these again; past lower levels; past little gray and cluttered houses; past loaded carts of vegetables; past children playing shrilly, bearing down always on the green square of the plaza wide, worn and foreign, and the greek church "domed" with blue and yellow, bearing down as if it had fairly determined to make its course straight through this stable center. then in the very shadow it swerved aside to clatter off in quite another direction along a wider street with whiter shops, and more glittering windows with gilded letters flashing foreign names, with more marked and brilliant colors moving in the crowd, with a clearer stamp on all of latin living. then suddenly for them the sliding panorama ceased. the car had stopped and they had left it, and were standing upon the corner of a still street that came down from the high hills behind them and crossed the car-track and climbed again a little way to curve over into the sky. dingy houses two blocks above them stood silhouetted against the blue. they were walking upward toward this horizon, leaving color and motion behind them. with every step the street grew more empty, lonely and colorless. many of the windows that glimmered at them, passing, were the blank windows of empty houses. were they taking this way, this curious roundabout out-of-the-world way, of dropping over into the shipping which lay under the hill? for all she knew this might really be his notion, for since they had left the garden gate, though they had looked together at the light and color of the pictures moving past their eyes, they had not exchanged a word. but all at once he stopped at the intersection of two dusty streets, and his eyes veered down the four perspectives like a voyageur taking his soundings. elegant as ever and odd enough, yet he wasn't any odder here at the jumping off place of nowhere than he had appeared in the box at the theater, or in the picture gallery. she had the clear impression all at once that he wasn't too odd for anything. "here we are!" he said, and indicated with his glittering stick straight before them a little house. it was low, as if it crouched against the wind, faded and beaten by the sun to the drab of the rock itself, and made so secret with tight-drawn curtains that it seemed to have shut itself up against the world for ever. she wavered. she wasn't afraid of herself out here, out-of-doors under the sky, but she was afraid that those four walls might shut out her new unreasoning joy, might steal away his new tenderness, and bring her back face to face with the same ugly fact that had confronted her in her drawing-room. "oh, no," she said, and put her hands behind her with a determination that she wasn't going to move. "oh, yes," he said, but he didn't smile. he looked at her quite gravely, reproachfully, and the touch of his fingers on her arm was fine, was delicate, as if to say, "i wouldn't harm you for the world." she blushed a slow, painful crimson. she hadn't meant that. she hadn't even thought of it; but, since he had, there was nothing for it but to go in. the door shut behind her sharply, with a click like a little trap; and she breathed such an atmosphere, flat, faint and stale, the mere ghost of some fuller, more fragrant flavor. in the little anteroom where they stood, whose faded ceiling all but brushed their heads, and in the larger little room beyond the nottingham lace curtains, prevailed a mild shabbiness, a respectable decay. curtains and table-cloths alike showed a dull and tempered whiteness as if the shadow of time had fallen dim across the whole. the little restaurant seemed left behind in the onward march of the city, and its faded, kindly face was but a shadow of what had been of the vigor and flourish of bourgeois spain thirty years before. there was no one eating at the little tables, no one sitting behind the high cash-desk in the anteroom. not a stir of human life in all the place. "hello," said kerr among the tables looking around him, "we've caught them asleep." he rapped on the wall with his cane. flora peered at him between the curtains, all her fascinated apprehension of what was to follow plain upon her face. "shall it be a giant or dwarf?" he asked her. "there's nothing i won't do for you, you know." the door opened and a little girl with a long black braid and purple apron came in. "a dwarf," cried flora. she laughed with a quick relaxing of her strained nerves. it might almost have been the truth from that old little swarthy face and sedate demeanor that hardly noticed them. the child walked gravely up to the desk and mounting to the high stool struck a faint-voiced bell. "there," said kerr, "ends formality. now let the real magic begin!" "not black magic," flora took up his fancy. he had drawn out a chair for her. "that depends on you. i'm not the magic maker. i have no talisman." she felt the conscious jewel burn in her possession. she looked up beseechingly at him, but he only laughed, and, with a swing, lifted the chair a little off the ground as he set her up to the table, as if to show how easily he could put forth strength. there was nothing defiant in him. he was taking her with him--taking her upon the wings of his high spirits; but mischievously, obstinately, he would not show her where the flight was leading, nor let her listen to anything but the rustling of those wings. he was determined to make holiday, whatever was to follow. for the glimpse of blue through the dim window might be the bay of naples; and, ah! chianti. perhaps the sort one gets down monte video way, where france fades into italy--perhaps, at least if her kind fancy could get the better of the reality. in sicily there were just such table-cloths as these, and just such fat floor-shaking contadini to wait upon you. and look now at the purple one behind the desk--child or gnome--feet not touching the floor--centuries of italy in her face. oh, calculation, indifference! "she wouldn't care if you jumped up and threw me out of the window," he affirmed. "that's why this hole is so harmless. oh, isn't that harmless? what's more harmless than to let one alone? there's only one dangerous thing here," he grinned and let her take her choice of which. she came straight at it. "you know i can't let you alone." he laughed. "well, isn't that why we're here at last--that you may dictate your terms?" "i have. didn't you get my letter?" "oh, indeed i did. haven't i obeyed it? haven't i kept away from your house? have i tried to approach you?" "haven't you, though?" she threw at him accusingly. "ah," he deprecated, "you came to me. i was down in the garden." she looked at him through his persiflage wistfully, searchingly. "but there were other things in that letter." "there were?" he regarded her with grave surprise. oh, how she mistrusted his gravity! "why, to be sure there were things--things that you didn't mean--one thing above all others you couldn't mean, that you want me to drop out when the game is half done, to slink away and leave it all like this--abandon you and my idol so to each other! my dear, for what do you take me?" she burst out. "but can't you see the danger?" he met it quietly. "certainly. i have been seeing nothing else but the danger--to you. do you think i've been idle all these days? every line i have followed has ended in that. it's brought me finally to this." the gesture of his hand included their predicament and the dingy little room. "you'll really have to help me, after all." "oh, haven't i tried to? that is why i wrote. don't you see your own danger at all?" "no, but i'd like to." he leaned toward her, brows lifted to a quizzical peak. "oh, i can't tell you," she despaired. "but somehow i shall have to make you go." "that will be easy," he said. leaning back, nursing his chin in his hand, he watched her with a gloomy sort of brooding. "you know what it is i'm waiting for. you know i won't go without it." his words came sadly, but doggedly, with a grim finality, as if he gave himself up to the course he was following as something he knew was inevitable. the faintness of despair came over her. only the narrow table was between them, yet all at once, with the mention of the ring, he seemed a long way off. what was this terrible obsession that outweighed every other consideration with him? how get at it? how get through it? or was it between them for ever? "do you care for it so very much?" she asked him, trembling but valiant. "i care so very much," he repeated slowly, and after a moment of wonder: "why, don't you?" "oh, not for that," she cried sharply. "not for the sapphire!" he stared. she had startled him clean out of his brooding. "in heaven's name, for what, then?" oh, she could never tell him it was for him! in her distress and embarrassment she looked all ways. his quick white finger touched her on the wrist. "for cressy?" the abrupt stern note of his question startled her. she held herself stiff and still for a moment, then: "for every one in this wretched business. i have to." "ah," he sighed out the satisfaction of his long uncertainty, "then cressy _is_ in it." "no, i didn't mean that--you mustn't think it--i can't discuss him with you!" she was hot to recapture her fugitive admission. "don't let that disturb you. you haven't given him away to me. i had all i'm likely to get from the man himself." "he--he told you?" she faltered. "he told me nothing. don't you know that he misdoubts me? i got it out of him, by sleight of hand--where we had met before. has he never told you anything of that morning when we left your house together?" "never." the admission cost her an effort. he mused at her. "as i said, he told _me_ nothing, but it occurred to me when he came in that we might be there on the same errand." she paled. "you mean--?" "i mean i thought it might be safer all around that you should not see him that morning; so i got him away. he hasn't asked you for it since?" "the sapphire?" she faltered. "no!" the more her instinct warned that it had been the jewel harry had returned for, the more she repudiated the idea to kerr. "why should you think he came for that? what has he to do with it?" she murmured. "my god! how you do champion him!" he leaned forward sharply across the table. "what is this man to you?" he was going too far. he had no right to that question. "the man i have promised to marry." her hot look, her cold manner defied him to command her here. yet for a moment, leaning forward with his clenched hands on the table, he looked ready to spring up and force her words back on her. the next he let it go and dropped back in his chair again. "quite so," he said. "but i didn't believe it." he stared at her with a dull, profound resentment. "yet it's most possible; since it isn't the sapphire it would be that." he mused. "but, you extraordinary woman, why on earth--" he broke off, still looking at her, looking with a persistent, sharp, studying eye, as if she were the most puzzling and, it came to her gradually, the most dubious thing on earth. he was verily a magician, a worker of black magic; for under the spell of his eyes she felt herself turning into something horrible. however innocent she was in intention, the ugly appearance was covering her. "then what are you doing here with the ring on you?" he demanded solemnly. "why are you dealing with me? what do you think you'll get out of it? good god! women are hideous! how can you betray the man you love?" "oh," she cried, with a wail of horror. she stood up trembling and pale. "i don't--i don't--i don't! i've kept it from them. i'm standing against them all. i shall never give it to them. when have i ever betrayed you?" he drew back, away from her, as if to ward off her meaning, but she leaned toward him, her hands flung out, holding herself up to him for all she meant. he got up slowly and the creeping tide of red, dusky and violent, rising over his face, swelling his features, darkening his eyes, hung before her like a banner of shame. "i didn't know, i didn't know," he repeated in a low voice. his eyes were on the ground. then, with a sharp motion, as if merely standing in front of her was unendurable, "oh, lord!" he said, and, turning, walked from her toward the window. he went precipitately, as if he meant to go through it, but he only leaned against it and stood motionless; and from her side of the table, trembling, breathless, she watched his stricken silhouette black upon the gray, fading light. the knowledge of how far she had gone, of how much she had betrayed herself, swelled and swelled before her mind until it seemed to fill her life, but she looked at it hardily and unabashed. all the decencies in the world should sink before he thought her a traitor. she came softly up beside him. "don't be sorry for what i told you." "i'm not," he said. his voice sounded muffled. he did not look at her, only held out his arm in a mute sign to her to come. she felt it around her, but it was a mere symbol of protection. it lay limp on her shoulder, and he continued to stare through the window at the street. "i'm not sorry for what you said," he repeated slowly. "i'm glad; but, child, i wish it wasn't true." "don't, don't!" she besought him, "for i don't." he gave her a look. "that's beautiful of you, but"--and he turned to the window again and spoke to himself--"it puts an awful face on my business. all along you've made me think for you, and of you, more than you deserve, more than i can afford." the stare she gave this forced out of him a reluctant smile. "why, didn't you know it? do you think i couldn't have had the sapphire that first night i saw it on your hand, if it hadn't been--well, for the way i thought of you? i fancied you knew that then." he made a restless movement. his arm fell from her shoulder. "there's been only one thing to do from the first," he said, "and i don't see my way to it." "oh, don't take it! leave it!" she pleaded. "leave it with me! what does it matter so much? a jewel! if only you would leave it and go away from me!" he whirled on her. "in heaven's name, a fine piece of logic! leave the sapphire to people who can make no better use of it than i? leave you to go on with this business and marry this cressy? even suppose you gave me the sapphire, i couldn't let you do that!" "if i gave you the sapphire," flora said, "oh, he wouldn't marry me then!" she couldn't tell how this had come to her, but all at once it was clear, like a sign of her complete failure; but kerr only wondered at her distress. "well, if you don't want to marry him, what do you care?" "oh, i don't, i don't care for that." she sank back listlessly in her chair again. she couldn't explain, but in her own mind she knew that if she lost the sapphire she would so lose in her own esteem; so fail at every point that counted, that she would never be able to see or be seen in the world again as the same creature. even to kerr--even to him to whom she would have yielded she would have become a different thing. she realized now she had staked everything on the premise that she wouldn't have to yield; and now it began to appear to her that she would. his weakness was appearing now as a terrible strength, a strength that seemed on the point of crushing her, but it could never convince her. that strength of his had brought her here. was it to happen here, that strange thing she had foreseen, the end of her? was it here she was to lose the sapphire, and him? she looked vaguely around the room, at the most impassive aspect of the place, as at a place she never expected to leave; the darkening windows, the fast-shut door, the child leaning on the desk, watching them with sharp, incurious eyes--this would be her niche for ever. she would be left for ever with the crusts and the dregs. and kerr's figure in the twilight seemed each time it moved to be on the point of vanishing into the grayness. he moved continually up and down the narrow spaces between the tables. he troubled the dry repose of the place. sometimes he looked at her, studying, questioning, undecided. once he stopped, as if just there an idea had arrested him. he looked at her, as if, she thought, he were afraid of her. then for long moments he stood looking blankly, steadily out of the window. he did not approach her. he seemed to avoid her, until, as though he had come at last to his decision, he walked straight up to her and stood above her. she rose to meet him. he was smiling. "don't you know that you could easily get rid of me?" he demanded. "cressy would be too glad to do it for you; and there are more ways than one that i could get the sapphire from you, if i could face the idea of it--but really, really we care too much for each other. there's only one way out for you and me and the sapphire. i'll take you both." her clenched hands opened and fell at her sides. a great wave of helplessness flowed over her. her eyes, her throat filled up with a rush of blinding tears. she put out her hands, trying to thrust him off, but he took the wrists and held them apart, and held her a moment helpless before him. "oh, no," she whispered. "but i love you." her head fell back. she looked at him as if he had spoken the incredible. "i love you," he repeated, "though god knows how it has happened!" the blood rushed to her heart. he was drawing her nearer. she felt his breath upon her face; she saw the image of herself in his eyes. she started to herself on the edge of danger, and made a struggle to release her wrists. he let them go. she sank down into her chair. "why not? why won't you go with me?" she heard him say again, still close beside her. "i can't, i can't!" she clung to the words, but for the moment she had forgotten her reasons. she had forgotten everything but the wonderful fact that he loved her. he was there within reach, and she had only to stretch out her hand, only to say one word, and he would cut through the ranks of her perplexities and terrors, and carry her away. "why not, if you love me?" he insisted. "are you afraid of those people? are you afraid of cressy? he shall never come near you." she shook her head. "no, it isn't that." he stooped and looked into her face. "then what keeps you?" she looked up slowly. "my honor." "your honor!" for a moment her answer seemed to have him by surprise. he mused, and again it came dreamily back to her that he was looking at her across a vast difference no will of hers could ever bridge. "don't you see what i am?" she murmured. "can't you imagine where i stand in this hideous business? it's my trust. i'm on their side; and, oh, in spite of everything, i can't make myself believe in giving it to you!" he pondered this very gravely. "yes, i can see how you might feel that way. but is the feeling really yours? are you sure they haven't put it on you? might not my honor do as well for you, if you were mine?" it struck her she had never connected him with honor, and he read her thought with a flash of humor. "evidently it hasn't occurred to you that i have an honor." she looked at him sadly. "in spite of everything i'm on the other side. i belong to them." "you belong to me." his hand closed on hers. "mine is the only honor you have to think of. can't you trust that i am right? can't you see it through my eyes? can't you make yourself all mine?" his arm was around her now, holding her fast, but she turned her face away, and his kisses fell only on her cheek and hair. "oh," she cried, "if only i could!" "don't you love me?" "oh, yes, but that makes me see, all the more, the dreadful difference between us." "you silly child, there is no difference, really." "ah, yes, you know it as well as i. you were afraid of it, too. all that long time you were walking around you were wondering whether you dared to take me." he denied her steadily, "never!" she loved him for that gallant denial, for she knew he had been afraid, horribly afraid, more afraid than she was now; but that strange quality of his that gave to a double risk a double zest had set him all the hotter on this resolution. he sat for some long moments thoughtfully looking straight before him. she, glancing at his profile, white and faintly glimmering in the twilight, thought it looked sharp, absorbed and set. she could see his great determination growing there in the gloom between them, looming and overshadowing them both. "i see," he said at last. "i'll simply have to take you in spite of it." he turned around to her, and reached his hands down through the dusk. she was being drawn up into arms which she could not see. her hands were clasped around a neck, her cheek was against a face which she had never hoped to touch. her reason and her fears were stifled and caught away from her lips with her breath. she was giving up to her awful weakness. she was giving up to the power of love. she was letting herself sink into it as she would sink into deep water. the sense of drowning in this profound, unfathomable element, of shutting her eyes and opening her arms to it, was the highest she had ever touched; but all at once the memory of what she was leaving behind her, like a last glimpse of sky, swept her with fear. she made a desperate effort to rescue herself before the waters quite closed over her head. she pulled herself free. without his arms around her for the first moment she could hardly stand. she took an uncertain step forward; then with a rush she reached the white curtains. they flapped behind her. she heard kerr laugh, a note, quiet, caressing, almost content. it came from the gloom like a disembodied voice of triumph. her rush had carried her into the middle of the anteroom. at this last moment was there to be no miracle to save her? there was no rescue among these dumb walls and closed-up windows. the purple child gave her a sharp, bird-like glance, as if the most that this wild woman could want was "change." flora looked behind her and saw kerr, who had put aside the curtains and was standing looking at her. he was bright and triumphant in that twilight room. he was not afraid of losing her now. he knew in that one moment he had imprisoned her for ever! she saw him approaching, but though all her mind and spirit strained for flight, something had happened to her will. it tottered like her knees. he stooped and picked up an artificial rose, which had fallen from her hat, and put it into her hand. a moment, with his head bent, he stood looking into her face, but without touching her. "sit down over there," he said, and pointed toward a chair against the wall. she went meekly like a prisoner. he spoke to the child in the purple apron, who was still sitting behind the desk. he put some money on the cash-desk in front of her. it was gold. it shone gorgeously in the dull surrounding, and the child pounced upon it, incredulous of her luck. then he turned, crossed the room, soundlessly opened the door, and went out into the violet dark of the street. the child furtively tested her coin, biting it as if to taste the glitter, and flora waited, lost, given up by herself, passively watching for the room to be filled again with his presence. he was back after a long minute, and this time took up his stand at the door, where, pushing aside the tight-drawn curtain a little, from time to time he looked out into the street. sometimes his eyes followed the cracks of the plastered wall, sometimes he studied the floor at his feet; every moment she saw he was alert, expectantly watching and waiting; and though he never looked at her sitting behind him, she felt his protection between her and the darkening street. she sat in the shadow of it, feeling it all around her, claiming her as it would claim her henceforth, from, the world. a ghost of light glimmered along the curtains of the window, and stopped, quivering, in the middle of the curtained door. then he turned about and beckoned her. sheer weakness kept her sitting. he went to her, took her face between his hands, and looked into it long and intently. "you don't want to go!" the words fell from his lips like an accusal. his sudden realization of what she felt held him there dumb with disappointment. "you have won me," her look was saying, "and yet i have immediately become a worthless thing, because i am going; and i don't believe in going." she felt she had failed him--how cruelly, was written in his face. but it was only for a moment that she made him hesitate. the next he shook himself free. "well, come," he said. she felt that all doors would fly open at his bidding. she felt herself swept powerless at his will with all the yielding in her soul that she had felt in her body when his arms were around her. he had taken her by the hand--he was leading her out into the gusty night, where all lights flared--the gas-lights marching up the street over the hill into the unknown, and the lights gleaming at her like eyes in the dark bulk of the carriage waiting before the door. it all glimmered before her--a picture she might never see again--might not see after she passed through the carriage door that gaped for her. the will that had swept her out of the door was moving her beyond her own will, as it had moved her that morning in the garden, beyond all things that she knew. there was no feeling left in her but the despair of extreme surrender. she found herself in the carriage. she saw his face in the carriage door as pale as anger, yet not angry; it was some bigger thing that looked at her from his eyes. he looked a long while, as if he bade her never to forget this moment. then, "i'll give you twenty-four hours," he said. "this man will take you home." he shut the carriage door--shut it between them. before she had gathered breath he had straightened, fallen back, raised his hat, and the carriage was turning. flora thrust her head, straw hat and ribbons out of the window. "oh, i love you!" she called to him. she sank back in the cushions and covered her face with her hands. xviii goblin tactics for a little she kept her face hidden, shutting out the present, jealously living with the wonderful thing that had happened to her. it was as wonderful as anything she had dreamed might come when she had written him that letter. and if she needed any proof of his love, she had had it in the moment when he had let her go. there he had transcended her hope. she felt lifted up, she felt triumphant, though the triumph had not been hers. it was all his; he had saved her from her own weakness; his was the miracle. how he shone to her! the dark, swaying hollow of the carriage seemed still full of his presence, full of his hurried whispering; and again she seemed to see him standing outside the window in the deep blue evening holding out his hands to her cry of "i love you!" he had been wonderful in a way she had not expected. he had shown her so beautifully that he could be reached in spite of his obsession. might not she hope to touch him just a little further? was there any height now that he might not rise to? she seemed to see the possible end of it all shaping itself out of his magnanimity. she seemed to see him finally relinquishing his passion for the jewel, and his passion for her for the sake of something finer than both. she had seen it foreshadowed in what he had done this day--having them both in his hands, he had put them away from him. yet in that action she knew there had been no finality. she had touched him, but she had not convinced him, and as long as he was unconvinced he would be at her again in some other way. her hands dropped from her face, and she confronted the fact drearily. "no," she thought, "he never gives up what he wants." she looked out of the window. the flickers of gas-lamps fell intermittently through it upon her. her queer vehicle was rattling crazily--jolting as if every spring were at its last leap. she was out of the quiet, blue street. montgomery avenue, with its lights, its glittering gilt names and latin insignia, was traveling by on either side of her. the voice of the city was growing louder in her ears, the crowd on the pavement increased. at intervals the carriage dipped through glares of electric lights that illuminated its interior in a flash broader than day--the ragged cushions, the raveled tassels, the limp-swinging shutters, and, glimmering in the midst, wild and disheveled, herself in all the little wavy mirrors. she sat looking out at the maze of moving lights and figures without seeing them, intent on an idea that was growing clearer, larger, moment by moment in her mind. kerr's appearance in her garden--his capture of her--had not been the fantastic freak it had seemed. he had had his purpose. he had taken her out of her environment; he had carried her beyond succor or menace just that he might carry them both so much further and faster through their differences. they had not reached the point of agreement yet, but might they not on some other ground, where they could be unchallenged? it seemed to her if she could only meet him on her own ground for once--instead of for ever on clara's or harry's--only meet him alone, somewhere beyond their reach, it might be accomplished, it might be brought to the end she so wished. yet where to go to be rid of clara and harry, the two so closely associated with every fact of her life? the hack, which had been moving along at a rapid pace, slowed now to a walk among the thickening traffic, and from a mere moving mass the crowd appeared as individuals--a stream of dark figures and white faces. her eyes slipped from one to another. here one stood still on the lamp-lit corner, looking down, with lips moving quickly and silently. it was strange to see those rapid, eager, moving lips with no sound from them audible. then her eyes were startled by something familiar in the figure, though the direct down-glare of the ball of light above him distorted the features with shadows. she pressed her face against the window-glass in palpitating doubt. it was harry. she cowered in the corner of the carriage. in a moment the risks of her situation were before her. had he seen her? oh, no, at least not yet. he had been too intent on whomever he was talking to. she peered to make sure that he was still safely on the street corner. he was just opposite, and now that the eddy of the crowd had left a little clear space around him she saw with whom he was talking. it was a small, very small, shabby, nondescript man--possibly only a boy, so short he seemed. his back was toward her. his clothes hung upon him with an odd un-anglo-saxon air. he was foreign with a foreignness no country could explain--italian, portuguese, greek--whatever he was, he was a strange foil to harry, so bright and burnished. the hack was turning. she realized with dismay that it was turning sharp around that very corner where they stood. suppose harry should chance to glance through its window and see flora gilsey sitting trembling within. the hack wheezed and cramped, and all at once she heard it scrape the curb. then she was lost! she looked up brave in her desperation, ready to meet harry's eyes. she saw the back of his head. for a moment it loomed directly above her, then it moved. he was separating from his companion. with one stride he vanished out of the square frame of the window, and there remained full fronting her, staring in upon her, the face of his companion. back flashed to her memory the goldsmith's shop--dull hues and odors all at once--and that wide unwinking stare that had fixed her from the other side of the counter. the blue-eyed chinaman! in the glare of white light, in his terrible clearness and nearness, she knew him instantly. the hack plunged forward, the face was gone. but she remained nerveless, powerless to move, frozen in her stupefaction, while her vehicle pursued its crazy course. it was clattering up sutter street toward kearney, where at this hour the town was widest awake, and the crowd was a crowd she knew. at any instant people she knew might be going in and out of the florists' shops and restaurants, or passing her in carriages. and what of flora gilsey in her morning dress and garden hat, in a night-hawk of a telegraph hill hack, flying through their midst like a mad woman? they were the least of her fears. she had forgotten them. the only thing that remained to her was the memory of harry and the blue-eyed chinaman together on the street corner. she had been given a glimpse of that large scheme that harry was carrying forward somewhere out of her sight--such a glimpse as clara had given her in the rifling of her room, as ella had shown in her hysterical revelation. again she felt the threat of these ominous signs of danger, as a lone general at a last stand with his troops clustered at his back sees in front, and behind, on either side of him, the glitter of bayonets in the bushes. she was in the midst of the tangled traffic of kearney street. swimming lights and crowds were all around her. she peered forth cautiously upon it. she saw a florid face, a woman, she knew casually--and there her eyes fastened, not for the woman's brilliant presence, but for what she saw directly in front of it, thrown into relief upon its background--a short and shabby figure, foreign, equivocal, reticent, the figure of a blue-eyed chinaman. he was standing still while the crowd flowed past him. this time he was alone. he seemed to be waiting, yet not to watch, as if he had already seen what he was expecting and knew that it must pass his way. it was uncanny, his reappearance, at a second interval of her route, standing as if he had stood there from the first, patient, expectant, motionless. it was worse than uncanny. all at once an idea, wild and illogical enough, jumped up in her mind. couldn't this miserable vehicle that was lumbering like a disabled bug move faster and rattle her on out of reach of the glare, the publicity, the threat of discovery, and, above all, of her discomforting notion? she breathed out relief as the carriage dipped into the comparative quiet again, and she felt herself being driven on and up a gently rising street between block-apart, lone gas-lamps. she thrust her face as far out of the window as she dared, looking back at the lights and traffic which were drifting behind her. at this distance she could single out no one figure from the crowd, and no figure which could possibly be that of the blue-eyed chinaman was moving up the street behind her. there only remained a disquieting memory of him on the corner with harry. together they made a combination, to her mind, threatening to the man she loved, for whom she so desperately feared. if ever she had felt herself helpless, it was in this moment passing along the half-lit, half-empty city street. by what she knew, by what she wore around her neck, she was separated from all peace-abiding citizens--she was outlawed. every closed door and shaded window (so many she had opened or looked out of!) now seemed shut and shaded against her for ever. night and the reticent gray city, averting their eyes, let her slip through unregarded. she was passing that section of large, old-fashioned mansions, cupolaed, towered, indistinct at the top of their high, broad steps, or back among the trees of their gardens. along the front of one stretched a high hedge of laurestinas black as a ribbon of the night, capacious of shadows; and it seemed to flora that all at once a shadow detached itself. she looked with a start. it flashed along the pavement--if shadow it were--running head down with a strange, scattering movement of arms and legs, yet seeming to make such speed that for a moment it kept abreast of the cab. she could see no features, no lineament of this strange thing to recognize, yet instantly she knew what it must be--what she had feared and thought impossible. she thrust her head far out and addressed the driver. "go as fast as you can, faster! and i'll give you twice what he gave you." the words rang so wildly to her own ears that she half expected the driver to peer down like an old bird of prey from his perch and demand her reason. but he made no sound or sign. it may have been that in his time he had heard even wilder requests than hers. he only sent his whip cracking forward to the ears of the lean horse, and the cab began to rattle like a mad thing. flora leaned back with a sigh of relief. the mere sensation of being borne along at such a rate, the sight of houses, lamp-posts, even people here and there, flitting away from the eye, unable to interrupt her course, or even to glimpse her identity, gave her a feeling of safety. the more she was getting into the residence part of the city, the more deserted the streets, the closer shut the windows of the houses, the more it seemed to her as if the night itself covered and abetted her flight. so swiftly she went it was only a wonder how the cab held together. she had never traveled more rapidly in her light and silent carriage. now they whirled the corner and plunged at the steep rise of a cross street. just above, over the crown of the hill, she saw the sky, moonless, blackish, spattered with stars. then against it a little fluttering shape like a sentinel wisp--the only living thing in sight. it was incredible, impossible, horrible that he should be there, in front of her, waiting for her, who had driven so fast--too fast, it had seemed, for human foot to follow. by what unimaginable route had he traveled? she was ready to believe he had flown over the housetops. and above all other horrors, why was he pursuing her? the carriage was abreast the chinaman now, and immediately he took up his trot, for a little while keeping up, dodging along between light and shadow, presently falling behind. at intervals she heard the patter, patter, patter of his footsteps following; at intervals she lost the sound, and shadows would engulf the figure, and she would wait in a panic for its reappearance. for she knew it was there somewhere, on one side of the street or the other. but, oh, not to see it! to expect at any moment it might start up again--heaven knew where, perhaps at her very carriage window. her unconscious hand was doubled to a fist upon her breast, fast closed upon the sapphire. with all her body braced, she leaned and looked far backward, and far forward, and now for a long time saw nothing. the distance was empty. the glare of arc-lights showed her the shadows of her own progress--the shadow of her vehicle shooting huge and misshapen now on the cobbles, now along a blank wall, wheels, body and driver, all lurching like one; now heaped on each other, now tenuously drawn out, now twisting themselves into shapes the mind could not account for. for here, whirling the corner, the carriage seemed to wave an arm, and now between the wheels, fast twinkling, she saw a pair of legs. she leaned and looked, so mesmerized with this grotesque appearance that it scarcely troubled her that all the way down the last long hill she knew it must be that a man was running at her wheel. the warm lights of her house were just before her, offering succor, stiffening courage. it would be but a dash from the door of the cab to her own door. there was no second course, once the cab stopped. she felt that to lurk in its gloom would mean robbery, perhaps death. she thought without fear, but with an intense calculation. her hand held the door at swing as the cab drew up. before it should stop she must leap. she gathered her skirts and sprang--sprang clean to the sidewalk. the steps of her house rushed by her in her upward flight. her bell pealed. she covered her eyes. for the moment before shima opened the door there was nothing but darkness and silence. she had never been so glad of anything in her life as of the kind, astute, yellow face he presented to her distressed appeal. "shima," she panted, "pay the cab; and if there's any one else there say that i'll call the police--no, no, send him away." there was no question or hesitation in shima's obedience. through the glass of the door she watched him descend upon his errand, until he disappeared over the edge of the illumination of the vestibule. she waited, dimly aware of voices going on beyond the curtains of the drawing-room, but all her listening power was concentrated on the silence without--a silence that remained unbroken, and out of which shima returned with the same imperturable countenance. "he wants ten dollars." "oh, yes, give him anything," flora gasped. if that was all the chinaman had followed her for! but her relief was momentary, for instantly shima was back again. "i gave him ten dollars, the cabman." now she gasped indeed. "oh, the cabman! but the other one!" for an instant shima seemed to hesitate; glancing past her shoulder as if there was something that he doubted behind her. then as she still hung on his answer he brought it out in a lowered voice. "madam, there was no one else there." xix the face in the garden with her hand at her distressed forehead she turned, and saw, between the curtains of the drawing-room, harry, and behind him clara, looking out at her with faces of amazement, and she fancied, horror. harry came straight for her. "why, you poor child, what's happened to you?" she gave him a look. she couldn't forget their scene in the red room, but the mixture of apprehension and real concern in his face went far toward melting her. she might even have told him something, at least a part of the truth, but for that other standing watching her from the drawing-room door. with clara, there was nothing for it but to ignore her disordered hair, her hat in her hand, her ruffle torn and trailing on the floor. she put on a splendid nonchalance, as if it were none of their business. "oh, i am sorry if i kept you waiting." it was clara who spoke to her, past harry's blank astonishment. "why, we don't mind waiting a few moments more while you dress." "i shan't have to dress." such a statement flora felt must amaze even shima, waiting like an image on the threshold of the dining-room. but if these people were waiting to be amazed she felt herself equal to amazing them to the top of their expectations. "oh, but at least go up and let marrika give you some pins," clara protested, hurrying forward as if fairly to drive her. "thank you, no, this will do," flora said. on one point she was quite clear. she wasn't going to leave those two together for a moment to discuss her plight; not till she could first get at harry alone. then and there she turned to the mirror and with her combs began to catch back and smooth the disorder of her hair, seeing all the while clara's reflection hovering perturbed and vigilant in the background of her own. while her hands were busy seeming to accommodate clara, her mind was marshaled to clara's outwitting. the only thing to do was to tell nothing. let clara spend her time in guessing. unless by some wild chance she had seen kerr in the garden she couldn't come near the truth of what had happened. but what was to be done with harry? harry was too close to her to be ignored. her attitude toward him had undergone a change. in the moment in the red room, when she had seen him break the one feeling that had held her to him, the feeling of awe and respect had evaporated. she felt that it was quite impossible now for them to go on on the same footing; yet, as long as she kept the sapphire she must somehow manage to keep up an appearance of it. she must tell him something. at that dreadful dinner, where she sat a conscious frustrater of these two silent ones, glancing at harry's face, she knew that if she didn't attack she would be attacked by him. it was here in the midst of the noiseless passings of shima, watching harry's suspicious glances flashing across the table at her strange disorder, that the idea occurred to her of a way out of it. she was bold enough to try a daring thrust at the mystery. if ever a hunter was to be led off on a false scent, harry was that one. she was amazed at the sudden, fearless impulse that had sprung up in her. she wasn't even afraid to say to him under clara's nose, "harry, i want you to myself after dinner. come up into the garden study." he was very willing to follow her. she thought she detected in his alacrity something more than curiosity or concern. it seemed almost as if harry was ashamed of that scene in the red room, and anxious to make it up with her. he even tried before they had reached the head of the stairs. "oh, flora--i say, flora, i--" but an explanation between them was the last thing she wanted just then. she fairly ran, leaving him panting in the wake of her airy skirts. for the first time since the thing began clara was left out completely. flora knew she was even left out of a possibility of listening at the keyhole. for the bright, tight, little room into which harry followed her was approached by a square entry and a double door. the room itself overhung the garden as a ship's deck overhangs the sea. leather books and long red curtains were the note of it. she and harry had often been here together before. harry had made love to her here, and she had found it pleasurable enough. but the fact that she could recall it now with distaste made this familiar surrounding seem strange, and they themselves strangest of all. he hadn't got his breath. he had hardly shut the door on them before she began. "well, something has happened." she had his attention. his other purpose was arrested. "oh, something extraordinary. i would have told you on the spot, only i thought you would rather clara didn't know it." "i?" that left him staring. "what have i to do with it?" at this she gave him a long look. "it was through you he ever had the chance of seeing me. i mean the blue-eyed chinaman. he has followed me all the evening. he followed me here to the very door." flora's array of facts fell so fast, so hard, so pointed, that for a moment they held him speechless in the middle of the room. any fleeting suspicion she might have had of his complicity in the chinaman's pursuit vanished. he showed plain bewilderment. for a moment he was more at sea than herself. the next she saw the shadow of a thought so disturbing that it sharpened his ruddy face to harshness. he stepped toward her. "what did he say to you?" he loomed directly above her, threatening. "nothing. he didn't say anything. but i know he followed me quite to the house, for i saw his shadow all the way down the hill." harry still breathed quickly. "where--how did he come across you?" she'd been prepared for that question. "i was driving down sutter street and he saw me at the carriage window." harry stood tense, poised, catching everything as she tossed it off; then as if all at once he felt the full weight of the burden, "lord!" he said, and let himself down heavily into a chair. it was plain in his helpless stare that he knew exactly what it all meant. laying her hands on the high chair-arms, leaning down so that she could look into his face, flora made her thrust. "what do you think he wants?" she gently asked. it was as if she would coax it out of him. his answer was correspondingly low and soft. "it's that damned ring." she heard her secret fear spoken aloud with such assurance that she waited, certain at the next moment harry's voice would people the silence with all the facts that had so far escaped her. but when, after a moment of looking before him he did speak, he went back to the beginning, which they both knew. "you know he didn't want to part with it in the first place." "yes, yes; but he did," flora insisted. "well," he answered quickly, "but that was before--" he caught himself and went on with a scarcely perceptible break: "he may have had a better offer for it since." he couldn't have put it more mildly, and yet that temperate phrase brought back to her in a flash a windy night full of raucous voices and the great figures in the paper that had covered half a page--the reward for the crew idol. could it be that--that sum so overwhelming to human caution and human decency which harry had cloaked by his grudging phrase "some better offer"? what else could he mean? and what else could the blue-eyed chinaman mean by his strange pursuit of her? "some one must have wanted it awfully," flora tried again, keeping step with his mild admission. harry covered her with an impressive stare. "there's something queer about that ring," he nodded to her. he was going to tell her at last! she gazed at him in expectation, but presently she realized that nothing more was coming. he had stopped at the beginning. she tried to urge him on. "queer, what do you mean?" she was feigning surprise. he looked at her cautiously. "why, you must have noticed it yourself when we were at the shop. and now, to-night, his having followed you." she could see him hesitate, choosing his words. she knew well enough her own fear of saying too much--but, what was harry afraid of? did he suspect her feeling for kerr? was that why he was holding back, leaving out, giving her the small, expurgated version of what he knew. she tried again, making it plainer. "you think the ring is something he ought not to have had; something that belongs somewhere else?" he looked away from her, around the room, as if to pick up his answer from some of the corners. "well, anyway, it's lucky we waited about that setting," he said with quick irrelevance. "if you're going to be annoyed in this way you'd better let me have it." why hadn't she thought of that! it was what any man might say, after hearing such a story as hers, yet it was the last thing she had thought of, and the last thing she wanted. "oh, leave it with me," she quavered, "at least till you're sure!" "oh, no!" he gave his head a quick, decided shake. "if something should come out you wouldn't want to be mixed up in it." "then why not give it back to the chinaman?" she tried him. "oh, that's ridiculous." he was in a passion. his darkening eyes, his swelling nostrils, his aspect so out of proportion to her mild and almost playful suggestion, frightened her. he saw it and instantly his mood dropped to mere irritation. "oh, flora, don't make a scene about it. this thing has been on my mind for days--the thought that you had the ring. i was afraid i had no business to let you have it in the first place, and what you've told me to-night has clean knocked me out. i don't know what i'm saying. come, let me have it; and if there's anything queer about the business, at least we'll get it cleared up." but, smiling, she retreated before him. "why, flora," he argued, half laughing, but still with that dry end of irritation in his voice, "what on earth do you want to keep the thing for?" by this time she backed against the window, and faced him. "why, it's my engagement ring." he looked at her. she couldn't tell whether he was readiest to laugh or rage. "you gave it to me for that," she pleaded. "why shouldn't i keep it, until you give me a real reason for giving it up? if you really know anything, why don't you tell me?" she was sure she had him there; but he burst out at last: "well, for a fact, i know it is stolen!" he leaned toward her; and his arms, still flung out with the hands open as argument had left them, seemed to her frightened eyes all ready for her, ready with his last argument, his strength. once before she had feared herself face to face with the same threat in the eyes and body of another man, but here, her only fear was lest harry should get the sapphire away from her. his doing so would dash down no ideal of him. it was mere physical terror that made her tremble and raise her hand to her breast. instantly she saw how she had betrayed the sapphire again. he had taken hold of her wrist, and, twist as she might, he held it, horribly gentle. she pressed back against the glass until she felt it hard behind her. "harry," she whispered, "if you care anything, if you ever want me for yours, you'll take your hands away." she meant it; she was sincere in that moment, for all she shrank from him. her body and mind would not have been too great a price to give him for the sapphire. but these he seemed to set aside as trivial. these he expected as a matter of course; he was going to have that other thing, too--the thing she had clung to as a man clings to life; and that now, parting from, she would give up not without a struggle as sharp as that with which the body gives up breath. she wrestled. he seemed all hands. he put aside her struggles, her pleadings, as if they were thistle-down. then all at once she felt his arm around her neck. she couldn't move her body. she could only turn her head from his hot breath. for a moment he held her, and yet another moment; and then, terrified at what this strange immobility might mean, she raised her eyes and saw he was not looking at her. though he held her fast he was not conscious of her. straight over her head he looked, through the window and down, into the garden. her eyes followed. it lay beneath, the wonder of its morning aspect all blanched and dim. she saw the silhouette of rose branches in black on the sky. she saw the flowers and bushes all one dull tone. but in the midst of them the oval of the path shone white; and there, as in the afternoon, standing, looking upward, was the dark figure of a man. her heart gave a great leap. just so she'd been summoned once before that day, but what infernal freak had fetched him back to repeat that dangerous sally, and brought him finally into his enemy's grasp? she tried to make a gesture to warn him, and just there harry released her, dropped her so that she half fell upon the window-seat, and made a dash across the room for the light. in a moment they were in darkness. in a moment, to flora pressed against the window, the garden sprang clear, and on the formless figure below the face appeared, white in the starlight looking up. she cried out in wonder. it was not kerr. it was the blue-eyed chinaman. after her haunted drive, after her escape, after shima's search, he was there, still inexorably there; small, diminished by the great façade of the house, but looking up at it with his calm eye, surveying it, measuring its height, numbering its doors, trying its windows. harry was beside her again. he was tugging frantically at the window. it resisted. she saw his hands trembling while he wrestled with it. then it went shrieking up and he leaned out. "what do you want?" he called, and, though he used no name, flora saw he knew with whom he was speaking. the chinaman stood immobile, lifting his round, white face, whose mouth seemed to gape a little. harry leaned far out and lowered his voice. "go away, joe! don't come here; never come here!" there was a quiver in his voice. anger or apprehension, or both, whatever his passion was, for the moment it overwhelmed him, and as the chinaman stood unmoved, unmoving, at his commands, harry turned sharp from the window and dashed out of the room. flora heard him running, running down the stairs. she hung there breathless, waiting to see him meet the motionless figure; but while she looked and waited that motionless figure suddenly took life. it moved, it turned, it flitted, it mixed with shadows, became a shadow; and then there was nothing there. nothing was there when harry burst out of the garden door and stood staring in the empty oval. how distracted, how violent he looked, balked of his prey! he was stalking the garden, beating the bushes, walking up and down. all at once he stopped and raised a white baffled face to her window. she shrank away. _she_ was in peril of harry now. he knew her no longer innocent. she had held the ring against him in the face of the fact he had told her it was stolen. and he must guess her motive. he must suspect her now. in her turn she ran, up and up a twisted side stair, shortest passage to her own rooms. at least lock and key could keep her safe for the next few hours. after that she must think of something else. xx flight by five o'clock in the morning she was already moving softly to and fro, so softly as not to rouse the sleeping marrika. by seven her lightest bag was packed, herself was bathed, brushed, dressed even to hat and gloves, and standing at her window with all the listening alert look of one in a waiting-room expecting a train. she was watching for the city to begin to stir; watching for enough traffic below in the streets to make her own movement there not too noticeable. yet every moment she waited she was in terror lest her fate should take violent form at last and assail her in the moment of escape. she listened for a foot ascending to her room with a message from clara demanding an audience. she listened for the peal of the electric bell under harry's hasty hand--harry, arrived even at this unwarranted hour with heaven knew what representative of law to force the sapphire from her. but all her household was still unstirring when at last she went, soft step after step, down the broad and polished stair and across the empty hall. she went quiet, direct, determined, not at all as she had fled on her other perilous enterprise only yesterday. she shut the outer door after her without a sound and with great relief breathed in the fresh and faintly smoky air of morning. she walked quickly. the windows of her house still overlooked her, and her greatest terror was that some voice, some appearance, out of that house, might command her return. the street was nearly empty. a maid scrubbing down steps looked after her sharply, and she wondered if she had been recognized. she had no intention of keeping to this street, or even taking a car and traveling down its broad, gray and gleaming vista of formal houses and formal gardens that she knew and that knew her so well. it was a cross-town car bound for quite another locality that she climbed aboard. it was filled only with mechanics and workmen with picks and shovels. she sat crowded elbow to elbow among odors of stale tobacco, stale garlic, stale perspiration, and looking straight before her through the car window watched the aspect of the city, still gray, grow less gleaming and formal and finally quite dirty, and quite, quite dull. this was all as she had intended, very much in the direction of her errand, and safe. but in market street the car-line ended, and she was turned out again in this broad artery of commerce where she was in danger of meeting at any moment people she knew. she made straight across the thoroughfare to its south side, turned down eighteenth and in a moment was hidden in mission street. now really the worst danger of detection was over. she saw no reason why a woman with a small hat and a hand-bag should not pass for a school-teacher. indeed, the men did let her go at that, but the women--women with shawls over their heads, and women with uncovered heads and ear-rings in their ears, and thin, weak-eyed women with bags in their hands--the teachers themselves, one of whom she hoped to pass for--all stared at her. it didn't matter much, she thought, whether they thought her queer or not since they couldn't stop her. she went, glancing at windows as she passed, looking for a place where she could go to breakfast. she turned into the first restaurant that offered, and after a hasty glance around it to be sure no one lurked there that might betray her she subsided into the clatter with relief. it was one more place to let time pass in, for it would be full two hours before she could fulfil her errand. she stayed as long as she dared, drinking two cups of the hideous coffee; stayed while many came and went, until she felt the proprietor noticing her. that revived her consciousness of the possible dangers still between her and the end she held in view. she had heard of people being arrested for suspicious conduct. she didn't feel sure in what this might consist, but surely such an appearance could be avoided by walking fast and seeming to know exactly where one was going. it was ten o'clock in the morning, three hours since she had left her house and a most reasonable time of daylight, when flora turned out of the flatness of "south of market street" and began to mount a slow-rising hill. it was a wooden sidewalk she followed flanking a wood-paved street, and these, with the wooden fences and dusty cypress hedges and the houses peering over them upon her looked worn, battered and belonging all to the past. none the less it bore traces of having been a dignified past, and farther up on the crown of the hill among deep-bosomed trees, two or three large mansions wore the gravely triumphant aspect of having been brought successfully from a past empire into a present with all their traditions and mahogany complete. upward toward these flora was looking. her breath was short from fast climbing. her cheeks under her thin veil were hot and bright. as she neared the hilltop she glanced at a card from her chatelaine, consulting the address upon it. then anxiously she scanned the house-fronts. it was not this one, nor this; but the square white mansion she came to now stood so far retired at the end of its lawn that she could not make out the number. as she peered a young girl came down the steps between the dark wings of the cypress hedge, a slim, fair, even-gaited creature dressed for the street and drawing on her gloves. as she passed flora made sure she had seen her before. there was something familiar in the carriage of the girl's head and hands; something also like a pale reflection of another presence. pale as it was, it was enough to reassure her that this was the house she wanted. she ascended the steps beneath the arch of cypress and immediately found herself entering an atmosphere quieter even than that of the little street below. it was quiet with the quiet of protectedness, as if some one brooding, vigilant care encircled it, defending it against all inroads of violent action and thought. it had been long since any young girl had carried such a heart of passionate hopes and fears up this mossed path between these peaceful flower-beds. this appearance of the place began to bring before flora the full enormity and impertinence of her errand, but though her heart beat on her side as loud as the brass knocker upon the door, she had no mind for turning back. a high, cool, darkly gleaming interior, mellow with that precious tint of time which her own house so lacked, received her. and here, as well as out of doors, all the while she sat waiting she felt that protected peace was still the deity of the place. to flora's eager heart time was streaming by, but the tall clock facing her measured it out slowly. its longest golden finger had pointed out five minutes before the sweeping of a skirt coming down the hall brought her to her feet. mrs. herrick came in hatless, a honeysuckle leaf caught in her gray crown of hair, geraniums in her hand. flora had never seen her so informal and so gay. "i would have asked you to come out into the garden, except that it's so wet, and there's no place to sit," she said. flora apologized. "i knew if i came at this hour i should interrupt you, but really there was no help for it." she glanced down at her satchel. "i had to go this morning, and before i went i had to see you about the house. i'm going down to look at it and--and to stop a while." mrs. herrick hesitated, deprecated. "but you know mrs. britton wasn't satisfied with the price i asked." "oh," said flora promptly, "but i shall be perfectly satisfied with it, and i want to take possession at once." the positive manner in which she waved clara out of her way brought up in mrs. herrick's face a faint flash of surprise; but it was gone in an instant, supplanted by her questioning puzzled consideration of the main proposition. "oh, i hope you haven't come to tell me you want it changed," she protested. "you know it's quite absurd in places--quite terrible indeed. it's straight through, and french at that; but even such whims acquire a dignity if they've been long cherished. you couldn't put in or take out one thing without spoiling the whole character." "but i don't want to change it, i want it just as it is," flora explained. "it isn't about the house itself i've come, it's about going down there. you see there are--some people, some friends of mine. i haven't promised them to show the house, but i have quite promised myself to show it to them, and they are only here for a few days more. they are going immediately." she was looking at mrs. herrick all the while she was telling her wretched lie, and now she even managed to smile at her. "i thought how lovely it would be if you could go there with me. i should like so very much to be in it first with you, to have you go over it with me and tell me how to take care of it, as it's always been done. i should hate to do it any disrespect." her hostess smiled with ready answer. "of course i will go down. i should be glad, but it must be in a day or two. indeed, perhaps it would be better for you to have your people first, and i can come down, say monday afternoon or tuesday." flora faced this unexpected turn of the matter a little blankly. "ah, but the trouble is i can't go down alone." it was mrs. herrick's turn to look blank. "but mrs. britton?" "mrs. britton isn't going with me; she can't." "i see." mrs. herrick with a long, soft scrutiny seemed to be taking in more than flora's mere words represented. "and you wouldn't put it off until she can?" "i couldn't put it off a moment," flora ended with a little breathless laugh. "i do so wish you would come down with me this morning, for i must go, and you see i can't go alone." mrs. herrick, sitting there, composed, in her cool, flowing, white and violet gown with the red flowers in her lap, still looked at flora inquiringly. "but aren't there some women in your party old enough to make it possible and young enough to take pleasure in it?" flora shook her head. "oh, no," she said. her house of cards was tottering. she could not keep up her brave smiling. she knew her distress must be plain. indeed, as she looked at mrs. herrick she saw the effect of it. gaiety still looked at her out of that face, but the warmth, the spontaneity were gone; and the steady eyes, if anything so aloof could be suspicious, surely suspected her. her heart sank. if only she had told the truth--even so much of it as to say there was something she could not tell. what she had said was unworthy not only of herself but of the end she was so desperately holding out for. now in the lucid gaze confronting her she knew all her intentions were taking on a dubious color, stained false, like her words, under the dark cloud of her own misrepresentation. yet they were not false, she knew. her motives, the end she was struggling for, were as austere as truth itself. she could not give up without one bold stroke to clear them of this accusation. "do you think there's anything queer about it?" she faltered. "queer?" to flora's ears that sounded the coldest word she had ever heard. "i hardly think i understand what you mean." "i mean is it that you think there's more in what i'm asking of you than i have said?" the two looked at each other and before that flat question mrs. herrick drew back a little in her chair. "i have no right to think about it at all," she said. "well, there is," flora insisted. "there's a great deal more. i am sorry. i should have told you, but i was afraid. i don't know why i was afraid of you, except that in this matter i've grown afraid of every one. it's true that there may be people going down--at least, a person. but it isn't, as i let you think it, a house party at all. it's for something, something that i can't do any other way--something," she had a sudden flash of insight, "that, if i could tell you, you would believe in, too." mrs. herrick's look had faded to a mere concentrated attention. "you mean that there is something you wish to do for whoever is going down?" "oh, something i must do," flora insisted. mrs. herrick considered a moment. "why can't he do it for himself?" she threw out suddenly. it made flora start, but she met it gallantly. "because he won't. i shall have to make him." "you!" for a moment flora knew that she was preposterous in mrs. herrick's eyes--and then that she was pathetic. her companion was looking at her with a sad sort of humor. "my dear, are you sure that that is your responsibility?" flora's answering smile was faint. "it seems as strange to me as it seems absurd to you, but i think i have done something already." "are you sure, or has he only let you think so? we have all at some time longed, or even thought it was our duty, to adjust something when it would have been safer to have kept our hand off," mrs. herrick went on gently. "oh, safer," flora breathed. "oh, yes; indeed, i know. but if something had been put into your hands without your choice; if all the life of some one that you cared about depended on you, would you think of being _safe_?" flora, leaning forward, chin in hand, with shining eyes, seemed fairly to impart a reflection of her own passionate concentration to the woman before her. mrs. herrick, so calm in her reposeful attitude, calm as the old portrait on the wall behind her, none the less began to show a curious sparkle of excitement in her face. "if i were sure that person's life _did_ depend on me," she measured out her words deliberately. "but that so seldom happens, and it is so hard to tell." "but if you were sure, sure, sure!" flora rang it out certainly. mrs. herrick in her turn leaned forward. "ah, even then it would depend on him. and do you think you can make a man do otherwise than his nature?" "you think i should fail?" flora took it up fearlessly. "well, if i do, at least i shall have done my best. i shall have to have done my best or i can never forgive myself." "i see," mrs. herrick sighed. "but it sounds to me a risk too great for any reward that could come of its success." she thought. "if you could tell me more." then, as flora only looked at her wistfully and silently: "isn't there some one you can confide in? not mrs. britton?" "clara? oh, no; never!" flora startled mrs. herrick with the passionate repudiation. "but could not mr. cressy--" and with that broken sentence several things that mrs. herrick had been keeping back looked out of her face. flora answered with a stare of misery. "i know what you must be thinking--what you can not help thinking," she said, "that the whole thing is unheard-of--outrageous--especially for a girl so soon to--to be--" she caught her breath with a sob, for the words she could not speak. "but there is nothing in this disloyal to my engagement, even though i can not speak of it to harry cressy; and nothing i hope to gain for myself by what i am trying to do. if i succeed it will only mean i shall never see him--the other one--again." mrs. herrick rose, in her turn beseeching. "oh, i can't help you go into it! it is too dubious. my dear, i know so much better than you what the end may mean." "i know what the end may mean, and i can't keep out of it." "but i can not go with you." there was a stern note in mrs. herrick's voice. flora looked around the room, the sunny windows, the still shadows, the tall, monotonous clock, as if this were the last glimpse of peace and protection she would ever have. she rose and put out her hand. "i'm afraid i didn't quite realize how much i was asking of you. you have been very good even to listen to me. it's right, i suppose, that i should go alone." mrs. herrick looked at her in dismay. "but that is impossible!" then, as flora turned away, she kept her hand. "think, think," she urged, "how you will be misunderstood." "oh, i shall have to bear that--from the people who don't know." "yes, and even from the one for whom you are spending yourself!" flora gave her head a quick shake. "he understands," she said. "my dear, he is not worth it." flora turned on her with anger. "you don't know what he is worth to me!" mrs. herrick looked steadily at this unanswerable argument. her hold on flora's hand relaxed, but she did not quite release it. her brows drew together. "you are quite sure you must go?" flora nodded. she was speechless. "did mrs. britton know you were coming to me?" "no. she doesn't even know that i am going out of town. she must not," flora protested. "indeed she must. you must not place yourself in such a false position. write her and tell her you are going to san mateo with me." "oh, if you would!" tears sprang to flora's eyes. "but will you, even if i can't tell you anything?" "i shall not ask you anything. now write her immediately. you can do it here while i am getting ready." she had taken authoritative command of the details of their expedition, and flora willingly obeyed her. she was still trembling from the stress of their interview, and she blinked back tears before she was able to see what she was writing. it had all been brought about more quickly and completely than she had hoped, but it was in her mind all the while she indited her message to clara, that kerr, for whom it had been accomplished, was not yet informed of the existence of the scheme, or the part of guest he was to play. yet she was sure that if she asked he would be promptly there. she wrote to him briefly: at san mateo, at the herricks'. i want you there to-night. i have made up my mind. as she was sealing it she started at a step approaching in the hall. she had wanted to conceal that betraying letter before mrs. herrick came back. she glanced quickly behind her, and saw standing between the half-open folding doors, the slim figure of a girl--slimmer, younger even than the one who had passed her at the gate, but like her, with the same large eyes, the same small indeterminate chin. just at the chin the likeness to mrs. herrick failed with the strength of her last generation--but the eyes were perfect; and they gazed at flora wondering. with the sixth sense of youth they recognized the enactment of something strange and thrilling. another instant and mrs. herrick's presence dawned behind her daughter--and her voice--"why, child, what are you doing there?"--and her hands seemed apprehensive in their haste to hurry the child away, as if, truly, in this drawing-room, for the first time, something was dangerous. xxi the house of quiet the day which had dawned so still and gloomy was wakening to something like wildness, threatening, brightening, gusty, when they stepped out of the train upon the platform of the san mateo station. clouds were piling gray and castle-like from the east up toward the zenith, and dark fragments kept tearing off the edges and spinning away across the sky. but between them the bright face of the sun flashed out with double splendor, and the thinned atmosphere made the sky seem high and far, and all form beneath it clarified and intense. there upon the narrow platform mrs. herrick hesitated a moment, looking at flora. "what train do you want to meet?" she asked. flora stood perplexed. "i hardly know. you see i can't tell how soon my letter would reach--would be received." "then we would better meet them all," the elder woman decided. they drove away into the face of the wet, fresh wind and flying drops of rain. flora, leaning back in the carriage, looked out through the window with quiet eyes. the spirited movement of the sky, the racing of its shadows on the grass, the rolling foliage of the trees, seen tempestuous against flying cloud, were alike to her consoling and inspiring. she had never felt so free as now, driving through the fitful weather, nor so safe as with this companion who was sitting silent by her side. she was driving away from all her complications. she was retreating to a fresh stronghold, where her conflict would be a duel hand to hand, and where the outside forces, which had harassed her and threatened ignobly to down her antagonist with a stab in the back, could be held at bay. already she was looking toward the house which she had never seen as her own kindly castle; and the generous opening of its gate--old granite crowned with rose of sharon--did not disappoint her. the house was hidden in the swelling trees, but the drive winding beneath them gave glimpses through of lawns, of roses wreathing scarletly the old gray fountain basin, of magnolia and acacia, doubly delicate and white and fragile beneath the thunderous sky. the house, when finally it loomed upon them, with its irregular roofs topped by curious square turrets, with its tremendous ground floor rambling away in wings on every side, with its deep upper and lower verandas, looked out upon by a multitude of long french windows, seemed too large, too strangely imposing for a structure of wood. but whatever of original ugliness had been there was hidden now under a splendid tapestry of vines, and flora, looking up at the rose and honeysuckle that panoplied its front, felt her throat swell for sheer delight. for a moment after they had left the carriage they stood together in the porte-cochère, looking around them. then half wistfully, half humorously, mrs. herrick turned to flora. "i do hope you won't want to buy it!" "oh, i'm afraid i shall," flora murmured, "that is, if--" she left her sentence hanging, as one who would have said "if i come out of this alive," and mrs. herrick, with a quick start of protection, laid her hand on flora's arm. "if you must," she said lightly, "if you do buy it, then at least i shall know it is in good hands." flora gave her a look of gratitude, not so much for the slight kindness of her words as for the great kindness of her attitude in thus so readily resuming the first assumption on which her presence there had been invited. that was the house itself. it was plain to flora from the moment she set foot over the threshold that the house was to be no mean ally of theirs, but mrs. herrick was making it help them doubly in their hard interval of waiting. alone together with unspoken, unspeakable things between them--things that for mere decency or honor could not be uttered--with nothing but these to think of, nothing but each other to look at, they must yet, in sheer desperation and suspense, have inevitably burst out with question or confession, had not the great house been there to interpose its personality. and the way mrs. herrick was making the most of that! the way immediately, even before she had shown anything, she began to revivify the spirit of the place, as the two women stood with their hats not yet off in the room that was to be flora's, talking and looking out upon the lawn! with her silences, with her expressive self as well as with her words, mrs. herrick was reanimating it all the while they lunched and rested, still in the upper-rooms overlooking the garden. and later, when they made the tour of the house, she began unwinding from her memory incidents of its early beginnings, pieces of its intimate, personal history, as one would make a friend familiar to another friend. and these past histories and the rooms themselves were leading flora away out of her anxious self, were soothing her prying apprehensions, were giving her a detachment in the present, till what she so anticipated lay quiescent at the back of her brain. but it was there. and now and then, when in a gust of wind the lights and shadows danced on the dim, polished floors, it stirred; and at the sound of wheels on the drive below it leaped, and all her fears again were in her face. at such moments the two women did look deeply at each other, and the suspense, the premonition, hovered in mrs. herrick's eyes. it was as unconscious, as involuntary, as flora's start at the swinging of a door; but no question crossed her lips. she let the matter as severely alone as if it had been a jewel not her own. yet, it came to flora all at once that here, for the first time, she was with one to whom she could have revealed the sapphire on her neck and yet remain unchallenged. "ah, you're too lovely!" she burst out at last. "it is more than i deserve that you should take it all like this, as if there really wasn't anything." the elder lady's eyes wavered a little at the plain words. "i'm too deeply doubtful of it to take it any other way," she said. "that is why i feel most guilty," flora explained. "for dragging you into it and then--bringing it into your house." she glanced around at the high, quiet, damasked room. "such a thing to happen here!" "ah, my dear,"--mrs. herrick's laugh was uncertain--"the things that have happened here--the things that have happened and been endured and been forgotten! and see," she said, laying her hand on one of the walls, "the peace of it now!" flora wondered. she seemed to feel such distances of life extending yet beyond her sight as dwindled her, tiny and innocent. "it isn't what happens, but the way we take it that makes the afterward," mrs. herrick added. the thought of an afterward had stood very dim in flora's mind, and even now that mrs. herrick's words confronted her with it she couldn't fancy what it would be like. she couldn't imagine her existence going on at all on the other side of failure. "but suppose," she tremulously urged, "suppose there seemed only one way to take what had happened to you, and that way, if it failed, would leave you no afterward at all, no peace, no courage, nothing." mrs. herrick's eyes fixed her with their deep pity and their deeper apprehension. "there are few things so bad as that," she said slowly, "and those are the ones we must not touch." flora paused a moment on the brink of her last plunge. "do you think what i am going to do is such a thing as that?" "oh, my poor child, how do i know? i hope, i pray it is not!" her fingers closed on flora's hand, and the girl clung to the kind grasp. it was a comfort, though it could not save her from the real finality. in spite of the consciousness of a friendly presence in the house her fears increased as the afternoon waned, and her thoughts went back to what she had left behind her, and forward to what might be coming--the one person whom she so longed for, and so dreaded to see. he might be on his way now. he might at this moment be hurrying down the hedged lane from the station; and when he should come, and when they two were face to face, there would be no other "next time" for them. everything was crystalizing, getting hard. everything was getting too near the end to be malleable any more. it was her last chance to make him relinquish his unworthy purpose; perhaps his last chance to save himself from captivity. she found she hadn't a thing left unsaid, an argument left unused. what could she do that she had not done before, except to show him by just being here, accessible and ready to serve him at any risk, how much she cared? could his generosity resist that? beyond the fact of getting him away safe she didn't think. beyond that nothing looked large to her, nothing looked definite. the returning of the sapphire itself seemed simple beside it, and the fact that her position in the matter might never be explained of no importance. now while every moment drew her nearer her greatest moment she grew more absent, more strained, more restless, more intently listening, more easily starting at the lightest sound; until, at last, when the late day touched the rooms with fiery sunset colors, her friend, watchful of her changing mood, ready at every point to palliate circumstance, drew her out into the garden. the wind, which had fallen with approaching evening, was only a whisper among the trees. the greenish-white bodies of statues in the shrubbery glowed ruddy. gathering their skirts from the grass that glittered with the drops of the last shower, arm in arm the two women walked down the broad central gravel drive between ribbon beds of flowers. from here numerous paths paved with white stone went wandering under snowball trees and wild apple, losing themselves in shrubbery. but one made a clear turn across the lawn for the rose-garden, where in the midst a round pool of water lay like a flaming bit of the sunset sky. among the bushes red and rose and white, the elder woman in her black, the younger in her gown more glowing, with a veil over her hair, walked, and, loitering, looked down into the water, seeing their faces reflected, and, behind, the tangled brambles and the crimson sky. they did not speak, but at last their companionship was peaceful, was perfect. the only sounds were the sleepy notes of birds and that faint, high whisper of the tree tops on an evening that is not still. loud and shrill and shriller and more piercing, from the west wing of the house, overhanging the garden, the sound reached them--an alarum that set flora's heart to leaping. startled apart, they listened. "would that be--is that for you?" "i think it's for me." the words came from them simultaneously, and almost at the same instant flora had started across the lawn. the sight of an aproned maid coming out on the veranda and peering down the garden set her running fleetly. "it's a telephone for miss gilsey," the girl said. "oh, thank you," flora panted. she knew so well the voice she had expected at the other end of the wire that the husky, boyish note which reached her, attenuated by distance, struck her with dismay and disappointment. "ella, oh, yes; yes; ella." what was she saying? ella was using the telephone as if it were a cabinet for secrets. "clara told me you were down there," she was explaining. "i saw her this morning, yes. well,"--and she could hear ella draw in her breath--"i'm so relieved! i thought you'd be, too, to know. i _was_ perfectly right. she was after him." flora faltered, "after whom?" there flashed through her mind more than one person that, by this time, clara might possibly be after. "why, after papa, of course!" ella's injured surprise brought her back to the romance of judge buller. her voice rose in sheer bewilderment. "well?" ella's voice rose triumphantly. "i got it out of her myself. i just came right out to her at last. she seemed awfully surprised that i knew; but she owned up to it, and what do you think? i bought her off!" "bought her off?" flora cried. each fact that ella brought forth seemed to her more preposterous than the last. "why, yes, it's too ridiculous; what do you think she wanted?" at that question flora's heart seemed fairly to stand still. that was the very question she had been asking herself for days, and asking in vain. ella's voice was coming to her faint as a voice from another world. "she wanted that little, little picture--that picture of the man called farrell wand. don't you remember, papa mentioned it at supper that evening at the club? isn't it funny she remembered it all this time? well, she wanted it dreadfully, but harry wanted it, too, and papa said he had promised it to harry; but i got it first and gave it to her." ella's voice ended on a high note of triumph. flora's, if anything, rose higher in despair. "oh, ella!" "doesn't it seem ridiculous," ella argued, "that if she really wanted him she'd give him up for that?" "oh, no--i mean yes," flora stammered. "yes, of course! thank you, ella, very much--very much." the last words were hardly audible. the receiver fell jangling into its bracket, and flora leaned against the wall by the telephone and closed her eyes. for a moment all she could see was clara with that little, little picture. how well she could remember how clara had looked that night of the club supper! from the moment judge buller had spoken of the picture, how all three of them had changed, clara and kerr and harry. everything that had seemed so phantasmal then, everything she had put down as a figment of her own imagination, had meant just this plain fact. all three of them had wanted the picture. for his own reason kerr had turned aside from the chase, but harry had stood with it to the last, and now, when finally the prize had been assured to him, clara had it! at this moment she had it in her hand. at this moment she knew what was the aspect of the figure in the picture, whether it showed a face, and, if a face, whose. flora's hands opened and closed. "oh," she whispered to the great silence of the great house awaiting him; "where is he? why isn't he here?" all those terrible things which might be happening beyond her reach processioned before her. had clara already snapped the trap of the law upon kerr? and if she hadn't yet, what could be done to hold her off? flora turned again to the telephone. slowly she took down the receiver and gave into the bright mouthpiece of the instrument the number of her own house. presently the voice of shima spoke to her. mrs. britton had gone out to dinner. "tell her, shima," flora commanded, "tell her to come down on the earliest train." she hesitated, then finished in a firm voice. "tell her not to do anything until she has seen me." shima would tell her--but mrs. britton had been out all day. he did not know when she would be back. the words sounded ominous in flora's ears. she turned away. was everything to be finished just as she had light enough to move, but before she had a chance? the sound of spinning wheels on the drive startled her to fresh hope, and sent her hurrying down the stair. it was the phaëton returning from the last train. through the open door she saw the figure of mrs. herrick expectant on the veranda. then the carriage came into the porte-cochère and passed. with a rush she reached the veranda, and stood there looking after it. she wouldn't believe her eyes--she couldn't--that it had returned again empty. mrs. herrick's voice was asking her, "what shall we do? shall we serve dinner now, or wait a little longer?" "oh, it's no use," flora murmured, "he won't come to-night. he'll never come." she drooped against the tall porch pillar. "my poor child!" mrs. herrick took her passive hand. if she read in the profound discouragement of flora's face that something more had transpired than a mere non-appearance, she did not show it, but waited, alert and quiet, while they gazed together out over the darkening garden. it was the time of twilight when the sky is so much brighter than the earth. across the lawns between the bushes from hedge to hedge the veil of the obscuring light was coming in; and through it the avenue of willows marched darkly. their leaves moved a little. flora watched the ripple of their tops, clear on the bright sky, and deeper down among mysterious branches there was a sense of movement where the eyes could not see. there was a curious flick, flick, flicker--a progression, a passing from the far dark end of the willow avenue toward where it met the vista of the drive. flora's eyes, absently, involuntarily, followed the movement. she felt mrs. herrick's hand suddenly close on hers. "is some one coming?" they clung to each other, peering timorously down the drive. a little gust of wind took the garden, and before the trees had ceased to tremble and whiten a man had emerged from their shadow and was advancing upon them up the middle of the drive. flora's heart leaped at sight of him. all her impulse was to fly to meet him, but she felt mrs. herrick's hand tighten upon her wrist as if it divined her madness. his light stick aswing in his hand, his step free and incautious as ever, gray and slender and seeming to look more at the ground than at them, the two women watched him drawing near. his was the seeming of a quiet guest at the quietest of house parties. to meet him flora saw she must meet him on the high ground of his reserve. as he came under the light of the porte-cochère his look, his greeting, his hand, were first for mrs. herrick. "we were afraid we had missed you altogether," said she. "it was i who somehow missed your carriage, was hardly expecting to be expected at such an hour." flora watched them meeting each other so gallantly with a trembling compunction. mrs. herrick, who trusted her, was giving her hand in sublime ignorance. it was vain that flora told herself she had given warning. she knew she had thrown the softening veil of her spiritual crisis over the ugly material fact. had she said, "i want you to uphold me while i meet a thief whom i love and wish to protect. he's magnificent in all other ways except for this one obsession," she knew mrs. herrick simply would have cried, "impossible, outrageous!" yet there they stood together, and as flora looked at them she could not have told which was of the finer temper. kerr's bearing was so unruffled that it seemed as if he had flown too high to feel the storm flora was passing through. but when he turned toward her, in spite of himself, there was eagerness in his manner. he looked questioningly at her, as if no time had intervened, as if a moment before he had said to her through the carriage window, "i will give you twenty-four hours," and now her time had come to speak. only the thought that time was crowding him into a bag's end gave her courage to vow she would speak that night. yet not now, while they stood just met in the deepening dusk, in the sweet breath of the early flowers; nor later when they passed in friendly fashion, the three of them, through fairy labyrinths of arch and mirror, into the long, high, glistening room, whose round table, spread, seemed dwarfed to mushroom height; nor yet, while this semblance of companionship was between them, and the great proportions of the place lifting oppression, left them as unconscious of walls and roof as though they were met in the open. the clock twice marked the passing hour. she had never heard mrs. herrick speak so flowingly nor kerr listen so well, placing his questions nicely to draw out the thread of her theme. yet flora guessed his thought must be fixed on their approaching moment, as hers was--on the moment when they should be ready to quit the table and mrs. herrick would leave them to themselves. it was the appearance of the aproned maid that broke their unity. the last course was on the table, the last taste of its pungent fruit essence on their tongues--and what was the girl's errand now? the eye of her mistress was inquiring. "some one has come, mrs. herrick." the woman's proper formula seemed to fail her. she looked as if she had been frightened. "some one?" mrs. herrick showed asperity. "what name?" "he is coming in." as she spoke the girl shrank a little to one side. with his long coat open, hanging from the armpits, with ruffled hair, and lips apart, and from breathlessness a little smiling, harry appeared in the doorway. kerr leaned forward. mrs. herrick did not move. she was facing the last arrival and she was smiling more flexibly, more naturally, than harry; but it was flora who found the first word. "you! i--i thought it was clara." she was struggling for nonchalance, for poise, at this worst blow, so unexpected. "clara won't be down," harry said, advancing. "how d'ye do, mrs. herrick? how d'ye do, kerr?" "how d'ye do?" said the englishman, without rising. flora gripped the arms of her chair to keep from springing up in sheer nervous terror. a possible purpose in harry's coming, that even mrs. herrick's presence would not defer, shot through her mind. was he alone? or were there others--men here for a fearful purpose--waiting beyond in the hall? but harry had turned his back upon the door behind him with a finality that declared whatever danger had come into the house was complete in his presence. "i've dined, thanks," he said, but, stripping off his greatcoat, accepted a chair and the glass of cordial mrs. herrick offered him. the ruddy, hard quality of his face, were it divested of its present smile, flora thought, might well have frightened the maid; but, for all that, it was not so implacable as kerr's face confronting it. the look with which he met the intrusion had a quality more bitter than the challenge of an antagonist, more jealous than a mere lover's; and that bitterness, that jealousy which was between them came out stingingly through their small pleasantness. it could not be, flora thought in terror, that mrs. herrick intended to leave these two enemies to each other! mrs. herrick had risen; and flora, following, saw both men, also uprisen, hang hesitatingly, as if unready to be deserted; yet with well-filled glasses, and newly smoking tobacco, both were caught. then kerr, with a quick dash of his hand, picked up his glass. "let us be continental," he begged, and followed close at flora's side. without moving his lips kerr was speaking. "what does this mean?" she sensed the anger in his smothered voice, but she dared not look at him. "i have no idea; but i will see you." "when?" her answer leaped to her mind and her lips at the same moment. "in the rotunda when the house is quiet." harry had followed leisurely in their wake. the flush of haste had subsided in his face, and when the four regrouped themselves in the high, darkly-paneled room, among the low lights, flora remarked his extraordinary composure. bitter he might be; but all the nervousness, suspicion, uneasiness, that he had shown of late had vanished. there was a tremendous confidence about him, the confidence of the player who holds cards that must win the game, and sits back waiting for his moment. but she was ready to laugh at him in his security. he had underestimated his opponent. in spite of him she was to have her meeting with kerr! harry had waited too long to prevent that, whatever he might do afterward. in this inspired moment she felt herself touching conquering heights which before she had only touched in imagination. she felt enough power in herself to move even such a mountain of obstinacy as kerr. she stole a look at him--a look of glad intelligence. he understood as if she had spoken. they were to meet, while all the house slept fast, to meet for his great renunciation. then, in the morning, when harry was ready with whatever move he was holding back, kerr would be gone. there would be no kerr--but she must not think of that! she glanced at him again in the thick of the talk, and caught his eye upon her, puzzled, and, she thought, with a glimmer of doubt. she smiled; and smiled again at the ease with which she reassured him, merely by looking at him. he should see, in the end, how true she could be! he was talking tremendously, flinging off fireworks of words, but she was curiously aware that mrs. herrick and harry were looking more at her than at kerr. she felt herself the dominant spirit. she saw them acknowledge it, swept along by the high tide of her mood that was rising to meet her great decisive moment. yet on the surface the strong pulse of it appeared as ripples--words, smiles, gay gestures, laughter--rising like the last bubble on a wave's crest. she was not consciously acting; she was inspired by the power of what she concealed and must conceal. and when she left them it was like a triumphant exit; almost it seemed to her as if she might hear their applause following her. in the room where, some eight hours before, she and mrs. herrick had talked, flora waited, fully dressed. it had been early when they had separated. the strain of the four together had been terrific; and she was still feeling it, though an hour had passed. she was feeling that, now her situation was upon her, she was alone. mrs. herrick could only be near her, not with her, and kerr was still an unknown quantity--except that he was fire. and there was harry, with his terrible certainty, and no apparent thing to account for it. it could not be there were men in the house without the servants remarking it; but in the garden? she peered out upon it. only tree shadows moved upon the lawn. nothing glimmered in the walks or drives. the solitude held her like an enchantment. she listened for the small sounds in the house to cease, for the lights in the lower story to go out, proclaiming all the servants were in bed. even after the stillness she waited--waited to be sure it was the long stillness. finally she crept to the door and opened it boldly wide. she stood where she was upon the threshold trembling in a cruel fright. a gas-jet burning far up at the end of the hall, threw a dim light down the pale, pinkish, naked vista, void of furniture, window or curtain; and, leaning against the blank wall almost opposite her door, and directly facing her, was harry. without speaking they looked at each other. he was fully dressed, but lacking his shoes, as she noted in the acuteness of her startled senses. the furtive suggestion of those shoeless feet struck her with horror--formless, unreasoning. it was like an evil dream to find him there, stolen to her door in the night, waiting outside it without a sound, looking her steadily, hardily in the eye without a word. she tried to speak, but, with terror sobbing in her throat, the words failed. she made a step forward with a crazy impulse to rush past him. he straightened, with a quick movement toward her. she recoiled before him, precipitately retreated, closed the door, shot the bolt, and leaned, for faintness, against the wall. she expected each moment to hear him tap. she neither heard a knock nor the sound of soft, departing feet. he was still there! he was on guard! he had had good reason for his terrible certainty! he had foreseen what her plan might be, and she knew he would no more let her get past him down the hall than the turnkey will let the wretched prisoner escape. the last flicker of her courage died at that thought. all her fine exultation was beaten out by the fact of the brute force outside her door. she could not get to kerr now. cowering behind her door she could only fancy him waiting for her in the rotunda while the moments lengthened into hours, each moment distrusting her more. xxii clara's market all night she sat awake huddled under her greatcoat in the chilly darkness. she could not lie down, she could not close her eyes. at long intervals she heard the tread of unshod feet along the hall, and then she held her breath lest at her slightest stir they approach her door. why, since he wanted the sapphire, hadn't he tried to get it from her when he had had her unawares, upon her threshold with the house asleep? it began to seem to her as if he were waiting, as if he were forced to wait, for some appointed moment. she knew if it were his moment it would be hers, too, as long as she had the sapphire upon her. she recalled fearfully the moment when she had crouched against the window with her hand protecting the jewel, and harry's hand grasping her wrist. he would know well enough where to find it now. oh, the restless unconcealable thing! where could she hide it? she took the pear-shaped pouch that swung always before her on her long gold chain. she had repudiated that hiding-place before, but now the more obvious the better--now that both men supposed she carried the jewel far hidden out of sight. without moving from the bed where she was crouched, cramped and cold, she made the exchange, leaving the chain still around her neck, dropping the jewel into the pouch, where it would swing free, so carelessly dangling as to be beyond suspicion, but never beyond the reach of her hand. it was a pale, splendid dawning full of clouds when she feel asleep. broad sunlight filled her room when she was awakened by a knocking at her door. she sprang from the bed and went to it. she was not to be come in upon by any unwelcome visitor. but it was mrs. herrick; and flora, with a murmur of relief, since this was the one person she did want to see, drew her inside. "why, my child, you haven't slept, at least not properly." mrs. herrick herself looked anxious and weary. "i've come to tell you that mrs. britton is here. she came an hour ago." "where is she?" "in the breakfast-room with mr. cressy." "oh," flora cried, "you know i didn't expect them. i didn't want them. it wasn't for them i asked you to come." "but can't you tell me what it is you're afraid of?" the other urged. "between us can't we prevent it? is there nothing i can do to help you?" "ah, if you knew how much you have already helped me by just being here." her companion laughed a little. "can't i do something more active than that?" flora pondered. "where is mr. kerr?" "in the garden, in the willow walk." "do you think you can manage that the others don't get at him?" "i can; if he doesn't want to get at them," mrs. herrick replied. "against a man like that, my dear," she aimed it gravely at flora, "one can do nothing." but flora had no answer for the warning. "i must see clara immediately," she said. "but not without breakfast," mrs. herrick protested. "i will send you up something. remember that _she_ never abuses herself, so she's always fresh--and so she's always equal to the occasion." mrs. herrick went. flora looked into the mirror. almost for the first time in ten days she thought of her appearance. if it was, as mrs. herrick said, a factor of success, something must be done for it, for it was dreadful. the best she could do revived a pale replica of the vivid creature who had been wont to regard her from her glass. yet her black gown, thin and trailing far behind her, and her hair wound high, by very force of their contrasted color gave her a real brilliance as they gave her a seeming height. but she descended to the breakfast-room with trepidation, and stood a full minute before the door gathering courage to go in. when she did open it, it was so suddenly that both occupants faced her with a start. they were standing close together, and between them, on the glare of the white table-cloth, lay a little heap of gold. as they peered at her she saw that both were highly excited, but in clara it showed like a cold sparkle; in harry it gloomed like a menace. his hand hovered, clenched, above the money in a panic of irresolution; then, as if with an involuntary relax of nerves, opened and let fall one last piece of gold. like a flash the whole disappeared in a sweep of clara's hand. it passed before flora's eyes like a prestidigitator's trick, so rapid as to seem unreal, and left her staring. harry gave clara a look, half suspicious, half entreating; and then, to flora's astonishment, turned away without a word to either of them. clara stood still, even after the door had closed upon harry, and oddly, and rather horridly, she wore the same aspect she had worn the day when she had looked intently and absorbedly upon the rifled contents of flora's room. "good morning," she said, and, pushing up her little misty veil, sat down with her back to the deserted breakfast table, and waited meekly, like one who has been summoned. "i am very glad you've come," flora said. her wits were still all a-flutter from the appearance of that little heap of gold. she came forward and stood in harry's place. she was face to face with the person and the question, but before the great import of it, and before the marble front of clara's patience, she felt helpless. there was silence in the room, perfect silence in the garden; but moving along the hedged walk all at once she saw the flutter of mrs. herrick's gown, and then in profile kerr beside her. the sight of him gave her her proper inspiration. she turned upon clara. "what are you going to do with the picture of farrell wand?" for the first time she saw clara startled. her lips parted, and the breath that came and went between them was audible. but she was herself again before she spoke. "do with it? why i don't know." her fingers drummed the table. "whatever you do," flora began, "please, oh, please don't do anything immediately." clara's eyebrows rose like graceful swallows. "you seem to anticipate pretty clearly what i _am_ going to do." "i suppose you're going to do what any one would who had a clue, and could bring a person to justice," flora candidly responded. "but if ever i have made anything easy for you, clara, won't you this time make it easy for me? i'm not asking you to give up the picture, i'm only asking you to wait." clara nodded toward the window, through which kerr could still be seen with mrs. herrick. "on account of him?" "on account of him." for the first time clara smiled. it crept out upon her face, as it were involuntarily, but she sat there smiling in contemplation for quite ten seconds. at last, "you want me to suppress my information? my dear flora, don't you think you want me to do more than is honest?" "honest!" flora cried. the words sounded hideous to her on clara's tongue; and yet what right had she, she thought with shame, to judge of clara's honesty when she herself was leagued with a thief? "clara," she said humbly, before this upholder of the right, "i can't pretend i'm not suppressing things. i've only asked you to see me before you do anything more. now, you've come. will you tell me one thing--did you bring the picture with you?" clara weighed it. "well, if i did--" this was the considering clara, and flora realized whatever she could expect from her she couldn't expect mercy. it was another thing she must appeal to. "clara," she urged, "wait three days, and you shall have the whole of it. you have only the picture now. you shall have the jewel, too. then you can get the reward and still be--honest." she let the word fall into the silence fearfully, as if she were afraid clara might detect its sneer. but this time clara neither smiled nor frowned. "it isn't the reward i'm thinking about. that's really very little, considering." "twenty thousand dollars!" "would that be much to you?" "no," flora admitted; "at least i mean i could pay it." "well, then," clara triumphed, "why, the picture alone, if it's worth anything, is worth more than that." with a bird-like lifting of the head she gave a sidelong interrogative glance. flora, for a moment, steadily returned the look. it was coming over her what clara meant; a meaning so simple it was absurd she had not thought of it before--so hateful that it was all she could do to face it. she felt a tightness in her throat that was not tears. shame and anger contended in her. oh, for the power to have refused that shameful bargain--to have scorned it! she turned away. she closed her eyes. in her mind she saw the figure of kerr moving quietly about the winding walks with mrs. herrick. she faced sharply about. "what is it worth to you?" clara put her off with the last sweet meekness of her cleverness. "whatever it's worth to you--and him." flora was in command of herself now. "there are some things i can not set a price on. if this is what you have come down for, we are simply waiting for you to name it." she looked over clara's head. she had stood abashed when clara had put on the majesty of right, but now it was clara herself who was abashed, not at the thing itself, but at the fact of having to utter it. she sat grasping one of her gloves in her doubled fist; and, leaning forward, with her eyes like jewels in her little pale face and the white aura of her veil, waited as if she thought that by some silent agency of understanding flora would presently take up a pen and write the desired figure in her check-book. but flora stood inexorable, straight and black, crowned with her helmet of gleaming hair; and, with her hands behind her, looked over clara's head through the window into the garden. she would not help clara gloss over this ugly fact. a curious grimace distorted clara's features, as if with an effort she gulped something bitter, and then into the silence her voice fell--a gasp, a breath--"fifty thousand." all sums had become the same to flora, even her year's income. as if she were verily afraid clara might take it back, she turned precipitately to a writing-table. but clara had risen, and though still pale, in a measure she seemed to have recovered herself. "wait. i can't give it to you now. i will meet you here in two hours and bring the picture. you can let me have it then." "oh, two hours!" flora objected. but clara was firm. "no, i can't bring it sooner. it will make no difference in your affair." she was panting in her excitement. "in two hours you shall have the picture here. i promise you." flora wondered. depth below depth! she could never seem to get to the bottom of this business. there was only one thing she could count on, and that was clara's impeccable honor in living up to a bargain. flora sealed that bargain now. she held out her fluttering slip of paper, still wet with ink. "very well, in two hours--but take this now. i would rather you did." clara reached the tips of her fingers, touched the paper--and then it was no longer in flora's hand, and clara was walking from her across the room. xxiii touche left alone, flora glanced rapidly around her. now for a sally, now for a dash straight for kerr. the shortest way was what she wanted. opening doors lately had led to too many surprises. she pushed aside the long curtains and stepped out through the french window upon the veranda. rapidly her eyes swept the garden. far down between the gray, slim branches of willows at last she made out the flutter of a skirt. she sighed relief to think mrs. herrick still at her post, and began to hurry down the broad unshaded drive. her steps sounded loud on the gravel, and presently to her excited ears they sounded double. then she realized the truth. some one else was walking behind her. she thought by not looking over her shoulder she could avoid stopping; but in a moment harry's voice hailed her. it was still far enough behind for her to hope she could ignore it. she swept on as if she had not heard. once around the turn of the drive, she would be in sight of succor. she could trust to mrs. herrick to manage harry. she made a little rush around the loop and looked down the long vista of the willows. a hundred yards distant she saw the two standing. kerr presented his back, and with his head a little canted forward seemed to listen, absorbed in his companion. but that companion was a smaller figure than mrs. herrick, and her veil made an aura of filmy white around her face. the sight of her was enough to stop flora short, and in that instant harry, making a cut across the flower-beds, caught up with her. he stopped as abruptly as she, and gazed with a dismay that surpassed her own. for an instant she thought he was about to make a dash down the walk for them. then he caught flora's hand and pulled her back. there was no help for it, she thought. her other hand crept downward stealthily and gathered up her swinging pouch of gold. trembling, she let him drag her back, but when they faced each other behind the plumes and swords of a great pampas clump she was shocked at the emotion in his face; and as if what he had just seen had given the last touch, his voice had risen a key, and between every half-dozen words it broke for breath. "look here, flora," he began; "i know you've been trying to give me the slip ever since night before last. i frightened you then. i didn't mean to, but you had no business to keep the ring after what i told you. no, i'm not going to touch you," as she shrank back against the pampas swords, "but i want you to give it to me, yourself, right here and now." she looked up into his face, burning fiery in the sun beating down on his bare head. "no, no, harry; i shan't give it to you. last time i said i would give it to you for a good reason, but now i wouldn't give it to you for anything." "you don't know what you're doing," he cried. "i do; i know as well as you that this is a part of the crew idol. i've known it all along, and when the time comes i'm going to give it myself to mr. purdie, but not until that time." harry passed his hand over his face with an inarticulate sound. then, "you will ruin us!" he choked. "i shall tell the truth, whatever comes," she exulted. to tell the truth and keep on telling it--that, in her passion of relief at speaking out at last, was all she wanted! but harry fell back. he changed countenance. he recovered himself. "look here, flora; if you do i'm going to leave you. i'm going to leave you to what you've chosen." she met it steadily. "i'm glad you say so. i've been thinking for days that it would be better so." "have you?" he said in a low voice, looking at her earnestly. "of course, i know the reason of that. i meant it to be different, but now there's no help. i--" with a motion too quick for her to escape he stooped and kissed her lightly. to that moment she had pitied him, but his touch she loathed. she thrust him away with both hands. he turned. without speaking, without looking at her again he walked away. she watched him with a desperate feeling of being abandoned, of losing something powerful and valuable. the faint, thin screech of a locomotive from a station far down the line made him pause, and turn, and gaze under his hand in the strong sun. so for a moment she saw him, a lowering, peering figure moving away from her over the lawn between broad flower-beds. then he disappeared among the shrubbery. this encounter, that had stopped her in full open field, had not been the fatal thing she had feared. it had been a peril met that nerved her to a higher courage. now she could walk gallantly to the most uncertain moment of her life. between the glimmering willows down the long still avenue she passed, her flowing draperies borne backwards as by triumphant airs. the wind of her approach seemed to reach the two still far in front of her. they turned and watched her drawing nearer, and before she had quite reached them kerr stretched out his hand as if to help her over a last rough place, and drew her toward him and held her beside him with his fingers lightly clasped around her wrist. she saw that he looked pale, worn, as he had not been last night, and, what struck her most strangely, angry. the hand that held hers shook with the violent pulse that was beating in it. he turned to clara. "will you pardon us, mrs. britton?" then after another patient moment, "miss gilsey has something to say to me." still he made no motion to move away, and at last clara seemed to understand what was expected of her. she flushed, and in the middle of that color her eyes flashed double steel. for the first time in flora's memory she was at a loss. she passed them without a word. kerr looked after the little brilliant figure, moving daintily away through sun and shadow, with deep disgust in his face. but when he turned to flora disgust lifted to high severity. it was she who appeared the guilty one, and he the accuser. "why didn't you come, last night?" "i couldn't. _he_ was there, harry, outside my door." "in god's name! what did you tell him?" "nothing. we did not speak--but i couldn't get past him!" the suspicion in his face was more than she could bear. "you must believe me--for, if you don't, we're both lost!" he had her by both wrists, now, and gently made her face him. "i have believed in you to the extent of coming alone to a place i know nothing of, because you wanted me. now that i am here, what is it you have to say to me?" "oh, nothing more than i have said before," she pleaded; "only that, ten times more earnestly." "you extraordinary child!" at first, he was pure amazement. "you've brought me so far, you've come so far yourself--you've got us both here in such danger, to tell me only this? how could you be so mad--so cruel?" she had locked her hands in front of her until the nails showed white with the pressure. "it was more dangerous there than here. you don't know what has happened since i saw you. and i thought if you and i could only be alone together, without the fear of _them_ always between us, i could show you, i could persuade you--" before his look she broke down. "well--you see, they followed us--they're here." "grant it, they are." he seemed to laugh at them. "you have still your chance. give everything to me and i can save you still." "'save _me_?' oh, nothing could happen to me so terrible as having you break my heart like this! if i should give the sapphire to you i should lose you--even the thought of you--for ever. nothing could ever be right with us again! won't you--" she pleaded, "won't you go?" and lifting her hands, taking his face between them, "won't you, because i love you?" he stood steady to this assault, and smiled down upon her. "without you and without it i will not budge. come now, this is the end. i never meant to do another thing." she covered her face with her hands. "come, come." his voice was urging her, now very gentle. "it's more for your sake than for the jewel now." and his arm around her shoulders was gently forcing her to walk beside him not toward the drive, but away into the tree-grown sheltered wing of the garden. by interlacing paths, from the tremulous gray willows under the somber, clashing eucalyptus spears, under dark wings of cypress they were moving. she was bracing in every nerve against the unnerving of his presence. it had been always so. even across the distance of a room the mere sight of him had had for her the power to summon those wild spirits of the soul and body that turn reason to a vapor. and now so close, with his arm around her, that same power she had felt when she saw him first, the power that had made her come out and be herself then, the power that had overwhelmed her in the little restaurant, was leagued against her again to make her do this one more thing, which she wouldn't do. never, never! despairing, she wondered that such an evil motive could have such strength. "where have you got it now?" she heard him asking, and she pointed downward toward where the pouch at her knee was swinging to and fro. "take it up, then," and like a hypnotized creature she gathered it into her hand. but, once she had it, she held it clenched against him. "you're going to give it to me," he prompted, "aren't you?--aren't you?" and looking steadily in her face his hand shut softly on her wrist, and held out her clenched hand in front of her. and still they walked, slowly. like a pendulum the long gold chain swung from her clenched fingers. to the tree-top birds they seemed as quiet as two lovers speaking of their wedding-day. she felt her tension give way in this quiet--her hand relax. "dearest." the word brought up her eyes to his with a start of tenderness. "open it," he said, and her hand, involuntarily, sprung the pouch wide. they stared together into it. the little hollow golden shell was empty. for a moment it held her incredulous. then, faint and sick, all the foundations of her faith reeling, she slowly raised her eyes to him in accusation. she was not ready for the terrible sternness in his. "have you lied to me?" he asked in a low voice. "have you given it to cressy?" "no, no, no!" she cried in horror. "it was there! i put it there myself this morning!" they looked at each other now equally sincere and aghast. "but you have seen him; you've been near him?" he demanded. she gasped out the whole truth. "this morning! he left me. he kissed me." "then, my god, where is he?" he gave a wide glance around him. then raising his voice, "stay where you are!" he commanded, and began to run from her through the trees. she stood with her hand to her breast, with the empty pouch spinning in front of her, hearing him crashing in the shrubbery. then, in sudden panic at finding herself alone, she fled back down the willow avenue, and burst out on the broad drive in full view of the house. kerr was not in sight, but there was a tremor of disturbance where all had been still. clara's face appeared at one of the upper windows and looked down into the garden. then mrs. herrick came down the stairs, and, showing an anxious profile as she passed the door, hurried away along the lower hall. there was a flutter in the servants' quarter, and from a side door the coachman appeared hatless, in his shirt sleeves, and ran toward the stable. all the people of the house seemed to be running to and fro, but she didn't see harry. this struck her with unreasoning terror. she fled up the drive, and clara's small face at the window watched her. as she came into the hall she heard kerr's voice. he was at the telephone speaking names she had never heard in sentences whose meaning was too much for her stunned senses to take in; but none the less while she listened the feeling crept over her that there was some strange revolution taking place in him. it might be transformation; it might be only a swift increase of his original power. whatever it was, he seemed to her superhuman. the house was full of him--full of his rapid movement, his ringing orders. if he knew that the sapphire was gone, what was the meaning of this bold command? was he, knowing all lost, plunging gallantly into the clutches of his enemies? or was this only a blind, a splendid piece of effrontery to cover his too long delayed retreat? she sat like a jointless thing on the fauteuil in the large hall, and all at once saw him in front of her. she looked at his hat, his overcoat, his slim, glittering stick--all symbols of departure. "wait here," he said, and turned away. she watched his shadow dance across the flagging, and as it slipped over the threshold she thought dully that now the sapphire was gone every one was going from her. xxiv the comic mask she listened to the sound of wheels, first rattling loud on the gravel, slowly growing fainter. then stillness was with her again, and inanition. she looked around and up, and had no start at seeing clara's small face watching her over the gallery of the rotunda. it seemed to her that appearance was natural to her existence now, like her shadow. she looked away. when she raised her eyes again clara was coming down the stairs, and even at that distance flora saw she carried something in her hand--something flat and small and wrapped in a filmy bit of paper. out of the chaos of her feeling rose the solitary thought--the picture which she had bought that morning, the picture of farrell wand. she watched it drawing near her with wonder. she sat up trembling. she had a great longing and a horror to tear away the filmy paper and see kerr at last brutally revealed. she could not have told afterward whether clara spoke to her. she was conscious of her pausing; conscious of the faint rustle of her skirt passing; conscious, finally, that the small swathed square was in her hand. she tore the tissue paper through. she held a photograph, a mounted kodak print. she made out the background to be sky and water and the rail of a ship with silhouettes of heads and shoulders, a jungle of black; and in the middle distance caught in full motion the single figure of a man, back turned and head in profile. he was moving from her out of the picture, and with the first look she knew it was not kerr. her first thought was that there had been a trick played on her! but no--across the bottom of the picture, in judge buller's full round hand, was written, "farrell wand boarding the _loch ettive_." she held it high to the light. clara had been faithful to her bargain. it was the picture that had deceived her. she studied it with passionate earnestness. she did not know the bearded profile; but in the burly shoulders, in the set and swing of the body in motion, more than all in the lowering, peering aspect of the whole figure, she began to see a familiar something. she held it away from her by both thin edges, and that aspect swelled and swelled in her startled eyes, until suddenly the figure in the picture seemed to be moving from her, not up a gang-plank, but through a glare of sun over grass between broad beds of flowers. she was faint. she was going to fall. she caught at the chair to save herself, and still she was dropping down, down, into a gulf of spinning darkness. "oh, harry!" she whispered, and let her head roll back against the arm of the fauteuil. with a dim sense of rising through immeasurable distances back to light she opened her eyes. she saw mrs. herrick's face, and as this was connected in her mind with protection she smiled. "do you feel better?" mrs. herrick asked her. then she opened her eyes wide and saw the walls and the high-arched ceiling of the hall directly above her, knew herself lying on the floor, saw above her the figure of clara standing with a bottle of salts, and then remembered; and, with a moan, buried her face in mrs. herrick's lap. "oh, no, no, no; don't bring me back; i don't want to come back!" their voices sounding high above her were speaking. mrs. herrick said: "what is that?" then clara murmured. then there was the light rustling of paper. flora moved her hand. "give it to me; i want it." she felt the stiff little square of cardboard between her fingers, and closed them around it fast. after a little she went up-stairs holding tight to the baluster with one hand and to mrs. herrick with the other. after a little of sitting on the edge of her bed she lay down, still holding to mrs. herrick. she felt as though some cord within her had been drawn tight, too tight to endure, and every moment she hoped it would snap and set her free. "you don't think i'm mad, do you?" she asked. her friend earnestly disclaimed it. "then things are," flora said, "everything. oh, oh!" the memory overwhelmed her. "he took me there as if by chance! he gave the sapphire to me for my engagement ring. oh, dreadful! oh, poor harry!" all that afternoon and all night she slept fitfully, starting up at intervals, trembling at nameless horrors--the glittering goldsmith's shop, the chinaman, the great eye of the sapphire, and, worst of all, harry's face, always the same calm, ruddy, good-natured, innocent-looking face that had led her to the goldsmith's shop, that had smiled at her, falling under the spell of the sapphire, that had covered, all those days, god knew what ravages of stress and strain, until the man had finally broken. that face appeared and reappeared through the flashing terrors of her dreams like the presiding genius of them all. finally, drifting into complete repose, she slept far into the morning. she wakened languid and weak. she lay looking about the room, and, like a person recovering after a heavy blow, wondering what had happened. then her hand, as with her first waking thought it had done for the last week, went to the locket chain around her neck. oh, yes, yes; she had forgotten. the sapphire was gone. gone by fraud, gone at a kiss for ever with harry--no, with farrell wand. for harry was not harry; and kerr was not farrell wand. he was indeed an unknown quantity. since she had found harry she had lost both kerr's name and his place in her fairy-tale. she had seen his very demeanor change before her eyes. indeed, her hour had come without her knowing it. the spell had been snapped which had made him wear the semblance of evil. his sinister form was dissolving; but what was to be his identity when finally he stood before her restored and perfect? if he were not the thief whom she had struggled so to shield, why, then he was that very strength of law and right which, for his sake, she had betrayed. she sat up quickened with humiliation. the thing was not a tragedy, it was a grotesque. blushing more and more crimson, struggling with strange mingled crying and laughter, she slipped out of the bed, and, still in her nightgown, ran down the hall, and knocked on mrs. herrick's door, until the dismayed lady opened it. "i thought it was he," flora gasped. "i thought it was he who had taken the ring! why didn't he tell me? why did he keep it secret? i would have done anything to have saved it for him, and i let harry get it! oh, isn't it cruel? isn't it pitiful? isn't it ridiculous?" mrs. herrick, who, for the last thirty-six hours, had so departed from her curriculum of safety, and courageously met many strange appearances, now was to hear stranger facts. for flora had let go completely, and mrs. herrick, without hinting at hysterics, let her laugh, let her cry, let her tell piece by piece, as she could, the story of the two men, from the night when kerr had spoken so strangely at the club on the virtues of thieves to the moment when, in the willow walk, they discovered that the jewel was gone. clara's part in the affair, and the price she had exacted, even in this unnerved moment, flora's instinct withheld, to save mrs. herrick the last cruelest touch. but for the rest--she let mrs. herrick have it all--and under the shadow of the grim facts the two women clung together, as if to make sure of their own identities. "i don't even know who he is," flora said faintly. mrs. herrick gave her a quick glance. she had not a moment's hesitation as to whom the "he" meant. "you will have to ask him when he comes." "do you think he will come back?" mrs. herrick had the heart to smile. "but think of what i have done. i have lost him the sapphire, and he loves it--loves it as much as he does me." again the glance. "did he tell you that?" flora nodded. the other seemed intently to consider. "he will come back," she declared. upheld by her friend's assurance, flora found the endurance necessary to spend the day, an empty, stagnant day, in moving about a house and garden where a few hours ago had passed such a storm of events. she reviewed them, lived them over again, but without taking account of them. her mind, that had worked so sharply, was now in abeyance. she lived in emotion, but with a tantalizing sense of something unexplained which her understanding had not the power to reach out to and grasp. for a day more she existed under the same roof with clara, for clara stayed on. at first it seemed to flora extraordinary that she dared, but presently it began to appear how much more extraordinary it would have been if clara had promptly fled. by waiting a discreet length of time, as if nothing had happened, she put herself indubitably on the right side of things. indeed, when one thought, had she ever been legally off it? that was the very horror. clara had simply turned the situation over and seen its market value, and how enormously she had made it pay! flora herself had paid; and she had seen the evidence that harry had paid, paid for his poor little hour of escape which a mere murderer might have granted him in pity. yet clara could walk beside them, meet them at dinner with the same smooth face, chat upon the terrace with the unsuspecting mrs. herrick, and even face flora in a security which had the appearance of serenity, since she knew that nothing ever would be told. at every turn in the day's business flora kept meeting that placid presence; and it was not until the end of the day that she met it primed for departure. flora was with mrs. herrick, and clara, coming to seek them out, had an air of casual farewell. the small, sweet smile she presented behind her misty veil, the delicate white-gloved hand she offered were symbols of enduring friendship, as if she were leaving them only for a few hours; as if, when flora returned to town, she would find clara waiting for them in the house. but flora knew it was only clara's wonderful way. this uprising and departure were her last. now all her waiting was for kerr's returning. she did not know how she should face him, but she wanted him. a telegram came an hour before him, came to mrs. herrick announcing him; and then himself, driven up on the high seat of the cart, just as daylight was closing. she and mrs. herrick had walked half-way out toward the rose garden; and, seeing them there, he stopped the cart in the drive, leaped down and ran across the grass. both hurried to meet him. the three encountered like friends, like intimates, with hand-clasps and hurried glances searching each other's faces. "did you save it?" flora asked. he looked at mrs. herrick, hesitating. "you can tell, she knows," flora assured him. "no, i haven't saved it--not so far," he said. he had taken off his hat and the strong light showed on his face lines of fatigue and anxiety. "he gave me the slip--no trace of him. no one saw him come into the city; nothing turned up in the goldsmith's shop. his friend, the blue-eyed chinaman, has dropped out of sight. i haven't made it public," he glanced at flora--"but our men think he's gone out by the water route--lord knows in what or where! he must have had this planned for days." he didn't look at flora now. he turned his communication carefully on mrs. herrick. "there were seven vessels sailed, that day, and all were searched; but there are ways of smuggling opium, and why not men?" they were walking toward the house. kerr looked up at the window where, a short time before, clara's face had looked down upon the confusion in the garden. "is that paid woman still here?" "oh, no; she's gone." flora looked at him warningly. but mrs. herrick had caught his tone. "why shouldn't she be?" she demanded with delicate asperity. kerr had dropped his monocle. "because, in common decency, she couldn't. she sold cressy to me for a good round sum." flora and mrs. herrick exchanged a look of horror. "i'd suspected him," said kerr. "i knew where i'd seen him, but i couldn't be sure of his identity till she showed me the picture." "what picture?" cried flora. "the picture buller mentioned at the club that night: farrell wand, boarding the _loch ettive_. don't you remember?" he spoke gently, as if afraid that a hasty phrase in such connection might do her harm. now, when he saw how white she looked, he steadied her with his arm. "we won't talk of this business any more," he said. "but i must talk of it," flora insisted tremblingly. "i don't even know what you are." for the first time he showed apologetic. he looked from one to the other with a sort of helpless simplicity. "why, i'm chatworth--i'm crew; i'm the chap that owns the confounded thing!" to see him stand there, announced in that name, gave the tragic farce its last touch. flora had an instant of panic when flight seemed the solution. it took all her courage to keep her there, facing him, watching, as if from afar off, mrs. herrick's acknowledgment of the informal introduction. "i came here, quietly," he was saying, "so as to get at it without making a row. only purdie, good man! knew--and he's been wondering all along why i've held so heavy a hand on him. we'll have to lunch with them again, eh?" he turned and looked at flora. "and make all those explanations necessitated by this lady's wonderful sense of honor!" it was here, somewhere in the neighborhood of this sentence of doubtful meaning, that mrs. herrick left them. in looking back, flora could never recall the exact moment of the departure. but when she raised her eyes from the grass where they had been fixed for what seemed to her eternity she found only kerr--no, chatworth--standing there, looking at her with a grave face. "eh?" he said, "and what about that honor of yours? what shall we say about it, now that the sapphire's gone and no longer in our way?" she was breathing quick to keep from crying. "i told you that day at the restaurant." "yes, yes; you told me why you kept the sapphire from me, but"--he hung fire, then fetched it out with an effort--"why did you take it in the first place?" she looked at him in clear astonishment. "i didn't know what it was." "you didn't!" it seemed to flora the whole situation was turning exactly inside out. the light that was breaking upon her was more than she could bear. "oh," she wailed, "you couldn't have thought i meant to take it!" "then if you didn't," he burst out, "why, when i told you what it was, didn't you give it to me?" the cruel comic muse, who makes our serious suffering ridiculous, had drawn aside the last curtain. flora felt the laughter rising in her throat, the tears in her eyes. "you guessed who i was," he insisted, advancing, "at least what i represented." she hid her face in her hands, and her voice dropped, tiny, into the stillness. "i guessed you were farrell wand." xxv the last enchantment the tallest eucalyptus top was all of the garden that was touched with sun when flora came out of the house in the morning. she stood a space looking at that little cone of brightness far above all the other trees, swaying on the delicate sky. it was not higher lifted nor brighter burnished than her spirit then. shorn of her locket chain, her golden pouch, free of her fears, she poised looking over the garden. then with a leap she went from the veranda to the grass and, regardless of dew, skimmed the lawn for the fountain and the rose garden. there she saw him--the one man--already awaiting her. he stood back to back with a mossy nymph languishing on her pedestal, and flora hoped by running softly to steal up behind him, and make of the helpless marble lady a buffer between their greetings. but either she underestimated the nymph's bulk, or forgot how invariably direct was the man's attack; for turning and seeing her, without any circumvention, with one sweep of his long arm, he included the statue in his grasp of her. with a laugh of triumph he drew her out of her concealment. to her the splendor of skies and trees and morning light melted into that wonderful moment. for the first time in weary days she had all to give, nothing to fear or withhold. she was at peace. she was ready to stop, to stand here in her life for always--here in the glowing garden with him, and their youth. but he was impatient. he did not want to loiter in the morning. he was hot to hurry on out of the present which was so mysterious, so untried to her, as if these ecstasies had no mystery to him but their complete fulfilment. he filled her with a trembling premonition of the undreamed-of things that were waiting for her in the long aisle of life. "come, speak," he urged, as they paced around the fountain. "when am i to take you away?" she hung back in fear of her very eagerness to go, to plunge head over ears into life in a strange country with a stranger. "next month," she ventured. "next month! why not next week? why not to-morrow?" he declared with confidence. "who is to say no? i am the head of my house and you have no one but me. to be sure, there is mrs. herrick--excellent woman. but she has her own daughters to look out for, and," he added slyly, "much as she thinks of you, i doubt if she thinks you a good example for them. as for that other, as for the paid woman--" "oh, hush, hush!" flora cried, hurt with a certain hardness in his voice; "i don't want to see her. i shall never go near her! and harry--" "i wasn't going to speak of him," said chatworth quickly. "i know," she answered, "but do you mind my speaking of him?" they had sat down on the broad lip of the fountain basin. he was looking at her intently. "it is strange," she said, "but in spite of his doing this terrible thing i can't feel that he himself is terrible--like clara." "and yet," he answered in a grave voice, "i would rather you did." she turned a troubled face. "ah, have you forgotten what you said the first night i met you? you said it doesn't matter what a man is, even if he's a thief, as long as he's a good one." at this he laughed a little grudgingly. "oh, i don't go back on that, but i was looking through the great impartial eye of the universe. whereas a man may be good of his kind, he's only good in his kind. tip out a cat among canaries and see what happens. my dear girl, we were the veriest birds in his paws! and notice that it isn't moral law--it's instinct. we recognize by scent before we see the shape. you never knew him. you never could. and you never trusted him." "but," she interrupted eagerly, "i would have done anything for you when i thought you were a thief." "anything?" he caught her up with laughter. "oh, yes, anything to haul me over the dead line on to your side. that was the very point you made. that was where you would have dropped me--if i had stuck by my kind, as you thought it, and not come over to yours." she saw herself fairly caught. she heard her mental process stated to perfection. "but if you hadn't felt all along i was your kind, if you hadn't had an idea that i was a stray from the original fold, you would never have wanted to go in for me," he explained it. flora had her doubts about the truth of this. for a time she had been certain of his belonging to the lawless other fold, and at times she would have gone with him in spite of it, but this last knowledge she withheld. she withheld it because she could make out now, that, for all his seeming wildness, he had no lawless instincts in himself. generations of great doing and great mixing among men had created him, a creature perfectly natural and therefore eccentric; but the same generations had handed down from father to son the law-abiding instinct of the rulers of the people. he could be careless of the law. he was strong in it. in his own mind he and the law were one. his perception of the relations of life was so complete that he had no further use for the written law; and farrell wand's was so limited that he had never found the use for it. lawless both; but--the two extremes. they might seem to meet--but between those two extremes, between a chatworth and a farrell wand--why, there was all the world's experience between! she raised her eyes and smiled at him in thinking of it, but the smile faltered and she drew away. they were about to be disturbed. beyond the rose branches far down the drive she saw a figure moving toward them at a slow, uncertain pace, looking to and fro. "see, there's some one coming." "oh, the gardener!" he said as one would say "oh, fiddlesticks!" the gardener had been her first thought. but now she rose uneasily, since she saw it was not he, asking herself, "who else, at such an hour?" by this time chatworth, still seated, had caught sight of it. "hello," he said, "what sort of a thing is that?" it was a short, shabby, nondescript little figure, shuffling rapidly along the winding walk between the rose bushes. now they saw the top of his round black felt hat. now only a twinkling pair of legs. now, around the last clump of bushes he appeared full length, and, suddenly dropping his businesslike shuffle, approached them at a languid walk. flora grasped chatworth's arm in nervous terror. "tell him to go," she whispered; "make him go away." the blue-eyed chinaman was planted before them stolidly, with the curious blind look of his guarded eyes blinking in his withered face. he wore for the first time the blouse of his people, and his hands were folded in his sleeves. "who's this?" said chatworth, appealing to flora. at this the chinaman spoke. "mr. crew," he croaked. the englishman, looking from the oriental to flora, still demanded explanations with expostulating gesture. "it is the man who sold us the sapphire," she whispered; and "oh, what does he want of you?" "eh?" said chatworth, interrogating the goldsmith with his monocle. "what do you want?" the little man finished his long, and, what had seemed his blind, stare; then dived into his sleeve. he drew forth a crumpled thing which seemed to be a pellet and this he proceeded to unfold. flora crept cautiously forward, loath to come near, but curious, and saw him spread out and hold up a roughly torn triangle of newspaper. she gave a cry at sight of it. across the top in thick black type ran the figures $ , . chatworth pointed a stern forefinger. "what is it?" he said, though by his tone he knew. the chinaman also pointed at it, but cautious and apologetic. "twenty thousand dollar. you likee twenty thousand dollar?" he waited a moment. then, with a glimmer as of returning sight, presented the alternative. "you likee god?--little joss?--come so?" and with his finger he traced in the air a curve of such delicate accuracy that the englishman with an exclamation made a step toward him. but the chinaman did not move. "twenty thousand dollar," he stated. it sounded an impersonal statement, but nevertheless it was quite evident this time to whom it applied. the englishman measured off his words slowly as if to an incomplete understanding, which flora was aware was all too miraculously quick. "this little god, this ring--do you know where it is? can you take me to it?" the goldsmith nodded emphatically at each word, but when all was said he only reiterated, "twenty thousand dollar." chatworth gave flora an almost shamefaced glance, and she saw with a curious twinge of jealousy that he was intensely excited. "might as well have a pot-shot at it," he said; and sitting down on the edge of the fountain and taking out his check-book, rested it on his knee and wrote. then he rose; he held up the filled-in slip before the chinaman's eyes. "here," he said, "twenty thousand dollars." he held the paper well out of the little man's reach. "now," he challenged, "tell me where it is?" into the goldsmith's eyes came a lightning flash of intelligence, such as flora remembered to have seen there when farrell wand, leaning on the dusty counter, had bidden him go and bring something pretty. he seemed to quiver a moment in indecision. then he whipped his hand out of his sleeve and held it forth palm upward. this time it was chatworth who cried out. the thing that lay on the goldsmith's palm flora had never seen, though once it had been described to her--"a bit of an old gold heathen god, curled around himself, with his head of two yellow sapphires and a big blue stone on top." there it blazed at her, the jewel she had carried in her bosom, that she had hidden in her pouch of gold, and that had vanished from it at the touch of a magic hand, now cunningly restored to its right place in the forehead of the crew idol, crowning him with living light. speechless they looked together at the magic thing. they had thought it far at sea; and as if at a wave of a genii's wand it was here before them flashing in the quiet garden. with an effort chatworth seemed to keep himself from seizing on ring and man together. he looked searchingly at the goldsmith and seemed on the point of asking a question, but, instead, he slowly held out his hand. he held it out cup-fashion. it shook so that flora saw the chinaman steady it to drop in the ring. then, folding his check miraculously small, enveloping it in the ragged piece of newspaper, the little man turned and shuffled from them down the gravel walk. chatworth stood staring after him with his idol in his palm. then, turning slow eyes to flora, "how did he come by this?" he asked, as sternly as if he demanded it of the mystery itself. "he had it, from the very first." the pieces of the puzzle were flashing together in flora's mind. "that first time harry left the exhibit he took it there." "but the blue sapphire?" chatworth insisted. "harry," flora whispered, "harry gave it up to him." "gave it up to him!" chatworth echoed in scorn. but she had had an inspiration of understanding. "he had to--for money to get off with. he gave clara all he had so that she would let him get away. poor thing!" she added in a lower breath, but chatworth did not hear her. he had taken the idol in his thumb and finger, and, holding it up in the broadening light, looked fixedly at it with the passionate incredulity with which one might hold and look at a friend thought dead. she watched him with her jealous pang increasing to a greater feeling--a feeling of being separated from him by this jewel which he loved, and which had grown to seem hateful to her, which had shown itself a breeder of all the greedy passions. she came softly up to him, and, lifting her hand, covered the idol. he turned toward her in wonder. "ah, you love it too much," she whispered. "that's unworthy of you," he reproached her. "i have loved you more; and that in spite of what i believed of you, and what this means to me. to me, this ring is not a pretty thing seen yesterday. it is the symbol of my family. it is the power and pride of us, which our women have worn on their hands as they have worn our honor in their hearts. it is part of the life of my people and now it has made itself part of our life, of yours and mine. shall i ever forget how starkly you held it for the sake of my honor, even against myself? should i ever have known you without it?" he put the ring into her hand, and, smiling with his old dare, held it over the fountain. "now, if you want to, drop it in." he released her hand and turned to leave her to her will. for a moment she stood with power in her hands and her eyes on his averted head. then with a little rush she crossed the space between them. "here, take it! you love it! i want you to keep it! but i can't forget the dreadful things it has made people do. it makes me afraid." in spite of his smiling he seemed to her very grave. "you dear, silly child! the whole storm and trouble of life comes from things being in the wrong place. this has been in the wrong place and made mischief." "like me," she murmured. "like you," he agreed. "now we shall be as we should be. give me your hand." he drew off all the rings with which she had once tried to dim the sparkle of the sapphire, and, dropping them into his pocket like so much dross, slipped on the idol that covered her third finger in a splendid bar from knuckle to joint. holding her by just the tip of that finger, leaning back a little, he looked into her eyes, and she, looking back, knew that it wedded them once for all. the end advertisements * * * * * books on nature study by charles g. d. roberts handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents per volume, postpaid. +the kindred of the wild. a book of animal life. with illustrations by charles livingston bull.+ appeals alike to the young and to the merely youthful-hearted. close observation. graphic description. we get a sense of the great wild and its denizens. out of the common. vigorous and full of character. the book is one to be enjoyed; all the more because it smacks of the forest instead of the museum. john burroughs says: "the volume is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that has appeared. it reaches a high order of literary merit." +the heart of the ancient wood. illustrated.+ this book strikes a new note in literature. it is a realistic romance of the folk of the forest--a romance of the alliance of peace between a pioneer's daughter in the depths of the ancient wood and the wild beasts who felt her spell and became her friends. it is not fanciful, with talking beasts; nor is it merely an exquisite idyl of the beasts themselves. it is an actual romance, in which the animal characters play their parts as naturally as do the human. the atmosphere of the book is enchanting. the reader feels the undulating, whimpering music of the forest, the power of the shady silences, the dignity of the beasts who live closest to the heart of the wood. +the watchers of the trails. a companion volume to the "kindred of the wild." with full page plates and decorations from drawings by charles livingston bull.+ these stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. "this is a book full of delight. an additional charm lies in mr. bull's faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their own tell the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing the pen pictures of the authors."--_literary digest._ +red fox. the story of his adventurous career in the ringwaak wilds, and his triumphs over the enemies of his kind. with illustrations, including frontispiece in color and cover design by charles livingston bull.+ a brilliant chapter in natural history. infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of sport, since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of the hunted. "true in substance but fascinating as fiction. it will interest old and young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who do not."--_chicago record-herald._ grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york * * * * * famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time, library size, printed on excellent paper--most of them finely illustrated. full and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. +nedra, by george barr mccutcheon, with color frontispiece and other illustrations by harrison fisher.+ the story of an elopement of a young couple from chicago, who decide to go to london, travelling as brother and sister. their difficulties commence in new york and become greatly exaggerated when they are shipwrecked in mid-ocean. the hero finds himself stranded on the island of nedra with another girl, whom he has rescued by mistake. the story gives an account of their finding some of the other passengers, and the circumstances which resulted from the strange mix-up. +power lot, by sarah p. mclean greene. illustrated.+ the story of the reformation of a man and his restoration to self-respect through the power of honest labor, the exercise of honest independence, and the aid of clean, healthy, out-of-door life and surroundings. the characters take hold of the heart and win sympathy. the dear old story has never been more lovingly and artistically told. +my mamie rose. the history of my regeneration, by owen kildare. illustrated.+ this _autobiography_ is a powerful book of love and sociology. reads like the strangest fiction. is the strongest truth and deals with the story of a man's redemption through a woman's love and devotion. +john burt, by frederick upham adams, with illustrations.+ john burt, a new england lad, goes west to seek his fortune and finds it in gold mining. he becomes one of the financial factors and pitilessly crushes his enemies. the story of the stock exchange manipulations was never more vividly and engrossingly told. a love story runs through the book, and is handled with infinite skill. +the heart line, by gelett burgess, with halftone illustrations by lester ralph, and inlay cover in colors.+ a great dramatic story of the city that was. a story of bohemian life in san francisco, before the disaster, presented with mirror-like accuracy. compressed into it are all the sparkle, all the gayety, all the wild, whirling life of the glad, mad, bad, and most delightful city of the golden gate. grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york * * * * * famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time, library size, printed on excellent paper--most of them finely illustrated. full and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. +carolina lee. by lillian bell. with frontispiece by dora wheeler keith.+ carolina lee is the uncle tom's cabin of christian science. its keynote is "divine love" in the understanding of the knowledge of all good things which may be obtainable. when the tale is told, the sick healed, wrong changed to right, poverty of purse and spirit turned into riches, lovers made worthy of each other and happily united, including carolina lee and her affinity, it is borne upon the reader that he has been giving rapid attention to a free lecture on christian science; that the working out of each character is an argument for "faith;" and that the theory is persuasively attractive. a christian science novel that will bring delight to the heart of every believer in that faith. it is a well told story, entertaining, and cleverly mingles art, humor and sentiment. +hilma, by william tillinghast eldridge, with illustrations by harrison fisher and martin justice, and inlay cover.+ it is a rattling good tale, written with charm, and full of remarkable happenings, dangerous doings, strange events, jealous intrigues and sweet love making. the reader's interest is not permitted to lag, but is taken up and carried on from incident to incident with ingenuity and contagious enthusiasm. the story gives us the _graustark_ and _the prisoner of zenda_ thrill, but the tale is treated with freshness, ingenuity, and enthusiasm, and the climax is both unique and satisfying. it will hold the fiction lover close to every page. +the mystery of the four fingers, by fred m. white, with halftone illustrations by will grefe.+ a fabulously rich gold mine in mexico is known by the picturesque and mysterious name of _the four fingers_. it originally belonged to an aztec tribe, and its location is known to one surviving descendant--a man possessing wonderful occult power. should any person unlawfully discover its whereabouts, four of his fingers are mysteriously removed, and one by one returned to him. the appearance of the final fourth betokens his swift and violent death. surprises, strange and startling, are concealed in every chapter of this completely engrossing detective story. the horrible fascination of the tragedy holds one in rapt attention to the end. and through it runs the thread of a curious love story. grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york * * * * * meredith nicholson's fascinating romances handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents per volume, postpaid +the house of a thousand candles. with a frontispiece in colors by howard chandler christy.+ a novel of romance and adventure, of love and valor, of mystery and hidden treasure. the hero is required to spend a whole year in the isolated house, which according to his grandfather's will shall then become his. if the terms of the will be violated the house goes to a young woman whom the will, furthermore, forbids him to marry. nobody can guess the secret, and the whole plot moves along with an exciting zip. +the port of missing men. with illustrations by clarence f. underwood.+ there is romance of love, mystery, plot, and fighting, and a breathless dash and go about the telling which makes one quite forget about the improbabilities of the story; and it all ends in the old-fashioned healthy american way. shirley is a sweet, courageous heroine whose shining eyes lure from page to page. +rosalind at redgate. illustrated by arthur i. keller.+ the author of "the house of a thousand candles" has here given us a bouyant romance brimming with lively humor and optimism; with mystery that breeds adventure and ends in love and happiness. a most entertaining and delightful book. +the main chance. with illustrations by harrison fisher.+ a "traction deal" in a western city is the pivot about which the action of this clever story revolves. but it is in the character-drawing of the principals that the author's strength lies. exciting incidents develop their inherent strength and weaknesses, and if virtue wins in the end, it is quite in keeping with its carefully-planned antecedents. the n. y. _sun_ says: "we commend it for its workmanship--for its smoothness, its sensible fancies, and for its general charm." +zelda dameron. with portraits of the characters by john cecil clay.+ "a picture of the new west, at once startlingly and attractively true. * * * the heroine is a strange, sweet mixture of pride, wilfulness and lovable courage. the characters are superbly drawn; the atmosphere is convincing. there is about it a sweetness, a wholesomeness and a sturdiness that commends it to earnest, kindly and wholesome people."--_boston transcript._ grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york * * * * * brilliant and spirited novels agnes and egerton castle handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents per volume, postpaid. +the pride of jennico. being a memoir of captain basil jennico.+ "what separates it from most books of its class is its distinction of manner, its unusual grace of diction, its delicacy of touch, and the fervent charm of its love passages. it is a very attractive piece of romantic fiction relying for its effect upon character rather than incident, and upon vivid dramatic presentation."--_the dial._ "a stirring, brilliant and dashing story."--_the outlook._ +the secret orchard. illustrated by charles d. williams.+ the "secret orchard" is set in the midst of the ultra modern society. the scene is in paris, but most of the characters are english speaking. the story was dramatized in london, and in it the kendalls scored a great theatrical success. "artfully contrived and full of romantic charm * * * it possesses ingenuity of incident, a figurative designation of the unhallowed scenes in which unlicensed love accomplishes and wrecks faith and happiness."--_athenaeum._ +young april. with illustrations by a. b. wenzell.+ "it is everything that a good romance should be, and it carries about it an air of distinction both rare and delightful."--_chicago tribune._ "with regret one turns to the last page of this delightful novel, so delicate in its romance, so brilliant in its episodes, so sparkling in its art, and so exquisite in its diction."--_worcester spy._ +flower o' the orange. with frontispiece.+ we have learned to expect from these fertile authors novels graceful in form, brisk in movement, and romantic in conception. this carries the reader back to the days of the bewigged and beruffled gallants of the seventeenth century and tells him of feats of arms and adventures in love as thrilling and picturesque, yet delicate, as the utmost seeker of romance may ask. +my merry rockhurst. illustrated by arthur e. becher.+ "in the eight stories of a courtier of king charles second, which are here gathered together, the castles are at their best, reviving all the fragrant charm of those books, like _the pride of jennico_, in which they first showed an instinct, amounting to genius, for sunny romances. the book is absorbing * * * and is as spontaneous in feeling as it is artistic in execution."--_new york tribune._ grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york * * * * * famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time, library size, printed on excellent paper--most of them finely illustrated. full and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. +the cattle baron's daughter. a novel. by harold bindloss. with illustrations by david ericson.+ a story of the fight for the cattle-ranges of the west. intense interest is aroused by its pictures of life in the cattle country at that critical moment of transition when the great tracts of land used for grazing were taken up by the incoming homesteaders, with the inevitable result of fierce contest, of passionate emotion on both sides, and of final triumph of the inevitable tendency of the times. +winston of the prairie. with illustrations in color by w. herbert dunton.+ a man of upright character, young and clean, but badly worsted in the battle of life, consents as a desperate resort to impersonate for a period a man of his own age--scoundrelly in character but of an aristocratic and moneyed family. the better man finds himself barred from resuming his old name. how, coming into the other man's possessions, he wins the respect of all men, and the love of a fastidious, delicately nurtured girl, is the thread upon which the story hangs. it is one of the best novels of the west that has appeared for years. +that mainwaring affair. by a. maynard barbour. with illustrations by e. plaisted abbott.+ a novel with a most intricate and carefully unraveled plot. a naturally probable and excellently developed story and the reader will follow the fortunes of each character with unabating interest * * * the interest is keen at the close of the first chapter and increases to the end. +at the time appointed. with a frontispiece in colors by j. h. marchand.+ the fortunes of a young mining engineer who through an accident loses his memory and identity. in his new character and under his new name, the hero lives a new life of struggle and adventure. the volume will be found highly entertaining by those who appreciate a thoroughly good story. grosset & dunlap, publishers,----new york the bishop's shadow by i.t. thurston _author of "boys of the central," "a genuine lady" etc._ with illustrations by m. eckerson "this learned i from the shadow of a tree that to and fro did sway upon a wall, our shadow selves--our influence--may fall where we can never be." contents i. lost--a pocketbook ii. nan's new home iii. an accident iv. tode meets the bishop v. in the bishop's house vi. tode's new start vii. after tode's departure viii. theo's shadow work ix. theo in trouble x. a bitter disappointment xi. theo's new business xii. nan finds friends xiii. nan's departure xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance xv. a strike xvi. called to go up higher xvii. final glimpses list of illustrations theodore bryan, sign-polisher "he's awakin' up, i guess" adrift again "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!" "stop the car!" thanksgiving reunion the bishop's shadow [illustration: theodore bryan, sign-polisher] i. lost--a pocketbook it was about ten o'clock in the morning and a northeast storm was raging in boston. the narrow crooked business streets were slippery with mud and thronged with drays and wagons of every description, which, with the continual passing of the street cars, made it a difficult and often a dangerous matter to attempt a crossing. the rain came in sudden driving sheets, blotting out all but the nearest cars or vehicles, while the wind seemed to lie in wait at every corner ready to spring forth and wrest umbrellas out of the hands of pedestrians at the most critical points in the crossings. two ladies coming along causeway street by the union depot, waited some minutes on the sidewalk watching for an opening in the endless stream of passing teams. "there! we shan't have a better chance than this. come on now," one of them exclaimed, stepping quickly forward as there came a little break in the moving line. she stepped in front of two cars that had stopped on parallel tracks and her companion hastily followed her. just then there came a fierce gust that threatened to turn their umbrellas inside out. the lady in front clutched hers nervously and hurried forward. as she ran past the second car she found herself almost under the feet of a pair of horses attached to a heavy wagon. the driver yelled angrily at her as he hastily pulled up his team; a policeman shouted warningly and sprang toward her, and her friend stopped short with a low cry of terror. but though the pole of the wagon grazed her cheek and the shock threw her almost to the ground, the lady recovered herself and hurried across to the sidewalk. it was then that a little ragged fellow of perhaps thirteen, slipped swiftly under the very feet of the horses, and, unheeding the savage shouts of the driver, wormed his way rapidly through the crowd and vanished. as he did so, the lady who had so narrowly escaped injury, turned to her friend and cried, "oh my pocketbook! i must have dropped it on the crossing." "on the crossing, did you say?" questioned the policeman, and as she assented, he turned hastily back to the street, but the cars and teams had passed on and others were surging forward and no trace of the pocketbook was visible. the policeman came back and questioned the lady about it, promising to do what he could to recover it. "but it's not probable you'll ever see a penny of the money again," he said. "some rascally thief most likely saw ye drop it an' snatched it up." the policeman was not mistaken. if he had turned through tremont and boylston streets he might have seen a ragged, barefooted boy sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to look into a shop window, yet ever keeping a keenly watchful eye on every policeman he met. the boy looked as if he had not a penny in those ragged pockets of his, but one of his grimy hands clutched tightly the lost pocketbook, which his sharp eyes had seen as it fell beneath the feet of the horses, and which he had deftly appropriated as he wriggled through the mud. heedless of wind and rain the boy lounged along the street. it was not often that he found himself in this section of the city, and it was much less familiar to him than some other localities. he seemed to be wandering aimlessly along, but his restless eyes were on the watch for some retired spot where he might safely examine his prize and see how much money he had secured. for a long time he saw no place that seemed to him a safe one for his purpose, so he went on and on until suddenly he realised that he was tired. he was passing a large brownstone church at the moment, and he sat down on the steps to rest. "my! but this is a gay ol' church!" he thought, as he looked curiously at the beautiful building. "wonder where them steps go to." springing up he ran across the pillared porch to the foot of the stone stairs that led to the upper entrance to the chapel. following a sudden impulse he started hastily up these stairs, his bare feet making no sound. at the top of the stairs he found himself shut in on two sides by a high stone balustrade, the chapel door forming the third side. this door was closed. he tried it softly and found it locked. then he dropped down in the darkest corner of the landing, and, with eyes and ears still keenly alert, pulled from his pocket the mud-stained purse and examined it carefully. he found in it thirty-six dollars in bills and about a dollar more in silver. the boy gave a gleeful, silent laugh. "struck it rich this time," he said to himself. he hunted up a crooked pin from somewhere about his dilapidated garments, and fastened the roll of bills as securely as he could inside the lining of his jacket, keeping the silver in his pocket. then he again examined the book to be sure that he had overlooked nothing. on the inside of the leather was the name, "r. a. russell," and there was also a card bearing the same name and an address. the card he tore into tiny bits and chewed into a pellet which he tossed over the stone balustrade. then, with the pocketbook in his hand, he looked about him. there was a pastor's box fastened beside the door. he crowded the telltale book through the opening in the top of this box, and then with a satisfied air ran blithely down the stone steps. but he stopped short as he came face to face with the sexton who was just crossing the porch. "here, you! where've you been? what you been up to?" cried the man, clutching at him angrily, but the boy was too quick. he ducked suddenly, slipped under the sexton's hands and darted across the porch and down the steps. then he stopped to call back, "be'n makin' 'rangements ter preach fer ye here next sunday--yah! yah!" and with a mocking laugh he disappeared leaving the sexton shaking his fist in impotent wrath. the boy ran swiftly on until he had gotten quite a distance from the church; then he slackened his pace and began to plan what he should do next. the sight of a confectioner's window reminded him that he was hungry, and he went into the store and bought two tarts which he ate as he walked on. after that he bought a quart of peanuts, two bananas and a piece of mince-pie, and having disposed of all these he felt hungry no longer. having in his possession what seemed to him a small fortune, he saw no necessity for working, so that night he did not go as usual to the newspaper office for the evening papers, but spent his time loafing around the busiest corners and watching all that went on about the streets. this unusual conduct attracted the attention of his cronies, and a number of newsboys gathered about him trying to find out the reason of his strange idleness. "i say, tode," called one, "why ain't ye gettin' yer papers?" "aw, he's come into a fortune, he has," put in another. "his rich uncle's come home an' 'dopted him." "naw, he's married vanderbilt's daughter," sneered a third. "say, now, tode, tell us w'at's up," whispered one, sidling up to him. "hev ye swiped somethin'?" tode tried to put on an expression of injured innocence, but his face flushed as he answered, shortly, "come, hush yer noise, will ye! can't a chap lay off fer one day 'thout all the town pitchin' inter him? i made a dollar extry this mornin'--that's all the' is about it," and stuffing his hands into his pockets he marched off to avoid further comment. for the next week tode "lived high" as he expressed it. he had from three to six meals a day and an unlimited amount of pie and peanuts besides, but after all he was not particularly happy. time hung heavy on his hands sometimes--the more so as the boys, resenting his living in luxurious idleness, held aloof, and would have nothing to do with him. he had been quite a leader among them, and it galled him to be so left out and ignored. he began to think that he should not be sorry when his ill-gotten money was gone. he was thinking after this fashion one day as he strolled aimlessly down a side street. it was a quiet street where at that hour there was little passing, and tode lounged along with his hands in his pockets until he came to a place where the sidewalk was littered with building material and where a large house was in course of construction. perhaps the workmen were on a strike that day. at any rate none of them were about, and the boy sprang up onto a barrel that was standing near the curbstone, and sat there drumming on the head with two pieces of lath and whistling a lively air. after a little his whistle ceased and he looked up and down the street with a yawn, saying to himself, "gay ol' street, this is! looks like everybody's dead or asleep." but even as he spoke a girl came hastily around the nearest corner and hurried toward him. she looked about fourteen. her clothes were worn and shabby but they were clean, and in her arms she carried a baby wrapped in a shawl. she stopped beside tode and looked at him with imploring eyes. "oh can't you help me to hide somewhere? do! do!" she cried, with a world of entreaty in her voice. the boy glanced at her coolly. "what ye want ter hide for? been swipin' somethin'?" he questioned, carelessly. the girl flashed at him an indignant glance, then cast a quick, frightened one behind her. "no, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly. "i'm no thief. i'm running away from old mary leary. she's most killed my little brother giving him whiskey so's to make him look sick when she takes him out begging. look here!" she lifted the shawl that was wrapped about the child. tode leaned over and looked at the little face. it was a pitiful little face--so white and thin, with sunken eyes and blue lips--so pitiful that it touched even tode's heart, that was not easily touched. "the ol' woman after ye?" he asked, springing down from the barrel. "yes, yes! oh, do help me," pleaded the girl, the tears running down her cheeks as she gazed at the baby face. "i'm afraid he's going to die." the boy cast a quick glance about him. "here!" he exclaimed, "squat down an' i'll turn this over ye." he seized a big empty barrel that stood near. without a word the girl slipped to the ground and he turned the barrel over her, kicking under the edge a bit of wood to give air. the next moment he stooped down to the opening and whispered, "hi! the ol' lady's a comin'. don't ye peep. i'll fix her!" then he reseated himself again on the barrelhead and began to drum and whistle as before, apparently paying no heed to the woman who came along scolding and swearing, with half a dozen street children following at her heels. she came nearer and nearer but tode drummed on and whistled unconcernedly until she stopped before him and exclaimed harshly, "you boy--have you seen a girl go by here, with a baby?" "nope," replied tode, briefly. "how long you be'n settin' here?" "'bout two weeks," answered the boy, gravely. the woman stormed and blustered, but finding that this made no impression she changed her tactics and began in a wheedling tone, "now, dearie, you'll help an ol' woman find her baby, won't ye? it's heartbroke i am for my pretty darlin' an' that girl has carried him off. tell me, dearie, did they go this way?" "i d' know nothin' 'bout yer gal," exclaimed tode. "why don't ye scoot 'round an' find her 'f she's cleared out?" "an' ain't i huntin' her this blessed minute?" shrieked the woman, angrily. "i b'lieve ye _have_ seen her. like's not ye've hid her away somewheres." tode turned away from her and resumed his drumming while the woman cast a suspicious glance at the unfinished building. "she may be there," she muttered and began searching through the piles of building material on the ground floor. "hope she'll break her ol' neck!" thought tode, vengefully, as he whistled with fresh vigor. the woman reappeared presently, and casting a threatening glance and a torrent of bad language at the boy, went lumbering heavily down the street with the crowd of noisy, curious children straggling along behind her. when they had all disappeared around the corner of the street, tode sprang down and putting his mouth to the opening at the bottom of the barrel whispered hastily, "keep still 'til i see if she's gone sure," and he raced up to the corner where he watched until the woman was out of sight. then he ran back and lifted the barrel off, saying, "it's all right--she's gone, sure 'nough." the girl cast an anxious glance up and down the street as she sprang up. "oh dear!" she exclaimed. "i don't know where to go!" and tode saw that her eyes were full of tears. he looked at her curiously. "might go down t' the wharf. ol' woman wouldn't be likely ter go there, would she?" he suggested. "i don't think so. i've never been there," replied the girl. "which way is it?" "come on--i'll show ye;" and tode set off at a rapid pace. the girl followed as fast as she could, but the child was a limp weight in her arms and she soon began to lag behind and breathe heavily. "what's the matter? why don't ye hurry up?" exclaimed the boy with an impatient backward glance. "i--can't. he's so--heavy," panted the girl breathlessly. tode did not offer to take the child. he only put his hands in his pockets and waited for her, and then went on more slowly. when they reached the wharf, he led the way to a quiet corner where the girl dropped down with a sigh of relief and weariness, while he leaned against a post and looked down at her. presently he remarked, "what's yer name?" "nan hastings," replied the girl. "how'd she get hold o' ye?" pursued the boy, with a backward jerk of his thumb that nan rightly concluded was meant to indicate the leary woman. she answered slowly, "it was when mother died. we had a nice home. we were not poor folks. my father was an engineer, and he was killed in an accident before little brother was born, and that almost broke mother's heart. after the baby came she was sick all the time and she couldn't work much, and so we used up all the money we had, and mother got sicker and at last she told me she was going to die." the girl's voice trembled and she was silent for a moment; then she went on, "she made me kneel down by the bed and promise her that i would always take care of little brother and bring him up to be a _good_ man as father was. i promised, and i am going to do it." the girl spoke earnestly with the light of a solemn purpose in her dark eyes. tode began to be interested. "and she died?" he prompted. "yes, she died. she wrote to some of her relatives before she died asking them to help little brother and me, but there was no answer to the letter, and after she died all our furniture was sold to pay the doctor and the funeral bills. the doctor wanted to send us to an orphan asylum, but mary leary had worked for us, and she told me that if we went to an asylum they would take little brother away from me and i'd never see him any more, and she said if i'd go home with her she'd find me a place to work and i could keep the baby. so i went home with her. it was a horrid place"--nan shuddered--"and i found out pretty soon that she drank whiskey, but i hadn't any other place to go, so i had to stay there, but lately she's been taking the baby out every day and he's been growing so pale and sick-looking, and yesterday i caught her giving him whiskey, and then i knew she did it to make him look sick so that she would get more money when she went out begging with him." "an' so you cut an' run?" put in tode, as the girl paused. [illustration: "he's awakin' up, i guess."] "yes--and i'll _never_ go back to her, but--i don't know what i _can_ do. do you know any place where i can stay and work for little brother?" the dark eyes looked up into the boy's face with a wistful, pleading glance, as the girl spoke. "i'd know no place," replied tode, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. he did not feel called upon to help this girl. tode considered girls entirely unnecessary evils. nan looked disappointed, but she said no more. "he's wakin' up, i guess," remarked tode, glancing at the baby. the little thing stirred uneasily, and then the heavy, blue-veined lids were lifted slowly, and a pair of big innocent blue eyes looked straight into tode's. a long, steadfast, unchildlike look it was, a look that somehow held the boy's eyes in spite of himself, and then a faint, tremulous smile quivered over the pale lips, and the baby hands were lifted to the boy. that look and smile had a strange, a wonderful effect on tode. something seemed to spring into life in his heart in that instant. up to this hour he had never known what love was, for he had never loved any human being, but as he gazed into the pure depths of those blue eyes and saw the baby fingers flutter feebly toward him, his heart went out in love to the child, and he held out his arms to take him. nan hesitated, with a quick glance at tode's dirty hands and garments, but he cried imperiously, "give him here. he wants to come to me," and she allowed him to take the child from her arms. as he felt himself lifted in that strong grasp, little brother smiled again, and nestled with a long breath of content against tode's dirty jacket. "see--he likes me!" cried the boy, his face all aglow with the strange, sweet delight that possessed him. he sat still holding the child, afraid to move lest he disturb his charge, but in a few minutes the baby began to fret. "what's he want?" questioned tode, anxiously. nan looked distressed. "i'm afraid he's hungry," she replied. "oh dear, what _shall_ i do!" she seemed ready to cry herself, but tode sprang up. "you come along," he exclaimed, briefly, and he started off with the child still in his arms, and nan followed wonderingly. she shrank back as he pushed open the door of a restaurant, but tode went in and after a moment's hesitation, she followed. "what'll he take--some beef?" inquired the boy. "oh no!" cried nan, hastily, "some bread and milk will be best for him." "all right. here you--bring us a quart o' milk an' a loaf o' bread," called tode, sharply, to a waiter. when these were brought he added, "now fetch on a steak an' a oyster stew." then he turned with a puzzled look to nan. "how does he take it? d'ye pour it down his throat?" he asked. "no, no!" cried nan, hastily, as he seized the bowl of milk. "you must feed it to him with a spoon." "all right!" and utterly regardless of the grinning waiters tode began to feed the baby, depositing quite as much in his neck as in his mouth, while nan looked on, longing to take the matter into her own hands, but afraid to interfere. suddenly tode glanced at her. "why don't ye eat?" he said, with a gesture toward the food on the table. the girl coloured and drew back. "oh i can't," she exclaimed, hastily, "i ain't--i don't want anything." "ain't ye hungry?" demanded tode in a masterful tone. "n--not much," stammered nan, but the boy saw a hungry gleam in her eyes as she glanced at the food. "y'are, too! now you jest put that out o' sight in a hurry!" but nan shook her head. "i'm no beggar," she said, proudly, "and some time i'm going to pay you for that," and she pointed to the bowl of bread and milk. "shucks!" exclaimed the boy. "see here! i've ordered that stuff an' i'll have it to pay for anyhow, so you might's well eat it. _i_ don't want it," and he devoted himself again to the child. nan turned her head resolutely away, but she was so hungry and the food did smell so good that she could not resist it. she tasted the oysters and in three minutes the bowl was empty, and a good bit of the steak had disappeared before she pushed aside her plate. "thank you," she said, gratefully. "it did taste _so_ good!" "huh!" grunted tode. this was the first time in his life that anybody had said "thank you" to him. he handed the baby over to nan and, though he had said he was not hungry, finished the steak and a big piece of pie in addition and then the three left the restaurant. ii. nan's new home as they went out, nan looked anxiously from side to side, fearing to see or be seen by the leary woman. tode noticed her troubled look and remarked, "ye needn't ter fret. _i_ wouldn't let her touch ye. we might's well go back to the wharf," he added. so they returned to the corner they had left, and in a little while the baby dropped into a refreshing sleep in his sister's lap, while tode sometimes roamed about the wharf, and sometimes lounged against a post and talked with nan. "what is _your_ name?" she asked him, suddenly. "tode bryan." "tode? that's a queer name." "'spect that ain't all of it. there's some more, but i've forgot what 'tis," the boy replied, carelessly. "and where's your home, tode?" "home? ain't got none. never had none--no folks neither." "but where do you live?" "oh, anywheres. when i'm flush, i sleeps at the newsboys' home, an' when i ain't, i takes the softest corner i can find in a alley or on a doorstep," was the indifferent reply. nan looked troubled. "but i can't do that," she said. "i can't sleep in the street with little brother." "why not?" questioned tode, wonderingly. "oh because--girls can't do like that." "lots o' girls do." "but--not nice girls, tode," said nan, wistfully. "well no, i don't 'spect they're nice girls. i don't know any girls 't amount to much," replied tode, disdainfully. nan flushed at his tone, as she answered, "but what _can_ i do? where can i go? seems as if there ought to be some place where girls like me could stay." "that's so, for a fact," assented tode, then he added, thoughtfully, "the's one feller--mebbe you could stay where he lives. he's got a mother, i know." "oh if i only could, tode! i'd work _ever_ so hard," said nan, earnestly. "you stay here an' i'll see 'f i can find him," said the boy. then he turned back to add suspiciously, "now don't ye clear out while i'm gone." nan looked at him wonderingly. "where would i go?" she questioned, and tode answered with a laugh, "that a fact--ye ain't got no place to go, have ye?" then he disappeared and nan waited anxiously for his return. he came back within an hour bringing with him a freckle-faced boy a year or so older than himself. "this's the gal!" he remarked, briefly. the newcomer looked doubtfully at nan. "see the little feller," cried tode, eagerly. "ain't he a daisy? see him laugh," and he chucked the baby clumsily under the chin. the child's heavy eyes brightened and he smiled back into the friendly, dirty face of the boy. the other boy looked at tode wonderingly. "didn't know 't you liked _kids,_" he said, scornfully. "so i don't--but this one's diff'runt," replied tode, promptly. "you ain't no common kid, be ye, little brother?" "what's his name?" questioned the boy. "his name is david, but mother always called him little brother, and so i do," answered the girl, in a low tone. "have you a mother?" she added, with an earnest look at the boy. "got the best mother in this town," was the prompt reply. "oh, won't you take me to her, then? maybe she can tell me what to do," nan pleaded. "well, come along, then," responded the boy, rather grudgingly. "you come too, tode," said nan. "'cause you know we might meet mary leary." "all right. i'll settle her. don't you worry," and tode, with a very warlike air marched along at nan's right hand. "what's your mother's name?" questioned nan, shyly, of the newcomer as the three walked on together. "hunt. i'm dick hunt," was the brief reply. then dick turned away from the girl and talked to tode. it was not very far to dick's home. it was in one of the better class of tenement houses. the hunts had three rooms and they were clean and comfortably furnished. tode looked around admiringly as dick threw open the door and led the way in. tode had never been in rooms like these before. nan--after one quick glance about the place--looked earnestly and longingly into mrs. hunt's kind motherly face. dick wasted no words. "mother," he said, "this girl wants to stay here." mrs. hunt was making paper bags. her busy fingers did not stop for a moment, but she cast a quick, keen glance at nan and tode. "what do you mean, dick?" she said. "oh, mrs. hunt, if you only would let us stay here till i can find a place to work, i'd be so thankful. we'll have to stay in the street tonight--little brother and i--if you don't," urged nan, eagerly. mrs. hunt's kind heart was touched by the girl's pleading tone. she had girls of her own and she thought, "what if my nellie had to spend the night in the street," but she said only: "sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it." the kind tone and those two words "my dear," were almost too much for poor anxious nan. her eyes filled with tears and her voice was not quite steady as she told again her sorrowful little story, and when it was ended the mother's eyes too were dim. "give me that baby," she exclaimed, forgetting her work for the moment, and she took the little fellow tenderly in her arms. "you poor child," she added, to nan, "of course you can stay here to-night. it's a poor enough place an' we're as pinched as we can be, but we'll manage somehow to squeeze out a bite and a corner for you for a day or two anyway." tode's face expressed his satisfaction as he turned to depart. dick too looked pleased. "didn't i tell ye i'd got the best mother in this town?" he said, proudly, as he followed tode down the stairs. "yes you did, an' 'twarn't no lie neither," assented tode, emphatically; "but, see here, you can tell your mother that _i'm_ agoin' to pay for that little feller's bread an' milk." dick looked at him curiously. "you goin' to work again?" he questioned. "'course i am." "somebody's got your beat." "who?" tode stopped short in angry surprise as he asked the question. "that big red-headed feller that they call carrots." "well--carrots'll find himself knocked out o' business," declared tode, fiercely. when the newsboys assembled at the newspaper office a little later, dick speedily reported tode's remark, and soon all eyes were on the alert to see what would happen. tode was greeted rather coldly and indifferently, but that did not trouble him. he bought his papers and set off for his usual beat. scenting a fight a good many of the boys followed. as dick had said, tode found the big fellow on the ground, lustily crying his papers. tode marched straight up to him. "see here, carrots, this's my beat. you clear out--d'ye hear?" he shouted. the big fellow leered at him scornfully, and without a word in response, went on calling his papers. down on the ground went tode's stock in trade, and he fell upon carrots like a small cyclone fighting with teeth, nails, fists and heels, striking in recklessly with never a thought of fear. forgetful of possible customers, the boys quickly formed a ring, and yelled and hooted at the antagonists, cheering first one and then the other. but the contest was an unequal one. the red-headed boy was the bigger and stronger of the two and plucky as tode was, he would have been severely treated had not the affair been ended by the appearance of a policeman who speedily separated the combatants. "what's all this row about?" he demanded, sharply, as he looked from tode's bleeding face to the big fellow's bruised eye. "he took my beat. i've sold papers here for three years," cried tode, angrily. "what _you_ got to say?" the policeman turned to the other. "he give it up. he ain't sold a paper here for a week past," growled carrots. "whose beat is it?" the man turned to the other boys as he asked the question. "reckon it's tode's." "he's o'ny been layin' off fer a spell." "it's tode's sure 'nough." so they answered, and the officer turned again to carrots. "you're a bigger feller 'n he is. you let him alone an' go find a new beat for yourself, an' see 't i don't catch either of ye fightin' in the streets again, or i'll put ye where ye'll get another kind of a beat if ye don't walk straight. now scatter--all of ye!" the "fun" was over and the boys needed no second bidding. they scattered in all directions and the next moment, tode's shrill voice rang out triumphantly, while his rival stalked gloomily off, meditating dire vengeance in the near future. meantime, after tode and dick had departed, nan had spoken a few grateful words to mrs. hunt, and then laying the baby on the lounge, she said, earnestly, "please show me just how you make those bags. i'm sure i can do it." it was simple work and it did not take her many minutes to master the details. her quick eyes and deft fingers soon enabled her to do the work fully as well and as rapidly as mrs. hunt could do it. "well, i never! you certainly are a quick one," exclaimed the good woman as she gave up her seat to the girl. "now if you can finish that job for me, i can get a little sewing done before dark." "oh yes, i can finish this easily," exclaimed nan, delighted that there was something that she could do in return for the kindness shown her. by and by, jimmy, nellie, and the younger children came in from school, staring in amazement at the two strangers who seemed so much at home there. nan made friends with them at once, but she dreaded the arrival of the father. "what if he shouldn't want us to stay?" she thought, anxiously, as she heard a heavy step on the stairs, and nellie called out, "here comes father!" there was a general rush of the children as he opened the door and he came into the room with boys and girls swarming over him. nan's fears departed at the first sight of his honest, kindly face, and his cheery greeting to her. "wal' now, this is nice," he said, heartily, after hearing his wife's brief explanation. "never can have too many little gals 'round to suit me, an' as fer this young man," he lifted little brother gently as he spoke, "he fits into this fam'ly jest like a book. ted here's gettin' most too much of a man to be our baby any longer." ted's round face had lengthened as his father took up the baby, but it brightened at these words, and he straightened himself and slipped his hands into the pockets of the very short trousers he was wearing. "i'll be a big man pretty soon," he remarked, and his father patted his head tenderly as he answered, "so you will, sonny, so you will, an' the more you help other folks the faster you'll grow." that was a happy evening for nan. as she sat at the supper-table at "father's" right hand the only shadow on her satisfaction was the fear that she might not be allowed to remain in this friendly household. but somehow, even that thought could not cast a very dark shadow on her heart when she looked up into the sunshine of father hunt's plain face, or met the motherly smile of his good wife. she lent a helping hand whenever she saw an opportunity to do so, and the table was cleared, and the dishes washed so quickly that mr. hunt remarked to his wife, "look here, now, mother, why can't you an' me go somewheres this evening? you ain't been out with me for more'n a year, an' i feel's if i'd like a bit of an outin' to-night." mrs. hunt looked up doubtfully, but nan spoke up quickly, "do go, mrs. hunt. i'll take care of the children and be glad to." "that's right! that's right!" exclaimed mr. hunt. "'course ye will, an' i 'spect you'll make 'em have such a fine time that they'll be sorry when we get back." ted put his finger in his mouth and gloom gathered on his round face at this suggestion, but it vanished as nan said, "teddy, i can cut fine soldiers out of paper, and animals too. after your father and mother go i'll cut some for you." teddy's face brightened at this promise, and he saw the door close behind his mother without shedding a single tear. nan put little brother to bed and then all the children gathered about the table and nan drew men and animals on brown paper and cut them out, to the great delight of the children. teddy especially was so interested that once nellie remarked, "you needn't get quite into nan's mouth, ted." nan laughed. "if he only won't get his fingers cut instead of the paper," she said. "there! i've got a whole fun'ral of horses," remarked ted, in a tone of great satisfaction, as he ranged a long string of the figures two and two on the table. "look out, ted, you'll knock over the lamp!" cried jimmy, hastily. the warning came too late. even as the words were uttered, the chair on which ted was standing slipped from under him, and as he struck out wildly to save himself from falling he hit the lamp and knocked it over on the table. the chimney rolled to the floor with a crash, and the burning oil spread over the table licking up ted's horses and the scattered bits of paper as it went. then a piece of the burning paper blew against nellie's apron and the next instant that was blazing, and nellie screaming with fright, while the other children ran crying into the inner room--all but ted. he--petrified with terror--stood still with mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at the fiery stream rolling over the table. it all happened in two or three seconds, but nan did not lose her head. she jerked off nellie's apron without regard to fastenings, and crammed it into the coalhod, then snatching up her old shawl which was lying on the lounge, she threw it over the burning lamp and gathered it closely over lamp, paper and all, so smothering the flames. in two minutes the danger was over, nan had lighted another lamp that nellie brought her, and the frightened children came creeping slowly back to the table. teddy did not care for paper men or animals any more that night. he was ready to go to bed, and nellie undressed him and put him there, but the others sat up until the father and mother came home, all eager to tell the story of their danger and of nan's bravery. the mother's eyes filled with tears as she put her arms about as many of the children as she could gather into them and looked at nan in silent gratitude, while the father laid his hand kindly on the girl's brown hair as he said, gravely, "child, you've earned your place in this home. as long as i'm able to work you're just as welcome here as the rest--you and the baby too." nan's eyes were shining happily. "'twas nothing much to do," she answered, "and i'll find some way to pay for little brother and me if only we can stay here." dick had come in soon after his parents, and had listened in gloomy silence to the story of the children. "humph!" he said to himself. "twasn't so awful much to put out that fire. i'd a done it in no time if i'd a been here." it seemed to dick that his father and mother were making altogether too much of this strange girl, and the evil spirit of jealousy reared its ugly head in his heart. he wished he had not brought those two home with him, anyhow. when, the next day, tode met him on the street and inquired about nan and little brother, dick replied, gruffly, "oh, they're all right 'nough." "but are they goin' ter stay't your place?" questioned tode. "'spect so." dick's voice was gruffer than before. "i'm agoin' 'round there to see 'em to-day," remarked tode. dick made no reply. tode repeated, "don't ye hear? i say i'm agoin' ter see 'em to-day." "i heard what ye said. s'pose i'm deaf?" and dick turned his back and marched off. tode looked after him angrily. "like ter punch his head fer him," he said, under his breath. "would, too, if his folks hadn't let little brother stay on there." nothing daunted by dick's unfriendly manner, tode presented himself that afternoon at mrs. hunt's door. he found that good woman and nan both busy over the paper bags. all the children except dick were at school, and little brother was lying on the old shawl at his sister's feet. tode gave an awkward nod by way of greeting and dropped down on the floor beside the child. "hello, little chap!" he said. there certainly was a mutual attraction between the two, for the baby again responded to his greeting with a smile, and held out his scrawny little hands. tode was delighted. he lifted the child in his arms and sat down with him in an old rocking-chair. nan cast a quick, disturbed glance at the two. she had dressed the baby in some clothes that mrs. hunt had found for her--a few that had survived ted's rough usage. they were old but clean, and it was trying to nan to see little brother's pure, sweet face and fresh garments held by tode's dirty hands against his dirtier jacket. but the baby did not mind. he looked as contented as tode did, and when the boy's grimy fingers touched his thin cheek, little brother laughed a soft, happy, gurgling laugh that was music in tode's ears. but suddenly the boy's glance took in the contrast between his soiled hand and the little face against which it rested. for a moment he hesitated, then he arose hastily, placed the child gently on the old shawl again and said to mrs. hunt, "ye ain't got a bit o' soap you could lend me, have ye?" mrs. hunt looked at him inquiringly, then she answered a little unwillingly, for even soap costs money, "you can take that bit on the shelf there." tode seized it and vanished. few things escaped his quick eyes, and he had noticed a sink and a faucet in the hall outside the door. there he rubbed and scrubbed his hands for full five minutes vastly to their improvement, though even then he looked at them doubtfully. "can't do no better," he muttered, as he wiped them--well, he had only one place to wipe them, and he did the best he could. when he went back he glanced somewhat sheepishly at mrs. hunt as he put the remains of the soap back on the shelf, and again took up the baby. nan smiled at him but she made no remark, and tried not to look at his jacket. after he had gone mrs. hunt asked, thoughtfully, "how long have you known that boy, nan?" "i never saw him until yesterday," answered the girl. "he was good to me then." "yes, i know, an' of course you don't want to forget that, but, nan, i'm afraid he's a bad boy. dick says he is. he says he lies and steals and swears. i guess you don't want to have much to do with him." nan looked troubled. she answered, slowly, "i guess he hasn't had much of a chance, mrs. hunt. he can't remember anything about his father and mother, and he says he's never had any home except the street. do you s'pose 'twill hurt for him to come here sometimes to see little brother? 'seems as if it might help him to be a better boy. he likes little brother." for a moment mrs. hunt was silent. she was thinking how hard she tried to bring up her children to be good boys and girls, and yet they were not always good. she wondered what kind of a boy her dick would have been if he, like tode, had had no home and no one to keep him from evil ways. "if that's so, there's some excuse for him," she said, in response to nan's plea for tode. "p'raps 'twill help him somehow if he gets to carin' for that innocent baby, an' i don't mind his comin' here sometimes, only be careful that you don't learn any evil from him, my dear," and she leaned over and kissed the girl's cheek. "oh, mrs. hunt, i _must_ be good always, you know, for little brother's sake. i can't ever forget or break my promise to mother," nan answered, earnestly. and mrs. hunt, as she saw the solemn look in the dark eyes uplifted to her own, felt that she need not worry about nan and tode. iii. an accident tode bryan was sauntering down the street, his hands in his pockets, as usual, when he was not selling papers. he was whistling a lively tune, but he was on the lookout for anything interesting that might happen. as he passed a fruit stand kept by an old woman, he slyly snatched a handful of peanuts which he ate as he went on. he had sold out his papers more quickly than usual, for it was still early in the evening, and the streets were full of business-men on their way to their homes. suddenly the boy stopped short and listened, and the next moment there was a general rush into doorways and side streets as a fire-engine came dashing around the corner, while the police rushed from side to side clearing the way through the narrow street. as the engine passed, tode, like every other boy within sight or hearing, raced madly after it, shouting and yelling "fire" with all the power of his healthy lungs. hearing somebody say where the fire was, he slipped through a narrow cross street and an alley, so coming out ahead of the engine which the next moment swung around the nearest corner. an old man was just crossing the street, and as he heard the clang of the gong and the clatter of the engine, he looked about in a dazed, frightened way, and, instead of hurrying across, hesitated a moment and then turned uncertainly back. the driver did his best to avoid him but when the engine had passed the old man lay motionless upon the ground. instantly a crowd gathered about him and tode pressed forward to the front rank. one policeman was raising the old man's head and another was asking if anybody knew who the injured man was. it was tode, who, peering curiously at the pale face, remarked, "i know him. he buys papers o' me." "what's his name? where does he live?" questioned the officer. "do' know. he keeps a bookstand down on school street." "well, we'll have to send him to the hospital. ring up the ambulance, dick," said the officer to his companion. tode was just dashing off after the engine when one of the policemen collared him. "here you!" he exclaimed. "none o' your cuttin' off! if you know this man you've got to go to the hospital an' 'dentify him." tode looked uncomfortable and tried to squirm out of the man's grasp--a fruitless effort, for his strength availed nothing against that iron grip. the boy had no idea what "'dentify" might mean but he had his reasons for preferring to keep at a distance from the guardians of the law. there was no help for it, however, so with many inward misgivings, he submitted and waited for the ambulance. when it appeared the still insensible old man was lifted in and tode was ordered to the front seat where he rode securely between the driver and the policeman. the boy had never before been in a hospital and he felt very ill at ease when he found himself inside the building with its big rooms and long bare halls. he was left alone with the policeman for a while, and then both of them were called into another room and questioned in regard to the accident. finally tode was dismissed with strict orders to return the next day. "he'll be here. i know him, an' if he don't show up, you jest send me word an' i'll find him for ye," the officer said to the doctor, with a threatening glance at the boy. tode said nothing, but in his heart he was determined not to return the next day. the officer, however, kept his eye on him, and the next afternoon pounced upon him and put him on a street car with strict orders to the conductor not to let him off until he reached the hospital. so finding himself thus under watch and ward, tode concluded that he might as well obey orders, and he rang the bell at the hospital door. he was met by the doctor whom he had seen the night before, and taken at once to the ward where the injured man was lying. as tode gazed around the long room with its rows of white beds, a feeling of awe stole over him. he wanted to get away, for he did not know what to do or say. the old man was lying as if asleep, but when the doctor spoke to him he looked up and his dim eyes brightened at sight of the familiar face of the boy. "oh, bishop, it's you is it? got a paper for me?" he said with a feeble smile. tode wriggled uneasily as he answered gruffly, "guess ye don't want none to-day, do ye?" "no, i don't believe i do. you can bring me one to-morrow, bishop," and as he spoke the old man closed his eyes again, and turned his face away with a weary sigh. "come away now," said the doctor, and once outside the door he added, "he hasn't said as much as that before. seeing some one he knew aroused him as i hoped it would. why does he call you bishop?" "i do' know," replied tode, indifferently. "well, you must come again to-morrow. here's a car ticket and a quarter. i'll give you the same when you come to-morrow. be here about this time, will you?" "all right--i'll come," answered the boy to whom the quarter was an inducement. the old man remained at the hospital for several weeks and tode continued to visit him there at first for the sake of the money and because he dared not disobey the doctor's orders, but after a while he became rather proud of the old man's evident liking for him, and he would often sit and talk with him for half an hour at a time. one day tode inquired curiously, "what d' ye call me bishop for? 'tain't my name." and the old man answered dreamily, "you remind me of a boy i knew when i was about your age. he used to say that he was going to be a bishop when he grew up and so we boys always called him 'bishop.'" "an' did he?" questioned tode. "become a bishop? no, he entered the army and died in his first battle." "w'at's a bishop, anyhow?" asked tode, after a moment's silence. "you know what a minister is, tode?" "a preacher, ye mean?" "yes, a minister is a preacher. a bishop is a sort of head preacher--ranking higher, you know." tode nodded. "i'd rather be a soldier like that feller you knew," he remarked. a day came when the old man was pronounced well enough to leave the hospital and the doctor ordered tode to be on hand to take him home. the boy did not object. he was rather curious to see the little place in the rear of the bookstand where the old man lived alone. since the accident the stand had been closed and tode helped to open and air the room and then made a fire in the stove. when this was done the old man gave him money to buy materials for supper which of course the boy shared. after this he came daily to the place to run errands or do anything that was wanted, and by degrees the old man came to depend more and more upon him until the business of the little stand fell almost wholly into the boy's hands, for the owner's head still troubled him and he could not think clearly. it was a great relief to him to have some one to look after everything for him. tode liked it and the business prospered in his hands. if he lacked experience, he was quicker and sharper than the old man. the two took their meals together, and at night tode slept on a blanket on the floor, and was more comfortable and prosperous than he had ever been in his life before. he had money to spend too, for old mr. carey never asked for any account of the sums that passed through the boy's hands. so he himself was undisturbed by troublesome questions and figures, the old man was content now, and each day found him a little weaker and feebler. tode noticed this but he gave no thought to the matter. why borrow trouble when things were so much to his mind? tode lived in the present. he still sold the evening papers, considering it wise to keep possession of his route against future need, and never a week passed that he did not see little brother at least twice. he would have liked to see the child every day, but he knew instinctively that he was not a favorite with the hunts, and that knowledge made him ill at ease with them. but it could not keep him away altogether. he found too much satisfaction in little brother's love for him. more than once mrs. hunt had remarked to nan that she didn't "see what in the world made the baby so fond of that rough, dirty boy." nan herself wondered at it though she kept always a grateful remembrance of tode's kindness when she first met him. tode often brought little gifts to the child, and would have given him much more, but nan would not allow it. the two had a long argument over the matter one day. it was a bright, sunny morning and mrs. hunt had said that the baby ought to be out in the fresh air, so nan had taken him to the common, and sat there keeping ever a watchful eye for their enemy, mary leary. tode going down beacon street espied the two and forgetting all about the errand on which he was bound, promptly joined them. "he's gettin' fat--he is," the boy remarked, poking his finger at the dimple in the baby's cheek, then drawing it quickly away again with an uncomfortable expression. tode never cared how dirty his hands were except when he saw them in contrast with little brother's pure face. "yes, he's getting well and strong," assented nan, with a happy smile. "i say, nan, w'at's the reason you won't let me pay for his milk?" asked tode, after a little. then it was nan's turn to look uncomfortable, and the color rose in her cheeks as she answered, "i can pay now for all he needs. you know mrs. hunt gets a double quantity of bags and i work on them every day." but this answer did not satisfy tode. "that don't make no diff'runce," he growled. "don't see why you won't let me do nothin' for him," and he cast a gloomy glance at the baby, but little brother laughed up at him and the gloom speedily melted away. after a moment's silence he added, slowly, "it's comin' cold weather. he'll want a jacket or somethin', won't he?" "he'll have to have some warm clothes," replied nan, thoughtfully, "but i can get them--i guess." tode turned upon her fiercely. "i s'pose you'd let him freeze to death 'fore you'd let me buy him any clothes," he burst out, angrily. "i sh'd like ter know w'at's the matter with ye, anyhow. has that measly dick hunt ben stuffin' ye 'bout me?" nan coloured again and dropped her eyes. "say--has he? i'll give it ter him next time i catch him out!" and tode ground his heel suggestively into the gravel walk. "oh, tode, don't! please don't fight dick," pleaded nan. "how can you when his mother's so good to little brother?" "don't care 'f she is. _he_ ain't," was tode's surly reply. "he don't want you'n him to stay there." nan's eyes were full of uneasiness. "did he say so?" she questioned, for she had noticed dick's coldness and been vaguely disturbed by it. the boy nodded. "yes," he said, "he tol' me so. said there's 'nough fer his father ter feed 'thout you'n him," and he pointed to the baby. "but i work," pleaded nan. "i pay for all we eat." "but ye don't pay fer the rent an' the fire, an'--an' everything," tode replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, "so now, ye better let me pay fer little brother an' then you c'n pay the rest." nan hesitated and her face was troubled. finally she lifted her dark eyes to his and said bravely, "tode, i guess i ought to tell you just why i couldn't anyway let you do for little brother as you want to. it's because--because you don't get your money the right way." "who says i don't? did that dick hunt say so? i'll"--began tode, fiercely, but nan laid her hand on his arm and looked steadily into his face. "tode," she said, earnestly, "if you will look straight into little brother's eyes and tell me that you never steal--i'll believe you." "i never"--began the boy, boldly; then he met a grave, sweet glance from the baby's big blue eyes, and he hesitated. the lying words died on his tongue, and turning his eyes away from the little face that he loved, he said gloomily, "what's that got to do with it anyhow? s'posin' i do hook a han'ful of peanuts sometimes. that ain't nothin'." "tode, do you want little brother to hook a handful of peanuts sometimes when he gets big?" asked nan, quietly. the boy turned his eyes again to the baby face and the hot blood burned in his own as he answered, quickly, "'course i don't. he won't be that sort." "no, he won't, if i can help it," replied nan, gravely. tode dug his toe into the dirt in silence. nan added, "tode, by and by, when he gets bigger, would you want him to know that you were a thief?" when tode looked up there was a strange gravity in his eyes, and his lips were set in an expression of stern resolve. "i've got ter quit it," he said, solemnly, "an' i will. say, nan," he added, wistfully, "if i quit now, ye wont ever let him know i used ter be--what you said, will ye?" "no, tode, never," answered nan, quickly and earnestly. "and tode, if you'll stick to it, and not steal or lie or swear, i shan't mind your helping me get things for little brother." the boy's face brightened, and he drew himself up proudly. "it's a bargain, then," he said. nan looked at him thoughtfully. "i don't believe you know how hard it will be, tode. i find it's awful hard to break myself of bad habits, and i don't s'pose you've ever tried to before, have you?" tode considered the question. "guess not," he said, slowly, after a pause. "then i'm afraid you'll find you can't stop doing those bad things all at once. but you'll keep on trying, tode. you won't give up 'cause it's hard work," nan pleaded, anxiously. "nope," answered the boy, briefly, with a glance at the soft little fingers that were clasped about one of his. when nan went home he went with her to the door, loth to lose sight of the only creature in the world for whom he cared. as the door closed behind the two, he walked on thinking over what nan had said. much of it seemed to him "girls' stuff an' nonsense." "as if a fella couldn't stop swipin' things if he wanted to!" he said to himself. as he went on he passed a fruit stand where a man was buying some bananas. in putting his change into his pocket he dropped a nickel, which rolled toward tode who promptly set his foot on it, and then pretending to pull a rag off his torn trousers, he picked up the coin and went on chuckling over his "luck." but suddenly he stopped short and the hot color rose in his cheeks as he exclaimed with an oath, "done it again!" he looked around for the man, but he had disappeared, and with an angry grunt tode flung the nickel into the gutter and went on, beginning so soon to realise that evil habits are not overcome by simply resolving to conquer them. tode never had made any such attempt before, and the discovery had rather a depressing effect on him. it made him cross, too, but to his credit be it said, the thought of giving up the struggle never once occurred to him. he found old mr. carey asleep in his chair, and he awoke him roughly. "see here!" he exclaimed, sharply. "is this the way you 'tend to business when i'm gone? some cove might a stole every book an' paper on the stand, and cleaned out the cash, too." he pulled open the drawer as he spoke. "no thanks to you that 'tain't empty," he grumbled. he had never spoken so sharply before, and the old man was vaguely disturbed by it. he got up and walked feebly across the room, rubbing his trembling fingers through his grey hair in a troubled fashion, as he answered slowly, "yes, yes, bishop--you're right. it was very careless of me to go to sleep so. i don't see how i came to do it. i'm afraid i'm breaking down, my boy--breaking down," he added, sadly. as tode looked at the old man's dim eyes and shaking hands a feeling of sympathy and compassion stole into his heart, and his voice softened as he said, "oh, well, it's all right this time. reckon i'll have to run the business altogether till you get better." "i'm afraid you will, bishop. i'm not much good anyhow, nowadays," and the old man dropped again into his chair with a heavy sigh. the weeks that followed were the most miserable weeks of tode byran's short life. he found out some things about himself that he had never before suspected. it was wholesome knowledge, but it was not pleasant to find that in spite of his strongest resolutions, those nimble fingers of his _would_ pick up nuts and apples from street stands and his quick tongue would rattle off lies and evil words before he could remember to stop it. the other boys found him a most unpleasant companion in these days, for his continual failures made him cross and moody. he would speedily have given up the struggle but for little brother. several times he did give it up for a week or two, but then he staid away from the hunts' rooms until he grew so hungry for a sight of the baby face that he could stay away no longer. nan came to understand what these absences meant, and always when he reappeared she would speak a word of encouragement and faith in his final victory. tode had not cared at all for nan at first, but in these days of struggle and failure he began to value her steadfast faith in him, and again and again he renewed his vow to make himself "fit to help bring up little brother," as he expressed it. it was one day toward the close of winter that tode noticed that mr. carey seemed more than usually dull and listless, dropping into a doze even while the boy was speaking to him, and he went to bed directly after supper. when the boy awoke the next morning the old man lay just as he had fallen asleep. he did not answer when tode spoke to him, and his hands were cold as ice to the boy's touch. tode did not know what to do, but he finally hunted up the policeman, who knew him, and the two went back together and found the old man dead. as no relatives appeared, the city authorities took charge of the funeral, the books and the few pieces of furniture were sold to pay the expenses, and tode found himself once more a homeless waif. he had not minded it before, but his brief experience of even this poor home had unfitted him for living and sleeping in the streets. he found it unpleasant too, to have no money except the little he could earn selling papers. he set himself to face his future in earnest, and came to the conclusion that it was time for him to get into some better paying business. after thinking over the matter for several days he went to nan. "you know them doughnuts you made th' other day?" he began. "yes," replied nan, wonderingly. mrs. hunt had taught her to make various simple dishes, and as tode had happened in the day she made her first doughnuts, she had given him a couple, which he had pronounced "prime!" now he went on, "i don't want to sleep 'round the streets any more. i'm sick of it, but i can't make money 'nough off papers to do anything else. i'm thinkin' of settin' up a stand." "a bookstand, tode?" questioned nan, interestedly. "no--a eatin' stand--fer the fellers ye know--newsboys an' such. 'f you'll make doughnuts an' gingerbread an' san'wiches fer me, i bet all the fellers'll come fer 'em." "now that ain't a bad idea, tode," said mrs. hunt, looking up from her work. "of course the boys would buy good homemade food instead of the trash they get from the cheap eatin' houses, an' nan, i shouldn't wonder if you could earn more that way than by workin' at these bags." nan considered the matter thoughtfully, and finally agreed to give it a trial, and tode went off highly pleased. it took him two weeks to save enough to start his stand even in the simplest fashion, but when he did open it, he at first did a flourishing business. in the beginning the boys patronised him partly from curiosity and partly from good fellowship, but nan's cookery found favour with them at once, and "tode's corner" soon became the favorite lunch counter for the city newsboys, and tode's pockets were better filled than they had been since mr. carey's death. for several weeks all went well, and the boy began to consider himself on the high road to fortune, but then came a setback. one day his stand was surrounded by a crowd of boys all clamoring to be served at once, when the big fellow who had taken possession of tode's newspaper route, months before, came along. he had never forgotten or forgiven the boy for getting the better of him on that occasion, and now he thought he saw a chance for revenge. creeping up behind the group of hungry boys, he suddenly hit one of them a stinging blow on the face, and as this one turned and struck back angrily at him, the big fellow flung him back with all his strength against tode's stand. the stand was an old one and rickety--tode had bought it secondhand--and it went down with a crash, carrying cookies, doughnuts, gingerbread, coffee, sandwiches, cups, plates and boys in one promiscuous mixture. before the boys could struggle to their feet, carrots, with his hands full of gingerbread, had disappeared around the nearest corner. there was a wild rush and a scramble, and when two minutes later, tode stood gazing mournfully at the wreck, not an eatable bit remained. the boys had considered the wreckage as their lawful spoils, and every one of them had snatched as much as he could. later, however, their sense of justice led some of them to express, after their rough fashion, sympathy for tode, and disapproval of his enemy's revengeful act. besides, a few of them had enough conscience to acknowledge to themselves that they had not been entirely blameless. the result was that half a dozen of them went to tode the next day and offered to "chip in" and set him up again. tode appreciated the spirit that prompted the offer, but he was also shrewd enough to foresee that should he accept it, these boys would expect favours in the way of prices and quantities when they dealt with him in the future, and so he declined. "reckin i can stan' on my own feet, boys," he answered. "i've been a-tinkerin' up the ol' stand, an' i'm a-goin' to start in again to-morrow. you fellers come here an' get yer breakfast, an' that's all the help i'll ask, 'cept that ev'ry last one o' ye'll give that carrots a kick fer me." "we will that!" shouted the boys. "we'll make him sorry fer himself!" and the next day their sympathy took the practical form that tode had suggested, for every one of them that had any money to spend, spent it at "tode's corner," so that his stand was cleared again, but in a very satisfactory fashion--a fashion that filled his pockets with dimes and nickels. iv. tode meets the bishop sundays were tode's dreariest days. he found that it did not pay to keep his stand open later than ten o'clock, and then after he had spent an hour with little brother and nan, the time hung heavy on his hands. sometimes he pored over a newspaper for a while, sometimes over something even more objectionable than the sunday newspaper, and for the rest, he loafed around street corners and wharves with other homeless boys like himself. one sunday morning he was listlessly reading over some play-bills pasted on a fence, when the word "bishop" caught his eye, and he spelled out the announcement that a well-known bishop was to speak in st. mark's church, that afternoon. "cracky! i'd like to see a live bishop. b'lieve i'll go," he said to himself. then looking down at his ragged trousers and dirty jacket, he added with a grin, "'spect some o' them nobs'll most have a fit to see me there." nevertheless he determined to go. old mr. carey had never called him anything but "bishop," and now the boy had a queer feeling as he read that word on the bill--a feeling that this bishop whom he had never seen had yet in some way something to do with him--though in what way he could not imagine. he thought over the matter through the hours that followed, sometimes deciding that he would go, and again that he wouldn't, but he found out where st. mark's church was, and at three o'clock he was there. he gave a little start and a shadow fell upon his face as he saw the pillared porch and the stone stairway. he seemed to see himself running up those stairs and stuffing that stolen pocketbook into the pastor's box that he remembered so clearly. these thoughts were not pleasant ones to him now, and tode stopped hesitatingly, undecided whether to go on or to go in. it was early yet and no one was entering though the doors stood invitingly open. while he hesitated, the sexton came out to the steps. tode remembered him too, and looked at him with a grin that exasperated the man. "get out o' this!" he exclaimed, roughly. "we don't want any o' your sort 'round here." of course that settled the matter for tode. he was determined to go in now anyhow, but he knew better than to attempt it just then. "who wants to go int' yer ol' church," he muttered as he turned away. the man growled a surly response but tode did not look back. on the corner he stopped, wondering how he could best elude the unfriendly sexton and slip into the building, without his knowledge. he dropped down on the curbstone and sat there thinking for some time. at last a voice above him said quietly, "well, my boy, aren't you coming to church?" tode looked up, up a long way it seemed to him, into such a face as he had never before looked into. instinctively he arose and stepped back that he might see more plainly those clear blue eyes and that strong, tender mouth. the boy gazed and gazed, forgetting utterly to answer. "you are coming into church with me, aren't you?" so the question was repeated, and tode, still lookingly earnestly up into the man's face, nodded silently. "that's right, my son--come," and a large, kindly hand was laid gently upon the boy's shoulder. without a word he walked on beside the stranger. the sexton was standing in the vestibule as the two approached. a look of blank amazement swept across his face at sight of the boy in such company. he said no word, however, only stepped aside with a bow, but his eyes followed the two as they passed into the church together, and he muttered a few angry words under his breath. as for tode, some strange influence seemed to have taken possession of him, for he forgot to exult over the surly sexton. he passed him without a thought indeed, feeling nothing but a strange, happy wonder at the companionship in which he found himself. the stranger led him up the aisle to one of the best pews, and motioned him in. silently the boy obeyed. then the man looking down with his rare, beautiful smile into the uplifted face, gently raised tode's ragged cap from his rough hair, and laid it on the cushioned seat beside him. then he went away, and tode felt as if the sunlight had been suddenly darkened. his eyes followed the tall, strong figure longingly until it disappeared--then he looked about him, at the beautiful interior of the church. the boy had never been in such a place before, and he gazed wonderingly at the frescoes, the rich colours in the windows, the dark carved woodwork and the wide chancel and pulpit. "wat's it all for, i wonder," he said, half aloud, and then started and flushed as his own voice broke the beautiful, solemn silence. people were beginning to come in and filling the seats about him, and many curious and astonished glances fell upon the boy, but he did not notice them. presently a soft, low strain of music stole out upon the stillness. surely a master hand touched the keys that day, for the street boy sat like a statue listening eagerly to the sweet sounds, and suddenly he found his cheeks wet. he dashed his hand impatiently across them wondering what was the matter with him, for tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but in spite of himself they filled again, till he almost wished the music would cease--almost but not quite, for that strange happiness thrilled his heart as he listened. then far-off voices began to sing, coming nerrer and nearer, until a long line of white-robed men and boys appeared, singing as they walked, and last of all came the kingly stranger who had brought tode into the church, and he went to the lectern and began to read. "the--bishop!" tode breathed the words softly, in a mixture of wonder and delight, as he suddenly realised who this man must be. he sat through the remainder of the service in a dreamy state of strange enjoyment. he did not understand why the people around him stood or knelt at intervals. he did not care. when the bishop prayed, tode looked around, wondering whom he was calling "lord." he concluded that it must be the one who made the music. he listened eagerly, breathlessly, to the sermon, understanding almost nothing of what was said, but simply drinking in the words spoken by that rich, sweet voice, that touched something within him, something that only little brother had ever touched before. yet this was different from the feeling that the baby had awakened in the boy's heart. he loved the baby dearly, but to this great, grand man, who stood there above him wearing the strange dress that he had never before seen a man wear--to him the boy's whole heart seemed to go out in reverent admiration and desire. he knew that he would do anything that this man might ask of him. he could refuse him nothing. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." these words, repeated again and again, fixed themselves in tode's memory with no effort of his own. buying and selling were matters quite in his line now, but he did not understand this. he puzzled over it awhile, then put it aside to be thought out at another time. when the service was over, tode watched the long line of choir boys pass slowly out, and his eyes followed the tall figure of the bishop till it disappeared from his wistful gaze. then he looked about upon the kneeling congregation, wondering if the people were going to stay there all day. the bishop was gone, the music had ceased, and tode did not want to stay any longer. he slipped silently out of the pew and left the church. that evening he wandered off by himself, avoiding the sunday gathering-places of the boys, and thinking over the new experiences of the afternoon. the words the bishop had repeated so often sung themselves over and over in his ears. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." "don't mean me, anyhow," he thought, "'cause i b'long ter myself, sure 'nough. nobody ever bought me 't ever i heard of. wonder who that jesus is, he talked about so much. i wish--i wish he'd talk ter me--that bishop." all the strange happiness that had filled his heart during the service in the church, was gone now. he did not feel happy at all. on the contrary, he felt wretched and utterly miserable. he had begun to have a distinct pride and satisfaction in himself lately, since he had stopped lying and stealing, and had set up in business for himself, and especially since mrs. hunt had begun to look upon him with more favour, as he knew she had--but somehow now all this seemed worthless. although he had not understood the bishop's sermon, it seemed to have unsettled tode's mind, and awakened a vague miserable dissatisfaction with himself. he was not used to such feelings. he didn't like them, and he grew cross and ugly when he found himself unable to shake them off. he had wandered to the quiet corner of the wharf, where he and nan and little brother had spent the first hours of their acquaintance, and he stood leaning against that same post, looking gloomily down into the water, when a lean, rough dog crept slowly toward him, wagging his stumpy tail and looking into the boy's face with eyes that pleaded for a friendly word. generally tode would have responded to the mute appeal, but now he felt so miserable himself, that he longed to make somebody or something else miserable too, so instead of a pat, he gave the dog a kick that sent it limping off with a yelp of pain and remonstrance. he had made another creature as miserable as himself, but somehow it didn't seem to lessen his own wretchedness. indeed, he couldn't help feeling that he had done a mean, cowardly thing, and tode never liked to feel himself a coward. he looked after the dog. it had crawled into a corner and was licking the injured paw. tode walked toward the poor creature that looked at him suspiciously, yet with a faint little wag of its tail, as showing its readiness to forgive and forget, while at the same time ready to run if more abuse threatened. tode stooped and called, "come here, sir!" and, after a moment's hesitation, the dog crept slowly toward him with a low whine, still keeping his bright eyes fastened on the boy's. "poor old fellow," tode said, gently, patting the dog's rough head. "is it hurt? let me see." he felt of the leg, the dog standing quietly beside him. "'tain't broken. it'll be all right pretty soon. what's your name?" tode said, and the dog rubbed his head against the boy's knee and tried to say with his eloquent eyes what his dumb lips could not utter. "got none--ye mean? you're a street dog--like me," the boy added. "well, guess i'll go home an' get some supper," and he walked slowly away and presently forgot all about the dog. he had lately hired a tiny garret room where he slept, and kept his supplies when his stand was closed. he went there now and ate his lonely supper. it had never before seemed lonely to him, but somehow to-night it did. he hurried down the food and started to go out again. as he opened his door, he heard a faint sound, and something moved on the dark landing. "who's there?" he called, sharply. a low whine answered him, and from out the gloom two eyes gleamed and glittered. tode peered into the shadow, then he laughed. "so it's you, is it? you must have tagged me home. come in here then if you want to," and he flung his door wide open and stepped back into the room. then out of the shadows of the dark landing the dog came slowly and warily, ready to turn and slink off if he met no welcome, but tode was in the mood when even a strange dog was better than his own company. he fed the half-starved creature with some stale sandwiches, and then talked to him and tried to teach him some tricks until to his own surprise he heard the city clocks striking nine, and the long, lonely evening he had dreaded was gone. "well now, you're a heap o' company," he said to the dog. "i've a good mind ter keep ye. say, d'ye wan' ter stay, ol' feller?" the dog wagged his abbreviated tail, licked tode's fingers, and rubbed his head against the ragged trousers of his new friend. "ye do, hey! well, i'll keep ye ter-night, anyhow. le' see, what'll i call ye? you've got ter have a name. s'posin' i call ye tag. that do--hey, tag?" the dog gave a quick, short bark and limped gaily about the boy's feet. "all right--we'll call ye tag then. now then, there's yer bed," and he threw into a corner an old piece of carpet that he had picked up on a vacant lot. the dog understood and settled himself with a long, contented sigh, as if he would have said: "at last i've found a master and a home." in a day or two tag's lameness disappeared, and his devotion to his new master was unbounded. tode found him useful, too, for he kept vigilant watch when the boy was busy at his stand, and suffered no thievish fingers to snatch anything when tode's eyes and fingers were too busy for him to be on the lookout. the dog was such a loving, intelligent little creature, that he quickly won his way into nan's heart, and he evidently considered himself the guardian of little brother from the first day that he saw tode and the child together. some dogs have a way of reading hearts, and tag knew within two minutes that tode loved every lock on little brother's sunny head. a few days after that sabbath that the boy was never to forget, he went to see nan and the baby, and in the course of his visit, remarked, "nan, i seen the bishop last sunday." "what bishop?" inquired nan. "the one that talked at the big, stone church--st. mark's, they call it." "i wonder 't they let you in, if you wore them ragged duds," remarked mrs. hunt. "the bishop asked me to go in an' he took me in himself," retorted tode, defiantly. "for the land's sake," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "he must be a queer kind of a bishop!" "a splendid kind of a bishop, i should think," put in nan, and the boy responded quickly, "he is so! i never see a man like him." "never see a man like him? what d'ye mean, tode?" questioned mrs. hunt. tode looked at her as he answered slowly, "he's a great big man--looks like a king--an' his eyes look right through a feller, but they don't hurt. they ain't sharp. they're soft, an'--an'--i guess they look like a mother's eyes would. i d'know much 'bout mothers, 'cause i never had one, but i should think they'd look like his do. i tell ye," tode faced mrs. hunt and spoke earnestly, "a feller'd do 'most anything that that bishop asked him to--couldn't help it." mrs. hunt stared in amazement at the boy. his eyes were glowing and in his voice there was a ring of deep feeling that she had never before heard in it. it made her vaguely uncomfortable. her dick had never spoken so about any bishop, nor indeed, about anybody else, and here was this rough street boy whom she considered quite unfit to associate with dick--and the bishop himself had taken him into church. mrs. hunt spoke somewhat sharply. "well, i must say you were a queer-lookin' one to set in a pew in a church like st. mark's." nan looked distressed, and tode glanced uneasily at his garments. they certainly were about as bad as they could be. even pins and twine could not hold them together much longer. "tode," mrs. hunt went on, "i think it's high time you got yourself some better clothes. dear knows, you need 'em if ever a boy did, an' certainly you must have money 'nough now." "'spect i have. i never thought about it," replied tode. "well, you'd better think about it, an' 'tend to it right away. 'f you're goin' to church with bishops you'd ought to look respectable, anyhow." something in the tone and emphasis with which mrs. hunt spoke brought the colour into tode's brown cheeks, while nan looked at the good woman in surprise and dismay. she did not know how troubled was the mother's heart over her own boy lately, as she saw him growing rough and careless, and that it seemed to her hard that this waif of the streets should be going up while her dick went down. tode thought over what had been said, and the result was that the next time he appeared he was so changed that the good woman looked twice before she recognised him. his clothes had been purchased at a secondhand store, and they might have fitted better than they did, but they were a vast improvement on what he had worn before. he had scrubbed his face as well as his hands this time, and had combed his rough hair as well as he could with the broken bit of comb which was all he possessed in the way of toilet appliances. it is no easy matter for a boy to keep himself well washed and brushed with no face cloth or towel or brush, and no wash basin save the public sink. tode had done his best however, and nan looked at him in pleased surprise. "you do look nice, tode," she said, and the boy's face brightened with satisfaction. all through that week tode told himself that he would not go to the church again, yet day by day the longing grew to see the bishop's face once more and to hear his voice. "w'at's the use! o'ny makes a feller feel meaner 'n dirt," he said to himself again and again, yet the next sabbath afternoon found him hanging about st. mark's hoping that the bishop would ask him in again. but the minutes passed and the bishop did not appear. "maybe he's gone in aready," the boy thought, peering cautiously through the pillars of the entrance. there was no one in sight, and tode crept quietly across the porch through the wide vestibule to the church door. only the sexton was there, and his back was toward the boy as he stood looking out of the opposite door. "now's my time," thought tode, and he ran swiftly and silently up the aisle to the pew where the bishop had placed him. there he hesitated. he was not sure which of several pews was the one, but with a quick glance at the sexton's back, he slipped into the nearest, and hearing the man's footsteps approaching, dropped to the floor and crawled under the seat. the sexton came slowly down the aisle, stopping here and there to arrange books or brush off a dusty spot. he even entered the pew where tode was, and moved the books in the rack in front, but the boy lay motionless in the shadow, and the man passed on without discovering him. then the people began to come in, and tode was just about to get up and sit on the seat, when a lady and a little girl entered the pew. the boy groaned inwardly. "they'll screech if i get up now," he thought. "nothin' for it but to lay here till it's over. wal', i c'n hear _him_ anyhow." "him," in tode's thought was the bishop, and he waited patiently through the early part of the service, longing to hear again that rich, strong, thrilling voice. but alas for tode! it was not the bishop who preached that day. it was a stranger, whose low monotonous voice reached the boy so indistinctly, that he soon gave up all attempts to listen, and before the sermon was half over he was sound asleep. fortunately he was used to hard resting-places, and he slept so quietly that the occupants of the pew did not discover his presence at all. the music of the choir and of the organ mingled with the boy's dreams, but did not arouse him, and when the people departed and the sexton closed the church and went home, tode still slept on in darkness and solitude. usually there was an evening service, but on this occasion it was omitted, the rector being ill, so when tode at last opened his eyes, it was to find all dark and silent about him. as he started up his head struck the bottom of the seat with a force that made him cry out and drop back again. then as he lay there he put out his hands, and feeling the cushioned seat over his head, he knew where he was and guessed what had happened. "wal! i was a chump to go to sleep here!" he muttered, slowly, rising with hands outstretched. "'spect i'll have ter get out of the window." the street lights shining through the stained glass made a faint twilight in the church, but there was something weird and strange about being there alone at that hour that set the boy's heart to beating faster than usual. he went to one of the windows and felt about for the fastenings, but he could not reach them. they were too high. he tried them all, but none were within his reach. then he sat down in one of the pews and wondered what he should do next. he was wide awake now. it seemed to him that he could not close his eyes again that night, and indeed it was long after midnight before he did. he felt strangely lonely as he sat there through those endless hours, dimly hearing the voices and footsteps in the street without grow fewer and fainter, till all was silent save the clocks that rang out the creeping hours to his weary ears. at last his tired eyes closed and he slipped down on the cushioned seat and slept for a few hours, but he awoke again before daylight. it was broad daylight outside before it was light enough in the church for the boy to see clearly, and then he looked hopelessly at the high window fastenings. he had tried every door but all were securely locked. "nothin' t' do but wait till that ol' cove comes back," he said to himself. then a thought flashed across his mind--a thought that made his heart stand still with dread. "s'posin' he don't come till next sunday?" tode knew nothing about midweek or daily services. but he put this terrible thought away from him. "i'll get out somehow if i have ter smash some o' them pictures," he said aloud, as he looked up at the beautiful windows. the minutes seemed endless while the boy walked restlessly up and down the aisles thinking of his stand, and of the customers who would seek breakfast there in vain that morning. at last he heard approaching footsteps, then a key rattled in the lock, and tode instinctively rolled under the nearest pew and lay still, listening to the heavy footsteps of the sexton as he passed slowly about opening doors and windows. the boy waited with what patience he could until the man passed on to the further side of the church, then he slid and crawled along the carpeted aisle until he reached the door, when springing to his feet he made a dash for the street. he heard the sexton shouting angrily after him, but he paid no heed. on and on he ran until he reached his room where tag gave him a wildly delighted welcome, and in a very short time thereafter the stand at "tode's corner" was doing a brisk business. v. in the bishop's house tode's patrons were mostly newsboys of his acquaintance, who came pretty regularly to his stand for breakfast, and generally for a midday meal, lunch or dinner as it might be. where they took their supper he did not know, but he usually closed his place of business after one o'clock, and spent a couple of hours roaming about the streets doing any odd job that came in his way, if he happened to feel like it, or to be in need of money. after his meeting with the bishop he often wandered up into the neighbourhood of st. mark's with a vague hope that he might see again the man who seemed to his boyish imagination a very king among men. it had long been tode's secret ambition to grow into a big, strong man himself--bigger and stronger than the common run of men. now, whenever he thought about it, he said to himself, "just like the bishop." but he never met the bishop, and having found out that he did not preach regularly at st. mark's, tode never went there after the second time. one afternoon in late september, the boy was lounging along with tag at his heels in the neighbourhood of the church, when he heard a great rattling of wheels and clattering of hoofs, and around the corner came a pair of horses dragging a carriage that swung wildly from side to side, as the horses came tearing down the street. there was no one in the carriage, but the driver was puffing along a little way behind, yelling frantically, "stop 'em! stop 'em! why don't ye stop the brutes!" there were not many people on the street, and the few men within sight seemed not at all anxious to risk life or limb in an attempt to stop horses going at such a reckless pace. now tode was only a little fellow not yet fourteen, but he was strong and lithe as a young indian, and as to fear--he did not know what it was. as he saw the horses dashing toward him he leaped into the middle of the street and stood there, eyes alert and limbs ready, directly in their pathway. they swerved aside as they approached him, but with a quick upward spring he grabbed the bit of the one nearest him, and hung there with all his weight. this frightened and maddened the horse, and he plunged and reared and flung his head from side to side, until he succeeded in throwing the boy off. the delay however, slight as it was, had given the driver time to come up, and he speedily regained control of his team while a crowd quickly gathered. tode had been flung off sidewise, his head striking the curbstone, and there he lay motionless, while faithful tag crouched beside him, now and then licking the boy's fingers, and whining pitifully as he looked from face to face, as if he would have said, "_won't_ some of you help him? i can't." the crowd pressed about the unconscious boy with a sort of morbid curiosity, one proposing one thing and one another until a policeman came along and promptly sent a summons for an ambulance; but before it appeared, a tall grey-haired man came up the street and stopped to see what was the matter. he was so tall that he could look over the heads of most of the men, and as he saw the white face of the boy lying there in the street, he hastily pushed aside the onlookers as if they had been men of straw, and stooping, lifted the boy in his strong arms. "stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "would you let the child die in the street?" they fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "it's the bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate and some to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident had occurred. mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none of them. his eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder, the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head. the servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, at his master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressing curiously after them, but the next moment he recovered from his amazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out the eager throng that would have entered with him. a lank, rough-haired dog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gave him a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he took refuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless and miserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a step that he knew. as the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed, "call mrs. martin, brown, and then send for the doctor. this boy was hurt at our very door." brown promptly obeyed both orders, and mrs. martin, the housekeeper, hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. the doctor soon responded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore the boy to consciousness that day. the bishop watched the child as anxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. he had neither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his great heart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in his way. it was near the close of the following day when tode's eyes slowly opened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered about the strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. the doctor and the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced from one face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. he asked no question, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but this time in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor that had preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression of satisfaction. "he'll pull through now," he said in a low tone. "he's young and full of vitality--he'll soon be all right." the bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "that's well! that's well!" he exclaimed, heartily. the doctor looked at him curiously. "did you ever see the lad before you picked him up yesterday?" he asked. "no, never," answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised in tode the boy whom he had taken into church that sunday, weeks before. the doctor shook his head as he drove off and muttered to himself, "whoever saw such a man! who but our bishop would ever think of taking a little street urchin like that right into his home and treating him as if he were his own flesh and blood! well, well, he himself gets taken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the world would be the better if there were more like him!" and if the doctor's pronouns were a little mixed he himself understood what he meant, and nobody else had anything to do with the matter. the next morning tode awoke again and this time to a full and lively consciousness of his surroundings. it was still early and the nurse was dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. the boy looked at her curiously, then he raised himself on his elbow and gazed about him, but as he did so he became conscious of a dull throbbing pain in one side of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. it was his first experience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as his head fell back on the pillow. the sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to his lips, saying, "lie still. the doctor says you must not talk at all until he comes." "so," thought the boy. "i've got a doctor. wonder where i am an' what ails me, anyhow." but that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie still while the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed and the room. then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which she fed him. it tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wished there had been more. then as he lay back on the pillows he remembered all that had happened--the horses running down the street, his attempt to stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck the curbstone. "wonder where i am? tain't a hospital, anyhow," he thought. "my! but i feel nice an' clean an' so--so light, somehow! if only my head wasn't so sore!" no wonder he felt "nice and clean and light somehow," when, for the first time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, were as sweet and fresh as hands could make them. tode never had minded dirt. why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown up knowing nothing better? yet, none the less, was this new experience most delightful to him--so delightful that he didn't care to talk. it was happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy these new conditions, and so presently he floated off again into sleep--a sleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voices aroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctor looking down at him. "well, my boy," said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist near him, "you look better. feel better too, don't you?" tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to his question. "doctor," exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, "he hasn't spoken a single word. do you suppose he can be deaf and dumb?" the bishop entered the room just in time to catch the last words. "deaf and dumb!" he repeated, in a tone of dismay. "dear me! if the poor child is deaf and dumb, i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." as his eyes rested on the bishop tode started and uttered a little inarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop was saying, a singular expression passed over his face. the doctor, watching him closely could make nothing of it. "he looks as if he knew you, bishop," the doctor said. the bishop had taken the boy's rough little hand in his own large, kindly grasp. "no, doctor," he answered, "i don't think i've ever seen him before yesterday, but we're friends all the same, aren't we, my lad?" and he smiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly and happily. tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightly shook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks. "he acts like a deaf mute, certainly," muttered the doctor, and stepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held it first to one and then the other of tode's ears, but out of his sight. tode's ears were as sharp as a ferret's and his brain was as quick as his ears. he knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made no sign. were not the bishop's words ringing in his ears? "if the poor child is deaf and dumb i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." there were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensure his staying there. he understood now that he was in the house of the bishop--"my bishop" he called him in his thought. so, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deaf and dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to be so. tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but at first he found it very hard. as his strength returned there were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if it were known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, and more and more as the days went by he longed to remain where he was. as he grew stronger and able to sit up, books and games and pictures were provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes dragged somewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walk about the house. mrs. martin, the housekeeper, had first admired the boy's bravery, then pitied him for his suffering, and had ended by loving him, because she, too, had a big, kindly heart that was ready to love anybody who needed her love and service. so, it was with great satisfaction that she obeyed the bishop's orders, and bought for the boy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk about his room. she combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped him dress himself in one of his new suits. as she tied his necktie for him she looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself, "whoever would believe that it was the same boy? if only he could hear and speak now like other boys, i'd have nothing more to ask for him." then she stooped and kissed him. tode wriggled uneasily under the unwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it--from a woman. the housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs to the bishop's study. it was a long room containing many books and easy-chairs and two large desks. at one of these the bishop sat writing, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who wore glasses. "come in, mrs. martin, come in," called the bishop, as he saw her standing at the open door. "and who is this?" he added, holding out his hand to the boy. "you don't recognize him?" mrs. martin asked smiling down on tode's smooth head. the bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly and drew the little fellow to his side. "well, well!" he said, "the clothes we wear do make a great difference, don't they, mrs. martin? he's a fine looking lad. gibson, this is the boy i was telling you about." the little dark man turned and looked at tode as the bishop spoke. it was not a friendly look, and tode felt it. "ah," replied mr. gibson, slowly. "so this is the boy, is it? he was fortunate to fall into your hands;" and with a sharp, sidelong glance over his shoulder, mr. gibson turned again to his work. the bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushed tode into it. then he brought a big book full of pictures and put it into the boy's hands. "let him stay here for a while, mrs. martin," he said. "i always work better when there is a child near me--if it's the right sort of a child," he added, with a smile. mrs. martin went out, and tode, with a long, happy breath, leaned back in the big chair and looked about him at the many books, at the dark head bent over the desk in the alcove, finally at the noble face of the bishop intent on his writing. this was the beginning of many happy hours for tode. perhaps it was the weakness and languor resulting from his accident that made him willing to sit quietly a whole morning or afternoon in the study beside the bishop's table, when, before this, to sit still for half an hour would have been an almost unendurable penance to him; but there was another and a far stronger reason in the deep reverential love for the bishop, that day by day was growing and strengthening into a passion in his young heart. the boy's heart was like a garden-spot in which the rich, strong soil lay ready to receive any seed that might fall upon it. better seed could not be than that which all unconsciously this man of god--the bishop--was sowing therein, as day after day he gave his master's message to the sick and sinful and sorrowful souls that came to him for help and comfort. it goes without saying that the bishop had small leisure, for many and heavy were the demands upon his time and thought, but nevertheless he kept two hours a day sacredly free from all other claims, that he might give them to any of god's poor or troubled ones who desired to see him, and believing that tode could hear nothing that was said, he often kept the boy with him during these hours. strange and wonderful lessons were those that the little street boy learned from the consecrated lips of the good bishop--lessons of god's love to man, and of the loving service that man owes not only to his god, but to his brother man. strange, sad lessons too, of sin and sorrow, and their far-reaching influence on human lives. tode had not lived in the streets for nearly fourteen years without learning a great deal about the sin that is in the world, but never until now, had he understood and realised the evil of it and the cure for it. many a time he longed to ask the bishop some of the questions that filled his mind, but that he dared not do. among these visitors there came one morning to the study a plainly dressed lady with a face that tode liked at the first glance. as she talked with the bishop, the boy kept his eyes on the book open in his lap, but he heard all that was said--heard it at first with a startled surprise that changed into a sick feeling of shame and misery--for the story to which he listened was this: the lady was a mrs. russell. the bishop had formerly been her pastor and she still came to him for help and counsel. she had been much interested in a boy of sixteen who had been in her class in the mission school, a boy who was entirely alone in the world. he had picked up a living in the streets, much as tode himself had done, and finally had fallen into bad company and into trouble. mrs. russell had interested herself in his behalf, and upon her promise to be responsible for him, he had been delivered over to her instead of being sent to a reform school. she went to a number of the smaller dry goods stores and secured promises of employment for the boy as parcel deliverer. to do this work he must have a tricycle, and the energetic little lady having found a secondhand one that could be had for thirty dollars, set herself to secure this sum from several of her friends. this she had done, and was on her way to buy the tricycle when she lost her pocketbook. the owner of the tricycle, being anxious to sell, and having another offer, would not hold it for her, but sold it to the other customer. the boy, bitterly disappointed, lost hope and heart, and that night left the place where mrs. russell had put him. since then she had sought in vain for him, and now, unwilling to give him up, she had come to ask the bishop's help in the search. to all this tode listened with flushed cheeks and fast-beating heart, while before his mind flashed a picture of himself, wet, dirty and ragged, gliding under the feet of the horses on the muddy street, the missing pocketbook clutched tightly in his hand. then a second picture rose before him, and he saw himself crowding the emptied book into that box on the chapel door of st. mark's. the bishop pulled open a drawer in his desk and took from it a pocketbook, broken and stained with mud. he handed it to mrs. russell, who looked at him in silent wonder as she saw her own name on the inside. "_how_ did it get into your hands?" she questioned, at last. "you would never guess how," the bishop answered. "it was found in the pastor's box at st. mark's, and the rector came to me to inquire if i knew any one of that name. i had not your present address, but have been intending to look you up as soon as i could find time." "i cannot understand it," said mrs. russell, carefully examining each compartment of the book. "why in the world should the thief have put the empty pocketbook there, of all places?" "of course he would want to get rid of it," the bishop replied, thoughtfully, "but that certainly was a strange place in which to put it." "if the thief could know how the loss of that money drove that poor foolish boy back into sin and misery, he surely would wish he had never touched it--if he has any conscience left," said mrs. russell. "there is good stuff in that poor boy of mine, and i can't bear to give him up and leave him to go to ruin." the bishop looked at her with a grave smile as he answered: "mrs. russell, i never yet knew you willing to give up one of your straying lambs. like the master himself, your big heart always yearns over the wanderers from the fold. i wonder," he added, "if we couldn't get one or two newsboys to help in this search. many of them are very keen, sharp little fellows, and they'd be as likely as anybody to know jack, and to know his whereabouts if he is still in the city. let me see--his name is jack finney, and he is about fifteen or sixteen now, isn't he?" "yes, nearly sixteen." "suppose you give me a description of him, mrs. russell. i ought to remember how he looks, but i see so many, you know," the bishop added, apologetically. "of course you cannot remember all the boys who were in our mission school," replied mrs. russell. "jack is tall and large, for fifteen. his hair is sandy, his eyes blue, and, well--his mouth _is_ rather large. jack isn't a beauty, and he is rough and rude, and i'm afraid he often does things that he ought not to do, but only think what a hard time he has had in the world thus far." "yes," replied the bishop with a sigh, "he _has_ had a hard time, and it is not to be wondered at that he has gone wrong. many a boy does that who has every help toward right living. well now, mrs. russell, i'll see what i can do to help you in this matter. your faith in the boy ought to go far toward keeping him straight if we can find him." the bishop walked to the hall with his visitor. when he came back tode sat with his eyes fastened on the open book in his lap, though he saw it not. he did not look up with his usual bright smile when the bishop sat down beside him. that night he could not eat, and when he went to bed he could not sleep. "thief! thief! you're a thief! you're a thief!" over and over and over again these words sounded in tode's ears. he had known of course that he was a thief, but he had never _realised_ it until this day. as he had sat there and listened to mrs. russell's story, he seemed to see clearly how his soul had been soiled with sin as surely as his body had been with dirt, and even as now the thought of going back to his former surroundings sickened him, so the remembrance of the evil that he had known and done, now seemed horrible to him. it was as if he looked at himself and his past life through the pure eyes of the bishop--and he hated it all. dimly he began to see that there was something that he must do, but what that something was, he could not as yet determine. he was not willing in fact to do what his newly awakened conscience told him that he ought to do. in the morning he showed so plainly the effects of his wakeful night, and of his first moral battle, that the bishop was much concerned. he had begun to teach the boy to write that he might communicate with him in that fashion, but as yet tode had not progressed far enough to make communication with him easy, though he was beginning to read quite readily the bold, clear handwriting of the bishop. this morning, the bishop, noting the boy's pale cheeks and heavy eyes, proposed a walk instead of the writing lesson. tode was delighted to go, and the two set off together. now the boy had an opportunity to see yet farther into the heart and life of this good, great man. they went on and on, away from the wide streets and handsome houses, into the tenement house district, and finally into an old building, where many families found shelter--such as it was. up one flight after another of rickety stairs the bishop led the boy. at last he stopped and knocked at a door on a dark landing. the door was opened by a woman whose eyes looked as if she had forgotten how to smile, but a light flashed into them at sight of her visitor. she hurriedly dusted a chair with her apron, and as the bishop took it he lifted to his knee one of the little ones clinging to the mother's skirts. there were four little children, but one lay, pale and motionless on a bed in one corner of the room. "she is sick?" inquired the bishop, his voice full of sympathy, as he looked at the small, wan face. the woman's eyes filled with tears. "yes," she answered, "i doubt i'm goin' to lose her, an' i feel i ought to be glad for her sake--but i can't." she bent over the little form and kissed the heavy eyelids. "tell me all about it, my daughter," the bishop said, and the woman poured out her story--the old story of a husband who provided for his family after a fashion, when he was sober, but left them to starve when the drink demon possessed him. he had been away now for three weeks, and there was no money for medicine for the sick child, or food for the others. before the story was told the bishop's hand was in his pocket and he held out some money to the woman, saying, "go out and buy what you need. it will be better for you to get it, than for me to. the breath of air will do you good, and i will see to the children until you come back." she hesitated for a moment, then with a word of thanks, threw a shawl over her head and was gone. the bishop gathered the three older children about him, one on each knee and the third held close to his side, and told them stories that held them spellbound until the sick baby began to stir and moan feebly. then the bishop arose, and taking the little creature tenderly in his strong arms, walked back and forth in the small room until the moaning cry ceased and the child slept. he had just laid it again on the bed when the mother came back with her arms full of packages. the look of dull despair was gone from her worn face, and there was a gleam of hope in her eyes as she hastily prepared the medicine for the baby, while the bishop eagerly tore open one of the packages, and put bread into the hands of the other children. "god bless you, sir,--an' he will!" the woman said, earnestly, as the bishop was departing with a promise to come soon again. tode, from his seat in a corner had looked on and listened to all, and now followed the bishop down to the street, and on until they came to a big building. the boy did not know then what place it was. afterward he learned that it was the poorhouse. among the human driftwood gathered here there was one old man who had been a cobbler, working at his trade as long as he had strength to do so. the bishop had known him for a long time before he gave up his work, and now it was the one delight of the old man's life to have a visit from the bishop, and knowing this, the latter never failed to come several times each year. the old cobbler lived on the memory of these visits through the lonely weeks that followed them, looking forward to them as the only bright spots in his sorrowful life. "you'll pray with me before ye go?" he pleaded on this day when his visitor arose to leave. "surely," was the quick reply, and the bishop, falling on his knees, drew tode down beside him, and the old cobbler, the child and the man of god, bowed their heads together. a great wonder fell upon tode first, as he listened to that prayer, and then his heart seemed to melt within him. when he rose from his knees, he had learned who and what god is, and what it is to pray, and though he could not understand how it was, or why--he knew that henceforth his own life must be wholly different. something in him was changed and he was full of a strange happiness as he walked homeward beside his friend. but all in a moment his new joy departed, banished by the remembrance of that pocketbook. "i found it. i picked it up," he argued to himself, but then arose before him the memory of other things that he had stolen--of many an evil thing that he had done, and gloried in the doing. now the remembrance of these things made him wretched. the bishop was to deliver an address that evening, and tode was alone, for he did not feel like going to the housekeeper's room. he was free to go where he chose about the house, so he wandered from room to room, and finally to the study. it was dark there, but he felt his way to his seat beside the bishop's desk, and sitting there in the dark the boy faced his past and his future; faced, too, a duty that lay before him--a duty so hard that it seemed to him he never could perform it, yet he knew he must. it was to tell the bishop how he had been deceiving him all these weeks. tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but they flowed down his cheeks as he sat there in the dark and thought of the happy days he had spent there, and that now he must go away from it all--away from the bishop--back to the wretched and miserable life which was all he had known before. "oh, how _can_ i tell him! how can i tell him!" he sobbed aloud, with his head on the desk. the next moment a strong, wiry hand seized his right ear with a grip that made him wince, while a voice with a thrill of evil satisfaction in it, exclaimed in a low, guarded tone, "so! i've caught you, you young cheat. i've suspected for some time that you were pulling the wool over the bishop's eyes, but you were so plaguy cunning that i couldn't nab you before. you're a fine specimen, aren't you? what do you think the bishop will say to all this?" tode had recognised the voice of mr. gibson, the secretary. he knew that the secretary had a way of going about as soft-footed as a cat. he tried to jerk his ear free, but at that mr. gibson gave it such a tweak that tode could hardly keep from crying out with the pain. he did keep from it, however, and the next moment the secretary let him go, and, striking a match, lit the gas, and then softly closed the door. "now," he said, coming back to the desk, "what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing--to you," replied tode, looking full into the dark face and cruel eyes of the man. "i'll tell the bishop myself what there is to tell." "oh, you will, will you?" answered the man, with a sneer. "i reckon before you get through with your telling you'll wish you'd never been born. the bishop's the gentlest of men--until he finds that some one has been trying to deceive him. and you--you whom he picked up out of the street, you whom he has treated as if you were his own son--i tell you, boy, you'll think you've been struck by lightning when the bishop orders you out of his sight. he never forgives deceit like yours." tode's face paled and his lips trembled as he listened, but he would not give way before his tormentor. his silence angered the secretary yet more. "why don't you speak?" he exclaimed, sharply. "i'll speak to the bishop--not to you," replied the boy, steadily. his defiant tone and undaunted look made the secretary furious. he sprang toward the boy, but tode was on the watch now, and slipped out of his chair and round to the other side of the desk, where he stopped and again faced his enemy, for he knew now that this man was his enemy, though he could not guess the reason of his enmity. the secretary took a step forward, but at that tode sped across the room out of the door, and up to his own room, the door of which he locked. then he sat down and thought over what had happened, and the more he thought of it the more certain he felt that what the secretary had said was true. a long, long time the boy sat there, thinking sad and bitter thoughts. at last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted his head and looked about the bright, pretty room, as if he would fix it all in his mind so that he never could forget it, and as he looked at the soft, rich carpet, the little white bed with its fresh, clean linen, the wide, roomy washstand and bureau, he seemed at the same time to see the bare, dirty, cheerless little closet-like room to which he must return, and his heart ached again. at last he started up, searched in his pockets for a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to write. his paper was a much-crumpled piece that he had found that morning in the wastebasket, and as yet his writing and spelling were poor enough, but he knew what he wanted to express, and this is what he wrote: dear bishop: i hav ben mene and bad i am not def and dum but i acted like i was caus i thot you wood not kepe me if yu knu i am sory now so i am going away but i am going to kepe strate and not bee bad any more ever. i thank you and i lov you deer. tode bryan. it took the boy a long time to write this and there were many smudges and erasures where he had rubbed out and rewritten words. he looked at it with dissatisfied eyes when it was done, mentally contrasting it with the neat, beautifully written letters he had so often seen on the bishop's desk. "can't help it. i can't do no better," he said to himself, with a sigh. then he stood for several minutes holding the paper thoughtfully in his hand. "i know," he exclaimed at last, and ran softly down to the study. it was dark again there and he knew that mr. gibson had gone. going to the desk, he found the bible which the bishop always kept there. as tode lifted it the leaves fell apart at one of the bishop's best-loved chapters, and there the boy laid his letter and closed the book. he hesitated a moment, and then kneeling down beside the desk, he laid his face on the cover of the bible and whispered solemnly, "i _will_ keep straight--i will." it was nearly nine o'clock when tode returned to what had been his room; what would be so no longer. he undressed slowly, and as he took off each garment he looked at it and touched it lingeringly before he laid it aside. "i b'lieve he'd want me to keep these clothes," he thought, "but i don't know. maybe he wouldn't when he finds out how i've been cheatin' him. mrs. martin's burnt up my old ones, an' i've got to have some to wear, but i'll only take what i must have." so, with a sigh, he laid aside his white shirt with its glossy collar and cuffs, his pretty necktie and handkerchief. he hesitated over the shoes and stockings, but finally with a shake of the head, those, too, were laid aside, leaving nothing but one under garment and his jacket, trousers and cap. then he put out the gas and crept into bed. a little later he heard mrs. martin go up to her room, stopping for a moment to glance into his and see that he was in bed. later still, he heard the bishop come in and go to his room, and soon after the lights were out and all the house was still. tode lay with wide open eyes until the big hall clock struck twelve. then he arose, slipped on his few garments and turned to leave the room, but suddenly went back and took up a little testament. "he told me to keep it always an' read a bit in it ev'ry day," the boy thought, as with the little book in his hand he crept silently down the stairs. they creaked under the light tread of his bare feet as they never had creaked in the daytime. he crossed the wide hall, unfastened the door, and passed out into the night. vi. tode's new start a chill seemed to strike to tode's heart as he stood on the stone steps and looked up to the windows of the room where the bishop was sleeping, and his eyes were wet as he passed slowly and sorrowfully out of the gate and turned down the street. suddenly there was a swift rush, a quick, joyful bark, and there was tag, dancing about him, jumping up to lick his fingers, and altogether almost out of his wits with joy. tode sat down on the curbstone and hugged his rough, faithful friend, and if he whispered into the dog's ear some of the grief that made the hour such a bitter one--tag was true and trusty: he never told it. neither did he tell how, night after night, he had watched beside the big house into which he had seen his master carried, nor how many times he had been driven away in the morning by the servants. but tag's troubles were over now. he had found his master. [illustration: adrift again.] "well, ol' fellow, we can't stay here all night. we must go on," tode said at last, and the two walked on together to the house where the boy had slept before his accident. the outer door was ajar as usual, and tode and the dog went up the stairs together. tode tried the door of his room. it was locked on the inside. "they've let somebody else have it," he said to himself. "well, tag, we'll have to find some other place. come on!" once the boy would not have minded sleeping on a grating, or a doorstep, but now it seemed hard and dreary enough to him. he shivered with the cold and shrank from going to any of his old haunts where he would be likely to find some of his acquaintances, homeless street arabs, like himself. finally he found an empty packing box in an alley, and into this he crept, glad to put his bare feet against tag's warm body. but it was a dreary night to him, and weary as he was, he slept but little. as he lay there looking up at the stars, he thought much of the new life that he was to live henceforth. he knew very well that it would be no easy thing for him to live such a life, but obstacles in his way never deterred tode from doing, or at least attempting to do, what he had made up his mind to. he thought much, too, of the bishop, and these thoughts gave him such a heartache that he would almost have banished them had he been able to do so--almost, but not quite, for even with the heartache it was a joy to him to recall every look of that noble face--every tone of that voice that seemed to thrill his heart even in the remembrance. then came thoughts of nan and little brother, and these brought comfort to tode's sorrowful heart. he had not forgotten little brother during the past weeks. there had never been a day when he had not thought of the child with a longing desire to see him, though even for his sake he could hardly have brought himself to lose a day with the bishop. now, however, that he had shut himself out forever from what seemed to him the paradise of the bishop's home, his thoughts turned again lovingly toward the little one, and he could hardly wait for morning, so eager was he to go to him. fortunately for his impatience, he knew that the hunts and nan would be early astir, and at the first possible moment he went in search of them. he ran up the stairs with tag at his heels, and almost trembling with eagerness, knocked at the hunts' door. mrs. hunt herself opened it, and stared at the boy for a moment before she realised who it was. "for the land's sake, if it isn't tode! where in the world have you been all this time?" she cried, holding the door open for him to enter, while the children gazed wonderingly at him. "i've been sick--got hurt," replied tode, his eyes searching eagerly about the room. "i don't see nan or little brother," he added, uneasily. "they don't live here no more," piped up little ned. tode turned a startled glance upon mrs. hunt. "don't live here!" he stammered. "where do they live?" "not far off; just cross the entry," replied mrs. hunt, quickly. "nan's taken a room herself." "oh!" cried tode, in a tone of relief, "i'll go'n see her;" and waiting for no further words, he went. "well," exclaimed mrs. hunt, "he might 'a' told us how he got hurt an' all, 'fore he rushed off, i should think." "jus' like that tode bryan. he don't know nothin'!" remarked dick, scornfully. his mother gave him a searching glance. "there's worse boys than tode bryan, i'm afraid," she said. "there ye go agin, always a flingin' at me," retorted dick, rudely. "how's a feller to git on in the world when his own mother's always down on him?" "you know i'm not down on you, dick," replied his mother, tearfully. "you're always a hintin' nowdays, anyhow," muttered dick, as he reached over and helped himself to the biggest sausage in the dish. mrs. hunt sighed but made no answer, and the breakfast was eaten mostly in silence. meantime, tode running across the entry, had knocked on the door with fingers fairly trembling with eagerness and excitement. nan opening it, gave a glad cry at sight of him, but the boy, with a nod, pushed by her, and snatched up little brother who was lying on the bed. the baby stared at him for an instant and then as tode hugged him more roughly than he realised, the little lips trembled and the baby began to sob. that almost broke tode's heart. he put the child down, crying out bitterly, "oh little brother, _you_ ain't goin' to turn against me, sure?" as he spoke he held out his hands wistfully, and the baby, now getting a good look at him, recognised his favorite, and with his old smile held out his arms to the boy, who caught him up again but more gently this time, and sat down with him on his knee. it was some minutes before tode paid any attention to nan's questions, so absorbed was he with the child, but at length he turned to her and told her where he had been and what had happened to him. she listened to his story with an eager interest that pleased him. "wasn't it strange," she said, when he paused, "wasn't it strange, and lovely too, that you should have been taken into the bishop's house--and kept there all this time? did you like him just as much in his home as in the church, tode?" "he's--he's"--began tode with shining eyes, then as the bishop's face rose before him, he choked and was silent for a moment. "i don't b'lieve there's any other man like him in _this_ world," he said, finally. nan looked at him thoughtfully, at his face that seemed to have been changed and refined by his sickness and his new associations, at the neat clothes he wore, then at his bare feet. "i shouldn't think, if he's so good, that he would have let you come away--so," she said, slowly. tode flushed as he tried to hide his feet under his chair. "'twasn't his fault," he answered, quickly. he too was silent for a moment, then suddenly he sat upright with a look of stern resolve in his grey eyes, as he added, "nan, i'll tell you all there is about it, 'cause things are goin' to be diff'runt after this. i'm goin' to live straight every way, i am; i've--promised." then he told her frankly the whole story; how he had deceived the bishop, pretending to be deaf and dumb; how mr. gibson had come upon him in the study, and what he had said, and how, finally, he himself had come away in the night. nan listened to it all with the keenest interest. "and you had to sleep out of doors," she said; "i'm so sorry, but, if the bishop is so good, why didn't you stay and tell him all about it, tode? don't you think that that would have been better than coming away so without thanking him for all he had done--or anything?" tode shook his head emphatically. "you don't know him, nan," he replied. "he's good, oh better than anybody else in the world, i b'lieve, but don't you see, just 'cause _he's_ so good, he hates cheatin' an' lyin', just _hates_ 'em; an', oh i _couldn't_ tell him i'd been cheatin' him all this time, an' he so good to me." "i know, 'twould have been awful hard to tell him, tode, but seems to me 'twould have been best," the girl insisted. "i _couldn't_, nan," tode repeated, sadly, then impatiently thrusting aside his sorrow and remorse, he added, "come now, i want to know what you've been doin' while i've been gone. i used to think an' think 'bout you'n him," glancing at the baby, "an' wonder what you'd be doin'." "oh, we've got on all right," answered nan, "i was worried enough when you didn't come, 'specially when one of the hunt boys went down and found that your stand had not been opened. i was sure something had happened to you, 'cause i knew you never would stay away from us so, unless something was the matter." "right you are!" put in tode, emphatically. nan went on, "i was sure there was something wrong, too, when tag came here the next day. poor fellow, i was so sorry for him. one of his legs was all swollen and he limped dreadfully, and hungry--why, tode, he acted as if he were starving. but just as soon as i had fed him he went off again, and didn't come back till the next morning, and he's done that way ever since." tag had kept his bright eyes fastened on nan's face while she talked, and he gave a little contented whine as tode stooped and patted his head. "but tell me what you've ben doin', nan. how'd you get money enough to hire this room an' fix it up so dandy?" tode inquired, looking about admiringly. while nan talked she had been passing busily from table to stove, and now she said, "breakfast is ready, tode. bring your chair up here and give me little brother." tode reluctantly gave up the baby, and took his seat opposite nan at the little table. "you've got things fine," he remarked, glancing at the clean towel that served for a tablecloth, and the neat white dishes and well-cooked food. he was hungry enough to do full justice to nan's cooking, and the girl watched him with much satisfaction, eating little herself, but feeding the baby, as she went on with her story. "when you didn't come back, i knew i must find some way to sell my cookies and gingerbread and so i made some fresh and went to every family in this house and asked 'em if they would buy their bread and all of me instead of at the bakeshops. i told 'em i'd sell at the same price as the shops and give them better things. some wouldn't, but most of them had sense enough to see that it would be a good thing for them, and after they'd tried it once or twice they were ready enough to keep on. now i supply this house and the next one. it keeps me cooking all day, but i don't mind that. i'm only too glad that i can earn our living--little brother's and mine. of course, i couldn't be cooking all day on mrs. hunt's stove, and besides they have no room to spare and we crowded 'em, and so, as soon as i got money enough, i hired this room. i'm paying for the furniture as fast as i can. it was all secondhand, of course." tode looked admiringly at the girl, as she ceased speaking. "you've got a head," he remarked. "but now about cooking for my stand. will you have time to do that too?" "yes indeed," replied nan, promptly. "i'll find time somehow." tode hesitated, moved uneasily in his chair and finally said, "'spect you'll have to trust me for the first lot, nan. i ain't got no money, ye know." "why, tode, have you forgotten that ten dollars you asked me to keep for you?" "no--'course i ain't forgot it, but i thought maybe you'd had to use it. twould 'a' been all right if you had, you know." "oh no, i didn't have to use that. here it is," and nan brought it out from some hidden pocket about her dress. "then i'm all right," exclaimed the boy, in a tone of satisfaction. "i've got to get some clothes first an' then i'll be ready for business." "what's the matter with those clothes?" questioned nan. "oh, i've got to send these back to the bishop." tode's face was grave as he spoke. "but--i don't see why. he won't want em," nan remonstrated. "it's this way, nan." tode spoke very earnestly. "if i'd been what he thought i was, i know i could have kept all he gave me, but, you see, if he'd known i was cheatin' an' lyin' to him all the time he wouldn't 'a' given me a single thing, so don't ye see, i ain't no business to keep 'em, an' i ain't goin' to keep 'em a minute longer'n i have to." nan shook her head, for tode's reasoning had not convinced her, but seeing how strong was his feeling in the matter she said no more, and in a few minutes the boy went out, his face radiant with satisfaction, because little brother cried after him. he invested half his ten dollars in some second-hand clothes, including shoes and stockings. they were not very satisfactory after the garments he had been wearing of late, but he said to himself, "they'll have to do till i can get better ones an' sometime i'm agoin' to have some shirts an' have 'em washed every week, too." tode's trade, that day, was not very heavy, for it was not yet known among his regular customers that he had reopened his stand, but he took care to advertise the fact through those whom he met and he did not fear but that his business would soon be prospering again. that afternoon he succeeded in securing a tiny room in the house with nan. it was a dismal little closet, lighted only from the hall, but it was the best he could do, and tode considered himself fortunate to have his dark corner to himself, even though a broken chair and a canvas cot without bedding of any sort were all the furniture he could put into it then. nan shook her head doubtfully when he showed her the room. "dark and dirty," she said, with a sniff of disgust, as the boy threw open the door. "you must get somebody to scrub it for you, tode, and then whitewash the walls. that will make it sweeter and lighter." "so it will," responded the boy, promptly, "but i'll have to do the scrubbin' an' white-washin' both, myself." nan looked at him doubtfully. "i wonder if you'd get it clean," she said. "scrubbing's hard work." "you'll see. what'll i scrub it with--a broom?" "you ought to have a scrub-brush, but i haven't any. you'll have to do it with an old broom and a cloth. i can let you have the broom and i guess we can get a cloth of mrs. hunt. you going to do it now?" she added, as tode began to pull off his coat. "right now," he answered. "you see, nan, i've got loads of things to do, an' i can't be wastin' time." "what things?" questioned nan, curiously. "oh--i'll tell you about them after awhile," replied the boy. "the broom in your room?" "yes, i'll bring it to you," and nan hurried off. she came back with an old pail full of hot water, a piece of soap, a broom and a cloth, and then she proceeded to show tode how to clean the woodwork and floor, thoroughly, with special attention to the dark corners which looked, indeed, as if they had never been visited by a broom. nan was a thorough little housewife, and she longed to do the whole work herself, but tode would not allow that, so she could only stand and look on, wondering inwardly how a boy could handle a broom so awkwardly. but if he was slow and awkward about it, tode was in earnest, and he looked with much satisfaction at the result of his labor when it was completed. "you'll have to wash the floor again after you've whitewashed the walls," nan said, "but it needed two scrubbings, anyhow." tode looked at it ruefully. "oh, did it?" he said. "i think one such scrubbing as that ought to last it a year." nan laughed. "if you'll carry out my bread and things to-morrow, i'll do your whitewashing for you," she said. but tode shook his head. "i'll carry out your stuff all right," he answered, "but i ain't a-goin' to have a girl doin' my work for me." he bought the lime and paid also for the use of a pail and brush, and the next day he put a white coat on his walls, and when this was done, he was much better satisfied with his quarters. nan offered to lend him her shawl in place of a blanket, but he guessed that she needed it herself and refused her offer. vii. after tode's departure in the bishop's household, mrs. martin was always one of the earliest to rise in the morning, and just as tode sat down to breakfast with nan and little brother, the housekeeper was going downstairs. tode's door stood open and she saw that he was not in the room. her quick eyes noted also the pile of neatly folded garments on a chair beside the bed. she stepped into the room and looked around. then she hurried to the study, knowing that the boy loved to stay there, but the study was unoccupied. by the time breakfast was ready she knew that the boy had left the house, but the bishop refused to believe it, nor would he be convinced until the house had been searched from attic to cellar. when mr. gibson made his appearance, a gleam of satisfaction shone in his narrow eyes as he learned of tode's disappearance. "i was afraid something like this would happen," he remarked, gravely. "it's a hopeless kind of business, trying to make anything out of such material. i've had my suspicions of that boy for some time." "don't be too quick to condemn him, mr. gibson," exclaimed the bishop, hastily. "he may have had some good reason for going away so. i've no doubt he thought he had, but i had grown to love the lad and i shall miss him sadly." "did you never suspect that he was not deaf and dumb, as he pretended to be?" the secretary asked. the bishop looked up quickly. "why, no, indeed, i never had such an idea," he answered. an unpleasant smile flickered over the secretary's thin lips as he went on, "i heard the boy talking to himself, here in this room, last evening. he can hear and speak as well as you or i." "oh, i am sorry! i am sorry!" said the bishop, sadly, and then he turned to his desk, and sitting down, hid his face in his hands, and was silent. the secretary cast more than one swift, sidewise glance at him, but dared say no more then. after a while the bishop drew his bible toward him. it opened at the fourteenth chapter of john, and there lay tode's poor little soiled and blotted note. the bishop read it with tear-dimmed eyes, read it again and again, and finally slipped it into an envelope, and replaced it between the leaves of his bible. he said nothing about it to his secretary, and presently he went to his own room, where for a long time he walked back and forth, thinking about the boy, and how he might find him again. then brown came to him with a telegram summoning him to the sickbed of his only sister, and within an hour he left the city, and was absent two weeks. meantime tode, the morning after his scrubbing and whitewashing operations, had carefully folded the clothes he had worn when he left the bishop's house and tied them up in an old newspaper. into one of the pockets of the jacket he had put a note which ran thus: dear mrs. martin: pleas giv thes cloes to the bishop and tell him i wud not have took them away if i had had any others. i did not take shoes or stockins. i keep the littel testament and i read in it evry day. tell him i am trying to be good and when i get good enuf i shall go and see him. you was good to me but he was so good that he made me hate myself and evrything bad. i can never be bad again while i remember him. tode bryan. he hired a boy whom he knew, to carry the bundle to the bishop's house, and from behind a tree-box further down the street, he watched and saw it taken in by brown. the boy's heart was beating hard and fast, as he stood there longing, yet dreading, to see the bishop himself come out of the house. but the bishop was far away, and tode walked sadly homeward, casting many a wistful, lingering glance backward, as he went. brown carried the package gingerly to mrs. martin, for the boy who had delivered it was not over clean, and mrs. martin opened it with some suspicion, but when she saw the clothes she recognised them instantly, and finding the note in the pocket read it with wet eyes. "i knew that wasn't a bad boy," she said to herself, "and this proves it. he's as honest as the day, or he wouldn't have sent back these clothes--the poor little fellow. well, well! i hope the bishop can find him when he gets back, and as to the boy's pretending to be deaf and dumb, i'm sure there was something underneath that if we only knew it. anyhow, i do hope i'll see the little fellow again sometime." when the bishop returned the accumulated work of his weeks of absence so pressed upon him that for a while he had no time for anything else, and when at last he was free to search for tode, he could find no trace of him. as for tode, he had never once thought of the possibility of the bishop's searching for him. he looked forward to seeing his friend again sometime, but that time he put far away when he himself should be "more fit," as he said to himself. one evening soon after his return, nan had a long talk with him, a talk that left her wondering greatly at the change in his thoughts and purposes, and which made her regard him with quite a new feeling of respect. "nan," he began, "i told you i'd got loads of things to do now." "yes?" the girl looked at him inquiringly. tode was silent for a little. it was harder for him to speak than he had thought it would be. "you see," he went on, slowly, "i've been mean as dirt all my life. you don't know what mean things i've done, an' i ain't goin' to tell ye, only that i know now i've got to turn straight around an' not do 'em any more. i've got to make a man of myself," he drew himself up as he spoke, "a real man--the kind that helps other folks up. i can't say just what i mean, but i feel it myself," he added, with a half-appealing glance at nan. she had listened attentively with her eyes fastened on his earnest face. now she said softly, "you mean--you want to be the kind of man the bishop is, don't you?" "oh, i couldn't ever be _really_ like him," protested the boy, quickly, "but, well, i'm goin' to try to be a sort of shadow of him. i mean i'm goin' to try to amount to something myself, an' do what i can to help other poor fellers up instead of down. i'm goin' to lend a hand 'mongst the folks 'round here, just a little you know, as he does 'mongst the poor people he goes to see. but i've got some other things to do too. i've got some money to pay back, an' i've got to find a feller that i helped to pull down." and thereupon, tode told the story of mrs. russell's pocketbook and her search for jack finney. he told it all quite frankly, not trying in the least to excuse or lessen his own guilt in the matter. "it will take you a long time to save up so much money, tode," nan said when he paused. "yes, unless i can find some way to earn more, but i can't help that. i'll do the best i can, an' i've got some notions in my head." he talked over with her some of his plans and projects, and as she listened, she thought to herself, "he's getting 'way ahead of me, but i'm afraid he'll get into trouble at first." and she was not mistaken. tode was now so thoroughly in earnest himself that he forgot to take into consideration the fact that those whom he meant to help up might prefer to be left to go down in their own fashion. his old associates speedily discovered that a great change had come over tode bryan, and the change did not meet with their approval. they called it "mighty cheeky" of him to be "pokin' his nose" into their affairs, and they would show him that he'd better stop it. so tode soon found himself exceedingly unpopular, and, what was worse, in a way, under a boycott that threatened to ruin his business. he fell into the way of carrying his trials and perplexities to nan, and talking them over with her. she had plenty of that common sense, which is not very common after all, and she often made him see the reason of his failures, while at the same time he was sure of her sympathy. one evening tode appeared in her room with his little testament in his hand. there was a perplexed expression in his eyes as he said, "nan, 'bout readin' this, you know--i've been peggin' away at the first part, an' i can't make nothin' of it. it's just a string of funny words, names, i s'pose. _i_ don't see no sense to it." nan glanced at the page to which he had opened. it was the first chapter of matthew. "oh, that's all it is, just a lot of names. you can skip all that, tode," she answered, easily. "no i can't, neither," replied the boy, decidedly. "if i begin to skip, no knowin' where i'll stop. if it's readin' this book that makes folks good, i've got to know all 'bout it. say, can't you read this with me an' tell me how to call all these jawbreakers?" nan looked rather shocked at the boy's free and easy reference to the book, but seeing from his grave face and serious manner that he was very much in earnest, she sat down with him, and the two young heads bent over the page together. "i remember reading this chapter with mother," nan said, gently, "and she told me how to pronounce these names, but i can't remember all of them now. i'll do the best i can, though," and she read slowly the first seventeen verses, tode repeating each name after her. "whew!" he exclaimed, in a tone of intense relief, when the task was ended, "that's 'bout the toughest job ever i tackled." "well, you see, you needn't read all that again. the rest of the chapter is different. it's all about jesus," nan said. tode read the remaining verses slowly by himself, but he shook his head in a dissatisfied way as he closed the book. "that's easier than the names to read, but i don't seem to get much out of it. guess i'm too thick-headed," he said, in a discouraged tone. "tode," exclaimed nan, suddenly, "you ought to go to some sunday-school. then you'd learn all about the bible and the things you want to know." "might be a good scheme, that's a fact," he answered, thoughtfully. "reckon i'll try it on anyhow, an' see how it works." "yes, do. i always used to go before mother was sick. if you have a good teacher you'll like it, i'm sure." "there's a mission school down near my stand. i'll have a try at it next sunday an' see what it's like," tode said. so the very next day he went to the mission chapel, and, from the notice on the door, found out the hours of service, and the following sunday he was on hand in due season. as he went somewhat doubtfully up the steps, he saw in the vestibule a young man, who stepped forward and held out his hand, saying cordially, "glad to see you here. are you a stranger?" tode wasn't quite sure what a stranger might be, but he muttered, "i ain't never been here before." "then i'm glad i happened to meet you. will you come into my class?" tode nodded and followed the young man into the chapel, which was already nearly full of boys and girls. "my name is scott. what is yours?" inquired the stranger, as he led the way to his own corner of the room. tode gave his name, and mr. scott introduced him to half a dozen boys who had already taken their places in his class. one of these boys was dick hunt. he gave tode a careless nod by way of greeting, as the latter dropped into the seat next him. to tode's great satisfaction the lesson chanced to be on the birth of the lord jesus, and mr. scott told the boys the whole story so clearly and vividly, that tode at least was intensely interested. it was all new and fresh to him, and he was listening eagerly to every word, when suddenly dick hunt ran a long pin deep into his leg. the pain made him start and almost cry out, but he suppressed the cry as he turned and gave dick a savage pinch that made him writhe, as he exclaimed in a threatening tone, "you stop that!" mr. scott turned grave, inquiring eyes on the two, as he asked: "what's the matter, dick?" "he's a pinchin' me--tode bryan is. he give me an awful tweak when you wasn't a lookin'." "is that so?" mr. scott asked, and tode, with a scornfully defiant glance at dick, answered promptly, "yes." "i am sorry, tode," said mr. scott; "you can sit here on the other side." tode's face flushed a little as he changed his seat, but now another of the boys, having a grudge against dick, cried out, "hunt stuck a pin in him first; i seen him do it." "you hush up!" muttered dick, with a scowl. just then the superintendent's bell sounded and the lesson time was over. when the school was dismissed, mr. scott detained tode. "why didn't you tell me that dick had stuck a pin into you first," the teacher asked, rapidly turning the leaves of his bible as he spoke. "i ain't a sneak like he is," answered tode, briefly. mr. scott found the place that he wanted, and keeping his finger between the leaves, looked thoughtfully at the boy before him. "you told me that your name is tode. that is what the boys call you. it isn't your real name, is it?" he asked, with a friendly look. tode puckered his forehead into a puzzled frown at the question. "n-no," he answered, slowly. "there's some more to it, but i can't think what 'tis. wish't i could." "you've no father or mother?" "no--never had none since i's big enough to know anything," was the careless reply. mr. scott laid his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder. "my boy," he said, slowly and earnestly, "i believe yours is a very beautiful name. it must be theodore." "that's it! that's it!" exclaimed tode, excitedly. "i 'member somebody told it to me once, an' i know that's it. how'd you know it so quick?" he looked up wonderingly into his teacher's face as he asked the question. "i once knew another theodore who was nicknamed tode; but, my boy, do you know what your name means?" tode shook his head. "didn't know names meant anything," he answered. "but they do. theodore means the gift of god. a boy with such a name as that ought to count for something in the world." "i mean to." the boy uttered the words slowly and emphatically. mr. scott's face brightened. "do you mean that you love and serve the lord jesus, theodore?" he asked, softly. the boy shook his head half sadly, half perplexedly. "i don't know nothin' much 'bout him," he answered, with a gentleness most strange and unusual in him, "but i've promised to do the right thing every time now--an' i'm a-goin' to do it." "you have promised--whom, theodore?" "promised myself--but i don't know nothin' much 'bout what is the right thing," he added, in a discouraged tone. "you'll soon learn if you're in earnest, my boy. this book will tell you all you need to know. can you read?" "some." "then read this verse for me, will you?" mr. scott held out his bible and pointed to the verse. slowly and stumblingly the boy read, "dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves," and again, "recompense to no man evil for evil." seeing that tode did not understand the meaning of what he had read, mr. scott explained the passages to him. the boy listened attentively, then he exclaimed in a tone of dismay, "but does it mean that a feller can't never strike back?" "that's what it says." tode pondered this unpalatable statement with a clouded face. "but what ye goin' to do when some other feller cuts up rough with ye?" "find some other way to get even with him." "but i don't see--what other way is there 'cept hittin' him a harder one'n he gives you?" mr. scott opened his bible again and pointed to the last two verses of the twelfth chapter of romans. tode went home that day with his mind in a tumult. these new ideas did not suit him at all. a "word and a blow," and the blow first had been his method of settling such questions heretofore, and it seemed to him far the better way. he took a roundabout route home, for he did not want to see nan until he had thought out this matter to his own satisfaction. to help people poorer or weaker than himself, or to "keep straight" himself, and help others to do likewise--this was one thing. to meekly submit to ill treatment and "take a blow" from a fellow whom he "could whip with his little finger"--this was quite another and, to one of tode's temperament, a far more distasteful thing. the boy had reached no conclusion when he finally went home to supper. he was silent and thoughtful all the evening, but it was not until the following day that he spoke of the matter to nan. nan listened in perplexed silence to what he had to say. she had been well taught while her mother lived, but she had never given these subjects any real, deep thought, as tode was doing now. she began to feel that this rough, untaught street boy was likely to get far ahead of her if he should keep on pondering over questions like this. even now she could give him but little help. seeing this, tode took up his testament again, and read on and on until he had finished the book of matthew, and gained a pretty clear idea of the life and death of jesus the christ. there was much, of course, that he did not understand at all. many of the words and expressions conveyed no meaning to him, but yet he gathered enough to understand, in a measure, what that life was, and he began dimly to realise why the bishop gave so much of his time and thought to god's poor. the boy pondered these things in his heart, and a new world seemed to open before him. "nan," he said at last, "i've found out what my real name is. it's theodore." "theodore," repeated the girl. "well, i'm glad to know it, for i never did like to call you tode. how did you find out?" "mr. scott said it to me, and i knew as soon as i heard it that that was it." "then i won't ever call you tode again. i shall call you theo. i like that." the boy liked it too. it gave him a strange thrill of pleasure every time he thought of what mr. scott had said about the meaning of his name. viii. theo's shadow work the days that followed were very busy ones for both nan and theo. the girl spent most of her time over the stove or the moulding board, and the boy, delivering the supplies to many of the families in the two big tenement houses, attending to his stand, and selling evening papers, found the days hardly long enough for all that he wanted to do. as he went from room to room with nan's bread and soup and gingerbread, he soon learned much about the different families and found plenty of opportunities to serve as the "bishop's shadow," in these poor homes. money he had not to give, for every penny that he could possibly spare was laid aside for a special purpose now, but he found countless ways to carry help and sunshine to sad and sore hearts, without money. one morning he left nan's room with a basket piled with bread--brown and white--in one hand, and a big tin pail full of boiled hominy in the other. he went first to the top floor, stopping at one door after another, where dirty, frowzy women and children opened at the sound of his cheery whistle. he handed in the loaves, or the measures of hominy with a gay word or a joke that more than once banished a frown from a woman's worn face, or checked the tears of a tired, hungry child. children were getting to be fond of the boy now, and he liked it. in one room there were two families and half a dozen children. in one corner, on a rickety couch was a crippled boy, who had lain there day after day, through long, weary months. he was listening intently for that whistle outside the door, and when he heard it, his dull eyes brightened, and he called out eagerly, "oh, tell him to come in a minute--_just_ a minute!" the woman who opened the door, said indifferently, "tommy wants you to come in a minute." theo stepped over to the tumbled couch, and smiled down into the wistful eyes of the sick boy. "hello, old man!" he said, cheerily. "i've brought you something," and out of his pocket he pulled a golden chrysanthemum that he had picked up in the street the day before, and had kept all night in water. it was not very fresh now, but tommy snatched it hungrily, and gazed at it with a happy smile. "oh, how pretty--how pretty it is!" he cried, softly smoothing the golden petals with his little bony forefinger. "can i keep it, truly?" [illustration: "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!"] "'course. i brought it for you," theo answered, his round, freckled face reflecting the boy's delight. "but i must scoot. folks'll be rowin' me if their bread's late." he ran off leaving the sick boy with the flower held lovingly against his thin white cheek, while his eyes followed wistfully theo's strong, active figure as he hurried away. on the next floor, an old woman, bent and stiffened by rheumatism, sat alone all day, while her children were away at work. she could not get out of her chair, or help herself in any way. her breakfast would be a penny's worth of nan's hominy, but on this morning her children had gone off without even setting out a dish, or a cup of water for her. tode brought her a saucer and spoon, filled a cup with fresh water from the faucet, and pulled up the curtain so that the sunlight would shine in upon her. "there, old lady," he said, brightly, when this was done, "now you're all right, an' i'll be in again an' fix your dinner for ye." the old woman's dim eyes looked after him, and she muttered a word of thanks as she turned slowly to her breakfast. the boy wasted no minutes, for he had none to spare, but even when he did not step inside a door at all, he always had a smile or a bright word ready for each customer, and in lives where sin or grinding poverty has destroyed all hope, and life has become simply dull, dogged endurance of suffering, a cheerful word or smile has a wonderful power. these wretched women and forlorn little children had already begun to look forward to the coming of the "bread boy," as the little ones called him, as a bright spot in their days. in almost every room he managed to leave a hint of cheer behind him, or at least to lighten a little the cloudy atmosphere. his pail and basket empty, he ran back to nan's room for his own supplies, and having opened his stand he served his customers, taking his own breakfast between whiles, as he had opportunity. he sold the morning papers, too, at his stand, and between twelve and one o'clock he was as busy as a boy could well be. after that hour few customers appeared, and then, having made his midday meal from whatever he had left, he closed his stand and went home. then was his time for a little more of what nan called his "shadow work," when he refilled with fresh water the cup of the rheumatic old woman, or carried her a cup of tea that nan had made for her, adding to it, perhaps, a cooky or a sandwich that remained from his stock. or he glanced into a room where two or three children were locked in all day while the mothers were away at work--and attended to the fire for them. often he found time for a five minutes' chat with crippled tommy, and now and then he walked awhile with a sick baby in his arms as he had seen the bishop do that day long before. they were all little things that the boy did, but as he kept on doing them day after day, he found in this service for others such happiness as he never had known before. tommy's delight in the half-withered chrysanthemum set theo to thinking, and the result of his thinking was that he began to frequent the flower stalls and pick up the broken blossoms that were occasionally thrown aside there. one day a woman who was selling flowers, said to him, "say, boy, what do you do with the flowers you pick up? i've seen you 'round here after 'em lots o' times lately." "give 'em to sick folks an' poor ones that can't get out anywheres," replied the boy, promptly. the woman searched his face to see if he were deceiving her, but there was nothing sly or underhanded in the clear eyes that returned her gaze so frankly. "hm-m," she murmured, thoughtfully. "what do you do saturday nights, boy?" "nothin' much, after i've sold out my papers." "well, saturday night's our busy time here; one of our busy times, that is, an' if you want to come 'round an' help for an hour or two, i'll pay you in the flowers that are left over." theo's eyes brightened, but he was shrewd, and was not going to bind himself to an agreement that might not be satisfactory. "i'll come next sat'day an' try it," he said. "all right," and the woman turned to a customer. theo was on hand promptly the next saturday evening. he found that the flower woman wanted him to carry home pots of growing plants for lady purchasers. he was kept busy until nine o'clock, and received in payment a good-sized basket full of violets, roses, heliotrope and carnations. some had short stems, and some were a little wilted, but the boy was well content with his pay. "most of them will freshen up and look bright as ever if you put them to-night in a pail of water where they'll have plenty of room," the woman said; "and here--this is for good luck," and she handed him a little pot of geranium with a cluster of pink blossoms. that brought a smile of genuine delight to the boy's face. "oh!" he cried, "that's dandy! i'll give it to nan." "and who's nan--your sister?" questioned the woman. "n--no, not quite. guess she's as good's my sister, though. shall i come next sat'day, ma'am?" replied the boy. "yes, come next saturday, an' right along, if you keep on doing as well's you've done to-night." theo almost ran home, so eager was he to show nan his treasures. he had never cared very much for flowers himself, but he was beginning now to realise their value to others, and he was sure that nan would be delighted with the geranium. he was not disappointed. the girl's eyes sparkled at sight of the delicate pink blossoms and she thanked him so heartily that he could only mutter, "oh, shucks! 'tain't nothin' much." then he showed her his basket of cut flowers, and she exclaimed delightedly over them as she lifted them out as tenderly as if they had been alive, and placed them carefully in a pail of fresh water in which she had sprinkled a little salt. "mother used to put salt in the water to keep flowers fresh," she said, "and oh, won't it be _lovely_ to carry these around to the shut-ins, tomorrow, theo! i think mrs. hunt would like some," she added. "all right. pick out what you like an' take 'em in to her now." nan selected some of the freshest blossoms and went across with them to her neighbour, leaving theo with the baby, who was asleep. she was gone some time, and when she returned her face was grave. "what's the matter? didn't she like 'em?" asked the boy. "yes, indeed, she was ever so pleased with them, and told me to thank you for sending them to her--but, theo, she's worrying so over dick. she thinks he's going all wrong." "so he is," answered theo, soberly. "and can't you do anything about it?" "don't see's i can. he's in with a mean lot o' fellers, 'n he's no good anyhow, nowadays." "but there must be some good in him. his father and mother are so good," pleaded nan. "mrs. hunt was crying when i went in. she says dick often stays out till midnight or after now, and she's afraid he'll be locked up." "serve him right if he was," muttered theo, under his breath. "he's lost the place his father got for him," added nan. "'course. nobody'd keep such a feller long." nan shook her head sorrowfully, thinking of dick's mother. theo said no more, and soon left the room. nan thought he had gone to bed, but instead, he went out and walked slowly and somewhat doubtfully toward a saloon which he had seen dick enter more than once of late. theo, himself, used to go there, but he had not been near the place for many a week. he did not want to go in now, and he waited about outside, wishing that dick would come out, and yet uncertain what to do if he did come. finally he pushed open the door and went up the stairs. a dozen or so boys were there, many of whom he knew, and among them was dick. the proprietor of the place gave the boy a warm welcome, and some of the boys greeted him gaily, but dick scowled as theo sat down beside him. he waited until the loud talk began again, then he said in a low tone, "dick, i came after you. will you go home with me now? your mother's frettin'." dick's face darkened angrily. "who made you boss over me?" he shouted, springing from his seat with a threatening gesture. "you mind your own business, will you?" theo's cheeks flushed as every face in the room was turned toward him. "what's the row?" "what's he doin'?" "what does he want?" "put him out! put him out!" these shouts and others mingled with oaths as all crowded about the two boys. "there's no row, an' nothin' to get mad about," said theo, trying to speak quietly. "dick's mother's frettin', an' i asked him to go home with me. that's all there is about it." "an' enough it is too," exclaimed one of the boys. "dick's big enough to know when to go home, ain't he?" "what's he got to do with me or my mother?" growled dick, "i'll go home when i get good an' ready, an' not before." "an' it's time for _you_ to go home now!" exclaimed the proprietor of the place, elbowing his way to the front of the group, and addressing theo. "we don't want none o' your sort around here. now clear out--d'ye hear?" seeing that it was useless to stay longer, theo departed, followed by taunting cries and yells, from all in the room. he went gloomily homeward, telling himself that he had been a fool to try to do anything for dick hunt. dick was "no good anyhow." but, as he passed her door, mrs. hunt opened it and peered anxiously out. her eyes were red and swollen, and she turned back with a disappointed air as she saw theo. the next moment however, she stepped out into the hall, pushing the door to behind her. "tode," she whispered, "do you know where my dick is?" the boy answered reluctantly, "he's down at todd's." mrs. hunt put her apron to her eyes and sobbed softly. "oh, dear," she moaned, "his father's gone to look for him, an' if he finds him there he'll most kill him--he's that mad with the boy for the way he's been goin' on lately." theo stood silent, not knowing what to say, and then mrs. hunt turned back into the room while he went up another flight to his. he had just reached his own door when he heard loud, angry voices accompanied by scuffling sounds on the stairs below, and he knew that mr. hunt had found dick, and was bringing him home. after theodore had gone out, nan had put all the flowers into two big dishes with plenty of water, and the next morning she was up early and separated them, putting together two or three pinks or a rose with its buds and a bit of foliage, or a cluster of geranium blossoms and green leaves. when theo came for them she laid the small clusters carefully in a basket, and sprinkled them with fresh water, then as she stooped and buried her face among the fragrant, beautiful things she exclaimed, "oh theo, i wish i had time to go with you, and see how happy you make them all with these beautiful, lovely flowers." "i'll begin with you," laughed the boy. "pick out the ones you like best." but nan put her hands resolutely behind her and shook her head. "no, i'm not sick and i've had the pleasure of seeing them all, and fixing them, beside my pot of geranium. that's plenty for me." theodore looked critically at her, then at the blossoms; then he picked out three delicate pink carnations. "no, no! please don't, theo," began the girl, but with a laughing glance at her, theodore laid the blossoms in little brother's small white fingers, and hurried away. he went first to tommy o'brien's room. the sick boy's weary face brightened at sight of him, but it fairly beamed when theodore held up the basket saying, "choose any one of 'em tommy--the very prettiest of all." "o-oh!" cried tommy. "i never saw so many. oh, theo, where did you get 'em all?" theo told him while the woman and the children crowded about the basket to see and exclaim over the contents. tommy chose a spray of lily of the valley and theo added a pink rose and bud. then he gave a blossom to each of the children and to their mothers as well, and went away leaving softened faces and smiles in place of frowns and sullen words. the old woman whose breakfast was so often forgotten was not alone to-day. her daughters were at home, but they were not paying much attention to her. at first she peered stupidly with her half-blind eyes into theo's basket, then suddenly she cried out, "oh, i smell 'em! i smell vi'lets. where be they? where be they?" there was one little bunch of violets in the basket. theo snatched it up and laid it in the wrinkled, trembling hands. the old woman held the blossoms against her withered cheek, then she pressed them to her lips, and two big tears rolled slowly down her face. "la! ma's cryin' over them vi'lets. here tode, gi' me some o' them bright ones. gi' me a rose!" cried one of the young women, and theo handed each of them a rose and went away in silence. he glanced back as he left the room. the old woman was still holding the violets to her cheek and it was plain, even to the boy, that her thoughts were far away. so, from room to room he went and nowhere did he fail of a glad welcome, because of the gifts he offered. in the dirtiest rooms, the most hardened of the women, the roughest and rudest of the children, seemed to become momentarily gentle and tender when the flowers were laid in their hands. when all had been given away except one rose, theodore paused and considered. there were several rooms that he had not visited. to which of these should he carry this last rose? not to old man schneider surely. he was standing at the moment outside old man schneider's door. the old man was the terror of all the children in the house, so ugly and profane was he, and so hideous to look at. fearless as theodore was--the sight of old man schneider always made him shudder, and the boy had never yet spoken to him. while he stood there trying to decide who should have the rose, he heard a deep, hollow groan, and surely it came from the room of old man schneider. theodore stood still and listened. there came another groan and another, and then he knocked on the door. there was no response and he opened it and went in. he had been in many dirty, dismal rooms, but never in one so dirty and so dismal as this. it looked as if it never had been clean. the only furniture was a tumble-down bed in one corner, a chair and a broken stove. on the bed, the old man was lying, covered with rags. he fixed his sunken eyes on the boy and roughly demanded what he wanted, but even as he spoke he groaned again. "you are sick--can't i do something for you?" asked the boy. the old man gazed at him for a moment, then he broke into a torrent of angry words, ending with, "get out o' my sight. i hate boys. i hate everybody an' everything." theodore stood still. the rose in his hand looked strangely out of place in that squalid room--but--beautifully out of place, for it seemed to shed light and color as well as perfume through the close, unhealthy atmosphere. "clear out, i say. why don't ye go?" the old man tried to shake a threatening fist, but his arm dropped weakly, and in spite of himself he moaned with pain. "can't i bring a doctor or somebody to help you?" the boy asked gently. "ain't nobody ter help me. don't i tell ye i hate everybody?" was the fierce reply. theodore gazed about him. there seemed nothing that he could do. he hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and laid the beautiful rose against the dark, knotted fingers on the ragged bed-covering, and then he went away, closing the door behind him. stopping only to put his basket into his room and lock the door, he hurried off to the dispensary and asked that a doctor be sent to old man schneider as soon as possible. he waited until the doctor was at liberty and then returned with him. there was no response to their knock, and again theodore opened the door and went in, the doctor following. the old man did not move or look up even when the doctor spoke to him. he lay as theo had last seen him only that his fingers were closed tightly over the stem of the rose, and one crimson petal lay on the pillow close to the sunken cheek. the old man was dead--but who could tell what thoughts of other days--of sinless days long past, perhaps--may have been awakened in his heart by that fragrant, beautiful bit of god's handiwork? as theodore went quietly up the stairs, he was glad that he had not passed by old man schneider's door. ix. theo in trouble theo went regularly now to the mission school on sunday afternoons, and mr. scott had become much interested in him. one day mr. scott pleased theo immensely by going to the boy's stand and getting his lunch there, and not long after he went one evening to the boy's room. he found the place dark and the door locked, but as he was turning away, theo came running up the stairs. "oh!" he cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise, as he saw his teacher. "wait a minute an' i'll get a light." having lighted his lamp, the boy sat down on the cot, giving the broken stool to his visitor. mr. scott's heart was full of sympathy as he glanced around the forlorn little room and remembered that it was all the home that the boy had. "theodore," he said, after talking a while, "what do you do evenings?" "oh, sometimes i stay in nan's room, an' sometimes i drop in an' talk to tommy o'brien or some of the other sick ones in the house, an' sometimes i go somewheres outside. saturday nights i help at a flower stand." "why don't you go to an evening school? i think that would be the best place for you to spend your evenings," said mr. scott. this was a new idea to the boy. he thought it over in silence. mr. scott went on, "it's not your fault, theodore, that you have had no schooling, thus far, but now, you can go to an evening school and it will be your fault if you grow up ignorant. you will be able to do far more and better work in the world, with an education, than without one. the more you know yourself the better you can help others, you see." "yes," sighed the boy. "i guess that's so, but i 'spect i'll find it tough work learning." "i'm not so sure of that. it will be rather hard at first, because you're not used to studying; but i think you are bright enough to go ahead pretty fast when you once get a good start. now who is this girl, that i've heard you mention several times--nan is her name?" "oh, yes, nan. come on, i want you to see her an' our baby," replied the boy, eagerly. somewhat uncertain as to what kind of a girl this might be, yet anxious to know as much as possible about theo's associates and surroundings, mr. scott followed the boy down the stairs. "nan, here's my teacher, mr. scott, come to see the baby," theodore exclaimed, as he unceremoniously pushed open the door and ushered in the visitor. mr. scott was more taken aback than was nan, at this abrupt introduction. the girl coloured a little, but quietly arose and shook hands with the gentleman, while theo exclaimed: "good! little brother ain't asleep yet. this is our baby, mr. scott. ain't he a daisy? take him." now, mr. scott was a young man and totally unused to "taking" babies, but the boy had lifted the little one from the bed and was holding him out to his teacher with such a happy face that the young man felt that it would never do to disappoint him. so he received the baby gingerly in both hands and set him on his knee, but he did not know what to say or do to amuse the child, and it was an immense relief to him when little brother held out his hands to theo, and the boy took him again saying, "ye don't know him yet, do ye, little brother? you will though, by 'n' by," wherein theo was more of a prophet than he imagined. relieved of the child, mr. scott turned to nan and the colour rose in his face as he saw a gleam of amusement in the girl's dark eyes, but theo's ready tongue filled up the momentary pause, and soon all three were chatting like old friends, and when mr. scott took his departure, it was with the conviction that his new scholar was fortunate in having nan for a friend. at the same time he realised that this great tenement with its mixed community was a most unsuitable place for a girl like nan, and determined that she should be gotten into better surroundings as soon as it could be accomplished. his interest in theodore was deepened by this visit to his room and friends. he felt that there was something unusual in the boy, and determined to keep watch of him and give him any needed help. it was november now and the night was chilly. as mr. scott left the tenement house he buttoned his thick overcoat about him, and shivered as he thought of theodore's bare cot, with not a pillow or a blanket even. "not a single bit of bedding," he said, to himself, "and no fire! that will never do, in weather like this." the next day he mentioned the case to the aunt with whom he lived, with the result that a couple of pillows and a warm comforter were sent before night to nan's room, addressed to theodore bryan, and for the remainder of the winter the boy at least did not suffer from cold at night. theodore grew to like his teacher much as the weeks passed, and often after sunday-school the two walked home together. some of the boys that had been longer in the class rather resented this friendship, the more so as theo was by no means popular among them just at this time. "he's gettin' too good, tode bryan is," one of them said, one sunday. "he walked home with teacher last week, an' now he's a doin' it again." he glanced gloomily after the two, as he spoke. "i'd like ter punch his head; that's what i'd like to do," put in another. "he pitched inter me for swearin' t'other day." "he's a fine one to talk 'bout swearin'," added a third. "i've heard him goin' it hot an' heavy many a time." "oh yes, but he's settin' up fer a saint now, ye know," said dick hunt, scornfully. "i owe him a lickin,' an' he'll get it too 'fore he's many days older." "what for, dicky?" questioned another. "what for? for blabbin' to my daddy an' sendin' him to todd's after me, the night he come sneakin' in there himself," cried dick. "i've been layin' for him ever since, an' i'll give it to him good, first chance i get." "he goes to night school now," remarked one. "oh, yes, he's puttin' on airs all 'round," returned dick. "i'll night school him!" he added, vengefully. it was not long before dick found an opportunity to execute his threats of vengeance. he was loafing on a street corner, with carrots and two other boys, one night, when theodore passed them on his way home from school. he nodded to them as he went by, but did not stop. dick's eyes followed him with a threatening glance until he saw him turn through a narrow street. then dick held a brief conference with carrots and the other two, and all four set off hastily in the direction that theodore had taken. he, meantime, went on whistling cheerily and thinking pleasant thoughts, for he was beginning to get on at the school, and better yet, he had in his pocket at that moment, a five-dollar bill that meant a great deal to him. ever since his return from the bishop's house, he had been working as he never had worked before, neglecting no opportunity to earn even a nickel, and every penny that he could possibly spare he had given to nan to keep for him. he had been perfectly frank with her, and she knew that as soon as he had saved up thirty-seven dollars he meant to carry it to the bishop for mrs. russell, and tell him the whole story. first, to stop all his wrongdoing and then as far as possible, to make up to those he had wronged--these were theodore's firm purposes now, but he felt that he could never bear to face the bishop again until he could take with him the proof of his genuine repentance. many and many a time in these past weeks, had the boy planned with nan how he would go to the house and what he would say to the bishop, and what he hoped the bishop would say to him, and nan had rejoiced almost as much as the boy himself as, week by week, the sum in her hands grew toward the desired amount. even nan did not know all the hard work and stern self-denial that had made it possible for theodore to put by that money out of his small earnings. the five in his pocket on this evening would complete the entire sum and the very next day he meant to carry it to the bishop. the mere thought of seeing again the face that was to him like no other face in all the world--filled the boy's heart with a deep, sweet delight. he was thinking of it as he hurried along through a short, dark alley, where were only two or three stables and one empty house. quick, stealthy footsteps followed him, but he paid no heed to them until a heavy blow on the back of his head made him suddenly turn and face four dark figures that were close at his heels. "who are you? what ye hittin' me for?" he demanded, angrily. there was no response, but dick struck at him again. this time, however, theodore was on his guard, and he caught dick's arm and gave it a twist that made its owner cry out. "oh ho, it's you, dick hunt. i might a' known nobody else would sneak up on a feller this way. well, now, what are ye after?" "i'm after givin' you the worst lickin' ever you had," muttered dick, trying in vain to free his arm from theo's strong grip. "what for?" demanded theodore. "for sneakin' into todd's and then runnin' to tell my father where i was. that's one thing, but there's plenty more't i'm goin' to settle with you for, to-night," shouted dick, as he pounded with his left hand, and kicked viciously at the other's shins. "i never spoke to your father that night," theo declared, but dick responded, scornfully, "tell that to a greenhorn! pitch into him, boys. he won't let go o' me." seeing the others start toward him, theo flung dick's arm aside, and bracing himself against a vacant house just behind him, faced them all in dogged silence. they hesitated for a moment, but dick cried out again, "come on, boys!" and the four flung themselves upon theo, striking, pounding and kicking all together. he defended himself as best he could, but the odds were too great. it was only when the boy slipped to the ground in a limp, motionless heap, that his assailants drew off, and looked uneasily at one another in the darkness. "what'll we do now?" whispered carrots. "cut it--somebody's comin'!" cried dick, in a low tone, and thereupon they took to their heels, leaving theo as he had fallen on the ground. the boys stopped running as soon as they reached a lighted street where the passers-by might notice them; but they walked on rapidly and discussed the affair in low, guarded tones. "you don't think he's done for, do ye, dick?" questioned carrots, uneasily. dick tried to laugh carelessly, but the effort was a failure. he was beginning to be anxious as to the result, though he was not ready to admit it. "done for? not much!" he answered, promptly. "more like he was shammin', an' wasn't hurt half so much as he'd ought ter be." "but if 'tain't so-if he's hurt bad, he may have us up for 'sault an' batt'ry," remarked another. "dick's the only one he could go for, 'cause 'twas so dark, he couldn't spot the rest of us," put in carrots, hastily. "ye needn't try to sneak out o' it that way," cried dick, sharply. "if i get took up, you'll be, too." "d'ye mean't you'd give us away after gettin' us into it, jest ter help you out?" demanded the other, in a threatening tone. "if he does, we'll make it hot fer _him_" put in another, as dick answered, doubtfully, "wal if he should make a fuss 'bout it, i can't take all the blame, can i? i didn't do all the whackin'." "well, i say, boys, he's a nice one, dick hunt is! after gettin' us to help him lick a feller 'cause he darsent do it alone, he talks of gettin' us took up for it," exclaimed the last speaker; "but see here, you," he added to dick, "bryan knew you an' he didn't know any the rest of us, an' i tell ye what--if you get inter trouble 'bout this job, you lug us into it 'f ye dare! i'll swear 't carrots an' jo here were down t' my place with me, 'n' they'll swear to it too; hey, boys?" "we will so!" "we'll do that ev'ry time!" they answered in one voice; and then with a few cutting words the three turned off together, leaving dick to pursue his way alone. and miserable enough dick was as he walked on alone. he was not in the least sorry for what had been done to theodore, but he was afraid of the consequences. he turned sick with dread as he remembered how the boy's body had slipped in a limp heap to the ground and lain there motionless. suppose they had killed him? it would be murder. somebody would have to answer for it and that somebody would be he--dick hunt. the cold perspiration started on his forehead and his heart throbbed heavily at the thought, and he felt a wild desire to run on and on till he had left that dark heap in the dark alley, miles and miles behind him. then came a flash of hope. perhaps after all tode was not so badly hurt. perhaps he had been shamming just to scare them. at this thought, dick's quick pace slackened and he had half a mind to go back and see if the body still lay there, but he could not bring himself to do that. he shivered and hurried on aimlessly, through the brightly lighted streets. he was afraid to go home, lest he be met there by the news that he dreaded. he was afraid to stay in the streets, for every moment he expected to feel the heavy hand of a policeman on his shoulder. he said to himself that carrots and the others might inform against him just to save themselves. so, as wretched as a boy well could be, he wandered about for an hour or two, stopping sometimes in dark corners and then hastening on again, stealing suspicious glances over his shoulders, and listening for pursuing footsteps. at last, he turned homeward, longing, yet dreading, to see his mother. it was nearly midnight when he crept softly up the stairs, but his mother had been unable to sleep, and as his hand touched the door in the darkness, she threw it open with a sigh of relief that her weary waiting was over for that night. she did not find fault with him. it seemed to her utterly useless now to complain or entreat. dick longed to ask if she knew anything about tode, but his tongue refused to utter the words and he tumbled into bed in gloomy silence. there had been no shamming when theo fell under the brutal blows of the four boys who had set upon him. they were all strong, well-grown lads, and striking blindly and viciously in the dark, had perhaps hit harder than they realised. at any rate theo had felt his strength failing even before a last blow on his head made him unconscious of what followed. the "somebody," whom the boys had heard, came slouching along through the dark alley and stumbled over the prostrate body. "hello! what's this?" he exclaimed, his nimble fingers running rapidly over the boy's face and figure. "somebody's been up to something here. let's see if--no! well, that's queer!" these disconnected remarks were the accompaniment to a rapid and skillful search through the boy's pockets, and the last emphatic expression was drawn forth by the discovery that there had been no robbery; whereupon the newcomer promptly proceeded to complete the job by emptying the said pockets in a manner that proved him no novice at such business. then he stole noiselessly away, leaving the boy again alone in the darkness, and now there was no good bishop at hand to take him in. meantime, at home, nan was wondering why theo did not come in as usual to tell her what he had been doing at the night school, and to get tag, who always staid with her when theo was at the school. tag was troubled and uneasy too. when it was time for the boy to come tag sat watching the door, his ears alert for a footstep outside. now and then he whined, and finally he showed so plainly his desire to go out that nan opened the door, saying, "go find him, tag." she stood in her doorway listening, and heard the dog scamper up to theo's door. there he listened and nosed about for a moment, then down he came again, and with a short, anxious bark, dashed down the stairs to the street. nan waited a long time but the dog did not return, and at last she put out her light and went to bed with a troubled heart. but tag could not sleep. he seemed to know that there was something wrong and something for him to attend to. he raced first to his master's stand, then to the mission school and to the night school, and finding all these places now dark and silent, he pattered through the streets, his nose close to the ground, his anxious, loving eyes watching everything that moved. so at last he came to that dark heap in the dark alley, and first he was wild with joy, but when his frantic delight failed to awaken his master and make him come away home, tag was sure that something was very wrong indeed and he began to run backward and forward between the motionless body and the corner, until he attracted the attention of a policeman who followed him around into the dark alley, and in a few minutes theodore was on his way to the emergency hospital with tag following after the ambulance at the top of his speed. but once again tag found himself rudely repulsed when he tried to slip in after his master. this time he felt that he really could not bear it, and so he stood on the hospital steps and lifting up his voice howled his protest until somebody came and drove him away. but he couldn't stay away, so he crawled into a dark corner up against the wall, and curling himself into the smallest possible space, lay there watchful and wretched until morning, when, after eyeing wistfully those who came out and went in past him, he trotted slowly home to nan, and did his poor best to tell her what had happened and where theo was. nan had passed an anxious night, for she was sure that there was something wrong, and since theo's return from the bishop's, he had been so changed, that she had grown very fond of him. being a year or two his senior, she felt a kind of elder sisterly responsibility in regard to him, knowing as she did, that he was even more alone in the world than she, for she had little brother, and theo had nobody at all. so she was at mrs. hunt's door, talking the matter over with her, when tag, with drooping head and tail, came slowly up the stairs. he wagged his tail faintly at sight of nan, and rubbed his head affectionately against her, and then stood looking up at her, as if waiting to be questioned. "he's been gone all night," nan was saying to mrs. hunt, and referring to the dog, "but i don't believe he found theo. he doesn't act as if he had. oh, mrs. hunt, where _do_ you suppose he is?" mrs. hunt shook her head. "the dear knows," she said, "but something must 'a' happened to him, sure. he's been steady as clockwork since ever he took that room upstairs, i'll say that for him." she sighed as she spoke, thinking of her dick. "but what can i do, mrs. hunt?" cried nan, her eyes full of tears. "it seems dreadful to keep right on, just as if he were here, as usual. isn't there any way to find out where he is?" "look here, nan," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "do you know where his teacher--that mr. scott--lives?" "yes." "well, why don't you send word to him? he seems to think a lot of tode an' dick. i guess he does of all his scholars. he would know what to do, an' where to look for the boy--don't you think so?" nan's face had brightened as her friend spoke. "i'm sure that's a good idea," she replied. "he's always been so nice and kind to theo. i most know he'll help find him." "that's right now, child, stop fretting, for i'll warrant he'll set things straight in no time. i'll let dick or jimmy go around to mr. scott's as soon as they've had their breakfast." relieved by this promise, and trying hard to be hopeful and not to worry, nan ran back to her room, while mrs. hunt called the boys. dick pretended to be very sound asleep, and it required more than one call and shake to arouse him, but in reality, he too had passed a most miserable night, and he had listened, with heart beating fast and hard, to his mother's colloquy with nan; and as he listened, ever before his mind's eye was that dark, motionless heap on the ground. in imagination, he saw theo's dead body on a slab in the morgue, and himself in a prison cell, condemned for murder. dick's worst enemy could not have wished him to be any more wretched than he was in that hour, as he cowered in his bed, and strained his ears to catch every word that was uttered. but when his mother shook him, he rubbed his eyes, and pretended to be still half asleep, and flatly refused to go to mr. scott's. "let jim go, 'f anybody's got to," he growled, as he began to pull on his clothes. "here you, jim, turn out lively now!" he added, yanking the bedclothes off his brother to emphasise his words. "he's always a-puttin' off on me--dick is," snarled jim, as he joined his mother in the other room a few minutes later, but when he learned why he was to go to mr. scott's he made no further objections, but swallowed his breakfast hastily, and went off on the run. jim did not share his brother's enmity toward the missing boy. jim liked theo. he liked nan too, and was always ready to do an errand for her, if she wanted him. mr. scott was just sitting down to breakfast when jim appeared, and he left his coffee to cool while he listened with keen interest to what the boy had to tell him. his face was very grave as he said, "tell miss nan that i will be around there within an hour. see here, though, jim,--have you had your breakfast?" "ye--yes, sir," jim answered, with a quick glance at the hot cakes and chops that had such an appetising odour. jim didn't have chops and hot cakes for breakfast. "aunt mary, can you put another plate here for jim?" mr. scott asked, and his aunt, with a smile, set another chair at the table, and piled a plate with eatables, of which the boy disposed as easily and speedily as if that had been his first meal that day. mr. scott likewise made a hasty breakfast, and then he sent jim back to nan, while he himself went to his place of business to arrange for his absence that morning. within the hour, as he had said, he knocked at nan's door. she welcomed him with a feeling of glad relief, assured that at least he would be able to find out where theo was. he waited only to get what little information she could give him, and then set forth, but before he had reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs, nan ran after him. "mr. scott," she called. "wouldn't it be a good plan to take tag--theo's dog--with you?" mr. scott thought it would, but now an unexpected obstacle was encountered. tag refused to go with him. he crept under nan's dress, and crouched there, looking quietly out at the gentleman, but making no movement toward him, though he called and whistled as persuasively as he could. "oh, tag, do go," pleaded nan, almost ready to cry at the dog's unexpected obstinacy. tag twisted his head and looked up at her, and it almost seemed as if he were moved by her pleading tone, for, after a moment's hesitation, he crept slowly out from his refuge, and followed mr. scott down the stairs. once outside the house he stopped and gazed with keen, questioning eyes at the gentleman, standing, meanwhile, ready to dart off, should any attempt be made to capture him, but mr. scott stopped too, and said quietly, "go find him, tag. find theo." that was enough for the intelligent little creature. with a quick, sharp yelp of satisfaction, tag set off at such a pace that mr. scott had hard work to keep him in sight. in fact, as soon as they turned into a thronged business street, he lost sight of his four-footed guide entirely, but the direction tag had taken was a sufficient clue. the young man was so certain that the emergency hospital was the place to which the dog was leading him, that he boarded a car and went directly there, and sure enough on the steps sat tag, his short ears erect, and his eager eyes watching impatiently for a chance to slip inside the doors. he seemed to know that his chance had come when he saw mr. scott running up the steps, for he frisked about and showed his delight in every conceivable fashion. dogs were not allowed in the hospital, but when mr. scott picked tag up in his arms and promised to keep him there, the attendant finally consented that he should do so. and so they went first to the waiting-room and then up the stairs and through the long corridors. x. a bitter disappointment theodore was still unconscious when he was lifted into the ambulance the night before, but on the way to the hospital he opened his eyes, wondering much to find himself flat on his back and being driven rapidly through the streets. in a few minutes he remembered what had happened, and guessed that he must have been stunned by a blow or a fall. as he reached this conclusion, the vehicle stopped, and he was lifted out and carried into the hospital in spite of his protests. he had a dread of entering a hospital as a patient, and he wanted to go home. but the doctors would not allow him to go home. they told him that if he would be quiet and do as they said, he would probably be able to go home the next morning, and with this promise he was obliged to be content, and allow himself to be undressed and put to bed. he was badly bruised and his right shoulder was very lame, but there was no serious injury, and it seemed to the boy very trying to be compelled to spend the night where he was. he did not sleep much, partly because of his strange surroundings, and partly because of his aching head and shoulder, and as he lay there in the dimly-lighted ward, his thoughts were busy. a hot anger burned in his heart as he recalled the cowardly attack in the dark alley. he saw that it had been deliberately planned by dick hunt, and that the four boys must have followed him from the corner where he saw them. "i'll pay that dick hunt for this," he muttered under his breath, "an' carrots, too. i know the chap that hit so hard was carrots. i'll make 'em suffer for it!" he lay there, his eyes flashing and his cheeks burning, as he thought over various schemes of vengeance. then suddenly he thought of mr. scott, and that brought something else to his remembrance. he seemed to see his teacher holding out his little bible and making him--theodore--read aloud those two verses: "dearly beloved avenge not yourselves." and "recompense to no man evil for evil." as he repeated these words to himself, the fire died slowly out of the boy's eyes and the angry colour faded from his cheeks. he turned restlessly in his bed and tried to banish these thoughts and bring back his schemes of vengeance, but he could not do it. he knew what was the right--what he ought to do--but he was not willing to do it. hour after hour he argued the matter with himself, finding all sorts of reasons why, in this case, he might take vengeance into his own hands and "learn that dick hunt a lesson," yet feeling and knowing in the depths of his heart that whatever the old tode bryan might have done, theodore bryan, who was trying to be the bishop's shadow, certainly had no right to do evil to somebody else simply because that somebody had done evil to him. it was nearly morning before the long battle with himself was over, but it ended at last, and it was theodore, and not tode who was victorious, and it was the memory of the bishop's face, and of the bishop's prayer that day in the poorhouse, that finally settled the matter. "he'd fight for somebody else, the bishop would, but he wouldn't ever fight for himself, an' i mustn't neither," the boy murmured, softly, and then with a long breath he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep, and he had but just awakened from that sleep when mr. scott, with tag under his arm, came through the long corridor to the ward where theodore was lying in the very last cot, next the wall. mr. scott had promised not to let the dog out of his arms, but if he had been better acquainted with tag he would never have made such a rash promise. as the gentleman followed the nurse into the ward, the dog's eyes flashed a swift glance over the long line of cots, and the next instant something dark went flying down the room and up on to that last cot in the row, and there was tag licking his master's face and hands, and wagging his tail, and barking like mad. "dear me!" exclaimed the nurse, running toward the corner. "this will never do. he'll drive the patients into fits! why didn't you keep hold of him?" she threw the question back in a reproachful tone to mr. scott. he laughed a little as he answered, "if you will try to pick him up now and hold him, you will understand why." even as he spoke, the nurse was making an attempt to capture and silence the noisy little fellow. she might as well have tried to pick up a ball of quicksilver. tag slipped through her fingers like an eel, scurrying from one end of the cot to the other, and barking excitedly all the time. "can't you stop him, theodore?" exclaimed mr. scott, as he reached the corner where the boy lay. "here, tag, lie down and be still," cried the boy, and with one last defiant yap at the nurse, tag nosed aside the bedclothes and snuggled down beside his master with a sigh of glad content. "well, if ever i let a dog into _my_ ward again!" exclaimed the nurse, in a tone of stern determination. "i'm sorry he made such a noise, ma'am. it was only because he was so glad to find me," said theodore, quickly. the nurse turned away in offended silence, and mr. scott sat down by the bed and began to talk with the boy. he listened with a grave face to theo's story. when it was ended, he asked, "did you recognise either of the boys?" "yes, sir; one, certainly, and i think i know one of the others." "well?" said the teacher, inquiringly. theodore hesitated a moment, then answered in a low tone, "you 'member them verses you showed me that first sunday, mr. scott?" the gentleman smiled down into the sober, boyish face. "i remember," he replied, "but, theo, this is a grave matter. to beat a boy until he is unconscious, and then leave him to live or die, is a crime. such boys ought not to be shielded." "mr. scott, i had an awful time over that last night," answered the boy, earnestly. "i wanted to pay them fellers for this job--you better b'lieve i did, but," he shook his head slowly, "i can't do it. you see, sir, i ain't tode no more--i'm theodore, now." there was a look on the homely, boyish face that forbade further discussion of the matter, and, after a moment's silence, mr. scott said in a different tone, "well, my boy, when are you going home? nan and the baby want to see you." theo glanced impatiently about the long room. "she said i'd got to stay in bed till the doctor had seen me," he replied, "'n the doctor'll be here 'bout nine o'clock." "she" was the nurse. "it's nearly nine now. i'll wait until the doctor comes, then," mr. scott said. the doctor pronounced the boy quite fit to leave the hospital, and his clothes being brought to him, the curtains were drawn around his cot and he dressed himself hastily. but as he pushed aside the curtains, mr. scott saw a troubled look on his face, and asked: "what's the matter, theodore?" without answering the boy crossed the room to the nurse. "where's the money that was in my pocket?" he asked, anxiously. the nurse looked at him sharply. "if there was any money in your pockets when you were brought here it would be in them now," she answered, shortly. "you can go to the office and ask any questions you like." theodore turned toward his teacher a very sorrowful face. "i've been robbed, too," he said. "oh, i'm sorry, theodore. how much have you lost?" "five dollars. she says to ask at the office, but 'twon't do no good, i s'pose." "no, nothing would have been taken from your pockets here, but we will stop at the office and see if we can learn anything," mr. scott said. tag had kept close to his master's heels, and now at his teacher's suggestion theodore picked up the dog, who went forth quietly enough in that fashion. inquiries at the office convinced the boy that he had been robbed before he was brought there, and naturally enough he came to the conclusion that his money had gone into the pockets of dick hunt and his companions. at the door of the tenement house mr. scott left theo, who hurried eagerly up the stairs. on the landing he met jimmy hunt, who called out: "hi--o, tode, where ye been all night? say, what was the matter? did mr. scott find ye?" "yes," was theo's only response, as he pushed open nan's door, to be greeted with such a warm welcome that he hardly knew what to say and had to hide his embarrassment by poking the baby's ribs to make him laugh. jimmy hunt had followed him into the room and listened with open mouth as well as ears to the brief story that the boy told in reply to nan's questions. "oh, 'twasn't much. i got knocked down an' carried to the hospital, an' they wouldn't let me come away till morning--that's all." "an' wasn't ye hurt?" cried jimmy, in a disappointed tone. it seemed to him altogether too tame an affair if nobody was hurt. "my shoulder's sprained, an' my head was hurt a little," theo answered. "say, jim, where's dick?" "i d'know. out somewheres," replied dick's brother, indifferently. "why ain't you in school, jimmy?" was theo's next question. "well, i like that!" exclaimed jimmy, in a tone of deep disgust. "ain't i been a-racin' all over town for you this mornin', a-gettin' mr. scott to hunt ye up, an' goin' ter see 'f your stand's open, an' carryin' things 'round fer nan, too? how could i do all that an' be in school, i'd like to know?" "'deed, you couldn't, jimmy," replied nan, soothingly. "i don't know what i should have done this morning without him, theo. he was my right hand man." jimmy coloured with satisfaction at this high praise, and his delight was complete when theodore added, "that so? well now, jimmy boy, i ain't goin' to forget this." "huh! twarn't nothin'. i liked to do it," replied jimmy, and then overcome by a sudden and unaccountable fit of bashfulness he ran hastily out of the room. then theodore told nan the details of his adventure, but not even to her would he tell the name of his enemy, and nan did not guess, for she would never have imagined that mrs. hunt's dick could have served theo so. dick had gone out as usual after breakfast and did not come home even to get his supper, but of late his habits had been so irregular that nothing was said at home about his absence. after supper jimmy was sent out on an errand and dick met him and questioned him in regard to theo's return, and what he had to say. jimmy waxed indignant over the story which he filled in from his own imagination with many vivid details. "some fellers pitched into him an' knocked him down an' beat him an' left him for dead an' they took him t' the hospital an' kep' him there all night. guess them fellers'll suffer for it! they robbed him, too. took five dollars out o' his pockets." "they didn't neither!" exclaimed dick, hastily, thrown off his guard by this unexpected statement. "come now, dick hunt, mebbe you know more'n i do about it," retorted jimmy, with withering sarcasm, little suspecting how much more his brother _did_ know. "mebbe you heard what nan said to ma 'bout it." "no, no! 'course i d'know nothin' 'bout it. how would i know?" replied dick, quickly and uneasily. "say, jimmy, is he--is tode goin' to have them fellers took up?" "'spect he is--i would," answered jimmy; then remembering his errand, he ran off, leaving dick looking after him with a haggard, miserable face. "robbed," dick said to himself, as he walked moodily and aimlessly on. "we didn't do that anyhow. somebody must 'a' gone through his pockets after we cleared out. nice box i'm in now!" dick did not go home at all that night. he was afraid that he might be arrested if he did. "he knows 'twas me did it, an' he's keepin' dark 'bout it till they can nab me," he thought. he hunted up the three boys who had been so ready to help him the night before, but he found them now firmly banded together against him. moreover, they had spread such reports of him among their companions, that dick found himself shunned by them all. he dared not go home, so he wandered about the streets, eating in out-of-the-way places, and sleeping where he could. one day carrots told him that tode bryan was huntin' everywhere for him. then dick, in desperation, made up his mind to go to sea--he could stand the strain no longer. he dared not go home, even to bid his mother goodbye. dick was selfish and cruel, but he had even yet a little lingering tenderness for his mother. it was not enough to make him behave himself and do what he knew would please her, but it did make him wish that he could see her just for a moment before going away. it was enough to make him creep cautiously to the house after dark, and stand in the shadow, looking up at her window, while he pictured to himself the neat, pleasant room, where at that hour, she would be preparing supper. while he stood there, theo came out of the house, with tag, as usual, at his heels. tag ran over to the dark corner and investigated dick, but cautiously, for there was no friendship between him and this member of the hunt family. dick stood silent and motionless afraid that the dog might bark and draw theo over there, but he stood ready for flight until theo whistled and tag ran back to him, and presently followed him off in another direction. then, with a breath of relief, dick stole off into the darkness, and the next day he left the city on a vessel bound for south america, rejoicing that at last he was beyond reach of tode bryan. dick was not mistaken in thinking that theo had been searching for him, but he was greatly mistaken as to the boy's purpose in it. theodore was entirely ready now to obey that command that mr. scott had shown him and to do his best to "overcome evil with good." he took it for granted that dick and the others had robbed as well as beaten him, but all the same, he felt that he was bound to forget all that and find some way to show them a kindness. but though theo was always on the lookout for him, dick managed to keep out of his sight while he remained in the city. after dick had sailed, some boy told jimmy where his brother had gone, and so at last the news reached theodore. since his return from the bishop's, theo had had few idle moments, but after losing the five dollars he worked early and late to make up the loss. he grew more silent and thoughtful, and when alone his thoughts dwelt almost continually on that happy day when he should look once more into the bishop's kind face. "i'll tell him all about it," he would say to himself, "how i saw that mrs. russell drop the pocketbook, an' how i slipped under the wagon an' snatched it up out o' the mud, an' used the money. i'll tell it all, an' ev'rything else bad that i can 'member, so he'll know jest what a bad lot i've been, an' then i'll tell him how sorry i am, an' how i'm a-huntin' ev'rywhere for that jack finney, an' how i'll keep a-huntin' till i find him." all this and much more theodore planned to tell the bishop, and, as he thought about it, it seemed as if he could not wait another hour, so intense was his longing to look once more into that face that was like no other earthly face to him, to listen again to the voice that thrilled his heart, and hear it say, "my boy, i forgive you." many a time he dreamt of this and started up from sleep with those words ringing in his ears, "my boy, i forgive you," and then finding himself alone in his dark, dismal little room, he would bury his wet cheeks in the pillow and try to stifle the longing in his lonely, boyish heart. even nan, who knew him better than did any one else, never guessed how his heart hungered to hear those words from the lips of the bishop. but little by little--in nickels and dimes and quarters--theodore laid by another five dollars. he knew to a penny how much there was, but when he brought the last dime, he and nan counted it all to make sure. there was no mistake. it amounted to thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents, and the boy drew a long, glad breath as he looked up at nan with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, saying, "to-morrow, nan, i can see--_him!_" "don't look so--so awfully glad, theo. i'm afraid something will happen," said nan, with a troubled expression in her eyes as she looked at him. "don't you worry. i ain't a-goin' to be robbed again--you better believe i ain't!" cried the boy. then he glanced at his worn suit and tried to pull down his jacket sleeves, as he added, wistfully, "d'you think i look well enough to go there, nan? i wanted to buy a collar an' necktie, but, i just _couldn't_ wait any longer." nan's private opinion was, that if the bishop could only see theo's face at that moment, the garments he wore would be a matter of small importance. she answered, quickly, "you look plenty well enough, theo. don't worry about that." she gathered up the money and put it back into the box in which it had been kept, and the boy went across the room to the bed where the baby lay asleep. "seems to me he looks kind o' peaked--don't he, nan?" he remarked, uneasily. nan cast an anxious glance at the little, thin face, and shook her head. "he doesn't get strong as i hoped he would," she answered, sadly. "oh well, he will, when it comes warmer, so he can get out doors oftener," the boy said, as he went away to his room. he hurried through his work the next day, closing his stand at the earliest possible moment, and rushing home to get ready for his visit. he always, now, kept his face and hands scrupulously clean. his hair might have been in better condition if he had had money to buy a comb or a brush, but those were among the luxuries that he felt he must deny himself until he had made all the restitution in his power. to-day, however, when he went to nan's room for his money, she offered him the use of her comb, and helped him reduce his rough, thick hair to some kind of order. even then he looked at himself somewhat doubtfully. his suit was so shabby in spite of nan's careful mending, and his shoes were worse than his suit, but they were polished to the last degree. he had exchanged a sandwich and two doughnuts for that "shine." "you look well enough, theo," nan said, "plenty well enough. now go on, and oh, i do _hope_ it will be all right." "i know 'twill," cried the boy, joyously, as he tucked the money carefully into an inside pocket. "oh, nan!" he looked at her with such a happy face that her own beamed a bright response. then he ran off and nan stood in the doorway watching him as he went down the stairs, closely followed by his inseparable companion, tag. "the dear boy! he is fairly pale," said nan, to herself, as she turned back into her room. "it is strange how he loves that bishop--and what a different boy he is, too, since he came home. i don't see how the bishop can help loving him. oh, i do hope nothing will happen to spoil his visit. he has looked forward to it so long." the boy felt as if he were walking on air as he went rapidly through the crowded streets, seeing nothing about him, so completely were his thoughts occupied with the happiness before him. as he got farther up town the crowd lessened, and when he turned into the street on which the bishop lived, the passers-by were few. at last he could see the house. in a few minutes he would reach it. then his joyous anticipations suddenly vanished and he began to be troubled. what if brown wouldn't let him in, he thought, or--what if the bishop should refuse to see him or to listen to his story? as these thoughts came to him his eager pace slackened and for a moment he was tempted to turn back. only for a moment, however. he _knew_ that the bishop would not refuse to see him, and as for brown, if brown refused to admit him, he would go to the servants' door and ask for mrs. martin. so thinking, he pushed open the iron gate and went slowly up the walk. "stay here, tag. lie down, sir!" he ordered, and the dog obediently dropped down on the steps, keeping his bright eyes fastened on his master, as the boy rang the bell. theo could almost hear his heart beat as he waited. suddenly the door swung open and there was brown gazing severely at him. "well--what do _you_ want?" questioned the man, brusquely. "i want--don't you know me, brown? i want to see--mrs. martin." the boy's voice was thick and husky, and somehow he could not utter the bishop's name to brown standing there with that cold frown on his face. "oh--you want to see mrs. martin, do you? well, i think you've got cheek to come here at all after leaving the way you did," brown growled. he held the door so that the boy could not enter, and seemed more than half inclined to shut it in his face. "oh, please, brown, _do_ let me in," pleaded the boy, with such a heart-broken tone in his voice, that brown relented--he wasn't half so gruff as he pretended to be--and answered, grudgingly, "well, come in, if you must, an' i'll find out if mrs. martin will see you." with a sudden gleam of joy in his eyes, theodore slipped in. "come along!" brown called over his shoulder, and the boy followed to the housekeeper's sitting-room. the door of the room stood open, and mrs. martin sat by the window with a newspaper in her hand. she glanced up over her spectacles as brown's tall figure appeared at the door. "mrs. martin, this boy says he wants to see you," he announced, and then sauntered indifferently away to his own quarters. mrs. martin took off her glasses as she called, "come in, boy, and tell me what you want." theo walked slowly toward her hoping that she would recognise him, but she did not. indeed it was a wonder that brown had recognised him, so different was his appearance in his rough worn clothes, from that of the handsomely dressed lad, whose sudden departure had so grieved the kindhearted housekeeper. "don't you know me, mrs. martin?" the boy faltered, sorrowfully, as he paused beside her chair. "no, i'm sure i--why! you don't mean to say that you are our deaf and dumb boy!" exclaimed the good woman, as she peered earnestly into the grey eyes looking down so wistfully into hers. "yes, i'm the bad boy you were so good to, but i've been keepin' straight ever since i was here, mrs. martin," he answered, earnestly. "i have, truly." "bless your dear heart, child," cried the good woman, springing up hastily and seizing the boy's hands. "i'm sure you have. i guess _i_ know a bad face when i see one, and it don't look like yours. sit down, dear, and tell me all about it." in the fewest possible words theo told his story, making no attempt to excuse anything. the housekeeper listened with keen interest, asking a question now and then, and reading in his face the confirmation of all he said. he did not say very much about the bishop, but the few words that he did say and the look in his eyes as he said them, showed her what a hold upon the boy's heart her master had so unconsciously gained, and her own interest in the friendless lad grew deeper. when his story was told, she wiped her eyes as she said, slowly, "and to think that you've been working all these weeks to save up that money! well, well, how glad the dear bishop will be! he's said all the time that you were a good boy." "oh, has he?" cried theo, his face all alight with sudden joy. "i was afraid he'd think i was all bad when he found out how i'd cheated him." "no, no!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "he was grieved over your going off so, and he has tried his best to find you, but you see he didn't know where to look for you." "did he try to find me, mrs. martin? oh, i'm so glad! and can i see him now, please?" the boy's voice trembled with eagerness as he spoke. the housekeeper's kind face was full of pity and sympathy as she exclaimed, "why, my boy, didn't you know? the bishop is in california. he went a week ago to stay three months." all the glad brightness faded from the boy's face as he heard this. he did not speak, but he turned aside, and brushed his sleeve hastily across his eyes. mrs. martin laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "i'm so sorry," she said, "and he will be too, when he knows of your coming. i will write him all about it." still the boy stood silent. it seemed to him that he could not bear it. it had not once occurred to him that the bishop might be away, and now there was no possibility of seeing him for three long months. it seemed an eternity to the boy. and to think that he was there--at home--a week ago! "if they hadn't stole that five dollars from me, i might 'a' seen him last week," the boy said to himself, bitter thoughts of dick hunt rising in his heart. at last he turned again to the housekeeper and at the change in his face her eyes filled with quick tears. he took from his pocket the little roll of money and held it out, saying in a low unsteady voice, "you send it to him--an' tell him--won't you?" "i'll write him all about it," the housekeeper repeated, "and don't you be discouraged, dear. he'll want to see you just as soon as he gets home, i know he will. tell me where you live, so i can send you word when he comes." in a dull, listless voice the boy gave the street and number, and she wrote the address on a slip of paper. "remember, theodore, i shall write the bishop all you have told me, and how you are trying to find the finney boy and to help others just as he does," said the good woman, knowing instinctively that this would comfort the boy in his bitter disappointment. he brightened a little at her words but he only said, briefly, "yes--tell him that," and then he went sorrowfully away. mrs. martin stood at the window and looked after him as he went slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, while tag, well aware that something was wrong, trotted beside him with drooping ears and tail. "tell me that that's a bad boy!" the good woman said to herself. "i know better! i don't care what that mr. gibson said. i never took much stock in mr. gibson myself, anyhow. he always had something to say against anybody that the bishop took an interest in. there--i wish i'd told theodore that he was here only as a substitute, and had to leave when the regular secretary was well enough to come back. i declare my heart aches when i think of that poor little fellow's face when i told him that the bishop was gone. ah well, this is a world of disappointment!" and with a sigh she turned away from the window. nan sat in a rocking-chair with little brother in her arms, when theodore opened her door. "oh theo--what is it? what is the matter?" she cried, as she saw his face. he dropped wearily into a seat and told her in a few words the result of his visit. "oh, i am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "and it seems so hard to think that you would have seen the bishop if you hadn't lost that five dollars!" the boy sighed, but made no reply. he could not talk about it then, and presently he got up and went out. xi. theo's new business theodore went slowly down the stairs, but stopped on the outside steps and stood there with his hands in his pockets looking listlessly up and down the street. there was another big tenement house opposite, and on its steps sat a girl of ten or eleven with a baby in her lap. the baby kept up a low wailing cry, but the girl paid no attention to it. she sat with her head leaning against the house, and seemed to notice nothing about her. theodore glanced at her indifferently. his thoughts were still dwelling on his great disappointment--the sorrowful ending of the hopes and longings of so many weeks. it seemed to him that he had now nothing to which to look forward; nothing that was worth working for. then suddenly there flashed into his mind the words he had heard the bishop speak to a man who came to him one day in great sorrow. "my life is spoiled," the man had said. "all my hopes and plans are destroyed. what shall i do?" and the bishop had answered, "my son, you must forget yourself, and your broken hopes and plans, and think of others. do something for somebody else--and keep on doing." "that's what he would say to me, i s'pose," thought the boy. "i wonder what i can do. there's tommy o'brien, i 'spect he'd be glad 'nough to see most anybody." he turned and went slowly and reluctantly back up the stairs. he didn't want to see tommy o'brien. he didn't want to see anybody just then, but still he went on to tommy's door. as he approached it, he heard loud, angry voices mingled with the crying of a baby. he knocked, but the noise within continued, and after a moment's pause he pushed open the door and went in. the three women who lived in the room were all standing with red, angry faces, each trying to outscold the others. three or four little children, with frightened eyes, were huddled together in one corner, while a baby cried unheeded on the floor, its mother being too much occupied with the quarrel to pay any attention to her child. the women glanced indifferently at theodore as he entered, and kept on with their loud talk. theo crossed over to tommy's cot. the sick boy had pulled his pillow over his head and was pressing it close to his ears to shut out the racket. "le'me 'lone!" he exclaimed, as theodore tried to lift the pillow. his face was drawn with pain and there were dark hollows beneath his heavy eyes. such a weary, suffering face it was that a great flood of pity surged over theodore's heart at sight of it. then tommy opened his eyes and as he saw who had pulled aside his pillow a faint smile crept around his pale lips. "oh!" he cried. "it's you. i thought 'twas some o' them a-pullin' off my piller. can't you make 'em stop, tode? they've been a-fightin' off an' on all day." he glanced at the noisy women as he spoke. "what's the row about?" asked theo. "'cause mis' carey said mis' green's baby was cross-eyed. mis' green got so mad at that that she's been scoldin' 'bout it ever since an' leavin' the baby to yell there by itself on the floor--poor little beggar! seem's if my head'll split open with all the noise," sighed tommy, wearily, then he brightened up as he inquired, "what d' you come for, tode?" "just to talk to you a little," replied theo. "s'pose you get awful tired layin' here all the time, don't ye, tommy?" the unexpected sympathy in the voice and look touched the lonely heart of the little cripple. his eyes filled with tears, and he reached up one skinny little hand and laid it on the rough, strong one of his visitor as he answered, "oh, you don't know--you don't know anything about it, tode. i don't b'lieve dyin' can be half so bad's livin' this way. she wishes i'd die. she's said so lots o' times," he nodded toward his aunt, who was one of the women in the room, "an' i wish so too, 'f i've got to be this way always." "ain't ye never had no doctor, tommy?" asked theo, with a quick catch in his breath as he realised dimly what it would be to have such a life to look forward to. "no--she says she ain't got no money for doctors," replied the boy, soberly. "i'll"--began theodore, then wisely concluding to raise no hopes that might not be realised, he changed his sentence to, "i'll find out if there's a doctor that will come for nothin'. i believe there is one. can ye read, tommy?" the sick boy shook his head. "how could i?" he answered. "ain't nobody ter show me nothin'." "wonder 'f i couldn't," said theo, thoughtfully. "i c'n tell ye the letters anyhow, an' that'll be better'n nothin'." a bit of torn newspaper lay on the floor beside the bed. he picked it up and pointed out a, o and s, to tommy. by the time the little cripple had thoroughly mastered those three letters so that he could pick them out every time, the women had given up their quarrel. mrs. green had taken up her baby and was feeding it, and the other women, with sullen faces, had resumed their neglected duties. "oh dear! must you go?" tommy exclaimed as theo got off the cot on which he had been sitting. "but you was real good to come, anyhow. when'll ye come again an' tell me some more letters?" "i'll show ye one ev'ry day if i can get time. then in three weeks you'll know all the big ones an' some o' the little ones that are just like the big ones. now don't ye forget them three." "you bet i won't. i shall say 'em a hundred times 'fore to-morrow," rejoined the little fellow, and his eyes followed his new friend eagerly until the door closed behind him. as for theodore himself, half the weight seemed to have been lifted from his own heart as he went down the stairs again. "i'll run outside a minute 'fore i go to supper," he said to himself. "the air was awful thick in that room. reckon that's one thing makes tommy feel so bad." he walked briskly around two or three squares, and as he came back to the house he noticed that the girl and the baby still sat where he had seen them an hour before. the baby's cry had ceased, but it began again as theo was passing the two. he stopped and looked at them. the girl's eyes rested on his face with a dull, indifferent glance. "what makes it cry? is it sick?" the boy asked, nodding toward the baby. the girl shook her head. "what ails it then?" "starvin'." the girl uttered the word in a lifeless tone as if it were a matter of no interest to her. "where's yer mother?" pursued the boy. "dead." "an' yer father?" "drunk." "ain't there nobody to look out for ye?" again the girl shook her head. "ain't ye had anything to eat to-day?" "no." "what d'ye have yesterday?" "some crusts i found in the street. do go off an' le'me 'lone. we're most dead, an' i'm glad of it," moaned the girl, drearily. "you gi' me that baby an' come along. i'll get ye somethin' to eat," cried theo, and as the girl looked up at him half doubtfully and half joyfully, he seized the bundle of shawl and baby and hurried with it up to nan's room, the girl dragging herself slowly along behind him. nan cast a doubtful and half dismayed glance at the two strangers as theodore ushered them in, but the boy exclaimed, "they're half starved, nan. we _must_ give 'em somethin' to eat," and when she saw the baby's little pinched face she hesitated no longer, but quickly warmed some milk and fed it to the little one while the girl devoured the bread and milk and meat set before her with a ravenous haste that confirmed what she had said. then, refreshed by the food, she told her pitiful story, the old story of a father who spent his earnings in the saloon, leaving his motherless children to live or die as might be. nan's heart ached as she listened, and theodore's face was very grave. when the girl had gone away with the baby in her arms, theo said, earnestly, "nan, i've got to earn more money." "how can you?" nan asked. "you work so hard now, theo." "i must work harder, nan. i can't stand it to see folks starvin' an' not help 'em. i'll pay you for what these two had you know." nan looked at him reproachfully. "don't you think i want to help too?" she returned. "do you think i've forgotten that meal you gave little brother an' me?" "that was nothin'. anyhow you've done lots more for me than ever i did for you," the boy answered, earnestly, "but, nan, how _can_ rich folks keep their money for themselves when there are people--babies, nan--starvin' right here in this city?" "i suppose the rich folks don't know about them," replied the girl, thoughtfully, as she set the table for supper. "i've got to talk it over with mr. scott," theo said, as he drew his chair up to the table. "you talk everything over with mr. scott now, don't you, theo?" "'most everything. he's fine as silk, mr. scott is. he rings true every time, but he ain't"-- he left his sentence unfinished, but nan knew of whom he was thinking. the next afternoon theodore walked slowly through the business streets, with eyes and ears alert, for some opening of which he might take advantage to increase his income. past block after block he wandered till he was tired and discouraged. finally he sat down on some high stone steps to rest a bit, and while he sat there a coloured boy came out of the building. he had a tin box and some rags in his hands, and he began in an idle fashion to clean the brass railing to the steps. theodore fell into conversation with him, carelessly and indifferently at first, but after a little with a sudden, keen interest as the boy began to grumble about his work. "i ain't a-goin' ter clean these yer ol' railin's many more times," he said. "it's too much work. i c'n git a place easy where the' ain't no brasses to clean, an' i'm a-goin' ter, too. all the office boys hates ter clean brasses." "what do ye clean 'em with?" theodore inquired. the boy held out the tin box. "this stuff an' soft rags. say--you want ter try it?" he grinned as he spoke, but to his surprise his offer was accepted. "gi' me your rags," cried theo, and he proceeded to rub and polish energetically, until one side of the railings glittered like gold. "yer a gay ol' cleaner!" exclaimed the black boy, as he lolled in blissful idleness on the top step. "now go ahead with the other rail." but theodore threw down the rags. "not much," he answered. "i've done half your work an' you can do the other half." "oh, come now, finish up the job," remonstrated the other. "'tain't fair not to, for you've made that one shine so. i'll have ter put an extry polish on the other to match it." but theodore only laughed and walked off saying to himself, "rather think this'll work first-rate." he went straight to a store, and asked for "the stuff for shining up brass," and bought a box of it. then he wondered where he could get some clean rags. "per'aps mrs. hunt'll have some," he thought, "an' anyhow i want to see jim." so home he hastened as fast as his feet would carry him. good mrs. hunt was still a little cool to theodore, though she could see for herself how steady and industrious he was now, and how much he had improved in every way; but she had never gotten over her first impression of him, founded not only on his appearance and manners when she first knew him, but also on dick's evil reports in regard to him. now that dick himself had gone so far wrong, his mother went about with a heartache all the time, and found it hard sometimes to rejoice as she knew she ought to do in the vast change for the better in this other boy. "is jim here?" theodore asked when mrs. hunt opened the door in response to his knock. "yes--what's wanted, tode?" jimmy answered for himself before his mother could reply. "can you stay out o' school to-morrow?" theo questioned. "no, he can't, an' you needn't be temptin' him," broke in the mother, quickly. "oh, come now, ma, wait till ye hear what he wants," remonstrated jimmy, in whose eyes theo was just about right. "i wanted him to run my stand to-morrow," said theodore. "i've got somethin' else to 'tend to. there's plenty o' fellers that would like to run it for me, but ye see i can't trust 'em an' i _can_ trust jim every time." jimmy drew himself up proudly. "oh, ma, do let me stay out an' do it," he cried, eagerly. "it's friday, an' we don't have much to do fridays anyhow, in our school." "we-ell, i s'pose then you might stay out just this once," mrs. hunt said, slowly, being fully alive to the advantages to jimmy of such a friendly feeling on theo's part. she recognized theodore's business ability, and would have been only too glad to see her own boy develop something of the same kind. she was haunted with a dread that he might become idle and vicious as dick had done. "all right, then," theodore responded, promptly. "you be ready to go down with me at seven o'clock, jim, an' i'll see you started all right before i leave you. oh, mrs. hunt, there's one more thing i want. have you any clean old rags?" "for what?" "any kind o' soft white cotton stuff or old flannel will do," replied the boy, purposely leaving her question unanswered. "i'll pay you for 'em, of course, if you let me have 'em." "well, i guess i ain't so stingy as all that comes to," exclaimed mrs. hunt, sharply. "d'ye want 'em now?" "i'll come for 'em after supper," answered the boy, thinking that it was best to make sure of them, lest he be delayed for want of them in the morning. when later that evening, he knocked at her door, mrs. hunt had the pieces ready for him, and the next morning, jimmy was waiting in the hall when theo came from nan's room with his big basket, and the two boys went down the street carrying the basket between them. as soon as its contents had been arranged as attractively as possible on the clean white marbled oilcloth with which the stand was covered, and the coffee made and ready to serve, theo handed jimmy two dollars in dimes, nickels and pennies, to make change, and set off with the box of paste in his pocket, and the roll of rags under his arm. jimmy watched him out of sight, and then with a proud sense of responsibility awaited the appearance of his customers. theodore walked rapidly on till he reached the business streets where most of the handsome stores and offices were. then he slackened his pace and went on slowly, glancing keenly at each building until he came to one that had half a dozen brass signs on the front. "here's a good place to make a try," he said to himself, and going into the first office on the ground floor he asked as politely as he knew how, "can i shine up your brass signs for you?" there were several young men in the outer office. one of them answered carelessly, "yes indeed, shine 'em up, boy, and see 't you make a good job of it." "i will that, sir," responded theodore, blithely, and set to work with a will. there had been much wet weather and the signs were badly discoloured. it took hard, steady rubbing for nearly an hour to get them into good shining order, but theodore worked away vigourously until they gleamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. then he went again into the office. "i've finished 'em, sir," he said to the young man to whom he had spoken before, "an' i think i've made a good job of it. will you step out an' see what you think?" "not at all necessary. if you're satisfied, i am," replied the man, bending over his desk and writing rapidly. theodore waited in silence. the young man wrote on. finally he glanced up and remarked in a tone of surprise, "oh, you here yet? thought you'd finished your job." "i have done my part. i'm waitin' for you to do yours," replied the boy. "mine? what's my part, i'd like to know?" demanded the young man, sharply. "to pay me for my work." replied theo, promptly, but with a shadow falling on his face. "pay you? well, if this isn't cheeky! i didn't agree to pay you anything." "but you knew that i expected to be paid for my work," persisted the boy, the angry colour rising in his cheeks. "you expected--pshaw! young man, you've had a lesson that is well worth the time and labour you've expended," remarked the clerk in a tone of great dignity. "hereafter you will know better than to take anything for granted in business transactions. good-morning," and he turned his back on the boy and began to write again. theodore glanced around the room to see if there was any one on his side, but two of the other clerks were grinning at his discomfiture, and the others pretended not to know anything about the affair. he saw now that he had been foolish to undertake the work as he had done, but he realised that it would not help his case to make a fuss about it. all the same he was unwilling to submit without a protest. "next time i'll take care to make my bargain with a gentleman," he said, quietly. he saw a singular change in the expression of the clerk's face at these words, and as he turned sharply about to leave the office he almost ran into a tall, grey-haired man who had just entered. "stop a bit, my boy. i don't understand that remark of yours. what bargain are you going to make with a gentleman?" the tone of authority, together with the disturbed face of one clerk and the quite evident amusement of the others, suddenly enlightened theodore. he knew instinctively that this man was master here and in a few quick sentences he told what had happened. the gentleman listened in silence, but his keen, dark eyes took note of the flushed face of one clerk and the amused smiles of his companions. "is this boy's story true, mr. hammond?" he asked, sternly. mr. hammond could not deny it "it was only a joke, sir," he said, uneasily. "a joke, was it?" responded his employer. "i am not fond of such jokes." then he turned again to the boy and inquired, "how much is due you for cleaning the signs?" "i don't know. i'm just starting in in this business, an' i'm not sure what i ought to charge. can you tell me, sir?" the gentleman smiled down into the young face lifted so frankly to his. "why, no," he answered, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "i believe our janitor usually attends to the signs." "guess he don't attend to 'em very well, for they were awful dirty," remarked the boy. "took 'me 'most an hour to shine 'em up. did you notice 'em, sir, as you came in?" "no, i did not. i'll look at them now," and theodore followed the gentleman out to the steps. "well, you have made a good job of it, certainly," the gentleman said. "the signs haven't shone like that since they were first put there. quite a contrast to the others on the building. come back into the office a moment." he went back to mr. hammond's desk and again theodore followed. "mr. hammond," said the gentleman, quietly, "you are willing of course to pay for your joke. the boy has done his work extremely well. i think he ought to have half a dollar for it." with anything but a happy expression, mr. hammond drew from his pocket a half dollar and handed it to theodore, who said, not to the clerk, but to the gentleman, "thank you, sir," and left the office. but he did not leave the building. he went to the owner of every brass sign in or on the building and asked to be allowed to make every other sign look as well as those of t.s. harris, which he had just polished. now, t.s. harris was the owner of the building and the occupants of the other offices considered that it would be wise to follow his example in this matter, so the result was that theodore spent all the morning over the signs on that one building, and mr. harris having set the price, he received twenty-five cents for each sign. he was just putting a finishing rub on the last one when the janitor discovered what had been going on. he came at the boy in a great rage for he wanted no one to have anything to do with the care of the building except those whom he chose to hire. "you take your traps an' clear out o' this now, an' don't you ever dare to show your face here again," he shouted, angrily. "if i catch ye here again i'll kick ye down the stairs!" "p'raps mr. harris will have a word to say about that," replied theodore, coolly, for in one and another of the offices he had picked up enough to convince him that the word of mr. harris was law in that building. then he added, in a much more friendly tone, "now, look here, mister. you're too busy a man to be cleaning signs--'course you are. you've got to hire somebody t' do it an' the' won't anybody do it better or fer less money 'n i will. i'm a-goin' to make a reg'lar business of cleanin' brasses all 'round this neighbourhood, an' if you'll stan' by me an' help me fix it all right with the other bosses 'bout here--i'll see 't you don't lose anythin' by it." the janitor's fierce frown had slowly faded as the boy spoke. nothing pleased him so much as to be considered a person of influence, and had theodore been ever so shrewd he could have adopted no other line of argument that would so quickly and effectually have changed an enemy into a friend as did this that he hit upon merely by chance. the man stepped down to the sidewalk and looked up at the signs with a critical air. "wai'," he answered, slowly, "i ain't a-goin' to deny that you've done your work well--yes a sight better'n any of the lazy rascals i've been hiring, an' if you could be depended on now, i d'know but what i might's well give the work to you as to anybody else. of course, as you say, 'tain't my place to do servant's work like brass cleanin'." "of course not," assented theo, promptly. "but then," the man went on, "if i should speak for ye t' the janitors of the other buildings 'long here, 'n' get ye a big line o' custom, 'course i sh'ld have a right t' expect a--er--a sort o' commission on the profits, so to speak?" "oh!" replied theodore, rather blankly. "what _is_ a commission, anyhow?" the man explained. "and how much of a commission would you expect?" questioned the boy. the janitor made a mental calculation. here on this one building, the boy had cleaned seven signs. that made a dollar and seventy-five cents that he had earned in one morning. of course he would not often get so much out of one building, but the man saw that there were good possibilities in this line of work. "s'pose we say ten per cent.--ten cents out of every dollar?" he ventured, with a keen glance at the boy. "you mean ten per cent, on all the work that i get through you?" theo replied. "oh no--on _all_ the work of this sort that you do. that's no more'n fair since you'll owe your start to me." "not much! i owe my start to myself, an' i'll make no such bargain as that," answered theo, decidedly. "i'm willin' to give you ten per cent. on all that i get through you, but not a cent more. you see i'm bound to put this thing through whether you help me or not," he added, quietly. the janitor saw that he had been too grasping and hastened to modify his demands lest he lose his commissions altogether. "well, well," he said, soothingly, "we won't quarrel over a little difference like that. let it be as you say, ten per cent. on all the jobs i get for ye, an' there's the janitor of the laramie building on the steps this minute. come along with me an' i'll give ye a start over there--or, first--ain't there a little matter to attend to," he added, with an insinuating smile. "you'll settle your bills fast as they come due, of course, an' you've got a snug little sum out of my building here." "yes, but no thanks to you for that," replied theo, but as the man's face darkened again, he added, "but never mind, i'll give you the commission on this work since it's in your building," and he handed eighteen cents to the janitor, who slipped it into his pocket with an abstracted air as if unconscious of what he was doing. the result of the man's recommendation to his brother janitor was that theodore secured the promise of all the brass cleaning in the laramie building also, and that with one or two small jobs kept him busy until dark when he went home with a light heart and with the sum of three dollars and fourteen cents in his pocket. to be sure he had worked hard all day to earn it, but theodore never had been lazy and he was willing enough to work hard now. he carried home some oranges as a special treat that night, for now he took his supper regularly with nan who was glad to make a return in this fashion for the help he was continually giving her in carrying out her food supplies, as well as many other ways. as they arose from the supper-table, theodore said, "i'll go across an' see how jimmy got on to-day, at the stand," but even as he spoke there came a low knock at the door and there stood jimmy--no longer proud and happy as he had been in the morning, but with red eyes and a face full of trouble. "why, jimmy, what's the matter?" cried nan and theo, in one voice. "come in," added nan, kindly pulling him in and gently pushing him toward a chair. jimmy dropped into it with an appealing glance at theo. "i'm--i'm awful sorry, tode," he began. "but i--i couldn't help it, truly i couldn't." he rubbed his sleeve hastily across his eyes as he spoke. "but what is it, jimmy? i'm sure you did the best you could whatever is wrong, but do tell us what it is," exclaimed theodore, half laughing and half impatient at the uncertainty. "'twas that mean ol' carrots," began jimmy, indignantly. "i was sellin' things off in fine style, tode, an' carrots, he came along an' he said he wanted three san'wiches in a paper. i put 'em up fer him, an' then he asked fer six doughnuts an' some gingerbread, an' a cup o' coffee--an' he wanted 'em all in a paper." "not the coffee, jimmy," said nan, laughingly, as the boy stopped to take breath. "no, 'course not the coffee. he swallered that an' put in a extry spoonful o' sugar too, but he wanted all the rest o' the things in a paper bag, an' i did 'em up good for him, an' then he asked me to tie a string 'round 'em, an' i got down under the stand for a piece of string, an' when i found it, an' looked up--don't you think tode--that rascal was streakin' it down the street as fast's he could go, an' i couldn't leave the stand to run after him, an' 'course the' wasn't any p'lice 'round, an' so i had to let him go. i'm awful sorry, theo, but i couldn't help it." "'course you couldn't, jimmy. and is that all the trouble?" "yes, that's 'nough, ain't it?" answered jimmy, mournfully. "he got off with more'n forty cents worth o' stuff--the old pig! i'll fix him yet!" "well, don't worry any more over it, jimmy. losin' th' forty cents won't break me, i guess," said theo, kindly. jimmy brightened up a little, but the shadow again darkened his face as he said, anxiously, "i s'pose you won't never trust me to run the stand again?" "trust you, jimmy? well, i guess i will. no danger of _your_ trusting carrots again, i'm sure." "not if i know myself," responded jimmy, promptly, and theo went on, "i s'pose your mother wouldn't want you to stay out of school mornin's for a week or two?" jimmy looked at him with sparkling eyes. "do you mean"--he began, breathlessly, and then paused. "i mean that i may want you to run the stand for me all next week, as well as to-morrow," theo answered. "oh--ee! that's most too good to b'lieve," cried the little fellow. "say! i think you're--you're prime, tode. i must go an' tell ma," and he dashed out of the door, his face fairly beaming with delight. "it's worth while to make anybody so happy, isn't it, theo?" nan said, then she added, thoughtfully, "do you think the brass-cleaning will take all your time, so you can't be at the stand any more?" "just at first it will. maybe i shall fix it differently after a while," he answered. on his way to the business district the next morning, he stopped and bought a blank book and a pencil, and wherever he cleaned a sign or a railing that day, he tried to make a regular engagement to keep the brasses in good condition. if he secured a promise of the work by the month he made a reduction on his price, and every business man--or janitor who regularly engaged him, was asked to write his own name in the new blank book. not on the first page of the book, however. that the boy kept blank until about the time when mr. harris had come to his office the day before. at that hour, theodore was waiting near the office door, and there mr. harris found him as he came up the steps. "good-morning, sir," said theo, pulling off his cap with a smile lighting up his plain face. "good-morning," returned the gentleman. "have you found something else to polish up here to-day?" "no, sir, but i wanted to ask you if you would sign your name here in my book," the boy replied. mr. harris looked amused. "come into my office," he said, "and tell me what it is that you want." theodore followed him across the outer office to the private room beyond. the clerks cast curious glances after the two, and hammond scowled as he bent over his desk. "now let me see your book," said mr. harris, as the door of the office swung silently behind them. theo laid his rags and paste box on the carpet, and then put the blank book on the desk as he said, earnestly, "you see, sir, i'm trying to work up a reg'lar business, an' so i want the business men i work for to engage me by the month to take care of their brass work--an' i guess i did learn a lesson here yesterday, for to-day i've asked every gentleman who has engaged me to sign his name in this book--see?" he turned over the leaves and showed three names on the second page. "and you want my name there, too? but i haven't engaged you. i only gave you a job yesterday." "but your janitor has engaged me," answered theodore, quickly. "well, then, isn't it the janitor's name that you want?" "oh, no, sir," cried the boy, earnestly. "nobody knows the janitor, but i guess lots o' folks know you, an' your name would make others sign--don't you see?" mr. harris laughed. "i see that you seem to have a shrewd business head. you'll make a man one of these days if you keep on. and you want my name on this first page?" he added, dipping his pen into the inkstand. "yes, because you was my first friend in this business," replied theodore. mr. harris glanced at him with that amused twinkle in his eye, but he signed his name on the first page. then he said, "i wish you success in your undertaking, and here's a trifle for a send-off." he held out a silver dollar as he spoke, but theodore did not take it. "thank ye, sir," he said, gratefully; "you've been real good to me, but i can't take any money now, 'cept what i earn. i c'n earn all i need." "so?" replied mr. harris, "you're independent. well, i like that, but i'll keep this dollar for you, and if you ever get in a tight place you can come to me for it." "thank you, mr. harris," said the boy again. "i won't forget, but i hope i won't need it," and then he picked up his belongings and left the office. as he passed mr. hammond's desk, he said, "good-morning, sir," but the clerk pretended not to hear. all through the next week and for weeks after, theodore spent his time from nine to five o'clock, cleaning brasses and making contracts for the regular care of them, until he had secured as much work as he could attend to himself. meantime, jimmy hunt had taken entire charge of the stand and was doing well with it. theo gave him four-fifths of the profits and he was perfectly satisfied, and so was his mother, who found his earnings a welcome addition to the slim family income, and it was so near the end of the school term that she concluded it did not matter if jimmy did stay out the few remaining weeks. but busy as theodore was, he still found time to carry out what nan cooked for the people in the two houses, as well as to drop in on one and another of his many neighbours every evening--for by this time the night school had closed for the season. his saturday evenings were still spent at the flower stand, and now that blossoms were more plentiful, he received more and better ones in payment for his work, and his sunday morning visits to the different rooms were looked forward to all the week by many of those to whom he went, and hardly less so by himself, for the boy was learning by glad experience the wonderful joy that comes from giving happiness to others. when he saw how the flowers he carried to stuffy, dirty, crowded rooms, were kept and cherished and cared for even until they were withered and dead--he was sure that his little flower mission was a real blessing. before the hot weather came, tommy o'brien was carried away out of the noisy, crowded room to the hospital for incurables. theo had brought one of the dispensary doctors to see the boy, and through the doctor's efforts and those of mr. scott, tommy had been received into the hospital. he had never been so comfortable in his brief life as he was there, but at first he was lonely, and so theodore went once or twice a week to see him, and he never failed to save out some flowers to carry to tommy on sunday. but, however full theodore's time might be, and however busy his hands, he never forgot the search for jack finney. his eyes were always watching for a blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy of sixteen, and he made inquiries for him everywhere. three times he heard of a boy named finney, and sought him out only to be disappointed, for the first jack finney he found was a little chap of ten or eleven, and the next was a boy of sixteen, but with hair and eyes as black as a jew's--and besides, it turned out that his name wasn't finney at all, but findlay; and the third time, the boy he found was living at home with his parents, so theo knew that no one of the three was the boy of whom he was in search and although he did not in the least give up the matter, he came to the conclusion at last that his jack finney must have left the city. mr. scott interested himself in the search because of his great interest in theodore, and he went to the reform school and the prison, but the name he sought was on neither record. although theodore said nothing to any one about it, he was also on the lookout for another boy, and that boy was carrots. ever since carrots had stolen the food from the stand, theo had wanted to find him. more than once he had caught a glimpse in the streets of the lank figure and the frowzy red head, but carrots had no desire to meet theo and he took good care to keep out of his way. xii. nan finds friends so the spring days slipped away until march and april were gone and the middle of may had come. theodore was counting the days now, for it was in may that the bishop was to return--so mrs. martin had told him--and the boy began to watch eagerly for the word that the housekeeper had promised to send him. so full of this were his thoughts and so busy was he with his work for himself and for others, that he spent much less time than usual with nan and little brother. about this time there was a week of extremely hot weather. one day toward the close of this week as theodore was passing mrs. hunt's door, she called him in. "you'd better come here for your supper to-night," she said. theodore looked at her with a quick, startled glance. "why--where's nan?" he inquired. "nan's in her room, but she can't get you any supper to-night. she's sick. i've seen for weeks past that nan was overworkin' with all that cooking she's been doin', and to-day she just gave out--an' she's flat on her back now." theodore was silent in blank dismay. until that moment he had not realised how much he had come to depend upon nan. "has she had a doctor, or anything?" he asked, in such a troubled voice that mrs. hunt could not but be sorry for him. "no, i offered to send jimmy for a doctor, but she said she only wanted to rest, but i tell you what, theo, she ain't goin' to get much rest in that room, hot's an oven with the constant cooking, an' what's more that baby can't stand it neither." "i'll go an' see her," replied the boy, slowly, "an'--i guess i don't want any supper to-night, mrs. hunt." "yes, you do want supper, too, theodore. you come back here in half an hour an' get it, an' look here--don't worry nan, talkin' 'bout her being sick," mrs. hunt called after him in a low voice, as he turned toward the girl's door. it seemed strange enough to theodore to see bright, energetic nan lying with pale face and idle hands on the bed. she smiled up at the boy as he stood silent beside the bed finding no words to say. "i'm only tired, theo," she said, gently. "it has been so hot to-day, and little brother fretted so that i couldn't get through my work so well as usual." "he's sick too," answered theodore, gravely. nan turned her head to look at the little white face on the pillow beside her. "yes, he's sick. oh theo"--and then the girl covered her face with her hands, and theodore saw the tears trickling through her fingers. "don't nan, don't!" he cried, in a choked voice, and then he turned and ran out of the room and out of the house. straight to his teacher he went, sure of finding there sympathy, and if possible, help. he was not disappointed. mr. scott listened to what he had to say, and wrote a note to a friend of his own who was a physician, asking him to see nan and the baby at his earliest convenience. then having comforted theodore, and compelled him to take some supper, mr. scott sent him away greatly refreshed, and proceeded to talk the matter over with his aunt, mrs. rawson. "those two children ought to be sent away into the country, aunt mary," he began. "nan and theodore, do you mean?" "no, no! theodore's all right. he's well and strong. i mean nan and her little brother. aunt mary, it would make your heart ache to see such a girl as that working as she has worked, and living among such people. i wish you would go and see the child." "i'll try to go to-morrow, allan. i've been intending to ever since you told me about her, but the days do slip away so fast!" answered the lady. but she found time to go the next day, and the first sight of nan's sweet face was enough to make her as deeply interested in the two as her nephew had long been. "but what an uncomfortable place for a sick girl!" mrs. rawson thought, as she glanced at the shutterless windows through which the sun was pouring, making the small room almost unbearably hot, although there was no fire in the stove. she noticed that the place was daintily clean and neat, though bare as it well could be, but noisy children were racing up and down the stairways and shouting through the halls, making quiet rest impossible. mrs. rawson's kind heart ached as she looked from the room to the pure face of the girl lying there with the little child beside her. "she must be a very unusual girl to look like that after living for months in this place," she thought to herself. while she was there the doctor came, and when he went away, mrs. rawson went with him that she might tell him what she knew about the girl's life and learn what he thought of the case. "it is a plain case of overwork," he said. "from what you tell me the girl has been doing twice as much as she was able to do, and living in that little oven of a room with nothing like the fresh air and exercise she should have had, and very likely not half enough to eat. the baby seems extremely delicate. probably it won't live through the summer, and a good thing too if there's no one but the girl to provide for them. what they need is--to go straight away into the country and stay there all summer, or better yet, for a year or two, but i suppose that is out of the question." "i must see what can be done, doctor. such a girl as that surely ought not to be left to struggle along unfriended." "no, but there are so many such cases. well, i hope something can be done for her. i'll call and see her again to-morrow, but medicine is of little use in a case like this," the doctor replied. mrs. rawson was not one to "let the grass grow under her feet," when she had anything to do, and she felt that she had something to do in this case. she thought it over as she went home, and before night she had written to a relative in the country--a woman who had a big farm and a big heart--to ask if she would board nan and her little brother for the summer. she described the two, and told how bravely the girl had battled with poverty and misfortune until her strength had failed. the letter went straight from the warm heart of the writer to that of her friend and the response was prompt. "send those two children right to me, and if rest and pure air and plenty of wholesome food are what they need, please god, they shall soon be strong and well. they are surely his little ones, and you know i am always ready and glad to do his work." such was the message that mrs. rawson read to her nephew two days after her visit to nan, and his face was full of satisfaction as he listened to it. "nothing could be better," he said. "it will be a splendid place for those children, and it will be a good thing too for mrs. hyde to have them there." "yes, i think so," replied mrs. rawson, "but now the question is--will nan consent to go? from what little i have seen of her i judge that she will not be at all willing to accept help from strangers." "she will shrink from it, perhaps, for herself, but for the sake of that little brother i think she will consent to go. theo tells me that she has been exceedingly anxious about the child for weeks past," answered mr. scott. "well, i'll go to-morrow and see if i can prevail upon her to accept this offer, but allan, one thing you must do, if nan does consent to go--and that is, you must break it to theodore. it's going to be a blow to him, to have those two go away from the city. he'll be left entirely alone." "so he will. i hadn't thought of that. i must think it over and see what can be done for him. he certainly must not stay there, with no place but that dark little closet in which he sleeps," replied the gentleman. mrs. rawson's kindly sympathy and gentle manners had quickly won nan's confidence and the girl welcomed her warmly when she appeared in the little room the next morning. she found nan sitting by the open window, with her pale little brother in her arms. "oh, i'm ever so much better," she said, in reply to mrs. rawson's inquiries. "the doctor's medicine helped me right away, but i don't feel very strong yet--not quite well enough to begin my cooking again. i'm going to begin it to-morrow," she added. "indeed, you'll not do any cooking to-morrow, nan," said the lady, decidedly. "you're not fit to stand over the stove or the mixing board, and besides, it would make the room too hot for the baby." nan glanced anxiously at the little face on her arm. "i can carry him in to mrs. hunt's. he's no trouble, and she's always willing to keep him," she answered. "now, my child, i want you to listen to me," mrs. rawson began, and went on to tell the girl about the plans she had made for her and her little brother. nan listened, with the colour coming and going in her face. "it is so good--so kind of you to think of this," she exclaimed, earnestly, "and i'd _love_ to go. mrs. rawson, you don't know how i hate living in a place like this," she shuddered, as she spoke, "and it would be like heaven to get away into the sweet clean country, with good people--but i can't go unless there is something i can do there. i _couldn't_ go and live on charity, you know." "it wouldn't be charity, nan; it would be love," answered mrs. rawson, gently. "mrs. hyde keeps one room in her house always ready for any guest whom the lord may send her and i think he is sending you there now. remember, my child, you have this dear sick baby to think of, as well as yourself. nan, the doctor thinks little brother will not live through the summer unless he is taken away from the city." nan gave a quick, gasping breath, as she drew the baby closer and bent her face over his. when she looked up again her eyes were wet, and she said, in a low tone, "if that is so, i can't refuse this kind offer, and i will try to find some way to make it right." "there's nothing to make right, dear; you've only to go and be just as happy and contented as you can be. i know you will be happy there. you can't help loving mrs. hyde. and now, my child, there's another matter." she paused and added, in a low tone, "i had a little girl once, but god took her away from my home. she would have been about your age now if she had staid with me. for her sake, nan, i want you to let me get a few things that you and the baby will need. will you, dear?" nan was proud. she had never gotten accustomed to poverty and its painful consequences, and she would have preferred to do without, any time, rather than accept a gift from those on whom she had no claim; but she realised that she could not go among strangers with only the few poor garments that she now had, so, after a moment's silence, she answered, in a voice that was not quite steady, "you are very, very good to me, mrs. rawson. i'll try to be good too, only, please don't get a single thing that i can do without." "nan, if you had plenty of money and you found a girl who had been left all alone in the world, with no one to do anything for her--would you think it was any wonderful kindness in you to spend a few dollars for her?" "n--no, of course not. i'd just _love_ to do it," replied nan, "but"-- "that's enough, then, and now there's only one more thing i have to speak about. i know some girls, who have formed themselves into a band called a 'king's daughter circle,' and they meet once a week to sew for somebody who is not able to do her own sewing. i've told these girls a little about you and they want very much to do some sewing for little brother and you. now, would you be willing to let them come here to-morrow afternoon? would it trouble you?" the colour rose in nan's cheeks and her lips trembled, and for a moment she seemed to shrink into herself as she thought what a contrast her poor surroundings would be to these other girls, who lived such different lives from hers, but she saw that mrs. rawson was really desirous that they should come, and she was not willing to disappoint one who was doing so much for her; so after a moment's silence she answered, "of course they can come, if you think they won't mind too much." she glanced about the room as she spoke. mrs. rawson leaned over and kissed her. "child," she said, "they know nothing about the trials that come into other lives--like yours. i want them to know you. don't worry one bit over their coming. they are dear girls and i'm sure you will like them--as sure as i am that they will all love you--and nan, one thing more, leave mr. scott to tell theodore about your going." then she went away, leaving nan with many things to think about. she could not help worrying somewhat over the coming of those girls. as she recalled her own old home, she realised how terribly bare and poor her one room would look to these strangers and she shrank nervously from the thought of meeting them. more than once, she was tempted to ask theo to go to mrs. rawson and tell her that the girls could not come there. mrs. rawson went straight from nan's room to the shopping district, where she purchased simple but complete outfits for nan and the baby. the under garments and the baby's dresses she bought ready-made and also a neat wool suit for the girl and hats and wraps for both, but she bought enough pretty lawn and gingham to make as many wash dresses as nan would require, and these she carried home and cut out the next morning. that evening too she sent notes to the members of the circle telling them to meet at her house before one o'clock the next day, which was saturday. they came promptly, eleven girls between fifteen and seventeen, each with her sewing implements. bright, happy girls they were, as nan might have been, had her life been peaceful and sheltered like theirs, mrs. rawson thought, as she welcomed them. "sit down, girls," she said, "i want to tell you more about my poor little nan before you see her." she told the story in such fashion that the warm, girlish hearts were filled with a sweet and tender sympathy for this other girl, and they were eager to do all that they could for her. not one of them had ever before been in a tenement house like the one to which mrs. rawson led them, and they shrank from the rude children and coarse women whom they encountered in the halls and on the stairs, and pressed closer together, grasping each other's hands. nan's face whitened and her thin hands were clasped tightly together as she heard them coming along the hall. she knew it was they, so different were their quiet footsteps from most that passed her door. nan opened the door in response to mrs. rawson's knock and the girls flocked in, looking so dainty and pretty in their fresh shirt-waists and dimities, and their gay ribbons. as nan looked at them she was painfully conscious of her own faded calico and worn shoes, and her cheeks flushed, but the girls gave her no time to think of these things. they crowded about her, introducing each other with merry laughter and gay little jokes, seeming to take nan right in among them as one of themselves, and taking prompt possession of the baby, who wasn't a bit shy, and appeared to like to be passed from one to another, and kissed, and called sweet names. nan had borrowed all mrs. hunt's chairs, but still there were not enough, and three or four girls gleefully settled themselves on the bed. every one of them had come with her hands full of flowers, and seeing these, mrs. rawson had brought along a big glass rose bowl, which the girls speedily filled and set in the middle of the table. a tap at the door announced the arrival of a boy with a box and a bag for mrs. rawson, and out of the box she lifted a baby sewing machine, which she fastened to the table. then from the bag she took the lawn and gingham as she said, "now, girls, your tongues can run just as fast as your fingers sew, but remember this tiny machine works very rapidly and you've got to keep it supplied. i'll hem this skirt first." in an instant every girl had on her thimble, and they all set to work with right good will. "can't i do some, too?" said nan. "i don't want to be the only idle one." "you can gather some ruffles in a few minutes--as soon as i have hemmed them," answered mrs. rawson, smiling to herself, as she saw how bright and interested nan looked already. all that long, bright afternoon tongues and needles were about equally busy. fortunately it was cooler, else the girls would have been uncomfortable in the small room, but as it was, not even nan gave more than a passing thought to the bare room and its lack of comfort. indeed, after the first few moments, nan forgot all about herself and just gave herself up to the delight of being once more a girl among girls. she thought them lovely, every one, and indeed they were lovely to her in every way, for her sweet face and gentle manners had won them all at first sight. how they did chatter! never before had that room--or indeed any room in that dreary building, held such a company as gathered there that day. at half-past five there came another rap on the door, and mrs. rawson exclaimed, "put up your sewing, girls. we've business of another sort to attend to now." the girls looked at her inquiringly as nan opened the door again. "bring them in," called mrs. rawson, and a man edged his way gingerly among the girls and set two big baskets and an ice cream freezer beside the table. "a house picnic! mrs. rawson, you're a darling!" called one and another of the girls. mrs. rawson nodded a laughing acknowledgment of the compliment, as she said, "open the baskets, girls. the dishes are in the round one. i thought nan might not be prepared for quite such a family party." with quick, deft fingers the girls swept aside the sewing, unscrewed the little machine, spread a fine damask cloth over the pine table, and on it arranged the pretty green and gold dishes and glasses, putting the big bowl of roses in the centre. then from the other basket they took tiny buttered biscuits, three-cornered sandwiches, tied with narrow green ribbons, a dish of chicken salad, and a big loaf of nut cake. all these quite covered the table so that the cream had to be left in the freezer until it was wanted. how nan did enjoy that feast! how her eyes shone with quiet happiness as she watched the bright faces and listened to the merry talk; not all merry either, for more than once it touched upon the deep things of life, showing that the girls had thought much, even if their lives had been happy, sheltered ones. when the feast was ended, the dishes repacked in the basket, and the unfinished work put away, the girls gathered about nan to say "good-bye," and she wondered how she could have dreaded their coming,--for now it seemed as if she could not let them go. she felt as if all the joyous brightness would vanish with them. the quick young eyes read something of this feeling in her face, and more than one girl left a kiss with her cordial farewell. the room seemed very still and lonely to nan when the last flutter of light dresses was gone and the last faint echo of girlish voices and footsteps had died on her eagerly listening ears. she dropped into the rocking-chair and looked about the room, trying to repeople it with those fair, young, friendly faces. she could almost have imagined it all a dream but for the cake and sandwiches and ice cream on the table. the sight of the fast melting cream suggested another thought to her. hastily filling a plate with portions of everything on the table, she set it away for theodore and then went across to mrs. hunt's rooms to tell her to come with the children and take all that was left. the eyes of the children gleamed with delight at sight of the unexpected treat, and they speedily emptied the dishes which their mother then carried home to wash, while the children took back the borrowed chairs. by this time nan began to feel very weary, and she threw herself down on the bed with the baby, but she kept in her hand some little scrips of the pretty lawns and ginghams that she had found on the floor. it seemed hardly possible to her that she could be going to have such dresses. why--one of the scrips was exactly like a waist that one of those girls had worn. nan gazed at it with a smile on her lips, a smile that lingered there until it was chased away by the remembrance of theo's loneliness when she and little brother should be far away. xiii. nan's departure theo was feeling that he needed sympathy about that time, for it seemed to him as if every one that he cared for was to be taken away from him. mr. scott had invited the boy to go with him for a row on the river and then to go home with him to supper. the river was beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, and theodore enjoyed the row and the friendly talk with his teacher, but he felt a little shy with mrs. rawson and was not sorry to find her absent from the supper-table. when the meal was over mr. scott took the boy up to his own room to see some of his curiosities. theo's quick eyes took silent note of everything, and he mentally decided that some day he would have just such a room as that. he was thinking thus, when mr. scott said, "theo, you haven't asked me what dr. reed thinks about nan and her little brother." "she's better to-day--nan is," exclaimed the boy, quickly. "yes, i suppose the medicine has toned her up a little, but the doctor says that she must have a long rest. she has been working too hard." "well, she can. i'm earnin' enough now to take care of 'em," interposed the boy. "nan would never be content to let you do that, i think, but, theo, that isn't all." theo said nothing, but his anxious eyes asked the question that his lips refused to utter. mr. scott went on, "the doctor says that the baby must go away into the country or--he will die." theodore walked quickly to the window, and stood there looking out in silence. after a moment, his teacher crossed the room and laid his arm affectionately over the boy's shoulders. "sit down, theodore," he said, gently, "i want to tell you what we have planned for nan and the little one." then in few words he told of mrs. rawson's letter and the reply, describing the beautiful country home to which nan and the baby were to go. "you will be glad to think of them in such a place during the hot summer days," he went on, "even though their going leaves you very lonely, as i know it will, theodore." "i ought to be glad, mr. scott," replied the boy, slowly, as his teacher paused, "an' i am, but ye see you don't know how hard 'tis for a feller to keep straight when he ain't got no home an' nobody to talk to after his work's done at night. nan--well _you_ know she ain't like the rest o' the folks down our way. she never scolds nor nags at me, but somehow i can't ever look her straight in the eye if i've been doin' anything mean." "nan has been a good friend to you, i'm sure, and i think you have been a good friend to her and the baby, theodore. i know that she will miss you sadly at first, and if she thinks you are to be very lonely without them, i'm afraid she will worry about it and not get as much good from the change as she might otherwise," mr. scott added. the boy drew a long breath. "i won't let her know 't i care much 'bout their goin'," he said, bravely. "nan will guess quite enough," answered the gentleman, "but, theodore, how would you like to come here? mrs. rawson has a little room over the l that she seldom uses, and she says that you can sleep there if you like, and pay for it the same that you pay for the dark room that you now have." the boy's eyes were full of surprise and pleasure as he answered, gratefully, "i'd like that fine!" "come on, then, and we'll take a look at the place. it has been used as a storeroom and will, of course, need some fixing up." as mr. scott threw open the door of the l room theodore stepped in and looked about him with shining eyes. it was a long, low room with windows on three sides. the floor was covered with matting and the walls with a light, cheerful paper. "this for me!" exclaimed the boy. "why, mr. scott, it's--it's too fine for a chap like me." "not a bit, my boy, but i think you can be very comfortable here, and you will know that you have friends close at hand. and now, theodore, i suppose you will want to get home, for we hope to get nan away next week." "so soon!" cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment before so bright. "yes, the sooner the better for the little one's sake," replied mr. scott, gravely. "you've been mighty good to me--an' to nan," said the boy, simply, and then he went away. he walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose nan and little brother out of his life even for a few weeks. his way led him across the common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. it was surely carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across the greensward to the street beyond. he did not notice theo's approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of him. "hold on, carrots--don't clear out. i want to tell you something," cried theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve. carrots looked at him suspiciously. "d'know what yer got ter say ter me," he growled. "sit down here, an' i'll tell ye." theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment's hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to "cut and run" at a moment's notice. "you look's if you were down on your luck," began theo, with a glance at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other. "'course--i'm always down on my luck," responded carrots, in a tone that implied, "what business is that of yours?" "sellin' papers now?" "yes, but a feller can't make a livin' out o' that. there's too many kids in the business, an' folks'll buy o' the kids ev'ry time, 'n' give us big fellers the go-by," carrots said, in a gloomy tone. "that's so. the little chaps always sell most," assented theodore. "why don't you get into some other business, carrots?" "can't--'cause my money's all tied up in railroad stock," retorted carrots, with bitter sarcasm. "carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on jim hunt the other day?" asked theodore, suddenly. carrots grinned. "hunt's a fool," he answered, "else he wouldn't 'a' give me a chance ter work him so slick." "well, i don't think you'll play it on him again. i think you were the fool, carrots, for you know well enough you can't get such good stuff anywhere else for your money, an' now ye can't go to my stand." "got it 'thout money that time," chuckled carrots, impudently, but still keeping a sharp eye on his companion. theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly, "what's the trouble with you, carrots? are you too lazy to work, or what?" the boy's eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, "see here, tode bryan--what ye pokin' yer nose int' my business for, anyhow?" "'cause i can put you in the way of earnin' honest money if you're willin' to do honest work." "what sort o' work?" carrots inquired, suspiciously. "i'll tell ye 'bout it when i'm sure you're ready to take hold of it, an' not before. see here, carrots, i've seen you lately loafin' 'round with some o' the meanest fellers in this town, an' if you don't keep away from them you'll find yourself where some of 'em have been a'ready--behind the bars. i mean well by ye, an' if you make up your mind to be a man instead of a tramp an' a loafer, you can come to me, an' i'll give ye a start. jim hunt'll tell ye where to find me." the night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already lighted, and seeing this, theodore started up, adding, "it's later'n i thought. i must be off," and he hurried away, leaving carrots looking after him in a much bewildered state of mind. theodore found nan sitting by the window in the dark. she had rocked the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that seemed now so like a beautiful dream. she lighted her lamp when theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. he did not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused and said, anxiously, "you aren't sick, are you, theo?" "no," he replied, gravely, "an' nan, i'm real glad you're goin' to such a nice place." but though he spoke earnestly, there was in his voice a ring of pain that nan detected instantly, and guessed its cause. "i'm going to miss you dreadfully, theo," she said, quickly, "and i don't know what little brother will do without you. that's the one thing about it that i don't like--to think of you all alone here with no place to stay evenings." "mr. scott says i can have a room where he lives--at mrs. rawson's," answered theodore. "it's a fine room--bigger'n this, an' it's got checked straw carpet an' three windows." "oh, theo, how glad i am!" cried the girl, delightedly. "that's just splendid. don't you like it?" she added, as the boy still sat with serious eyes fixed on the floor. "like it? the room you mean? oh yes, it's a grand room, but i don't think i'll go there," he answered, slowly. the gladness died out of nan's face. "oh, theo, why not?" she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone. he answered again, slowly, "i think i shall stay here an' take this room o' yours 'stead o' my little one." "this is ever so much better than yours, of course, an' if you do that you can keep my furniture, and i s'pose you'd be comfortable, but 'twould be lonesome all the same, and i shouldn't think you'd like it half so well as being with mr. scott." "'course i wouldn't like it half nor quarter so well, nan, but this is what i've been thinkin'. you know there's a good many boys in these two houses that don't have no place to stay evenin's, 'cept the streets, an' i was thinkin' as i came home to-night, how fine 'twould be if there was a room where they could come an' read an' play games an' talk, kind of a boys' club room, don't ye know, like the one mr. scott was tellin' 'bout they're havin' in some places. i think he'll help me get some books an' papers an' games, an' maybe he'll come an' give us a talk sometimes. it would be grand for fellers like jimmy hunt that ain't bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets every evenin'." "theo, i think it's a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such a room for the girls. they need it even more than the boys do." nan hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, "theo, i'm proud of you." theodore's face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at her. "proud--of me?" he gasped. "i'd like to know what for." "well, never mind what for, but i want to say, theo, what i've thought ever so many times lately. when i first knew you, you were good to little brother and me, so good that i can never forget it, but you weren't"-- "i was meaner'n dirt," interposed the boy, sorrowfully. "no, but you'd never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help you, and i used to hate to have you touch little brother, because i thought you were not good." "i wasn't," put in theodore, sadly. "but since you came back from the bishop's you've been so different, and it seems to me you're always trying to help somebody now. theo--if little brother lives, i hope he'll be like you." theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. "like me. little brother like me," he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour mounting in his cheeks. then he arose and walked over to the bed where the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the bedclothes. the soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist forehead, but the little face looked waxen white. theodore stood for a moment looking down at the baby, then suddenly he stooped and kissed the outstretched hand, and then without another word he went away. nan's eyes were full of tears as she looked after him. "how he does love little brother," she thought. "he's going to miss him awfully." monday was a busy day for mrs. rawson. she had engaged a seamstress to finish off nan's dresses, and having seen the woman settled to her work, she set off herself for the tenement house, a boy going with her to carry a small valise. she found nan busy baking bread. the place was very warm and the girl looked flushed and tired. mrs. hunt had carried the baby off to her cooler rooms. "nan, child, you've not taken up the cooking again?" exclaimed mrs. rawson. "i had to do some--not very much," replied the girl, gently. "but, my dear, i thought you understood that we didn't want you to do this any more." nan only smiled as she set the last loaf in the oven. the lady went on, "nan--we want you to go away to-morrow." nan looked up with startled eyes. "so soon!" she exclaimed as theodore had done. "why should there be any delay about it? every day that you stay here is so much actual loss to you and to the baby, too," added mrs. rawson. with a bewildered air nan dropped into a chair, saying, hesitatingly, "but how can i get ready to go to-morrow?" "easily enough, if you let the cooking go. i was wondering as i came along what you would do with your furniture." to mrs. rawson's eyes the few poor bits of furniture looked worthless enough, but she realised that it would seem quite otherwise to the girl who had bought them with her own hard earnings. but now nan looked up with shining eyes and in eager words told of theodore's plan and the lady's face brightened as she listened. "it's a fine plan," she replied, heartily, "and it means a deal for such a boy as theodore to have thought of it." "and when he might have gone to your house, too," added nan, softly. "mrs. rawson, he'll be very lonely when little brother is gone." "yes, he'll miss you both sadly, but nan, you mustn't worry about theodore. mr. scott loves the boy and will look out for him, you may be sure of that. but now we must talk about your journey. i've brought the things that i thought you would need on the way, and i'd like you to try on this dress." she lifted the pretty wool suit from the valise as she spoke, and nan began to take off her faded calico. the colour rose in her face as she did so, for she hated to have mrs. rawson see her poor under garments, but the lady seemed not to notice, as she chatted away about the dress. "fits you beautifully. i was sure it would, for i had all the measurements. i don't believe you will need to carry many of the things you have, for there are plenty of the new ones," she said. "i put into this little valise everything that will be needed for the journey, and the other things can go with mine." nan looked up quickly, crying out joyfully, "oh, mrs. rawson, are you going with us?" "to be sure. did you suppose i meant for you to travel alone with a sick baby? i'm going to stay a week." "that's lovely!" exclaimed the girl, with a sigh of relief. "i did dread to go among entire strangers alone." "mrs. hyde won't be a stranger two minutes after you meet her. you couldn't help loving her if you should try. now then, let me see. you are to be ready at half past nine to-morrow. the train goes at : . i'll stop here for you. now, child, don't work any more to-day. just rest so that you can enjoy the journey. oh, there's one thing i came near forgetting--shoes. those will have to be fitted. can you come with me now and get them?" "yes, if mrs. hunt can see to my baking," nan replied. mrs. hunt was very ready to do so, and nan and her new friend were soon in a car on their way to the shoe store. when she returned to her room alone, the girl took out the pretty serviceable garments from the valise and examined them all with mingled pain and pleasure. it was a delight to her to have once more such clothing as other girls wore, but to receive them from strangers, even such kind strangers as mrs. rawson and the girls, hurt nan more than a little. but she did not feel quite the same about the dainty garments for her little brother. over those her eyes shone with satisfaction. she could not resist the desire to see how he would look in them, and when he was dressed she carried him in for mrs. hunt to admire, and the two praised and petted the little fellow to their hearts' content. theodore had looked forward to a quiet evening with nan and the baby--that last evening that they were to spend together for so long--but it proved to be anything but a quiet one. it had leaked out that nan was going away, and all through the evening the women and girls in the house were coming to say "good-bye." nan had not expected this, for she had never had much to do with any of them, and it touched her deeply when in their rough fashion they wished her a pleasant summer and hoped that the baby would come back well and strong. theodore sat silent in a corner through all these leave-takings, and some of the women, as they went back to their own rooms, spoke of the loneliness the boy would feel without the baby that they all knew he loved so dearly. when the last caller had departed, theodore stood up and held out a little purse to nan. "ain't much in it, but i want ye to use it for anything _he_ wants," the boy said, with a gesture toward the child. nan hesitated. she would not have taken it for herself, but she knew that it would hurt theo sadly, if she refused his gift, so she took it, saying, "you've been so good to him always, theo. i shan't let him forget you ever." "no--don't," muttered the boy, and unable to trust himself to say more, he turned away in silence, and went to his own room. the little purse he had given nan contained five dollars. "the dear boy! how good he is to us," nan murmured, as she put the bill back into it, "but i hope i shall not need to use this." theodore ran in the next morning for a hasty good-bye before he went out to his work. he had waited purposely until the last moment, so that his leave-taking might be a brief one, and he said so little, and said that little so coldly that a stranger might have thought him careless and indifferent, but nan knew better. now that the time of departure was so close at hand, she shrank nervously from it and almost wished she had refused to go, but still she dressed little brother and herself in good season, and was all ready when at nine thirty, promptly, mrs. rawson appeared. the lady gave a satisfied glance at the two, and then insisted upon carrying the baby downstairs herself, while one of the hunt children followed with nan's valise. a cab was waiting at the door, and cabs being rarities in that locality, a crowd of curious children stood gaping at it, and waiting to see nan and the baby depart in it. "it is going to be a warm day. i shall be glad when we are fairly off," mrs. rawson said, with an anxious glance at the baby's face, as the cab rattled over the rough stones. as the little party entered the station, there was a flutter of light raiment and bright ribbons, and nan found herself fairly surrounded by the eleven king's daughters. they took possession of the baby, who brightened up wonderfully at the sight of them, and they seized the valise and mrs. rawson's handbag, and they trooped altogether through the great station to the waiting train, and instead of saying, "can't go through yet, ladies--not till the train's made up," the gatekeeper smiled in genial fashion into their bright faces and promptly unlocked the gate for them. that was because one of them was the daughter of a railroad official, but nan didn't know that. the train was not all ready, but two of the parlor cars were there, and into one of these the girls climbed, and then they found the seats belonging to mrs. rawson and nan, and put the extra wraps up in the rack for them and pushed up the window, and did everything else that they could think of for the comfort of the travellers. then one of them pinned a great bunch of deliciously fragrant violets to nan's dress, and another fastened a tiny silver cross above the violets, as she whispered, "we've made you a member of our circle, nan, dear, and this is our badge." and then nan noticed that every one of the girls wore the tiny, silver cross somewhere about her dress. she wondered what it meant and determined to ask mrs. rawson later, but she could not talk much just then--she was too happy with all those dear girls about her, chattering to her and counting her in with themselves. at last there was a rumble and a jar, and people began to fill up the seats in the car and one of the girls looked at her watch and exclaimed, "we must say 'good-bye' girls, or we shall be carried off." "wouldn't it be fun if we could all go too, and stay for the week with mrs. rawson?" cried another. "yes, indeed. if it weren't for school we might have done it." "now remember, nan, we're all going to write to you because you belong to our circle," whispered another, and then, some with a kiss, and some with a warm handshake, they said, "good-bye," and hastened out of the car and stood on the platform outside the car windows, calling out more farewells and last words, and waving hands and handkerchiefs, until the train drew out of the station. then nan settled back in her comfortable seat with a happy light in her dark eyes. "i didn't suppose there were any such girls in all the world, mrs. rawson," she said; "girls who would be so dearly kind to a stranger like me." "they certainly are dear girls. i think myself that there are not many like them," mrs. rawson answered. "some of them have been in my sunday-school class ever since they were nine years old." "perhaps that accounts for it," nan answered, shyly, with one of her quick, bright smiles. then she turned to look out of the window and her face changed, for there on a fence, close beside the track, stood theodore, eagerly scanning the windows as the train went by. nan snatched up little brother and held him to the window, and a smile broke over the boy's face as he waved his hat in response. then the train gathered speed and flew on, and the boy went slowly back to his work. it was nearly sunset when the station where the travellers were to stop, was reached. nan's heart began to beat fast and she glanced around somewhat anxiously as she stepped on to the platform, but the next moment she found herself looking into mrs. hyde's face, and from that instant all her fears and anxieties vanished. mrs. hyde had no children of her own, but the very spirit of motherliness seemed to look out of her eyes, and she took the two strangers into her heart at sight. the baby, wearied with the long journey had been fretting for the last hour, but no sooner did he find himself in mrs. hyde's arms, than he settled down comfortably and went to sleep and slept soundly through the three mile drive from the station. mrs. hyde did not say much to nan during the drive, only by an occasional word or smile, showing her that she was not forgotten, while the two ladies talked together, but at last she laid her firm, strong hand lightly on the girl's fingers, saying, "look, dear--you are almost home." and nan looked with happy eyes at a big, rambling, white house, shaded by tall elms, and with wide piazzas on three sides. an old-fashioned flower garden, with high box-bordered beds was at the back, and broad, rolling acres, spread out on every side but one, where there was a grove of grand old trees. the late afternoon sunlight was throwing long, level beams across the green lawn, touching everything with a golden light as they drove up to the side door, and nan said to herself, "i don't see how anybody could help being well and happy here." xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance theodore dreaded to go home that night. after his work was done he went to a restaurant for supper and then strolled on to the common. it was cool and pleasant there under the wide-spreading trees, and he sat down on one of the benches and wondered what nan was doing then and how little brother had borne the long hours of travel. when it was quite dark he went slowly homeward. mrs. hunt's door stood open and he stopped to get the key which nan was to leave there for him. jimmy sprang up and brought it to him, and mrs. hunt gave him a kind word or two and asked him to come in and sit awhile, but he said he was tired, and taking the key, he crossed the hall and unlocked nan's door. as he closed it behind him he gave a little start, for he saw something move over by the window. the next instant he realised that it was only nan's chair which had rocked a little from the jar of the closing door. the room was unlighted except for the faint glimmer near the open windows. as theo sat down in the rocking-chair, a wave of loneliness and homesickness swept over him. nan and little brother had made all the home feeling he had ever known, and never before had he felt so absolutely alone and friendless as he did to-night. tag seemed to share the feeling too. he went sniffing about the room, evidently searching for the two who were gone, and finally, with a long breath like a sigh, he dropped down beside the rocking-chair and rubbed his head against his master's hand with a low, troubled whine. theodore patted the rough head as he said, "pretty lonesome, ain't it, old fellow?" and tag rapped the floor with his tail and whined again. for a long time the boy sat there gravely thinking. at last, with a sigh, he said to himself, "might's well go to bed. don't feel like doin' anything to-night." he was used to undressing in the dark and he did not light the lamp, but as he was about to get into bed his hand touched something smooth and stiff that was lying on the pillow. "it's a letter," he exclaimed, wonderingly, and he hastened to light the lamp. "oh!" he cried, breathlessly, as he saw the bold, firm handwriting. "it's from the bishop." his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining and his fingers fairly shaking with excitement as he held the letter carefully in his hands, reading and rereading the address. "theodore bryan, care of mrs. martin." he thought how many times he had sat beside the bishop's desk and watched the pen travelling so rapidly across the paper. theodore would have known _that_ writing anywhere. for a long time he did not open the letter. it was happiness enough to know that it was there in his hands, the first letter he had ever received. and to think that the bishop should have written it--to him, theodore bryan! it was a pity that the bishop could not have seen the boy's face as he stood looking with glowing eyes at the envelope. at last he opened it and began to read the letter. it was a long one, and as the boy read on and on, his breath came quicker and his eyes grew dim, and when he had finished it his cheeks were wet, but he did not know it. he was not thinking of himself. there were many who would have given much for a letter from the bishop, but surely none could have appreciated one more than did the lonely boy who stood there that night in the dimly-lighted room poring over those closely written pages. again and again he read the whole letter, and many times he read over one passage until the words were written in letters of light on his heart. when at last he went to bed it was to lie awake for hours with the letter held tightly in his hand, while he repeated to himself those words that he was to remember as long as he lived. "mrs. martin writes me that you are anxious to be assured of my forgiveness. my dear boy, if you have ever wronged me i forgive you as freely and fully as i hope for forgiveness myself; but, theodore, had you wronged me ever so deeply, it would all be blotted out by the joy it gives me to know that you are a soldier of the cross. i know that you will be a faithful soldier--loyal even unto death--and may the great captain whom we both serve, have you ever in his holy keeping." over and over the boy repeated these words as he lay sleepless, but full of deep happiness and peace. "whom we both serve." the wise and holy bishop and he, a poor ignorant street boy, were soldiers now under the one great captain. faithful and loyal even unto death? ah yes, theodore pledged himself anew to such service in the watches of that night. nevertheless, the letter had brought to the boy a fresh disappointment, for it informed him that the bishop had been ill ever since he left the city, and that it had been decided that he should remain away until october. "five months longer before i can see him," theodore thought sorrowfully, yet he could not grieve as he had done before. it almost seemed as if he could feel the bishop's hand actually resting upon his head, and see the kind eyes looking down into his. the boy had not been so happy since he left the bishop's house as he was on this night when he had expected to be so lonely and miserable. "oh if nan only knew, how glad she would be," he thought more than once. he slept at last with the letter clutched tightly in his hand, and his fingers had not loosed their hold when he awoke the next morning, nor had the joy died out of his heart. his thoughts were very busy as he dressed, and suddenly he stopped short, with one shoe on and the other in his hand. "that's it!" he cried aloud. "that's what the bishop meant that sunday! 'ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price.' the great captain's bought me for one of his soldiers, an' i've got to do what he says. i never knew before just what that meant, but i do now." then he added, softly, "but i want to do what he says, anyhow." going forth in this spirit to his work, theodore could hardly fail to find something to do for his captain. mrs. hunt had decided to take up the work that nan had been doing, and to furnish supplies for the stand. she had the big basket all ready when theodore came from his room, and he and jimmy set off with it for the stand where both the boys now took their breakfasts. theodore was unusually quiet and thoughtful, and there was something in his face that silenced jimmy's lively tongue that morning. the two boys had just gotten their stand ready for business, when theodore exclaimed, eagerly, "there he is now!" and darted off. jimmy looked after him in wonder that turned to indignation, as he saw theo lay a detaining hand on the ragged jacket of carrots, who was slouching aimlessly along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, and, after a little talk with him, bring him back to the stand. "well now, i like that!" muttered jimmy under his breath. he glowered darkly at carrots as theo drew him up to the stand, but theodore looked into jimmy's face with a strange light in his eyes, as he filled a plate for carrots and poured him out a cup of coffee. "sh'ld think you'd better wait till he'd paid for what he jagged here that last time," jimmy muttered, with a scowling glance at the culprit. carrots, overhearing the remark, grinned, and then winked impudently at jimmy, while he disposed with all speed of the contents of the plate that theodore had set before him. once or twice he cast a puzzled glance at the latter as if trying to discover some hidden motive. "had 'nough?" theo questioned, when plate and cup were empty. "'spect i might get outside of one or two o' them doughnuts," carrots answered, with another wink at jimmy's clouded face. when the doughnuts also had disappeared, theo said, "come along a bit with me, carrots," and the two walked off together, leaving jimmy for the first time savagely angry with his friend theodore. carrots slouched along at theo's side, with his narrow eyes roving suspiciously from side to side in search of a possible policeman, into whose hands he suspected that his companion might be scheming to deliver him. he could not conceive the possibility of anybody's failing to avenge a wrong if he had the chance. "carrots," began theodore, "where do you sleep?" "can't catch me that way," thought carrots to himself, as he answered carelessly, "oh anywheres 't i happen ter find myself when i'm sleepy." "no reg'lar place--no home?" questioned theo. "nope." "well, i've paid rent up to the end of the month for the room i've been sleepin' in, an' i shan't use it any more. you can sleep there for nothin' for the next week if you like." carrots stopped short and gazed at his companion with his tongue in his cheek. "think i'm a fool?" he asked, shortly. "i do' know whether ye are or not. 'seems to me you will be 'f ye say 'no' to my offer," and theo looked straight into the shifty eyes of his companion. that straightforward look puzzled carrots. it was more convincing than any words. he studied theo's face for a moment, then he burst out, "what's your game, anyhow, tode bryan?" "carrots," exclaimed theo, earnestly, "there's no game at all about it. i've got the room, an' i don't need it, 'cause i've taken another one. you're welcome to use this till the month's up. now, what d'ye say? will ye take it or leave it?" "i'll--take--it," rejoined carrots, slowly. "all right." theo gave him the number, adding, "come to my room anytime 'fore ten for the key." then he hurried on, leaving carrots in a maze of wonder, doubt and indecision, for he could not yet believe that theo meant honestly by him. as for theo, he whistled cheerily as he hastened on, for he felt that he had been doing a bit of his captain's business. he was not in the least deceived. he knew that carrots was a "bad lot," as he expressed it, but he said to himself, "i was a bad lot, too, not so very long ago, an' i'll see if i can't do something for carrots while i'm a-huntin' for that jack finney." jimmy hunt was on the lookout for theodore that evening, and pounced upon him the moment he appeared. jimmy's face was still clouded, and he made no response to his friend's cheery greeting. "i say, theo," he began, "i'd like to know what you meant by it, anyhow." "what's the trouble, jimmy? what do you mean?" "what _d'you_ mean by luggin' that thievin', sarcy carrots over t' the stand this mornin' an' stuffin' him with grub, an' never askin' him for a red cent?" jimmy spoke in a deeply aggrieved tone. "you won't lose anything by it, jim. that comes out o' my share of the profits," theo answered, quickly. "'tain't that," responded jimmy, hastily. "i wouldn't 'a' minded if it had been any other feller but him. say, theo, what did make ye do it anyhow? think ye might tell me that." theodore looked down into the face lifted to his, half curiously, half impatiently. "jimmy," he said, gravely, "wouldn't you be glad if somebody would lend a hand to dick and help him make a man of himself?" jimmy flushed. he was ashamed of his brother and mortified by dick's evil reputation. "'course," he answered, shortly, dropping his eyes. "well, jimmy, i'd help dick if i could, an' there's another feller i've been huntin' for ever so long. 'seem's if i can't find him anywheres, an' so till i _do_ find him, i'm a-goin' to try to pull carrots up 'stead of him." "pull carrots up!" echoed jimmy, scornfully. "tode, you must be soft if you expect to make anything out o' such a bad lot as carrots." "there's a good spot in most chaps, i b'lieve, jimmy, an' i guess there's one in carrots, if i can only find it. anyhow, i'm a-goin' to try for a while." "huh!" growled jimmy. he said no more, but after this he watched theo and carrots closely, and did a deal of earnest thinking on the subject. carrots slept in theodore's room for the next week--slipping softly up and down the stairs, with furtive, suspicious glances into every dark corner in the halls at night, and departing in the same fashion before theo was up in the morning. he uttered no word of gratitude, but theo knew better than to expect anything of that sort. one night when he came in, theodore sat with his door wide open, and called out pleasantly, "come in a minute, carrots." the boy paused on the threshold until he had satisfied himself that there was no one else in the room, then he sidled in and dropped heavily on a chair. "wal', what's wanted?" he inquired, gruffly. "like to earn a little extra money to-morrow?" theodore began. "that depends." "depends on what?" "on the kind o' work." "well, i should think you'd be ready for any kind of work," theodore remarked, with a quick glance at the ragged garments of the other. carrots grinned, carelessly. "oh i ain't a swell like you," he replied, casting, what he meant for a scornful look at the other boy's clean outing shirt and decent suit. theodore had reached the point now where he had at least one clean shirt a week. he ignored the remark and went on, "there's plenty of fellers that would be glad of this job, but i want to give you the first chance at it. jimmy hunt's goin' on an excursion to-morrow, an' can't run the stand. you can run it if you want to." carrots gazed at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "me?" he exclaimed, incredulously. "you mean't you'll let me run it--alone--'thout you bossin' the job?" theo nodded. carrots' mouth slowly stretched into a grin of mingled satisfaction and derision, as he exclaimed, "all right. i'm your man!" "then be ready to go with me at half past six," replied theo. then he added, "look here--what's your real name? tain't carrots i know. if you'll tell me what 'tis i'll call you by it." "do' want none o' yer callin'! carrots's good 'nough for me, an' if i'm suited, other folks needn't ter interfere," growled the boy, with renewed suspicion. "no need to get huffy 'bout it," rejoined theodore. "it put me up a peg when folks begun to call me theodore 'stead of tode or toady, an' so i thought you'd feel the same way. 'course, if you like to be carrots, nobody cares." "humph!" grunted carrots, and departed without further discussion of the matter. he was waiting in the hall when theodore opened his door the next morning and assisted handily enough about carrying the big basket and arranging the stand. he did not, however, believe that theo meant to leave him actually in charge, until he found himself established behind the neat counter with fifty cents in nickels and pennies in his pocket, to make change. "wal', i'm blest!" he exclaimed, and then he grinned and chuckled and slapped his sides with glee, while theodore went off, thinking to himself, "it's a risk, but i had to give him his chance." many times during that morning he thought of carrots and wondered how he was getting on. it was a hot day and an unusually tiresome one for theodore, and it was later than usual when he returned to his room. before he had closed the door jimmy hunt ran across the hall calling out, "say, theo, where's the baskets an' things?" theodore's heart sank, but he answered quietly, "haven't they been brought back?" "no. who'd you get to run the stand, theo?" "carrots." "theodore bryan--you _didn't_!" exclaimed jimmy, in such a tragic tone, that theo almost laughed outright. his amusement was the last straw to jimmy. he burst into a storm of scornful blame in the midst of which theo quietly stepped into his room and shut the door, leaving jimmy to fume and storm as much as he chose. that brought the boy to himself. he began to cool down and to remember, that after all, the stand belonged to theodore, and he had a right to do as he pleased with it. so after standing in the hall, kicking at the banisters for a while, to relieve his feelings, jimmy knocked at the closed door and in response to theo's "come in," he went in, in a somewhat calmer state of mind. "what you goin' to do in the mornin', theo?" he began, in a subdued tone. "have you been to the stand, jim?" "yes, an' that scamp after he'd sold all the stuff went to work an' auctioned off the dishes an' coffee-urn an' everything. just skinned the place out slick," jimmy burst out, indignantly. "i went 'round to see where the baskets was, an' some fellers told me all about it. they said 'twas a red-headed chap done it, but i _couldn't_ b'lieve you'd be green 'nough to trust that carrots. say, theo, did you re'ely think he'd do the square thing, by you?" "not much. i hoped he would an' i had to give him a chance, jimmy?" "why'd you have to?" asked jimmy, curiously. "where would i be now if somebody hadn't given me a chance, jimmy?" "oh, you--you ain't carrots. you're another sort." "yes, i'm another sort now, but i was bad as carrots before i met nan an' little brother," answered theo, earnestly. then he added, "don't you worry 'bout the stand. i'll go out presently an' buy what's wanted." "an' ain't ye going to do nothin' ter that carrots for this, neither?" inquired jimmy, anxiously. "no, nothing. but, jimmy, don't fret yourself about him. if he keeps on as he's been doin', he'll soon find himself locked up." "'n' he'd oughter be too," muttered jimmy, as he went away, leaving theodore to think over the failure of his attempt. he was not much surprised, though he had not expected quite such a clean sweep on carrots' part, and the loss was not heavy enough to embarrass him at all. at mr. scott's suggestion, theo had begun to deposit his extra earnings in a savings bank and he had enough on hand to easily replace the dishes and utensils lost, but he was disappointed and disheartened. it seemed so useless to try to help one who would not try to help himself. and yet he could not be quite discouraged since he always remembered what he himself had once been. he went out and bought what was needed and when he came back he found mr. scott just turning away from his door. he hastened to unlock it and the gentleman turned back, saying, "i'm glad you came before i had got away, theodore, for i want to talk over that boys' club plan with you." "i thought you'd forgot all about it," replied the boy, his face brightening. he had spoken to his teacher about this plan, and mr. scott had answered, "yes, something of the sort may be done, but if i were in your place i wouldn't be in a hurry about it," and so the matter had been left. now mr. scott looked thoughtfully about the room, saying, "you must find this far more comfortable than the room you had before. don't you sleep better here, theo?" "oh, yes, i don't feel so tired in the morning." "no, because you have the windows here and can have better air; but, theo, do you realise how it would be if you should use this for a club-room? some of the boys would be here every evening, and you'd have to have lights burning, and by the time you were ready to go to bed, the room would be very hot and stuffy--full of bad air. besides you would have to be here all the time. you couldn't trust such boys in your room alone." theodore thought of carrots, and his face was grave and disturbed as he answered, slowly, "'spect you're right, mr. scott, but i do hate to give up the plan." "perhaps we won't give it up, only change it a little. have you ever been in the large front room, upstairs?" theodore shook his head, with a look of surprise, that his teacher should know anything about the rooms upstairs. mr. scott added, "well then, suppose you come up with me now, and take a look at it. i have the key." wondering much, the boy followed his teacher up the stairs to a large room with two windows on each side. "how would this do for your clubroom, theodore?" mr. scott inquired. "this? oh, this would be fine--but mr. scott, it would cost a pile for this." "rather more than for yours, of course, but now this is the way of it, theodore. i liked your plan about the club, but i didn't like the idea of your giving up your own room to it, so i spoke to several gentlemen of my acquaintance about the matter, and they all wanted to have a hand in it. so they each gave me a sum of money, and then i interviewed your landlord and rented this room. he is going to have it whitewashed, and then we shall have the floor thoroughly scrubbed and outside blinds put on these sunny windows. then we shall put in some tables and chairs and some plain pine shelves for the books and papers that we are going to collect from our friends, and if you like, some of us will give the boys a talk on current events once a week or so." "what's current events?" interposed theo, quickly. "you'll soon find out. now then, theo, we must have somebody to take charge of this room. can you do it?" "yes, indeed." "you know that means that you must be here every evening in the week, from half past seven to ten o'clock. you'll want to be away sometimes, theodore." "yes, i s'pose i will, but i'm ready to stay here all the same until night school begins again." "very well, then we'll let it be so, and we'll try to have the room ready for our opening in a week or two--as soon as we have enough books and papers to begin with." mr. scott locked the door as he spoke, and the two went downstairs. theodore's face was full of satisfaction over the promised reading-room, but it clouded a little as his teacher said, "you mustn't be disappointed, theodore, if very few boys spend their evenings in this room for a while. most of the boys in this neighbourhood are so used to loafing about the streets, that they like that best, especially in hot weather, and, of course, few of them care much for reading. they will have to be educated up to it." "s'pose that's so," replied the boy, thoughtfully, "but they'll like it next winter when it's cold an' stormy outside," he added. "yes," assented the gentleman, adding, as he turned to depart, "theo, mrs. rawson will be home to-morrow. don't you want to come and take supper with us, and hear what she has to say about nan, and the little one?" "oh, yes, thank you, sir," cried theodore, with a happy smile. "all right, then, we shall expect you," and with a pleasant "good-night," mr. scott went away. theodore rather dreaded the supper with mrs. rawson, but he forgot to be shy or ill at ease when she began to tell him about the delightful old farmhouse, and the happy times that nan and the baby were having there. she told him everything she could think of that would be of interest to him, and he listened to it all with an eager face, and a glad heart. if little brother must be far away from him, theodore was happy in the assurance that the child was in such a beautiful place, and that already he had begun to grow stronger and brighter. xv. a strike "no cars a-runnin'! what's up?" exclaimed jimmy, the next morning, as he and theodore passed down tremont street. "there's a strike on. didn't you hear 'bout it yesterday?" replied theo. "no. my! but there'll be a time if all the cars stop." "a pretty bad time--'specially for the folks that live outside the city," theodore answered, soberly. when, after taking his breakfast at the stand, he went back through tremont street, groups of men and boys were standing about in every corner, and everywhere the strike was the one topic of conversation. there were groups of motormen and conductors here and there, some looking grave and anxious, and some careless and indifferent. as the morning advanced the throngs in the streets increased. belated business men hurried along, and clerks and saleswomen with flushed faces and anxious eyes, tried impatiently to force their way through the crowds to get to their places of business. theodore noticed the large number of rough-looking men and boys on the streets, and that most of them seemed full of suppressed excitement. now and then as he passed some of these, he caught a low-spoken threat, or an exultant prophecy of lively times to come. it all made him vaguely uneasy, and he had to force himself to go about his work instead of lingering outside to see what would happen. in one office, while he was busy over the brasses, three gentlemen were discussing the situation, and the boy, as he rubbed and polished, listened intently to what was said. "what do the fellows want? what's their grievance, anyhow?" inquired one man, impatiently, as he flicked the ashes from his cigar. "shorter hours and better pay," replied a second. "of course. that's what strikers always want," put in a third. "they seem to think they're the only ones to be considered." "well, i must confess that i rather sympathise with the men this time," said the second speaker. "i hold that they ought to have shorter hours." "there are plenty that will be glad enough to take their places, though." "i suppose so, but all the same i maintain that these companies that are amply able to treat their men better, ought to do so. i believe in fair play. it pays best in the end to say nothing of the right and wrong of it." "think the company will give in?" questioned one. "guess not. i hear that the superintendent has telegraphed to new york and chicago for men." "there'll be trouble if they come!" exclaimed the first speaker. "i believe," said another man, joining the group, "i believe that sanders is responsible for all this trouble--or the most of it, anyhow. he's a disagreeable, overbearing fellow who--even when he grants a favor, which is seldom enough--does it in a mean, exasperating fashion that takes all the pleasure out of it. i had some dealings with him once, and i never want anything more to do with him. if he'd been half-way decent to the men there would never have been any strike, in my opinion." sanders was the superintendent of the road where the trouble was. "you're right about sanders," said another. "i always have wondered how he could keep his position. these strikes though, never seem to me to do any real good to the cause of the strikers, and a great many of the men realise that too, but these walking delegate fellows get 'round 'em and persuade 'em that a strike is going to end all their troubles--and so it goes. i saw that little sneak--tom steel--buttonholing the motormen, and cramming them with his lies, as i came along just now. there's always mischief where tom steel is." by this time theodore had finished his work, and he left the office, his head full of strikes, superintendents, and walking delegates, and wherever he went that day, the strike was the only subject discussed. he stopped work earlier than usual, finding himself infected with the prevailing unrest and excitement. he found the sidewalks of the principal business streets thronged with men, women and boys, all pressing in one direction. "come along, tode!" cried a shrill voice at his elbow, and he turned to find jimmy hunt, his round face all alight with anticipation of exciting episodes to follow. jimmy began talking rapidly. "they've been smashin' cars, tode, an' haulin' off the motormen an' conductors that want to keep on workin'. there's three cars all smashed up near the sheds, an' the strikers say they'll wreck every one that's run out to-day." "it's a shame!" declared theo, indignantly; yet boy-like, if there was to be a mob fight, he wanted to be on hand and see it all, and he took care not to let jimmy get far ahead of him. as they went on, the crowd continually increased until it became so dense that the boys had to worm their way through it inch by inch. they pressed on, however, and when further progress was impossible, they found standing room on the very front close to the car-track. it had been a noisy, blustering crowd as it surged along the street, but now that it had come to a standstill, a sudden breathless silence fell upon it, and all eyes turned in one direction, gazing eagerly, intently up the track. suddenly, a low, hoarse cry broke from a hundred throats. "it's comin'! it's comin'!" and far up the street a car appeared. the faces of the men grew more hard and determined. those of the women became pale and terrified. the two boys peered eagerly forward, their hearts beating quickly, with dread mingled with a sort of wild excitement. "look, theo--look!" whispered jimmy, pointing to some men who were hastily digging up cobble-stones from the street. "there's carrots, too," he added. "wonder who that little chap is--the one that seems to have so much to say to the car men," theo replied, thoughtfully. "that's tom steel. you've heard of him, hain't ye?" a man at theo's elbow was speaking. "he's responsible for this strike, i think, an' i hope he'll get his pay for it too," he added, grimly. theodore glanced up into the grave face of the speaker and recognised him as a motorman. evidently, he was more bitter against the strikers than against the company. the car was now close at hand, and all at once as with a single impulse, there was a surging forward, and the crowd closed in blocking the track with a solid mass of human beings. the motorman set his teeth hard, and rang the gong loudly, insistently. the conductor hastened through the car and stood beside him. the only passenger was a policeman, who stood on the rear platform calmly gazing at the sea of angry, excited faces on either side. "this car's got to stop!" shouted a big, brawny fellow, springing onto the step and giving the motorman a threatening glance. "this car ain't a-goin' to stop!" retorted the motorman, grimly, as he released the brake. "we'll see about that," and with the words the big fellow seized the man's arms and wrenched his hand off the lever. the conductor sprang to the assistance of his comrade while the policeman ran forward and pushed the man roughly off the car. in the same instant, theo saw carrots snatch a box from a bootblack near him and with a wild yell of defiance, hurl it through one of the car windows. the shrill, taunting cry of the boy, mingled with the crash of the breaking glass, and the sight of the policeman's upraised club, aroused the mob to sudden fury. at once there arose a wild hubbub of shouts, yells and cries, followed by a shower of cobble-stones, and a fierce rush upon the three men on the car, and in two minutes the car was a shattered wreck; the motorman and conductor were being hustled through the crowd with threats and warnings, while the policeman's club had been wrenched from his grasp. he drew his pistol, but with a howl of fury it was knocked from his hand, and the next moment he lay senseless upon the ground, felled by a savage blow from his own club. the taste of conflict, the sight of blood, had roused to a fierce flame the smouldering spirit of lawlessness and insurrection in the mob. a savage rage seemed to have taken possession of the men as, with frantic haste and mad delight, they tore up cobble-stones and built a huge barricade across the track. when it was completed, carrots darted up on top of it and waved a red handkerchief above his head. a hoarse roar of approval broke from the mob, but steel sternly ordered the boy down and hissed in his ear, "you fool! you might have spoiled everything by that! don't ye show that again till i give the signal--d'ye hear?" carrots nodded with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, that made theo shiver. "come on, now. we've done enough for once," steel added, and keeping his hand on the arm of the boy the two disappeared in the throng that was slowly melting away. then, with a long breath, jimmy turned to theodore. "my!" he exclaimed, in a tone of shuddering satisfaction. "it's awful, ain't it, theo! s'pose he's dead?" he gazed with half fearful interest toward the policeman who had been clubbed and about whom a group had gathered. "looks like it. there comes some more p'lice. they'll take care of him. come on, jimmy, le's go home." "oh, no, theo, don't go home, yet. le's go an' see what's goin' on over there," and jimmy turned into a cross street through which the greater portion of the crowd was pressing. "there's something the matter over at the depot," said theodore, as he followed, half willingly and half reluctantly, in jimmy's eager footsteps. about the depot there was usually a constant stream of cars coming and going, but to-day the streets looked bare and deserted. when the boys reached the square only two cars were in sight and these two were approaching, one behind the other, on the same track. as they drew near, they were seen to contain each six or eight policemen, fully armed and with stern, resolute faces. the mob again howled and hooted at the motormen and conductors, and showered them with dirt and small stones, but made no attempt to stop the cars. no cars were run after dark that evening, and the next day they were run only at intervals of an hour and each one carried a heavily armed guard. the strikers and their lawless sympathisers continued to throng the streets and to threaten all car-men who remained on duty. now and then a car window was broken or an obstruction placed on the tracks, but there was no serious outbreak, and it was rumoured that a compromise between the company and the strikers was under consideration and that the trouble would soon be at an end. so a week slipped away. one morning theodore was on his way from one office to another when he heard the sound of drum and fife and saw a body of the strikers marching up washington street. every boy within sight or hearing at once turned in after the procession, and theodore followed with the rest. it was about ten o'clock in the morning and the streets were full of shoppers, many of them ladies who had been afraid to venture out during the past week. as if they had risen out of the ground, scores of rough-looking men and street boys began to push and jostle the shoppers on the narrow sidewalks until many of the frightened women took refuge in the stores, and the shopkeepers, fearful of what might follow, began hastily putting up their shutters and making ready to close their stores, if necessary. these signs of apprehension gave great delight to the rougher element in the streets, and they yelled and hooted uproariously at the cautious shopkeepers, but they did not stop. steadily, swiftly they followed that body of men marching with dark, determined faces to the sound of the fife and the drum. "where are they going?" theo asked of a man at his side and the reply was, "to the car-house, i reckon. they're ripe for mischief now." "what's stirred 'em up again--anything new?" the boy questioned. "many of the strikers have been discharged and new men brought on--five hundred of them--from new york and chicago. i'm afraid we haven't seen the worst of the troubles yet." "look! look!" cried a boy, close beside theodore, and the latter looking ahead, saw a squad of mounted officers coming through a cross street. without stopping to parley they charged into the marching strikers and dispersed them, silencing the fife and drum, and when the furious mob of followers and sympathisers yelled threats and defiance at the officers, the latter charged into the mob riding up to the pavement and forcing the people back into the stores and dwellings behind them. this was as fuel to the fire of anger and insurrection. deep and dire threats passed from lip to lip, and evil purpose hardened into grim determination as the mob slowly surged in the direction of the car-house, after the officers had passed on. the throng was far more quiet now, and far more dangerous. again and again, theodore caught glimpses of tom steel's insignificant face, and like a long, dark shadow, carrots followed ever at his heels. no cars were running now, but the boy heard low-spoken references to new men and "scabs," and "the will of the people," as, almost without effort of his own, he was borne onward with the throng. at a little distance from the car-house the strikers again drew together and stood mostly in gloomy silence, their eyes ever turning toward the closed doors of the great building before them. the vast crowd waited, too, in a silence that seemed to throb and pulse with intense and bitter feeling. the strikers had stopped in the middle of the street, and around them on every side, except toward the car-house, the crowd pressed and surged like a vast human sea. there were not many women in the number gathered there, and the few who were there were of the lowest sort, but men and boys--largely tramps, roughs and street boys--were there in countless numbers, mingled with not a few of the better class. slowly the minutes passed, until an hour had gone by, and it began to be whispered about that the company dared not run any cars. still the men waited, and the crowd waited too. but at last some grew weary of inaction, and when steel proposed that they spend the time barricading the tracks, his suggestion met with a quick response. from a neighbouring street the men brought belgian blocks and piled them on the track. they pulled down tree boxes and broke off branches of trees, and when an ice wagon came along they took possession of the huge blocks of ice and capped their barricade with these. suddenly the doors of the car-house were thrown open, and a car rolled slowly out. there was an instant of breathless silence, followed by a roar like that of a thousand savage beasts, as the strikers saw that new men were running the car, and that it carried half a score of policemen, armed to the teeth. as it approached the barricade some of the officers sprang off and began to throw down the obstructions, the others standing ready to fire upon the mob if necessary. the crowd showered bitter words and taunts upon the officers, but did not venture to molest them. the motorman stood with his hand on the lever, ready to start the car the moment the track should be clear. carrots, with a pack of street arabs at his heels, jeered at the new motorman, climbing up on the car and taunting him, until, at last, his patience was exhausted, and he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked one of the boys off the car. the boy fell heavily to the ground, and instantly the shrill voice of carrots was uplifted, crying frantically, "he's killed billy green! he's killed billy green! pitch in to him, boys! pitch into him!" billy green was already picking himself up, with no worse injury than a cut in his cheek, but the mob took up the cry, and, "pitch into him! pitch into him! kill him! kill him!" was shouted by hundreds of savage voices as the crowd pressed about the car. they tried to drag the motorman off, in spite of the guards, they smashed the car windows, they tore out the cushions, they beat the policemen, and wrenched their clubs out of their hands. finally several of the officers drew their pistols and fired into the air. at this the crowd fell back for a second, and the turmoil of shouts and cries that had been deafening a moment before, died away in sudden silence--a threatening, dangerous silence as of a wild beast about to spring. into this instant of silence broke a new cry from the outskirts of the crowd. "it's the mayor. make way for the mayor!" "no, it's the bishop. make way for the bishop! stand back! stand back!" at this cry, theodore turned like a flash and gazed in the direction in which all eyes were turning. there was no mistake. the bishop was surely one of the occupants of a carriage that was slowly forcing its way through the throng. with his heart beating with a wild joy; his eyes glowing; the colour coming and going in his cheeks, theodore stood still until the carriage stopped. then sliding through the smallest spaces, darting between feet, this way and that, the boy managed somehow to reach the side of the carriage, where he stood with his hand on one of the wheels, his eager, burning gaze fastened on the face he loved so well. instinctively he pulled off his cap, but he made no attempt to attract the attention of the bishop. he uttered no word or sound. he only stood with all his loving heart in his eyes, and looked. the bishop's expression was very grave, as he gazed over that vast sea of faces. he turned to speak to the gentleman who sat beside him, and as he did so, his eyes fell on theodore's eloquent upturned countenance. a quick, bright smile flashed across his face, and reaching down, he laid his hand for a moment gently upon the boy's bared head. before he could speak the silence was again broken by a cry from many lips--a cry of warning now, rather than a threat, though again the words were, "stop the car! stop the car! the bishop! the bishop!" the bishop's carriage had come to a standstill directly across the track, the crowd being here so dense that it was impossible for the driver to go even a yard farther. the policemen had cleared the barricade from the track, and then sprung hastily on the car again. evidently they had not noticed the dangerous position of the carriage, and now the motorman started the car forward. the man was a stranger in the city. he knew nothing about the bishop--cared nothing about him. he was there to run that car, and he meant to do it or die in the attempt, so when the crowd shouted, "the bishop! the bishop!" he yelled in reply, "get out of the way then if you don't want him hurt. this car's a-going through, bishop or no bishop!" the car was already in motion. the crowd pushed and struggled and tried to fall back and let the carriage pass over the track, but it was impossible, so closely were the people packed together there. [illustration: "stop the car!"] on the car came, while for an instant the crowd waited with tense breath for what should follow. "loyal unto death." the words rang through theodore's brain, as in that instant he sprang swiftly forward and flung himself across the track directly in front of the slowly moving car. a cry of horror broke from the throng and a score of hands were stretched forth to draw the boy from his dangerous position, but he clung to the fender and would not be removed. "stop the car!" he pleaded. "oh stop the car or the bishop will be killed!" never a thought of his own danger had the boy,--for he would have given his young life freely and joyfully for his bishop, but the sacrifice was not needed. the police, now seeing the danger, forced the furious motorman to stop the car until the crowd had had time to fall back and the carriage had safely crossed the track. then the car passed on followed by threatening glances and menacing words from the angry throng. but now the bishop arose in the carriage, and as he stood in the majesty of his great height with the light of a pure heart and a holy life illumining his face--once again a hush fell upon that vast gathering, and when the rich voice rolled out upon the still air, uttering its message of heavenly love, and strong, sweet counsels of peace and justice, the hearts of the people were melted within them. hard, brutal men and rude street boys listened, feeling a strange power that they could not understand, thrilling their souls, and compelling them, in spite of their own wills, to follow the counsels of this servant of god. no other man in that great city was honoured and loved by rich and poor alike, as was the bishop. to no other would such a crowd in such a mood have hearkened, but they stood in silence and listened breathlessly as if they feared to lose a single word. they listened as if they knew that never again would such a message come to them from those lips. stern, bitter faces softened, and hard eyes dimmed with tears as the burning, melting words fell on the listening ears. women wept, and men forgot their hatreds and their grievances. only here and there an evil face grew more evil as the bishop's words worked upon the hearts and consciences of that vast throng. tom steel dropped his mask of careless indifference, as he tried to stem the tide by whispering sneers and taunts to one and another, but they would have none of his counsels now, and after a while he slunk away with a black scowl on his face and evil words on his lips, and still beside him slouched the gaunt, ragged figure with its crown of rough red hair; and no one bade them stay; no one listened to their wicked whispers, for the bishop's words were filling every ear and every heart. at last, the bishop stretched forth his hands and pronounced a tender blessing upon them all, and then he drove slowly away, and when he was gone rough men looked into each other's faces, half wondering, half ashamed, as they moved away. they had no desire now for rioting and lawlessness--for deeds of blood and violence. the spirit of god had touched their hearts. the atmosphere in which the bishop lived and moved and had his being had for the time enveloped even these. no wonder then, that it had wrought such a transformation in the heart and life of one little street boy. that same night two hundred of the city clergymen united in an appeal to the company to submit the troubles to arbitration, and to this both the company and the strikers agreed. the result was that although all that the men asked was not granted, yet their hours were shortened, and an increase of pay promised at the beginning of the year. xvi. called to go up higher as for theodore--when the bishop's carriage had driven away he went home in a state of joyous expectation. he thought how he would go, on the morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two would have together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so often longed to tell him. he knew well how interested the bishop would be in all that he--theodore--was trying to do for the great captain, and he longed to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and so experienced. on his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs and a neat necktie. "'cause i want to look as well's i can when he sees me," he said to himself. all that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the next day. he realty _could_ not wait any longer, but he found it hard to decide what would be the best hour for him to go. he knew that the bishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almost sure to have guests with him. in the afternoon, too, he seldom had a leisure moment. indeed he never had any leisure moments, but theodore decided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelve and one o'clock. all night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the house and once he awoke in great distress, imagining that brown had sternly refused him admittance. he could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else to share his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in the two houses, he carried some little gift. it was his thank-offering, though he did not know it. small gifts they were, all--a flower to one, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extra loaf to a hard-working mother--little things all, but given in the name of the great captain though his name was not once mentioned. so, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went once more through the streets toward the bishop's house. theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyes was honest and true. he was able now to possess two suits and he wore his best one with the clean linen and the new tie. many a mother might have been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son. the remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over theodore as he rang the bell at the bishop's door, but brown did not refuse him admittance. on the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the door as he said, in a low tone, "come to mrs. martin's room," and once again theodore followed him across the wide hall. mrs. martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell upon the boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when she said, "he talked about you last evening, theodore, and told us what you did for him. you've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heart sank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixed entreatingly on the housekeeper's face. his throat felt dry and stiff, and he dared not trust himself to speak. mrs. martin too, sat down and wiped her eyes as she went on, "he ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikers yesterday. he wasn't well enough, and i told the gentlemen so when they came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said he would go. he came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in the night." theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his trembling lips. the housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered as if he had spoken. "it's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live." at these words, theodore's head went down on the table and he sat as if stunned. his trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. eight months before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width of the continent separated him from his friend. now, what a joy it would have been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well in california. at last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice, "how long?" mrs. martin understood. she answered, sadly, "a few days--possibly only a few hours. he lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. i think," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "i think you can see him for a moment if you would like to." theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "come then," and led the way to an upper room. the boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imagined that a boy could have. the sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. theodore stood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and so changed even in the few hours since last he saw it. he longed to press his lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, but he did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room in silence. mrs. martin followed him down the stairs. at the door he stopped and looked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away without a word. he knew that never again should he see his friend alive, and he did not. before the next night, the bishop had been called to go up higher. when the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was a request that no flowers be sent. theodore did not notice this item, and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of the roses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and mrs. martin herself placed them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laid upon theodore's head. all the gold of the earth, had it been offered to the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of that last look and touch. on the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held was crowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast as that to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but what a difference was there in look and manner between the two great gatherings! here, every face was softened, every heart tender with grief. they called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lost one who loved them--one who was indeed their friend. but not one, whether within or without the church, not one grieved more deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than did the lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of the great organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-draped coffin was borne out to its burial. the boy stood there until the last of the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forward and, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery. when all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if there was a great blank in his life--a blank that could never be filled; that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that evening mr. scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's sore heart. his teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be "the bishop's shadow." to theodore, his small ministries to the forlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing when he recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the days went on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life. mr. scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became more unselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who needed his help. it was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed to help seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was carrots. four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike had been arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. of this number were tom steel, and carrots, whose red banner had more than once caught the eye of the police. jimmy hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that carrots had got his deserts at last, but theodore was troubled and disheartened over the matter. he went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff and surly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes of carrots followed him wistfully. he did not go again to the prison but, though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys of fourteen, yet, during those two years of carrots' imprisonment, never a month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter from theodore. he never replied to any of these letters, but as theodore expected no replies, that made no difference. xvii. final glimpses as the evenings lengthened, the club grew in favour among the boys of the neighbourhood, and often mr. scott wondered to see how theodore succeeded in maintaining good order and in keeping up the interest of the boys, without setting them against him. he was full of ingenious ideas for interesting them in something helpful, and, as he expressed it, "lifting 'em up a peg." he grew to be exceedingly popular in the neighbourhood that winter, but he never discovered the fact. he was too busy thinking of and for others, to think much about himself. after a while he gave up all interest in his stand to jimmy hunt and devoted himself wholly to his brass-polishing business. it outgrew his own time and strength before the new year, and then he hired boys to work for him, and he spent his time superintending their work and extending his list of employers. he paid the boys as liberally as he could, but he would tolerate no loafing or careless work, so that at first he had some trouble in getting satisfactory assistants, but once secured, they seldom left his employ. the time came when he had a long list of such employees, and when a large part of the brass work in the city was under his care--but this was later. nan and little brother did not come back to the city in the fall. mr. scott had never intended that they should if he could prevent it. long before the summer was over, nan had taken a daughter's place in mrs. hyde's childless home and little brother had become the cherished pet of the household. so warm and deep was the love given to them both that even nan's sensitive pride could not object to remaining there where she knew that she could give as much as she received in love and service, and with a glad and grateful heart she abandoned all thought of returning to the city, and knew that she had at last found a real home. but she did not forget her older friend, theodore, and she told her new friends so much about him that they desired to see and know him also. so it came about that one of her letters to him contained a cordial invitation from mrs. hyde for him to spend thanksgiving week at her home. mr. scott gladly agreed to attend to the club-room and to keep an eye on the polishing business as far as he could, so theodore accepted the invitation and began to look forward with delight to seeing little brother and nan again. he could hardly realise that it was he himself--poor theodore bryan--who, one bright november morning, sat in the swift-flying car and looked out on the autumn landscape on his way to spend thanksgiving as mrs. hyde's guest, and to see again the two whom he loved to call his "folks." [illustration: thanksgiving reunion.] as the train drew near the station at which he was to stop, theo wondered who would meet him. he hoped nan would. indeed, he felt sure that she would, for, of course, mrs. hyde would not know him any more than he would know her. so, as the cars ran along by the platform, he gazed eagerly out of the car window, and he felt a little chill of disappointment because nan was nowhere in sight. there was a comfortable carriage in waiting for somebody. he thought that it might be mrs. hyde's--but no, that could not be, either, for a big, rosy-cheeked laddie, with mischievous blue eyes, sat on the seat, flourishing a whip in true boyish fashion. that didn't look much like heavy-eyed, white-lipped little brother, and there was not a girl anywhere in sight, except a tall, handsome one in a beautiful grey suit, trimmed with fur. this girl stood near the carriage and seemed to be watching for some one. "i do wish nan had come to meet me," theo thought, as he stepped off the train, and then the tall girl in the grey suit was looking eagerly into his face, with both hands outstretched, crying, "oh, theo! how glad i am to see you!" and he was seated in the carriage with that rosy-cheeked, merry-faced little laddie, between him and nan, before he fairly realised that this was little brother, grown well and strong, as even nan had not dared hope he would do in so few months. and he had not forgotten his old friend either--little brother had not,--or, if he had, he renewed the friendship very speedily, and during theo's stay the two were as inseparable as of old. it was a happy week for nan, for she could see how theodore had been growing in the best ways during the months of their separation, and she was not a bit disappointed in him, but proud to have her new friends know him. and, as for the boy, it was a glimpse into a new life for him--that week in a lovely christian home. he made up his mind that, sometime, he would have just such a home of his own, and he went back to the city well content to leave these two in such tender hands and amid such delightful surroundings. through all the winter that followed, theodore was busy and happy. when the night-school began, he coaxed mr. hunt to take charge of the clubroom, for theodore wanted to learn and fit himself for better work by and by, and with such a purpose he made rapid progress in his studies. but, busy as he was, he still found time for his saturday evening work for the florist, that he might continue his sunday flower mission, for he knew that those few blossoms were all of brightness and beauty that ever entered into some of those shut-in, poverty-pinched lives about him. then, at christmas time, mr. scott and mrs. rawson and the king's daughters circle helped him prepare a christmas tree in the clubroom; a tree that bore a gift for every child and woman in the two houses. the children almost went wild over that, the first christmas tree that many of them had ever seen; and then the eleven girls in their pretty winter dresses served all the company with cake and cream. theodore was too happy and busy to eat his share, but that was all right, for teddy hunt had no trouble at all in disposing of two portions. when the last candle had ceased to glimmer among the green branches, and the last bit of cake and spoonful of cream had disappeared, the company slowly and lingeringly departed, already looking forward to just such another christmas three hundred and sixty-five days later. then with many a "merry christmas" to theodore, the girls and mrs. rawson took their departure, and mr. scott followed them, only stopping a moment, to say, "we left your christmas gift in your room, my boy. i hope you will like it." wondering what his gift might be, the boy put out the lights and locked the clubroom door and hurried down to his room, remembering then that his teacher had asked for his key earlier in the evening. the key was in the door now, and there was a light in the room. theodore pushed open the door and then stopped short with a cry of delighted surprise, for he never would have recognised this as the bare little room he had left. a neat rug covered the floor, fresh shades hung at the windows; a white iron bedstead with fluffy mattress and fresh white bedding stood where the old bedstead had been, and in place of the pine table and chairs were a neat oak bureau, and a washstand with toilet set and towels, three good, comfortable chairs and a desk that made theo's eyes shine with delight. but best of all was a picture that hung on the wall facing the door--a picture of the bishop with that tender look in the eyes that the boy remembered so well. on a card, slipped in the corner of the frame, was written, "from nan and little brother," and theodore, as he looked and looked, felt that there was nothing left for him to desire. he was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at the picture, when there was a knock at the door and as he opened it in flocked the eleven girls with mrs. rawson and mr. scott behind them. "do you like it, theodore?" "we _couldn't_ go home till we saw you here," they exclaimed, and laughed and chattered joyously when they saw that the boy was too pleased and delighted for any words, and then they went away with their own hearts full of the joy of giving, to write a circular letter to nan telling her all about it. after this the winter passed quietly to theodore. he was well and strong, and he was busy day and evening, and he was as happy a boy as could be found in all that city. and the weeks and months slipped away until two years had gone by, and it was time for carrots to be released. theodore ascertained the day and hour when he would leave the penitentiary and met him at the very gate with a warm and friendly greeting, and took him at once to his own room. he searched the pale face of the boy, wondering whether there really was in it a change for the better, or not. it seemed to him less sullen and more thoughtful than it had been two years before, but he was not sure. certainly, carrots was very quiet. it seemed almost as if he had forgotten how to talk. he looked about theo's neat, comfortable room, evidently noting the changes there, but he made no comment. theodore had set out a table with a good supper for the two, and carrots ate as if he enjoyed the food. when the meal was ended, he leaned back in his chair, and as he looked straight into theodore's eyes, said slowly, "what made ye do it, tode?" "do what--bring you here to supper?" "yes, an' write all them letters to me, an'--an' everything?" "why, carrots, it's this way. i served another fellow an' awful mean trick once, and i've been trying mighty hard to find him, and make it up to him, but i haven't found him yet, and so i've tried to do a little for you instead of him--don't you see?" carrots nodded, and theo fancied that he looked a little disappointed. "then 'twasn't really me you wanted to help?" he said, gravely. "yes, 'twas, too," answered theo, quickly. "i'd have done what i could for you, anyhow, carrots, but i do _wish_ i could find him," he added, sorrowfully. "what's his name?" inquired carrots. "jack finney." "what?" exclaimed the boy, staring at theodore as if he could not believe his ears. "jack finney," repeated theo, wonderingly. "well, i never! tode--_i'm_ jack finney." "you?" cried theodore, starting up excitedly. "you mrs. russell's jack finney?" the boy nodded again. "i guess so. i was in her class in the mission school." theo's face was all alight as he exclaimed, "oh, carrots--no, jack, i'll never call you carrots again--jack, i'm too glad for anything! and now look here, jack finney, you've _got_ to be the right kind of a chap from this on. i won't let you go wrong. i _can't_ let you go wrong, jack. it--it seems as if it'll be all my fault if you do." and jack, looking again straight into theodore's eyes, answered slowly, "i guess i've had 'bout enough o' crooked doin's. if you'll stand by me, i'll make a try on the other line, anyhow." "i'll stand by you every time, jack," cried theodore, earnestly. and he did, through months of alternate hope and discouragement, for jack did not find the upward road an easy one. there were the bad habits of years always pulling him down, and there were old companions in evil ever ready to coax him back to their company, and more than once they succeeded for a while; but theodore would not give him up, and in the end, the boy had his reward, for jack finney became his fellow-soldier under the great captain, and his faithful helper in his loving ministry among christ's little ones. ignorance of the law can so be a valid excuse--and the result is this hilarious but legal.... license to steal by louis newman illustrated by wood [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine august . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the history of man becomes fearfully and wonderfully confusing with the advent of interstellar travel. of special interest to the legally inclined student is the famous skrrgck affair, which began before the galactic tribunal with the case of _citizens vs. skrrgck_. the case, and the opinion of the court, may be summarized as follows: skrrgck, a native of sknnbt (altair iv), where theft is honorable, sanctioned by law and custom, immigrated to earth (sol iii) where theft is contrary to both law and custom. while residing in chicago, a city in a political subdivision known as the state of illinois, part of the united states of america, one of the ancient nation-states of earth, he overheard his landlady use the phrase "a license to steal," a common colloquialism in the area, which refers to any special privilege. [illustration: fig. : actual scene of license issue (skrrgck superimposed)] skrrgck then went to a police station in chicago and requested a license to steal. the desk sergeant, as a joke, wrote out a document purporting to be a license to steal, and skrrgck, relying on said document, committed theft, was apprehended, tried and convicted. on direct appeal allowed to the galactic tribunal, the court held: ( ) all persons are required to know and obey the law of the jurisdiction in which they reside. ( ) public officials must refrain from misrepresenting to strangers the law of the jurisdiction. ( ) where, as here, a public official is guilty of such misrepresentation, the requirement of knowledge no longer applies. ( ) where, as here, it is shown by uncontradicted evidence that a defendant is law-abiding and willing to comply with the standards of his place of residence, misrepresentation of law by public officials may amount to entrapment. ( ) the doctrine of entrapment bars the state of illinois from prosecuting this defendant. ( ) the magnitude of the crime is unimportant compared with the principle involved, and the fact that the defendant's unusual training on sknnbt enabled him to steal a large building in chicago, known as the merchandise mart, is of no significance. ( ) the defendant, however, was civilly liable for the return of the building, and its occupants, or their value, even if he had to steal to get it, provided, however, that he stole only on and from a planet where theft was legal. [illustration: fig. : the moment of decision, case of _citizens vs. skrrgck_] * * * * * the skrrgck case was by no means concluded by the decision of the galactic tribunal, but continued to reverberate down the years, a field day for lawyers, and "a lesson to all in the complexities of modern intergalactic law and society," said winston, harold c, herman prof, of legal history, harvard. though freed on the criminal charge of theft, skrrgck still faced some , charges of kidnapping, plus the civil liability imposed upon him by the ruling of the court. the kidnapping charges were temporarily held in abeyance. not that the abductions were not considered outrageous, but it was quickly realized by all concerned that if skrrgck were constantly involved in lengthy and expensive defenses to criminal prosecutions, there would be no chance at all of obtaining any restitution from him. first things first, and with terrans that rarely means justice. skrrgck offered to pay over the money he had received for the building and its occupants, but that was unacceptable to the terrans, for what they really wanted, with that exaggerated fervor typical of them, provided it agrees with their financial interests, was the return of the original articles. not only were the people wanted back, but the building itself had a special significance. its full title was "the new merchandise mart" and it had been built in the exact style of the original and on the exact spot on the south side of the chicago river where the original had stood prior to its destruction in the sack of chicago. it was more than just a large commercial structure to the terrans. it was also a symbol of terra's unusually quick recovery from its empire chaos into its present position of leadership within the galactic union. the terrans wanted that building back. so skrrgck, an obliging fellow at heart, tried first to get it back, but this proved impossible, for he had sold the building to the aldebaranian confederacy for use in its annual "prosperity fiesta." the dominant culture of the aldebaranian system is a descendant of the "conspicuous destruction" or "potlatch" type, in which articles of value are destroyed to prove the wealth and power of the destroyers. it was customary once every aldebaranian year--about six terran--for the aldebaranian government to sponsor a token celebration of this destructive sort, and it had purchased the merchandise mart from skrrgck as part of its special celebration marking the first thousand years of the confederacy. consequently, the building, along with everything else, was totally destroyed in the "bonfire" that consumed the entire fourth planet from the main aldebaranian sun. nor was skrrgck able to arrange the return to terra of the occupants of the building, some , in number, because he had sold them as slaves to the boötean league. * * * * * it is commonly thought slavery is forbidden throughout the galaxy by the terms of article of the galactic compact, but such is not the case. what is actually forbidden is "involuntary servitude" and this situation proved the significance of that distinction. in the case of _sol v. boötes_, the galactic tribunal held that terra had no right to force the "slaves" to give up their slavery and return to terra if they did not wish to. and, quite naturally, none of them wished to. it will be remembered that the boöteans, a singularly handsome and good-natured people, were in imminent danger of racial extinction due to the disastrous effects of a strange nucleonic storm which had passed through their system in . the physiological details of the "boötean effect," as it has been called, was to render every boötean sterile in relation to every other boötean, while leaving each boötean normally capable of reproduction, provided one of the partners in the union had not been subjected to the nucleonic storm. faced with this situation, the boöteans immediately took steps to encourage widespread immigration by other humanoid races, chiefly terrans, for it was terrans who had originally colonized boötes and it was therefore known that interbreeding was possible. but the boöteans were largely unsuccessful in their immigration policy. terra was peaceful and prosperous, and the boöteans, being poor advertisers, were unable to convince more than a handful to leave the relative comforts of home for the far-off boötean system where, almost all were sure, some horrible fate lay behind the boöteans' honeyed words. so when skrrgck showed up with some , terrans, the boöteans, in desperation, agreed to purchase them in the hope of avoiding the "involuntary servitude" prohibition of article by making them like it. in this, they were spectacularly successful. the "slaves" were treated to the utmost luxury and every effort was made to satisfy any reasonable wish. their "duties" consisted entirely of "keeping company" with the singularly attractive boöteans. under these circumstances it is, perhaps, hardly surprising that out of the , occupants, all but flatly refused to return to terra. the who did wish to return, most of whom were borderline psychotics, were shipped home, and boötes sued skrrgck for their purchase price, but was turned down by the galactic quadrant court on the theory of, basically, caveat emptor--let the buyer beware. * * * * * the court in _sol v. boötes_ had held that although adults could not be required to return to terra, minors under the age of could be, and an additional were returned under this ruling, to the vociferous disgust of the post-puberty members of that group. since there was apparently some question of certain misrepresentations by skrrgck as to the ages or family affiliations of some members of this minor group, he agreed to an out-of-court settlement of boötes' claim for their purchase price, thus depriving the legal profession of further clarification of the rights of two "good faith" dealers in this peculiar sort of transaction. the terran people, of course, were totally unsatisfied with this result. led by some demagogues and, to a milder degree, by most of the political opposition to the existing terran government, and reminded of certain actual examples from terra's own history, many became convinced that some form of nefarious "brainwashing" had been exercised upon the "unfortunate" terran expatriates. excitement ran high, and there was even some agitation for withdrawal from the galactic union. confronted with such unrest, the terran government made efforts to reach some settlement with boötes despite the decision of the court in _sol v. boötes_, and was finally able to gain in the centaurian agreement a substantial reparation, it being specifically stipulated in the agreement that the money was to be paid to the dependents who suffered actual financial loss. in a suit against the terran government by one of the excluded families, to obtain for that family a share of the reparation, the validity of the treaty, as it applied to exclude the suing family and others in like position, was upheld by the united states supreme court. the suit was begun before the agreement had been ratified by the general assembly, and the court indicated that the plaintiff would have lost on the strength of a long line of cases giving the world president certain inherent powers over the conduct of foreign affairs. since, however, the matter came up for decision after ratification, the court said that the "inherent powers" question was moot, and that the agreement, having been elevated to the status of a treaty by ratification, must be held valid under the "supremacy of treaties" section of article of the united terran charter. although this failed to satisfy the terran people--and their anger may have contributed to the fall of the solarian party administration in the following election--the treaty is generally considered by students of the subject as a triumph of solarian diplomacy, and an outstanding example of intergalactic good faith on the part of boötes. * * * * * of course, neither the demagogy nor the anger could hide forever the true facts about how the boöteans were treating their "slaves," and when the true facts became known, there was a sudden flood of migration from terra to boötes, which threatened to depopulate the solarian empire and drown boötes. the flood was quickly dammed by the treaty of deneb restricting migration between the two systems. this treaty was held to be a valid police-powers exception to the "free migration" principle of article of the galactic compact in _boleslaw v. sol and boötes_. all this left skrrgck with liabilities of some forty million credits and practically no assets. like most altairians, he was a superb thief but a poor trader. the price he had received for the merchandise mart and the "slaves," while amounting to a tidy personal fortune, was less than half the amount of the claims against him, and due to an unfortunate predilection for slow _aedrils_ and fast _flowezies_, he only had about half of that left. skrrgck, who had by this time apparently developed a love of litigation equal to his love of thievery, used part of what he did have left in a last effort to evade liability by going into bankruptcy, a move which was naturally met with howls of outrage by his creditors and a flood of objections to his petition, a flood which very nearly drowned the federal district court in chicago. it would be difficult to imagine a more complex legal battle than might have taken place, nor one more instructive to the legal profession, had the situation been carried to its logical conclusion. on the one hand was the age-old policy of both terran and galactic bankruptcy law. a man becomes unable to pay his debts. he goes into bankruptcy. whatever he does have is distributed to his creditors, who must be satisfied with what they can get out of his present assets. they cannot require him to go to work to earn additional funds with which to pay them more. it is precisely to escape this form of mortgage on one's future that bankruptcy exists. yet here were over seven thousand creditors claiming that skrrgck's debts should not be discharged in bankruptcy, because skrrgck could be required to steal enough to satisfy them fully. could the creditors require skrrgck to exert such personal efforts to satisfy their claims? a lawyer would almost certainly say "no," citing the bankruptcy act as sufficient grounds alone, not to mention the anomaly of having terrans, in a terran court, ask that skrrgck, for their benefit, commit an act illegal on terra and punishable by that terran court. the idea of a terran court giving judicial sanction to theft is novel, to say the least. indeed, judge griffin, who was presiding, was overheard to remark to a friend on the golf course that he "would throw the whole d--n thing out" for that reason alone. * * * * * yet, in spite of this undeniable weight of opinion, it is difficult to say just what the final decision would have been had the matter been carried to the galactic tribunal, for in the original case of _skrrgck v. illinois_, that august body, it will be remembered, had specifically stated that skrrgck was liable for the value of the building and its occupants, "even if he must steal to obtain it." now that hasty and ill-advised phrase was certainly dicta, and was probably intended only as a joke, the opinion having been written by master adjudicator stsssts, a member of that irrepressible race of saurian humorists, the sirians. but if the case had actually come before them, the court might have been hoist on its own petard, so to speak, and been forced to rule in accord with its earlier "joke." unfortunately for the curiosity of the legal profession, the question was never to be answered, for skrrgck did a remarkable thing which made the whole controversy irrelevant. what his motives were will probably never be known. his character makes it unlikely that he began the bankruptcy proceedings in good faith and was later moved by conscience. it is possible that the bankruptcy was merely an elaborate piece of misdirection. more probably, however, he simply seized on the unusual opportunity the publicity gave him. whatever the motives, the facts are that skrrgck used the last of his waning resources to purchase one of the newly developed terran motors' "timebirds" in which he traveled secretly to altair. even this first model of the timebird, with its primitive meson exchange discoordinator, cut the trip from sol to altair from weeks to days, and skrrgck, landing secretly on his home planet while his bankruptcy action was still in the turmoil stage, was able to accomplish the greatest "coup" in altairian history. he never could have done it without the publicity of the legal proceedings. in a culture where theft is honorable, the most stringent precautions are taken against its accomplishment, but who could have expected skrrgck? he was light-years away, trying to go into bankruptcy. and so, while all eyes on altair, as well as throughout the rest of the galaxy, were amusedly fixed on the legal circus shaping up on terra, skrrgck was able to steal the altairian crown jewels, and the altairian crown prince as well, and flee with them to sol. * * * * * the reaction was violent. the galaxy was gripped by an almost hysterical amusement. skrrgck's creditors on terra were overjoyed. the altairians made one effort to regain their valuables in the courts, but were promptly turned down by the galactic tribunal which held, wisely, that a society which made a virtue of theft would have to take the consequences of its own culture. so skrrgck's creditors were paid in full. the jewels alone were more than sufficient for that, containing as they did no less than seven priceless "wanderstones," those strange bits of frozen fire found ever so rarely floating in the interstellar voids, utterly impervious to any of the effects of gravitation. altair paid a fantastic price for the return of the collection, and skrrgck also demanded, and got, a sizable ransom for the prince, after threatening to sell him to boötes, from whence, of course, he would never return. being a prince in a democratic, constitutional monarchy is not as glamorous as you might think. his creditors satisfied, skrrgck returned to sknnbt, dragging with him an angry crown prince--angry at having lost the chance to go to boötes, that is. at altair, skrrgck was received as a popular hero. he had accomplished something of which every altairian had dreamed, almost from the moment of his birth, and he was widely and joyously acclaimed. riding on this wave of popular adulation, he entered politics, ran for the office of premier, and was elected by an overwhelming majority. as soon as he took office, he took steps, in accordance with altairian custom, to wipe out the "stain" on his honor incurred by allowing the chicago police sergeant to fool him with the now famous license to steal. he instituted suit against the sergeant for the expenses of his defense to the original theft charge. the case was carried all the way to the galactic tribunal, which by this time was heartily sick of the whole mess. feeling apparently that the sergeant was the original cause of said mess, the court overruled his plea that he had merely been joking. the court cited an ancient case from west virginia, u.s.a.--_plate v. durst_, w. va. , se , l.r.a. . (note: the date of this case is invariably given as , which is most confusing, since the present date is only . the , however, refers to the eighteen hundred and ninety-sixth year of the pre-atomic era, which we, of course, style a.a.--ante atomica. since the present era begins with the first atomic explosion, the case actually occurred in approximately the year a.a.) the court quoted the opinion in this ancient case as follows: "jokes are sometimes taken seriously by ... the inexperienced ... and if such is the case, and the person thereby deceived is led to (incur expenses) in the full belief and expectation that the joker is in earnest, the law will also take the joker at his word, and give him good reason to smile." * * * * * accordingly, the sergeant was charged with a very large judgment. although the city of chicago paid this judgment, the sergeant had become the laughing-stock of the planet, so he applied for, and was granted, a hardship exception to the treaty of deneb and migrated to boötes. there, regarded as the real savior of the boötean race, and a chosen instrument of the god of boötes, he was received as a saint. he died in , surrounded by his children and grandchildren, having made himself wealthy by becoming the leader of a most excessive fertility cult, which is only now being forcibly suppressed by the boötean government. in p.a., someone on earth remembered the kidnapping indictments still outstanding against skrrgck and attempted to prosecute them. by this time, however, skrrgck was premier, the chief executive officer of altair, and all extradition matters were within his sole discretion. in the exercise of this power, he refused to extradite himself, and the prosecutor on earth, whose constituents were beginning to laugh at him, had the indictments quashed "in the interest of interstellar harmony." the story has an interesting sequel. during skrrgck's unprecedented six consecutive terms as premier (no one else had ever served less than seven), he was able, by dint of unremitting political maneuvering, to have theft outlawed in the altairian system. it was, he said, "a cultural trait that is more trouble than it is worth." briarwood girls [illustration] by julia lestarjette glover "_i follow, follow, sure to meet the sun, and confident that what the future yields will be the right, unless myself be wrong._" the book concern columbus, ohio made in columbus u.s.a. contents chapter page i. alison's wonderful lamp ii. briarwood college iii. some of the girls iv. essays and essays v. the tangled skein vi. mysteries vii. without leave viii. in miss harland's office ix. adventure of the lamp x. discoveries xi. class prophecy chapter i alison's wonderful lamp "mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?" it was the first of june, and alison fair, just returned home for vacation at the end of her freshman year, found herself confronted with the staggering knowledge that she could not return to briarwood to finish her college course, so well and happily begun. it was her mother who told her, breaking the hard news as gently as she could, that the pressure of hard times and financial stress made it impossible for her father to think of sending her back in the fall. she told it very tenderly and lovingly, making it clear that only stern necessity compelled them to deny her the opportunity; but the tenderness could not alter the hard fact. "you are not more disappointed than we are, darling," she said. "i would not have told you so soon, but it would be worse if i would leave you under the impression that you can return to briarwood college. you will be brave, and try not to distress your father by showing your disappointment too much. i know how hard it is, dear. but be patient, and perhaps some way will open. you are only sixteen, you can afford to wait a little." alison swallowed the lump in her throat and said nothing. wait--yes--but then she could not go on with her class--with polly and evelyn and joan and the rest. and next year they would be sophomores--and the fun and study would go on, and she would not be there; she would be out of it all. no other girls would be just the same as those girls, her chums of the freshman year. and then she asked her one despairing question: "mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?" but even as she asked it, she knew the answer, and gave it herself. "no, i know there isn't. father would send me if he could. i'll try to be patient, mother. don't worry. don't mind, mother--" seeing that her mother's tears were flowing. "i'll try not to think of it or talk of it any more. i've had one year, anyway. and maybe i can take a correspondence course, or something--" she tried to speak bravely, but it was more than she could manage just now, and she hastily kissed her mother, and ran away to have it out by herself. the children thought it strange that "sister," suddenly stopped talking of her college experiences and the pranks and frolics of the girls. to their questions and demands to hear more, she would reply quietly, "there isn't anything more to tell you, floss. i guess i talked myself out those first few days. now i want to hear all you have been doing during all the months i've been away." which effectually diverted the attention of floss and billy and mat and opened a flood of reminiscences of their own school life, to which she tried to listen patiently. the summer dragged on. alison had looked forward to it--and beyond it--with such eager pleasure; but the thought that she was not to go back seemed to take all the zest from life. letters came from the girls--from evelyn in the mountains, from polly at the seaside, from joan and katherine in europe--all telling of the good times they were having, and looking forward to their reunion at briarwood in september. and she would not be there. trying not to show her disappointment too much, not to distress her father and mother, was as far as alison could get. she could not look forward; there seemed nothing to look forward to. and to look back to the happy days of last winter was more than she could bear. so the days passed, and grew into weeks. august came, with glowing sun and deep blue skies. summer was at its glorious height. one bright morning billy came whistling in with the mail; a letter for alison from joan, her roommate of last winter, and a long, legal-looking envelope for mr. fair. both became absorbed, and alison, deep in joan's news, scarcely heard when her father said gravely, "aunt justina is dead." "who is aunt justina?" asked floss with some curiosity, wondering why father looked so "funny." "an old great-aunt of mine, who lived far away, in new england. you children have scarcely heard of her, perhaps, but i used often to be at her house, as a boy, in my holidays. now she is dead, and her lawyer has sent me a copy of her will. wait, i will read it." he unfolded a stiff typewritten document. all the family were listening now. alison folded up joan's sheet and looked up, interested. "did she leave you anything, father?" floss inquired. "was she very rich?" "no, not very. she was eccentric, and i never expected anything from her. no, she has left me nothing. most of her money was left to charities; but she has left you, alison, a bequest. whether it is of any value or not we cannot tell until we see it. here it is in the will: 'to my great niece, alison fair, my brass lamp which stands on my dresser, with a letter, which i direct shall be sent to her along with it.' "the lawyer says: 'the lamp has been forwarded by express, the letter being enclosed with it.' it will probably arrive today, and you can see for yourself what aunt justina's legacy is like. it may be valuable; she had a fancy for collecting antiques, and she traveled a good deal in her younger days. on the other hand, it may be merely an old lamp on which she set some fictitious value. so don't raise your expectations too high." the thought crossed alison's mind: "i wish she had left me its value in money instead;" but she did not say it aloud. it seemed unsuitable to think of money when aunt justina was just dead, though she could not be expected to grieve over-much for an aged relative whom she had never seen. later in the day the expressman brought a box for alison. the family crowded around, all eager to help in unpacking the legacy. it was beautifully packed, and as layer after layer of wrappings was lifted off, curiosity rose to an almost irrepressible height. finally the lamp itself came into view, a beautiful thing of shining brass; ancient venetian work, hammered and beaten into a shape of exquisite loveliness by artist fingers, long since dust. a cry of admiration arose as alison lifted it from the last swathings and held it up to view. the letter from aunt justina was tied to one side, and she unfastened it with fingers that shook a little. it was a message from the dead. it was so strange that that old lady, so far away, should have thought of her and sent her this beautiful thing, and written her a letter with her own trembling hand. with an odd feeling of unreality she unfolded the letter and read it aloud to her excited family. "my dear great-niece, alison," it began, "you have never seen me, perhaps you have never heard of me, until you will read this, after my death; and you will think it strange, perhaps, that i should take enough interest in you to send you my favorite lamp. your father was my favorite nephew, and i had intended to make him my heir; but he displeased me by taking his own way in life, instead of the one i had planned for him. he had a right, i suppose, to do as he thought best, and i was wrong to try to force him to do as i wished. whether he was wise or not, time will show. i am a lonely old woman with none of my own near me in my last years. "i declared i would leave his name out of my will, and i must keep my word; but i have followed his career closely enough to know something of his family and circumstances. and so, though i am leaving him nothing, i want to leave to his eldest daughter a small token of my interest and affection. take it, my dear, as an old woman's freak. i bought it long ago in a quaint old shop in venice. it is not an heirloom, and if you should some day wish to sell it, you may do so. on one condition, however: that is, that you keep it, _as it is_, until you are in some strait when no other help is available. then, if you have exhausted all other resources, fill the lamp and light it. it may cast a light on your perplexities. "until then, keep it bright in remembrance of "your affectionate aunt, "justina laurence." a chorus of exclamations broke forth as alison ceased reading. "what a strange old lady! father, was she really angry with you for not doing as she wanted? and what was it?" "she wanted me to go into politics, backed by her money; but i had no fancy for a politician's career, and i refused. poor aunt justina! she was a very ambitious woman, and would have liked to see me president. well, i am glad she felt more kindly at the last. i never wanted her money; but i am glad she has remembered you, daughter," said mr. fair, examining alison's legacy with interest. "keep it bright! why, you can see your face in it now," cried floss, peering into its shining sides. "sister, i don't see how you can wait to 'fill and light it.' i would like to see it lighted right away." "but she says, 'keep it as it is until you are in some strait,'" said alison thoughtfully. "i would rather do just as she wished." "so it will be just an ornament to stand on your table," said billy disgustedly. "what a cranky old lady! what good will it do you?" but alison was not listening to him. a thought had flashed into her mind, and glancing at her mother she read the same thought in her eyes. quietly she lifted her "wonderful lamp" and placed it in the center of the table for all to admire. then she went away to her own room to think it over. was she ever likely to be in a much greater strait than she was now? and would not aunt justina want her to go to college? if the lamp was to shed light on her perplexities, surely now was the time it was needed. a tap at the door heralded her mother. "what is my daughter thinking of?" she asked, smiling. "of the same thing you are, mother. i see it in your face. would it be against aunt justina's wishes, to light the lamp now? she must have meant _something_. and--if there is nothing more, after all--if it does not 'shed light on my perplexities,' at any rate, it is valuable in itself. but--i could hardly need its help more than i do now." "i thought of that, too, alison, and i think it could not be wrong to investigate. shall we fill it now, and wait until dark to light it?" the question settled, they all gathered round while alison unscrewed the old-fashioned burner of the lamp. "maybe there is some magic about it," she said, laughing nervously. "i feel like aladdin. shall i try rubbing it first? but it doesn't need any rubbing to brighten it." the screw was a little stiff, but presently it turned. she removed it and peered curiously in the top. "it is stuffed full of paper," she said. "more packing, i suppose. wait till i pull it out." "careful," her father said, as she drew out a folded paper. he took it from her, and waited while she drew out another and another of the thin folded slips, until he had a handful. the bowl was large, and held a good many of those folded papers. when alison had drawn out the last one, and turned to him, quite pale with excitement, he placed the packet in her hand. "alison, child, it is two thousand dollars!" "two thousand! oh, father! oh, mother!" the children wondered why "sister" should cry because her wonderful lamp was full of money; but her mother understood. "only i don't feel that it ought to be mine," she said presently. "it ought to be yours, father. please take it. i am sure aunt justina meant it for you. it is too much money for me to spend." "no, little daughter. i think aunt justina knew very well what she was about. she wanted me to know that she had forgiven my obstinacy, and so she left it to my daughter. you may use it with a clear conscience. you have borne the disappointment bravely, and we are glad you should have this bequest." he kissed her, and alison hid her face on his shoulder for a moment, quite overcome with joy and surprise and gratitude, and then ran away to her own room without another word. "mother," she said later, when it had been talked over and decided that she was to go back to briarwood in september, "i wish aunt justina could know how happy she has made me." "perhaps she does; and if so, i am sure it would please her to know that you are making a wise and good use of her legacy; all the more because these weeks of trial and disappointment have taught you the value of the school years; and the discipline of patience will have made you stronger and better able to use them wisely." "oh, i will; and i hope aunt justina knows," breathed alison, dimming the shining surface of her wonderful lamp with a few happy tears. chapter ii briarwood college briarwood college was built on a terraced hillside, the buildings rising one above the other, the lowest, or main building, on a level with the street that ran at right angles with the hillside, while the topmost, known as "hillview," crowned the summit and commanded a view of near and distant hills, blue, purple and opal-tinted, melting into the sky. the main building had originally been a handsome old dwelling house, whose spacious rooms were now used as parlors, library, offices and teachers' rooms. there were wide, beautiful porches in front and back, and massive stone steps, ending in great stone urns overflowing with bright flowers at the foot of each flight. these steps led down into wide shady gardens, where the girls walked up and down with arms intertwined, or sat and studied and talked on rustic seats under the trees on the shady lawns. the other buildings, briarley hall, elmtree hall and hillview, were devoted to class rooms and dormitories, each hall being presided over by a teacher. in these pleasant courts of learning alison fair arrived on a golden september afternoon, and was warmly welcomed by miss harland, the principal. "we are so glad to have you back, dear," miss harland said, kissing the girl affectionately. "i was rather afraid from what you wrote some time ago, that you might not return to us this year." "oh, so was i, miss harland. i was dreadfully afraid of it. i was so disappointed, i hardly realize yet that it is all right, and i am really here. and may i have my same old room, and joan for roommate?" "the same room, dear, but i am so sorry about joan. you see, she has not come yet, and there was no one to claim that room, so i had to put a new girl in with you. we have a very large school this year, and the dormitories are overflowing. i really had no other place for her. you may be able to change later, if you don't find her congenial. you won't mind?" alison did mind; but after the first pang of disappointment, she spoke cheerfully. "it's all right, miss harland. i'm so thankful to be here at all, i shan't grumble at anything. joan _is_ coming, isn't she?" in sudden alarm. "oh, yes, i expect her this evening. her father is driving her through the country. run up, then, and get acquainted with your new roommate. marcia west, is her name. she looked homesick." homesick at briarwood! alison marvelled as she ran lightly up the familiar staircase and along the corridor to the end room, which had been hers and joan wentworth's last year. she was so happy to find herself here again; but then she was not a new girl, and she knew there were many freshmen lying on their beds at this moment and crying their eyes out for homesickness. well, it would not last long, one soon grew accustomed to the pleasant routine of school days. she reached her door and tapped lightly. it was opened, after an instant's delay, and the "new girl" stood there in silence, still holding the door and looking at her with an expression which, if not exactly forbidding, was certainly not encouraging. she was about alison's own age, rather tall and slight, with dark, sombre eyes and dark heavy hair worn low on her forehead. the heavy hair and the unsmiling eyes gave her face a lowering look that was not attractive at first sight. she merely stood there without speaking, until alison said pleasantly, "good evening. i am alison fair, and you are my new roommate. miss harland told me you were here. i'm sorry to be late. i hope you like our room." "pretty, though it's not very large for two," said the girl nonchalantly. "i came in this morning. i've been unpacking." it was evident, as alison entered and looked about her. marcia had unpacked her trunk, which stood open in the hall beside their door, and had strewed her belongings about as freely as though she had expected to occupy the room alone. it was a fairly good-sized room, containing two single beds, and a dresser, chair and small table for each girl. a roomy closet was well supplied with hangers and shoe-racks. a glance showed alison that marcia had placed her dresser and table close to the window and strewn them with photographs and toilet articles in lavish profusion. also, that she had taken the best chair. "i changed things a little. you don't mind, do you?" she asked, watching alison. "oh, no, it's your room as well as mine," alison answered good-humoredly, and proceeded to open her own trunk, which had been brought up and placed in the hall, according to custom, and to arrange her part of the room. marcia had encroached on her side of the closet, she noticed, but she said nothing, only hanging up a few dresses and leaving the rest in her trunk. she placed a few favorite books between a pair of bronze bookends, her father's parting gift; laid her bible beside them, and her pretty new portfolio her mother had given her; and finally set her cherished lamp on the dresser. she had scarcely finished, and stood surveying the effect, when there was a rush of little feet in the corridor, the door was flung open, and a small, rosy-faced curly-haired girl rushed in to fling herself into alison's arms. "oh, alison, you darling thing! i'm so thrilled to be back, and in our same old room, too." chapter iii some of the girls "lovely to be back," said alison, warmly kissing the pretty childish face," but you are too late for us to be roommates, jo. i have another roommate, a new girl, marcia west. marcia, this is joan wentworth, who roomed with me last year." joan shook back her light fluffy hair, looking rather taken aback for an instant, as marcia emerged from the closet, where she had been invisible, arranging a rack of shoes. "how do you do?" marcia said briefly. "i didn't know i was taking your room. miss harland put me in here. she said there wasn't any other room, or i'd go somewhere else. i'm sorry." "oh, it's all right," joan answered, recovering her equanimity quickly. "i'll go and see if kathy can take me in, for the night, anyway. she's just across the hall, and she's by herself. i'll look her up." she was gone, leaving alison and marcia to shake down together as best they could. conversation languished. alison tried to talk about her school work. it developed that they would be in the same classes; but marcia seemed to have no enthusiasms. she had come to school because she was made to, and she looked forward to nothing but getting through. finally she said she was tired and lay down on her bed; and seeing presently that she had fallen asleep, alison slipped out of the room across the hall to the room opposite, which was katherine bertram's. katherine was better off financially than most of the girls. her mother was dead and she had traveled and lived in hotel rooms for several years previously, and so her room at school was more like a home than anything she had known since her mother's death. it was prettily furnished, and her pictures and rugs were better and more luxurious than most schoolgirls' rooms could boast. nevertheless, she was known as "a good fellow," and was popular with the girls. alison's tap at the door was answered by a cordial "come in," and she entered, to find katherine and joan curled up on the bed, talking vigorously, but both sprang up to greet her joyously. she found a seat on a velvet-covered stool beside the couch, and joan resumed her interrupted grumble. "i'm just too disappointed and cross for anything," she lamented. "here i came flying back to our old quarters like--like a homing pigeon, only to find my place taken by that cross-looking thing. i don't believe you are going to like her a bit, alison. she doesn't look as if she would fit in." "it is too bad; but then it gives me joan for a roommate, which is a silver lining," said katherine equably. "i didn't know there was a chance of your losing your place, or i would have spoken to miss harland and tried to get one of the old girls to change with her." "oh, well, it's only the first day; maybe something will happen; or we may like her better when we know her," said alison hopefully. "and in the mean time, joan is welcome with me as long as she likes. i'll ask for a cot for her. there's plenty of room," said katherine hospitably. "we shall be close by and can get together whenever we like. so cheer up, jo, it won't be so bad." they fell into an animated discussion of school matters, which was presently interrupted by a tumultuous rush outside, the door was opened without ceremony, and in flocked the rest of the "kindred spirit,"--evelyn and polly, boon companions, unlike as they were; studious rachel; rosalind, the school beauty, whose golden head and apple-blossom face scarcely suggested books or scholarship. these with alison, katherine and joan, made up the seven "kindred spirits," an informal little club of loyal friends. their favorite gathering place last year had been the room occupied by alison and joan, and consternation reigned when the news spread that the newcomer had usurped joan's place. "it won't be the same thing at all," complained polly, flinging herself back on the bed in a paroxysm of disappointment. katherine poured oil on the troubled waters. "you can meet here just as well. and maybe, as alison says, we shall like her when we know her. don't let us judge her too hardly beforehand." "so charitable, kathy always is," murmured evelyn. rachel changed the subject. "well--did you know we have a new english teacher?" "no. what's her name?" "miss burnett--cecil burnett. she's lovely. and she's to be at our table." "are helen yorke and brenda thornton back?" "yes. i saw them this morning. as musical as ever. oh, is that the supper bell? it can't be six o'clock already." "it seems it can--for it is," said alison, consulting her wrist watch and finding it correspond with the bell. "i must go and see if my roommate is awake, and take her down to supper. please be nice to her, girls. i don't know yet whether she is cross or just shy." she gave the group an appealing look as she left the room, and katherine answered it with a reassuring smile. but joan shrugged her shoulders and made a face. she had not been prepossessed in favor of the new girl. chapter iv essays and essays the dining room was a large, square, light room, filled with tables, each holding twelve. alison piloted her roommate to a seat next to herself, at her old table, where evelyn, katherine and joan were already seated, the rest of the group being at the next table. the new english teacher, miss burnett, presided--a pretty girl, not many years older than her prospective pupils. brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a deep, soft rose color in her cheeks, she was exactly the type that girls a few years younger would naturally fall in love with on sight. accordingly, the group of girls at her table, running true to form, promptly "fell for her" with schoolgirl unanimity; copied the way she did her hair, whether it was becoming to them or not, practiced her engaging smile, and even copied her clothes, as far as possible. brown was her favorite color--a deep, rich brown that suited her eyes and hair and blended with the rose glow in her cheeks. this shade of brown promptly became popular. life at briarwood soon settled into an accustomed routine of classes, sports and recreation, and the days were full and busy. miss burnett had an eager class, more interested in the study of their mother tongue than they had ever been before, simply because she taught it. toward thanksgiving she gave them an essay contest, and alison and her roommate became more congenial as they discussed subjects and titles. but their tastes and ideas were very different. "i don't believe i could write anything worth reading, but i'll try, because miss burnett wants us to," said alison, to whom the study of english was genuine enjoyment. "and i'll try because i've got to," responded marcia with a wry face. "just let her hear you saying _got_, that's all," laughed alison, reaching for her book. "i hate all lessons, but i believe i hate english worst of any," said marcia crossly. "i don't see why we have to study it." "why did you come to college, if you hate it so?" asked alison curiously. "oh, because one must do something, i suppose." "but why do you take english?" "because the rest of you do, and i don't like to be left out. besides, miss harland made me. are you going to track meet this afternoon?" "yes." "then, will you lend me your english literature? rosalind borrowed mine and hasn't returned it." "and welcome. there it is on the table." "thank you. i'll work while you play, like the ant and the grasshopper," said marcia more graciously than usual. it was a brilliant autumn afternoon, and most of the girls were tempted out. the hall was deserted, save for marcia, scribbling hard in her room. "finished already?" asked alison, coming in just in time for supper, flushed and breathless after a basketball game. marcia was just putting away her writing materials. she looked up nonchalantly. "almost. i've only to correct and copy it." "you've had a grand quiet time to work. i wish i had been as industrious; but it was so lovely out. we had a splendid practice." nothing was talked of in school for the next few days but the essays, which were to be handed in the week before thanksgiving, and the prize winner would be announced on the day before--"to give us extra reason to be thankful," said joan. katherine had written a scholarly essay, giving a sort of bird's-eye view of the entire field of english literature, concisely expressed. privately, she believed herself sure of the prize, but no such self-laudatory opinion was hinted at in her dignified demeanor. joan had skipped airily over the earlier periods, coming rapidly down to present-day fiction in the space of four pages. "she'll like mine because it's short, anyway," she congratulated herself. most of the other girls had tried, because miss burnett wished it. some of the efforts were better, some worse, than others, some impossible. alison, coming from her history class one morning, suddenly realized that the time was almost up, and her essay was still unwritten. a few unfinished beginnings, rejected as unsatisfactory, were all she had to show. she had a vacant period next, and she took a sudden resolve. "i'll write that essay in the next forty-five minutes, or know the reason," she told herself sternly, and going to her room she posted a "busy" sign on the door as a gentle hint that visitors were not desired, and fell to work. as she opened her english literature, several half-sheets of paper fell out, each scribbled over with her unsuccessful beginnings.... she laughed and dropped them into the wastebasket. then she picked up a folded paper that she did not recognize. when had she written an exercise in blue ink? she opened it, puzzled. what did it mean? an essay, apparently, in rosalind's unmistakable writing, which was like herself, pretty, but entirely characterless. it was entitled "_the river of time._" plainly, it was rosalind's idea of an essay on english literature, which she described as a river flowing down the ages, on whose waters were found lovely pearls. these pearls were represented by the names of a few outstanding writers, but after a few inadequate sentences rosalind's imagination had apparently failed her. realizing after a glance at the first page that it was not meant for her eyes, alison resolutely folded the paper, smiling. literature was not rosalind's strong point, but she was so pretty and winning that one forgave and smiled, as at the efforts of a child. "poor little rosalind," she thought, and put the paper aside, to be given back to the writer at the first opportunity. then she fell to work on her own essay, and had finished her first copy by the time the period ended. chapter v the tangled skein "may i come in?" asked rosalind's voice, and in response to alison's cordial invitation, she entered, a perplexed cloud on her face. "i'm so worried, alison," she began. "i saw your 'busy' sign, so i waited. i thought you might help me." "was it about this?" alison held up the folded paper. "i've been worried about it, too." rosalind pounced on the paper. "oh, that's it. it's my essay. where in the world did you find it?" "it was in my english book. how it got there i can't imagine. it was certainly not there when i saw the book last. i lent it to marcia. she said you had borrowed hers, and she didn't like to go and rummage in your room while you were out----" "she wouldn't have had to rummage. it was right on the table," said rosalind simply. "did you read this, alison? it's dreadful--" "i couldn't help seeing the title and the first few sentences, but of course i didn't read any further. honestly, rosalind, i am puzzled to guess how your essay could have got into my book. can you think?" rosalind frowned and puckered up her sunny face in a great mental effort. "i haven't any book, myself," she confessed. "mine fell out of the window, and i forgot to pick it up, and it rained in the night, and ruined it. it was so sopping wet, it just fell to pieces. so i've been getting along by borrowing the other girls' books. i borrowed marcia's the other day, and forgot to return it to her--" "so a lot of the trouble is due to your bad habit of forgetting to do things," said alison severely. but she smiled as she said it, and rosalind took the reproof with her usual sweet temper. "i know it was. but what then, alison?" "then she borrowed mine, to study. she returned it to me, all right, but she forgot to explain what your essay was doing in it. i went out to track meet, and left marcia studying for her essay. i hadn't looked through my book carefully, and if i saw any papers sticking out, i thought they were just my own notes. that is all i know about it, till i found your essay just now." "well, it's all right, now i've found it," said rosalind easily. "they have to be handed in tomorrow. i'm so glad i'm on time, for once." and with a relieved mind she danced lightly away, just as marcia entered. alison looked up pleasantly. "just in time, marcia, to help solve a mystery, or straighten out a muddle." marcia stopped short and her face changed to the stony expression it wore when she was not pleased. "well," she said, "what can _i_ do about it?" "rosalind was here just now," alison explained patiently. "she came to ask if i knew anything about her essay, which she could not find. i had just found it inside my english book, and we were wondering how it got there. that was all. i thought perhaps you might be able to tell us." marcia grew paler than her wont, but she spoke clearly and coldly. "why, rosalind lost her book i suppose, and borrowed yours, and left the essay in it. you know what a careless thing she is." "no; she never had my book. she had finished her essay and put it away, that same afternoon, when you borrowed my book because she was out, and had left yours in her room." "i don't know anything about it," said marcia stolidly. "are you trying to accuse me of anything?" "marcia! you are not in earnest?" "well, you seemed to imply it. i didn't think you would mind lending me your book--" "of course i didn't, marcia. you know that." "i put it back on your table that same afternoon. you can testify to finding it there. i haven't seen it since." "i don't want to 'testify' to anything," said alison, astonished. "i was only wondering how rosalind's essay came to be in my book. please don't think i meant to be personal, marcia." "i don't know anything about it," repeated marcia, "and i'll thank you, alison fair, not to be hinting at anything, instead of saying out plainly what you think." "i wasn't hinting," began alison, wounded to the verge of tears; but to her relief, marcia left the room, and she turned to the window, her hands pressed to her eyes, trying to recover her composure enough to think her way out of the tangle. entered joan, excited and curious. "alison! we just saw marcia stalking down the hall, looking like a thundercloud, or a tragedy queen, or something! she wouldn't look at us. rosalind had just been in to tell us about your finding her essay, she had been mourning as lost. it ought to be a fine one, to cause so much excitement. so when i saw marcia leaving the room in such offended dignity, i just came to get you to come and tell kathy and me all about it before we burst with curiosity. you can't deny there's something, when i find you swallowing tears--" the tears overflowed at the mention of them. "oh, joan, i didn't mean to say anything about it, but since rosalind has told you--mind, i'm not accusing marcia, though she said--she asked if i meant to hint--" alison choked again. "nonsense," said joan, briskly. "nobody would think it, unless she had a guilty conscience. i dare say she has. wait till i call kathy--or no, you come into our room, and tell us all about it." an interested audience was assembled in the room across the hall, for rosalind had not been reticent, and evelyn, polly and rachel were all there to hear what was to be heard. so alison was obliged to tell the facts of the finding of the essay in her book after it had been borrowed by marcia. "truly, i did not mean to even imply that she was to blame in any way," she ended, almost apologetically, "but she seemed to think i was. i would never have spoken of it at all, if rosalind had not told you while she was searching for her essay. nobody was more surprised than i was when i found it. and even now i don't--i can't understand what it all means." "i can," said joan, addressing the company at large. "it means that marcia is trying to put on alison the onus of a thing she did herself, and couldn't quite succeed." "oh, but i _couldn't_ think that of her," alison cried, distressed. "my dear alison, the trouble is that you think everybody is as honest as yourself. people like that usually do get taken in." "well, we can't do anything about it now, and we had better not talk about it any more," pronounced katherine. "let's forget it. talk about something else. for instance--has anyone seen my ring? i've lost it again." "not that lovely pearl ring of yours, kathy?" "yes. i've missed it for a week, but i kept thinking it would turn up. i generally remember to take it off when i wash my hands, but i can't remember--i wash my hands so often--" "kathy, you really are too careless--" "oh, the girls all recognize it and give it back to me when they find it; but they always find it in less than a week." "there are the maids," suggested polly. "oh, but i don't believe one of them would take anything." "there you go again, alison, with your 'everybody's honest.' i tell you everybody is not. there's a ghost or something in this school," insisted the incorrigible joan. "rachel lost her gold pencil a fortnight ago. ever find it, ray?" "no. but i do leave my things about. it may have slipped out of sight somewhere." "so it may. let me know when it returns of its own accord. this thing reminds me of the title of a little french book i read once: _les petits mysteres de la vie humaine_. if i've made mistakes, mademoiselle is not here to correct me, and the rest of you couldn't. anyway, it means 'the little mysteries of human life,'" said joan, looking defiantly about her. "well, i don't like mysteries," remarked evelyn. "what we need is a clean-up day, to find all these missing valuables, and clear up all the mysteries." the supper bell broke up the conclave. chapter vi mysteries the essays were handed in the next day, and after two days of what the girls termed "agonizing suspense," miss burnett announced to her class that the judges had made their decision. the best was katherine's. no one had expected anything else, and there was heartfelt applause with no jealousy, as she received the prize, a handsome set of books. alison's received second place, to her own surprise, for she was modest as to her own acquirements. the rest were of about the same degree of excellence--laborious efforts, showing no originality of thought or discrimination. still, they had tried, and miss burnett expressed in a few pleasant words her appreciation of their endeavors, as she returned their papers. finally, there were but two papers left on the desk. miss burnett took up one and glanced at the title. "this one, _the river of time_," she said, "has at least the merit of brevity. in the space of about seven hundred words the author has reviewed the history of english literature from its source to the present time--" "oh, that is mine, miss burnett," exclaimed rosalind, starting. "please don't read it. i know it's awful." she smiled frankly and beguilingly into the teacher's eyes. "it's the best i could do." miss burnett could not help returning the smile with the essay. "is it really the best you could do, rosalind?" "it is, truly, miss burnett. i could hardly do that." "then, rosalind, all i can say is that it is a pity. but at least you really tried, and perhaps next time you will try harder and do better." she took up the last paper on the desk. "i have kept this one for the last because i wanted to talk with you a little about it, marcia. i should like you to remain a few minutes after the class is dismissed." marcia said nothing. one after another the girls filed out, until she and the teacher were alone together. then miss burnett unfolded the paper and turned to the girl before her. "this essay is signed with your name, marcia, in the sealed envelope that was kept in my desk until the judges' decision had been reached. no one knew who had written it. no one knows now, except myself. i have not even mentioned the title, _the river road_, until i had talked with you alone. did you talk with anyone else about your essay? you know i wished them to be entirely original." "no, miss burnett, i never said a word to anybody about it," said marcia, quite truthfully. miss burnett looked grave and troubled. "then it is very peculiar, marcia, that your essay has nearly the same title as rosalind's, and says the same thing, only in different words. how could that be, unless you talked over your essays together?" "but we did not, truly, miss burnett. it just happened so." marcia looked the teacher straight in the face, as if defying her to find a flaw in her statement. "rosalind lost her book, and borrowed mine. then she went out to play basketball without returning it. i had to borrow alison's book to study for mine. she said she found the essay in it when she opened it to study. that is all i can tell you." if there were any guile in this speech, miss burnett was too transparently honest herself to find it out. she looked troubled. "well, marcia, it is very strange, but i must take your word for it. that is all, then." thanksgiving had come and gone, and the girls were settled down for the uneventful stretch that comes between thanksgiving and christmas. the seven friends were gathered in alison's room, one raw, cold "novemberish" afternoon for one of their old-time talks. marcia had gone out shopping with rosalind, for whom she seemed to have developed a sudden great friendship, and the girls had availed themselves of the opportunity to meet in their favorite gathering place without the embarrassment of her presence. polly had a question to propound. "why don't we like marcia?" "well?" said evelyn, when the silence had lasted for several minutes while each waited for the others to speak. "alison ought to be able to answer that question," said kathy. alison was slow to speak. "i don't know," she said at last. "she is in all our classes; she is pretty; she obeys all the college regulations. she seems all right; but--well, she is my roommate, i don't like talking of her behind her back." "well, i don't mind a bit," said joan the outspoken. "i can tell you what's wrong with her. she doesn't like us. she hates school. she calls it a jail. she hates lessons. she hates miss harland. i heard her say so once, when miss harland said no to something she wanted to do. i don't see why she came to briarwood at all." "neither does she," put in evelyn. "her father sent her, that was why." "well, i don't like her, and i wish she roomed in another hall," said joan; and no one gainsaid her, for there was no denying that marcia took no pains to make herself popular. polly changed the subject abruptly. "kathy, did you ever find your ring?" she asked. katherine looked startled. "no. and i've lost something else--my great-grandmother's pearl necklace. mother said i shouldn't take it to school with me, but i was sure i would be careful with it. and i was, girls, i really was. it stayed always in the bottom of my trunk, in its velvet case. i don't believe any of you ever knew about it. i haven't even taken it out since i left home. but yesterday i thought i would make sure that it was safe under everything in the trunk. and i looked, and it was not there. i cannot understand it, but it is true. mother was right, as usual. i don't know how i am ever to tell her." there was a dead silence--the silence of dismay. what was this that was among them? joan broke it, saying briefly, "ghost. rosalind's essay. kathy's ring. rachel's gold pencil. now, kathy's necklace. look out for your lamp, alison!" "oh, nonsense," alison said laughing nervously. "you _can't_ suspect--oh, i don't like being suspicious." "all right. i only say, look out." chapter vii without leave "want to go to a party, rosalind?" it was a dull, uninteresting-looking day in early december. snow was threatening and out-of-doors looked anything but attractive. rosalind was toiling over a history lesson and wishing that all the kings and queens of france had been guillotined before they made trouble for future generations of schoolgirls, instead of afterward, when a tap at the door heralded marcia and her exciting question. rosalind dropped her book, casting louis xiv to the winds. "of course i do. where? and when? and how? tell me quick." marcia shut the door carefully. "any chance of your roommate coming in?" "no, she's gone home for the week-end. no one will disturb us. i'm supposed to be studying. didn't you see the sign?" "yes, but i knew you weren't hurting yourself with study. now listen. i am invited to a party at sara marshall's tonight, and i can bring a friend with me. her brother will meet us at the corner with a car, at nine o'clock. i thought of you. will you go?" "i'd love to. have you asked miss harland? will she let us?" "rosalind, you _are_ green. what miss harland doesn't know won't hurt her. i haven't asked her, and i don't intend to. if you would be afraid to go without leave, i'll ask alison--but she's such a stickler for rules, i didn't think she would. and this is such a good chance, with your roommate away, and all. we can dress in here after supper, and i'll spend the night with you, if anybody asks. as soon as lights are out, we'll slip down to the basement. there'll be a window unlatched. ann will do anything for me. see how easy it will be." it did strike rosalind that the plan was too clearly arranged to have been settled on such short notice. she said doubtfully, "but when did you see sara marshall?" "oh, she sent me a note yesterday. i've been thinking of it ever since, and planning it out." but marcia did not explain that she had seen sara marshall the day before, and that all the arrangements had been carefully canvassed before a word was to be said to rosalind. the note had been merely to say that all was as they had planned, and that her brother and a friend would be waiting at the corner for them. to rosalind it seemed an impromptu plan for a little fun, and her pleasure-loving little head was quite turned at the prospect. "the only trouble is," marcia was off on a fresh tack, "i haven't a thing that is decent to wear. i spoiled my old blue the last time i wore it. it was dreadfully unbecoming, anyway. i don't believe i can go, after all." "i'll lend you my pink," offered rosalind, dismayed at the thought of disappointment. "i have a new white dress mother just sent me. please wear my pink. it would be so becoming to you." marcia knew it would be, and after a proper amount of hesitation and protest, she yielded, and the die was cast. the afternoon was an exciting one, and after supper they retired to rosalind's room, ostensibly to study together. marcia had asked and obtained permission to spend the night with rosalind, and with the door securely shut and fastened, the business of dressing was before them. all went as they had planned. at nine o'clock they cautiously opened the door. all was dark and still in the corridor, and they crept noiselessly downstairs to the basement, where the window had been unlatched for them by one of the maids, bribed by marcia. they climbed out, ran swiftly across the lawn, in terror lest someone might be looking from an upper window. but there was no sound or movement from the sleeping rooms. they climbed over the low place in the wall and found themselves out in the quiet street. no one was in sight, and they scurried along, only intent on getting out of sight of those dark windows. at the corner two dark figures confronted them, and rosalind barely suppressed a scream. but it was only tom marshall, who greeted them cordially. "hello, girls, here you are. this is ray gordon. we've got a car here. hop in, it's cold out here. glad to see you have warm coats." the coats had been put on chiefly to cover their evening dresses, but they were shivering with cold and excitement, and were glad to find themselves in the warm car. they were soon in mrs. marshall's bright parlors, where a merry crowd was gathered, and were pleasantly welcomed by mrs. marshall herself, and by sara, who introduced them to her friends, some of whom were known to marcia, but not to rosalind. "miss harland did not object to your coming, dear?" mrs. marshall asked. "i was sure she would not, she and i are old friends--" "oh, no, she did not object in the least," said marcia quickly, forestalling the words she saw on rosalind's lips, and replying, as she argued to herself, quite truthfully, since miss harland had _not_ objected, not having been consulted. the evening went on. marcia was very bright and animated. the pink dress was becoming to her. her cheeks glowed with bright color. a pearl necklace clasped her throat, and on one finger gleamed a ring--a beautiful pearl ring which she certainly had not worn when they left the school. rosalind wondered. could she have had the jewels in her hand-bag, and put them on in the comparative darkness of the car? that must have been it, she decided. but she felt uncomfortable, and could not throw herself into the spirit of whole-souled enjoyment as the others did. she was glad when the time came for breaking up, and their two escorts took them back through the quiet streets. "here we are," said tom marshall, drawing up at the corner. "we'll see you safe to the gate--" "oh, no, thank you. it is only a step, and we have to climb the wall. thank you, and goodnight," protested marcia, her teeth chattering with cold and nervousness. not daring to speak aloud, the girls sped along, keeping close to the wall until they reached the low place where they could climb over without risking the opening of the gate. the basement window was still unlatched. carefully they scrambled through, and finally stood on the floor--"safe, and nobody saw us," exulted marcia in a whisper. and then, without warning the light flashed on, and the culprits stood revealed to the accusing eyes of miss charlton, the teacher on their hall. for a long minute they faced each other, the girls too dismayed and startled to speak a word in their own behalf. at length miss charlton said slowly and very distinctly, "i thought so. marcia west and rosalind forrest, i shall report you absent without leave. you will both go to miss harland's office after chapel tomorrow morning. she will deal with you as she thinks best. go to your rooms now. goodnight!" thankful to be thus summarily dismissed, the girls scurried noiselessly up two long flights of stairs and reached rosalind's room without meeting anyone. every door was shut, the occupants of the rooms sleeping safely and sweetly. how passionately rosalind envied them. if she were only safe in her own bed now, with no sense of wrongdoing to hound her, no punishment awaiting her. "it's all your fault, marcia," she sobbed, tearing her white dress in her hurry to get it off. "i wish i had never listened to you--" "my fault! well, i like that. you were very willing to listen at the time, it seems to me," returned marcia crossly, pulling at the clasp of the pearl necklace so roughly in her irritation that it snapped, and the beautiful thing lay broken in her hand. "there! see what you made me do," she added angrily. "i didn't," contradicted rosalind, too exasperated to sympathize; and presently she was in bed, with the covers pulled over her head. frightened and ashamed, she remembered that she had not said her prayers. she tried to say them in bed, but the first words of contrition brought tears, and she cried herself to sleep. as for marcia, she lay long awake, wondering what she should do with the broken necklace she had "borrowed," in anticipation of this very party. finally she rose softly, and without turning on the light, found a small box in the dresser drawer, placed the broken necklace in it, and opening the door noiselessly, slipped past the line of trunks in the hall until she came to the one she wanted. she placed her little tissue-paper-wrapped parcel behind it, and returned as noiselessly to rosalind's room, and slipped into bed beside her.... daylight was brightening the windows before she fell into a troubled doze. chapter viii in miss harland's office two very frightened girls presented themselves at the door of miss harland's office the next morning. they showed their feeling very differently. rosalind was trembling and weeping, the picture of grief; but marcia's dark face was settled into an expression of sullen determination not to speak. it might have been carved out of stone as she stood with her lowering brow, and sombre dark eyes fixed on the floor. miss harland looked at them very gravely and sadly. marcia's eyes were raised presently with a defiant and stubborn expression that was unpromising. rosalind did not look up at all. she was frankly crying. at last miss harland spoke. "i am sorry to have to send for you, girls, but miss charlton has reported that you were both absent without leave last night until a later hour than i like my girls to be out--especially without permission. i must ask you, therefore, to give me a full account of your expedition--where you went, and with whom. i am sorry you had not confidence enough in me to tell me about it, and to ask my leave; but since you have not done so, i must require an explanation, marcia, you may speak." but marcia remained stubbornly silent, only looking up from under her dark brows with her sullen, defiant expression. after waiting a few minutes, miss harland turned to rosalind. "you will not refuse to answer me, rosalind? i think you have not found me a hard mistress in the past, have you?" rosalind could scarcely speak for tears. "oh, no, miss harland. i'll tell you--what i can--" "thank you. then tell me at whose house you were, and what took you there?" "it was a party. they invited marcia, and said she could bring a friend." "and did she suggest that you come without permission?" "oh, no. miss harland. she--she said she was glad you did not object--" here marcia gave a warning glance in rosalind's direction, which was not lost on miss harland. "there was no harm in it," she muttered. "then, marcia, if there was no harm, why not have come and told me, and had my leave to go openly?" "i thought you wouldn't let us," in a hoarse, defiant voice. miss harland was silent an instant. how could she make this girl, with her innately deceitful and secretive nature, understand where the wrong lay? "and who escorted you there, and brought you back?" she asked. rosalind answered, as marcia seemed determined not to speak again. "mrs. marshall's son and another boy; i don't know his name. at least, they told us, but i can't remember." miss harland felt relieved. rosalind's replies bore the stamp of truth. in fact, as miss harland knew, she was too simple and straightforward to be other than truthful. her mind did not work fast enough to concoct a falsehood; she was silly and easily led, but when it came to the point, she would blunder out the truth. marcia, on the other hand, was extremely secretive, and would rather weave a tangled web of evasions than give a clear and truthful answer. miss harland felt that there was some confusion somewhere. mrs. marshall was a good friend of her. she could be sure that she would not have countenanced any underhand dealing. why, then, did marcia wish to conceal the fact of the invitation? she was puzzled, but relieved that the affair was no worse than a schoolgirl's natural love of a secret adventure. but it would not do to pass it over lightly. "and so you thought to deceive me, and slipped out without my permission. don't you see, marcia, that _there_ is where the harm lies? i must not pass over such an infringement of the school regulations, and so i must punish you both. you will be restricted for one month, or until after christmas. and the next time you wish to go out, come to me frankly and ask permission. if possible, i will grant it; and if i do not see fit, i shall expect you to submit cheerfully to my decision in the matter. now you may go to your classes." marcia left the room without a word, looking like a thunder cloud. rosalind lingered, sobbing, to speak the words of contrition for which miss harland had been waiting. "please forgive me, miss harland. i'm sorry--so sorry, truly. i'll never do it again. it wasn't a bit of fun, anyway, for i didn't like going without leave, and i was scared all the time that somebody would recognize us. i don't like doing things in that underhand way; it frightens me. i knew all the time it was wrong, but i let marcia persuade me. it was my own fault, and i'm sorry. forgive me." the pretty face was very pleading as rosalind looked up with blue eyes drowned in tears. miss harland's kiss of forgiveness was ready, as she put her arm around the repentant sinner and drew her close into her kind arms. "i forgive you, rosalind, but there is another whose pardon you must ask," she said tenderly. "you mean god. i will, indeed, miss harland. i have already, and i will again," promised rosalind. chapter ix adventure of the lamp late one afternoon, a few days later, five of the kindred spirits gathered in kathy's room to talk things over, for the excitement over the recent happenings in the school still ran high. evelyn, polly and joan sat on the bed, rachel in the window seat, and kathy on a low velvet stool, known as the "stool of repentance." a light snow was falling outside, making a pleasant contrast with the warmth and comfort within. the girls were all talking at once, yet, mysteriously, each hearing what all the others said. in the midst of the babel the door was pushed quietly open, and rosalind slipped in, looking ashamed and sorry and confused all at once; doubtful of her welcome, yet anxious to be back in her old place among them. "may i come? i knocked, but you were all talking so hard, you didn't hear me." "of course you may. here, sit down beside me on the 'stool of repentance,'" said kathy, making room for her. "it's the right place for me, i know," said rosalind meekly. "i've been horrid lately, girls, but i'm one of the 'k. s.' still, unless you've turned me out." "we haven't. you deserted us," said polly the blunt. "but we are glad to see you back, rosy," she added, frankly. "i'm dreadfully glad to be back, if you've all forgiven me. i've missed you terribly. i don't exactly know how it happened. but i'm sorry. what were you all talking about when i came in?" asked rosalind, as completely one of the group as if she had never left it. "why, of these odd things that have been happening lately," explained joan. "you know, the disappearance of kathy's ring and necklace, and----" "but i found the necklace this morning," interrupted kathy. "i meant to tell you, but you haven't given me a chance." "why, kathy!" "where?" "how?" a chorus arose. "when i moved my trunk out from the wall to sweep behind it," explained kathy, "i found a little parcel wrapped in tissue paper. i opened it, thinking i might have dropped something there, and inside was my necklace, all crushed together into a ball, and the clasp broken. if anyone knows anything about it, explanations will be in order." the girls, silent in sheer amaze, looked at each other and then at rosalind, who gazed blankly at them in return. "i didn't put it there, girls, indeed. i don't know in the least how it got there--" "but do you know anything about it?" asked kathy. "no, i don't. it looks like the one marcia wore the night of that party, but i thought it was hers, and it may have been." "she said nothing about it to you?" "not a word. please believe me, girls." "of course we believe _you_," said joan, with an emphasis on the last word. "well, at any rate, the necklace is found, and i am very glad. i will have it mended, and take better care of it," said kathy gravely. "i haven't found my ring yet, nor has rachel's pencil case been discovered." "that is what i came about," said rosalind, gathering courage. she opened the handkerchief which she had held crumpled in her hand, and showed the two missing articles under discussion, a locket and chain and one or two other small articles. "i found them in my dresser drawer just now, in a little box. honestly, i don't know anything about them, or how they got there." "how did it happen that you didn't find them before?" asked rachel, reclaiming her property. "i haven't cleared out my drawer lately, and the box was at the back, under a pile of handkerchiefs and things. the drawer was in an awful mess, and i was hunting for a collar," confessed rosalind with a shame-faced grin, for her untidiness was a proverb. "i brought it to you as soon as i found it," she added, and there was truth in her face and voice. the girls believed her. "but what does it mean?" asked joan. "don't cry, rosy, we know you didn't take them. you are silly enough sometimes, but you wouldn't steal." the others assented readily. they all knew that, while rosalind might be led away for a time by folly and vanity, yet her nature was true and sound, and she had a conscience. she knew quite well that she had been led astray by her love of pleasure, and her penitence was sincere. "i can't understand it a bit," she began, when the door was opened again--abruptly, and alison appeared--a pale and dismayed alison with wide frightened eyes. "girls--have you hidden it on purpose, just to frighten me? please don't tease me, but tell me it is just a joke. i know you only meant to frighten me!" "why, alison, what can you mean? we haven't done a thing," said kathy, speaking for them all. alison flung herself across the bed, already sufficiently occupied by three substantial girls. joan caught her and pulled her into her lap. "here," she said, shaking alison roughly by the shoulder. "no hysterics, or i'll slap you. just tell us what is the matter." thus importuned, alison checked her sobs and raised a tragic face. "my lamp! i'll never see it again!" "nonsense. how could you never see it again? tell us. is it broken?" "it's gone!" "gone! not your beautiful aladdin lamp, alison? why, it _couldn't_ be lost. what do you mean?" alison pulled herself together and tried to speak collectedly. "i've been down in the library all the afternoon, taking notes for my english; i came up to my room a few minutes ago, and as i looked round i missed the lamp. you all know where it always stands, on my table. well, it wasn't there. and i thought--i hoped--that some of you might have hidden it for a joke. if you didn't, then i don't know what to think." "what a ridiculous idea," said polly indignantly. "a fine joke it would be. what do you take us for?" "i couldn't think what else could have become of it," said alison, beginning to cry again. joan began to comfort her, but kathy checked the words on her lips. "listen, alison. who was in your room while you were gone?" "only marcia. i left her studying algebra." "and where is she now?" "i don't know. she was gone when i came up." "and your lamp with her," added joan. "i have an idea. wait a minute, all of you." she ran across the hall to alison's room, returning promptly. "come, all of you, and see." the girls followed her, and stood puzzled in the doorway. "where are marcia's things?" demanded joan. a glance around the room showed it empty of all that had belonged to marcia. the girls looked at each other. kathy was the first to speak. "we must find marcia, girls--if she is to be found--and ask her if the lamp was in the room when she left it." a hasty but thorough search established the certainty that marcia was not in any of the buildings. neither, apparently, was the lamp. it was almost supper time when the girls came together again to report failure. "what do you think?" alison asked. joan, as usual, was the spokeswoman. "it looks to me as if she wanted to go away, and has taken the lamp to sell it in order to get the money for her ticket. she could not sell jewelry, of course, but a handsome lamp might bring a good price. she has looked even more forbidding than usual the last few days, and i know she hated school. she put back the other things she 'borrowed,' and tried to throw the blame on rosalind by hiding them in her drawer. she knew rosy was in kathy's room with us, and she had a clear field. so she carried out her plans, and ran away." "well," said kathy after a pause. "if joan is right, we ought to report marcia's disappearance at once. if she has really run away from school, miss harland will have to know it." chapter x discoveries the whole school was thrown into a ferment of excitement over the discovery of marcia's disappearance. no one exactly told anyone, but the news flew from lip to lip with the speed of that little bird so famous for its gossiping tendency. the school buildings were searched again, with no result. no one had seen marcia go out; yet she was certainly not in the school. miss harland telephoned to all her friends in the town with whom marcia might be supposed to be staying, but no one had seen her or heard from her. in great distress miss harland called up marcia's father, mr. west, who was staying in a hotel in a nearby town, and asked him if his daughter was with him, and to her intense relief, received a quick and reassuring reply. yes, his little girl had just arrived by the late train. she was so homesick for her daddy, she could not stay away from him any longer, she told him. could she speak to marcia herself, miss harland asked. there was a brief colloquy at the other end of the line, and then mr. west spoke courteously. marcia had just gone to bed with a bad cold, and could not talk that night. tomorrow he would talk with her. and with a pleasant "goodnight," he hung up. relieved from her fears for marcia's safety, miss harland gladly relinquished the search for the night, and the girls were forced to restrain their excitement and go to bed. the next morning mr. west came in person to talk with miss harland. marcia was still in bed, and too hoarse to talk, so she had asked her father to explain to miss harland why she had left school without a word to her. she could not bear to be away from him, and hearing that he was about to leave for chicago to accept a position there, had hurried to join him, and being in haste to catch the afternoon train, had not had time to take leave of her friends and teachers. it was foolish, he said indulgently, but he had spoiled his little girl, and could not be hard on her. miss harland asked him quietly whether marcia had said anything of having borrowed something of one of the girls. but mr. west shook his head. he would ask her, and let miss harland know; and politely bowed himself out. later, he telephoned to say that he had talked to marcia, and she had declared she had borrowed nothing of her friends. she and her father were going to start for chicago the same night, and she would have no opportunity to say goodbye to the girls and miss harland. her cold was better, and she sent her love, and wished them all a merry christmas. miss harland returned a similar wish, and smiled as she hung up. she was glad marcia was safe with her father, and was not sorry to have seen the last of her. so marcia left briarwood, and with her departed something that had spoiled the spirit of concord and happiness which usually prevailed in the school. the girls were happy and at peace again. joan returned to her old place as alison's roommate, and their room became as before marcia's coming, the rendezvous of the "kindred spirits." all would have been well with alison, but for the grief for the loss of her lamp. no trace of it had been found. there was no certainty that marcia had had anything to do with its vanishing, but joan, always practical and logical, maintained that since marcia and the lamp had been alone together the whole afternoon, and since the lamp, having no feet, could not have left the room by itself, it was plain that marcia must have assisted its departure. alison said nothing, but she grieved deeply, with no hope of ever seeing her treasure again. the christmas holidays were drawing near. the girls were busy with plans for the two weeks' vacation, looking forward eagerly to going home, and the teachers were equally anxious for the coming of the last day of school. alison felt as if she could scarcely wait. her gifts for the family were bought--the book she knew her father had long wanted but had not felt he could afford to buy for himself; the new dress for her mother, who would never get it for herself; the roller skates for billy, the pretty scarf for floss, the doll for little mat, who had not yet outgrown them. she hovered over them lovingly, fondling each package as she wrapped and tied them with a lavish expenditure of tissue paper and ribbon. how she blessed the memory of aunt justina, whose generosity had made her gifts possible! "i _can't_ wait," she said, and laughed at herself for her impatience. the only flaw in her happiness was the prospect of having to confess at home that she had lost her "aladdin lamp." two days before the rd, joan, looking over her lists, made a discovery. "alison, i'll have to have some more cards. i forgot a whole bunch of cousins out in texas, who will be sure to send to me. i must run down and get some more before they are all gone. come with me. it's snowing a little, but not too much." "all right. run and get permission while i put on my hat and coat." in a few moments joan came back with the required permission, and the two girls set out, running down the steps of the terrace and out into the snowy street. the snow was coming down more briskly, but they only laughed and enjoyed the frolic as they ran down the steep hillside and reached the level street on which the stores were. the "ten-cent store," the shoppers' delight, was packed with late shoppers like themselves. joan struggled through the dense crowd at the counter, pushed and jostled by the good-natured crowd, while alison waited, amused and interested. it was a lengthy ordeal, but at last joan had found all she wanted and was ready to go. it was nearly dark by this time, and the snow was thicker, swirling about so as almost to blind them. "we must run, or we shall be late for supper," joan said, and they made what speed they could. suddenly alison stopped short before the well-lighted window of a little jewelry and antique shop. "look, joan!" "what are you looking at? do let's hurry," urged joan. but alison stood still. "do you see? there, in mr. delany's window. is that my lamp, or isn't it?" interested now, joan stopped. "it is yours, or its twin," she decided. "i didn't think there was but one." "i believe it _is_ mine. i'm going in to ask about it," said alison, and turned into the warm bright little shop, followed by joan. the proprietor was a friendly little frenchman, well known to the girls, who frequently purchased their gifts there. he came forward, bowing and rubbing his hands. "you want something for christmas, is it not? i haf many pretty things," he offered. "i came to ask about that lamp in the window, mr. delany," alison said, too eager to beat about the bush. "it is exactly like one i lost. will you tell me where you got it?" "that?" the old man looked disconcerted. "it was not meant to be in the window at all; but my assistant, he has not much sense. it is not for sale, mademoiselle." "but how did you get it?" alison persisted, and seeing her earnestness he looked puzzled. "it was sold to me, mademoiselle, by a young lady, i think from your school. i haf seen her pass with the other young demoiselles. she asked me not to sell it again. she needed money, and if i would buy it from her, she would come back and redeem it later. her father was ill, very ill, and she had no money to go to him. she was coming back to get it later. so i lent her the money on it--but i haf not seen her yet." the girls looked at each other. so, alison's generous heart said, perhaps marcia _did_ mean only to borrow the lamp. perhaps she really meant to return it; but in the mean time, what if it should be sold by mistake, or even stolen before that time came? should she risk leaving it in mr. delany's shop, even overnight? "mr. delany," she said, "i know all you say is true. i know the young lady who sold you the lamp, or borrowed money on it. she was my roommate at school, and she has gone to her father, as she said. that part is true. but i want my lamp back at once, to take home for christmas. can i get it from you now?" mr. delany looked puzzled and doubtful. "i promised the young demoiselle--" he began. "if she were here, she would give it back to me. if miss harland comes to you herself and explains about it, will you let me have it?" alison asked persuasively. "i will pay you, of course, just what you advanced to the young lady." "but certainly, if mademoiselle harland herself assures me that it is all right," agreed mr. delany affably. "then please put it away for a little while until she comes," begged alison. they flew home to report the discovery and the difficulty to miss harland, and late though it was, she went with them at once to the little frenchman's shop. mr. delany was so impressed by her quiet dignity and authority that he readily parted with the lamp for the sum he had paid to marcia for it, considering that he had come out very well on the transaction at that. and in triumph alison carried her treasure home, feeling that her christmas was assured. chapter xi class prophecy christmas came, with all its anticipated joys, and went all too swiftly into the past, leaving behind it a precious store of happy memories. the new year found the girls of briarwood back at school, fresh from their holiday and ready for the hardest work of the year. the days were well filled with study and play. new friendships were formed and old ones strengthened, and a spirit of happiness and of honest comradeship prevailed in the school as the girls worked together. marcia was gone, and no one regretted her absence. she never returned to redeem the lamp or, as miss harland had half hoped she would, to offer an apology and explanation of why she had "borrowed" alison's lamp, and the other pieces of property belonging to others, which she had appropriated without leave, and returned in so cavalier a fashion. they heard of her now and then in the course of the next few years--sometimes in the lists of schools in the different cities to which her father's business took him; later, she appeared occasionally in the society pages of the papers. later still came the announcement of her marriage to a young man well known in society circles; after which she was heard of no more, and the trouble she had caused in the school was forgotten in the other interests that had taken its place. the sophomore, junior and senior years of the "kindred spirits" and their friends were successfully passed, and at length came the day, so long worked for and looked forward to, when, with their school honors won, the members of the senior class were ready to throw off the cap and gown, receive their diplomas and step forth as full-fledged graduates, equipped for life in their various ways, each hoping to fulfill her ambition and to realize the cherished hope that lay nearest her heart. the "kindred spirits" were gathered for the last time in alison's and joan's room, to look over and comment on the new annual, _briarwood bells_. the class history was pronounced fairly good. in their freshman year they had made good in athletics. as sophomores, there had been some drawbacks in the first half of the year, but these had been made up by the work of the latter half. their "verdant days" were past, and they realized the importance of faithful work. with the junior year came new interests and hopes. the principal event in this year, in the girls' memories, was the "junior-senior banquet," the end and aim of existence for the time being. and now, with the close of the senior year the class had won its laurels, concluded the historian; and one sensed the long breath of relief with which she finished her task. "pretty good, on the whole," joan pronounced. "nothing brilliant, but i think miss harland will consider that we have upheld the honor of briarwood." kathy turned the pages, and then suddenly closed the book. "girls, i have an idea. before we read the class prophecy, let us each tell our plans and ambitions for the future, and see how they tally with what helen has foretold for us--" "and let us meet here in this very room, ten years from now, and see how many of her prophecies have come true." that was joan's suggestion. "all right," assented kathy. "who will begin?" "you. you started this thing," said rachel. "very well. i expect to teach for a few years, and then to be a trained nurse. now you, alison." "i want to do a lot of things, but most of all, i want to come back here and teach at briarwood," said alison earnestly. "good! then you'll be here to welcome us when we meet in ten years," joan applauded. "as for me, i'm going to fly.... you will hear of me some day as the famous woman aviator." "i'm going to travel to the ends of the earth," was polly's contribution. "perhaps i'll fly with polly." it was rachel's turn. "i'm not so ambitious as polly and jo. mine is to be the best teacher of domestic science that i know how to be. i specialized in that, you know." "fine! mine is to teach music and play at big concerts," said evelyn. "now, rosalind, how are you going to distinguish yourself?" rosalind smiled and blushed all over her pretty flower-like face. "why--i hadn't quite made up my mind. i guess i'll just have a good time for a while, and then be--a lawyer." there was a shout of laughter. kathy had been writing, and now read her notes: "a teacher at briarwood; a flyer; a great traveler; a domestic science teacher; a musician; a lawyer; and a trained nurse. most of the professions seemed to be represented. briarwood will have cause to be proud of us. now let us see what the class prophet has to say of us." she turned the pages to one headed class prophecy and began to read. the "prophecy" purported to be items from newspapers of the future, and some of the extracts are of interest to our readers. the first ran thus: "misses polly worthington and evelyn kingsley have recently opened their music studio. miss worthington will give instruction in voice and miss kingsley in piano. both young ladies distinguished themselves in these branches at college." * * * * * "the public will be glad to hear that the best equipped hospital in the south will shortly be opened, with miss alison fair as head nurse." * * * * * "after finishing her course in math. at the university of ---- in which she did brilliantly, miss rachel cameron has accepted a position as math. teacher at her alma mater." * * * * * "the best seller of the month is a novel by miss katherine bertram, who is winning for herself an enviable name as a writer. her former classmates will read her work with interest and pleasure." * * * * * "a recent item in a missionary magazine tells us that miss joan wentworth has decided to devote her life and talents to the missionfield. she will sail this week for china." * * * * * "miss rosalind forrest, the fairest ornament of her class in college, is deeply interested in social service work, and is doing valuable work along this line." "helen may, historian." kathy looked up. "so there is our future, girls, as our historian has foretold it. we never know. perhaps some of us may follow the paths she has pointed out. but in any case we can only do our very best in whatever place in life we may find ourselves, content and humbly glad if we merit the lord's commendation, 'well done, good and faithful servant--'" there was a pause as kathy stopped speaking. she had not meant to preach, but the words had come to her instinctively, and they touched a responsive chord in their hearts. the young faces were serious as thoughts deeper than their merry surface banter made themselves felt. a sweet-toned bell called them to supper. the spring evening was falling, soft and dewy, over the gray old walls and terraces of briarwood. tomorrow they would separate, never to meet again as care-free schoolgirls; and the shadow of the parting lay on their faces and hearts as they rose to go down. it was joan who cheerfully said, "to meet again--this day ten years!" twice bought, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. "`honesty is the best policy,' tom, you may depend on it," said a youth to his companion, one afternoon, as they walked along the margin of one of those brawling rivulets which, born amid the snows of the rocky mountain peaks, run a wild and plunging course of many miles before finding comparative rest in the celebrated goldfields of oregon. "i don't agree with you, fred," said tom, sternly; "and i don't believe in the proverb you have quoted. the world's maxims are not all gospel." "you are right, tom; many of them are false; nevertheless, some are founded on gospel truth." "it matters not," returned tom, angrily. "i have made up my mind to get back from that big thief gashford what he has stolen from me, for it is certain that he cheated at play, though i could not prove it at the time. it is impossible to get it back by fair means, and i hold it quite allowable to steal from a thief, especially when that which you take is your own." fred westly shook his head, but did not reply. many a time had he reasoned with his friend, tom brixton, about the sin of gambling, and urged him to be content with the result of each day's digging for gold, but his words had no effect. young brixton had resolved to make a fortune rapidly. he laboured each day with pick and shovel with the energy of a hero and the dogged perseverance of a navvy, and each night he went to lantry's store to increase his gains by gambling. as a matter of course his "luck," as he called it, varied. sometimes he returned to the tent which he shared with his friend westly, depressed, out of humour, and empty-handed. at other times he made his appearance flushed with success--occasionally, also, with drink,--and flung down a heavy bag of golden nuggets as the result of his evening's play. ultimately, when under the influence of drink, he staked all that he had in the world, except his clothes and tools, to a man named gashford, who was noted for his size, strength of body, and utter disregard of god and man. as brixton said, gashford had cheated him at play, and this had rendered the ruined man unusually savage. the sun was down when the two friends entered their tent and began to pull off their muddy boots, while a little man in a blue flannel shirt and a brown wide-awake busied himself in the preparation of supper. "what have you got for us to-night, paddy?" asked westly. "salt pork it is," said the little man, looking up with a most expressive grin; "the best o' victuals when there's nothin' better. bein' in a luxurious frame o' mind when i was up at the store, i bought a few split-pays for seasonin'; but it comes hard on a man to spind his gould on sitch things when his luck's down. you've not done much to-day, i see, by the looks of ye." "right, paddy," said tom brixton, with a harsh laugh; "we've done nothing--absolutely nothing. see, there is my day's work." he pulled three small grains of gold, each about the size of a pea, from his trousers pocket, and flung them contemptuously into a washing-pan at his elbow. "sure, we won't make our fortins fast at that rate," said paddy, or patrick flinders. "this won't help it much," said westly, with a mingled smile and sigh, as he added a small nugget and a little gold-dust to the pile. "ah! then, haven't i forgot the shuggar for the tay; but i've not got far to go for to get it. just kape stirrin' the pot, mister westly, i'll be back in a minit." "tom," said westly, when their comrade had gone out, "don't give way to angry feelings. do try, like a good fellow, to look at things in a philosophical light, since you object to a religious one. rightly or wrongly, gashford has won your gold. well, take heart and dig away. you know i have saved a considerable sum, the half of which is at your service to--" "do you suppose," interrupted the other sharply, "that i will consent to become a beggar?" "no," replied westly, "but there is no reason why you should not consent to accept an offer when it is made to you by an old chum. besides, i offer the money on loan, the only condition being that you won't gamble it away." "fred," returned brixton, impressively, "i _must_ gamble with it if i take it. i can no more give up gambling than i can give up drinking. i'm a doomed man, my boy; doomed to be either a millionaire or a madman!" the glittering eyes and wild expression of the youth while he spoke induced his friend to fear that he was already the latter. "oh! tom, my dear fellow," he said, "god did not doom you. if your doom is fixed, you have yourself fixed it." "now, fred," returned the other impatiently, "don't bore me with your religious notions. religion is all very well in the old country, but it won't work at all here at the diggin's." "my experience has proved the contrary," returned westly, "for religion--or, rather, god--has saved _me_ from drink and gaming." "if it _be_ god who has saved you, why has he not saved me?" demanded brixton. "because that mysterious and incomprehensible power of free will stands in your way. in the exercise of your free will you have rejected god, therefore the responsibility rests with yourself. if you will now call upon him, life will, by his holy spirit, enable you to accept salvation through jesus christ." "no use, fred, no use," said tom, shaking his head. "when you and i left england, three years ago, i might have believed and trusted as you do, but it's too late now--too late i say, so don't worry me with your solemn looks and sermons. my mind's made up, i tell you. with these three paltry little lumps of gold i'll gamble at the store to-night with gashford. i'll double the stake every game. if i win, well--if not, i'll--" he stopped abruptly, because at that moment paddy flinders re-entered with the sugar; possibly, also, because he did not wish to reveal all his intentions. that night there was more noise, drinking, and gambling than usual at lantry's store, several of the miners having returned from a prospecting trip into the mountains with a considerable quantity of gold. loudest among the swearers, deepest among the drinkers, and most reckless among the gamblers was gashford "the bully," as he was styled. he had just challenged any one present to play when brixton entered the room. "we will each stake all that we own on a single chance," he said, looking round. "come, that's fair, ain't it? for you know i've got lots of dust." there was a general laugh, but no one would accept the challenge--which brixton had not heard--though he heard the laugh that followed. many of the diggers, especially the poorer ones, would have gladly taken him up if they had not been afraid of the consequences if successful. "well, boys, i couldn't make a fairer offer--all i possess against all that any other man owns, though it should only be half an ounce of gold," said the bully, tossing off a glass of spirits. "done! i accept your challenge," cried tom brixton, stepping forward. "you!" exclaimed gashford, with a look of contempt; "why, you've got nothing to stake. i cleaned you out yesterday." "i have this to stake," said tom, holding out the three little nuggets of gold which he had found that day. "it is all that i possess, and it is more than half an ounce, which you mentioned as the lowest you'd play for." "well, i'll stick to what i said," growled gashford, "if it _be_ half an ounce. come, lantry, get out your scales." the storekeeper promptly produced the little balance which he used for weighing gold-dust, and the diggers crowded round with much interest to watch, while lantry, with a show of unwonted care, dusted the scales, and put the three nuggets therein. "three-quarters of an ounce," said the storekeeper, when the balance ceased to vibrate. "come along, then, an' let's have another glass of grog for luck," cried gashford, striking his huge fist on the counter. a throw of the dice was to decide the matter. while lantry, who was appointed to make the throw, rattled the dice in the box, the diggers crowded round in eager curiosity, for, besides the unusual disparity between the stakes, there was much probability of a scene of violence as the result, brixton having displayed a good deal of temper when he lost to the bully on the previous day. "lost!" exclaimed several voices in disappointed tones, when the dice fell on the table. "who's lost?" cried those in the rear of the crowd. "tom brixton, to be sure," answered gashford, with a laugh. "he always loses; but it's no great loss this time, and i am not much the richer." there was no response to this sally. every one looked at brixton, expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly contemplating the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his lips. "yes," he said, recovering himself, "luck is indeed against me. but never mind. let's have a drink, lantry; you'll have to give it me on credit this time!" lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer to that extent. he could well afford it, he said; and it was unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant. that night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, tom brixton sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected. the overhanging cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond, through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone of america. it was a scene fitted to solemnise and soften, but it had no such influence on tom brixton, who did not give it even a passing thought though he stood with folded arms and contracted brows, gazing at it long and earnestly. after a time he began to mutter to himself in broken sentences. "fred is mistaken--_must_ be mistaken. there is no law here. law must be taken into one's own hands. it cannot be wrong to rob a robber. it is not robbery to take back one's own. foul means are admissible when fair--yet it _is_ a sneaking thing to do! ha! who said it was sneaking?" (he started and thrust his hands through his hair.) "bah! lantry, your grog is too fiery. it was the grog that spoke, not conscience. pooh! i don't believe in conscience. come, tom, don't be a fool, but go and--mother! what has _she_ got to do with it? lantry's fire-water didn't bring _her_ to my mind. no, it _is_ fred, confound him! he's always suggesting what she would say in circumstances which she has never been in and could not possibly understand. and he worries me on the plea that he promised her to stick by me through evil report and good report. i suppose that means through thick and thin. well, he's a good fellow is fred, but weak. yes, i've made up my mind to do it and i _will_ do it." he turned hastily as he spoke, and was soon lost in the little belt of woodland that lay between the lake and the miner's camp. it pleased gashford to keep his gold in a huge leathern bag, which he hid in a hole in the ground within his tent during the day, and placed under his pillow during the night. it pleased him also to dwell and work alone, partly because he was of an unsociable disposition, and partly to prevent men becoming acquainted with his secrets. there did not seem to be much fear of the big miner's secrets being discovered, for lynch law prevailed in the camp at that time, and it was well known that death was the usual punishment for theft. it was also well known that gashford was a splendid shot with the revolver, as well as a fierce, unscrupulous man. but strong drink revealed that which might have otherwise been safe. when in his cups gashford sometimes became boastful, and gave hints now and then which were easily understood. still his gold was safe, for, apart from the danger of the attempt to rob the bully, it would have been impossible to discover the particular part of his tent-floor in which the hole was dug, and, as to venturing to touch his pillow while his shaggy head rested on it, no one was daring enough to contemplate such an act although there were men there capable of doing almost anything. here again, however, strong drink proved to be the big miner's foe. occasionally, though not often, gashford drank so deeply as to become almost helpless, and, after lying down in his bed, sank into a sleep so profound that it seemed as if he could not have been roused even with violence. he was in this condition on the night in which his victim made up his mind to rob him. despair and brandy had united to render brixton utterly reckless; so much so, that instead of creeping stealthily towards his enemy's tent, an act which would probably have aroused the suspicion of a light sleeper, he walked boldly up, entered it, raised gashford's unconscious head with one hand, pulled out the bag of gold with the other, put it on his shoulder, and coolly marched out of the camp. the audacity of the deed contributed largely to its success. great was the rage and consternation of gashford when he awoke the following morning and found that his treasure had disappeared. jumping at once to the conclusion that it had been stolen by brixton, he ran to that youth's tent and demanded to know where the thief had gone to. "what do you mean by the thief?" asked fred westly, with misgiving at his heart. "i mean your chum, tom brixton," shouted the enraged miner. "how do you know he's a thief?" asked westly. "i didn't come here to be asked questions by you," said gashford. "where has he gone to, i say?" "i don't know." "that's a lie!" roared the miner, clenching his fist in a threatening manner. "poor tom! i wish i did know where you have gone!" said fred, shaking his head sadly as he gazed on the floor, and taking no notice whatever of the threatening action of his visitor. "look here now, westly," said gashford, in a low suppressed voice, shutting the curtain of the tent and drawing a revolver from his pocket, "you know something about this matter, and you know _me_. if you don't tell me all you know and where your chum has bolted to, i'll blow your brains out as sure as there's a god in heaven." "i thought," said westly, quietly, and without the slightest symptom of alarm, "you held the opinion that there is no god and no heaven." "come, young fellow, none o' your religious chaff, but answer my question." "nothing is farther from my thoughts than chaffing you," returned westly, gently, "and if the mere mention of god's name is religion, then you may claim to be one of the most religious men at the diggings, for you are constantly praying him to curse people. i have already answered your question, and can only repeat that i _don't know_ where my friend brixton has gone to. but let me ask, in turn, what has happened to _you_?" there was no resisting the earnest sincerity of fred's look and tone, to say nothing of his cool courage. gashford felt somewhat abashed in spite of himself. "what has happened to me?" he repeated, bitterly. "the worst that could happen has happened. my gold has been stolen, and your chum is the man who has cribbed it. i know that as well as if i had seen him do it. but i'll hunt him down and have it out of him with interest; with interest, mark you--if i should have to go to the ends o' the 'arth to find him." without another word gashford thrust the revolver into his pocket, flung aside the tent curtain, and strode away. meanwhile tom brixton, with the gold in a game-bag slung across his shoulder, was speeding down the valley, or mountain gorge, at the head of which the pine tree diggings lay, with all the vigour and activity of youthful strength, but with none of the exultation that might be supposed to characterise a successful thief. on the contrary, a weight like lead seemed to lie on his heart, and the faces of his mother and his friend, fred westly, seemed to flit before him continually, gazing at him with sorrowful expression. as the fumes of the liquor which he had drunk began to dissipate, the shame and depression of spirit increased, and his strength, great though it was, began to give way. by that time, however, he had placed many a mile between him and the camp where he had committed the robbery. the valley opened into a wide, almost boundless stretch of comparatively level land, covered here and there with forests so dense, that, once concealed in their recesses, it would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible, for white men to trace him, especially men who were so little acquainted with woodcraft as the diggers. besides this, the region was undulating in form, here and there, so that from the tops of many of the eminences, he could see over the whole land, and observe the approach of enemies without being himself seen. feeling, therefore, comparatively safe, he paused in his mad flight, and went down on hands and knees to take a long drink at a bubbling spring. rising, refreshed, with a deep sigh, he slowly mounted to the top of a knoll which was bathed at the time in the first beams of the rising sun. from the spot he obtained a view of intermingled forest, prairie, lake, and river, so resplendent that even _his_ mind was for a moment diverted from its gloomy introspections, and a glance of admiration shot from his eyes and chased the wrinkles from his brow; but the frown quickly returned, and the glorious landscape was forgotten as the thought of his dreadful condition returned with overwhelming power. up to that day tom brixton, with all his faults, had kept within the circle of the world's laws. he had been well trained in boyhood, and, with the approval of his mother, had left england for the oregon goldfields in company with a steady, well-principled friend, who had been a playmate in early childhood and at school. the two friends had experienced during three years the varying fortune of a digger's life; sometimes working for long periods successfully, and gradually increasing their "pile;" at other times toiling day after day for nothing and living on their capital, but on the whole, making what men called a good thing of it until tom took to gambling, which, almost as a matter of course, led to drinking. the process of demoralisation had continued until, as we have seen, the boundary line was at last overstepped, and he had become a thief and an outlaw. at that period and in those diggings judge lynch--in other words, off-hand and speedy "justice" by the community of miners--was the order of the day, and, as stealing had become exasperatingly common, the penalty appointed was death, the judges being, in most cases, the prompt executioners. tom brixton knew well what his fate would be if captured, and this unquestionably filled him with anxiety, but it was not this thought that caused him, as he reclined on the sunny knoll, to spurn the bag of gold with his foot. "trash!" he exclaimed, bitterly, repeating the kick. but the love of gold had taken deep root in the fallen youth's heart. after a brief rest he arose, slung the "trash" over his shoulder, and, descending the knoll, quickly disappeared in the glades of the forests. chapter two. while brixton was hurrying with a guilty conscience deeper and deeper into the dark woods which covered the spur of the mountains in the neighbourhood of pine tree diggings, glancing back nervously from time to time as if he expected the pursuers to be close at his heels, an enemy was advancing to meet him in front, of whom he little dreamed. a brown bear, either enjoying his morning walk or on the look-out for breakfast, suddenly met him face to face, and stood up on its hind legs as if to have a good look at him. tom was no coward; indeed he was gifted with more than an average amount of animal courage. he at once levelled his rifle at the creature's breast and fired. the bear rushed at him, nevertheless, as if uninjured. drawing his revolver, tom discharged two shots before the monster reached him. all three shots had taken effect but bears are noted for tenacity of life, and are frequently able to fight a furious battle after being mortally wounded. the rifle ball had touched its heart, and the revolver bullets had gone deep into its chest, yet it showed little sign of having been hurt. knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he stood to wrestle with a bear, the youth turned to run, but the bear was too quick for him. it struck him on the back and felled him to the earth. strange to say, at that moment tom brixton's ill-gotten gains stood him in good stead. there can be no question that the bear's tremendous claws would have sunk deep into the youth's back, and probably broken his spine, if they had not been arrested by the bag of gold which was slung at his back. although knocked down and slightly stunned, brixton was still unwounded, and, even in the act of falling, had presence of mind to draw his long knife and plunge it up to the haft in the creature's side, at the same time twisting himself violently round so as to fall on his back and thus face the foe. in this position, partly owing to the form of the ground, the bear found it difficult to grasp its opponent in its awful embrace, but it held him with its claws and seized his left shoulder with its teeth. this rendered the use of the revolver impossible, but fortunately brixton's right arm was still free, and he drove the keen knife a second time deep into the animal's sides. whether mortal or not, the wound did not immediately kill. tom felt that his hour was come, and a deadly fear came over him as the thought of death, his recent life, and judgment, flashed through his brain. he drew out the knife, however, to make another desperate thrust. the bear's great throat was close over his face. he thought of its jugular vein, and made a deadly thrust at the spot where he imagined that to run. instantly a flood of warm blood deluged his face and breast; at the same time he felt as if some dreadful weight were pressing him to death. then consciousness forsook him. while this desperate fight was going on, the miners of pine tree camp were scouring the woods in all directions in search of the fugitive. as we have said, great indignation was felt at that time against thieves, because some of them had become very daring, and cases of theft were multiplying. severe penalties had been imposed on the culprits by the rest of the community without curing the evil. at last death was decided on as the penalty for any act of theft, however trifling it might be. that these men were in earnest was proved by the summary execution of the next two offenders who were caught. immediately after that thieving came to an abrupt end, insomuch that if you had left a bag of gold on an exposed place, men would have gone out of their way to avoid it! one can understand, therefore, the indignation that was roused in the camp when tom brixton revived the practice in such a cool and impudent manner. it was felt that, despite his being a favourite with many of the diggers, he must be made an example. pursuit was, therefore, organised on an extensive scale and in a methodical manner. among others, his friend fred westly took part in it. it cost those diggers something thus to give up the exciting work of gold-finding for a chase that promised to occupy time and tax perseverance. some of them even refused to join in it, but on the whole the desire for vengeance seemed general. bully gashford, as he did not object to be called, was, in virtue of his size, energy, and desperate character, tacitly appointed leader. indeed he would have assumed that position if it had not been accorded to him, for he was made of that stuff which produces either heroes of the highest type or scoundrels of the deepest dye. he arranged that the pursuers should proceed in a body to the mouth of the valley, and there, dividing into several parties, scatter themselves abroad until they should find the thief's trail and then follow it up. as the miners were not much accustomed to following trails, they engaged the services of several indians who chanced to be at the camp at that time. "what direction d'ye think it's likely your precious chum has taken?" asked gashford, turning abruptly to fred westly when the different parties were about to start. "it is impossible for me to tell." "i know that," retorted gashford, with a scowl and something of a sneer, "but it ain't impossible for you to guess. however, it will do as well if you tell me which party you intend to join." "i shall join that which goes to the south-west," replied westly. "well, then, _i_ will join that which goes to the south-east," returned the bully, shouldering his rifle. "go ahead, you red reptile," he added, giving a sign to the indian at the head of the party he had selected to lead. the indian at once went off at a swinging walk, amounting almost to a trot. the others followed suit and the forest soon swallowed them all in its dark embrace. in making this selection gashford had fallen into a mistake not uncommon among scoundrels--that of judging other men by themselves. he knew that westly was fond of his guilty friend, and concluded that he would tell any falsehood or put the pursuers on any false scent that might favour his escape. he also guessed--and he was fond of guessing--that fred would answer his question by indicating the direction which he thought it most probable his friend had _not_ taken. in these guesses he was only to a small extent right. westly did indeed earnestly hope that his friend would escape; for he deemed the intended punishment of death most unjustly severe, and, knowing intimately the character and tendencies of tom brixton's mind and tastes, he had a pretty shrewd guess as to the direction he had taken, but, so far from desiring to throw the pursuers off the scent his main anxiety was to join the party which he thought most likely to find the fugitive--if they should find him at all--in order that he might be present to defend him from sudden or unnecessary violence. of course paddy flinders went with the same party, and we need scarcely add that the little irishman sympathised with fred. "d'ee think it's likely we'll cotch 'im?" he asked, in a whisper, on the evening of that day, as they went rapidly through the woods together, a little in rear of their party. "it is difficult to say," answered westly. "i earnestly hope not; indeed i think not, for tom has had a good start; but the search is well organised, and there are bloodthirsty, indignant, and persevering men among the various parties, who won't be easily baffled. still tom is a splendid runner. we may depend on having a long chase before we come up with him." "ah, then, it's glad i am that ye think so, sor," returned paddy, "for i've been afear'd mister tom hadn't got quite so much go in him, since he tuk to gambling and drinkin'." "look here, paddy," exclaimed his companion, stopping abruptly, and pointing to the ground, "are not these the footprints of one of your friends?" "sure it's a bar," said the little man, going down on his knees to examine the footprints in question with deep interest. flinders was a remarkably plucky little man, and one of his great ambitions was to meet with a bear, when alone, and slay it single-handed. his ambition had not up to that time, been gratified, fortunately for himself, for he was a bad shot and exceedingly reckless, two qualities which would probably have insured his own destruction if he had had his wish. "let's go after it, mister westly," he said, springing to his feet with an excited look. "nonsense, it is probably miles off by this time; besides, we should lose our party." "niver a taste, sor; we could soon overhaul them agin. an' won't they have to camp at sundown anyhow? moreover, if we don't come up wi' the bar in a mile or so we can give it up." "no, no, paddy, we must not fall behind. at least, _i_ must not; but you may go after it alone if you choose." "well, i will, sor. sure it's not ivery day i git the chance; an' there's no fear o' ye overhaulin' mister tom this night. we'll have to slape over it, i'll be bound. just tell the boys i'll be after them in no time." so saying paddy shouldered his rifle, felt knife and axe to make sure of their being safe in his belt, and strode away in the track of the bear. he had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he came to the spot where the mortal combat had taken place, and found tom brixton and the bear dead--as he imagined--on the blood-stained turf. he uttered a mighty cry, partly to relieve his feelings and partly to recall his friend. the imprudence of this flashed upon him when too late, for others, besides fred, might have heard him. but tom brixton was not dead. soon after the dying bear had fallen on him, he recovered consciousness, and shaking himself clear of the carcass with difficulty had arisen; but, giddiness returning, he lay down, and while in this position, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep. paddy's shout aroused him. with a sense of deadly peril hanging over him he leaped up and sprang on the irishman. "hallo, paddy!" he cried, checking himself, and endeavouring to wipe from his face some of the clotted blood with which he had been deluged. "_you_ here? are you alone?" "it's wishin' that i was," replied the little man, looking round anxiously. "mister fred 'll be here d'rectly, sor--an'--an' i hope that'll be all. but it's alive ye are, is it? an' didn't i take ye for dead. oh! mister brixton, there's more blood on an' about ye, i do belave, than yer whole body could howld." before an answer could be returned, fred westly, having heard paddy's shout, came running up. "oh! tom, tom," he cried, eagerly, "are you hurt? can you walk? can you run? the whole camp is out after you." "indeed?" replied the fugitive, with a frown. "it would seem that even my _friends_ have joined in the chase." "we have," said the other, hurriedly, "but not to capture--to save, if possible. come, tom, can you make an effort? are you hurt much? you are so horribly covered with blood--" he stopped short, for at that moment a shout was heard in the distance. it was replied to in another direction nearer at hand. there happened to be a man in the party which westly had joined, named crossby. he had suffered much from thieves, and had a particular spite against brixton because he had lost to him at play. he had heard paddy flinders's unfortunate shout, and immediately ran in the direction whence it came; while others of the party, having discovered the fugitive's track, had followed it up. "too late," groaned fred on hearing crossby's voice. "not too late for _this_," growled brixton, bitterly, as he quickly loaded his rifle. "for god's sake don't do that, tom," cried his friend earnestly, as he laid his hand on his arm; but tom shook him off and completed the operation just as crossby burst from the bushes and ran towards them. seeing the fugitive standing ready with rifle in hand, he stopped at once, took rapid aim, and fired. the ball whistled close past the head of tom, who then raised his own rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired, but westly threw up the muzzle and the bullet went high among the tree-tops. with an exclamation of fury brixton drew his knife, while crossby rushed at him with his rifle clubbed. the digger was a strong and fierce man, and there would doubtless have been a terrible and fatal encounter if fred had not again interfered. he seized his friend from behind, and, whirling him sharply round, received on his own shoulder the blow which was meant for tom's head. fred fell, dragging his friend down with him. flinders, who witnessed the unaccountable action of his companion with much surprise, now sprang to the rescue, but at the moment several of the other pursuers rushed upon the scene, and the luckless fugitive was instantly overpowered and secured. "now, my young buck," said crossby, "stand up! hold him, four of you, till i fix his hands wi' this rope. there, it's the rope that you'll swing by, so you'll find it hard to break." while tom was being bound he cast a look of fierce anger on westly, who still lay prostrate and insensible on the ground, despite paddy's efforts to rouse him. "i hope he is killed," muttered tom between his teeth. "och! no fear of him, he's not so aisy kilt," said flinders, looking up. "bad luck to ye for wishin' it." as if to corroborate paddy's opinion, westly showed signs of returning consciousness, and soon after sat up. "did ye kill that bar all by yerself?" asked one of the men who held the fugitive. but tom would not condescend to reply, and in a few minutes crossby gave the word to march back towards pine tree diggings. they set off--two men marching on either side of the prisoner with loaded rifles and revolvers, the rest in front and in rear. a party was left behind to skin the bear and bring away the tit-bits of the carcass for supper. being too late to return to pine tree camp that night, they arranged to bivouac for the night in a hollow where there was a little pond fed by a clear spring which was known as the red man's teacup. here they kindled a large fire, the bright sparks from which, rising above the tree-tops, soon attracted the attention of the other parties, so that, ere long, the whole band of pursuers was gathered to the spot. gashford was the last to come up. on hearing that the thief had been captured by his former chum westly, assisted by flinders and crossby, he expressed considerable surprise, and cast a long and searching gaze on fred, who, however, being busy with the fire at the time, was unconscious of it. whatever the bully thought, he kept his opinions to himself. "have you tied him up well!" he said, turning to crossby. "a wild horse couldn't break his fastenings," answered the digger. "perhaps not," returned gashford, with a sneer, "but you are always too sure by half o' yer work. come, stand up," he added, going to where tom lay, and stirring his prostrate form with his toe. brixton having now had time to consider his case coolly, had made up his mind to submit with a good grace to his fate, and, if it were so decreed, to die "like a man." "i deserve punishment," he reasoned with himself, "though death is too severe for the offence. however, a guilty man can't expect to be the chooser of his reward. i suppose it is fate, as the turks say, so i'll submit--like them." he stood up at once, therefore, on being ordered to do so, and quietly underwent inspection. "ha! i thought so!" exclaimed gashford, contemptuously. "any man could free himself from that in half an hour. but what better could be expected from a land-lubber?" crossby made some sharp allusions to a "sea-lubber," but he wisely restrained his voice so that only those nearest overheard him. meanwhile gashford undid the rope that bound tom brixton's arms behind him, and, holding him in his iron grip, ordered a smaller cord to be fetched. paddy flinders, who had a schoolboy tendency to stuff his various pockets full of all sorts of miscellaneous articles, at once stepped forward and handed the leader a piece of strong cod-line. "there ye are, sor," said he. "just the thing, paddy. here, catch hold of this end of it an' haul." "yis, gineral," said the irishman, in a tone and with a degree of alacrity that caused a laugh from most of those who were looking on. even the "gineral" observed it, and remarked with a sardonic smile-- "you seem to be pleased to see your old chum in this fix, i think." "well now, gineral," returned flinders, in an argumentative tone of voice, "i can't exactly say that, sor, for i'm troubled with what ye may call amiable weaknesses. anyhow, i might see 'im in a worse fix." "well, you're like to see him in a worse fix if you live long enough," returned the leader. "haul now on this knot. it'll puzzle him to undo that. lend me your knife." flinders drew his glittering bowie-knife from its sheath and handed it to his leader, who cut off the superfluous cordage with it, after having bound the prisoner's wrists behind his back in a sailor-like manner. in returning the knife to its owner, gashford, who was fond of a practical joke, tossed it high in the air towards him with a "here, catch." the keen glittering thing came twirling down, but to the surprise of all, the irishman caught it by the handle as deftly as though he had been a trained juggler. "thank your gineralship," exclaimed paddy, amid a shout of laughter and applause, bowing low in mock reverence. as he rose he made a wild flourish with the knife, uttered an indian war-whoop, and cut a caper. in that flourish he managed to strike the cord that bound the prisoner, and severed one turn of it. the barefaced audacity of the act (like that of a juggler) caused it to pass unobserved. even tom, although he felt the touch of the knife, was not aware of what had happened, for, of course, a number of uncut turns of the cord still held his wrists painfully tight. "now, lie down on your back," said gashford, sternly, when the laugh that paddy had raised subsided. either the tone of this command, or the pain caused by his bonds, roused tom's anger, for he refused to obey. "lie down, ye spalpeen, whin the gineral bids ye," cried flinders, suddenly seizing his old friend by the collar and flinging him flat on his back, in which act he managed to trip and fall on the top of him. the opportunity was not a good one, nevertheless the energetic fellow managed to whisper, "the rope's cut! lie still!" in the very act of falling. "well done, paddy," exclaimed several of the laughing men, as flinders rose with a pretended look of discomfiture, and went towards the fire, exclaiming-- "niver mind, boys, i'll have me supper now. hi! who's bin an' stole it whin i was out on dooty? oh! here it is all right. now then, go to work, an' whin the pipes is lighted i'll maybe sing ye a song, or tell ye a story about ould ireland." chapter three. obedient to orders, tom brixton lay perfectly still on his back, just where he had fallen, wondering much whether the cord was really cut, for he did not feel much relaxation of it or abatement of the pain. he resolved, at any rate, to give no further cause for rough treatment, but to await the issue of events as patiently as he could. true to his promise, the irishman after supper sang several songs, which, if not characterised by sweetness of tone, were delivered with a degree of vigour that seemed to make full amends in the estimation of his hearers. after that he told a thrilling ghost story, which drew the entire band of men round him. paddy had a natural gift in the way of relating ghost stories, for, besides the power of rapid and sustained discourse, without hesitation or redundancy of words, he possessed a vivid imagination, a rich fancy, a deep bass voice, an expressive countenance, and a pair of large coal-black eyes, which, as one of the yankee diggers said, "would sartinly bore two holes in a blanket if he only looked at it long enough." we do not intend to inflict that ghost story on the reader. it is sufficient to say that paddy began it by exclaiming in a loud voice--"`now or niver, boys--now or niver.' that's what the ghost said." "what's that you say, paddy?" asked gashford, leaving his own separate and private fire, which he enjoyed with one or two chosen comrades, and approaching that round which the great body of the diggers were already assembled. "i was just goin' to tell the boys, sor, a bit of a ghost story." "well, go on, lad, i'd like to hear it, too." "`now or niver!'" repeated the irishman, with such startling emphasis that even tom brixton, lying bound as he was under the shelter of a spreading tree at some distance from the fire, had his curiosity aroused. "that's what the ghost said, under somewhat pecooliar circumstances; an' he said it twice so that there might be no mistake at all about it. `now or niver! now or niver!' says he, an' he said it earnestly--" "i didn't know that ghosts could speak," interrupted crossby, who, when not in a bad humour, was rather fond of thrusting bad jokes and blunt witticisms on his comrades. "sure, i'm not surprised at that for there's many things ye don't know, crossby; besides, no ghost with the smallest taste of propriety about it would condescind to spake wid _you_. well, boys, that's what the ghost said in a muffled vice--their vices are muffled, you know, an their virtues too, for all i know to the contrairy. it's a good sentiment is that `now or niver' for every wan of ye--so ye may putt it in yer pipes an' smoke it, an' those of ye who haven't got pipes can make a quid of it an' chaw it, or subject it to meditation. `now or niver!' think o' that! you see i'm partikler about it, for the whole story turns on that pint, as the ghost's life depended on it, but ye'll see an' onderstan' better whin i come to the end o' the story." paddy said this so earnestly that it had the double effect of chaining the attention of his hearers and sending a flash of light into tom brixton's brain. "now or never!" he muttered to himself, and turned gently on his side so as to be able to feel the cord that bound his wrists. it was still tight, but, by moving his fingers, he could feel that one of its coils had really been cut, and that with a little patience and exertion he might possibly free his hands. slight as the motion was, however, gashford observed it, for the fire-light shone brightly on tom's recumbent figure. "lie still, there!" he cried, sternly. tom lay perfectly still, and the irishman continued his story. it grew in mystery and in horror as he proceeded, and his audience became entranced, while some of the more superstitious among them cast occasional glances over their shoulders into the forest behind, which ere long was steeped in the blackness of an unusually dark night. a few of those outside the circle rose and drew nearer to the story-teller. at that moment a gleam of light which had already entered brixton's brain flashed into that of fred westly, who arose, and, under pretext of being too far off from the speaker, went round to the opposite side of the fire so as to face him. by so doing he placed himself between the fire and his friend tom. two or three of the others followed his example, though not from the same motive, and thus, when the fire burnt low, the prisoner found himself lying in deep shadow. by that time he had freed his benumbed hands, chafed them into a condition of vitality, and was considering whether he should endeavour to creep quietly away or spring up and make a dash for life. "`now or niver,' said the ghost, in a solemn muffled vice," continued paddy-- "who did he say that to?" asked gashford, who was by that time as much fascinated as the rest of the party. "to the thief, sor, av coorse, who was standin' tremblin' fornint him, while the sexton was diggin' the grave to putt him in alive--in the dark shadow of a big tombstone." the irishman had now almost reached the climax of his story, and was intensely graphic in his descriptions--especially at the horrible parts. he was obviously spinning it out, and the profound silence around told how completely he had enchained his hearers. it also warned tom brixton that his time was short, and that in his case it was indeed, "now or never." he crept quietly towards the bushes near him. in passing a tree against which several rifles had been placed he could not resist the temptation to take one. laying hold of that which stood nearest, and which seemed to be similar in make to the rifle they had taken from himself when he was captured, he drew it towards him. unfortunately it formed a prop to several other rifles, which fell with a crash, and one of them exploded in the fall. the effect on paddy's highly-strung audience was tremendous. many of them yelled as if they had received an electric shock. all of them sprang up and turned round just in time to see their captive vanish, not unlike a ghost, into the thick darkness! that glance, however, was sufficient to enlighten them. with shouts of rage many of them darted after the fugitive, and followed him up like bloodhounds. others, who had never been very anxious for his capture or death, and had been turned somewhat in his favour by the bold stand he had made against the bear, returned to the fire after a short run. if there had been even a glimmering of light tom would certainly have been retaken at once, for not a few of his pursuers were quite as active and hardy as himself, but the intense darkness favoured him. fortunately the forest immediately behind him was not so dense as elsewhere, else in his first desperate rush, regardless of consequences, he would probably have dashed himself against a tree. as it was he went right through a thicket and plunged headlong into a deep hole. he scrambled out of this with the agility of a panther, just in time to escape gashford, who chanced to plunge into the same hole, but not so lightly. heavy though he was, however, his strength was equal to the shock, and he would have scrambled out quickly enough if crossby had not run on the same course and tumbled on the top of him. amid the growling half-fight, half-scramble that ensued, tom crept swiftly away to the left, but the pursuers had so scattered themselves that he heard them panting and stumbling about in every direction-- before, on either hand, and behind. hurrying blindly on for a few paces, he almost ran into the arms of a man whom he could hear, though he could not see him, and stopped. "hallo! is that you, bill smith?" demanded the man. "ay, that's me," replied tom, promptly, mimicking bill smith's voice and gasping violently. "i thought you were brixton. he's just passed this way. i saw him." "did you?--where?" "away there--to the left!" off went the pursuer as fast as he dared, and tom continued his flight with more caution. "hallo! hi! hooroo!" came at that moment from a long distance to the right, in unmistakable tones. "here he is, down this way. stop, you big thief! howld him. dick! have ye got him?" there was a general rush and scramble towards the owner of the bass voice, and tom, who at once perceived the ruse, went quietly off in the opposite direction. of course, the hunt came to an end in a very few minutes. every one, having more or less damaged his head, knees, elbows, and shins, came to the natural conclusion that a chase in the dark was absurd as well as hopeless, and in a short time all were reassembled round the fire, where fred westly still stood, for he had not joined in the pursuit. gashford was the last to come up, with the exception of paddy flinders. the bully came forward, fuming with rage, and strode up to fred westly with a threatening look. "you were at the bottom of this!" he cried, doubling his huge fist. "it was you who cut the rope, for no mortal man could have untied it!" "indeed i did not!" replied fred, with a steady but not defiant look. "then it must have bin your little chum flinders. where is he?" "how could flinders ha' done it when he was tellin' a ghost story?" said crossby. gashford turned with a furious look to the speaker, and seemed on the point of venting his ill-humour upon him, when he was arrested by the sound of the irishman's voice shouting in the distance. as he drew nearer the words became intelligible. "howld him tight, now! d'ye hear? och! whereiver have ye gone an' lost yersilf? howld him tight till i come an' help ye! what! is it let him go ye have? ah then it's wishin' i had the eyes of a cat this night for i can't rightly see the length of my nose. sure ye've niver gone an' let him go? don't say so, now!" wound up paddy as, issuing from the wood, he advanced into the circle of light. "who's got hold of him, flin?" asked one of the men as he came up. "sorrow wan o' me knows," returned the irishman, wiping the perspiration from his brow; "d'ye suppose i can see in the dark like the moles? all i know is that half a dozen of ye have bin shoutin' `here he is!' an' another half-dozen, `no, he's here--this way!' an' sure i ran this way an' then i ran that way--havin' a nat'ral disposition to obey orders, acquired in the louth militia--an' then i ran my nose flat on a tree-- bad luck to it!--that putt more stars in me hid than you'll see in the sky this night. ah! ye may laugh, but it's truth i'm tellin'. see, there's a blob on the ind of it as big as a chirry!" "that blob's always there, paddy," cried one of the men; "it's a grog-blossom." "there now, peter, don't become personal. but tell me--ye've got him, av coorse?" "no, we haven't got him," growled crossby. "well, now, you're a purty lot o' hunters. sure if--" "come, shut up, flinders," interrupted gashford, swallowing his wrath. (paddy brought his teeth together with a snap in prompt obedience.) "you know well enough that we haven't got him, and you know you're not sorry for it; but mark my words, i'll hunt him down yet. who'll go with me?" "i'll go," said crossby, stepping forward at once. "i've a grudge agin the puppy, and i'll help to make him swing if i can." half a dozen other men, who were noted for leading idle and dissipated lives, and who would rather have hunted men than nothing, also offered to go, but the most of the party had had enough of it, and resolved to return home in the morning. "we can't go just now, however," said crossby, "we'd only break our legs or necks." "the moon will rise in an hour," returned gashford; "we can start then." he flung himself down sulkily on the ground beside the fire and began to fill his pipe. most of the others followed his example, and sat chatting about the recent escape, while a few, rolling themselves in their blankets, resigned themselves to sleep. about an hour later, as had been predicted, the moon rose, and gashford with his men set forth. but by that time the fugitive, groping his way painfully with many a stumble and fall, had managed to put a considerable distance between him and his enemies, so that when the first silvery moonbeans tipped the tree-tops and shed a faint glimmer on the ground, which served to make darkness barely visible, he had secured a good start, and was able to keep well ahead. the pursuers were not long in finding his track, however, for they had taken a red indian with them to act as guide, but the necessity for frequent halts to examine the footprints carefully delayed them much, while tom brixton ran straight on without halt or stay. still he felt that his chance of escape was by no means a good one, for as he guessed rightly, they would not start without a native guide, and he knew the power and patience of these red men in following an enemy's trail. what made his case more desperate was the sudden diminution of his strength. for it must be borne in mind that he had taken but little rest and no food since his flight from pine tree diggings, and the wounds he had received from the bear, although not dangerous, were painful and exhausting. a feeling of despair crept over the stalwart youth when the old familiar sensation of bodily strength began to forsake him. near daybreak he was on the point of casting himself on the ground to take rest at all hazards, when the sound of falling water broke upon his ear. his spirit revived at once, for he now knew that in his blind wandering he had come near to a well-known river or stream, where he could slake his burning thirst, and, by wading down its course for some distance, throw additional difficulty in the pursuers' way. not that he expected by that course to throw them entirely off the scent, he only hoped to delay them. on reaching the river's brink he fell down on his breast and, applying his lips to the bubbling water, took a deep refreshing draught. "god help me!" he exclaimed, on rising, and then feeling the burden of gold (which, all through his flight had been concealed beneath his shirt, packed flat so as to lie close), he took it off and flung it down. "there," he said bitterly, "for _you_ i have sold myself body and soul, and now i fling you away!" instead of resting as he had intended, he now, feeling strengthened, looked about for a suitable place to enter the stream and wade down so as to leave no footprints behind. to his surprise and joy he observed the bow of a small indian canoe half hidden among the bushes. it had apparently been dragged there by its owner, and left to await his return, for the paddles were lying under it. launching this frail bark without a moment's delay, he found that it was tight; pushed off and went rapidly down with the current. either he had forgotten the gold in his haste, or the disgust he had expressed was genuine, for he left it lying on the bank. he now no longer fled without a purpose. many miles down that same stream there dwelt a gold-digger in a lonely hut. his name was paul bevan. he was an eccentric being, and a widower with an only child, a daughter, named elizabeth--better known as betty. one phase of paul bevan's eccentricity was exhibited in his selection of a spot in which to search for the precious metal. it was a savage, gloomy gorge, such as a misanthrope might choose in which to end an unlovely career. but bevan was no misanthrope. on the contrary, he was one of those men who are gifted with amiable dispositions, high spirits, strong frames, and unfailing health. he was a favourite with all who knew him, and, although considerably past middle life, possessed much of the fire, energy, and light-heartedness of youth. there is no accounting for the acts of eccentric men, and we make no attempt to explain why it was that paul bevan selected a home which was not only far removed from the abodes of other men, but which did not produce much gold. many prospecting parties had visited the region from time to time, under the impression that bevan had discovered a rich mine, which he was desirous of keeping all to himself; but, after searching and digging all round the neighbourhood, and discovering that gold was to be found in barely paying quantities, they had left in search of more prolific fields, and spread the report that paul bevan was an eccentric fellow. some said he was a queer chap; others, more outspoken, styled him an ass, but all agreed in the opinion that his daughter betty was the finest girl in oregon. perhaps this opinion may account for the fact that many of the miners-- especially the younger among them--returned again and again to bevan's gully to search for gold although the search was not remunerative. among those persevering though unsuccessful diggers had been, for a considerable time past, our hero tom brixton. perhaps the decision with which elizabeth bevan repelled him had had something to do with his late reckless life. but we must guard the reader here from supposing that betty bevan was a beauty. she was not. on the other hand, she was by no means plain, for her complexion was good, her nut-brown hair was soft and wavy, and her eyes were tender and true. it was the blending of the graces of body and of soul that rendered betty so attractive. as poor tom brixton once said in a moment of confidence to his friend westly, while excusing himself for so frequently going on prospecting expeditions to bevan's gully, "there's no question about it, fred; she's the sweetest girl in oregon--pshaw! in the world, i should have said. loving-kindness beams in her eyes, sympathy ripples on her brow, grace dwells in her every motion, and honest, straightforward simplicity sits enthroned upon her countenance!" even crossby, the surly digger, entertained similar sentiments regarding her, though he expressed them in less refined language. "she's a bu'ster," he said once to a comrade, "that's what _she_ is, an' no mistake about it. what with her great eyes glarin' affection, an' her little mouth smilin' good-natur', an' her figure goin' about as graceful as a small cat at play--why, i tell 'ee what it is, mate, with such a gal for a wife a feller might snap his fingers at hunger an' thirst, heat an' cold, bad luck an' all the rest of it. but she's got one fault that don't suit me. she's overly religious--an' that don't pay at the diggin's." this so-called fault did indeed appear to interfere with betty bevan's matrimonial prospects, for it kept a large number of dissipated diggers at arm's-length from her, and it made even the more respectable men feel shy in her presence. tom brixton, however, had not been one of her timid admirers. he had a drop or two of irish blood in his veins which rendered that impossible! before falling into dissipated habits he had paid his addresses to her boldly. moreover, his suit was approved by betty's father, who had taken a great fancy to tom. but, as we have said, this rose of oregon repelled tom. she did it gently and kindly, it is true, but decidedly. it was, then, towards the residence of paul bevan that the fugitive now urged his canoe, with a strange turmoil of conflicting emotions however; for, the last time he had visited the gully he had been at least free from the stain of having broken the laws of man. now, he was a fugitive and an outlaw, with hopes and aspirations blighted and the last shred of self-respect gone. chapter four. when tom brixton had descended the river some eight or ten miles he deemed himself pretty safe from his pursuers, at least for the time being, as his rate of progress with the current far exceeded the pace at which men could travel on foot; and besides, there was the strong probability that, on reaching the spot where the canoe had been entered and the bag of gold left on the bank, the pursuers would be partially satisfied as well as baffled, and would return home. on reaching a waterfall, therefore, where the navigable part of the river ended and its broken course through bevan's gully began, he landed without any show of haste, drew the canoe up on the bank, where he left it concealed among bushes, and began quietly to descend by a narrow footpath with which he had been long familiar. up to that point the unhappy youth had entertained no definite idea as to why he was hurrying towards the hut of paul bevan, or what he meant to say for himself on reaching it. but towards noon, as he drew near to it, the thought of betty in her innocence and purity oppressed him. she rose before his mind's eye like a reproving angel. how could he ever face her with the dark stain of a mean theft upon his soul? how could he find courage to confess his guilt to her? or, supposing that he did not confess it, how could he forge the tissue of lies that would be necessary to account for his sudden appearance, and in such guise--bloodstained, wounded, haggard, and worn out with fatigue and hunger? such thoughts now drove him to the verge of despair. even if betty were to refrain from putting awkward questions, there was no chance whatever of paul bevan being so considerate. was he then to attempt to deceive them, or was he to reveal all? he shrank from answering the question, for he believed that bevan was an honest man, and feared that he would have nothing further to do with him when he learned that he had become a common thief. a thief! how the idea burned into his heart, now that the influence of strong drink no longer warped his judgment! "has it _really_ come to this?" he muttered, gloomily. then, as he came suddenly in sight of bevan's hut, he exclaimed more cheerfully, "come, i'll make a clean breast of it." paul bevan had pitched his hut on the top of a steep rocky mound, the front of which almost overhung a precipice that descended into a deep gully, where the tormented river fell into a black and gurgling pool. behind the hut flowed a streamlet, which being divided by the mound into a fork, ran on either side of it in two deep channels, so that the hut could only be reached by a plank bridge thrown across the lower or western fork. the forked streamlet tumbled over the precipice and descended into the dark pool below in the form of two tiny silver threads. at least it would have done so if its two threads had not been dissipated in misty spray long before reaching the bottom of the cliff. thus it will be seen that the gold-digger occupied an almost impregnable fortress, though why he had perched himself in such a position no one could guess, and he declined to tell. it was therefore set down, like all his other doings, to eccentricity. of course there was so far a pretext for his caution in the fact that there were scoundrels in those regions, who sometimes banded together and attacked people who were supposed to have gold-dust about them in large quantities, but as such assaults were not common, and as every one was equally liable to them, there seemed no sufficient ground for bevan's excessive care in the selection of his fortress. on reaching it, tom found its owner cutting up some firewood near his plank-bridge. "hallo, brixton!" he cried, looking up in some surprise as the young man advanced; "you seem to have bin in the wars. what have 'e been fightin' wi', lad?" "with a bear, paul bevan," replied tom, sitting down on a log, with a long-drawn sigh. "you're used up, lad, an' want rest; mayhap you want grub also. anyhow you look awful bad. no wounds, i hope, or bones broken, eh?" "no, nothing but a broken heart," replied tom with a faint attempt to smile. "why, that's a queer bit o' you for a b'ar to break. if you had said it was a girl that broke it, now, i could have--" "where is betty?" interrupted the youth, quickly, with an anxious expression. "in the hut, lookin' arter the grub. you'll come in an' have some, of course. but i'm coorious to hear about that b'ar. was it far from here you met him?" "ay, just a short way this side o' pine tree diggings." "pine tree diggin's!" repeated paul in surprise. "why, then, didn't you go back to pine tree diggin's to wash yourself an' rest, instead o' comin' all the way here?" "because--because, paul bevan," said tom with sudden earnestness, as he gazed on the other's face, "because i'm a thief!" "you might be worse," replied bevan, while a peculiarly significant smile played for a moment on his rugged features. "what do you mean?" exclaimed tom, in amazement. "why, you might have bin a murderer, you know," replied bevan, with a nod. the youth was so utterly disgusted with this cool, indifferent way of regarding the matter, that he almost regretted having spoken. he had been condemning himself so severely during the latter part of his journey, and the meanness of his conduct as well as its wickedness had been growing so dark in colour, that bevan's unexpected levity took him aback, and for a few seconds he could not speak. "listen," he said at last, seizing his friend by the arm and looking earnestly into his eyes. "listen, and i will tell you all about it." the man became grave as tom went on with his narrative. "yes, it's a bad business," he said, at its conclusion, "an uncommon bad business. got a very ugly look about it." "you are right, paul," said tom, bowing his head, while a flush of shame covered his face. "no one, i think, can be more fully convinced of the meanness--the sin--of my conduct than i am now--" "oh! as to that," returned bevan, with another of his peculiar smiles, "i didn't exactly mean _that_. you were tempted, you know, pretty bad. besides, bully gashford is a big rascal, an' richly deserves what he got. no, it wasn't that i meant--but it's a bad look-out for you, lad, if they nab you. i knows the temper o' them pine tree men, an' they're in such a wax just now that they'll string you up, as sure as fate, if they catch you." again tom was silent, for the lightness with which bevan regarded his act of theft only had the effect of making him condemn himself the more. "but i say, brixton," resumed bevan, with an altered expression, "not a word of all this to betty. you haven't much chance with her as it is, although i do my best to back you up; but if she came to know of this affair, you'd not have the ghost of a chance at all--for you know the gal is religious, more's the pity, though i will say it, she's a good obedient gal, in spite of her religion, an' a 'fectionate darter to me. but she'd never marry a thief, you know. you couldn't well expect her to." the dislike with which tom brixton regarded his companion deepened into loathing as he spoke, and he felt it difficult to curb his desire to fell the man to the ground, but the thought that he was betty's father soon swallowed up all other thoughts and feelings. he resolved in his own mind that, come of it what might, he would certainly tell all the facts to the girl, and then formally give her up, for he agreed with bevan at least on one point, namely, that he could not expect a good religious girl to marry a thief! "but you forget, paul," he said, after a few moments' thought, "that betty is sure to hear about this affair the first time you have a visitor from pine tree diggings." "that's true, lad, i did forget that. but you know you can stoutly deny that it was you who did it. say there was some mistake, and git up some cock-an'-a-bull story to confuse her. anyhow, say nothing about it just now." tom was still meditating what he should say in reply to this, when betty herself appeared, calling her father to dinner. "now, mind, not a word about the robbery," he whispered as he rose, "and we'll make as much as we can of the b'ar." "yes, not a word about it," thought tom, "till betty and i are alone, and then--a clean breast and good-bye to her, for ever!" during dinner the girl manifested more than usual sympathy with tom brixton. she saw that he was almost worn out with fatigue, and listened with intense interest to her father's embellished narrative of the encounter with the "b'ar," which narrative tom was forced to interrupt and correct several times, in the course of its delivery. but this sympathy did not throw her off her guard. remembering past visits, she took special care that tom should have no opportunity of being alone with her. "now, you must be off to rest," said paul bevan, the moment his visitor laid down his knife and fork, "for, let me tell you, i may want your help before night. i've got an enemy, tom, an enemy who has sworn to be the death o' me, and who _will_ be the death o' me, i feel sure o' that in the long-run. however, i'll keep him off as long as i can. he'd have been under the sod long afore now, lad--if--if it hadn't bin for my betty. she's a queer girl is betty, and she's made a queer man of her old father." "but who is this enemy, and when--what--? explain yourself." "well, i've no time to explain either `when' or `what' just now, and you have no time to waste. only i have had a hint from a friend, early this morning, that my enemy has discovered my whereabouts, and is following me up. but i'm ready for him, and right glad to have your stout arm to help--though you couldn't fight a babby just now. lie down, i say, an' i'll call you when you're wanted." ceasing to press the matter, tom entered a small room, in one corner of which a narrow bed, or bunk, was fixed. flinging himself on this, he was fast asleep in less than two minutes. "kind nature's sweet restorer" held him so fast, that for three hours he lay precisely as he fell, without the slightest motion, save the slow and regular heaving of his broad chest. at the end of that time he was rudely shaken by a strong hand. the guilty are always easily startled. springing from his couch he had seized bevan by the throat before he was quite awake. "hist! man, not quite so fast" gasped his host shaking him off. "come, they've turned up sooner than i expected." "what--who?" said brixton, looking round. "my enemy, of coorse, an' a gang of redskins to help him. they expect to catch us asleep, but they'll find out their mistake soon enough. that lad there brought me the news, and, you see, he an' betty are getting things ready." tom glanced through the slightly opened doorway, as he tightened his belt, and saw betty and a boy of about fourteen years of age standing at a table, busily engaged loading several old-fashioned horse-pistols with buckshot. "who's the boy?" asked tom. "they call him tolly. i saved the little chap once from a grizzly b'ar, an' he's a grateful feller, you see--has run a long way to give me warnin' in time. come, here's a shot-gun for you, charged wi' slugs. i'm not allowed to use ball, you must know, 'cause betty thinks that balls kill an' slugs only wound! i humour the little gal, you see, for she's a good darter to me. we've both on us bin lookin' forward to this day, for we knowed it must come sooner or later, an' i made her a promise that, when it did come, i'd only defend the hut wi' slugs. but slugs ain't bad shots at a close range, when aimed low." the man gave a sly chuckle and a huge wink as he said this, and entered the large room of the hut. betty was very pale and silent. she did not even look up from the pistol she was loading when tom entered. the boy tolly, however, looked at his tall, strong figure with evident satisfaction. "ha!" he exclaimed, ramming down a charge of slugs with great energy; "we'll be able to make a good fight without your services, betty. won't we, old man?" the pertly-put question was addressed to paul bevan, between whom and the boy there was evidently strong affection. "yes, tolly," replied bevan, with a pleasant nod, "three men are quite enough for the defence of this here castle." "but, i say, old man," continued the boy, shaking a powder-horn before his face, "the powder's all done. where'll i git more?" a look of anxiety flitted across bevan's face. "it's in the magazine. i got a fresh keg last week, an' thought it safest to put it there till required--an' haven't i gone an' forgot to fetch it in!" "well, that don't need to trouble you," returned the boy, "just show me the magazine, an' i'll go an' fetch it in!" "the magazine's over the bridge," said bevan. "i dug it there for safety. come, tom, the keg's too heavy for the boy. i must fetch it myself, and you must guard the bridge while i do it." he went out quickly as he spoke, followed by tom and tolly. it was a bright moonlight night, and the forks of the little stream glittered like two lines of silver, at the bottom of their rugged bed on either side of the hut. the plank-bridge had been drawn up on the bank. with the aid of his two allies bevan quickly thrust it over the gulf, and, without a moment's hesitation, sprang across. while tom stood at the inner end, ready with a double-barrelled gun to cover his friend's retreat if necessary, he saw bevan lift a trap-door not thirty yards distant and disappear. a few seconds, and he re-appeared with a keg on his shoulder. all remained perfectly quiet in the dark woods around. the babbling rivulet alone broke the silence of the night. bevan seemed to glide over the ground, he trod so softly. "there's another," he whispered, placing the keg at tom's feet, and springing back towards the magazine. again he disappeared, and, as before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder. suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the earth. he dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it. tom, however, discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed to disappear, and tolly trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same direction. instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut. most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but tom brixton's spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to count the cost before action. betty's father lay helpless on the ground in the power of his enemies! that was enough for tom. he leaped across the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had almost regained the bridge, when three painted indians uttered a hideous war-whoop and sprang after him. fortunately, having just emptied their guns, they could not prevent the fugitive from crossing the bridge, but they reached it before there was time to draw in the plank, and were about to follow, when tolly trevor planted himself in front of them with a double-barrelled horse-pistol in each band. "we don't want _you_ here, you--red-faced--baboons!" he cried, pausing between each of the last three words to discharge a shot and emphasising the last word with one of the pistols, which he hurled with such precision that it took full effect on the bridge of the nearest red man's nose. all three fell, but rose again with a united screech and fled back to the bushes. a few moments more and the bridge was drawn back, and paul bevan was borne into the hut, amid a scattering fire from the assailants, which, however, did no damage. to the surprise and consternation of tolly, who entered first, betty was found sitting on a chair with blood trickling from her left arm. a ball entering through the window had grazed her, and she sank down, partly from the shock, coupled with alarm. she recovered, however, on seeing her father carried in, sprang up, and ran to him. "only stunned, betty," said tom; "will be all right soon, but we must rouse him, for the scoundrels will be upon us in a minute. what--what's this--wounded?" "only a scratch. don't mind me. father! dear father--rouse up! they will be here--oh! rouse up, dear father!" but betty shook him in vain. "out o' the way, _i_ know how to stir him up," said tolly, coming forward with a pail of water and sending the contents violently into his friend's face--thus drenching him from head to foot. the result was that paul bevan sneezed, and, sitting up, looked astonished. "ha! i thought that 'ud fetch you," said the boy, with a grin. "come, you'd better look alive if you don't want to lose yer scalp." "ho! ho!" exclaimed bevan, rising with a sudden look of intelligence and staggering to the door, "here, give me the old sword, betty, and the blunderbuss. now then." he went out at the door, and tom brixton was following, when the girl stopped him. "oh! mr brixton," she said, "do not _kill_ any one, if you can help it." "i won't if i can help it. but listen, betty," said the youth, hurriedly seizing the girl's hand. "i have tried hard to speak with you alone to-day, to tell you that i am _guilty_, and to say good-bye _for ever_." "guilty! what do you mean?" she exclaimed in bewildered surprise. "no time to explain. i may be shot, you know, or taken prisoner, though the latter's not likely. in any case remember that i confess myself _guilty_! god bless you, dear, _dear_ girl." without waiting for a reply, he ran to a hollow on the top of the mound where his friend and tolly were already ensconced, and whence they could see every part of the clearing around the little fortress. "i see the reptiles," whispered bevan, as tom joined them. "they are mustering for an attack on the south side. just what i wish," he added, with a suppressed chuckle, "for i've got a pretty little arrangement of cod-hooks and man-traps in that direction." as he spoke several dark figures were seen gliding among the trees. a moment later, and these made a quick silent rush over the clearing to gain the slight shelter of the shrubs that fringed the streamlet. "just so," remarked bevan, in an undertone, when a crash of branches told that one of his traps had taken effect; "an' from the row i should guess that two have gone into the hole at the same time. ha! that's a fish hooked!" he added, as a short sharp yell of pain, mingled with surprise, suddenly increased the noise. "an' there goes another!" whispered tolly, scarcely able to contain himself with delight at such an effective yet comparatively bloodless way of embarrassing their foes. "and another," added bevan; "but look out now; they'll retreat presently. give 'em a dose o' slug as they go back, but take 'em low, lads--about the feet and ankles. it's only a fancy of my dear little gal, but i like to humour her fancies." bevan was right. finding that they were not only surrounded by hidden pit-falls, but caught by painfully sharp little instruments, and entangled among cordage, the indians used their scalping-knives to free themselves, and rushed back again towards the wood, but before gaining its shelter they received the slug-dose above referred to, and instantly filled the air with shrieks of rage, rather than of pain. at that moment a volley was fired from the other side of the fortress, and several balls passed close over the defenders' heads. "surrounded and outnumbered!" exclaimed bevan, with something like a groan. as he spoke another, but more distant, volley was heard, accompanied by shouts of anger and confusion among the men who were assaulting the fortress. "the attackers are attacked," exclaimed bevan, in surprise; "i wonder who by." he looked round for a reply, but only saw the crouching figure of tolly beside him. "where's brixton?" he asked. "bolted into the hut," answered the boy. "betty," exclaimed tom, springing into the little parlour or hall, where he found the poor girl on her knees, "you are safe now. i heard the voice of gashford, and the indians are flying. but i too must fly. i am guilty, as i have said, but my crime is not worthy of death, yet death is the award, and, god knows, i am not fit to die. once more-- farewell!" he spoke rapidly, and was turning to go without even venturing to look at the girl, when she said-- "whatever your crime may be, remember that there is a saviour from sin. stay! you cannot leap the creek, and, even if you did, you would be caught, for i hear voices near us. come with me." she spoke in a tone of decision that compelled obedience. lifting a trap-door in the floor she bade her lover descend. he did so, and found himself in a cellar half full of lumber and with several casks ranged round the walls. the girl followed, removed one of the casks, and disclosed a hole behind it. "it is small," she said, quickly, "but you will be able to force yourself through. inside it enlarges at once to a low tunnel, along which you will creep for a hundred yards, when you will reach open air in a dark, rocky dell, close to the edge of the precipice above the river. descend to its bed, and, when free, use your freedom to escape from death--but much more, to escape from sin. go quickly!" tom brixton would fain have delayed to seize and kiss his preserver's hand, but the sound of voices overhead warned him to make haste. without a word he dropped on hands and knees and thrust himself through the aperture. betty replaced the cask, returned to the upper room, and closed the trap-door just a few minutes before her father ushered gashford and his party into the hut. chapter five. when our hero found himself in a hole, pitch dark and barely large enough to permit of his creeping on hands and knees, he felt a sudden sensation of fear--of undefinable dread--come over him, such as one might be supposed to experience on awaking to the discovery that he had been buried alive. his first impulse was to shout for deliverance, but his manhood returned to him, and he restrained himself. groping his way cautiously along the passage or tunnel, which descended at first steeply, he came to a part which he could feel was regularly built over with an arch of brickwork or masonry, and the sound of running water overhead told him that this was a tunnel under the rivulet. as he advanced the tunnel widened a little, and began to ascend. after creeping what he judged to be a hundred yards or so, he thought he could see a glimmer of light like a faint star in front of him. it was the opening to which betty had referred. he soon reached it and emerged into the fresh air. as he raised himself, and drew a long breath of relief, the words of his deliverer seemed to start up before him in letters of fire-- "use your freedom to escape from death--but _much more, to escape from sin_." "i will, so help me god!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands convulsively and looking upward. in the strength of the new-born resolution thus induced by the spirit of god, he fell on his knees and tried to pray. then he rose and sat down to think, strangely forgetful of the urgent need there was for flight. meanwhile gashford and his men proceeded to question paul bevan and his daughter. the party included, among others, fred westly, paddy flinders, and crossby. gashford more than suspected the motives of the first two in accompanying him, but did not quite see his way to decline their services, even if he had possessed the power to do so. he consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he could keep a sharp eye on their movements. "no, no, bevan," he said, when the man brought out a case-bottle of rum and invited him to drink, "we have other work on hand just now. we have traced that young thief brixton to this hut, and we want to get hold of him." "a thief, is he?" returned bevan, with a look of feigned surprise. "well, now, that _is_ strange news. tom brixton don't look much like a thief, do he?" (appealing to the by-standers). "there must be some mistake, surely." "there's no mistake," said gashford, with an oath. "he stole a bag o' gold from my tent. to be sure he dropped it in his flight so i've got it back again, but that don't affect his guilt." "but surely, mister gashford," said bevan slowly, for, having been hurriedly told in a whisper by betty what she had done for tom, he was anxious to give his friend as much time as possible to escape, "surely as you've come by no loss, ye can afford to let the poor young feller off this time." "no, we can't," shouted gashford, fiercely. "these mean pilferers have become a perfect pest at the diggin's, an' we intend to stop their little game, we do, by stoppin' their windpipes when we catch them. come, don't shilly-shally any longer, paul bevan. he's here, and no mistake, so you'd better hand him over. besides, you owe us something, you know, for coming to your help agin the redskins in the nick of time." "well, as to that i _am_ much obliged, though, after all, it wasn't to help me you came." "no matter," exclaimed the other impatiently, "you know he is here, an' you're bound to give him up." "but i _don't_ know that he's here, an' i _can't_ give him up, cause why? he's escaped." "escaped! impossible, there is only one bridge to this mound, and he has not crossed that since we arrived, i'll be bound. there's a sentry on it now." "but an active young feller can jump, you know." "no, he couldn't jump over the creek, unless he was a human flea or a rocky mountain goat. come, since you won't show us where he is, we'll take the liberty of sarchin' your premises. but stay, your daughter's got the name o' bein' a religious gal. if there's any truth in that she'd be above tellin' a lie. come now, betty, tell us, like a good gal, is tom brixton here?" "no, he is not here," replied the girl. "where is he, then?" "i do not know." "that's false, you _do_ know. but come, lads, we'll sarch, and here's a cellar to begin with." he laid hold of the iron ring of the trap-door, opened it, and seizing a light descended, followed by bevan, crossby, flinders, and one or two others. tossing the lumber about he finally rolled aside the barrels ranged beside the wall, until the entrance to the subterranean way was discovered. "ho! ho!" he cried, lowering the light and gazing into it. "here's something, anyhow." after peering into the dark hole for some time he felt with his hand as far as his arm could reach. "mind he don't bite!" suggested paddy flinders, in a tone that drew a laugh from the by-standers. "hand me that stick, paddy," said gashford, "and keep your jokes to a more convenient season." "ah! then 'tis always a convanient season wid me, sor," replied paddy, with a wink at his companions as he handed the stick. "does this hole go far in?" he asked, after a fruitless poking about with the stick. "ay, a long way. more'n a hundred yards," returned bevan. "well, i'll have a look at it." saying which gashford pushed the light as far in as he could reach, and then, taking a bowie-knife between his teeth, attempted to follow. we say attempted, because he was successful only in a partial degree. it must be remembered that gashford was an unusually large man, and that tom brixton had been obliged to use a little force in order to gain an entrance. when, therefore, the huge bully had thrust himself in about as far as his waist he stuck hard and fast, so that he could neither advance nor retreat! he struggled violently, and a muffled sound of shouting was heard inside the hole, but no one could make out what was said. "och! the poor cratur," exclaimed paddy flinders, with a look of overdone commiseration, "what'll we do for 'im at all at all?" "let's try to pull him out," suggested crossby. they tried and failed, although as many as could manage it laid hold of him. "sure he minds me of a stiff cork in a bottle," said flinders, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "an' what a most awful crack he'll make whin he does come out! let's give another heave, boys." they gave another heave, but only caused the muffled shouting inside to increase. "och! the poor cratur's stritchin' out like a injin-rubber man; sure he's a fut longer than he used to be--him that was a sight too long already," said flinders. "let's try to shove him through," suggested the baffled crossby. failure again followed their united efforts--except as regards the muffled shouting within, which increased in vigour and was accompanied by no small amount of kicking by what of gashford remained in the cellar. "i'm afeared his legs'll come off altogether if we try to pull harder than we've done," said crossby, contemplating the huge and helpless limbs of the victim with a perplexed air. "what a chance, boys," suddenly exclaimed flinders, "to pay off old scores with a tree-mendous wallopin'! we could do it aisy in five or six minutes, an' then lave 'im to think over it for the rest of his life." as no one approved of paddy's proposal, it was finally resolved to dig the big man out and a pick and shovel were procured for the purpose. contrary to all expectations, gashford was calm, almost subdued, when his friends at last set him free. instead of storming and abusing every one, he said quietly but quickly, "let us search the bush now. he can't be far off yet, and there's moonlight enough." leading the way, he sprang up the cellar stair, out at the hut-door, and across the bridge, followed closely by his party. "hooroo!" yelled paddy flinders, as if in the irrepressible ardour of the chase, but in reality to give brixton intimation of the pursuit, if he should chance to be within earshot. the well-meant signal did indeed take effect, but it came too late. it found tom still seated in absorbed meditation. rudely awakened to the consciousness of his danger and his stupidity, he leaped up and ran along the path that betty had described to him. at the same moment it chanced that crossby came upon the same path at its river-side extremity, and in a few moments each ran violently into the other's arms, and both rolled upon the ground. the embrace that crossby gave the youth would have been creditable even to a black bear, but tom was a match for him in his then condition of savage despair. he rolled the rough digger over on his back, half strangled him, and bumped his shaggy head against the conveniently-situated root of a tree. but crossby held on with the tenacity of sticking-plaster, shouting wildly all the time, and before either could subdue the other, gashford and his men coming up stopped the combat. it were vain attempting to describe the conflict of brixton's feelings as they once more bound his arms securely behind him and led him back to paul bevan's hut. the thought of death while fighting with man or beast had never given him much concern, but to be done to death by the rope as a petty thief was dreadful to contemplate, while to appear before the girl he loved, humiliated and bound, was in itself a sort of preliminary death. afterwards, when confined securely in the cellar and left to himself for the night, with a few pine branches as a bed, the thought of home and mother came to him with overwhelming power, and finally mingled with his dreams. but those dreams, however pleasant they might be at first and in some respects, invariably ended with the branch of a tree and a rope with a noose dangling at the end thereof, and he awoke again and again with a choking sensation, under the impression that the noose was already tightening on his throat. the agony endured that night while alone in the dark cellar was terrible, for tom knew the temper of the diggers too well to doubt his fate. still hope, blessed hope, did not utterly desert him. more than once he struggled to his knees and cried to god for mercy in the saviour's name. by daybreak next morning he was awakened out of the first dreamless sleep that he had enjoyed, and bid get up. a slight breakfast of bread and water was handed to him, which he ate by the light of a homemade candle stuck in the neck of a quart bottle. soon afterwards crossby descended, and bade him ascend the wooden stair or ladder. he did so, and found the party of miners assembled under arms, and ready for the road. "i'm sorry i can't help 'ee," said paul bevan, drawing the unhappy youth aside, and speaking in a low voice. "i would if i could, for i owe my life to you, but they won't listen to reason. i sent betty out o' the way, lad, a-purpose. thought it better she shouldn't see you, but--" "come, come, old man, time's up," interrupted gashford, roughly; "we must be off. now, march, my young slippery-heels. i needn't tell you not to try to bolt again. you'll find it difficult to do that." as they moved off and began their march through the forest on foot, tom brixton felt that escape was indeed out of the question, for, while three men marched in front of him, four marched on either side, each with rifle on shoulder, and the rest of the band brought up the rear. but even if his chances had not been so hopeless, he would not have made any further effort to save himself, for he had given himself thoroughly up to despair. in the midst of this a slight sense of relief, mingled with the bitterness of disappointment, when he found that betty had been sent out of the way, and that he would see her no more, for he could not bear the thought of her seeing him thus led away. "may i speak with the prisoner for a few minutes?" said fred westly to gashford, as they plodded through the woods. "he has been my comrade for several years, and i promised his poor mother never to forsake him. may i, gashford?" "no," was the sharp reply, and then, as if relenting, "well, yes, you may; but be brief, and no underhand dealing, mind, for if you attempt to help him you shall be a dead man the next moment, as sure as i'm a living one. an' you needn't be too soft, westly," he added, with a cynical smile. "your chum has--well, it's no business o' mine. you can go to him." poor tom brixton started as his old friend went up to him, and then hung his head. "dear tom," said fred, in a low voice, "don't give way to despair. with god all things are possible, and even if your life is to be forfeited, it is not too late to save the soul, for jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost. but i want to comfort you with the assurance that i will spare no effort to save you. many of the diggers are not very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and i think gashford may be bought over. if so, i need not tell you that my little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--" "there is no such store, fred," interrupted tom, with a haggard look of shame. "what do you mean, tom?" "i mean that i gambled it all away unknown to you. oh! fred, you do not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given way to, especially when backed by drink. no, it's of no use your trying to comfort me. i do believe, now, that i deserve to die." "whatever you deserve, tom, it is my business to save you, if i can-- both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my intentions or my hopes. by the way, does gashford know about this?" "yes, he knows that i have taken your money." "and that's the reason," said gashford himself, coming up at the moment, "that i advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot altogether." "is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded fred, with some indignation. "perhaps not," replied gashford, with a short laugh; "but as i never set up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject. now, fall to the rear, my young blade. remember that i'm in command of this party, and you know, or ought to know, that i suffer no insolence in those under me." poor fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out, and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had the power to aid his condemned friend. it was near sunset when they reached pine tree diggings. tom brixton was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine, but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door. that night fred westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair. true, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before god, and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. the hidden hoard, on which he had counted too much, had been taken and lost by the very man he wished to save, and the weakness of his own faith was revealed by the disappearance of the gold--for he had almost forgotten that the almighty can provide means at any time and in all circumstances. fred would not allow himself for a moment to think that tom had _stolen_ his gold. he only _took_ it for a time, with the full intention of refunding it when better times should come. on this point fred's style of reasoning was in exact accord with that of his unhappy friend. tom never for a moment regarded the misappropriation of the gold as a theft. oh no! it was merely an appropriated loan--a temporary accommodation. it would be interesting, perhaps appalling, to know how many thousands of criminal careers have been begun in this way! "now, mister westly," said flinders, entering the tent in haste, "what's to be done? it's quite clear that mister tom's not to be hanged, for there's two or three of us'll commit murder before that happens; but i've bin soundin' the boys, an' i'm afeared there's a lot o' the worst wans that'll be glad to see him scragged, an' there's a lot as won't risk their own necks to save him, an' what betune the wan an' the other, them that'll fight for him are a small minority--so, again i say, what's to be done?" patrick flinders's usually jovial face had by that time become almost as long and lugubrious as that of westly. "i don't know," returned fred, shaking his head. "my one plan, on which i had been founding much hope, is upset. listen. it was this. i have been saving a good deal of my gold for a long time past and hiding it away secretly, so as to have something to fall back upon when poor tom had gambled away all his means. this hoard of mine amounted, i should think, to something like five hundred pounds. i meant to have offered it to gashford for the key of the prison, and for his silence, while we enabled tom once more to escape. but this money has, without my knowledge, been taken away and--" "stolen, you mean!" exclaimed flinders, in surprise. "no, not stolen--taken! i can't explain just now. it's enough to know that it is gone, and that my plan is thus overturned." "d'ee think gashford would let him out for that?" asked the irishman, anxiously. "i think so; but, after all, i'm almost glad that the money's gone, for i can't help feeling that this way of enticing gashford to do a thing, as it were slily, is underhand. it is a kind of bribery." "faix, then, it's not c'ruption anyhow, for the baste is as c'rupt as he can be already. an', sure, wouldn't it just be bribin' a blackguard not to commit murther?" "i don't know, pat. it is a horrible position to be placed in. poor, poor tom!" "have ye had supper?" asked flinders, quickly. "no--i cannot eat." "cook it then, an' don't be selfish. other people can ait, though ye can't. it'll kape yer mind employed--an i'll want somethin' to cheer me up whin i come back." pat flinders left the tent abruptly, and poor fred went about the preparation of supper in a half mechanical way, wondering what his comrade meant by his strange conduct. pat's meaning was soon made plain, that night, to a dozen or so of his friends, whom he visited personally and induced to accompany him to a sequestered dell in an out-of-the-way thicket where the moonbeams struggled through the branches and drew a lovely pale-blue pattern on the green-sward. "my frinds," he said, in a low, mysterious voice, "i know that ivery mother's son of ye is ready to fight for poor tom brixton to-morrow, if the wust comes to the wust. now, it has occurred to my chum westly an' me, that it would be better, safer, and surer to buy him up, than to fight for him, an' as i know some o' you fellers has dug up more goold than you knows well what to do wid, an' you've all got liberal hearts-- lastewise ye should have, if ye haven't--i propose, an' second the resolootion, that we make up some five hundred pounds betune us, an' presint it to bully gashford as a mark of our estaim--if he'll on'y give us up the kay o' the prison, put patrick flinders, esquire, sintry over it, an' then go to slape till breakfast-time tomorry mornin'." this plan was at once agreed to, for five hundred pounds was not a large sum to be made up by men who--some of them at least--had nearly made "their pile"--by which they meant their fortune, while the liberality of heart with which they had been credited was not wanting. having settled a few details, this singular meeting broke up, and patrick flinders-- acting as the secretary, treasurer, and executive committee--went off, with a bag of golden nuggets and unbounded self-confidence, to transact the business. chapter six. gashford was not quite so ready to accept flinders's offer as that enthusiast had expected. the bully seemed to be in a strangely unusual mood, too--a mood which at first the irishman thought favourable to his cause. "sit down," said gashford, with less gruffness than usual, when his visitor entered his hut. "what d'ye want wi' me?" flinders addressed himself at once to the subject of his mission, and became quite eloquent as he touched on the grandeur of the sum offered, the liberality of the offerers, and the ease with which the whole thing might be accomplished. a very faint smile rested on gashford's face as he proceeded, but by no other sign did he betray his thoughts until his petitioner had concluded. "so you want to buy him off?" said gashford, the smile expanding to a broad grin. "if yer honour had bin born a judge an' sot on the bench since iver ye was a small spalpeen, ye couldn't have hit it off more nately. that's just what we want--to buy him off. it's a purty little commercial transaction--a man's life for five hundred pound; an', sure it's a good price to give too, consitherin' how poor we all are, an what a dale o' sweatin' work we've got to do to git the goold." "but suppose i won't sell," said gashford, "what then?" "fair, then, i'll blow your brains out" thought the irishman, his fingers tingling with a desire to grasp the loaded revolver that lay in his pocket, but he had the wisdom to restrain himself and to say, "och! sor, sure ye'll niver refuse such a nat'ral request. an' we don't ask ye to help us. only to hand me the kay o' the prison, remove the sintry, an' then go quietly to yer bed wid five hundred pound in goold benathe yar hid to drame on." to add weight to his proposal he drew forth the bag of nuggets from one of his capacious coat pockets and held it up to view. "it's not enough," said gashford, with a stern gruffness of tone and look which sank the petitioner's hopes below zero. "ah! then, muster gashford," said flinders, with the deepest pathos, "it's yer own mother would plade wid ye for the poor boy's life, av she was here--think o' that. sure he's young and inexparienced, an' it's the first offince he's iver committed--" "no, not the first" interrupted gashford. "the first that i knows on," returned flinders. "tell me--does westly know of this proposal of yours?" "no sor, he doesn't." "ah, i thought not. with his religious notions, it would be difficult for him to join in an attempt to _bribe_ me to stop the course of justice." "well, sor, you're not far wrong, for muster westly had bin havin' a sort o' tussle wid his conscience on that very pint. you must know, he had made up his mind to do this very thing an' offer you all his savings--a thousand pound, more or less--to indooce you to help to save his frind, but he found his goold had bin stolen, so, you see, sor, he couldn't do it." "did he tell you who stole his gold?" "no, sor, he didn't--he said that some feller had took it--on loan, like, though i calls it stalin'--but he didn't say who." "and have you had no tussle with _your_ conscience, flinders, about this business?" the irishman's face wrinkled up into an expression of intense amusement at this question. "it's jokin' ye are, muster gashford. sure, now, me conscience--if i've got wan--doesn't bother me oftin; an' if it did, on this occasion, i'd send it to the right-about double quick, for it's not offerin' ye five hundred pound i am to stop the coorse o' justice, but to save ye from committin' murther! give muster brixton what punishment the coort likes--for stailin'--only don't hang him. that's all we ask." "you'll have to pay more for it then," returned the bully. "that's not enough." "sure we haven't got a rap more to kape our pots bilin', sor," returned flinders, in a tone of despair. "lastewise i can spake for myself; for i'm claned out--all _but_." "row much does the `all but' represent?" "well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it's about tchwo hundred pound, more or less, and i brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an' i haven't got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. it's the truth i'm tellin' ye, sor." there was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and placed it beside the first, that gashford could not help being convinced. "two hundred and five hundred," he said, meditatively. "that makes siven hundred, sor," said flinders, suggestively. the bully did not reply for a few seconds. then, taking up the bags of gold, he threw them into a corner. thereafter he drew a large key from his pocket and handed it to the irishman, who grasped it eagerly. "go to the prison," said gashford, "tell the sentry you've come to relieve him, and send him to me. mind, now, the rest of this business must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, _if it does_, your own days will be numbered." with vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate nature on gashford's head, the irishman hastened away, and went straight to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of the miners. "who goes there?" challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night was very dark. "mesilf, av coorse." "an' who may that be, for yer not the only patlander in camp, more's the pity!" "it's flinders i am. sure any man wid half an ear might know that. i've come to relave ye." "but you've got no rifle," returned the man, with some hesitation. "aren't revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an' better at close quarters? shut up your tatie-trap, now, an' be off to muster gashford's hut for he towld me to sind you there widout delay." this seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving flinders on guard. without a moment's loss of time paddy made use of the key and entered the prison. "is it there ye are, avic?" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he advanced with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against obstructions. "yes; who are you?" replied tom brixton, in a stern voice. "whist, now, or ye'll git me into throuble. sure, i'm yer sintry, no less, an' yer chum pat flinders." "indeed, paddy! i'm surprised that they should select you to be my jailer." "humph! well, they didn't let me have the place for nothing--och! musha!" the last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table. "not hurt, i hope," said brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident. "not much--only a new bump--but it's wan among many, so it don't matter. now, listen. time is precious. i've come for to set you free--not exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o' the camp haven't all gone to bed yet; but whin they're quiet, i'll come again an' help you to escape. i've only come now to let you know." the irishman then proceeded to give tom brixton a minute account of all that had been done in his behalf. he could not see how the news affected him, the prison being as dark as erebus, but great was his surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but firm voice, "thank you, flinders, for your kind intentions, but i don't mean to make a second attempt to escape." "ye don't intind to escape!" exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from. "no; i don't deserve to live, paddy, so i shall remain and be hanged." "i'll be hanged if ye do," said paddy, with much decision. "come, now, don't be talkin' nonsense. it's jokin' ye are, av coorse." "i'm very far from joking, my friend," returned tom, in a tone of deep despondency, "as you shall find when daylight returns. i am guilty-- more guilty than you fancy--so i shall plead guilty, whether tried or not, and take the consequences. besides, life is not worth having. i'm tired of it!" "och! but we've bought you, an' paid for you, an' you've no manner o' right to do what ye like wi' yourself," returned his exasperated chum. "but it's of no use talkin' to ye. there's somethin' wrong wi' your inside, no doubt. when i come back for ye at the right time you'll have thought better of it. come, now, give us your hand." "i wish i could, flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the cord so tight that i feel as if i had no hands at all." "i'll soon putt that right. where are ye? ah, that's it, now, kape stidy." flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his friend free. "now thin, remain where ye are till i come for ye; an' if any wan should rap at the door an' ax where's the sintinel an' the kay, just tell him ye don't know, an don't care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an' ax his grandmother." with this parting piece of advice flinders left the prisoner, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to fred westly, whom he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands. "if tom told you he wouldn't attempt to escape," said westly, on hearing the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, "you may be sure that he'll stick to it." "d'ye raaly think so, muster fred?" said his companion in deep anxiety. "i do. i know tom brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing will move him. but, come, i must go to the prison and talk with him." fred's talk, however, was not more effective than that of his friend had been. "well, tom," he said, as he and flinders were about to quit the block-house, "we will return at the hour when the camp seems fairly settled to sleep, probably about midnight, and i hope you will then be ready to fly. remember what flinders says is so far true--your life has been bought and the price paid, whether you accept or refuse it. think seriously of that before it be too late." again the prison door closed, and tom brixton was left, with this thought turning constantly and persistently in his brain: "bought and the price paid!" he repeated to himself; for the fiftieth time that night, as he sat in his dark prison. "'tis a strange way to put it to a fellow, but that does not alter the circumstances. no, i won't be moved by mere sentiment. i'll try the turk's plan, and submit to fate. i fancy this is something of the state of mind that men get into when they commit suicide. and yet i don't feel as if i would kill myself if i were free. bah! what's the use of speculating about it? anyhow my doom is fixed, and poor flinders with his friends will lose their money. my only regret is that that unmitigated villain gashford will get it. it would not be a bad thing, now that my hands are free, to run a-muck amongst 'em. i feel strength enough in me to rid the camp of a lot of devils before i should be killed! but, after all, what good would that do me when i couldn't know it--couldn't know it! perhaps i _could_ know it! no, no! better to die quietly, without the stain of human blood on my soul--if i _have_ a soul. escape! easy enough, maybe, to escape from pine tree diggings; but how escape from conscience? how escape from facts?--the girl i love holding me in contempt! my old friend and chum regarding me with pity! character gone! a life of crime before me! and death, by rope, or bullet or knife, sooner or later! better far to die now and have it over at once; prevent a deal of sin, too, as well as misery. `bought, and the price paid!' 'tis a strange way to put it and there is something like logic in the argument of paddy, that i've got no right to do what i like with myself! perhaps a casuist would say it is my _duty_ to escape. perhaps it is!" now, while tom brixton was revolving this knotty question in his mind, and bully gashford was revolving questions quite as knotty, and much more complex, and fred westly was discussing with flinders the best plan to be pursued in the event of tom refusing to fly, there was a party of men assembled under the trees in a mountain gorge, not far distant, who were discussing a plan of operations which, when carried out, bade fair to sweep away, arrest, and overturn other knotty questions and deep-laid plans altogether. it was the band of marauders who had made the abortive attack on bevan's fortress. when the attack was made, one of the redskins who guided the miners chanced to hear the war-whoop of a personal friend in the ranks of the attacking party. being troubled with no sense of honour worth mentioning, this faithless guide deserted at once to the enemy, and not only explained all he knew about the thief that he had been tracking, but gave, in addition, such information about the weak points of pine tree diggings, that the leader of the band resolved to turn aside for a little from his immediate purposes, and make a little hay while the sun shone in that direction. the band was a large one--a few on horseback, many on foot; some being indians and half-castes, others disappointed miners and desperadoes. a fierce villain among the latter was the leader of the band, which was held together merely by unity of purpose and interest in regard to robbery, and similarity of condition in regard to crime. "now, lads," said the leader, who was a tall, lanky, huge-boned, cadaverous fellow with a heavy chin and hawk-nose, named stalker, "i'll tell 'e what it is. seems to me that the diggers at pine tree camp are a set of out-an'-out blackguards--like most diggers--except this poor thief of a fellow brixton, so i vote for attackin' the camp, carryin' off all the gold we can lay hands on in the hurry-skurry, an' set this gentleman--this thief brixton--free. he's a bold chap, i'm told by the redskin, an' will no doubt be glad to jine us. an' we want a few bold men." the reckless robber-chief looked round with a mingled expression of humour and contempt, as he finished his speech, whereat some laughed and a few scowled. "but how shall we find brixton?" asked a man named goff, who appeared to be second in command. "i know the pine tree camp, but i don't know where's the prison." "no matter," returned stalker. "the redskin helps us out o' that difficulty. he tells me the prison is a blockhouse, that was once used as a powder-magazine, and stands on a height, a little apart from the camp. i'll go straight to it, set the young chap free, let him jump up behind me and ride off, while you and the rest of the boys are makin' the most of your time among the nuggets. we shall all meet again at the red man's teacup." "and when shall we go to work, captain!" asked the lieutenant. "now. there's no time like the present. strike when the iron's hot, boys!" he added, looking round at the men by whom he was encircled. "you know what we've got to do. advance together, like cats, till we're within a yard or two of the camp, then a silent rush when you hear my signal, the owl's hoot. no shouting, mind, till the first screech comes from the enemy; then, as concealment will be useless, give tongue, all of you, till your throats split if you like, an' pick up the gold. now, don't trouble yourselves much about fighting. let the bags be the main look-out--of course you'll have to defend your own heads, though i don't think there'll be much occasion for that--an' you know, if any of them are fools enough to fight for their gold, you'll have to dispose of them somehow." having delivered this address with much energy, the captain of the band put himself at its head and led the way. while this thunder-cloud was drifting down on the camp, fred westly and flinders were preparing for flight. they did not doubt that their friend would at the last be persuaded to escape, and had made up their minds to fly with him and share his fortunes. "we have nothing to gain, you see, paddy," said fred, "by remaining here, and, having parted with all our gold, have nothing to lose by going." "thrue for ye, sor, an' nothin' to carry except ourselves, worse luck!" said the irishman, with a deep sigh. "howiver, we lave no dibts behind us, that's wan comfort, so we may carry off our weapons an' horses wid clear consciences. are ye all ready now, sor?" "almost ready," replied fred, thrusting a brace of revolvers into his belt and picking up his rifle. "go for the horses, pat, and wait at the stable for me. our neighbours might hear the noise if you brought them round here." now, the stable referred to was the most outlying building of the camp, in the direction in which the marauders were approaching. it was a small log-hut of the rudest description perched on a little knoll which overlooked the camp, and from which tom brixton's prison could be clearly seen, perched on a neighbouring knoll. paddy flinders ruminated on the dangers and perplexities that might be in store for him that night, as he went swiftly and noiselessly up to the hut. to reach the door he had to pass round from the back to the front. as he did so he became aware of voices sounding softly close at hand. a large log lay on the ground. with speed worthy of a redskin he sank down beside it. "this way, captain; i've bin here before, an' know that you can see the whole camp from it--if it wasn't so confoundedly dark. there's a log somewhere--ah, here it is; we'll be able to see better if we mount it." "i wish we had more light," growled the so-called captain; "it won't be easy to make off on horseback in such--is this the log? here, lend a hand." as he spoke the robber-chief put one of his heavy boots on the little finger of pat flinders's left hand, and well-nigh broke it in springing on to the log in question! a peculiarly irish howl all but escaped from poor flinders's lips. "i see," said stalker, after a few moments. "there's enough of us to attack a camp twice the size. now we must look sharp. i'll go round to the prison and set brixton free. when that's done, i'll hoot three times--so--only a good deal louder. then you an' the boys will rush in and--you know the rest. come." descending from the log on the other side, the two desperadoes left the spot. then paddy rose and ran as if he had been racing, and as if the prize of the race were life! "bad luck to you, ye murtherin' thieves," growled the irishman, as he ran, "but i'll stop yer game, me boys!" chapter seven. as straight, and almost as swiftly, as an arrow, flinders ran to his tent, burst into the presence of his amazed comrade, seized him by both arms, and exclaimed in a sharp hoarse voice, the import of which there could be no mistaking-- "whisht!--howld yer tongue! the camp'll be attacked in ten minutes! be obadient now, an' foller me." flinders turned and ran out again, taking the path to gashford's hut with the speed of a hunted hare. fred westly followed. bursting in upon the bully, who had not yet retired to rest, the irishman seized him by both arms and repeated his alarming words, with this addition: "sind some wan to rouse the camp--but _silently_! no noise--or it's all up wid us!" there was something in paddy's manner and look that commanded respect and constrained obedience--even in gashford. "bill," he said, turning to a man who acted as his valet and cook, "rouse the camp. quietly--as you hear. let no man act however, till my voice is heard. you'll know it when ye hear it!" "no mistake about _that_!" muttered bill, as he ran out on his errand. "now--foller!" cried flinders, catching up a bit of rope with one hand and a billet of firewood with the other, as he dashed out of the hut and made straight for the prison, with gashford and westly close at his heels. gashford meant to ask flinders for an explanation as he ran, but the latter rendered this impossible by outrunning him. he reached the prison first, and had already entered when the others came up and ran in. he shut the door and locked it on the inside. "now, then, listen, all of ye," he said, panting vehemently, "an' take in what i say, for the time's short. the camp'll be attacked in five minits--more or less. i chanced to overhear the blackguards. their chief comes here to set muster brixton free. then--och! here he comes! do as i bid ye, ivery wan, an' howld yer tongues." the latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily. presently a rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door. it touched the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap. "i'll spake for ye," whispered flinders in brixton's ear. another pause, and then another tap at the door. "arrah! who goes there?" cried paddy, stretching himself, as if just awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn. "a friend," answered the robber-chief through the keyhole. "a frind!" echoed pat. "sure an' that's a big lie, if iver there was one. aren't ye goin' to hang me i' the mornin'?" "no indeed, i ain't one o' this camp. but surely you can't be the man-- the--the thief--named brixton, for you're an irishman." "an' why not?" demanded flinders. "sure the brixtons are irish to the backbone--an' thieves too--root an' branch from adam an' eve downwards. but go away wid ye. i don't belave that ye're a frind. you've only just come to tormint me an' spile my slape the night before my funeral. fie for shame! go away an' lave me in pace." "you're wrong, brixton; i've come to punish the blackguards that would hang you, an' set you free, as i'll soon show you. is the door strong?" "well, it's not made o' cast iron, but it's pretty tough." "stand clear, then, an' i'll burst it in wi' my foot," said stalker. "och! is it smashin' yer bones you'll be after! howld fast. are ye a big man?" "yes, pretty big." "that's a good job, for a little un would only bust hisself agin it for no use. you'll have to go at it like a hoy-draulic ram." "never fear. there's not many doors in these diggin's that can remain shut when i want 'em open," said the robber, as he retired a few paces to enable him to deliver his blow with greater momentum. "howld on a minit, me frind," said paddy, who had quietly turned the key and laid hold of the handle; "let me git well out o' the way, and give me warnin' before you come." "all right. now then, look out!" cried stalker. those inside heard the rapid little run that a man takes before launching himself violently against an object. flinders flung the door wide open in the nick of time. the robber's foot dashed into empty space, and the robber himself plunged headlong, with a tremendous crash, on the floor. at the same instant flinders brought his billet of wood down with all his might on the spot where he guessed the man's head to be. the blow was well aimed, and rendered the robber chief incapable of further action for the time being. "faix, ye'll not `hoot' to yer frinds this night, anyhow," said flinders, as they dragged the fallen chief to the doorway, to make sure, by the faint light, that he was helpless. "now, thin," continued paddy, "we'll away an' lead the boys to battle. you go an' muster them, sor, an' i'll take ye to the inimy." "have you seen their ambush, and how many there are!" asked gashford. "niver a wan have i seen, and i've only a gineral notion o' their whereabouts." "how then can you lead us?" "obey orders, an' you'll see, sor. i'm in command to-night. if ye don't choose to foller, ye'll have to do the best ye can widout me." "lead on, then," cried gashford, half amused and half angered by the man's behaviour. flinders led the way straight to gashford's hut where, as he anticipated, the man named bill had silently collected most of the able-bodied men of the camp, all armed to the teeth. he at once desired gashford to put them in fighting order and lead them. when they were ready he went off at a rapid pace towards the stable before mentioned. "they should be hereabouts, muster gashford," he said, in a low voice, "so git yer troops ready for action." "what do ye mean?" growled gashford. to this flinders made no reply, but turning to westly and brixton, who stood close at his side, whispered them to meet him at the stable before the fight was quite over. he then put his hand to his mouth and uttered three hoots like an owl. "i believe you are humbugging us," said gashford. "whisht, sor--listen!" the breaking of twigs was heard faintly in the distance, and, a few moments later, the tramp, apparently, of a body of men. presently dark forms were dimly seen to be advancing. "now's your time, gineral! give it 'em hot," whispered flinders. "ready! present! fire!" said gashford, in a deep, solemn tone, which the profound silence rendered distinctly audible. the marauders halted, as if petrified. next moment a sheet of flame burst from the ranks of the miners, and horrible yells rent the air, high above which, like the roar of a lion, rose gashford's voice in the single word:-- "charge!" but the panic-stricken robbers did not await the onset. they turned and fled, hotly pursued by the men of pine tree diggings. "that'll do!" cried flinders to brixton; "they'll not need us any more this night. come wid me now." fred westly, who had rushed to the attack with the rest, soon pulled up. remembering the appointment, he returned to the stable, where he found tom gazing in silence at flinders, who was busily employed saddling their three horses. he at once understood the situation. "of course you've made up your mind to go, tom?" he said. "n-no," answered tom. "i have not." "faix, thin, you'll have to make it up pritty quick now, for whin the boys come back the prisoners an wounded men'll be sure to tell that their chief came for the express purpose of rescuin' that `thief brixton'--an' it's hangin' that'll be too good for you then. roastin' alive is more likely. it's my opinion that if they catch us just now, muster fred an' i will swing for it too! come, sor, git up!" tom hesitated no longer. he vaulted into the saddle. his comrades also mounted, and in a few minutes more the three were riding away from pine tree diggings as fast as the nature of the ground and the darkness of the hour would permit. it was not quite midnight when they left the place where they had toiled so long, and had met with so many disasters, and the morning was not far advanced when they reached the spring of the red man's teacup. as this was a natural and convenient halting-place to parties leaving those diggings, they resolved to rest and refresh themselves and their steeds for a brief space, although they knew that the robber-chief had appointed that spot as a rendezvous after the attack on the camp. "you see, it's not likely they'll be here for an hour or two," said tom brixton, as he dismounted and hobbled his horse, "for it will take some time to collect their scattered forces, and they won't have their old leader to spur them on, as paddy's rap on the head will keep him quiet till the men of the camp find him." "troth, i'm not so sure o' that, sor. the rap was a stiff wan, no doubt, but men like that are not aisy to kill. besides, won't the boys o' the camp purshoo them, which'll be spur enough, an' if they finds us here, it'll matter little whether we fall into the hands o' diggers or robbers. so ye'll make haste av ye take my advice." they made haste accordingly, and soon after left; and well was it that they did so, for, little more than an hour later, stalker--his face covered with blood and his head bandaged--galloped up at the head of the mounted men of his party. "we'll camp here for an hour or two," he said sharply, leaping from his horse, which he proceeded to unsaddle. "hallo! somebody's bin here before us. their fire ain't cold yet. well, it don't matter. get the grub ready, boys, an' boil the kettle. my head is all but split. if ever i have the luck to come across that irish blackguard brixton i'll--" he finished the sentence with a deep growl and a grind of his teeth. about daybreak the marauders set out again, and it chanced that the direction they took was the same as that taken by fred westly and his comrades. these latter had made up their minds to try their fortune at a recently discovered goldfield, which was well reported of, though the yield had not been sufficient to cause a "rush" to the place. it was about three days' journey on horseback from the red man's teacup, and was named simpson's gully, after the man who discovered it. the robbers' route lay, as we have said, in the same direction, but only for part of the way, for simpson's gully was not their ultimate destination. they happened to be better mounted than the fugitives, and travelled faster. thus it came to pass that on the second evening, they arrived somewhat late at the camping-place where fred and his friends were spending the night. these latter had encamped earlier that evening. supper was over, pipes were out and they were sound asleep when the robber band rode up. flinders was first to observe their approach. he awoke his comrades roughly. "och! the blackguards have got howld of us. be aisy, muster brixton. no use fightin'. howld yer tongues, now, an' let _me_ spake. yer not half liars enough for the occasion, aither of ye." this compliment had barely been paid when they were surrounded and ordered to rise and give an account of themselves. "what right have _you_ to demand an account of us?" asked tom brixton, recklessly, in a supercilious tone that was meant to irritate. "the right of might," replied stalker, stepping up to tom, and grasping him by the throat. tom resisted, of course, but being seized at the same moment by two men from behind, was rendered helpless. his comrades were captured at the same moment, and the arms of all bound behind them. "now, gentlemen," said the robber chief, "perhaps you will answer with more civility." "you are wrong, for i won't answer at all," said tom brixton, "which i take to be _less_ civility." "neither will i," said fred, who had come to the conclusion that total silence would be the easiest way of getting over the difficulties that filled his mind in regard to deception. patrick flinders, however, had no such difficulties. to the amazement of his companions, he addressed a speech to stalker in language so broken with stuttering and stammering that the marauders around could scarcely avoid laughing, though their chief seemed to be in no mood to tolerate mirth. tom and fred did not at first understand, though it soon dawned upon them that by this means he escaped being recognised by the man with whom he had so recently conversed through the keyhole of tom brixton's prison door. "s-s-s-sor," said he, in a somewhat higher key than he was wont to speak, "my c-c-comrades are c-c-cross-g-grained critters b-both of 'em, th-th-though they're g-good enough in their way, for all that. a-a-ax _me_ what ye w-w-want to know." "can't you speak without so many k-k-kays an' j-j-gees?" demanded stalker, impatiently. "n-n-no, s-sor, i c-can't, an' the m-more you t-try to make me the w-w-wus i g-gits." "well, then, come to the point, an' don't say more than's needful." "y-y-yis, sor." "what's this man's name!" asked the chief, settling the bandages uneasily on his head with one hand, and pointing to brixton with the other. "m-muster t-t-tom, sor." "that's his christian name, i suppose?" "w-w-well, i'm not sure about his bein' a c-c-c-christian." "do you spell it t-o-m or t-h-o-m?" "th-that depinds on t-t-taste, sor." "bah! you're a fool!" "thank yer honour, and i'm also an i-i-irish m-man as sure me name's flinders." "there's one of your countrymen named brixton," said the chief, with a scowl, "who's a scoundrel of the first water, and i have a crow to pluck with him some day when we meet. meanwhile i feel half-disposed to give his countryman a sound thrashing as part payment of the debt in advance." "ah! sure, sor, me counthryman'll let ye off the dibt, no doubt," returned flinders. "hallo! you seem to have found your tongue all of a sudden!" "f-faix, then, it's b-bekaise of yer not houndin' me on. i c-c-can't stand bein' hurried, ye s-see. b-besides, i was havin' me little j-j-joke, an' i scarcely sp-splutter at all whin i'm j-j-jokin'." "where did you come from?" demanded the chief, sharply. "from p-pine tree d-diggin's." "oh, indeed? when did you leave the camp?" "on m-monday mornin', sor." "then of course you don't know anything about the fight that took place there on monday night!" "d-don't i, sor?" "why don't you answer whether you do or not?" said stalker, beginning to lose temper. "sh-shure yer towld me th-that i d-d-don't know, an i'm too p-p-purlite to c-contradic' yer honour." "bah! you're a fool." "ye t-t-towld me that before, sor." the robber chief took no notice of the reply, but led his lieutenant aside and held a whispered conversation with him for a few minutes. now, among other blessings, flinders possessed a pair of remarkably acute ears, so that, although he could not make out the purport of the whispered conversation, he heard, somewhat indistinctly, the words "bevan" and "betty." coupling these words with the character of the men around him, he jumped to a conclusion and decided on a course of action in one and the same instant. presently stalker returned, and addressing himself to tom and fred, said-- "now, sirs, i know not your circumstances nor your plans, but i'll take the liberty of letting you know something of mine. men give me and my boys bad names. we call ourselves free-and-easy boys. we work hard for our living. it is our plan to go round the country collecting taxes-- revenue--or whatever you choose to call it, and punishing those who object to pay. now, we want a few stout fellows to replace the brave men who have fallen at the post of duty. will you join us?" "certainly not," said fred, with decision. "of course not," said tom, with contempt. "well, then, my fine fellows, you may follow your own inclinations, for there's too many willing boys around to make us impress unwilling ones, but i shall take the liberty of relieving you of your possessions. i will tax _you_ to the full amount." he turned and gave orders in a low voice to those near him. in a few minutes the horses, blankets, food, arms, etcetera, of the three friends were collected, and themselves unbound. "now," said the robber chief, "i mean to spend the night here. you may bid us good-night. the world lies before you--go!" "b-b-but, sor," said flinders, with a perplexed and pitiful air. "ye niver axed _me_ if i'd j-j-jine ye." "because i don't want you," said stalker. "ah! thin, it's little ye know th-the j-j-jewel ye're th-throwin' away." "what can you do?" asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his disfigured face. "what c-can i _not_ do? ye should ax. w-w-why, i can c-c-c-cook, an' f-f-fight, an' d-dance, an' t-t-tell stories, an' s-s-sing an'--" "there, that'll do. i accept you," said stalker, turning away, while his men burst into a laugh, and felt that flinders would be a decided acquisition to the party. "are we to go without provisions or weapons?" asked fred westly, before leaving. "you may have both," answered stalker, "by joining us. if you go your own way--you go as you are. please yourselves." "you may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it," remonstrated fred. "is it not so, tom?" tom did not condescend to reply. he had evidently screwed his spirit up--or down--to the turkish condition of apathy and contempt. "you're young, both of you, and strong," answered the robber. "the woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish. if you know anything of woodcraft you can't starve." "an' sh-sh-sure tomlin's diggin's isn't far--far off--straight f-f-fornint you," said flinders, going close up to his friends, and whispering, "kape round by bevan's gully. you'll be--" "come, none of your whisperin' together!" shouted stalker. "you're one of _us_ now, flinders, so say goodbye to your old chums an' fall to the rear." "yis, sor," replied the biddable flinders, grasping each of his comrades by the hand and wringing it as he said, "g-g-good-bye, f-f-foolish b-boys, (bevan's gully--_sharp_!) f-farewell f-for i-i-iver!" and, covering his face with his hands, burst into crocodile's tears while he fell to the rear. he separated two of his fingers, however, in passing a group of his new comrades, in order to bestow on them a wink which produced a burst of subdued laughter. surprised, annoyed, and puzzled, tom brixton thrust both hands into his trousers pockets, turned round on his heel, and, without uttering a word, sauntered slowly away. fred westly, in a bewildered frame of mind, followed his example, and the two friends were soon lost to view--swallowed up, as it were, by the oregon wilderness. chapter eight. after walking through the woods a considerable distance in perfect silence--for the suddenness of the disaster seemed to have bereft the two friends of speech--tom brixton turned abruptly and said-- "well, fred, we're in a nice fix now. what is to be our next move in this interesting little game?" fred westly shook his head with an air of profound perplexity, but said nothing. "i've a good mind," continued tom, "to return to pine tree diggings, give myself up, and get hanged right off. it would be a good riddance to the world at large, and would relieve me of a vast deal of trouble." "there is a touch of selfishness in that speech, tom--don't you think?-- for it would not relieve _me_ of trouble; to say nothing of your poor mother!" "you're right, fred. d'you know, it strikes me that i'm a far more selfish and despicable brute than i used to think myself." he looked at his companion with a sad sort of smile; nevertheless, there was a certain indefinable ring of sincerity in his tone. "tom," said the other, earnestly, "will you wait for me here for a few minutes while i turn aside to pray?" "certainly, old boy," answered tom, seating himself on a mossy bank. "you know i cannot join you." "i know you can't, tom. it would be mockery to pray to one in whom you don't believe; but as _i_ believe in god, the bible, and prayer, you'll excuse my detaining you, just for--" "say no more, fred. go; i shall wait here for you." a slight shiver ran through brixton's frame as he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. "god help me!" he exclaimed, under a sudden impulse, "i've come down _very_ low, god help me!" fred soon returned. "you prayed for guidance, i suppose?" said tom, as his friend sat down beside him. "i did." "well, what is the result?" "there is no result as yet--except, of course, the calmer state of my mind, now that i have committed our case into our father's hands." "_your_ father's, you mean." "no, i mean _our_, for he is your father as well as mine, whether you admit it or not. jesus has bought you and paid for you, tom, with his own blood. you are not your own." "not my own? bought and paid for!" thought brixton, recalling the scene in which words of somewhat similar import had been addressed to him. "bought and paid for--twice bought! body and soul!" then, aloud, "and what are you going to do now, fred?" "going to discuss the situation with you." "and after you have discussed it, and acted according to our united wisdom, you will say that you have been guided." "just so! that is exactly what i will say and believe, for `he is faithful who has promised.'" "and if you make mistakes and go wrong, you will still hold, i suppose, that you have been guided?" "undoubtedly i will--not guided, indeed, into the mistakes, but guided to what will be best in the long-run, in spite of them." "but fred, how can you call guidance in the wrong direction _right_ guidance?" "why, tom, can you not conceive of a man being guided wrongly as regards some particular end he has in view, and yet that same guidance being right, because leading him to something far better which, perhaps, he has _not_ in view?" "so that" said tom, with a sceptical laugh, "whether you go right or go wrong, you are sure to come right in the end!" "just so! `_all_ things work together for good to them that love god.'" "does not that savour of jesuitism, fred, which teaches the detestable doctrine that you may do evil if good is to come of it?" "not so, tom; because i did not understand you to use the word _wrong_ in the sense of _sinful_, but in the sense of erroneous--mistaken. if i go in a wrong road, knowing it to be wrong, i sin; but if i go in a wrong road mistakenly, i still count on guidance, though not perhaps to the particular end at which i aimed--nevertheless, guidance to a _good_ end. surely you will admit that no man is perfect?" "admitted." "well, then, imperfection implies mistaken views and ill-directed action, more or less, in every one, so that if we cannot claim to be guided by god except when free from error in thought and act, then there is no such thing as divine guidance at all. surely you don't hold that!" "some have held it." "yes; `the fool hath said in his heart, there is no god,'--some have even gone the length of letting it out of the heart and past the lips. with such we cannot argue; their case admits only of pity and prayer." "i agree with you there, fred; but if your views are not jesuitical, they seem to me to be strongly fatalistic. commit one's way to god, you say; then, shut one's eyes, drive ahead anyhow, and--the end will be sure to be all right!" "no, i did not say that. with the exception of the first sentence, tom, that is your way of stating the case, not god's way. if you ask in any given difficulty, `what shall i do?' his word replies, `commit thy way unto the lord. trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass.' if you ask, `how am i to know what is best?' the word again replies, `hear, ye deaf; look, ye blind, that you may see.' surely that is the reverse of shutting the eyes, isn't it? if you say, `how shall i act?' the word answers, `a good man will guide his affairs with discretion.' that's not driving ahead anyhow, is it?" "you may be right," returned tom, "i hope you are. but, come, what does your wisdom suggest in the present difficulty?" "the first thing that occurs to me," replied the other, "is what flinders said, just before we were ordered off by the robbers. `keep round by bevan's gully,' he said, in the midst of his serio-comic leave-taking; and again he said, `bevan's gully--sharp!' of course paddy, with his jokes and stammering, has been acting a part all through this business, and i am convinced that he has heard something about bevan's gully; perhaps an attack on bevan himself, which made him wish to tell us to go there." "of course; how stupid of me not to see that before! let's go at once!" cried tom, starting up in excitement. "undoubtedly he meant that. he must have overheard the villains talk of going there, and we may not be in time to aid them unless we push on." "but in what direction does the gully lie?" asked fred, with a puzzled look. tom returned the look with one of perplexity, for they were now a considerable distance both from bevan's gully and pine tree diggings, in the midst of an almost unknown wilderness. from the latter place either of the friends could have travelled to the former almost blindfold; but, having by that time lost their exact bearings, they could only guess at the direction. "i think," said fred, after looking round and up at the sky for some time, "considering the time we have been travelling, and the position of the sun, that the gully lies over yonder. indeed, i feel almost sure it does." he pointed, as he spoke, towards a ridge of rocky ground that cut across the western sky and hid much of the more distant landscape in that direction. "nonsense, man!" returned tom, sharply, "it lies in precisely the opposite direction. our adventures have turned your brain, i think. come, don't let us lose time. think of betty; that poor girl may be killed if there is another attack. she was slightly wounded last time. come!" fred looked quickly in his friend's face. it was deeply flushed, and his eye sparkled with unwonted fire. "poor fellow! his case is hopeless; she will never wed him," thought fred, but he only said, "i, too, would not waste time, but it seems to me we shall lose much if we go in that direction. the longer i study the nature of the ground, and calculate our rate of travelling since we left the diggings, the more am i convinced that our way lies westward." "i feel as certain as you do," replied tom with some asperity, for he began to chafe under the delay. "but if you are determined to go that way you must go by yourself, old boy, for i can't afford to waste time on a wrong road." "nay, if you are so sure, i will give in and follow. lead on," returned tom's accommodating friend, with a feeling of mingled surprise and chagrin. in less than an hour they reached a part of the rocky ridge before mentioned, from which they had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. it was wilderness truly, but such a wilderness of tree and bush, river and lake, cascade and pool, flowering plant and festooned shrub, dense thicket and rolling prairie, backed here and there by cloud-capped hills, as seldom meets the eye or thrills the heart of traveller, except in alpine lands. deep pervading silence marked the hour, for the air was perfectly still, and though the bear, the deer, the wolf, the fox, and a multitude of wild creatures were revelling there in the rich enjoyment of natural life, the vast region, as it were, absorbed and dissipated their voices almost as completely as their persons, so that it seemed but a grand untenanted solitude, just freshly laid out by the hand of the wonder-working creator. every sheet of water, from the pool to the lake, reflected an almost cloudless blue, excepting towards the west, where the sun, by that time beginning to descend, converted all into sheets of liquid gold. the two friends paused on the top of a knoll, more to recover breath than to gaze on the exquisite scene, for they both felt that they were speeding on a mission that might involve life or death. fred's enthusiastic admiration, however, would no doubt have found vent in fitting words if he had not at the moment recognised a familiar landmark. "i knew it!" he cried, eagerly. "look, tom, that is ranger's hill on the horizon away to the left. it is very faint from distance, but i could not mistake its form." "nonsense, fred! you never saw it from this point of view before, and hills change their shape amazingly from different points of view. come along." "no, i am too certain to dispute the matter any longer. if you will have it so, we must indeed part here. but oh! tom, don't be obstinate! why, what has come over you, my dear fellow? don't you see--" "i see that evening is drawing on, and that we shall be too late. good-bye! one friendly helping hand will be better to her than none. i _know_ i'm right." tom hurried away, and poor fred, after gazing in mingled surprise and grief at his comrade until he disappeared, turned with a heavy sigh and went off in the opposite direction. "well," he muttered to himself, as he sped along at a pace that might have made even a red man envious, "we are both of us young and strong, so that we are well able to hold out for a considerable time on such light fare as the shrubs of the wilderness produce, and when tom discovers his mistake he'll make good use of his long legs to overtake me. i cannot understand his infatuation. but with god's blessing, all shall yet be well." comforting himself with the last reflection, and offering up a heartfelt prayer as he pressed on, fred westly was soon separated from his friend by many a mile of wilderness. meanwhile tom brixton traversed the land with strides not only of tremendous length, but unusual rapidity. his "infatuation" was not without its appropriate cause. the physical exertions and sufferings which the poor fellow had undergone for so long a period, coupled with the grief, amounting almost to despair, which tormented his brain, had at last culminated in fever; and the flushed face and glittering eyes, which his friend had set down to anxiety about bevan's pretty daughter, were, in reality, indications of the gathering fires within. so also was the obstinacy. for it must be admitted that the youth's natural disposition was tainted with that objectionable quality which, when fever, drink, or any other cause of madness operates in any man, is apt to assert itself powerfully. at first he strode over the ground with terrific energy, thinking only of betty and her father in imminent danger; pausing now and then abruptly to draw his hand across his brow and wonder if he was getting near bevan's gully. then, as his mind began to wander, he could not resist a tendency to shout. "what a fool i am!" he muttered, after having done this once or twice. "i suppose anxiety about that dear girl is almost driving me mad. but she can never--never be mine. i'm a thief! a thief! ha! ha-a-a-ah!" the laugh that followed might have appalled even a red and painted warrior. it did terrify, almost into fits, all the tree and ground squirrels within a mile of him, for these creatures went skurrying off to holes and topmost boughs in wild confusion when they heard it echoing through the woods. when this fit passed off tom took to thinking again. he strode over hillock, swamp, and plain in silence, save when, at long intervals, he muttered the words, "think, think, thinking. always thinking! can't stop think, thinking!" innumerable wild fowl, and many of the smaller animals of the woods, met him in his mad career, and fled from his path, but one of these seemed at last inclined to dispute the path with him. it was a small brown bear, which creature, although insignificant when compared with the gigantic grizzly, is, nevertheless, far more than a match for the most powerful unarmed man that ever lived. this rugged creature chanced to be rolling sluggishly along as if enjoying an evening saunter at the time when tom approached. the place was dotted with willow bushes, so that when the two met there was not more than a hundred yards between them. the bear saw the man instantly, and rose on its hind legs to do battle. at that moment tom lifted his eyes. throwing up his arms, he uttered a wild yell of surprise, which culminated in a fit of demoniacal laughter. but there was no laughter apparent on poor tom's flushed and fierce visage, though it issued from his dry lips. without an instant's hesitation he rushed at the bear with clenched fists. the animal did not await the charge. dropping humbly on its fore-legs, it turned tail and fled, at such a pace that it soon left its pursuer far behind! just as it disappeared over a distant ridge tom came in sight of a small pond or lakelet covered with reeds, and swarming with ducks and geese, besides a host of plover and other aquatic birds--most of them with outstretched necks, wondering no doubt what all the hubbub could be about. tom incontinently bore down on these, and dashing in among them was soon up to his neck in water! he remained quiet for a few minutes and deep silence pervaded the scene. then the water began to feel chill. the wretched man crept out and, remembering his errand, resumed his rapid journey. soon the fever burned again with intensified violence, and the power of connected thought began to depart from its victim altogether. while in this condition tom brixton wandered aimlessly about, sometimes walking smartly for a mile or so, at other times sauntering slowly, as if he had no particular object in view, and occasionally breaking into a run at full speed, which usually ended in his falling exhausted on the ground. at last, as darkness began to overspread the land, he became so worn-out that he flung himself down under a tree, with a hazy impression on his mind that it was time to encamp for the night. the fever was fierce and rapid in its action. first it bereft him of reason and then left him prostrate, without the power to move a limb except with the greatest difficulty. it was about the hour of noon when his reasoning powers returned, and, strange to say, the first conscious act of his mind was to recall the words "_twice bought_," showing that the thought had been powerfully impressed on him before delirium set in. what he had said or done during his ravings he knew not, for memory was a blank, and no human friend had been there to behold or listen. at that time, however, tom did not think very deeply about these words, or, indeed, about anything else. his prostration was so great that he did not care at first to follow out any line of thought or to move a limb. a sensation of absolute rest and total indifference seemed to enchain all his faculties. he did not even know where he was, and did not care, but lay perfectly still, gazing up through the overhanging branches into the bright blue sky, sometimes dozing off into a sleep that almost resembled death, from which he awoke gently, to wonder, perhaps, in an idle way, what had come over him, and then ceasing to wonder before the thought had become well defined. the first thing that roused him from this condition was a passing thought of betty bevan. he experienced something like a slight shock, and the blood which had begun to stagnate received a new though feeble impulse at its fountain-head, the heart. under the force of it he tried to rise, but could not although he strove manfully. at last, however, he managed to raise himself on one elbow, and looked round with dark and awfully large eyes, while he drew his left hand tremblingly across his pale brow. he observed the trembling fingers and gazed at them inquiringly. "i--i must have been ill. so weak, too! where am i? the forest-- everywhere! what can it all mean? there was a--a thought--what could it--ah! betty--dear girl--that was it. but what of her? danger--yes-- in danger. ha! _now_ i have it!" there came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time. on recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and that, even if he had known his way to bevan's gully, his strength was utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood in need of it so sorely. in the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish glare, but there was no food within his reach--not even a wild berry. "i believe that i am dying," he said at last, with deep solemnity. "god forgive me! twice bought! fred said that jesus had bought my soul before the miners bought my life." for some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer. "it is terrible to die here--alone!" he murmured, recovering from one of his silent fits. "oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but still beloved mother! would that i had a pen to scratch a few words before--stay, i have a pencil." he searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could not find paper. the lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and unfit for his purpose. looking sadly round, he observed that the tree against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of which, he knew, would serve his purpose. with great difficulty he tore off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of contentment played on his lips. from time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he fell asleep in the midst of his labour. heavy labour it was, too, for the nerveless hands almost refused to form the irregular scrawl. still he persevered--till evening. then a burning thirst assailed him, and he looked eagerly round for water, but there was none in view. his eyes lighted up, however, as he listened, for the soft tinkling of a tiny rill filled his ear. with a desperate effort he got upon his hands and knees, and crept in the direction whence the sound came. he found the rill in a few moments, and, falling on his breast, drank with feelings of intense gratitude in his heart. when satisfied he rose to his knees again and tried to return to his tree, but even while making the effort he sank slowly on his breast, pillowed his head on the wet green moss, and fell into a profound slumber. chapter nine. we left fred hastening through the forest to the help of his friends at bevan's gully. at first, after parting from his comrade, he looked back often and anxiously, in the hope that tom might find out his mistake and return to him; but as mile after mile was placed between them, he felt that this hope was vain, and turned all his energies of mind and body to the task that lay before him. this was to outwalk stalker's party of bandits and give timely warning to the bevans; for, although flinders's hints had been vague enough, he readily guessed that the threatened danger was the descent of the robbers on their little homestead, and it naturally occurred to his mind that this was probably the same party which had made the previous attack, especially as he had observed several indians among them. young, sanguine, strong, and active, fred, to use a not inapt phrase, devoured the ground with his legs! sometimes he ran, at other times he walked, but more frequently he went along at an easy trot, which, although it looked slower than quick walking, was in reality much faster, besides being better suited to the rough ground he had to traverse. night came at last but night could not have arrested him if it had not been intensely dark. this, however, did not trouble him much, for he knew that the same cause would arrest the progress of his foes, and besides, the moon would rise in an hour. he therefore flung himself on the ground for a short rest, and fell asleep, while praying that god would not suffer him to sleep too long. his prayer was answered, for he awoke with a start an hour afterwards, just as the first pale light of the not quite risen moon began to tinge the clear sky. fred felt very hungry, and could not resist the tendency to meditate on beefsteaks and savoury cutlets for some time after resuming his journey; but, after warming to the work, and especially after taking a long refreshing draught at a spring that bubbled like silver in the moonlight, these longings passed away. hour after hour sped by, and still the sturdy youth held on at the same steady pace, for he knew well that to push beyond his natural strength in prolonged exertion would only deduct from the end of his journey whatever he might gain at the commencement. day broke at length. as it advanced the intense longing for food returned, and, to his great anxiety, it was accompanied by a slight feeling of faintness. he therefore glanced about for wild fruits as he went along, without diverging from his course, and was fortunate to fall in with several bushes which afforded him a slight meal of berries. in the strength of these he ran on till noon, when the faint feeling returned, and he was fain to rest for a little beside a brawling brook. "oh! father, help me!" he murmured, as he stooped to drink. on rising, he continued to mutter to himself, "if only a tithe of my ordinary strength were left, or if i had one good meal and a short rest, i could be there in three hours; but--" whatever fred's fears were, he did not express them. he arose and recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a bloodhound on the scent. perhaps he was thinking of his previous conversation with tom brixton about being guided by god in _all_ circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, "it is my duty to act and leave results to him." towards the afternoon of that day paul bevan was busy mending a small cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his plank-bridge usually spanned the brook. it was drawn back, however, at the time, and lay on the fortress side, for paul had been rendered somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises. "hallo, betty!" he cried. "yes, father," replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face flushed from the exertion of making bread. "are the guns loaded, lass?" "yes, father," replied betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards which paul gazed. "but i see only one man," she added. "ay, an' a drunk man too, who couldn't make much of a fight if he wanted to. but lass, the drunk man may have any number of men at his back, both drunk and sober, so it's well to be ready. just fetch the revolvers an' have 'em handy while i go down to meet him." "father, it seems to me i should know that figure. why, it's--no, surely it cannot be young mister westly!" "no doubt of it, girl. your eyes are better than mine, but i see him clearer as he comes on. young westly--drunk--ha! ha!--as a hatter! i'll go help him over." paul chuckled immensely--as sinners are wont to do when they catch those whom they are pleased to call "saints" tripping--but when he had pushed the plank over, and fred, plunging across, fell at his feet in a state of insensibility, his mirth vanished and he stooped to examine him. his first act was to put his nose to the youth's mouth and sniff. "no smell o' drink there," he muttered. then he untied fred's neckcloth and loosened his belt. then, as nothing resulted from these acts, he set himself to lift the fallen man in his arms. being a sturdy fellow he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, and staggered with his burden towards the hut, where he was met by his anxious daughter. "why, lass, he's no more drunk than you are!" cried paul, as he laid fred on his own bed. "fetch me the brandy--flask--no? well, get him a cup of coffee, if ye prefer it." "it will be better for him, father; besides, it is fortunately ready and hot." while the active girl ran to the outer room or "hall" of the hut for the desired beverage, paul slily forced a teaspoonful of diluted brandy into fred's mouth. it had, at all events, the effect of restoring him to consciousness, for he opened his eyes and glanced from side to side with a bewildered air. then he sat up suddenly, and said-- "paul, the villains are on your track again. i've hastened ahead to tell you. i'd have been here sooner--but--but i'm--starving." "eat, then--eat before you speak, mr westly," said betty, placing food before him. "but the matter is urgent!" cried fred. "hold on, mr fred," said paul; "did you an' the enemy--whoever he may be, though i've a pretty fair guess--start to come here together?" "within the same hour, i should think." "an' did you camp for the night?" "no. at least i rested but one hour." "then swallow some grub an' make your mind easy. they won't be here for some hours yet, for you've come on at a rate that no party of men could beat, i see that clear enough--unless they was mounted." "but a few of the chief men _were_ mounted, paul." "pooh! that's nothing. chief men won't come on without the or'nary men. it needs or'nary men, you know, to make chief 'uns. ha! ha! come, now, if you can't hold your tongue, try to speak and eat at the same time." thus encouraged, fred set to work on some bread and cheese and coffee with all the _gusto_ of a starving man, and, at broken intervals, blurted out all he knew and thought about the movements of the robber band, as well as his own journey and his parting with brixton. "'tis a pity, an' strange, too, that he was so obstinate," observed paul. "but he thought he was right" said betty; and then she blushed with vexation at having been led by impulse even to appear to justify her lover. but paul took no notice. "it matters not," said he, "for it happens that you have found us almost on the wing, westly. i knew full well that this fellow buxley--" "they call him stalker, if you mean the robber chief" interrupted fred. "pooh! did you ever hear of a robber chief without half a dozen aliases?" rejoined paul. "this buxley, havin' found out my quarters, will never rest till he kills me; so as i've no fancy to leave my little betty in an unprotected state yet a while, we have packed up our goods and chattels--they ain't much to speak of--and intend to leave the old place this very night. your friend stalker won't attack till night--i know the villain well--but your news inclines me to set off a little sooner than i intended. so, what you have got to do is to lie down an' rest while betty and i get the horse an' cart ready. we've got a spare horse, which you're welcome to. we sent little tolly trevor off to briant's gulch to buy a pony for my little lass. he should have been back by this time if he succeeded in gettin' it." "but where do you mean to go to?" asked fred. "to simpson's gully." "why, that's where tom and i were bound for when we fell in with stalker and his band! we shall probably meet tom returning. but the road is horrible--indeed there is no road at all, and i don't think a cart could--" "oh! i know that" interrupted paul, "and have no intention of smashing up my cart in the woods. we shall go round by the plains, lad. it is somewhat longer, no doubt, but once away, we shall be able to laugh at men on foot if they are so foolish as to follow us. come now, betty, stir your stumps and finish your packing. i'll go get the--" a peculiar yell rent the air outside at that moment, cutting short the sentence, and almost petrifying the speaker, who sprang up and began frantically to bar the door and windows of the hut, at the same time growling, "they've come sooner than i expected. who'd have thought it! bar the small window at the back, betty, an' then fetch all the weapons. i was so taken up wi' you, fred, that i forgot to haul back the plank; that's how they've got over. help wi' this table--so--they'll have some trouble to batter in the door wi' that agin it, an' i've a flankin' battery at the east corner to prevent them settin' the place on fire." while the man spoke he acted with violent haste. fred sprang up and assisted him, for the shock--coupled, no doubt, with the hot coffee and bread and cheese--had restored his energies, at least for the time, almost as effectually as if he had had a rest. they were only just in time, for at that moment a man ran with a wild shout against the door. finding it fast, he kept thundering against it with his heavy boots, and shouting paul bevan's name in unusually fierce tones. "are ye there?" he demanded at last and stopped to listen. "if you'll make less noise mayhap ye'll find out" growled paul. "och! paul, dear, open av ye love me," entreated the visitor, in a voice there was no mistaking. "i do believe it's my mate flinders!" said fred. paul said nothing, but proved himself to be of the same opinion by hastily unbarring and opening the door, when in burst the irrepressible flinders, wet from head to foot, splashed all over with mud and blood, and panting like a race-horse. "is that--tay ye've got there--my dear?" he asked in gasps. "no, it is coffee. let me give you some." "thank 'ee kindly--fill it up--my dear. here's wishin'--ye all luck!" paddy drained the cup to the dregs, wiped his mouth on the cuff of his coat, and thus delivered himself-- "now, don't all spake at wance. howld yer tongues an' listen. av coorse, muster fred's towld ye when an' where an' how i jined the blackguards. ye'll be able now to guess why i did it. soon after i jined 'em i began to boast o' my shootin' in a way that would ha' shocked me nat'ral modesty av i hadn't done it for a raisin o' me own. well, they boasted back, so i defied 'em to a trial, an' soon showed 'em what i could do. there wasn't wan could come near me wi' the rifle. so they made me hunter-in-chief to the band then an' there. i wint out at wance an' brought in a good supply o' game. then, as my time was short, you see, i gave 'em the slip nixt day an' comed on here, neck an' crop, through fire an' water, like a turkey-buzzard wi' the cholera. an' so here i am, an' they'll soon find out i've given 'em the slip, an' they'll come after me, swearin', perhaps; an' if i was you, paul bevan, i wouldn't stop to say how d'ye do to them." "no more i will, paddy--an', by good luck, we're about ready to start only i've got a fear for that poor boy tolly. if he comes back arter we're gone an' falls into their hands it'll be a bad look-out for him." "no fear o' tolly," said flinders; "he's a 'cute boy as can look after himself. by the way, where's muster tom?" the reason of brixton's absence was explained to him by betty, who bustled about the house packing up the few things that could be carried away, while her father and fred busied themselves with the cart and horses outside. meanwhile the irishman continued to refresh himself with the bread and cheese. "ye see it's o' no manner o' use me tryin' to help ye, my dear," he said, apologetically, "for i niver was much of a hand at packin', my exparience up to this time havin' run pretty much in the way o' havin' little or nothin' to pack. moreover, i'm knocked up as well as hungry, an' ye seem such a good hand that it would be a pity to interfere wid ye. is there any chance o' little tolly turnin' up wi' the pony before we start?" "every chance," replied the girl, smiling, in spite of herself, at the man's free-and-easy manner rather than his words. "he ought to have been here by this time. we expect him every moment." but these expectations were disappointed, for, when they had packed the stout little cart, harnessed and saddled the horses, and were quite ready to start, the boy had not appeared. "we durstn't delay," said paul, with a look of intense annoyance, "an' i can't think of how we are to let him know which way we've gone, for i didn't think of telling him why we wanted another pony." "he can read, father. we might leave a note for him on the table, and if he arrives before the robbers that would guide him." "true, betty; but if the robbers should arrive before _him_, that would also guide _them_." "but we're so sure of his returning almost immediately," urged betty. "not so sure o' that, lass. no, we durstn't risk it, an' i can't think of anything else. poor tolly! he'll stand a bad chance, for he's sure to come gallopin' up, an' singin' at the top of his voice in his usual reckless way." "cudn't we stick up a bit o' paper in the way he's bound to pass, wid a big wooden finger to point it out and the word `notice' on it writ big?" "oh! i know what i'll do," cried betty. "tolly will be sure to search all over the place for us, and there's one place, a sort of half cave in the cliff, where he and i used to read together. he'll be quite certain to look there." "right, lass, an' we may risk that, for the reptiles won't think o' sarchin' the cliff. go, betty; write, `we're off to simpson's gully, by the plains. follow hard.' that'll bring him on if they don't catch him--poor tolly!" in a few minutes the note was written and stuck on the wall of the cave referred to; then the party set off at a brisk trot, paul, betty, and flinders in the cart, while fred rode what its owner styled the spare horse. they had been gone about two hours, when stalker, alias buxley, and his men arrived in an unenviable state of rage, for they had discovered flinders's flight, had guessed its object, and now, after hastening to bevan's gully at top speed, had reached it to find the birds flown. this they knew at once from the fact that the plank-bridge, quadrupled in width to let the horse and cart pass, had been left undrawn as if to give them a mocking invitation to cross. stalker at once accepted the invitation. the astute bevan had, however, anticipated and prepared for this event by the clever use of a saw just before leaving. when the robber-chief gained the middle of the bridge it snapped in two and let him down with a horrible rending of wood into the streamlet, whence he emerged like a half-drowned rat, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of his men. the damage he received was slight. it was only what flinders would have called, "a pleasant little way of showing attintion to his inimy before bidding him farewell." of course every nook and corner of the stronghold was examined with the utmost care--also with considerable caution, for they knew not how many more traps and snares might have been laid for them. they did not, however, find those for whom they sought, and, what was worse in the estimation of some of the band, they found nothing worth carrying away. only one thing did they discover that was serviceable, namely, a large cask of gunpowder in the underground magazine formerly mentioned. bevan had thought of blowing this up before leaving, for his cart was already too full to take it in, but the hope that it might not be discovered, and that he might afterwards return to fetch it away, induced him to spare it. of course all the flasks and horns of the band were replenished from this store, but there was still left a full third of the cask which they could not carry away. with this the leader determined to blow up the hut, for he had given up all idea of pursuing the fugitives, he and his men being too much exhausted for that. accordingly the cask was placed in the middle of the hut and all the unportable remains of paul bevan's furniture were piled above it. then a slow match was made by rubbing gunpowder on some long strips of calico. this was applied and lighted, and the robbers retired to a spot close to a spring about half a mile distant, where they could watch the result in safety while they cooked some food. but these miscreants were bad judges of slow matches! their match turned out to be very slow. so slow that they began to fear it had gone out--so slow that the daylight had time to disappear and the moon to commence her softly solemn journey across the dark sky--so slow that stalker began seriously to think of sending a man to stir up the spark, though he thought there might be difficulty in finding a volunteer for the dangerous job--so slow that a certain reckless little boy came galloping towards the fortress on a tall horse with a led pony plunging by his side--all before the spark of the match reached its destination and did its work. then, at last, there came a flush that made the soft moon look suddenly paler, and lighted up the world as if the sun had shot a ray right through it from the antipodes. this was followed by a crash and a roar that caused the solid globe itself to vibrate and sent paul bevan's fortress into the sky a mass of blackened ruins. one result was that a fiendish cheer arose from the robbers' camp, filling the night air with discord. another result was that the happy-go-lucky little boy and his horses came to an almost miraculous halt and remained so for some time, gazing straight before them in a state of abject amazement! chapter ten. how long tolly trevor remained in a state of horrified surprise no one can tell, for he was incapable of observation at the time, besides being alone. on returning to consciousness he found himself galloping towards the exploded fortress at full speed, and did not draw rein till he approached the bank of the rivulet. reflecting that a thoroughbred hunter could not clear the stream, even in daylight, he tried to pull up, but his horse refused. it had run away with him. although constitutionally brave, the boy felt an unpleasant sensation of some sort as he contemplated the inevitable crash that awaited him; for, even if the horse should perceive his folly and try to stop on reaching the bank, the tremendous pace attained would render the attempt futile. "stop! won't you? wo-o-o!" cried tolly, straining at the reins till the veins of his neck and forehead seemed about to burst. but the horse would neither "stop" nor "wo-o-o!" it was otherwise, however, with the pony. that amiable creature had been trained well, and had learned obedience. blessed quality! would that the human race--especially its juvenile section--understood better the value of that inestimable virtue! the pony began to pull back at the sound of "wo!" its portion in childhood had probably been woe when it refused to recognise the order. the result was that poor tolly's right arm, over which was thrown the pony's rein, had to bear the strain of conflicting opinions. a bright idea struck his mind at this moment. bright ideas always do strike the mind of genius at critical moments! he grasped both the reins of his steed in his right hand, and took a sudden turn of them round his wrist. then he turned about--not an instant too soon--looked the pony straight in the face, and said "wo!" in a voice of command that was irresistible. the pony stopped at once, stuck out its fore legs, and was absolutely dragged a short way over the ground. the strain on tolly's arm was awful, but the arm was a stout one, though small. it stood the strain, and the obstinate runaway was arrested on the brink of destruction with an almost broken jaw. the boy slipped to the ground and hastily fastened the steeds to a tree. even in that hour of supreme anxiety he could not help felicitating himself on the successful application of pony docility to horsey self-will. but these and all other feelings of humour and satisfaction were speedily put to flight when, after crossing the remains of the plank bridge with some difficulty, he stood before the hideous wreck of his friend's late home, where he had spent so many glad hours listening to marvellous adventures from paul bevan, or learning how to read and cipher, as well as drinking in wisdom generally, from the rose of oregon. it was an awful collapse. a yawning gulf had been driven into the earth, and the hut--originally a solid structure--having been hurled bodily skyward, shattered to atoms, and inextricably mixed in its parts, had come down again into the gulf as into a ready-made grave. it would be vain to search for any sort of letter, sign, or communication from his friends among the _debris_. tolly felt that at once, yet he could not think of leaving without a search. after one deep and prolonged sigh he threw off his lethargy, and began a close inspection of the surroundings. "you see," he muttered to himself, as he moved quickly yet stealthily about, "they'd never have gone off without leavin' some scrap of information for me, to tell me which way they'd gone, even though they'd gone off in a lightnin' hurry. but p'raps they didn't. the reptiles may have comed on 'em unawares, an' left 'em no time to do anything. of _course_ they can't have killed 'em. nobody ever could catch paul bevan asleep--no, not the sharpest redskin in the land. that's quite out o' the question." though out of the question, however, the bare thought of such a catastrophe caused little trevor's under lip to tremble, a mist to obscure his vision, and a something-or-other to fill his throat, which he had to swallow with a gulp. moreover, he went back to the ruined hut and began to pull about the wreck with a fluttering heart, lest he should come on some evidence that his friends had been murdered. then he went to the highest part of the rock to rest a little, and consider what had best be done next. while seated there, gazing on the scene of silent desolation, which the pale moonlight rendered more ghastly, the poor boy's spirit failed him a little. he buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. soon this weakness, as he deemed it, passed away. he dried his eyes, roughly, and rose to resume his search, and it is more than probable that he would ere long have bethought him of the cave where betty had left her note, if his attention had not been suddenly arrested by a faint glimmer of ruddy light in a distant part of the forest. the robbers were stirring up their fires, and sending a tell-tale glow into the sky. "o-ho!" exclaimed tolly trevor. he said nothing more, but there was a depth of meaning in the tone and look accompanying that "o-ho!" which baffles description. tightening his belt, he at once glided down the slope, flitted across the rivulet, skimmed over the open space, and melted into the forest after the most approved method of red indian tactics. the expedition from which he had just returned having been peaceful, little trevor carried no warlike weapons--for the long bowie-knife at his side, and the little hatchet stuck in his girdle, were, so to speak, merely domestic implements, without which he never moved abroad. but as war was not his object, the want of rifle and revolver mattered little. he soon reached the neighbourhood of the robbers' fire, and, when close enough to render extreme caution necessary, threw himself flat on the ground and advanced a la "snake-in-the-grass." presently he came within earshot, and listened attentively, though without much interest, to a deal of boastful small talk with which the marauders beguiled the time, while they fumigated their mouths and noses preparatory to turning in for the night. at last the name of paul bevan smote his ear, causing it, metaphorically, to go on full cock. "i'm sartin sure," said one of the speakers, "that the old screw has gone right away to simpson's gully." "if i thought that, i'd follow him up, and make a dash at the gully itself," said stalker, plucking a burning stick from the fire to rekindle his pipe. "if you did you'd get wopped," remarked goff, with a touch of sarcasm, for the lieutenant of the band was not so respectful to his commander as a well-disciplined man should be. "what makes you think so?" demanded the chief. "the fact that the diggers are a sight too many for us," returned goff. "why, we'd find 'em three to one, if not four." "well, that, coupled with the uncertainty of his having gone to simpson's gully," said the chief, "decides me to make tracks down south to the big woods on the slopes of the sawback hills. there are plenty of parties travelling thereabouts with lots of gold, boys, and difficulties enough in the way of hunting us out o' the stronghold. i'll leave you there for a short time and make a private excursion to simpson's gully, to see if my enemy an' the beautiful betty are there." "an' get yourself shot or stuck for your pains," said goff. "do you suppose that such a hulking, long-legged fellow as you are, can creep into a camp like an or'nary man without drawin' attention?" "perhaps not," returned stalker; "but are there not such things as disguises? have you not seen me with my shootin'-coat and botanical box an' blue spectacles, an' my naturally sandy hair." "no, no, captain!" cried goff, with a laugh, "not sandy; say yellow, or golden." "well, golden, then, if you will. you've seen it dyed black, haven't you?" "oh yes! i've seen you in these humblin' circumstances before now," returned the lieutenant, "and i must say your own mother wouldn't know you. but what's the use o' runnin' the risk, captain?" "because i owe bevan a grudge!" said the chief, sternly, "and mean to be revenged on him. besides, i want the sweet betty for a wife, and intend to have her, whether she will or no. she'll make a capital bandit's wife--after a little while, when she gets used to the life. so now you know some of my plans, and you shall see whether the hulking botanist won't carry all before him." "o-ho!" muttered the snake-in-the-grass, very softly; and there was something so compound and significant in the tone of that second "o-ho!" soft though it was, that it not only baffles description, but--really, you know, it would be an insult to your understanding, good reader, to say more in the way of explanation! there was also a heaving of the snake's shoulders, which, although unaccompanied by sound, was eminently suggestive. feeling that he had by that time heard quite enough, tolly trevor effected a masterly retreat, and returned to the place where he had left the horses. on the way he recalled with satisfaction the fact that paul bevan had once pointed out to him the exact direction of simpson's gully at a time when he meant to send him on an errand thither. "you've on'y to go over there, lad," paul had said, pointing towards the forest in rear of his hut, "and hold on for two days straight as the crow flies till you come to it. you can't well miss it." tolly knew that there was also an easier though longer route by the plains, but as he was not sure of it he made up his mind to take to the forest. the boy was sufficiently trained in woodcraft to feel pretty confident of finding his way, for he knew the north side of trees by their bark, and could find out the north star when the sky was clear, besides possessing a sort of natural aptitude for holding on in a straight line. he mounted the obstinate horse, therefore, took the rein of the obedient pony on his right arm, and, casting a last look of profound regret on bevan's desolated homestead, rode swiftly away. so eager was he that he took no thought for the morrow. he knew that the wallet slung at his saddle-bow contained a small supply of food--as much, probably, as would last three days with care. that was enough to render tolly trevor the most independent and careless youth in oregon. while these events were occurring in the neighbourhood of bevan's gully, three red men, in all the glory of vermilion, charcoal, and feathers, were stalking through the forest in the vicinity of the spot where poor tom brixton had laid him down to die. these children of the wilderness stalked in single file--from habit we presume, for there was ample space for them to have walked abreast if so inclined. they seemed to be unsociable beings, for they also stalked in solemn silence. suddenly the first savage came to an abrupt pause, and said, "ho!" the second savage said, "he!" and the third said, "hi!" after which, for full a minute, they stared at the ground in silent wonder and said nothing. they had seen a footprint! it did not by any means resemble that deep, well developed, and very solitary footprint at which robinson crusoe is wont to stare in nursery picture-books. no; it was a print which was totally invisible to ordinary eyes, and revealed itself to these children of the woods in the form of a turned leaf and a cracked twig. such as it was, it revealed a track which the three children followed up until they found tom brixton--or his body--lying on the ground near to the little spring. again these children said, "ho!" "he!" and "hi!" respectively, in varying tones according to their varied character. then they commenced a jabber, which we are quite unable to translate, and turned tom over on his back. the motion awoke him, for he sat up and stared. even that effort proved too much for him in his weak state, for he fell back and fainted. the indians proved to be men of promptitude. they lifted the white man up; one got tom's shoulders on his back, another put his legs over his shoulders, and thus they stalked away with him. when the first child of the wood grew tired, the unburdened one stepped in to his relief; when the second child grew tired, the first one went to his aid; when all the children grew tired, they laid their burden on the ground and sat down beside it. thus, by easy stages, was tom brixton conveyed away from the spot where he had given himself up as hopelessly lost. now, it could not have been more than six hours after tom had thus been borne away that poor tolly trevor came upon the same scene. we say "poor" advisedly, for he had not only suffered the loss of much fragmentary clothing in his passage through that tangled wood, but also most of the food with which he had started, and a good deal of skin from his shins, elbows, knuckles, and knees, as well as the greater part of his patience. truly, he was in a pitiable plight, for the forest had turned out to be almost impassable for horses, and in his journey he had not only fallen off, and been swept out of the saddle by overhanging branches frequently, but had to swim swamps, cross torrents, climb precipitous banks, and had stuck in quagmires innumerable. as for the horses--their previous owner could not have recognised them. it is true they were what is styled "all there," but there was an inexpressible droop of their heads and tails, a weary languor in their eyes, and an abject waggle about their knees which told of hope deferred and spirit utterly gone. the pony was the better of the two. its sprightly glance of amiability had changed into a gaze of humble resignation, whereas the aspect of the obstinate horse was one of impotent ill-nature. it would have bitten, perhaps, if strength had permitted, but as to its running away--ha! well, tolly trevor approached--it could hardly be said he rode up to-- the spring before mentioned, where he passed the footprints in stupid blindness. he dismounted, however, to drink and rest a while. "come on--you brute!" he cried, almost savagely, dragging the horse to the water. the creature lowered its head and gazed as though to say, "what liquid is that?" as the pony, however, at once took a long and hearty draught it also condescended to drink, while tolly followed suit. afterwards he left the animals to graze, and sat down under a neighbouring tree to rest and swallow his last morsel of food. it was sad to see the way in which the poor boy carefully shook out and gathered up the few crumbs in his wallet so that not one of them should be lost; and how slowly he ate them, as if to prolong the sensation of being gratified! during the two days which he had spent in the forest his face had grown perceptibly thinner, and his strength had certainly diminished. even the reckless look of defiant joviality, which was one of the boy's chief characteristics, had given place to a restless anxiety that prevented his seeing humour in anything, and induced a feeling of impatience when a joke chanced irresistibly to bubble up in his mind. he was once again reduced almost to the weeping point, but his sensations were somewhat different for, when he had stood gazing at the wreck of bevan's home, the nether lip had trembled because of the sorrows of friends, whereas now he was sorrowing because of an exhausted nature, a weakened heart, and a sinking spirit. but the spirit had not yet utterly given way! "come!" he cried, starting up. "this won't do, tolly. be a man! why, only think--you have got over two days and two nights. that was the time allowed you by paul, so your journey's all but done--must be. of course those brutes--forgive me, pony, _that_ brute, i mean--has made me go much slower than if i had come on my own legs, but notwithstanding, it cannot be--hallo! what's that!" the exclamation had reference to a small dark object which lay a few yards from the spot on which he sat. he ran and picked it up. it was tom brixton's cap--with his name rudely written on the lining. beside it lay a piece of bark on which was pencil-writing. with eager, anxious haste the boy began to peruse it, but he was unaccustomed to read handwriting, and when poor tom had pencilled the lines his hand was weak and his brain confused, so that the characters were doubly difficult to decipher. after much and prolonged effort the boy made out the beginning. it ran thus: "this is probably the last letter that i, tom brixton, shall ever write. (i put down my name now, in case i never finish it.) o dearest mother!--" emotion had no doubt rendered the hand less steady at this point, for here the words were quite illegible--at least to little trevor--who finally gave up the attempt in despair. the effect of this discovery, however, was to send the young blood coursing wildly through the veins, so that a great measure of strength returned, as if by magic. the boy's first care was naturally to look for traces of the lost man, and he set about this with a dull fear at his heart, lest at any moment he should come upon the dead body of his friend. in a few minutes he discovered the track made by the indians, which led him to the spot near to the spring where tom had fallen. to his now fully-awakened senses trevor easily read the story, as far as signs could tell it. brixton had been all but starved to death. he had lain down under a tree to die--the very tree under which he himself had so recently given way to despair. while lying there he--brixton--had scrawled his last words on the bit of birch-bark. then he had tried to reach the spring, but had fainted either before reaching it or after leaving. this he knew, because the mark of tom's coat, part of his waist-belt and the handle of his bowie-knife were all impressed on the softish ground with sufficient distinctness to be discerned by a sharp eye. the moccasined footprints told of indians having found brixton--still alive, for they would not have taken the trouble to carry him off if he had been dead. the various sizes of the moccasined feet told that the party of indians numbered three; and the trail of the red men, with its occasional halting-places, pointed out clearly the direction in which they had gone. happily this was also the direction in which little trevor was going. of course the boy did not read this off as readily as we have written it all down. it cost him upwards of an hour's patient research; but when at last he did arrive at the result of his studies he wasted no time in idle speculation. his first duty was to reach simpson's gully, discover his friend paul bevan, and deliver to him the piece of birch-bark he had found, and the information he had gleaned. by the time tolly had come to this conclusion his horse and pony had obtained both rest and nourishment enough to enable them to raise their drooping heads and tails an inch or two, so that when the boy mounted the former with some of his old dash and energy, it shook its head, gave a short snort, and went off at a fair trot. fortunately the ground improved just beyond this point, opening out into park-like scenery, which, in another mile or two, ran into level prairie land. this trevor knew from description was close to the mountain range, in which lay the gully he was in quest of. the hope which had begun to rise increased, and communicating itself, probably by sympathetic electricity, to the horse, produced a shuffling gallop, which ere long brought them to a clump of wood. on rounding this they came in sight of the longed-for hills. before nightfall simpson's gully was reached, and little trevor was directed to the tent of paul bevan, who had arrived there only the day before. "it's a strange story, lad," said paul, after the boy had run rapidly over the chief points of the news he had to give, to which betty, fred, and flinders sat listening with eager interest. "we must be off to search for him without delay," said fred westly, rising. "it's right ye are, sor," cried flinders, springing up. "off to-night an' not a moment to lose." "we'll talk it over first, boys," said paul. "come with me. i've a friend in the camp as'll help us." "did you not bring the piece of bark?" asked betty of the boy, as the men went out. "oh! i forgot. of course i did," cried trevor, drawing it from his breast-pocket. "the truth is i'm so knocked up that i scarce know what i'm about." "lie down here on this deer-skin, poor boy, and rest while i read it." tolly trevor flung himself on the rude but welcome couch, and almost instantly fell asleep, while betty bevan, spreading the piece of birch-bark on her knee, began to spell out the words and try to make sense of tom brixton's last epistle. chapter eleven. with considerable difficulty betty bevan succeeded in deciphering the tremulous scrawl which tom brixton had written on the piece of birch-bark. it ran somewhat as follows:-- "this is probably the last letter that i, tom brixton, shall ever write. (i put down my name now, in case i never finish it.) o dearest mother! what would i not now give to unsay all the hard things i have ever said to you, and to undo all the evil i have done. but this cannot be. `twice bought!' it is strange how these words run in my mind. i was condemned to death at the gold-fields--my comrades bought me off. fred--dear fred--who has been true and faithful to the last--reminded me that i had previously been bought with the blood of jesus--that i have been _twice bought_! i think he put it in this way to fix my obstinate spirit on the idea, and he has succeeded. the thought has been burned in upon my soul as with fire. i am very, _very_ weak--dying, i fear, in the forest, and alone! how my mind seems to wander! i have slept since writing the last sentence, and dreamed of food! curious mixing of ideas! i also dreamed of betty bevan. ah, sweet girl! if this ever meets your eye, believe that i loved you sincerely. it is well that i should die, perhaps, for i have been a thief, and would not ask your hand now even if i might. i would not sully it with a touch of mine, and i could not expect you to believe in me after i tell you that i not only robbed gashford, but also fred--my chum fred--and gambled it all away, and drank away my reason almost at the same time... i have slept again, and dreamed of water this time--bright, pure, crystal water-- sparkling and gushing in the sunshine. o god! how i despised it once, and how i long for it now! i am too weak and wandering, mother, to think about religion now. but why should i? your teaching has not been altogether thrown away; it comes back like a great flood while i lie here dreaming and trying to write. the thoughts are confused, but the sense comes home. all is easily summed up in the words you once taught me, `i am a poor sinner, and nothing at all, but jesus christ is all in all.' not sure that i quote rightly. no matter, the sense is there also. and yet it seems--it is--such a mean thing to sin away one's life and ask for pardon only at the end--the very end! but the thief on the cross did it; why not i? sleep--_is_ it sleep? may it not be slowly-approaching death?--has overpowered me again. i have been attempting to read this. i seem to have mixed things somehow. it is sadly confused--or my mind is. a burning thirst consumes me--and--i _think_ i hear water running! i will--" here the letter ended abruptly. "no doubt," murmured betty, as she let the piece of bark fall on the table and clasped her hands over her eyes, "he rose and tried to reach the water. praise god that there is hope!" she sat for a few seconds in profound silence, which was broken by paul and his friends re-entering the tent. "it's all arranged, betty," he said, taking down an old rifle which hung above the door; "old larkins has agreed to look arter my claim and take care of you, lass, while we're away." "i shall need no one to take care of me." "ah! so you think, for you're as brave as you're good; but--i think otherwise. so he'll look arter you." "indeed he won't, father!" returned betty, smiling, "because i intend that _you_ shall look after me." "impossible, girl! i'm going to sarch for tom brixton, you see, along with mister fred an' flinders, so i can't stop here with you." "but i am going too, father!" "but--but we can't wait for you, my good girl," returned paul, with a perplexed look; "we're all ready to start, an' there ain't a hoss for you except the poor critters that tolly trevor brought wi' him, an', you know, they need rest very badly." "well, well, go off, father; i won't delay you," said betty; "and don't disturb tolly, let him sleep, he needs it, poor boy. i will take care of him and his horses." that tolly required rest was very obvious, for he lay sprawling on the deer-skin couch just as he had flung himself down, buried in the profoundest sleep he perhaps ever experienced since his career in the wilderness began. after the men had gone off, betty bevan--who was by that time better known, at least among those young diggers whose souls were poetical, as the rose of oregon, and among the matter-of-fact ones as the beautiful nugget--conducted herself in a manner that would have increased the admiration of her admirers, if they had seen her, and awakened their curiosity also. first of all she went out to the half-ruined log-hut that served her father for a stable, and watered, fed, and rubbed down the horse and pony which tolly had brought, in a manner that would have done credit to a regular groom. then, returning to the tent, she arranged and packed a couple of saddle-bags with certain articles of clothing, as well as biscuits, dried meat, and other provisions. next she cleaned and put in order a couple of revolvers, a bowie-knife, and a small hatchet; and ultimately, having made sundry other mysterious preparations, she lifted the curtain which divided the tent into two parts, and entered her own private apartment. there, after reading her nightly portion of god's word and committing herself, and those who were out searching in the wilderness for the lost man, to his care, she lay down with her clothes on, and almost instantly fell into a slumber as profound as that which had already overwhelmed tolly. as for that exhausted little fellow, he did not move during the whole night, save once, when an adventurous insect of the earwig type walked across his ruddy cheek and upper lip and looked up his nose. there are sensitive portions of the human frame which may not be touched with impunity. the sleeper sneezed, blew the earwig out of existence, rolled over on his back, flung his arms wide open, and, with his mouth in the same condition, spent the remainder of the night in motionless repose. the sun was well up next morning, and the miners of simpson's gully were all busy, up to their knees in mud and gold, when betty bevan awoke, sprang up, ran into the outer apartment of her tent, and gazed admiringly at tolly's face. a band of audacious and early flies were tickling it, and causing the features to twitch, but they could not waken the sleeper. betty gazed only for a moment with an amused expression, and then shook the boy somewhat vigorously. "come, tolly, rise!" "oh! d-on't b-borrer." "but i must bother. wake up, i say. fire!" at the last word the boy sat up and gazed idiotically. "hallo! betty--my dear nugget--is that you? why, where am i?" "your body is here," said betty, laughing. "when your mind comes to the same place i'll talk to you." "i'm _all_ here now, betty; so go ahead," said the boy, with a hearty yawn as he arose and stretched himself. "oh! i remember now all about it. where is your father?" "i will tell you presently, but first let me know what you mean by calling me nugget." "why, don't you know? it's the name the men give you everywhere--one of the names at least--the beautiful nugget." "indeed!" exclaimed the nugget with a laugh and blush; "very impudent of the men; and, pray, if this is one of the names, what may the others be?" "there's only one other that i know of--the rose of oregon. but come, it's not fair of you to screw my secrets out o' me when i'm only half awake; and you haven't yet told me where paul bevan is." "i'll tell you that when i see you busy with this pork pie," returned the rose. "i made it myself, so you ought to find it good. be quick, for i have work for you to do, and there is no time to lose. content yourself with a cold breakfast for once." "humph! as if i hadn't contented myself with a cold breakfast at any time. well, it _is_ a good pie. now--about paul?" "he has gone away with mr westly and flinders to search for mr brixton." "what! without _me_?" exclaimed tolly, overturning his chair as he started up and pushed his plate from him. "yes, without you, tolly; i advised him not to awake you." "it's the unkindest thing you've ever done to me," returned the boy, scarcely able to restrain his tears at the disappointment. "how can they know where to search for him without me to guide them? why didn't you let them waken me!" "you forget, tolly, that my father knows every inch of these woods and plains for at least fifty miles round the old house they have blown up; and, as to waking you, it would have been next to impossible to have done so, you were so tired, and you would have been quite unable to keep your eyes open. besides, i had a little plan of my own which i want you to help me to carry out. go on with your breakfast and i'll explain." the boy sat down to his meal again without speaking, but with a look of much curiosity on his expressive face. "you know, without my telling you," continued betty, "that i, like my father, have a considerable knowledge of this part of the country, and of the ways of indians and miners, and from what you have told me, coupled with what father has said, i think it likely that the indians have carried poor t---mr brixton, i mean--through the long gap rather than by the plains--" "so _i_ would have said, had they consulted _me_," interrupted the boy, with an offended air. "well, but," continued betty, "they would neither have consulted you nor me, for father has a very decided will, you know, and a belief in his own judgment--which is quite right of course, only i cannot help differing from him on this occasion--" "no more can i," growled tolly, thrusting his fork into the pie at a tempting piece of pork. "so, you see, i'm going to take the big horse you brought here and ride round by the long gap to see if i'm right, and i want you to go with me on the pony and take care of me." tolly trevor felt his heart swell with gratification at the idea of his being the chosen protector of the rose of oregon--the beautiful nugget; selected by herself, too. nevertheless his good sense partially subdued his vanity on the point. "but, i say," he remarked, looking up with a half-serious expression, "d'you think that you and i are a sufficient party to make a good fight if we are attacked by redskins? you know your father will hold me responsible, for carrying you off into the midst of danger in this fashion." "i don't mean to fight at all," returned betty, with a pleasant laugh, "and i will free you from all responsibility; so, have done, now, and come along." "it's _so_ good," said tolly, looking as though he were loath to quit the pork pie; "but, come, i'm your man! only don't you think it would be as well to get up a good fighting party among the young miners to go with us? they'd only be too happy to take service under the beautiful nugget, you know." "tolly," exclaimed the nugget, with more than her wonted firmness, "if you are to take service under _me_ you must learn to obey without question. now, go and saddle the horses. the big one for me, the pony for yourself. put the saddle-bags on the horse, and be quick." there was a tone and manner about the usually quiet and gentle girl which surprised and quite overawed little trevor, so that he was reduced at once to an obedient and willing slave. indeed he was rather glad than otherwise that betty had declined to listen to his suggestion about the army of young diggers--which an honest doubt as to his own capacity to fight and conquer all who might chance to come in his way had induced him to make--while he was by no means unwilling to undertake, singlehanded, any duties his fair conductor should require of him. in a few minutes, therefore, the steeds were brought round to the door of the tent, where betty already stood equipped for the journey. our fair readers will not, we trust, be prejudiced against the rose of oregon when we inform them that she had adopted man's attitude in riding. her costume was arranged very much after the pattern of the indian women's dress--namely, a close-fitting body, a short woollen skirt reaching a little below the knees, and blue cloth leggings in continuation. these latter were elegantly wrought with coloured silk thread, and the pair of moccasins which covered her small feet were similarly ornamented. a little cloth cap, in shape resembling that of a cavalry foraging cap, but without ornaments, graced her head, from beneath which her wavy hair tumbled in luxuriant curls on her shoulders, and, as tolly was wont to remark, looked after itself anyhow. such a costume was well adapted to the masculine position on horseback, as well as to the conditions of a land in which no roads, but much underwood, existed. bevan's tent having been pitched near the outskirts of simpson's camp, the maiden and her gallant protector had no difficulty in quitting it unobserved. riding slowly at first, to avoid attracting attention as well as to pick their steps more easily over the somewhat rugged ground near the camp, they soon reached the edge of an extensive plain, at the extremity of which a thin purple line indicated a range of hills. here tolly trevor, unable to restrain his joy at the prospect of adventure before him, uttered a war-whoop, brought his switch down smartly on the pony's flank, and shot away over the plain like a wild creature. the air was bracing, the prospect was fair, the sunshine was bright. no wonder that the obedient pony, forgetting for the moment the fatigues of the past, and strong in the enjoyment of the previous night's rest and supper, went over the ground at a pace that harmonised with its young rider's excitement; and no wonder that the obstinate horse was inclined to emulate the pony, and stretched its long legs into a wild gallop, encouraged thereto by the rose on its back. the gallop was ere long pressed to racing speed, and there is no saying when the young pair would have pulled up--had they not met with a sudden check by the pony putting his foot into a badger-hole. the result was frightful to witness, though trifling in result. the pony went heels over head upon the plain like a rolling wheel, and its rider shot into the air like a stone from a catapult. describing a magnificent curve, and coming down head foremost, tolly would then and there have ended his career if he had not fortunately dropped into a thick bush, which broke his fall instead of his neck, and saved him. indeed, excepting several ugly scratches, he was none the worse for the misadventure. poor horrified betty attempted to pull up, but the obstinate horse had got the bit in his teeth and declined, so that when tolly had scrambled out of the bush she was barely visible in the far distance, heading towards the blue hills. "hallo!" was her protector's anxious remark as he gazed at the flying fair one. then, without another word, he leaped on the pony and went after her at full speed, quite regardless of recent experience. the blue hills had become green hills, and the long gap was almost reached, before the obstinate horse suffered itself to be reined in-- probably because it was getting tired. soon afterwards the pony came panting up. "you're not hurt, i hope?" said betty, anxiously, as tolly came alongside. "oh no. all right," replied the boy; "but i say what a run you have given me! why didn't you wait for me?" "ask that of the horse, tolly." "what! did he bolt with you?" "truly he did. i never before rode such a stubborn brute. my efforts to check it were useless, as it had the bit in its teeth, and i did my best, for i was terribly anxious about you, and cannot imagine how you escaped a broken neck after such a flight." "it was the bush that saved me, betty. but, i say, we seem to be nearing a wildish sort of place." "yes; this is the long gap," returned the girl, flinging back her curls and looking round. "it cuts right through the range here, and becomes much wilder and more difficult to traverse on horseback farther on." "and what d'ye mean to do, betty?" inquired the boy as they rode at a foot-pace towards the opening, which seemed like a dark portal to the hills. "suppose you discover that the redskins _have_ carried tom brixton off in this direction, what then? you and i won't be able to rescue him, you know." "true, tolly. if i find that they have taken him this way i will ride straight to father's encampment--he told me before starting where he intends to sleep to-night, so i shall easily find him--tell him what we have discovered and lead him back here." "and suppose you don't find that the redskins have come this way," rejoined tolly, after a doubtful shake of his head, "what then?" "why, then, i shall return to our tent and leave father and mr westly to hunt them down." "and suppose," continued tolly--but tolly never finished the supposition, for at that moment two painted indians sprang from the bushes on either side of the narrow track, and, almost before the riders could realise what had happened, the boy found himself on his back with a savage hand at his throat and the girl found herself on the ground with the hand of a grinning savage on her shoulder. tolly trevor struggled manfully, but alas! also boyishly, for though his spirit was strong his bodily strength was small--at least, as compared with that of the savage who held him. yes, tolly struggled like a hero. he beheld the rose of oregon taken captive, and his blood boiled! he bit, he kicked, he scratched, and he hissed with indignation--but it would not do. "oh, if you'd only let me up and give me _one_ chance!" he gasped. but the red man did not consent--indeed, he did not understand. nevertheless, it was obvious that the savage was not vindictive, for although tolly's teeth and fists and toes and nails had wrought him some damage, he neither stabbed nor scalped the boy. he only choked him into a state of semi-unconsciousness, and then, turning him on his face, tied his hands behind his back with a deerskin thong. meanwhile the other savage busied himself in examining the saddle-bags of the obstinate horse. he did not appear to think it worth while to tie the hands of betty! during the short scuffle between his comrade and the boy he had held her fast, because she manifested an intention to run to the rescue. when that was ended he relieved her of the weapons she carried and let her go, satisfied, no doubt that, if she attempted to run away, he could easily overtake her, and if she were to attempt anything else he could restrain her. when, however, betty saw that tolly's antagonist meant no harm, she wisely attempted nothing, but sat down on a fallen tree to await the issue. the savages did not keep her long in suspense. tolly's foe, having bound him, lifted him on the back of the pony, and then, taking the bridle, quietly led it away. at the same time the other savage assisted betty to remount the horse, and, grasping the bridle of that obstinate creature, followed his comrade. the whole thing was so sudden, so violent, and the result so decisive, that the boy looked back at betty and burst into a half-hysterical fit of laughter, but the girl did not respond. "it's a serious business, tolly!" she said. "so it is, betty," he replied. then, pursing his little mouth, and gathering his eyebrows into a frown, he gave himself up to meditation, while the indians conducted them into the dark recesses of the long gap. chapter twelve. now, the indians, into whose hands the rose of oregon and our little hero had fallen, happened to be part of the tribe to which the three who had discovered tom brixton belonged, and although his friends little knew it, tom himself was not more than a mile or so distant from them at the time, having been carried in the same direction, towards the main camp or headquarters of the tribe in the sawback hills. they had not met on the journey, because the two bands of the tribe were acting independently of each other. we will leave them at this point and ask the reader to return to another part of the plain over which tolly and betty had galloped so furiously. it is a small hollow, at the bottom of which a piece of marshy ground has encouraged the growth of a few willows. paul bevan had selected it as a suitable camping-ground for the night, and while paddy flinders busied himself with the kettle and frying-pan, he and fred westly went among the bushes to procure firewood. fred soon returned with small twigs sufficient to kindle the fire; his companion went on further in search of larger boughs and logs. while fred was busily engaged on hands and knees, blowing the fire into a flame, a sharp "hallo!" from his companion caused him to look up. "what is it?" he asked. "goliath of gath--or his brother!" said paddy, pointing to a little eminence behind which the sun had but recently set. the horseman, who had come to a halt on the eminence and was quietly regarding them, did indeed look as if he might have claimed kinship with the giant of the philistines, for he and his steed looked stupendous. no doubt the peculiarity of their position, with the bright sky as a glowing background, had something to do with the gigantic appearance of horse and man, for, as they slowly descended the slope towards the fire, both of them assumed a more natural size. the rider was a strange-looking as well as a large man, for he wore a loose shooting-coat, a tall wideawake with a broad brim, blue spectacles with side-pieces to them, and a pair of trousers which appeared to have been made for a smaller man, as, besides being too tight, they were much too short. over his shoulder was slung a green tin botanical box. he carried no visible weapons save a small hatchet and a bowie-knife, though his capacious pockets might easily have concealed half a dozen revolvers. "goot night, my frunds," said the stranger, in broken english, as he approached. "the same to yersilf, sor," returned flinders. anyone who had been closely watching the countenance of the stranger might have observed a sudden gleam of surprise on it when the irishman spoke, but it passed instantly, and was replaced by a pleasant air of good fellowship as he dismounted and led his horse nearer the fire. "good night, and welcome to our camp. you are a foreigner, i perceive," said fred westly in french, but the stranger shook his head. "i not un'erstan'." "ah! a german, probably," returned fred, trying him with the language of the fatherland; but again the stranger shook his head. "you mus' spok english. i is a swedish man; knows noting but a leetil english." "i'm sorry that i cannot speak swedish," replied fred, in english; "so we must converse in my native tongue. you are welcome to share our camp. have you travelled far?" fred cast a keen glance of suspicion at the stranger as he spoke, and, in spite of himself, there was a decided diminution in the heartiness of his tones, but the stranger did not appear to observe either the change of tone or the glance, for he replied, with increased urbanity and openness of manner, "yis; i has roden far--very far--an' moche wants meat an' sleep." as he spoke paul bevan came staggering into camp under a heavy load of wood, and again it may be said that a close observer might have noticed on the stranger's face a gleam of surprise much more intense than the previous one when he saw paul bevan. but the gleam had utterly vanished when that worthy, having thrown down his load, looked up and bade him good evening. the urbanity of manner and blandness of expression increased as he returned the salutation. "t'anks, t'anks. i vill go for hubble--vat you call--hobble me horse," he said, taking the animal's bridle and leading it a short distance from the fire. "i don't like the look of him," whispered fred to paul when he was out of earshot. "sure, an' i howld the same opinion," said flinders. "pooh! never judge men by their looks," returned bevan--"specially in the diggin's. they're all blackguards or fools, more or less. this one seems to be one o' the fools. i've seed sitch critters before. they keep fillin' their little boxes wi' grass an' stuff; an' never makes any use of it that i could see. but every man to his taste. i'll be bound he's a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an' git over yer contempt for his idle ways. very likely he draws, too--an' plays the flute; most o' these furriners do. come now, flinders, look alive wi' the grub." when the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction. "fat a goot t'ing is supper!" he remarked, with a benignant look all round; "the very smell of him be deliciowse!" "an' no mistake!" added flinders. "sure, the half the good o' victuals would be lost av they had no smell." "where have you come from, stranger?" asked bevan, as they were about to begin supper. "from de sawbuk hills," answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an enormous mass of dried meat. "ay, indeed! that's just where _we_ are goin' to," returned bevan. "an' vere may you be come from?" asked the stranger. "from simpson's gully," said fred. "ha! how cooriouse! dat be joost vere i be go to." the conversation flagged a little at this point as they warmed to the work of feeding; but after a little it was resumed, and then their visitor gradually ingratiated himself with his new friends to such an extent that the suspicions of fred and flinders were somewhat, though not altogether, allayed. at last they became sufficiently confidential to inform the stranger of their object in going to the sawback hills. "ha! vat is dat you say?" he exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise; "von yoong man carried avay by ridskins. i saw'd dem! did pass dem not longe ago. t'ree mans carry von man. i t'ink him a sick comrade, but now i reklect hims face vas vhitish." "could ye guide us to the place where ye met them?" asked bevan, quickly. the botanist did not reply at once, but seemed to consider. "vell, i has not moche time to spare; but come, i has pity for you, an' don't mind if i goes out of de vay to help you. i vill go back to the sawbuk hills so far as need be." "thank 'ee kindly," returned bevan, who possessed a grateful spirit; "i'll think better of yer grass-gatherin' after this, though it does puzzle me awful to make out what's the use ye put it to. if you kep' tame rabbits, now, i could understand it, but to carry it about in a green box an' go squeezin' it between the leaves o' books, as i've seed some of 'ee do, seems to me the most outrageous--" "ha, ha!" interrupted the botanist, with a loud laugh; "you is not the first what t'ink hims nonsense. but you mus' know dere be moche sense in it,"--(he looked very grave and wise here)--"very moche. first, ye finds him; den ye squeezes an' dries him; den ye sticks him in von book, an' names him; den ye talks about him; oh! dere is moche use in him, very moche!" "well, but arter you've found, an' squeezed, an' dried, an' stuck, an' named, an' talked about him," repeated paul, with a slight look of contempt, "what the better are ye for it all?" "vy, ve is moche de better," returned the botanist, "for den ve tries to find out all about him. ve magnifies him, an' writes vat ve zee about him, an' compares him vid oders of de same family, an' boils, an' stews, an' fries, an' melts, an' dissolves, an' mixes him, till ve gits somet'ing out of him." "it's little i'd expect to git out of him after tratin' him so badly," remarked flinders, whose hunger was gradually giving way before the influence of venison steaks. "true, me frund," returned the stranger, "it is ver' leetil ve gits; but den dat leetil is ver' goot--valooable you calls it." "humph!" ejaculated bevan, with an air that betokened doubt. flinders and fred said nothing, but the latter felt more than ever inclined to believe that their guest was a deceiver, and resolved to watch him narrowly. on his part, the stranger seemed to perceive that fred suspected him, but he was not rendered less hearty or free-and-easy on that account. in the course of conversation paul chanced to refer to betty. "ah! me frund," said the stranger, "has you brought you's vife to dis vile contry!" "no, i haven't," replied paul, bluntly. "oh, pardon. i did t'ink you spoke of bettie; an surely dat is vooman's name?" "ay, but betty's my darter, not my wife," returned paul, who resented this inquisition with regard to his private affairs. "is you not 'fraid," said the botanist, quietly helping himself to a marrow-bone, "to leave you's darter at simpson's gully?" "who told you i left her there?" asked bevan, with increasing asperity. "oh! i only t'ink so, as you's come from dere." "an' why should i be afraid?" "because, me frund, de contry be full ob scoundrils." "yes, an' you are one of the biggest of them," thought fred westly, but he kept his thoughts to himself, while paul muttered something about being well protected, and having no occasion to be afraid. perceiving the subject to be distasteful, the stranger quickly changed it. soon afterwards each man, rolling himself in his blanket, went to sleep--or appeared to do so. in regard to paddy flinders, at least, there could be no doubt, for the trombone-tones of his nose were eloquent. paul, too, lay on his back with eyes tight shut and mouth wide open, while the regular heaving of his broad chest told that his slumbers were deep. but more than once fred westly raised his head gently and looked suspiciously round. at last, in his case also, tired nature asserted herself, and his deep regular breathing proved that the "sweet restorer" was at work, though an occasional movement showed that his sleep was not so profound as that of his comrades. the big botanist remained perfectly motionless from the time he lay down, as if the sleep of infancy had passed with him into the period of manhood. it was not till the fire had died completely down, and the moon had set, leaving only the stars to make darkness visible, that he moved. he did so, not as a sleeper awaking, but with the slow stealthy action of one who is already wide awake and has a purpose in view. gradually his huge shoulders rose till he rested on his left elbow. a sense of danger, which had never left him even while he slept, aroused fred, but he did not lose his self-possession. he carefully watched, from the other side of the extinct fire, the motions of the stranger, and lay perfectly still--only tightening his grasp on the knife-handle that he had been instinctively holding when he dropped asleep. the night was too dark for fred to distinguish the man's features. he could only perceive the outline of his black figure, and that for some time he rested on his elbow without moving, as if he were contemplating the stars. despite his efforts to keep awake, fred felt that drowsiness was again slowly, but surely, overcoming him. maintaining the struggle, however, he kept his dreamy eyes riveted on their guest until he seemed to swell into gigantic proportions. presently fred was again thoroughly aroused by observing that the right arm of the man moved slowly upwards, and something like a knife appeared in the hand; he even fancied he saw it gleam, though there was not light enough to render that possible. feeling restrained, as if under the horrible influence of nightmare, fred lay there spell-bound and quite unable to move, until he perceived the stranger's form bend over in the direction of paul bevan, who lay on the other side of him. then, indeed, fred's powers returned. shouting, "look out, paul!" he sprang up, drew his bowie-knife, and leaped over the blackened logs, but, to his surprise and confusion, found that the stranger lay extended on the ground as if sound asleep. he roused himself, however, and sat up, as did the others, on hearing fred's shout. "fat is wrong, yoong man?" he inquired, with a look of sleepy surprise. "ye may well ax that, sor," said flinders, staggering to his feet and seizing his axe, which always lay handy at his side. paul had glanced round sharply, like a man inured to danger, but seeing nothing to alarm him, had remained in a sitting position. "why, westly, you've been dreaming," he said with a broad grin. "so i must have been," returned the youth, looking very much ashamed, "but you've no notion what a horrible dream i had. it seemed so real, too, that i could not help jumping up and shouting. pardon me, comrades, and, as bad boys say when caught in mischief, `i won't do it again!'" "ve pardon you, by all means," said the botanist stretching himself and yawning, "and ve do so vid de more pleasure for you has rouse us in time for start on de joorney." "you're about right. it's time we was off," said paul, rising slowly to his feet and looking round the horizon and up at the sky, while he proceeded to fill a beloved little black pipe, which invariably constituted his preliminary little breakfast. pat flinders busied himself in blowing up the embers of the fire. a slight and rapidly eaten meal sufficed to prepare these hardy backwoodsmen for their journey, and, long before daybreak illumined the plains, they were far on their way towards the sawback mountain range. during the journey of two days, which this trip involved, the botanist seemed to change his character to some extent. he became silent--almost morose; did not encourage the various efforts made by his companions to draw him into conversation, and frequently rode alone in advance of the party, or occasionally fell behind them. the day after the stranger had joined them, as they were trotting slowly over the plains that lay between the rangers hill and the sawbacks, fred rode close up to bevan, and said in a low voice, glancing at the botanist, who was in advance-- "i am convinced, paul, that he is a scoundrel." "that may be so, mr fred, but what then?" "why, then i conclude that he is deceiving us for some purpose of his own." "nonsense," replied bevan, who was apt to express himself bluntly, "what purpose can he serve in deceiving strangers like us! we carry no gold-dust and have nothing worth robbing us of, even if he were fool enough to think of attemptin' such a thing. then, he can scarcely be deceivin' us in sayin' that he met three redskins carryin' off a white man--an' what good could it do him if he is? besides, he is goin' out of his way to sarve us." "it is impossible for me to answer your question, paul, but i understand enough of both french and german to know that his broken english is a mere sham--a mixture, and a bad one too, of what no german or frenchman would use--so it's not likely to be the sort of bad english that a swede would speak. moreover, i have caught him once or twice using english words correctly at one time and wrongly at another. no, you may depend on it that, whatever his object may be, he is deceiving us." "it's mesilf as agrees wid ye, sor," said flinders, who had been listening attentively to the conversation. "the man's no more a swede than an irishman, but what can we do wid oursilves! true or false, he's ladin' us in the diriction we want to go, an' it would do no good to say to him, `ye spalpeen, yer decavin' of us,' for he'd only say he wasn't; or may be he'd cut up rough an' lave us--but after all, it might be the best way to push him up to that." "i think not" said bevan. "doesn't english law say that a man should be held innocent till he's proved guilty?" "it's little i know or care about english law," answered flinders, "but i'm sure enough that irish law howlds a bad man to be guilty till he's proved innocent--at laste av it dosn't it should." "you'd better go an' pump him a bit, mr fred," said bevan; "we're close up to the sawback range; another hour an' we'll be among the mountains." they were turning round the spur of a little hillock as he spoke. before fred could reply a small deer sprang from its lair, cast on the intruders one startled gaze, and then bounded gracefully into the bush, too late, however, to escape from bevan's deadly rifle. it had barely gone ten yards when a sharp crack was heard; the animal sprang high into the air, and fell dead upon the ground. "bad luck to ye, bevan!" exclaimed flinders, who had also taken aim at it, but not with sufficient speed, "isn't that always the way ye do?-- plucks the baste out o' me very hand. sure i had me sights lined on it as straight as could be; wan second more an' i'd have sent a bullet right into its brain, when _crack_! ye go before me. och! it's onkind, to say the laste of it. why cudn't ye gi' me a chance?" "i'm sorry, flinders, but i couldn't well help it. the critter rose right in front o' me." "vat a goot shote you is!" exclaimed the botanist riding back to them and surveying the prostrate deer through his blue spectacles. "ay, and it's a lucky shot too," said fred, "for our provisions are running low. but perchance we shan't want much more food before reaching the indian camp. you said, i think, that you have a good guess where the camp lies, mister--what shall we call you?" "call me vat you please," returned the stranger, with a peculiar smile; "i is not partickler. some of me frunds calls me mr botaniste." "well, mr botanist, the camp cannot be far off now, an' it seems to me that we should have overtaken men travelling on foot by this time." "ye vill surely come on de tracks dis naight or de morrow," replied the botanist, riding forward, after bevan had secured the carcass of the deer to his saddle-bow, "bot ye must have patience, yoong blood be always too hote. all in goot time." with this reply fred was fain to content himself, for no amount of pressure availed to draw anything more satisfactory out of their strange guide. before sunset they had penetrated some distance into the sawback range, and then proceeded to make their encampment for the night under the spreading branches of a lordly pine! chapter thirteen. tables are frequently turned in this world in more senses than one. as was said in the last chapter, the romantic pair who were in search of the indians did not find those for whom they sought but as fickle fortune willed it, those for whom they sought found _them_. it happened thus. soon after the rose of oregon and her young champion, with their captors, had passed through the long gap, crossed the plain, and entered the sawback hills, they fell in with a band of twenty indians, who from their appearance and costume evidently belonged to the same tribe as their captors. from the manner in which they met also, it seemed that they had been in search of each other, and had something interesting to communicate, for they gesticulated much, pointed frequently to the sky, and to various directions of the compass, chattered excitedly, showed their brilliant teeth in fitful gleams, and glittered quite awfully about the eyes. they paid little attention at first to their prisoners, who remained sitting on their steeds looking on with interest and some anxiety. "o betty, what would i not give to have my arms free just now! what a chance it would be for a bold dash and a glorious run!" "you'd make little of it on such rough ground, tolly." "pooh! i'd try it on any ground. just fancy, i'd begin with a clear leap over that chief's head--the one there wi' the feathers an' the long nose that's makin' such hideous faces--then away up the glen, over the stones, down the hollows, shoutin' like mad, an' clearin' the brooks and precipices with a band o' yellin' redskins at my tail! isn't it enough to drive a fellow wild to be on the brink of such a chance an' miss it? i say, haven't you got a penknife in your pocket--no? not even a pair o' scissors? why, i thought you women never travelled without scissors!" "alas! tolly, i have not even scissors; besides, if i had, it would take me at least two minutes with all the strength of my fingers to cut the thongs that bind you with scissors, and i don't think the redskins would stand quietly by and look on while i did it. but what say you to _me_ trying it by myself?" "quite useless," returned tolly. "you'd be caught at once--or break your neck. and you'd never get on, you know, without me. no, no, we've got fairly into a fix, an' i don't see my way out of it. if my hands were free we might attempt anything, but what can a fellow do when tied up in this fashion?" "he can submit, tolly, and wait patiently." tolly did not feel inclined to submit, and was not possessed of much patience, but he was too fond of betty to answer flippantly. he therefore let his feelings escape through the safety-valve of a great sigh, and relapsed into pensive silence. meanwhile the attention of the band of savages was attracted to another small band of natives which approached them from the eastward. that these were also friends was evident from the fact that the larger band made no hostile demonstration, but quietly awaited the coming up of the others. the newcomers were three in number, and two of them bore on their shoulders what appeared to be the body of a man wrapped up in a blanket. "they've got a wounded comrade with them, i think," said little trevor. "so it would seem," replied betty, with a dash of pity in her tone, for she was powerfully sympathetic. the savages laid the form in the blanket on the ground, and began to talk earnestly with their comrades. "it's not dead yet anyhow," remarked tolly, "for i see it move. i wonder whether it is a man or a woman. mayhap it's their old grandmother they're giving a little exercise to. i've heard that some o' the redskins are affectionate sort o' fellows, though most of 'em are hard enough on the old folk." as he spoke he looked up in betty's face. just as he did so a startling change came over that face. it suddenly became ashy pale, the large eyes dilated to their utmost extent, and the mouth opened with a short gasp. in great alarm the boy turned his eyes in the direction in which the girl gazed so fixedly, and then his own visage assumed a somewhat similar appearance as he beheld the pale, thin, cadaverous countenance of his friend tom brixton, from off which a corner of the blanket had just slipped. but for the slight motion above referred to tom might have been mistaken for a dead man, for his eyes were closed and his lips bloodless. uttering a sudden shout tolly trevor flung himself headlong off the pony and tried to get on his feet but failed, owing to his hands being tied behind him. betty also leaped to the ground, and, running to where tom lay, went down on her knees and raised his head in her hands. the poor youth, being roused, opened his eyes. they were terribly sunken and large, but when they met those of betty they enlarged to an extent that seemed positively awful, and a faint tinge of colour came to his hollow cheeks. "betty!" he whispered; "can--can it be possible?" "yes, it is i! surely god must have sent me to save your life!" "i fear not, dear--" he stopped abruptly and shut his eyes. for a few moments it seemed as if he were dead, but presently he opened them again, and said, faintly, "it is too late, i fear. you are very kind, but i--i feel so terribly weak that i think i am dying." by this time tolly, having managed to get on his feet stood beside his friend, on whom he gazed with intense anxiety. even the indians were solemnised by what appeared to be a death-scene. "have you been wounded!" asked the girl, quickly. "no; _only_ starved!" returned tom, a slight smile of humour flickering for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity. "have the indians given you anything to eat since they found you?" "they have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; i could not get it down." the girl rose promptly. "tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire. quick!" she said, and going up to an indian, coolly drew from its sheath his scalping-knife, with which she cut tolly's bonds. the savage evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for he made no motion whatever to check her. then, without a word more, she went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of them, took out some soft sugar. the savage who held the horse made no objection. indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by, observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about, regardless of everything but the work in hand. the rose of oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion with marvellous facility. true, she knew nothing whatever about the duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy sufficed. it was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything urgent had to be done. if she knew not what to do, and no one else did, she was sure to attempt something. whether sugar-and-water was the best food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know--at least she thought--that the starvation ought to be checked without delay. "here, mr brixton, sip a little of this," she said, going down on her knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient's mouth. poor tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from _her_ hand! he obeyed, and seemed to like it. "now, a little more." "god bless you, dear girl!" murmured tom, as he sipped a little more. "there, that will do you good till i can prepare something better." she rose and ran to the fire which tolly had already blown up almost to furnace heat. "i filled the kettle, for i knew you'd want it," said the boy, turning up his fiery-red visage for a moment, "it can't be long o' boiling with such a blaze below it." he stooped again and continued to blow while betty cut some dried meat into small pieces. soon these were boiled, and the resulting soup was devoured by the starving man with a zest that he had never before experienced. "nectar!" he exclaimed faintly, smiling as he raised his eyes to betty's face. "but you must not take too much at a time," she said, gently drawing away the mug. tom submitted patiently. he would have submitted to anything patiently just then! during these proceedings the indians, who seemed to be amiably disposed, looked on with solemn interest and then, coming apparently to the conclusion that they might as well accommodate themselves to circumstances, they quietly made use of tolly's fire to cook a meal for themselves. this done, one of them--a noble-looking savage, who, to judge from his bearing and behaviour, was evidently their chief--went up to betty, and, with a stately bend of the head, said, in broken english, "white woman git on horse!" "and what are you going to do with this man?" asked betty, pointing to the prostrate form of tom. "unaco will him take care," briefly replied the chief (meaning himself), while with a wave of his hand he turned away, and went to tolly, whom he ordered to mount the pony, which he styled the "littil horse." the boy was not slow to obey, for he was by that time quite convinced that his only chance of being allowed to have his hands left free lay in prompt submission. any lurking thought that might have remained of making a grand dash for liberty was effectually quelled by a big savage, who quietly took hold of the pony's rein and led it away. another indian led betty's horse. then the original three who had found tom took him up quite gently and carried him off, while the remainder of the band followed in single file. unaco led the way, striding over the ground at a rate which almost forced the pony to trot, and glancing from side to side with a keen look of inquiry that seemed to intimate an expectation of attack from an enemy in ambush. but if any such enemy existed he was careful not to show himself, and the indian band passed through the defiles and fastnesses of the sawback hills unmolested until the shades of evening began to descend. then, on turning round a jutting rock that obstructed the view up a mountain gorge, unaco stopped abruptly and held up his hand. this brought the band to a sudden halt and the chief, apparently sinking on his knees, seemed to melt into the bushes. in a few minutes he returned with a look of stern resolve on his well-formed countenance. "he has discovered something o' some sort, i--" tolly's remark to his fair companion was cut short by the point of a keen knife touching his side, which caused him to end with "hallo!" the savage who held his bridle gave him a significant look that said, "silence!" after holding a brief whispered conversation with several of his braves, the chief advanced to betty and said-- "white man's in the bush. does white woman know why?" betty at once thought of her father and his companions, and said-- "i have not seen the white men. how can i tell why they are here? let me ride forward and look at them--then i shall be able to speak." a very slight smile of contempt curled the chiefs lip for an instant as he replied-- "no. the white woman see them when they be trapped. unaco knows one. he is black--a devil with two face--many face, but unaco's eyes be sharp. they see far." so saying, he turned and gave some directions to his warriors, who at once scattered themselves among the underwood and disappeared. ordering the indians who carried tom brixton to follow him, and the riders to bring up the rear, he continued to advance up the gorge. "a devil with two faces!" muttered tolly; "that must be a queer sort o' beast! i _have_ heard of a critter called a tasmanian devil, but never before heard of an oregon one with two faces." an expressive glance from the indian who guarded him induced the lad to continue his speculations in silence. on passing round the jutting rock, where unaco had been checked in his advance, the party at once beheld the cause of anxiety. close to the track they were following were seen four men busily engaged in making arrangements to encamp for the night. it need scarcely be said that these were our friends paul bevan, fred westly, flinders, and the botanist. the moment that these caught sight of the approaching party they sprang to their arms, which of course lay handy, for in those regions, at the time we write of, the law of might was in the ascendant. the appearance and conduct of unaco, however, deceived them, for that wily savage advanced towards them with an air of confidence and candour which went far to remove suspicion, and when, on drawing nearer, he threw down his knife and tomahawk, and held up his empty hands, their suspicions were entirely dispelled. "they're not likely to be onfriendly," observed flinders, "for there's only five o' them altogither, an' wan o' them's only a bit of a boy an' another looks uncommon like a wo--" he had got thus far when he was checked by paul bevan's exclaiming, with a look of intense surprise, "why, that's betty!--or her ghost!" flinders's astonishment was too profound to escape in many words. he only gave vent to, "musha! there's tolly!" and let his lower jaw drop. "yes, it's me an' the beautiful nugget" cried tolly, jumping off the pony and running to assist the nugget to dismount, while the bearers of tom brixton laid him on the ground, removed the blanket, and revealed his face. the exclamations of surprise would no doubt have been redoubled at this sight if the power of exclamation had not been for the time destroyed. the sham botanist in particular was considerably puzzled, for he at once recognised tom and also betty, whom he had previously known. of course he did not know tolly trevor; still less did he know that tolly knew _him_. unaco himself was somewhat surprised at the mutual recognitions, though his habitual self-restraint enabled him to conceal every trace of emotion. moreover, he was well aware that he could not afford to lose time in the development of his little plot. taking advantage, therefore, of the surprise which had rendered every one for the moment more or less confused, he gave a sharp signal which was well understood by his friends in the bush. instantly, and before tolly or betty could warn their friends of what was coming, the surrounding foliage parted, as if by magic, and a circle of yelling and painted redskins sprang upon the white men. resistance was utterly out of the question. they were overwhelmed as if by a cataract and, almost before they could realise what had happened, the arms of all the men were pinioned behind them. at that trying hour little tolly trevor proved himself to be more of a man than most of his friends had hitherto given him credit for. the savages, regarding him as a weak little boy, had paid no attention to him, but confined their efforts to the overcoming of the powerful and by no means submissive men with whom they had to deal. tolly's first impulse was to rush to the rescue of paul bevan; but he was remarkably quick-witted, and, when on the point of springing, observed that no tomahawk was wielded or knife drawn. suddenly grasping the wrist of betty, who had also naturally felt the impulse to succour her father, he exclaimed-- "stop! betty. they don't mean murder. you an' i can do nothing against so many. keep quiet; p'r'aps they'll leave us alone." as he spoke a still deeper idea flashed into his little brain. to the surprise of betty, he suddenly threw his arms round her waist and clung to her as if for protection with a look of fear in his face, and when the work of binding the captives was completed the indians found him still labouring to all appearance under great alarm. unaco cast on him one look of supreme scorn, and then, leaving him, like betty, unbound, turned towards paul bevan. "the white man is one of wicked band?" he said, in his broken english. "i don't know what ye mean, redskin," replied paul; "but speak your own tongue, i understand it well enough to talk with ye." the indian repeated the question in his native language, and paul, replying in the same, said-- "no, redskin, i belong to no band, either wicked or good." "how come you, then, to be in company with this man?" demanded the indian. in reply paul gave a correct account of the cause and object of his being there, explained that the starving man before them was the friend for whom he sought, that betty was his daughter, though how she came to be there beat his comprehension entirely, and that the botanist was a stranger, whose name even he did not yet know. "it is false," returned the chief. "the white man speaks with a forked tongue. he is one of the murderers who have slain my wife and my child." a dark fierce frown passed over the chief's countenance as he spoke, but it was quickly replaced by the habitual look of calm gravity. "what can stop me," he said, reverting again to english as he turned and addressed betty, "from killing you as my wife was killed by white man?" "my god can stop you," answered the girl, in a steady voice, though her heart beat fast and her face was very pale. "your god!" exclaimed the savage. "will your god defend the wicked?" "no, but he will pardon the wicked who come to him in the name of jesus, and he will defend the innocent." "innocent!" repeated unaco, vehemently, as he turned and pointed to the botanist. "does you call _this_ man innocent?" "i know nothing about that man," returned the girl, earnestly; "but i do know that my father and i, and all the rest of us, are innocent of any crime against you." for a few seconds the savage chief gazed steadily at betty, then turning towards the botanist he took a step towards the spot where he sat and looked keenly into his face. the botanist returned the gaze with equal steadiness through his blue spectacles. chapter fourteen. "the big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain," said the indian chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist's countenance. "so some of my mistaken friends have thought," returned the man, speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill to pass through paul bevan's frame. "he is a thief," continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue glasses, "and a murderer!" "he's all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain," thought tolly trevor, but tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber's career was about to receive a check. as the thought passed through his brain, however, he observed from the position in which he stood that stalker-- for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he--was working his hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable manner. "oho!" thought tolly, "is that your little game? ha! i'll spoil it for you!" he quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse himself therewith. "you has many faces, many colours," continued unaco, "and too many eyes." at the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist's nose and flung them into the fire. "my enemy!" gasped paul bevan, turning first very pale and then very red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe. "you knows him _now_?" said unaco, turning abruptly to paul. "yes; _i_ knows him!" "the white man with the forked tongue say jus' now he _not_ knows him." "ay, redskin, an' i said the truth, for he's a rare deceiver--always has been--an' can pass himself off for a'most anything. i knows him as my mortal foe. cast my hands loose an' give me a knife an' you shall see." "o father! your promise--remember!" exclaimed betty. "true, dear lass, true; i forgot," returned paul, with a humbled look; "yet it _is_ hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big baboon, an' keep his hands off him." during this dialogue the indians looked from one speaker to another with keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what was said; and stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for the moment from himself to carry out what tolly had styled his "little game," all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx. among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become familiar, he had learned the conjuror's method of so arranging his limbs while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner. on the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last. he had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the indian nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes. but tolly trevor was ready for him. that daring youth plunged right in front of the big botanist and stooped. stalker tripped over him and came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose. before he could rise tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber's crown. it sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in the close embrace of three muscular redskins. "well done, tolly trevor!" shouted paul bevan, enthusiastically. even tom brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer. but the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted. finding himself in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the heart. the savages knew the symptoms well--too well! they rose, breathless, and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, "who did the deed?" before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all, stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and, bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds. the whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief, who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of his braves. one by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber had outrun them all and got clear away. "well, now, it was cliverly done," remarked paddy flinders, finding his tongue at last; "an' i raly can't but feel that he desarves to git off this time. all the same i hope he'll be nabbed at last an' recaive his due--bad luck to him!" "now, redskin--" began bevan. "my name is unaco," interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity. "well, then, unaco," continued bevan, "since ye must see that we have nothing whatever to do wi' the blackguard that's just given ye the slip, i hope you'll see your way to untie our hands an' let us go." "you may not belong to that man's band," answered the chief, in his own tongue, "but you are a white man, and by white men i have been robbed of my wife and child. your lives are forfeited. you shall be slaves to those whom you call redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall replace the lost one in my wigwam." without deigning to listen to a reply, unaco turned and gave orders to his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set betty and tolly thereon, lifted tom brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed their march deeper into the fastnesses of the sawback hills. it was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night. "no doubt" remarked fred westly to paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though flinders was obliged to walk behind--"no doubt the chief fears that stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way." "very likely," returned bevan; "an' it's my opinion that he'll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case master stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them." "what think you of the threat of the chief to take betty to be one of his wives?" asked fred. "well, i don't think he'll do it." "why not?" "because i've got a hold over him that he's not aware of just yet." "what is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?" asked fred, in surprise. "what the hold is," returned bevan, "you shall know at supper-time. the reason why i didn't make use of it sooner is that on the whole, i think it better to stick by the redskins yet awhile--first, because if stalker should look for us, as he's sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor tom brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o' that in the circumstances, wi' the redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain stalker's hands just now." while paul and fred were thus conversing, the rose of oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought. at last tolly raised his head and voice. "betty," said he, "what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi' tom brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin' to eat." "yes, thank god," replied the girl, fervently. "he'd have died but for you," said the boy. "and you, tolly," added betty. "well, yes, i did have a finger in the pie," returned the boy, with a self-satisfied air; "but i say, betty," he added, becoming suddenly serious, "what d'ye think o' what that rascally chief said about takin' you to his wigwam? you know that means he intends to make you his wife." "yes, i know; but god will deliver me," answered the girl. "how d'ye know that?" "because i put my trust in him." "oh! but," returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, "unless god works a miracle i don't see how he can deliver us from the redskins, and you know he doesn't work miracles nowadays." "i'm not so sure of that," replied the girl. "more than once i have seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting, thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself body and soul to jesus christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve god himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same state of mind. what would you call that, tolly?" "i'm bound to say it's as near a miracle as can be, if not one altogether. but in what way do you think god will deliver you just now?" "that i cannot tell; but i know this, it is written in his word that those who put their trust in him shall never be confounded, and i have put my trust in him. he will never forsake me." "i wish i had as strong faith as you, betty," said the boy, with a grave look. "you may have it--and stronger than i have, for faith is the gift of god, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we _ask_ for it. the holy spirit can work anything in us and by us, and _he_ is promised to those who merely ask in the name of jesus. ah! tolly, have i not often told you this, that in god's word it is written, `ye have not because ye ask not?'" while these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp for the night. soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure. there were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour. some of the indians stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background. others lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles. to an observer outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness. paul bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only native who stood beside them being unaco. it is probable that the savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure of them, for the escape of stalker weighed heavily on his mind. to secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the left was tied firmly to his body. of course, betty and tom brixton were left altogether unbound. "i feel uncommon lopsided goin' about in this one-armed fashion," remarked paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting. "couldn't ye make up yer mind to trust us, unaco? i'd promise for myself an' friends that we wouldn't attempt to cut away like that big thief stalker." the chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice. "arrah! howld yer tongue, paul," said flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; "why d'ye disturb his majesty? don't ye see that he's meditatin', or suthin' o' that sort--maybe about his forefathers?" "well, well, i hope his after mothers won't have many sulky ones like him," returned paul, rather crossly. "it's quite impossible to cut up a steak wi' one hand, so here goes i' the next best fashion." he took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when betty came to the rescue. "stay, father; i'll cut it into little bits for you if unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife." without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father's portion into manageable lumps. "that's not a bad notion," said fred. "perhaps you'll do the same for me, betty." "with pleasure, mr westly." "ah, now, av it wouldn't be axin' too much, might i make so bowld--" flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the rose of oregon with a significant smile. "i'm glad to be so unexpectedly useful," said betty, with a laugh. when she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, betty returned the knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the head. she then filled a mug with soup, and went to tom, who lay on a deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw. "and yet it can't well be a dream," he murmured, with a faint smile, as the girl knelt by his side, "for i never dreamed anything half so real. what is this--soup?" "yes; try to take a little. it will do you good, with god's blessing." "ah, yes, with god's blessing," repeated the poor youth, earnestly. "you know what that means, betty, and--and--i _think_ i am beginning to understand it." betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her heart. when she returned to the side of her father she found that he had finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe. "when are you going to tell me, paul, about the--the--subject we were talking of on our way here?" asked fred, who was still devoting much of his attention to a deer's rib. "i'll tell ye now," answered paul, with a short glance at the indian chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke. "there's no time like after supper for a good pipe an' a good story--not that what i'm goin' to tell ye is much of a story either, but it's true, if that adds vally to it, an' it'll be short. it's about a brave young indian i once had the luck to meet with. his name was oswego." at the sound of the name unaco cast a sharp glance at bevan. it was so swift that no one present observed it save bevan himself, who had expected it. but paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself rather more towards fred, addressed himself pointedly to him. "this young indian," said paul, "was a fine specimen of his race, tall and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain as the sun in the summer sky. i was out after grizzly b'ars at the time, but hadn't had much luck, an' was comin' back to camp one evenin' in somethin' of a sulky humour, when i fell upon a trail which i knowed was the trail of a redskin. the redskins was friendly at that time wi' the whites, and as i was out alone, an' am somethin' of a sociable critter, i thought i'd follow him up an' take him to my camp wi' me, if he was willin', an' give him some grub an' baccy. well, i hadn't gone far when i came to a precipiece. the trail followed the edge of it for some distance, an' i went along all right till i come to a bit where the trail seemed to go right over it. my heart gave a jump, for i seed at a glance that a bit o' the cliff had given way there, an' as there was no sign o' the trail farther on, of course i knowed that the injin, whoever he was, must have gone down with it. "i tried to look over, but it was too steep an' dangerous, so i sought for a place where i could clamber down. sure enough, when i reached the bottom, there lay the poor redskin. i thought he was dead, for he'd tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some extent, and when i went up to him i saw by his eyes that he was alive, though he could neither speak nor move. "i soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after tryin' in vain to get him to speak to me, i took him in my arms as tenderly as i could and carried him to my camp. it was five miles off, and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped him, i knew that poor oswego suffered much by the great drops o' perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, i had to carry him carefully. when i'd gone about four miles i met a small injin boy who said he was oswego's brother, had seen him fall, an', not bein' able to lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it. "that night i nursed the lad as i best could, gave him some warm tea, and did my best to arrange him comfortably. the poor fellow tried to speak his gratitude, but couldn't; yet i could see it in his looks. he died next day, and i buried him under a pine-tree. the poor heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of his tribe, so i gave him the most of the provisions i had, told him my name, and sent him away." at this point in the story unaco rose abruptly, and said to bevan-- "the white man will follow me." paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an indian, said-- "your name is paul bevan?" "it is." "i am the father of oswego," said the chief, grasping paul by the hand and shaking it vigorously in the white man's fashion. "i know it, unaco, and i know you by report, though we've never met before, and i told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue is _not_ `forked.'" when paul bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came alone, and both his arms were free. in a few seconds he had the satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed between him and the indian chief. chapter fifteen. at the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned unaco as their chief. it was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous "prospector" would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery. it required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. the sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the indian village. "it seems to me, paul," remarked fred westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, "that these indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men." "that is true," replied bevan, as they continued on their way. "nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place." "perchance stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say," suggested fred. "they will certainly attempt it" returned paul, "but they are not what i call resolute men. scoundrels are seldom blessed wi' much resolution, an' they're never heartily united." "what makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, paul?" "the fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years," answered bevan, with a frown. "is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?" "the reason is simple enough. buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. indeed i'm half afraid that he will manage it at last, for i've promised my little gal that i won't kill _him_ 'cept in self-defence, an' of course if i don't kill him he's pretty sure to kill me." "does betty know why this man persecutes you so?" "no--she don't." as it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, fred forbore to ask more questions about it. "so you think unaco may be depended on?" he asked, by way of changing the subject. "ay, surely. you may depend on it that the almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin's. the civilised people an' the redskins ain't so different as some folk seem to think. they can both of 'em love an' hate pretty stiffly, an' they are both able to feel an' show gratitude as well as the reverse--also, they're pretty equal in the matter of revenge." "but don't we find," said fred, "that among christians revenge is pretty much held in check?" "among christians--ay," replied bevan; "but white men ain't always christians, any more than red men are always devils. seems to me it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other. moreover, when the missionaries git among the redskins, some of 'em turns christians an' some hypocrites--just the same as white men. what unaco is, in the matter o' christianity, is not for me to say, for i don't know; but from what i do know, from hearsay, of his character, i'm sartin sure that he's a good man and true, an' for that little bit of sarvice i did to his poor boy, he'd give me his life if need be." "nevertheless, i can't help thinking that we might have returned to simpson's gully, and taken the risk of meeting with stalker," said fred. "ha! that's because you don't know him," returned bevan. "if he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he'd have overtook us by this time. anyway, he's sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can." "but think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor tom brixton," said fred. "no doubt," returned paul; "but haven't we got him on tolly's pony to-day? and isn't that a sign he's better? an' would you have me risk betty fallin' into the hands o' buxley?" paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and fred admitted that it was. "besides," he went on, "it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o' injins, an' we may chance to fall in wi' gold, who knows? an' when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin' us, we shall have the help o' the redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good 'un an' their wigwams are in danger." "it may be so, paul. however, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it." as fred spoke, betty bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,-- which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,--and waited till her father overtook her. "is it not like paradise, father?" "not havin' been to paradise, dear, i can't exactly say," returned her matter-of-fact sire. "oh, i say, ain't it splendatious!" said tolly trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing betty's idea in somewhat different phraseology; "just look at the lake--like a lookin'-glass, with every wigwam pictur'd upside down, so clear that a feller can't well say which is which. an' the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, redskins above and redskins below. hallo! i say, what's that?" the excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. that pause proved fatal. a concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head. "poor, poor creature!" exclaimed the tender-hearted betty. "not a bad supper for somebody," remarked her practical father. as he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared. he was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. as he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man--at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any indian. "he's a trapper," exclaimed tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance. "ay, he looks like one o' these wanderin' chaps," said bevan, "that seem to be fond of a life o' solitude in the wilderness. i've knowed a few of 'em. queer customers some, that stick at nothin' when their blood's up; though i have met wi' one or two that desarved an easier life, an' more o' this world's goods. but most of 'em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an' on'y come down to the settlements when they run out o' powder an' lead, or want to sell their furs. hallo! why, tolly, boy, it is--yes! i do believe it's mahoghany drake himself!" tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him. "his name is a strange one," remarked fred westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached. "drake is his right name," explained bevan, "an' mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him 'cause he's so much tanned wi' the sun. he's one o' the right sort, let me tell ye. none o' your boastin', bustin' critters, like gashford, but a quiet, thinkin' man, as is ready to tackle any subject a'most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it's time to speak. he can hold his own, too wi' man or beast. ain't he friendly wi' little tolly trevor? he'll shake his arm out o' the socket if he don't take care. i'll have to go to the rescue." in a few seconds paul bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper's hand, for, although fond of solitude, mahoghany drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends. "glad to see you, gentlemen," he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by paul to the travellers. at the same time he gave a friendly little nod to unaco, thus indicating that with the indian chief he was already acquainted. "well, drake," said bevan, after the first greetings were over, "all right at the camp down there?" "all well," he replied, "and the leaping buck quite recovered." he cast a quiet glance at the indian chief as he spoke, for the leaping buck was unaco's little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before. "no sign o' gold-seekers yet?" asked paul. "none--'cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin'. sartinly they found nothin', an' went away disgusted." the trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this. "what are ye larfin' at?" asked paul. "at the gold-seekers," replied drake. "what was the matter wi' 'em," asked tolly. "not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite." "ye was always fond o' speakin' in riddles," said paul. "what d'ye mean, mahoghany!" "i mean that though there ain't much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn't see, though they was walkin' over it, an' they was so blind they couldn't hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. i do believe they'd have starved if i hadn't killed a buck for them." during this conversation paddy flinders had been listening attentively and in silence. he now sidled up to tom brixton, who, although bestriding tolly's pony, seemed ill able to travel. "d'ye hear what the trapper says, muster brixton?" "yes, paddy, what then?" "och! i only thought to cheer you up a bit by p'intin' out that he says there's goold hereabouts." "i'm glad for your sake and fred's," returned tom, with a faint smile, "but it matters little to me; i feel that my days are numbered." "ah then, sor, don't spake like that," returned flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. "sure, it's in the dumps ye are, an' no occasion for that same. isn't miss--" the irishman paused. he had it in his heart to say, "isn't miss betty smilin' on ye like one o'clock?" but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. as the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence. the indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. it occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon. the distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. to the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges. after they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the children more boisterous. a number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. this was unaco's little son, leaping buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him. on reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father's arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. a few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being--perhaps an angel--in which opinion they were undoubtedly backed by tom buxton. after embracing his father, leaping buck recognised paul bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice. with a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly backwoodsman. "i cannot help thinking," remarked betty to tom, as they gazed on the pleasant meeting, "that god must have some way of revealing the spirit of jesus to these indians that we christians know not of." "it is strange," replied tom, "that the same thought has occurred to me more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to the sentiments of unaco. and i have also been puzzled with this thought--if god has some method of revealing christ to the heathen that we know not of, why are christians so anxious to send the gospel to the heathen?" "that thought has never occurred to me," replied betty, "because our reason for going forth to preach the gospel to the heathen is the simple one that god commands us to do so. yet it seems to me quite consistent with that command that god may have other ways and methods of making his truth known to men, but this being a mere speculation does not free us from our simple duty." "you are right. perhaps i am too fond of reasoning and speculating," answered tom. "nay, that you are not" rejoined the girl, quickly; "it seems to me that to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience. `let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind,' is our title from god to _think_ fully and freely; but `go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature,' is a command so plain and peremptory that it does not admit of speculative objection." "why, betty, i had no idea you were such a reasoner!" said tom, with a look of surprise. "surely it is not your father who has taught you to think thus?" "i have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the bible," replied the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a subject about which she was usually reticent. "but see," she added hastily, giving a shake to the reins of her horse, "we have been left behind. the chief has already reached his village. let us push on." the obstinate horse went off at an accommodating amble under the sweet sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot which nearly shook all the little strength that tom brixton possessed out of his wasted frame. the manner in which unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified when it was made known that paul bevan was the man who had shown kindness to their chief's son oswego in his last hours. indeed, the influence which an indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was well exemplified by this small and isolated tribe, for there was among them a pervading tone of contentment and goodwill, which was one of unaco's most obvious characteristics. truthfulness, also, and justice were more or less manifested by them. even the children seemed to be free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result of gleeful shouts or merry laughter. they seemed, in short, to be a happy community, the various members of which had leaned--to a large extent from their chief--"how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity." a tent was provided for bevan, flinders, and tolly trevor near to the wigwam of unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the rose of oregon. not far from these another tent was erected for fred and his invalid friend tom brixton. as for mahoghany drake, that lanky, lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in quiet contempt of any more luxurious covering. but, although the solitary wanderer of the western wilderness thus elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling tales of adventure, giving vent now and then to a "waugh!" or a "ho!" of surprise at some telling point in the narrative, or letting fly sudden volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement, no doubt of the neighbouring bucks and bears and wild-fowl. "tom," said fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, "we shall have to stay here some weeks, i suspect until you get strong enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable natives." "true, fred. nevertheless i shall leave the moment my strength permits--that is, if health be restored to me--and i shall go off by myself." "why, tom, what do you mean?" "i mean exactly what i say. dear fred," answered the sick man, feebly grasping his friend's hand, "i feel that it is my duty to get away from all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, god permitting. i will not remain with the character of a thief stamped upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and i have made up my mind no longer to persecute dear betty bevan with the offer of a dishonest and dishonoured hand. in my insolent folly i had once thought her somewhat below me in station. i now know that she is far, far above me in every way, and also beyond me." "tom, my dear boy," returned fred, earnestly, "you are getting weak. it is evident that they have delayed supper too long. try to sleep now, and i'll go and see why tolly has not brought it." so saying, fred westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little friend. chapter sixteen. little tolly trevor and leaping buck--being about the same age, and having similar tastes and propensities, though very unlike each other in temperament--soon became fast friends, and they both regarded mahoghany drake, the trapper, with almost idolatrous affection. "would you care to come wi' me to-day, tolly? i'm goin' to look for some meat on the heights." it was thus that drake announced his intention to go a-hunting one fine morning after he had disposed of a breakfast that might have sustained an ordinary man for several days. "care to go with ye!" echoed tolly, "i just think i should. but, look here, mahoghany," continued the boy, with a troubled expression, "i've promised to go out on the lake to-day wi' leaping buck, an' i _must_ keep my promise. you know you told us only last night in that story about the chinaman and the grizzly that no true man ever breaks his promise." "right, lad, right" returned the trapper, "but you can go an' ask the little buck to jine us, an' if he's inclined you can both come--only you must agree to leave yer tongues behind ye if ye do, for it behoves hunters to be silent, and from my experience of you i raither think yer too fond o' chatterin'." before drake had quite concluded his remark tolly was off in search of his red-skinned bosom friend. the manner in which the friendship between the red boy and the white was instituted and kept up was somewhat peculiar and almost incomprehensible, for neither spoke the language of the other except to a very slight extent. leaping buck's father had, indeed, picked up a pretty fair smattering of english during his frequent expeditions into the gold-fields, which, at the period we write of, were being rapidly developed. paul bevan, too, during occasional hunting expeditions among the red men, had acquired a considerable knowledge of the dialect spoken in that part of the country, but leaping buck had not visited the diggings with his father, so that his knowledge of english was confined to the smattering which he had picked up from paul and his father. in like manner tolly trevor's acquaintance with the native tongue consisted of the little that had been imparted to him by his friend paul bevan. mahoghany drake, on the contrary, spoke indian fluently, and it must be understood that in the discourses which he delivered to the two boys he mixed up english and indian in an amazing compound which served to render him intelligible to both, but which, for the reader's sake, we feel constrained to give in the trapper's ordinary english. "it was in a place just like this," said drake, stopping with his two little friends on reaching a height, and turning round to survey the scene behind him, "that a queer splinter of a man who was fond o' callin' himself an ornithologist shot a grizzly b'ar wi' a mere popgun that was only fit for a squawkin' babby's plaything." "oh! do sit down, mahoghany," cried little trevor, in a voice of entreaty; "i'm so fond of hearin' about grizzlies, an' i'd give all the world to meet one myself, so would buckie here, wouldn't you?" the indian boy, whose name tolly had thus modified, tried to assent to this proposal by bending his little head in a stately manner, in imitation of his dignified father. "well, i don't mind if i do," replied the trapper, with a twinkle of his eyes. mahoghany drake was blessed with that rare gift, the power to invest with interest almost any subject, no matter how trivial or commonplace, on which he chose to speak. whether it was the charm of a musical voice, or the serious tone and manner of an earnest man, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that whenever or wherever he began to talk, men stopped to listen, and were held enchained until he had finished. on the present occasion the trapper seated himself on a green bank that lay close to the edge of a steep precipice, and laid his rifle across his knees, while the boys sat down one on each side of him. the view from the elevated spot on which they sat was most exquisite, embracing the entire length of the valley at the other end of which the indian village lay, its inhabitants reduced to mere specks and its wigwams to little cones, by distance. owing also to the height of the spot, the view of surrounding mountains was extended, so that range upon range was seen in softened perspective, while a variety of lakelets, with their connecting watercourses, which were hidden by foliage in the lower grounds, were now opened up to view. glowing sunshine glittered on the waters and bathed the hills and valleys, deepening the near shadows and intensifying the purple and blue of those more distant. "it often makes me wonder," said the trapper, in a reflective tone, as if speaking rather to himself than to his companions, "why the almighty has made the world so beautiful an' parfect an' allowed mankind to grow so awful bad." the boys did not venture to reply, but as drake sat gazing in dreamy silence at the far-off hills, little trevor, who recalled some of his conversations with the rose of oregon, ventured to say, "p'r'aps we'll find out some day, though we don't understand it just now." "true, lad, true," returned drake. "it would be well for us if we always looked at it in that light, instead o' findin' fault wi' things as they are, for it stands to reason that the maker of all can fall into no mistakes." "but what about the ornithologist?" said tolly, who had no desire that the conversation should drift into abstruse subjects. "ay, ay, lad, i'm comin' to him," replied the trapper, with the humorous twinkle that seemed to hover always about the corners of his eyes, ready for instant development. "well, you must know, this was the way of it-- and it do make me larf yet when i think o' the face o' that spider-legged critter goin' at the rate of twenty miles an hour or thereabouts wi' that most awful-lookin' grizzly b'ar peltin' after him.--hist! look there, tolly. a chance for your popgun." the trapper pointed as he spoke to a flock of wild duck that was coming straight towards the spot on which they sat. the "popgun" to which he referred was one of the smooth-bore flint-lock single-barrelled fowling-pieces which traders were in the habit of supplying to the natives at that time, and which unaco had lent to the boy for the day, with his powder-horn and ornamented shot-pouch. for the three hunters to drop behind the bank on which they had been sitting was the work of a moment. young though he was, tolly had already become a fair and ready shot. he selected the largest bird in the flock, covered it with a deadly aim, and pulled the trigger. but the click of the lock was not followed by an explosion as the birds whirred swiftly on. "ah! my boy," observed the trapper, taking the gun quietly from the boy's hand and proceeding to chip the edge of the flint, "you should never go a-huntin' without seein' that your flint is properly fixed." "but i did see to it," replied tolly, in a disappointed tone, "and it struck fire splendidly when i tried it before startin'." "true, boy, but the thing is worn too short, an' though its edge is pretty well, you didn't screw it firm enough, so it got drove back a bit and the hammer-head, as well as the flint, strikes the steel, d'ye see? there now, prime it again, an' be sure ye wipe the pan before puttin' in the powder. it's not worth while to be disap'inted about so small a matter. you'll git plenty more chances. see, there's another flock comin'. don't hurry, lad. if ye want to be a good hunter always keep cool, an' take time. better lose a chance than hurry. a chance lost you see, is only a chance lost, but blazin' in a hurry is a bad lesson that ye've got to unlarn." the trapper's advice was cut short by the report of tolly's gun, and next moment a fat duck, striking the ground in front of them, rolled fluttering to their feet. "not badly done, tolly," said the trapper, with a nod, as he reseated himself on the bank, while leaping buck picked up the bird, which was by that time dead, and the young sportsman recharged his gun; "just a leetle too hurried. if you had taken only half a second more time to put the gun to your shoulder, you'd have brought the bird to the ground dead; and you boys can't larn too soon that you should never give needless pain to critters that you've got to kill. you must shoot, of course, or you'd starve; but always make sure of killin' at once, an' the only way to do that is to keep cool an' take time. you see, it ain't the aim you take that matters so much, as the coolness an' steadiness with which ye put the gun to your shoulder. if you only do that steadily an' without hurry, the gun is sure to p'int straight for'ard an' the aim'll look arter itself. nevertheless, it was smartly done, lad, for it's a difficult shot when a wild duck comes straight for your head like a cannon-ball." "but what about the ornithologist;" said tolly, who, albeit well pleased at the trapper's complimentary remarks, did not quite relish his criticism. "yes, yes; i'm comin' to that. well, as i was sayin', it makes me larf yet, when i thinks on it. how he did run, to be sure! greased lightnin' could scarce have kep' up wi' him." "but where was he a-runnin' to, an' why?" asked little trevor, impatiently. "now, you leetle boy," said drake, with a look of grave remonstrance, "don't you go an' git impatient. patience is one o' the backwoods vartues, without which you'll never git on at all. if you don't cultivate patience you may as well go an' live in the settlements or the big cities--where it don't much matter what a man is--but it'll be no use to stop in the wilderness. there's leapin' buck, now, a-sittin' as quiet as a redskin warrior on guard! take a lesson from him, lad, an' restrain yourself. well, as i was goin' to say, i was out settin' my traps somewheres about the head-waters o' the yellowstone river at the time when i fell in wi' the critter. i couldn't rightly make out what he was, for, though i've seed mostly all sorts o' men in my day, i'd never met in wi' one o' this sort before. it wasn't his bodily shape that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that staggered me. he was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to have run to seed--all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an' dry an' fly-about. i'm six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke to his stride! he seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o' human compasses, an' his clo's fitted so tight that he might have passed for a livin' skeleton! "well, it was close upon sundown, an' i was joggin' along to my tent in the bush when i came to an openin' where i saw the critter down on one knee an' his gun up takin' aim at somethin'. i stopped to let him have his shot, for i count it a mortal sin to spoil a man's sport, an' i looked hard to see what it was he was goin' to let drive at, but never a thing could i see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the size of a big bee, sittin' on a branch not far from his nose an' cockin' its eye at him as much as to say, `well, you air a queer 'un!' `surely,' thought i, `he ain't a-goin' to blaze at _that_!' but i'd scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an' down it came flop on its back, as dead as mutton! "`well, stranger,' says i, goin' for'ard, `you do seem to be hard up for victuals when you'd shoot a small thing like that!' `not at all, my good man,' says he--an' the critter had a kindly smile an' a sensible face enough--`you must know that i am shootin' birds for scientific purposes. i am an ornithologist.' "`oh!' say i, for i didn't rightly know what else to say to that. "`yes,' says he; `an' see here.' "wi' that he opens a bag he had on his back an' showed me a lot o' birds, big an' small, that he'd been shootin'; an' then he pulls out a small book, in which he'd been makin' picturs of 'em--an' r'ally i was raither took wi' that for the critter had got 'em down there almost as good as natur'. they actooally looked as if they was alive! "`shut the book, sir,' says i, `or they'll all escape!' "it was only a small joke i meant, but the critter took it for a big 'un an' larfed at it till he made me half ashamed. "`d'ye know any of these birds?' he axed, arter we'd looked at a lot of 'em. "`know 'em?' says i; `i should think i does! why, i've lived among 'em ever since i was a babby!' "`indeed!' says he, an' he got quite excited, `how interestin'! an' do you know anythin' about their habits?' "`if you mean by that their ways o' goin' on,' says i, `there's hardly a thing about 'em that i don't know, except what they _think_, an' sometimes i've a sort o' notion i could make a pretty fair guess at that too.' "`will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?' he asked, gettin' more an' more excited. "`no, stranger, i won't,' says i; `but if you'll come to mine i'll feed you an' make you heartily welcome,' for somehow i'd took quite a fancy to the critter. "`i'll go,' says he, an' he went an' we had such a night of it! he didn't let me have a wink o' sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next mornin', an' axed me more questions about birds an' beasts an' fishes than i was iver axed before in the whole course o' my life--an' it warn't yesterday i was born. i began to feel quite like a settlement boy at school. an' he set it all down, too, as fast as i could speak, in the queerest hand-writin' you ever did see. at last i couldn't stand it no longer. "`mister ornithologist' says i. "`well,' says he. "`there's a pecooliar beast in them parts,' says i, `'as has got some pretty stiff an' settled habits.' "`is there?' says he, wakin' up again quite fresh, though he had been growin' sleepy. "`yes,' says i, `an' it's a obstinate sort o' brute that won't change its habits for nobody. one o' these habits is that it turns in of a night quite reg'lar an' has a good snooze before goin' to work next day. its name is mahoghany drake, an' that's me, so i'll bid you good-night, stranger.' "wi' that i knocked the ashes out o' my pipe, stretched myself out wi' my feet to the fire, an' rolled my blanket round me. the critter larfed again at this as if it was a great joke, but he shut up his book, put it and the bag o' leetle birds under his head for a pillow, spread himself out over the camp like a great spider that was awk'ard in the use o' its limbs, an' went off to sleep even before i did--an' that was sharp practice, let me tell you. "well," continued the trapper, clasping his great bony hands over one of his knees, and allowing the lines of humour to play on his visage, while the boys drew nearer in open-eyed expectancy, "we slep' about three hours, an' then had a bit o' breakfast, after which we parted, for he said he knew his way back to the camp, where he left his friends; but the poor critter didn't know nothin'--'cept ornithology. he lost himself an took to wanderin' in a circle arter i left him. i came to know it 'cause i struck his trail the same arternoon, an' there could be no mistakin' it, the length o' stride bein' somethin' awful! so i followed it up. "i hadn't gone far when i came to a place pretty much like this, as i said before, and when i was lookin' at the view--for i'm fond of a fine view, it takes a man's mind off trappin' an' victuals somehow--i heerd a most awful screech, an' then another. a moment later an' the ornithologist busted out o' the bushes with his long legs goin' like the legs of a big water-wagtail. he was too fur off to see the look of his face, but his hair was tremendous to behold. when he saw the precipice before him he gave a most horrible yell, for he knew that he couldn't escape that way from whatever was chasin' him. i couldn't well help him, for there was a wide gully between him an' me, an' it was too fur off for a fair shot. howsever, i stood ready. suddenly i seed the critter face right about an' down on one knee like a pair o' broken compasses; up went the shot-gun, an' at the same moment out busted a great old grizzly b'ar from the bushes. crack! went my rifle at once, but i could see that the ball didn't hurt him much, although it hit him fair on the head. loadin' in hot haste, i obsarved that the ornithologist sat like a post till that b'ar was within six foot of him, when he let drive both barrels of his popgun straight into its face. then he jumped a one side with a spurt like a grasshopper, an' the b'ar tumbled heels over head and got up with an angry growl to rub its face, then it made a savage rush for'ard and fell over a low bank, jumped up again, an' went slap agin a face of rock. i seed at once that it was blind. the small shot used by the critter for his leetle birds had put out both its eyes, an' it went blunderin' about while the ornithologist kep' well out of its way. i knew he was safe, so waited to see what he'd do, an' what d'ye think he did?" "shoved his knife into him," suggested tolly trevor, in eager anxiety. "what! shove his knife into a healthy old b'ar with nothin' gone but his sight? no, lad, he did do nothing so mad as that, but he ran coolly up to it an' screeched in its face. of course the b'ar went straight at the sound, helter-skelter, and the ornithologist turned an' ran to the edge o' the precipice, screechin' as he went. when he got there he pulled up an' darted a one side, but the b'ar went slap over, an' i believe i'm well within the mark when i say that that b'ar turned five complete somersaults before it got to the bottom, where it came to the ground with a whack that would have busted an elephant. i don't think we found a whole bone in its carcass when the ornithologist helped me to cut it up that night in camp." "well done!" exclaimed little trevor, with enthusiasm, "an' what came o' the orny-what-d'ye-callum?" "that's more than i can tell, lad. he went off wi' the b'ar's claws to show to his friends, an' i never saw him again. but look there, boys," continued the trapper in a suddenly lowered tone of voice, while he threw forward and cocked his rifle, "d'ye see our supper?" "what? where?" exclaimed tolly, in a soft whisper, straining his eyes in the direction indicated. the sharp crack of the trapper's rifle immediately followed, and a fine buck lay prone upon the ground. "'twas an easy shot," said drake, recharging his weapon, "only a man needs a leetle experience before he can fire down a precipice correctly. come along, boys." chapter seventeen. nothing further worth mentioning occurred to the hunters that day, save that little tolly trevor was amazed--we might almost say petrified--by the splendour and precision of the trapper's shooting, besides which he was deeply impressed with the undercurrent of what we may style grave fun, coupled with calm enthusiasm, which characterised the man, and the utter absence of self-assertion or boastfulness. but if the remainder of the day was uneventful, the stories round the camp-fire more than compensated him and his friend leaping buck. the latter was intimately acquainted with the trapper, and seemed to derive more pleasure from watching the effect of his anecdotes on his new friend than in listening to them himself. probably this was in part owing to the fact that he had heard them all before more than once. the spot they had selected for their encampment was the summit of a projecting crag, which was crowned with a little thicket, and surrounded on three sides by sheer precipices. the neck of rock by which it was reached was free from shrubs, besides being split across by a deep chasm of several feet in width, so that it formed a natural fortress, and the marks of old encampments seemed to indicate that it had been used as a camping-place by the red man long before his white brother--too often his white foe--had appeared in that western wilderness to disturb him. the indians had no special name for the spot, but the roving trappers who first came to it had named it the outlook, because from its summit a magnificent view of nearly the whole region could be obtained. the great chasm or fissure already mentioned descended sheer down, like the neighbouring precipices, to an immense depth, so that the outlook, being a species of aerial island, was usually reached by a narrow plank which bridged the chasm. it had stood many a siege in times past, and when used as a fortress, whether by white hunters or savages, the plank bridge was withdrawn, and the place rendered--at least esteemed-- impregnable. when mahoghany drake and his young friends came up to the chasm a little before sunset leaping buck took a short run and bounded clear over it. "ha! i knowed he couldn't resist the temptation," said mahoghany, with a quiet chuckle, "an' it's not many boys--no, nor yet men--who could jump that. i wouldn't try it myself for a noo rifle--no, though ye was to throw in a silver-mounted powder-horn to the bargain." "but you _have_ jumped it?" cried the indian boy, turning round with a gleeful face. "ay, lad, long ago, and then i was forced to, when runnin' for my life. a man'll do many a deed when so sitooate that he couldn't do in cold blood. come, come, young feller," he added, suddenly laying his heavy hand on little trevor's collar and arresting him, "you wasn't thinkin' o' tryin' it was ye?" "indeed i was, and i _think_ i could manage it," said the foolishly ambitious tolly. "thinkin' is not enough, boy," returned the trapper, with a grave shake of the head. "you should always make _sure_. suppose you was wrong in your thinkin', now, who d'ee think would go down there to pick up the bits of 'ee an' carry them home to your mother." "but i haven't got a mother," said tolly. "well, your father, then." "but i haven't got a father." "so much the more reason," returned the trapper, in a softened tone, "that you should take care o' yourself, lest you should turn out to be the last o' your race. come, help me to carry this plank. after we're over i'll see you jump on safe ground, and if you can clear enough, mayhap i'll let 'ee try the gap. have you a steady head?" "ay, like a rock," returned tolly, with a grin. "see that you're _sure_, lad, for if you ain't i'll carry you over." in reply to this tolly ran nimbly over the plank bridge like a tight-rope dancer. drake followed, and they were all soon busily engaged clearing a space on which to encamp, and collecting firewood. "tell me about your adventure at the time you jumped the gap, mahoghany," begged little trevor, when the first volume of smoke arose from their fire and went straight up like a pillar into the calm air. "not now, lad. work first, talk afterwards. that's my motto." "but work is over now--the fire lighted and the kettle on," objected tolly. "nay, lad, when you come to be an old hunter you'll look on supper as about the most serious work o' the day. when that's over, an' the pipe a-goin', an' maybe a little stick-whittlin' for variety, a man may let his tongue wag to some extent." our small hero was fain to content himself with this reply, and for the next half-hour or more the trio gave their undivided attention to steaks from the loin of the fat buck and slices from the breast of the wild duck which had fallen to tolly's gun. when the pipe-and-stick-whittling period arrived, however, the trapper disposed his bulky length in front of the fire, while his young admirers lay down beside him. the stick-whittling, it may be remarked, devolved upon the boys, while the smoking was confined to the man. "i can't see why it is," observed tolly, when the first whiffs curled from mahoghany drake's lips, "that you men are so strong in discouragin' us boys from smokin'. you keep it all selfishly to yourselves, though buckie an' i would give anythin' to be allowed to try a whiff now an' then. paul bevan's just like you--won't hear o' _me_ touchin' a pipe, though he smokes himself like a wigwam wi' a greenwood fire!" drake pondered a little before replying. "it would never do, you know," he said, at length, "for you boys to do 'zackly as we men does." "why not?" demanded tolly, developing an early bud of independent thought. "why, 'cause it wouldn't" replied drake. then, feeling that his answer was not a very convincing argument he added, "you see, boys ain't men, no more than men are boys, an' what's good for the one ain't good for the tother." "i don't see that" returned the radical-hearted tolly. "isn't eatin', an' drinkin', an' sleepin', an' walkin', an' runnin', an' talkin', an' thinkin', an' huntin', equally good for boys and men? if all these things is good for us both, why not smokin'?" "that's more than i can tell 'ee, lad," answered the honest trapper, with a somewhat puzzled look. if mahoghany drake had thought the matter out a little more closely he might perhaps have seen that smoking _is_ as good for boys as for men-- or, what comes to much the same thing, is equally bad for both of them! but the sturdy trapper liked smoking; hence, like many wiser men, he did not care to think the matter out. on the contrary, he changed the subject, and, as the change was very much for the better in the estimation of his companions, tolly did not object. "well now, about that jump," he began, emitting a prolonged and delicate whiff. "ah, yes! how did you manage to do it?" asked little trevor, eagerly. "oh, for the matter o' that it's easy to explain; but it wasn't _my_ jump i was goin' to tell about; it was the jump o' a poor critter--a sort o' ne'er-do-well who jined a band o' us trappers the day before we arrived at this place, on our way through the mountains on a huntin' expedition. he was a miserable specimen o' human natur'--all the worse that he had a pretty stout body o' his own, an' might have made a fairish man if he'd had the spirit even of a cross-grained rabbit. his name was miffy, an' it sounded nat'ral to him, for there was no go in him whatever. i often wonder what sitch men was made for. they're o' no use to anybody, an' a nuisance to themselves." "p'r'aps they wasn't made for any use at all," suggested tolly, who, having whittled a small piece of stick down to nothing, commenced another piece with renewed interest. "no, lad," returned the trapper, with a look of deeper gravity. "even poor, foolish man does not construct anything without some sort o' purpose in view. it's an outrage on common sense to think the almighty could do so. mayhap sitch critters was meant to act as warnin's to other men. he told us that he'd runned away from home when he was a boy 'cause he didn't like school. then he engaged as a cabin-boy aboard a ship tradin' to some place in south america, an' runned away from his ship the first port they touched at 'cause he didn't like the sea. then he came well-nigh to the starvin' p'int an' took work on a farm as a labourer, but left that 'cause it was too hard, after which he got a berth as watchman at a warehouse, or some place o' the sort but left that, for it was too easy. then he tried gold-diggin', but could make nothin' of it; engaged in a fur company, but soon left it; an' then tried his hand at trappin' on his own account but gave it up 'cause he could catch nothin'. when he fell in with our band he was redooced to two rabbits an' a prairie hen, wi' only three charges o' powder in his horn, an' not a drop o' lead. "well, we tuck pity on the miserable critter, an' let him come along wi' us. there was ten of us altogether, an' he made eleven. at first we thought he'd be of some use to us, but we soon found he was fit for nothin'. however, we couldn't cast him adrift in the wilderness, for he'd have bin sure to come to damage somehow, so we let him go on with us. when we came to this neighbourhood we made up our minds to trap in the valley, and as the injins were wild at that time, owin' to some rascally white men who had treated them badly and killed a few, we thought it advisable to pitch our camp on the outlook here. it was a well-known spot to most o' my comrades, tho' i hadn't seen it myself at that time. "when we came to the gap, one of the young fellows named bounce gave a shout, took a run, and went clear over it just as leapin' buck did. he was fond o' showin' off, you know! he turned about with a laugh, and asked us to follow. we declined, and felled a small tree to bridge it. next day we cut the tree down to a plank, as bein' more handy to shove across in a hurry if need be. "well, we had good sport--plenty of b'ar and moose steaks, no end of fresh eggs of all sorts, and enough o' pelts to make it pay. you see we didn't know there was gold here in those days, so we didn't look for it, an' wouldn't ha' knowed it if we'd seen it. but i never myself cared to look for gold. it's dirty work, grubbin' among mud and water like a beaver. it's hard work, too, an' i've obsarved that the men who get most gold at the diggin's are not the diggers but the storekeepers, an' a bad lot they are, many of 'em, though i'm bound to say that i've knowed a few as was real honest men, who kep' no false weights or measures, an' had some sort of respec' for their maker. "however," continued the trapper, filling a fresh pipe, while tolly and his little red friend, whittling their sticks less vigorously as the story went on and at length dropping them altogether, kept their bright eyes riveted on drake's face. "however, that's not what i've got to tell 'ee about. you must know that one evening, close upon sundown, we was all returnin' from our traps more or less loaded wi' skins an' meat, all except miffy, who had gone, as he said, a huntin'. bin truer if he'd said he meant to go around scarin' the animals. well, just as we got within a mile o' this place we was set upon by a band o' redskins. there must have bin a hundred of 'em at least. i've lived a longish time now in the wilderness, but i never, before or since, heard sitch a yellin' as the painted critters set up in the woods all around when they came at us, sendin' a shower o' arrows in advance to tickle us up; but they was bad shots, for only one took effect, an' that shaft just grazed the point o' young bounce's nose as neat as if it was only meant to make him sneeze. it made him jump, i tell 'ee, higher than i ever seed him jump before. of course fightin' was out o' the question. "ten trappers under cover might hold their own easy enough agin a hundred redskins, but not in the open. we all knew that, an' had no need to call a council o' war. every man let his pack fall, an' away we went for the outlook, followed by the yellin' critters closer to our heels than we quite liked. but they couldn't shoot runnin', so we got to the gap. the plank was there all right. over we went, faced about, and while one o' us hauled it over, the rest gave the savages a volley that sent them back faster than they came. "`miffy's lost!' obsarved one o' my comrades as we got in among the bushes here an' prepared to fight it out. "`no great loss,' remarked another. "`no fear o' miffy,' said bounce, feelin' his nose tenderly, `he's a bad shillin', and bad shillin's always turn up, they say.' "bounce had barely finished when we heard another most awesome burst o' yellin' in the woods, followed by a deep roar. "`that's miffy,' says i, feelin' quite excited, for i'd got to have a sneakin' sort o' pity for the miserable critter. `it's a twin roar to the one he gave that day when he mistook hairy sam for a grizzly b'ar, an' went up a spruce-fir like a squirrel.' sure enough, in another moment miffy burst out o' the woods an' came tearin' across the open space straight for the gap, followed by a dozen or more savages. "`run, bounce--the plank!' says i, jumpin' up. `we'll drive the reptiles back!' "while i was speakin' we were all runnin' full split to meet the poor critter, bounce far in advance. whether it was over-haste, or the pain of his nose, i never could make out, but somehow, in tryin' to shove the plank over, bounce let it slip. down it went an' split to splinters on the rock's a hundred feet below! miffy was close up at the time. his cheeks was yaller an' his eyes starin' as he came on, but his face turned green and his eyes took to glarin' when he saw what had happened. i saw a kind o' hesitation in his look as he came to the unbridged gulf. the savages, thinkin' no doubt it was all up with him, gave a fiendish yell o' delight. that yell saved the poor ne'er-do-well. it was as good as a spanish spur to a wild horse. over he came with legs an' arms out like a flyin' squirrel, and down he fell flat on his stummick at our feet wi' the nearest thing to a fair bu'st that i ever saw, or raither heard, for i was busy sightin' a redskin at the time an' didn't actually see it. when the savages saw what he'd done they turned tail an' scattered back into the woods, so we only gave them a loose volley, for we didn't want to kill the critters. i just took the bark off the thigh of one to prevent his forgettin' me. we held the place here for three days, an' then findin' they could make nothin' of us, or havin' other work on hand, they went away an' left us in peace." "an' what became o' poor miffy?" asked little trevor, earnestly. "we took him down with us to a new settlement that had been started in the prairie-land west o' the blue mountains, an' there he got a sitooation in a store, but i s'pose he didn't stick to it long. anyhow that was the last i ever saw of him. now, boys, it's time to turn in." that night when the moon had gone down and the stars shed a feeble light on the camp of those who slumbered on the outlook rock, two figures, like darker shades among the surrounding shadows, glided from the woods, and, approaching the edge of the gap, gazed down into the black abyss. "i told you, redskin, that the plank would be sure to be drawn over," said one of the figures, in a low but gruff whisper. "when the tomahawk is red men do not usually sleep unguarded," replied the other, in the indian tongue. "speak english, maqua, i don't know enough o' your gibberish to make out what you mean. do you think, now, that the villain paul bevan is in the camp?" "maqua is not a god, that he should be able to tell what he does not know." "no, but he could guess," retorted stalker--for it was the robber-chief. "my scouts said they thought it was his figure they saw. however, it matters not. if you are to earn the reward i have offered, you must creep into the camp, put your knife in bevan's heart, and bring me his scalp. i would do it myself, redskin, and be indebted to nobody, but i can't creep as you and your kindred can." "i'd be sure to make row enough to start them in time for self-defence. as to the scalp, i don't want it--only want to make certain that you've done the deed. you may keep it to ornament your dress or to boast about to your squaw. if you should take a fancy to do a little murder on your own account do so. it matters nothin' to me. i'll be ready to back you up if they give chase." while the robber-chief was speaking he searched about for a suitable piece of wood to span the chasm. he soon found what he wanted, for there was much felled timber lying about the work of previous visitors to the outlook. in a few minutes maqua had crossed, and glided in a stealthy, stooping position towards the camp, seeming more like a moving shadow than a real man. when pretty close he went down on hands and knees and crept forward, with his scalping-knife between his teeth. it would have been an interesting study to watch the savage, had his object been a good one--the patience; the slow, gliding movements; the careful avoidance of growing branches, and the gentle removal of dead ones from his path, for well did maqua know that a snapping twig would betray him if the camp contained any of the indian warriors of the far west. at last he drew so near that by stretching his neck he could see over the intervening shrubs and observe the sleepers. just then drake chanced to waken. perhaps it was a presentiment of danger that roused him, for the indian had, up to that moment, made not the slightest sound. sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the trapper looked cautiously round; then he lay down and turned over on his other side to continue his slumbers. like the tree-stems around him, maqua remained absolutely motionless until he thought the trapper was again sleeping. then he retired, as he had come, to his anxiously-awaiting comrade. "bevan not there," he said briefly, when they had retired to a safe distance; "only mahoghany drake an' two boy." "well, why didn't ye scalp them!" asked stalker, savagely, for he was greatly disappointed to find that his enemy was not in the camp. "you said that all white men were your enemies." "no, not all," replied the savage. "drake have the blood of white mans, but the heart of red mans. he have be good to injins." "well, well; it makes no odds to me," returned stalker, "come along, an' walk before me, for i won't trust ye behind. as for slippery paul, i'll find him yet; you shall see. when a man fails in one attempt, all he's got to do is to make another. now then, redskin, move on!" chapter eighteen. as widely different as night is from day, summer from winter, heat from cold, are some members of the human family; yet god made them all, and has a purpose of love and mercy towards each! common sense says this; the general opinion of mankind holds this; highest of all, the word clearly states this: "god willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;" and, "he maketh his sun to shine upon the just and on the unjust." nevertheless, it seemed difficult to believe that the same god formed and spared and guarded and fed the fierce, lawless man stalker, and the loving, gentle delicate rose of oregon. about the same hour that the former was endeavouring to compass the destruction of paul bevan, betty was on her knees in her little tented room, recalling the deeds, the omissions, and the shortcomings of the past day, interceding alike for friends and foes--if we may venture to assume that a rose without a thorn could have foes! even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that tom brixton was not forgotten. having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side. it so fell out that tom had selected the same thicket for his morning ramble. but poor tom did not look like one who hoped to meet with his lady-love that morning. he had, under good nursing, recovered some of his former strength and vigour of body with wonderful rapidity, but his face was still haggard and careworn in an unusual degree for one so young. when the two met tom did not pretend to be surprised. on the contrary, he said:-- "i expected to meet you here, betty, because i have perceived that you are fond of the place, and, believe me, i would not have presumed to intrude, were it not that i wish to ask one or two questions, the answers to which may affect my future movements." he paused, and betty's heart fluttered, for she could not help remembering former meetings when tom had tried to win her affections, and when she had felt it her duty to discourage him. she made no reply to this rather serious beginning to the interview, but dropped her eyes on the turf, for she saw that the youth was gazing at her with a very mingled and peculiar expression. "tell me," he resumed, after a few moments' thought, "do you feel quite safe with these indians?" "quite," replied the girl with a slight elevation of the eyebrows; "they are unusually gentle and good-natured people. besides, their chief would lay down his life for my father--he is so grateful. oh yes, i feel perfectly safe here." "but what does your father think. he is always so fearless--i might say reckless--that i don't feel certain as to his real opinion. have you heard him speaking about the chance of that rascal stalker following him up?" "yes; he has spoken freely about that. he fully expects that stalker will search for us, but considers that he will not dare to attack us while we live with so strong a band of indians, and, as stalker's followers won't hang about here very long for the mere purpose of pleasing their chief, especially when nothing is to be gained by it, father thinks that his enemy will be forced to go away. besides, he has made up his mind to remain here for a long time--many months, it may be." "that will do," returned tom, with a sigh of relief; "then there will be no need for me to--" "to what?" asked betty, seeing that the youth paused. "forgive me if i do not say what i meant to. i have reasons for--" (he paused again)--"then you are pleased with the way the people treat you?" "of course i am. they could not be kinder if i were one of themselves. and some of the women are so intelligent, too! you know i have picked up a good deal of the indian language, and understand them pretty well, though i can't speak much, and you've no idea what deep thinkers some of them are! there is unaco's mother, who looks so old and dried up and stupid--she is one of the dearest old things i ever knew. why," continued the girl, with increasing animation, as she warmed with her subject, "that old creature led me, the other night, into quite an earnest conversation about religion, and asked me ever so many questions about the ways of god with man--speculative, difficult questions too, that almost puzzled me to answer. you may be sure i took the opportunity to explain to her god's great love to man in and through jesus, and--" she stopped abruptly, for tom brixton was at that moment regarding her with a steady and earnest gaze. "yes," he said, slowly, almost dreamily, "i can well believe you took your opportunity to commend jesus to her. you did so once to me, and--" tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. the girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. "well," he said, with a forced air of gaiety, "i have sought you here to tell you that i am going off on--on--a long hunting expedition. going at once--but i would not leave without bidding you good-bye." "going away, mr brixton!" exclaimed betty, in genuine surprise. "yes. as you see, i am ready for the field, with rifle and wallet, firebag and blanket." "but you are not yet strong enough," said betty. "oh! yes, i am--stronger than i look. besides, that will mend every day. i don't intend to say goodbye to westly or any one, because i hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. i only came to say good-bye to you, because i wish you to tell fred and your father that i am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. perhaps we may meet again, betty," he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl's hand in his and shook it; "but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we `know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.'" (his tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness)--"god bless you, betty; farewell." he dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind. poor tom! it was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. in his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the rose of oregon. whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won. but tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. his heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. fear lest fred or paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him--namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed. thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred. for some time after he was gone betty stood gazing at the place in the thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away to search for her father. she found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at once told him what had occurred. "he'll soon come back, betty," said paul, with a significant smile. "when a young feller is fond of a lass, he's as sure to return to her as water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a hill." fred westly thought the same, when paul afterwards told him about the meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being immediate; but mahoghany drake differed from them entirely. "depend on't," he said to his friend paul, when, in the privacy of a retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter--"depend on't, that young feller ain't made o' butter. what he says he will do he'll stick to, if i'm any judge o' human natur. of course it ain't for me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion. are ye sure he's fond o' your lass?" "sure? ay, as sure as i am that yon is the sun an' not the moon a-shinin' in the sky." "h'm! that's strange. an' they've had no quarrel?" "none that i knows on. moreover, they ain't bin used to quarrel. betty's not one o' that sort--dear lass. she's always fair an' above board; honest an' straight for'ard. says 'zactly what she means, an' means what she says. mister tom ain't given to shilly-shallyin', neither. no, i'm sure they've had no quarrel." "well, it's the old story," said drake, while a puzzled look flitted across his weather-beaten countenance, and the smoke issued more slowly from his unflagging pipe, "the conduct o' lovers is not to be accounted for. howsever, there's one thing i'm quite sure of--that he must be looked after." "d'ye think so?" said paul. "i'd have thought he was quite able to look arter himself." "not just now," returned the trapper; "he's not yet got the better of his touch o' starvation, an' there's a chance o' your friend stalker, or buxley, which d'ye call him?" "whichever you like; he answers to either, or neither, as the case may be. he's best known as stalker in these parts, though buxley is his real name." "well, then," resumed drake, "there's strong likelihood o' him prowlin' about here, and comin' across the tracks o' young brixton; so, as i said before, he must be looked after, and i'll take upon myself to do it." "well, i'll jine ye," said paul, "for of course ye'll have to make up a party." "not at all," returned the trapper, with decision. "i'll do it best alone; leastwise i'll take only little tolly trevor an' leapin' buck with me, for they're both smart an' safe lads, and are burnin' keen to learn somethin' o' woodcraft." in accordance with this determination, mahoghany drake, leaping buck, and little trevor set off next day and followed tom brixton's trail into the mountains. it was a broad trail and very perceptible, at least to an indian or a trapper, for tom had a natural swagger, which he could not shake off, even in the hour of his humiliation, and, besides, he had never been an adept at treading the western wilderness with the care which the red man finds needful in order to escape from, or baffle, his foes. "'tis as well marked, a'most" said drake, pausing to survey the trail, "as if he'd bin draggin' a toboggan behind him." "yet a settlement man wouldn't see much of it," remarked little trevor; "eh! buckie?" the indian boy nodded gravely. he emulated his father in this respect, and would have been ashamed to have given way to childish levity on what he was pleased to consider the war-path, but he had enough of the humorous in his nature to render the struggle to keep grave in tolly's presence a pretty severe one. not that tolly aimed at being either witty or funny, but he had a peculiarly droll expression of face, which added much point to whatever he said. "ho!" exclaimed the trapper, after they had gone a little farther; "here's a trail that even a settlement man could hardly fail to see. there's bin fifty men or more. d'ye see it tolly?" "see it? i should think so. d'you suppose i carry my eyes in my pocket?" "come now, lad," said drake, turning to leaping buck, "you want to walk in your father's tracks, no doubt. read me this trail if ye can." the boy stepped forward with an air of dignity that drake regarded as sublime and tolly thought ludicrous, but the latter was too fond of his red friend to allow his feelings to betray themselves. "as the white trapper has truly said," he began, "fifty men or more have passed this way. they are most of them white men, but three or four are indians." "good!" said drake, with an approving nod; "i thought ye'd notice that. well, go on." "they were making straight for my father's camp," continued the lad, bending a stern look on the trail, "but they turned sharp round, like the swallow, on coming to the trail of the white man brixton, and followed it." "how d'ye know that, lad?" asked the trapper. "because i see it" returned the boy, promptly, pointing at the same time to a spot on the hill-side considerably above them, where the conformation of the land at a certain spot revealed enough of the trail of the "fifty men or more," to show the change of direction. "good again, lad. a worthy son of your father. i didn't give 'e credit for sharpness enough to perceive that. can you read anything more?" "one man was a horseman, but he left his horse behind on getting to the rough places of the hills and walked with the rest. he is paul bevan's enemy." "and how d'ye know all _that_?" said drake, regarding the little fellow with a look of pride. "by the footprints," returned leaping buck. "he wears boots and spurs." "just so," returned the trapper, "and we've bin told by paul that stalker was the only man of his band who wouldn't fall in wi' the ways o' the country, but sticks to the clumsy jack-boots and spurs of old england. yes, the scoundrel has followed you up, tolly, as paul bevan said he would, and, havin' come across brixton's track, has gone after him, from all which i now come to the conclusion that your friend mister tom is a prisoner, an' stands in need of our sarvices. what say you, tolly?" "go at 'em at once," replied the warlike trevor, "an' set him free." "what! us three attack fifty men?" "why not?" responded tolly, "we're more than a match for 'em. paul bevan has told me oftentimes that honest men are, as a rule, ten times more plucky than dishonest ones. well, you are one honest man, that's equal to ten; an' buckie and i are two honest boys, equal, say, to five each, that's ten more, making twenty among three of us. three times twenty's sixty, isn't it? so, surely that's more than enough to fight fifty." "ah, boy," answered the trapper, with a slightly puzzled expression, "i never could make nothin' o' 'rithmetic, though my mother put me to school one winter with a sort o' half-mad parson that came to the head waters o' the yellowstone river, an' took to teachin'--dear me, how long ago was it now? well, i forget, but somehow you seem to add up the figgurs raither faster than i was made to do. howsever, we'll go an' see what's to be done for tom brixton." the trapper, who had been leaning on his gun, looking down at his bold little comrades during the foregoing conversation, once more took the lead, and, closely following the trail of the robber-band, continued the ascent of the mountains. the indian village was by that time far out of sight behind them, and the scenery in the midst of which they were travelling was marked by more than the average grandeur and ruggedness of the surrounding region. on their right arose frowning precipices which were fringed and crowned with forests of pine, intermingled with poplar, birch, maple, and other trees. on their left a series of smaller precipices, or terraces, descended to successive levels, like giant steps, till they reached the bottom of the valley up which our adventurers were moving, where a brawling river appeared in the distance like a silver thread. the view both behind and in advance was extremely wild, embracing almost every variety of hill scenery, and in each case was shut in by snow-capped mountains. these, however, were so distant and so soft in texture as to give the impression of clouds rather than solid earth. standing on one of the many jutting crags from which could be had a wide view of the vale lying a thousand feet below, tolly trevor threw up his arms and waved them to and fro as if in an ecstasy, exclaiming--"oh, if i had only wings, _what_ a swoop i'd make--down there!" "ah, boy, you ain't the first that's wished for wings in the like circumstances. but we've bin denied these advantages. p'r'aps we'd have made a bad use of 'em. sartinly we've made a bad use o' sich powers as we do possess. just think, now, if men could go about through the air as easy as the crows, what a row they'd kick up all over the 'arth! as it is, when we want to fight we've got to crawl slowly from place to place, an' make roads for our wagins, an' big guns, an' supplies, to go along with us; but if we'd got wings--why, the first fire eatin' great man that could lead his fellows by the nose would only have to give the word, when up would start a whole army o' men, like some thousand jack-in-the-boxes, an' away they'd go to some place they'd took a fancy to, an' down they'd come, all of a heap, quite onexpected-- take their enemy by surprise, sweep him off the face o' the 'arth, and enter into possession." "well, it would be a blue lookout," remarked tolly, "if that was to be the way of it. there wouldn't be many men left in the world before long." "that's true, lad, an' sitch as was left would be the worst o' the race. no, on the whole i think we're better without wings." while he was talking to little trevor, the trapper had been watching the countenance of the indian boy with unusual interest. at last he turned to him and asked-- "has leaping buck nothin' to say?" "when the white trapper speaks, the indian's tongue should be silent," replied the youth. "a good sentiment and does you credit, lad. but i am silent now. has leaping buck no remark to make on what he sees?" "he sees the smoke of the robber's camp far up the heights," replied the boy, pointing as he spoke. "clever lad!" exclaimed the trapper, "i know'd he was his father's son." "where? i can see nothing," cried tolly, who understood the indian tongue sufficiently to make out the drift of the conversation. "of course ye can't; the smoke is too far off an' too thin for eyes not well practised in the signs o' the wilderness. but come; we shall go and pay the robbers a visit; mayhap disturb their rest a little--who knows!" with a quiet laugh, mahoghany drake withdrew from the rocky ledge, and, followed by his eager satellites, continued to wend his way up the rugged mountain-sides, taking care, however, that he did not again expose himself to view, for well did he know that sharp eyes and ears would be on the _qui vive_ that night. chapter nineteen. when tom brixton sternly set his face like a flint to what he believed to be his duty, he wandered, as we have said, into the mountains, with a heavy heart and without any definite intentions as to what he intended to do. if his thoughts had taken the form of words they would probably have run somewhat as follows:-- "farewell for ever, sweet rose of oregon! dear betty! you have been the means, in god's hand, of saving at least one soul from death, and it would be requiting you ill indeed were i to persuade you to unite yourself to a man whose name is disgraced even among rough men, whose estimate of character is not very high. no! henceforth our lives diverge wider and wider apart. may god bless you and give you a good hus--give you happiness in his own way! and now i have the world before me where to choose. it is a wide world, and there is much work to be done. surely i shall be led in the right way to fill the niche which has been set apart for me. i wonder what it is to be! am i to hunt for gold, or to become a fur-trader, or go down to the plains and turn cattle-dealer, or to the coast and become a sailor, or try farming? one thing is certain, i must not be an idler; must not join the ranks of those who merely hunt that they may eat and sleep, and who eat and sleep that they may hunt. i have a work to do for him who bought me with his precious blood, and my first step must be to commit my way to him." tom brixton took that step at once. he knelt down on a mossy bank, and there, with the glorious prospect of the beautiful wilderness before him, and the setting sun irradiating his still haggard countenance, held communion with god. that night he made his lonely bivouac under a spreading pine, and that night while he was enjoying a profound and health-giving slumber, the robber-chief stepped into his encampment and laid his hand roughly on his shoulder. in his days of high health tom would certainly have leaped up and given stalker a considerable amount of trouble, but starvation and weakness, coupled with self-condemnation and sorrow, had subdued his nerves and abated his energies, so that, when he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by as disagreeable a set of cut-throats as could well be brought together, he at once resigned himself to his fate, and said, without rising, and with one of his half-humorous smiles-- "well, mister botanist, sorry i can't say it gives me pleasure to see you. i wonder you're not ashamed to return to the country of the great chief unaco after running away from him as you did." "i'm in no humour for joking," answered stalker, gruffly. "what has become of your friend paul bevan?" "i'm not aware that anything particular has become of him," replied tom, sitting up with a look of affected surprise. "come, you know what i mean. where is he?" "when i last saw him he was in oregon. whether he has now gone to europe or the moon or the sun i cannot tell, but i should think it unlikely." "if you don't give me a direct and civil answer i'll roast you alive, you young puppy!" growled stalker. "if you roast me dead instead of alive you'll get no answer from me but such as i choose to give, you middle-aged villain!" retorted tom, with a glare of his eyes which quite equalled that of the robber-chief in ferocity, for tom's nature was what we may style volcanic, and he found it hard to restrain himself when roused to a certain point, so that he was prone to speak unadvisedly with his lips. a half-smothered laugh from some of the band who did not care much for their chief, rendered stalker furious. he sprang forward with a savage oath, drew the small hatchet which he carried in his belt, and would certainly then and there have brained the rash youth with it, if his hand had not been unexpectedly arrested. the gleaming weapon was yet in the air when the loud report of a rifle close at hand burst from the bushes with a sheet of flame and smoke, and the robber's right arm fell powerless at his side, hit between the elbow and shoulder. it was the rifle of mahoghany drake that had spoken so opportunely. that stalwart backwoodsman had, as we have seen, followed up the trail of the robbers, and, with tolly trevor and his friend leaping buck, had lain for a considerable time safely ensconced in a moss-covered crevice of the cliff that overlooked the camping-place. there, quietly observing the robbers, and almost enjoying the little scene between tom and the chief, they remained inactive until stalker's hatchet gleamed in the air. the boys were almost petrified by the suddenness of the act. not so the trapper, who with rapid aim saved tom's life, as we have seen. dropping his rifle, he seized the boys by the neck and thrust their faces down on the moss: not a moment too soon, for a withering volley was instantly sent by the bandits in the direction whence the shots had come. it passed harmlessly over their heads. "now, home like two arrows, and rouse your father, leaping buck," whispered the trapper, "and keep well out o' sight." next moment, picking up his empty rifle, he stalked from the fringe of bushes that partially screened the cliff, and gave himself up. "ha! i know you--mahoghany drake! is it not so?" cried stalker, savagely. "seize him, men. you shall swing for this, you rascal." two or three of the robbers advanced, but drake quietly held up his hand, and they stopped. "i'm in your power, you see," he said, laying his rifle on the ground. "yes," he continued, drawing his tall figure up to its full height and crossing his arms on his breast, "my name is drake. as to mahoghany, i've no objection to it though it ain't complimentary. if, as you say, mister stalker, i'm to swing for this, of course i must swing. yet it do seem raither hard that a man should swing for savin' his friend's life an' his enemy's at the same time." "how--what do you mean?" "i mean that mister brixton is my friend," answered the trapper, "and i've saved his life just now, for which i thank the lord. at the same time, stalker is my enemy--leastwise i fear he's no friend--an' didn't i save _his_ life too when i put a ball in his arm, that i could have as easily put into his head or his heart?" "well," responded stalker, with a fiendish grin, that the increasing pain of his wound did not improve, "at all events you have not saved your own life, drake. as i said, you shall swing for it. but i'll give you one chance. if you choose to help me i will spare your life. can you tell me where paul bevan and his daughter are?" "they are with unaco and his tribe." "i could have guessed as much as that. i ask you _where_ they are!" "on the other side of yonder mountain range, where the chief's village lies." somewhat surprised at the trapper's readiness to give the information required, and rendered a little suspicious, stalker asked if he was ready and willing to guide him to the indian village. "surely. if that's the price i'm to pay for my life, it can be easily paid," replied the trapper. "ay, but you shall march with your arms bound until we are there, and the fight wi' the redskins is over," said the robber-chief, "and if i find treachery in your acts or looks i'll blow your brains out on the spot. my left hand, you shall find, can work as well as the right wi' the revolver." "a beggar, they say, must not be a chooser," returned the trapper. "i accept your terms." "good. here, goff," said stalker, turning to his lieutenant, "bind his hands behind him after he's had some supper, and then come an' fix up this arm o' mine. i think the bone has escaped." "hadn't we better start off at once," suggested drake, "an' catch the redskins when they're asleep?" "is it far off?" asked stalker. "a goodish bit. but the night is young. we might git pretty near by midnight, and then encamp so as to git an hour's sleep before makin' the attack. you see, redskins sleep soundest just before daybreak." while he was speaking the trapper coughed a good deal, and sneezed once or twice, as if he had a bad cold. "can't you keep your throat and nose quieter?" said the chief, sternly. "well, p'r'aps i might," replied drake, emitting a highly suppressed cough at the moment, "but i've got a queer throat just now. the least thing affects it." after consultation with the principal men of his band, stalker determined to act on drake's advice, and in a few minutes the trapper was guiding them over the hills in a state of supreme satisfaction, despite his bonds, for had he not obtained the power to make the robbers encamp on a spot which the indians could not avoid passing on their way to the rescue, and had he not established a sort of right to emit sounds which would make his friends aware of his exact position, and thus bring both parties into collision before daybreak, which could not have been the case if the robbers had remained in the encampment where he found them? turn we now to leaping buck and tolly trevor. need it be said that these intelligent lads did not, as the saying is, allow grass to grow under their feet? the former went over the hills at a pace and in a manner that fully justified his title; and the latter followed with as much vigour and resolution, if not as much agility, as his friend. in a wonderfully short space of time, considering the distance, they burst upon the indian village, and aroused it with the startling news. warfare in those regions was not the cumbrous and slow affair that it is in civilised places. there was no commissariat, no ammunition wagons, no baggage, no camp-followers to hamper the line of march. in five or ten minutes after the alarm was given about two hundred indian braves marched out from the camp in a column which may be described as one-deep--i.e. one following the other--and took their rapid way up the mountain sides, led by unaco in person. next to him marched paul bevan, who was followed in succession by fred westly, paddy flinders, leaping buck, and tolly. for some time the long line could be seen by the rose of oregon passing swiftly up the mountain-side. then, as distance united the individuals, as it were, to each other, it assumed the form of a mighty snake crawling _slowly_ along. by degrees it crawled over the nearest ridge and disappeared, after which betty went to discuss the situation with unaco's old mother. it was near midnight when the robber-band encamped in a wooded hollow which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep ravine. "a good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked stalker, glancing round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded arm had allowed. "yes," added the trapper, "and--" a violent fit of coughing prevented the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in drake's mind ran--"a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in, and starving you into submission!" a short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was buried in repose. tom brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his friend drake. both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of the camp. nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to be near each other, drake whispered, "be ready!" and tom heard him. ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or sigh, and drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough. poor fellow! he was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose. turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot, unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound. he stopped and stood like a bronze statue by michael angelo in the attitude of suddenly arrested motion. upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues instantly tailed away from him. presently a smile, such as michael angelo probably never thought of reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief. "m'ogany drake!" he whispered, softly, in paul bevan's ear. "i didn't know drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered bevan, in reply. tolly trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the device at once. as for leaping buck, he did more than credit to his sire, because he kept as grave as michael angelo himself could have desired while chiselling his features. "musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered flinders to westly. "hush!" returned westly. at a signal from their chief the whole band of indians sank, as it seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the white men and the chief remained. "i must go forward alone," whispered unaco, turning to paul. "white man knows not how to go on his belly like the serpent." "mahoghany drake would be inclined to dispute that p'int with 'ee," returned bevan. "however, you know best, so we'll wait till you give us the signal to advance." having directed his white friends to lie down, unaco divested himself of all superfluous clothing, and glided swiftly but noiselessly towards the robber camp, with nothing but a tomahawk in his hand and a scalping-knife in his girdle. he soon reached the open side of the wooded hollow, guided thereto by drake's persistent and evidently distressing cough. here it became necessary to advance with the utmost caution. fortunately for the success of his enterprise, all the sentinels that night had been chosen from among the white men. the consequence was that although they were wide awake and on the _qui vive_, their unpractised senses failed to detect the very slight sounds that unaco made while gliding slowly--inch by inch, and with many an anxious pause--into the very midst of his foes. it was a trying situation, for instant death would have been the result of discovery. as if to make matters more difficult for him just then, drake's hacking cough ceased, and the indian could not make out where he lay. either his malady was departing or he had fallen into a temporary slumber! that the latter was the case became apparent from his suddenly recommencing the cough. this, however, had the effect of exasperating one of the sentinels. "can't you stop that noise?" he muttered, sternly. "i'm doin' my best to smother it," said drake in a conciliatory tone. apparently he had succeeded, for he coughed no more after that. but the fact was that a hand had been gently laid upon his arm. "so soon!" he thought. "well done, boys!" but he said never a word, while a pair of lips touched his ear and said, in the indian tongue-- "where lies your friend?" drake sighed sleepily, and gave a short and intensely subdued cough, as he turned his lips to a brown ear which seemed to rise out of the grass for the purpose, and spoke something that was inaudible to all save that ear. instantly hand, lips, and ear withdrew, leaving the trapper in apparently deep repose. a sharp knife, however, had touched his bonds, and he knew that he was free. a few minutes later, and the same hand touched tom brixton's arm. he would probably have betrayed himself by an exclamation, but remembering drake's "be ready," he lay perfectly still while the hands, knife, and lips did their work. the latter merely said, in broken english, "rise when me rise, an' run!" next instant unaco leaped to his feet and, with a terrific yell of defiance, bounded into the bushes. tom brixton followed him like an arrow, and so prompt was mahoghany drake to act that he and tom came into violent collision as they cleared the circle of light thrown by the few sinking embers of the camp-fires. no damage, however, was done. at the same moment the band of indians in ambush sprang up with their terrible war whoop, and rushed towards the camp. this effectually checked the pursuit which had been instantly begun by the surprised bandits, who at once retired to the shelter of the mingled rocks and shrubs in the centre of the hollow, from out of which position they fired several tremendous volleys. "that's right--waste yer ammunition," said paul bevan, with a short laugh, as he and the rest lay quickly down to let the leaden shower pass over. "it's always the way wi' men taken by surprise," said drake, who, with brixton and the chief, had stopped in their flight and turned with their friends. "they blaze away wildly for a bit, just to relieve their feelin's, i s'pose. but they'll soon stop." "an' what'll we do now?" inquired flinders, "for it seems to me we've got all we want out o' them, an' it's no use fightin' them for mere fun--though it's mesilf that used to like fightin' for that same; but i think the air of oregon has made me more peaceful inclined." "but the country has been kept for a long time in constant alarm and turmoil by these men," said fred westly, "and, although i like fighting as little as any man, i cannot help thinking that we owe it as a duty to society to capture as many of them as we can, especially now that we seem to have caught them in a sort of trap." "what says mahoghany drake on the subject!" asked unaco. "i vote for fightin', 'cause there'll be no peace in the country till the band is broken up." "might it not be better to hold them prisoners here?" suggested paul bevan. "they can't escape, you tell me, except by this side, and there's nothin' so good for tamin' men as hunger." "ah!" said tom brixton, "you speak the truth, bevan; i have tried it." "but what does unaco himself think?" asked westly. "we must fight 'em at once, an' root them out neck and crop!" these words were spoken, not by the indian, but by a deep bass voice which sent a thrill of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, to more hearts than one; and no wonder, for it was the voice of gashford, the big bully of pine tree diggings! chapter twenty. to account for the sudden appearance of gashford, as told in our last chapter, it is necessary to explain that two marauding indians chanced to pay pine tree diggings a visit one night, almost immediately after the unsuccessful attack made by stalker and his men. the savages were more successful than the white robbers had been. they managed to carry off a considerable quantity of gold without being discovered, and gashford, erroneously attributing their depredations to a second visit from stalker, was so enraged that he resolved to pursue and utterly root out the robber-band. volunteers were not wanting. fifty stout young fellows offered their services, and, at the head of these, gashford set out for the sawback mountains, which were known to be the retreat of the bandits. an indian, who knew the region well, and had once been ill-treated by stalker, became a willing guide. he led the gold-diggers to the robbers' retreat, and there, learning from a brother savage that the robber-chief and his men had gone off to hunt up paul bevan in the region that belonged to unaco, he led his party by a short cut over the mountains, and chanced to come on the scene of action at the critical moment, when unaco and his party were about to attack the robbers. ignorant of who the parties were that contended, yet feeling pretty sure that the men he sought for probably formed one of them, he formed the somewhat hazardous determination, personally and alone, to join the rush of the assailants, under cover of the darkness; telling his lieutenant, crossby, to await his return, or to bring on his men at the run if they should hear his well-known signal. on joining the attacking party without having been observed--or, rather, having been taken for one of the band in the uncertain light--he recognised westly's and flinders's voices at once, and thus it was that he suddenly gave his unasked advice on the subject then under discussion. but stalker's bold spirit settled the question for them in an unexpected manner. perceiving at once that he had been led into a trap, he felt that his only chance lay in decisive and rapid action. "men," he said to those who crowded round him in the centre of the thicket which formed their encampment, "we've bin caught. our only chance lies in a bold rush and then scatter. are you ready?" "ready!" responded nearly every man. those who might have been unwilling were silent, for they knew that objection would be useless. "come on, then, an' give them a screech when ye burst out!" like an avalanche of demons the robber band rushed down the slope and crashed into their foes, and a yell that might well have been born of the regions below rang from cliff to cliff, but the indians were not daunted. taken by surprise, however, many of them were overturned in the rush, when high above the din arose the bass roar of gashford. crossby heard the signal and led his men down to the scene of battle at a rapid run. but the robbers were too quick for them; most of them were already scattering far and wide through the wilderness. only one group had been checked, and, strange to say, that was the party that happened to cluster round and rush with their chief. but the reason was clear enough, for that section of the foe had been met by mahoghany drake, bevan, westly, brixton, flinders, and the rest, while gashford at last met his match, in the person of the gigantic stalker. but they did not meet on equal terms, for the robber's wounded arm was almost useless. still, with the other arm he fired a shot at the huge digger, missed, and, flinging the weapon at his head, grappled with him. there was a low precipice or rocky ledge, about fifteen feet high, close to them. over this the two giants went after a brief but furious struggle, and here, after the short fight was over, they were found, grasping each other by their throats, and in a state of insensibility. only two other prisoners were taken besides stalker--one by bevan, the other by flinders. but these were known by drake to be poor wretches who had only joined the band a few weeks before, and as they protested that they had been captured and forced to join, they were set free. "you see, it's of no manner o' use hangin' the wretched critters," observed drake to bevan, confidentially, when they were returning to the indian village the following morning. "it would do them no good. all that we wanted was to break up the band and captur' the chief, which bein' done, it would be a shame to shed blood uselessly." "but we must hang stalker," said little tolly, who had taken part in the attack, and whose sense of justice, it seems, would have been violated if the leader of the band had been spared. "i'm inclined to think he won't want hangin', tolly," replied drake, gravely. "that tumble didn't improve his wounded arm, for gashford fell atop of him." the trapper's fear was justified. when stalker was carried into the indian village and examined by fred westly, it was found that, besides other injuries, two of his ribs had been broken, and he was already in high fever. betty bevan, whose sympathy with all sufferers was strong, volunteered to nurse him, and, as she was unquestionably the best nurse in the place, her services were accepted. thus it came about that the robber-chief and the rose of oregon were for a time brought into close companionship. on the morning after their return to the indian village, paul bevan and betty sauntered away towards the lake. the rose had been with stalker the latter part of the night, and after breakfast had said she would take a stroll to let the fresh air blow sleepiness away. paul had offered to go with her. "well, betty, lass, what think ye of this robber-chief, now you've seen somethin' of him at close quarters?" asked paul, as they reached the margin of the lake. "i have scarcely seen him in his right mind, father, for he has been wandering a little at times during the night; and, oh! you cannot think what terrible things he has been talking about." "has he?" said paul, glancing at betty with sudden earnestness. "what did he speak about?" "i can scarcely tell you, for at times he mixed up his ideas so that i could not understand him, but i fear he has led a very bad life and done many wicked things. he brought in your name, too, pretty often, and seemed to confuse you with himself, putting on you the blame of deeds which just a minute before he had confessed he had himself done." "ay, did he?" said paul, with a peculiar expression and tone. "well, he warn't far wrong, for i _have_ helped him sometimes." "father!" exclaimed betty, with a shocked look--"but you misunderstand. he spoke of such things as burglary and highway robbery, and you could never have helped him in deeds of that kind." "oh! he spoke of such things as these, did he?" returned paul. "well, yes, he's bin up to a deal of mischief in his day. and what did you say to him, lass? did you try to quiet him?" "what could i say, father, except tell him the old, old story of jesus and his love; that he came to seek and to save the lost, even the chief of sinners?" "an' how did he take it?" inquired paul, with a grave, almost an anxious look. "at first he would not listen, but when i began to read the word to him, and then tried to explain what seemed suitable to him, he got up on his unhurt elbow and looked at me with such a peculiar and intense look that i felt almost alarmed, and was forced to stop. then he seemed to wander again in his mind, for he said such a strange thing." "what was that, betty?" "he said i was like his mother." "well, lass, he wasn't far wrong, for you _are_ uncommon like her." "did you know his mother, then?" "ay, betty, i knowed her well, an' a fine, good-lookin' woman she was, wi' a kindly, religious soul, just like yours. she was a'most heartbroken about her son, who was always wild, but she had a strong power over him, for he was very fond of her, and i've no doubt that your readin' the bible an' telling him about christ brought back old times to his mind." "but if his mother was so good and taught him so carefully, and, as i doubt not, prayed often and earnestly for him, how was it that he fell into such awful ways?" asked betty. "it was the old, old story, lass, on the other side o' the question-- drink and bad companions--and--and _i_ was one of them." "you, father, the companion of a burglar and highway robber?" "well, he wasn't just that at the time, though both him and me was bad enough. it was my refusin' to jine him in some of his jobs that made a coolness between us, an' when his mother died i gave him some trouble about money matters, which turned him into my bitterest foe. he vowed he would take my life, and as he was one o' those chaps that, when they say they'll do a thing, are sure to do it, i thought it best to bid adieu to old england, especially as i was wanted at the time by the police." poor rose of oregon! the shock to her feelings was terrible, for, although she had always suspected from some traits in his character that her father had led a wild life, it had never entered her imagination that he was an outlaw. for some time she remained silent with her face in her hands, quite unable to collect her thoughts or decide what to say, for whatever her father might have been in the past he had been invariably kind to her, and, moreover, had given very earnest heed to the loving words which she often spoke when urging him to come to the saviour. at last she looked up quickly. "father," she said, "i will nurse this man with more anxious care and interest, for his mother's sake." "you may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned paul, impressively, "for he is your own brother." "my brother?" gasped betty. "why, what do you mean, father? surely you are jesting!" "very far from jesting, lass. stalker is your brother edwin, whom you haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. but, come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, i may as well make a clean breast of it. sit down here on the bank, betty, and listen." the poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned by the unexpected news, which paul had given her, and of which, from her knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth. "then stalker--edwin--must be your own son!" she said, looking at paul earnestly. "nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. forgive me, betty. i've deceived you throughout, but i did it with a good intention. you see, if i hadn't passed myself off as your father, i'd never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was putt. but i did it for the best, betty, i did it for the best; an' all to benefit your poor mother an' you. that is how it was." he paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and betty sat with her hands clasped, gazing in paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable to speak or move. "you see, betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the army, an' i'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. i raither think that your brother edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as you got your goodness from your mother; but i've bin told that your father became a better man before he died, an' i can well believe it, wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he lived. well, when you was about six, your brother edwin, who was then about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only comfort she had in life. "about that time i was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as i've said, a chum o' your brother. but he was goin' too fast for me, and that made me split with him. i tried at first to make him hold in a bit; but what was the use of a black sheep like me tryin' to make a white sheep o' _him_! the thing was so absurd that he laughed at it; indeed, we both laughed at it. your mother was at that time very poorly off--made a miserable livin' by dressmakin'. indeed, she'd have bin half starved if i hadn't given her a helpin' hand in a small way now an' then. she was very grateful, and very friendly wi' me, for i was very fond of her, and she know'd that, bad as i was, i tried to restrain her son to some extent. so she told me about her wish to git you well out o' the house, an' axed me if i'd go an' put you in a school down at brighton, which she know'd was a good an' a cheap one. "of course i said i would, for, you see, the poor thing was that hard worked that she couldn't git away from her stitch-stitchin', not even for an hour, much less a day. when i got down to the school, before goin' up to the door it came into my head that it would be better that the people should know you was well looked after, so says i to you, quite sudden, `betty, remember you're to call me father when you speak about me.' you turned your great blue eyes to my face, dear lass, when i said that, with a puzzled look. "`me sought mamma say father was far far away in other country,' says you. "`that's true,' says i, `but i've come home from the other country, you see, so don't you forget to call me father.' "`vewy well, fadder,' says you, in your own sweet way, for you was always a biddable child, an' did what you was told without axin' questions. "well, when i'd putt you in the school an' paid the first quarter in advance, an' told 'em that the correspondence would be done chiefly through your mother, i went back to london, puzzlin' my mind all the way what i'd say to your mother for what i'd done. once it came into my head i would ax her to marry me--for she was a widow by that time--an' so make the deception true. but i quickly putt that notion a one side, for i know'd i might as well ax an angel to come down from heaven an dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty--but, after all," said paul, with a quiet laugh, "i did get an angel to dwell wi' me in a backwoods shanty when i got you, betty! howsever, as things turned out i was saved the trouble of explainin'. "when i got back i found your mother in a great state of excitement. she'd just got a letter from the west indies, tellin' her that a distant relation had died an' left her a small fortin! people's notions about the size o' fortins differs. enough an' to spare is ocean's wealth to some. thousands o' pounds is poverty to others. she'd only just got the letter, an' was so taken up about it that she couldn't help showin' it to me. "`now,' says i, `mrs buxley,'--that was her name, an' your real name too, betty--says i, `make your will right off, an putt it away safe, leavin' every rap o' that fortin to betty, for you may depend on't, if edwin gits wind o' this, he'll worm it out o' you, by hook or by crook-- you know he will--and go straight to the dogs at full gallop.' "`what!' says she, `an' leave nothin' to my boy?--my poor boy, for whom i have never ceased to pray! he may repent, you know--he _will_ repent. i feel sure of it--and then he will find that his mother left him nothing, though god had sent her a fortune.' "`oh! as to that,' says i, `make your mind easy. if edwin does repent an' turn to honest ways, he's got talents and go enough in him to make his way in the world without help; but you can leave him what you like, you know, only make sure that you leave the bulk of it to betty.' "this seemed to strike her as a plan that would do, for she was silent for some time, and then, suddenly makin' up her mind, she said, `i'll go and ask god's help in this matter, an' then see about gettin' a lawyer-- for i suppose a thing o' this sort can't be done without one.' "`no, mum,' says i, `it can't. you may, if you choose, make a muddle of it without a lawyer, but you can't do it right without one.' "`can you recommend one to me?' says she. "i was greatly tickled at the notion o' the likes o' me bein' axed to recommend a lawyer. it was so like your mother's innocence and trustfulness. howsever, she'd come to the right shop, as it happened, for i did know a honest lawyer! yes, betty, from the way the world speaks, an' what's often putt in books, you'd fancy there warn't such'n a thing to be found on 'arth. but that's all bam, betty. leastwise i know'd one honest firm. `yes, mrs buxley,' says i, `there's a firm o' the name o' truefoot, tickle, and badger in the city, who can do a'most anything that's possible to man. but you'll have to look sharp, for if edwin comes home an' diskivers what's doin', it's all up with the fortin an' betty.' "well, to make a long story short, your mother went to the lawyer's, an' had her will made, leavin' a good lump of a sum to your brother, but the most of the fortin to you. by the advice o' truefoot tickle, and badger, she made it so that you shouldn't touch the money till you come to be twenty-one, `for,' says she, `there's no sayin' what bad men will be runnin' after the poor thing an deceivin' her for the sake of her money before she is of an age to look after herself.' `yes,' thought i, `an' there's no sayin' what bad men'll be runnin' after the poor thing an' deceivin' of her for the sake of her money _after_ she's of an age to look after herself,' but i didn't say that out, for your mother was excited enough and over-anxious about things, i could see that. "well, when the will was made out all right, she took it out of her chest one night an' read it all over to me. i could see it was shipshape, though i couldn't read a word of its crabbed letters myself. "`now mrs buxley,' says i, `where are you goin' to keep that dockiment?' "`in my chest,' says she. "`won't be safe there,' says i, for i knowed her forgivin' and confidin' natur' too well, an' that she'd never be able to keep it from your brother; but, before i could say more, there was a tremendous knockin' wi' a stick at the front door. your poor mother turned pale--she know'd the sound too well. `that's edwin,' she says, jumpin' up an runnin' to open the door, forgetting all about the will, so i quietly folded it up an' shoved it in my pocket. "when edwin was comin' up stairs i know'd he was very drunk and savage by the way he was goin' on, an' when he came into the room an' saw me he gave a yell of rage. `didn't i tell you never to show your face here again?' says he. `just so,' says i, `but not bein' subjec' to your orders, d'ye see, i _am_ here again.' "wi' that he swore a terrible oath an' rushed at me, but he tripped over a footstool and fell flat on the floor. before he could recover himself i made myself scarce an' went home. "next mornin', when i'd just finished breakfast a thunderin' rap came to the door. i know'd it well enough. `now look out for squalls,' said i to myself, as i went an' opened it. edwin jumped in, banged the door to, an' locked it. "`you've no occasion to do that' says i, `for i don't expect no friends--not even bobbies.' "`you double-faced villain!' says he; `you've bin robbin' my mother!' "`come, come,' says i, `civility, you know, between pals. what have i done to your mother?' "`you needn't try to deceive me, paul,' says he, tryin' to keep his temper down. `mother's bin took bad, wi' over-excitement, the doctor says, an' she's told me all about the fortin an' the will, an' where betty is down at brighton.' "`my betty at brighton!' says i--pretendin' great surprise, for i had a darter at that time whom i had called after your mother, for that was her name too--but she's dead, poor thing!--she was dyin' in hospital at the very time we was speakin', though i didn't know at the time that her end was so near--`my betty at brighton!' says i. `why, she's in hospital. bin there for some weeks.' "`i don't mean _your_ brat, but my sister,' says edwin, quite fierce. `where have you put her? what's the name of the school? what have you done wi' the will?' "`you'd better ax your mother,' says i. `it's likely that she knows the partiklers better nor me.' "he lost patience altogether at this, an' sprang at me like a tiger. but i was ready for him. we had a regular set-to then an' there. by good luck there was no weapons of any kind in the room, not even a table knife, for i'd had to pawn a'most everything to pay my rent, and the clasp-knife i'd eat my breakfast with was in my pocket. but we was both handy with our fists. we kep' at it for about half an hour. smashed all the furniture, an' would have smashed the winders too, but there was only one, an' it was a skylight. in the middle of it the door was burst open, an' in rushed half a dozen bobbies, who put a stop to it at once. "`we're only havin' a friendly bout wi' the gloves,' says i, smilin' quite sweet. "`i don't see no gloves,' says the man as held me. "`that's true,' says i, lookin' at my hands. `they must have dropped off an' rolled up the chimbly.' "`hallo! edwin buxley!' said the sargeant, lookin' earnestly at your brother; `why you've bin wanted for some time. here, joe! the bracelets.' "in half a minute he was marched off. `i'll have your blood, paul, for this,' he said bitterly, looking back as he went out. "as _i_ wasn't `wanted' just then, i went straight off to see your mother, to find out how much she had told to edwin, for, from what he had said, i feared she must have told all. i was anxious, also, to see if she'd bin really ill. when i got to the house i met a nurse who said she was dyin', an' would hardly let me in, till i got her persuaded i was an intimate friend. on reachin' the bedroom i saw by the looks o' two women who were standin' there that it was serious. and so it was, for there lay your poor mother, as pale as death; her eyes closed and her lips white; but there was a sweet, contented smile on her face, and her thin hands clasped her well-worn bible to her breast." paul bevan stopped, for the poor girl had burst into tears. for a time he was silent and laid his heavy hand gently on her shoulder. "i did not ventur' to speak to her," he continued, "an' indeed it would have been of no use, for she was past hearin'. a few minutes later and her gentle spirit went up to god. "i had no time now to waste, for i knew that your brother would give information that might be bad for me, so i asked the nurse to write down, while i repeated it, the lawyer's address. "`now,' says i, `go there an' tell 'em what's took place. it'll be the better for yourself if you do.' an' then i went straight off to brighton." chapter twenty one. "well, you must know," said paul bevan, continuing his discourse to the rose of oregon, "when i got to brighton i went to the school, told 'em that your mother was just dead, and brought you straight away. i wasn't an hour too soon, for, as i expected, your brother had given information, an' the p'lice were on my heels in a jiffy, but i was too sharp for 'em. i went into hidin' in london; an' you've no notion, betty, what a rare place london is to hide in! a needle what takes to wanderin' in a haystack ain't safer than a feller is in london, if he only knows how to go about the business. "i lay there nigh three months, durin' which time my own poor child betty continued hoverin' 'tween life an death. at last, one night when i was at the hospital sittin' beside her, she suddenly raised her sweet face, an fixin' her big eyes on me, said-- "`father, i'm goin' home. shall i tell mother that you're comin'?' "`what d'ye mean, my darlin'?' says i, while an awful thump came to my heart, for i saw a great change come over her. "`i'll be there soon, father,' she said, as her dear voice began to fail; `have you no message for mother?' "i was so crushed that i couldn't speak, so she went on-- "`you'll come--won't you, father? an' we'll be so glad to welcome you to heaven. an' so will jesus. remember, he is the only door, father, no name but that of jesus--' she stopped all of a sudden, and i saw that she had gone home. "after that" continued paul, hurrying on as if the memory of the event was too much for him, "havin' nothin' to keep me in england, i came off here to the gold-fields with you, an' brought the will with me, intendin', when you came of age, to tell you all about it, an' see justice done both to you an' to your brother, but--" "fath--paul," said betty, checking herself, "that brown parcel you gave me long ago with such earnest directions to keep it safe, and only to open it if you were killed, is--" "that's the will, my dear." "and edwin--does he think that i am your real daughter betty?" "no doubt he does, for he never heard of her bein' dead, and he never saw you since you was quite a little thing, an' there's a great change on you since then--a wonderful change." "yes, fath--oh! it is so hard to lose my father," said betty, almost breaking down, and letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap. "but why lose him, betty? i did it all for the best," said paul, gently taking hold of one of the poor girl's hands. she made a slight motion to withdraw it, but checked herself and let it rest in the man's rough but kindly grasp, while tears silently coursed down her rounded cheeks. presently she looked up and said-- "how did edwin find out where you had gone to?" "that's more than i can tell, betty, unless it was through truefoot, tickle, and badger. i wrote to them after gettin' here, tellin' them to look well after the property, and it would be claimed in good time, an' i raither fear that the postmark on the letter must have let the cat out o' the bag. anyhow, not long after that edwin found me out an' you know how he has persecuted me, though you little thought he was your own brother when you were beggin' of me not to kill him--no more did you guess that i was as little anxious to kill him as you were, though i did pretend i'd have to do it now an' then in self-defence. sometimes, indeed, he riled me up to sitch an extent that there wasn't much pretence about it; but thank god! my hand has been held back." "yes, thank god for that; and now i must go to him," said betty, rising hastily and hurrying back to the indian village. in a darkened tent, on a soft couch of deerskins, the dying form of buxley, alias stalker, lay extended. in the fierceness of his self-will he had neglected his wounds until too late to save his life. a look of stern resolution sat on his countenance--probably he had resolved to "die game," as hardened criminals express it. his determination, on whatever ground based, was evidently not shaken by the arguments of a man who sat by his couch. it was tom brixton. "what's the use o' preachin' to me, young fellow?" said the robber-chief, testily. "i dare say you are pretty nigh as great a scoundrel as i am." "perhaps a greater," returned tom. "i have no wish to enter into comparisons, but i'm quite prepared to admit that i am as bad." "well, then, you've as much need as i have to seek salvation for yourself." "indeed i have, and it is because i have sought it and obtained it," said tom, earnestly, "that i am anxious to point out the way to you. i've come through much the same experiences, no doubt, as you have. i have been a scouter of my mother's teachings, a thief, and, in heart if not in act, a murderer. no one could be more urgently in need of salvation _from sin_ than i, and i used to think that i was so bad that my case was hopeless, until god opened my eyes to see that jesus came to save his people _from their sins_. that is what you need, is it not?" "ay, but it is too late," said stalker, bitterly. "the crucified thief did not find it too late," returned tom, "and it was the eleventh hour with him." stalker made no reply, but the stern, hard expression of his face did not change one iota until he heard a female voice outside asking if he were asleep. then the features relaxed; the frown passed like a summer cloud before the sun, and, with half-open lips and a look of glad, almost childish expectancy, he gazed at the curtain-door of the tent. "mother's voice!" he murmured, apparently in utter forgetfulness of tom brixton's presence. next moment the curtain was raised, and betty, entering quickly, advanced to the side of the couch. tom rose, as if about to leave. "don't go, mr brixton," said the girl, "i wish you to hear us." "my brother!" she continued, turning to the invalid, and grasping his hand, for the first time, as she sat down beside him. "if you were not so young i'd swear you were my mother," exclaimed stalker, with a slight look of surprise at the changed manner of his nurse. "ha! i wish that i were indeed your brother." "but you _are_ my brother, edwin buxley," cried the girl with intense earnestness, "my dear and only brother, whom god will save through jesus christ?" "what do you mean, betty?" asked stalker, with an anxious and puzzled look. "i mean that i am _not_ betty bevan. paul bevan has told me so--told me that i am betty buxley, and your sister!" the dying man's chest heaved with labouring breath, for his wasted strength was scarcely sufficient to bear this shock of surprise. "i would not believe it," he said, with some difficulty, "even though paul bevan were to swear to it, were it not for the wonderful likeness both in look and tone." he pressed her hand fervently, and added, "yes, dear betty. i _do_ believe that you are my very sister." tom brixton, from an instinctive feeling of delicacy, left the tent, while the rose of oregon related to her brother the story of her life with paul bevan, and then followed it up with the story of god's love to man in jesus christ. tom hurried to bevan's tent to have the unexpected and surprising news confirmed, and paul told him a good deal, but was very careful to make no allusion to betty's "fortin." "now, mister brixton," said paul, somewhat sternly, when he had finished, "there must be no more shilly-shallyin' wi' betty's feelin's. you're fond o' _her_, an' she's fond o' _you_. in them circumstances a man is bound to wed--all the more that the poor thing has lost her nat'ral protector, so to speak, for i'm afraid she'll no longer look upon me as a father." there was a touch of pathos in paul's tone as he concluded, which checked the rising indignation in brixton's breast. "but you forget, paul, that gashford and his men are here, and will probably endeavour to lay hold of me. i can scarce look on myself as other than an outlaw." "pooh! lay hold of you!" exclaimed paul, with contempt; "d'ye think gashford or any one else will dare to touch you with mahoghany drake an' mister fred an' flinders an' me, and unaco with all his injins at your back? besides, let me tell you that gashford seems a changed man. i've had a talk wi' him about you, an' he said he was done persecutin' of you--that you had made restitootion when you left all the goold on the river's bank for him to pick up, and that as nobody else in partikler wanted to hang you, you'd nothin' to fear." "well, that does change the aspect of affairs," said tom, "and it may be that you are right in your advice about betty. i have twice tried to get away from her and have failed. perhaps it may be right now to do as you suggest, though after all the time seems not very suitable; but, as you truly observe, she has lost her natural protector, for of course you cannot be a father to her any longer. yes, i'll go and see fred about it." tom had considerable qualms of conscience as to the propriety of the step he meditated, and tried to argue with himself as he went in search of his friend. "you see," he soliloquised aloud, "her brother is dying; and then, though i am not a whit more worthy of her than i was, the case is nevertheless altered, for she has no father now. then by marrying her i shall have a right to protect her--and she stands greatly in need of a protector in this wild country at this time, poor thing! and some one to work for her, seeing that she has no means whatever!" "troth, an' that's just what she does need, sor!" said paddy flinders, stepping out of the bush at the moment. "excuse me, sor, but i cudn't help hearin' ye, for ye was spakin' out loud. but i agree with ye intirely; an', if i may make so bowld, i'm glad to find ye in that state o' mind. did ye hear the news, sor? they've found goold at the hid o' the valley here." "indeed," said tom, with a lack of interest that quite disgusted his volatile friend. "yes, indade," said he. "why, sor, they've found it in big nuggets in some places, an' muster gashford is off wid a party not half an hour past. i'm goin' mesilf, only i thought i'd see first if ye wouldn't jine me; but ye don't seem to care for goold no more nor if it was copper; an that's quare, too, whin it was the very objec' that brought ye here." "ah, flinders, i have gained more than my object in coming. i _have_ found gold--most fine gold, too, that i won't have to leave behind me when it pleases god to call me home. but never fear, i'll join you. i owe you and other friends a debt, and i must dig to pay that. then, if i succeed in the little scheme which you overheard me planning, i shall need some gold to keep the pot boiling!" "good luck to ye, sor! so ye will. but plaze don't mintion the little debt you say you owe me an' the other boys. ye don't owe us nothin' o' the sort. but who comes here? muster fred it is--the very man i want to see." "yes, and i want to see him too, paddy, so let me speak first, for a brief space, in private, and you can have him as long as you like afterwards." fred westly's opinion on the point which his friend put before him entirely coincided with that of paul bevan. "i'm not surprised to learn that paul is not her father," he said. "it was always a puzzle to me how she came to be so lady-like and refined in her feelings, with such a rough, though kindly, father. but i can easily understand it now that i hear who and what her mother was." but the principal person concerned in tom brixton's little scheme held an adverse opinion to his friends paul and fred and flinders. betty would by no means listen to tom's proposals until, one day, her brother said that he would like to see her married to tom brixton before he died. then the obdurate rose of oregon gave in! "but how is it to be managed without a clergyman?" asked fred westly one evening over the camp fire when supper was being prepared. "ay, how indeed?" said tom, with a perplexed look. "oh, bother the clergy!" cried the irreverent flinders. "that's just what i'd do if there was one here," responded tom; "i'd bother him till he married us." "i say, what did adam and eve an' those sort o' people do?" asked tolly trevor, with the sudden animation resulting from the budding of a new idea; "there was no clergy in their day, i suppose?" "true for ye, boy," remarked flinders, as he lifted a large pot of soup off the fire. "i know and care not, tolly, what those sort o' people did," said tom; "and as betty and i are not adam and eve, and the nineteenth century is not the first, we need not inquire." "i'll tell 'ee what," said mahoghany drake, "it's just comed into my mind that there's a missionary goes up once a year to an outlyin' post o' the fur-traders, an' this is about the very time. what say ye to make an excursion there to get spliced, it's only about two hundred miles off? we could soon ride there an' back, for the country's all pretty flattish after passin' the sawback range." "the very thing!" cried tom; "only--perhaps betty might object to go, her brother being so ill." "not she," said fred; "since the poor man found in her a sister as well as a nurse he seems to have got a new lease of life. i don't, indeed, think it possible that he can recover, but he may yet live a good while; and the mere fact that she has gone to get married will do him good." so it was finally arranged that they should all go, and, before three days had passed, they went, with a strong band of their indian allies. they found the missionary as had been expected. the knot was tied, and tom brixton brought back the rose of oregon as a blooming bride to the sawback range. from that date onward tom toiled at the goldfields as if he had been a galley-slave, and scraped together every speck and nugget of gold he could find, and hoarded it up as if he had been a very miser, and, strange to say, betty did not discourage him. one day he entered his tent with a large canvas bag in his hand quite full. "it's all here at last," he said, holding it up. "i've had it weighed, and i'm going to square up." "go, dear tom, and god speed you," said the rose, giving him a kiss that could not have been purchased by all the gold in oregon. tom went off, and soon returned with the empty bag. "it was hard work, betty, to get them to take it, but they agreed when i threatened to heave it all into the lake if they didn't! then--i ventured," said tom, looking down with something like a blush--"it does seem presumptuous in me, but i couldn't help it--i preached to them! i told them of my having been twice bought; of the gold that never perishes; and of the debt i owe, which i could never repay, like theirs, with interest, because it is incalculable. and now, dear betty, we begin the world afresh from to-day." "yes, and with clear consciences," returned betty. "i like to re-commence life thus." "but with empty pockets," added tom, with a peculiar twist of his mouth. "no, not quite empty," rejoined the young wife, drawing a very business-looking envelope from her pocket and handing it to her husband. "read that, tom." need we say that tom read it with mingled amusement and amazement; that he laughed at it, and did not believe it; that he became grave, and inquired into it; and that finally, when paul bevan detailed the whole affair, he was forced to believe it? "an estate in the west indies," he murmured to himself in a condition of semi-bewilderment, "yielding over fifteen hundred a year!" "a tidy little fortin," remarked paddy flinders, who overheard him. "i hope, sor, ye won't forgit yer owld frinds in oregon when ye go over to take possession." "i won't my boy--you may depend on that." and he did not! but edwin buxley did not live to enjoy his share of the fortune. soon after the wedding he began to sink rapidly, and finally died while gazing earnestly in his sister's face, with the word "mother" trembling faintly on his lips. he was laid under a lordly tree not far from the indian village in the sawback range. it was six months afterwards that betty became of age and was entitled to go home and claim her own. she and tom went first to a small village in kent, where dwelt an old lady who for some time past had had her heart full to the very brim with gratitude because of a long-lost prodigal son having been brought back to her--saved by the blood of the lamb. when at last she set her longing eyes on tom, and heard his well-remembered voice say, "mother!" the full heart overflowed and rushed down the wrinkled cheeks in floods of inexpressible joy. and the floods were increased, and the joy intensified, when she turned at last to gaze on a little modest, tearful, sympathetic flower, whom tom introduced to her as the rose of oregon! thereafter tom and the rose paid a visit to london city and called upon truefoot, tickle, and badger. truefoot was the only partner in the office at the time, but he ably represented the firm, for he tickled them with information and badgered them with questions to such an extent that they left the place of business in a state of mental confusion, but on the whole, very well satisfied. the result of all these things was that tom brixton settled down near the village where his mother dwelt, and fred westly, after staying long enough among the sawback mountains to dig out of them a sufficiency, returned home and bought a small farm beside his old chum. and did tom forget his old friends in oregon? no! he became noted for the length and strength of his correspondence. he wrote to flinders begging him to come home and help him with his property, and flinders accepted. he wrote to mahoghany drake and sent him a splendid rifle, besides good advice and many other things, at different times, too numerous to mention. he wrote to little tolly trevor endeavouring to persuade him to come to england and be "made a man of", but tolly politely declined, preferring to follow the fortunes of mahoghany and be made a man of in the backwoods sense of the expression, in company with his fast friend the leaping buck. tolly sent his special love to the rose of oregon, and said that she would be glad to hear that the old place in the sawback range had become a little colony, and that a missionary had settled in it, and gashford had held by his promise to her--not only giving up drink and gambling entirely, but had set up a temperance coffee-house and a store, both of which were in the full blast of prosperity. tolly also said, in quite a poetical burst, that the fragrance of the rose not only remained in the colony, but was still felt as a blessed memory and a potent influence for good throughout all the land. finally, tom brixton settled down to a life of usefulness beside his mother--who lived to a fabulous old age--and was never tired of telling, especially to his young friends, of his wonderful adventures in the far west and how he had been twice bought--once with gold and once with blood. the end. three young ranchmen or, daring adventures in the great west by captain ralph bonehill author of "a sailor boy with dewey," "for the liberty of texas," "the young bandmaster," etc. illustrated new york and boston h. m. caldwell company publishers _copyright, _ by the saalfield publishing company [illustration: horse and youth went plunging headlong.] preface "three young ranchmen" relates the adventures of three brothers, allen, chetwood and paul winthrop, who are left to shift for themselves upon a lonely ranch home situated in the mountainous region of the beautiful state of idaho, near one of the numerous branches of the salmon river. the lads, although sturdy and brave, have no easy time making a living, and among other troubles, they are visited by horse thieves, and also by a crafty prospector who wishes to take their claim away from them. in the meantime an uncle of the lads has gone off to visit the city, and he disappears entirely, adding to the complexity of the situation. what the boys did to straighten out the trouble is told in the chapters which follow. in writing this story i have tried to give my boy readers a fair idea of life on a ranch of to-day, as well as of life in the wild mountains of idaho, with some idea of the ranch hands and miners to be met with in these localities. the tale has been drawn as true to nature as possible, and i trust its reading will prove both entertaining and useful. captain ralph bonehill. contents chapter i. an unpleasant discovery chapter ii. allen on the trail chapter iii. a dangerous situation chapter iv. the man in the sink hole chapter v. good cause for alarm chapter vi. from one peril to another chapter vii. the cave in the mountain chapter viii. into a snake's nest chapter ix. a visitor at the ranch chapter x. the captain's setback chapter xi. ike watson's arrival chapter xii. the boys talk it over chapter xiii. caught in a cyclone chapter xiv. another surprise chapter xv. at dottery's ranch chapter xvi. an encounter in the dark chapter xvii. something about a letter chapter xviii. allen changes his plans chapter xix. along the water course chapter xx. moving against captain grady chapter xxi. shooting a grizzly bear chapter xxii. an important capture chapter xxiii. news of importance chapter xxiv. something about barnaby winthrop chapter xxv. fighting a wolverine chapter xxvi. disappearance of slavin chapter xxvii. allen shows his bravery chapter xxviii. a buffalo stampede chapter xxix. the long lost found chapter xxx. together at last--conclusion illustrations horse and youth went plunging headlong the man caught the end of the gun vainly he put out his hands to stay his progress holding the snake, he leaped out of the circle of reptiles the three young ranchmen talked it over three young ranchmen chapter i. an unpleasant discovery "when do you think allen will be back, paul?" "he ought to be back by two or three o'clock, chet. his horse was fresh, and the roads are very good just now." "i hope he brings good news, don't you? i am tired of waiting here." "we will have to content ourselves on the ranch another year, i am afraid. father left matters in a very unsettled condition, and what has become of uncle barnaby the world only knows." "i don't care so much about the dullness--i like to hunt and fish and round up the cattle just as well as any one--but what i'm complaining of is the uncertainty of the way things are going to turn. for all we know, we may be cast adrift, as the saying goes, any day." "that is true, although i imagine our title to the ranch is o. k. if those title papers hadn't been burned up when one end of the house took fire i wouldn't worry a bit." "neither would i. but we all know what captain grady is--the meanest man that ever drew the breath of life--and if he once learns that we haven't the papers he'll be down on us quicker than a grizzly bear in the spring." "well, we won't let him know that the papers have been burned up. we will continue to bluff him off." "we can't bluff him forever. to my mind----" the boy broke off short, and coming to a halt, pointed with his disengaged hand toward the barn. "did you leave that door unlocked?" he went on. "certainly i didn't. who opened it? perhaps allen is back." "and perhaps there are horse thieves around!" was the quick reply. "come on." without a word more the two boys dropped their burdens and started for the structure in which the horse belonging to each had been stabled. the boys were chetwood and paul winthrop, two brothers, tall, well-built, and handsome. the face of each was browned by exposure, and showed the perfect health that only a life in the open can give. chet and paul lived with their elder brother allen at a typical ranch home in idaho, on one of the numerous branches of the winding salmon river. the home was a rude but comfortable affair, with several outbuildings close at hand, the whole surrounded by a rude but substantial stockade, a relic of the time when troubles with the indians were numerous. it was a warm, sunshiny day in august, and the two boys had been down to the river fishing at a favorite deep hole near the roots of a clump of cottonwood trees. each had a nice mess of fish strung on a brush branch, showing that their quest of game had not been a vain one. for three years the three winthrop boys had lived alone at the ranch home. their former history was a peculiar one, the particulars of which will be given later. just now we will follow chet and paul to the barn, the door to which stood half open. "gone!" the single word burst from the lips of both simultaneously. it was enough, for it told the whole story. their two animals, jasper and rush, had vanished. "thieves, as sure as fate!" ejaculated paul, gazing rapidly on all sides. "see how the lock has been broken open." "and they have taken all the extra harness as well," added chet, his black eyes snapping angrily. "i wonder how long ago this happened." "there's no telling, chet. let's see--we went off about eight o'clock, didn't we?" "yes." "then the rascals have had nearly four hours in which to do their dirty work. by this time they are probably miles away. this is the worst luck of all." "you are not going to sit down and suck your thumb, are you, paul?" questioned the younger brother, quickly. "not if we can do anything. but we are tied fast here,--we can't follow on foot,--they knew that when they came to rob us." "have you any idea who the thieves can be?" "most likely a remnant of that old gang from jordan creek. i knew they would spring up again, even after sol davids was lynched. let us take a look around, and see if we can't find some clew to their identity." "if only allen would come----" "fire off your gun. if he is in hearing that will hasten his movements." thus directed, chet hastened outside, and running to the house, quickly brought forth his double-barreled shotgun. two reports rent the air a second later, and then the youth returned with the still smoking firearm to the barn. "have you found anything?" he asked. "here is a strap that doesn't belong to our outfit," replied paul. "but it's only a common affair that might belong to any one." "and here is a silver cross!" cried chet, as he sprang forward to pick up the object. the article which chet had found embedded in the dirt flooring of the barn was really of silver, but so unpolished that it did not shine. it was not over an inch in length and height, with a round hole directly in the center. at the four corners of the cross were the letters d a f g. "what do you make of it?" asked paul, impatiently, as he bent over to examine the object as it lay in his younger brother's palm. "nothing. it's a silver cross with letters on it; that's all. i never saw one like it before." "is there no name on the back?" quickly the cross was turned over. there, dug into the metal, as if with a jackknife, were the letters s. m. "s. m.," said chet, slowly. "who can they stand for?" "sam somebody, i suppose," replied paul. "i reckon there are a good many folks in idaho with the initials s. m." "that is true, too, but it's not likely many of them are mean enough to turn horse thieves." chet surveyed the cross for a few seconds longer. then he rammed it into his pocket and went on with the search, and paul followed suit. but their further efforts remained unrewarded. not another thing of value was brought to light. they were on the point of giving up when a clatter of hoofs was heard outside on the rocks leading from the trail back to the willows and cottonwoods. "there is allen now!" cried paul, joyfully. "hi, allen! this way, quick!" he added, elevating his voice. "all right, paul, my boy!" came in a cheery voice from the elder of the winthrops, as he dashed up on his faithful mare. "what's wanted?" "the horses have been stolen!" "phew!" it was a low and significant whistle that allen winthrop emitted, and the pleasant look on his fine features gave way to one of deep concern. "stolen!" he said at last. "when? by whom?" "we don't know," replied paul. "we just got back from the river a few minutes ago and found the barn door broken open and both horses gone." "and no clew?" "we found this." allen winthrop caught up the silver cross quickly and gazed at it for the fraction of a minute. then he muttered something under his breath. "did you ever see this cross before?" asked paul. "no, but i have heard father tell of it," was the answer. "it is the cross the old sol davids gang used to wear. do you see those letters--d a f g? they stand for 'dare all for gold.' that was the gang's motto, and they never hesitated to carry it out." "then we were right in thinking that the horse thieves might be some left-overs from the old gang," observed paul. "yes they are most likely of the same old crowd," said allen. "the hanging of old sol did not drive them out of this district." "but what of the initials s. m.?" asked chet. "i never heard of any horse thief that those would fit." "we'll find out about that when we run the thieves down," said allen. "you say you discovered the robbery but a short while since?" "less than a quarter of an hour ago." "have you been up to the house?" "i went for my gun," began chet. "i wonder if it were possible----" he commenced, and then meeting his older brother's eyes stopped short. not one of the trio said more just then. all made a wild dash from the barn to the house. they burst into the living room of the latter like a cyclone. "it looks all right," began paul. "but it isn't all right," burst out chet. "see the side window has been forced open!" allen said nothing, having passed into one of the sleeping rooms. he began to rummage around the apartment, into the closet and the trunks. "by gracious!" he burst out presently. "what's up?" questioned his two brothers in a breath. "it's gone!" "gone?" "yes, every dollar is gone!" groaned allen. he referred to three bags which had contained silver and gold to the amount of seven hundred dollars--the winthrop savings for several years. paul and chet gave a groan. something like a lump arose in the throat of the younger youth, but he cleared it away with a cough. "the mean, contemptible scoundrels!" burst out paul. "we must get after them somehow!" "i'll go after them," replied allen, with swift determination. "give me my rifle. i already have my pistol." "you are not going alone, are you?" demanded paul. "i'll have to. there is only my mare to be had." "it's foolhardy, allen," urged chet. "what could one fellow do against two or more? they would knock you over at the first chance." "i won't give them the first chance," grimly replied allen, as he ran for his rifle. "as they used to say when father was young, i'll shoot first and talk afterward." "can't two of us ride on the mare?" asked paul. "i am not so very heavy." the older brother shook his head. "it can't be done, paul; not with her all tired out after her morning's jaunt. no, i'll go alone. perhaps the trail will lead past some other ranch and then i'll call on the neighbors for help." "can you follow the trail?" "i reckon i can; leastwise i can try. i won't lose it unless they take to the rocks and leave the river entirely, and it ain't likely they'll do that." chet and paul shook their heads. to them it seemed dangerous, and so it was. but it was no use arguing with allen when he had once made up his mind, so they let him have his own way. three minutes later allen was off on the trail of the horse thieves. chapter ii. allen on the trail although allen winthrop was but a young man in years, yet the fact that he had had the care of the family on his shoulders since the death of his parents had tended to make him older in experience and give him the courage to face whatever arose before him in the path of duty. he was four years older than chet and two years the senior of paul, and the others had always looked upon him as a guiding spirit in all undertakings. consequently but little was said by way of opposition when allen determined to go after the thieves alone, but nevertheless the hearts of both the younger brothers were filled with anxiety when they saw allen disappear on the back of his mare up the trail that led to the southwest. "it's too bad that we can't accompany him," was the way chet expressed himself. "i'd give all i possess for a good horse just now." "all you possess isn't much, seeing we've all been cleaned out," replied paul, with a trace of grim humor he did not really feel. "but i, too, wish i had a horse and could go along." "still, somebody ought to stay on the ranch," went on chet, "we might have more unprofitable visitors." "it's not likely that the gang will dare to show themselves in this vicinity again in a hurry. like as not they'll steer for deadwood, sell the horses, and then spend their ill-gotten gains around the gambling saloons. that is their usual style. they can't content themselves in the mountains or on the plains as long as they have the dust in their pockets." after allen had disappeared the two boys locked up the barn as well as was possible, using a wooden pin in lieu of the padlock that had been forced asunder, and then went back to the house. chet brought in the string of fish and threw them in a big tin basin. "i suppose i might as well fry a couple of these," he observed; "though, to tell the truth, i am not a bit hungry." "i, too, have lost my appetite," replied paul. "but we must eat, and dinner will help pass away the time. i reckon there is no telling when allen will be back." "no. i don't care much, if he only keeps from getting into serious trouble." in the meantime allen had passed down the trail until the buildings of the ranch were left far behind. he knew the way well, and had no difficulty in finding the tracks--new ones--made by the hoofs of four horses. "as long as they remain as fresh as they are now it will be easy enough to follow them," was the mental conclusion which he reached, as he urged forward his tired mare in a way that showed his fondness for the animal and his disinclination to make her do more than could fairly be expected. the belt of cottonwood was soon passed, and allen emerged upon the bank of a small brook which flowed into the river at a point nearly half a mile further on. he examined the wet bank of the brook minutely and came to the conclusion that here the horse thieves had stopped the animals for a drink. "i imagine they came a long distance to get here," he thought, "and that means they will go a long way before they settle down for the night. heigh-ho! i have a long and difficult search before me." the brook had been forded, and allen crossed over likewise, and five minutes later reached a bit of rolling land dotted here and there with sage and other brush. allen wondered if the trail would lead to gold fork, as the little mining town at the foot of the mountains was called. "if they went that way i will have no trouble in getting help to run them down," he said to himself. "i can get ike watson and mat prigley, who will go willingly, and there is no better man to take hold of this sort of thing than ike watson." mile after mile was passed, and the trail remained as plain as before. "it looks as if they didn't anticipate being followed," was the way allen figured it, but he soon found out his mistake, when, on coming around a rocky spur of ground, the trail suddenly vanished. the young ranchman came to a halt in some dismay, and a look of perplexity quickly stole over his face. he looked to the right and the left, and ahead, but all to no purpose. the trail was gone. "here's a state of things," he murmured as he continued to gaze around. "where in the land of goodness has it gone to? they couldn't have taken wings and flown away." allen spent all of a quarter of an hour on the rocky spur. then on a venture he moved forward over the bare rocks, feeling pretty certain that it was the only way they could have gone without leaving tracks behind them. he calculated that he had traveled nearly ten miles. his mare showed signs of being tired, and he spoke to her more kindly than ever. "it won't do, lilly," he said, patting her soft neck affectionately. "we have got to get through somehow or other. you must brace up and when it is all over you can take the best kind of a long resting spell." and the faithful animal laid back her ears and appeared to understand every word he said to her. she was a most knowing creature, and allen would have gone wild had she been one of those stolen. the barren, rocky way lasted for upward of half a mile, and came to an end in a slight decline covered with rich grass and more brush. allen looked about him eagerly. "hurrah! there is the trail, true enough!" he cried, as the well understood marks in the growth beneath his feet met his gaze. "that was a lucky chance i took. on, lilly, and we'll have jasper and rush back before nightfall, or know the reason why." away flew the mare once more over the plain that stretched before her for several miles. beyond were the mountains, covered with a purplish haze. the vicinity of the mountains was gained at last, and now, more than tired, the mare dropped into a walk as the first upward slope was struck. hardly had she done so than allen saw something that made his heart jump. it was a man, and he was riding chet's horse! chapter iii. a dangerous situation it was not possible for allen winthrop to make any mistake regarding the animal the man on the mountain trail was riding. too often had he ridden on rush's back, and too well did he know the sturdy little horse's characteristics. but the man was a stranger to the young ranchman, and he could not even remember having seen the rascal's face before. "stop!" called out allen, as he struck lilly to urge her on. "stop! do you hear me?" the man caught the words and wheeled about quickly. he was evidently much disturbed by the encounter. he had been looking ahead, and had known nothing of allen's approach. "stop, do you hear?" repeated allen. "wot do yer want?" was the surly response, but the speaker did not draw rein in the least. "i want you to stop!" exclaimed allen, growing excited. "that horse belongs to my brother!" "reckon you air mistaken, stranger," was the cool reply. "this air hoss is mine." this unexpected reply staggered allen. he had expected the man to either show fight or take to his heels. it was plainly evident that the fellow intended, if possible, to bluff him off. "your horse? not much! whoa, rush, old boy!" commanded by that familiar tongue, the horse came to a halt that was so sudden it nearly pitched the rider out of his saddle. he muttered something under his breath, straightened up and gave the reins a vicious yank that made rush rear up in resentment. "see here, youngster, keep your parley to yourself!" howled the man, scowling at allen. "i will--after you get down and turn that nag over to me," rejoined allen, as coolly as he could, although he was in an exceedingly high state of suppressed excitement. "and whyfore should i turn him over to you, seein' as how he belongs to me?" growled the man, as brazenly as he could. "you stole that horse from our barn not four hours ago," retorted allen. "i will waste no more words with you. get down or take the consequences." as he concluded the youth unslung his rifle in a suggestive manner. he had lived out in those wilds long enough to know that to trifle in such a case as this would be sheer foolishness. "you're a hot-headed youngster, tew say the least," was the reply, and as he spoke the man scowled more viciously than ever. the sight of the ready rifle in allen's hands was not at all to his liking. he made a movement toward his pistols, but a second glance at the youth made him change his mind. "i said i would waste no more words with you," repeated allen. "get down!" "but see here, youngster----" "get down!" and up came the rifle in a motion that caused the man to start back in terror. "there must be a mistake somewhar," he said, slowly, as soon as he could recover. "my pard turned this critter over to me, and i reckoned it war all right." "there is where you reckoned wrong. are you going to get down now or not?" "supposin' we talk it over with my pard first? thar he is now." the man pointed to the trail behind allen. his manner was so natural that for the instant the young ranchman was deceived. he looked about. with a dash and a clatter the horse thief urged rush on, digging his spurs deep into the little horse's flesh. as he did so he dropped partly under the horse's neck, thus to shield himself from a chance shot, should it be taken. but, although astonished and angered at being so easily duped, allen did not fire. rush was moving along over the rocks too rapidly for him to take the risk of killing his brother's favorite beast. besides, only a small portion of the rider could be seen at one time. "i'll follow him until i get a better chance," he thought, and he cried to lilly to follow in pursuit. once again the gallant mare responded, although she was now thoroughly jaded. up the rocks they went, and around numerous bends, the clatter ahead telling plainly that the race was about even for pursued and pursuer. "i must be on my guard or that fellow may play me foul," thought allen. "he looks like a most desperate character, and he knows well enough what capture by the law-abiding folks of this state means. they would lynch him in a minute." allen wondered what had become of the other thieves and the horse jasper. surely they could not be far away. "perhaps that fellow is trying to reach the others, who may have gone on ahead," he speculated mentally. "if he reaches them it will be so much the worse for me, for i can never fight two or more among these rocks and bushes. on lilly. we must run him down at once!" but the little mare could be urged no longer. she had reached her limit, and went forward with a doggedness that was pitiful to behold. in five minutes allen heard the clatter ahead drawing away from him. soon it ceased entirely. but he did not give up. it was not in his nature to surrender a cause so long as one spark of hope of success remained. the mountain trail now led downward for a few hundred yards, and then wound through a rocky pass, dark and forbidding. allen kept watch on either side for a possible ambush, but none presented itself. "he has gone on, that is certain," he thought. "i rather guess he thinks to tire me out, knowing the condition my mare is in; but if he thinks that he is mistaken. i'll follow, if i have to do it on foot." at last the trail left the rocky pass and came out upon some shelving rocks overlooking a deep canyon, at the bottom of which sparkled the swift-running stream. here a rude bridge led to the other side, a bridge composed of slender trees and rough-hewn planks. without hesitation, allen rode upon the bridge. as he did so a derisive laugh resounded from the other side of the canyon, and he saw the man he was after and two others ride into view. then, before he could turn back, allen felt the bridge sagging beneath him. suddenly it parted in the center, and horse and youth went plunging headlong toward the waters far beneath. chapter iv. the man in the sink hole we will now return to the ranch and see how chet and paul were faring during their elder brother's absence. chet took the string of fish, and selecting two, began to clean them. he was used to the work, and did it with a dexterity and quickness that could not have been excelled. ever since his mother had died it had fallen upon chet's young shoulders to do the culinary work about the ranch home. while chet was thus engaged paul busied himself in looking over the shotguns, cleaning and oiling them and then loading up. the fish cooked, chet set the table, putting on three plates, although he himself was almost certain allen would not come back in time for the meal. "it's queer, i've been thinking," remarked paul, during the progress of the meal, "allen said nothing about the result of his morning trip." "he was too excited over the theft of the horses to think of anything else, i reckon," was the reply chet made. "it was enough to upset any one's mind." "at least he might have said if he had heard from uncle barnaby," grumbled paul. "more particularly, as we were just dying to know." "i imagine if he had heard he would have said so and left us the letter, paul. allen knows as well as you or i how anxious we really were." "it's queer the way uncle barnaby disappeared," mused paul, as he mashed the potatoes on his plate with a fork. "one would not think a man could go to san francisco and disappear forever." "he might if he went to chinatown and got sandbagged or something like that." "oh, you don't really think such a thing would happen?" "it might. uncle was a great hand to see the sights, and also to make a show of his money, and the chinese in san francisco are, many of them, a bloodthirsty set." "do you really believe he discovered the rich mine he talked about?" "he discovered something, that is certain. and he had faith enough in it to go to san francisco in the hope of starting a company to develop the claim." it was in this strain that the two boys talked on until long after the meal was finished, and while they are conversing let us take a brief glance at their former history. as i have said, the three brothers were orphans, their parents having died several years before. the ranch had belonged to their father, who had willed it to his three sons equally, and as none of them were yet of age, he had appointed his brother, barnaby, his executor. barnaby winthrop was an old prospector, who had spent a life among the hills, prospecting for gold and silver. as has been said, he was a peculiar man, but warm and generous hearted to the last degree. as there was really little to do at the ranch but look after the cattle, the uncle had left the place in charge of the three boys and continued month in and month out ranging over the hills and among the mountains in search of the precious metal which lay hidden beneath the surface. one day uncle barnaby had staggered into the house, weak and hungry. he had made a perilous trip up to a point theretofore considered unattainable. he announced that he had at last struck a mining spot that if properly worked would prove a bonanza. he refused to state the exact location and announced his intention of going at once to san francisco to organize a company to open up a mine. he started apparently in the best of health, and although he had been gone now a number of months, and they had been anxiously awaiting his reappearance, they had seen or heard nothing of him. during this period the boys had had considerable trouble at home, which had occupied their attention. at the start some of the cattle had gone astray, and it had taken a ten days' hunt over the long range to find them. then had come captain hank grady, who had sought in various ways to get possession of the ranch, stating that their father had borrowed money from him and that it had not been paid back. the captain was known to be both mean and unscrupulous, and all of the boys doubted very much if he spoke the truth. but they had expected much more trouble from him before the end was reached, and they were destined not to be disappointed. captain grady knew the value of the ranch, even if the boys did not, and he meant to gain possession of it, if not by fair means, then by foul. "we'll have to take a look for the cattle this afternoon," said paul, some time after the conversation concerning uncle barnaby came to a close. "we don't want any of them to get in the sink hole again." "that's so; we'll start at once, and we'll see to it that we lock up good," laughed chet. "no more thieves wanted." the house was soon tidied up, and then, after closing up everything well and setting an alarm to scare away any newcomer, chet and paul set out on foot over the rolling land which led from the river. half a mile beyond the rolling land was a nasty bit of spongy soil known as the sink hole. not unfrequently the cattle would stray in this direction and more than one had sunk to death in the mire. "some cattle around there now!" cried paul, as they drew close to the spot. "it's lucky we came this way." "go to the westward of them," said chet. "we can drive them----" chet broke off short, for just then a piercing cry rang in their ears: "help! help! for the sake of heaven, help!" chet and paul were thrilled to the heart to hear that wild, agonizing cry for assistance which rang out so clearly on the afternoon air. plainly a human being was in distress, and needed immediate assistance. they looked around, but for several seconds saw nothing. then the cry rang out again, more sharply, more pitiably than ever. "help! help! save me from death!" "do you see him?" demanded paul, breathlessly. "no, i do not," rejoined chet. "but he must be near. did not the cry come from over there?" pointing with his finger to the right. "i believe it did. come on!" paul set off on a run around the edge of the sink hole, which was all of several hundred feet in diameter. close behind him came chet, wondering who the man could be and how they might assist him should he be beyond their reach. two dozen steps brought them in sight of the sufferer. he was a young man and his general dress and appearance betokened that he was a stranger in those parts, and, in fact, a stranger to the wilds; a city fellow, born and bred. "save me! help!" cried the man for a third time. he was up to his middle in the spongy soil and sinking rapidly. "keep up your courage; we will assist you!" shouted paul in return. "thank god, somebody has heard my cry!" murmured the man, gratefully. "you must be quick; i am sinking rapidly," he continued aloud. "have you anything in the shape of a rope with you?" asked paul of chet. "i have not." this was a sad predicament, as the man was all of three yards from solid ground. how to get to him was a question. but it was solved by chet, as he brought a bit of stout cord from his pocket. "tie the two stocks of the guns together," he said. "this way; let me show you." he held the two stocks side by side, so that they overlapped each other about eight or ten inches. the cord was hastily wound about them and tied, and it was chet who thrust one of the gun barrels toward the sinking man, while he firmly grasped the other. "catch hold," he said. "paul, help me land him." [illustration: the man caught the end of the gun.] the man caught the end of the gun and paul took hold of chet's hand. two efforts were made, the first time the man letting the gun slip and sinking deeper than ever. but the second effort was successful, and, panting from his unusual exertion, the man reached the solid ground and fell exhausted. chapter v. good cause for alarm it was several minutes before the man who had been rescued from the sink hole could sit up and talk. his hat was gone, and with a dirty face and tangled, muddy hair, he presented a sorry spectacle. "i'm very thankful to you for what you have done," were his first words, accompanied by a look that told plainly he felt what he said. "i thought i was at the end of my string sure, as they say in these parts." "i allow that's a bad hole to get into," returned chet. "i wouldn't want to get into it myself." "and may i ask to whom am i indebted for my life?" continued the man. "my name is chetwood winthrop, and this is my brother paul." "i am exceedingly glad to know you, boys. my name is noel urner, and i am from new york. i am a stranger in idaho, and i know nothing of such treacherous places as this--at least i did not know of them until a short while ago." and the man shuddered as the memory of his fearful experience flashed over him. "it's one of the unpleasant things of the country," responded paul, with a little laugh. "but how came you in it?" with a glance down at the spurs on the man's boots. "i see you are looking at my spurs. yes, i had a horse, but he is gone now." "gone! in the sink hole?" ejaculated chet. "no; he was stolen from me." "stolen!" both boys uttered the word simultaneously. "yes. i was riding along when i came to a spot where i saw some flora which particularly interested me, for i am a botanist, although for pleasure only. i dismounted and tied my horse to a tree and climbed up to secure the specimens which were on a shelf of rock some thirty feet over my head. soon i heard a clatter of horses' hoofs as they passed along the road. i came down with my specimens to see who the riders were, but they had already passed on, taking my horse with them." "the horse thieves!" cried chet. and he told the man of the raid made on the ranch and how allen had gone off in pursuit of the thieves. the reader can well imagine with what interest noel urner listened to the tale. "one would not believe it possible!" he exclaimed, when chet had wound up by saying he wished allen would lay every one of the rascals low. "i fancied horse thievery was a thing only permitted in the wildest portions of the territories." "there are horse thieves everywhere," said paul. "every one living for a hundred miles around has suffered during the past ten years. sometimes we think them wiped out, and then, all of a sudden they start up again." "well, i trust your brother gets your horses back," said noel urner. "it's a pity he won't know enough to take mine away from the thieves, too!" "he'll collar the thieves and all they have, if he gets half a chance, you can depend on that," said chet. "but won't you come to our ranch with us? you can clean up there and have something to eat if you are hungry." "thank you, i will go gladly. possibly you can sell me a headgear of some sort too." "we can fit you out all right enough, sir." it did not take the boys long to chase the cattle away from the sink hole, and this accomplished, they set off for the ranch with noel urner between them. they found the young man an exceedingly bright and pleasant chap. he said he had come west two months before and had been spending over a month in san francisco. "i came out at the invitation of an old prospector," he said. "we were to meet in san francisco, but when i arrived there i could not find my man. he belongs somewhere in this neighborhood. his name is barnaby winthrop. perhaps you have heard of him?" "heard of him!" cried chet. "he is our uncle!" added paul. "your uncle!" and now it was noel urner's turn to be surprised. "yes, our uncle, and he has been missing for several months," continued paul. "oh, tell us what you know of him at once, for we are dying to know!" "the barnaby winthrop i mean had an undeveloped gold and silver mine he wished to open up." "it was our uncle, beyond the shadow of a doubt," said chet. "our name is winthrop, and uncle barnaby is our guardian. we can prove it to you by the papers, if you wish." "i am willing to take your word, boys. but, you understand, one must be careful about speaking of mines in this section; at least i have been told so." "yes, we know about that," returned paul. "many a man has lost the chance of his life by advertising his knowledge too broadly. others would gain a clew of a mine, hunt it up, and put in a claim before the original discoverer knew what was up." "exactly, and that is why i was slow in saying anything. but when you ask me to tell you about your uncle, i am sorry to say i know but very little, although i suspect much, now you say he has been missing so long." by this time the little party had reached the ranch house. they went inside, and despite the fact that the boys were impatient to hear what noel urner might have to say, they gave the young man time to wash up and make himself otherwise presentable, chet in the meanwhile frying another fish and preparing a pot of coffee. "this is just what i wished, and no mistake," said noel urner, as he set to with a hearty good will. "but i am sure you are impatient to learn something of your uncle, so i will not keep you waiting. to make my story plain, i will have to tell you something of myself also. "in the first place i am a broker and speculator from new york city. i make a specialty of mining stocks, and own shares myself in half a dozen mines. "about ten weeks or so ago i heard through a friend in san francisco that barnaby winthrop was trying to form a company to develop a new strike in this vicinity. i wrote to him and he sent word back that if i would come on he would prove to me that he had a big thing, well worth looking into. "i had other business west, and so at once started for san francisco. your uncle had given his address as the golden nugget house, a place i afterward learned was frequented by old-time miners and prospectors. "i made inquiries at the nugget house for your uncle, and to my astonishment learned that he had disappeared very mysteriously one night, leaving no trace behind him." "what!" cried paul, springing to his feet, and chet was too astonished to speak. "i do not wonder that you are astonished. yes, he had disappeared, leaving his valise and overcoat behind him. "i thought the matter so queer that i was on the point of notifying the police. but on calling at the post office for letters i received one from him stating that he was sorry, but he had come back to the place in question and found it not what he had anticipated, so he wouldn't bother me any more." "i don't believe he came back!" ejaculated chet. "if he had he would have stopped at the ranch." "i agree with you." "have you that letter?" asked paul, his voice trembling with excitement. "i have." "i would like to see it, please." "certainly." and noel urner brought forth a large flat pocketbook from which he extracted the communication in question. paul took it to the light and examined it closely. "this is a forgery! uncle barnaby never wrote it." "let me see, paul," ejaculated chet. he also examined the letter with as much care as his brother had displayed. there was not the slightest doubt of it. the letter was not genuine. "it's certainly a bad state of affairs," said noel urner. "it makes the disappearance of your uncle look decidedly bad." "it looks like foul play!" cried paul. "why should uncle barnaby leave the hotel in that fashion if all was perfectly straight?" "it's like as not some mining town rascals got hold of his secret and then put him out of the way, so that they might profit by it," said chet. "there are plenty of fellows mean enough for that." "at first i was satisfied by the receipt of the letter," continued noel urner. "but the more i thought over the matter the more i became convinced that something was wrong; but in a different way from what you think. i imagined your uncle had found other speculators to go in with him and they had persuaded him to cut me off. that is why i started off, after settling my other business in california, to find your uncle and learn the truth. i was willing to lose a few weeks' time out here looking around, even if it didn't pay." "we are very glad you came and that we found you," answered paul. "i am sorry for only one thing, that allen is not here to meet you." "i am in no hurry to continue my journey; indeed, i do not see how i can without a horse. if you wish i will remain here until your brother returns." "you are right welcome to do that," cried chet. "as for not having a horse, you are no worse off than ourselves, for we are without an animal of any kind, outside of the cattle." "then, being equally bad off, we ought to make good friends," smiled noel urner. "i shall like staying on a ranch for a few days first rate, and you can rely on my giving you all the assistance in my power when it comes to finding out the fate of your uncle." "we can't do anything until allen returns," sighed paul. "then we will hope that your brother returns speedily, and with good news." "the best news will be his return with all our horses," returned chet. "we can do nothing without our animals." alas! how little did both chet and paul dream of the terrible ordeal through which allen was at that moment passing! chapter vi. from one peril to another "i am lost! nothing can save me!" such was the agonizing thought which rushed into allen winthrop's mind as he felt himself plunging madly downward to the glittering waters far beneath him. it must be confessed that the otherwise brave young ranchman was fearfully frightened at the dreadful peril which confronted him. he and his faithful mare were going down, and certain death seemed inevitable. "heaven help me!" he murmured to himself, and shutting his teeth hard, clung grimly to the saddle. out of the sunlight into the gloom and mist below descended horse and rider. scarcely two seconds passed and then, with a resounding splash, the animal and its living burden disappeared beneath the surface of the river and out of the sight of the rascals on the opposite side of the canyon. "that settles him," cried one of the horse thieves, grimly. "he was a fool to follow us." "maybe he'll escape," ventured a second. "wot! arfter sech a plunge?" returned the first speaker, sarcastically. "wall, hardly, ter my reckonin'." they shifted their positions on the brink of the opening, but try their best, could see nothing more of the young man or the mare. it was now growing darker rapidly, and fifteen minutes later, satisfied that allen had really taken a fall to his death, they continued on their way. and poor allen? down, down, down sank the mare and her hapless rider, until the very bottom of the river was struck. the swiftly flowing tide caught both in its grasp, tumbled them over and over and sent them spinning onward. allen's grasp on the saddle relaxed, and as it did so the young man lost consciousness. how long he remained in this state allen never knew. when he came to he was lying among brush, partly in the water and partly out. he attempted to sit up and in doing so, slipped back beyond his depth. but the instinct of self-preservation still remained with him, and he made a frantic clutch at the brush and succeeded in pulling himself high and dry upon a grassy bank. here he lay for several minutes exhausted. he could not think, for his head felt as if it was swimming around in a balloon. at last he began to come to himself and after a bit sat up to gaze about him. but all was dark and he could see little or nothing. he remembered the great plunge he had taken and wondered what had become of lilly. he called her with all the strength of his enfeebled lungs, but received no response. "she must have been killed," he thought. "poor lilly! but had it not been for the protection her body gave me it is more than likely that my life would have been ended, too!" and he shuddered to think of his narrow escape. it was nearly half an hour before allen felt strong enough to rise up. his head felt light, and for a while he staggered like an intoxicated man. he knew he was down in the canyon, and some distance below where the bridge had been. he wondered how he could ascend to the top of the rocks which presented themselves on the two sides. "i can't climb up in this darkness," he said half aloud. "i might slip and break my neck. i had better walk along and hunt for some natural upward slope." he started off along the river side, the top of the canyon towering nearly a hundred feet above his head as he proceeded. the opening gradually grew narrower, and with this the distance between the rocks and the water decreased, until there was hardly room left for allen to walk. "i must have made a mistake," was the mental conclusion which he arrived at. "i should have gone up the river instead of down. the chances are that i can't go over a hundred feet further, if as far." soon allen came to a halt. the ground between the wall of the canyon and the water ceased just before him. beyond the steep and bare rocks ran directly downward into the stream. "that settles it," he muttered, in great disappointment. "all this traveling for nothing. and it's getting night over head, too! it's a shame!" allen paused to rest, for in his weak condition the walk had tired him greatly. then he started to retrace his steps. hardly had he taken a yard's advance, when his left foot slipped upon a round stone. he was thrown over on his side, and before he could save himself went plunging headlong into the stream! he essayed by every means in his power to regain the bank, but in vain. the current of the river was extra strong at this point--the width of the course having narrowed down--and before he could clutch the first thing he was carried to where nothing but the steep and slippery rocks presented themselves. vainly he put out his hands to stay his progress, vainly he tried by every means in his power to obtain some sort of hold on the rocks. [illustration: vainly he put out his hands to stay his progress] and now the surface of the river grew blacker as the rocks on both sides began, seemingly, to close in over his head. he was almost tempted to cry out for help, and took a breath for that purpose, but the sound was not uttered. what would be the use? not a soul would hear him. on and on went the young ranchman, the waters growing more cold each instant and the prospects more gloomy. he was half tempted to give himself up for lost. it was an easy matter to keep himself on the surface, for he was really a good swimmer, but now the current was so strong that he could scarcely touch either side of its rocky confines as he was swept along, he knew not where. allen had never explored this stream, and this to him made the immediate future look blacker than ever. "if it ends in some sort of a sink hole, i'm a goner sure," he thought. "but i never heard of such a hole up here among the mountains, so i won't give up just yet." hardly had the thought occupied his mind when, on looking up, he saw the last trace of evening fade from sight. the river had entered a cavern! he was now underground! it may well be imagined with what dismay allen, stout-hearted as he was, viewed the turn of the situation. here he was being borne swiftly along on an underground river, he knew not where. it was a situation calculated to chill the bravest of hearts. all was pitch black around and overhead; beneath was the silent and cold water, and the only sound that fell upon his ears was the rushing along of the stream. as well as he was able, allen put out his hands before him, to ward off the shock of a sudden contact of any sort, for he did not know but that he might be dashed upon a jagged rock at any instant. then he prayed earnestly for deliverance. on and on he swept, the stream several times making turns, first to one side and then to the other. once his hand came brushing up to a series of rocks, but before he could grasp them he was hurled onward in an awful blackness. a quarter of an hour went by--a time that to the young man seemed like an age--and during that period he surmised that he must have traveled a mile or more. then the current appeared to slacken up, and he had a feeling come over him as if the space overhead had become larger. "this must be an underground lake," he thought. "now if i----ah, bottom!" his thought came to a sudden termination, for his feet had touched upon a sloping rock but a few feet below the surface of the stream. the rock sloped to his right, and, moving in that direction, allen, to his great joy, soon emerged upon a stony shore. he took several cautious steps in as many different directions and felt nothing. he was truly high and dry at last. this fact was a cheering one, but there was still a dismal enough outlook. where was he and how would he ever be able to gain the outer world once more? chapter vii. the cave in the mountain allen was too exhausted to do more than move about cautiously. he felt for the edge of the stream, and then moved away from it for several yards. his hand came in contact with a dried bush and several sticks of wood, all of which had probably floated in at one time on the stream, and these at once made him think of a fire. what a relief a bit of light would be! in his life on the long range, allen had found a watertight matchbox very useful. he felt in his pocket and found the article still safe. he opened it with fingers that trembled a little; but the matches were still dry, and in a trice one was struck and lit. he held the match under some of the driest of the brush, and had the satisfaction of seeing it blaze up. he piled the stuff up, and on top placed several heavy sticks. soon he had a fire which blazed merrily. the light illumined the cavern, casting a ruddy glare on the rocks and the rippling water. it was a weird and uncanny scene, and he shivered involuntarily. he would have given a good deal to have been in the outer world once more. allen saw that the river had simply widened at the spot, and that a hundred yards further on it flowed into a narrow channel, as before. only on the side which he occupied was there anything in the shape of a shore. opposite the rocks stood straight up, and were covered with moss and slime. "if i am to get out, it must be from this shore upward," allen thought as he surveyed the situation. "i can never get back on the river. one could never row even a boat against that current." the shore was not more than thirty or forty feet wide. it was backed up by rocks, but allen was glad to see that they did not present an unbroken surface. there were numerous fissures, and in one place the opening was a dozen feet in width. selecting the brightest of the firebrands allen, left the vicinity of the stream and started to explore this opening. he was in great hopes that it would lead upward and that he would thus be enabled to climb out of his prison--for to him that damp, dark place was nothing less. the opening was filled with loose stones, and allen had to be careful for fear of spraining an ankle, or worse. he moved along slowly, halting every few steps to survey the scene ahead. twenty yards distant from the entrance to the fissure allen came to a turn to the left. here was a narrow opening just large enough for him to pass through. beyond was another cavern-like spot not over ten yards in width and height and of interminable length. fearful of losing his way, allen hesitated about advancing. but presently he plucked up courage, and, holding down his firebrand, he allowed it to burn up again and then proceeded along the chamber. the flooring was uneven and covered with loose rocks and stones. huge stalactites hung down from overhead, and in several spots the moisture dripped down with weird hollow sounds. "i would like to know how far underground i really am," was allen's earnest mental speculation as he came to a halt beside a tiny stream which flowed from one side of the cavern to the other. "if there was only some slope which led upward it would be more encouraging. but it's about as flat as a bit of prairie land." allen hopped over the stream, and, assured that he could easily retrace his steps if necessary, continued on his search, his firebrand held over his head. it was a discouraging journey when the end was reached. before him arose a solid wall not less than twenty feet in height, at which elevation the cavern appeared to continue. allen gazed up at the wall with a hopeless look on his face. "humph! how in the name of creation am i to climb up there?" he muttered. "it's as steep as the side of a house and twice as slippery. if i can't find some sort of stepping places i reckon i'm beaten and booked to go back to where i started from." waving the firebrand to make it burn the brighter, allen began to scrutinize the face of the wall before him. he started at one end, resolved that not a foot of the surface should escape him. he had traveled along some fifteen feet when he came to something that made him start back in astonishment. "great caesar!" before him were a number of letters, cut in smooth rock, which was apparently quite soft. the letters read: barnaby winthrop's mine. allen stared at the letters on the rock as if he had not spelled out the words aright. but there was no mistake. they really read "barnaby winthrop's mine." "well, if this isn't the most wonderful discovery ever made!" ejaculated the young man, finally. "so this is the place that uncle barnaby talked of as being the richest claim in idaho. i wonder how he ever found it?" while allen stood close to the rocky wall he reached the conclusion that his uncle must have come there by the river, but whether a voluntary or involuntary passenger he could not decide. he knew uncle barnaby was exceedingly fearless, but was there any human being who would take the awful risk of a journey on that underground river, not knowing to where it led? "he must have been caught, just as i was," said allen to himself, at last. "and that being so, the question is, how did he manage, after he was once here, to get _out_?" while allen was debating this question he cast his eyes about for some means of scaling the wall. he walked along its face until the very end was reached, and there, to his joy, discovered a dozen rudely cut niches, some of them were close together and others nearly a yard apart, but, with the end of the firebrand between his teeth, he had no great difficulty in pulling himself up to the level of the flooring of the cavern above. allen now found himself in an opening not over fifty yards square. the roofing was hardly out of reach, and the young man saw at a glance that the quartz rock was full of virgin gold and silver. it was a veritable bonanza. "a million dollars or more!" he cried, enthusiastically. "uncle barnaby struck it rich for once. i wonder why he don't come back and begin operations. it's queer i didn't get word from him." allen could not help but spend some time in looking around, so fascinating was the sight of the precious metal as it shimmered here and there in the ruddy glare of the torch. his uncle would be rich indeed, and he knew that he and his brothers would not be forgotten by their generous guardian. but soon the thought of escape came back to him. was there an opening to the outer world, or was he entombed alive? at the far end of the chamber, after a long search, allen came to a narrow passageway, which he was compelled to enter on hands and knees. it led upward and he had great hopes that ere long he would emerge into the outer air once more. but he was doomed to disappointment. the passageway led around numerous curves, and long before the end was reached his torch went out, and he was left in total darkness. he crawled on and on, until finally he brought up against a solid wall. much frightened, he lit a match to survey the situation. saving in his rear, the rocks arose on all sides. but overhead was open, and up he went, very much as a sweep might climb a half-choked up chimney, up through weeds and brush and dirt. he was half smothered by the dust which filled his nose and mouth, and he was forced to keep his eyes closed for fear of being blinded. at last, after he was nearly ready to give up in despair, he felt a breath of cooling air blow over him. this was encouraging, and he commenced to climb harder than ever. up and up he went, until suddenly opening his eyes, he found himself at the top of the hole, and looking almost directly into the face of the rising sun! chapter viii. into a snake's nest "all night underground!" murmured allen to himself as he surveyed the scene before him in intense surprise. "heaven be thanked for my escape!" his climb had so exhausted him that for a long while he sat on the ground, unable to move. he felt both cold and hungry, but paid no heed. it was blessing enough for the time being to be safe. when he felt stronger, he began to speculate upon where he was and how far he would have to travel to reach the ranch. the face of the country looked new and strange to him. "i must mark this spot, so i can find the mine again," he thought. "uncle barnaby may not know of this opening." close at hand was a tall tree, and upon this allen cut his initials in large letters. then he walked to all the trees in the vicinity and cut hands on them pointing to the first tree. "now, i reckon it's all right," he said to himself. "and the next best thing is to strike out for home." climbing the tree, allen took his bearings as well as he was able, and then struck off as rapidly as his tired legs and sore feet would permit. he had covered perhaps half a mile when he came to a steep decline. he tried to proceed down this with care, but slipped and rolled with a crash through the brush to the bottom. it was a bad fall and hurt him not a little, but that was not the worst of it. the passage through the brush aroused half a score of snakes, some small and others a yard and over in length, and now they came after him, hissing angrily and several preparing to dart at him. it was small wonder that allen gave a yell. he knew the reptiles were, many of them, poisonous, and he had not the first thing with which to defend himself. he leaped back to retreat, but only to find himself surrounded. no one who has never been surrounded by snakes can realize the terrible feeling which awakens in one's breast at such an experience. it is a feeling that, once realized, is never forgotten. allen said afterward he felt as if his hair had lifted from his head and his heart had had a bath in ice water. "great scott!" were the words which escaped from his lips. "this is the worst yet!" he had no time to say more, for at that moment one of the snakes leaped through the air directly for his hand. he threw his hand up, caught the reptile by the tail and flung it, hissing, among its fellows. then he essayed to leap over those in front of him. but before he could do so one wound itself around the instep of his boot. it was a poisonous snake. allen saw that at a glance. he tried to kick it off, but missed it. then out darted the terrible fang and up came that ugly head, with diamond-like eyes, toward the young man's knee! for one brief second allen fancied his last hour on earth had come. a single bite from that snake and all would be over, for it would be all out of the question to get rid of the poison. but with a strength and courage born of despair he bent down, and, reaching out, caught the reptile around the neck. the bright eyes almost paralyzed his nerve, and he was compelled to turn from them in order to accomplish his purpose. holding the snake with a grasp of iron, he leaped out of the circle of reptiles. then he bent down and forcing the snake's head against a rock, ground it to pieces under his heel. [illustration: holding the snake he leaped out of the circle of reptiles.] it was a highly dangerous bit of work, and when it was over the great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. to him it was as if the last few seconds had been an age. the other snakes had not followed him, but, nevertheless, he lost no time in leaving the spot on a run. five minutes later he was nearly a quarter of a mile from the vicinity. he had gone at right angles to the course he imagined would take him back to the ranch, and now he found he must make a detour around a hill covered with cactus and other prickly plants. by this time allen was thoroughly worn out and hungry to the last degree. bitterly he regretted the loss of his favorite mare, lilly. "if i had her i imagine i could strike home inside of a couple of hours," he said to himself. "but on foot it will take me until noon or longer." but there was no use to grumble, and after resting a spell the young man again started on his weary tramp through thicket and brush, over hills and through hollows. more than once he stumbled and fell, and it was all he could do at times to regain his feet. "it's no fun to be afoot on the long range," he soliloquized. "a mile seems three times as long as when on horseback." but there was no help for it; he must go on, and on he went, his feet now so sore in his wet boots that he could hardly take a regular step. as he proceeded, he looked about for something to eat, but outside of a few half-green berries, found nothing. birds were numerous, but without firearms they were out of his reach. a less experienced person than allen would have been much frightened by the solitude and loneliness. but the young ranchman was accustomed to being out alone for days at a time, and he did not mind it. he wished to get home more for bodily comforts than aught else. at last, when allen was beginning to congratulate himself that the roughest portion of the journey would soon be over he came face to face with a most unexpected difficulty. emerging from a thicket, he found himself at the very brink of a gully all of ten feet wide and of great depth. "humph!" he muttered, as he came to a halt. "i can't jump that. how am i to get over?" this question was not easy to answer. looking up and down the opening, no bridge, either natural or artificial, was presented to view. "i'll have to cut a pole and use that," he thought. "there is no use to tramp up and down looking for a spot to cross." his pocketknife was still safe, and he drew it out and went to work with a will on a sapling growing some distance from the gully's edge. the sapling had just been laid low and allen was on the point of dragging it away when sounds broke upon his ear that filled him with surprise. he heard human voices, and one of them was that of a man he had encountered on the road, the fellow who had been riding chet's horse! "i reckon you have missed the road, saul," said the man in a disgusted tone. "no, i ain't missed nuthin'," was the reply. "so don't you go for to croak so much, darry." "well, we don't appear to be makin' much headway," growled the fellow addressed as darry. "we'll come out all right, never fear. it's this yere blamed gully bothers me. we might git over afoot, but we can't cross it on the hosses." allen crouched back behind a bush, and a moment later the two men appeared in the opening near the gully. the fellow called darry still rode chet's horse, while he addressed as saul was astride of paul's animal. behind the pair came a tall negro, riding a mustang and leading two others, little animals looking much the worse for constant and hard usage. "dis yere ditch doan' seem ter git no narrower, nohow," said the colored man, with a good-natured grin. "i dun racken we might as well build a bridge an done with it." "by the boots, but i reckon jeff is about half right," cried darry. "this split may last clear across the hill." "it's not so easy to build a bridge," grumbled he called saul, who appeared to be the leader of the trio. "we ain't got no axes." "well, i move we take a rest, anyway," said darry. "i'm tired of riding a strange hoss over these yere hills." "all right, we'll lay off and have a bite of the stuff in jeff's haversack," replied the leader of the crowd. they dismounted not over two rods from where allen lay hidden in the brush, hardly daring to breathe. being unarmed and knowing the temper of the rascals only too well, the young man kept himself covered and made not the slightest sound. the negro brought forth an old army haversack and from it produced some crackers, jerked meat, and several other articles. soon the trio were eating voraciously. the horses had been tied to several trees in the vicinity, and while the men were eating and talking in low tones, allen conceived the idea of gaining possession of one of the animals and riding off with it. he knew it would do no good to confront the thieves unarmed. "i'll get on paul's horse," he thought, "and if i can, i'll take chet's animal with me. then i'll have their horses back, even if i won't have my own." watching for a chance, when the backs of the men were turned, allen crept from his cover and wormed his way toward paul's horse. his knife was in his hand, and noiselessly he cut the halter. another cut and chet's animal was also free. the horses stamped as they recognized allen, who always made pets of all in the stable. then jasper let out a loud neigh of welcome. the sound reached the ears of the leader of the horse thieves. he sprang to his feet, and a second later, allen was discovered! chapter ix. a visitor at the ranch let us once more go back to the ranch, where chet and paul, as well as the newcomer, noel urner, anxiously awaited allen's return. the night had been a long one to the two boys, neither of whom had slept a whole hour at a time. as chet expressed it, "they felt it in their bones" that something was wrong. at daybreak both rushed up to the roof of the ranch house, and with a field glass which mr. winthrop had left them, scanned eagerly in all directions. "not a man or horse in sight," said chet in deep disappointment. "the chase must have been a long one indeed." "like as not allen has gone on to some town," rejoined paul. "but he ought to be back by noon; he knows we will be anxious to hear how he made out." the two went below to meet noel, who had just finished dressing. they set to work and a smoking hot breakfast was soon on the table. "well, i see nothing for me to do but to calmly wait for your brother's return," said the young man from new york. "i don't want to start out anywhere on foot, especially as i know nothing of the roads." "yes, don't go anywhere till allen gets back," said paul. "i want you to tell him yourself all you know concerning uncle barnaby." the morning dragged by slowly, and at the passage of each hour the boys grew more anxious. "it's a dangerous proceeding, this chasing horse thieves," explained chet to noel urner. "a fellow is apt to get shot, unless he is careful. that is what worries us so." "unless something turns up right after dinner, i'm going off on foot with my rifle," put in paul. "i may not discover anything, but it will ease my mind trying to do something." it lacked half an hour of noon when the boys heard a cheery voice from the road hail them. they looked out and beheld ike watson, the hunter, from gold fork, resting in the saddle just outside of the semi-stockade. "whoop! hullo thar!" cried the old fellow, who was hearty in both mind and body and full of fun. "wot's the meanin' o' two healthy boys a-bummin' around the ranch sech an all-fired fine day as this yere?" "o, ike; i'm so glad you happened along!" cried paul, as he ran out to meet him. "we were hoping some friend would come." "thet so?" ike watson's face grew sober on the instant. "wot's the trouble?" "our horses have been stolen----" "gee, shoo! hoss thieves ag'in! wall, i'll be eternally blowed!" exclaimed ike watson, in a rage. "who be they, paul?" "we don't know. allen has gone after them." "how many animiles did they git?" "only two--that is here--chet's and mine. but they also stole the horse belonging to this gentleman, mr. noel urner. mr. urner, this is our friend, ike watson." "hoss thieves is worse 'n pizen," growled watson, as he sprang down and gave noel urner a hearty shake of the hand. "thar ought ter be a law to hang every one o' 'em, say i!" "allen went off yesterday afternoon, and as we have not heard from him since, we are getting anxious," put in chet. "we would have followed, but we haven't a single beast left in the barn." "i see. which way did the thieves go?" "allen took the trail over the brook," replied paul. "humph!" ike watson scratched his head for a moment. "wot's ter prevent me goin' after him, boys?" "will you?" asked paul eagerly. "sartin. i ain't got nuthin' ter do, an' if i had, i reckon i could drop it putty quick ter do a favor fer granville winthrop's orphans. give me a bite ter eat an' i'll be off ter onct." "are you sufficiently armed?" questioned noel urner. "armed? well, i reckon," and from his belt ike watson produced an old ' horse pistol nearly two feet long. "thet air's my best friend, barrin' the rifle." chet soon had dinner for the hunter, which was as quickly devoured, and then, after receiving some of the particulars of the case on hand, ike watson started off. "you'll hear from me before another sun smiles on ye!" he called back. "an' don't ye worry too much in the between time!" and he then disappeared. the boys felt much more comfortable after watson had started off to hunt up allen. they knew the old man would do all in his power to help their elder brother, no matter in what difficulty he might find him. "a rather odd character, truly," observed noel, as they again passed into the house. "yes, but with a heart of steel and gold," returned chet. "idaho does not contain a braver or better hunter than old ike watson." shortly after this chet and paul went out to care for the cattle about the place, for quite a few head had already been penned up ready for the early fall drive. the ranch did not boast of many cattle, and such as there was they desired to keep in the best possible condition. noel urner accompanied them and was much interested in all to be seen and what was done. "such a difference between life out here and in the city," he remarked. "actually, it is like another world!" "you're right there," replied paul. "and when you size it up all around, it's hard to tell which is the best--providing, of course, you can get a comfortable living at either place." just as the three were walking back to the ranch the sounds of a horse's hoofs broke upon their ears. "can it be allen?" burst out chet, but then his face fell. "no, it's not his style of riding." "oh, pshaw!" whispered paul a second later. "if it isn't captain grady!" "and who is he?" queried noel. "an old prospector who wants to get possession of this ranch. he claims that our title to it is defective, or not good at all. i wonder what he wants now?" "perhaps he's got more evidence to prove his claim to the place," groaned chet. "oh, dear! troubles never come singly, true enough!" with anxious hearts the two brothers walked forward to meet the new arrival, whose face bore a look of insolence and self-satisfaction. captain hank grady was a tall, evil-looking man of forty years of age. his title was merely one of favor, for he had neither served in the army nor the navy. but little was known of his past by the people of the section, and he never took the pains to enlighten those who were curious enough to know. for years he had wanted the big bear ranch, as the winthrop homestead was called, for neither by fair means nor foul had he heretofore been able to obtain possession of the property. but now he had been working in secret for a long while, and he came prepared to make an announcement that was designed to trouble the boys not a little. "hullo, there, young fellers," he called out roughly, as he dismounted. "i reckon you didn't expect to see me quite so soon again, did you?" "we did not," rejoined paul, coldly. "well, i confess i fixed matters up quicker than i first calculated to do," went on the captain. "i thought i was going to have a good bit more trouble to establish my claim." "as far as i know you have no claim here to establish," put in chet, sharply. "you may pretend----" "see here, i ain't talking to you," retorted captain grady, cutting him short. "your big brother is the feller i want to see--him or barnaby winthrop." "both of them are away," replied paul, "and chet and i are running the ranch just now." "and if you do not like my manner of speech you need not stay here," cried chet, warmly, his temper rising at the newcomer's aggressive manner. "ho! you young savage, don't you speak that way to me," roared captain grady. "i didn't come here to deal with a kid." "i may be young, but i have my rights here, just the same," retorted chet. "my brother is right," added paul. "if you wish to talk business you must do so with both of us." the captain growled out something under his breath. he was about to speak when he caught sight of noel urner. he started back as though a ghost had confronted him, and the words died on his lips. the young man from new york saw the action, but could not in the least account for it. chapter x. the captain's setback captain grady recovered in a few seconds. he glanced suspiciously about to see if there were others with noel. seeing the young man was alone, he plucked up fresh courage. "all right, i'll talk business with both," he said. "who is this?" and he jerked his thumb toward noel. "a friend of ours from new york," replied paul. "humph! didn't know you had friends so far off." "we don't know everything in this world," retorted chet, pointedly. "you're right, we don't," replied the captain with equal emphasis. he tied his horse fast to the doorpost and strode into the house. paul motioned chet to follow, and then buttonholed noel urner. "this is captain grady," he whispered. "we have told you a little about him. he is trying to get this ranch away from us." "and he has no real claim to it?" "i do not believe he has. but he is so slippery a customer he will swindle us if he can. will you give us some advice how best to proceed? you know more about claims and legal papers than we do." "certainly i'll do what i can for you," and then both entered the ranch home. "i'm sorry i ain't got your older brother to deal with," began the captain. "i reckon he is the one who will understand my talk best." "then, perhaps you had best wait till he gets back," said chet quickly. "and when will that be?" "i cannot say exactly." "i'm not in the humor to wait. i've waited too long already." the captain paused and cleared his throat. "i believe you said you had the original title papers to the ranch, didn't you?" he went on. "yes, we did say that." "i would like to see 'em." chet and paul looked at each other. they had expected and dreaded this request. "supposing we don't care to show them to you?" said paul cautiously. "what's the reason you don't care?" retorted the captain, angrily. "we are not called on to explain all our actions to you," said chet. "see here, i don't want to quarrel, but i'm a-goin' to see them ere papers," blustered captain grady, with a decided shake of his head. "i came all the way from deadwood to see 'em." "well, you won't see them," returned paul, boldly. it would never do in the wide world to acknowledge that they had been burned up. "well, then, i reckon i'm free to speak what's on my mind," roared the captain, "an' that is, that you never had no papers at all." "you can say what you please," said chet, as calmly as he could. "an' that ain't all i've got to say," went on the captain. "i've got more to say to you. this ere claim o' land originally belonged to sam slater, o' deadwood----" "we know that." "slater died, an' left no will----" "that may all be true, too." "an' he left this land----" "no, he didn't. it was sold to my father before that!" cried paul. "no such thing. old slater left it as part o' his estate----" "he did not." "he did, an' i can take my affidavy to it, if it's necessary," exclaimed captain grady. "but that ain't all yet wot i hev got to tell. slater left it to his heirs, an' i bought it from them only last week." "it can't be true!" gasped chet, faintly. "it is true, an' i hev the papers to prove it. this here ranch belongs to me, an' the sooner you boys pack up your duds an' git out the better it will please me," and captain grady smiled maliciously at the blow his news had brought to the boys. both paul and chet were much dismayed by the unexpected announcement captain grady had made. for the moment they stared at the speaker as if they had not heard aright. it was paul who spoke first. "you bought the ranch, and have the papers to prove it?" he gasped. "that's just wot i said, boy." "your claim will not hold water," put in chet, faintly. "well, i reckon it will," retorted captain grady. "i allow as how i know wot i'm a-doin'." "my father bought this ranch, and that settles it," said paul. "we will not give up our rights here just on what you say." "perhaps you had better look at his papers," suggested noel urner, who had thus far remained silent. "it won't be necessary for them to look at 'em," returned the captain, doggedly. "i have 'em and that's enough. i ain't got to show my papers no more than they hev got to show theirs." "what shall we do?" whispered paul to the young man from new york, as he led him a little to one side. "stick to your resolve to stand up for your rights," was noel's reply. "remember, possession is nine points of the law. he cannot dispossess you unless he starts a lawsuit to recover the property he claims." "i ain't a-goin' to wait for your uncle barnaby or allen to return," went on captain grady, sullenly. "i want you to leave at once, bag and baggage." "indeed," returned paul, coldly. "yes, indeed. i've been kept out of this place long enough--seeing as how the original owner gave me a half hold on it long before he died." "what makes you so anxious for the place?" asked noel urner with sudden interest. "that's my business," growled the captain. "is there any concealed wealth upon it?" "no, there ain't," exclaimed captain grady, almost so quick that it did not sound natural. "you seem to be awfully anxious----" "i own the next ranch, that's why. i want to turn my cattle an' sech in the two. besides that, it ain't natural for a man to stand by an' see others a-usin' of his things." "you talk very positively, captain grady," said paul. "but it will do you no good. we shall not budge for the present." "you won't?" "not a step. we claim this property and you will have to get the law to put us out if we are to be put out." "you young highflyers!" growled the captain. he had a dread of the law and would do anything to keep out of court. "do you think i'll stand sech talk?" "you will have to stand it," put in chet. "i agree with paul. we won't budge until the sheriff or a constable puts us out." for the moment captain grady was speechless. his face grew dark with gathering wrath, and he looked as if he wanted to eat some one up. "you won't budge, hey?" he roared at last. "no." "i'll put ye out!" "i don't think you will," retorted paul. "not without a big fight," added chet. "the boys have a right to stay here until put out," said noel urner. "the property is in dispute, and the only way to settle the matter is by going to law." "i didn't ask for your advice," growled the captain, fiercely. "i own this ranch, an' i'm a-goin' to have it, an' putty quick, too!" and without another word he turned on his heel, strode out of the house, sprang on his horse, and rode away at top speed. "phew! but isn't he mad!" exclaimed chet, as the rider disappeared up the river trail. "you bet!" returned paul, dropping into a bit of slang. "but he can stay mad as long as he pleases; he can't bulldoze us." "he is not so sure of his rights as he pretends to be," remarked noel urner, who, in the course of his city life, had met many men similar to captain grady. "if he knew all was right he wouldn't bluster so much." "that's my idea of it, too," rejoined chet. "i am half inclined to think he never bought the land--that is, paid for what he supposed was a title to it--for he couldn't really buy it except it was sold by uncle barnaby." "well, by the time he pays another visit your brother will be back most likely. it is a pity that your uncle should just now be missing." the afternoon wore away, and anxiously the two boys awaited the coming of allen. several times they went up to the roof of the house and swept all points of the compass with their field glass. at last the shades of night began to fall, and with heavy hearts the two began the round of evening work, feeding the chickens and pigs and seeing that everything was secure for the night. there were also a couple of cows to milk and a dozen or more of eggs to gather. noel urner went around with them as before, and he was greatly interested. when they returned to the house he began to question them as to the extent of the ranch. "oh, it's pretty big," replied paul. "it runs up and down the river nearly half a mile, and as far back as what we call the second foothills. if we had horses i could ride you around and show you." "are there any mines in the foothills?" was the young man's next question. "there used to be a few, but they have all been abandoned because they did not pay." "perhaps this captain grady has struck something that will pay." "hardly. my father and uncle barnaby went over every foot of the ground half a dozen times, and they were both better prospectors than the captain." noel urner was about to ask more questions, but a sound outside of the stockade caused him to pause. they all listened, and then chet gave a shout. "somebody is coming! it must be allen or ike watson! come on out and see!" chapter xi. ike watson's arrival let us go back to allen. we left him just as the sound made by paul's horse aroused the leader of the horse thieves, whose full name was saul mangle. "the feller that went over into the river, as sure as fate!" burst from the lips of mangle, and he started back in astonishment. "impossible!" cried darry, the second man. "that feller must have been killed!" "see for yourself." with these words saul mangle sprang forward to stop allen, who was about to mount jasper. he reached the young man's side as allen gained the saddle. "come down out of that!" he cried, roughly. "not much!" returned the young man. "clear the track, unless you want to be run down!" he urged the horse forward. jasper started, but ere he had taken three steps, mangle caught him by the bridle. "whoa!" he cried. "whoa, i say!" "let the horse go, do you hear?" ejaculated allen, sharply. "i won't do it! darry! jeff! come here, why don't you?" the others leaped into the brush. allen saw that affairs were turning against him. he leaned forward to jasper's neck. smack! mangle caught a sharp blow full across his mouth. it came so quickly that he staggered back and his hold was loosened. "on, jasper, on, my boy!" cried allen, slapping the animal with his palm. "come, rush! come, rush!" he added to chet's horse, which stood close beside. off went jasper with a bound, and rush followed at his heels. "stop him! hang the measly luck!" roared saul mangle. "darry! jeff! what are you at?" as he cried out, the leader of the horse thieves felt for his pistol. but before the weapon could be drawn both horses and allen had disappeared behind a clump of cottonwoods. "we had bettah follow him on de mustangs," suggested the negro. "he can't ride----" "of course, we'll follow him!" growled mangle. "don't stand and talk about it. come on! he'll be out of hearing in another minute! this is the worst luck yet!" he leaped for one of the mustangs. in another second all three of the men were mounted and riding after allen as rapidly as the nature of the land and growth would allow. "how do you think he escaped?" asked darry, as they pushed on. "can't make it out," replied mangle. "we'll make him tell the story when we catch him. ha! what was that?" a sudden crash ahead had arrested their attention. he listened. a dead silence followed. "the hosses and young feller have gone into some sort of a hole," cried darry. "we'll have him now, all right enough." on they went through the brush, mangle leading the way. suddenly the leader came to a halt. before him was a sheer descent of eight or ten feet. "here's where he and the hosses went down," he said to his followers. "but where is he?" questioned darry. "not far off, i'll warrant ye. come on." "dis yere mustang won't take dat leap," put in jeff, drawing back. "and i won't venture it," added darry, "i don't want to land on my head." "cowards!" howled saul mangle. "well, then, there is a trail to the right; take that. here goes!" he spoke to his animal, and an instant later rider and mustang went down in a graceful curve. they landed in a bunch of brush, none the worse for the leap. darry and jeff followed by way of the trail. they could hear allen pushing through the brush not over a hundred yards ahead. the young man was having a hard time of it. he was going it blindly, and was so faint from want of sleep and something to eat that he could hardly sit up in the saddle. yet he realized his peril and clung on desperately, meanwhile urging the horse and his mate to do their best to place distance between them and their pursuers. but now the slight trail he was pursuing became rougher, and it was with difficulty that any progress could be made. the horses labored along bravely, but were no match on such ground for the nimble-footed mustangs. "halt! do you hear?" were the first unpleasant words which greeted allen's ears, and looking back he saw that saul mangle was in plain sight. allen attempted to dodge out of sight. to frighten him mangle fired off his pistol, the bullet cutting through the brush under jasper's feet. "will you stop now?" yelled mangle. allen was in a quandary. he did not wish to be shot, and yet---- but the young man was not called on to solve the dreadful question. while he hesitated there was a loud shout from some distance to his right, and looking up the rocks he saw to his great joy ike watson, the hunter, sitting astride of his horse, rifle in hand. "wall, wall!" shouted the old man. "and what's the row, allen, i want to know?" "horse thieves, ike! save me!" was the quick reply. "there are three of them after me!" "saul mangle, as i'm a nateral born sinner, and darry nodley and jeff jones! wall! wall! wall! turn about, before it is too late, ye sarpints!" the loud cry from ike watson caused the gang of horse thieves to come to a sudden halt. every one of them knew old ike watson only too well--knew him for a man of quaint humor, but with a sense of justice that no one dared to question. "hang the measly luck!" muttered saul mangle. "there's ike watson!" "then the jig's up for the present, and we had better vamoose!" returned nodley. "clar out, do ye hear me?" yelled ike watson to the crowd of three. "don't wait for me to git riled up." "come on!" whispered saul mangle, with a scowl, and like magic the trio of villains turned about and disappeared down a side trail, leaving poor exhausted allen safe in friendly hands at last. "by the grasshoppers of kansas, but ye look fagged out, allen!" exclaimed old ike watson as he sprang down and caught allen in his arms. "what's the matter with ye, boy?" "i've had an awful experience, ike," replied the young ranchman as soon as he could recover sufficiently to speak. "i've been underground several miles, and i haven't had a mouthful to eat since yesterday morning!" "gee shoo, allen! wall! wall! wall! if i didn't know ye so well i'd be apt ter think ye war tellin' me a fairy tale. but i allow as how granville winthrop's son couldn't lie if he tried." "i speak the truth, ike. but where are those villains?" "gone, boy, gone. they knowed better nor to stay whar ike watson was, ho! ho!" "they are horse thieves, and ought to be locked up." "thet saul mangle ought to be strung up, ye mean. and darry nodley and that coon, jeff jones, ain't much better. but they are gone now." "well, i have paul's horse and chet's, too, anyway," returned allen, with a slight smile of satisfaction. "whar's your own horse?" "dead, i reckon. we went off the upas pass bridge together into the river, and i suppose she was drowned. poor lilly!" "off the bridge! gee shoo! then ye war carried down the black rock river?" "yes!" allen gave a shudder. "it was fearful, ike. but come, let us get to the ranch, and i can tell my story to all at once!" "that's the best way, sure. but down that air stream! great snakes and turkey buzzards!" "i know it hardly can be believed, but that is not the worst or most wonderful part of it. but come; i am nearly famished." "here's a bite i have in my pouch; eat that," returned ike watson, and he passed over some crackers and meat which allen devoured with keen relish. chapter xii. the boys talk it over allen and ike watson were soon on the way back to the ranch. fortunately ike watson knew every foot of the ground, and led by the most direct route. as the reader knows, paul and chet heard them approaching and received their elder brother with open arms. "you look like a ghost!" declared chet, starting back on catching sight of allen's pale face. "and i feel like a shadow," responded allen with a weary laugh. "but a good dinner and a nap will make me as bright as a dollar again." "he has our horses!" cried paul. "yes, but not my own," returned allen. he walked into the house and was here introduced to noel urner. the table was at once spread, and soon both allen and ike watson were regaling themselves to their heart's content. during the progress of the meal allen related all of his wonderful story of the fall from the bridge, the journey on the underground river, and of his struggle to reach the open air once more. he said nothing about the wealth which lay exposed in the cavern or of the fact that it was uncle barnaby's mine, for he felt he had no right to mention those matters before ike watson and noel urner, friends though they might be. uncle barnaby had guarded his secret well and he would do the same. all listened with deep interest to what he had to say. "it was a wonder the fall into the water didn't kill you," said paul. "such a distance as it was!" "lilly saved my life--but it cost her her own," returned allen, and he sighed, for lilly had been his favorite for several years. chet and paul were eager that allen should hear noel urner's story and the young man from new york related it without delay. allen was as much surprised as his brothers had been, and so was ike watson. [illustration: the three young ranchmen talked it over] "i am afraid somebody has played uncle barnaby foul," cried allen, his face full of anxiety. "if he had left of his own accord we would have heard from him." "that's just my idea of it," said paul. "but the thing of it is, who met him in san francisco, and what did they do?" to that question allen could only shake his head. "i am too tired to say much about it to-night," he said at last. "i must sleep on it." allen wished to retire early, but before he did so chet told him of captain grady's visit. "we won't stir," said allen, briefly. "let him sue uncle barnaby. we have nothing to do with it. our first duty is to find uncle." and both paul and chet agreed with him on this point. ike watson was on his way up the salmon river to visit a new gold diggings. he refused to stay all night, and set off in the dark, with allen's thanks ringing in his ears for what he had done. despite the excitement through which he had passed, allen slept "like a log" that night, and did not awaken until long after the others were up and chet and paul had the morning chores done. "now i feel like myself once more," he said when he came down. "and i am ready for business." "so am i," laughed noel urner. "but the trouble is, i do not know how to turn without horse or conveyance. i am not used to tramping about on foot." "if we had horses we might lend you one," said allen. "but two nags for four people are two short," and he laughed. during the morning paul went out on horseback, accompanied by noel, to see if the cattle were safe. while they were gone allen told chet of the hidden mine. "it is worth a million," he said. "but it is uncle barnaby's secret, remember." "i will remember," said chet, "but we must tell paul." "certainly; tell him after i am gone." "gone? why, allen, what do you mean?" "i am going to leave home this afternoon, chet." "you are fooling," remarked the younger brother. "never more serious in my life, chet." "and you are going----" chet hesitated. "direct to san francisco to hunt up tidings of uncle barnaby." of course, chet was taken completely back by allen's announcement. "to san francisco!" he ejaculated. "yes, chet. i feel that it is my duty to discover what has become of uncle, if possible, at once." "i know, but it's such a journey----" "i am not afraid to take it. i will ride to the nearest station on the railroad, which is not over a hundred and forty miles, and then take the train. the journey on the cars will not take over a couple of days, all told." "and the cost----" "i will have to take what we have saved from the thieves. but surely, chet, you do not regret taking that for such a purpose?" "no! no! take it all! i was thinking if it would be enough." "i will make it do. i will buy a cut-rate ticket from ogden, if i can." "and what shall paul and i do in the meantime?" questioned chet in some dismay. "do nothing but guard the cattle and the place generally. i will be back, or let you hear from me just as soon as i can." paul was equally astonished at allen's sudden determination. it was, however, what noel urner had expected. "yes, i would go if i were you," said the latter. "and if you want me to, i will go with you," he added. "i must confess i am deeply interested in this strange case." "i would like you to go with me first rate," returned allen. "and whether uncle is found or not, i will promise that you shall be well paid for all the trouble you will be put to." "i want no pay for helping you. i will enjoy the bit of detective work, as one might call it. but how am i to get to the railroad station without a horse?" "you can take both horses, if necessary," suggested chet. "that's so; although we ought to have at least one animal on the ranch," added paul. "we can both ride one animal as far as dottery's ranch," said allen, "and there we can either borrow or hire another animal." "how far is dottery's?" "only about twenty-five miles. we ought to reach it by dark, if we start shortly." "we can start at once, as far as i am concerned," laughed noel. so it was decided to lose no time, and chet at once set to work to prepare dinner and also some food to be carried along. chapter xiii. caught in a cyclone less than an hour later jasper was brought out and noel urner sprang into the saddle, with allen behind him on the blanket. "keep a close watch for more thieves while i am gone!" cried allen. "we will!" shouted paul. "and you take care for more doctored bridges!" a parting wave of the hand and the ranch was left behind, and allen was off on a journey that was to be filled with adventures and excitement from start to finish. chet and paul watched the horse and his two riders out of sight, and then with rather heavy hearts returned to the house. the place seemed more lonely than ever with both allen and noel urner gone. "it's going to be a long time waiting for allen's return," sighed paul. "perhaps not," returned chet. "he left me with a secret to tell you, paul." and chet lost no time in relating allen's story of the hidden mine of great wealth. "and perhaps we can explore the place during his absence," paul said, after he had expressed his astonishment and asked half a dozen questions. "i don't know about that, paul. we may not be able to find the opening allen mentioned, and then, again, he may not wish us to do so." "why should he object?" "i don't know." "we'll have ten days or two weeks on our hands, at the very least. we might as well take a look at that wealth as not." "supposing somebody followed us and found out the secret? they would locate a claim before we could turn a hand." "we will make sure that we are not followed," said paul, who was anxious to see if all allen had told could really be true. chet continued to demur, but after allen and noel had been gone the whole of the next day he gave in, and seemed as anxious as paul to do something which would make it less lonely. apparently the horse thieves had left the vicinity, so there was nothing to be feared in that direction during an absence that they meant should not last more than one whole day. sunday came between, and on monday morning they arose early and had breakfast ere it was yet daylight. they decided to take rush, both to ride when on a level and each to take a turn at walking when on the uphill trails. allen had left chet minute directions as to how the opening to the hidden mine could be located, he having fixed the locality well in his mind before leaving it. it was rather a gloomy day, but this the two boys did not mind. "it's better than being so raging hot," said paul. "it makes my head ache to ride when it's so fearfully hot." "if it only don't rain," returned chet. "we need it bad enough, goodness knows, but it has held off so long it might as well hold off twenty-four hours longer." "i doubt if we get rain just yet. it hasn't threatened long enough," replied his brother. before the two left the ranch they saw to it that every building was locked up tight, and an alarm, in the shape of a loaded gun, set to the doors and windows. "that ought to scare would-be thieves away," said chet. "they'll imagine somebody is firing at them." the rest for a couple of days had done rush much good, and he made no work of carrying the two boys along the trail that led to the second foothills. long before noon they reached the hills, and here stopped for lunch. "and now for the wonderful mine!" cried chet. then, happening to glance across the plains below, he added: "gracious, paul! what is that?" the attention of both young ranchmen was at once drawn to a round, black cloud on the horizon to the east. it was hardly a yard in diameter, apparently, when first seen, but it increased in size with great rapidity. it was moving directly toward them, and in less than two minutes from the time chet uttered his cry it had covered fully a third of the distance. "from what i have heard i should say that was a cyclone cloud," exclaimed paul. "and still----" "who ever heard of a cyclone up here among the foothills," returned chet. "i don't believe they ever strike this territory." "i certainly never heard of their doing so," returned paul. "but still, you must remember, that cyclones are erratic things at the best." "it looks as if it were coming directly this way." "so it does, and i reckon the best thing we can do is to make tracks for some place of safety." "that is true. come on!" both boys sprang into the saddle and started up the trail. hardly had a hundred feet of the way been covered than a strange rush and roar of wind filled the air. "it's coming," shouted paul. "quick, chet, down into that hollow before it strikes us!" he plunged into the basin he had designated, which was six or eight feet below the level of the trail and not over ten yards in diameter. chet followed, ducking low as he did so, for already was the air filled with flying branches. "none too soon!" ejaculated paul. "down, rush!" between them they managed to get the horse to lie down close to a wall of dirt and rocks. they lay near, waiting almost breathlessly for that awful time of peril to pass. no one who has not experienced the dreadful effects of a cyclone can imagine it, be the description of it ever so fine. that strange rush and roar, that density of the air, accompanied by a feeling as if the very breath was about to be drawn from one's lungs, the flying débris, all unite to chill the stoutest heart and make one wonder if the next moment will not be the last. the cyclone was short and sharp. from the time it first struck the foothills until the time it spent itself in the distance was barely four minutes, yet, what an effect did it leave behind! on all sides of them many trees were literally torn up by the roots, brush was leveled as if cut by a mowing machine, and dirt and pebbles which had been perhaps carried for miles were deposited here, there, and everywhere. ranch boys though they were, and accustomed to many things strange and wonderful, chet and paul could only gaze at the work of destruction in awe, and silently thank heaven that their lives had been spared. they had escaped with slight injury. several sharp sticks and stones had scratched chet's neck as he lay prostrate, and paul's arm was greatly lamed by a blow from the branch of a tree which fell directly across the opening, pinning the horse down in such a fashion that he could not rise. "we must liberate rush first of all," cried chet. "poor fellow! whoa, rush, we'll soon help you," he added, and patted the animal on the neck to soothe him. evidently rush understood, for he lay quiet. then chet and paul, using all of their strength, raised up one end of the tree, which, fortunately, was not large. as soon as he felt himself free, rush scrambled up out of harm's way, and they let the tree fall back again. "that is the kind of an adventure i never want to experience again," said paul when he had somewhat recovered his breath. "my, how the wind did tear things!" "it was a full-fledged cyclone and no mistake," returned his brother. "had that struck a town it would have razed every building in it." "that's true, and oh!" went on paul suddenly, "i wonder if it has destroyed the marks allen left whereby the mine is to be found?" chet stared at him speechless. "perhaps!" he gasped at last. "come, let us go on and see!" there was considerable difficulty in getting out of the hollow into which they had so unceremoniously thrust themselves. rush was somewhat frightened still, and instead of riding him, they led him out by a circuitous way which took them nearly a hundred yards out of their path. they found the trail almost impassable in spots, and more than once were compelled to make a wide detour in order to avoid fallen trees and gathered brush. "a cyclone like that can do more damage than can be repaired in ten years," observed chet as they labored along on foot. "i wonder where it started from?" "somewhere out on the flat lands near the river, i reckon," returned paul. on they went around trees and rocks and brush, until the way grew so bad that both came to an involuntary halt. "it looks as if the very trail had been swept away," said paul. "i can't see anything of it ahead." "nor i. whoever would have thought of such a thing when we left home?" "we can't go on in this direction, that's sure. what's best to be done?" both looked around for several minutes and then decided to cross a rocky stretch to the right. they had to do this with great care, as the road was full of sink holes and crevices, and they did not want to break a leg or have the horse injured. the stretch crossed, they found themselves on a little hill. all about them could be seen the effects of the cyclone, not a tree or bush had escaped its ravages. "it looks as if the landmarks allen had mentioned had been swept away," said paul, as he gazed around hopelessly. "i can't see the first of them." "it would certainly seem so," rejoined chet. "if they are, they won't be able to locate the mine again, excepting to sail down the underground river." "that is so--excepting uncle barnaby turns up with another and better way of locating it," replied paul very seriously. chapter xiv. another surprise the desolation on all sides of them and the failure to locate the marks allen had mentioned caused paul and chet to become much downcast. they had had their long and tedious journey from the ranch home for nothing. "i suppose there isn't anything to do but to go back," remarked chet dismally, as he thrashed around in the brush with a stick he had picked up. "we are as far away from the mine as we were when we started." "let us be in no hurry to return," rejoined paul. "we'll give rush a chance to get back his wind." leaving the trusty animal to roam about as pleased him, the two boys threw themselves on the grass and gave themselves up to their reflections. "i'll tell you what i would like to do," remarked chet. "i would like to find the chap who cleaned us out of that seven hundred dollars." "i wonder that allen didn't get watson to stop the horse thieves and search them," mused paul. "he must have known they had the money." "he was too played out to think of much just then, i reckon. it was a good deal to escape with the horses without getting shot." "the cross we found in the barn belonged to that saul mangle beyond a doubt. the initials prove that." "i believe you." "we must watch out for that mangle, and if we can ever get our hands on him, make him give up our money and then have him locked up." "it is not so easy to lock up a man when you are miles and miles away from a jail." an hour went by, and the boys thought it time to start on the return. rush was called back from a thicket into which he had wandered and both mounted, for the trail now lead almost entirely down hill. after the cyclone the sun had come out strong and hot, and halfway back to the ranch the brothers were glad enough to stop beside the bank of a tiny mountain stream and obtain a drink and water the horse. they were about to depart when rush pricked up his ears and gave a peculiar whinny. "hush! what does that mean?" paul asked in quick alarm. "draw behind the brush and see," replied chet, cautiously. "those horse thieves may be still in the vicinity." "oh, they would not remain here," said paul. yet he followed his brother behind the brush. they tried to make rush come, too, but for once the animal would not obey. "come, rush, come," whispered chet. "why he never acted this way before." "the cyclone upset his mind, i reckon," said paul, with a faint show of humor. "make him come." but the more chet tried the more obstinate did the animal become. finally he broke away altogether and ran off, kicking up his heels behind him. "well, i never!" gasped chet. "quick, after him! i believe he means to run away!" cried paul. "rush run away!" said chet reproachfully. it hurt him a good deal to have paul speak in that fashion of the horse he so loved. both boys leaped from the thicket and after rush, who was now running up the bank of the stream at top speed. a turn was made and the brothers burst out into a loud and joyous shout. there, not fifty feet away, was lilly, the faithful mare allen had fancied was drowned in the black rock river. rush stood beside her, licking her neck affectionately. "allen's horse!" cried chet. "and as well as ever almost," added paul, as he rushed up and began an examination. the mare was evidently glad to see both the boys and her mate. she stood trembling as chet and paul examined her. "a few slight bruises, that is all," said paul. "won't allen be glad when he hears of it?" "indeed he will be. he loves lilly as if she was his best girl. it's a good thing for us, too, paul," he went on. "now each can have a mount home." "right you are--if lilly can carry me." paul was speedily on the mare's back. she seemed willing enough to carry him; in fact, glad to be in the keeping of a human being she knew. "if she could only talk what a tale she would have to tell," observed paul as they rode homeward. "i wonder how she got out of the river?" "i reckon we'll never know, unless allen makes her talk. he can make her do most everything," laughed chet. on they went over the rocks and the level prairie beyond. the sun was now sinking in the west, and ere long the evening shadows would be upon them. "well, we found a horse even if we didn't find a mine, and that's something," said paul, as they reached the trail beside the river. "but i hope that the mine isn't lost for good," replied chet, quickly. "the mine is worth a good deal more than even lilly." "maybe you can't tell that to allen." "oh, yes i can; for he saw the wealth there, you know." "if only he finds uncle barnaby," sighed paul. "do you know, the more i think of it, the more i become convinced that something dreadful has happened to him." "and that is the way i look at it, too, paul. if we could----" chet stopped short and stared ahead. they had come in sight of the semi-stockade around their ranch house. "our furniture and trunks!" gasped paul, following the direction of chet's stare. "what on earth does it mean?" there on the grass lay their furniture in a confused mass--tables, chairs, trunks, clothing, one on top of another. and in another heap were the farming implements from the barn. "captain grady's dirty work!" cried paul. "he has come here and taken possession during our absence." paul was right, for at that moment captain grady appeared at the stockade gate, gun in hand. the sarcastic smile on the captain's face told plainly that he rather enjoyed the situation. he gazed at the boys without saying a word. his left hand was tied up in a bandage, showing that he had not entirely escaped the gun traps which had been set. as a matter of fact, half a dozen bird shot still remained in the fleshy part of his thumb. "what does this mean?" demanded paul at length. he spoke as calmly as he could, although tremendously excited. "reckon you have eyes an' can see," growled captain grady. "i told you that you hadn't seen the end of this, an' that i would have this place in my possession putty quick." "you had no right to break into our house and fire our things out!" cried chet. "i deny as how it's your house, youngster. it belongs to me, as does the whole ranch property. there be your traps, an' the quicker you git them off this ground the better it will suit me." "we won't move a thing until we put them back into that house," retorted chet hot-headedly. "this is no way to gain possession, and you know it." "halt where you are!" captain grady raised his gun and pointed it at chet, who was in advance. "you'll not come near this gate, mind that!" "i'm going in, and you won't stop me," retorted chet. "don't be rash, chet," whispered paul, riding up and plucking his younger brother by the sleeve. "you try and cross this gateway and i'll fire on you, sure as fate," went on the captain. urged by paul, chet brought rush to a stand. the boys were about thirty feet from where captain grady stood on guard. "now, the best thing you fellers can do," said the captain, sharply, "is to ride over to dottery's ranch, an' git a wagon an' tote these traps away. if they are left more 'n a week i'll pitch them into the river, mind you. if you ain't satisfied at the way matters have turned, you can go to law, just as you advised me to do," and again the man smiled sarcastically. "we certainly will go to law," replied paul. "are you alone here?" "that's not for you to ask." "i presume you hung around here and saw my brother go off first and then waited for us to go away." "i ain't standing here as a target for questions," growled captain grady. "you are a sneak and worse, captain grady!" burst out chet. "if there is any law in idaho you shall have your full dose of it, mark my word!" "hi! you young bantam, don't talk to me in that fashion," roared the man in a rage. "come, i've told you what is best to do. now clear out. i shall keep watch, an' if you attempt to play any trick in the dark on me you'll find yourself running up against a charge of buckshot." that captain grady was in dead earnest was very evident. he scowled viciously and walked a step forward. yet the boys were not daunted. they held their ground, and paul even took a slight move forward on lilly's back. "supposing we go to dottery's ranch," said the youth. "if we tell our story, don't you imagine dottery will turn in and help us bounce you out of here?" "no, you'll get no help at dottery's." "he is our friend, and he will not stand up for your doings, even if you do own the ranch over the river." "well, why don't you go an' see dottery," snapped captain grady. "we will--and some other people, too," cried chet. "and in the meantime, if any of our stuff is lost, you'll pay for it," added paul. "i won't be responsible for anything. now clear out an' leave me alone." the two brothers looked at each other. neither knew exactly what to do. paul finally made a sign to withdraw, and they turned and rode down the river trail to the belt of cottonwoods. captain grady remained at the gateway, his baneful eyes on them until the trees hid them from view. then he shut the heavy gate and walked slowly toward the house, rubbing his grizzled chin reflectively. "they won't come back to-night, i'm pretty certain of that," he said to himself. "an' by to-morrow i'll be better fixed to hold my own." chapter xv. at dottery's ranch "it's a shame, paul!" ejaculated chet, almost crying with rage. "we ought to have shot him where he stood." "i suppose many a man would have done it," returned paul, somewhat moodily. "but we must get him out." "he won't go out without a fight." "i think he will--when we get enough of a crowd against him. i more than half believe he is totally alone, although the furniture and other stuff look as if he had had somebody to help him." "he's been hanging around watching his chance," went on chet. "who knows but what he has been spying on us ever since his last visit." "oh, i trust not, chet!" paul looked much disturbed. "he may have overheard some of our talk about uncle barnaby's mine, you know." "that's so! what if he did! he is rascal enough to try to locate it and set up a claim, eh?" "undoubtedly. come on; the best we can do is to ride to dottery's and try to obtain help. it's a long journey by night, but there's nothing else to do." "i won't mind it--if only dottery will turn in and help us. he ought to, but he always was a peculiar fellow. he may not want to make an enemy of captain grady, seeing as the ranches adjoin. but come on, while daylight lasts." and off the two brothers struck, along the river trail, and then down the road allen and noel urner had pursued on their way to the far-away railroad station. they realized that in another hour darkness would be upon them. the boys knew the way well, having traveled it a dozen times in search of stray cattle. they rode on, side by side, urging on the tired horses and discussing the situation in all its various phases. slowly the sun faded from view behind the distant mountains, casting long shadows over the foothills and the level stretches beyond. the night birds sang their parting song, and then came the almost utter silence of the night. "when do you suppose we'll reach dottery's?" questioned chet, after several miles had been covered. "if all goes well, we'll get there by one or two o'clock," returned his brother. "you must remember we have demon hollow to cross, and that's no fool of a job in the dark." "especially if the demon is abroad," laughed chet. he was only joking, and did not believe in the old trappers' stories about the ghost in hiding at the bottom of the rocky pass. when darkness fell the hoofstrokes of the horses sounded out doubly loud on the semi-stony road. yet, to the boys, even this was better than that intense stillness, which made one feel, as chet expressed it, "a hundred miles from nowhere at all." so tired were the horses that the boys had their hands full making them keep their gait. they would trot a few steps and then drop into a stolid walk. "i don't blame them much," said chet, sympathetically. "it's doing two days' work in one. but never mind, they shall have a good rest when it's all over." by ten o'clock it was pitch dark. to be sure the stars were shining, but they gave forth but a feeble light. the boys had to hold their animals at a tight rein to keep them from stumbling into unexpected holes. "it will be nearer three o'clock than two before we get there at this rate," grumbled paul. "just look ahead and see how dark and forbidding the hollow looks." "not the most cheerful spot in the world truly," rejoined chet, as he strained his eyes to pierce the heavy shadows. "let us get past it as soon as we can." "afraid, chet?" "oh, no, only i--i would rather be on the level trail beyond the pass." paul said no more, having no desire to hurt his younger brother's feelings. to tell the exact truth, he himself felt a bit "off." it was growing toward midnight. down and down led the road, between two rocky crags. soon the last trace of light was left behind, and they had to let the horses pick their own way as best they might. suddenly chet gave a start and a cry. "o, paul, what is that?" "where?" "over to the left." paul turned in his saddle. as he did so an object not over two feet in length and of a gray and white color, with some black, swept to one side of them. "can it be a pig?" gasped chet. "a pig? no, it's a badger, out on the forage. don't you smell him?" chet recovered and unslung his gun. he tried to take aim in the gloom. "don't fire!" said paul. "what is the use? it's only a waste of ammunition. the badger isn't hurting anything, and he's a good distance from the ranch. let him go." by the time chet had listened to all this the badger had disappeared. the animal was not used to being aroused and was more frightened than any one. they passed on. the very bottom of the hollow was at hand. the horses proceeded slowly, realizing the peril of the place. once rush went down into a hole nearly throwing chet over his head. but the youth held on, and rush arose all right, with nothing but a slight scrape on his left foreleg. they peered with watchful eyes up and down the silent pass. not a sign of any life was there. the water flowed on with a muffled murmur and the wind sighed through the deep opening, and that was all. in another five minutes the pass was left behind. for some reason both boys drew a long breath of relief when the high ground beyond was reached. the strain was gone, and now, by contrast, the road looked as bright to them as if the sun was about to rise. "come to think of it, we may as well take it easy," remarked paul. "it isn't likely that dottery will care to make a move before daylight." "yes; but if we get there sooner, we'll have a chance to rest up a bit, and we need that, and so do the horses." "i didn't think of that. well, forward we go." an hour passed and then another. soon after chet gave a joyous cry. "there are dottery's outbuildings! we'll soon be there now!" "right you are, chet. i wonder----" paul stopped short. "oh, look over there!" he cried. he pointed to a barn not a great distance back from the road. the door of the structure was open and within flashed the light of a lantern. "dottery must be up, or else----" began chet. "horse thieves!" both boys uttered the word simultaneously. could it be possible that the thieves were raiding their nearest neighbor? "wait. let us dismount and investigate," whispered paul. "don't do anything rash," this as chet started to run toward the barn. thus cautioned, the younger boy paused. the horses were tied up behind some brush, and, guns in hand, the pair crept across the road and over a wire fence into the field. hardly had they advanced a dozen steps when three men came out of the barn, leading four horses. they made for an opening in the fence not a rod from where the boys flung themselves flat on the grass. from the description they had received, the lads made up their minds that the men were saul mangle, darry nodley, and jeff jones. chapter xvi. an encounter in the dark chet and paul could hardly suppress their excitement as they saw the horse thieves move toward the opening in the fence. chet drew up his gun and pointed it at the leader. "don't fire! wait!" cautioned paul. "there are three of them, remember." "i wonder where dottery is?" questioned the younger boy, with his hand still on the trigger. "asleep, most likely." "we ought to arouse him. run, paul, while i keep watch." "i will, but don't do anything rash during my absence," replied paul winthrop. he sneaked along in the tall grass until the outbuildings were left a hundred feet and sped like a deer toward the ranch home, showing dimly in the grim shadows ahead. less than sixty seconds passed, and he was pounding vigorously on the front door of the heavy log building. not content with using his fist he banged away with the toe of his cowhide boot. "who's thar?" came from within presently. "mr. dottery!" "that's me, stranger." "come out. it's paul winthrop. there are horse thieves at your barn." "what!" roared dottery. he was a heavy-built man, with a voice like a giant. "the same chaps ez robbed you?" he unbarred the door and came out on a run, gun in hand and a long pistol in his belt. he was an old settler, and rarely took the trouble to undress when he went to rest for the night. "yes, the same, unless i am very much mistaken. my brother chet is down there now on the watch." "i'll fix 'em. go back and call jack, my man." paul hesitated and then did as directed. it took some time to arouse the cowboy, jack blowfen, but once aroused, the man quickly took in the situation, and arming himself, joined the boy in a rush after dottery. "the pesky rascals!" he muttered. "yer brother told us about 'em when he stopped here on his way to the railroad station. it's a pity ike watson didn't plug every one of 'em when he had the chance. next thing yer know they'll be runnin' off with a bunch o' cattle." "be careful when you shoot; my brother chet is there," continued paul, not wishing chet to be mistaken for a horse thief in the dark. "i know the lad, and i also know this saul mangle and his crowd," returned jack blowfen. "i owe mangle one for the way he treated me in deadwood one day." he ran so swiftly that paul had hard work to keep up with him. dottery had already disappeared in the darkness of the night. bang! bang! the shots came from behind the barn, while paul was some distance away. it was dottery firing at the thieves. jack blowfen was chasing them down by the wire fence. "paul! paul! hold on!" it was chet's voice. as he cried out the lad arose from the grass and caught his brother by the sleeve. paul had passed so close that he had almost trodden on chet. "come on, chet." "i'm coming. but hadn't we better look to our horses?" "in a minute. let us find out what that firing means." paul led the way in the direction of the barn. there, in the gloom, they saw two men struggling violently. they were dottery and the negro, jeff jones. the other horse thieves and jack blowfen were nowhere in sight. two horses were running about wildly, alarmed by the shots in the dark. both were bridled but had no saddles. "catch the hosses!" yelled dottery, as he made out the forms of the boys. "don't let 'em get out of that break in the fence!" "have you that man?" cried paul. "i will have in a second." the brothers ran for the animals as directed. it was no light work to secure them. when it was accomplished they ran the horses into the barn and closed the doors. as they came out panting from their exertions, they heard a gunshot from the brush on the opposite side of the road, and then the voice of jack blowfen calling out: "let them hosses go, you rascals! take that, saul mangle, fer the trick yer played me in deadwood!" "rush and lilly!" gasped chet. he said no more, but started in the direction of the encounter. he was determined his horse should not be taken again. paul came on his heels. both boys were now sufficiently aroused to fight even with their firearms. the wire fence was cleared at a single bound and into the brush they dove pell-mell. that jack blowfen was having a fierce hand-to-hand contest with his antagonist was plain. the boys could hear both men thrashing around at a lively rate. "you've hit me in the leg, and i'll never forgive you for it!" they heard saul mangle exclaim. "how do you like that, you milk-and-water cow puncher?" "i don't like it, and ain't going ter stand it, yer low down hoss thief and gambler," returned jack blowfen, and then came the fall of one body over another, just as paul and chet leaped into the little opening where the battle was taking place. they saw jack blowfen on his back with saul mangle on top of him. the horse thief had the butt of a heavy pistol raised threateningly. he looked alarmed at the unexpected appearance of the boys. "let up there!" sang out paul. "let up at once!" the cry and the glint of the boys' weapons decided mangle. with a low muttering he gave jack blowfen's body a kick and sprang for the bushes. chet and paul went after him, leaving the cowboy to stagger to his feet and regain his pistols. the boys followed mangle not over a dozen feet. then they came upon darry nodley, who had several horses in a bunch, among them rush and lilly. the man had been waiting for the leader of the gang to finish his row with blowfen. saul mangle was ahead of the two boys, but ere he could leap upon the back of the nearest animal paul ran up to him and seized him by the arm. "stop!" he ordered. "you cannot take those horses. we will shoot you both if you attempt it!" "the winthrop youngsters," muttered darry nodley. "how did they find their way here?" he attempted to move on, thinking mangle would follow. but now chet barred the way. the ranch boy had his gun up to his shoulder and there was a determined look on his sunburnt face. he was fighting for rush as much as for anything else. "get down!" was all he said, but the tone in which the words were uttered left no room for argument. darry nodley hesitated and thought at first to feel for his own gun. but then he changed his mind. he saw that chet was thoroughly aroused, and saw, too, that jack blowfen was coming up. "we'll have to make tracks," he cried to saul mangle, and leaped to the ground, putting the horse between himself and chet, and ran for the bushes. in the meantime paul and saul mangle were having a hand-to-hand fight. the boy fought well, and the wounded man had all he could do to defend himself. finally he went limping after nodley, but not before paul had relieved him of his gun. the brave lad could have shot the thief with ease, but could not bring himself to take the risk of killing his antagonist. "where are they?" roared jack blowfen, coming up. "which way did they go?" paul pointed in the direction. at once blowfen ran off. in another second chet and paul were left alone with the horses. the sounds from the distance told them that saul mangle and darry nodley were doing their best to escape from the neighborhood. "our money!" cried chet. "we ought to have made an effort to get that seven hundred dollars!" "that's so--but it's too late now, unless we go after the pair on horseback." "let us return dottery's horses to the barn first and see how he has made out with the negro." they took the horses in charge and passed with them across the road and through the break in the wire fence. at the barn they found the ranch owner in the act of making jeff jones a close prisoner by tying his hands and legs with odd bits of harness straps. "got this one, anyway," growled dottery. "whar are the others?" "jack blowfen has gone after them," replied paul. "here are your horses." "good enough. say, will you watch this man if i follow jack?" went on the ranch owner, anxiously. "of course," exclaimed chet. "if you can capture saul mangle, do so. we believe he has seven hundred dollars belonging to us." "so allen told me." the boys took charge of the negro, and mounting one of the horses caleb dottery rode out of the inclosure. he took the lantern with him, thus leaving those behind in darkness. "strike a light, chet, and see if you can't find another lantern in the barn," said paul. "i'll watch jones so he don't get away." "dis am werry hard on a poah man," moaned the negro. he was fearfully frightened, for he knew full well how stern was the justice usually meted out to horse thieves in that section of the country. "you ought to have thought of that before you started in this business," replied paul. "it was mangle coaxed me into de work, sah. he said as how he had a right to de hosses." "indeed! i suppose he said he had a right to our horses, too," went on the youth, with a sarcasm that was entirely lost on the prisoner. "yes, sah." "in that case you will have to suffer for your simpleness," was paul's short response. he did not believe the colored man. "no lantern in the barn, so far as i can see," called out chet. "better march the fellow up to the house." "he can't march with his legs tied." "i reckon he can hobble a bit." jeff jones was unwilling to move, thinking he had a better chance of escape while out in the open. but chet and paul each caught him by the arm, and groaning and trembling the colored man was forced to move slowly toward the ranch home. before moving to the house chet had driven the horses into the barn and locked the door, so now the animals were safe, at least for the time being. it was found that jeff jones had received an ugly wound in the shoulder. this paul set to work to dress, taking good care, however, that the prisoner should be allowed no chance of escape. "wot is yo' gwine to do wid me?" asked jeff jones as the work progressed. "ain't gwine ter tote me ter town, is yo'?" "that depends upon what mr. dottery says," replied chet. "he's the boss of this ranch." "better let me go," urged the colored man. "if yo' don't dar will be big trouble ahead." "don't imagine we are to be scared so easily," returned chet, smartly. "we have a bigger rascal to deal with even than you," he added. "yo' mean saul mangle?" "no, i mean captain hank grady," replied the boy, without stopping to think. "captain hank grady! wot yo' know ob him?" ejaculated jeff jones. "did yo' know about him and yo' uncle barnaby----" the colored man broke off short. "my uncle barnaby!" exclaimed chet. "what made you think of him in connection with captain grady?" "oh, i know a lot about him an' de captain," said jeff jones suggestively. "a heap dat maybe yo' boys would gib a lot ter know about." chapter xvii. something about a letter allen winthrop knew full well that he had a long journey before him and one that would, perhaps, be full of peril, yet his heart did not fail him as he and noel urner rode away, bound first for dottery's ranch, and then for the railroad station, over a hundred miles away. "you must keep up a stout heart, allen," said the young man from the east. "perhaps all is well with your uncle in spite of appearances." "i am not daunted by what lies ahead," said the young ranchman. "but i am convinced that uncle barnaby has been led into some great trouble. were it otherwise we would surely have heard from him ere this." at dottery's they put up over night, and set off at sunrise in the morning; allen riding the animal from the ranch and noel using a large and powerful beast hired to him by dottery. "thirty-five miles to-day," observed allen, as they pushed on along a somewhat hilly trail, lined on either side by cactus and other low plants. "is that the distance to daddy wampole's hotel, as you call it?" "yes--by the roads. the direct route would not make it over thirty miles, but we can't fly as the birds do." "we ought to make thirty-five miles easily enough." "we could on a level. but you must remember we have several hills to climb and half a dozen water courses to ford. i imagine, too, you will get tired of the saddle before nightfall." "oh, i can stand it," laughed noel urner, "thanks to my experience in the riding schools in new york and my frequent exercises in central park." "a big difference between central park and this, eh? i would like to see the park some time," returned allen. on they went, taking advantage of the early morning while the sun was still low. the level stretch was passed and then they came to a good-sized brook. beyond was a belt of timber and the first of the hills. they watered the horses and took a drink themselves, and pushed on without stopping further. allen knew they must keep on the move if they expected to reach daddy wampole's crossroads ranch before the evening shadows fell. on through the forest of spruce and hemlock, with here and there a tall cottonwood, they spurred their horses. the foot of the hill was soon reached, and up they toiled. "a grand country," murmured noel urner. "and big room for improvements," returned allen, grimly. "it will take a deal of labor to put this land in shape for use." "we never realize what the pioneers had to contend with when they first settled this country until we see things as they are here. to cut down forests, level the land, build houses and barns, and fix roads--it's an immense amount of labor, truly." at noon they halted near the top of a second hill, and here started up just enough of a fire to boil themselves a pot of coffee. they had brought jerked meat and crackers from home and made a comfortable, if not luxurious meal. in twenty minutes they were again on the way, the horses in the meantime having also been fed. "daddy wampole's ranch is our post office," explained allen, as they rode along side by side. "the mail comes down from deadwood once a week. it's not very extensive and wampole usually puts everything in a soap box and lets every comer pick out whatever belongs to him." noel laughed. "i've heard of such doings before," he said. "i suppose he has another box of letters to be mailed." "exactly." "it's not a very safe way to do. letters might easily be stolen or taken by mistake. who knows but what some communication from your uncle was carried off by another?" allen's face grew serious. "i never thought of that. but who would be mean enough to do it?" "the man who sent that forged letter to me would be mean enough." "so he would! i must ask wampole if he remembers any letter addressed to us." it was now the hottest part of the day. the road was dry and dusty and the horses hung out their tongues as they toiled onward. all were glad when they reached a portion of the road overhung by huge rocks a hundred feet or more in height. "a day in the saddle seems a long while," said noel urner. "and we have four more days to follow," smiled allen. "i was afraid it would tire you." "oh, i am all right yet, allen. but look, what is that ahead, a building?" "that's the crossroads hotel. come, we have less than a mile more to go." the sight of the rude building ahead raised noel urner's spirits. off he went on a gallop, with allen close at his heels. in ten minutes they drew up at the rude horse block and dismounted. old daddy wampole, then a well-known character throughout idaho, came out on the porch of his ranch to greet them. "back ag'in, hey?" he called out to allen. "wall, thar ain't no new mail in sense ye war here afore." "i know that, daddy," replied the young man. "i didn't come for the mail, exactly. my friend and i are bound for the railroad station." "goin' ter san francisco?" "yes; we want to stop here to-night." "ye air welcome ter do thet," and daddy wampole gave noel a friendly nod. the young man was introduced and all three entered the ranch, one room of which did duty as a general store, barroom, and post office. before anything else could be spoken of, allen questioned wampole concerning the letters which had been in the box for several weeks back, and the people who had called for them. "i don't remember much about the letters, but i recerlect thet cap'n grady took most all ez came in," was the suggestive reply from the so-styled postmaster. "so he took most of the letters, did he?" said allen, slowly. "how many of them, on a rough guess?" "seven or eight." "and you can't remember if any of them were addressed to me?" "no, i don't recerlect thet, allen, but hold on--do ye suspect the cap'n o' tamperin' with yer mail?" "i don't believe he is above such an action," replied the young man, bluntly. "wall, neither do i, privately speakin'. i was goin' ter say," went on the ranch owner slowly, "when the cap'n got the letters he walked over there to the old place and tore 'em open. maybe----" there was no need for the man to go on. allen had already left the apartment and was hurrying across the road to what had in former days been the only house in the section. it was a rude affair, now half fallen into decay. outside, under the overhanging logs of the roof, was situated a bench sometimes used by travelers as a resting place. here many a yarn had been told, and many a "hoss deal" talked over and closed. straight to the bench went allen, and in the fading light looked eagerly on all sides for bits of paper of any kind. he found a great number and gathered them all into his empty dinner pouch. when he was sure there were no more scraps in the vicinity he returned to the house. "well, what have you?" asked noel urner, with interest. "i have nearly fifty scraps of letters," said allen. "i must look them over at once." a lamp was lit, and, spreading out the scraps on a large, flat board, allen set to work to sort out the various pieces. it was tedious work and noel urner assisted him. suddenly the young ranchman uttered a low cry. "look! here is part of a letter that was addressed to me," he said. and he held up a scrap which bore the words: "--you and chet can meet me and paul----" "is it in your uncle's handwriting?" questioned the young man from the east. "yes." "then it would seem as if some one had stolen your letter, certainly." "that's just what was done!" ejaculated allen. "i wonder----" he stopped short. "what do you wonder?" "i wonder if captain grady had anything to do with uncle barnaby's disappearance." "the cap'n air a slick one," put in daddy wampole. "i never liked him from the day i fust sot eyes onto him. an' seem' as how he's achin' ter git thet ranch from ye boys, why, it ain't surprisin' he took thet letter and would do more, if 'twas fer his own benefit." "it won't be for his benefit if i find he is playing such an underhand game," rejoined allen, grimly. the thought that captain grady had stolen his letter angered him thoroughly. "he fancies that we are only three boys, but he'll find out that even boys can do something when they are put to it." "it's a pity you didn't find the rest of the letter," observed noel urner. "no doubt that letter was of great importance. it might be best to hunt up this captain grady and learn the truth from him before we push further for the railroad station." "the trouble is the cap'n air hard to find," said daddy wampole. "he ain't on his ranch more 'n a quarter o' his time. ye know he's as much interested in mines ez he is in cattle." the mention of mines gave a new turn to allen's thoughts. had that communication from uncle barnaby contained any reference to the valuable claim over by the black rock river? "if it did, then captain grady will rob uncle barnaby as sure as fate," thought the young ranchman, with an inward groan. chapter xviii. allen changes his plans a moment later a clatter of horse's hoofs on the road outside betokened another arrival. catching up his gun, daddy wampole strode out to see who it was. "ike watson! wot brings ye here?" allen heard him cry, and then ran out to greet the old hunter. "allen, by all the good fortunes o' the rockies!" ejaculated ike watson. "jes' the boy i'm pinin' ter see." "and i'm mighty glad to see you, too, ike," returned the young ranchman. "i want a bit of advice, and you are just the man to give it to me." "advice? i'm ready to give ye bushels o' it, if it will do ye the least bit o' good, lad. but wot are ye doin' here? why ain't ye hum?" "i came here on my way to the railroad station, i am bound for san francisco to hunt up uncle barnaby." "gee whiz! now thet's what i call fortunate! if i hadn't a cotched ye, ye would be goin' off on a wild goose chase, with no end to the trail." "a wild goose chase? o, ike, have you word from my uncle?" "no, i ain't got no word from him, but i got word in a way thet two rascals didn't dream on." "but what do you know?" questioned allen impatiently. "not much, ter tell the truth, an' yet a good deal. it happened this mornin', when i wuz down to casey's fork. i wuz ridin' along the old b'ar trail when along comes a couple o' the worst lookin' bad men ye ever seed. sez one to tudder, 'if we can make him tell us whar the mine is, we will all become millionaires.' then sez tudder, 'we'll make him speak. we didn't trap barnaby winthrop inter leavin' san francisco fer nuthin'.' the fellers wuz on the bottom trail, while i wuz up on the rocks. i tried to git to 'em to make 'em tell me wot wuz the meanin' of it all, when they spied me comin' down, an' by the grasshoppers o' kansas! ye ought ter hev seed 'em put an' scoot. they got out o' sight in a jiffy, an' i couldn't locate 'em, try my best. i hung around an hour, an' then i made up my mind ter ride over an' tell ye wot i hed heard." not only allen, but also noel urner and daddy wampole were astonished by the revelation ike watson made. "uncle barnaby trapped into leaving san francisco!" gasped allen. "did they say where they had taken him?" "didn't say nuthin' more'n i told ye," responded the hunter from gold fork. "leas'wise, didn't say nuthin' ez i could hear." "who were the men?" "i don't know, 'ceptin' i seed 'em hangin' around jordan creek about six months ago. like ez not they belong to the old sol davids gang. nearly every one up thet water course belonged to thet gang." "would you know them if you saw them again?" "sartinly--i'm powerful good at recerlectin' faces onct i see 'em." "where do you suppose the men went to?" "rode off in the direction o' black rock river canyon." allen started. could it be possible they suspected the claim was up in that neighborhood? it was more than possible. the young ranchman turned to noel urner. "noel, i'm going to change my plans. i am going after those two men instead of going to san francisco." "it would certainly seem a useless trip now," replied the young man from new york, slowly. "there is not the slightest doubt but what your uncle was decoyed away from san francisco. where he is now is a mystery which those two men must solve for you--they or----" "captain grady," finished allen, impulsively. "i feel it in my bones that he is in this plot against uncle barnaby." "it would seem so." "how do ye make that out?" asked ike watson. in a few words allen told the old hunter about the missing letter. "gee, shoo! he are one o' the gang, sartin!" cried ike watson. "the best ye can do is to start in an' round 'em all up." "thet's the talk," put in daddy wampole. "the state would be a hundred per cent better off with 'em fellers out o' it." allen gazed at ike watson earnestly. "will you help me in this work?" he asked. "you know more about these bad men than i do." "will i help ye? allen ye ought ter know better than ter axt sech a question. o' course i'll help ye. i ain't got much ter do. them new claims up the salmon kin wait well enough." "i would help ye, too, if i could git away," said daddy wampole. "thet gang worried me enough for six years, goodness knows!" "and what of you?" allen turned to noel. "you see how matters stand. i don't want to ask you to go, for we may have some rough times, and----" "i came out to see rough times," interrupted the young man from the east. "so unless you think i'll be too much of a hindrance, i would like greatly to accompany you wherever you go. you must remember that i, too, am anxious to find your uncle." "then, thet's settled," said ike watson. he did not much fancy having the company of a "tenderfoot," but noel's manner pleased him. a long discussion followed. while it was in progress mrs. wampole prepared a hot supper, to which later on allen and the others did full justice. it was decided to remain at the crossroads hotel all night, and the three retired early, that they might make a start before sunrise. it must be confessed that the young ranchman slept but little. his mind was in a whirl over all he had discovered, and he shuddered whenever he thought that his uncle might possibly be in peril of his life. "those men would indeed dare all for gold, as those initials on the cross imply," he said to himself. "what a pity they were not exterminated the time old sol davids was lynched." toward morning allen dropped off into a troubled slumber, to be awakened with a start by a touch from ike watson's hand an hour later. "time ter climb below an' feed up, allen," cried the old hunter. "we hev a long ride afore us, ez ye know." "that's true!" cried the young ranchman, springing to his feet; and ike went off to arouse noel urner. the young man from new york felt rather stiff from his ride of the day previous. yet he did not complain, and did all he could to make the others believe he felt in perfect trim for another day in the saddle. after a substantial but hasty breakfast the horses were saddled and they were off, daddy wampole waving his hand after them and wishing them the best of luck. "we'll make for casey's fork fust o' all," said ike watson. "perhaps i can pick up the trail thar. if i can't we kin push on toward the salmon an' trust ter luck." allen was doubtful if the old hunter could pick up the trail after having once lost it, but in lieu of something better, he agreed to watson's plan. noel, of course, was willing to go wherever the others led. it was high noon when casey's fork, a rough lot of rocks in a bend of the umihalo creek, was reached. allen and noel were glad enough to dismount in the shadow of the rocks while ike watson went off on a tour of inspection. the old hunter was gone so long that allen at last grew alarmed. "something is wrong, or he would be back ere this," he said. "let us go after him." but hardly had they mounted when they heard a shout ahead. looking beyond a belt of bushes they saw ike watson waving his hand to them. "found it!" he cried as they came up. "they took the creek road over ter the forest trail. the marks are fresh, showin' they didn't move on until dark last night." "then they can't be many miles ahead!" cried allen. "oh, if we can only keep the trail till we catch up to them!" "no time ter lose," said ike watson, and once more they continued the pursuit, this time faster than before. yet at the end of two miles they came to a sudden halt. the trail led down to the bank of a shallow stream and there disappeared from view. chapter xix. along the water course "gone!" burst from allen's lips. "what's to do now?" asked noel urner. ike watson halted in perplexity for fully a minute. then he dismounted and waded into the stream, which was scarcely a foot to a foot and a half in depth. "ho! ho! ho!" he laughed, suddenly. "i thought so! no, ye can't play thet game hyer.". "what now, ike?" questioned the young ranchman. "they went up in the middle o' this yere stream, thinkin' they could throw me off the trail. see, hyer are the marks ez plain ez the nose on cap'n grady's face." and the old hunter pointed into the clear water. leaving allen to bring his horse, watson walked slowly along the bed of the stream, taking good care not to step into any deep holes. in this manner half a mile was covered, when, at a point where the brush along the bank was thin, the trail led out once more on the dirt and rocks. "an old trick, but it didn't work this trip," chuckled ike watson to himself, as he once more resumed his seat in the saddle. "what i am thinking of is, what made them suspicious, after they were so far from casey's forks," said allen. "perhaps their guilty consciences," laughed noel. "thet, an' because they thought i might be follerin' 'em," added ike watson. "hullo! what does this mean?" he had followed the trail around a belt of timber. beyond was a wall of rocks, and here were traces of a recent camp--a smoldering fire and some odds and ends of crackers and meat. "we ain't far behind 'em, boys!" he went on. "this fire wuz tended ter less than a couple o' hours ago." "then let us push on, by all means," returned allen. "if we can catch those two men before they have a chance to join any of their evil companions, so much the better." "the trail leads along the rocks," observed noel. "have you any idea where we are going?" "idee! i know this yere country like a book," said ike watson. "don't ye git 'feered o' bein' lost so long ez ye stay nigh me." "i don't mean that. i mean, do you know where the men went from here?" "up to grizzly pass, most likely, an' then along over ter the black rock canyon. eh, allen?" "it would seem so," responded allen seriously. "grizzly pass; rather a suggestive name," said noel. "ye-as; especially when a big grizzly shows hisself," drawled watson, and there the conversation dropped. despite the fierce sunshine, it was deliciously cool along the base of the rocky wall, and the horses made good progress over the hard but level trail. here and there immense brier bushes overhung the way, but these were easily avoided by the animals, who were more afraid of them than were their riders. presently the trail took an upward course, leading between a split in the rocks. "ye want ter be careful hyer," cautioned ike watson. "it's a mighty slippery spot fer the best o' hoss flesh." scarcely had he spoken when noel urner gave a cry of alarm. he was in the rear, and both the old hunter and allen turned quickly to see what was the matter. they found noel's horse on his knees, having slipped to one side of the trail. the young man was on the ground, one foot caught in the stirrup. "stop the hoss!" cried watson. "if ye don't he'll bang the young man's head off!" before he had ceased speaking allen was on the ground. he ran back and caught noel's horse by the bridle. the young man from the east was partly stunned, and it was several seconds before he could recover sufficiently to disengage his foot and arise from his dangerous position. "good for you, allen!" he cried, as he stood by, while the young ranchman assisted the horse to a safe spot in the trail. "i was afraid i was in for it." "ye did jes' the right thing, allen," put in ike watson. "dunno but wot ye hed better walk a brief spell," he went on to noel, who was only too glad to do so. half an hour later the top of the rocks was reached, and they moved back to where the way was smooth and safe. a lunch was had from the pouches, and on they went as fast as the fatigued horses would carry them. "i can see no trail," said noel, as he rode abreast of his companions. "there ain't no need ter see a trail hyer," replied ike watson. "this yere way is a blind pocket fer all o' these three miles. ye couldn't go no different if ye tried. byme-by, when we come out on sampson's flats, we'll look for the trail ag'in." "we ought to catch up to those men before we reach the flats," remarked allen. "they must be tired out by that climb." "we ain't fur off," rejoined watson. "jes' keep silent half an hour longer, an' we'll----" he broke off short, reigned in his steed, and pointed ahead. allen looked eagerly in the direction. under the spreading branches of a giant pine rested two men. not far from them two horses were hoppled. the men looked thoroughly tired. both were smoking pipes and leaning against the tree with their eyes closed. "let us dismount and tiptoe our way to them," whispered allen. "if we secure their horses first they will have no chance to get away from us." "a good plan, lad," returned watson, in an equally low tone. "supposin' ye an' i leave our nags with mr. urner?" this was agreed upon, and after dismounting the horses were led behind some heavy brush by the young man from the east. then, with their weapons ready for use, allen and old ike watson stole cautiously forward to where were grazing the animals belonging to the two bad men from jordan creek. allen and the old hunter from gold fork went about their work as silently as possible. the horses were somewhat in the rear, and so they made a detour, coming up behind the dozing men as softly as twin shadows. the animals reached, the next thing was to release them. this was speedly accomplished, and it was allen who led them off, while ike watson still remained on guard with his trusty gun ready should the occasion arise to make use of the firearm. in less than three minutes the young ranchman was back, having left the captured animals in noel's care. "now, what's to do?" he questioned. "maybe we hed better git a few ropes ready, in case we want ter bind 'em," began ike watson, but ere this idea could be put into execution one of the men dropped his pipe, and the hot tobacco, falling on his hand, brought him upright with a start. he opened his eyes, and with a loud exclamation, which awoke his companion, leaped to his feet. "what does this mea----" he began. "hands up, ye rascal!" ordered ike watson, so sternly that instantly both arms were raised high overhead. the horse thief, for the man was nothing less, if not much worse, fully understood that his opponent had the "drop" on him and would not stop to parley unless the order to elevate his hands was obeyed. the second rascal, in his sitting position, attempted to draw a pistol, but allen, producing his own weapon, forced the man to remain stationary. "we hev ye, stranger," remarked watson after a second of silence. "do ye acknowledge the corn?" "what's the meaning of this outrage?" growled the fellow who was standing, and he scowled fiercely, first at the old hunter and then at the young ranchman. "it means firstly that ye are in our power," chuckled watson. it was evident that he thoroughly enjoyed the situation. "well?" "then ye acknowledge thet, do ye?" "i suppose we'll have to." "it's ike watson from gold fork," put in the man who was sitting. "ike watson!" the face of the speaker grew quite disturbed. it was plain he had heard of watson before and did not relish being held up by the well-known old man. "ye-as, i'm ike watson," drawled the old hunter. "now, strangers, give me yer handles, and let me have 'em straight." "my name is roe bluckburn," came from the standing man. "mine is lou slavin, and i'm not ashamed of it," came from the other. "jes' so," mused watson. "i've heard o' both o' yeez belongin' to the old sol davids gang o' hoss thieves." "you are mistaken. we are not thieves of any sort," said bluckburn, who appeared the leader of the pair. "well, we won't quarrel about that, seein' ez how we are on another trail ter day. we want ye ter up an' tell us ter onct whar barnaby winthrop is." "yes, and tell us the truth," put in allen, sternly. the men were both taken aback by the request. they exchanged glances and each waited for the other to speak. "come, out with it, bluckburn!" cried watson. "dunno the man you are talking about." "ye can't come it thet way. didn't i hear ye talkin' it over down ter casey's forks only yesterday? come, out with the truth, or take the consequences!" and to scare the horse thief ike watson tapped his gun barrel suggestively. "must be some mistake. we wasn't near casey's fork in a month. eh, lou?" "nixy." "ye tell it so smooth i would most believe ye, if i hadn't follered ye up," growled watson. "but we know ye air in the deal ag'in barnaby winthrop, an' i am hyer ter help his nevvy thar, allen winthrop. so ye hed better ease yer mind ter onct. understand?" the two men turned their attention to allen curiously. they wished to hold a consultation, but watson would not permit it. at that moment noel urner came forward, having succeeded in tying all of the horses in a little grove not far distant. he eyed both of the prisoners keenly, and then gave a start. "i saw that man in san francisco!" he ejaculated, pointing to roe bluckburn. "he was hanging around the very hotel at which mr. barnaby winthrop stopped." "it ain't so," growled bluckburn, but his face proclaimed that noel urner had spoken the truth. "if that is the case, then he is the one who decoyed my uncle away," put in allen. "for there is no longer any doubt in my mind that he was spirited away in some fashion." "air ye fellers goin' ter speak?" roared ike watson, impatiently. "ye can't expect me ter stand hyer with a gun the rest o' the day!" "unless you do speak, we shall bind you and hand you over to the sheriff," said allen. "we believe we have a good case against you--and will have a better after captain grady is placed under arrest," he added, struck with a sudden thought. "captain grady!" groaned the man named lou slavin. "i reckon the jig is up, roe." "shut up!" growled bluckburn. "but if the captain is known wot show have we got?" grumbled slavin. "say?" he continued eagerly. "i went into this thing ag'in my will, an' i wish i was out of it. supposin' i tell yer the truth about the hull gang, does that save me?" "don't you say a word, lou!" shouted bluckburn, warningly, but ere he could speak further the muzzle of ike watson's gun caused him to retreat up to the tree, where he stood, not daring to say another word. "go on and have yer say!" cried the old hunter to lou slavin. "and, ez i said before, give it ter us straight. whar is barnaby winthrop?" "he is a prisoner, about ten miles from here," was slavin's flat and sudden confession. chapter xx. moving against captain grady both paul and chet winthrop were deeply interested in the words uttered by jeff jones, the colored member of the horse thieves' gang. "so you know something of captain grady and our uncle, barnaby winthrop?" cried chet, excitedly. "what do you know?" "dat's fer you two fellers ter find out--onless yer let's me go," replied jeff jones, suggestively. "you mean you won't speak unless we grant you your liberty?" put in paul. "dat's de way to figure it." paul looked at chet inquiringly. "we can't promise anything until mr. dottery gets back," said chet. "but if you know anything about our uncle you had better speak out, if you wish us to do anything at all for you." "i won't say a word," growled the colored man. chet bit his lip in vexation. "don't you know what it is to have us able to speak a word for you?" said paul. "supposing we let jack blowfen take you over to the next camp and tell the men that you are a downright horse thief? would you fancy that?" jeff jones began to tremble. he knew what paul meant--that he would be lynched inside the hour. in that section of the country, at that time, horse stealing was considered almost as bad as murder. "no! no! doan let him take me down ter de fork!" howled jeff jones. "anyt'ing but dat, boys!" "well, you, had better talk, then," returned paul, severely. "i doan know much, but i'll tell yo' all i do know," said the prisoner, after a short pause, "and yo' is ter do de best yo' can fo' me, promise me dat?" "we will," said chet. he was very impatient for jeff jones to proceed. "well, den, captain grady has been a-spottin' yo' uncle fer seberal weeks--eber sence he got massah winthrop ter leave san francisco." "got him to leave san francisco?" queried paul. "yes. i doan know how de t'ing was done, but he got yo' uncle ter leave de city an' now he's tryin' ter make him gib up de secret ob a mine, or sumfin like dat." "gracious!" burst from chet's lips. "that explains it all. uncle barnaby must be in captain grady's power." "and by getting us out of the ranch he thought to make us leave the neighborhood," added paul. "do you know," he went on, "i believe he is at the head of a band who wish to obtain entire control of this section." "i don't doubt it, paul," chet turned to the prisoner. "where is our uncle now?" "dat i can't say." "captain grady must know." "suah he does." "then we'll make him tell, never fear," chet began to walk up and down. "i wish mr. dottery would come back." "i hear somebody down the road," said paul as he walked to the door. "it must be the two coming back now." paul was right. there was a clatter beyond in the dark, and a moment later caleb dottery appeared, followed by jack blowfen. "couldn't catch 'em in the dark," said dottery, as he strode into the house and dropped into a rude but comfortable chair. "but thank fortune, the stock is safe!" "slick rascals, mangle and nodley," continued jack blowfen. "but we'll round 'em up some day, i'll bet my _sombrero_ on it." "we have just heard important news," said paul, and he instantly proceeded to repeat what jeff jones had said. caleb dottery and his cowboy helper listened with interest. the former gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. "must say i didn't quite think it of captain grady, though i allow as how he's a slick one," he remarked. "wot's ter do about it?" "we came here to obtain your aid," said chet. "captain grady has taken possession of our ranch. you know he sets up some sort of a claim to it." "got yer papers, ain't ye?" "no; they were burned up when we had our little fire." "humph! thet's bad!" "but the place is ours--father bought and paid for it," added paul, warmly. "and we intend to get captain grady out, even if we have to fight him." "good fer ye!" shouted jack blowfen. "thet's the way ter talk. i'm right hyer ter help ye. i love grit, i do!" and he held out his big brown hand to paul as if to bind a bargain. "i'll certainly help ye, too," said dottery. "ye have done a good turn this night which i'm not likely to forgit in a hurry." "this colored man told us about our uncle and captain grady of his own free will," said paul. "so, if you can be a little easy on him on that account i wish you would be." "stealin' hosses ain't no light crime," growled dottery. "an' it don't improve a man's reputation to become a sneak," added jack blowfen. yet, after some talk, it was agreed to hold jeff jones merely as a prisoner for the present, instead of carrying him to the nearest camp to be turned over to the vigilance committee. it was now so near morning that to think of retiring was out of the question. the men began to smoke, and blowfen stirred about getting breakfast. at six o'clock they dined. "i'll chain jones up as a prisoner in the house till we git back," observed dottery, when the meal was finished. "he'll keep quiet if he knows when he is well off." this was done, and then both house and outbuildings were made as secure as possible. ten minutes later paul, chet, and the two men were on their way on horseback to the winthrop ranch. all were armed and ready for anything that might turn up. but not one of the number dreamed of the several surprises in store for them. chapter xxi. shooting a grizzly bear "i wonder if captain grady is alone or if he has a number of the gang with him?" observed paul, as he rode alongside of his younger brother, and just in front of the two men. "most likely he is expecting trouble and has help at hand," returned chet. "he knows well enough we won't give up our claim without a fight." "it's possible he thought to frighten us off until allen got back from san francisco." "don't make any difference how much help he has," broke in jack blowfen. "he ain't no right to put ye out like a couple o' dogs, an' he knows it." in this manner the talk went on until a little after noon, when the locality known as demon hollow was reached. "do you remember the badger, paul?" laughed chet. "the hollow looks different in the daylight, doesn't it?" "yes, indeed, but still--what was that?" "jumpin' june bugs!" cried jack blowfen. "dottery, did ye hear that?" "i did," replied the old ranch owner, and he clutched his gun apprehensively. "i heard something," said chet. "what was it?" "a bar, boy, sure ez ye are born--a grizzly!" "oh!" at once the little party came to a halt. to the right of them was a tall overhanging rock, to the left a number of prickly bushes. ahead and behind was the winding and uneven road along which their animals had come on a walk. "do ye see old ephraim?" asked jack blowfen, as he, too, got his gun in readiness. "i don't see anything," declared paul. bang! it was chet's gun which spoke. he fired up toward the top of the overhanging rock. scarcely had the shot rung out than a fearful roar of mingled pain and rage rent the air. "shot him, by jupiter!" cried caleb dottery. "stand from under, quick!" hardly had the word been given than there was another roar. then a heavy weight filled the air and down into the road leaped a big brown and gray grizzly weighing all of eight hundred pounds. he came down between the boys and the two men, and no sooner had he landed than dottery and blowfen opened fire on him, both striking the beast in the shoulder, and, consequently, doing but little damage, for a grizzly bear is tough and can stand many shots which do not touch his vital parts. the horses, much scared, backed in all directions, some going into the bushes and others up against the rocks. more angry than before the grizzly half turned, and then, without warning, raised up on his hind legs and made for chet, whose horse was now flat upon the rocks, having stumbled in his hasty retreat, chet himself was partly in and partly out of the saddle when the charge was made. "run, chet, run!" yelled paul. "he is coming for you!" in alarm he came up on foot, his horse refusing to budge in the direction of the bear. the bear heard paul's voice and for the second paused and turned, as if to make sure he was in no immediate danger from that quarter. then he continued to advance upon chet. almost overcome with fear, paul raised his gun and fired at the bear's head. it was a chance shot, but luckily it hit the huge beast in the ear. the bear howled with pain, staggered forward a few feet and rolled over on his side. by this time dottery and blowfen had their pistols out. leaping to the roadway, they ran forward, and in less than a minute the bear had received six pistol balls and was kicking in his death agony. it was paul who helped chet to his feet. the boy was as white as a sheet and trembled so he could scarcely stand. "i--i thought i was a goner!" he stammered. "what a big fellow he is!" "the bar we war arfter last spring," said jack blowfen to dottery as they examined the brute. "see those marks on his side where we tipped him? a good job that he is out of the way." it was the second grizzly bear the boys had seen since they had lived in that section and they gazed at him curiously. what white teeth he had, and how powerful he looked! even now that he was still and all was over, chet hardly cared to touch him. "i want to see no more of him," he said. "well, i reckon he's the last in this neighborhood," said caleb dottery. "he's the only one i've seen around in nigh on six years." it was decided to leave the bear where he was until they returned. of course, it was possible some wild animal might come up and make a feast in the meanwhile, but this could not be helped. to skin the animal and hang up the meat would take too long. leaving demon hollow, they pushed along as rapidly as the horses would carry them. at the creek they stopped to water the animals, and here also partook of the lunch which blowfen had packed up before starting. it was nightfall when they at last came in sight of the ranch home. all seemed deserted. every building was tightly closed and so was the gate to the stockade. "maybe he has thought better of it and skipped out," said chet. "there is our stuff still in the road," returned paul, pointing ahead. in a moment more they had reached the stockade. all four rode straight up to the heavy wooden gate. "i'll have to jump over and unbar it," said paul. "be careful," was caleb dottery's caution. "this may be a trap and----" he had no need to say more. "halt!" came from the yard behind the stockade. "stop where you are or i'll fire on you!" it was captain grady himself who spoke. chapter xxii. an important capture of course paul made a prompt retreat. it would have been worse than useless, just then, to have remained where he was, with his hands on the stockade gate. the party outside could not see captain grady, but from the direction of his voice they knew he was on the other side of the stockade at a point where several peep and gun holes covered the entrance. "that's right, you better git back!" went on the captain, as paul retreated. "see here, grady, what does this mean?" demanded caleb dottery, as he advanced in the direction of the guard openings. "it means that i have got possession of this ranch, which rightfully belongs to me, and i mean to keep it," was the grim reply, delivered with great force and distinctness. "the winthrop boys deny yer rights." "that makes no difference. i know what's what." "open the gate and let us talk it over quietly," went on dottery, who was naturally a peaceably inclined individual. "i'm not opening the gate just now. those boys can go away. i don't mind you coming around, but i don't want those boys here." "well, you'll have to put up with us," cried chet, angrily. "now, open the gate, or we'll smash it down!" "don't be rash, chet!" whispered paul. "you monkey!" roared captain grady. "fall back, before i let you have a dose of buckshot!" "there will be no shooting here, captain, unless ye want ter get wiped out," broke in jack blowfen. "open the gate fer yer neighbors and let us hev a powwow." "i've told you wot i'll do--open up when the boys go away." "come on, chet," whispered paul to his younger brother. "yes, but paul----" "come on, i say," and paul whispered something into chet's ear. at once, with a wink at jack blowfen, the two boys started off on a gallop toward the river. "do you think we can do it?" asked chet, anxiously. "i think so. we can try, anyway." dismounting, the brothers made their way to where a deep ditch drained from the ranch home under the stockade into the river. the ditch was almost dry and was all but choked up with weeds and brush. "now, chet, it is a serious undertaking, but you know we must take some chances," went on paul, as they let themselves down into the ditch. "the captain may really shoot at us, although i think he will hardly dare do it with blowfen and mr. dottery at hand to see that justice is done." "if he shoots, we'll shoot back," replied chet. "he has no right on our land, and, besides, we must do something for uncle barnaby's sake." full of determination, and realizing that a crisis was at hand, the two boys wormed their way along the ditch until the stockade was reached. here a few wooden bars blocked the way. but one of the bars was loose and was wrenched aside, and they went on. "we must be careful, in case any one is in the house," said paul in a whisper. the ditch led around to the rear of the ranch home. but here it went underground and they were compelled to leave it and take to the grass. they gave a brief look and saw captain grady down by the opening in the stockade, still arguing with dottery and blowfen. he looked anxious. "he don't see us," whispered diet. "come, the front door is open!" and he made a quick dash for the house, followed closely by paul. the door was closing on the pair when captain grady started around and beheld paul's form from the rear. he gave a quick cry of alarm. "stop! come out!" "too late, captain grady!" called back paul, facing about and aiming at the man with his gun. "now, just you go and open the stockade gate!" "thar ain't no need o' thet!" cried the voice of jack blowfen. "well done, boys; i give ye credit." and over the stockade vaulted the cowboy, leaping from his saddle to the grass on the other side. captain grady knew not which way to turn, and before he could decide the gate was unbarred and caleb dottery rode in. in the meantime chet had taken a hasty glance through the house and satisfied himself that captain grady was really alone. there was evidence that several visitors had been there but recently--a number of unwashed dishes and drinking glasses. chet returned to the doorway and beheld captain grady in jack blowfen's strong grasp. the firearm had been wrenched from the captain and hurled a dozen feet away. "this--this is an outrage!" puffed the captain in a great rage. "so is the way ye set up to treat neighbors," replied the cow puncher, coolly. "why didn't ye leave us in like gentlemen an' thus avoid all trouble?" the captain glared at him. "what does this mean?" he demanded sullenly after a pause. "can you hold him, blowfen?" asked paul, anxiously. "i reckon, paul; but maybe ye might better keep him covered with yer gun." "this means that we have come to take possession of our own," put in chet. "we told you that we would be back." "it's ag'inst the law, and i'll have the sheriff on you!" shouted captain grady wrathfully. "we'll chance that," said paul. "march into the house, please. we want to question you a bit on another matter," he continued. captain grady started. "what matter?" he asked in a lower tone of voice. "about our uncle, barnaby winthrop." "don't know nothing of him," was the reply, and as he spoke captain grady's hand moved up to his inside breast pocket. instantly jack blowfen leaped upon the rascal and bore him to the earth. chapter xxiii. news of importance "don't be alarmed; he is not going to shoot," cried paul. "don't ye make too shure o' thet," ejaculated the cowboy. "wot's he puttin' his hand into his pocket fer?" "he has something there i fancy he wishes to conceal," went on paul. "empty the pocket, please." "let me go! this is highway robbery!" stormed captain grady. he struggled fiercely to regain his feet. but blowfen was the stronger of the pair and he easily held the rascal down with one hand, while with the other he brought several letters from his inside pocket. paul eagerly snatched the letters, in spite of the captain's protest. he glanced at them, with chet looking over his shoulder. "well, what do you make out?" asked caleb dottery. he didn't quite like the way matters were turning. "i think we will be safe in making captain grady a prisoner," replied paul slowly. "yes, make him a prisoner by all means," put in chet. "he is a villain if ever there was one. if we can't prove it i think my uncle barnaby can." at the reference to barnaby winthrop captain grady grew pale. it was evident that his sins were at last finding him out. it did not take jack blowfen long to act upon paul's suggestion. he disarmed the captain and made him march into the house, where he bound the fellow in very much the same manner as dottery had bound jeff jones. while he was doing so paul showed the letters taken from the prisoner to caleb dottery. chet, while a second reading was going on, commenced to ransack the house. the captain had moved but a few things into the ranch home--a couple of chairs, a table, a bed, and an old hair trunk. the trunk chet opened without ceremony. more letters were found there--documents which told only too plainly what manner of man the captain was. chet smiled to himself to think how foolish the rascal had been not to have destroyed the epistles. "but the greatest of villains occasionally over-reach themselves," he said to paul. "i fancy this is proof enough to show what an awfully bad man captain grady is." "you are right, chet," said dottery, after a careful examination. "he is a hoss thief as great as was old sol davids, and he is trying to rob yer uncle out of a mine claim as well." "not only that, but as jeff jones said, he is with the crowd who holds my uncle a prisoner, sir. that, to me is the worst part of it." "i don't know but what ye are right." the captain was raising such a row that to quiet him jack blowfen threw him bodily into a dark closet and turned the key on him. "now if ye don't quit yer noise, i'll gag ye in the bargain," said the cowboy, and thereupon the captain became quiet at once. it was now quite in line to hold a council of war, as paul termed it. but before this was done all hands went to work to move the winthrop household effects back to where they belonged. this was accomplished in a short space of time, and was productive of an accident which, while not excessively serious, was still of sufficient importance to cause a decided change in their plans. in moving in an old, heavy bedstead caleb dottery allowed the end he held to slip from his grasp. a sharp corner came down on his ankle, twisting it severely. he cried with pain and work was at once suspended. the ankle was bandaged, but it was found the old ranch owner could not walk, nor could he move about with any degree of comfort. he was placed on a couch and there he remained. the four talked matters over for a long while. in one of captain grady's letters was mentioned a certain cave in the vicinity of what was then known as the albany claim. the boys fancied that their uncle might be a prisoner in that cave. "well, i dunno but what ye are right," mused jack blowfen. "it's sartinly wuth going to see." "then you advise us to go?" asked paul, eagerly. "yes, and i'll go with ye." "but mr. dottery," began chet. "i'll stay whar i am an' watch the captain," groaned the old ranch owner. "it's about all i'm good for jes' now." "the old albany claim is a good stiff forty miles an' more from hyer," said jack blowfen. "but i know the road over the second foothills perfectly. so if ye say the word any time we'll start." "it looks like rain just now," said paul. "an' ye'll catch it heavy, too," put in dottery. "we'll have to look after the cattle, too," added chet. "like as not half of them are in the sink hole." "i'll help ye with the stock," said blowfen. that evening it rained in torrents, but only for a short while. by midnight it was as clear as it could be. long before sunrise the boys and blowfen were out on the range looking up the heads belonging to the winthrops. they were gratified to find that all the stock was safe with a single exception. that was an old cow who had been caught in the cyclone and killed. not one of the four-footed beasts had gone anywhere near the sink hole. when let out of the closet captain grady begged hard for his liberty. but the boys were obdurate and caleb dottery backed them up, as did jack blowfen. "ye have done wrong an' must suffer," said the latter, and there the matter rested. by nine o'clock the two boys and blowfen were off. they took with them enough provisions to last several days, as the journey upon which they were about to enter would be for the greater part through a dry and unproductive section. this same section has now been made, by a system of irrigation, very productive. "and now to find uncle barnaby and bring our enemies to terms!" cried paul, as they rode out of the stockade. "so say i, and may uncle be found well," added chet. "amen," murmured jack blowfen. chapter xxiv. something about barnaby winthrop "my uncle a prisoner about ten miles from here?" repeated allen winthrop, after lou slavin had made his confession. "will you shut up?" howled bluckburn, savagely. "you'll spoil everything." "an' he'll save hisself from bein' lynched," added old ike watson, suggestively. "we haven't done anything--you can't hold us," spluttered bluckburn. he found himself in a bad corner. "holding a man a prisoner is nothing, i presume," said allen, in deep anger. "go on," he continued to slavin. "where is my uncle?" thus urged, lou slavin blurted out a full confession, telling how barnaby winthrop had been followed to san francisco by bluckburn, who wanted to learn the secret of the new claim, which bluckburn realized must be valuable. slavin said it was bluckburn who had sent to barnaby winthrop a forged letter calling the old prospector back to the ranch. the rascal had also forged the note received by noel urner. word had been sent by telegraph to the other members of the thieving band, and when barnaby winthrop got off at the nearest railroad station to the ranch he was followed and waylaid. "the crowd had a mighty hard time o' it with him, he fit so," went on slavin. "onct he nearly got away, but captain grady tripped him up an' then he war bound tight." "captain grady!" ejaculated allen. "thet's his size," cried old watson. "i allers allowed as how he war one o' the shady class." "he--he led the whole business," put in bluckburn. he began to think it time to clear himself. "i only acted under his orders." "it's too late fer ye ter open yer mouth," was the way ike watson cut him short. "go on, slavin. whar's barnaby winthrop? straight, now, remember." thus admonished, slavin told the location of the cave in which the old prospector was held, as well as he was able. "i don't know the lay o' the land exactly, but i'm comin' purty nigh it." "would you know the spot if you were in the vicinity?" asked allen, eagerly. "i think i would." "then we must take him along," said the young ranchman to ike watson. "but what shall we do with bluckburn?" "he ought ter be lynched right now," was the old hunter's stern reply. during his days among the rough characters of the mountains he and his companions had had small use for jails and lockups. the law of the land, so called, was administered on the spot. a long discussion followed, which ended in a determination to take bluckburn back to daddy wampole's place. they would leave him there a prisoner, and then take slavin along with them, that he might locate barnaby winthrop's place of confinement. bluckburn was secured on his horse's back, and slavin was disarmed, and in less than half an hour the return to the crossroads hotel was begun. it was a long and tedious ride to allen who was impatient to be off to find his uncle. but it could not be helped, and allen bore it as patiently as he was able. daddy wampole was as much surprised as he well could be to see them ride up with their prisoner. he listened with deep interest to the tale allen, watson, and noel urner had to tell. "yes, i'll keep him a prisoner," he said at the conclusion. "an' take my word on it, he shan't escape." "and it won't be long before we have captain grady, too," said allen, never dreaming of what was taking place at home in the meanwhile. bluckburn was exceedingly downcast over his turn of fortune. he insisted that captain grady was totally to blame, but this statement no one felt inclined to believe. slavin showed himself more than willing now to do all in his power to redeem himself and his reputation. yet neither ike watson nor allen could trust him with so much as a pistol. "you jes' ride on ahead, an' if thar's any trouble we'll look out fer ye," was the way watson put it, and with this slavin had to be content. a long and exceedingly rough journey now lay before the three, a journey destined to try their patience to the utmost. "but we will have to make the best of it," said allen. "and i don't care what we have to put up with so long as we find my uncle safe and sound." "thet's the talk," answered watson. "can't expect ter have every comfort out in these yere parts nohow." the sun had been shining brightly, but presently the sky became overcast. "unless i am mistaken we are close to a storm," observed noel, as he surveyed the heavens anxiously. "thet's wot," came from watson. "an' i allow as how it will be a putty heavy one when it comes." "we've had storms enough lately," said allen. "i want no more of them." they continued on their way as rapidly as the nature of the ground to be covered permitted. occasionally slavin grumbled at being pushed on so fast but watson soon put a stop to his mutterings. "no ust ter grumble, slavin," he said. "ye kin be thankful thet ye wasn't shot down like a dog." "but i'm not feelin' well," pleaded the evil doer. "ain't ye? wall, what ye want is exercise," was watson's sarcastic rejoinder. "so trot along, an' no more parley about it," and slavin went along, but with a face that looked far from pleasant. half an hour later the raindrops began to fall, at first scatteringly and then in a steady downpour. it was a cold rain and made one and another of the little party shiver. "i must say i don't like this," said allen, when he was more than half soaked through. "i wonder if we can't find shelter until the worst of this is over?" "perhaps we can," said noel. "although i don't see many large trees handy." "might be as how's thar's a cave around," said watson. "anyway, we'll keep our eyes peeled fer one." this they did and a quarter of a mile further on came to something of a cliff overlooking a rocky valley. at the base of the cliff were a number of rough openings and one of these openings led to a cave of no mean size. "jes' the ticket!" cried watson, as he dismounted and entered the opening. "we can stay here all night an' by thet time the storm will be a thing o' the past. we ain't none too soon either," he added. watson was right, for scarcely had all of the party entered the cavern than the storm let down in all of its fury. the landscape was blotted out and all became darker than ever. "ye set down on thet rock," commanded watson to slavin. "an' don't ye dare ter stir if ye know when yer well off." "i ain't stirrin'," growled the prisoner. nevertheless, although he spoke thus, slavin had his eyes wide open. he intended to escape if it were possible to do so, fearing that all would not go well with him even though he had confessed to his captors. chapter xxv. fighting a wolverine "i think we had better make a fire," suggested allen, after the horses had been tied up in a place that was comparatively dry. "right ye air, allen," returned watson. "pervidin' we can find some firewood." "here is a tree branch," said noel, pointing it out in a dark corner of the cavern. "but we may have some trouble in breaking it up." "ho! ho!" laughed watson. "it's easy ter see ye ain't very strong. we'll break thet up in a jiffy; eh, slavin?" "what do ye want?" growled the prisoner. "want ye ter help break up some firewood." "me?" "persackly, slavin. reckon as how ye want ter git as warm as anybody. wall, ye kin start in by doin' some work." slavin demurred but his protest was unavailing and soon he and watson were breaking up the large part of the tree branch, noel looking on in wonder and allen assisting on the smaller portions. "my, but you are strong," said noel, in open admiration. "i'd give a good deal for your muscles." "ye'll get the same, if ye stay out hyer long enough," answered watson, "it's the mountain air as does it." "oh, come, watson, you know you are extra strong," put in allen. "why, he can do some wonderful things when he wants to." to this watson made no reply, but the grin on his face showed that he appreciated the compliment. soon they had a roaring fire, which threw grotesque shadows on the cavern walls. all drew closer to enjoy the warmth, and they prepared a meal to which even slavin did full justice. they questioned the prisoner closely and he said he felt certain he was on the right trail. but he was shy about saying more. he was wondering if the coming night would offer any opportunity of escaping. "i'll get away if i can," he thought. "and if so i must lose no time in warning mangle and nodley. if i don't they'll be running into a trap, and my share of that stolen money will be lost." after the meal allen and watson remained near the entrance to the cave, to talk over the situation and speculate upon what the day following would bring forth. slavin wanted to join them, but allen ordered him back. "you go back to the fire," he said. "if you want to go to sleep you may do so." "don't trust me even yet, do ye?" muttered the prisoner. "i do not." "ye're rather hard on a chap wot is trying ter do ye a good turn." "it remains to be seen if it is a good turn or not, slavin. you may be putting up a job on us." "no, i swear it's all right, winthrop. ye'll find everything jest as i told ye." "perhaps. but you go back to the fire," and slavin went back, but with a look on his face that rivaled the black clouds in the heavens outside. soon the prisoner was curled up close to the fire and he closed his eyes as if in slumber, but he kept as wide awake as before. while allen and watson were talking at the entrance to the cavern, noel, out of idle curiosity, procured a torch from the camp fire and went on a tour of observation. the cavern proved to be a narrow and rambling affair, being nothing more or less than a split in the mountain side. the floor was uneven and back from the entrance arose in a series of rough steps. up these steps climbed the young man until he had gained a position fully fifty feet above the mouth of the cavern. at a great distance he heard the falling of water, as the rain swept over some rocks at a rear entrance to the cavern. curious to see where the cavern led to be continued his climbing until the light of the camp fire was left far behind. his torch was burning low but he whirled it into a blaze and went on once more. occasionally he slipped, for the rocks were now wet, but this did not daunt him. at last he reached a spot where the water was flowing in a miniature waterfall. there was an opening over his head but it was out of reach. "this must be a pretty place in the daylight," he mused. "what grand scenery on every hand throughout this state!" of a sudden more than the usual amount of water came down and some of it hit the torch, extinguishing it instantly. "confound the luck," he murmured, and felt in his pocket for a match. while he was searching for the article, he heard a strange noise overhead, close to the waterfall. he listened and the noise was followed by the unmistakable growl of a wild beast. a wolverine had strayed close to the waterfall and had slipped on the rocks to a shelf below. for a few seconds the ferocious beast clung to the ledge, then slipped again and landed at noel's feet! the wolverine is one of the most ferocious beasts to be met with anywhere. it is not unlike the bear in general make-up, but has a more pointed head and a bushy tail. it is said that, generally speaking, a wolverine will not eat anything else if it can get meat. as soon as the wolverine smelled the presence of a human being he let out a growl that seemed to strike to noel's very backbone. letting the match he had pulled from his pocket drop, the young man felt for his pistol and brought forth the weapon with all possible speed. bang! the weapon was discharged and the bullet clipped the wolverine on the left side of the head. then with a snarl that was almost a scream, the ferocious animal hurled itself upon noel. "help! help!" cried the young man. he felt that he was in an exceedingly perilous position and that assistance was absolutely necessary. in the darkness he thought he had been attacked by a mountain bear. the wolverine managed to reach his shoulder, but noel made a quick twist and freed himself. then the young man fired a second shot. the wolverine was now hit in the side, but the wound was far from fatal or even serious, and it only made the creature scream louder. with blazing eyes and gleaming teeth, it crouched low and prepared to spring for noel's throat. the young man knew that almost all wild beasts are fearful of fire but he did not know how the beast before him regarded water. yet as he fired a third shot he stepped close up to the rocks, so that the water from the fall might pour over his person. the third report echoed throughout the cavern as loudly as had the others, while the bullet flew a foot over the wolverine's head. then the savage beast made a second leap at noel and caught the young man by the arm. the weight of the animal made noel lose his balance, and man and wolverine rolled over on the cavern floor together. chapter xxvi. disappearance of slavin "what's that?" the exclamation came from allen as he broke off short in his conversation with watson. the cry from noel had reached his ears and the cry was quickly followed by the first of the pistol shots. "he's in trouble, thet's wot!" cried the old hunter. "hark, thar's another shot!" he bounded back to the camp fire, but quick as was his movement, allen was ahead of him. both felt that noel's peril must be extreme. "get a torch!" cried watson, and caught up a burning brand. "what of slavin?" questioned allen, but then, as the second shot rang out, he waited no longer, but with a torch in one hand and his gun in the other, he darted up the rocky steps as fast as he could. watson was beside him, with pistol drawn, his gun resting on the side of the cave below. it took but a few seconds to gain the vicinity of the little waterfall but before they came up they heard the third shot and another yell from noel. "my gracious!" burst from allen's throat, as he beheld the awful scene. noel was lying partly on his back, with one foot pressed against the wolverine's stomach. the wild beast still held the young man by the arm. allen realized that whatever good was to be done must be done instantly, and without stopping to think twice he blazed away at the wolverine, twice in quick succession. watson likewise fired, and the creature was struck each time. with a yelp that was almost human the wolverine turned, let go his hold on noel, and leaped for allen. "take care!" yelled watson, and then fired another shot, just as the wolverine, unable to reach allen's throat, made a clutch at his left leg. the shot from the old hunter took the beast directly in the right eye, piercing his brain, and he fell over like a lump of lead, to move no more. "a close shave fer ye," remarked watson, when he saw that allen was uninjured. "a big one, too," he went on, shoving the wolverine with his foot. "how are ye, urner?" "i--i guess i am not much hurt!" gasped noel, when he felt able to speak. "the beast bit me in the arm though." "it's lucky he wasn't after gittin' at yer throat. i knowed a man onct as got a nip in the throat from a wolverine that made him pass in his checks then an' thar." "it was a terrible encounter! i thought i was a goner sure." "didn't you have a torch?" questioned allen. "i did, but the water struck it and put it out." "the darkness was what made the critter so bold," remarked watson. "they're afeered o' fire, jes' like most o' wild beasts." "oh, my, we forgot slavin!" burst suddenly from allen's lips. "i'll wager a horse he has dusted out!" "ye're right," returned watson, and began to make his way back to the camp fire with all speed, and with allen close beside him. noel was too weak to run and had to walk. he was still very white and his limbs trembled under him because of the unusual excitement. the camp fire gained, it needed but a single glance around to convince them that slavin had indeed gone. "took my shootin' iron, too, consarn him!" ejaculated ike watson. "what fools we wuz ter leave him yere alone!" "we saved noel's life by the operation," answered allen. "thet's so, too, but----" "you hate to see him get away. so do i, and--look!" "what now?" "he has taken one of the horses, too!" allen was right, the best of the horses was gone. "he ain't got much o' a start," said watson. "so let us git arfter him hot-footed." "i am with you on that, watson; he must not get away under any circumstances. if he does----" "we won't be able to git on the trail o' yer uncle." "that's it." both were soon in the saddle, and shouted back to noel to keep the fire burning and wait for their return. then away they dashed into the midnight darkness. the storm still continued and the rain poured down with a steadiness that was dismal enough to contemplate. but to the discomfort allen gave scant heed. "he must not get away," he said, to himself, over and over again. "we must capture him and make him take us to where the gang have uncle barnaby a prisoner." "right ye air, allen." to follow a trail under such circumstances was not easy, yet they found some tracks in the soft dirt directly in front of the cliff and these led on the back trail and then to where there was a deep ravine between the rocky slopes of the mountains. half a mile was covered and watson called a halt. "ye want ter go slow yere," he cautioned, "i don't like the looks o' this territory nohow." "what is wrong with it?" "full o' holes, fer one thing, and water under the surface. we'll go slow," and they did. occasionally it lightened and by the flashes of light they made out a fringe of woods skirting the hollow. the wind was coming up and this swept through the trees with a mournful sound. they were moving with care when they heard a sudden yell ahead. it was slavin calling to his horse. "back up!" they heard him cry. "back, hang ye! de ye want ter pitch me in a hole?" and then followed a savage muttering they could not make out. "we've got him!" cried watson. "come--but be careful, be careful." "i'm going to dismount," said allen, and did so and led his steed forward along the trail which the rain had made slippery and treacherous. watson likewise got down and they now had to wait for another flash of lightning to show them just where they were. as the flash came allen gave a look ahead. "well, i never!" he ejaculated. "wot did ye see?" came quickly from the old hunter. "slavin has tumbled down and the horse with him." "then we've got the rascal sure!" they plunged forward again. the trail was narrower than ever and the gully, or hollow, was on one side, and a fringe of mountain brush on the other. presently they heard something which served to increase their surprise. slavin was groaning as if in extreme pain. "the fall hurt him," said allen, "look after my horse, will you? i am going ahead." he hurried on around a slight turn of the trail and through a clump of bushes and trees growing close to the edge of the hollow. as he emerged from the bushes a sight met his gaze that thrilled him to the backbone. slavin had fallen over the edge of the trail at a point where lay a huge half-rotted trunk of a tree. the trunk of the tree had slipped in the wet, rolled partly over the man, and was slowly but surely crushing the life out of him! chapter xxvii. allen shows his bravery "slavin!" "hel-help!" gasped the poor wretch. "help! for the love of heaven, help me!" "how did you get under the tree trunk?" "my horse kicked me and i fell. i tried to save myself from going into the hollow. please help me!" "thet's wot ye git fer runnin' away," put in watson, who had appeared on the scene. "don't--don't talk! save me!" was slavin's only answer. "we'll do what we can for you," returned allen. yet even as he spoke he realized how difficult, not to say dangerous, was the task which lay before him. should he attempt to roll the log over it might catch him just as it had caught the suffering wretch now under it. "take care, allen!" warned watson. "the bank here is mighty slippery." "i know it," was the answer. "watson, can you hold yonder branch?" "wait till i tether the hosses." this was done as quickly as possible and then the old hunter caught hold of the branch allen had mentioned. allen got down under the lower end of the fallen tree and caught slavin by the arm. "can't you turn over?" he asked. "i--i--can't budge!" was the low answer. and then with a groan the prisoner became insensible. "he has fainted!" cried allen, to watson. "pull on that branch for all you are worth." "i'm a-pullin'." still the tree trunk did not budge, for one end was embedded in the mud lying on the edge of the bank. allen was determined to save the poor wretch who was slowly but surely having his chest crushed in by the sinking tree. finding he could not move the tree he called on watson to hold fast as before. "ye can't do nothin', allen," protested the old hunter. "come away afore the tree rolls over an' crushes ye too!" "it won't roll if you hold fast," allen answered. "yes, it will, when it starts. i can't git nothin' ter brace ag'in here." "well, i'm going to do my best and you must hold back as long as you can," was the answer. getting down on his knees, allen began to scoop away the loose dirt with his hands, working directly under slavin's body. it was hard work and broke his finger nails, but he kept on and at last had quite a hole made. "now hold hard, i'm going to pull!" he shouted to watson, and the old hunter held as hard as he could. then allen pulled with might and main and at last had the satisfaction of getting the senseless body of slavin free from its awful pressure. "quick, the tree is a-goin'!" came from watson. "give me yer hand!" he reached forth and at the same time the tree began to slide down the hollow, directly in allen's pathway. allen had slavin in his arms by this time. he made a leap and got on top of the tree, and just as the trunk went down watson caught him and held tight. "a close call an' no error!" cried watson, when allen was safe on the trail once more. "ye came within an ace o' goin' into the hollow with the tree on top o' ye!" "i guess slavin's pretty badly hurt," said allen, when he could get back his breath. "that trunk had him pinned down for fair. he would have been crushed in another minute or two. what shall we do with him?" "wait till i catch his hoss an' we'll take him back to the cave," answered watson. to catch the animal was not difficult and close at hand they found the gun slavin had stolen. then while allen carried the firearms and led one horse and rode another, watson took up the unconscious man in his arms and followed on his own steed to the cave. they found noel sitting by the fire nursing his lacerated arm. the wound was an ugly affair but by no means dangerous, and after it was washed and bandaged it felt a great deal better, although the arm was bound to be stiff for several weeks to come and sore in the bargain. "got him, i see," remarked the young man, as he glanced at slavin. "what's the trouble, did you have to shoot him?" "no, he got under a fallen tree," answered allen. the unconscious man was placed in a comfortable position near the fire, which was heaped up with fresh wood, that all might dry themselves, and watson went to work to restore slavin. this was no mean task and it was a good half hour before the man opened his eyes to stare about him. "i--i--where am i?" he stammered. "yer safe," answered watson, laconically. "that tree--did i go over into the hollow?" "no." "how did i escape?" "allen winthrop saved ye." "he did!" "yes, slavin; he's yer best friend, if ye only know it," went on the old hunter warmly. "but i--don't--don't understand." in a few words watson explained the situation to which slavin listened with much interest. then his eyes rested on allen. "i'm much erbliged ter ye," he said slowly, and his manner showed he meant it. "you were a fool ter try ter git away," went on watson. "i know thet--now," muttered the hurt one. "don't ye know i would have plugged ye on sight?" "would ye?" "sartain shur, slavin." "wall, i won't give ye another chance," responded slavin, with a heavy sigh. "ye won't git the chance, ye mean," said the old hunter, significantly. "all right, jes' as ye please, watson. but if thet young feller saved my life why i'm----" "what?" "i'm going to make it up ter him, thet's all." "do you mean that you will lead us without any further trouble?" questioned allen eagerly. "thet's wot i do mean, an' i'll swear ter it if ye want me ter," added slavin, solemnly. "you needn't swear, slavin." "but i mean it, winthrop. i may be a bad man, but i ain't so all-fired bad as ter forgit a man when he does me a good turn," went on the sufferer, with increased earnestness. "well, i will take you at your word." "but i can't go on just yet. i've got a terrible pain in my breast, here." "i suppose you have. we shan't move to-night and maybe not to-morrow. it will depend upon how noel urner feels." "oh, i'll go on," said noel. "but i think a little rest here will do us all good," he added, thoughtfully. "yes, ye all need it," put in watson. "an' now i want all o' ye to turn in an' git some sleep. i'll stay on guard." "but not all night," insisted allen. "wake me at two or three o'clock." and so it was arranged. chapter xxviii. a buffalo stampede allen went on duty at three o'clock and remained on guard until six, when the others awoke. the sun was showing itself in the east and all that remained of the storm were a few scattering drops. "how do you feel?" asked allen of noel. "fairly well, although the arm is stiff, allen." and the young man continued: "what shall we do with the wolverine?" "nothing, unless you want the pelt." "i never want to see the beast again," said noel, with a shudder for which allen could not blame him. "then let him lie for the other wild beasts to feed upon." when watson arose allen had breakfast ready and all ate without delay. even slavin got around, but it was plain to see that he was suffering. "i want ter show ye i mean ter do what i said," he told allen. "i'll go on if i drop in my tracks." "we won't start just yet, slavin," answered allen, "and when we do we'll take it rather easy, both for your benefit and for mr. urner's." it was past ten o'clock when they left the cave. their horses were much refreshed by the rest taken, and despite slavin's hurts fair progress was made along the foothills. it was a lonely section of the state through which they were traveling and allen could not help mentioning this fact to ike watson. but at his words the old hunter merely laughed. "lonely," he snorted. "gosh all hemlock, allen, it ain't half as lonely as it used ter be, not by a jugful. why, i remember the time ye could ride fer days an' days an' see nuthin' but buffalo or some other wild critters." "the buffalo are almost all gone now, aren't they?" "putty much, an' it's a great shame, too, fer they were fine game. but them sports used ter come out west an' kill 'em off by the score, worse luck! didn't want 'em fer nuthin' either!" and watson shook his head sorrowfully. "were you ever caught in a buffalo stampede, ike?" "onct, allen, onct, an' it's an experience i'll never fergit as long as i live." "i should like to hear the particulars." "thet ain't really much ter tell, allen. i wuz out on crazy tom mountain at the time. reckon ye know the place." "fairly well." "well, it wuz while the buffalo had been over to the fork. grazin' wuzn't very good thet season an' the critters wuz rather ugly in consequence." "yes, i've heard they get bad when their feed is cut short." "as i wuz sayin', i wuz up alongside o' crazy tom mountain, looking fer b'ar, an' i had jes' struck a fine trail when i heered a curious sound on the tudder side o' the hill. i couldn't make it out nohow at fust, but byme-by i thought it must be buffalo, an' i wuz right." "did they come right down on you?" "no, worse luck, they didn't. if they hed i might have scooted to one side or tudder. but instead o' comin' straight over the mountain--'tain's high, ye remember--they came around on both sides, an' afore i knowed it, i wuz right in the middle o' 'em." "what did you do?" asked allen, as watson paused reflectively. "at fust i didn't know what ter do persackly. i shot one of 'em, but bless ye, thet wuzn't nuthin', and i calkerlated as how i'd have ter ride fer it. then of a sudden my hoss got scared and shot me over his head into a big thorn bush and made off like a streak o' greased lightnin', leaving me alone." "with the buffalo all around you?" "jes' so, more'n twenty o' 'em, an' more'n a hundred others comin' up fast as they could leg it. i kin tell ye i wuz in a fix an' no error." "it must have hurt you to land in the thorn bush?" "hurt? wall say, it wuz like bein' dumped into a pit full o' daggers, that wuz! hain't fergot the awful stickin' pain yit an' never will! but bein' chucked into thet thorn bush saved my life." "didn't the buffalo touch the bush?" "nary a one. they would come up close, on a dead run, an' then shy like a skittish hoss afore a bit o' white paper. time an' ag'in i thought one would heave hisself atop o' me an' squash me, but the time didn't come. say, but it wuz a sight, that wuz!" went on watson earnestly. "them buffalo was mad, clean stark mad, and trampled all over each other. the stampede at thet p'int didn't last more 'n three minutes an' arfter it wuz over thar wuz five buffalo dead less than four yards away from me!" "tramped to death by the others?" "yes, smashed up too. ye never saw sech a sight. arfter thet ye can calkerlate i keep clear o' all other stampedes," concluded the old hunter. talking over one thing and another the party moved along until about one o'clock, when a halt was made for dinner. allen found that noel was suffering but little but his arm was well bandaged. slavin, however, was pale. "you need a rest, slavin," he said, kindly. "i reckon ye air right," was the faint response. "didn't calkerlate ter git sech an all-gone feelin'." "we'll rest until the worst of the heat is over; eh, ike?" "jes' as ye say," answered the old hunter. they found an inviting spot in a small grove of trees close to a spring and a brook, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. slavin was glad enough to drop into a light doze. "he's a changed man, unless i miss my guess," said allen to noel. "i think you are right, allen. that adventure took him so close to death i fancy it rather awakened his conscience." "i hope he does turn over a new leaf. he doesn't appear such a bad fellow at heart." "you are right. i suppose some men get bad out here simply because they haven't any good example to follow. they cut loose from their old associates and fall in with the wrong sort." "that's just it, and it's so much easier to find the wrong sort than the right sort. some men think life altogether too slow unless they are doing something against the law." allen, as he rested, could not help but think of his two brothers. what were chet and paul doing? he sincerely trusted all was going well with them. "they ought to be old enough to take care of themselves," said noel. "you mustn't worry too much on their account." "well, we have to be on guard out here night and day, noel. you really don't know who to trust." "oh, i know that." "just think of what my uncle has suffered, and of what he may be suffering this minute. it is enough to make one's blood boil!" "it may not be as bad as you imagine, allen. your uncle must know a thing or two." "of course, but one man can't do much against three or four, or half a dozen. those rascals will do all in their power to bring him to terms, rest assured of that." "well, i am willing to push on at any time you say." "i'll push on as fast as slavin can travel. i can't do more than that. if he caves in on our hands we'll have no means of finding out anything more about my uncle's whereabouts." "he can't be shamming, can he?" "not a bit of it. he was caught under the tree and i wouldn't have been in his position for a thousand dollars." "then don't push him any harder than you dare. to me he looks like a fellow who might be getting a fever." "i noticed that. but i hope he doesn't," concluded allen. but the fever was coming and by nightfall all of the others saw that slavin was in a bad way. he sat up and began to talk wildly. "let me go! take the tree from me!" he cried. "i haven't got the money! oh, how do ye do mr. winthrop. glad to see me, eh? and how is that new mine, an' what kind of a trade are ye goin' to make with captain grady, eh? ha! ha! the cave by the seven pines! a good hiding place, the seven pines! let me go, the tree is crushing me!" and then he fell back almost exhausted. "he won't travel any more, not jes' yet," said watson, soberly. "he's up ag'in a long spell o' sickness." "did you hear what he said about captain grady?" asked allen. "i did. he must be in this game, too. an' the seven pines." "the cave must be at a place called the seven pines," said noel. "if it is i think i know the spot," answered ike watson. "i ran across 'em seven pines two years ago. they air about two miles from here, on the other side o' the mountain. we'll have ter go around ter git ter 'em." an hour later allen and watson left slavin in noel urner's care and struck out for the place on the other side of the mountain which the old hunter had mentioned. chapter xxix. the long lost found before leaving camp both allen and ike watson saw to it that their weapons were in good condition and ready for immediate use. "no tellin' what we may run up ag'inst," said the old hunter. "well, i am ready to fight, if it comes to that," returned allen, grimly. "but i would rather take the enemy by surprise." "thet would be the best way, allen. but fust we must locate thet cave." the ride around the mountain was a rather trying one and from a gallop they had to slow down to a walk. in some spots the trail was much cut up and the mud was deep, while in others they had to pick their way over rocks which were as smooth as they were dangerous. "look thar," said watson, as he paused on a spur of the rocks. "thar's a tumble fer ye!" he pointed to a canyon all of five hundred feet deep and allen had to draw back after looking into the awful depth. "if a fellow should tumble here he would never live to tell it," said the young ranchman. "this would be a bad trail to follow in the dark." moving away from the spur of rocks overlooking the canyon, they turned to the northwest and plunged through a forest of cedar and hemlock. here the wild birds were numerous and allen was tempted to bring some of them down with his gun, but watson demurred. "no use o' makin' too much noise," he explained. "remember, somebody may be on guard up at thet cave." "slavin said he thought only an old woman had been left in charge--a woman who claimed to be darry nodley's wife." "didn't know as how thet rascal hed a wife." "that is what slavin said." "it might be the truth, and then ag'in, it might not. we don't want ter believe too much, allen." "i agree with you, ike. but i think slavin was really anxious to help us after we did him that good turn." the old hunter shrugged his shoulders. "perhaps; but i've seen too much foul play in my time ter trust everybody. thar may be a woman up thar, an' thar may be some men-folks too." so the talk ran on and they gradually drew closer to where the old hunter had once seen the seven pine trees. to one not used to a life in the open, to remember such a locality after two years' absence would have been difficult, but it was not so with ike watson. "can't fool me on a thing like this," he said, flatly. "onct i see a place it hangs in my mind forever. same way with a trail. why onct i struck a trail in the south o' the state, kind o' a mixed trail too. i didn't see thet trail fer nigh onto six years, but when i did see it ag'in i knew it jes' as quick as i clapped eyes on it." "i believe you," replied the young ranchman. "you have an eye like a hawk," and in that allen was right. the sun was sinking low in the west when they came out of a defile in the rocks and the old hunter pointed to a valley on the opposite side of the foothills below them. "do ye see them, over thar?" he questioned. allen gave a long look. "i do--seven pines, sure enough!" "told ye i'd remember the spot!" cried watson, triumphantly. "but where is the cave?" went on the young ranchman. "like as not it's close by. come, before the sun goes down an' it gits too dark." soon they were making their way along the foothills at the lower side of the mountain. they had to pass through considerable brush and while they were doing this watson suddenly halted and pointed to his side. "what is it?" asked allen, as he also halted. "if thet ain't a putty fresh trail then i miss my guess." "it does look fresh, ike." "ain't over twenty-four hours old, nohow," went on the old hunter. "allen, i reckon we have struck it about right." "but i see nothing of a cave." "let us follow the trail. the cave may not be persackly by the pines but in sight o' them, do ye see?" "i do." "thet trail is almost in the direction i wuz goin'," continued watson. "so we won't miss much if we go wrong. forward it is!" and again they struck out, this time with increased confidence. as they progressed the old hunter examined the hoof marks from time to time and said he was certain two horsemen had passed that way. but just as they were coming to the end of the foothills they reached a mountain water course and here the trail came to an abrupt end. "we are stumped now," said allen, after both had crossed to the other side of the stream. "i ain't a-givin' up jes' yet," answered watson. "oh, neither am i. but where has the trail gone to?" "let us move down the stream a bit," suggested the old hunter. "i don't think the hossmen who made thet trail would stick ter the water very long." on they went once more, and now in silence, for both felt that the cave might be close at hand. the seven pines were still in view, standing upon a hillock by themselves. at last they came to a spot where the water course broadened out into a tiny lake. at this point there was another brook, coming down from a spring upon the hillside. "the trail!" cried allen, presently, and pointed it out. "right ye air, allen," returned watson. "an' i reckon we air gittin' close ter the end on it too," he added suggestively. but little more was said and they quickly followed the trail up to where a wall of rocks arose, standing boldly out from the foothills and facing the seven pines. "if i ain't mistaken thar's a cave over yonder," whispered watson, pointing with his hand. "forward we go!" cried allen, and dashed ahead, with his weapon ready for use. two minutes later a turn of the trail brought them into plain view of a large cave in the cliff side. "eureka!" began watson, when allen checked his speech. "somebody is coming!" he whispered. "a woman! get behind the brush!" he led the way and watson followed, and both waited with bated breath. presently a woman passed them, carrying an empty water bucket. she was bound for the spring just mentioned. "that must be the woman slavin mentioned," went on allen, in a low voice. "like as not," whispered the old hunter in return. "shall we capture her?" "no--wait." they waited and presently the woman came back with the bucket full of water. she entered the cavern without looking around her. "let us follow her on foot," suggested allen, and they tied up their horses. soon the entrance to the cave was gained and they peered inside. for the moment they could see but little, for there was only a low fire burning in the cavern. then of a sudden allen let out a wild cry: "look! look! there is my uncle barnaby, tied fast to the rear wall!" chapter xxx. together at last--conclusion allen spoke the truth. there, tied by strong ropes to a projecting rock, was the uncle of the winthrop boys. his face was pale and haggard, showing he had suffered much since his confinement. forgetting the woman, allen dashed forward. "uncle barnaby! how glad i am that we have found you!" he cried loudly. "who is that?" the prisoner sprang up from where he was resting. "allen!" "yes, uncle! are you not glad to see me?" "glad is not a strong enough word, my boy!" was the reply from barnaby winthrop, and as soon as allen had released him he caught his nephew in his arms. "i was praying to be rescued." "they have not treated you well, i can see that, uncle." "they have used me worse than a dog. they wanted to get my secret from me, and used every means in their power to accomplish their purpose." "but they did not succeed, did they?" "no. i told them i would die rather than allow the scoundrels to get rich through my instrumentality." a scuffle behind them stopped the conversation. ike watson was trying to secure the woman, who was struggling desperately to get away. by biting and scratching the desperate female at last freed herself from the old hunter's grasp. then she bounded for the cave entrance. watson aimed his gun at her and then lowered the weapon. "reckon i won't," he drawled. "never did shoot at a woman, an' i'm too old ter begin now. she don't count, anyhow!" and thus the woman was allowed to escape. she lost no time in quitting the vicinity. the old hunter shook hands warmly with barnaby winthrop, who was profuse in his thanks to watson for what he had accomplished. "you shall lose nothing by what you have done, ike," he said. "just wait till i open up that new claim." "speaking of the claim, there is somebody else to see you," began allen, when the talk was interrupted by the clattering of horses' hoofs on the rocks outside. "saul mangle and darry nodley!" exclaimed allen, as he glanced down the stony trail. "they are coming here, too!" "they belong to the gang," said barnaby winthrop. "reckon ez how we can receive 'em all right," put in ike watson, dryly. as quickly as possible barnaby winthrop was provided with firearms. "my gracious!" it was allen who let out the cry, loud enough for those who were approaching to hear. "what's up?" asked his uncle. "look back of them." all did so, and then a shout went up. there only a few hundred yards to the rear, were chet and paul, trying their best to run down the horse thieves, whom they had discovered but a short five minutes before. "we've got 'em corralled!" said watson, grimly. "look, there is jack blowfen, too!" ejaculated allen, as the cowboy also came into view. "halt!" ike watson uttered the command. he ran into the open, followed by the others. a shout went up from saul mangle and darry nodley, and then another from those in the rear. "there is allen!" "there is uncle barnaby!" "capture the horse thieves!" the two rascals were bewildered and paused, not knowing which way to turn. they were quickly surrounded, and it was old ike watson who commanded them to throw down their weapons. at first they felt inclined to refuse, but a glance at the stern faces about them caused them to comply. "the jig is up!" muttered saul mangle, and nodley groaned inwardly. there was another joyous greeting between uncle and nephews when paul and chet rode up. in the meanwhile jack blowfen assisted ike watson in making prisoners of mangle and nodley. the latter asked for his wife and seemed disappointed to learn she could not share his captivity. allen and barnaby winthrop were glad to learn that captain grady was a prisoner. "when i am done with him i warrant he'll not give any of us further trouble," said the uncle of the boys. before the party left the vicinity, saul mangle and nodley were searched, and from them were taken the seven hundred dollars which had been stolen from the ranch home, as related at the beginning of this story. the prisoners were removed to daddy wampole's hotel, and later on were placed in the hands of the sheriff. the sheriff also took into custody captain hank grady and lou bluckburn. the colored man, jeff jones, was, by the advice of chet and paul, allowed to go his own way on promise to turn over a new leaf. slavin was taken to a hospital and later on let go. several years have passed since the events above recorded took place. in that period of time many important changes have occurred. the horse thieves and would-be claim stealers were all duly tried according to law, and are now serving various terms of imprisonment. the ranch belonging to captain grady was confiscated by creditors from deadwood and sold to barnaby winthrop, who turned it over to the three boys to add to the ranch already belonging to them. the winthrop mine is now in operation and is paying very well. it is managed by barnaby winthrop himself, and noel urner owns a large block of stock, which he considers the best investment he ever made. caleb dottery and jack blowfen manage the ranch jointly in connection with their former work, doing this on shares for the winthrop boys. as for old ike watson, he still roams the hills and mountains. he can have a good home with barnaby winthrop any time he wishes, but says he is not yet ready to settle down. and allen, paul, and chet? the three boys are all in san francisco. allen is in college, and his two brothers are preparing to follow at a well-known private school. allen is to be a lawyer, and privately has a notion he may enter politics as the state of idaho grows in importance. paul is inclined to be a doctor. chet has not yet settled the question of a future occupation. "i think i'll go in with uncle barnaby," he said a few days ago. "i love the mountains too well to stick in any city. i'll become a mine owner and speculator in claims and cattle." they are all happy together, and, come what may, will never forget their adventures when they were left alone on the ranch to combat their many unknown enemies. the apricot tree. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education, appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: printed for the society for promoting christian knowledge; sold at the depository, great queen street, lincoln's inn fields; and , royal exchange. . * * * * * price twopence. _r. clay, printer_, _bread street hill_. [illustration] the apricot-tree. it was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn. the last rays of the sun, as it sunk behind the golden clouds, gleamed in at the window of a cottage, which stood in a pleasant lane, about a quarter of a mile from the village of ryefield. on each side of the narrow gravel walk that led from the lane to the cottage-door, was a little plot of cultivated ground. that on the right hand was planted with cabbages, onions, and other useful vegetables; that on the left, with gooseberry and currant-bushes, excepting one small strip, where stocks, sweet-peas, and rose-trees were growing; whose flowers, for they were now in full bloom, peeping over the neatly trimmed quick-hedge that fenced the garden from the road, had a gay and pretty appearance. not a weed was to be found in any of the beds; the gooseberry and currant-bushes had evidently been pruned with much care and attention, and were loaded with fine ripe fruit. but the most remarkable thing in the garden was an apricot-tree, which grew against the wall of the cottage, and which was covered with apricots of a large size and beautiful colour. the cottage itself, though small and thatched with straw, was clean and cheerful, the brick floor was strewed with sand, and a white though coarse cloth was spread on the little deal table. on this table were placed tea-things, a loaf of bread, and some watercresses. a cat was purring on the hearth, and a kettle was boiling on the fire. near the window, in a large arm-chair, sat an old woman, with a bible on her knees. she appeared happy and contented, and her countenance expressed cheerfulness and good temper. after reading for some time with great attention, she paused to look from the window into the lane, as if expecting to see some one. she listened as if for a footstep; but all was silent. she read again for about ten minutes longer, and then closing the sacred volume, rose, and, having laid the book carefully on a shelf, opened the door, and went out into the garden, whence she could see farther into the lane, and remained for a considerable time leaning over the little wicket gate, in anxious expectation. "what can be the reason that ned is so late?" she said, half aloud, to herself. "he always hastens home to his poor old grandmother as soon as he has done work. what can make him an hour later than usual? i hope nothing has happened to him. but, hush!" she continued, after a few minutes' pause, "surely i hear him coming now." she was not mistaken, for in a minute or two ned appeared, running quite fast up the lane, and in a few moments more he was standing by her side, panting and breathless. "dear grandmother," he exclaimed, as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak, "i have a great deal of good news to tell you. farmer tomkyns says he will employ me all through the winter, and pay me the same wages that he does now. this is one piece of good news. and the other is, that mr. stockwell, the greengrocer, will buy all my apricots, and give me a good price for them. i am to take them to him next market-day. i had to wait more than half-an-hour before i could speak to him, and that made me so late. o how beautiful they are!" continued he, gazing with admiration at the tree. "o grandmother, how happy i am!" his grandmother smiled, and said she was glad to hear this good news. "and now come in and have your tea, child," she added; "for i am sure you must be hungry." "o grandmother," said ned, as they sat at tea, "now that mr. stockwell will buy the fruit, you will be able to have a cloak to keep you warm this winter. it often used to grieve me, last year, to see you obliged to go to church such bitter cold weather, with only that thin old shawl on. i know you said you could not spare money to get a cloak for yourself, because you had spent all you could save in buying me a jacket. my tree has never borne fruit till this year; and you always said that when it did, i should do what i pleased with the money its fruit would fetch. now, there is nothing i should like to spend it on better than in getting a cloak for you." "thank you, ned," replied his grandmother; "it would indeed be a very great comfort. i do not think i should have suffered so much from rheumatism last winter, if i had had warmer clothing. if it was not for your apricot-tree, i must have gone without a cloak this winter also; for, what with our pig dying, and your having no work to do in the spring, this has been but a bad year for us." "the money mr. stockwell is going to give me," resumed ned, "will be enough all but sixpence; and i have a new sixpence, you know, in a little box upstairs, that my aunt gave me last june, when i went to spend the day with her; so when i carry him the fruit, i shall take that in my pocket, and then when i come home in the evening i can bring the cloak with me. o that will be a happy day!" continued ned, getting up to jump and clap his hands for joy. "there is another thing i am very glad of," said he, sitting down again. "master is going to turn tom andrews away next week." "you ought not to be glad of that, ned. tom is one of a large family; and his father being very poor, it must be a great help to have one of his children earning something." "but he is ill-natured to me, and often plagues me very much. it was only yesterday he broke the best hoe, by knocking stones about with it, and then told master it was my doing. besides, he is idle, and does not mind what is said to him, and often gets into mischief." "and do you think being turned away from farmer tomkyns's will help to cure these faults?" "no," answered ned; "i do not suppose it will." "on the contrary, is it not likely that he will grow more idle, and get oftener into mischief, when he has no master to look after him, and nothing to do all day long but play about the streets?" "why, yes, that is true. still, it will serve him right to be turned away. i have heard mr. harris, our rector, say that those who do wrong ought to be punished." "pray, ned," asked his grandmother, "can you tell me what is the use of punishment?" "the use of punishment!--" repeated ned, thoughtfully. "let me think. the use of punishment, i believe, is to make people better." "right. now, ned, you have allowed that tom's being turned away is not likely to make him better, but worse; so that i am afraid the true reason why you rejoice at his disgrace is because you bear resentment against him, for having been ill-natured to yourself. think a minute, and tell me if this is not the case." ned owned that his grandmother was right; and then observed, "it is very difficult not to bear ill-will against any one who has done us wrong." "yet," rejoined his grandmother, "it is our duty to pardon those who have injured us. st. paul says, in his epistle to the ephesians, 'be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as god for christ's sake hath forgiven you.' and our blessed saviour has commanded us to 'love our enemies,' to 'do good to them that hate us, and to pray for those that despitefully use us, and persecute us.' if you will look at the fourteenth and fifteenth verses of the sixth chapter of st. matthew, you will see what else our lord says on the subject." ned took the bible, and having found the place, read, "for if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly father will also forgive you: but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly father forgive your trespasses." "before you go to bed," said his grandmother, when he had finished reading, "i wish you to get by heart these three texts, and repeat them to me." ned did as he was desired, and then his grandmother kissed him, and bid him good-night. ned loved his grandmother very much, for she had always been kind to him. his parents had both died when he was very young; and she then brought him home to live with her, and had taken care of him ever since. she taught him to read and write, and cast up sums; to be steady and industrious; and, above all, it was her great care to instil into his mind religious principles. she had often told him that the way to profit by what we read, as well as by the good advice that may be given us, is to think upon it afterwards; and she frequently desired him to make a practice of saying over to himself every night whatever verses from the bible he had learnt by heart during the day. this evening, when ned repeated his texts, he felt that he had been wrong to rejoice at tom andrews's disgrace, because he had behaved ill to himself; and he prayed god to make tom see his faults, and leave off his bad ways. the next day ned, as usual, went early to his work. tom andrews was very teasing, but ned tried not to be provoked; and when tom said ill-natured things to him, he checked the angry replies he was tempted to make. two days afterwards, when ned came home to tea, he thought with pleasure that to-morrow was market-day at the town where mr. stockwell lived; and he ran in and out twenty times, to look at, and admire, his beautiful apricot-tree. "i must get up very early indeed to-morrow morning," he said to his grandmother, "that i may gather the apricots, and take them to mr. stockwell before i go to my work." accordingly the next morning he rose as soon as it was light, and, taking a basket the greengrocer had lent him in his hand, went into the little garden to line it with fresh green leaves, before putting the fruit into it. what was his surprise and sorrow when he saw that every one of his apricots was gone, and the tree itself sawn nearly in two, close to the root! throwing down his basket, ned ran to his grandmother, who was just come down stairs, and had begun to light the fire. he could only exclaim, "o my apricots, my apricots, they are all gone! and my beautiful tree--" then covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears. "what is the matter, my dear?" inquired his grandmother. ned replied by taking her by the hand, and leading her into the garden. "who can have done this?" he exclaimed, sobbing. "if they had only stolen the apricots, i could have borne it better! but to see my dear tree spoiled--it must die--it must be quite killed--only look how it is cut!" "i am very sorry for you, my poor boy," said his grandmother, kindly. "it is a most vexatious thing." "oh!" cried ned, "if i did but know who it was that had done it--" "i would be revenged on them, some how or other," he was going to have added; but the texts which he had learned a few days before concerning the forgiveness of injuries, and which he had frequently repeated to himself since, came into his mind, and he stopped short. on looking round the garden, to see if they could discover any traces of the thief, ned and his grandmother saw the prints of a boy's shoe, rather bigger than ned's, in several of the beds, and hanging on the quick-hedge were some tattered fragments of a red cotton handkerchief checked with white. "i know this handkerchief," said ned; "it is tom andrews's; i have often seen him with it tied round his neck. it must be he who stole my apricots." "you cannot be sure that it is tom who stole your apricots," rejoined his grandmother. "many other people besides him have red handkerchiefs." "but i am sure it can be no one but tom; for only yesterday, when i told him about my apricots, and the money i expected to get for them, he said he wished he knew how to get some, that he might have money too. oh! if i could but get hold of him--" again he stopped, and thought of our saviour's words; then, turning to his grandmother, he said, "whoever it is that has robbed us of the fruit, i forgive him, even if it is tom andrews." ned went to work that day with a heavy heart. tom andrews was in high glee; for his master had said he would give him another week's trial. ned told him of the misfortune that had happened to him, and thought that tom looked rather confused. he also remarked that his companion had not got the red handkerchief on that he usually wore about his neck; and he asked him the reason. "i tore it last night, scrambling through a hedge," replied tom carelessly. "how came you to be scrambling through a hedge last night?" inquired ned. "what makes you ask me that question?" returned the other, sharply. "because," answered ned, fixing his eyes upon him, "because the person who stole my apricots left part of a red handkerchief hanging on our hedge." "do you mean to say, then, that _i_ stole them?" exclaimed his companion, in an angry tone. "i'll teach you to tell this of me." so saying, he struck ned a blow on the face with his fist, before ned was aware what he was going to do. ned was very much tempted to strike in return; but just as he raised his arm, something seemed to whisper that he ought not to do so; and, drawing back a few steps, he called after tom, who was beginning to run away, saying, "you need not be afraid of me. i am not going to strike you, though you did strike me; because it is wrong to return evil for evil." "fine talking, indeed!" rejoined tom, tauntingly. "i know very well the reason why you will not strike me again. you dare not, because i am the biggest and strongest. you are afraid of me." now ned was no coward. he would have fought in a good cause with a boy twice his size; and he was very much provoked at the words and manner of his companion. he had a hard struggle with himself not to return the blow; but he kept firm to the good resolution he had made, and went away. as he was returning home very sorrowful, he could not help thinking how happy he had expected to be that evening; and he regretted extremely that his grandmother would have no cloak to keep her warm in the cold weather. still, the recollection that he had patiently borne the blow and insulting speeches of tom, and thus endeavoured to put in practice the good precepts he had been taught, consoled him, and made him feel less sad than he would otherwise have been. "how did you get that black eye, ned?" asked his grandmother, as soon as she saw him. "i hope you have not been fighting." "no, grandmother, indeed i have not," replied ned; and he told her how it had happened. his grandmother said that he was a good boy to have acted as he did, and added, "it makes me happier to find that you behave well, than twenty new cloaks would." the next day, at dinner time, when ned went into the little outhouse where he and tom usually ate this meal, he found tom sitting there crying. "what makes you cry, tom?" inquired ned. "because i have no dinner," was the reply. "how happens that?" asked ned. "because, now father's out of work, mother says she can only give us two meals a-day. i only had a little bit of bread this morning; and i shall have nothing else till i go home in the evening, and then she will give me a cold potato or two." ned's grandmother had given him that day for his dinner a large slice of bread, and a piece of cold bacon. ned had been working hard, and was very hungry. he could have eaten all the bread and bacon with pleasure, and felt certain that if he had got no dinner and tom had, tom would not have given him any of his. he recollected that tom had never in his life shown him any kindness; that, a fortnight ago, when tom had had four apples given him, he had eaten them all himself, without even offering him part of one; and, above all, he called to mind that tom was in all probability the person who had robbed him of his apricots, and killed his favourite apricot-tree. but he remembered our saviour's command, "do good to them that hate you;" and though tom was a bad boy, yet it grieved ned to see him crying with hunger, whilst he himself had food to eat. so he divided both the bread and the bacon into two equal shares, with his knife, and then, going up to tom, gave him one portion, and desired him to eat it. tom looked at ned in some surprise, and then, taking the food that was offered him, ate it in a ravenous manner, without saying a word. "he might just have thanked me," thought ned to himself; but he forbore to tell tom so. ned always read a chapter in the bible to his grandmother every night when he came home from work. it happened that this evening the chapter fixed on was the twelfth of st. paul's epistle to the romans. he was much struck by one of the verses in it: "therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head." "grandmother," said ned, when he had concluded the chapter, "i understand the first part of this verse very well, it is plain enough; but what is meant by the words, 'for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head?'" his grandmother replied, that this passage had once puzzled her; but that an old lady with whom she had lived when she was a girl, and who kindly took great pains in explaining different parts of the bible that were hard to be understood, had made this quite clear to her. "she told me," continued his grandmother, "that the apostle alludes to the custom of melting gold and other metals by fire; and his meaning is, that as coals of fire melt and soften the metals on which they are heaped, so by kindness and gentleness we may melt and soften our enemy, and make him love, instead of hating us." ned thanked his grandmother for this explanation, and then was silent for some little time. "perhaps," he said to himself, "if i go on being kind to tom andrews, i shall at last make him love me, and leave off teasing me and saying ill-natured things." he would not tell his grandmother that he had given tom part of his dinner, for fear she should another day give him more; and he knew she could not do this without robbing herself. tom's father remained out of work for several weeks; and tom would have been obliged to go without a dinner most days, if ned had not regularly given him half his. for some time tom received his companion's kindness sulkily, and without appearing at all grateful; but at last ned's good-natured conduct appeared to touch him, and he said-- "how kind you are to me, ned! though i am sure i have done nothing to deserve kindness from you. father often says he wishes i was more like you; and i do think i should be happier if i was, for you always seem cheerful and contented, though you work harder than i do." "i like working," answered ned; "nothing makes me so dull as being idle. besides, as grandmother says, people are far more likely to do wrong when they are not employed. you know the lines in the hymn,-- 'for satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,'" tom looked down and coloured. ned, who had not meant to give him pain by what he said, added, on observing tom's confusion-- "i have so many things i like to do when i go home after work, that i don't deserve praise for not being idle." "i wish i had anything i liked to do when work is over," returned tom; "but i have nothing to do but play, and i soon get tired of that." "so do i," rejoined ned. "i like a game of ball or cricket every now and then as well as anybody; but it is a great waste of time, to say the least of it, to spend all one's spare hours in play; besides, as you say, we get tired, and do not enjoy play if we have too much of it." "what do you do of an evening, that is so pleasant?" inquired tom. "why i keep our little garden in order;--that takes up a good deal of time; and i write a copy, and do a sum or two, and read the bible to grandmother." "i should like that very well," observed tom, "all except reading the bible." "oh, do not say so!" exclaimed ned; "surely you do not mean it." "i dare say," rejoined tom, "that i should like the bible well enough if i could understand it; but it's so hard! _you_ understand it all, i suppose?" "oh, dear no! that i do not; but grandmother sometimes explains what is hard, and tells me a great many pleasing things about the manners of the country where our saviour and his apostles lived. i never am happier than when i read to her, and she talks to me about what i have read." "well," said tom, "mother hears me read a chapter now and then, but she always seems to think it a trouble; and so i read as fast as i can, to get it the sooner over. father commonly says, he's too tired to listen." ned said no more on the subject then; but when they had both done work, he asked tom if he would like to walk home with him, and look at his garden. tom hesitated at first; there seemed to be something in the idea that made him uncomfortable. but he had been gradually growing fond of ned, and ned's account of the pleasures and comfort of his home had made him wish to go there; so he told his companion that he would go with him. ned's grandmother received the two boys very kindly, and gave them some tea and bread and butter. having learned from tom that his parents would not be uneasy at his absence, she asked him to stay with them all the evening. the next day tom looked wistfully at ned, as if he wished to go home with him, but did not like to say anything about it. ned observed this, and told him that his grandmother had said he might come whenever he liked. "then i'll go to-night," said tom. and accordingly he went home with ned that evening, and almost every evening afterwards for some time. he helped ned to work in his garden, and took a part in all his other employments. ned always read the bible after tea, which tom at first thought very tiresome; and he would not have stayed, had he not wished for ned's company afterwards to walk part of the way back with him to the village; but soon he became so much interested in what he heard read, as well as by the improving and interesting conversation of ned's grandmother, that he looked forward to the evening's reading as one of the pleasantest events of the day. one afternoon, as the two boys were digging a bed in the garden, tom said to his companion-- "i have long been going to tell you of something that makes me very uncomfortable; but i have never yet had courage to do it. i know you think that i stole your apricots, don't you?" ned did not immediately reply. his good-nature made him unwilling to own that he _did_ suspect tom; and he could not tell an untruth, by saying that he did not suspect him. "well," continued tom, "i am sure you must; and i do not wonder at it. now the truth is, that when you told me about your apricots, i thought to myself that i would come when it was dusk, and take two or three of them just to eat, thinking that you would not miss such a small number. but i did not like to go by myself; so i asked fred morris if he would go with me. he said, 'o yes; he would go anywhere, or do anything, to get some apricots.' he did not know of your tree, he added; or he should have paid it a visit before. i began to be sorry i had told him, and made him promise that he would not take more than three. when it got dark, and we were set out, i felt that i was doing very wrong. i wished to turn back; but fred would not let me. he said i need not take any fruit myself if i wanted to back out; but that if i did not go with him to show him the tree, he would beat me within an inch of my life. so we came to the wicket together; it was fastened, and we clambered over the hedge. fred had a large basket with him, which i had several times asked him about, and tried to make him say what he brought it for. he told me that i should see when the time came. as soon as he got to the tree, he began gathering the apricots as fast as he could, and putting them into his basket. i tried to hinder him, and said i would shout and wake you; but he declared that, if i did, he would kill me; and you know, ned, he is nearly twice as big as i am, and terribly violent; so all i could do was to hold my tongue, and let him alone. just as we were going away, he caught up a saw that was lying in the garden, and spoiled the tree with it. i do believe he did this just for the love of mischief, or maybe partly to spite me, because i had told him not to steal all the apricots. he would not let me have one for my share; though i do not think i could have eaten it if he had, i was so much frightened, and so surprised at him for stealing all your fruit. he besides ordered me not to tell what he had done, and bullied me a great deal about it, till at last i got away from him. i was too much afraid to tell you for a good while, but i could not bear that you should think i had been so very wicked; and at last i made up my mind to tell you exactly how it was. "i know that i have been very wrong," continued tom; "and that if it had not been for me the apricots would not have been stolen. i can't be more sorry than i am. and now that you have heard all, ned, will you forgive me, and try not to think as badly of me as i deserve?" ned said he was glad to hear tom had had no more share in the affair; and then, holding out his hand to tom, he assured him of his entire forgiveness. "indeed, tom," he added, "i forgave you in my heart long ago." "i am sure you did," rejoined tom warmly, "or you would not have been so kind to me. o ned, you cannot think how unhappy it makes me when i recollect how often i have been teasing and ill-natured to you, notwithstanding your good-nature to me!" "say no more about that," replied ned; "you have not been teasing or ill-natured lately. we shall, i hope, always be good friends for the future." when tom was gone, ned related this conversation to his grandmother. "i think," she observed, when he concluded, "that all tom's sin in this matter came from breaking the tenth commandment. if he had not first coveted the apricots, he would not have been tempted to steal them. through earnestly desiring what did not belong to him, he was led not only to commit a great sin himself, but to be the means of leading a fellow-creature into sin also. fred morris would not have thought of robbing the apricot-tree had not tom put it into his head. in the bible we are frequently charged not to lead our brother into sin; and heavy punishments are denounced against him who shall cause another to do evil." "i used to think, grandmother," observed ned, "that the tenth commandment must be the least important of all; i did not suppose there could be any very great harm in merely wishing for what belongs to another person; but i shall never think so in future." several weeks passed away, and the weather began to grow cold and winterly. ned could not help sighing when he saw his grandmother suffering from the cold, and recollected that she had no cloak to keep her warm, and would have none all the winter. he sometimes sighed, too, as he looked at the apricot-tree, whose branches were now dead and withering; and so did tom. both the boys agreed that it had better be cut down, and taken away entirely. "how i wish," exclaimed tom, "that we had another to put in its place!" "so do i," rejoined ned; "but apricot-trees, i believe, are very dear to buy. a gardener my father used to work for, and who is now dead, gave me this. i fear there is no chance of our ever getting another." "how i do wish i was rich!" cried tom; "i would give you an apricot-tree, and all manner of things besides. i should like to be as rich as our squire best; but it would do to be as rich as farmer tomkyns. oh, if i had only half as many sheep, and pigs, and cows, and haystacks, as he has, how happy i should be! don't you wish you had some of the squire's or farmer tomkyns's riches, ned?" "no," replied ned, "i don't; because we ought not to wish for other people's things." he then told tom all that he could remember of what his grandmother had said to him about the sin of coveting what does not belong to us; and that doing so, besides breaking one commandment, is very likely to lead to the breaking of others also. "but," asked tom, "how is it possible to help longing sometimes for things we have not got, and yet see other people have?" "we may not," said ned's grandmother, who had come out to call the boys in to tea, and had overheard the latter part of their conversation; "we may not, perhaps, be always able to prevent covetous or envious thoughts from entering our mind; but we should directly endeavour to drive them away, and pray to god to make us contented with 'that state of life in which it has pleased him to place us.' 'be content with such things as ye have,' says st. paul. and again, speaking of himself, he tells us, 'i have learned, in whatever state i am, therewith to be content.' besides, tom, the rich are not always happy. they have a great many cares and anxieties that we know nothing of. you cannot have forgotten what trouble farmer tomkyns was in last spring when so many of his cattle died of the distemper, and he was afraid he should lose the rest. it is true the squire can afford to have always a grand dinner to sit down to; but of what use is that when he is, and has been for years, in such a bad state of health that the choicest dainties afford him no pleasure! do not you think, tom, that if you were in his place, you would gladly give all the fine clothes, dainty food, and wealth that you possessed, to be strong and hearty again, even though you had only a poor cottage to live in, and a crust of bread to eat?" "yes," replied tom, "that i would, i am sure." "we are all," resumed the old woman, "too apt, i fear, to think more of the blessings and comforts we want, or fancy we want, than of those we already possess. we forget that c those among us who have least, have far more than they deserve.'" "what you say, grandmother," observed ned, "puts me in mind of some verses in one of watts's hymns, that i learned by heart a little while ago. may i say them?" "do so, my dear," replied his grandmother. and ned repeated the following verses:-- "not more than others i deserve, yet god hath given me more; for i have food while others starve, or beg from door to door. "while some poor wretches scarce can tell where they may lay their head, i have a home wherein to dwell, and rest upon my bed. "while others early learn to swear, and curse, and lie, and steal; lord, i am taught thy name to fear, and do thy holy will. "are these thy favours, day by day, to me above the rest; then let me love thee more than they, and try to serve thee best." "they are very pretty verses indeed," said his grandmother, when ned had finished; "and i am glad that you remember them at the right time." the day after this conversation, tom told ned that he should not be able to go home with him when work was over that evening, because his uncle was coming. it was frosty, and nothing could be done in the garden; so when ned had mended a rail in the little wicket gate that was broken, and had had his tea, read the bible, got by heart a column-of spelling, and said it to his grandmother, he sat down on a stool near the fire, and amused himself by going on with a stocking he had begun to knit. "how thankful i am to you for having taught me to knit," said he, "because it is something pleasant to do when i am in-doors of a winter's evening." just as ned left off speaking a knock was heard at the cottage door. he ran to open it, and was rather surprised to see tom, and with him a well-dressed, pleasant-looking man, whom he did not remember to have seen before. "this is my uncle," said tom. ned bowed, and set a chair for their visitor. "i come," said mr. graham, for that was the name of tom's uncle, "to thank you, my young friend, for your kindness to my nephew. i have long intended adopting tom, and taking him to live with me when he was old enough to learn my trade, which is that of a carpenter, but when i came to ryefield, a year ago, i found him so different in many respects from what i could have wished, that i gave up my intention, for i could not undertake to teacli a boy who was idle and unsteady. i now find him so much altered for the better, and farmer tomkyns gives me such a good account of his behaviour, that i am quite ready to give him a trial. he tells me that he has to thank you, ned, for his improvement; that he has learned from your example to be steady and industrious, and to try to correct his faults; and that it is you and your good grandmother who have taught him to love his bible, and take pleasure in going to church. tom also tells me that it is his fault your nice apricot tree was spoiled. now there is a nurseryman, a friend of mine, whom i have several times had an opportunity of obliging, and i have no doubt that he will give me for you a strong young tree, at the proper time for planting fruit trees." ned thanked mr. graham, who then added-- "the town where i live is several miles off, so that you and tom will not be able to see each other as often as you used, but tom can walk over here on sundays, and go with you to ryefield church sometimes, and i hope your grandmother will allow you now and then to come and see him." ned's grandmother promised that she would; and then tom told ned that farmer tomkyns had very kindly said he would employ robert, his younger brother, in place of himself. "i am glad to hear it," said ned. "and so am i," said his grandmother. "it will be a great help to your father, tom, to have you taken quite off his hands, and one of your brothers employed also." tom then said he had heard that fred morris had been caught stealing some faggots, and taken before the magistrates, who had sent him to prison. the next day farmer tomkyns told ned that in consequence of his good behaviour since he had been in his service, he was going to raise his wages. "now," said he to himself, "i shall very soon, i trust, be able to get grandmother a cloak with my own earnings." this thought, and the prospect of having another apricot tree, made him feel happy; and so he told his grandmother. "but, granny," added he, "do you know there is something that makes me feel happier still than the thought of the cloak or the apricot tree either; and that is poor tom's good fortune, and"---- he stopped and hesitated. "what were you going to say, my dear?" inquired his grandmother. "and knowing that his good fortune is partly owing to me, i was going to have said, grandmother," answered ned, blushing; "only it sounds like praising myself." "it is very natural that you should feel glad at this, my dear boy," rejoined his grandmother, smiling kindly; "for there is no pleasure so great as that we feel when conscious of having contributed to the welfare and happiness of a fellow-creature." r. clay, printer, bread street hill. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ the young salesman by horatio alger, jr. author of "the errand boy," "mark mason's victory," "tom temple's career," "tony, the hero," "the train boy," etc., etc. a. l. burt company, publishers new york the young salesman. chapter i. on board the "arcturus." halfway across the atlantic the good ship _arcturus_ was making her way from liverpool to new york. she was a sailing vessel, and her speed by no means equaled that of the mighty steamships, more than one of which passed her, leaving her far behind. while she was used chiefly for freight, she carried a few passengers, less than twenty in all. i wish to call the reader's attention to the occupants of one of the small staterooms, a man and a boy. there was a great contrast between them. the man was thin and hollow-cheeked, and as he lay in his berth he looked to be, as he was, in the last stages of consumption. the boy, who must have been nearly sixteen, was the picture of health. he was inclined to be dark, with black hair, bright eyes, and with considerable color in his cheeks. he bent over the reclining figure, and asked, with anxious solicitude: "how do you feel, father?" "no better, scott," and the father began to cough. "does it hurt you to cough?" "yes, but it won't trouble me long." "you will be better?" said the boy, half inquiringly. "no, scott, i shall never be better. i am very near the end." "you don't mean that?" exclaimed the boy, in pained surprise. "yes, i do, scott, and you may as well know it. i doubt whether i shall live to see new york." scott walton looked dismayed, for till now he had not suspected that his father's life was in danger. yet, as he gazed at the fragile form, he was forced to believe that his father spoke truly. "what will become of me," he said, with emotion, "alone in a strange land?" "that is what i want to speak to you about." here the man began to cough again. "don't talk, father. it makes you cough." "i must, my son. perhaps i may have no other chance. i am sorry that i must leave you almost penniless." "i don't mind that, father. if you could only live----" "don't interrupt me, for there are some things i must tell you. you will find in my wallet twenty pounds in english bank notes, worth in america about one hundred dollars. this sum will support you while you are looking for a situation, for you will need to find work." "i am strong and willing to work, father." "yes, you are strong. you don't take after me, but after your mother's family." "have you any relatives in america?" "there is a cousin of your mother's in new york, ezra little. i believe he is well-to-do. i can't tell you what he is doing or where he lives, but you can look up his name in the new york directory." "is he the only relative we have in america? "no, there is a cousin of my own, philo walton, who went out to one of the western states. he was a good-hearted fellow, and likely to make his way, but i have heard nothing of him, and i don't know whether he is still living or not. "there seems a very small chance of your finding him, in so large a country, but you can probably find ezra little. take down these names, scott. they may be of importance to you." scott drew out a small memorandum book, and did as directed. "i would not have started from england, had i supposed i should have become worse so rapidly," continued mr. walton. "i think the sea air has aggravated my disease. there seemed nothing for us at home though, and no friends on whom we could call. i built my hopes on ezra little. i thought for your mother's sake he would help her boy. if i could live to see him, and commend him to you in person, i could die in peace." he had hardly completed these words when he had a terrible fit of coughing, which seemed to rack his feeble frame. "don't talk any more, father!" said scott, in alarm. "can't i get you something to relieve you? i will go to the steward and ask for a cup of hot tea." without waiting for an answer he left the stateroom and sought the steward. he was gone but ten minutes, but when he returned the bedclothes were stained with blood. his father had had a hemorrhage, and was lying with closed eyes, breathing faintly. the ship doctor was summoned, and applied restoratives, but without effect. before the morning dawned, scott was fatherless. it was a great trial to the lonely boy to see his father's body consigned to the deep. he wished he might carry it to the land which was to be his future home, and have it buried in some quiet cemetery; but it would be a week at least before the slow-going ship would reach new york, and the sailors would have rebelled at having a corpse on board for that length of time. scott secured the money of which his father had spoken, and a sealed packet inscribed: _for my son._ _to be opened a year from my death._ the boy's grief was so sincere that his curiosity was not aroused by this inscription. he put the packet in his traveling bag, and tried to prepare himself for the solitary life he must now lead. there was a good deal of sympathy felt for the lonely boy on the ship, and more than one of the passengers proffered sympathy and companionship. scott received their advances politely, but showed by his manner that he preferred to be alone. a week later, however, when the vessel was within a few hours of reaching her destination, he felt that it would be well to obtain some information about the new country that awaited him. among the passengers was a young man who looked to be about twenty-five. his name was crawford lane. he wore a light overcoat, a showy necktie, a low-cut vest, and was in appearance a very good specimen of the bowery swell. he joined scott as he was standing on deck, trying to catch the first glimpse of land. "well, my young friend," he said, affably, "i suppose that you, like the rest of us, are glad to be near port." "i don't know," replied scott, listlessly. "of course you miss your father." "oh, so much!" said the boy, the tears coming into his eyes. "for years we have lived together and been constant companions." "just so! my father died five years ago, and i often miss him." "but you doubtless have other relatives, while he was all i had," explained scott. "yes, i have other relatives. an uncle of mine is the present mayor of chicago. of course, you have heard of chicago." "yes; it is one of your largest cities, is it not?" "yes, it's a smart place, chicago is." "do you live there?" "not at present. i have relations in new york also. they are rich; live on fifth avenue, or near by." "you are fortunate in having so many relations," said scott, with a touch of envy. "i don't know. one of my uncles tried to cheat me out of part of my inheritance. relations are not always the best friends." "i hope he did not succeed," said scott, politely, though he felt very little interest in the fortunes of his fellow voyager. "no. that is, he defrauded me of ten thousand dollars, but there was a good deal more, so that i was not inconvenienced." lane spoke carelessly, and gave scott the impression that he was a rich man. "then you have a home to go to," said scott, sadly. "no," answered lane. "you see my father and mother are dead, and i live at the hotels or in apartments of my own. i don't care to live with relations. have you any relations in new york?" "none that i have seen. there is a cousin of my mother, ezra little, who i am told is well-to-do. but i never saw him, and i don't know how he will receive me." "then you will probably go to a hotel?" "i suppose so, but i know nothing of new york." "i hope," said lane, in an insinuating tone, "that your father left you in easy circumstances?" "no, i shall have to make my own way." "surely you have some money." "yes, i have twenty pounds. i am told that amounts to a hundred dollars in american currency." "yes," answered lane, brightening up. "well, that will tide you over till you get something to do. but probably your relative will provide for you." "no," said scott; "i shall not ask him to do so. i prefer to earn my own living." "just so. well, i can be of some service to you. i will find you a reasonable place to stop, and when you get ready you can call on this mr. little." "thank you!" scott was disposed to accept the offer of his new acquaintance, as, of course, he himself knew absolutely nothing about new york. chapter ii. the first day in new york. when the _arcturus_ arrived in port, scott placed himself in charge of mr. lane, and accompanied that gentleman on shore. he congratulated himself on having a competent guide. he was struck by the bright and bustling appearance of the great american metropolis, and, english though he was, he was fain to admit that it was more attractive than london. scott had but one gripsack, but in this respect crawford lane was no better off. "i just took a brief trip across the water," he explained, "and i don't believe in being hampered with baggage." "then you were not gone long?" said scott. "no; i just ran across in company with an old college friend. he will be absent several months, but i could not spare the time from my business." "have you anything which a boy of my age could do in your office?" asked scott, who felt that he must now be on the search for a place. "not at present. my business is of a peculiar nature. i travel for a large house. but i will keep my eyes open, and if i should hear of anything i will most certainly let you know." "do you expect anyone to meet you at the pier?" "no, i never say much about my movements. my friends can wait till i get fairly established in a hotel." scott was somewhat amazed when his new acquaintance conducted him to a very plain house on the bowery. "i don't care for style," remarked lane, observing scott's surprise, "and though i could afford to go to the most expensive hotel in the city, i know that your means are limited, and i wish to select one in which you can afford to remain with me." "thank you, mr. lane; you are very considerate. i haven't much money, and i must be economical." "i will step up to the desk and arrange about rooms," added lane. "thank you." crawford lane left scott sitting in the reading room, but he returned in five minutes. "i find," he said, "that the hotel is crowded. i have engaged a single room with two beds. will that be agreeable?" scott felt that he would have preferred to room alone, but he did not know how to make objection, and acquiesced in the arrangement. "i would like to go upstairs at once," he said, "so that i may wash and change my underclothing." "very well." they were shown up by a bell boy. the room on the third floor was rather small, but contained two single beds. the place and its furnishings looked dingy, and even dirty, but scott was not disposed to make any unnecessary complaint. "i will take the bed near the door, if you don't object," said lane. "it is immaterial to me." "very well. by the way, didn't you say you had some bank of england notes to exchange for american money?" "yes." "while you are making your toilet, i might slip down to a broker's in wall street, and make the exchange. what do you say?" scott had his share of caution, and he remembered that his knowledge of mr. lane was very limited. indeed, on reflection, it occurred to him that his sole knowledge of his acquaintance was derived from that gentleman himself. "i think," he said, "that i will wait till to-morrow. i have a little silver with me that will do me till then." "oh, very well!" said lane, in an indifferent tone, though his face expressed some disappointment. "i only thought that i might save you some trouble." "thank you, but i don't mind the trouble. i shall be interested to see wall street myself." "all right, i will go there with you to-morrow, or whenever you choose." "i should not like to take up your time. probably you have business of your own to occupy you." "oh, i can get through a good deal of business in a short time. when you are ready, come downstairs. you will find me in the office." left to himself, scott took a good wash and put on some clean linen, which he found refreshing. he divided his bank notes into two parcels, one of which he put in his inside coat pocket, the other in an inside pocket in his vest. he took the hint from his father's custom. in twenty minutes he was ready to go downstairs. he found crawford lane awaiting him in the office. "shall we go in to dinner now, scott?" said his new friend, familiarly. "yes," answered scott, for, grieving though he did over his father's loss, he had the appetite of a healthy boy. the dinner was plain, and the table neither neat nor attractive, but scott felt that he had no right to be fastidious, and upon the whole ate heartily. "now, shall we go for a walk?" suggested lane. "if you like." lane led the way to broadway, pointing out various buildings and objects of interest. "what do you think of new york?" he asked. "this seems a very lively street." "yes, there is but one broadway in the world." "but london is larger." "yes, but less attractive." "i hope i can find something to do. then i shall be contented." "don't borrow any trouble about that. i have influence, and will see that you find employment," said lane, patronizingly. "you are very kind, mr. lane." "i mean to be. i hope you will look upon me as a friend--and a brother." these words were kind, but scott hesitated to respond. he had seen no occasion to distrust his companion, but for some reason, unaccountable to himself, he could not give him his confidence. they sauntered up broadway till they reached waverly place. just at the corner they attracted the attention of a boy of perhaps fifteen, who seemed to recognize scott's companion. he was a dark-haired, pleasant-looking boy, whose face seemed to indicate german descent. "mr. lane," he said, touching scott's companion on the arm. crawford lane wheeled round and eyed the boy as if disconcerted. "what do you want, boy?" he demanded, haughtily. "i don't know you." "oh, yes, you do. my name is john schickling." "i haven't the honor of knowing you, mr. john schickling," said lane, in a tone of sarcasm. "you know me well enough," said the boy, persistently. "just as you like, but i have no time to spend with you to-day. pass on and let me alone," said lane, impatiently. "i will as soon as you pay me what you owe me." "why, you impudent young rascal, how should i owe you anything?" "you hired a room from my mother at three dollars a week, and you went off owing three weeks' lodging, if you will give me nine dollars i will give you a receipt." "this is ridiculous nonsense. i never lived in three-dollar rooms." "all the same you had a room at our house for several weeks at the price. i have been looking for you every day since you left us." "boy," said crawford lane, "i have just returned from europe, and therefore cannot have roomed in your house. if you have any doubt on the subject, my young friend here will tell you that we arrived in new york this morning on the ship _arcturus_." "that may be," rejoined john; "but it is two months since you left our house. you have had time to go to europe and back." "i can't be troubled with you to-day, boy. get out of my way!" "where can i find you? where are you stopping?" crawford lane drew a card from his pocket, and scribbling an address on it, passed it to the boy. while john schickling was trying to make it out, lane hurried on with scott. "fifth avenue hotel!" repeated johnny. "why, that's a very dear place. if mr. lane can afford to stay there, he can afford to pay mother's bill." later in the day john entered the fifth avenue hotel, and went up to the desk. he showed the card to the clerk. "is any gentleman of that name staying here?" he asked. "no," answered the clerk, shaking his head. "has he ever stopped here?" "no; i should remember the name if he had." "sold again!" said johnny. "if i ever meet mr. lane now, he won't get off so easily." "that is a very impudent boy!" said lane, as he resumed his walk with scott. "i thought him a pleasant-looking fellow. didn't you know him?" "never saw him before in the whole course of my life!" "it is strange," mused scott. "he called you by your name." "did he? i didn't observe." "yes." "then he must have overheard you addressing me." "but he met us. he was not walking behind us." "i can't undertake to explain it," said lane, shrugging his shoulders. "the boy is evidently very artful. it is a put-up job." scott made no comment, but he had been favorably impressed by john schickling's open, frank face, and he felt some doubts about relying on lane's explanation. chapter iii. scott learns a lesson. soon after supper crawford lane said: "suppose we go to some theater this evening. it will pass away the time pleasantly." scott looked pained. "mr. lane," he said, "you seem to forget that it is scarcely more than a week since my poor father died." "excuse me, scott. i ought to have remembered it. shall you miss me if i leave you to spend the evening alone?" "no, mr. lane. on some accounts i should prefer to be alone." "very well. you need not sit up for me, as i shall return late. go to bed when you feel inclined, and we shall meet in the morning. so long!" scott remained in the office of the hotel. he did not object to being left alone, for he was forced to acknowledge that he did not care much for the company of crawford lane. circumstances had thrown them together, and lane had been of some service to him in his absolute ignorance of the city, but scott resolved to break away from him as soon as possible. looking toward the desk, he espied a copy of the new york directory. that gave him an idea. he would look up the name of ezra little, and find out where he lived and what his business was. turning over the pages of the bulky volume, he came to the letter l. there was a long list of littles. finally, he found ezra little, dry goods, no. eighth avenue; house, west forty-seventh street. "i will go to see him to-morrow," thought scott, hopefully. "since he has a store, he may find a place for me." just off the ship, he found that walking about the streets had fatigued him, and he went to bed about nine o'clock. lane had requested him to leave the door unlocked, so that he might get in without difficulty on his return from the theater. indeed, scott was obliged to do this, as lane had carried off the key, intentionally or otherwise. it has already been mentioned that scott had divided his small capital into two equal parts, one of which he placed in the original envelope in his coat pocket, the other in an inside pocket in his vest. the coat he hung over a chair, but the vest he thought it prudent to place under his pillow. it was not long before scott was sound asleep. he found himself more fatigued than he had supposed. crawford lane had gone to niblo's theater, where there was a showy spectacular play which suited his fancy. on his way home, he stepped into a hotel, where he picked up a copy of the new york _herald_. he looked it over listlessly, but all at once he started in surprise, not unmixed with dismay. in the list of passengers on the _etruria_, which had arrived very early the previous evening, he saw the name of justin wood. there was nothing remarkable about the name, but it so happened that it had peculiar associations for crawford lane. seven weeks before, he had gone abroad with justin wood, a wealthy young man, as his companion. wood was liberal, and he had taken a fancy to lane to such an extent that he offered to defray his expenses on a short european trip. in london, crawford lane managed to rob his companion of a considerable sum of money, and, of course, disappeared directly afterward. for three weeks he spent money profusely. at the end of that time, he had barely enough left to buy a ticket for new york by the ship _arcturus_. when he landed, his funds had dwindled to three dollars, but he expected to increase them by appropriating the bank of england notes which he learned were in the possession of scott walton. but the arrival of justin wood complicated matters. he must keep out of the way of the man he had robbed, and this would not be easy while both were in the same city. "suppose he had been at the theater this evening!" he said to himself, nervously. as justin wood was an athlete, an encounter would probably have been far from pleasant for his faithless friend. crawford lane pursued his way homeward in a very serious frame of mind. "it is lucky," he thought, "that fate has thrown in my way this green boy. with his hundred dollars i will start to-morrow for chicago, and stay there for the present. that will keep me out of the way of justin wood." it was about midnight when lane reached the hotel on the bowery. he went upstairs at once. as he lit the gas he turned his gaze on the bed near the window. scott was fast asleep, with one arm thrown carelessly over the quilt. "sleeping like a top!" murmured lane. "these young boys always sleep sound. i used to when i was a boy. i had an easy conscience then," he continued, with a half laugh. "i'm not quite so innocent as i was, but i know a lot more. well, i must get to bed, for i must be up bright and early to-morrow morning." he carefully locked the door, for he did not want anyone else to anticipate him in his dishonest plans. crawford lane slept rather later than he intended. when, upon opening his eyes, he consulted his watch he found that it was half-past seven o'clock. "i ought to have been up an hour ago," he said to himself. "suppose the boy is awake, all my plans would be upset." he dressed in great haste, and then, with one eye upon the sleeping boy, tiptoed to the chair over which scott's coat was hanging, and drew out the envelope from the inside pocket. he would have examined the contents, but scott stirred slightly, and lane felt that it would be the part of prudence to leave the room at once. he went downstairs and reported at the desk, valise in hand. "i am obliged to take an early train for the west," he said, "and will settle my part of the bill." "will the boy remain?" "yes; his uncle will call for him during the day." "very well, sir. breakfast is on the table." "i shall not be able to stop, as i am already late. i left the boy asleep. if he inquires for me you may tell him i will write him from--buffalo." "very well, sir." lane went out and got breakfast on fulton street. "i hope i have seen the youngster for the last time," he said to himself. there was one awkward thing in his way. he would have preferred to leave the city at once, but outside of the english notes, he had scarcely any money, and it would be necessary to wait till ten o'clock, when he could call at some broker's and exchange them for american bills. lane went into the astor house and entered one of the small reading rooms on the second floor. then, for the first time, he opened the envelope and examined his booty. to his great disappointment, he found but half the sum he expected to find--but ten pounds in place of twenty. "confusion!" he muttered. "was the boy deceiving me? he certainly said that he had twenty pounds." the explanation of the discrepancy readily suggested itself. the boy had placed the balance of the notes somewhere else. "i wish i had had the sense to examine the envelope before i left the room." but the boy might have waked up, and though he regretted not having taken all his money, lane felt that he must make the ten pounds do. meanwhile scott slept on till eight o'clock. when he opened his eyes he looked over to the other bed. evidently it had been slept in, but it seemed now to be unoccupied. it occurred to scott as singular that his companion, who must have got to bed late, should have risen so early, but no suspicion of wrong-doing entered his mind till he put on his coat. then he discovered at once the disappearance of the envelope. scott was startled. "he has stolen my money," he instantly decided. he felt in the pocket of his vest. the other ten notes were there, fortunately, but scott was by no means satisfied to give up the ten he had lost. he hurried down the stairs, and in some excitement went up to the hotel clerk. chapter iv. tracking the thief. with some agitation scott addressed the clerk. "has the gentleman who came with me left the hotel?" he asked. "yes," was the answer, "about an hour since." "isn't he coming back?" "no. he told me to tell you that he was called suddenly to the west. he will write to you from buffalo." scott felt limp and helpless. he turned pale and clung to the counter for support. he was only a boy, and he realized that with his companion went half his scanty means. "didn't mr. lane take breakfast here?" he asked. "perhaps he is still here." "no; he said he could not wait. he wanted to catch the early train. it is strange he didn't tell you he was going. you are young to be left alone." "i don't mind that," said scott, bitterly, "but he has robbed me." "eh?" returned the clerk, briskly. "what's that?" "he stole ten pounds in english notes from my pocket while i slept." the clerk whistled. "is he a relation of yours?" he asked. "no; he was only a fellow passenger on the ship _arcturus_, which arrived in this port yesterday morning." "then you haven't know him long?" "no." "i am very much surprised. he seemed like a gentleman." "what shall i do?" asked scott, feeling that he needed advice from some one who knew the world better than he did. "you might inform the police." "but if he has already left the city, i am afraid it wouldn't do much good." "did he take all you had?" inquired the clerk, with the sudden thought that in that case scott would be unable to pay his hotel bill. "no; i divided my money into two parts. he only took half." "that was lucky," said the clerk, relieved. "perhaps he hasn't left the city yet," he added, after a pause. "but he was going for an early train, you told me." "that is what he said. he might wait till after ten o'clock to change the notes. have you the number of them?" "no, or--yes, i can tell what they would be from those i have left. probably they would come directly before or directly after those." "then you stand a chance to recover them, or at any rate to have him arrested. it is too early to do anything yet. you had better eat breakfast, and then go down to wall street. that is where the brokers have their offices, and you may meet him there." "thank you." "do you mean to remain here?" "yes, for the present. i shall probably stay till to-morrow, at any rate." scott went in to breakfast, and notwithstanding his loss he ate heartily. he was of a sanguine temperament and disposed to make the best of circumstances. so he congratulated himself on having retained a part of his money. "when do the brokers' offices open?" he asked, when he again saw the clerk. "at ten o'clock." "i will walk leisurely toward wall street, then. if mr. lane comes back----" "if he does, we will keep him. but i don't think there is any chance of it." scott walked down to the city hall park, and then proceeded down broadway in the direction of trinity church, which, he was told, faced the head of wall street. as he was passing the astor house, he espied a familiar face and figure. it was the boy who had spoken to crawford lane the day before--john schickling. "good-morning!" he said, touching the boy's arm. john schickling looked round with a puzzled expression, for he did not recognize scott. the day previous he had only taken notice of crawford lane, and not of his companion. "i don't remember you," he said. "i was walking with mr. lane yesterday when you spoke to him." "oh, yes. where is he now?" "that's what i want to find out. he and i stopped at a hotel on the bowery last night. when i woke up this morning i found that he had stolen some of my money and disappeared." "he's a rascal!" said john, warmly. "it is just like him. had you known him long?" "no; we met on board the ship that brought us over from liverpool. i am a stranger in the city, and he agreed to act as my guide." "you didn't expect you would have to pay so dearly for it?" "no." "what are you going to do?" "the money he took was in english bank notes, and the hotel clerk thought he might go down to wall street to exchange them there at some broker's." "very likely. and you are going there now?" asked john. "yes." "then i'll go with you. i want to collect that money he owes mother." "i will be glad of your company. i feel strange in america. i am an english boy." "i'll help you all i can. i am on an errand for my brother. he is a young man, and i work for him, but i know he won't mind my following up this fellow and trying to make him pay me. say, how old are you?" "sixteen." "i am fifteen." "you are the first american boy i have met." "i hope you will like me better than mr. lane. he is an american, but isn't much credit to the country." the two boys reached wall street about ten minutes past ten. they turned the corner and entered the great financial artery of new york. soon they reached a broker's office, and went in. advised by john, scott went up to a small window, behind which stood a clerk. "i have some english notes which i would like to exchange for american money," he said. "hand them to me." as he looked them over, the clerk's face showed surprise. "i have just bought some," he said, "the numbers of which correspond very nearly with these." scott grew excited. "what was the appearance of the man who presented them?" the description was given. "they were my notes," said scott. "the man stole them from me. where did he go?" "i can't tell, but perhaps our messenger may know. wait a minute." the messenger--william doon, a boy of eighteen--remembered that lane had gone as far as broadway, and turned to go uptown. "come along," said john, "we may catch him yet." scott gave himself up to the guidance of his boy friend, and hurried up broadway, but without much hope of finding lane. he had not yet sold his notes, feeling that he must if possible catch the thief who had plundered him. just above chambers street, on the west side of the street, was a cut-rate railroad ticket office. "suppose we go in there," suggested john. "he may buy a ticket for some place out west. he wouldn't dare to stay in new york." this seemed not unlikely, and scott followed young schickling into the office. it was a lucky thought. no sooner had they entered than scott recognized his faithless acquaintance at the counter inquiring the price of a ticket to chicago. "i can give you a ticket this morning for fourteen dollars," said the agent. "it is a rare chance, but it will have to be used within three days." "i will take it," answered lane, drawing a roll of bills from his pocket. it was the money he had received from the broker. scott was exasperated at the man's coolness. he was no milk-and-water boy, but a lad of spirit. "mr. lane," he said, grasping the other's arm, "give me back that money you stole from me." crawford lane turned and gazed at scott in dismay. he had never expected to see him again, and could not understand how he had got upon his track. but he decided to brazen it out. "what do you mean, boy?" he demanded, roughly. "you must be crazy." "i mean this, that you stole some english bank notes from me at the hotel where we slept, and----" "that is absurd. i leave it to this gentleman whether these are english notes." "certainly not," said the ticket agent. "this is american money." "if you don't leave this office and stop annoying me i will have you arrested," blustered lane. "no, you don't," interposed john schickling, whom until now lane had not noticed. "we're on to your little game. we've just come from the broker's office where you exchanged the money." chapter v. an unpleasant surprise. crawford lane was considerably disconcerted. "i will call later and buy the ticket," he said to the broker. "at present i have some business with this young rascal, who robbed me this morning of a considerable sum of money. now he has the assurance to make a charge against me." the broker looked from one to the other. he was bewildered, and could not decide which to believe. crawford lane and the two boys went out into the street. "now, mr. lane," said scott, in a resolute tone, "please hand over that money." "so you are acting the part of a highway robber, are you? if you know what is best for yourself you will get away from here as soon as possible." "i am ready to go as soon as you give me my money. if not----" "well, if not?" "i will summon a policeman." it chanced that a member of the broadway squad was within hearing. he stopped and said: "am i wanted here?" "yes," replied lane, quickly; "i want you to arrest that boy." "on what charge?" "robbery. i took pity on him, and though i knew scarcely anything of him, i let him occupy the same room with myself at a hotel on the bowery last night. he stole some bank of england notes from my pocket while i was sleeping, and i want him arrested." scott's breath was quite taken away by the audacious misrepresentation of his treacherous acquaintance. "well, what have you to say?" asked the policeman. "only that this man was himself the thief, and stole the notes from me." "you young rascal!" exclaimed lane, in assumed indignation. "that is a likely story. i leave it to the officer which was more likely to have money to be taken--a gentleman like myself, or a boy like you." "i think you will have to come with me," said the officer to scott. "but," put in john schickling, "that man has told you a lie. he owes my mother nine dollars for room rent." "i never saw the boy before in the whole course of my life," said lane, boldly. "he seems to be a confederate of the boy who robbed me." "you can tell your story at the police station," said the policeman to scott. "you, sir, can go with me and prefer a charge." "i am in a great hurry," replied lane, taking out his watch. "i will call at the police station in an hour. now i have an important engagement." "you will have to come now," said the officer, beginning to be suspicious. "oh, well, if it is necessary," said lane, determined to brazen it out. scott was considerably taken aback at the unexpected turn which matters had taken, and felt some anxiety. "will you come with me?" he said, addressing john schickling. "you bet i will," responded john, briskly. "i ain't goin' back on a friend. i'll tell you what i know about this man." "you'd better clear out," said lane, "if you know what is best for you, or you'll find yourself in hot water, too." "i'll take the risk," rejoined john, not at all alarmed. so they started for the station house in the city hall, when something unexpected happened. a young man, handsomely dressed, met the procession, as he was himself walking up broadway. his eyes lighted up when they rested on crawford lane. he darted forward, and grasped him by the arm. "at last i have found you!" he exclaimed. "officer, i call upon you to arrest this man." the officer stared, surprised as he might well be. crawford lane tried to release himself from the grasp of the speaker, and had he succeeded would have fled unceremoniously. "what does this mean?" asked the policeman. "he is going with me to the station house to prefer a charge against this boy." "that's a good joke! he prefer a charge!" "he says the boy has robbed him." "then you may conclude that he has robbed the boy. he robbed me in london some weeks since, and i have just caught him." "this is all a mistake," said lane, hurriedly. "officer, you may let the boy go." "do you withdraw the charge?" "yes." "i prefer to go to the station house," said scott, quietly. "i wish to tell my story there. this man stole ten pounds from me in english money." at this moment there was a sudden excitement in the street. a man had been knocked over by a passing truck, and all eyes were turned toward the scene of the accident. justin wood removed his hand from the arm of crawford lane, and the latter lost no time in taking advantage of his freedom. he darted down a side street, and when his companions turned to look for him he had disappeared. justin wood looked annoyed. "he has escaped this time," he exclaimed, "but i will have him yet." "then i shall not be needed," said the officer, as he resumed his beat. "how did this man get a chance to rob you?" asked justin wood, turning to scott. scott briefly explained. "did he take all your money?" "no, sir. i have ten pounds left." "pardon me, but is this all you have?" "yes, sir." "but you have a home?" "only such a home as i may be able to make for myself." "have you no relatives in this city?" "yes, sir, i have one. i am going to see him if i can, this afternoon." mr. wood took a card from his pocket. "i am staying at the gilsey house," he said. "if you need help or advice, call there and send up your name. by the way, what is your name, my boy?" "scott walton." "i shall remember it. now i must leave you as, like your late friend, i have an important engagement." "i suppose i must be getting back," said john, "as my brother will need me. i am sorry i didn't collect the nine dollars from that jay." "he has got the best of all of us," returned scott. "where do you live? i may want to look you up some day." "in west thirty-sixth street," said john. "i haven't got any card with me, but i can give you the number." "i won't forget it. you have been my first friend in new york, and i don't want to lose you." "i never thought i would like an english boy before," said john, "but i like you." "thank you. i hope we shall remain friends." when scott was left alone it occurred to him that he had not yet exchanged his english money, and he returned to the broker's office, where he made the exchange, receiving about fifty dollars in greenbacks. "this is all i have to depend upon," reflected scott. "it won't do for me to remain at the hotel much longer. my money would soon be gone." he had ascertained that the rates at the hotel were two dollars a day, including board. this was not a large price, but scott felt that it was more than he could afford to pay. it was absolutely necessary that he should begin to earn something as soon as possible. he could decide upon nothing till he had seen his mother's cousin, ezra little. if that gentleman should agree to take him into his store in any capacity, he felt that his anxieties would be at an end. hence, it was desirable that he should see mr. little as soon as possible. he had already ascertained that his relative was in the dry-goods business on eighth avenue, but he felt that it would be better to call upon him at his residence on west forty-seventh street. probably mr. little would have more leisure to talk with him there. it was with a fast-beating heart that scott, standing on the steps of a three-story brick house on west forty-seventh street, rang the bell. the door was opened by a servant girl. just behind her was a boy who looked to be about scott's age, and who listened inquisitively to what scott had to say. "is mr. little at home?" "he will be in in a few minutes. you can come in and wait for him." "i should like to do so." the servant opened the door leading into a small reception room to the left of the front hall, and scott, entering, seated himself. the boy already referred to entered also. he was a very plain-looking youth with light red hair. "did you have business with mr. little?" he asked, curiously. "i am his son." "yes." "do you come from the store?" "no." "perhaps you are meaning to apply for a place there?" "i should be glad if your father would give me a place. i have just come from england. my mother was a cousin of mr. little." chapter vi. scott finds a relative and a place. loammi little, for this was the name of the red-haired boy, regarded scott with curiosity mingled with surprise. "what is your name?" he asked, abruptly. "scott walton." "i never heard of you, though i have heard pa say that a cousin of his married a man named walton. where is your father?" "he is dead," answered scott, sadly. "he died on the voyage over." "humph!" said loammi, in a tone far from sympathetic. "i suppose you are poor." "i am not rich," replied scott, coldly. he began to resent the unfeeling questions with which his cousin was plying him. "if you have come over here to live on pa, i don't think he will like it." "i don't want to live on anyone," said scott, his cheek flushing with anger. "i am ready to earn my own living." "that's the way pa did. he came over here a poor boy, or rather a poor young man." "i respect him the more for it." "all the same i would rather begin life with a little money," said loammi. "i have a little money," rejoined scott, with a half smile. "how much?" "i would rather wait and tell your father my circumstances." "oh, well, if you don't like to tell. pa'll tell me all about it." "that is as he chooses--but i would rather tell him first." "how old are you?" asked loammi, after a pause. "sixteen." "so am i." "your father has a store on eighth avenue?" "yes; have you been in it?" "not yet. i only arrived in new york yesterday." "where are you living?" "in a hotel on the bowery." "that isn't a fashionable street." "so i judge; but i can't afford to board on a fashionable street." "no, i suppose not. you are pretty well dressed, though." "my father bought me this suit in london before we started for america. are you working in your father's store?" "no, i am attending school. i am not a poor boy, and don't have to work. did you work any before you left the old country?" "no, i was at school." "are you a good scholar?" "that isn't for me to say. i stood very well in school." "i am studying latin and greek," observed loammi, proudly. "i have studied them both," said scott, quietly. "how far were you in latin?" "i was reading cicero's orations when i left school." as this was considerably beyond the point to which loammi had attained, he made no comment. he was considering what question to ask next, when his father entered the room. there was a strong resemblance between father and son. ezra little was a slender man, about five feet ten inches in height, with hair of a yellowish-red, inclined to be thin toward the top of the head. there was a feeble growth of side whiskers extending halfway down each cheek. his eyes were of a pale blue, and his look was shrewd and cold. he gazed inquiringly at scott. "this boy says his mother was your cousin, pa," exclaimed loammi. "what name?" asked ezra. "scott walton." ezra little nodded. "i see. your father was an artist?" "yes." "where is he?" "he died on the voyage over." "leaving you alone in the world?" "yes," answered scott, sadly. "well, what are your plans?" this question was asked coldly. "my father died so lately that i haven't had time to form any plans. i thought i would like to consult you about them." "i suppose you haven't much money?" "no, sir." "you have some?" "about ten pounds." "fifty dollars." "yes, sir." "and that is all?" "yes, sir." "that won't keep you long," said loammi, disdainfully. "i s'pose you'll expect pa to take care of you." "have i hinted anything of the kind?" demanded scott, indignantly. "i am young and strong, and i am quite ready to earn my own living. i don't want anybody to support me." "well spoken, lad!" said ezra, in a tone of approval. "i'll think over your case. loammi, tell your mother that scott will stay to supper." "thank you, sir." mrs. little was as plain in appearance as her husband and son, but scott liked her better. she appeared to have a kindly disposition, and expressed sympathy for him when she heard of his father's death. this was in contrast to mr. little and loammi, upon whom it seemed to make no impression. "and where are you staying, scott?" she asked, in a tone of friendly interest. "at a hotel on the bowery." "how much do they charge you?" inquired ezra little. "two dollars a day." "it is very extravagant for a boy with your small stock of money to pay such a price." "i know it, sir, but i only went there yesterday, i shall not think of staying." scott had decided not to mention his loss to mr. little, as he felt sure that it would bring upon him a reproof for his credulity in trusting a man of whom he knew so little as crawford lane. "why couldn't he come here, ezra?" suggested mrs. little, turning to her husband. mr. little coughed. "after supper i shall speak to scott about business," he said, "and that point will be discussed." scott looked forward to the interview with interest and anxiety. for him a great deal depended on it. he hoped that mr. little would give him a place in the store where he would be in the line of promotion, and be able to earn his living. he followed mr. little from the dining room into what might be called a library, though there were only about fifty books in a small bookcase. there was a desk, however, used by mr. little for letter writing, and for the keeping of his accounts. here, too, he received business visitors. "well," he said, pointing scott to a chair, "now we will discuss your plans. you want a chance to work?" "yes, sir." "i may find a place for you in my store, but i warn you that you can't expect much pay to begin with." "i don't expect much pay, sir. if i can earn enough to support myself it will satisfy me." "eh, but that would require high pay. it costs a good deal to support a boy in new york." this rather alarmed scott, for he felt that he must manage somehow to support himself on what he earned. "we generally pay a beginner only three dollars a week," proceeded mr. little. "three dollars a week!" why, scott was paying two dollars a day for board and lodging at the hotel. he looked at mr. little in dismay. "i shouldn't think i could support myself on three dollars a week," he said. "we might strain a point and pay you three dollars and a half." "is there any boarding house where i could live on three dollars and a half?" "well, no; perhaps not; but you have some money, you tell me." "yes, sir, i have fifty dollars." "just at first you can use a part of that to supply deficiencies." "i thought i might need that for clothes." "ahem!" said mr. little. "i have thought a way out of the difficulty." scott looked at him hopefully. "i think mrs. little can find a small room for you upstairs, and you can live here." "thank you, sir." "of course what you earn in the store won't pay for your keep, so i suggest that you hand me the fifty dollars to make up." scott did not like that suggestion. he did not feel like giving up the money bequeathed him by his father. it would make him feel helpless and dependent. besides, when he wanted clothing, where should he find money to pay for it? yet, if he declined mr. little's offer, he knew that the fifty dollars would soon be exhausted, and he might have no other place offered him. "when could i move here?" he asked. "to-morrow, and on monday morning, you can begin work at the store." "very well, sir." "you can give me the money now." "i will give you forty dollars, but i shall have to pay my hotel bill." "you can keep five dollars for that. it will be sufficient." so scott handed over forty-five dollars to mr. little, who counted it over with evident satisfaction. then the english boy started for the hotel. he had secured a place, but somehow he felt depressed. his prospects did not seem very bright, after all. chapter vii. an old acquaintance. after scott paid his hotel bill and reached his new home, he found that he had just sixty cents left in his purse. to be sure, he would be at no more expense for meals, but it made him feel poor. when he left the ship he had one hundred dollars. there certainly had been a great shrinkage in his resources. he was taken by the servant to an inside room on the upper floor. of course there was no window, and the only light that entered the room was from the transom. it seemed gloomy, and bade fair to be very close. if it had only been an outside room with a small window, scott would have been more content. as it was, he found that the two servants were much better provided for than he. the bed, however, was comfortable, and this was a partial compensation. but he reflected with disappointment that the room would be available only at night. he could not very well sit in it by day, as it was too dark for him to read. "i shall be glad when i get to work," he thought. "that will take up my time." meanwhile, as it was but ten o'clock, it occurred to him that he would call upon justin wood at the gilsey house. he easily found the hotel, which is on the corner of twenty-ninth street and broadway. he did not have to inquire for mr. wood, as he saw that gentleman through the window, sitting in the reading room. justin wood looked up from the paper he was reading and recognized scott at once. "i am glad to see you, my young friend," he said, with a pleasant smile. "what luck have you had?" "i have found a place, sir." "that is good. it hasn't taken you long." "no, sir." "i am afraid it isn't a very good place. you don't look in good spirits." "no, sir; i am afraid i shan't like it." "how did you obtain it?" "through the relation i was telling you about. he keeps a dry-goods store on eighth avenue, and he will give me a place in his employ." "then he has treated you as a relation should." "i am not so sure," said scott, slowly. "he took all my money, and i am to board at his house." "why did he take your money?" "he said i could not earn my board, and that would make up the deficit." justin wood laughed. "he seems to be a very shrewd man. still, you will have a good home." again scott looked doubtful, and told his new acquaintance of the small, dark room which had been assigned him. "yet you say that mr. little has only a small family." "he has one son of about my age." "surely there ought to be a better room for you if he occupies a whole house." "i should think so." "he might have put you into the same room with his son." "i don't think i should like to room with loammi." "then you don't like him?" scott shook his head. "we shouldn't agree," he answered. "why not?" "he feels above me because of my poverty." "the most prominent merchants in the city were once poor boys." "then there is hope for me," said scott, smiling faintly. "have you been to your relative's store?" "not yet, sir." "i remember seeing it. it is quite a large one. i think he must be prosperous." "i shall be very glad to get to work. i don't know what to do with myself now. besides, it makes me feel helpless to have only sixty cents in my pocket." "you will have no trouble from the tax collector, that is certain. it is rather a pity you told mr. little how much money you had." "i wish i hadn't now." "i don't think i would have treated a poor cousin so if he had come across the atlantic to put himself under my charge." "i am sure you wouldn't, sir." "what makes you say that? you don't know much about me," said justin wood, with a quiet smile. "i can tell by your looks." "looks are deceptive," remarked the young man; but he looked pleased with the compliment. "so you don't go to work till monday?" "no, sir." "and i suppose you have nothing to occupy you to-day?" "no, sir." "then be my guest. i will show you something of the city." "you are very kind," said scott, gratefully. "oh, i shall be repaid. i was wondering what to do with myself. now the problem is solved. wait here a minute till i go up to my room, and we will start." they passed through twenty-ninth street, and boarded a sixth avenue car. "you have never been to central park, i presume," said wood. "no, sir. i have only been about in the lower part of the city." "we think central park a very pleasant place," said the young man, "though in some respects it is not equal to the london parks." "i like parks. i like green grass and trees. i was born in the country." when they reached fifty-ninth street they entered the park, and walked leisurely to the lake. scott's eyes brightened, and his step grew more elastic. "this is fine," he said. "how large is the park?" "it is about two miles and a half to the extreme northern boundary. we won't try to see the whole. i will only show you the most attractive features. you will be surprised when i tell you that i haven't been in the park for two years." "yes, i am surprised." "i have no carriage, or i should drive here." "but it is pleasant to walk." "yes, if you have a companion. most of my friends are men of business, and have no time to spare for park rambles." "mr. wood, i wish you were in business, and i were in your employ," said scott, impulsively. "thank you, scott. i do think we should get along well. so you think you would like me better than your new-found relatives?" "oh, ever so much!" "then i will try to foster the illusion," said the young man, smiling. "suppose i adopt you as a cousin?" "i wish you would." "very well! then we will look upon each other in that light." "do you live in the city, mr. wood?" "i am not stationary anywhere. i have no fixed home." "why don't you go into business?" "partly because i am blessed with a sufficiency of this world's goods." "but i should think the time would hang heavy on your hands." "well, you see i have something to do in looking after my property. besides, i am literary." "are you an author?" "i occasionally write for magazines and reviews. i am a graduate of columbia college. if i had the spur of necessity, perhaps i might make some mark in literature. as it is, i don't have that motive for working hard. i am rather glad i don't, for i am afraid i shouldn't be able to live at the gilsey house if i depended upon what i could earn by my pen. well, have you seen enough of central park?" "i am ready to go anywhere else, sir." "then i will go with you to the other end of the city and beyond. have you ever heard of staten island?" "no, sir." "it is a few miles to the south of the battery. i own a small piece of property there--a couple of houses at new brighton, which are let to tenants. they have sent me word that they need some repairs made, and i may as well go over and see them. i never like to travel alone, and as i have a companion i may as well utilize his company." half an hour on the sixth avenue elevated train brought them from fifty-ninth street to south ferry. close beside it the staten island boats started from their pier. scott and his companion went on board, and ascended the stairs to the upper cabin. here they found seats in front, and sat enjoying the fine breeze which is almost always to be found on this trip. mr. wood pointed out governor's island, the statue of liberty and other notable sights. arrived at staten island, they took cars to new brighton. mr. wood attended to his business, and then took scott on an extended ride around the island. but first he stopped at a hotel and ordered dinner. this they both enjoyed. when they left the dining room and went out on the piazza they were treated to a surprise. in an armchair, tilted back, with his feet on the balustrade, sat crawford lane, evidently enjoying the fine breeze. chapter viii. scott recovers part of his money. justin wood smiled as he saw how unconscious lane was of his presence. then he walked forward quietly and laid his hand on lane's arm. "mr. lane," he said, "this is an unexpected pleasure." lane turned quickly, and looked very much disconcerted when he saw who it was that accosted him. "i--i didn't expect to meet you here," he stammered. "i presume not. don't you recognize this boy?" "scott walton?" "yes; i am glad you have not forgotten him. he is here on business." "on business?" "yes; in a fit of absence of mind you relieved him of fifty dollars, or the equivalent in english bank notes. i don't say anything about the considerably larger sum which you took from me in london, for i can stand the loss, but this boy is poor and wants the money back." "i can't give it to him," said lane, desperately. "why not?" "because i have spent most of it." "so you have spent nearly fifty dollars in one day?" "yes; i bet on the races." "that was foolish. if you had lost your own money it would have served you right. but you had no business to squander the boy's money in that way. how much money have you got left?" "i--don't know." "out with your pocketbook, man, and find out," said wood, impatiently. as lane still hesitated, justin wood added, sternly: "do as i tell you, or i will arrest you myself and march you to the station house." the young man looked as if he were quite capable of carrying out his threat, and lane very reluctantly took out his pocketbook. "i have twelve dollars," he said. "then give ten dollars to the boy, and keep two dollars for yourself." "it is all the money i have," whined lane. "that is no concern of mine. the money doesn't belong to you." "i am a very poor man." "you are smart enough to make a living by fair means. if you keep on as you are doing now, you will obtain your board at the expense of the state." lane, very unwillingly, handed two five-dollar bills to scott. "we are letting you off very easy," said justin wood. "we will give you a chance to reform, but if ever i catch you trying any of your tricks elsewhere, i will reveal what i know of you." crawford lane rose from his chair and with a look of chagrin made haste to leave the hotel. he had already taken dinner there, and intended to remain until the next day, but now he felt unable to do so. "i am glad to get some of my money back," said scott, in a tone of satisfaction. "i was reduced to sixty cents. ten dollars will last me for a good while." "take care not to let your worthy relative know you have so much money, or he will want you to give it up to him." "but for you i should not have recovered it," said scott, gratefully. "i am very glad to have been the means of your getting it back. i have a personal grudge against that rascal." "of how much did he rob you?" "i can't tell precisely, for i am rather careless about my money, and seldom know just how much i have. to the best of my knowledge he must have taken about three hundred dollars." "that is a good deal of money." "it was much less to me than the sum he took was to you. it did not especially inconvenience me. but it is getting late, and we had better take the next boat back to new york." this they did. on the same boat, though they were unconscious of it, was crawford lane. he saw them, however, and reflected bitterly that the fifty dollars which he had taken from scott was nearly all gone, though it was only the second day since he got possession of it. it was half-past four when they reached the gilsey house. "i think i must be getting back to my new home," said scott. "thank you very much for your kindness to me." "you have given me a pleasant day, scott," replied the young man, genially. "call and see me again when you have time." "thank you, sir." when scott reached the house in west forty-seventh street, he found loammi already there. he had returned from school at about half-past two, and wondered what had become of his new-found cousin. "where have you been?" he asked, abruptly. "first, i went to central park, and afterward i went to staten island." loammi looked surprised. "what could take you to staten island? you seem to have plenty of money to go about with." "it didn't cost me anything." "how is that?" "i went with a gentleman who lives at the gilsey house." "what made him take you? is he a friend of yours?" "yes, he is a friend of mine, though i haven't known him long." "is he rich?" "he seems to be." "you might introduce me." "i may have an opportunity to do so some time." scott felt obliged to say this, though he was convinced that justin wood would not care to make his cousin's acquaintance. "ma told me you were not at home to lunch. where did you eat?" "we dined at a hotel on staten island." "upon my word, you are getting to be quite a swell for a poor boy." scott smiled. "i don't think i shall have much chance to be a swell," he said, "after i have begun work in the store." "no, i guess not. it was a great thing to have pa take you up and give you a home." "i hope to show my appreciation of it," said scott; but under the circumstances, his gratitude was not as deep as if he had had a better room, and had not been obliged to give up all his money to his relative. "how do you like your room?" "the bed seems comfortable. where is your room?" "on the second floor. follow me and i will show it to you." scott followed his cousin upstairs. loammi opened the door and led the way into a large chamber about eighteen feet square, very neatly and comfortably furnished. there was a bookcase in one corner containing over a hundred volumes. near it was an upright writing desk. through a half-open door scott saw a closet well filled with suits of clothes. certainly, there was a great contrast between this apartment, with its comforts and ample accommodations, and his own small, stifling room on the floor above. scott could not quite suppress a feeling of envy. "you have a fine room." "haven't i? my room is as nice as pa's." alongside of it was another room, not as large, but perhaps two-thirds the size. "who occupies that room?" asked scott. "no one. we have two spare rooms on this floor." it naturally occurred to scott to wonder why he had not been given one in place of the poor room that had been assigned him. he found afterward that mrs. little had proposed giving him the room next to loammi, but the latter had objected, saying that it was too good for a penniless boy. in this he had been backed up by ezra little, whose ideas agreed with those of his son. at six o'clock the family assembled for supper. "you will sit down to meals with us when we are alone," said ezra little. "when we have company you can eat in the kitchen." scott said nothing, but his face flushed. it was evident that his relatives did not look upon him as a social equal. yet justin wood, who, as scott suspected, stood higher socially than the little family, treated him like a brother. though in no way related to him, scott felt a greater regard for him than for any of the family with whom he had found a home. "to-morrow is saturday," said ezra little, as he rose from the table. "i had not intended to have you enter the store till monday, but there is a little extra work to be done, and you can come in to-morrow." "i should like to do so," said scott, promptly. "so you like to work," said loammi, sneeringly. "yes; at any rate, i like it better than being idle." "that is a very proper feeling," observed ezra, approvingly. "yes," put in loammi. "you ought to do all you can to pay pa for his kindness to you." scott did not answer, but he thought his young cousin about the most disagreeable boy he had ever met. chapter ix. business experience. scott went with his uncle to the store the next morning. it was rather an humble imitator of the larger stores which keep everything for sale. in any city but new york it would be considered a big store, but it could not, of course, compare with macy's, ehrich's, simpson & crawford's, and other large bazaars, equally well known. it followed the methods of these stores, however, and generally had some article in which special bargains were offered. when mr. little led the way into the store, where from twenty-five to thirty salesmen were employed, besides cash boys and girls, scott, who was not used to american shops, thought it a very large one, and his respect for mr. little increased, as a merchant on a large scale. ezra little, followed by scott, walked through the store and paused as he reached a tall man of about forty, with pretentious side whiskers. "mr. allen," he said, "i have brought with me a new clerk. his name is scott walton, and he is a distant relative of mine. i suppose he has no experience, and i don't know whether he has any business capacity, but we will try him. where can you make room for him?" "in the handkerchief department, i think," replied the superintendent. "we have a drive in there, and there is more doing in that department than usual." "very well, give him the necessary instructions." "follow me, my boy," said the superintendent. he led the way to the lower end of the store, where there was a large display of handkerchiefs, at prices ranging from five cents up to fifty. "you can take your place at this counter," said allen. "all the handkerchiefs are marked, so that you will have no trouble about the price. take care that the different grades don't get mixed. it would not do, for instance, for a twenty-five cent handkerchief to get among the fifteen centers, or vice versa. do you understand?" "yes, sir." "i will give you a book, in which you will mark sales. when you have made one, call a cash boy and send the goods and money by him to the cashier's desk. it is rather lucky that mr. little brought you, as we are one clerk short. mr. cameron is absent on account of sickness." scott listened to these instructions with interest. he had never acted as salesman, but he felt instinctively that he had a taste for the work. he had a little feeling of exhilaration, as he felt he had been raised at once to a position of responsibility. with mind alert and eyes on the lookout for customers, he began his work. he also watched his fellow clerks to see how they acted, and copied them as far as he was able. two things helped him. he had an agreeable, well-modulated voice and a very pleasant face, which seemed to attract customers. he soon found himself full of business, and bustled about like an experienced salesman. from time to time the superintendent passed scott's counter and glanced approvingly at the young salesman, who seemed so busy. meeting mr. little about noon, he said: "that boy is going to make a good salesman." "is he?" "yes; i have watched him carefully, and i can judge. he is a relation of yours, you say, mr. little." "yes; his mother was my cousin." "indeed! is he an american?" "no, he is an english boy." "and you say he has never been in a store before?" "never, so he says." "then he is a born salesman." "i am glad to hear it," said ezra little, indifferently. "he is penniless, and has his own way to make." at twelve o'clock his uncle came up to the counter. "here is some money," he said. "you can go out and buy some lunch. we can't spare you to go home." "very well, sir." "mind you are not away more than half an hour." "i suppose i shan't have to go far?" "no, there is a place on the next block where you can buy what you need." scott put on his hat and left the store. he looked to see the amount of his lunch money. it was fifteen cents. this was not liberal, but he felt that he could make it do. he joined another clerk, who guided him to a small place where, with his money, he was able to buy a cup of coffee, a sandwich and a piece of pie. his companion, who was a man of twenty-five, allowed himself a larger margin. "are you a new hand?" asked mr. sturgis, his fellow clerk. "yes, i only came in this morning." "what are you in?" "handkerchiefs." "they usually put beginners in that department. how'd you get the place?" "mr. little is a cousin of my mother." "ah, that's it. where do you live?" "at his house." "how do you like him?" "i don't know him very well yet." "i know him very well, for i have been here three years. there are not many who stay here so long--that is, in the store." "why not?" "if you wasn't a relative, i'd tell you." "i don't think that need prevent," said scott, smiling. "well, little has the reputation of paying very mean salaries. he is a very close-fisted man. how much does he pay you?" "i get my board." "how will you manage for clothes?" "i don't know yet." "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. you look pretty well now, but ezra little won't clothe you in purple and fine linen." "how is it you stay so long if the salaries are so poor?" was scott's natural question. "well, i am well known and have a considerable trade of my own. i was once junior partner in a firm on sixth avenue, but we failed. by the way, scott, how do you like your cousin, loammi?" "i am not in love with him," answered scott, with a smile. "we all dislike him here. he sometimes comes to the store, and puts on the airs of a boss." at six o'clock the store closed for the day. on saturday evenings it was kept open later. scott did not accompany his uncle home, as mr. little had a little business that detained him. it was about a mile to forty-seventh street, but scott did not object to walking. it was pleasant for him after spending the day indoors to have a walk in the open air. we will pass over a period of six weeks. scott was no longer in the handkerchief department. he had been promoted to a more important position. he still liked the business. the days passed quickly for him when trade was good. it was only when the weather was unpleasant and business dull that he found the time hang heavy on his hands. he did not see much of loammi. though they lived in the same house they were not often together, except at meals. usually after supper, loammi took a walk, but he never invited scott to go with him. once when scott proposed to do so, his cousin declined the companionship curtly. "i have a special engagement," he said. "i don't care for company." after that scott, who had his share of pride, kept to himself. he saw that loammi looked upon him as a poor relation. one evening when he returned from the store, he was surprised to have loammi meet him just outside the door. "i am glad you have come," he said. "there's an old frump inside who says he is a cousin of pa's. he is old and shabby, and i expect he wants to live on pa. it looks as if he would be overwhelmed with poor relations." "i suppose he is a cousin of mine, too." "yes; for heaven's sake, go in and keep him company. i'll introduce you." "if he is a cousin of mother's, i shall be glad to know him." "you can have him all to yourself. goodness knows i never want to see him again." scott followed loammi into the house, and into the reception room. there on a sofa sat a small old man, whose clothing, though scrupulously clean, was worn and shabby. his face was wrinkled, but the expression was pleasant. "i think i shall like him better than mr. little," thought scott. the time was coming when he would need a friend, and this old man was destined to play an important part in his future experiences. chapter x. seth lawton. "mr. lawton," said loammi, "this boy is scott walton. his mother was a cousin of ours. pa has given him a place in the store, because he hasn't any money." seth lawton looked at scott eagerly. "my boy," he said, grasping scott's hand, "your mother was my favorite cousin. poor lucy, when i last saw her she was just married to your father. is she--is she dead?" "yes, sir," answered scott. "she died when i was but five years old." "poor lucy, poor girl!" said the old man, sighing. "and your father?" "he is dead, too. he died but a few weeks since on the ship that brought us over from liverpool." "and there were no other children?" "no, i was the only one." "mr. lawton," said loammi, who had been listening impatiently, "you must excuse me, as i must go upstairs and prepare for dinner." mr. lawton scarcely noticed loammi's unceremonious exit, he was so occupied with scott. "so you are my cousin, too," he said, in a softened voice. "i never saw you before, but i know i shall like you. you have a look like your mother." "i was thought to look like mother," said scott. "how old are you?" "i shall be sixteen in a few weeks." "you are young to be an orphan. i judge from what your cousin says that you were left poor." "yes, father was unfortunate. he was so honest himself that he allowed people to cheat him." "there are too many such cases. but i am glad that cousin ezra has opened his heart and given you a home." "yes," said scott, briefly. he was not disposed to be ungrateful, but it did not seem to him that he owed a very large debt of gratitude to mr. little, who had taken all his money and merely gave him his board in return for his services in the store. "do you find your cousin--what is his name?--a pleasant companion?" "loammi and i do not see much of each other, mr. lawton." seth lawton looked at scott shrewdly. "i am not surprised to hear it," he said. "loammi reminds me of his father very strongly." "he looks upon me as a poor relation," continued scott, smiling. "do you mind that much?" "a little. i don't mean to be poor always." "a wise determination. so you have a place in the store?" "yes, sir." "how do you like that?" "very much. i like business. i don't have much to do with mr. little there, but the superintendent, mr. allen, is just, and encourages me to do my best." "i am glad to hear that. do you think ezra is prosperous?" "i should think so. he seems to be doing a good business." "does he strike you as a good manager?" "he keeps down expenses. the clerks say that he pays poorer wages than anyone in the trade." "that isn't always the sign of a good manager," said seth lawton, slowly. "clerks will always work better for a generous employer. so, on the whole, ezra may be considered well-to-do?" "yes, sir." "i am always glad to hear that my friends--and relatives are prospering." "you don't look as if you were very prosperous yourself," thought scott. "i suppose you, too, are a poor relation." "how much does ezra pay you?" "my board." "that wouldn't be bad if you were a stranger. but how do you manage about clothes?" "my father left me fifty dollars. mr. little took charge of it, and i suppose he will buy me clothing out of it." "humph!" said seth lawton, dryly. "he seems to put everything on a business basis." just then the door opened, and ezra little entered the room. he was prepared to see mr. lawton, loammi having apprised him of his arrival. he came forward, eying mr. lawton closely. "he's as poor as poverty!" he said to himself. "he doesn't seem to have made much of a success." "this is a surprise, seth," said he, offering his hand coldly. "i had almost forgotten you." "very natural, cousin ezra," said the old man, smiling. "where have you been all these years?" "i have been a wanderer, ezra. i have been in america for the last few years. i came from michigan last." "have you married?" "no; i am alone." "perhaps it is just as well. you have been at less expense." "true. you, however, have married, and, as i judge, are prosperous." "yes, i have a good business on eighth avenue," said ezra little, complacently. "i haven't been a rolling stone." "like me?" "well, yes, like you." "and so you have gathered some moss." "yes; i think it a duty to succeed." "if possible." "a man can succeed if he goes to work the right way," said ezra, dogmatically. "well, perhaps so," admitted seth, slowly. "how long have you been in new york?" "i arrived last week." "from michigan?" "yes." "do you plan to stay here?" "well, i have not quite decided. i took a little while to get settled, and then i looked you up in the directory. but i have found more than i bargained for. i did not know that any of lucy's family were in america," and he nodded in the direction of scott. "yes," answered ezra, with a slight frown; "scott's father took it into his head to come to america when he was in the last stages of consumption. he died on the passage leaving his son to the cold mercies of the world." "and you kindly took him into your home?" "well, i couldn't see him starve," said mr. little, ungraciously. "so i gave him a place in my store." "i hope he is doing well there." "oh, yes, he is doing well enough. the work is not hard." "so that you receive some equivalent for your kindness." "oh, i could get a boy to do the same work for three dollars a week." "well, ezra, i think you won't lose anything by your kindness to an orphan relative." "i will do what i can for him, but i can't undertake to help any more poor relations." his tone was significant, and seth understood it, but his feelings did not seem to be hurt. "possibly you were thinking of me, ezra," he said, mildly. "are you a poor relation?" asked ezra little, bluntly. "that is hard to tell. ideas of poverty are comparative. i have always supported myself, and i hope i shall continue to do so. in a great city like this i can surely find something to do." "i think you would better have remained in michigan. what were you doing there?" "i kept books for a man in the lumber business," answered seth. "you couldn't get a chance to keep books here. your age would be against you, for one thing, seth." "i am only fifty-six, ezra." "that is old when you are seeking a position. i hope you have some money to fall back upon." "i have a little, and then i was always able to live frugally." "that is wise. you might, perhaps, expect that i would give you a place in my store, but you would not do for the dry-goods business." "i don't think i should," said the old man, candidly. "i have never been accustomed to very close confinement." "pa, supper's ready!" announced loammi, opening the door. "will you walk out and take supper with us, seth?" "thank you, ezra. it will be pleasant to sit down with relations. it is many years since i have done so." seth lawton was introduced to mrs. little, who greeted him kindly, though, like her husband and son, she looked upon him as a poor relation. she had a better disposition than they, and was not so worldly minded. seth lawton was seated next to scott on one side of the table. opposite sat loammi. "put the two poor relations together, ma," he had said to his mother, beforehand. "pa'll have his hands full if any more come to the city." "they are not to blame for their poverty," returned mrs. little. "i should hate to be poor," said loammi, emphatically. "your father and i were poor once." "but you got bravely over it. that's because pa was smart. this old man--seth lawton--looks as if he wasn't worth a hundred dollars, and he must be ten years older than pa." chapter xi. scott calls on his poor relation. ezra little asked a good many questions of his new-found relative, but seth lawton's answers were vague. "i don't see why you ever came to new york," said his host. "i feel repaid already," replied seth. "it does me good to see my relations. i am glad especially to find you doing so well." "i wish i could return the compliment," said ezra, pointedly. "oh, i don't complain," responded mr. lawton. "don't you ever consider what would become of you if you should get sick?" "i am in pretty fair health, thank you, ezra. i am not likely to injure my health with rich living." loammi indulged in a boisterous laugh. he evidently thought this a good joke. seth lawton eyed his young relative with a glance of curiosity. scott flushed, for he felt that loammi was disrespectful. "loammi thinks it a joke to be poor," he said to himself. when they rose from the table, ezra little said: "you will have to excuse me, seth. there is a meeting this evening of some bank directors, and, as i am one of them, i ought to attend." "oh, don't mind me, ezra. i can call again." "of course we expect you to do so," said his wealthy relative, but there was no cordiality in his tone. "perhaps the boys will take a walk with me," suggested seth. "i shall be glad to have them call at my room." "where is your room?" asked loammi. "in west sixteenth street." "i have an engagement," said loammi, very brusquely. "how is it with you?" asked mr. lawton, turning to scott. "i shall be happy to go with you, cousin seth," answered scott, pleasantly. seth lawton looked pleased. mr. little had gone off in a hurry, followed by loammi. mr. lawton and scott remained a short time in conversation with mrs. little; then they, too, went out. "i invited your cousin out of politeness," said mr. lawton, "but i am quite as well pleased to have you alone. i don't think loammi will ever care much for me." "he doesn't like poor relations," observed scott. "he takes very little notice of me." seth lawton smiled. "then if i were rich you think loammi would be more polite?" "i am sure of it." "i am afraid it can't be helped then. i am too old to start in to make a fortune; but you are young. you may be a rich man in time." "it doesn't look much like it now." "most of the rich men in new york and other american cities were once poor boys." "i don't think my chances will be very good while i work for mr. little. i hope you will remain in new york." "that will depend on circumstances. as ezra little said, a man of my age doesn't stand a good chance to get a position." "i think you said you kept books in the west?" "yes, a part of the time." "shall you try to get a bookkeeper's place here?" "i have not decided. i think i must call at ezra's store to-morrow. i have some curiosity to see it." "i wish it were your store instead of his." "he would not join you in the wish. besides, i don't think i should care to be in the dry-goods business. i suppose you mean that you would rather work for me than for him?" "yes." "thank you for the compliment, scott. it doesn't look likely at present that i shall ever be your employer. i hope, however, that our friendship will continue and become more intimate." they had walked to broadway, and sauntered slowly down that brilliant thoroughfare. as they were passing the fifth avenue hotel a fine-looking man, who had just left it, espied scott's companion. "how are you, mr. lawton?" he said, cordially, offering his hand. "very well, thank you, mr. mitchell." "i didn't expect to see you here." "i haven't been here for a good many years, but i took a fancy to make a brief visit, and see how the city has changed. i suppose you are here on particular business?" "well, perhaps so," laughed the other. "i am staying at this hotel. call if you have time. i shall be here three days. that is not your son?" "no; i am not married. it is a young cousin, scott walton." "i am glad to make your acquaintance, my boy," said mr. mitchell, pleasantly. "thank you, sir." here the conference ended. "that is a member of congress from michigan," explained seth lawton, in response to a look of inquiry. "i suppose he has run on from washington for a few days." "is he a smart man?" "yes, he may be governor some time. he is a rising man." scott was somewhat surprised to find that his poor relation had such a prominent acquaintance; it seemed to indicate that even if he were poor and dressed shabbily, he held a good social position in his western home. at length they reached west sixteenth street, and stopped at a plain three-story house. mr. lawton took out a night key and led the way inside and upstairs. he occupied a front room on the second floor. it was of good size and well, though plainly, furnished. scott was agreeably surprised. he thought his cousin would probably occupy a small hall bedroom, for he had been long enough in new york to know that lodgings were expensive. everything looked comfortable. there was a lounge in one corner with the head toward the window. "i lie down here when i feel lazy," said mr. lawton. "do you board here also, cousin seth?" "partially. i breakfast in the house, but it is more convenient to take my other meals outside." mr. lawton's trunk was on one side of the fireplace. it was a substantial-looking trunk, somewhat the worse for wear. "i have in my trunk, somewhere," he said, "a picture of your mother, taken at the age of twenty. would you like to see it?" "very much," answered scott, eagerly. "i have one taken a few months before she died, but she was in ill health then." seth lawton opened the trunk and soon found a small photograph album. the second picture represented the attractive face of a young woman of twenty. "do you recognize it?" asked seth. "yes," answered scott, the tears coming to his eyes. "i wish i had one like it." "i will have it copied, and you shall have one of the copies." "i don't like to put you to that expense, cousin." "the expense will be small. in return, you must show me the later picture of your mother. she was my favorite cousin." "i will be glad to do so. you have a very comfortable room." "yes. i hope you have a good room at mr. little's." scott shook his head. "i don't want to complain, but i should like it better if there were a window in it." "no window?" repeated seth, puzzled. "no. it is an inside room on the third floor." "small, i suppose?" "yes; i don't think it is more than eight feet by ten." "it must be close." "it is. still, the bed is comfortable." "what sort of a room does your cousin loammi have?" "a fine room on the second floor, large and handsomely furnished." "is there no larger and better room which you could occupy?" "yes, there are two, but they consider my little room good enough for me." seth lawton looked thoughtful. "i am sorry you are not more comfortably accommodated," he said. "there may be better things in store for you, however. by the way, i see your trousers are frayed about the bottoms." "yes; they are getting shabby." "you ought to have a new pair." "yes; but i don't like to speak to mr. little." "you need feel no hesitation. he has fifty dollars of yours, you told me." "forty dollars." "enough, at any rate, to provide you with new clothes. your coat is beginning to show signs of wear." "yes; i am as careful of it as possible, but it will wear." "take my advice and ask mr. little at once to give you some new clothes." "i will if you advise it." "i do; and let me know how your application is received. this is tuesday. call on me again thursday evening if you can." "i will, cousin seth." the rest of the evening was spent in talking of old times and scenes. scott was much interested in what mr. lawton told him of his mother's early days. when he left the house seth lawton accompanied him as far as the fifth avenue hotel. "i will go in and see if mr. mitchell is in," he said. "good-night, scott." chapter xii. the second-hand suit. when scott reached home he found loammi still up. "did you go to mr. lawton's room?" the latter asked. "yes." "what sort of a place does he live in--a tenement house?" "no; he has a very good room in west sixteenth street." "he will soon be out of money if he lives expensively." "how do you know that?" "because he is evidently poor. didn't you notice his clothes?" "yes, but i don't think he cares much about dress." "i guess you're right there. pa thinks he was a fool to come to new york. if he expects to fall back on pa when he has spent all his money, he'll be disappointed." "i don't think he has any such expectations. he seems like an independent man. he fell in with an acquaintance from michigan who is staying at the fifth avenue hotel." loammi looked surprised. "who was it?" he asked. "quite a nice-looking man. he is a member of congress." "then how does he happen to be in new york?" asked loammi, incredulously. "he is here on a little business. he goes back to washington in two or three days." "did mr. lawton seem to know him well?" "yes; the congressman was very cordial." "politicians have to know everybody," remarked loammi, after a pause. he found it difficult to conceive of "cousin seth" having any high-toned friends. scott took his lamp and went to bed. in his small chamber there was no gas jet, but this he did not mind. in england gas is not used as extensively as in the united states, and he was more accustomed to lamps or candles. as he slowly undressed, he felt more cheerful than usual. it seemed pleasanter to have found a relative who appeared to like him. he could not feel toward ezra little or loammi as if they were relations. "i am very sorry cousin seth is not better off," he said to himself. "if he can't get a place in the city, i suppose he will have to go back to the west. i hope not, for i shall miss him." the next day seth lawton came to the eighth avenue store, and found his way to the department where scott was a salesman. "what are you selling, scott?" he asked, with a smile. "socks, cousin seth." "i think i shall have to buy some, just to say that i have bought from you. what do you charge?" "here are some merino socks that we sell three pairs for a dollar." "pick me out three--no. ½." scott did so, and mr. lawton handed him a five-dollar gold piece. a cash boy was called, the goods and money were handed to him, and in due time the bundle and change were brought back. just then mr. little, who had been out to lunch, came back, and passing by the sock counter recognized mr. lawton. "good-morning, ezra," said seth. "you have a fine store." "quite fair, but not so large as some," returned ezra little. "i am cramped for room. i think of taking in the adjoining store next year." "i suppose you are getting rich." "not so fast as i should like. expenses are very large. how would you like to run a store like this, cousin seth?" he added, in a complaisant tone. "not very well. i might like to own it, but i don't think dry goods are in my line." "i fancy not," said ezra, in a tone of calm superiority. "it takes some business ability to run a large store." "no doubt you have the necessary ability," observed seth, with a smile. "well, i manage to do it." "i hope scott will be as successful as you have been." "it isn't every one who works in a dry-goods store who rises beyond a salesman," returned ezra little, with a cold glance at scott. as the proprietor of the store passed on to his office, seth lawton said: "have you been out to lunch, scott?" "yes, cousin seth." "i am sorry. i would have invited you to lunch with me." "thank you. perhaps i can go some other day." "good-afternoon, then. remember to-morrow evening." "i won't forget." on the way home from the store, scott took the opportunity to speak of a new suit. "mr. little," he said, "i am afraid i shall have to ask you for some new clothes." "what's the matter with those you are wearing?" asked ezra little, coldly. "the trousers are frayed around the bottoms, and the coat is getting faded." "you seem to have high notions for a poor boy," continued his employer, in a tone of displeasure. "i like to look neat," scott answered, with spirit. "you are as well dressed as most of the boys who work in the store." "they are cash boys, while i am behind the counter. besides, i don't ask you to pay out of your own pocket." "that is just what i will have to do if i comply with your request." "you have forty dollars of mine, mr. little; the money i handed you when i went into the store." "you seem to forget that this is to pay the difference between what you receive--a home--and what you would get in any other store like mine." "don't you think i earn my board?" asked scott, mortified. "no, of course not. did mr. lawton put you up to asking for new clothes?" "he said he thought i needed some new ones." "just as i thought. it won't be long, probably, before he wants you to borrow money on his account." "i don't think he will ask for any." "you seem to know him well. on what do you base this opinion?" "he seems to be too independent." "in feeling, yes; but i don't think he has independent means." "then you are not willing to buy me new clothes, mr. little?" "i will think it over, and let you know what i decide." it was a trial to scott to prefer his request, though it seemed to him necessary. though his father had been poor, he had always been neatly dressed, and in a store he was subject to an unusual amount of scrutiny. he felt that his own money ought to be expended for what he needed. then, as to not earning his board, he knew that no salesman who sold as much as he did received less than eight dollars a week. it certainly did seem mean in ezra little to pay him less than his board. what he should do if his application was denied he did not know. to be sure, he had enough left of the ten dollars he had recovered from crawford lane to buy a pair of trousers, but a new coat would be beyond his means. during supper no reference was made to the subject, but as they were rising from the table, mr. little turned to his son and said: "how do you compare in size with scott?" "we are of about the same size." in reality, scott was two inches taller than his cousin, and probably as much larger in chest measure. "so i thought," returned mr. little. "scott thinks he needs some new clothes. look over your suits, and see if you haven't one you can give him." "why should i give him my clothes, pa?" "i will make it up to you." "all right! will you buy me a new suit?" "yes." "very well, then, i'm willing." "you can go upstairs with loammi," said mr. little, "and he will pick you out a suit that he has laid aside." scott flushed indignantly. he was not without pride, and it galled him to have his cousin's clothes turned over to him. "excuse me, mr. little," he said, "but i am taller and stouter than loammi. i could not wear any of his cast-off suits." "you mean you are too proud to do so," said ezra little, sharply. "perhaps i am, but at any rate they would not be large enough for me." "that is an excuse." "i will try on a suit, and let you see." "do so." scott went upstairs with his cousin, and put on a suit selected for him by loammi, the poorest he had, and came downstairs. the trousers were nearly two inches too short, and the coat was evidently too narrow across the shoulder. "it seems to fit very well," said ezra. "why, mr. little," exclaimed his wife, "it doesn't fit scott at all." "then we will send it to a tailor and have it altered," said her husband. scott made no comment, but he made up his mind that he would get along with his old suit rather than wear his cousin's. chapter xiii. a cash boy's troubles. the next day mr. little asked: "did you take that suit to my tailor for alterations, scott?" "thank you, sir," said scott, coloring, "but i think i will get along for the present with the suit i am wearing." "what does that mean?" demanded ezra little, quickly. "i don't care to wear loammi's clothes." "oh, you are proud, are you?" sneered mr. little. "if it were necessary i would do so, but i think i am entitled to a new suit." "on what do you base your claim?" "on the money which i handed you, mr. little," replied scott. "we will not discuss this question," said ezra little, coldly. "i have already told you that this money will be needed to pay your expenses." scott did not reply. "well, what have you to say to that?" "nothing, sir." "you have no just cause of complaint. i have offered you a suit which, when altered, would be almost as good as new. if you change your mind about accepting it, you may let me know." "very well, sir." on thursday evening scott made a call at seth lawton's boarding house. "i am glad to see you, scott," said mr. lawton, cordially. "but you look sober." "i feel so, cousin seth." "why is that? anything unpleasant happened?" "i applied to mr. little for a new suit. he declined to buy me one, but said i could have an old suit of loammi's altered over for me." "didn't you mention the money you had placed in his hands?" "yes, but he said i was not earning my board, and this would make up the deficit." seth lawton rose from his chair and paced the room. it was his habit to do so when he was disturbed. "i didn't think ezra little would be so mean, though i knew he was far from liberal. what did you say to his proposal?" "i declined it. loammi is not as large as i am, and, besides, i don't feel like wearing his second-hand clothes when mr. little has money of mine in his possession." "what do you think of his claim that your services do not pay for your board?" "judging from what i have found out about the pay of other salesmen, i think that i earn more than my board." "i think so, too. so you are to have no new suit?" "no, sir." "perhaps you will be luckier than you imagine. you must remember that i am your relative as well as ezra little. i will buy you a suit." "but, cousin seth, i don't want to put you to that expense. you will need all your money yourself." seth lawton smiled. "i will promise not to put myself to any inconvenience," he said. "will that satisfy you? will you now refuse a favor at my hands, scott, my boy?" "i would rather receive a favor from you than from mr. little, if you really feel that you can afford it." "you need not be apprehensive on that score. at what time do you go out to lunch?" "at twelve o'clock." "i will call at that time to-morrow, and we will manage to get time to stop at a tailor's and leave your measure." "but, cousin seth, a ready-made suit will answer." "as this is the first present i have given you, i will make it a good one. probably we can find a tailor near your store." "yes; mr. little's tailor has a shop only three blocks away. here is his card." "the very thing." when the suit was finished scott put it on at once, and left his old one to be cleaned and repaired. it was hardly to be supposed that it would escape the observation of loammi and his father. as a matter of fact, it was handsomer than any his cousin wore. "where did you get that suit?" asked loammi, in amazement. "it was a present," answered scott. "from whom?" "cousin seth." loammi was not slow in carrying the news to his father. "pa," he said, "see the new suit mr. lawton has given scott." mr. little put on his glasses and closely examined his young relative. "did you ask mr. lawton to buy you a suit?" he asked, abruptly. "no, sir. i did not wish him to go to such an expense." "it must have cost at least twenty-five dollars." "i think it cost twenty-eight." "seth is a fool. he is probably poor, and could not afford such an extravagant outlay." "he told me he could afford it, and i had to take his word." "it is better than my best suit, pa," complained loammi. "you shall have as good a one when you need it. it is only three weeks since i bought you a suit." "was it a ready-made suit?" asked loammi of scott. "no; it was made to order by the tailor your father mentioned to me." "you will soon get it shabby wearing it every day." "i don't intend to do so. i left my old suit to be cleaned and repaired." "well, you are provided for, for the present, thanks to seth lawton's folly. i don't wonder he is poor if that is the way he manages. do you know if he has got work yet?" "he told me part of his time was occupied." "i suppose he has got a little job to do at bookkeeping. possibly it will pay him twenty-five dollars. on the strength of that he has bought you a suit at twenty-eight dollars. seth always was a fool. when he finds himself in need, it won't do him any good to apply to me." it was clear that mr. lawton had not raised himself in the estimation of his rich relatives by his kindness to scott. among the cash boys who worked in the store was a pleasant-faced boy, named william mead. he was two years younger than scott, but the latter had taken special notice of him, and without knowing much of him, had come to feel an interest in him. usually willie, as he was called, was bright and cheerful, but one day he appeared with a sad countenance. "what is the matter, willie?" asked scott, when the two boys went out together at the noon hour. scott bought his lunch at a neighboring restaurant, but the cash boy brought his with him from home. "i don't like to annoy you with my troubles." "but they won't annoy me. please think of me as a friend." "then i will tell you. i have a brother three years older than i am, who earns six dollars a week. he has been sick for two weeks, and my mother misses his wages. you know i only get two dollars and a half a week." "that is very small." "some of the stores pay more, but mr. little never pays more than that to a cash boy. next week our rent comes due, and as we have a strict landlord, i am afraid he will put us out when he finds mother is not ready with the rent." "i am sorry for you, willie," said scott, in a tone of sympathy. "have you no friend you can call upon for a loan?" "our friends are as poor as ourselves." "when does your rent come due?" "next saturday." "i will think whether i can do anything for you, i will see you again to-morrow." "but you are poor yourself. mr. little's son was at the store one day, and i overheard him telling one of the salesmen that you were a poor relation." "he is not likely to let me forget that. i am not sure that i can do anything for you, willie, but if i can i will." "you have already done me good by speaking kindly to me." "come in to lunch with me, willie. a cup of coffee will do you good." that evening scott had arranged to call on mr. lawton. he decided to tell him of the young cash boy's troubles. seth lawton's face showed his sympathy. "it is really a hard case," he said. "we must see if we can't do something for your friend." "i hope you don't think i was hinting this to you, cousin seth." "i don't, but still you won't object to my doing something for the boy." "mr. little says you are foolishly generous, and this is why you keep poor." "he will never make himself poor by his generosity. if you have the boy's address we will call upon him." chapter xiv. a helping hand. the cash boy and his mother lived in a westside tenement house. just in front of the house, scott met willie mead with a loaf of bread which he was bringing home from a neighboring bakery. his eye lighted up with pleasure when he saw scott. "do you live here, willie?" asked scott. "yes, we live on the fourth floor." "i have brought a gentleman with me who may be able to help your mother. we will follow you upstairs." "you may not like to climb so high, sir," said the cash boy, turning to mr. lawton. "i think i can stand it for once," rejoined seth lawton. "i am a little more scant of breath than when i was a young man, but i am still good for a climb." willie started ahead and the two visitors followed him. "we will stop here on the landing till you have told your mother she is to have visitors," said seth, considerately. the boy opened a door and entered a rear room. he reappeared in a short time, and said: "come in, please." the room was neat, but the scanty and well-worn furniture showed evidences of dire poverty. mrs. mead, a woman of forty, though poorly dressed, had a look of refinement, though her face was sad and anxious. as she watched the entrance of the visitors her eyes seemed riveted upon seth lawton. she took a step forward. "surely," she said, "i cannot be deceived. this is seth lawton." "you know me?" said seth, in amazement. "yes, and you ought to know me. we were born in the same village." "mary grant!" ejaculated seth, after a brief scrutiny. "that was my name. now i am mary mead. i married, but my husband is dead. but sit down. it does me good to see an old friend." "it seems incredible," said seth, as he took the proffered seat. "we met last in england, and now again under strange and unexpected circumstances." seth lawton seemed moved, but his tone was one of satisfaction. "yes, seth, much has happened since we parted." "how long have you lived in america?" "ten years." "and when did your husband die?" "three years since. he left me nothing but the children, and it has been a sad and sorrowful time. we have lived, but there have been times when we have been on the verge of starvation. and you, how has it been with you?" "i have no right to complain. i have lived comfortably. you know ezra little?" "yes, it was at my request that he took willie into his store. but the two dollars and a half a week, which he pays him, seems very small." "i should think so. didn't he know how poor you were?" asked seth, indignantly. "yes, but he said he could not favor one cash boy more than the rest." "then he might have made you a present." "i don't think it ever occurred to him, seth. but how did you find me? did he give you my address?" "no, that was not likely. scott walton--you must have known his mother, my cousin lucy--works in the same store. it was he who heard of your trouble and reported it to me. now tell me how you are situated." "we are likely to be turned out of these poor rooms, because we cannot pay the rent. my eldest boy, sam, has been sick, and as he earned six dollars a week, it took most of our income from us. next week i think he will be able to go to work again." "this is a poor place for you, mary." "we are glad of even this shelter. we are too poor to be particular." "your income consists only of what the two boys earn?" "i earn something by sewing, but i have no sewing machine, and the prices paid are very low. still, every little helps." "if you had a whole house and kept lodgers, you could make a better income." "no doubt, and i think i could do it if i had the means. but with no capital, that is out of the question," she finished, with a sigh. "i have a proposal to make to you. i have a room in a house on west sixteenth street. it is a moderate sized house, and is to let furnished. my present landlady is desirous of giving up the house, as she wishes to be with her mother in the country, but she is tied by a lease. suppose you take it off her hands?" "i should like nothing better, but you can judge whether an offer from one so poor as myself would be accepted." "don't trouble yourself about that," said seth lawton, quietly. "i will arrange it all, and will retain my room. i may say that the rooms are all taken, so that you would be sure of an income at once." "i should like the arrangement very much, and i should like especially to have you with me, seth; but it seems like a dream." "we will make it a reality. i will see mrs. field this evening, and call on you again to-morrow. when does your month here expire?" "in three days." "the time is short, but it is sufficient. you will hear from me very soon. meanwhile accept this small favor." he drew from his pocket a ten-dollar note, and handed it to the widow. "you are too kind, seth," she said, gratefully. "you look poor yourself, and----" "i never was in the habit of dressing very handsomely," said mr. lawton, smiling, "and just at present i look shabbier than usual. perhaps i have an object in it. at any rate, it is a fact. the help i offer you will not embarrass me in the least." "what a difference between you and ezra little," said mrs. mead. "he has never offered me a dollar, though he knew me as well as you." "he acts according to his nature, mary. scott is an orphan--his father died on the ship that brought them over from england--but ezra treats him as meanly as he has treated you and your boy. he makes him work for his board, and has refused him a suit of clothes, though he stood in need of it." mr. lawton remained for half an hour. then he rose, and went downstairs, followed by scott. "it is strange you should have met an old acquaintance, cousin seth," said scott. "more than an acquaintance, scott. it may seem strange to you that an old fellow like me should ever have been in love, but the time was when i was in love with mary grant, and asked her to be my wife." "and she refused you?" "yes, scott; i was fifteen years her senior, and she liked the man, whom she soon after married, better. it was this disappointment chiefly that led to my leaving england. i am very glad to have met mary again. though years have passed i have not lost my attachment for her. i am glad indeed that i can do the poor woman a service." his voice softened as he spoke, and it was clear that his early romance was not dead. "mr. mead was a handsome man," continued seth. "you can judge of that, for the boy willie looks like him. he made a good husband, i presume, but he had not the knack of succeeding in life." "like mr. little." "yes, like ezra little." it occurred to scott that the same thing might be said of seth lawton himself, but he would not, of course, speak of it. he was beginning to have a sincere respect and regard for cousin seth. what matter if he were poor--at least compared with ezra little--he evidently had a kind heart, and was inclined to be generous beyond his means. "all cannot become rich," said scott. "i wish you had mr. little's money, though." "don't wish that, scott, for without that ezra would be poor indeed. it is all that he has to boast of." "i am afraid it will be the same with loammi." "with this difference: ezra, with all his faults, is enterprising and industrious, and i don't think his son will be either. in the race of life you may eclipse him, after all." "it doesn't seem much like it now." "no, but you are young yet, and time often works wonders." "won't it cost a good deal to set up mrs. mead in her new business?" asked scott, thoughtfully. "not very much. she will enter into a house fully furnished and equipped, and with a sure and prompt income from a good set of lodgers." "i hope she will succeed." "i think she will. if ezra would pay you wages, in place of giving you a home in his house, you might take a room there, too." "i wish i could." "well, it may come about some time. but look, there is loammi." yes, it was loammi, sporting a light cane, and evidently on very good terms with himself. "good-evening, loammi," said cousin seth. "good-evening, mr. lawton," responded loammi, patronizingly. "are you and scott taking a walk?" "yes; and you?" "oh, i have been to call on a schoolmate. his father's awful rich." "we, too, have been to make a call--on the mother of one of your father's cash boys." loammi turned up his nose. "you keep fashionable company," he said. "we are not fashionable, like you, loammi," said scott, smiling. "no, of course not," answered loammi, in a matter-of-course tone. "well, ta, ta!" "i wonder how that boy will turn out!" said cousin seth, thoughtfully. chapter xv. the cash boy's promotion. cousin seth arranged everything as he had planned, and mrs. mead's landlord, when he called, learned to his surprise that his poor tenant was intending to move. "have you found cheaper rooms?" he asked. "no, but i am going to take a whole house." the landlord looked astonished. "where?" he asked. "on west sixteenth street." "yet you have always been pleading poverty, and only last month i had to wait two days for the last dollar of the rent." "that is true; but an old friend has found me out, and will give me a helping hand." of course, no more was to be said. the removal was soon made, for mrs. mead had little to move, and with seth lawton's efficient help, the widow found herself in possession of her new establishment, with everything running smoothly. "now," said mr. lawton, "i must see if i can't do something for willie. how much does ezra little pay him?" "two dollars and a half a week." "that is too little." "i don't think mr. little will pay more." "let him ask." "i am afraid in that case he will lose his place. the last time willie asked for a raise he was angry." "very well, if he loses his place i will find him another. or, stay, i will ask ezra myself." "that will be better." so seth called the next evening on his rich relative. he was not received with open arms, for mr. little was under the impression that he wanted to borrow money. "i can't give you much time to-night, seth," said the merchant. "i have a business engagement. have you found anything to do?" "i think i can see my way clear to a place as confidential clerk and bookkeeper in a small office downtown." "how much salary?" "possibly fifteen dollars a week." "you had better accept. you are extremely lucky at your age to get such an office." "you wouldn't be satisfied with it, ezra," returned seth, with a smile. "i? you are dreaming. what, a well-known and long-established merchant to think of such a salary! you must be insane." "yet you are within five years as old as i am, ezra." "what does that matter? i take it there is considerable difference between your position and mine." "yes, i suppose so." "to tell the truth, i didn't think you would be able to get any position at all. i hope this won't slip through your fingers." "then you advise me to accept it?" "of course. you would be crazy not to do so. remember, you will have to depend upon yourself. the fact that you are a relation will not justify you in asking help from me." "i have a favor to ask, however, ezra." "i cannot lend you money, if that's what you mean," said ezra, brusquely. "it isn't. i find that one of your cash boys is the son of an old friend of ours--mary mead, formerly mary grant." "yes; i gave the boy a place in order to help her." "you pay him two dollars and a half a week. there are only two boys, and this is very small." "it is all i pay any of the boys." "but willie is a well-grown boy of fourteen. surely, out of old friendship, and to help his mother, you can pay him more." "have you been talking to mrs. mead, and encouraged her to think that i will increase her boy's wages?" "yes." "then you have done a foolish thing. i decline. i am half inclined to discharge the boy." "it won't be necessary. he will leave the store at the end of the week." "what does this mean?" "that i will undertake to find him a better place." ezra looked annoyed and angry. "you can't do it," he said. "you have no acquaintances in the city. you are not even sure of employment yourself." "so it seems you have sized me up, ezra," said seth lawton, mildly. "that is easy enough. you were born to be an unsuccessful man. you are fifty-six years old, and i suppose you haven't saved enough money to keep you going for three months." "i don't owe a cent, ezra." "that is something. but i can't remain here talking. don't forget what i said about making sure of the place you spoke of." "just as i expected," thought seth. "ezra seems to be a thoroughly selfish man. it is lucky for me that----" but he did not finish the sentence. mr. little did not think of the matter again till the superintendent told him on saturday night: "one of the cash boys has resigned his place." "who is it?" "william mead." "it is all the bad advice of seth lawton," he reflected. "he is a perfect meddler. probably his mother will be here in a day or two to beg me to take him back." but no such application came. willie had obtained a place on grand street at four dollars a week. scott continued to enjoy the companionship of seth lawton, but sometimes cousin seth was out of the city for days at a time, in which event scott was thrown back on the company of loammi, but this gave him very little satisfaction. one evening loammi happened upon his cousin coming out of a store on sixth avenue. "have you been buying anything?" he asked. "yes." "what?" "a couple of neckties." "where did you get the money?" scott said, quietly: "that is my business, loammi." "i thought you gave pa all the money you had." "i gave him forty dollars." "how much have you got left?" "i don't care to tell." this was enough for loammi, who saw a chance to do his cousin an ill turn. accordingly he said to his father that evening: "pa, did you know that scott had money?" "what do you mean?" then loammi told the story. "i asked him how much he had, and he wouldn't tell me. it seems to me he ought to have handed it to you." in this mr. little agreed with his son. "call scott," said he. scott was in his small chamber, and there loammi found him. "pa wants to see you, scott." scott went downstairs and into mr. little's presence. "do you wish to see me, sir?" "yes. loammi tells me you have some money." "yes; i have a little money." "i thought you gave up all you had when you came here." "so i did, all but sixty cents, but i have regretted it since." "why?" "because i understood it was to be used for my clothing, and it was not." "i told you in what light i considered it. but i won't dwell upon that now. you deceived me in letting me think you had given up all your money." "no, i did not, sir." "then how do you explain your having money at present. was it given you by mr. lawton?" "no, sir." "where, then, did you get it?" "it was money that i was swindled out of by a fellow passenger. i induced him to return a part of it." "how much have you now?" "about five dollars." "you may give it to me." "i prefer not to do so, mr. little; i need it myself." scott spoke respectfully, but firmly. "do you refuse?" demanded ezra, angrily. "yes, sir." "do you think this is a suitable return for all i have done for you?" "you have given me a home, but it is in return for services in your store. as for this money, it was given me by my father and i prefer to keep it." ezra little was taken aback by the boy's resolute tone. on the whole, he decided not to press the demand. "be it so," he said; "but understand that i shall, hereafter, give you nothing but your board and lodging. when you require clothing or anything else, you must buy it yourself." "i understand, sir." "seth has been talking to that boy," reflected ezra little. "it would serve him right for me to discharge him." but ezra little knew that scott was an excellent salesman, and that he could not supply his place at less than eight dollars a week, so he did not care to dismiss him. "i'll bring him to terms yet," he said to himself. chapter xvi. loammi's temptation. loammi had a high idea of his personal qualities and social standing. but he had one grievance. he received an allowance from his father, but it was much less than he thought he needed. ezra little was not a liberal man. he gave loammi a dollar every saturday night, and obstinately refused to give him more. "it is very hard to get along on a dollar, pa," complained loammi. "when i was your age i had no allowance at all, my son." "you were a poor boy. you were not expected to keep up appearances." "you have no clothes to buy. i provide for you in that respect, and i think you are as well dressed as most of the boys you associate with." "i don't complain of my clothes, but a boy wants to keep up his end with his school friends. yesterday afternoon, henry bates proposed to me to go in and get an ice cream, but i couldn't, for i had no money." "have you spent all your weekly allowance?" "yes, every cent." "yet it is only wednesday." "and i must scrimp till saturday night." "then you should manage better. if you limited yourself to ten cents a day for the first five days, you would be able to spend twenty-five cents on friday and saturday." "that's easier said than done, pa." "i am afraid you are getting extravagant, loammi." "even scott goes around with more money in his pocket than i do." "how much money has he got?" "about five dollars." "he will have to spend it for clothes. he won't be able to buy ice cream with it." "still, it makes a fellow feel good to have as much money as that in his pocket." "then i advise you to save up money for a few weeks till you have as much." "pa," suggested loammi, insinuatingly, "couldn't you let me have a five-dollar bill to carry round with me, so that i could show it to my friends? they would think more of me." "how long do you think it would remain unbroken?" asked his father, shrewdly. "oh, ever so long." "i don't wish to try the experiment. your friends will respect you without that. they know that you are the son of a man who is well off." "no, they don't think so, when they see that i am always short of money and hard up." "then let them think what they please. if they thought you had money they would want to borrow it, or urge you to spend it on them." so loammi failed in his effort to obtain a larger allowance. one day--it was friday--he particularly wanted to use some money and was without a penny. under these circumstances it occurred to him that his despised cousin was well supplied with cash, and might be induced to accommodate him with a loan. scott was rather surprised when, as he was going out after supper, loammi joined him. "are you going out for a walk?" he asked, in an unusually gracious tone. "yes, loammi." "i will join you if you don't mind." "certainly. i shall be glad to have your company." "have you called on mr. lawton lately?" "no; he is out of town just now. i think he has gone to philadelphia." "has he got a place?" "he is doing something, but i don't know what it is. he doesn't seem to say much about his affairs." "i hope he won't spend all his money." "so do i. he seems to be generous, even beyond his means." "i wish he'd be generous to me," thought loammi. they walked down broadway, loammi chatting pleasantly. "oh, by the way," he said, suddenly, "i find i have left my purse at home. could you lend me a dollar?" then it flashed upon scott what was the meaning of his cousin's agreeable manner. he was of an obliging disposition, but he knew loammi well enough to be certain that he would never see his money back. "i am sorry, loammi," he said, "but i am afraid i can't lend you any money." "haven't you got any?" "yes, but i have to buy my own clothes, as you know, and i need some underclothing." "that won't cost much." "true, but there are other things i need, also." "i don't ask you to give me the money. to-morrow evening i shall get my allowance from pa, and then i can pay you back." "you must excuse me, loammi, but i have so little money that i have to be very careful of that little. if i had some one to buy my clothes for me, as you have, it would be different." "oh, well," said loammi, offended, "do as you like. you seem to forget that but for pa you would be in the poorhouse." "i don't think i should." "of course you would. doesn't he give you your living?" "no. i earn it." "all the same. he gave you a place in his store." "i think i could have got work somewhere else. however, i don't deny that your father gave me employment." "and you repay him by refusing a slight favor to his son." "i wish i were differently situated, loammi, but----" "oh, you needn't go on. you have refused me a small favor. good-evening!" and loammi left his cousin, and went off in a huff. "now, i suppose loammi will dislike me more than ever," thought scott. "well, i must put up with it. i am not rich enough to lend him money which he won't pay back." meanwhile, loammi went home in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind. he was disgusted with himself now because he had humiliated himself so far as to ask his cousin for a loan. "i'll get even with him if i get a chance," he reflected, angrily. he was destined to another mortification. before he reached home he met a schoolmate named paul granger. he wished he could have avoided him for a reason that will immediately appear, but paul met him as he turned in from the corner of west forty-fourth street. "i am glad to meet you, loammi," said paul. "you are owing me a dollar, you know. i should like it back, as i want to go to a picnic to-morrow." "all right," said loammi, and he put his hand in his pocket. "by jove!" he exclaimed, in apparent astonishment. "my purse is empty. i shall have to make you wait a day or two." "but i have been waiting already for three weeks," protested paul. "i am sorry, but i really can't do anything for you to-night. about the first of next week." "why don't you ask your father for some money? he is a rich man, isn't he?" "yes, but he would be angry if he knew that i had borrowed money. he is very strict about such matters." "then you ought not to have borrowed money of me," said paul. "oh, i'll make it all right in a day or two," said loammi. "good-evening, i am in a little of a hurry." paul granger walked away, pretty well assured that he would never get back his dollar. "i suppose that fellow will be annoying me every day," said loammi to himself. "heigh-ho! it's awful inconvenient to be so poor. pa could make it all right if he'd open his heart and give me five or ten dollars." loammi entered the house fully convinced that he was very ill used, and that his father was a very selfish man. he walked upstairs slowly, and as he passed through the upper hall he saw the door of his mother's chamber open. he went in, thinking that he might be able to borrow from her, when as his eyes glanced around the room he saw something that made his heart beat quicker. on the bureau lay a small pocketbook, which he recognized as his mother's. under present circumstances the sight of a pocketbook affected him powerfully. without any definite idea of what he would do, he walked softly to the bureau, and taking the pocketbook in his hand, opened it. it contained two bills, a five-dollar note and a one. "this would just get me out of my trouble," he thought. "i wish this money was mine." it was a strong temptation. with the one dollar he could pay paul granger, and the five would last him some time, supplementing what he called his miserable allowance. he put the pocketbook in his pocket, and slipping downstairs stealthily, went out again into the street. chapter xvii. suspicion falls upon scott. as he reached the street, loammi paused, for a thought came to him. it was a mean, despicable thought, worse than the theft. but it struck him favorably, and he decided to act upon it. he opened the front door--for he had a latchkey--and went upstairs again. but not to his mother's room. instead, he went one floor higher, and opened the door of scott's little chamber. then he took the two bills from the pocketbook and thrust them into his vest pocket. next he looked about his cousin's chamber, and after some deliberation lifted the lid of a small box that stood on a shelf and dropped the pocketbook inside. then, with a look of satisfaction, he closed the door of the room and went into the hall. as he did so another door opened upon the landing, and ellen, the servant, came out of her own room. she looked with some surprise at loammi, who did not very often show himself upon the third floor. loammi was somewhat disconcerted by this sudden encounter. he felt that it might prove awkward for him. he must try to account in some way for his being there. "do you know if scott is in the house?" he asked. "i don't think so." "i thought he might be in his room, and so came up. but he doesn't appear to be there." "i think he went out after supper," said ellen, accepting the explanation. "well, it doesn't matter. i shall see him to-morrow morning, at any rate." loammi went downstairs and out into the street once more. "it is well i had my wits about me," he thought, complacently. "that was a pretty good explanation. ellen won't suspect anything. she will think it is all right." loammi walked briskly. he was in good spirits, for it made him feel comfortable to think he had six dollars in his pocket. he could not remember the time when he had so much money in his pocket at once. "an ice cream would taste good," he thought. like many young people, loammi had a weakness for ice cream. he walked over to sixth avenue, and entered a small ice cream saloon. just at the door he met paul granger. he was already entering the saloon, when he caught sight of paul. had he seen him sooner he would perhaps have walked on, and put off the ice cream. as it was, he made the best of the situation. "how are you, paul?" he said, cordially. "come in and have an ice cream." "i thought you didn't have any money?" replied paul, surprised. "oh, well, my ship has come in," said loammi, lightly. "then i hope you will be able to pay me the dollar you owe me." "i will. now let us sit down and enjoy the ice cream." they sat down at a small table, and the ice cream was brought, with a plate of cake besides. paul granger began to think loammi was a nice fellow, after all--especially when he received back the dollar a little later on. in paying for the ice cream, loammi got the five-dollar bill changed. "whew! i should think your ship _had_ come in," exclaimed paul. "you'll be in funds now." "yes, for a little while." as the two boys left the ice-cream saloon they came upon scott, who was just passing. this annoyed loammi, who didn't care to have his cousin know that he had been spending money. "good-evening, loammi," said scott, politely. "who is that boy, loammi?" asked paul, when scott had gone on. "a cousin of mine. he is poor, and pa gave him a place in the store." "he seems like a nice fellow. why didn't you introduce me?" "he isn't in our set," said loammi. "i didn't think you'd care to know him." "oh, i am not so snobbish as that. besides, he is a cousin of yours." "that is true. i suppose we all have poor relations." "yes; the boy i like best is a poor relation of mine--a cousin." the two boys walked as far as bryant park and sat down on a bench. they talked about such subjects as interest schoolboys, till paul, looking at his watch, said: "it is time for me to go home; mother has a bad headache, and i promised i wouldn't stay out late." meanwhile, mrs. little had a call from her seamstress, who brought home some work upon which she had been engaged. "what is the charge?" asked mrs. little. "two dollars." mrs. little felt in her pocket for her money, and didn't find it. she looked puzzled at first, then her brow cleared up. "i remember, i laid my pocketbook on the bureau in my room," she reflected. "wait here a moment," she said. "i will bring you the money." but when she reached her chamber she looked in vain for the pocketbook. "that is strange," she soliloquized. "i distinctly remember laying it down on the bureau." she summoned the servant. "ellen," she said, "have you by chance been into my chamber within an hour or two?" "no, ma'am. is anything the matter?" "my pocketbook is missing. i laid it down on the bureau and forgot to take it up again." "i am very sorry, ma'am; was there much money in it?" "two bills, a five and a one." "that is too much to lose." "it is a little awkward. miss green, my seamstress, is here, and i want to pay her two dollars. do you happen to have any money with you?" "yes, ma'am; i can let you have the two dollars." "thank you. i will give it back to you when mr. little comes in." "who can have taken the money?" thought mrs. little. "it can't be ellen, for she is an old and trusted servant, and there doesn't seem to be anyone else. it is certainly mysterious." mrs. little did not so much care for the money; it was the mystery that perplexed her. she was sure she had placed the pocketbook on the bureau, and it could not have got away without hands. a few minutes later scott entered the house. "have you been at home this evening, scott?" asked mrs. little. "no; i went out directly after supper." "and loammi also?" "yes; we went out together." "did you remain with him?" "no; we soon separated. did you want him?" "oh, well, never mind. i suppose he hasn't come in yet." "i will go to his room and see." "if you please." scott reported that his cousin was not in. "really," thought mrs. little, "if the amount were larger, i might think it necessary to call in a detective." possibly the pocketbook had fallen on the carpet. she instituted a search, but it proved unsuccessful. fifteen minutes later loammi came in. "i wonder whether the loss has been discovered?" he said to himself. "i'll find ma, and then i shall learn." "good-evening, ma," he said. "where have you been, loammi?" "oh, walking round with paul granger. has scott got home?" "yes." "i am rather tired. i guess i'll go up to my room." "stop a minute, loammi. perhaps you can help me solve a mystery." "now it is coming!" thought loammi. "what is it, ma?" he inquired, carelessly. "i have met with a loss." "what have you lost--your watch?" "no, my pocketbook." "you don't say so!" ejaculated loammi, in innocent surprise. "i hope there wasn't much money in it." "there were six dollars--a one and a five." "is that so? i wonder----" and then he stopped short. "what is it you wonder?" asked his mother, quickly. "oh, i'd rather not tell." "but i insist upon your telling, if it will throw any light on my loss." "well, it may not mean anything, but i know scott has a five-dollar bill. i saw it to-night. but, of course, there are plenty of five-dollar bills." chapter xviii. trapped. "i don't think scott would take my money," said mrs. little. "i don't like to think so myself," rejoined loammi, "but some one must have taken it." "you say that scott has a five-dollar bill?" said his mother, doubtfully. "yes, i saw it." "when did you see it?" "this evening. i was surprised, for i knew he was poor." mrs. little began to think that scott might have yielded to sudden temptation. "won't you call scott?" she said. "he is in his room." loammi obeyed with alacrity. he knocked at scott's door, and it was opened to him. "scott," he said, "ma wants to see you. can you come downstairs?" "certainly." scott was somewhat surprised, but he went down at once. mrs. little looked embarrassed. she was a kind-hearted woman, and she shrank from charging scott with theft. "did you wish to speak with me, mrs. little?" asked scott. "yes; i have met with a loss. my pocketbook, containing a sum of money, has disappeared." "i am sorry to hear it." "i thought possibly you or loammi might have seen it." "i have not seen anything of a pocketbook. when did you miss it?" "i have not seen it since three o'clock this afternoon." "do you remember whether you laid it down anywhere?" "yes; i laid it on the bureau in my room." "then how could i have seen it? i don't go into your room." "nor i," put in loammi. "i hope you don't suspect either of us of stealing it," said scott, gravely. "i don't know what to think. loammi tells me that you have in your possession a five-dollar bill. the pocketbook contained a five-dollar bill." "yes, mrs. little; i have a five-dollar bill of my own, i have had it for some time. this loammi knew, and also where i got it." "i don't know anything about that. but it seems very strange what can have become of the money." "ma," put in loammi, "tell me in what sort of a pocketbook you kept the money?" mrs. little gave a description of it. "i have something to propose. suppose you search my chamber and scott's, to see if there is any such pocketbook in either." "i don't like to do that. it would be acting as if i thought you dishonest." "i have no objection for one," said loammi. "have you, scott?" "none whatever." "then suppose we go about it. go to my chamber first." the three went into loammi's room. of course the search revealed nothing of the lost pocketbook. "now, let us go upstairs." so they proceeded to scott's room. scott sat down on a chair. "don't mind me," he said. "look wherever you see fit." loammi lifted the pillow, then the bedclothes, peered behind the table, and under the bed. "of course, i haven't the slightest idea of finding it here, scott," he said, "but it is just as well to look thoroughly." "you can't please me better." with a nonchalant air loammi went to the shelf, and raised the cover of a small tin box. "what is this?" he asked, drawing from it the pocketbook. "that is my pocketbook," said mrs. little, quickly. "oh, scott, how could you have taken it?" "i wouldn't have believed it," said loammi, trying to look surprised. "let me see that pocketbook," said scott, quickly. it was placed in his hand. "is this the pocketbook you lost?" he asked, turning to mrs. little. "if it is not, it is exactly like it. did you have one of this kind?" "no, and i never saw this before." loammi looked significantly at his mother. "i hope what you say is true," said mrs. little, looking troubled. "it is true. what else was there in the pocketbook except a five-dollar bill?" "a one-dollar note." "i know nothing of either. open this, loammi, and see if either is in it now." loammi did so, but of course the pocketbook was empty. "do you think i took this pocketbook from your room, mrs. little?" asked scott. "what am i to think?" "i can't tell you. i can tell you what i think." "what is it?" "that the person who stole the pocketbook took out the money and placed it where it was found." "oh, of course," sneered loammi; "but who was it?" "i don't know, but i mean to find out." he gazed fixedly at loammi, who flushed a little, for he saw that he was suspected. "ma," he said, "i hope you'll forgive scott. probably he will be willing to give up the money." "i consider that remark an insulting one, loammi. i don't want to be forgiven, nor can i give up money that i didn't take." "haven't you got a five-dollar note in your pocket?" "yes, but it's my own." "we won't continue the discussion," said mrs. little, sadly. "i would a great deal rather have given away the money than lose it in this way." "so you think me guilty, mrs. little?" "i shall have to, if you don't explain how the pocketbook came to be in your room." "that i can't do. of course it was placed there, but i can't tell who did it." "of course i must report the matter to mr. little." "do so, madam. perhaps he can think of some way to find out the real thief." "ma, i am sleepy. i think i will go to bed," said loammi. mother and son rose, and left the room. it will readily be supposed that scott did not sleep much that night. he saw the awkwardness of his position. he felt convinced that loammi, if he had not taken the money, had secreted the pocketbook in his room with the design of throwing suspicion upon him. but how could he prove this? that was the question, and one that baffled him. of course it was a despicable thing to do, but he believed that his cousin was quite capable of it. the next morning scott shrank from going down to breakfast. it was embarrassing for him to be looked upon as a thief, even though he were supported by the consciousness of innocence. as soon as he entered the dining room, he saw by mr. little's cold and frigid expression that he had been told. still, nothing was said until the meal was over. when scott rose from the table, mr. little said: "stay behind a minute, young man. i have something to say to you." "yes, sir." "mrs. little has told me of the discovery that was made in your chamber last evening." "very well, sir." "but it is not very well. it looks very bad for you." "mr. little, do you think i took your wife's pocketbook?" "the evidence is pretty conclusive." "all i can say is that i am as innocent as you are." "the pocketbook contained a five-dollar bill. i learn that you have a five-dollar bill." "yes, sir." "i think that settles it." "i beg your pardon, mr. little, but you yourself probably have a five-dollar bill in your pocket. it proves nothing." "you are very plausible, but i am not easily fooled. i have just one thing to say. give up that five-dollar bill, and we will overlook the theft." "and if not?" "then you must leave my house and consider yourself discharged from my store." scott was pale but composed. "you are treating me with great injustice," he said. "my innocence will some day appear. in the meantime i shall leave your house at once, sir." "that is for you to decide," said mr. little, coldly, as he rose from the table. scott walked up slowly to his little chamber. his heart was heavy within him. he was innocent, yet adjudged guilty. his home and situation were taken from him, and he was turned out into the street. he resolved to go around and see cousin seth. of his sympathy he felt assured. he rang the bell, and mrs. mead opened the door in person. "good-morning, scott," she said, pleasantly. "is mr. lawton in?" asked scott. "no; he left last evening for the west, to be absent about a month. he asked me to say that he would write you in a day or two. he was called away suddenly by a telegram." scott's heart sank within him. he seemed to have lost his only friend. chapter xix. a new home. "did you wish to see mr. lawton about something important?" asked mrs. mead. "yes, i wish to ask his advice. i have lost my place." "at mr. little's store?" "yes." "i never liked mr. little. i am glad willie has another position." "have you a small room vacant, mrs. mead? i have left mr. little's house also, and i must find a room somewhere." "i have a small hall bedroom on the third floor." "what rent do you charge?" "two dollars a week, usually, but to you i will make it a dollar and a half." "then i will take it. can i go up at once and leave my valise?" "yes; i will show the way." the room was small, as mrs. mead had described it, but it was scrupulously clean. scott felt that he would be very well satisfied with it, if only he could continue to pay the rent. it was certainly pleasanter than the room he had occupied at ezra little's. "you must dine with us to-night, mr. walton," said mrs. mead, hospitably. "willie will be glad to see you, and then you can tell us how you came to leave the store." as soon as he was settled, scott went out and began to look for a position. he bought a morning paper, and looked over the advertisements of "help wanted." he took down several names, and began to call in rotation. in several instances he found the places already filled. in one place he was offered two dollars and a half a week, which he knew it would be idle to accept, as it would do little more than pay his room rent. in one place he was asked where he had worked last. "at little's dry-goods store on eighth avenue," he answered. "why did you leave?" "because of a disagreement with mr. little." "i don't think we shall require your services," said the merchant, coldly. he turned away, as if to intimate that the conference was at an end. scott was depressed. he saw that any explanation he might give of his leaving his former place would only injure him. yet, almost everywhere the question would be asked. this made him feel all the more that he had been very unjustly treated by ezra little. he had been required to plead guilty to a theft which he had not committed, and to replace the money lost with money of his own. he had very properly declined to do this, and now he was thrown out of employment, with very little chance of securing another place. several days passed, and scott must have made application for a hundred situations. but his luck did not improve. one obstacle was a general business depression which made employers averse to hiring new employees. and all the while his scanty funds were diminishing. he sought out cheap restaurants and limited his orders to the barest necessities, but still his money melted away till at length he was reduced to fifty cents. besides, his week was about out and he would be called upon to pay a second week's rent. this was, of course, out of the question. poor scott was deeply perplexed. he began to think it would have been better if he had complied with ezra little's demand for the five-dollar bill. it was about gone now, and he was without an income. he chanced to be passing the gilsey house at four o'clock in the afternoon, when he heard his name called. looking up, he recognized the familiar face of justin wood, whom he had not met for some weeks. "i am glad to see you once more, scott," said the young man, cordially. "why haven't you called upon me?" "i did call once, but i did not find you in." "it must have been when i was making a short visit to philadelphia. but now come in, and give an account of yourself. how does it happen that you are in the streets at this hour?" "because, mr. wood," answered scott, gravely, "i have lost my place." "then you have a story to tell. come in, and tell me all about it." he led the way into the hotel, and scott followed him into the reading room. "now take a seat at the window," said justin wood, pointing to an armchair, "and tell me why you were discharged." scott told the story in as few words as possible. "this money which mr. little wished you to give up was a part of what you recovered from that swindler at staten island, i presume?" "yes, sir." "then i could certify to its belonging to you. do you wish me to do so?" "i don't want to go back to mr. little's if i can find another place. besides, it will still be said that the pocketbook was found in my room." "have you any idea who put it there?" "yes, i think it was put there by loammi." "that is my own conclusion." "but i don't see how i can bring it home to him." "there will be a difficulty. if you get evidence of his having changed a five-dollar bill about that time, now----" "i don't see how i can do that. it happened a week since." "where are you living now?" "i have a room on west sixteenth street, at the house of a mrs. mead, but i shall have to leave it to-morrow." "why?" "because i have no money to pay the rent for a second week." "how much is it?" "a dollar and a half." "i might be willing to lend you as much as that," said justin wood, smiling. "thank you, sir, but i shall need money to buy my meals besides." "then i think i shall have to come to your assistance." justin wood put his hand in his pocket, and drew out two five-dollar bills. "that will tide you over for the present," he said. "but," said scott, "ought i accept so much? i don't know when i shall be able to repay you." "then we had better consider it a gift." "thank you very much, sir." "it is hardly worth mentioning," he said. "if it will do you good i am glad. now, you must come in and take some dinner with me. i have eaten nothing since breakfast, and am almost famished." the young man ordered a plain, but most appetizing dinner, to which scott and himself did equal justice. scott, too, had eaten nothing since breakfast, and that breakfast had been a meager one. after dinner the two friends hailed a car and went uptown. they spent an hour in central park. mr. wood proposed to walk back, and scott accompanied him. "would you mind if i called at mr. little's house?" asked scott. "there may be a letter for me from cousin seth." "do so, by all means, scott." scott rang the bell, and the door was opened by ellen. her eye brightened when she saw scott, whom she liked much better than loammi. "i am glad to see you, scott," she said. "and where are you living, now?" "i am boarding on west sixteenth street." "and have you got another place?" "not yet. i suppose you heard why i left the house." "yes, i did, and it's a shame." "did you hear that mrs. little's pocketbook was found in my room?" "yes, i did, and i know who put it there." "who was it?" asked scott, eagerly. "only an hour before, i myself saw loammi coming out of your chamber. he pretended that he went there expecting to see you." "did you tell mr. little that?" "no; but i will if you want me to." "i may ask you to do it some time. do you think loammi took the money?" "i do that. all this week he's been unusually flush of cash. it's easy to guess where it came from." "and i have had to suffer for his theft. oh, by the way, ellen, has any letter come here for me?" "there was one came this morning. i'll get it for you." scott looked at the postmark of the letter, and saw that it was from chicago. chapter xx. scott is vindicated. scott opened the letter, which proved to be brief. it was dated at the sherman house, chicago, and ran thus: "i am called away suddenly on business, and may be absent for a month. should you need to consult me on any subject, direct to me here, as letters will be forwarded if i am absent from the city. cousin seth." scott showed the letter to mr. wood. "i shall be glad to make the acquaintance of mr. lawton," said justin. "he is evidently a good friend of yours." "if he were here now he might get me a place. i don't stand much chance myself." "i must see if i can't find some temporary work for you to do. suppose we take an ice cream. do you know any good place near by?" "there is one on sixth avenue." "very well, we will go there." scott led the way to the place already referred to, frequented by his cousin, loammi. when they entered, scott saw loammi seated at a table in the rear part of the saloon. he espied the new arrival, and was evidently surprised to meet scott in such a place. "hello, scott!" he called out. "good-evening, loammi," returned scott, coolly. "goin' to take an ice cream?" "yes." "i say, are you working yet?" "not yet." "then how can you afford to buy ice cream?" loammi was about to ask, but the presence of justin wood checked him. mr. wood was handsomely dressed, and looked like a man of means. "i wonder where scott picked him up," thought loammi. he wished to be introduced, but scott did not give any encouragement in that direction. loammi, having no good excuse to stay, rose and left the saloon. "so that's your cousin?" remarked justin wood. "yes." "he looks sly. i am something of a judge of faces, and i don't like his." "i suppose i am prejudiced against him," said scott. "i don't think i could ever like him." scarcely had loammi left the saloon, when scott was surprised to see ezra little and his wife enter. mrs. little first caught sight of scott, and spoke in a low tone to her husband. ezra little, turning his glance in the direction of scott, eyed him severely. "so this is where you spend your ill-gotten money," he said, not noticing that scott was in the company of the fashionably dressed young man sitting on the opposite side of the table. "i beg your pardon, sir," said justin wood, "but it is my money that is being spent." "i was not aware that you were in the boy's company," said ezra little, respectfully, for he saw that mr. wood was a gentleman of social position. "i must explain that your companion left my house a week since under discreditable circumstances." "he told me the circumstances. you assumed that the money he had in his possession was stolen." "there can hardly be a doubt of it. there was a five-dollar bill--and the missing pocketbook contained a five-dollar bill." "i am personally cognizant of the fact that the money was his own. indeed, i helped to recover it for him from a swindler who had robbed him of it." "this does not explain the pocketbook being found in his chamber." "where your son put it." "this is a strange charge to make, sir. have you any grounds for making it?" "scott and i called at your house this evening. the servant said that an hour before the discovery of the pocketbook your son was seen by her coming out of scott's room." ezra little looked startled, and mrs. little looked distressed. "moreover, i think if you inquire, you will find that some of the stolen money was disposed of in this saloon. your son only went out ten minutes since. suppose you inquire whether he has changed a five-dollar bill here recently." "i will do so." ezra little went up to the cashier. "i understand," he said, "that my son comes in here frequently." "yes, sir, he was here this evening." "can you call to mind whether you have ever changed a five-dollar bill for him?" "i did so about a week since. was there anything wrong about the bill?" "i only asked out of curiosity." ezra was a hard man, but he was not altogether unjust. "scott," he said, "i think there may have been some mistake about your taking the pocketbook. if you will call at the store to-morrow, i will see about taking you back." scott bowed, but did not speak. he felt that he could never again be contented in mr. little's employment. when they left the saloon he asked: "what do you advise me to do about going back, mr. wood?" "don't go," said justin wood, promptly. "i will stand by you, and see if i can't get you something better." "thank you, sir. i don't want to go back if i can help it. but i am glad my innocence has been proved." "i fancy your cousin will find himself in hot water." loammi was already at the house when his father and mother came in. he had no suspicion of trouble, but was eager to tell his father that he had seen scott. he did not observe the unusual sternness on mr. little's face. "pa," he said, "i saw scott to-night." "where did you see him?" "at an ice-cream saloon on sixth avenue. his money seems to have lasted him pretty well." "what were you doing there?" was his father's unexpected question. "getting an ice cream," answered loammi, in surprise. "so your money seems to have lasted pretty well also," said his father. "an ice cream costs only ten cents, pa." "how many times have you been there within a week?" "once or twice, i believe," answered loammi, wondering what his father meant by his strict cross-examination. "are you sure you have not been there every evening?" "i don't think so." "have you ever had a bill changed there?" "i don't know what you mean, pa." but loammi began to fear that he did understand, and he turned pale. "where," asked his father, sternly, "did you get the five-dollar bill that you got changed there a week ago to-day?" "i don't know anything about any five-dollar bill." loammi looked frightened. "wasn't it the money you found in your mother's pocketbook?" "but scott took that, pa. you know the pocketbook was found in his room." "yes, by you. you knew just where to look for it, for you concealed it there." "oh, pa, who told you any such wicked story about me?" "go downstairs and ask ellen to come up here." loammi would willingly have been excused from doing this, but he knew there was no alternative. when ellen appeared, mr. little said: "do you remember the evening when the pocketbook was found in master scott's room?" "yes, sir." "had scott been in his room that evening?" "i think not, sir." "had any one else been in the room?" "i saw loammi coming out from the room about half-past eight." "oh, what a story!" ejaculated loammi, in perturbation. "it is true, sir," said ellen, firmly. "i have no doubt of it. that will do, ellen." "now, what have you to say?" demanded ezra little, addressing his son. "did you or did you not take the pocketbook?" "yes, sir," answered loammi, reluctantly. "and you had the meanness to throw suspicion on your cousin. i am ashamed of you." loammi made no reply for the very good reason that he had nothing to say. "i have myself seen scott this evening, and i also learned from the keeper of the ice-cream saloon that you changed a five-dollar bill there a week since. i have told scott to come back to the store. as for you, you deserve to be punished. i shall therefore reduce your allowance from a dollar a week to fifty cents till the sum you stole has been made up. now, you can go upstairs to bed." loammi shed tears of vexation. "now scott will be crowing over me," he thought to himself. "i can't stand it; i think i will run away." but he was spared this humiliation. scott went into mr. little's store the next day and sought the proprietor. "you can come back to work on monday morning," said ezra, "and you can go round to the house this evening." "thank you, sir; but i have got another place." "another place? where?" "with tower, douglas & co." ezra little was very much surprised, for the firm mentioned was in the wholesale line and stood very high. "how did you get there?" "mr. wood, the gentleman that was with me last evening, recommended me." "very well," said mr. little, curtly. "you will bear in mind that i offered you your position back. of course, if you lose your new place i can make no promises." "then i will try not to lose it." chapter xxi. a new place. the house of tower, douglas & co. occupied a very high position in new york, and was known by reputation all over the country. the firm was liberal and considerate, and there were plenty of boys and young men who sought to enter their establishment. rich men sometimes offered the services of their sons, but mr. tower was never willing to accept them. "a boy who works for nothing," he said, "is worth only what he receives. he loses his self-respect, and has no ambition to rise." generally, however, the wages paid to beginners were small, not over three or four dollars a week. of course it was impossible for scott to live on such pay. justin wood was a relative of mrs. tower, and being personally liked by her husband, was the better able to secure favors. when he obtained scott's engagement he said: "now as to the rate of compensation, mr. tower; how much are you willing to pay my young friend?" "we usually pay three dollars a week. we will stretch a point and make it four in the case of young walton." "i want you to pay him ten dollars a week." mr. tower looked amazed. "impossible!" he exclaimed. "you must be crazy." "the boy is wholly dependent on what he earns." "that may be; but i am under no obligation to support him." "true," said justin wood, smiling, "but you may charge the extra six dollars to me." "that will make a difference; but suppose our other employees find it out; then there will be dissatisfaction." "then let him understand that he is only paid ten dollars as a special favor to me, and that the arrangement must be kept strictly secret." "that will do; but suppose he does not meet our expectations?" "he will. you need be under no apprehensions. i am something of a judge of boys, and i can assure you that he has a talent for business." "i will take your word for it until i have a chance to judge for myself." when scott was informed that he would receive ten dollars a week he was delighted, and thanked mr. tower warmly. "i am afraid i can't earn that sum, sir," he said. "i know you can't," said the merchant, "but mr. wood is a cousin of my wife, and it is on his account that i pay you so liberal a salary. i expect you to work zealously so that you may deserve it." "thank you, sir; i will." scott spoke confidently, and mr. tower was pleased with his modest self-assurance. "i don't think justin is deceived in the boy," he said to himself. "at any rate, i will give him a fair chance." six months later, when justin wood called and asked how scott was progressing, mr. tower said: "he is a born salesman. he is quick, shrewd, intelligent, and above all, he inspires confidence in customers. we will hereafter pay him ten dollars a week on our own account, and will not ask you to reimburse us. but we will not raise him above that till the end of the year." "that is perfectly satisfactory. i have only one favor to ask." "what is that?" "send him on the road as soon as you consider him competent. i think he will make a successful drummer." "that is my intention. some of my salesmen can never go outside the store. young walton will make a good record outside." scott had been with the new firm for a month, when seth lawton returned from chicago. he was much pleased at scott's success, but understood very well that he was indebted for it to the friendly offices of justin wood. "do your best, scott," he said. "you are at the bottom of the ladder, but you must climb. your future depends on yourself. do you ever see anything of loammi?" "i have met him two or three times. he seems surprised, and i think a little disappointed, at my success." "does he know how much you receive?" "no; i promised to keep that a secret. but he knows that i live in a comfortable boarding house on lexington avenue, and have a good room. if he knew i was paid ten dollars a week he would want to borrow money. his father has reduced his allowance to fifty cents a week, and he complains that he might as well be a newsboy. 'don't you think the old man is mean?' he asked me yesterday." "and what did you reply?" "i told him that i didn't care to criticise his father." "good! i see you are discreet. what is ezra going to do with his son? will he train him up to business?" "loammi says he is going to columbia college, or perhaps to yale." "he will never get there. he won't study hard enough." "so i think, cousin seth. i wish i had the chance." "would you really like to go to college, scott?" asked seth lawton, thoughtfully. "no, i think not as i am at present situated. i could not enter before i am eighteen, and by that time i shall be well advanced in the knowledge of business." "i think you are right, but i advise you to study, and read instructive books in your leisure hours." "i am doing that, cousin seth, and i am thinking soon of taking a commercial course in some business college." "do so, and i will pay the bill for tuition." "i can afford to pay that myself, cousin. you are too generous. that is what keeps you poor." seth lawton smiled. "oh, i am not so unselfish as you suppose," he said. "i make enough to live comfortably." "yes, cousin seth, but you ought to be saving up money. you are no longer a young man." "i should think not, at fifty-five." "and suppose you get sick, how are you to live?" "don't you think ezra little would take care of me?" scott laughed. "i am afraid not," he answered; "but you have another relative who would be glad to help you." "meaning yourself." "yes." "good boy!" said seth, and he looked moved. "yes, i think you would be willing to help me if i were in need, but at present you have only enough for yourself." "i am saving a little money, cousin." "what! out of ten dollars a week?" "yes; ten dollars a week is quite a liberal salary." "you are right. it will do you no harm to be economical. by the way, has ezra little never returned to you the forty dollars you placed in his hands?" "no." "you should ask him for it." "i would rather not," said scott, shrinking. "but it is rightfully yours. he has no excuse for keeping it." "i don't think i would like to speak to him on the subject," said scott, thoughtfully. "then i will." in fact, mr. lawton lost no time in doing as he proposed. he called at ezra little's house and broached the subject. "ezra," he said, "i understand that you have forty dollars belonging to scott." "i don't look upon it in that light," said mr. little. "i gave the boy a place in my store." "and all you gave him was his board." "true; but that was more than he earned." "i don't agree with you. it strikes me, ezra, that it is small business to take the boy's small capital and appropriate it to your own use." ezra little looked incensed. "mr. lawton," he said, "it strikes me that your interference is impertinent." "on the contrary, as scott has no one else to speak up for him, i consider that, as his near relative, it is my duty to do it." "if you had attended to your own affairs, instead of meddling with others, you would not be in danger of going to the poorhouse, as you are at present." "am i?" asked seth, looking amused. "you seem to know a good deal about my affairs." "i don't suppose you have a hundred dollars in the world. if you should be in need you mustn't expect me to help you." "i shall not. you are pretty safe on that score, ezra." "i see you are poor and proud. however, i am glad to hear it." "then suppose we return to scott's money. are you prepared to give it back?" "no, i am not." "i don't think it will do you any good. robbing the orphan----" "mr. lawton, i will not submit to such insinuations. if scott should lose his position, as he is likely to do if he is guided by your advice, i will help him out of the money in my hands." "very well; i will hold you to that. however, i don't think he is likely to be placed in that predicament." "how much does he receive from tower, douglas & co.?" "more than you paid him. however, i will not occupy any more of your time. if you become ashamed of your meanness, you can let me know." "seth lawton, i won't stand any more of your impertinence. you appear to forget who i am." "i am not likely to forget who and what you are, ezra. good-evening!" "the beggar!" soliloquized the merchant. "he need never expect any favors from me. he will yet repent his impertinence." chapter xxii. the poor inventor. had scott spent all his salary he could not have been charged with extravagance, for ten dollars a week in a large city melts away, but he made it a matter of principle to save two dollars weekly. so at the end of a year he had one hundred dollars, and was fairly well clothed. it was on the last day of the year that he received a summons to the office. he answered it with some little trepidation, for it was possible that the firm had decided to dispense with his services. "take a seat, scott," said mr. tower, pleasantly, when he entered the office. "i believe you have been with us for a year." "yes, sir." "we are quite satisfied with you. you have shown ability as a salesman, and have taken an intelligent interest in the business. for this reason we are disposed to promote you." "thank you, sir," said scott, much gratified. "though you are unusually young, we are disposed to try you on the road. how would you like that?" "i should like nothing better." "your compensation, if you are successful, would be considerably greater than you are now paid. how much, will depend upon your success." "i should be quite content with that arrangement, sir." "we shall start you out probably within a week. one of our salesmen is sick, and we shall put you on his route. you will go to cleveland and intermediate places. you will receive your instructions in due time." "thank you, sir." scott left the office much elated. he knew that there was no drummer employed by the firm less than twenty-three years of age, while he was barely eighteen. he resolved to succeed if success were possible, for he felt that this would give him an important position and an excellent income. "how fortunate i did not stay with cousin ezra," he thought. "if i had probably i should not be receiving more than six dollars a week now." scott, as has already been said, boarded on lexington avenue. he occupied a small room, and paid but five dollars a week, but those who occupied the larger rooms paid in proportion to the accommodation enjoyed. in the room just opposite to his lived a man of about forty, whom scott had met more than once on the stairs but did not feel very well acquainted with. just after supper he was preparing to go out, when there was a knock at the door. opening it, he found that the caller was his opposite neighbor. he was looking pale and depressed. "can you lend me a few matches?" he asked. "certainly, mr. babcock; won't you step in and sit down?" said scott, cordially. the visitor hesitated, then said, slowly: "i will do so, but i shall not be very good company." "i am glad of the chance of making your acquaintance," said scott. "i have only seen you on the stairs heretofore." "i don't think you will see much more of me," said the visitor, soberly. "why not? are you intending to move away?" "it is not exactly a matter of choice," said babcock. scott could guess why, for his visitor was very poorly clad. his suit was frayed and rusty, and there were unmistakable marks of poverty about his whole appearance. scott felt delicate about speaking of this. he contented himself with saying: "i am sorry to hear it." "the fact is," went on babcock, with a sigh, "i am a failure, and have just begun to realize it." "if you wouldn't mind telling me about it," said scott, gently, "i can at least sympathize with you." "sympathy will be welcome. it is long since i have had any." he paused, and presently continued: "you must know that i am an inventor. i need say no more to satisfy you that i am a visionary and unpractical man." "i don't know about that. there have been many successful inventors." "and i might be one but for one unfortunate circumstance." "what is that, sir?" "i have used up all my money, and though the invention is perfected, i am unable to reap the benefit of it." "would you mind telling me the nature of your invention?" "it is a window fastener. you may think it a trifle, but it is the small inventions which from their nature come into common use, and thus pay the best." "i can understand that. how long have you been at work on your invention?" "a year. i had a little money when i began, and it has supported me while i was at work. now that the invention is perfected, i am without funds. i may as well be plain, and say that i cannot pay my next week's board." "couldn't you get some man with money to help you?" "it is what i have been hoping for. in fact, i called yesterday on a prominent merchant, and laid the matter before him." "who was it, mr. babcock?" "ezra little." scott looked surprised. "he is a relative of mine," he said. "how did he treat you?" "he listened to what i had to say, and promised to write to me. he did so. shall i show you the letter?" "if you are willing." the inventor drew from his pocket a typewritten letter, and showed it to scott. it ran thus: "mr. henry babcock. "dear sir: i have thought over the small invention you showed me yesterday. i doubt if there is any money in it, but as i presume you are in want, i will give you thirty-five dollars for it. i can stand the small loss, and it will tide you over till you can get a position that will support you. "yours truly, "ezra little." "mr. little is not very liberal," said scott, smiling. "no," answered the inventor, bitterly. "think of the year's labor i have spent upon it, and the prospect before me if i accept this paltry sum. with economy it would last me a month, and then what would become of me?" "true; but there are other men besides mr. little, who might perhaps deal with you more generously." "you are right, but i don't think you understand my position. my available funds are reduced to two dollars. sometimes in my desperation i have thought i would go down to brooklyn bridge, and end it all. i think i should have done so but for one thing." "what is that?" asked scott, beginning to show a strong personal interest in his unfortunate visitor. "i have a little daughter--four years old. i must live for her." "yes, you must live for her and yourself, too. you may yet be successful." "do you perhaps know of some capitalist?" asked the inventor, eagerly. "i know of a gentleman who is well supplied with money, and i will lay the matter before him. meanwhile, as you need the money, accept this loan." scott drew from his pocket two five-dollar bills and tendered them to mr. babcock. "you have given me new life and new hope," said the inventor, his pale face brightening. "who is the gentleman?" "a mr. wood--justin wood. he lives at the gilsey house, and he has been very kind to me. in fact, i owe the position i hold to him." "is he--a practical man? would he see the possibilities of my invention?" "i can't say, but out of regard to me he would give it consideration." "when can we see him? excuse my impatience, but you can understand how much it means to me." "i do, mr. babcock, and i will therefore go with you to his hotel this very evening, though we may possibly not find him in." "if you will be so kind i will get ready at once." in five minutes they were on their way to the gilsey house. chapter xxiii. ezra little's disappointment. arrived at the gilsey house, scott went into the reading room, thinking he might find mr. wood there. but he failed to see him. "whom are you looking for?" asked edward stripling, the telephone boy, who occupied one corner of the room. "mr. wood." "perhaps you are the one he wanted to see. he told me to tell any one inquiring that he would be back in fifteen minutes." "then we shan't have to wait long, mr. babcock." the inventor took up a paper from the table, but he was so nervous that he could not concentrate his attention upon it. ten minutes later justin wood entered the room. "i am glad to see you, scott," was his cordial greeting. "thank you, mr. wood. i come on business. let me introduce mr. babcock." "glad to see you, mr. babcock," said wood, courteously. "could we go up to your room? we won't keep you long." "certainly. follow me." mr. wood had a front room on the third floor a pleasant apartment, for which he paid a high rent. "now, mr. wood," began scott, "i am going to ask your attention for ten minutes." "i will give you fifteen, if necessary," said wood, smiling. thereupon scott told the story of the inventor, to which justin wood listened attentively. "have you a model of your invention?" he asked, turning to babcock. "here it is, sir." the young man asked various questions, which babcock answered satisfactorily. "i think well of your invention," said mr. wood, in conclusion. "now, what do you want me to do?" scott answered. "mr. babcock has exhausted all his means and is penniless," he said. "the invention is perfected, but he is not in a position to put it before the public. he has, to be sure, received offers of assistance from a gentleman whom we both know." "to whom do you refer?" "ezra little." "indeed! is that liberal gentleman willing to help him?" "he offers me thirty-five dollars for the invention," said babcock, bitterly. "i have spent a whole year in perfecting it, and this is to be my compensation." "i think you had better not trouble mr. little," observed justin, quietly. "how much money do you need to put it before the public?" "if i had one hundred and fifty dollars," said the inventor, hesitatingly, "i think i could manage. i would be willing to sell a one-half interest for that sum." "that would not be enough," said wood, decidedly. "with it i'd stand some chance of success." "i will tell you what i will do. i will give you five hundred dollars for one-third interest, on condition that you work zealously to make it a success." "oh, sir, you are too generous," said babcock, with emotion. "with that money i see my way clear." "what would be your plan?" "i can make arrangements with a responsible party to manufacture it, and will myself travel and put it before the public." "i will risk it." "i am sure, sir, that you will get your money back several times over." "i hope so. i am not buying it for myself, but for a friend of mine." scott looked at him inquiringly. "the friend is scott walton," he said, smiling. "should it pay, i shall deduct the five hundred dollars from the first money received in the way of profit, and then make over the whole investment to you, scott. i hope it may make you rich." "how can i thank you, mr. wood?" said scott, gratefully. "wait till you see whether you have anything to be grateful for." "there is no doubt about that," said the inventor, confidently. "you will excuse me for saying, mr. wood, that i shall work even harder for my young friend walton than i would for you." "that is just what i wish. i am already rich, while scott has his fortune yet to make." "i will help him to make it." "come around to-morrow, mr. babcock, at ten o'clock, and i will have the money ready. we will also have papers regularly drawn up, so that scott's share of the investment may be secured to him. and now, i shall have to bid you good-evening, as i have an engagement with a friend at the union league club." the two went out. the inventor was fairly radiant. "mr. walton," he said, "you don't know what you have done for me. you have given me a new lease of life. when i came to your room to-night i was in a mood that might have led me to throw myself from the brooklyn bridge. mr. little's cold-blooded letter had much to do with bringing on that mood. i felt that there was no hope for me." "and now?" "now i have hope--and confidence. i have a presentiment of success. i shall make myself rich and you also." "i hope your presentiment will prove prophetic," said scott, smiling. "i can assure you that a fortune will be welcome. at present i have only accumulated one hundred dollars." "that is not bad for a young man of your age." "say a boy. i am not ashamed of being a boy." "remember i am speaking of my partner. i must speak of him with respect." "did i tell you i was going to leave the city for a time?" "no. why is it? you have not lost your place, i hope." "no, i am going to travel for the firm. if i am lucky i shall soon earn an excellent income." "you are sure to do that." "how can you tell that i will succeed?" "i was not referring to your regular position. i was thinking of your interest in my invention." "you are confident, then, of success?" "i am quite confident of it." "i hope you are right; mostly, however, on your account, for i think my future is tolerably secure." "i see you have no idea of the value of your interest in my enterprise." "i shall not think seriously of it, but i will welcome any good that may come to me from it." "my life will be changed," said babcock. "i shall at once send for my little molly." "is that your little daughter?" "yes." "where is she now?" "in the country. now, i shall feel justified in bringing her to the city. she is a sweet little girl." "i am sure you will be happier for having her with you." "yes, you may well say that." "by the way, have you answered ezra little's letter?" "no; i shall answer it in person to-morrow, after i have concluded arrangements with your friend." about two o'clock the next day, the inventor took his way to ezra little's dry-goods store on eighth avenue. he sent in his name and was admitted. he was a welcome visitor, for mr. little, who was a practical man, had a fair conception of the value of his invention, and meant to make a fortune out of it--for himself. as for the poor inventor, he cared little for him. henry babcock entered the merchant's presence, and was bidden to take a seat. "i received a letter from you, mr. little," he said. "yes. i offered you thirty-five dollars for your invention." "that seems to me very small." "probably it is more than i shall make out of it, but you seemed to be in need, and i am willing to help you." "don't you think, however, you could let me have more? thirty-five dollars would not support me a month." "it would give you time to look for a place, mr. babcock." "but, mr. little, think of the time i have spent--and the money!" "that does not concern me," said the merchant, coldly. "i think i shall have to decline your offer." "that is foolish. however, i will strain a point, and give you fifty dollars." henry babcock shook his head. "mr. little," he said, triumphantly, "i have sold a one-third interest in my invention for five hundred dollars." ezra little looked amazed and disappointed. it was a chance of his life lost. "what fool gave you that sum?" he asked, roughly. "a mr. wood, to whom your cousin, scott walton, introduced me." "why didn't you tell me that at first?" snarled ezra little. "wood must have been a fool to be influenced by that boy. good-morning!" chapter xxiv. loammi hears good news. on the monday succeeding, scott started on his trip with a supply of samples and full instructions. his route extended as far as cleveland, including albany and the principal towns in new york state, besides some in ohio. he traveled slowly, having been told to make a thorough canvass of the places he visited. he was everywhere well received. his bright, pleasant manner made friends, and though sometimes his youth proved at first an obstacle, in a short time he won the confidence of customers. it became clear that he understood his business. "you are rather young to represent such a large firm as tower, douglas & co," said a careful scotch merchant in syracuse. "i think so myself," answered scott, good-humoredly. "have they any other drummers as young?" "i don't think so. in fact, i know they have not." "how did they come to make an exception in your case?" "i don't know, unless it was out of kindness." "then you don't think it was because you were extra smart?" asked the merchant, pointedly. "time will show whether i am or not," said scott, smiling. "well, i will ask you a few questions, and then i can judge for myself." scott answered these questions freely and intelligently. he seemed to understand the different qualities of the goods he carried, and would not allow himself to make any claims for them that could not be substantiated. as a result, mr. cameron bought a large order. "i begin to understand why you were selected," he said. "i hope you think the firm was justified." "i do. you understand your business, and you make no misrepresentations." "thank you, sir." "if ever you leave your present place i will give you a position." "thank you still more. i will remember it." at elmira, scott received the following in a letter from mr. douglas, the junior partner: "you are doing finely. you are beating the record." this pleased scott. he did not know whether he had done as well as was anticipated, but this reassured him. two days after scott started on his mission, loammi entered the store on a visit instigated by curiosity. it was partly also at the suggestion of his father, who thought through scott's influence he might redeem his error and obtain an interest in the invention, which he believed would be very profitable. entering the store, loammi looked about him, and finally spoke to a young man near the door. "is a boy named scott walton employed here?" he asked. the clerk addressed was a friend of scott, and guessed who it was that was inquiring about him. he was tempted to play a joke on loammi. "there was a clerk here by that name," he answered, slowly. "isn't he here now?" "he left us two or three days since. "has he got another place?" "i don't think so." loammi brightened up. it seemed too good news to be true. his despised cousin had been discharged. loammi could not have heard anything that would have pleased him more. "do you know why he was discharged?" he asked, eagerly. "no, i don't," answered the other, with a twinkle in his eye. "do you know him?" "yes; he is a distant relation of mine." "then perhaps you can judge better than i why he did not give satisfaction." "i am not at all surprised. he was too fresh. that was the matter with him." "dear me! how unfortunate!" "yes; he'll never stay long anywhere. pa had him in his store for a while--ezra little's store, eighth avenue--but he was obliged to send him away." "and are you mr. little's son?" asked the young clerk, with mock deference. "yes; i am his only son," answered loammi, loftily. "dear me! i am proud to know you. and i suppose you will some time own the store?" continued the clerk, inquiringly. "probably, though i am not sure but i may become a lawyer. do you know where walton lives?" "no. there are so many in the store that i know the residences of very few." loammi took his departure in a very complacent frame of mind. he had always been jealous of scott, and the intelligence that he had lost his place was very agreeable to him. it so happened that on broadway he met seth lawton, whom he had not seen for a good while. under ordinary circumstances he would have taken no notice of him, but now he had an object in speaking to him. "good-morning, mr. lawton," he said, condescendingly. "oh, good-morning, loammi," rejoined the old man, who was short-sighted, when he realized who it was that had addressed him. "where do you think i have been?" "i am sure i cannot tell." "i have been to the store of tower, douglas & co., to call upon scott." "indeed! that was very kind of you." "and you can imagine my surprise to find that he had been discharged." "is it possible?" ejaculated seth, who at once guessed how loammi had been misled. "yes." "that is a great pity. perhaps your father will take him back into the store." "i don't think he will. if he don't do for tower, douglas & co., he won't do for pa." "but the poor boy must live." "oh, well," said loammi, carelessly, "he can get a chance to sell papers or--black boots." "surely your father would not allow his young cousin to sink to that employment." "pa wouldn't interfere. i have heard him say that he has washed his hands of scott. if he had behaved himself it would have been different." "poor boy! i must see what i can do for him." "you'd better not, cousin seth. you are a poor man, and it will be all you can do to look after yourself." "still, loammi, consider scott's position." "he must look out for himself. i advise you not to call round and ask pa to take him back." "i must think what i can do for him." "the old man feels pretty bad," thought loammi. "well, they are a good match. for my part i don't think much of poor relations." loammi hurried home to impart the welcome news to his father. "what do you think, pa?" he burst out. "scott's lost his position." "is this true, loammi?" asked his father, in some surprise. "yes, pa; i went to the store this morning, and one of the clerks told me." "do you know what was the matter?" "oh, i suppose he was too fresh. now, i suppose, he will be trying to come back to you." "i might agree to take him if he would come back on the old terms." "you don't mean it, pa! after he has lost his place, too!" "oh, well, i could look after him. he would be worth his board." "one thing, he couldn't put on any airs after his disgrace. by the way, i met mr. lawton on broadway." "cousin seth?" "yes." "did he have anything to say about scott's discharge?" "he didn't appear to know anything about it till i told him." "do you know where scott boards?" "no." "oh, well, he will probably be coming around to see me after a while. i should like to have him, as i want to get at that inventor through him." "do you think there's money in it, pa?" "as i should manage it there might be," said his father, cautiously. mr. little looked for scott from day to day, but three weeks passed and he heard nothing from him. chapter xxv. at niagara falls. on his way back from cleveland, scott, having the necessary leisure, stopped a couple of days at niagara falls. he registered his name at the clifton house, on the canada side. he lost no time in visiting the objects of interest connected with the falls, and at the close of the first day sat on the piazza, with the falls in sight. a blond-bearded young man of perhaps twenty-five, evidently an englishman, sat near by. he looked at scott once or twice, as if tempted to speak, but a certain reticence characteristic of his countrymen appeared to prevent. scott observed this, and made a remark by way of opening a conversation. "yes," answered the young man, "you are right. the falls are grand. you americans ought to be very proud of them." "but," said scott, smiling, "i am not an american." the englishman looked surprised, for scott, though he had only been in america a year, had come to resemble the people among whom he had cast his lot. "what, then, are you?" inquired his new acquaintance, looking puzzled. "i was born in england." "indeed!" said the other. "then we are countrymen." "i am glad to know it," said scott, courteously. "how long have you been in america, if i may ask?" "a little more than a year." "and do you live in canada?" "no, i live in new york." "you are not--in business?" queried the englishman, noticing his youthful appearance. "oh, yes, i am employed by a new york firm." "but how do you happen--excuse my asking--to be here? but perhaps it is your vacation." "no, i am traveling for the firm. i am a traveling salesman for the house of tower, douglas & co." "that is a large firm, i have heard." "one of the largest in new york." "i confess i am puzzled. you occupy such a responsible position, and yet you are so young." "i believe my case is exceptional. i am the youngest traveler for our house." "i rejoice in your success, since you are an english boy. may i ask your name?" scott handed his new acquaintance a card like this: scott walton representing tower, douglas & co. new york. "thank you," said the other. he took from his pocket a card, from which scott learned that he was lord cecil grant, earl of windermere. "i am honored in making your acquaintance," said scott. "may i say that you seem young to be an earl? i fancied all earls were at least fifty years of age." "i wish that i had waited till fifty for my title," said the young englishman, gravely; "but my poor father died suddenly, six months ago, and partly to dissipate my grief i came to america." "have you been here long, my lord?" asked scott, not knowing exactly how to address his distinguished companion. "never mind the title," said the earl, smiling. "it comes awkwardly to an american to use it, and you are already half an american." "what shall i call you, then?" "you may call me mr. grant, if you like. if you come to know me better, you may call me cecil. i shall take the liberty, since you are a boy, to call you scott." as he spoke there was a winning smile upon his face, and scott felt that he should like him. "i will try to forget that you are an earl," he said, "and then i shall feel more at home with you." "what do you say to a walk, scott? the evening is too fine to spend here." "i shall be delighted." he put on his hat, and the two sauntered off together. they were both good walkers, and had covered several miles before they returned to the hotel. "i wish i had met you before, scott," said the earl, familiarly. "won't you tell me something about yourself, and your history? i am sure you have one." almost before he knew it, scott had told the story already familiar to the reader. the earl listened with evident interest. "really," he said, "it is worthy of telling in book form. that uncle of yours----" "my mother's cousin," corrected scott. "no matter. we will say relative. he must certainly be a mean, disagreeable fellow, don't you know, and as to your cousin with the peculiar name----" "loammi." "yes, i never heard the name before. well, he must be a cad." "i think he is," said scott, smiling; "but i assure you he considers himself infinitely above me." "i shall not ask you for an introduction." "he would like nothing better than to become acquainted with you, mr. grant." "you compliment me. well, here we are at the hotel. what are your plans for to-morrow? i hope you do not leave in the morning?" "no; i shall spend another day here." "why not spend it together?" "i should like nothing better," said scott, sincerely. "then we will do so. i will secure a carriage in the morning, and we will make a day of it." he was as good as his word, and scott had a delightful time. he almost succeeded in forgetting his companion's rank, and found him a congenial companion. just after supper, when the earl had gone up to his room, a pretentious-looking man of middle age, who seemed to be continually trying to assert his claim to superiority, came up to scott. "boy," he said, "i understand there is an english earl staying at the hotel?" "yes, sir. it is the earl of windermere." "have you seen him? could you point him out to me?" "he has gone up to his room, but will probably be back almost immediately." "how shall i know him?" "he will come up and speak to me, and then we shall probably go out to walk together." "are you a friend of the earl?" asked mr. burton, in surprise. "i think i may call myself so. we have been together all day." mr. burton regarded scott with new respect. he had unceremoniously called him "boy," but it was before he knew that he was a friend of an earl. "would you kindly introduce me?" he asked, eagerly. "i am not quite sure whether he would be willing," returned scott, with hesitation. "would you mind asking him?" "if you will let me know your name, sir." "i am nathan burton, of albany. i have been an alderman," said the other, consequentially. "i hope you may yet be mayor," answered scott, amused. "stranger things have happened," rejoined mr. burton, complacently. "did you come over with the earl?" "a year earlier," returned scott, gravely. from this mr. burton inferred that they had been friends on the other side. "and your name is----" "scott walton." "an aristocratic name!" thought the albany alderman. "are you related to the earl?" "no, sir. we are only friends." at this moment the earl entered the room, and at once went up to scott. "are you ready for a walk, scott?" he asked. "yes, but first----" and here in a low voice scott communicated mr. burton's request. the earl looked around at the alderman and seemed amused. "very well," he said, smiling. at a signal, mr. burton approached. "my lord," said scott, formally, "allow me to present mr. alderman burton, of albany." mr. burton bowed profoundly. "i am glad to become acquainted with a representative american," said the earl, in a dignified voice, quite different from his tone in talking with scott. "my lord earl, i feel very much honored to make your acquaintance," said mr. burton, with another profound bow. "i believe you americans have no titles," said the earl. "no, my lord; but i should be in favor of having them." "in that case, you might become earl of albany." "you do me proud, indeed you do, my lord," said the gratified alderman. "i am sorry to leave you so soon, but my young friend and i propose to have a walk." "don't let me detain you, my lord. if i might dare to ask one favor----" "what is it, sir?" "if you would favor me with your card?" with a smile, the earl produced the coveted bit of pasteboard and handed it to the alderman. when they were fairly out of the hotel, both laughed merrily. "do you want me to be as respectful as mr. alderman burton?" asked scott. "no, be yourself, scott. that will suit me better." chapter xxvi. an adventure. scott intended to start on his homeward journey the next morning, but an hour before he was to leave he received a telegram to the following effect: "wait for letter. tower." scott understood at once that the letter would contain instructions from the firm, and therefore informed the earl that he would remain a day longer. "that will suit me admirably," said the earl. "if you are at leisure, we will take a long drive." "i shall have nothing to do till i receive my letter," answered scott. "then you can join me?" "i shall be glad to do so." it turned out that the earl wished to ride across the country to a point some twenty miles distant. what the attraction was it is not necessary here to state. probably the trip was undertaken chiefly for the drive. at the end of twenty miles a village was reached, which contained a passable hotel. here the two tourists dined, and did not leave on their return till about six o'clock. "we shall be rather late," said the earl. "still, our horse is a good one, and we ought to reach the hotel in two hours, or little more." "that won't be very late." "then we can stop on the way somewhere." when the travelers had proceeded half a dozen miles on their way, the horse suddenly showed signs of lameness. what had occasioned it neither could tell, but as he appeared to be in pain, it was decided, upon consultation, to stop at the next house and make arrangements to pass the night. it would be easy to start again on the following morning with the horse they had, or, if necessary, a substitute. neither felt in haste, and the time lost would not be serious. the next house proved to be situated on the edge of the woods. it occupied a lonely location, and seemed in rather a dilapidated state. everything about it bore an aspect of neglect. scott jumped from the carriage, and went to the door. it was opened, after he had knocked two or three times, by a careworn woman of middle age. her face was lined, and she wore a look of depression and discouragement. "what's your will?" she asked. "our horse has fallen lame, and we would like to stop here overnight, and let the horse rest. i see you have a barn." "i don't know," said the woman, slowly. "we don't keep a hotel." "i am quite aware of that, and we must apologize for intruding. we shall give you some trouble, but we are willing to pay for it. if five dollars will compensate you we will be glad to pay that sum for supper, lodging and breakfast for ourselves, and accommodation for our horse." the woman seemed surprised by the liberality of the offer. in such a household five dollars was a good deal of money. "you can come in," she said, "and i will get you some supper. my man will soon be home, and if he is willing you can stay all night." "i hope he will soon be back, as we would like to know what to depend upon." "he'll be here in an hour, likely." "may we put the horse in the barn?" "yes, if you can do it yourself. there ain't no men folks 'round." "oh, yes, we will attend to it." "i'll go right to work getting supper. i've got some eggs and bacon in the house, if that will do you." "that will do very well, i think. you can give us some tea, too, i presume?" "yes, or you can have some whisky. my man always wants some." "thank you, but i think we should prefer tea." "that's just as you like. i have tea for myself. my man won't drink it. he says it's only fit for women." "consider us women, then," said scott, laughing. "i will go and tell my friend that you will receive us." "if my man agrees." "that is understood." "what is your friend's name?" "mr. grant," answered scott, knowing that the earl would not care to have his rank known in such a place. it might have led to extravagant terms for the accommodation rendered, and scott considered that he had already offered liberal compensation. he communicated to the earl the result of his mission. "do you think we shall get decent fare?" the earl inquired. "i think so, but we may have to rough it a little. it won't be equal to our hotel." "oh, well, it will be an adventure. i have roughed it before." "i thought earls always fared luxuriously," said scott, smiling. "earls, as well as other men, are subject to circumstances, and can rough it, if necessary. some time i will tell you how i fared in italy last winter. i confess that my appetite has been sharpened, and i am exceedingly hungry." "so am i. we are to have bacon and eggs. i hope you have no prejudice against such a dish." "no, it is a favorite with me. my only apprehension is, that they won't have enough to satisfy me." in the barn the visitors found stalls for two horses, both of them unoccupied. they unharnessed their horse, or rather scott did, for the earl, who had always had this work done for him, seemed awkward and inexperienced. "i am sorry to put all the work upon you, scott," he said. "never mind. it is no trouble." "i suppose i ought to be ashamed of my awkwardness." "i can easily understand that you never had to do it. in england, father for a time kept a horse, and i had the care of him." when the horse was safely stalled, scott and the earl came out into the yard. "shall we go into the house?" asked scott. "no, we might be in the way. here is a fence rail. we can sit upon that." "you are making yourself very democratic," scott said. "why should i not be?" "our new acquaintance, mr. alderman burton, would be surprised to see you sitting on a fence rail." "i shouldn't do it before him. i should keep up my dignity, or he might be shocked." "what do you think he asked me last evening, when you were out of the room?" "what was it?" "he asked me if you ever dined with the queen?" "what did you answer?" "only when you were invited." "quite correct. as a matter of fact, i don't think i ever was honored by such an invitation, or, as we consider it, a command." "he also asked me to inquire of you whether the queen wore her crown at the dinner table." "poor old lady; i should pity her if she were obliged to do so." half an hour later the woman came to the door, and looking toward them, called out: "supper's ready." "and so am i," said the earl, in a low voice. "i hope our hostess has made a liberal provision for us." on entering the kitchen, where the table was spread, they found she had done so. a dozen eggs, flanked by several slices of bacon, were on a dish in the center, and there was an ample supply of butter and corn bread. an expression of profound satisfaction lit up the faces of the two travelers. "thank you, madam, for kindly complying with our request. we appreciate it more because we know you do not keep a hotel." "i hope you'll like it," replied the woman. "i misremember what the boy said your name was." "mr. grant," said scott. "is he your brother?" "no; my name is walton." "be you in any business, mr. grant?" asked the woman, who began to show curiosity. "no, madam, not at present. i am an englishman. possibly my friend and i might buy out a store in buffalo." scott could scarcely forbear smiling. it seemed a great joke to him to think of going into a business partnership with an earl. they ate supper with evident enjoyment. they had about concluded it, when a heavy step was heard outside. "that is my man," said the woman, nervously. scott and the earl looked up with curiosity to see him enter. chapter xxvii. red ralph. the man who entered was of medium height, thickset, and his hair and beard were red. his face was far from prepossessing. he looked at the visitors, and then at his wife inquiringly. "so you have company?" he said. "yes, ralph," answered the woman, rather nervously. "i told them we didn't keep a hotel, but they offered me five dollars to take care of them and the horse till morning." the man's face lost its scowl. the sum offered made an impression. "you did right," he said. "i am willing to accommodate. where's the horse?" "we put him in the barn." "all right. and where may you be from?" he asked, addressing the earl. "i am an englishman." "are you in any business?" "not at present." "but you have money?" this remark was accompanied by a look of keen curiosity. "i have some," answered the earl, cautiously. "he is going to buy out a store in buffalo," put in the woman. "what sort of a store?" "i haven't decided yet," replied the earl, who did not choose to take the man into his confidence. "it takes a power of money to buy a store." "it depends on the nature of the business, i should think." "about how much do you mean to invest?" "really, the fellow is getting impertinent," thought his guest. "i don't think i can answer that question," he answered. their host took from a shelf a dirty clay pipe, filled it with tobacco, and began to smoke. the fumes were far from pleasant, and the earl, rising from his chair, signaled to scott to go outside with him. "where are you going?" asked the red-haired man. "we are going to take a walk." "has he paid you the five dollars?" asked the man, addressing his wife. "no." "then you may as well hand it over," said the host. "certainly, if you wish it now." "that is safest. you might take your horse and give us the slip. then we'd be so much out." "what do you take us for?" demanded the earl, indignantly. "i don't know anything about you. you may be gentlemen, or----" "this will settle the question," and the earl took out his wallet, and from a thick roll of bills picked out a five-dollar note, and handed it to the woman. "give it here to me, sarah," said her husband, sharply. "i take charge of the money." with meek obedience she passed the bill to him. he scrutinized it closely, but the result of his inspection seemed to be favorable, and he put it away in his vest pocket. scott noticed that he had regarded the roll of bills with a covetous glance, and he felt that the earl had been imprudent in making such a display of his money. "it's all right," their host said, slowly. "you're an honest man. you pay your bills." the earl smiled, and opening the outer door, went out, followed by scott. "what do you think of our host, scott?" he asked. "i distrust him, mr. grant. i am sorry you showed him that roll of bills." "it may have been imprudent, but i don't think there is any danger of his attempting to rob me." "he was curious to learn your business. i wonder what his is." "to-morrow we shall leave the house, and we are never likely to meet him again," said the earl, indifferently. "so it is hardly worth thinking about." they strolled along in a leisurely way, and sat down under a tree, about a mile distant from their home. under the same tree reclined a young man who looked like a farmer or a farmer's assistant. "good-evening," said the earl, courteously. "good-evening, sir." "do you live hereabouts?" "yes, i am working for my uncle, who owns a farm not far from here. you are a stranger, are you not?" "yes, my friend and myself are staying at niagara. we were taking a long drive, but the horse went lame, and we engaged lodgings for the night about a mile from here." "at what house?" asked the young man. "i will tell you, and you can perhaps tell me something of the man who occupies it." the young man listened to the description, and when it was finished shrugged his shoulders. "i shouldn't care to be in your place," he said. "why not?" "red ralph doesn't have a very good reputation," he explained. "is that what he is called?" "yes. you noticed his profusion of red hair. his real name is moody, i believe, but everybody calls him red ralph." "how long has he lived in this neighborhood?" "about three years." "what is his business, or, rather, how does he make his living?" "that is hard to tell. i believe he trades in horses to some extent." "is nothing known of his history before he came here?" "it is reported that he has been in jail. a man who saw him there said that he was quite confident he had seen him in a visit to joliet prison." "is his life reputable? has he ever been in any trouble since he came here?" "nothing has been proved against him, but more than one rough-looking man has been seen in his house." "decidedly, scott," said the earl, "we have not been fortunate in our selection of a lodging house. however, it is only for one night." "have you much money with you?" asked their new acquaintance. "a tolerably large sum," answered the earl. "then, i advise you to bolt your door when you retire." "i shall do so. without knowing anything of our worthy host, i had formed an unfavorable opinion of him before i spoke with you." "he will bear watching," said the young man, briefly. "what could have been his object in establishing himself here? if he is a rogue, i don't see what opportunities he has of practicing dishonesty." "bear in mind that this house is not many miles from the border. if he committed a robbery in the states, he could easily take refuge in his canadian home, where he would be safe from arrest." "there is something in that." "if you don't care to remain in his house overnight, i think i could insure you a welcome from my uncle, who lives not far away." "thank you, but it would be awkward to make a change at this late hour. besides, what explanation could we give?" "still, if you distrust him----" "there is another consideration. we have paid in advance," suggested scott. "i should not mind forfeiting five dollars," said the earl. "there is one thing i should mind more." "what is that?" "to leave now would be a confession of cowardice. we ought--the two of us--to be a match for red ralph." "i will do my share," said scott, smiling. "yes, you look like a brave boy." then, turning to the young man, "i thank you for your kind offer, but i think we will stay with red ralph for this one night." already it was getting dark, and the air was chill. "let us go back, scott," said the earl. "it is not very late, but i feel sleepy, and i think i shall retire early." "very well, sir." it was not quite nine o'clock when they entered the farmhouse. there was a fire of logs in the fireplace, and before it, with his legs stretched out, sat red ralph. but he was not alone. a man of dark complexion sat opposite him. he was tall and swarthy, and, though differing in appearance seemed a fitting companion for red ralph. both had pipes in their mouths, and the room was pervaded by the fumes of bad tobacco. "well, stranger, you took a long walk," said red ralph, turning in his chair. "we sat down under a tree to rest," responded the earl. "can we have a candle?" the woman got up from her chair at the back of the room and lighted one. "come with me," she said, "and i will show you your chamber." chapter xxviii. on watch. there was nothing especially noticeable about the chamber into which scott and the earl were ushered. it was a corner apartment, and had two windows on different sides of the room. there was a double bed, a washstand, a small table, and two chairs, besides a plain pine bureau. there was no carpet on the floor, but beside the bed was a cheap rug. "will this do you?" asked the woman, as she set the candle on the table. "yes," answered the earl, after a comprehensive glance around the room. "we don't keep a hotel. if we did----" "my good lady, make no apologies. we are obliged to you for taking us in." "i hope you'll sleep well," said the woman, with her hand on the latch. "we generally do," replied the earl. "ah!" she said, and there seemed something significant in her tone. she opened the door and went downstairs, leaving the two travelers alone. "this isn't very luxurious, mr. grant," remarked scott. "no." "i suppose you are used to a luxurious house?" "when i am at home--yes; but i have knocked about the world so much that i can stand a little discomfort. how is the bed?" he felt of the mattress, and found that it was of straw. had there been a feather bed over it there would have been greater comfort. "only a straw bed," he said. "this is, certainly, spartan simplicity. i don't think red ralph would be a success as an innkeeper." "i think i can sleep, mr. grant," rejoined scott. "i feel quite tired." "is there a lock on the door?" scott went forward to examine. "yes," he reported, "there is a lock, but no key." "is there a bolt?" "no." "i wonder," said the earl, very thoughtfully, "whether the key has been lost or intentionally removed?" "we might ask for a key." "no. that would make it evident that we were distrustful. besides, it may be that the people below are not aware that there is no means of locking them out. on the whole, we will not call attention to our defenseless condition." while they were talking, a step was heard on the stairs--a heavy step, too heavy for the woman. then came a knock at the door. scott opened it. there stood red ralph, holding in his hand a pitcher and glass. "i have brought you a nightcap," he said. "i had my wife mix some whisky and water. it is good for the stomach. i drink some every night before i go to bed." "thank you," returned the earl, politely. "you are very considerate." he took the pitcher and set it down on the table. red ralph lingered a moment, and his eyes wandered about the apartment. there was nothing to see, however, as the travelers had brought no luggage with them, not expecting to be detained overnight. "i hope that you will be comfortable," he said, cordially. "thank you." "do you sleep sound?" "generally. do you?" "oh, i never wake from the time i strike the bed. at what hour shall i wake you?" "at seven." "good! i will tell the wife to have breakfast at half-past seven." "by the way, may i trouble you to look after my horse? i meant to go out to the barn before i retired." "i will look after him. i am used to horses. i am a horse trader." "thank you. good-night." "good-night." "our friend is unusually attentive," said the earl, with a glance at the pitcher. "yes; perhaps we have misjudged him." "perhaps, but i am not sure. scott, will you hold the candle?" he took the pitcher and peered into it attentively, rather to scott's surprise. then he poured out a small quantity, and tasted it. "i hope you will excuse me from drinking, mr. grant," said scott. "i promised my father i would never drink whisky." "even if you did indulge, i should not advise you to drink any of this." "why not? is it of poor quality?" "i am quite confident that it is drugged. it has a peculiar taste, and i detect minute particles of some foreign substance which has been mixed with it." "poison?" asked scott, looking startled. "not so bad as that. it is only a sleeping potion. our friend had an object in asking if we slept soundly. he means that we shall." "are you quite sure the whisky has been tampered with, mr. grant?" "i am reasonably sure of it." "then of course we won't drink it." "certainly not, but we will appear to have done so. open the window." the earl poured out a glass of the whisky and emptied it out of the window. he filled the glass a second time, and again emptied it. "that is better than to have swallowed it," he said. "i will leave a small portion in the pitcher to disarm suspicion." "what do you think red ralph intends to do?" asked scott, in a low tone. "i think he intends to make us a visit during the night. as there is no way of locking the door, that will be very easily managed. had we drunk the whisky, we should have slept so profoundly that ralph could have ransacked the room without interference. "have you a pistol, mr. grant?" "yes, but i might as well be without one. i have no means of loading it." "what, then, do you propose to do?" "that is not easy to decide." "can we secure the door in any way?" "i can think of no way." "we might put the bureau against it." "yes; i will consider whether that is best. it interposes only a temporary obstacle. then ralph and his companion may be armed, while we are not. the two would be more than a match for us." "i suppose they would be satisfied if you would give up your money." "probably, but though the loss of the money would not seriously embarrass me--it is only five hundred dollars--i decidedly object to being robbed of it. by the way, have you a newspaper with you?" "yes, mr. grant. here it is." the earl took the paper, and carefully tore it into strips about the size of a bank bill. then he removed the bank bills from his wallet, put them in an inside pocket in his vest, and replaced them with strips of newspaper. "it is a good plan to oppose roguery with artifice," he said. "possibly this will help to circumvent the enemy." scarcely had he done this when ralph's step was heard on the staircase, and a moment afterward there was a knock at the door. "open it, scott." there stood ralph, smiling craftily. "have you drunk the whisky, gentlemen?" he asked. "would you like to have me fill the pitcher again?" "we shall not need any more, thank you," said the earl. "perhaps you will kindly take the pitcher?" ralph looked into the pitcher, and his face indicated satisfaction. from the little that remained he felt assured that both his guests had drunk liberally. "i hope you liked it," he said. "you were very kind to think of us," rejoined the earl, avoiding a reply to his question. "won't you let me fill the pitcher?" "no, we shall not need any more. i think you said it would make us sleep sound?" "it has that effect upon me." "i think you are right. i can hardly keep my eyes open," and the earl yawned ostentatiously. "i feel the same way," added scott. red ralph smiled. "yes," he said, "i am sure you will have a good night's sleep. i will remember to call you at seven. i won't stay any longer, for you must wish to retire." "good-night, then." "now," said the earl, when the coast was clear, "we must decide what to do." "shall we go to bed?" "we will lie on the bed, but it will be better not to undress. we must be prepared for any contingency." "shall i move the bureau against the door?" "no. we will try to keep awake for an hour. my opinion is that our friend will make us a visit within that time." chapter xxix. a plot foiled. though the two travelers had not removed their clothes, they covered themselves up with the quilt, in order to deceive anyone entering the room. then they lay and waited. it was perhaps ten minutes less than the hour when they heard the door softly opened. in the half light they saw red ralph enter. he had removed his shoes, and was walking in his stocking feet. the earl had hung his coat from a nail just behind the door. ralph saw it, and at once began to search the pockets. he only glanced carelessly at the bed, for he felt sure that the potion had done its work, and that both his guests were asleep. in the side pocket he found the wallet. he uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction, and quickly transferred it to his own pocket. he could not very well examine it in the darkness. but he could tell from the feeling that it was well filled, and naturally concluded that the contents represented a large sum of money. having got what he wanted, he withdrew as quietly as he came, carefully shutting the door behind him. when he had gone, scott broke the silence. "what will he do when he discovers that the wallet is stuffed with waste paper?" "probably he will be angry, and feel that he has been defrauded." scott laughed. "do you think he will make us another visit?" "if he does, and complains of the deception, it will involve a confession that he is a thief. i confess i don't know what to anticipate." ten minutes later a slow step was heard ascending the staircase. scott and the earl listened in excitement. they could not forecast the next act in the drama. the steps paused before the door, but the door was not opened. in place of this they heard a key turn in the lock outside. it was clear that they were locked in. "ralph does not mean that we should escape," said the earl. "what shall we do?" "i shall go to sleep. i think we are secure from any other visit. hostilities are probably deferred till morning. what will be done then i am quite at a loss to understand, but when that time comes we can decide what to do." when red ralph went downstairs after purloining the wallet, it was with a feeling of satisfaction at the apparent success of his dishonest scheme. below, his wife and his accomplice still sat before the fire. "well, ralph?" said the latter, with an eager look of interrogation. "i have got it," chuckled ralph. "i don't like such doings," said his wife, wearily. "heaven will never prosper dishonesty." "shut up, sarah," commanded ralph, harshly. "i can't stand a sniveling woman. what i have done is my business, not yours." "i wish they had never come. i ought to have sent them away." "you did just right. you invited them in, and delivered them into my hands." "open the wallet!" said the dark man, impatiently. ralph seated himself in the chair which he had vacated before he went upstairs, and, with a smile, opened the wallet. but the smile quickly faded from his face, and it grew dark with anger, as the contents were disclosed. "confusion!" he muttered. "look at this!" and he threw the paper into the fire. "what does it mean?" asked his accomplice, bewildered. "it means that we have been fooled--tricked! they have filled the wallet with this trash, in order to deceive us." "but are you sure that they had any money?" "sure? why, i saw it with my own eyes. didn't you, sarah? didn't the man pull out a thick roll of bills when he paid the five dollars he agreed upon?" "yes," answered the woman, reluctantly. "there was no mistake about that. the money was real, fast enough. there must have been two or three hundred dollars." "where could he have put it, then?" "i don't know." "why should he play such a trick upon you?" "he evidently suspected something." "how could he suspect a man with your honest face?" "be careful, conrad! i don't allow any man to insult me," said ralph, with lowering brow. "don't get mad, ralph; i was only joking. what are you going to do now?" "i don't know." "the money must be somewhere in the chamber," said conrad, suggestively. "probably it is, but it is concealed. i can't get at it without waking them up." "if they drank the doctored whisky, it would be safe enough." "i don't know whether they did drink it or not. they pretended to, but if they suspected me, they may have emptied it out of the window." "then you won't do anything?" asked conrad, in evident disappointment. "i will lock them in. i will see, at any rate, that they don't escape from the room. in the morning i will consider what is best to be done." the woman breathed a sigh of relief. she was honest at heart, and felt no sympathy with her outlaw husband. it was perhaps by way of consoling themselves for their disappointment that the two men resumed their drinking, and drank heavily. "go and get some more whisky, sarah," said ralph, for the pitcher was about empty. the woman did so, but an idea had occurred to her. she was resolved to prevent the robbery of her guests, and to afford them a chance to escape. she turned the tables upon her husband, and dropped into the whisky some of the same sleeping potion which had been intended for the two travelers. red ralph and his accomplice were too much affected already to notice any peculiar taste in the whisky. they drank deep, getting more and more drowsy, until at last ralph slipped from his chair to the floor, where he lay without sense or motion. "good-night, old fellow!" hiccoughed conrad. "i'm with you," and he was soon lying beside his friend. sarah looked at the twain half remorsefully. "ought i to have done it?" she asked herself. "but there was no other way. i have perhaps saved my husband from prison, for the theft would surely have been found out. the man looked strong and resolute, and would not have allowed himself to be robbed without seeking to punish the robber." she left the two men lying upon the floor, and sought her own bed. "they won't wake till late," she reflected, "and i can let the travelers lie till morning. i won't deprive them of their night's rest." she went upstairs and saw the key in the lock. "i guess i will leave it there," she said, "till morning." about five o'clock--her usual time for rising--she dressed and went upstairs. she unlocked the door, and knocked loudly upon it. "who is it?" asked scott, jumping out of bed. "it is i," answered sarah. scott was agreeably surprised, for he had feared it might be ralph. "the door is locked," he said. "you can open it." he did so, and saw the nervous, half-frightened look of his hostess. "you must get up at once," she said, "you and your friend. it is not safe to remain here." "i had found that out. but won't your husband interfere with us?" "he is sound asleep, and won't wake for hours. but you had better get up now, and avoid difficulty." "wait a minute, till i wake my friend." but the earl was already awake. he quickly grasped the situation. "are you not exposing yourself to danger on our account?" he asked, earnestly, of the woman. "no, i shall know how to manage, but go now. it is morning, and the sooner you get away the better." "can we get into the barn, and take our horse?" "yes, there will be no difficulty. make as little noise as possible coming downstairs. my husband might awake." "madam," said the earl, "we are much indebted to you. take this as an acknowledgment," and he tendered her a ten-dollar bill. "no," she said, shaking her head. "should my husband discover that i had money he would suspect that i had let you out. then i should be in danger." "then we can only thank you." they were already dressed, and followed the woman downstairs. they saw ralph and his friend lying like logs on the floor, and suspected why they slept so soundly. both were snoring loudly. with a sensation of disgust they left the house, and led the horse out of the barn. he seemed to be much better of his lameness, so that he was able to travel, though slowly. they reached niagara in time for breakfast. chapter xxx. red ralph's surprise. red ralph and his companion slept soundly till after nine o'clock. the drug was only of moderate strength, or they would have slept longer. when ralph opened his eyes he saw the breakfast table spread, and his wife moving about the room. he looked around him half dazed. "how does it happen that i am asleep on the floor?" he asked. "you fell from your chair last night." "why didn't you rouse me, and make me go to bed?" "i tried to, but you slept too sound." "it is strange i should sleep so--and conrad, too. what time is it?" "half-past nine." "has there been any noise in the room above, where the strangers are sleeping?" "i have heard none." "the potion kept them asleep. i must go up and rouse them." "what are you going to do to them, ralph? you won't injure them?" "i must have their money. i may as well take conrad with me. here, conrad, wake up!" and he shook his companion with no gentle hand. conrad opened his eyes, and looked sleepily around him. "how came i here?" he asked. "you took too much whisky and got stupid drunk," said ralph, not mentioning that he, too, had been in the same box. "is breakfast ready, sarah?" "yes." "then we'll sit up and eat. i am famished. come, conrad." "won't you rouse the strangers first?" "no. that will do afterward. if i get their money, you may give them some breakfast, too." "very well." the woman spoke calmly, but she was inwardly excited. she knew that her husband would be enraged when he learned that the prisoners had escaped, but she hoped that her agency in the matter would not be suspected. the two men ate heartily, and his breakfast made ralph feel better natured. when the meal was over, he said: "come with me, conrad. we have work to do." he went upstairs, followed by his accomplice. the key was in the lock, just as he had left it, apparently. he turned the key, and opened the door of the chamber. what he expected to see was the two travelers in a profound slumber. what he did see was the bed disarranged and the chamber empty. "what does all this mean?" he ejaculated, starting back in surprise. "they're not here!" said conrad, looking about him. "of course they're not, you fool! but how could they get away?" conrad pointed to one of the windows that was half open. "that explains it," he said. ralph hurried to the window, and put his head out. stretching from the window to the ground was the bed cord. this was a piece of strategy on the part of his wife. after the departure of scott and the earl, she had removed the bed cord, and fastened it to the window to mislead her husband into supposing that it was in this way their guests had escaped. "well, i'll be blowed!" ejaculated ralph. "they must have smelt a rat," said conrad, sagely. "what i can't understand is how a man of good weight could have been held up by such a slender cord. and it doesn't seem to be stretched at all." "it may be stronger than you think," suggested conrad. "i suppose it was, but i wouldn't like to trust myself to it." "i wouldn't mind." "try it, then." conrad was a man who inclined to be venturesome. he got out of the window, and tried to lower himself by the rope. the slender cord broke, and he fell and lay an inglorious heap on the greensward below. "i told you so!" said ralph, with a loud laugh. "the man strained it," said conrad, looking rather foolish. "here, sarah," called out ralph, "come and look here." outwardly calm, but with inward trepidation, ralph's wife ascended the stairs. "what's the matter?" she asked. "what's the matter? you can see for yourself. the men have escaped." "so they have," she said, in affected surprise. "how did they do it?" "climbed out of the window by the bed cord. didn't you hear it?" "they must have done it before i was up," she replied, evading a direct answer. "conrad," called out ralph, with a sudden thought, "go out to the barn, and see if they have taken the horse." "yes, they have. the horse isn't there," reported conrad. "then i've been taken in, and done for. what beats me is, how did they suspect anything?" "you forget," said the wife, "that they may have missed the wallet." "that's true. i should like to know how long they have been gone. i wonder you didn't hear the horse." "i think i slept pretty sound myself. it was not till late that i went to bed." "well, there's no use in crying over spilt milk," said ralph, philosophically. "at any rate we've got the five dollars." "and that will pay for all they got here." "especially," chimed in conrad, "as they went off without their breakfast." "so they did," said ralph, with a broad smile. he seemed amused by the thought that their guests had, after all, been overreached, and this contributed to restore his good humor. sarah breathed a sigh of relief. her stratagem had been successful, and there was no suspicion entertained by her husband that she had assisted the two to escape. had he suspected it, she shuddered to think what would have happened. when scott and the earl reached the hotel at niagara, they went up to their room to finish out a night's rest, their slumber at the farmhouse having been interrupted. the consequence was that they appeared late at breakfast. meanwhile there had been an arrival at the hotel of two characters well known to the reader. two days previously, ezra little suddenly determined to go to buffalo. by the failure of a large firm in that city a considerable stock of goods had been thrown on the market. it was almost certain that the stock would be sold out for much less than its real value. ezra little, among others, had received a notice from the assignee of the approaching sale. the goods were, many of them, in his line, and in several departments his own stock was getting short. "i think, mr. allen," he said to his superintendent, "i shall run on to buffalo, and examine the stock of frost, burks & co., and if it is a sacrifice sale i shall probably make considerable purchases." "it will be an excellent plan, i think, mr. little. we are running short in several departments. besides, it will be a pleasant trip for you." "that is true; i haven't been fifty miles from the city for three years. three years since, i went to philadelphia, and ever since then i have tied myself down to business." "i will look after things while you are gone. i understand your system." when ezra little announced at home that he was going to buffalo, the news made a sensation. "isn't buffalo near niagara falls?" asked loammi. "certainly." "you will go there, won't you?" "yes, i will try to get time. i shall never have a better opportunity." "oh, pa, won't you take me?" asked loammi, eagerly. "take you? why should i?" "i should enjoy it so much." "no doubt, but the expense will be too great. the car fare and hotel rates will amount to considerable." "but, pa, as you were just saying, you will probably clear more than a thousand dollars by the purchase you propose to make." "that is not certain." "oh, yes it is; you are so sharp and shrewd, pa." ezra little's pride was flattered. "well, yes," he said, "i think i am fairly sharp." "and my expenses won't be much." ezra looked undecided. at this point his wife intervened. "you had better take loammi, ezra," she said. "it will be a pleasure to him, and if you are sick he can take care of you." "well, loammi," said his father, with unwonted good humor, "i think i will let you go. but you must be ready at six o'clock this evening." "i'll be ready, pa, never fear." chapter xxxi. an unexpected meeting. loammi and his father arrived late in the evening at niagara, and put up at the international hotel. had they looked back in the book of arrivals they would have seen the name of scott walton, but they failed to do so. as they sped over the central railroad, loammi was in high spirits. it was his first long journey and he felt somehow that it would increase his consequence. he was prepared to make much of it on his return, and he felt that his friends and schoolfellows would be impressed. the international hotel seemed to him quite grand, and as he had never been a guest at a hotel before, he quite enjoyed his new way of living. "isn't it fine, pa?" he said, as they walked through the office. "it is fine enough," responded his father, practically, "but it costs money, loammi; i expect they'll be charging me four or five dollars a day." "oh, well, pa, you can afford it." "that may be, but i am afraid it is money thrown away to pay your expenses on such a trip. it would have been better to pay you ten dollars, and let you stay at home." "i wouldn't have been willing to do it, pa. wouldn't scott like to be traveling as we are doing?" "i presume he would. you haven't heard anything of him, have you?" "no." "he can't be in new york, i should say." "he's probably tramping about somewhere," said loammi, rather contemptuously. "i think the boy has some business talent," his father remarked, who was not so much prejudiced as his son. "oh, i suppose he'd pass, but he couldn't hold a place. he had to leave you and now he's left tower, douglas & co." "do you know why he left them?" "one of the clerks told me he was too fresh." this was not quite correct, as it was loammi who had designated his cousin in that way. while they were waiting for breakfast, a traveling acquaintance from boston, a mr. norwood, greeted them. "do you know," he said, "there's an english earl staying in this hotel?" "is there? who is it?" asked ezra little, for he had a reverence for rank. "it is the earl of windermere." "yes, i know of the title. have you seen him?" "no, but i saw his name on the register." "i hope we shall meet him, pa," said loammi. "it would be quite a feather in our cap if we could get introduced to him." "i should like that myself, loammi. do you know if he is a young man, or an old one, mr. norwood?" "he is a young man, under thirty." "we will look for him at breakfast." when they took their seats at the table, mr. little said to the waiter: "i hear there's an earl staying at the hotel?" "yes, sir." "could you point him out to us?" the waiter looked across the room. "he generally sits at that table, sir, but he has not come in yet." "is any one of his family with him?" "i don't rightly know. there's a boy goes round with him a good deal--about the age of this young gentleman." "i will try to get acquainted with him, pa," said loammi. "i guess that'll be the easiest way to get in with the earl." the breakfast proceeded and was nearly over for loammi and his father, when the waiter came up. "there's the earl just coming in, sir," he said, "and the boy with him." both father and son looked toward the earl with eager curiosity. they did not at first take special notice of the boy. when they did, loammi grasped his father's arm in excitement. "the boy looks just like scott," he said. "it is scott," pronounced his father, looking through his eyeglasses. "nonsense, pa, it can't be!" said loammi. "it's ridiculous to think of scott being in company with an earl." "ridiculous or not, it is a fact." "perhaps they are not together," said loammi, who did not like to believe that his humble cousin was in such aristocratic company. "is that the boy that usually goes around with the earl?" he asked, turning to the waiter. "yes, sir, it's the very identical boy," answered the waiter. "i never heard of such a thing," gasped loammi. "that boy's cheek seems too great for anything. but perhaps he is the earl's valet, though i don't know how he could have got the position." "i don't know but he's the earl's brother," said the waiter. "anyhow, they're pretty thick. they went out riding together yesterday afternoon." "he isn't the earl's brother," said loammi, emphatically. "he's a--a relative of ours." "lor' now, you don't mean it! didn't you know he was traveling with the earl?" "no," answered loammi; "i haven't seen much of him lately." "the earl seems to think everything of him. they're always together." "i never was so astonished in my life, pa," said loammi, when the waiter had left them. "it does seem singular." "i'll get scott to introduce me." "i thought you didn't care to take any more notice of him." "no more i did, but as he's intimate with an earl that makes a difference." mr. little and his son lingered at the table till they saw the earl and his young companion rise. then they followed them out. scott had not noticed the presence of loammi and his father, but it was soon made evident to him. as he was walking with the earl, suddenly he felt a tap on his arm, and looking round espied loammi. "loammi!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "yes, i am here with pa. i was surprised to find you here." scott smiled. "i have been traveling for some weeks," he said. "here's pa." "how do you do, scott? i hope you are well," said ezra little, graciously. "very well, thank you." the earl, noticing that scott had met acquaintances, walked slowly on. "won't you introduce us to your friend, scott?" asked loammi, eagerly. "if he is willing," scott said. he went up to the earl and acquainted him with his cousin's request. "are they friends of yours, scott?" "i can't say they are friends, but they are my cousins. i have told you of them. they are my cousin, loammi little, and his father." "do you think they know who i am?" "yes. it is probably your title that makes them desirous of an introduction." "very well." in answer to a look, loammi and his father approached. "my lord," said scott, formally, "let me present to you mr. ezra little and his son, loammi. they are relatives of mine." "i am glad to meet any relative of my young friend, mr. walton," said the earl, with dignity. "my lord earl," said mr. little, with a profound bow, "i am indeed honored in making your acquaintance." "and i, too," murmured loammi. "i am an englishman, like yourself, my lord." "and so, i believe, is my young friend, scott," said the nobleman. "yes," said scott, "but i have nearly forgotten it. i intend to be an american citizen." "i shall never forget that i am an englishman," observed ezra little. "gentlemen," said the earl, "will you excuse me? i have a letter to write." "certainly, my lord." "i will meet you in half an hour, scott," said the earl, familiarly. "you will find me in the reading room." "how on earth did you get so thick with the earl, scott?" asked loammi. "he seemed to take a fancy to me." "are you with him a good deal?" "yes." "how can you afford to stay at this expensive hotel?" asked ezra little. "i am traveling on business." "for what house?" "please excuse my mentioning just yet." "how long are you going to stay here?" "i expected to leave this morning, but i have a letter from my employers with instructions that will detain me here a day or two longer. but how do you and loammi happen to be here?" "i have business in buffalo." scott smiled. "so have i," he said. "i intend to make large purchases from the assignees of frost, burks & co." "i shall probably meet you both this evening." as scott walked away, loammi said, enviously: "did you notice how well scott was dressed?" "i didn't notice." "he doesn't look much like the poor relation we took in some months ago. but it won't last." chapter xxxii. a large operation. scott found a letter awaiting him at the hotel, of the following purport: "we are notified that the stock of frost, burks & co., of buffalo, will be sold at a great sacrifice. we append a list of articles that we would like to buy if they will be sold at, say sixty per cent. of the ordinary wholesale price. at that rate, you may buy without limit, or you can take the whole stock if a commensurate reduction should be made. "tower, douglas & co." scott went to buffalo in the same train as ezra little, but in a different car, so that the latter did not know his humble cousin was on board. the earl went along, and proposed to look about the city while his young companion was engaged. scott took a cab, feeling that the emergency justified it, while ezra little waited a considerable time for a horse car. the result was that scott was with the assignee twenty minutes before mr. little arrived. when scott was introduced, the assignee, a gentleman named clark, regarded him impatiently. "i've no time to waste with boys," he said. "i am very busy." "i am a boy," replied scott, quietly, "but i represent the firm of tower, douglas & co., of new york. there is my card." "is this really so?" asked the assignee, almost incredulous. "you can rely upon it. what could be my object in making a false representation?" "very well, mr. walton. are you empowered to purchase?" "yes." "to what extent?" "that depends on the terms i obtain. i may take your whole stock if there's sufficient inducement." the assignee looked amazed. "we shall certainly prefer to sell the entire stock to one purchaser." "and will you make it worth my while?" "what terms do you offer?" "half cash, half on thirty days." "that will be satisfactory." "have you an inventory?" "yes." scott looked it carefully over. he was offered even better terms than his employers had stipulated for. at the end of half an hour he had agreed to purchase the entire stock, conditioned upon the amount and quality of goods being as represented. he knew enough of the value of goods to feel that he had made a good bargain for the firm. meanwhile, ezra little and loammi had arrived. "there's a gentleman with mr. clark," said a clerk. "please carry in my card," ordered mr. little, pompously. he felt that his name would secure respectful consideration. but he had to wait half an hour. then, on entering the office, he found to his surprise scott ahead of him. he nodded to him coolly, and in a tone of some importance said: "mr. clark, i have come to look over your stock, and if i find it and your terms satisfactory i may make considerable purchases." "i am sorry to disappoint you, mr. little," said the assignee, referring to the card in his hand, "but you are too late." "how am i too late?" "i have sold the entire stock to one party." ezra little looked astonished and disappointed. "may i ask to whom you have sold?" he inquired. "to this young man." "to that boy?" ejaculated ezra little. "yes; he represents the great new york firm of tower, douglas & co." "that is a mistake," said ezra, indignantly. "he is an impostor. he was employed by them, but has been discharged." the assignee looked alarmed. "what do you say to this, mr. walton?" he asked. "simply that it is false," returned scott. "if you have any doubts as to my being in the employ of the firm, you can look at this letter received this morning." the assignee read the letter given at the commencement of this chapter. "mr. little, you appear to be mistaken," he said, severely. "what can be your object in trying to discredit mr. walton, i will not inquire, though i can guess at it. if you wish to negotiate for any of the stock i refer you to him. he obtained it on such terms that he can afford to deal with you liberally." this was gall and wormwood to mr. little, but he wished to make his journey pay, and broached the subject to scott. "will you sell me what i want at the price you paid?" he asked. "no, mr. little, i cannot do that, but i will sell at five per cent. profit." when mr. little made an examination of prices, he ascertained that even on these terms he would make a better bargain than he anticipated. the result was that he bought five thousand dollars' worth of goods from scott, and felt sure that even then he would clear more than a thousand dollars on his purchases. as he left the office with scott, loammi questioned him eagerly. "did you buy many goods of the assignee?" he inquired. "no." "but i thought you meant to." "i bought of scott." "what has he to do with it?" "i found that he had bought the entire stock before i got into the office." "what do you mean, pa? you're joking, ain't you?" "no." "of course, mr. little," said scott, "the sale must be ratified by my firm. i will, however, make a special request to that effect, and i don't anticipate that they will interfere with my arrangements." "are you going back to niagara on the next train, scott?" asked ezra little. "no; i must wire the firm of what i have done. then i have agreed to meet the earl at the mansion house, where we shall dine." "when will you return to new york?" "probably i shall take the night train." "i shall wait a day or two. i have not yet had a chance to see the falls." "then if i don't see you again, cousin ezra, i shall bid you good-by." "good-by, scott. if you leave your present employer at any time i will give you five dollars a week and your board." "thank you," said scott, with a smile. he was not conceited, but it struck him that one who had been intrusted with such a responsible commission was worth considerably more than this small sum. "how have you succeeded, scott?" asked the earl, when they met at the mansion house. scott told him. "how much will your purchases amount to, scott?" "probably to eighty thousand dollars." "it is wonderful. and you are only seventeen years old!" "i believe so," said scott, smiling. "i am not sure but it would be for my advantage to go into business with you." "what shall be the style of the firm? the earl of windermere & co.?" "we will consider that. when do you propose to return to new york?" "this evening." "i'm sorry i can't go with you. i shall start in three days, and when i take up my residence in new york it will be at the windsor hotel. will you call and see me there?" "with the greatest pleasure, my lord." "you mean mr. grant." "well, mr. grant. but when others are present i will use your title." some time during the next day scott reached new york. he lost no time in calling at the store, and reported his business operations in detail. he was received with great cordiality. "scott," said mr. tower, "you have quite surpassed my expectations. i own i had some hesitation about intrusting you with the buffalo business, but you have managed it to my satisfaction." scott told him of his transaction with mr. little. "i told him it would depend on your ratification," he said. "i will ratify it," said mr. tower, "and the five per cent. shall be your commission." "thank you, mr. tower. you are very liberal. two hundred and fifty dollars will make me feel rich." "we will pay you five hundred dollars besides for your general services during the six weeks you have been absent, and your salary will be raised to forty dollars a week." "i don't know how to thank you, mr. tower. it is only fair to tell you that i have an offer from another firm." "did they offer you more? what firm is it?" "ezra little. he offered me five dollars a week and my board, in case i ever leave you." mr. tower seemed much amused. "you can accept the offer if you desire," he said. "i prefer to stay with you, if you are willing," said scott. "you can stay as long as you like. we should be sorry to lose you." chapter xxxiii. scott gets into society. four days later, scott received the following note: "dear scott: i am at the windsor hotel. can you call this evening? windermere." scott lost no time in responding to the invitation. he was greeted with the greatest cordiality. "i am delighted to see you," said the earl. "i missed you more than i anticipated after you left me. now i have a favor to ask." "what is it?" asked scott. "i have taken a suite of rooms here, and i have set aside a bedroom for you. i shall be in the city for four weeks, and i want you with me." "i am afraid you have forgotten that i am only a boy working for my living." "no; i don't forget it. i respect you more for it. in fact, scott, i want your company. will you come?" "thank you, mr. grant--i can't refuse. i seem to forget that you are an earl." "that is what i wish." just then there was a knock at the door, and a hall boy entered with a card. the person whose name it bore came up directly afterward. he brought a dinner invitation from a well-known social club. the earl good-naturedly accepted. the visitor regarded scott inquiringly. "is this young gentleman one of your party, my lord?" he asked. "yes, sir. it is my young friend, mr. scott walton." "then i am authorized to include him in the invitation." scott looked at the earl inquiringly. "i accept for him," said the earl, promptly. he smiled when his visitor left the room. "you are in for it, scott," he said. "i advise you to order a dress suit at once, if you are not provided with one." "won't the club think they are imposed upon when they find that i am only a humble business boy?" "you are not invited on that ground, but as my intimate friend." "then, mr. grant, i will throw the whole responsibility upon you," said scott, smiling. "i will accept it. how will it do for me to dub you sir scott walton?" "it might embarrass me in my business." "true. then you shall be plain mr. walton. mind that you get a handsome suit. it will be expected, as you belong to my party." one of the leading new york dailies, a few days later, in describing the dinner, after giving the earl's modest little speech, continued thus: "the earl was accompanied by a handsome young gentleman, mr. scott walton, who is understood to be a near relative. mr. walton was called upon for a speech, but modestly declined." when ezra little read this paragraph, he was immensely surprised. "read that, loammi," he said. "what a humbug that boy is!" said loammi, much disgusted. "humbug or not, he has got into the best society and his success reflects credit upon us, his cousins." "the idea of his palming himself off as a relative of the earl!" "perhaps he didn't. it was probably a conjecture of the reporter." "i don't believe it. i feel sure scott put him up to it. i'd like to tell him it is all a mistake." "i won't allow you to do anything of the sort. as the matter stands, it may lead to the supposition that we also are related to the earl." this seemed such a clever idea that ezra determined to act upon it. when one of his business acquaintances inquired whether scott was really a connection of the earl's, he answered: "he is related to me, and there may also be a distant relationship to the earl. probably the earl authorized the statement." "why don't you invite the earl to dinner?" "egad, i will!" exclaimed the merchant. the next day scott received the following note from mr. little: "dear scott: can you induce your friend, the earl, to accept an invitation to dinner at our house any day next week? it would give me great pleasure, as an englishman born, to pay some attention to so distinguished a representative of my native country. the choice of the day rests entirely with the earl. we shall be only too glad to receive him at any time. "sincerely, your cousin, ezra little." scott showed this letter to the earl. the earl smiled. "i am glad," he said, "that i have been the means of so cordially uniting your cousin and yourself. of course, i know that i am only invited as your friend." scott laughed. "that didn't occur to me," he said. "but as to accepting the invitation," continued the earl, "i am afraid i cannot. should i accept mr. little's invitation, i should be overwhelmed by similar invitations from other parties." "he will be terribly disappointed." "i can partially make it up to him. i will secure a box at one of the theatres for some evening next week, and invite your uncle's family to join our party. that will involve no embarrassment." "i am sure cousin ezra will be delighted to accept." "then i will make out an invitation which i will send by you. i will also invite mr. tower, your senior employer, as it may help you with him." "it will, i am sure." when scott called at his uncle's house, ezra inquired, eagerly: "did you receive my note?" "yes, cousin ezra." "will the earl accept my invitation?" "he would be glad to do so, but it would bring upon him so many others that it would prove embarrassing." mr. little's face fell. "can't you influence him to accept?" he asked, with a degree of deference that was new to scott. "no, but he sends you an invitation." scott put in mr. little's hands this missive: "the earl of windermere will be glad to have mr. ezra little and family join him at the star theatre next wednesday evening to see henry irving in 'hamlet.' "r. s. v. p." "tell the earl i shall be delighted, and so will mrs. little and loammi," said the gratified merchant. "i think, cousin ezra, etiquette requires a written acceptance." "tell me what to write, and i will copy it." scott did so, and succeeded in toning down the exuberant terms in which mr. little was at first inclined to couch his acceptance. mr. tower, though a more sensible man, was undeniably flattered by the invitation which scott brought him. the earl had called at the store, so that the invitation was _en règle_. "really, scott," he said, "i shall feel obliged to raise your pay, since, in addition to your services here, you are introducing me into such distinguished society." "i have no objection to that, mr. tower," said scott, smiling. "and you are really the guest of the earl at the windsor hotel? it is most extraordinary." "i hope, mr. tower, you will appreciate me as much as the earl does." "i do already, scott, but for business reasons." mr. little sent for reporters on two of the daily papers, and managed to have his presence in the earl's box prominently mentioned. loammi was immensely gratified, and contrived to make himself conspicuous, while scott modestly withdrew into the background. seth lawton happened to reach new york on the morning following the theatre party. he read in amazement the paragraph which served to indicate the intimacy of his relatives with the earl. "my young cousin is getting on," he said. "well, he deserves it." mr. lawton himself was modest, and was considerably surprised when scott brought him a cordial invitation to dine at the windsor with the earl. "i don't know, scott," he said. "i am an old-fashioned fellow. i am not used to stylish company." "the earl will like you all the better on that account." scott was right. the earl of windermere could see the sterling gold in cousin seth's character, and treated him with a cordiality that pleased the old man. "i never thought i should like an earl," he said afterward to scott, "but your friend is a trump. he ought to be an american citizen." ezra little was rather disgusted when he heard that seth lawton had been the earl's guest. "you ought to have prevented it, scott," he said. "what will the earl think of us when such a homely old fellow is introduced as a cousin?" "cousin seth and the earl are great friends," replied scott. "humph! i suppose he felt obliged to be polite to him. seth is a mere clodhopper." he would have been surprised to learn that the earl rated the "clodhopper" higher than himself. chapter xxxiv. mr. babcock's invention. from this time forth ezra little began to pay more attention to his poor relation. scott's social and business success had surprised him. he was compelled, though reluctantly, to consider him a young man of promise. he had no idea, however, how successful scott was, and would have been very much amazed to learn the extent of his income. one result, however, was to excite the jealousy of loammi. he found that scott dressed better than himself and had more command of money. accordingly, he applied to his father for an increased allowance. "what do you want more money for, loammi?" asked his father, in a tone far from encouraging. "don't you get a dollar a week?" "what can i do with a dollar a week, pa?" "it was more than i received at your age." "you were a poor boy, while i am the son of a rich man." "ahem! not exactly rich, loammi," said ezra little, complacently. "everybody calls you rich, pa." "i have some money," admitted mr. little, cautiously, "but it is only by great care that i am moderately well off." "scott dresses better than i, and always has money in his pocket." "he is very foolish to spend all his spare money on clothes. by the time he is twenty-one he won't have a cent laid up." "at any rate, he has plenty of cash now. the fact is, pa, people are beginning to notice that he dresses better than i. percy shelton was walking with me the other day when we met scott. 'i thought your cousin was poor,' he said. 'he only has his wages to depend upon,' i said. 'then he must be pretty well paid,' he replied. 'i saw him at patti's concert tuesday night, occupying a three-dollar seat.' that made me feel awfully mean, for you wouldn't let me go to hear patti." "no; it would be throwing money away." "all the fashionable people go. people that know you are rich think it strange not to see me there." this argument had some effect on mr. little, who was anxious that his son should be admitted into fashionable society, but was too close to supply him with the necessary means. "how much do you want, loammi?" he asked, cautiously. "percy shelton gets five dollars a week." "well, you won't," said his father, sharply. "you must think that i am made of money." "i will try to make it do with four, pa." "you won't get that either. i will give you two dollars a week, and that ought to be enough to satisfy you." loammi was not satisfied, but did not think it prudent to say any more just then. there was one more concert by patti, and he had hoped to attend. indeed, he had told percy that he expected to do so. he might, indeed, have bought a dollar ticket, but he was ashamed to be seen occupying a cheap seat. loammi had not much taste for music, and cared chiefly to attend the concert because most of his fashionable friends would be there. in this dilemma he received unexpected assistance. he met scott one evening near the fifth avenue hotel. his poor cousin was handsomely dressed, and looked to be on good terms with the world, as indeed he was. "good-evening, loammi," he said. "good-evening, scott. are you still working for tower, douglas & co.?" "oh, yes." "do they pay you well?" "i am quite satisfied." "how much do you get?" "i would rather not tell." "percy shelton told me he saw you at patti's concert tuesday evening." "yes, i was there." "the tickets are rather high, ain't they?" "i paid three dollars for mine." "i want to go ever so much; but pa, though he is rolling in wealth, keeps me very close. how much do you think i get for my weekly allowance?" "i couldn't guess." "only two dollars." "but you have nothing to pay for board or clothes." "that is true; but of course i can't go to hear patti." "do you really want to go?" "of course i do. all my friends have attended." "then i will invite you to accompany me to-morrow evening." "on three-dollar tickets?" "yes." "you're a good fellow, scott," said loammi, overjoyed. "i always said so." scott smiled. he did not feel quite certain about that, but forbore to remind loammi of certain recent experiences. "when will you buy the tickets?" "we will go now if you have time." "all right." two days afterward loammi fell in with percy shelton. "i saw you at the concert last evening," said his friend. "yes." "was that your cousin with you?" "yes; i thought he would like to go." "that was very kind of you," said percy, who naturally concluded that scott went by loammi's invitation. "scott must get a good salary," thought loammi. "i wonder how much he is paid." but scott preferred to keep this to himself. he knew that if loammi were told, he would have frequent occasion to borrow, and he felt that it would be prudent in him to lay by a portion of his earnings. it will be remembered that his friend, justin wood, had bought for him an interest in the invention of mr. babcock, advancing the inventor a sum of money, which put him on his feet. scott had not forgotten this, but forbore to look up mr. babcock, not having quite so much confidence in his success as the inventor himself. one evening, however, as he was preparing to go out to walk, he met babcock coming upstairs. "good-evening, mr. babcock," he said; "i am glad to see you." "you were going out?" asked the inventor. "only for a walk. i shall be better pleased to receive a visit from you." "then i will accept your invitation. i thought you would look me up." "i was afraid i might interfere with you. i presume you are busy." "yes, very busy, i am glad to say. and how is your friend, mr. wood?" "at present he is out of the city." "i should like to see him to thank him for his timely aid." "then it has been of service to you?" "i should say so. i am succeeding beyond my anticipations." "i am glad to hear that," said scott, cordially. "you have reason to be. are you not my partner?" "i believe i do own an interest in your discovery," said scott, smiling. "i see you do not attach much importance to it. you have not considered what your profits will amount to." "no, mr. babcock, i have not thought of that at all. i only hoped that it would give you a fair living." "it will do more. in fact, i have come to see you on business to-night. the parties who are manufacturing my window fastener have made me an offer for it. as you hold a one-third interest, i cannot accept without consulting you." "how much do they offer, mr. babcock?" scott thought the sum might be a thousand dollars, and was very much surprised when the inventor answered: "fifteen thousand dollars!" "is it possible?" he ejaculated. "i thought you would be surprised. but it is true. that would give you five thousand dollars." "i don't see how so small an article can pay so well." "it is the small inventions that pay best. what do you say?" "i want to consult your interest in the matter, mr. babcock. this would give you ten thousand dollars, to be sure, but it would throw you out of work." "no. they engage me as superintendent of the manufactory at a salary of a hundred dollars per month." "that is very good. in that case, if you think it wise to sell, i will agree." "then you can come to-morrow to see them, and conclude the bargain?" "i shall be occupied, but i am sure my employers will give me leave of absence when i tell them the cause. but i don't think i ought to receive so large a sum as five thousand dollars. it was you who made the discovery." "true, but i never should have reaped any benefit from it if you had not introduced me to your friend, mr. wood." the next day the sale was made, and scott found himself enriched by five thousand dollars. it seemed to him almost like a dream, from which he was afraid that he might awake. "what would mr. little say if he knew?" thought scott. "he did me a great favor when he discharged me from his store under a cloud." chapter xxxv. the sealed packet. one day, in looking over his trunk, scott's eye fell on the sealed packet, referred to at the opening of this story, which was inscribed: _for my son._ _to be opened a year from my death._ singularly, the next day would be the anniversary of his father's passing away. scott had been so busy that he had given little thought to this packet. now his interest was excited, and the next day he broke the seal, and read the letter which it contained. it ran thus: "my dear scott: when you open this packet twelve months will have passed, and i hope you will be in a position to live comfortably on your earnings. i assume that you will be in the employ of ezra little, who i understand is well to do, and who will not, i think, turn his back upon a needy relative. "you will find nothing in this letter that will provide for your future prospects. indeed, i wish to pass on to you a debt which i am unable to pay. "during early manhood, i received many favors from a young man named robert kent, who afterward emigrated to america. i heard a report two years since that he had been unfortunate, and that his family was suffering. i should like to be able to help him in memory of the past, but my life is nearing the end. should you ever fall in with mr. kent or his family, if you can do anything for them on your father's account, i shall be very glad. it may seem strange that i give you this legacy of duty, considering that i leave you well-nigh penniless, but i have confidence that sooner or later you will succeed, and i hope you may be in a position to help my early friend or his family. "the only clew i can give you as to my old friend's whereabouts is, that he was an artist by profession, and that he went to new york. probably, if living, he is in that city, or near it. you may not be in a position to help him, but i should like to have you make his acquaintance, and tell him that i have not forgotten him or his past kindness." there was something more, but this was the substance of the letter. it was sufficient to interest scott greatly. "i wish i could find my father's friend," he reflected. "though but a year has passed, i am amply able to pay the debt which my poor father owed. it would be pleasant, besides, to see one of his friends." naturally, scott's first reference was to the new york directory. he found numerous kents, but none that seemed likely to be robert kent. there was no artist of that name included in the list. he thought of advertising, but this would involve a greater degree of publicity than he desired, and might lead to attempted imposture. a month passed, and scott was as perplexed as ever. to seek for any particular man in a crowded city like new york was like seeking a needle in a haystack. besides, he might have left new york and gone to some other city, perhaps to the west. yet the man of whom he was in search was, at that very moment, occupying a shabby lodging on bleecker street, with his wife and two children. moreover, his son, a boy a few months younger than scott, was employed by ezra little, in his eighth avenue store, at a salary of three dollars a week. let us look in upon the kents in their humble home. the apartments consisted of three rooms, after the usual fashion of new york tenements. in the one large room, sitting in a big rocking-chair, was a man of middle age, with an expression of pain upon his delicate and refined features. he had been for some time the victim of a rheumatic affection which at times prevented him from working. at half-past six the door opened, and a slender, dark-haired boy entered the room. "how do you feel, father?" asked the boy, with a glance of sympathy toward his suffering parent. "no better, harold. it is very trying to be tied hand and foot by pain when i ought to be at work." "if your father would worry less," said mrs. kent, a pleasant-looking woman, somewhat younger than her husband, "he would be more likely to get well." "how can i help worrying, clara? we are barely able to live when i can work. now, with only harold's wages coming in, it is difficult to tell how we shall come out. did you ask mr. little if he would raise you, harold?" "yes, father; but he only shook his head, and told me he could get plenty of boys at the wages he paid me, and perhaps for less." "yet he is rich," said mr. kent, bitterly. "he and his can live on the fat of the land." "has he a son?" asked mrs. kent. "yes, mother. he has one son--loammi." "do you know him?" "yes, a little." "what sort of a boy is he?" "he is the most disagreeable boy i ever met. when he comes to the store he struts through it as if he were a prince." "his father was poor enough in the old country." "he is rich now." "if i were rich now, i would only be too glad to help those who were less fortunate than myself. i had one friend in england, an artist, like myself, john walton, who would have done the same. i wish he were in ezra little's place." "did he have a son named scott." "i think it probable. he married a scott." "then he may be in new york. i have heard that there was a boy named scott walton in the store a year since." "that must be his son," said mr. kent, eagerly. "is he in the store now?" "no. i understand that he and loammi could not get along together, and he was discharged. but i was told that his father was dead." "poor walton! i am sorry to hear it. it seems to me that it is those who best deserve to live who are summoned first." "harold," said his mother, "will you go to the grocery at the corner and get a quarter of a pound of tea and half a pound of butter?" "yes, mother, but--shall i pay for them?" "ask mr. muller to trust us till saturday night, when you get your week's salary." harold took his hat and went downstairs. the grocery store was kept by a stout, good natured german named muller. it was a small place, but herr muller did a thriving trade. harold entered the store and preferred his request. "and how is your poor father, harold?" asked the grocer. "he is in a good deal of pain from rheumatism, mr. muller." "that is too bad. and how is business with him?" "very poor," answered harold, soberly. "that is bad. how much does he charge now for a portrait?" "ten dollars." "i have been thinking i might get him to paint me. in a month, my wife and i will be twenty-five years married. that is what they call a silver wedding. gretchen wants to have my portrait to show our friends on that occasion." "my father will be very glad to paint it, mr. muller." "but he can't work now." "he will soon be able, i am sure." "well, if he can do it in time. we wouldn't like to be disappointed." "i am sure he will do his best." harold carried home the welcome intelligence to his father. it made mr. kent somewhat more cheerful. ten dollars would help him not a little, though the time had been when he received seventy-five dollars for a portrait no better than he produced now for ten. "now, father, you must get well as soon as you can," said harold. "ah, no need to say that." "i am afraid your father will only worry the more if he finds that he is not soon in a condition to work." "it seems so little to make a portrait for ten dollars," added mrs. kent. "i should only be too glad if i could get all the work i could do at that price." the new order somewhat cheered the poor artist. once, in his early days, he was ambitious, and hoped for a reputation; but long since his ambitions had faded, and he was content and glad to work for a bare livelihood. even now, he would not have succeeded but for the small help his son was able to give him. three dollars a week in many an unfortunate household in the metropolis plays an important part in the finances of a poor family. but a new trial was in store for the kent family. the next day, just before the store closed, loammi visited it. he wanted to ask a favor of his father, and as he walked through the store he looked about him with the air of a prince of the blood royal. it happened that as he passed along he managed to drop his handkerchief. instead of picking it up himself, he signaled to harold kent to do it. "pick up my handkerchief, boy!" he said, in a lofty tone. "i can't leave my place behind the counter." "pick it up, i say!" said loammi, stamping his foot. "that is not what i am hired to do," retorted harold, indignant at the other's tone. "what is your name?" "harold kent." "i won't forget it," said loammi, significantly. when, on saturday night, harold was paid his weekly wages he was told that he need not report for duty on monday morning. "why is this?" asked harold, in dismay. "loammi has complained of you," he was told. it was too late to appeal to the superintendent, and harold left the store, grief-stricken and discouraged. chapter xxxvi. a timely helper. walking along eighth avenue, scott walton saw a boy coming out of ezra little's store with sad face and eyes red as with weeping. the boy was poorly dressed, and scott's experience of poverty had been so recent that he felt quick sympathy. "are you in trouble? can i assist you?" he asked, kindly. harold turned to see who was addressing him. "i have just lost my place," he said, briefly. "were you working for mr. little?" "yes." "how did you lose your place? tell me, if you don't mind." "i offended mr. little's son, loammi. he got me discharged." "i am not surprised to hear it. loammi got me discharged some months ago." "you!" exclaimed harold, in surprise, for he noticed that scott was handsomely dressed. "yes." "but you are not a poor boy. you do not mind it." "i was a poor boy then. how much salary did you receive?" "three dollars a week." "i think i can promise you five dollars a week with another firm." "can you?" asked harold, overjoyed. "but how can you? you are only a boy." scott smiled. "i have some influence with the firm of tower, douglas & co. i think they will take you on at my request. but where do you live, and what is your name?" "i live at bleecker street, and my name is harold kent." "you are not related to robert kent?" said scott, in excitement. "he is my father." "he is an englishman, is he not?" "yes; do you know him?" "not yet, but i mean to. if you are going home, take me with you." "i shall be glad to do so, but may i ask your name?" "my name is scott walton. our fathers were friends, and i will be your father's friend." "i have heard my father speak of your family. he will be delighted to see you--and is your father living?" "no; father is dead. i judge that you are poor." "yes, very poor. my father is an artist, but he has very little to do. lately he has taken to portrait painting, but he only gets ten dollars for a portrait. now he is sick with rheumatism and cannot work." "cheer up, harold! better times are in store for you. i am prosperous, and my father commissioned me to seek you out and help you." scott followed harold up into the poor apartment occupied by his father. as he entered the room, mr. kent looked in surprise at his companion. "is this one of your fellow clerks, harold?" he asked. "no, father. i have been discharged from mr. little's store, and i have no fellow clerks." mr. kent's countenance fell. "then we have no income," he said, sadly. "it only needed this blow. why were you discharged?" "it was on account of loammi little, but don't be troubled, father. i am to have a better place, at five dollars a week." "who will give it to you?" "i will see that he has such a place, mr. kent," said scott. "but--why should you feel an interest in my poor boy?" "because my name is scott walton, and you were a friend of my poor father." "not john walton's son?" "yes; i have been looking for you for a month. this evening fortune threw your son in my way. he tells me that you have been unfortunate." "i am sick and out of work, but you--you look prosperous." "i am." "did your father leave property?" "no, but i have met with good friends." "has ezra little treated you better than he has harold?" "ezra little took me into his store, and after a few week discharged me, as a result of loammi's meanness and falsehood. i met with other friends, secured another situation, and i am able to help you, mr. kent. i want you to find better rooms." "but i cannot pay the rent of these." scott drew out his pocketbook and selected five ten-dollar bills. "take this," he said, "and when you have moved i will see what more i can do for you." "fifty dollars!" ejaculated the artist, in amazement. "can you afford this?" "easily. i will tell you later how i have prospered." "won't you stop and eat supper with us, mr. walton?" asked mrs. kent. "gladly, if you will call me scott. i want to ask mr. kent about his early acquaintance with my poor father." the evening was spent in social chat, and it was ten o'clock before scott left his new friends. "i shall expect to see you on monday morning at the store, harold," he said, as he went away. chapter xxxvii. conclusion. three days later, in the early evening, loammi little met harold in the street. "hi, you boy!" he said, with malicious pleasure; "you lost your place at my father's store, didn't you?" "yes," answered harold, calmly. "that will teach you to treat me with respect hereafter." "i suppose i am indebted to you for getting me discharged." "yes," answered loammi, with a smile. "then i want to thank you." "to thank me!" exclaimed loammi, in surprise. "yes, for i have now a better place." "where?" "with tower, douglas & co." "did scott walton get it for you?" asked loammi, quickly. "yes." "then he had better mind his own business. my father may get him discharged from his place there." "that is more than he can do. mr. tower puts great confidence in scott." "do you know what he pays him?" "forty dollars a week." "nonsense!" said loammi, angrily. "it is true." "then mr. tower is a fool." "why don't you call and tell him so?" a really mean person can receive no heavier blow than to find his malicious attempt to injure another of no avail. this was the case with loammi. when he was forced to believe that scott really received the high salary he had contemptuously scoffed at, he became more discontented than ever. he tried to get his father to increase his allowance, but without success. he was mortified to find that even harold vied with him in dress. "how these beggarly upstarts are coming up!" he said to himself, bitterly. "it makes me sick." but a heavier blow was in store for him. dull times came in business, retail trade fell off, and one morning it was announced in the papers that the great house of ezra little had suspended. mr. little made desperate efforts to secure financial assistance, but in vain. no one liked him, and it looked as if he was irretrievably ruined. when things looked darkest, a plain-looking old man entered the store, and asked to see mr. little. "seth lawton!" exclaimed the merchant. "i can't see you. i am very busy." "i hear you are in trouble," said cousin seth. "and i suppose you are glad of it," replied ezra, bitterly. "no, i have come to help you," responded mr. lawton. "you help me!" repeated ezra, scornfully. "what good will a few hundred dollars do?" "how much help do you need?" "with forty thousand dollars i could weather the storm handsomely," replied mr. little. "you shall have it, if you will secure me well." "have you got forty thousand dollars? i thought you a poor man." "it isn't the only mistake you have made, cousin ezra. at the time you looked down upon me i was richer than yourself. but i will only help you on conditions." "i will agree to any conditions," said ezra, his pride humbled. "only help me out of my present trouble." so the house of ezra little was saved, and its head received a lesson. his pride had had a fall. those whom he looked down upon proved to surpass him in the only thing on which he prided himself--the possession of money. one of cousin seth's conditions was that loammi should go into his father's store, and exchange his elegant leisure for honest work. he complained a good deal, but seth lawton and his father insisted. he may in time become a useful, hard-working man of business, but he has a good deal to learn first. scott continues to prosper, and next year will become a partner in the firm of tower, douglas & co. harold is earning a good salary now, and his father's troubles are over. he gets more remunerative work at his profession, and, with his family, occupies a pleasant home in bayonne. mr. lawton has leased a handsome house uptown, and scott lives with him. he is rich--how rich no one knows--and scott is generally supposed to be his heir. the end. a. l. burt's catalogue of books for young people by popular writers, - duane street, new york books for boys. +joe's luck+: a boy's adventures in california. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . the story is chock fell of stirring incidents, while the amusing situations are furnished by joshua bickford, from pumpkin hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the "rip-tail roarer, from pike co., missouri." mr. alger never writes a poor book, and "joe's luck" is certainly one of his best. +tom the bootblack+; or, the road to success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . a bright, enterprising lad was tom the bootblack. he was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. the lad started for cincinnati to look up his heritage. mr. grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. the plan failed, and gilbert grey, once tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. this is one of mr. alger's best stories. +dan the newsboy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . dan mordaunt and his mother live in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of new york. a little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the mordaunts. the child is kidnapped and dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden, and rescues her. the wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir. +tony the hero+: a brave boy's adventure with a tramp. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of rudolph rugg, a thorough rascal. after much abuse tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. tony is heir to a large estate. rudolph for a consideration hunts up tony and throws him down a deep well. of course tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act, a rich friend secures his rights and tony is prosperous. a very entertaining book. +the errand boy+; or, how phil brent won success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth illustrated, price $ . . the career of "the errand boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad. philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named brent. the death of mrs. brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. a retired merchant in new york secures him the situation of errand boy, and thereafter stands as his friend. +tom temple's career.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . tom temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style. +frank fowler, the cash boy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . frank fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister grace. going to new york he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. he renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy to the lad, and thereafter helps the lad to gain success and fortune. +tom thatcher's fortune.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. tom is discharged from the factory and starts overland for california. he meets with many adventures. the story is told in a way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. +the train boy.+ by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . paul palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on the chicago and milwaukee railroad. he detects a young man in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady. in a railway accident many passengers are killed, but paul is fortunate enough to assist a chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. paul succeeds with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. +mark mason's victory.+ the trials and triumphs of a telegraph boy. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . mark mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who pluckily won his way to success by his honest manly efforts under many difficulties. this story will please the very large class of boys who regard mr. alger as a favorite author. +a debt of honor.+ the story of gerald lane's success in the far west. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . the story of gerald lane and the account of the many trials and disappointments which he passed through before he attained success, will interest all boys who have read the previous stories of this delightful author. +ben bruce.+ scenes in the life of a bowery newsboy. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . ben bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. the story of his efforts, and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his final success, are most interesting to all readers. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style. +the castaways;+ or, on the florida reefs. by james otis. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . this tale smacks of the salt sea. from the moment that the sea queen leaves lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward. the adventures of ben clark, the hero of the story and jake the cook, cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. +wrecked on spider island+; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . ned rogers, a "down-east" plucky lad ships as cabin boy to earn a livelihood. ned is marooned on spider island, and while there discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a considerable amount of treasure. the capture of the treasure and the incidents of the voyage serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. +the search for the silver city+: a tale of adventure in yucatan. by james otis. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . two lads, teddy wright and neal emery, embark on the steam yacht day dream for a cruise to the tropics. the yacht is destroyed by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of yucatan. they hear of the wonderful silver city, of the chan santa cruz indians, and with the help of a faithful indian ally carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. pursued with relentless vigor at last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. the story is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. +a runaway brig+; or, an accidental cruise. by james otis. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . this is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with harry vandyne, walter morse, jim libby and that old shell-back, bob brace, on the brig bonita. the boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure. they are stranded on an island and at last are rescued with the treasure. the boys are sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. +the treasure finders+: a boy's adventures in nicaragua. by james otis. mo, cloth, illustrated, price $ . . roy and dean coloney, with their guide tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. the boys eagerly explore the temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. they escape with the greatest difficulty. eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. we doubt if there ever was written a more entertaining story than "the treasure finders." +jack, the hunchback.+ a story of the coast of maine. by james otis. price $ . . this is the story of a little hunchback who lived on cape elizabeth, on the coast of maine. his trials and successes are most interesting. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force. +with washington at monmouth+: a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $ . . three philadelphia lads assist the american spies and make regular and frequent visits to valley forge in the winter while the british occupied the city. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given shown that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. the story is wholesome and patriotic in tone, as are all of mr. otis' works. +with lafayette at yorktown+: a story of how two boys joined the continental army. by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $ . . two lads from portmouth, n. h., attempt to enlist in the colonial army, and are given employment as spies. there is no lack of exciting incidents which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of ben jaffrays and ned allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from textbooks has been forgotten. +at the siege of havana.+ being the experiences of three boys serving under israel putnam in . by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $ . . "at the siege of havana" deals with that portion of the island's history when the english king captured the capital, thanks to the assistance given by the troops from new england, led in part by col. israel putnam. the principal characters are darius lunt, the lad who, represented as telling the story, and his comrades, robert clement and nicholas vallet. colonel putnam also figures to considerable extent, necessarily, in the tale, and the whole forms one of the most readable stories founded on historical facts. +the defense of fort henry.+ a story of wheeling creek in . by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $ . . nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic or thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and women who founded the settlement of wheeling in the colony of virginia. the recital of what elizabeth zane did is in itself as heroic a story as can be imagined. the wondrous bravery displayed by major mcculloch and his gallant comrades, the sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice of blood and life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers. +the capture of the laughing mary.+ a story of three new york boys in . by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, price $ . . "during the british occupancy of new york, at the outbreak of the revolution, a yankee lad hears of the plot to take general washington's person, and calls in two companions to assist the patriot cause. they do some astonishing things, and, incidentally, lay the way for an american navy later, by the exploit which gives its name to the work. mr. otis' books are too well known to require any particular commendation to the young."--evening post. +with warren at bunker hill.+ a story of the siege of boston. by james otis. mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $ . . "this is a tale of the siege of boston, which opens on the day after the doings at lexington and concord, with a description of home life in boston, introduces the reader to the british camp at charlestown, shows gen. warren at home, describes what a boy thought of the battle of bunker hill, and closes with the raising of the siege. the three heroes, george wentworth, ben scarlett and an old ropemaker, incur the enmity of a young tory, who causes them many adventures the boys will like to read."--detroit free press. for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publisher, +a. l. burt, - duane street, new york+. [illustration: _page ._ --"may heaven bless & direct you"! _london, published by harvey & darton, gracechurch street, th dec. ._] the friends; or, the triumph of innocence over _false charges_. a tale, founded on facts. "time at last sets all things even." london: printed for harvey and darton, gracechurch-street. . the friends, &c. chapter i. in one of the pleasant villages in the beautiful county of kent, was situated a boarding-school of considerable celebrity. it had, for many years, been distinguished for possessing an excellent master, in the person of the rev. dr. harris, who, by his amiable manners and sound knowledge, had obtained the friendship of the surrounding gentry; while his fatherly interest in behalf of the affairs of the poor, caused him to be universally beloved. he was curate of the parish, as well as school-master; and his parishioners and scholars were alike the objects of his tender regard and anxious solicitude. his family consisted of a wife and two daughters, who were equally respected by all who had the pleasure of their acquaintance. mrs. harris was, indeed, every way worthy of her amiable partner; and her greatest pleasure consisted in doing good. although frequently herself in a very weak state of health; yet, neither the inclemency of the weather, nor the distance, deterred her from going, in person, to visit, to comfort, and to assist those of her fellow-creatures who were in distress. it was quite enough for her to know that any of her poorer neighbours were in want, to command her immediate aid; and, by thus setting them a good christian example, she was better enabled to assist her amiable husband in enforcing the mild and wholesome doctrines of religion. her lovely daughters, too, juliana and eliza, were of sufficient ages to be her companions in these charitable visits; and their hearts panted for the power to do good, and longed to receive and to deserve such blessings as were bestowed, with grateful lips, upon their beloved mother, whenever she passed the cottages of the poor. they pitied their wants and sufferings, and participated and rejoiced in their happiness; and frequently expressed a desire for riches, to enable them to relieve their misfortunes. upon such occasions, mrs. harris never failed to impress upon their young minds this valuable truth: that wealth does not always afford the best means of doing good. she used to say, that those children who sincerely wish to do an act of charity, seldom want the means of doing something to relieve the necessities and soothe the afflictions of those who are pining in wretchedness; for even a kind consoling word, with a very little personal attention, was often esteemed more valuable, and even proved to be more useful, than money, to those whose spirits as well as bodies were pressed down by distress. added to this advice, this excellent lady seldom let an opportunity pass of enforcing the most strict and pious attention to their religious duties. her motto was: "teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault i see: that mercy i to others show, that mercy show to me." the school was at the extremity of the village, and attached to the parsonage-house. the situation was retired and beautiful. at a little distance stood the village church, in all its ancient simplicity, except that it had, for some years, been nearly covered with ivy; the most pleasing decoration that it is possible for nature to bestow upon a country place of worship. its green and glossy leaf, whether viewed by the soft glow of moon-light, or by the broad glare of sun-shine, is always an object of admiration. the number of scholars was about forty; and in this, as in other schools, boys of various dispositions were to be found. some possessed all the good temper and vivacity that could be wished; and their faults were seldom of so serious a nature as to demand more than a slight reproof: while others were morose, passionate, envious, and disobliging; imposing upon their younger school-fellows at every opportunity, and perplexing those of their own age by frequent interruptions in their sports and lessons. amongst the number of those who were generally beloved by their school-fellows, were henry wardour and george harrington, the sons of two respectable tradesmen, who were partners in a very lucrative business in london. george had been so unfortunate as to lose his mamma when he was scarcely five years of age; and as he was the only child, mrs. wardour, who had always entertained great esteem for his parents, requested of his papa to allow her the pleasure of instructing him with her son henry. to an offer so kind and advantageous, mr. harrington could have no objection; but fearing that the task would become irksome, and be too great an exertion for his friend, he endeavoured to persuade her from her purpose; when she replied: "the trouble, sir, i beg you will not think about: it will be nothing. while teaching my own son, i shall feel a pleasure in imparting the same instruction to yours. besides, i promised my dear friend mrs. h. when on her death-bed, that i would be a parent to her son; therefore, sir, i beg you will grant my request." mr. harrington consented, and deferred his plan of sending george to a preparatory school; and he was admitted at once into the house of mrs. wardour. henry, who was about eight months older than his friend, looked upon this arrangement with unusual joy. as he had no brother, george had hitherto been his frequent play-fellow; and the knowledge that he was now about to live in the same house, to eat, drink, sleep, and play with him, gave him a pleasure which he had never before felt. thus, from so early an association, their friendship became deeply rooted; and as mrs. wardour was a lady well qualified for the task she had imposed upon herself, the lads made considerable progress in their education, and continued to do so until they were eleven or twelve years of age, when their kind preceptress was attacked with a severe sickness. in this state she had continued upwards of a month, when her husband, seeing no immediate prospect of her recovery, and fearing the lads might lose all the learning they had received while under her care, prevailed upon her to let them be sent to school. to this she at length consented; and the school of dr. harris having been strongly recommended, they were put under the superintendence of that gentleman. before leaving home, however, their parents gave them their parting blessing; and mr. wardour, pressing them affectionately by the hand, told them they were now about to begin a little world for themselves: "therefore," said he, in an earnest and impressive manner, "may heaven bless and direct all your actions, so that you may grow up to be honest, brave, and good men. and remember well what i now say: if ever i hear that you are quarrelsome, you will displease me much; but if i find that you are unjust in your dealings towards your school-fellows, i shall punish you severely. above all, be friends to one another." with this advice, and a determination to attend to it, our little friends bid their parents farewell. the dispositions of henry and george were somewhat different, and yet they continued to be sincere friends. henry was mild, good-natured, and patient. george was good-natured, but hasty and passionate; and though mrs. wardour took great pains to impress upon his youthful mind the danger he was continually in, from not being able to control his temper, she never succeeded in teaching him that mildness so much admired in her own son. but in every other respect he was truly amiable; and if, in his passion, he was ever led into any serious error, he never failed to beg pardon of those whom he had offended, and always made every amends in his power. by this failing in george's temper, henry was too frequently a sufferer; for he was always obliged to give up whatever play-things the other wished for, which he generally did with readiness and good temper, although he was oldest of the two. but this was only the case when they were very young; for, from the time that they had left home, and had been put under the care of dr. harris, they were, if possible, greater friends than ever; and george had so far succeeded in mastering his temper, as seldom to be in a passion, and never with his friend henry. he still, however, possessed that nobleness and high spirit, which mostly checked him in doing a wrong action, and always prompted him to interfere in behalf of any of his school-fellows whom he thought were unjustly treated; in which he was ably seconded by his friend henry. in personal appearance there was little similarity. henry was weak, pale, and delicate: george, strong, fresh-coloured, and vigorous. many a time had mrs. wardour watched over her weakly but truly beautiful boy, with an anxious eye, fearing that she should never be able to rear him to manhood. but since he had been with dr. harris, his health had much improved. his face, which had before been pale, was now tanned with the heat of the sun; and the fresh country air had given an additional brightness to his fine dark eyes: while the healthy round face, and plump appearance of george, seemed to improve in a like degree. in short, these boys, by their politeness and good-nature, rather than by their appearance, were beloved by all their school-fellows, except a few of the malicious, envious dispositions, who only disliked them because they sometimes resisted their impositions, and detected their falsehoods. with their master's family they were also more intimate; and though dr. harris never made any distinction, or showed any partiality to one boy more than to another, yet it was not so with his two daughters, juliana and eliza. they had their favourites; and though henry and george were nearly the last comers, and had not been more than three months in the school, they had so won upon the young ladies, (who were nearly of the same age as themselves,) by their cheerfulness, and polite attention in gathering pretty flowers, cleaning their bird-cages, &c. as to be their decided favourites. mrs. harris had also entertained a regard for henry, from the moment she first saw him, as he strongly resembled a late son of hers, who was unfortunately drowned when about his age. and it was well for henry that he possessed so many friends; for in the difficulties he afterwards had to contend with, he stood in great need of them; and as my little readers are now pretty well acquainted with their characters, they shall hear in what those difficulties consisted. but before entering upon the principal circumstances in this little history, it will be necessary to acquaint my young friends with a trifling affair that took place about a month or six weeks after the arrival of henry and george. by their interference upon this occasion, they put an end to an evil, a species of _fagging_, which had been practised unknown to the master; while they at the same time roused the bad dispositions of some of the elder boys, as will be seen in the sequel. chap. ii. it had been a custom in dr. harris's school to admit an aged woman, once a week, to call with cakes, lozenges, and other sweetmeats; and as she was very poor, each lad was allowed, and indeed expected, to lay out a penny with her. this they did very willingly, not merely because she generally had a good assortment of those things which little boys are fond of, but because she was cheerful, civil, and obliging; and frequently took in good part, the tricks they so often played upon her. she used also to bring her grand-daughter emma with her, for the purpose of taking the money, and carrying her basket, which was a pleasing duty to this little girl, for she dearly loved her grandmother. this well-intended plan of compelling the boys to spend their money in the school-room, though of benefit to dame higgins, (for that was her name,) at length caused a violent irruption, by giving the elder boys an opportunity of imposing upon the younger ones; when, if they had been allowed to have spent their half-pence in the village, they might have evaded the impost which was laid upon them. the old woman used to arrive regularly every wednesday and saturday afternoons, which were half-holidays; and dr. harris, fearing that if all were admitted at one time, she might be confused, had ordered that they should proceed by rotation, but only six at a time; consequently, the biggest boys always entered first, and then waited at the other door till the rest came out with their cakes, fruit, or sweetmeats. now, so much power had the elder boys, (particularly brown, greene, and walker,) over the rest, that they regularly exacted from them either a plum, a cake, a pear, or something of what they had purchased. soon after henry and george had arrived at the school, and they were passing through the door which led into the play-ground, with their cakes, they were stopped, amongst the rest, and asked by walker for a bit of something; and as they saw most of the boys gave one thing or other, and being themselves good-natured, they readily bestowed their portion; and this was repeated for three or four weeks. about this time little ned hooper, a lad much liked by most of the boys for his mirth and good humour, came up to george, with a tear in his eye, and said, "look here! see what these fellows have left me, out of what i bought: they have taken above half," added he, showing a few lozenges, "and all because i said they ought to be ashamed of themselves for so doing." "ashamed, indeed!" cried george, with indignation; "and are those all they have left you?" "yes; and they had as many from me last week, but i did not say any thing about it," said ned. "why did you give them any this week, if they had so many from you the week before?" asked henry. "because i am not strong enough to prevent them, or they should not have one from me. but it is so with all us little boys. they take some of our gingerbread or fruit from us every week." and he then walked away crying. some of the other boys who stood round, confirmed what little ned had said, and told george and henry that they would be obliged to submit to the same, as long as those _tyrants_ were in the school; for they had taken from them ever since they had been there. they then went and fetched little ned, who had just finished the lozenges they had left him, and then cheerfully joined in the play as though nothing had happened. not so our two young friends, who were much hurt to see their little school-fellows imposed upon; and endeavoured to find out some plan by which they might put an end to so shameful a practice. they at first thought of offering them a certain quantity from amongst all the boys; but afterwards determined upon stopping it altogether, by a combination amongst their school-fellows. "for why," said george, in an animated tone, "should one boy be allowed to act unjustly towards another, merely because he is older or stronger? it is 'might overcoming right;' and therefore i think we should be justified in resisting these _tyrants_, as they are properly called, by every means in our power." they then joined the rest at play, having resolved to make them acquainted with their determination before the next arrival of dame higgins. this opportunity soon offered; for about four o'clock the same afternoon, greene, walker, brown, and those with whom they generally associated, left the school to take a walk through the town. henry observed all the boys whom he had seen at the door, when they passed with their cakes, leave the play-ground; and mentioned to his friend george, that it would be a good time to ask their school-fellows whether they would join in their resistance. henry, therefore, collected them together; and george informed them that he had a plan to submit, how they might preserve their cakes from the _tyrants_; which occasioned an expression of great joy among the little boys, who thought they saw in their two new school-fellows, worthy and trusty champions. "what is it?" "how shall we do it?" was asked by many an anxious and eager boy, who had long wished to have some one whom they might look up to as their leader. "why, we were thinking," said george, "that it is a shameful thing for so many of us to submit to be robbed by so small a number of boys, merely because they are a little bigger than ourselves; and therefore henry and i have determined to refuse giving another cake or sweetmeat, provided you will support us." "we will, we will," they cried. "and they shall soon find out they are not to rob us when they please," cried little ned. "but how do you intend to do it," he asked, laying hold of george's hand. "why to-morrow," said he, "dame higgins will be here again; and i have no doubt but that the same demand will be made of us as heretofore; but henry and myself, with some others, will immediately follow them, and when they make their request, we will refuse to comply, and hold them at bay till the rest arrive, when we will boldly resist, and force our way into the play-ground." to this plan their school-fellows readily assented, and promised not to say a word about it, for fear they should make the _tyrants_ acquainted with their intention. they then went to their sports, which were not unfrequently interrupted in their progress by the consideration of their forthcoming resistance. at length the important day arrived, which, as usual, brought dame higgins to the school. the morning had passed in rather a confused manner; and a constant buzzing and whispering was heard throughout the little assembly. "i don't mind a thrashing," said little ned, in a whisper to george, "if i can preserve my cakes, and disappoint those greedy fellows." he had no sooner uttered the words, than the well-known voice of dame higgins was heard, and his determination was put to the test; for the elder boys hastened, as usual, to her basket, purchased what they wanted, and took their stations at the next door. henry, george, and ned, accompanied by three of the most resolute boys, immediately followed, and, as was agreed upon, refused to give a single sweetmeat; they were therefore stopped in their passage through the room, when they were happily joined by their comrades. they now determined to force their way through, and had just made a grand rush, when, to their surprise and mortification, dr. harris appeared before them. they shrunk back with amazement: greene and his companions through shame, and henry and his friends from fear. the doctor seeing their confusion, called upon greene, who was the eldest boy, to explain the cause of it; but greene was silent. "what is the reason of this disturbance?" he again asked. "i insist upon knowing. some one tell me immediately." henry, who was not at all desirous of informing dr. harris of the affair, would now willingly have made his retreat, had not little ned, with some others, stepped forward at the time, which reminded him it was their cause, and not his own, that he was to plead. the master now mentioned his name, and demanded of him the cause of the riot. he therefore plainly stated the case, and told every thing connected with it; and when he had finished, many a little boy took courage to tell his piteous tale, of what he had lost by the tyranny of the elder scholars, and begged their master would prevent it in future. "as to the cakes," said little ned, (taking off the hairy cap he used to wear, and looking at dr. harris as seriously as his little merry face would allow,) "as to the cakes, i'll be bound to say, there are as many in their boxes as would fill a cake-shop." the boxes were immediately searched, and although not quite so many were found as little ned supposed, yet there were sufficient to convince their master of the truth of the statement he had just heard. he therefore gave them a severe punishment, in the presence of the little boys whom they had been so long in the habit of ill-treating; and distributed all the apples, sweetmeats, and other things which he found, including about seven hundred marbles, to the joyous crowd, who were congratulating each other upon their victory. chap. iii. henry and george now stood very high in the estimation of the great majority of their school-fellows. they were caressed, honoured, and looked upon as their first boys; while greene and his friends were treated with contempt and derision. they had no longer the power to command and overawe the rest, with a blow or a black look. their power had ceased; but, unfortunately, the chastisement they had received, instead of convincing them of their error, had only roused their evil dispositions; and they now anxiously looked for an opportunity to avenge the punishment they had received, through the interference of henry wardour, against whom, in particular, they had an inveterate spite. nor did they long wish in vain; for, in a very short time, another occurrence took place, of a far more serious nature, and which had nearly thrown henry into a severe illness. it was nothing less than a suspicion of theft. his bed-fellow, whose name was scott, when he arose one morning, discovered that his box had been broken open, and his purse, which had contained a new sovereign and two or three shillings, had been emptied of its contents, and then replaced under his sunday clothes. scott missed the money while looking for some trifling article in his box; and having mentioned the thing, the boys collected round him to hear his account of the matter. there were also some boys who came out of another room up stairs, and among them greene and walker, who, having heard what scott had to say, at once declared, that it was impossible for any one but the boy who slept in the same room, to have stolen the money. george, who heard this direct charge against his friend henry, instantly fired up, and, in his passion, flew upon greene, who had made the charge, and struck him; when a scuffle ensued, the noise of which brought out dr. harris, who, upon hearing an account of the loss from scott, told him that he was very likely to have mislaid the money somewhere; and that he had no doubt but that, if he made search for it, he would soon find it. george, with whom he was extremely angry for his rashness in striking greene, was immediately ordered into the school-room, and punished by having a long lesson given him to learn. before he went, he turned round to dr. harris, and said that he was sorry for having struck greene; but he should have been ashamed of himself, if he had stood quietly by, and heard his friend accused in his absence, of so shameful a crime. "i am sure," he added, with his usual vehemence, his face reddening, and his hand closely clenched, "that henry is not guilty; and greene ought to be ashamed of himself, for making such a charge against him." greene, who stood behind the other boys wiping his face, which was a little bruised by the blow he had received, then said, "that he should not be surprised if master george himself had had something to do in it; for he seemed very much offended by what he had said." "you are a mean-spirited fellow," said george; "and----" "silence! silence, boys!" cried dr. harris. "how dare you make such accusations against each other! the money may have been mislaid, and will, no doubt, be found. i desire that a strict search may be made: until that is done, let me not hear another word about it. i never had a thief in my school; and if i ever find a boy out in such practices, he shall meet with the severest punishment i can inflict." every eye was now anxiously looking out for henry wardour, who had obtained leave of mrs. harris, to accompany her daughters, to gather some flowers at the gardeners, and to go on another little errand or two. for so much was henry beloved by this good lady, that she had made him her little messenger; and whenever she wanted to send any thing into the town, he was sure to be the lad chosen so carry it. dr. harris was made acquainted with his absence this morning, but wished for his return, that he might question him as to this unpleasant affair. the business, however, which henry had been sent upon, detained him until after school had commenced; and, having hastened with his breakfast, and brushed his clothes, he immediately entered the school, when all eyes were directed towards him. henry being a very bashful lad, could not bear this unusual stare; and fearing, at the same time, that dr. harris had been saying something about his long absence, he blushed deeply, as he hung his hat upon the peg and took his seat. walker, who sat at the further end of the same desk, seeing henry somewhat confused, cried out, loud enough for some of the boys to hear him, "look at him!" when george, who sat near, turned round, and said, "well, what do you see?" "why, guilt in his face," added greene. this conversation would probably have continued, had not dr. harris, who had hitherto been engaged at his desk, suddenly arose from his seat, and walked down the school; when, observing henry in his place, he, with a smile on his countenance, beckoned him to follow to his desk, which henry immediately obeyed, though with a trembling step. this was a moment of great interest. every eye was attracted to the top of the school; and a tear of joy stood in george's eye, as he saw dr. harris affectionately take his friend by the hand, and whisper something to him. it was at this moment too, that every boy in the school took upon himself to translate the looks and actions of henry and his master. they observed every change in henry's countenance, with an anxiety equal to the love they bore him; for very few, if any of his school-fellows, for a moment thought him guilty of the charge brought against him by greene; although four or five of them, whose jealousy had been roused by the general respect in which henry was held, and who still remembered their own disgrace by his interference, readily seconded the accusation, in the hope that, by so doing, they would lessen the esteem which mrs. harris and her daughters appeared to have for him. the _tyrants_, indeed, were noted as the enemies of henry and george; and this charge coming from, and being strenuously supported by this party, led the rest of the boys to examine their probable motive. during this long interview with dr. harris, henry was alternately depressed and surprised. at one moment a tear would be seen to start in his eye, and at another he seemed about to appeal to his school-fellows, when he was soothed by the kindness of his master, who told him to calm his fears, and return to his seat for the morning, assuring him of his assistance to clear up the matter. as henry walked down the school, with a dejected countenance, his eye instinctively turned toward his friend george, who had been anxiously observing him during the whole time his master had been conversing with him. it seemed to george to say, "i am charged with a serious fault, and i shall stand in need of all the help you can afford me;" and a careless observer might, in a moment, have seen, by the friendly and benignant smile upon george's face, that he would surely have it. during the whole of the morning's school-hours, henry found it impossible to attend to his lessons. his mind was so absorbed in the approaching examination, which his master had told him should take place directly after twelve o'clock, that his sums were all done wrong, and his copies badly written. nor was he the only boy in the school who was in this state of mind. his friend george felt for him, and appeared as anxious about it, as though he himself had been charged with the theft. the last words of mr. wardour occurred to his thoughts: "above all, be friends to one another;" and the impressive manner in which it was said, was still fresh upon his memory. "be friends to one another!" he exclaimed to himself: "ay, i will be _his_ friend, because i am sure he is mine; and because i am sure, also, that he is innocent of this suspected robbery." little ned too was restless all the morning, and longed for the time to arrive, when henry would once more be enabled to put the _tyrants_ to the blush. his little merry heart was, for once, depressed; but he had strong hopes that it would all end in the discomfiture of greene and his friends. doctor harris had as yet refrained from stating the circumstance to his family; but as the hour was near at hand when he determined to have a general search, he thought it best to make them acquainted with it, though with little hopes of gaining any information from them. when mrs. harris heard the tale, she treated it with indifference, and said that she had no doubt but that the money would be forthcoming; for it was her opinion, that some of the boys had taken it merely to tease scott, whom she stated to be rather too fond of hoarding. the daughters thought the same, and were quite unhappy to think that their little favourite should be suspected. juliana, indeed, was about to hasten to the school-room, in the hope of affording him some consolation, but was requested by her papa to remain where she was. at length the school broke up; and, by the command of dr. harris, search was made in every part, not merely amongst the boys, but also amongst the servants; but, unfortunately, without finding the new coin. the boys were now all assembled with the family, and dr. harris commenced his examination, by asking scott when he last saw his money. "last sunday morning, sir," he replied; "and henry was with me at the time." this henry corroborated, by saying it was true, and that he saw him put it in his purse again; when greene stepped forward and said, that he believed no person but henry knew of scott's possessing this new coin; and that he, therefore, was the only person that could have taken it. at this direct charge henry stood for some time amazed; and then bursting into a flood of tears, vehemently protested against the truth of his assertion, and dared him to the proof; when walker, who stood close by greene and scott, said, "it is of no use for you to deny it, master wardour, as i know those that can prove they saw you take the money." henry was for a moment speechless; when george said it was false, and demanded, with more than common earnestness, that he would bring forth his accusers, and let him meet them face to face. this request was repeated by the rest of the boys, who feared they might have said something, in an unguarded moment, which walker had construed into an assertion of henry's guilt. dr. harris also requested walker to name the person who saw him take the money; when he replied, that he knew no more than what greene had told him, who said he saw henry steal it. mrs. harris now stepped forward, and earnestly entreated greene, in common justice, if he had any proof that henry took the money, or knew any thing of it, that he would instantly make it appear. at this greene was a good deal confused; and after first of all acknowledging that he had said so, he then as plainly said that he knew nothing about it, but was _sure_ that nobody else could have taken the money. mrs. harris, who was a sincere lover of justice, possessing too a great deal of discrimination, inveighed in very strong terms against charging a boy with theft, and casting aspersions upon his character, without any foundation whatever. "he has now been a considerable time in the school," she added, turning to her husband, "without ever having created any suspicion of his honesty, or without doing the slightest act upon which to ground such a charge. besides, i have frequently trusted him with money to fetch various articles for me, and he has always acted with the strictest honesty; and," raising her voice, "i will myself be bound for his innocence upon this occasion, for there is not a more honest lad in the school; and it is my belief, that some of those who throw out hints of suspicion against master wardour, are much more likely, from their general character, to have robbed scott than he is." greene now slunk behind the rest of the boys; and in consequence of this tone being taken by this excellent lady, walker apologized for having accused henry of so great a crime, and added, that he should never again believe what greene said. "you may go, master henry," said dr. harris, in the kindest manner possible, "and i have no doubt that the thief will be found out; and then those who have accused you will have cause to be ashamed of themselves." george, little ned, and a great number of his school-fellows, now crowded round henry, congratulating him upon his victory, as they were all anxious to see him fairly acquitted of the charge. eliza and juliana also joined the little throng, and, by their caresses, endeavoured to rally him into his usual good spirits, which they continued to do for some days after. as, however, no discovery was made about the money, he felt himself very uneasy, and could not but think that many of the boys looked upon him as a thief; especially as insinuations were sometimes thrown out by the elder boys, which made him very miserable; and those who had first accused him, would frequently ask, in his hearing, "who stole scott's money?" chap. iv. a fortnight had now nearly elapsed, and the affair began, in some measure, to wear off. indeed, it was seldom mentioned, except by those boys who appeared, from the commencement, so desirous of obtaining a verdict against henry. his school-fellows, generally, were anxious to play with him, and endeavoured to rouse his spirits by every means in their power. they never commenced a new game, but he was solicited to join them; and they never went for a walk, but he was anxiously requested to accompany them. all their endeavours however, were fruitless: they could not make him what he was before this charge was brought against him. he evidently had something preying upon his mind; for instead of being one of the most lively boys in the school--one who had hitherto shown a desire to join in any good-natured frolic--he was now become quite serious, and even melancholy. in vain did his friend george use every exertion: he who before could have persuaded him to any thing, and to whose advice he had always paid a great regard, now entreated him, in vain, to cheer his drooping spirits. mrs. harris, with her two daughters, also endeavoured to laugh him out of what they called his sulky mood; but he replied, that he could not help it; that he should never again be happy till it was discovered who it was that stole scott's money; and that its being lost while he was his bed-fellow, certainly threw a suspicion upon him that he could not get over, and to labour under which made him truly miserable. dr. harris felt a great deal of uneasiness about the matter, not merely because he saw henry labouring under so serious a charge, but that an affair of such a nature should remain so long undetected, and that he should hitherto have been foiled in his attempts to clear up the mystery. in this state he continued, when, one morning, after he had returned from his usual early walk, and was crossing the lawn that led from the school to the parsonage-house, he observed a poor woman, rather shabbily dressed, looking in at the school-room window. not appearing to find the object of her search, she was turning towards the house, when she encountered the person of the doctor. "who are you looking for, good woman?" asked he. "i--i want," apparently somewhat disturbed by meeting the master, "i want to see one of the little boys, sir," she said, curtsying very low. "what little boy do you want? and what do you want him for?" "i don't know his name, sir; but he wears a short blue jacket and nankeen trowsers, and a white hat, sir. he has black hair, and he is a very handsome boy, sir." "is his name henry," said dr. harris. "i think that was the name the other lad called him by, sir; for there was another fresh-coloured little gentleman came to the cottage with him." "what did they come to your cottage about, my good woman?" "oh, sir, i and my poor dear sick husband ought to be very thankful for the help they gave us. and i now want to see them, to thank them for their goodness, and to tell them that my husband will, by god's mercy, be able to go to work very soon. that's all i wanted, sir," she said, again curtsying, though with some degree of alarm; for she feared that her peeping about for the boys might have offended dr. harris. "what did they do for your sick husband then?" asked dr. harris. "i do not think they had the power of rendering you much assistance." "oh yes, sir, they had," she replied: "master henry gave us, altogether, sixteen shillings. and i am sure, that if he had not helped us, we should all have been starved. but the lord is always very good, and sends something to those who are in want." at this recital dr. harris felt amazed; and the circumstance of scott's money being lost, immediately recurred to his memory. "it must be so," he said to himself: "these boys, anxious to do a service to this poor family, have taken scott's money from his box, where i suppose they thought it was lying useless, and appropriated it to relieving their wants.--step in doors, my good woman," he said, as he hastened across the lawn: "step in: i wish to ask you a few questions." martha watson, (for that was the name of this poor woman) now repented having come to the school at all, as she feared, from the anxiety in dr. harris's face, that the boys might get scolded for coming to the cottage without leave of their master; and she followed him to the house with a faltering step. the servant having opened the door, dr. harris led the way into a little room, which was his study, and desired martha watson to enter, when he closed the door, and they both sat down. "where do you live, pray?" asked the doctor. "in one of those poor cottages, sir, in the lane that leads on to the common." "you say these boys gave you sixteen shillings: i wish you would tell me what it was that first induced them to come to your cottage, and every thing you know about them." martha watson now felt very uneasy, and anxiously asked whether they had done any thing wrong, which she the more feared, as she had not seen them for some time past. dr. harris begged of her to answer his question, and assured her that there was no cause for her alarm. she then related to him the following circumstance: "about a month ago, sir, as my little son jack, who is about six years old, was coming from farmer miles's, with a pitcher full of milk, and making all the haste he could to get home with it for his daddy's supper, these two young gentlemen were hastening off the common, and in their hurry to turn the corner of the lane, they did not see little jack, but ran against him. so, sir, they ran so violently, that they knocked him down, spilled the milk, broke the pitcher into a hundred pieces, and cut poor jack's arm, which bled very much indeed." "they did not do him a very serious injury, i hope," said the doctor. "no, sir; only cut his arm a little. finding, however, that jack was afraid to go home alone, they came with him to our cottage, when they told me the whole affair, and said how sorry they were they had spilt the milk and broke the pitcher; and did all they could to pacify little jack. when they found how poor we were, and saw my dear husband sick in bed, they asked me many questions: how long he had been ill, what money we had, and many others; and when i told them that he had kept his bed for five weeks, and was not then able to get up; and that we had no money, but the little i and my eldest girl could earn in the fields, they talked together a little while, and the young gentleman in the white hat said, that he would see me again in about an hour, and pay me for the pitcher and the milk, and give me something for my husband." [illustration: henry & george visiting the poor cottager. _see page _] "did they return then in about an hour?" said dr. harris. "no, sir; they did not call again till next morning, when they asked me whether my poor husband was better, and how jack's arm was. one of them pulled out of his pocket a guinea, and----" "a guinea!" exclaimed dr. harris, interrupting the woman: "are you positive it was a guinea?" "i am sure it was a golden coin, sir; because they asked me to change it. but that was impossible, for i had no money at all in the house." "well, my good woman, and what did they do then?" asked dr. harris, evidently much agitated. "why, sir, finding i had no money, they went into the town and got the golden coin changed, and gave me ten shillings of it. in a few days, sir, they came again, and gave me six more shillings." "did they ever call after that time?" "once, sir, which was about ten days ago; and as i have not seen them since, i made free to call here this morning; because i am sure they would be glad to hear that my poor dear husband was getting better, and would soon be able to work. if the young gentlemen had not been so kind to us, i don't know what we should have done. i am afraid my poor husband must have died for want of proper things. but the lord will reward them for their kindness; and i am sure they are good boys." dr. harris congratulated the cottager upon the restoration of her husband to health, and said that mrs. harris should visit her family; and that he would also tell henry and george that she had called to thank them; but that it was not convenient for her to see them just then. having again asked her where she resided, he bade her good morning, and she immediately returned home. when martha watson had gone, dr. harris joined his family at the breakfast-table, and related the whole of the affair to them, adding his conviction of henry's guilt, and that he was sorry to find he had been so deceived by him. george too, he said, was equally guilty; for he had been a party in giving away the stolen property. "i shall write to their parents this evening," he added; "for i am at a loss to know how to punish such duplicity and wickedness." mrs. harris and her daughters, although staggered by the statement which the doctor had made to them, suggested the propriety of calling in henry and george. "for," said mrs. andrews, "although it looks very suspicious, i never can believe them guilty until it is plainly proved." "i think this is sufficient proof," he said, rather angrily; for he felt vexed to think of the trouble this affair would give to their parents. "true; so it is, my dear," answered his wife, "if not contradicted; but i hope that they will be able to give such an explanation as will be satisfactory to us all." "and that i am sure they will," said eliza, rising from her chair; "and pray, papa, let me call them in." the servant at this moment entered the room to take away the breakfast-things, when dr. harris desired her to send in master wardour and master harrington. the boys had but just taken their seats in the school-room, when the servant summoned them into the parlour. henry, who still continued in the same desponding mood, felt gratified by hearing that he was wanted there; but it was only a momentary pleasure. he at first thought he might be wanted to accompany eliza and juliana to the garden, or be commissioned by mrs. harris to go into the town for her; but when he found that george was also wanted, and that they were to go together, he felt convinced of some fresh trouble; for he was not the same cheerful boy he used to be. fear seemed to have taken possession of his whole frame; when george, thinking he observed a tear starting in his eye, grasped his hand with the warmth of sincere friendship, and cheered him up by saying, "now for it, henry: it is all settled, and we are wanted to hear the good news;" and they went, hand in hand, into the parlour. after making their obedience, they walked up to the table; and dr. harris, with a look somewhat more stern than usual, said, "henry, do you know a woman named martha watson, who lives near the common?" "yes, sir," said george, "i know her: a very poor woman." "i asked henry," said dr. harris; "and i expect that he will answer me." but poor henry, from some cause or other, was, at the moment, unable to reply. george, therefore, seeing his friend at a loss, immediately gave the answer; and henry, recovering his self-possession, now gave a direct answer to every question that the worthy master put to him, and proceeded to explain how they became possessed of so much money. "george and i," he said, "were one day walking through the town, when we met a gentleman on horseback, who had lately seen our parents in london. he told us that he was going to call upon us at the school; but as he had met us, that would do as well. he then gave us a new coin, which is called a sovereign; and after staying with us about a quarter of an hour, he shook hands with us, and rode off." "and the same evening," added george, "we had the misfortune to run over little jack watson, and break his pitcher. we then thought it our duty to see him safe home, and to pay for the pitcher and milk. when we got to the cottage, we saw the poor man stretched on a wretched straw mattress, where he said he had been above a month; and the tear rolled down his cheek when he looked round the room, and saw five little children, who were all anxiously waiting for the milk which we had been so unfortunate as to knock out of little jack's hand. indeed, sir," george continued, "we never before saw so much wretchedness; and henry said, that as we had plenty to eat and drink, and pocket-money besides, we might as well get the new coin changed, and give them some of it, saying, he wished we had more. i agreed to give nearly all my share; and the next morning we went to the cottage, and gave most of the money to the poor people." "but why did you not tell me or mrs. harris of this distressed cottager, and also that you had had so much money given to you, henry?" "because, sir, you had given strict orders that no boy should enter a place of sickness, for fear of bringing away a fever. we should not have gone there; but we had hurt poor jack, and he was afraid to go home, after having lost all the milk. he said his mother would not believe him, if he told her that some one had broken the pitcher." the plain and unassuming manner in which the boys told their tale, threw an unusual cheerfulness round the whole family. dr. harris felt himself satisfied with the account which they had given; while mrs. harris and her daughters were overjoyed to find that the boys could give an explanation so very creditable to their feelings. "it is not," said the lady, when the boys had left the room, "because my belief in their ability to give an explanation is confirmed, that i feel this satisfaction; but that they should have shown themselves so susceptible of the finest feelings of our nature. that they should have pitied and relieved the wants of their suffering fellow-creatures; and that, too, without ostentation or parade, convinces me, at once, that neither of them would be guilty of the charge made against henry. and i sincerely wish that some light may be speedily thrown upon this unpleasant and mysterious affair, or i shall have great cause to fear the consequences with regard to his health." dr. harris then left the table for the school-room, heartily concurring in every word that his amiable lady had uttered. upon entering, he found the boys in deep consultation; for, immediately upon the return of edward and george, they were questioned by their school-fellows as to the result of so long an interview. george, who would, from modesty, have readily refrained from stating a circumstance so creditable to himself, as well as to his friend, had he not feared a wrong construction would have been put upon his silence, immediately related the whole of what had passed in the parlour. the majority of the boys felt a little disappointed that nothing more conclusive had transpired; not perceiving, that boys who were capable of giving away their money in the manner that henry and george had done, were unlikely to rob another of the little he possessed. greene and a few others, however, with a malignity that spoke an interested motive, did not fail to turn this statement into ridicule. greene in particular, who had displayed great anxiety and uneasiness during the absence of henry and george, at the conclusion of the tale which the boys had requested george to relate, burst into loud and excessive laughter, and exclaimed, "this is one of the finest tales i ever heard. is it likely, in the first place, that any gentleman would give them a sovereign? did any of you ever receive so much at one time; and that, too, from a poor traveller? and is it likely that, if they had had it given to them, as they wish us to believe, that they would have parted with it in the manner they say they have? it is all a made-up story. i don't know where scott's money is; but i think, if it has been given to the poor cottagers, he ought to have the credit of it." several of the boys then joined him in the loud laugh with which he concluded this base insinuation. poor henry was again driven back into his low-spiritedness, and gave, first a look of contempt at greene, and then cast his eyes upon george, as his only refuge and support against this fresh and unexpected attack. it is difficult to say how greene would have fared, had not dr. harris at this moment entered the school; for george was never more indignant, nor never felt a greater inclination to tell greene what he thought of his cowardly conduct, than he did at this moment. little ned, however, did not fail to whisper in his ear as he passed, that which was at all times an unwelcome sound: "who stole the cakes?" said he, loud enough for the rest of the boys to hear. greene looked vexed, and went to his seat. some time passed away, and nothing transpired to clear up this mysterious affair; while the few enemies that henry had in the school appeared to increase, from the construction which greene and some others had put upon george's explanation concerning the money. henry, unable to bear up against the stigma, not only grew melancholy, but began to lose his appetite, and looked very thin and ill. mrs. harris really felt somewhat alarmed, and said every thing she could to comfort him; but, alas! it was all in vain. scott also, to do him justice, did every thing in his power to relieve him, but without avail; and henry began to think he should fall a victim to a false accusation, for he had no sleep by night, nor ease by day. dr. harris now proposed to send for his father, which he did; and he arrived in a few days. dr. h. made him acquainted with the whole affair, from first to last; and henry was sent for into the parlour. his father was shocked at his appearing in such ill health, and the agony of his feelings was intense at the cause of his illness. he entreated him, by the love he bore towards him and his mother, to confess the truth. "if, my dear boy," he said, "you have, in an unguarded moment, been led into an error, the only reparation is openly to confess it. in that case i will pay the boy the money, and you shall receive my forgiveness." henry assured him that he knew nothing at all of the money--that it made him very unhappy indeed--that he had had no sleep for the last three or four nights--and that he had lost his appetite; when, throwing his arms round his father's neck, he burst into an agony of tears, and could only exclaim, "i am innocent! i am innocent!" mrs. harris having pacified henry, said that it would perhaps be best for mr. wardour to take him home for a short time; but to this henry himself objected, as he knew very well that there were boys who would turn that to his disadvantage. his father, therefore, procured him some medicine, to calm his spirits and allay the slight fever which he appeared to have; and then went to transact some business at a short distance from the village, promising to see him again in a few days, and determining, in his own mind, to take henry home with him, should nothing transpire in the mean time to free him from this accusation. chap. v. the time had now arrived when henry was to be freed from his troubles, and to obtain a satisfactory victory over malignity and base design. on the evening after his father had taken leave of him, and when he, in company with his friend george, was sitting at his bed-room window, admiring the beauties of the setting sun, and enjoying the calmness of the surrounding scenery, an unusual noise was heard upon the stairs. henry instantly rose from his seat and opened the door, when in rushed little ned, breathless, and almost speechless. he had his hairy cap in his hand, and had contrived to run one of his legs through his long pin-afore, as he made his way up the stairs. his face was far more red than usual, and full of anxiety. [illustration:--its all found out!--the thief is found out. _page ._] "what is the matter, ned?" said henry as he entered: "you seem in a hurry." "in a hurry!" ned replied, gasping for breath: "in a hurry! why, it's all found out!" said he, waving his cap over his head. "what is found out?" asked george, laughing heartily at ned's grotesque appearance. "look at your leg through your pin-afore." "never mind," said he: "kitty will mend that. but it is all found out! the _thief_ is found out." as he uttered these words, he seized henry by the hand, who, with george and himself, hastened down stairs, ned repeating all the way, "it's all found out! _i_ have found him out!" he dragged them both into the school-room, where most of the boys were assembled. dr. harris, who was disturbed by the noise, also followed; and, upon his entering, ned called out, with a loud voice, "i charge you, charles greene, with stealing scott's money, and will prove it!" greene started, as though he had seen something unnatural. "i,--i," was all he could articulate, and he turned as white as possible. "yes," says ned, "i have just been into dame birch's, the pie-woman, who said that you had then been to pay the money you owed her, and that she was very glad she had got clear of you." he then related to dr. harris, the conversation he had had with the pie-woman about ten minutes before. "as i was walking to the shop, sir," he said, "i saw greene take his leave, when he was busily thrusting something into his pockets, i went into the shop, and mrs. birch told me that greene had just paid her the remainder of his debt. i asked what debt it was; and she told me that it had been owing a long time: that, about a month ago, he went there and changed a sovereign, and paid her eight shillings out of fourteen he owed her; and that he wished the whole of the sovereign had belonged to himself, but it did not; for one of the other boys was to have half, as he had been with him when he had found it." greene, who had by this time in some measure recovered from his first shock, here interrupted ned by saying, "i never told her so: i said my father gave it to me, which he did. he told me that my uncle from london had called and left it for me." ned declared he had told dr. harris the truth, and every word that dame birch had said, except that she added, "i believe i should never have got the money, if i had not threatened to go to his master." dame birch was now sent for, and confirmed what little ned had stated; and in answer to a question from dr. harris, why she allowed the boys to get so much in debt? said, that she could not help it with greene, for he would have what he chose; but that it was not all for cakes: part of it was payment for two squares of glass, which he broke when fighting, one day, with another boy. during the interview, henry and george, and one or two of their school-fellows, hastened to mr. greene's house, (for he fortunately lived at a short distance from the village,) to have his son's account either confirmed or denied. on their reaching the door, they knocked with great authority; and upon the servant's opening it, they demanded to see his master immediately, as they had some very important business with him. the servant informed mr. greene of their visit, and he came out of the parlour and demanded what business they could have with him; when george said, "sir, we have taken the liberty to call upon you, to know whether you gave your son charles a sovereign about a month ago. "gave him what?" said the old gentleman: "gave him a sovereign! not i, indeed: i hope i know better what to do with my money. his mother might have given him six-pence or so; but we should never think of giving him any thing like a sovereign." he then returned into the parlour, and they heard him ask mrs. greene, if she knew of charles's having a sovereign about a month ago, when she answered, "no, my dear." this was quite satisfactory to henry and his friends; and without waiting any further ceremony, they started off for the school. in the mean time greene, having ascertained that they were gone to his father's to make enquiry, had confessed that it was he who had stolen the money out of scott's box; and when they returned, he was surrounded by all the boys, who were upbraiding and taunting him with his villany. his own friends too were against him; and, from shame and agitation of mind, he looked most wretchedly. it is impossible to describe the scene which now took place in the school-room. henry, whose mind was relieved from the depression occasioned by this disgraceful charge, was caressed and congratulated by every boy in the school. mrs. harris kissed him affectionately, and said she felt confident of his innocence from the first, and had never despaired of its being made evident. juliana and eliza were also amongst the first to bestow their approbation upon his conduct. george and little ned were delighted beyond measure to see their friend once more made happy, and hoped soon to have him as the chief in their youthful sports. but it was far different with greene, who now felt all the wretchedness of one convicted of theft, and detected in basely attaching the disgraceful charge to an innocent and praiseworthy lad. he had taken his seat at the extremity of the school-room, and was hiding his face in his hands; and though a boy of wonderful spirits and strong nerve, was now bathed in tears, and sobbing aloud. dr. harris, who had been giving him a very severe lecture, still stood over him, impressing upon him the necessity of retiring into his room, to seek from god that forgiveness in prayer and repentance, which, he too much feared, would not be easily obtained from his offended and disgusted school-fellows. he now, therefore, arose, and made his way towards the door, in doing which he had again to encounter the execrations and pointed fingers of the boys, who cried, as he passed them, "go, thou thief!" and followed him until they saw him enter the house. henry, however, was the only lad who did not upbraid him; for, though greene had behaved in so disgraceful a manner towards him, he could not but feel distressed to see him appear almost brokenhearted. he still remembered, in the midst of his joy, that but a few hours had elapsed since he felt all the wretchedness of one _supposed_ to be guilty of theft. "what then," he said to himself, "must be the feelings of him who stands _convicted_ of the crime, and therefore has not the consciousness of innocence to support him? i cannot find in my heart to upbraid him," he said, as he took george and ned by the hand and led them across the lawn. they continued their walk until bed-time, when they returned, and henry again experienced the sweets of a good night's rest, the sure reward of integrity. [illustration: "what shall i do?" "i will leave the school" _page _] greene, on the contrary, was now distressed beyond measure: his night was restless and unrefreshing; and as the time was fast approaching when he must again face his master and his school-fellows, remorse and dread had taken possession of his mind, and he felt as if he had not strength to dress himself. "what shall i do?" he exclaimed, as he again threw himself across the bed: "i cannot enter the school-room, nor face my school-fellows; for i know they must despise me. i, who have hitherto taken the lead in the school, and have done as i chose with the boys, am now to be pointed at and spurned by the least in the place. i will leave the school directly," he added, rising from the bed, and making another attempt to dress: "i will leave the school directly, and hasten to my uncle's in london." with this rash determination he concluded, when, taking up his jacket, he discovered, upon the back of it, that which had before escaped his notice, the words "thief" and "liar," in large characters. this fresh assault cut him to the heart. he dropped the coat, and fell upon his knees at the foot of the bed, praying aloud to his maker for forgiveness, and promising never to offend in the like manner again. he concluded by exclaiming, in great agitation: "where shall i find a friend to plead for me? and to whom, among my school-fellows, can i now look for support?" "to me! to me!" cried henry, who was passing his chamber at the time, and whose kind heart overflowed with pity at the distressed bewailings of this repentant boy. "i will be your friend, and seek forgiveness from your school-fellows. though you have grossly injured me, i cannot, must not bear malice. dr. harris tells us we should forget and forgive." "and do _you_ forgive me, henry?" he exclaimed: "can you forgive one who has acted so basely towards you?" "i can and do," he answered, "and will beg of dr. harris to forgive you also." he then seized him by the hand, and, half undressed as he was, with his coat under his arm, and his eyes swollen with crying, he drew him to the school-room, where dr. harris had just taken his seat. as he made his way towards the desk, the boys were greatly surprised, and wondered when they heard henry ask dr. harris to forgive him. "i found him, sir," continued henry, "upon his knees, asking forgiveness of the almighty, and making promises of future amendment. i therefore, as far as i am concerned, heartily forgive him, and i hope, sir, you will do the same." dr. harris then addressed greene in his most impressive manner, telling him that he was glad to find he was made sensible of his error; and was also happy to see him so full of contrition: adding, "that, as it is the sincere wish of henry, to whom you ought to be for ever grateful, i am willing to think no more of this matter. but it is not to me, so much as to your school-fellows, you need look for forgiveness; and to them you ought to apply, as being the parties offended." henry then took him down the school, and by his earnest entreaties and pathetic address, obtained his pardon. greene now retired, and in a short time returned to his lessons, somewhat happier than when he arose, but still depressed by shame. the next day mr. wardour returned, and had the felicity to find his son restored to health and happiness. when he heard of his acquittal, and of his noble conduct in obtaining pardon for greene, he pressed him to his bosom, and almost shed tears of joy. he then exhorted him to be always grateful for this providential discovery of his innocence, and to let all the future actions of his life be governed by the same noble principles as he had followed upon this trying occasion. after making a present to george and little ned, for their friendly conduct towards his son, he obtained a holiday for the whole school, and took his leave. mr. greene, upon hearing of his son's conduct, would have severely punished him, had not dr. harris assured him of his contrition, and begged of him to inflict no further chastisement than he had already received from his little school-follows. he therefore contented himself with making scott a handsome present. mrs. harris and her daughters had been lately busy in relieving the family of poor martha watson, whom the late circumstances had brought under their notice. the husband, by this good lady's well-timed attendance, had now recovered his health, and had gone to work, while the children were clothed and made decent in their appearance; and their mother never failed to bless the names of henry and george, and to thank that providence which had directed them to her cottage. greene still continued in a gloomy state, when he was happily relieved from it by his uncle prevailing upon his father to let him go a voyage to the east indies with him; and, in less than a month, he departed from that place, which had now become irksome to him; but not without first being well convinced, that "_honesty is the best policy_." henry and george still continued to be beloved by their school-fellows; and each remained happy in the possession of a good conscience. the end. harvey, darton, and co. printers, gracechurch-street. children's books, published by _harvey and darton_, gracechurch-street, _london_. domestic pleasures; or, the happy fire-side. illustrated by interesting conversations. by _f.b. vaux._ price s. d. boards. imitation. by _maria benson_. author of "thoughts on education, system and no system." price s. d. half bound. the conversations of emily. abridged from the french. mo. price s. d. half bound. dialogues on curious subjects in natural history, mo. price s. half bound. the history of a tame robin. supposed to be written by himself. price s. d. half bound. the history of mungo, the little traveller. by _mary mister_. price s. d. the adventures of a doll. by the author of "mungo, &c." price s. d. half bound. tales from the mountains. by the author of "mungo, &c." price s. d. gustavus; or, the macaw. a story to teach children the proper value of things. price s. d. half bound. the oracle; or, the friend of youth. by the author of "a cup of sweets." price s. half bound. may-day; or, anecdotes of lydia lively. price s. buds of genius; or, some account of the early lives of celebrated characters who were remarkable in their childhood. price s. half bound. the principal events in the life of moses, and in the journey of the israelites from egypt to canaan. by _henry lacey_. illustrated by fifteen engravings. price s. neatly half bound, roan backs. scriptural stories, for very young children. by the author of "the decoy." price s. the history of little davy's new hat. by _robert bloomfield_. author of the "farmer's boy," "rural tales, &c." with plates. price s. half bound. the little visitors. in words composed of one and two syllables. price s. d. half bound. stories of animals, intended for children between five and seven years old. by _maria hack_. mo. with copper-plates. price s. d. half bound. winter evenings; or tales of travellers. by _maria hack_, vols. mo. price s. half bound. harry beaufoy; or, the pupil of nature. by _maria hack_. mo. s. d. half bound. the winter vacation; or, holidays in the country. price s. d. half bound. the summer vacation. price s. d. half bound. the infant minstrel; or, poetry for young minds. price s. d. half bound. the dew-drop; or, summer morning's walk. by _f.b. vaux_. with plates. price s. little anecdotes for little people. by _mary mister_. price s. easy lessons for infants; and short stories, written from facts. with coloured cuts. price s. d. verses for little children. written by a young lady, for the amusement of her junior brothers and sisters. with copper-plates. price d. stories for children. by _s. hayes_. with copper-plates. price d. a new-year's gift for a young cottager. with a frontispiece. price d. the story of ellen and mary; or, the advantage of humility. with copper-plates. price s. transcriber's note: some punctuation has been silently altered. the following words have been changed. dètermined is now determined goerge is now george featherland, or how the birds lived at greenlawn, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ as he explains in the last paragraph the book was written for the amusement of two little girls who were fond of leaning up against his knee, and asking him to tell them a story. fenn was a very good naturalist, and i feel sure that he enjoyed looking out at the birds on the lawn, and seeing their reactions to one another. from this he has gone on to add occasional snatches of english speech, to illustrate to the girls the way the birds, and a few other animals (the dog, the cat, the bees, a hedgehog, the flies, the wasps), were behaving in each other's presence. on the whole the language is easy, and suitable for young children, but just occasionally a word slips in such as "gourmandising", which would need explaining to a child. i am not much in favour of books that make animals talk as though they were little human beings, but in this book such language is used only to the very minimum, just enough to make the animals' activities meaningful. for the rest the birds mostly make their appointed noises. but i did enjoy the skylark's song. and once fenn had put in one song it was inevitable that he would put in another, for which the bluebottle was the "singer". nh ________________________________________________________________________ featherland; or, how the birds lived at greenlawn, by george manville fenn. chapter one. how spring was coming. "hallo, old yellowbill! what's brought you out so early?" said a fine fat thrush, one bright spring morning, stopping for a moment to look at his companion, and leaving the great broken-shelled snail he had rooted out of the ivy bush curling about upon the gravel path. "hallo, old yellowbill! what's brought you out so early?" "what's that to you, old snail-crusher?" said the blackbird, for he was in rather an ill temper that morning, through having had a fright in the night, and being woke up by old shoutnight the owl, who had been out mousing and lost his wife, and sat at last in the ivy-tod halloaing and hoo-hooing, till the gardener's wife threw her husband's old boot out of the window at him, when he went flop into the laurel bush, and banged and bounced about, hissing and snapping with his great bill, while his goggle eyes glowed so angrily that the blackbird's good lady popped off her nest in a hurry and broke one of her eggs, and, what was worse, was afraid to go back again till the eggs were nearly cold; and then she was so cross about it, that although the broken egg was only a bad one, she turned round upon flutethroat, her husband, who had been almost frightened to death, and told him in a pet it was all his fault for not picking out a better place for the nest. so it was no wonder that flutethroat, the blackbird, turned grumpy when neighbour spottleover, the thrush, called him "yellowbill;" for of course he did not like it any better than a man with a red nose would like to be called hot-poker. but it was such a fine morning, and there were so many dew-worms lying out in the cool grass that the neighbours could not stop to be crabby. so spottleover flew off with his snail, and flutethroat soon had hold of a thumping, great worm, and set to work, tug-tug, to draw it from its hole, and then pulled and poked it about till it was easily to be packed in a knot, when he took it in his bill and flew off to the laurel bush, where mrs flutethroat was busy sitting upon four green speckly eggs, and waiting very impatiently for her breakfast. just then the sun cocked one side of his great round face over the hill, and looked down upon greenlawn garden, where all this took place, and tried to make the dew-drops glitter and shine upon the grass and leaves; but he could not, for dampall, the mist, was out, and had spread himself all over the place like a great wet smoke; and for ever so long he would not move, for he did not like the sun at all, because he, as a mist, was good friends with the moon, and used to let her beams dance all over him. but it was a fine spring morning, and the sun had got up in a good humour, and had no end of business to get through that day. there was all the water on the lowlands to drink up; all the little green buds just coming out on the trees to warm; the bees to waken up and send honey-seeking amongst the crocuses, primroses, and violets, that were all peeping out from amongst last autumn's dead leaves; flies to hunt out of crevices where they had been asleep all the winter; and old bluejacket, the watchman beetle, to wake up from his long doze; as well as nibblenut the squirrel, spikey the hedgehog, and ever so many more old friends and neighbours; and so, of course, he was not going to be put down by a cold, raw mist. and, "pooh!" he said, looking sideways at it, and, as he got his face a little higher, right through it, "pooh! that won't do; you've been up all night, so be off to bed, and don't think that i am going to put up with any of your nonsense. you had it all your own way whilst i was busy down south; but i've come back now to set things right; so off you go." whereupon the mist looked as raw and cross as he could, but it was of no use; so he rolled himself off the lawn, down the hollow, and into the vale, where he hung about over the river ever so long, evidently meaning to come back again; but the sun was after him in a twinkling, and so there was nothing else for it, and the poor mist crept into a cave by the river's bank, and went to sleep all day. "hooray!" said the birds when the mist was gone; and all the little pearly dew-drops were sparkling and twinkling on the grass. the daisy opened his eye and sat watching the grass grow; while the bees--as their grand friends, the great flowers, had not yet come to town--came buzzing about, and carried the news from daisy to daisy that queen spring was coming, and that there were to be grander doings than ever in the garden. "hooray!" said the birds, for they knew it too, and they all set to work, singing in the gladness of their hearts to think that old niptoes the winter had gone at last, and that there would be plenty to eat, and no more going about with feathers sticking up, and no leaves to shelter anybody by night. a fine place was greenlawn, for there the birds had it all their own way; not a nest was touched; not a gun was ever seen; and as to powder, the rooks up in the lime-trees never smelt it in their lives; but built their great awkward nests, and punched the lawn about till the grubs used to hold consultations together, and at last determined to emigrate, but as no one would come out of the ground to make a start, any more than a mouse could be found bold enough to put the bell on the cat's neck as told in the old fable, the grubs stopped there year after year, and had a very, very hard time of it. it was a regular feast-land for the birds; there were no such buds anywhere else to peck at, for so the tomtits and bullfinches thought; no such strawberries for the blackbirds and thrushes; and as to the elder-berries down by the pond, the starlings used to come in flocks to strip them off, and then carelessly leave ever so many wasting upon the ground. "hooray!" said the birds that morning; and they sang and sang so loudly and sweetly that the master of the garden opened his window and sat down to listen to them. but they had something else to do besides sing; there was courting, and wedding, and building, and housekeeping, going on all over the garden. mr and mrs redbreast were just married, and shocking as it may seem, were quarrelling about the place where they should live. mr robin wanted the snug quarters in the ivy, down by the melon pits; while mrs redbreast said it was draughty, and made up her mind to live in the rockery amongst the fern. mr and mrs specklems, the starlings, were very undecided about the hole in the chimney-stack, so much so, that when they had half-furnished it, they altered their minds and went to the great crack half way up the old cedar, and settled there; "like a pair of giddy unsettled things," as the jackdaw said, who meant to have been their neighbour; but was not above taking possession of the soft bed they had left behind. as to spottleover, he, too, was out of temper all the rest of the day, and when flutethroat met him in the afternoon he found his neighbour all smeared with clay, and looking for all the world like a clay-dabbing plasterer as he was. "there, just look at those wretched little cocktail things," said flutethroat, pointing to the wrens, hard at work at their nest, just when the cock bird flew up on to the wall, perked about for a moment, sang his song in a tremendous hurry, and seemed to leave off in the middle, as he popped down again to his work. "good job, too," said the thrush; "i wish mine was a cocktail, and then i shouldn't have had these nobs of clay sticking to it;" saying which he showed his neighbour three or four little clay-pellets attached to his tail-feathers, evidently caught up when fetching his mortar from the pond side. "ah! it's a stupid plan that plastering," said a conceited-looking chaffinch, joining in the conversation. "i wonder your children don't die of rheumatic gout." "take that for your impudence, you self-satisfied little moss-weaver;" saying which the thrush gave the new-comer such a dig in the back with his hard bill, that the finch flew off in a hurry, vowing that he would pass no more opinions upon other people's building. chapter two. the stolen eggs. plenty of fine mornings came and went, and busier than ever were all the birds. nests had been built; eggs had been laid; little callow birds had been hatched; and the little mouths wanted so much feeding that there was not even time to sing. but there was a good deal of discomfort and unpleasantry abroad, for a young relative of spottleover the thrush had lost three or four eggs from his nest at the bottom of the garden. of course they had been stolen, but who was the culprit? a chattering old sparrow said it was one of the rooks; and when the report got up in the rookery there was a fine commotion about it that evening, for the rooks held quite a parliament to vindicate the innocence of their order; and at last passed a vote of censure upon the sparrow for his false accusation; agreed to send him to coventry; and, as one old rook said, it would have been much more to his credit to have had his shirt-front washed, for it was dreadfully dirty, than to have gone making the rooks out blacker than they really were. then someone said it was the magpie; but he was dreadfully indignant about it, and his long tail trembled with passion; but he quite cleared his character before he flew back to his nest in the great elm down the field, for as he very truly said, if the case had been respecting a young bird or two, and times had been very hard, he might have fallen into temptation, and taken a callow nestling; "but as to eggs," he said, laying a black paw upon his white waistcoat, "upon his honour, no, not even if they were new laid." and so the eggs kept going, and nobody knew where; for they all felt when the magpie said "tar-tar," and flew away, that he had spoken openly and honourably, and was not the thief. at last one evening, when all the birds were as busy as their old friends the bees, all of a sudden there was a complete full stop throughout the garden, for from one of the low branches of the great cedar someone suddenly shouted out in a full, loud, and distinct voice--"cuckoo!" and again two or three times over--"cuckoo!" "halloa!" said flutethroat, ceasing his worm hunt, "who is that?" "cuckoo," said spottleover, dropping a snail; "what does that mean?" and all through the garden there ran a thrill of excitement, for the thrush's cousin flew up to the birds who had collected together, and told them he had seen the thief in the act of taking an egg, and he had flown into the cedar-tree. he was a long ugly bird in a striped waistcoat, and-- but the narrative was interrupted by the long mellow call of-- "cuckoo!" "what's it mean?" chorused the birds. "oh, that's his impudence," said the old owl, winking and blinking, for he had been roused out of his sleep by the new call. "come now, that won't do; we don't want you meddling now, old mousetrap," said the birds; "none of your night-birds here." saying which, they pecked and buffeted old shoutnight to such a degree that he was glad to shuffle off to his hole behind the ivied chimney-stack. all this while the cry kept coming out of the cedar, "cuckoo! cuckoo!" "it's dutch," said a greenfinch, looking very knowing. "no, it isn't; he comes from spain, i know," said the goldfinch. "chiswick, chiswick," shouted the sparrow. "tchah," said the jackdaw. "twit, twit," said the nuthatch. "little bit o' bread and no cheese," said the yellowhammer. "ah, we'll `twit' him with his theft," said the sage old starling; "and it's neither bread nor cheese he'll get here. he's a thief; a cheat; a--" "quack, quack," cried a duck from the pond. "ah! and a quack," continued the starling, and then he grew so excited that the rest of his speech was lost in sputtering, chattering, and fizzing; and all the birds burst out laughing at him, for all his little sharp shining feathers were standing up all over his head, and he looked so comical that they could not contain themselves, but kept on tittering, till all of a sudden-- "cuckoo!" said the stranger, and came right into view. "he's a foreigner," shouted the birds; "give it him;" and away they went, mobbing the strange bird; flying at him, over him, under him, round and round him, darting in and out in all directions, and pecking him so sharply that he was obliged to make signs for mercy; when he was immediately taken into custody by the starlings, and made to go into a hole in the cedar, where a jackdaw kept watch while they made preparations for trying the thief. chapter three. preparations for the trial. and a fine job those preparations were. it was all in vain that a meeting was held, and the perch taken; everybody wanted to talk at once, and, what was worse still, everybody did talk at once, and made such a clatter, that tom, the gardener's boy, threw his birch-broom up in the cedar-tree, and then had his ears boxed because it did not come down again, but lay across two boughs ever so high up and out of reach, to the great annoyance of mrs turtledove, a nervous lady of very mournful habit. the birch-broom scattered the birds for a while, but they soon came back, for they were not going to be frightened away by a bundle of twigs, when they did not even care for a scarecrow, but used to go and sit upon its head; while the tomtit declared it was a capital spider trap, and used to pick out no end of savoury little spinners for his dinner. when the birds had all settled again, they went to business in a quieter way, for they did not wish to be again driven off in such a sweeping manner; so at last they decided that the owl should be judge, because he looked big and imposing. "oh!" said specklems the starling, "but he's so sleepy and chuckleheaded." "all the better, my dear sir," said the magpie, who had come back on hearing the news of the capture; "all the better, my dear sir, for you know you will be for the prosecution, and then, with a highly respectable jury, we shall get on capitally; in fact, hardly want any judge at all, only to keep up appearances." "whew, whoo, whistlerustle," away they went, and settled in a cloud on the top of the old ivied house, and round about the owl's nest--birds of all colours, sorts, and sizes; long tails and short tails; long bills and short bills; worm-workers, grub-grinders, bud-biters, snail-crushers, seed-snappers, berry-bringers, fruit-finders, all kinds of birds--to fetch judge owl to sit at the court, to try the foreign thief, who had made such a commotion, trouble, bother, worry, and disturbance; and kicked up such a dust, such a shindy, such a hobble, as had never before been known in featherland. "hallo! here, shoutnight; hallo! wake up; anybody at home?" said the magpie, holding his head very much on one side, and peeping with one eye at a time into the snug place where the fuzzy old gentleman used to bring his mice home. "hallo! here," he continued, throwing in a small lump of mortar, which woke up the owl with a start. "who-hoo-hoo-hoo?" shouted the master of the house. "who-who tu-who-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo?" shouted the mistress. "ciss-s-s--phistle--phut-snap," chorused the juveniles, who had been disturbed by their mamma, treading upon one, scratching another on the side of the head, and giving number three such a crack with her wing that the little fellow was knocked out of the nest into an old sooty part of the chimney, and came back such a little guy that his mother hardly knew him. "who-who-oo-oo-oo?" said the owl again. "`who? who? who?' why, whom do you suppose, but all your cousins of featherland, come to give you a call?" said the magpie. whereupon the old gentleman came forth in a very dignified way, with his wife's spectacles on his nose, and then, because he could not see a bit, stood winking and blinking and nodding his great head, and bowing, and sticking up his feathers, like a stupid old turkey-cock, till he looked so majestic and imposing, that it was decided at once that he must come into the cedar and try the foreigner, who would not have a chance to get off with such a judge before him. off went the owl with a heavy flap-flap, and across the garden to where the great cedar stood; and away went the birds with such a flutter, rustle, and bustle, that the whole air whistled again as they swept away. "now, then, bolster-brains," said the starling to the jackdaw, "why, you've been asleep!" and there, sure enough, had sat the daw with his head in his pocket, and one leg put away for the present until he wanted it again. "asleep! nonsense!" said the daw. "pooh--tchah! who ever heard of such a thing? only thinking, my dear sir--only thinking; and i think so much better with my eyes shut and the light shaded from them." "why, you depraved descendant of a corvine ancestor; you grey-headed old miscreant," exclaimed the blackbird, who had been to look at the prisoner, "what have you done with the foreigner?" "done," said the daw, "done with the foreigner! no, of course i have not done with the foreigner, any more than the rest of the company have." "but where is he?" chorused several birds; "where is he?" "ah!" said judge shoutnight, "who-oo-oo--ere's the prisoner?" over the hills and far away, with voice cleared by sucking the little birds' eggs, and crying "cuckoo," till the far-off woods rang back the echo from their golden green sides; and still on and on flew the sweet-voiced bird, crying that summer had come again with its hedge-side flowers and sweet-scented gales, bonny meadows, golden with the glossy buttercups, while nodding cowslips peeped from their verdant beds. "cuckoo!" cried the bird, and away he flew again over the rich green pasture, where the lowing cows lazily browsed amongst the rich cream-giving grass, or crouched in their fresh, sweet banqueting-hall, and idly ruminated with half-shut eyes, flapping their great widespread ears to get rid of some early fly. and, still rejoicing in his liberty, the bird cried "cuckoo! cuckoo!" over vale and lea. chapter four. "peedle-weedle-wee." "there, only hark at that," said mrs flutethroat; "who can possibly go to sleep with that noise going on--ding, ding, dinging in one's ears?" saying which the good dame took her head from beneath her wing, and smoothed down her feathers as she spoke. "there never was such a nuisance as those bottle-tits anywhere." the noise that mrs flutethroat complained of proceeded from the low branches of a large fir-tree; and as the good dame listened the sounds came again louder than ever, "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," in a small, thready, pipy tone, as though the birds who uttered the cry had had their voices split up into two or three pieces. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," cried a row of little long-tailed birds, so small that they looked like little balls of feathers, with tiny black eyes and a black beak--so small that it was hardly worth calling a beak at all--stuck at one point, and a thin tail at the other extreme. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," they kept crying, which meant,--"let me come inside where it's warm;" and as they kept on whining the same cry, the outside birds kept flitting over the backs of those next to them, and trying to get a middle place. then the next two did the same, and the next, and the next, until they all had done the same thing, when they began again; and all the while that wretched, querulous piping "peedle-weedle-wee" kept on, till mrs flutethroat grew so angry, and annoyed and irritable, that she felt as though she could have thrown one of her eggs at the tiresome little intruders on the peace of the garden. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," said the bottle-tits as busy as ever, trying to get the warmest spot. "there they go again," said mrs flutethroat; "why don't you go somewhere else, and not make that noise there?" "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," said the bottle-tits. "ah!" said mrs flutethroat, "i wish i was behind you, i'd make you say `peedle-wee-weedle--weedle-wee-peedle,' as you call it. i'd soon he after you, only it is so dark, and all my egg's would grow cold. tchink-tchink-tchink," she cried, trying to fright them; but still they kept on "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee" worse than ever; and, as it grew dark, it actually appeared as though they were coming nearer to the nest. "there," she exclaimed at last, "i can't stand this any longer! here, flutethroat, wake up, do," she cried to her partner, who was sitting upon a neighbouring bough with his feathers erect all over him, and his head turned right under and quite out of sight. "wake up, wake up, do," she cried again, trying to shake the boughs. but flutethroat could not wake up just then, for he was enjoying a most delightful dream: he was living in a country where there were no cats, nor any other living things but slugs, snails, and grubs; while all kinds of fruit grew in profusion, so that there was no difficulty in obtaining any amount of food; but one great drawback to his happiness was an ugly, misshapen little bird, which would keep running after him, and crying, "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," or else shouting at him to "wake up." "wake up, wake up," cried the voice. "get along with you, do," said flutethroat. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," cried the voice again. "oh! bother," said flutethroat, slowly drawing his head out from beneath his wing, and finding that the voices were real, and plainly to be heard on both sides of the puzzled bird; for mrs flutethroat was crying out "wake up, wake up," and the bottle-tits were squabbling more than ever for the warmest place. "there, at last," said mrs flutethroat, "if you sleep after that fashion, that old green-eyed cat must have you some day, and i shall be made a disconsolate widow." "well, what's the matter?" said flutethroat, opening his yellow bill quite an inch, and gaping dreadfully without putting a wing before his mouth. "what's the matter?" said his mate crabbily. "why, look at those nasty little feather-balls peedle-weedling; who can put up with it? they've no business there at all. they've been making that noise for half-an-hour." "well, go to sleep, and don't take any notice." "but i can't; i've been trying ever so long, and they won't let me. every now and then i think they have gone to sleep, but they only burst out worse than ever. there, hark at them; isn't it dreadful?" "heigho--he--ha--ha--hum--mum; yes, very," said flutethroat. "oh! dear; how sleepy i am!" "sleepy," said mrs flutethroat crossly; "so am i; then why don't you go and stop that dreadful noise?" "how can i stop it? they have as good a right to be there as we have to be here; so we must not interfere with them." "but you must stop it," said his wife, getting so cross that flutethroat was obliged to say "very well," and go slowly towards the fir-tree, where the tiny birds were sitting in a row, and when he got up to them there they were tired out and fast asleep; the last one awake having dropped off just as he was half through saying "weedle," and as he was going to hop over his neighbours' backs to get in the middle. flutethroat stopped to look at the little downy grey mites, and could not help thinking how pretty they looked; when he went back to the laurel bush, and found his mate fast asleep too; and so there was nothing else for it but to turn himself into a ball of feathers, which he quickly did; and then there was nought to be heard but the night breezes of early spring rustling through the half bare trees, and hurrying off to fetch water from the sea to drop upon the ground, so that flowers and grass might spring up, and earth look bright and gay once more. "kink-kink-kink," cried flutethroat, darting through the shrubbery next morning, and rousing up his cousins, who were soon busy at work finishing their nest and getting everything in apple-pie order. how hard they all worked; fetching materials from all sorts of distant places, and picking only those of the most sober hues, such as would not attract the notice of those people who might be passing by; and then how carefully was every straw, or hair, or thread woven in and out and secured, so that the walls of the nests grew up neat, tight, and compact as possible, and all the while so tightly fastened that nothing short of great violence could move them from their place. as for the nests of flutethroat and his cousins, they were so warmly plastered inside, that it might have been thought that they meant their little nests to be substantial houses to last them for years to come. "caw-aw--caw-aw--caw-aw," cried a rook up in the high limes. "caw-caw-caw-caw," cried all the rest of the rooks up in the high limes. and then such a chorus broke forth that the whole of greenlawn was in a state of alarm, and called a meeting in the cedar to know what was the matter. "there's somebody shot," said mr specklems, the starling. "nonsense," said the thrush; "there was no pop. it must be something much worse than that." "send some one to ask," said the jackdaw. "ah! to be sure," said everybody in chorus; and so it was decided that the jackdaw should go and see, and then come back and deliver his report. off he went; and all the time he was gone the birds in the cedar made a noise of their own, almost equal to that in the rookery, till the jackdaw came back looking so cunning and knowing, that every one could plainly see that nothing very serious was the matter. as soon as he got up to his place in the cedar all the birds crowded round him to make inquiries; but the daw began to teaze them, and wouldn't tell anything for a few minutes, and then in a half whisper he said something to the starling. "tchitch!" said specklems, "is that all? why i'd have two dozen hatchings without making one half of that disturbance. dear friends," he continued, turning round to the assembled birds, "dear friends, it's a great to-do about nothing at all; for all that hullabaloo is because there are some young rooks hatched." "boo! oh! er! ah!" cried all the birds in all sorts of tones of disgust and annoyance. "what a shame.--stupid things," and many other expressions of indignation at being startled about such a piece of rubbish, burst from the birds; and directly after there was a whirl, and a rush, for all the birds darted off in the greatest haste to get to their business again, to make up for lost time; and would not leave it afterwards although a jay flew over screaming harshly; and a stray hen got in the garden scratching the flower beds, and had to be hunted out; nor yet even when mrs puss came slinking down the garden, and round all the flower beds; for this was a terribly busy time, and every moment was of value, though certainly food began to be much more plentiful now the warm and genial sun began to shine longer every day, and made bud after bud burst into beautiful emerald green leaves, that made the trees cast a deeper shade, and began to conceal the nests--even those of the rooks up in the tall limes. chapter five. pretty pussy. a nice job had mr and mrs spottleover with their young ones; they were not amiable and dutiful children, but spent all their time in grumbling and shouting for more food, till they nearly drove the old folks mad, and mrs spottleover said she would never have been married if she had known; "no; that she wouldn't." tiresome children hers were, for they were no sooner hatched, and lay at the bottom of the nest all eyes and mouth, with just a patch of grey woolly fluff stuck on their backs, than they began to open their great beaks, and gorge everything the old ones brought; till you would almost have thought they must have killed themselves; but they did not; they only grew; and that, too, at such a rate, that before they were fledged they used to push, crowd, and fight because, they said, the nest was too tight; and it was almost a wonder nobody fell overboard. beautiful beaks they had, too, as they grew older, and sweet voices, that subsided into a querulous grumbling when the old birds had gone; but directly father or mother returned, tired and panting, to settle on the bush, up popped every bird, and strained every neck, and wide open sprang every beak, ready for the coming "slug, grub, or wire-worm." "my turn--my turn--my turn--my turn," chorused the voices; ready to snap up the coming morsel like insatiable young monsters as they were; and this time it was a fine fat worm that mrs spottleover found on the grass plot far away from his hole, and had killed and then brought him in triumph to her little ones for breakfast. "now, one at a time, children; one at a time; don't be greedy," said dame spottleover; and then she popped the beautiful, juicy, macaroni-like morsel into the beak of number one, who began to gobble it down for fear anyone else should get a taste; but number four saw a chance, and snapped hold of the other end of the worm and swallowed ever so much, till at last he and his brother had their heads close together; when they began to pull and quarrel--quarrel and pull--till mrs spottleover turned her own beak into a pair of scissors, snipped the disputed morsel in two, boxed both the offenders' ears, said she would take the worm away--but did not, as it was all gone--and then flew off for a fresh supply. in came father with three green caterpillars fresh from off the cauliflowers, popped them in as many beaks, and he, too, flew off on his day's work to hunt out savoury morsels for his little tyrant-like children. "i can fly," said number three; "i know i can. i mean to try soon, and get my own bits. i know i can." "you can't," said one brother; "you can't. you would come down wop! and couldn't get up again. you ain't strong enough to fly yet." "i am. i could fly ever so high; and i'd show you, if i liked, but i don't like." "ah! you're afraid." "no; i'm not." "yes; you are." "no; i'm not. there's a wing now," said the fledgeling, spreading out his half-penned pinion. "couldn't i fly with that?" "oh!" roared the other disputant, "that's right in my eye. oh, dear; oh, dear; won't i tell when mother comes back." "tchut, tchut, children," said the dame, flying to the nest; "quiet, quiet, there's the green-eyed tiger that killed your grandfather coming; so thank your stars that you are safe in the nest your father and i made for you; for yon wretch would, if it could, make mouthfuls of you all." but mrs pussy with her striped sides, and long, lithe sweeping tail, did not know of the thrushes' nest, and so went quietly and softly down the path towards the hollow cedar-tree. here and there lay a wet leaf or two; and when quiet mrs puss put her velvet paw on one it would stick to it, and set her twitching and shaking her leg till the leaf was got rid of, when she licked the place a little and went on again. ah! so soft and smooth and velvety was mrs puss, looking as innocent as the youngest of kittens, and without a thought of harm to anybody. walking along so softly, and not noticing anything with one eye, but keeping the other slyly fixed upon friend specklems, who was high up on a dead branch, making believe to sing to his good lady, who was two feet deep in a hole of the cedar, sitting upon four beautiful blue eggs. and beautifully specklems, no doubt, thought he sang, only to a listener it sounded to be all sputter and wheezle--chatter and whistle; but he kept on. all the while puss crept gently up to the trunk of the tree, only just to rub herself up against it, backwards and forwards; nothing more. but, somehow, mrs puss was soon up the trunk, and close to the nest-hole before the starling saw her; but he did at last, with her paw right down in the hole. "now, thief," he shouted, perking himself up and looking very fierce; but all the while trembling lest puss should draw out his wife tangled up in the nesting stuff. "now, come, out of that." mrs puss gave a slight start, and peering up saw specklems looking as fierce about the head as an onion stuck full of needles; but she did not draw forth her paw until she had, by carefully stretching it out as far as possible, found that she could not reach the nest. "dear me, how you startled me, mr specklems," she said; "who ever would have thought of seeing you there?" and then she began sneaking and sidling up towards the bird, of course with the most innocent of intentions; and though not in the slightest degree trusting mrs puss, specklems sat watching to see what she would do next. "it's a nice morning, isn't it?" she continued mildly, but at the same time drawing her wicked-looking red tongue over her thin lips as though she thought specklems would be nicer than the morning. "it's a nice morning, isn't it? and how do you do, my dear sir? you see i am taking a ramble for my health. i find that i want fresh air; the heat of the kitchen fire quite upsets me sometimes, and then i come out for a stroll, and get up the trees just to hear the sweet warbling of the songsters." "humph!" said specklems to himself, "that's meant for a compliment to my singing; but i know she's after no good." "the kitchen was very, very hot this morning," continued puss, "and so i came out." and this was quite true, for the kitchen _was_ hot that morning--too hot to hold mrs puss, for cook had run after her with the fire-shovel for licking all the impression off one of the pats of butter, just ready for the breakfast parlour, and leaving the marks of her rough tongue all over the yellow dab, and hairs out of her whiskers in the plate; and then when cook called her a thief, she stood licking her lips at the other end of the kitchen, and looking so innocent, that cook grew quite cross, caught up the shovel, and chased puss round the kitchen, till at last the cat jumped up on cook's shoulder, scratched off her cap, and leaped up to the open skylight and got away; while poor cook was so frightened that she fell down upon the sandy floor in a fainting fit, but knocked the milk-jug over upon the table as she went down, which served to revive her, for the milk ran in a little rivulet right into one of the poor woman's ears, filled it at once like a little lake, and then flowed down her neck, underneath her gown, and completely soaked her clean white muslin handkerchief. and so mrs puss found the kitchen very hot that morning, and took a walk in the garden. "let me hear you sing again, sir," said puss, creeping nearer and nearer. "that piece of yours, where you whistle first, and then make that sweet repetition, which sounds like somebody saying `stutter' a great many times over very quickly. now, do, now; you folks that can sing always want so much pressing." poor specklems! he hardly knew what to do at first; but he had wit enough to be upon his guard while he sang two or three staves of his song. by this time puss had managed to creep within springing distance of poor specklems; and just in the midst of one of her smooth oily speeches she made a jump, open-mouthed and clawed, but missed her mark, for the starling gave one flip with his wing and was out of reach in an instant, and then, with a short skim, he alighted on the thin branch of a neighbouring tree, where he sat watching his treacherous enemy, who had fared very differently. crash went mrs puss right through the prickly branches of the cedar, and came down with her back across the handle of the birch-broom, which still stuck in the tree, and made her give such an awful yowl, that the birds all came flocking up in time to see mrs puss go spattering down the rest of the distance, and then, as a matter of course, she fell upon her feet, and walked painfully away, followed by the jeers of all the birds, who heard the cause of her fall, while she went off spitting and swearing in a most dreadful manner, and looking as though her tail had been turned into a bottle-brush, just at the time her coat was so rough that it would be useful to smooth it. poor mrs puss, she nearly broke her back, and she went off to the top of the tool-shed, where the sun shone warmly, and there she set to and licked herself all over, till her glossy coat was smooth again, when she curled herself up in a ball and went fast asleep, very much to the discomfort of a pair of redstarts, who were busy building their nest under the very tile mrs puss had chosen for her throne. "a nasty, deceitful, old, furry, green-eyed, no-winged, ground-crawling monster," said mrs specklems. "there i sat, with its nasty fish-hook foot within two or three inches of my nose, and there it was opening and shutting, and clawing about in such a way, that i turned all cold and shivery all over, and i'm sure i've given quite a chill to the eggs; and dear, dear, what a time they are hatching! don't you think that if we were both to sit upon them they would be done in half the time? here have i been sit-sit-sit for nearly twenty days down in that dark hole; and if we are to have any more such frights as that just now, why, i do declare that i will forsake the nest. the nasty spiteful thing, it ought to be pecked to death." but mrs puss was not to go unpunished for her wrongful dealings; about half an hour after she had been asleep, who should come snuffing about in the garden but boxer, the gardener's ugly, old rough terrier. he had no business at all in the garden, but had managed to get his chain out of the staple, and there he was running about, and dragging it all over the flower beds, and doing no end of mischief; then he made a charge at mrs spottleover, who was on the lawn, where she had just punched out a fine grub, but she was so frightened at boxer's rough head and hair-smothered eyes, that she dropped her grub and went off in a hurry. over and over went boxer in the grass, having such a roll, and panting and lolling out his great red tongue with excitement, and then working away with both paws at his collar till he got it over his little cock-up ears, and then he gave his freed head such a shake that the ears rattled again. then away he went, sniffing here, snuffing there, jumping and snapping at the birds far above, and coming down upon the ground with all four legs at once, and racing about and playing such strange antics, capers, and pranks, that the birds all laughed at the stupid, good-natured-looking dog, and did not feel a bit afraid of him. all at once boxer gave a sharp sniff under the cedar-tree, just where mrs puss had tumbled down, and then sticking his ears forward, his nose down, and his tail straight up, he trotted off along the track mrs puss had made, until he came close to the tool-shed, where, looking up, he could just see a part of pussy's shining fur coat leaning over the tiles. now, boxer was a very sly old gentleman, and when he saw the birds flocking after him to see what he would do, he made them a sign to be quiet, and put his paw up to the side of his wet black nose, as much as to say, "i know;" and then he trotted off to the melon frames, walked up the smooth sloping glass till he could jump on to the ivy-covered wall, where he nearly put his foot in the hedge-sparrow's nest, and so on along the top till he came to the tool-shed, where his enemy, mrs puss, lay curled up, fast asleep. they were dreadful enemies were mrs puss and boxer, for the cat used to go into the yard where the dog was chained up, and, after spitting and swearing at him, on more than one occasion took advantage of his being at the end of his chain, and keeping just out of his reach scratched the side of his nose, and tore the skin so that poor boxer ran into his kennel howling with pain, rage, and vexation; while mrs puss, setting her fur all up, marched out of the yard a grander body than ever. and then, too, she used to get all the titbits out of the kitchen that would have fallen to boxer's share; and he, poor fellow, used often to say to the robin-redbreast who came for a crumb or two, that the pieces he sometimes had smelt catty, from puss turning them over and then refusing them, when they came to the share of the poor dog. so boxer never forgave the scratch on his nose, nor yet mrs puss's boast that he was afraid of her; so he walked softly along the wall, and on to the tool-shed, and with one bouncing leap came down plop upon the treacherous old grimalkin. "worry-worry-worry-ur-r-r-ry," said boxer, as he got hold of pussy's thick skin at the nape of her neck, and shook away at it as hard as he could. "wow-wow-wiau-au-au-aw," yelled puss, wakened out of her sleep, and in vain trying to escape. "hooray!" said the birds, flying round and round in a state of the greatest excitement. "give it her, boxer," shouted mr specklems, remembering the morning's treachery. and then off they rolled on to the ground, and over and over, righting, howling, and yelling, till mrs puss made a desperate rush through a gooseberry bush, and a thorn went so sharply into boxer's nose that he left go, and away went puss across the garden till she came to the wall, and was scrambling up it, when boxer had her by the tail and dragged her down again. but puss made another rush towards the gate, dragging boxer after her, till she came to the trellis-work opening, through which she dragged herself, and a moment after boxer stood looking very foolish, with a handful of fur off puss's tail in his mouth; while she, with her ragged ornament, was glad enough to sneak in-doors frightened to death, and get to the bottom of the cellar, where she scared cook almost into fits, by sitting upon a great lump of coal, with her eyes glaring like a couple of green stars in the dark. "wow-wow-wow--bow-wow-wuff," said boxer at last, when he found that his enemy had gone. "wuff-wuff," he said again, trying to get rid of the fur sticking about his mouth. "wuff-wuff," he said, "that's better." "bravo!" chorused the birds, in a state of high delight; "well done, boxer!" "ha-ha-ha; phut-phut-phut--wizzle-wizzle," said the starling off the top of the wall. "wizzle-wizzle, indeed," said boxer grumpily; "why don't you come down, old sharp-bill, and pull this thorn out of my nose?" "'tisn't safe," said the starling. "get out," said boxer; "why, what do you mean?" "you'd get hold of my tail, perhaps," said specklems. "ha-ha-ha," laughed all the birds; "that's capital, so he would." "no, no; honour bright," said boxer. "you never knew me cheat; ask robin, there." whereupon the robin came forward in a new red waistcoat, blew his nose very loudly, and then said:-- "gentlemen all, i could, would, should, and always have trusted my person freely with my friend--if he will allow me to call him so,"--here the robin grew quite pathetic, and said that often and often he had been indebted to his friend for a sumptuous repast, or for a draught of water when all around was ice; he assured them they might put the greatest trust in boxer's honour. whereupon boxer laid himself in the path, and the birds dropped down one at a time, some on the beds, some on the gooseberry or currant bushes, and formed quite a cluster round the great, rough, hairy fellow, for they felt perfectly safe after what the robin had said. first of all, the starling examined the wound with great care, and said, "the thorn is sticking in it." "well, i knew that," said boxer; "pull it out." he spoke so sharply that every one jumped, and appeared as if about to fly off; but as the dog lay quite still, specklems laid hold of the thorn, and gave a tug at it that made boxer whine; but he did not get it out, so tried again. "some one come and lend a hand here," said the starling; and then two or three birds, one after another, joined wings and pulled away with a hearty "yo, ho," until all at once out came the thorn, and down fell the haulers all in a heap upon the ground, where they fluttered and scrambled about, for their legs and wings had got so mixed up together that there was no telling which was which; and the only wonder was that the thrush did not come out of the scramble with the starling's wings, and the blackbird with somebody else's tail. however, at last they were all right again, and boxer declared he was so deeply indebted to the birds that he must ask them all to his kennel in the yard to help him to eat his dinner next day. then the birds whistled and chattered, piped and sang; boxer gave two or three barks and jumps off the ground to show his satisfaction, although his nose was bleeding; while all the time mrs puss sat alone in the coal-cellar, making use of most dreadful cat-language, and determining to serve the birds out for it some day. when a proper amount of respect had been shown upon both sides, the birds flew off to their green homes, to attend to the wants of their young ones, and to finish nesting; while boxer went back to his green kennel and made himself a nest amongst his clean straw. chapter six. the tomtits. it was all very well for mrs puss to get up the great cedar-tree and put her paw down the great hole, but if it had been the thorn-tree, that was just coming out all over beautiful white scented blossoms, hanging in long silvery wreaths, mrs puss would have found out her mistake. there was a hole there, and there was a nest in it, but pussy's paw could no more have gone down it than a cannon-ball would run through a tobacco-pipe. such a tiny round hole; such a depth; and such a tiny little round pair of birds, with blue and white heads, green backs, and yellow breasts, with a black stripe down the centre; such tiny black beaks; in short, such a tiny pair of tits were tom and tomasina, who had made their nest right down at the bottom of this little hole. bustling, busy little bodies they were, too, popping in and out with little bits of soft wool, down, or small feathers; and then, tiniest of all were first about a dozen morsels of eggs, and then the nest full of little callow birds, with all that dozen of little beaks up and open for food. in and out, in and out, till any one would have thought the little tomtit wings would have been tired out; but, no; in and out still, and backwards and forwards, bringing tiny grubs and caterpillars, and all manner of little insects in those little open beaks, to satisfy the craving little family at home. tom-tit told his wife that he could not understand it, but thought that when they were mated all they would have to do would be to fly about the garden, hopping from twig to twig, and picking all the little buds through the long sunshiny days, and sleeping at night upon some high, safe bough, rolled up like little balls of feathers. "oh! but," said mrs tit, "only to think of it; such a tiny body as i am to have twelve children, and all the while that great gawky, mrs stockdove, only to have one, for the other she had rolled out of the nest and was killed." "nest," said tom, "i never saw such a nest; nothing but a few sticks laid across one another. no wonder the poor little thing rolled out; there was nothing to save it. but it is not every one who has so tidy and neat a little body for a wife as i have. so come, wifey, bustle about, for the children are all crying as though they had not eaten for a week; and i declare that i'm as hungry as any of them." and away flew the little tits, ridding the garden of thousands of insect plagues, and clearing off nuisances that would have destroyed half the fruit and vegetables in the garden. as for the little crawling flies and other insects, it was wonderful how fast they were snapped up; and though people would say that tom-tit and his wife did a great deal of mischief by pecking the buds, it was quite a mistake; for though they pecked the buds, it was almost always when some sly little insect had made itself a hole in the bud, where it would have laid eggs, and its young would have totally destroyed the tree. todkins, the old gardener, used to be in a fine way about it, and laid all sorts of charges against not only tom-tit but all the rest of the birds, and used to want to set traps, and spread poisoned wheat, and get guns to shoot them with; but the master of greenlawn would not let him; so the old man used to grumble and say there would be no fruit and no vegetables, for the birds would eat everything up, seed, fruit, and all. but the master of greenlawn knew best, for he thought that if the birds were killed or frightened away, the insects, and grubs, and caterpillars, and slugs, and snails, and all sorts of other uncomfortable things, would come and eat the fruit and vegetables, and eat them all up, while the birds would be sure to leave some. and, sure enough, he was quite right, for somebody else, who used to kill and frighten away all the birds, had all his crops destroyed; while at greenlawn, where there were hundreds and hundreds of birds, there was always plenty of fruit and vegetables; for the birds very seldom touched the fruit if they could get plenty of other food. certainly sometimes mr sparrow used to pick out the finest and ripest cherries, or have a good peck at a juicy pear. the starlings, too, would gobble down the elder-berries, and sometimes the greenfinches used to go to see how the radish seeds were getting on, and taking tight hold of the thread-like shoots, pull them out of the ground, and leave them upon the top of the bed, fast asleep, for they never grew any more. still, take it altogether, there was always twice as much fruit where there were plenty of birds, as where they were all driven away. chapter seven. an odd stranger. there was one bird used to run about greenlawn on a fine morning, hunting for tiny spiders and flies; he was a little, slim, dapper fellow, with a long tail, and whenever he jumped about a little way, or settled upon the ground, he used to make his long tail go wipple-wapple, up and down, as if he had shaken it loose; but it was only a funny habit of his, like that of mrs hedgesparrow, who was always shaking and shuffling her wings about. a fast runner was mr wagtail, and fine fun it was to see him skimming along the top of the ground in chase of a fly to take home to his wife, who used to live in a nest in the bank close by the hole over the pond, where old ogrebones--blue-backed billy the kingfisher, had his house, and used to spread the bones of his fishy little victims about the grass. one day walter wagtail was running along the ground after a fly, and was going to snap him up, when--"bob"--he was gone in an instant; and wagtail found himself standing before--oh! such an ugly thing, with two bright, staring eyes; a bloated, rough, dirty-looking body; four crooked legs, no neck, no wings, no tail, and such a heavy stomach, that he was obliged to crawl about with it resting upon the ground. "heugh! you horrid, ugly-looking thing," said wagtail; "you swallowed my fly. where do you come from? what's your name? who's your father and mother, and what made you so ugly?" "ugly, indeed," said the pudgy thing; "what do you mean by ugly? just you go to the bottom of the pond and lie under the mud, old fluffy-jacket, and stop there for a week, and see how you would look with your fine gingerbread black and white feathers sticking to your sides all muddy and wet. who would look ugly then? not you! oh no." "but i shouldn't be such a round, rough, clay-tod as you are, old no-neck," said the wagtail, ruffling his feathers up at the very idea of getting them damp. "no, you wouldn't, you miserable whipper-snapper," croaked the other, settling himself down on the flowerbed, so that he could hardly be told from the ground for colour. "no, you wouldn't, but you would be-- ho-ho-ho--you would be--ha-ha-ha--such a--he-he-he--such a--haw-haw-haw. there, i can't help laughing," said the round fellow, with his fat sides wagging about through his merriment. "you must excuse me, but i do think you would look so comical with all your feathers gummed down to your skinny sides, that wisp of a tail like a streak of horsehair, and those stilty legs sticking into your scraggy body--ho-ho-ho-ho--my fat sides! how i wish i had ribs, for then i could stop laughing easier; but you are such a droll little chap." "get out," said the bird, wagging his tail with fury, for he was very proud of his genteel appearance; "get out, you old dusky dab, or i shall kick you. i feel quite disgusted with your appearance. what are you doing here?" "doing?" said the other, rubbing the tears out of his eyes; "doing? why, getting my living the same way as you do--fly-catching." "fly-catching," said the other with a sneer; "how can you catch flies? why, you can't run a bit. i suppose you wait till they tumble into your mouth, don't you? who are you? what's your name?" "my name?" said the other; "well, you are not very civil, but i don't mind telling you. my name's toad--brown toad--and i'd a great deal rather be such an ugly fellow, as you call me, than a weazen, skinny, windbeater like you. how do i catch flies? why, so, my boy; that's how i catch them," and just then the toad crept to within two or three inches of a great fly that had settled upon a leaf, darted out his long tongue, which stuck to the fly, and it was drawn into the toad's great mouth in an instant. "that's the way i catch flies, my boy, and a capital way too, isn't it?" "hum," said the wagtail, rather astonished at the ease with which the fly was caught; "it wasn't so bad, certainly; but you know you are precious ugly. why, you have no waist." "waste!" said the toad, "no, there's no waste about me; it's all useful what there is of me." "ugh! you stupid," said the other; "i mean _waist_ over your hips, where you ought to wear your belt or sash." "oh! ah! i see," said the toad. "no, i've no waist, and don't want any, but i know a little chap that has; he's a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he'd suit you, only he has _such_ a tickler in his tail. his name's wops, or wasp, or something of that kind." "oh! i know the conceited little plum-stealer; he's poisonous, like you are." "pooh!" said the toad, "poisonous! i'm not poisonous. i'm not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people's minds, much more poison their bodies. that's an old woman's tale; they say i spit poison, because they've seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. i creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough." "but you can't fly," said the wagtail vainly; "i can." "pooh! i know," said the toad; "and you can't swim. i can." "but you can't run and catch flies," said the other, getting cross. "no, but i can sit down and catch them," said the toad, "and that's easier." "boo! old bark-back; where's your tail?" said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered. "tail," said the other contemptuously; "what's the use of a tail only to wag? do you want me to pull it?" and then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail's long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said. chapter eight. ogrebones. away went the wagtail--flit-flit-flit--down to the pond where the water-lilies grew, and began running about over them to catch the gnats that were dancing over the glassy water; and there again he had a fright, for he saw close to his feet, by the edge of a large leaf, a green nose, just the shape of the toad's. however, he had presence of mind to say, "who are you?" "croak," said the green nose, and dived under the water; and then the wagtail saw that it was a light-green thing, with longer legs than the toad, and that it swam to the bottom and stopped. just then old ogrebones, the kingfisher, came skimming along like a blue flash over the pond, and he settled on a twig near his hole in the bank. "morning, neighbour," said he to the wagtail. "how are flies this morning?" "scarce, very scarce," said the wagtail. "there was a poacher out on my place catching the poor things with a machine, which he shot at them. one of the lowest-looking, rough customers you ever saw. he said his name was brown toad, and quite insulted me about my figure,--an ugly, pumpkin--shaped, pod-nosed thing." "oh! i know him," said the kingfisher; "i often meet his first cousin down here in the pond when i'm diving. they're a low lot; a cold-blooded set; but what can you expect from a thing whose eggs are soft, and left to hatch themselves? why, they are only tadpoles at first." "you don't say so?" said the wagtail, who had not the least idea what a tadpole was, unless it was the pole the gardener used to pull the weeds out of the pond with. "you don't say so?" "o yes!" said ogrebones; "it's a fact; i tried to eat one once, but couldn't get on with it at all. you see, i'm an english bird, and not french, so that i cannot manage frog." "of course not; i see," said the wagtail. but the kingfisher did not stop to hear him out, for all of a sudden he sprang up, poised himself a moment in the sunny air, and then darted into the water, from whence he presently emerged, bearing a little struggling fish in his great beak, and with the sparkling drops of water running off his back, and leaving his bright glossy blue feathers all dry, shining, and bright, as though he had only been for a flight through the air. "there," said ogrebones, "i've got him this time, and not without trying. i've missed this little chap twice over, but when once mrs k inside there takes him in hand, he will have no chance; for it will be eggs and crumb, and frying-pan with him in no time." so then old ogrebones disappeared within his hole; wagtail betook himself to his nest to relate his morning's experiences to the patient mrs wagtail, who, like many other friends and relatives, was busy keeping her eggs warm; and so the pond was for the moment vacated by the birds; but it was not alone for all that, for a pretty place was that pond, just at the bottom of greenlawn--a pond rich in life of all kinds; this was where the blue-eyed forget-me-not was always peeping up at the passers-by; there grew the yellow water-lily floating amongst its great dark green leaves, like a golden cup offered by the water fairies for drinking the clear crystal liquid. the white water-buttercups, too, glistened over the shallow parts, with such crisp brown water-cresses in between, as would have made a relish to the bread and butter of a princess. all round the edges was a waving green fringe of reeds and rushes--bulrushes with their brown pokery seed-vessels--plaiting rushes with their tasselled blossoms--and reeds with graceful drooping feathery plumes waving in the soft summer air. down in the depths of the pond glided by the silvery little fish, glistening and bright; while on the surface skimmed no end of insects: shiny beetles forming patterns on the water as they dodged in and out, and round and round in their play; long-legged insects that ran over the water as though it were a hard road; while darting about in all their metallic brightness and on gauzy wings flitted the dragon-flies, blue, green, and blue and green--now settling upon the end of some reed, now careering in mid air, now poised motionless with wings invisible in their rapid beat, now disturbed by the buzz of some great humble-bee, and then round and round and up and down in pursuit of one of their own tribe, till the gauzy wings beat together and rustled as they came in contact. butterflies, white, yellow, blue, orange-spotted, tortoise-shell, peacock-eyed, and laced, came there to flit over the glassy water, and look within it at their beauty; and here, too, came the mayflies to dance up and down all the day, and die when even came. there never was such a pond anywhere else; for here came the martins and swallows, with their glossy black backs, to skim and dip and drink the water in their rapid flight; here they feasted on flies and gnats; and now and then came the squealing, sooty swift, with his long knife-blade wings, and tiny hand-like feet, to whisk away some heedless fly. the swallows above all liked the pond, and used to sit upon the dead branch of the weeping-willow to twitter and sing after their fashion for half-an-hour together. old ogrebones was the great man of the place; but, in the cool of the evening, out would come sailing from the midst of the little reed island, and flicking their round stumpy tails, the moor hens swimming away, to the great disgust of the white ducks, who said they were only impostors, and had no business to swim, because they had no webs to their feet, but only long straggling toes. and what ducks those were! white as snow, with red legs; and often and often they would put their beaks in the soft warm white feathers on their backs and sit upon the water for hours together. all the birds loved the pond, and would fly down of a morning to have a regular splash and wash; flicking the water about with their wings, and sending it flashing and sparkling ever so high in the air, and making the little black tadpoles or pod-noddles go scuffling off into the deeper water. this was the place that old boxer loved, and when he could get a chance he would go and wet his feet, and rustle about in amongst the reeds, and pretend to go in the water to swim after the ducks, but always turning back when he got in up to his body. chapter nine. a tall gentleman. "hum!" said mrs spottleover one morning to mrs flutethroat, after they had been having a wash in the bright pure water. "hum!" she said, looking at the duck's brood of little downies swimming about after her, and one of them with a bit of shell sticking to its back. "hum! yes, pretty well, but why yellow?" "ah! my dear, they will come white; they're not bleached yet. but they are strong, aren't they? look at the little ones, now, only four hours old, and feeding themselves! don't you wish yours would? only think of the trouble they give before they can feed alone!" "well!" said mrs spottleover, "that's all very well, but, after all, those little downy balls take as much looking after as our little ones; and then only think of one's child growing up to say nothing better than `quack-quack,' besides being flat-nosed and frog-footed. depend upon it, my dear, things are best as they are!" "well, i suppose you are right," said mrs flutethroat; "but i must not stay here gossiping, for i have no end of work to do this morning." saying which the hen blackbird shook out her long dusky wings, cried "pink-pink-pink," and flew off to the laurel bush to attend to her little ones; while the thrush hopped up into a tree to see how the haws were getting on, and whether there would be a good crop for the winter. just then there was a great shadow passed over the pond, and the ducklings splashed through the water, because they were so frightened, and then flop-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop, there came old shadowbody, the heron, to the pond, and pitched down by the haunt of the kingfisher, where he stood with his long stilty legs half in the water, his great floppy wings doubled up close to his sides, and his long neck squeezed between his shoulders all of a bundle; and there he stood looking as though he were going to sleep; but not a bit of it, old shadowbody, or bluescrags, as some of the saucy young birds called him, did not stand by the side of a pond to go to sleep, but to look after his dinner. by-and-by the ducklings, seeing that the heron did not move, came nearer to him; and at last a little white fly went sailing along under his beak, and two ducklings set off on a race over the surface of the pond to see which would get the little white fly; and so busy were they that they forgot all about the great heron, and went up close to him, splashing him all over with the bright sparkling water. "take that, you ugly little downy dab," said the heron in a pet. "do you think i came here to be made a water-mop of? get out with you! see how you've wetted my waistcoat. take that!" and the poor little duckling did take _that_, and scampered off to its mother, crying out in such a pitiful voice, "wheedle-wheedle-wheedle," that the heron forgot his ill-humour and burst out laughing, and felt quite sorry that he had given poor little yellow-down such a cruel poke in its back with his long sharp beak. "serve it right, though," said the heron; "coming splashing, and dashing, and sending the water all over a sedate, quiet gentleman, quietly fishing by the side of a pond! and a nice pond it seems too, with plenty of fish in it. it strikes me i shall often come here." just then bluescrags made a poke at a fish, and caught it in his long bill, and gobbled it up in no time. but he was not to enjoy himself long, for the duck was telling all her neighbours about the ill-usage her little one had received; and the mischief-making little wagtail thought as he had seen the lanky bird eating what he called the kingfisher's fishes, he would go and tell, and then sit on the bank and see the quarrel there would be; for he considered that the heron had no more business to take the fish out of the pond than the toad had to catch flies. so he ran to the blue bird's hole, and sticking in his little thin body, he ran up it to the nest, shouting, "neighbour, neighbour; thieves, thieves!" "where, where?" said ogrebones the kingfisher. "here; running away with your fish by the dozen," said the wagtail. "well, get out of the way," said the kingfisher, bustling out of the nest and going towards the mouth of the hole. "there, do make haste." but the wagtail couldn't make haste, for his tail was so long he could not turn round in the hole, and so had to walk backwards the best way he could, with the points of his tail-feathers catching against the wall and sending him forwards upon his beak, and making the old kingfisher so crabby, that at last he gave the poor wagtail a dig with his heavy beak that made him cry out, "peek-peek-peek." "then why don't you get out of the way, when all one's fish are being taken and stolen?" now the wagtail thought this very strange behaviour, when he had taken the trouble to let old ogrebones know, and so he very wisely made up his mind never to interfere with other people's business again; for, said he, as he got out of the hole at last, "i don't know but what the heron has as good a right to the fish as old surly has; at all events, i'll never fetch him out any more." out bounced the kingfisher--"here! hi! i say! you, there! what are you after, impudence? do you know that you are poaching?" "eh?" said the heron, looking at the showy little bird that was flitting round him with his feathers sticking up, and looking as though he were in a terrible passion; "eh?" said the heron, "what's poaching?" "what's poaching, ignoramus? why, taking other people's fish. don't you know who i am?" said the kingfisher, sitting upon a spray and looking very self-satisfied and important. "no," said the heron; "i don't know you. but you are not a bad-looking little fellow; only you are small--very small. why, where are your legs?" "come, now," said ogrebones, "none of your impudence, old longshanks. i'm the king--the kingfisher; and i order you off; so go at once." "ho-ho-ho," laughed the tall bird. "and pray who made you a king? i'm not going to be driven off by such a scrubby little thing as you, even if you have got such grand feathers on your back. why, if i were to shut my bill upon your neck, that head of yours would drop off regularly scissored, and then you'd be just such a king as charles the first." "oh, dear!" said the kingfisher, "only hark at him! i never heard such a character before in my life." "he nearly killed one of my little ones," quacked the duck, coming up. "stuck his beak in my back," said a frog, putting his nose out of the water; and then seeing that the heron was going to make a dart at him, "ouf," said he, popping down again in a hurry, and never stopping until had crept close down to the bottom of the pond where he crept under the weeds, and lay there all day, lost frightened to death. "keep your little flat bills at home, ma'am," said the heron. "but really," he said politely, "i did not know they were yours, or i should not have done so; but who would have thought that those little yellow dabs were children of such a beautifully white and graceful creature as you are?" whereupon the duck blushed, and spread one of her webbed feet before her face, and looked quite pleased at the compliment. "don't listen to him," croaked the kingfisher, backing into his hole; "he's a cheat, and a bad character, and thief, and a--" but the heron here made a poke at his royal highness with his great scissors bill, and the kingfisher scuffled out of sight in a fright, having learnt the lesson that a small tyrant, however grandly he may dress, is not always believed in; for with all his bright colours and gaudy plumes he was no match for the great sober-hued, flap-winged heron, who only laughed at him, and all his grand swaggering; and, as soon as he was gone, settled himself down to his work, and caught fish enough for a good meal, for he felt quite certain that he had as good a right to the fish as the little king, who had had it his own way so long that he thought everybody would give way to him. poke went the heron's bill, and out came a finny struggler; but it was no use to kick, for bluescrags never left go when once he had hold of a fish, and he was just gobbling it down when-- "hillo-ho-ho-o-o," cried a voice, and looking towards the place from whence the sound proceeded, the heron, as he rose from the ground, saw a man holding upon his hand a large sharp-winged bird, with a cruel-looking mouth, like that belonging to hookbeak, the hawk, who sometimes passed over the garden, and such bright yellow and black piercing eyes, that as soon as bluescrags felt their glance meet his, he turned all of a shiver, and his feathers began to ruffle up as though he were wet. but there was no time to shiver or shake, for the great bird was coming after him at a terrible rate, every beat of his pointed wings sending him dashing through the air, and in another moment the strange, fierce bird would have had the sharp claws he stretched out in the poor heron, but for the sudden and frantic effort he made to escape. all this while mrs flutethroat was crying, "pink-pink-pink" in the shrubbery, in a state of the greatest alarm, for a man had passed by the place where she was teaching her young ones to fly, carrying a bird on his gloved hand; while the bird had a curious cap upon its head, so contrived that it could not see anything; but the blackbird could see its yellow legs and cruel hooked claws that were stuck tightly into the thick glove the man wore. "well," said mrs flutethroat, "i'm very glad he's a prisoner, for the nasty, great, cruel-looking thing must be ten times worse than hookbeak, the hawk, and if it were let loose here we should all be killed. pink-tchink-chink," she cried in alarm; for just then the man, who was a falconer, took his bird's hood off, and shouted at the heron by the pond. the great flap-winged bird immediately took flight, and then, with a dash of its wings, away went the falcon, leaving mrs flutethroat shivering with fear. flip-flap, flap-flip-flop went the heron's wings over the water; flip and skim went the falcon's, and then away and away over the woods and fields went the two birds, circling round and round, and higher and higher; the falcon trying to get above the heron, so as to dart down upon him and break his wings; and the heron, knowing that as long as he kept up the falcon could not touch him, trying his best to keep the higher. at last the swift-winged bird darted upwards, and hovering for a moment over the poor heron, who cried out with fear, darted down with a rush, and went so close that he rustled through the quill feathers of the heron; and so swift was the dart he made, that he went down--down far enough before he could stop himself, and then when he looked up again, he saw that the heron had risen so high that there was no chance of catching him again; so off he flew, and perched in the cedar-tree at greenlawn, where he sat cleaning and pruning his feathers, and sharpening his ugly hooked beak till it had such a point that it would have been a sad day for the poor bird who came in his clutches; while his master, who had lost sight of him, was wandering away far enough off, whistling to him to come back to his perch. chapter ten. flayem, the falcon. however, he was not left there long in peace, for the birds of greenlawn did not like such visitors; and the first notice they had of the stranger was from specklems, the starling, who flew up into the tree, and then out again as though a wasp had stuck in his ear. "chur-chair-chark," he shouted, flying round and round, spitting and sputtering, and making his head look like a hedgehog. "chur-chair-r-r-r," he cried, and very soon the whole of the birds in the neighbourhood were out to see what it all meant. "now then, what's the matter?" said the magpie, coming up all in a hurry. "whose eggs are broken now? anybody's little one tumbled out of the nest into mrs puss's mouth, for me to get the blame?" "look--look in the cedar," shouted the birds; and up in the cedar went the magpie with his long tail quivering with excitement, and down he came again with his tail trembling with fright. "why didn't you say who it was in the tree?" said the magpie. "oh! my stars and garters, how out of breath i am. going about in such a hurry always puts me in a tremble. oh no! i'm not afraid, not the least bit in the world, it's being out of breath." "well, go up and drive the old hook-nosed thing away," said the blackbird; "he's no business here, and we _are_ all afraid; ain't we birds?" "yes! yes! scared to death," chorused all the birds. "come, up you go," said the blackbird; "there's a good fellow." but the magpie stood on one leg and put a long black claw by the side of his beak in a very knowing manner, and then he said, with his head all on one side, "how do i know that he won't bite?" "why, we thought you said that you were not afraid," said the birds. "not the least in the world, gentlemen," said mag; "but my wife's calling me, and i must go, or really i should only be too happy to oblige you. another time you may depend upon me. good-bye, gentlemen, _good-bye_." and before the birds had time to speak again, the cowardly magpie gave three or four hops across the lawn, and then spread out his wings, and went off in a hurry--telling a story into the bargain, for his wife might have called for a week, and he could not have heard so far-off. but maggy was dreadfully afraid, and, like many people in the world, he was ashamed to show it, and so made a very lame-legged excuse, and ran away. "ha-ha-ha," said the birds, "why, that's worse than being afraid and showing it. why, he's ever so much bigger than we are, and has claws sharp enough for anything. why, he pinched one of old mother muddle-dab's ducklings to death with his great black nails." "well, what's to be done now?" said specklems, "i'm not going to have him in my tree, and i won't either. i've a good mind to run at him with my sharp bill and stick it into him; and i would, too, if i was sure he wouldn't hurt me. wouf!" said the starling, fiercely, and making a poke at nothing; "wouf! couldn't i give it him!" and then he stuck his little pointed feathers up again, and stood on the tips of his toes with a look as fierce as a half-picked chicken. "of course, gentlemen, it isn't for such a quiet mournful body as me to say anything," said the dove, "but i can't help thinking that the tree is as much mine as mr specklems'; but we won't quarrel about that, for just now it belongs to somebody else, and i feel very uncomfortable about my young ones. suppose mr specklems goes and gives the great staring, goggle-eyed thing a poke; i'm sure i wish he would." "i should just like to pickaxe him with my mortar-chipper," said an old cock-sparrow. "i'd teach him to come into other people's trees without being asked." "let's ask him civilly to go," said the wren. "let's shout at him, and frighten him," said the owl. "say `ta-ta' to him, and then he'll go," said the jackdaw. "why, we're not afraid, after all," said all the birds together; "let's all have a fly at him at once and beat him off." "who'll go first?" said the jackdaw. "why, i will," said the tomtit. and then all the birds burst out laughing so heartily at the tiny little fellow's offer, that he grew quite cross, and told the birds to come on; and then he flew into the cedar, and before the great falcon knew what he was going to do, tom-tit dashed at him, and gave him such a peck with his little sharp beak, that the falcon jumped off his perch and stared about him; and then, before he could find out what was the matter, the jackdaw flew up above him, and came down head over heels on his back; the owl shouted "who-o-who-o" in his ear; the blackbird and thrush stuck their beaks in his stomach; the sparrows poked him in the back; and the martins and swallows darted round and round him, and under and over, and all the other birds whistled and chattered and fluttered about him at such a rate, that at last the falcon didn't know whom to attack, and was regularly mobbed out of the garden, and flew off with a whole stream of birds after him, and he, in spite of his sharp claws and beak, glad to get out of the way as fast as he could. at last the birds all flew back again, and settled down amongst the bushes on greenlawn, and chirruped and laughed to think how they had driven away the great hook-beaked enemy, when who should come down into their midst but the magpie, all in a hurry and bustle, and looking as important as if all the place belonged to him. "now, then, here i am again," said he. "she only wanted my opinion about our last eggs, and i've hurried back as fast as i could to drive away this great hook-beaked bird that frightened you all so. i suppose i had better go up at once, hadn't i? but where shall i send him to?" and there the great artful bird stood pretending that he had not seen the falcon driven off, and that he had come back on purpose to scare it away. but it would not do this time, for although there were some of the little birds who believed in the magpie, and thought him a very fine fellow, yet the greater part of those present burst out laughing at him, and at last made him so cross that he called them a pack of idiots, and flew off in a pet, feeling very uncomfortable and transparent, and cross with himself as well, for having been such a stupid, deceitful thing. while the wiser birds made up their minds never to be deceived by the sly bird again; for before this he had had it all his own way, because he was so big, and everybody thought that he was brave as well; but now that he had been put to the test, he had proved himself to be an arrant coward, and only brave enough to fight against things smaller than himself. chapter eleven. the little warbler. "sky-high, sky-high, twitter-twitter, sky-high-higher-higher," sang the lark, and he fluttered and circled round and round, making the air about him echo again and again with the merry song he was singing--a song so sweet, so bright and sparkling, that the birds of greenlawn stopped to listen to the little brown fellow with the long spurs and top-knot, whistling away "sweet and clear, sweet and clear," till he rose so high that the sounds came faintly, and nothing could be seen of him but a little black speck high up against the edge of the white flecky cloud; and still the sweet song came trilling down so soft and clear, that the birds clapped their wings and cried "bravo!" while the jackdaw said he would take lessons from the lark in that style of singing, for he thought it would suit his voice, and then he was quite offended when the thrush laughed, but begged pardon for being so rude. and then, while the birds were watching the lark, he began to descend; slowly, and by jerks, every time sending forth spurts from the fountain of song that gushed from his little warbling throat; and then down, lower and lower still, singing till he was near the ground, when, with one long, clear, prolonged note, he darted down, falling like a stone till close to the grass, when he skimmed along for some distance, and then alighted in a little tussock of grass that stood by itself in the field, which came close up to greenlawn, and ran right down to the farther edge of the pond. and what was there in the tussock of grass but a tiny cup-like nest in the ground, lined with dry grass, and covered snugly over by the lark's little brown wife, who was keeping the little ones warm, while her husband had been up almost out of sight in the bright sunny air singing her one of his sweetest songs,--a song so sweet that the birds had all stayed from their work to listen. and this is what he sang--the song that made his little mate's black beady eyes twinkle and shine as she sat in the tussock; for she felt so proud to think how her mate could warble:-- "low down, low down, sitting in the tussock brown, little mate, the sky is beaming; little mate, earth wears no frown. higher, higher; higher, higher; toward the cloudflecks nigher, nigher, round and round i circle, singing; higher, higher ever winging; over meadow, over streamlet, over glistening dew, and beamlet flashing from the pearl-hung grasses, where the sun in flashes passes; over where sweet matey's sitting; ever warbling, fluttering, flitting; praising, singing--singing, praising; higher still my song i'm raising. sky-high, sky-high; higher--higher--higher--higher, little matey, watch your flier; sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet; here the merry breezes meet, where i twitter, circling higher, watch me flying higher, higher. low down, low down, nestling in the tussock brown, little mate, i'm coming down." "well, that beats the owl hollow," said mr specklems to his wife. "i think i could sing as well myself though, if it was not for this constant feeling of having a cold. there must have been a draught where i was hatched, and i've never recovered it. i can't think how he manages to sing and fly too at the same time: i can't. why, i should be out of breath in no time." "there, don't be a booby," said his wife; "you are not a song-bird at all. i heard the crow say we were distant relations of his, and no one would for a moment think that he was a singer." "hark at her now!" said specklems, "not a singer; why, what does she call that?" and then the vain little bird whistled and sputtered and cizzled away till he was quite out of breath, when his wife laughed at him so merrily, but told him that she liked his whistle better than the finest trill the skylark ever made; and so then specklems said that after all he thought the crow might be right, but, at all events, the specklems could do something better than cry "caw-waw" when they opened their beaks. just then who should come buzzing along but a wasp, a regular gorgeous fellow, all black and gold, and with such a thin waist that he looked almost cut in two. "now then, old spiketail," said the starling, "keep your distance; none of your stinging tricks here, or i'll cut that waist of yours in two with one snip." "who wants to sting, old peck-path?" said the wasp. "it's very hard one can't go about one's work without being always sneered and jeered and fleered at by every body." "work," said the starling, "ho-ho-ho, work; why, you don't work; you're always buzzing about, and idling; it's only bees that work and make honey." "there now," said the wasp, "that's the way you people go on: you hear somebody say that the bees are industrious and we are idle, and then you believe it, and tell everybody else so, but you never take the trouble to see if it's true; and so we poor wasps have to go through the world with a bad name, and people say we sting. well, so we do if we are touched; and so do bees too, just as bad as we do, only the little gluttons make a lot of sweet honey and wax, and so they get all the praise." and then away went the little black-and-yellow fellow with his beautiful gauzy wings shining in the sun, and he flew over the garden wall, and was soon scooping away at a ripe golden-yellow plum that was hanging from the wall just ready to pick; and then off he flew again to his nest, where dozens more wasps were going in and out of the hole in a fallen willow-tree, all soft like touchwood, and in it the wasps had scooped out such a hole, where they had been working away quite as hard and industriously as the bees their cousins; and here they had made comb, and cells, and stored up food, and instead of their cells being made of wax, they were composed of beautiful paper that these busy little insects had made. there were grubs, too, and eggs that would turn to grubs, and afterwards to wasps; and here the wasps worked away, in and out all day, as busy as could be. but they had a very hard life of it, for everyone was trying to kill the poor things, and set traps for them to tumble into and be smothered in sweet stuff. but though people did not think so, the wasps did a great deal of good, and among other things they killed a great many tiresome little flies that were always buzzing and humming about; and the wasps went after them and caught them by the back, and then snipped off their wings and head, and flew off and ate the best parts of them up. chapter twelve. busy bees. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine round-topped straw hives there were at greenlawn--hives full of such rich, thick honey, and such beautiful combs, and all about these round heavy hives the bees would hum and buzz of a hot day, flying in and out loaded with honey and pollen; and outside some of the hives the bees would hang down like great pockets made of insects, all hanging to one another; and there they hung, getting ready to swarm and fly off to a new home; but they did not know how to choose one for themselves, for they would only fly off to a tree and hang there all of a lump, when the master of greenlawn would take a nice, clean, sweet hive and sweep them all into it, and set them on a board by the side of the other hives. it was such a nice, sweet place, all amongst flowers, and the scent of the honey would come from the hives so strongly that very often the birds would come and think they would like a taste, while the wasps would even go so far as to creep in and steal some of the luscious food. as to flies, they would come without end, and if they had not been afraid of the bees they would soon have run off with all the sweet honey. but one day there was a very serious bluebottle who had sat upon the end of a sweet pea watching the bees so busy, while he had been doing nothing all day but make a noise, and he felt at last so ashamed of himself, that when he saw a bee come to the flower he was on, and put his long trunk into it to find whether there was any honey, he began to buzz very loudly; and the bee, looking up to know what he meant, heard him say-- "little bee, buzzing about in the air, for once be not busy, a moment pray spare, and tell me, pray tell me, how honey you make from the flowerets of garden, soft meadow, and brake. you rise with the sun, and your gossamer wing bears you swiftly away where the heather-bells spring; whence you come heavy laden with nectary spoil, for the sweet winter stores of your summer of toil. "oh! i would be busy; and lay up in store for the days of the winter when cold showers pour, and the wild wintry breezes sweep flowers away, while the sun sets in gloom o'er the dim-shadowed day; but i'm a poor bluebottle, spoken of ill; whilst you are protected, all bear me ill-will; and if i escape from each murderous blow, the first cutting frost lays the bluebottle low. "so little bee buzzing, a lesson pray give; remember the motto to `live and let live;' for one moment teach me sweet honey to make, that again in the spring-time with you i may wake." "buzz," said the bee, "that's all very fine, but you were never meant to make honey. go and do your duty, and lay eggs in the bad meat to make maggots to eat it up, so that we may not have the nasty stuff lying about. i daresay you think we have a very fine time of it amongst the honey; but, don't you know, sometimes somebody comes with the brimstone and smothers us all, and takes the honey away? how should you like that, old blue-boy?" "worse and worse--wuz-z-z-ooz-wooz," said the bluebottle, and off he flew, and never sang any more songs to the bees; while the old bee burst out laughing so heartily at the way in which the bluebottle was frightened, that he let all the bee-bread tumble out of his baskets, and before he could pick it up, a bee from another hive flew off with it. "there," said the first bee, "that comes of laughing at other people, and now i've got all my work to do over again; but, oh dear! how he did bustle off when i told him about the brimstone." chapter thirteen. cold weather. at last the merry summer-time was gone, and the flowers began to hang their heads in the gardens, looking wet and soiled; for every now and then the cold wind would come with a rush and a roar and knock the poor things about dreadfully; sometimes they would be struck right down on the ground, where they would lie, never to get up any more. sometimes, however, the sun would come out to cheer them up again, but he was not at all warm; and then the nights began to grow so long and cold that the flowers had nearly made up their minds to go to sleep for the winter, when jack frost sent word one night that he was coming, and his messenger left such a cold chill everywhere that he had been, that the flowers all went to sleep at once, and the leaves on the trees, turning yellow with fright, began to shake and shiver, and tumble off as hard as ever they could tumble, till they lay in great rustling heaps all over the gravel walks, where they were swept up and carried off into the back-yard. and then all the birds were as busy as ever they could be: the young ones were now strong on the wing, and there were such meetings and congregations in wood and field--on lawn and in tree--in hedgerow and down even in the ditches. the martins and swallows all said "good-bye," and were off in a hurry; and all the other summer visitors who were lagging behind, when they saw the swallows go, went off as hard as ever they could, not even stopping to take any cold flies with them, they were in such a hurry. sparrows and finches, they all made excursion parties, and went feasting in the stubble-fields; starlings, jackdaws, and rooks, they went worm-picking in the wet marshlands; and all the thrush family went off to the fields and hedgerows, seeking berries and fruits that had now grown tender and sweet; and so at last greenlawn began to look very deserted all day, but it was not so of a night, for there would be a fine noise in the ivy, where all the sparrows came home to roost, for they were in such high spirits that they could not keep quiet, but kept on chatter, chatter, till it grew so dark they could not see to open their beaks. as to the starlings, they came home by scores to the warm, thick cedar, and there they whistled and chattered until the moon began to shine, when they, too, went off to sleep; and so, wherever there was a snug, warm spot at greenlawn, the birds came back in the cold wintry nights to sleep--flying far-off in the day-time, but always returning at night. they were hard times for the poor birds when jack frost had it all his own way; for in his sharp, spiteful, nip-toes fashion he would freeze and freeze everything until it was all as hard as steel; and then, so as to make sure that by hard work and bill-chipping no worms were dug out, he would powder the ground all over with white snow, so that all the footmarks were stamped upon it as the birds walked along. shiver-shiver-shiver; ah! it was cold! and food was so scarce that no one could get anything to eat but the robin-redbreast; and he would go up to the house, and, sitting upon the snow-covered sills, peep in at the windows with his great round staring eyes, until the master's little girls would come and open the sash, and shake all the crumbs out of their pinafores; so that the poor cold bird would often get a good hearty meal. sometimes the sun would come out and shine upon the snow-wreaths, and they would glitter and sparkle, and turn of the most beautiful colours; while the trees were covered with frost-work that looked more brilliant than the finest silver that was ever worked. but, ah! the poor birds! it was a sad time for them; and they would huddle up together in flocks; and very often got to be so cold and hungry that the country people picked them up half dead, with their feathers all ruffled up and their beautiful little bright, beady eyes half-shut. ah! those were sad times at greenlawn; and the master would gladly have helped the poor things if he could; but generally they used to fly right off, miles away, so that very often not a bird was to be seen but bob robin, who kept hopping about the doors and windows. but jack frost did not care a bit, for he loved freezing; and when the winter nights were come, with the moon shining, and the stars twinkling and blinking ever so high up, jack would put on his skates and go skimming over the country, breathing on people's window-panes, and making them all over ferny frost-work; hanging icicles round the eaves of the houses; making the roads so hard that they would sound hollow and rattle as the wheels passed over; and turning the ponds, lakes, and rivers into hard ringing ice. then the frost would hang upon the labourers' hair, and little knobs of ice upon the bristles about the horses' muzzles; while some of the branches of the trees would become so loaded with the white clinging snow that they would snap off and fall to the ground. away would troop the birds in the day-time then to feast upon the scarlet berries of the holly, the pearly dew-like drops of the mistletoe, or the black coaly berries that grew upon the ivy-tod; and away and away they would fly again with wild and plaintive cries as jack frost would send a cutting blast in amongst them to scare them away. how the poor birds would look at the man cutting logs of wood to take to the master's house; and how they would watch the blue smoke and sparks come curling out of the wide chimneys. in the night the wild geese would fly over to the moor, crying "clang-clang-clang," and frightening many a shivering sleeper with their wild shriek; and then the long-necked birds would dart down from their high swoop to some lonely lake in the wild moor, there to sit upon the cold ice, pluming themselves ere they started again for some spot where the frost king had not all his own way. old ogrebones, the kingfisher, lay snug at the bottom of his hole in the bank; while all the tender birds were far-off in milder climes, where flies were to be caught, and where the sun shone bright and warm. as to the poor ducks, they could do nothing but paddle and straddle about over the surface of the glassy pond, for almost as soon as the hard ice was broken for them to get water, it all froze together again; and in spite of their thick coats of warm down and feathers, they said it was almost too cold to be borne. the rooks had gone down to the sea-side and the mouths of the rivers to pick up a living when the tide went down; while all the other birds that were not in the fields made friends with the sparrows, and went in flocks to the farmyards, where they could find stray grains of corn, and run off with them, chased by the old cocks and hens. and still jack frost had it all his own way, and stuck his cold, sharp teeth into everything and everybody--even into the foreign thrushes and grey crows that came over from norway, sweden, and denmark, and nipped them so that they all said they had better have stayed at home. now, all this could not have been borne, only that jack frost would go to sleep sometimes, and then down would come a soft, warm rain that would wash away the snow and melt the ice, and soften the ground so that food became plentiful again; and the birds would set to and make up for lost time by having such a feast as would make them better able to bear jack frost's next fast, and strong enough to set his sharp teeth at defiance. they were fine times for feasting when the thaw had set in, for then, as the earth grew soft, the worms would come crawling out to have a stretch, after being asleep beneath the iron-bound earth. as for the rooks, they ate until they could hardly move, and gormandised in a way that could only be excused in things that could not get their meals at regular times. "snip-snap" went the bills all over the marshlands, and gobble-gobble went the poor worms; and so for about a week the birds had such a feast that their skins all got quite tight with the thick jacket of fat that was spread beneath them to keep the cold out, and all their feathers began to stick up so that they had plenty of work to smooth them down. but such weather did not last long, for soon jack frost would wake up again, quite cross to think how long he had slept, and then on he would put his sharp steel skates again, and away over the country he would skim with all the land turning to iron wherever he went, and looking as if the keen old fellow had been sprinkling diamonds and emeralds and pearls all over the ground. as to the sheep, they would quite rattle with the knobs of ice upon their wool, while the turnips they were nibbling out in the fields were like snowballs. and away skimmed jack frost by the light of the bright moon, while all the stars kept laughing and winking at his freaks, and soon again all the country was powdered over with snow, and the water all turned to ice. then at night, when the cold cutting wind would hum outside the doors and sing through all the chinks, trying to get in, people would draw the red curtains close, and heap up the dry logs of wood upon the fire till the bright blue flames would dance and flicker, and flicker and dance, and roar up the chimney; but all the time sending such warmth and comfort through the rooms that the wind would give up trying, and, knowing that it could not battle with such a warm fire, would rush off again over the bare woods and fields to help jack frost, and bear away the words of the song he was singing, so that everybody could hear it. for the icy fellow as he skimmed along would laugh and shout to see how everybody was afraid of him, and lighted fires to keep him away; and then he would sing,-- "i kiss cheeks and make them rosy; i make people wrap up cosy; i bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping; i send people quickly tripping. see my breath all silver lacing; feel my touch how cold and bracing; come and race o'er ground so snowy; come and trip 'mid breezes blowy. i'll make little eyes look brightly; i'll make little hearts beat lightly; and when cheeks grow red as cherry, then will echo voices merry. for i'm jack frost who makes cheeks rosy; i make people wrap up cosy; i bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping; but send the little people tripping." but in spite of all jack frost could do, the birds at greenlawn would manage to get through the harsh time of winter, looking out for the spring to come again; and happy and contented, though always very busy, and trying hard to do their duty as well when the cold wintry rains fell, or the biting sleet, or soft falling snow, or even when the ground was all hard and they were nearly starved, as when plenty reigned around; for still they hoped on, and waited for spring, that seemed so long in coming, but yet would surely come at last, however long it might appear, and tire their patience. chapter fourteen. false alarm. one morning, when a soft breeze from the south had melted away all the snow, and the bright sun had thawed all the ice in the ditches, brooks, and ponds, everything looked so bright and fine, that the snowdrops and crocuses popped their heads out of the ground, and kept calling to one another across the gravel walk, "all a-growin' and a-blowin'," as the men who bring round the flowers. two or three violets opened their little blue eyes, too, and poking at the dead leaves that were lying on them, kept trying to get a peep at the bright sun; for he had had a bad cold all through the winter, and had kept his head wrapped up in thick mists and clouds, only showing himself now and then; and when he did, his face looked all red, swelled, and inflamed, as though he had got a dreadful fit of neuralgic-tic-doloreuginal-toothache. and now the blue-eyed violets wanted to have a peep at the sun, and to nod at their old friend; but the leaves lay so wet and heavy upon them that they could hardly get out, and when they did, poor things, their heads were all bent down, and they looked as drooping as though their necks were cricked with sleeping in a damp bed. and truly it was a very damp bed-- the violets'--all moss and wet grass in a shady bank; but the cheerful little flowers did not mind it a bit, but sent forth such a sweet scent all through the hedgerows, that as soon as the birds smelt it they began to sing, and to think it was time to build nests again. "spring's come! spring's come!" shouted a little chiff-chaff, just come over from a foreign country all in a hurry; for while he was getting ready, and thinking it was time to pay a visit to england, there came a great storm of wind, and caught up the little, tiny greeny bird and blew him right over the seas; and then, because it was a bright day when he got here, he began running up and down the country crying out "spring's come! spring's come!" when spring was only just putting one or two of her toes in the shape of crocuses and snowdrops out of her wintry bed, to see how cold it was, and whether she might get up yet. spring had not come, for it was too soon, and the stupid little chiff-chaff thought himself such an important little body that because he had come spring must have come too. and no end of mischief he did, for as is always the case when one person does a foolish thing, plenty more begin to follow the bad example; and so one bird after another took up the cry, till it rang all over greenlawn that spring had come; and the birds set to work in such a hurry to repair last year's damaged nests or to make new ones. as to the rooks, they came all in a bustle to the old limes and held a parliament, which every now and then turned into a squabble about some favourite spot, and there they all stopped talking, and flying round and round, but soon began again, to keep on till it grew quite dark, and then they were silent till some obstinate bird or another would say something crooked, and then out they all burst again--"caw-caw-caw," till the awkward rook was talked down; then somebody else would have the last word, when they broke out again two or three times over, till at last it grew so dark that the rooks were afraid to speak any more, lest somebody should come and upset them upon their perches, and they not see the enemy coming. the next morning everybody began to call the chiff-chaff names, and to say it was a little cheat; for a sharp sleety rain had been falling for hours and freezing as it fell, so that all the rooks' claws were stuck fast to the tall, top branches of the limes. as to the crocuses, they had squeezed themselves up as small as grass, and half crept back into the earth, while the snowdrops had shut up their houses and pulled down the green blinds to keep the cold out, and as to the violets, why, they crept under the dead leaves again to wait for the sun's next appearance. no; it was not spring yet, and no one knew it better than the little chiff-chaff, who had crept into the ivy-tod, where the great dark leaves flopped down, and kept everything dry underneath; and there the poor little thing kept dancing the dicky-bird's dance, and going bibbity-bob, bibbity-bobberty, up and down, to keep himself warm, and wishing that the great, rough, rude wind had blown somebody else out of the warm country to cry "spring's come; spring's come," because it happened to be a fine bright sunshiny day. but the little bird did not mean to do wrong, and so he stopped in the ivy-tod and lived upon cold spider for a whole week, drinking the melted sleet off the ivy leaves, and wishing all the time that spring had come, for he expected no end of friends and relations over as soon as the weather was fine enough; and, besides, he was anxious to feel the warm weather; for he was rather a delicate little fellow, who was obliged to go to a warm place in the winter time for the benefit of his health, and only came to spend the fine part of the year at greenlawn. chapter fifteen. spring at last. "build away, birds; there's no chiff-chaff trickery this time. spring is here," said the thrush, "and here's all the company coming. all the swallow family are over, and here's the wryneck been playing a tune upon its comb all the morning; as for those sit-up-o'-night birds, they've been sing-sing, till i'm almost tired of it, and wish they would set to work and find something better to do. but what's the matter down there?" it was plain that something was the matter, for all the birds were leaving their work on purpose to go and see what was wrong; for there was the yard-dog, boxer, loose in the garden again, barking, and snapping, and snarling at something rolled up amongst the dead leaves. the thrush flew up, and settling on a low branch, stopped to watch what was the matter; and he soon saw, for there, causing all the noise, was a tightly-rolled up hedgehog, with his sharp spines sticking up all over, and looking for all the world like a sharp round hair-brush. as for boxer, he was sniffing and snuffing and pricking his nose in his efforts to get blacknose open; but the little spikey thing would not open the least bit in the world, but kept himself rolled up snug and fast, with nothing but spines and thorns sticking out all over him. the more boxer sniffed and poked at the round ball, the more he got pricked, and then he held up his head and whined in so comical a way, that all those who were looking on could not keep from laughing, which made the dog so cross that he barked at the birds, and made believe to bite; only they were all out of reach; and this made him all the more cross and snappish. at last boxer got the prickly thing close to the bank, and over it rolled right down into an old rabbit's hole, where the dog could not reach it; so then he turned round and ran at the first thing he saw, which happened to be the magpie, who stayed so long upon the ground before flying up, that the dog got hold of one of his tail-feathers. "pull, magpie!" shouted the birds. and magpie did pull, as hard as ever he could pull, and fluttered and flew, but he could not get his tail-feather away, so had to leave it behind with boxer, who quietly sat down on the grass and began to gnaw and tear the beautiful glossy green plume, until he had completely spoiled it, when he threw it away, and began to look out for some more fun; whilst poor mag's tail was so sore, that he went home grumbling and half-crying at his misfortune. busier and busier the birds grew every day; there was no one idle in greenlawn in spring-time, but all hard at work, build-build-build from morning, when the first rosy peep of day appeared, and the blackbird cried out, "wake-wake-wake," until the night closed in, and the pale new moon peeped down from amid the light clouds, watching over the nesting birds, with their beaks tucked snugly under their wings, and gently swaying about upon the light branch that rocked them to sleep with the easy motion of the soft spring breeze. sweetly then used to sing the nightingales, perched on the low boughs of the fresh-leaved bushes, and whistling for their wives, not yet come over the sea; whistling and answering one another from wood to wood, and from grove to grove, until the night rang with the sweet sounds, and bird after bird would draw out its head to listen to the sweet, strong-voiced warblers. but generally the birds used to grumble at the nightingale, and say it was not fair of him to make such a noise of a night. they wanted peace and quietness; and one old greenfinch, who could not sing a bit, and had no ear for music, used to say that the nightingale was as great a nuisance as old shoutnight, the owl, and that his noises ought to be stopped. but one night there was such a shouting and hoo-hooing that all the birds woke up in a fright. one asked the other what it meant, but no one knew, and every now and then, ringing through the still night, came the wild strange cry. even the master of greenlawn opened his window and looked out and wondered, and at last crabby old todkins, the gardener, opened _his_ window, and even called the birch-broom boy up to listen; but they could not make out what the noise was. nobody knew, and at last they began to be like the birds, rather frightened; for it was such a wild, dreadful cry as they had never heard before. "it's a wild goose," said mrs spottleover to her mate. "you're a goose," said spottleover, all of a shiver. "you never heard a goose cry out like that. it's like a peacock, only ten times more horrible; and--there it goes again; isn't it dreadful?" the old owl said it was a rude boy trying to hoot; while the saucy jackdaw said it was nothing to be afraid of, for it was only old shoutnight with a bad cold. but, last of all, out came the old gardener with a lantern in one hand, a stick in the other, and his red nightcap on, to look round the garden and see what was the matter. no sooner was he out on the lawn than all the stupid birds began to look about his light to see what it was made of, and how it was that what they took for a glow-worm should be going about the lawn; and still all this while the dreadful cry kept coming, now higher, now lower, and the gardener could not find out what it was; but at last he stood stock-still and scratched his head, until the tassel of his red nightcap went jiffle-iffle, and danced up and down like a loose leaf on a twig. "there, i don't care," said the gardener; "i'm going home to bed again; so ye may shout all night, whatever ye are, unless ye like to speak. but, hallo, boxer, boy! what is it?" he said, as the dog laid hold of his leg and then ran on before him, turning round every now and then to see if his master would follow; and at last he did follow the dog till it stopped, barking and smelling, at the edge of the dip well, where the water-grotto was, and the cresses grew under the trickling spring--a little well-like place it was; and just as the old man came up the cry seemed to rise out of the water so wildly and shrilly, that he gave a jump and dropped his lantern. fortunately, however, the lantern did not go out, and so he quickly picked it up again and held it down, and there, swimming round and round, and unable to get out, was poor blacknose, the hedgehog, getting fainter and fainter, and nearly drowned, and crying out for somebody to pull him out. "well, only to think of that little thornball making all that noise," said the gardener, helping the poor thing out and setting it on the grass; when it was so grateful that it would have thanked him if it could, but it could not, and so stopped there quite still while boxer put his cold black nose up to it, and stood wagging his thick stumpy tail; for he was too generous a dog to meddle with anyone in trouble, even a hedgehog; and piggy, feeling that he was in distress, and an object of sympathy, did not even attempt to curl up, but lay quite still, waiting for his visitors to go. "well," said the old man, "i suppose i am not going to hurt ye, for the master won't have anything hurt; so come along, boxer; and dinna ye be fetchin' a chiel oot o' bed at sic a time o' nicht again, or ye may e'en stop i' the water." and then the old gardener went off to his cottage; and boxer, after a run back and a scamper round the rescued hedgehog, went to his kennel. and so things went on at greenlawn, year after year, and season after season. it may perhaps seem a very wonderful place; but there are a great many little greenlawns all over england, where little eyes may see the birds do many of the things that have been told in this little story--a story thought of to please two little girls who were very fond of leaning up against somebody's knee in the evenings before the candles were lighted, and asking somebody to tell them a story. the end. in the bishop's carriage by miriam michelson i. when the thing was at its hottest, i bolted. tom, like the darling he is--(yes, you are, old fellow, you're as precious to me as--as you are to the police--if they could only get their hands on you)--well, tom drew off the crowd, having passed the old gentleman's watch to me, and i made for the women's rooms. the station was crowded, as it always is in the afternoon, and in a minute i was strolling into the big, square room, saying slowly to myself to keep me steady: "nancy, you're a college girl--just in from bryn mawr to meet your papa. just see if your hat's on straight." i did, going up to the big glass and looking beyond my excited face to the room behind me. there sat the woman who can never nurse her baby except where everybody can see her, in a railroad station. there was the woman who's always hungry, nibbling chocolates out of a box; and the woman fallen asleep, with her hat on the side, and hairpins dropping out of her hair; and the woman who's beside herself with fear that she'll miss her train; and the woman who is taking notes about the other women's rigs. and-- and i didn't like the look of that man with the cap who opened the swinging door a bit and peeped in. the women's waiting-room is no place for a man--nor for a girl who's got somebody else's watch inside her waist. luckily, my back was toward him, but just as the door swung back he might have caught the reflection of my face in a mirror hanging opposite to the big one. i retreated, going to an inner room where the ladies were having the maid brush their gowns, soiled from suburban travel and the dirty station. the deuce is in it the way women stare. i took off my hat and jacket for a reason to stay there, and hung them up as leisurely as i could. "nance," i said under my breath, to the alert-eyed, pug-nosed girl in the mirror, who gave a quick glance about the room as i bent to wash my hands, "women stare 'cause they're women. there's no meaning in their look. if they were men, now, you might twitter." i smoothed my hair and reached out my hand to get my hat and jacket when--when-- oh, it was long; long enough to cover you from your chin to your heels! it was a dark, warm red, and it had a high collar of chinchilla that was fairly scrumptious. and just above it the hat hung, a red-cloth toque caught up on the side with some of the same fur. the black maid misunderstood my involuntary gesture. i had all my best duds on, and when a lot of women stare it makes the woman they stare at peacock naturally, and--and--well, ask tom what he thinks of my style when i'm on parade. at any rate, it was the maid's fault. she took down the coat and hat and held them for me as though they were mine. what could i do, 'cept just slip into the silk-lined beauty and set the toque on my head? the fool girl that owned them was having another maid mend a tear in her skirt, over in the corner; the little place was crowded. anyway, i had both the coat and hat on and was out into the big anteroom in a jiffy. what nearly wrecked me was the cut of that coat. it positively made me shiver with pleasure when i passed and saw myself in that long mirror. my, but i was great! the hang of that coat, the long, incurving sweep in the back, and the high fur collar up to one's nose--even if it is a turned-up nose--oh! i stayed and looked a second too long, for just as i was pulling the flaring hat a bit over my face, the doors swung, as an old lady came in, and there behind her was that same curious man's face with the cap above it. trapped? me? not much! i didn't wait a minute, but threw the doors open with a gesture that might have belonged to the queen of spain. i almost ran into his arms. he gave an exclamation. i looked him straight in the eyes, as i hooked the collar close to my throat, and swept past him. he weakened. that coat was too jolly much for him. it was for me, too. as i ran down the stairs, its influence so worked on me that i didn't know just which vanderbilt i was. i got out on the sidewalk all right, and was just about to take a car when the turnstile swung round, and there was that same man with the cap. his face was a funny mixture of doubt and determination. but it meant the correction for me. "nance olden, it's over," i said to myself. but it wasn't. for it was then that i caught sight of the carriage. it was a fat, low, comfortable, elegant, sober carriage, wide and well-kept, with rubber-tired wheels. and the two heavy horses were fat and elegant and sober, too, and wide and well-kept. i didn't know it was the bishop's then--i didn't care whose it was. it was empty, and it was mine. i'd rather go to the correction--being too young to get to the place you're bound for, tom dorgan--in it than in the patrol wagon. at any rate, it was all the chance i had. i slipped in, closing the door sharply behind me. the man on the box--he was wide and well-kept, too--was tired waiting, i suppose, for he continued to doze gently, his high coachman's collar up over his ears. i cursed that collar, which had prevented his hearing the door close, for then he might have driven off. but it was great inside: soft and warm, the cushions of dark plum, the seat wide and roomy, a church paper, some notes for the bishop's next sermon and a copy of quo vadis. i just snuggled down, trust me. i leaned far back and lay low. when i did peek out the window, i saw the man with the brass buttons and the cap turning to go inside again. victory! he had lost the scent. who would look for nancy olden in the bishop's carriage? now, you know how early i got up yesterday to catch the train so's tom and i could come in with the people and be naturally mingling with them? and you remember the dance the night before? i hadn't had more than three hours' sleep, and the snug warmth of that coach was just nuts to me, after the freezing ride into town. i didn't dare get out for fear of some other man in a cap and buttons somewhere on the lookout. i knew they couldn't be on to my hiding-place or they'd have nabbed me before this. after a bit i didn't want to get out, i was so warm and comfortable--and elegant. o tom, you should have seen your nance in that coat and in the bishop's carriage! first thing i knew, i was dreaming you and i were being married, and you had brass buttons all over you, and i had the cloak all right, but it was a wedding-dress, and the chinchilla was a wormy sort of orange blossoms, and--and i waked when the handle of the door turned and the bishop got in. asleep? that's what! i'd actually been asleep. and what did i do now? that's easy--fell asleep again. there wasn't anything else to do. not really asleep this time, you know; just, just asleep enough to be wide awake to any chance there was in it. the horses had started, and the carriage was half-way across the street before the bishop noticed me. he was a little bishop, not big and fat and well-kept like the rig, but short and lean, with a little white beard and the softest eye--and the softest heart--and the softest head. just listen. "lord bless me!" he exclaimed, hurriedly putting on his spectacles, and looking about bewildered. i was slumbering sweetly in the corner, but i could see between my lashes that he thought he'd jumped into somebody else's carriage. the sight of his book and his papers comforted him, though, and before he could make a resolution, i let the jolting of the carriage, as it crossed the car-track, throw me gently against him. "daddy," i murmured sleepily, letting my head rest on his little, prim shoulder. that comforted him, too. hush your laughing, tom dorgan; i mean calling him "daddy" seemed to kind of take the cuss off the situation. "my child," he began very gently. "oh, daddy," i exclaimed, snuggling down close to him, "you kept me waiting so long i went to sleep. i thought you'd never come." he put his arm about my shoulders in a fatherly way. you know, i found out later the bishop never had had a daughter. i guess he thought he had one now. such a simple, dear old soul! just the same, tom dorgan, if he had been my father, i'd never be doing stunts with tipsy men's watches for you; nor if i'd had any father. now, don't get mad. think of the bishop with his gentle, thin old arm about my shoulders, holding me for just a second as though i was his daughter! my, think of it! and me, nance olden, with that fat man's watch in my waist and some girl's beautiful long coat and hat on, all covered with chinchilla! "there's some mistake, my little girl," he said, shaking me gently to wake me up, for i was going to sleep again, he feared. "oh, i knew you were kept at the office," i interrupted quickly. i preferred to be farther from the station with that girl's red coat before i got out. "we've missed our train, anyway, haven't we? after this, daddy dear, let's not take this route. if we'd go straight through on the one road, we wouldn't have this drive across town every time. i was wondering, before i fell asleep, what in the world i'd do in this big city if you didn't come." he forgot to withdraw his arm, so occupied was he by my predicament. "what would you do, my child, if you had--had missed your--your father?" wasn't it clumsy of him? he wanted to break it to me gently, and this was the best he could do. "what would i do?" i gasped indignantly. "why, daddy, imagine me alone, and--and without money! why--why, how can you--" "there! there!" he said, patting me soothingly on the shoulder. that baby of a bishop! the very thought of nancy olden out alone in the streets was too much for him. he had put his free hand into his pocket and had just taken out a bill and was trying to plan a way to offer it to me and reveal the fact to poor, modest little nance olden that he was not her own daddy, when an awful thing happened. we had got up street as far as the opera-house, when we were caught in the jam of carriages in front; the last afternoon opera of the season was just over. i was so busy thinking what would be my next move that i didn't notice much outside--and i didn't want to move, tom, not a bit. playing the bishop's daughter in a trailing coat of red, trimmed with chinchilla, is just your nancy's graft. but the dear little bishop gave a jump that almost knocked the roof off the carriage, pulled his arm from behind me and dropped the ten-dollar bill he held as though it burned him. it fell in my lap. i jammed it into my coat pocket. where is it now? just you wait, tom dorgan, and you'll find out. i followed the bishop's eyes. his face was scarlet now. right next to our carriage--mine and the bishop's--there was another; not quite so fat and heavy and big, but smart, i tell you, with the silver harness jangling and the horses arching their backs under their blue-cloth jackets monogrammed in leather. all the same, i couldn't see anything to cause a loving father to let go his onliest daughter in such a hurry, till the old lady inside bent forward again and gave us another look. her face told it then. it was a big, smooth face, with accordion-plaited chins. her hair was white and her nose was curved, and the pearls in her big ears brought out every ugly spot on her face. her lips were thin, and her neck, hung with diamonds, looked like a bed with bolsters and pillows piled high, and her eyes--oh, tom, her eyes! they were little and very gray, and they bored their way straight through the windows--hers and ours--and hit the bishop plumb in the face. my, if i could only have laughed! the bishop, the dear, prim little bishop in his own carriage, with his arm about a young woman in red and chinchilla, offering her a bank-note, and mrs. dowager diamonds, her eyes popping out of her head at the sight, and she one of the lady pillars of his church--oh, tom! it took all of this to make that poor innocent next to me realize how he looked in her eyes. but you see it was over in a minute. the carriage wheels were unlocked, and the blue coupe went whirling away, and we in the plum-cushioned carriage followed slowly. i decided that i'd had enough. now and here in the middle of all these carriages was a bully good time and place for me to get away. i turned to the bishop. he was blushing like a boy. i blushed, too. yes, i did, tom dorgan, but it was because i was bursting with laughter. "oh, dear!" i exclaimed in sudden dismay. "you're not my father." "no--no, my dear, i--i'm not," he stammered, his face purple now with embarrassment. "i was just trying to tell you, you poor little girl, of your mistake and planning a way to help you, when--" he made a gesture of despair toward the side where the coupe had been. i covered my face with my hands, and shrinking over into the corner, i cried: "let me out! let me out! you're not my father. oh, let me out!" "why, certainly, child. but i'm old enough, surely, to be, and i wish--i wish i were." "you do!" the dignity and tenderness and courtesy in his voice sort of sobered me. but all at once i remembered the face of mrs. dowager diamonds, and i understood. "oh, because of her," i said, smiling and pointing to the side where the coupe had been. my, but it was a rotten bad move! i ought to have been strapped for it. oh, tom, tom, it takes more'n a red coat with chinchilla to make a black-hearted thing like me into the girl he thought i was. he stiffened and sat up like a prim little school-boy, his soft eyes hurt like a dog's that's been wounded. i won't tell you what i did then. no, i won't. and you won't understand, but just that minute i cared more for what he thought of me than whether i got to the correction or anywhere else. it made us friends in a minute, and when he stopped the carriage to let me out, my hand was still in his. but i wouldn't go. i'd made up my mind to see him out of his part of the scrape, and first thing you know we were driving up toward the square, if you please, to mrs. dowager diamonds' house. he thought it was his scheme, the poor lamb, to put me in her charge till my lost daddy could send for me. he'd no more idea that i was steering him toward her, that he was doing the only thing possible, the only square thing by his reputation, than he had that nance olden had been raised by the cruelty, and then flung herself away on the first handsome irish boy she met. that'll do, tom. girls, if you could have seen mrs. dowager diamonds' face when she came down the stairs, the bishop's card in her hand, and into the gorgeous parlor, it'd have been as good as a front seat at the show. she was mad, and she was curious, and she was amazed, and she was disarmed; for the very nerve of his bringing me to her staggered her so that she could hardly believe she'd seen what she had. "my dear mrs. ramsay," he began, confused a bit by his remembrance of how her face had looked fifteen minutes before, "i bring to you an unfortunate child, who mistook my carriage for her father's this afternoon at the station. she is a college girl, a stranger in town, and till her father claims her--" oh, the baby! the baby! she was stiffening like a rod before his very eyes. how did his words explain his having his arm round the unfortunate child? his conscience was so clean that the dear little man actually overlooked the fact that it wasn't my presence in the carriage, but his conduct there that had excited mrs. dowager diamonds. and didn't the story sound thin? i tell you, tom, when it comes to lying to a woman you've got to think up something stronger than it takes to make a man believe in you--if you happen to be female yourself. i didn't wait for him to finish, but waltzed right in. i danced straight up to that side of beef with the diamonds still on it, and flinging my arms about her, turned a coy eye on the bishop. "you said your wife was out of town, daddy," i cried gaily. "have you got another wife besides mummy?" the poor bishop! do you think he tumbled? not a bit--not a bit. he sat there gasping like a fish, and mrs. dowager diamonds, surprised by my sudden attack, stood bolt upright, about as pleasant to hug as--as you are, tom, when you're jealous. the trouble with the bishop's set is that it's deadly slow. now, if i had really been the bishop's daughter--all right, i'll go on. "oh, mummy," i went on quickly. you know how i said it, tom--the way i told you after that last row that dan christensen wasn't near so good-looking as you--remember? "oh, mummy, you don't know how good it feels to get home. out there at that awful college, studying and studying and studying, sometimes i thought i'd lose my senses. there's a girl out there now suffering from nervous prostration. she worked so hard preparing for the mid-years. what's her name? i can't think--i can't think, my head's so tired. but it sounds like mine, a lot like mine. once--i think it was yesterday--i thought it was mine, and i made up my mind suddenly to come right home and bring it with me. but it can't be mine, can it? it can't be my name she's got. it can't be, mummy, say it can't, say it can't!" tom, i ought to have gone on the stage. i'll go yet, when you're sent up some day. yes, i will. you'll be where you can't stop me. i couldn't see the bishop, but the dowager--oh, i'd got her. not so bad an old body, either, if you only take her the right way. first, she was suspicious, and then she was scared. and then, bit by bit, the stiffness melted out of her, her arms came up about me, and there i was, lying all comfy, with the diamonds on her neck boring rosettes in my cheeks, and she a-sniffling over me and patting me and telling me not to get excited, that it was all right, and now i was home mummy would take care of me, she would, that she would. she did. she got me on to a lounge, soft as--as marshmallows, and she piled one silk pillow after another behind my back. "come, dear, let me help you off with your coat," she cooed, bending over me. "oh, mummy, it's so cold! can't i please keep it on?" to let that coat off me was to give the whole thing away. my rig underneath, though good enough for your girl, tom, on a holiday, wasn't just what they wear in the square. and, d'ye know, you'll say it's silly, but i had a conviction that with that coat i should say good-by to the nerve i'd had since i got into the bishop's carriage,--and from there into society. i let her take the hat, though, and i could see by the way she handled it that it was all right--the thing; her kind, you know. oh, the girl i got it from had good taste, all right. i closed my eyes for a moment as i lay there and she stood stroking my hair. she must have thought i'd fallen asleep, for she turned to the bishop, and holding out her hand, she said softly: "my dear, dear bishop, you are the best-hearted, the saintliest man on earth. because you are so beautifully clean-souled yourself, you must pardon me. i am ashamed to say it, but i shall have no rest till i do. when i saw you in the carriage downtown, with that poor, demented child, i thought, for just a moment--oh, can you forgive me? it shows what an evil mind i have. but you, who know so well what edward is, what my life has been with him, will see how much reason i have to be suspicious of all men!" i shook, i laughed so hard. what a corker her edward must be! see, tom, poor old mrs. dowager up in the square having the same devil's luck with her man as molly elliott down in the alley has with hers. i wonder if you're all alike. no, for there's the bishop. he had taken her hand sympathizingly, forgivingly, but his silence made me curious. i knew he wouldn't let the old lady believe for a moment i was luny, if once he could be sure himself that i wasn't. you lie, tom dorgan, he wouldn't! well--but the poor baby, how could he expect to see through a game that had caught the dowager herself? still, i could hear him walking softly toward me, and i felt him looking keenly down at me long before i opened my eyes. when i did, you should have seen him jump. guilty he felt. i could see the blood rush up under his clear, thin old skin, soft as a baby's, to find himself caught trying to spy out my secret. i just looked, big-eyed, up at him. you know; the way molly's kid does, when he wakes. i looked a long, long time, as though i was puzzled. "daddy," i said slowly, sitting up. "you--you are my daddy, ain't you?" "yes--yes, of course." it was the dowager who got between him and me, hinting heavily at him with nods and frowns. but the dear old fellow only got pinker in the effort to look a lie and not say it. still, he looked relieved. evidently he thought i was luny all right, but that i had lucid intervals. i heard him whisper something like this to the dowager just before the maid came in with tea for me. yes, tom dorgan, tea for nancy olden off a silver salver, out of a cup like a painted eggshell. my, but that almost floored me! i was afraid i'd give myself dead away with all those little jars and jugs. so i said i wasn't hungry, though, lord knows, i hadn't had anything to eat since early morning. but the dowager sent the maid away and took the tray herself, operating all the jugs and pots for me, and then tried to feed me the tea. she was about as handy as molly's little sister is with the baby--but i allowed myself to be coaxed, and drank it down. tea, tom dorgan. ever taste tea? if you knew how to behave yourself in polite society, i'd give you a card to my friend, the dowager, up in the square. how to get away! that was the thing that worried me. i'd just made up my mind to have a lucid interval, when cr-creak, the front door opened, and in walked-- tom, you're mighty cute--so cute you'll land us both behind bars some day--but you can't guess who came in on our little family party. yes--oh, yes, you've met him. well, the old duffer whose watch was ticking inside my waist that very minute! yes, sir, the same red-faced, big-necked fellow we'd spied getting full at the little station in the country. only, he was a bit mellower than when you grabbed his chain. well, he was edward. i almost dropped the cup when i saw him. the dowager took it from me, saying: "there, dear, don't be nervous. it's only--only--" she got lost. it couldn't be my daddy--the bishop was that. but it was her husband, so who could it be? "evening, bishop. hello, henrietta, back so soon from the opera?" roared edward, in a big, husky voice. he'd had more since we saw him, but he walked straight as the bishop himself, and he's a dear little ramrod. "ah!"--his eyes lit up at sight of me--"ah, miss--miss--of course, i've met the young lady, henrietta, but hang me if i haven't forgotten her name." "miss--miss murieson," lied the old lady, glibly. "a--a relative." "why, mummy!" i said reproachfully. "there--there. it's only a joke. isn't it a joke, edward?" she demanded, laughing uneasily. "joke?" he repeated with a hearty bellow of laughter. "best kind of a joke, i call it, to find so pretty a girl right in your own house, eh, bishop?" "why does he call my father 'bishop', mummy?" i couldn't help it. the fun of hearing the dowager lie and knowing the bishop beside himself with the pain of deception was too much for me. i could see she didn't dare trust her edward with my sad story. "ho! ho! the bishop--that's good. no, my dear miss murieson, if this lady's your mother, why, i must be--at least, i ought to be, your father. as such, i'm going to have all the privileges of a parent--bless me, if i'm not." i don't suppose he'd have done it if he'd been sober, but there's no telling, when you remember the reputation the dowager had given him. but he'd got no further than to put his arm around me when both the bishop and the dowager flew to the rescue. my, but they were shocked! i couldn't help wondering what they'd have done if edward had happened to see the bishop in the same sort of tableau earlier in the afternoon. but i got a lucid interval just then, and distracted their attention. i stood for a moment, my head bent as though i was thinking deeply. "i think i'll go now," i said at length. "i--i don't understand exactly how i got here," i went on, looking from the bishop to the dowager and back again, "or how i happened to miss my father. i'm ever--so much obliged to you, and if you will give me my hat, i'll take the next train back to college." "you'll do nothing of the sort," said the dowager, promptly. "my dear, you're a sweet girl that's been studying too hard. you must go to my room and rest--" "and stay for dinner. don't you care. sometimes i don't know how i get here myself." edward winked jovially. well, i did. while the dowager's back was turned, i gave him the littlest one, in return for his. it made him drunker than ever. "i think," said the bishop, grimly, with a significant glance at the dowager, as he turned just then and saw the old cock ogling me, "the young lady is wiser than we. i'll take her to the station--" the station! ugh! not nance olden, with the red coat still on. "impossible, my dear bishop," interrupted the dowager. "she can't be permitted to go back on the train alone." "why, miss--miss murieson, i'll see you back all the way to the college door. not at all, not at all. charmed. first, we'll have dinner--or, first i'll telephone out there and tell 'em you're with us, so that if there's any rule or anything of that sort--" the telephone! this wretched edward with half his wits gave me more trouble than the bishop and the dowager put together. she jumped at the idea, and left the room, only to come back again to whisper to me: "what name, my dear?" "what name? what name?" i repeated blankly. what name, indeed. i wonder how "nance olden" would have done. "don't hurry, dear, don't perplex yourself," she whispered anxiously, noting my bewilderment. "there's plenty of time, and it makes no difference--not a particle, really." i put my hand to my head. "i can't think--i can't think. there's one girl has nervous prostration, and her name's got mixed with mine, and i can't--" "hush, hush! never mind. you shall come and lie down in my room. you'll stay with us to-night, anyway, and we'll have a doctor in, bishop." "that's right," assented the bishop. "i'll go get him myself." "you--you're not going!" i cried in dismay. it was real. i hated to see him go. "nonsense--'phone." it was edward who went himself to telephone for the doctor, and i saw my time getting short. but the bishop had to go, anyway. he looked out at his horses shivering in front of the house, and the sight hurried him. "my child," he said, taking my hand, "just let mrs. ramsay take care of you to-night. don't bother about anything, but just rest. i'll see you in the morning," he went on, noticing that i kind of clung to him. well, i did. "can't you remember what i said to you in the carriage--that i wished you were my daughter. i wish you were, indeed i do, and that i could take you home with me and keep you, child." "then--to-night--if--when you pray--will you pray for me as if i was--your own daughter?" tom dorgan, you think no prayers but a priest's are any good, you bigoted, snickering catholic! i tell you if some day i cut loose from you and start in over again, it'll be the bishop's prayers that'll do it. the dowager and i passed edward in the ball. he gave me a look behind her back, and i gave him one to match it. just practice, you know, tom. a girl can never know when she'll want to be expert in these things. she made me lie down on a couch while she turned the lamp low, and then left me alone in a big palace of a bedroom filled with things. and i wanted everything i saw. if i could, i'd have lifted everything in sight. but every minute brought that doctor nearer. soon as i could be really sure she was gone, i got up, and, hurrying to the long french windows that opened on the great stone piazza, i unfastened them quietly, and inch by inch i pushed them open. there within ten feet of me stood edward. no escape that way. he saw me, and was tiptoeing heavily toward me, when i heard the door click behind me, and in walked the dowager back again. i flew to her. "i thought i heard some one out there," i said. "it frightened me so that i got up to look. nobody could be out there, could they?" she walked to the window and put her head out. her lips tightened grimly. "no, nobody could be out there," she said, breathing hard, "but you might get nervous just thinking there might be. we'll go to a room upstairs." and go we did, in spite of all i could plead about feeling well enough now to go alone and all the rest of it. how was i to get out of a second or third-story window? i began to think about the correction again as i followed her upstairs, and after she'd left me i just sat waiting for the doctor to come and send me there. i didn't much care, till i remembered the bishop. i could almost see his face as it would look when he'd be called to testify against me, and i'd be standing in that railed-in prisoner's pen, in the middle of the court-room, where dan christensen stood when they tried him. no, i couldn't bear that; not without a fight, anyway. it was for the bishop i'd got into this part of the scrape. i'd get out of it so's he shouldn't know how bad a thing a girl can be. while i lay thinking it over, the same maid that had brought me the tea came in. she was an ugly, thin little thing. if she's a sample of the maids in that house, the lot of them would take the kink out of your pretty hair, thomas j. dorgan, esquire, late of the house of refuge and soon of moyamensing. don't throw things. people in my set, mine and the dowager's, don't. she had been sent to help me undress, she said, and make me comfortable. the doctor lived just around the corner and would be in in a minute. phew! she wasn't very promising, but she was my only chance. i took her. "i really don't need any help, thank you, nora," i said, chipper as a sparrow, and remembering the name the dowager had called her by. "aunt henrietta is too fussy, don't you think? oh, of course, you won't say a word against her. she told me the other day that she'd never had a maid so sensible and quick-witted, too, as her nora. do you know, i've a mind to play a joke on the doctor when he comes. you'll help me, won't you? oh, i know you will!" suddenly i remembered the bishop's bill. i took it out of my pocket. yep, tom, that's where it went. i had to choose between giving that skinny maid the biggest tip she ever got in her life--or nance olden to the correction. you needn't swear, tom dorgan. i fancy if i'd got there, you'd got worse. no, you bully, you know i wouldn't tell; but the police sort of know how to pair our kind. in her cap and apron, i let the doctor in and myself out. and i don't regret a thing up there in the square except that lovely red coat with the high collar and the hat with the fur on it. i'd give--tom, get me a coat like that and i'll marry you for life. no, there's one thing i could do better if it was to be done over again. i could make that dear little old bishop wish harder i'd been his daughter. what am i mooning about? oh--nothing. there's the watch--edward's watch. take it. ii. yes, empty-handed, tom dorgan. and i can't honestly say i didn't have the chance, but--if my hands are empty my head is full. listen. there's a girl i know with short brown hair, a turned-up nose and gray eyes, rather far apart. you know her, too? well, she can't help that. but this girl--oh, she makes such a pretty boy! and the ladies at the hotel over in brooklyn, they just dote on her when she's not only a boy but a bell-boy. her name may be nancy when she's in petticoats, but in trousers she's nathaniel--in short, nat. now, nat, in blue and buttons, with his nails kept better than most boys', with his curly hair parted in the middle, and with a gentle tang to his voice that makes him almost girlish--who would suspect nat of having a stolen pass-key in his pocket and a pretty fair knowledge of the contents of almost every top bureau-drawer in the hotel? not mrs. sarah kingdon, a widow just arrived from philadelphia, and desperately gone on young mr. george moriway, also fresh from philadelphia, and desperately gone on mrs. kingdon's money. the tips that lady gave the bad boy nat! i knew i couldn't make you believe it any other way; that's why i passed 'em on to you, tommy-boy. the hotel woman, you know, girls, is a hotel woman because she isn't fit to be anything else. she's lazy and selfish and little, and she's shifted all her legitimate cares on to the proprietor's shoulders. she actually--you can understand and share my indignation, can't you, tom, as you've shared other things?--she even gives over her black tin box full of valuables to the hotel clerk to put in the safe; the coward! but her vanity--ah, there's where we get her, such speculators as you and myself. she's got to outshine the woman who sits at the next table, and so she borrows her diamonds from the clerk, wears 'em like the peacock she is, and trembles till they're back in the safe again. in the meantime she locks them up in the tin box which she puts in her top bureau-drawer, hides the key, forgets where she hid it, and--o tom! after searching for it for hours and making herself sick with anxiety, she ties up her head in a wet handkerchief with vinegar on it and--rings the bell for the bell-boy! he comes. as i said, he's a prompt, gentle little bell-boy, slight, looks rather young for his job, but that very youth and innocence of his make him such a fellow to trust! "nat," says mrs. kingdon, tearfully pressing half a dollar into the nice lad's hand, "i--i've lost something and i want you to--to help me find it." "yes'm," says nat. he's the soul of politeness. "it must be here--it must be in this room," says the lady, getting wild with the terror of losing. "i'm sure--positive--that i went straight to the shoe-bag and slipped it in there. and now i can't find it, and i must have it before i go out this afternoon for--for a very special reason. my daughter evelyn will be home to-morrow and--why don't you look for it?" "what is it, ma'am?" "i told you once. my key--a little flat key that locks--a box i've got," she finishes distrustfully. "have you looked in the shoe-bag, ma'am?" "why, of course i have, you little stupid. i want you to hunt other places where i can't easily get. there are other places i might have put it, but i'm positive it was in the shoe-bag." well, i looked for that key. where? where not? i looked under the rubbish in the waste-paper basket; mrs. kingdon often fooled thieves by dropping it there. i pulled up the corner of the carpet and looked there--it was loose; it had often been used for a hiding-place. i looked in miss evelyn's boot and in her ribbon box. i emptied mrs. kingdon's full powder box. i climbed ladders and felt along cornices. i looked through the pockets of mrs. kingdon's gowns--a clever bell-boy it takes to find a woman's pocket, but even the real masculine ones among 'em are half feminine; they've had so much to do with women. i rummaged through her writing-desk, and, in searching a gold-cornered pad, found a note from moriway hidden under the corner. i hid it again carefully--in my coat pocket. a love-letter from moriway, to a woman twenty years older than himself--'tain't a bad lay, tom dorgan, but you needn't try it. at first she watched every move i made, but later, as her headache grew worse, she got desperate. so then i put my hand down into the shoe-bag and found the key, where it had slipped under a fold of cloth. do you suppose that woman was grateful? she snatched it from me. "i knew it was there. i told you it was there. if you'd had any sense you'd have looked there first. the boys in this hotel are so stupid." "that's all, ma'am?" she nodded. she was fitting the key into the black box she'd taken from the top drawer. nat had got to the outside door when he heard her come shrieking after him. "nat--nat--come back! my diamonds--they're not here. i know i put them back last night--i'm positive. i could swear to it. i can see myself putting them in the chamois bag, and--o my god, where can they be! this time they're gone!" nat could have told her--but what's the use? he felt she'd only lose 'em again if she had 'em. so he let them lie snug in his trousers pocket--where he had put the chamois bag, when his eyes lit on it, under the corner of the carpet. he might have passed it over to her then, but you see, tom, she hadn't told him to look for a bag; it was a key she wanted. bell-boys are so stupid. this time she followed his every step. he could not put his hand on the smallest thing without rousing her suspicion. if he hesitated, she scolded. if he hurried, she fumed. most unjust, i call it, because he had no thought of stealing--just then. "come," she said at last, "we'll go down and report it at the desk." "hadn't i better wait here, ma'am, and look again?" she looked sharply at him. "no; you'd better do just as i tell you." so down we went. and we met mr. moriway there. she'd telephoned him. the chambermaid was called, the housekeeper, the electrical engineer who'd been fixing bells that morning, and, as i said, a bell-boy named nat, who told how he'd just come on duty when mrs. kingdon's bell rang, found her key and returned it to her, and was out of the room when she unlocked the box. that was all he knew. "is he telling the truth?" moriway asked mrs kingdon. "ye--es, i guess he is; but where are the diamonds? we must have them--you know--to-day, george," she whispered. and then she turned and went upstairs, leaving moriway to do the rest. "there's only one thing to do, major," he said to the proprietor. "search 'em all and then--" "search me? it's an outrage!" cried the housekeeper. "search me if ye loike," growled mccarthy, resentfully. "oi wasn't there but a minute; the lady herself can tell ye that." katie, the chambermaid, flushed painfully, and there were indignant tears in her eyes, which, i'll tell you in confidence, made a girl named nancy uncomfortable. but the boy nat; knowing that bell-boys have no rights, said nothing. but he thought. he thought, tom dorgan, a lot of things and a long way ahead. the peppery old major marched us all off to his private office. not much, girls, it hadn't come. for suddenly the annunciator rang out. out of the corner of his eye, nat looked at the bell-boy's bench. it was empty. there was to be a ball that night, and the bells were going it over all the place. "number twenty-one!" shouted the clerk at the desk. but number twenty-one didn't budge. his heart was beating like a hammer, and the ting--ng--ng of that bell calling him rang in his head like a song. "number twenty-one!" yelled the clerk. oh, he's got a devil of a temper, has that clerk. some day, tom, when you love me very much, go up to the hotel and break his face for me. "you.--boy--confound you, can't you hear?" he shouted. that time he caught the major's ear--the one that wasn't deaf. he looked from powers' black face to the bench and then to me. and all the time the bell kept ringing like mad. "git!" he said to the boy. "and come back in a hurry." number twenty-one got--but leisurely. it wouldn't do for a bell-boy to hurry, particularly when he had such good cause. oh, girls, those stone stairs, the servants' stairs at the st. james! they're fierce. i tell you, mag, scrubbing the floors at the cruelty ain't so bad. but this time i was jolly glad bell-boys weren't allowed in the elevator. for there were those diamonds in my pants pocket, and i must get rid of 'em before i got down to the office again. so i climbed those stairs, and every step i took my eye was searching for a hiding-place. i could have pitched the little bag out of a window, but nancy olden wasn't throwing diamonds to the birds, any more than mag here is likely to cut off the braids of red hair we used to play horse with when we drove her about the cruelty yard. one flight. no chance. another. everything bare as stone and soap could keep it. the third flight--my knees began to tremble, and not with climbing. the call came from this floor. but i ran up a fourth just on the chance, and there in a corner was a fire hatchet strapped to the wall. behind that hatchet mrs. kingdon's diamonds might lie snug till evening. i put the ends of my fingers first in the little crack to make sure the little bag wouldn't drop to the floor, and then dived into my pocket and-- and there behind me, stealthily coming up the last turn of the stairs was mr. george moriway! don't you hate a soft-walking man, mag? that cute fellow was cuter than the old major himself, and had followed me every inch of the way. "there's something loose with this hatchet, sir," i said, innocently looking down at him. "oh, there is? what an observing little fellow you are! never mind the hatchet; just tell me what number you were sent to answer." "number?" i repeated, as though i couldn't see why he wanted to know. "why-- ." "not much, my boy-- ." "'scuse me, sir, ain't you mistaken?" he looked at me for full a minute. i stared him straight in the eye. a nasty eye he's got--black and bloodshot and cold and full of suspicion. but it wavered a bit at the end. "i may be," he said slowly, "but not about the number. just you turn around and get down to ." "all right, sir. thank you very much. it might have got me in trouble. the ladies are so particular about having the bells answered quick--" "i guess you'll get in trouble all right," he said and stood watching--from where he stood he could watch me every inch of the way--till i got to , at the end of the hall, mrs. kingdon's door. and the goods still on me, tom, mind that. my, but mrs. kingdon was wrathy when she saw me! "why did they send you?" she cried. "why did you keep me waiting so long? i want a chambermaid. i've rung a dozen times. the whole place is crazy about that old ball to-night, and no one can get decent attention." "can't i do what you want, ma'am?" i just yearned to get inside that door. "no," she snapped. "i don't want a boy to fasten my dress in the back--" "we often do, ma'am," i said softly. "you do? well--" "yes'm." i breathed again. "well--it's indecent. go down and send me a maid." she was just closing the door in my face--and moriway waiting for me to watch me down again. "mrs. kingdon--" "well, what do you want?" "i want to tell you that when i get down to the office they'll search me." she looked at me amazed. "and--and there's something in my pocket i--you wouldn't like them to find." "what in the world--my diamonds! you did take them, you little wretch?" she caught hold of my coat. but lordy! i didn't want to get away a little bit. i let her pull me in, and then i backed up against the door and shut it. "diamonds! oh, no, ma'am. i hope i'm not a thief. but--but it was something you dropped--this." i fished moriway's letter out of my pocket and handed it to her. the poor old lady! being a bell-boy you know just how old ladies really are. this one at evening, after her face had been massaged for an hour, and the manicure girl and the hair-dresser had gone, wasn't so bad. but to-day, with the marks of the morning's tears on her agitated face, with the blood pounding up to her temples where the hair was thin and gray--tom dorgan, if i'm a vain old fool like that when i'm three times as old as i am, just tie a stone around my neck and take me down and drop me into the nearest water, won't you? "you abominable little wretch!" she sobbed. "i suppose you've told everybody in the office." "how could i, ma'am?" "how could you?" she looked up, the tears on her flabby, flushed cheek. "i didn't know myself. i can't read writing--" it was thin, but she wanted to believe it. she could have taken me in her arms, she was so happy. "there! there!" she patted my shoulder and gave me a dollar bill. "i was a bit hasty, nat. it's only a--a little business matter that mr. moriway's attending to for me. we--we'll finish it up this afternoon. i shouldn't like miss kingdon to know of it, because--because i--never like to worry her about business, you know. so don't mention it when she comes to-morrow." "no'm. shall i fasten your dress?" i simply had to stay in that room till i could get rid of those diamonds. with a faded old blush--the nicest thing about her i'd ever seen--she turned her back. "it's dark to-day, ma'am," i coaxed. "would you mind coming nearer the window?" no, she wouldn't mind. she backed up to the corner like a gentle little lamb. while i hooked with one hand, i dropped the little bag where the carpet was still turned up, and with the toe of my shoe spread it flat again. "you're real handy for a boy," she said, pleased. "thank you, ma'am," i answered, pleased myself. moriway was still watching me, of course, when i came out, but i ran downstairs, he following close, and when the major got hold of me, i pulled my pockets inside out like a little man. moriway was there at the time. i knew he wasn't convinced. but he couldn't watch a bell-boy all day long, and the moment i was sure his eyes were off me i was ready to get those diamonds back again. but not a call came all that afternoon from the west side of the house, except the call of those pretty, precious things snug under the carpet calling, calling to me to come and get them and drop bell-boying for good. at last i couldn't stand it any longer. there's only one thing to do when your chance won't come to you; that is, to go to it. at about four o'clock i lit out, climbed to the second story and there--mag, i always was the luckiest girl at the cruelty, wasn't i? well, there was suite all torn up, plumbers and painters in there, and nothing in the world to prevent a boy's skinning through when no one was watching, out of the window and up the fire-escape. just outside of mrs. kingdon's window i lay still a minute. i had seen her and moriway go out together--she all gay with finery, he carrying her bag. the lace curtains in were blowing in the breeze. cautiously i parted them and looked in. everything was lovely. from where i lay i reached down and turned back the flap of the carpet. it was too easy. those darling diamonds seemed just to leap up into my hand. in a moment i had them tucked away in my pants pocket. then down the fire-escape and out through , where i told the painter i'd been to get a toy the boy in had dropped out of the window. but he paid no attention to me. no one did, though i felt those diamonds shining like an x-ray through my very body. i got downstairs and was actually outside the door, almost in the street and off to you, when a girl called me. "here, boy, carry this case," she said. do you know who it was? oh, yes, you do, a dear old friend of mine from philadelphia, a young lady whose taste--well, all right, i'll tell you: it was the girl with the red coat, and the hat with the chinchilla fur. how did they look? oh, fairly well on a blonde! but to my taste the last girl i'd seen in the coat and hat was handsomer. well, i carried her suit-case and followed her back into the hotel. i didn't want to a bit, though that coat still--wonder how she got it back! she sailed up the hall and into the elevator, and i had to follow. we got of at the third story, and she brought me right to the door of . and then i knew this must be evelyn. "mrs. kingdon's out, miss. she didn't expect you till to-morrow." "did she tell you that? too bad she isn't at home! she said she'd be kept busy all day to-day with a business matter, and that i'd better not get here till to-morrow. but i--" "wanted to get here in time for the wedding?" i suggested softly. you should have seen her jump. "wedding! not--" "mrs. kingdon and mr. moriway." she turned white. "has that man followed her here? quick, tell me. has she actually married him?" "no--not yet. it's for five o'clock at the church on the corner." "how do you know?" she turned on me, suddenly suspicious. "well--i do know. and i'm the only person in the house that does." "i don't believe you." she took out her key and opened the door, and i followed her in with the suit-case. but before i could get it set down on the floor, she had swooped on a letter that was lying in the middle of the table, had torn it open, and then with a cry had come whirling toward me. "where is this church? come, help me to get to it before five and i'll--oh, you shall have anything in the world you want!" she flew out into the hall, i after her. and first thing you know we were down in the street, around the corner, and there in front of the church was a carriage with moriway just helping mrs. kingdon out. "mother!" at that cry the old lady's knees seemed to crumble under her. her poor old painted face looked out ghastly and ashamed from her wedding finery. but evelyn in her red coat flew to her and took her in her arms as though she was a child. and like a child, mrs. kingdon sobbed and made excuses and begged to be forgiven. i looked at moriway. it was all the pay i wanted--particularly as i had those little diamonds. "you're just in time, miss kingdon," he said uneasily, "to make your mother happy by your presence at her wedding." "i'm just in time, mr. moriway, to see that my mother's not made unhappy by your presence." "evelyn!" mrs. kingdon remonstrated. "come, sarah." moriway offered his arm. the bride shook her head. "to-morrow," she said feebly. moriway breathed a swear. miss kingdon laughed. "i've come to take care of you, you silly little mother, dear.... it won't be to-morrow, mr. moriway." "no--not to-morrow--next week," sighed mrs. kingdon. "in fact, mother's changed her mind, mr. moriway. she thinks it ungenerous to accept such a sacrifice from a man who might be her son--don't you, mother?" "well, perhaps, george--" she looked up from her daughter's shoulder--she was crying all over that precious red coat of mine--and her eyes lit on me. "oh--you wicked boy, you told a lie!" she gasped. "you did read my letter." i laughed; laughed out loud, it was such a bully thing to watch moriway's face. but that was an unlucky laugh of mine; it turned his wrath on me. he made a dive toward me. i ducked and ran. oh, how i ran! but if he hadn't slipped on the curb he'd have had me. as he fell, though, he let out a yell. "stop thief! stop thief! thief! thief! thief!" may you never hear it, mag, behind you when you've somebody else's diamonds in your pocket. it sounds--it sounds the way the bay of the hounds must sound to the hare. it seems to fly along with the air; at the same time to be behind you, at your side, even in front of you. i heard it bellowed in a dozen different voices, and every now and then i could hear moriway as i pelted on--that brassy, cruel bellow of his that made my heart sick. and then all at once i heard a policeman's whistle. that whistle was like a signal--i saw the gates of the correction open before me. i saw your nance, tom, in a neat striped dress, and she was behind bars--bars--bars! there were bars everywhere before me. in fact, i felt them against my very hands, for in my mad race i had shot up a blind alley--a street that ended in a garden behind an iron fence. i grabbed the diamonds to throw them from me, but i couldn't--i just couldn't! i jumped the fence where the gate was low, and with that whistle flying shrill and shriller after me i ran to the house. i might have jumped from the frying-pan? of course, i might. but it was all fire to me. to be caught at the end is at least no worse than to be caught at the beginning. anyhow, it was my one chance, and i took it as unhesitatingly as a rat takes a leap into a trap to escape a terrier. only--only, it was my luck that the trap wasn't set! the room was empty. i pushed open a glass door, and fell over an open trunk that stood beside it. it bruised my knee and tore my hand, but oh!--it was nuts to me. for it was a woman's trunk filled with women's things. a skirt! a blessed skirt! and not a striped one. i threw off the bell-boy's jacket and i got into that dear dress so quick it made my head swim. the jacket was a bit tight but i didn't button it, and i'd just got a stiff little hat perched on my head when i heard the tramp of men on the sidewalk, and in the dusk saw the cop's buttons at the gate. caught? not much. not yet. i threw open the glass doors and walked out into the garden. "miss--omar--i wonder if it would be miss omar?" you bet i didn't take time to see who it was talking before i answered. of course i was miss omar. i was miss anybody that had a right to wear skirts and be inside those blessed gates. "ah--h! i fancied you might be. i've been expecting you." it was a lazy, low voice with a laugh in it, and it came from a wheeled chair, where a young man lay. sallow he was and slim and long, and helpless--you could see that by his white hanging hands. but his voice--it was what a woman's voice would be if she were a man. it made you perk up and pretend to be somewhere near its level. it fitted his soft, black clothes and his fine, clean face. it meant silks and velvets and-- oh, all right, tommy dorgan, if you're going to get jealous of a voice! "excuse me, mr. latimer." the cop came in as he spoke, moriway following; the rest of the hounds hung about. "there's a thieving bell-boy from the hotel that's somewhere in your grounds. can i come in and get him?" "in here, sergeant? aren't you mistaken?" "no; mr. moriway here saw him jump the gate not five minutes since." "strange, and i here all the time! i may have dozed of, though. certainly--certainly. look for the little rascal. what's he stolen? diamonds! tut! tut! enterprising, isn't he? ... miss omar, won't you kindly reach the bell yonder--no, on the table; that's it--and ring for some one to take the officer about?" i rang. do you know what happened? an electric light strung on the tree above the table shone out, and there i stood under it with moriway's eyes full upon me. "great--!" he began. "just ring again--" mr. latimer's voice came soft as silk. my fingers trembled so, the bell clattered out of them and fell jangling to the ground. but it rang. and the light above me went out like magic. i fell back into a garden chair. "i beg your pardon, mr.--was moriway the name?--i must have interrupted you, but my eyes are troubling me this evening, and i can't bear the light. miss omar, i thought the housekeeper had instructed you: one ring means lights, two mean i want burnett. here he comes... burnett, take sergeant mulhill through the place. he's looking for a thief. you will accompany the sergeant, mr.--moriway?" "thank you--no. if you don't mind, i'll wait out here." that meant me. i moved toward the gate. "not at all. have a seat. miss omar, sit down, won't you?" i sat down. "miss omar reads to me, mr. moriway. i'm an invalid, as you see, dependent on the good offices of my man. i find a woman's voice a soothing change." "it must be. particularly if the voice is pleasing. miss omar--i didn't quite catch the name--" he waited. but miss omar had nothing to say that minute. "yes, that's the name. you've got it all right," said latimer. "an uncommon name, isn't it?" "i don't think i ever heard it before. do you know, miss omar, as i heard your voice just before we got to the gate, it sounded singularly boyish to me." "mr. latimer does not find it so--do you?" i said as sweet--as sweet as i could coax. how sweet's that, tom dorgan? "not at all." a little laugh came from latimer as though he was enjoying a joke all by himself. but moriway jumped with satisfaction. he knew the voice all right. "have you a brother, may i ask?" he leaned over and looked keenly at me. "i am an orphan," i said sadly, "with no relatives." "a pitiful position," sneered moriway. "you look so much like a boy i know that--" "do you really think so?" so awfully polite was latimer to such a rat as moriway. why? well, wait. "i can't agree with you. do you know, i find miss omar very feminine. of course, short hair--" "her hair is short, then!" "typhoid," i murmured. "too bad!" moriway sneered. "yes," i snapped. "i thought it was at the time. my hair was very heavy and long, and i had a chance to sit in a window at troyon's where they were advertising a hair tonic and--" rotten? of course it was. i'd no business to gabble, and just because you and your new job, mag, came to my mind at that minute, there i went putting my foot in it. moriway laughed. i didn't like the sound of his laugh. "your reader is versatile, mr. latimer," he said. "yes." latimer smoothed the soft silk rug that lay over him. "poverty and that sort of versatility are often bedfellows, eh?... tell me, mr. moriway, these lost diamonds are yours?" "no. they belong to a--a friend of mine, mrs. kingdon." "oh! the old lady who was married this afternoon to a young fortune-hunter!" i couldn't resist it. moriway jumped out of his seat. "she was not married," he stuttered. "she--" "changed her mind? how sensible of her! did she find out what a crook the fellow was? what was his name--morrison? no--middleway--i have heard it." "may i ask, miss omar"--i didn't have to see his face; his voice told how mad with rage he was--"how you come to be acquainted with a matter that only the contracting parties could possibly know of?" "why, they can't have kept it very secret, the old lady and the young rascal who was after her money, for you see we both knew of it; and i wasn't the bride and you certainly weren't the groom, were you?" an exclamation burst from him. "mr. latimer," he stormed, "may i see you a moment alone?" phew! that meant me. but i got up just the same. "just keep your seat, miss omar." oh, that silken voice of latimer's! "mr. moriway, i have absolutely no acquaintance with you. i never saw you till to-night. i can't imagine what you may have to say to me, that my secretary--miss omar acts in that capacity--may not hear." "i want to say," burst from moriway, "that she looks the image of the boy nat, who stole mrs. kingdon's diamonds, that the voice is exactly the same, that--" "but you have said it, mr. moriway--quite successfully intimated it, i assure you." "she knows of my--of mrs. kingdon's marriage, that that boy nat found out about." "and you yourself also, as miss omar mentioned." "myself? damn it, i'm moriway, the man she was going to marry. why shouldn't i--" "ah--h!" latimer's shoulders shook with a gentle laugh. "well, mr. moriway, gentlemen don't swear in my garden. particularly when ladies are present. shall we say good evening? here comes mulhill now.... nothing, sergeant? too bad the rogue escaped, but you'll catch him. they may get away from you, but they never stay long, do they? good evening--good evening, mr. moriway." they tramped on and out, moriway's very back showing his rage. he whispered something to the sergeant, who turned to look at me but shook his head, and the gate clanged after them. a long sigh escaped me. "warm, isn't it?" latimer leaned forward. "now, would you mind ringing again, miss omar?" i bent and groped for the bell and rang it twice. "how quick you are to learn!" he said. "but i really wanted the light this time.... just light up, burnett," he called to the man, who had come out on the porch. the electric bulb flashed out again just over my head. latimer turned and looked at me. when i couldn't bear it any longer, i looked defiantly up at him. "pardon," he said, smiling; nice teeth he has and clear eyes. "i was just looking for that boyish resemblance mr. moriway spoke of. i hold to my first opinion--you're very feminine, miss omar. will you read to me now, if you please?" he pointed to a big open book on the table beside his couch. "i think--if you don't mind, mr. latimer, i'll begin the reading to-morrow." i got up to go. i was through with that garden now. "but i do mind!" silken voice? not a bit of it! i turned on him so furious i thought i didn't care what came of it--when over by the great gate-post i saw a man crouching--moriway. i sat down again and pulled the book farther toward the light. we didn't learn much poetry at the cruelty, did we, mag? but i know some now, just the same. when i began to read i heard only one word--moriway--moriway--moriway. but i must have--forgotten him after a time, and the dark garden with the light on only one spot, and the roses smelling, and latimer lying perfectly still, his face turned toward me, for i was reading--listen, i bet i can remember that part of it if i say it slow-- oh, thou, who man of baser earth didst make, and ev'n with paradise devise the snake: for all the sin wherewith the face of man is blacken'd--man's forgiveness give--and take! --when all at once mr. latimer put his hand on the book. i looked up with a start. the shadow by the gate was gone. yon rising moon that looks for us again-- how oft hereafter will she wax and wane; how oft hereafter rising look for us through this same garden--and for one in vain! latimer was saying it without the book and with a queer smile that made me feel i hadn't quite caught on. "thank you, that will do," he went on. "that is enough, miss--" he stopped. i waited. he did not say "omar." i looked him square in the eye--and then i had enough. "but what in the devil did you make believe for?" i asked. he smiled. "if ever you come to lie on your back day and night, year in and year out, and know that never in your life will it be any different, you may take pleasure in a bit of excitement and--and learn to pity the under dog, who, in this case, happened to be a boy that leaped over the gate as though his heart was in his mouth. just as you would admire the nerve of the young lady that came out of the house a few minutes after in your housekeeper's sunday gown." yes, grin, torn dorgan. you won't grin long. i put down the book and got up to go. "good night, then, and thank you, mr. latimer." "good night.... oh, miss--" he didn't say "omar"--"there is a favor you might do me." "sure!" i wondered what it could be. "those diamonds. i've got to have them, you know, to send them back to their owner. i don't mind helping a--a person who helps himself to other people's things, but i can't let him get away with his plunder without being that kind of person myself. so--" why didn't i lie? because there are some people you don't lie to, tom dorgan. don't talk to me, you bully, i'm savage enough. to have rings and pins and ear-rings, a whole bagful of diamonds, and to haul 'em out of your pocket and lay 'em on the table there before him! "i wonder," he said slowly, as he put them away in his own pocket, "what a man like me could do for a girl like you?" "reform her!" i snarled. "show her how to get diamonds honestly." say, tom, let's go in for bigger game. iii. oh, mag, mag, for heaven's sake, let me talk to you! no, don't say anything. you must let me tell you. no--don't call the other girls. i can't bear to tell this to anybody but you. you know how i kicked when tom hit on latimer's as the place we were to scuttle. and the harder i kicked the stubborner he got, till he swore he'd do the job without me if i wouldn't come along. well--this is the rest of it. the house, you know, stands at the end of the street. if you could walk through the garden with the iron fence you'd come right down the bluff on to the docks and out into east river. tom and i came up to it from the docks last night. it was dark and wet, you remember. the mud was thick on my trousers--nance olden's a boy every time when it comes to doing business. "we'll blow it all in, tom," i said, as we climbed. "we'll spend a week at the waldorf, and then, tom dorgan, we'll go to paris. i want a red coat and hat with chinchilla, like that dear one i lost, and a low-neck satin gown, and a silk petticoat with lace, and a chain with rhinestones, and--" "just wait, sis, till you get out of this. and keep still." "i can't. i'm so fidgety i must talk or i'll shriek." "well, you'll shut up just the same. do you hear me?" i shut up, but my teeth chattered so that tom stopped at the gate. "look here, nance, are you going to flunk? say it now--yes or no." that made me mad. "tom dorgan," i said, "i'll bet your own teeth chattered the first time you went in for a thing like this. i'm all right. you'll squeal before i do." "that's more like. here's the gate. it's locked. come, nance." with a good, strong swing he boosted me over, handed me the bag of tools and sprang over himself.... he looked kind o' handsome and fine, my tom, as he lit square and light on his feet beside me. and because he did, i put my arm in his and gave it a squeeze. oh, mag, it was so funny, going through latimer's garden! there was the garden table where i had sat reading and thinking he took me for miss omar. there was the bench where that beast moriway sat sneering at me. the wheeled chair was gone. and it was so late everything looked asleep. but something was left behind that made me think i heard latimer's slow, silken voice, and made me feel cheap--turned inside out like an empty pocket--a dirty, ragged pocket with a seam in it. "you'll stay here, nancy, and watch," tom whispered. "you'll whistle once if a cop comes inside the gate, but not before he's inside the gate. don't whistle too soon--mind that--nor too loud. i'll hear ye all right. and i'll whistle just once if--anything happens. then you run--hear me? run like the devil--" "tommy--" "well, what?" "nothing--all right." i wanted to say good-by--but you know tom. mag, were you ever where you oughtn't to be at midnight--alone? no, i know you weren't. 'twas your ugly little face and your hair that saved you--the red hair we used to guy so at the cruelty. i can see you now--a freckle-faced, thin little devil, with the tangled hair to the very edge of your ragged skirt, yanked in that first day to the cruelty when the neighbors complained your crying wouldn't let 'em sleep nights. the old woman had just locked you in there, hadn't she, to starve when she lit out. mothers are queer, ain't they, when they are queer. i never remember mine. yes, i'll go on. i stood it all right for a time, out there alone in the night. but i never was one to wait patiently. i can't wait--it isn't in me. but there i had to stand and just--god!--just wait. if i hadn't waited so hard at the very first i wouldn't 'a' given out so soon. but i stood so still and listened so terribly hard that the trees began to whisper and the bushes to crack and creep. i heard things in my head and ears that weren't sounding anywhere else. and all of a sudden--tramp, tramp, tramp--i heard the cop's footsteps. he stopped over there by the swinging electric light above the gate. i crouched down behind the iron bench. and my coat caught a twig on a bush and its crack--ck was like a yell. i thought i'd die. i thought i'd scream. i thought i'd run. i thought i'd faint. but i didn't--for there, asleep on a rug that some one had forgotten to take in, was the house cat. i gave her a quick slap, and she flew out and across the path like a flash. the cop watched her, his hand on the gate, and passed on. mag monahan, if tom had come out that minute without a bean and gone home with me, i'd been so relieved i'd never have tried again. but he didn't come. nothing happened. nights and nights and nights went by, and the stillness began to sound again. my throat went choking mad. i began to shiver, and i reached for the rug the cat had lain on. funny, how some things strike you! this was latimer's rug. i had noticed it that evening--a warm, soft, mottled green that looked like silk and fur mixed. i could see the way his long, white hands looked on it, and as i touched it i could hear his voice-- oh, thou, who man of baser earth didst make, and ev'n with paradise devise the snake: for all the sin wherewith the face of man is blacken'd--man's forgiveness give--and take! ever hear a man like that say a thing like that? no? well, it's--it's different. it's as if the river had spoken--or a tree--it's so--it's so different. that saved me--that verse that i remembered. i said it over and over and over again to myself. i fitted it to the ferry whistles on the bay--to the cop's steps as they passed again--to the roar of the l-train and the jangling of the surface cars. and right in the middle of it--every drop of blood in my body seemed to leak out of me, and then come rushing back to my head--i heard tom's whistle. oh, it's easy to say "run," and i really meant it when i promised tom. but you see i hadn't heard that whistle then. when it came, it changed everything. it set the devil in me loose. i felt as if the world was tearing something of mine away from me. stand for it? not nance olden. i did run--but it was toward the house. that whistle may have meant "go!" to me it yelled "come!" i got in through the window tom had left open. the place was still quiet. nobody inside had heard that whistle so far as i could tell. i crept along--the carpets were thick and soft and silky as the rug i'd had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm. along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were thick with books, i was making for a light i could see at the back of the house. that's where tom dorgan must be and where i must be to find out--to know. with my hands out in front of me i hurried, but softly, and just as i had reached the portieres below which the light streamed, my arms closed about a thing--cold as marble, naked--i thought it was a dead body upright there, and with a cry, i pitched forward through the curtains into the lighted room. "nance!--you devil!" you recognize it? yep, it was tom. big tom dorgan, at the foot of latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and latimer's gun aimed right at his heart. think of the pluck of that cripple, will you? his eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves again on tom. but his voice went straight at me, all right. "you are something of a thankless devil, i must admit, miss--omar," he said. i didn't say anything. you don't say things in answer to things like that. you feel 'em. ashamed? what do i care for a man with a voice like that! ... but you should have heard how tom's growl sounded after it. "why the hell didn't you light out?" "i couldn't, tom. i just--couldn't," i sobbed. "there seems invariably to be a misunderstanding of signals where miss omar is concerned. also a disposition to use strong language in the lady's presence. don't you, young man!" "don't you call me miss omar!" i blazed, stamping my foot. he laughed a contemptuous laugh. i could have killed him then, i hated him so. at least, i thought i could; but just then tom sent a spark out of the corner of his eye to me that meant--it meant-- you know, mag, what it would have meant to latimer if i had done what tom's eye said. i thought at first i had done it--it passed through my mind so quick; the sweet words i'd say--the move i'd make--the quick knocking-up of the pistol, and then-- it was that--that sight of tom, big tom dorgan, with rage in his heart and death in his hand, leaping on that cripple's body--it made me sick! i stood there gasping--stood a moment too long. for the curtains were pushed aside, and burnett, latimer's servant, and the cop came in. tom didn't fight; he's no fool to waste himself. but i--well, never mind about me. i caught a glimpse of a crazy white face on a boy's body in the great glass opposite and heard my own voice break into something i'd never heard before. tom stood at last with the handcuffs on. "it's your own fault, you damned little chump!" he said to me, as they went out. you lie, mag monahan, he's no such thing! he may be a hard man to live with, but he's mine--my tom--my tom! what? latimer? well, do you know, it's funny about him. he'd told the cop that i'd peached--peached on tom! so they went off without me. why? that's what he said himself when we were alone. "in order to insure for myself another of your most interesting visits, i suppose, miss--not omar? all right.... tell me, can i do nothing for you? aren't you sick of this sort of life?" "get tom out of jail." he shook his head. "i'm too good a friend of yours to do you such a turn." "i don't want any friend that isn't tom's." he threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat looking at me. "in heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?" "what's that to you?" i turned to go. "to me? things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me--me, that 'luckless pot he marr'd in making.' but, tell me--can a girl like you tell the truth? what made you hesitate when that fellow told you with his eyes to murder me?" "how did you know?" "how? the glass. see over yonder. i could watch every expression on both your faces. what was it--what was it, child, that made you--oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me the truth!" "you've said it yourself." "what?" "that line we read the other night about 'the luckless pot'." his face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. the strenuous life we'd been leading him, tom and i, was too much for him, i guess. do you know, i really felt sorry i'd said it. but he is a cripple. did he expect me to say he was big and strong and dashing--like tom? i left him there and got out and away. but do you know what i saw, mag, beside his bed, just as burnett came to put me out? my old blue coat with the buttons--the bell-boy's coat i'd left in the housekeeper's room when i borrowed her sunday rig. the coat was hanging over a chair, and right by it, on a table, was that big book with a picture covering every page, still open at that verse about through this same garden--and for one in vain! iv. no--no--no! no more whining from nance olden. listen to what i've got to tell you, mag, listen! you know where i was coming from yesterday when i passed troyon's window and grinned up at you, sitting there, framed in bottles of hair tonic, with all that red wig of yours streaming about you? yep, from that little, rat-eyed lawyer's office. i was glum as mud. i felt as though tom and myself were both flies caught by the leg--he by the law and i by the lawyer--in a sticky mess; and the more we flapped our wings and struggled and pulled, the more we hurt and tore ourselves, and the sooner we'd have to give it up. oh, that wizen-faced little lawyer that lives on the tom dorgans and the nance oldens, who don't know which way to turn to get the money! he looks at me out of his red little eyes and measures in dollars what i'd do for tom. and then he sets his price a notch higher than that. when i passed the big department store, next to troyon's, i was thinking of this, and i turned in there, just aching for some of the boodle that flaunts itself in a poor girl's face when she's desperate, from every silk and satin rag, from every lace and jewel in the place. the funny part of it is that i didn't want it for myself, but for tom. 'pon my soul, mag, though i would have filled my arms with everything i saw, i wouldn't have put on one thing of all the duds; just hiked off to soak 'em and pay the lawyer. i might have been as old and ugly and rich as the yellow-skinned woman opposite me, who was turning over laces on the middle counter, for all these things meant to me--with tom in jail. i was thinking this as i looked at her, when all at once i saw-- you know it takes a pretty quick touch, sharp eyes and good nerve to get away with the goods in a big shop like that. or it takes something altogether different. it was the different way she did it. she took up the piece of lace--it was a big collar, fine like a cobweb picture in threads,--you can guess what it must have been worth if that old sinner, mother douty, gave me fifteen dollars for it. she took it up in a quick, eager way, as though she'd found just what she wanted. then she took out a lace sample from her gold-linked purse and held them both up close to her blinky little eyes, looking at it through a gold lorgnette with emeralds in the handle; pulling it and feeling it with the air of one who knows a fine thing when she sees it, and just what makes it fine. then she rustled off to the door to examine it closely in the light, and--mag monahan, she walked right out with it! at least, she'd got beyond the inner doors when i tapped her on the shoulder. "i beg pardon, madam." my best style, mag. she pulled herself up haughtily and blinked at me. she was a little, thin mummy of a woman, just wrapped away in silks and velvets, but on the inside of that nervous, little old body of hers there must have been some spring of good material that wasn't all unwound yet. she stood blinking at me without a word. "that lace. you haven't paid for it," i said. her short-sighted eyes fell from my face to the collar she held in her hand. her yellow face grew ghastly. "oh, mercy! you--you don't--" "i am a detective for the store, and--" "but--" "sh! we don't like any noise made about these things, and you yourself wouldn't enjoy--" "do you know who i am, young woman?" she fumbled in her satchel and passed a card to me. glory be! guess, mag. oh, you'd never guess, you dear old mag! besides, you haven't got the acquaintance in high society that nance olden can boast. +--------------------------------+ | mrs. mills d. van wagenen | +--------------------------------+ oh--mag! shame on you not to know the name even of the bishop of the great state of--yes, the lean, short little bishop with a little white beard, and the softest eye and the softest heart and--my very own bishop, nancy olden's bishop. and this was his wife. tut--tut, mag! of course not. a bishop's wife may be a kleptomaniac; it's only cruelty girls that really steal from stores. "i've met the bishop, mrs. van wagenen." i didn't say how--she wouldn't appreciate that story. "and he was once very kind to me. but he would be the first to tell me to do my duty now. i'll do it as quietly as i can for his sake. but you must come with me or i must arrest--" she put up a shaking hand. dear little old guy! "don't--don't say it! it's all a mistake, which can be rectified in a moment. i've been trying to match this piece of lace for years. i got it at malta when--when mills and i--on our honeymoon. when i saw it there on the counter i was so delighted--i never thought--i intended taking it to the light to be sure the pattern was the same, my eyesight is so wretched--and when you spoke to me it was the first inkling i had that i had really taken it without paying! you certainly understand," she pleaded in agitation. "i have no need to steal--you must know that--oh, that i wouldn't--that--i couldn't--if you will just let me pay you--" here now, mag monahan, don't you get to sneering. she was straight--right on the level, all right. you couldn't listen to that cracked little voice of hers a minute without being sure of it. i was just about to permit her graciously to pay me the money,--for my friend? the dear bishop's sake, of course,--when a big floor-walker happened to catch sight of us. "if you'll come with me, mrs. van wagenen, to a dressing-room, i'll arrange your collar for you," i said very loud. and then, in a whisper: "of course, i understand, but the thing may look different to other people. and that big floor-walker there gets a commission from the newspapers every time he tells them--" she gave a squawk for all the world like a dried-up little hen scuttling out of a yellow dog's way, and we took the elevator to the second floor. the minute i closed the door of the little fitting-room she held out the lace to me. "i have changed my mind," she said, "and shall give you the lace back. i will not keep it. i can not--i can not bear the sight of it. it terrifies me and shocks me. i can take no pleasure in it. besides--besides, it will be discipline for me to do without it now that i have found it after all these years. every day i shall look at the place in my collection which it would have occupied, and i shall say to myself: 'maria van wagenen, take warning. see to what terrible straits a worldly passion may bring one; what unconscious greed may do!' i shall give the money to mills for charity and i will never--never fill that place in my collection." "what good will that do?" i asked, puzzled, while i folded the collar up into a very small package. "you mean that i ought to submit to the exposure--that i deserve the lesson and the punishment--not for stealing, but for being absorbed in worldly things. perhaps you are right. it certainly shows that you have at some time been under mills' spiritual care, my dear. i wonder if he would insist--whether i ought--yes, i suppose he would. oh!" a saleswoman's head was thrust in the door. "excuse me," she said, "i thought the room was empty." "we've just finished trying on," i said sweetly. "don't go!" the bishop's wife turned to her, her little fluttering hands held out appealingly. "and do not misunderstand me. the thing may seem wrong in your eyes, as this young woman says, but if you will listen patiently to my explanations i am sure you will see that it was a mere eager over-sight--the fault of absent-mindedness, hardly the sin of covetousness, and surely not a crime. i am making this confession--" the tender conscience of the dear, blameless little soul! she was actually giving herself away. worse--she was giving me away, too. but i couldn't stand that. i saw the saleswoman's puzzled face--she was a tall woman with a big bust, big hips and the big head all right, and she wore her long-train black rig for all the world like a cruelty girl who had stolen the matron's skirt to "play lady" in. i got behind little mrs. bishop, and looking out over her head, i tapped my forehead significantly. the saleswoman tumbled. that was all right. but so did the bishop's wife; for she turned and caught me at it. "you shall not save me from myself and what i deserve," she cried. "i am perfectly sane and you know it, and you are doing me no favor in trying to create the contrary impression. i demand an--" "an interview with the manager," i interrupted. "i'm sure mrs. van wagenen can see the manager. just go with the lady, mrs. van wagenen, and i'll follow with the goods." she did it meek as a lamb, talking all the time, but never beginning at the beginning--luckily for me. so that i had time to slip from one dressing-room to the next, with the lace up my sleeve, out to the elevator, and down into the street. d'ye know what heaven must be, mag? a place where you always get away with the swag, and where it's always just the minute after you've made a killing. cocky? well, i should say i was. i was drunk enough with success to take big chances. and just while i was wishing for something really big to tackle, it came along in the shape of that big floor-walker! he was without a hat, and his eyes looked fifty ways at once. but you've got to look fifty-one if you want to catch nance olden. i ran up the stairs of the first flat-house and rang the bell. and as i sailed up in the elevator i saw the big floor-walker hurry past; he'd lost the scent. the boy let me off at the top floor, and after the elevator had gone down i walked up to the roof. it was fine 'way up there, so still and high, with the lights coming out down in the town. and i took out my pretty lace collar and put it around my neck, wishing i could keep it and wishing that i had, at least, a glass to see myself in it just once, when my eye caught the window of the next house. it would do for a mirror all right, for the dark green shade was down. but at sight of the shade blowing in the wind i forgot all about the collar. it's this way, mag, when they press you too far; and that little rat of a lawyer had got me most to the wall. i looked at the window, measuring the little climb it would be for me to get to it,--the house next door was just one story higher than the one where i was, so its top story was on a level with the roof nearly where i stood. and i made up my--mind to get what would let tom off easy, or break into jail myself. and so i didn't care much what i might fall into through that window. and perhaps because i didn't care, i slipped into a dark hall, and not a thing stirred; not a footstep creaked. i felt like the princess--princess nancy olden--come to wake the sleeping beauty; some dude it'd be that would have curly hair like tom dorgan's, and would wear clothes like my friend latimer's, over in brooklyn. can you see me there, standing on one leg like a stork, ready to lie or to fly at the first sound? well, the first sound didn't come. neither did the second. in fact, none of 'em came unless i made 'em myself. softly as molly goes when the baby's just dropped off to sleep, i walked toward an open door. it was a parlor, smelly with tobacco, and with lots of papers and books around. and nary a he-beauty--nor any other kind. i tried the door of a room next to it. a bedroom. but no beauty. silly! don't you tumble yet? it was a bachelor's apartment, and the bachelor beauty was out, and princess nancy had the place all to herself. i suppose i really ought to have left my card--or he wouldn't know who had waked him--but i hadn't intended to go calling when i left home. so i thought i'd look for one of his as a souvenir--and anything else of his i could make use of. there were shirts i'd liked for tom, dandy colored ones, and suits with checks in 'em and without. but i wanted something easy and small and flat, made of crackly printed yellow or green paper, with numbers on it. how did i know he had anything like that? why, mag, mag monahan, one would think you belonged to the bishop's set, you're so simple! i had to turn on the electric light after a bit--it got so dark. and i don't like light in other people's houses when they're not at home, and neither am i. but there was nothing in the bedroom except some pearl studs. i got those and then went back to the parlor. the desk caught my eye. oh, mag, it had the loveliest pictures on it--pictures of swell actresses and dancers. it was mahogany, with lots of little drawers and two curvy side boxes. i pulled open all the drawers. they were full of papers all right, but they were printed, cut from newspapers, and all about theaters. "you can't feed things like this, nance, to that shark of a lawyer," i said to myself, pushing the box on the side impatiently. and then i giggled outright. why? just 'cause--i had pushed that side box till it swung aside on hinges i didn't know about, and there, in a little secret nest, was a pile of those same crisp, crinkly paper things i'd been looking for. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- ! three hundred and ten dollars, mag monahan. three hundred and ten, and nance olden! "glory be!" i whispered. "glory be damned!" i heard behind me. i turned. the bills just leaked out of my hand on to the floor. the bachelor beauty had come home, mag, and nabbed the poor princess, instead of her catching him napping. he wasn't a beauty either--a big, stout fellow with a black mustache. his hand on my shoulder held me tight, but the look in his eyes behind his glasses held me tighter. i threw out my arms over the desk and hid my face. caught! nancy olden, with her hands dripping, and not a lie in her smart mouth! he picked up the bills i had dropped, counted them and put them in his pocket. then he unhooked a telephone and lifted the stand from his desk. "hello! spring --please. hello! chief's office? this is obermuller, standard theater. i want an officer to take charge of a thief i've caught in my apartments here at the bronsonia. yes, right on the corner. hold him till you come? well--rather!" he put down the 'phone. i pulled the pearl studs out of my pocket. "you might as well take these, too," i said. "so thoughtful of you, seeing that you'd be searched! but i'll take 'em, anyway. you intended them for--him? you didn't get anything else?" i shook my head as i lay there. "hum!" it was half a laugh, and half a sneer. i hated him for it, as he sat leaning back on the back legs of his chair, his thumbs in his arm-holes. i felt his eyes--those smart, keen eyes, burning into my miserable head. i thought of the lawyer and the deal he'd give poor tom, and all at once-- you'd have sniffled yourself, mag monahan. there i was--caught. the cop'd be after me in five minutes. with tom jugged, and me in stripes--it wasn't very jolly, and i lost my nerve. "ashamed--huh?" he said lightly. i nodded. i was ashamed. "pity you didn't get ashamed before you broke in here." "what the devil was there to be ashamed of?" the sting in his voice had cured me. i never was a weeper. i sat up, my face blazing, and stared at him. he'd got me to hand over to the cop, but he hadn't got me to sneer at. i saw by the look he gave me, that he hadn't really seen me till then. "well," he answered, "what the devil is there to be ashamed of now?" "of being caught--that's what." "oh!" he tilted back again on his chair and laughed softly. "then you're not ashamed of your profession?" "are you of yours?" "well--there's a slight difference." "not much, whatever it may be. it's your graft--it's everybody's--to take all he can get, and keep out of jail. that's mine, too." "but you see i keep out of jail." "i see you're not there--yet." "oh, i think you needn't worry about that. i'll keep out, thank you; imprisonment for debt don't go nowadays." "debt?" "i'm a theatrical manager, my girl, and i'm not on the inside: which is another way of saying that a man who can't swim has fallen overboard." "and when you do go down--" "a little less exultation, my dear, or i might suppose you'd be glad when i do." "well, when you know yourself going down for the last time, do you mean to tell me you won't grasp at a straw like--like this?" i nodded toward the open window, and the desk with all its papers tumbling out. "not much." he shook his head, and bit the end of a cigar with sharp, white teeth. "it's a fool graft. i'm self-respecting. and i don't admire fools." he lit his cigar and puffed a minute, taking out his watch to look at it, as cold-bloodedly as though we were waiting, he and i, to go to supper together. oh, how i hated him! "honesty isn't the best policy," he went on; "it's the only one. the vain fool that gets it into his head--or shall i say her head? no? well, no offense, i assure you--his head then, that he's smarter than a world full of experience, ought to be put in jail--for his own protection; he's too big a jay to be left out of doors. for five thousand years, more or less, the world has been putting people like him behind bars, where they can't make asses of themselves. yet each year, and every day and every hour, a new ninny is born who fancies he's cleverer than all his predecessors put together. talk about suckers! why, they're giants of intellect compared to the mentally lop-sided that five thousand years of experience can't teach. when the criminal-clown's turn comes, he hops, skips and jumps into the ring with the old, old gag. he thinks it's new, because he himself is so fresh and green. 'here i am again,' he yells, 'the fellow that'll do you up. others have tried it. they're dead in jail or under jail-yards. but me--just watch me!' we do, and after a little we put him with his mates and a keeper in a barred kindergarten where fools that can't learn, little moral cripples of both sexes, my dear, belong. bah!" he puffed out the smoke, throwing his head back, in a cloud toward the ceiling. i sprang from my seat and faced him. i was tingling all through. i didn't care a rap what became of me for just that minute. i forgot about tom. i prayed that the cop wouldn't come for a minute yet--but only that i might answer him. "you're mighty smart, ain't you? you can sit back here and sneer at me, can't you? and feel so big and smart and triumphant! what've you done but catch a girl at her first bungling job! it makes you feel awfully cocky, don't it? 'what a big man am i!' bah!" i blew the smoke up toward the ceiling from my mouth, with just that satisfied gall that he had had; or rather, i pretended to. he let down the front legs of his chair and began to stare at me. "and you don't know it all, mr. manager, not you. your clown-criminal don't jump into the ring because he's so full of fun he can't stay out. he goes in for the same reason the real clown does--because he gets hungry and thirsty and sleepy and tired like other men, and he's got to fill his stomach and cover his back and get a place to sleep. and it's because your kind gets too much, that my kind gets so little it has to piece it out with this sort of thing. no, you don't know it quite all. "there's a girl named nancy olden that could tell you a lot, smart as you are. she could show you the inside of the cruelty, where she was put so young she never knew that children had mothers and fathers, till a red-haired girl named mag monahan told her; and then she was mighty glad she hadn't any. she thought that all little girls were bloodless and dirty, and all little boys were filthy and had black purple marks where their fathers had tried to gouge out their eyes. she thought all women were like the matron who came with a visitor up to the bare room, where we played without toys--the new, dirty, newly-bruised ones of us, and the old, clean, healing ones of us--and said, 'here, chicks, is a lady who's come to see you. tell her how happy you are here.' then mag's freckled little face, her finger in her mouth, looked up like this. she was always afraid it might be her mother come for her. and the crippled boy jerked himself this way--i used to mimic him, and he'd laugh with the rest of them--over the bare floor. he always hoped for a penny. sometimes he even got it. "and the boy with the gouged eye--he would hold his pants up like this. he had just come in, and there was nothing to fit him. and he'd put his other hand over his bad eye and blink up at her like this. and the littlest boy--oh, ha! ha! ha!--you ought have seen that littlest boy. he was in skirts, an old dress they'd given me to wear the first day i came; there were no pants small enough for him. he'd back up into the corner and hide his face--like this--and peep over his shoulder; he had a squint that way, that made his face so funny. see, it makes you laugh yourself. but his body--my god!--it was blue with welts! and me--i'd put the baby down that'd been left on the door-steps of the cruelty, and i'd waltz up to the lady, the nice, patronizing, rich lady, with her handkerchief to her nose and her lorgnette to her eyes--see, like this. i knew just what graft would work her. i knew what she wanted there. i'd learned. so i'd make her a curtsy like this, and in the piousest sing-song i'd--" there was a heavy step out in the hall--it was the policeman! i'd forgot while i was talking. i was back--back in the empty garret, at the top of the cruelty. i could smell the smell of the poor, the dirty, weak, sick poor. i could taste the porridge in the thick little bowls, like those in the bear story molly tells her kid. i could hear the stifled sobs that wise, poor children give--quiet ones, so they'll not be beaten again. i could feel the night, when strange, deserted, tortured babies lie for the first time, each in his small white cot, the new ones waking the old with their cries in a nightmare of what had happened before they got to the cruelty. i could see the world barred over, as i saw it first through the cruelty's barred windows, and as i must see it again, now that-- "you see, you don't know it quite all--yet, mr. manager!" i spat it out at him, and then walked to the cop, my hands ready for the bracelets. "but there's one thing i do know!" he's a big fellow but quick on his feet, and in a minute he was up and between me and the cop. "and there isn't a theatrical man in all america that knows it quicker than fred obermuller, that can detect it sooner and develop it better. and you've got it, girl, you've got it! ... officer, take this for your trouble. i couldn't hold the fellow, after all. never mind which way he went; i'll call up the office and explain." he shut the door after the cop, and came back to me. i had fallen into a chair. my knees were weak, and i was trembling all over. "have you seen the playlet charity at the vaudeville?" he roared at me. i shook my head. "well, it's a scene in a foundling asylum. here's a pass. go up now and see it. if you hurry you'll get there just in time for that act. then if you come to me at the office in the morning at ten, i'll give you a chance as one of the charity girls. do you want it?" god, mag! do i want it! v. do you remember lady patronesses' day at the cruelty, mag? remember how the place smelt of cleaning ammonia on the bare floors? remember the black dresses we all wore, and the white aprons with the little bibs, and the oily sweetness of the matron, and how our faces shone and tingled from the soap and the rubbing? remember it all? well, who'd 'a' thought then that nance olden ever would make use of it--on the level, too! drop the cruelty, and tell you about the stage? why, it's bare boards back there, bare as the cruelty, but oh, there's something that you don't see, but you feel it--something magic that makes you want to pinch yourself to be sure you're awake. i go round there just doped with it; my face, if you could see it, must look like molly's kid's when she is telling him fairy stories. i love it, mag! i love it! and what do i do? that's what i was trying to tell you about the cruelty for. it's in a little act that was made for lady gray, that there are four charity girls on the stage, and i'm one of 'em. lady gray? why, mag, how can you ever hope to get on if you don't know who's who? how can you expect me to associate with you if you're so ignorant? yes--a real lady, as real as the wife of a lord can be. lord harold gray's a sure enough lord, and she's his wife but--but a chippy, just the same; that's what she is, in spite of the gray emeralds and that great gray rose diamond she wears on the tiniest chain around her scraggy neck. do you know, mag monahan, that this lady harold gray was just a chorus girl--and a sweet chorus it must have been if she sang there!--when she nabbed lord harold? you'd better keep your eye on nancy olden, or first thing you know she'll marry the czar of russia--or tom dorgan, poor fellow, when he gets out! ... well, just the same, mag, if that white-faced, scrawny little creature can be a lady, a girl with ten times her brains, and at least half a dozen times her good looks--oh, we're not shy on the stage, mag, about throwing bouquets at ourselves! can she act? don't be silly, mag! can't you see that obermuller's just hiring her title and playing it in big letters on the bills for all it's worth? she acts the lady patroness, come to look at us charity girls. she comes on, though, looking like a fairy princess. her dress is just blazing with diamonds. there's the lady's coronet in her hair. her thin little arms are banded with gold and diamonds, and on her neck--o mag, mag, that rose diamond is the color of rose-leaves in a fountain's jet through which the sun is shining. it's long--long as my thumb--i swear it is, mag--nearly, and it blazes, oh, it blazes-- well, it blazes dollars into obermuller's box all right, for the gray jewels are advertised in the bill with this one at the head of the list, the star of them all. you see it's this way: lord harold gray's bankrupt. he's poor as--as nance olden. isn't that funny? but he's got the family jewels all right, to have as long as he lives. nary a one can he sell, though, for after his death, they go to the next lord gray. so he makes 'em make a living for him, and as they can't go on and exhibit themselves, lady gray sports 'em--and draws down two hundred dollars a week. yep--two hundred. but do you know it isn't the two hundred dollars a week that makes me envy her till i'm sick; it's that rose diamond. if you could only see it, mag, you'd sympathize with me, and understand why my fingers just itched for it the first night i saw her come on. 'pon my soul, mag, the sight of it blazing on her neck dazzled me so that it shut out all the staring audience that first night, and i even forgot to have stage fright. "what's doped you, olden?" obermuller asked when the curtain went down, and we all hurried to the wings. i was in the black dress with the white-bibbed apron, and i looked up at him still dazed by the shine of that diamond and my longing for it. you'd almost kill with your own hands for a diamond like that, mag! "doped? why--what didn't i do?" i asked him. "that's just it," he said, looking at me curiously; but i could feel his disappointment in me. "you didn't do anything--not a blasted thing more than you were told to do. the world's full of supers that can do that." for just a minute i forgot the diamond. "then--it's a mistake? you were wrong and--and i can't be an actress?" he threw back his head before he answered, puffing a mouthful of smoke up at the ceiling, as he did the night he caught me. the gesture itself seemed to remind him of what had made him think in the first place he could make an actress of me. for he laughed down at me, and i saw he remembered. "well," he said, "we'll wait and see... i was mistaken, though, sure enough, about one thing that night." i looked up at him. "you're a darn sight prettier than i thought you were. the gold brick you sold me isn't all--" he put out his hand to touch my chin. i side-stepped, and he turned laughing to the stage. but he called after me. "is a beauty success going to content you, olden?" "well, we'll wait and see," i drawled back at him in his own throaty bass. oh, i was drunk, mag, drunk with thinking about that diamond! i didn't care even to please obermuller. i just wanted the feel of that diamond in my hand. i wanted it lying on my own neck--the lovely, cool, shining, rosy thing. it's like the sunrise, mag, that beauty stone. it's just a tiny pool of water blushing. it's-- how to get it! how to get away with it! on what we'd get for that diamond, tom and i--when his time is up--could live for all our lives and whoop it up besides. we could live in paris, where great grafters live and grafting pays--where, if you've got wit and fifty thousand dollars, and happen to be a "darn sight prettier," you can just spin the world around your little finger! but, do you know, even then i couldn't bear to think of selling the pretty thing? it hurt me to think of anybody having it but just nance olden. but i hadn't got it yet. gray has a dressing-room to herself. and on her table--which is a big box, open end down--just where the three-sided big mirror can multiply the jewels and make you want 'em three times as bad, her big russia-leather, silver-mounted box lies open, while she's dressing and undressing. other times it's locked tight, and his lordship himself has it tight in his own right hand, or his lordship's man, topham, has it just as tight. how to get that diamond! there was a hard nut for nance olden's sharp teeth to crack. i only wanted that--never say i'm greedy, mag--gray could keep all the rest of the things--the pigeon in rubies and pearls, the tiara all in diamonds, the chain of pearls, and the blazing rings, and the waist-trimming all of emeralds and diamond stars. but that diamond, that huge rose diamond, i couldn't, i just couldn't let her have it. and yet i didn't know the first step to take toward getting it, till beryl blackburn helped me out. she's one of the charities, like me--a tall bleached blonde with a pretty, pale face and gold-gray eyes. and, if you'd believe her, there's not a man in the audience, afternoon or evening, that isn't dead-gone on her. "guess who's my latest," she said to me this afternoon, while we four charities stood in the wings waiting. "topham--old topham!" it all got clear to me then in a minute. "topham--nothing!" i sneered. "beryl big-head, topham thinks of only one thing--milady's jewel-box. don't you fool yourself." "oh, does he, miss! well, just to prove it, he let me try on the rose diamond last night. there!" "it's easy to say so but i don't see the proof. he'd lose his job so quick it'd make his head spin if he did it." "not if he did, but if they knew he did. you'll not tell?" "not me. why would i? i don't believe it, and i wouldn't expect anybody else to. i don't believe you could get topham to budge from his chair in gray's dressing-room if you'd--" "what'll you bet?" "i'll bet you the biggest box of chocolate creams at huyler's." "done! i'll send for him to-night, just before gray and her lord come, and you see--" "how'll i see? where'll i be?" "well, you be waiting in the little hall, right of gray's dressing-room at seven-thirty to-night and--you might as well bring the creams with you." catch on, mag? at seven-thirty in the evening i was waiting; but not in the little hall of gray's dressing-room. i hadn't gone home at all after the afternoon performance--you know we play at three, and again at eight-thirty. i had just hidden me away till the rest were gone, and as soon as the coast was clear i got into gray's dressing-room, pushed aside the chintz curtains of the big box that makes her dressing-table--and waited. lord, how the hours dragged! i hadn't had anything to eat since lunch, and it got darker and darker in there, and hot and close and cramped. i put in the time, much as i could, thinking of tom. the very first thing i'd do after cashing in, would be to get up to sing sing to see him. i'm crazy to see him. i'd tell him the news and see if he couldn't bribe a guard, or plan some scheme with me to get out soon. afraid--me? what of? if they found me under that box i'd just give 'em the beryl story about the bet. how do you know they wouldn't believe it? ... oh, i don't care, you've got to take chances, mag monahan, if you go in for big things. and this was big--huge. do you know how much that diamond's worth? and do you know how to spend fifty thousand? i spent it all there--in the box--every penny of it. when i got tired spending money i dozed a bit and, in my dream, spent it over again. and then i waked and tried to fancy new ways of getting rid of it, but my head ached, and my back ached, and my whole body was so strained and cramped that i was on the point of giving it all up when--that blessed old topham came in. he set the big box down with a bang that nearly cracked my head. he turned on the lights, and stood whistling tommy atkins. and then suddenly there came a soft call, "topham! topham!" i leaned back and bit my fingers till i knew i wouldn't shriek. the englishman listened a minute. then the call came again, and topham creaked to the door and out. in a twinkling i was out, too, you bet. mag! he hadn't opened the box at all! there it stood in the middle of the space framed by the three glasses. i pulled at the lid. locked! i could have screamed with rage. but the sound of his step outside the door sobered me. he was coming back. in a frantic hurry i turned toward the window which i had unlocked when i came in four hours ago. but i hadn't time to make it. i heard the old fellow's hand on the door, and i tumbled back into the box in such a rush that the curtains were still waving when he came in. slowly he began to place the jewels, one by one, in the order her ladyship puts them on. we charity girls had often watched him from the door--he never let one of us put a foot inside. he was method and order itself. he never changed the order in which he lifted the glittering things out, nor the places he put them back in. i put my hand up against the top of the box, tracing the spot where each piece would be lying. think, mag, just half an inch between me and quarter of a million! oh, i was sore as i lay there! and i wasn't so cock-sure either that i'd get out of it straight. i tried the beryl story lots of ways on myself, but somehow, every time i fancied myself telling it to obermuller, it got tangled up and lay dumb and heavy inside of me. but at least it would be better to appear of my own will before the old englishman than be discovered by lord gray and his lady. i had my fingers on the curtains, and in another second i'd been out when-- "miss beryl blackburn's compliments, mr. topham, and would you step to the door, as there's something most important she wants to tell you." oh, i loved every syllable that call-boy spoke! there was a giggle behind his voice, too; old topham was the butt of every joke. the first call, which had fooled me, must have been from some giddy girl who wanted to guy the old fellow. she had fooled me all right. but this--this one was the real article. there was a pause--topham must be looking about to be sure things were safe. then he creaked to the door and shut it carefully behind him. it only took a minute, but in that minute--in that minute, mag, i had the rose diamond clutched safe in my fingers; i was on the top of the big trunk and out of the window. oh, the feel of that beautiful thing in my hand! i'd 'a' loved it if it hadn't been worth a penny, but as it was i adored it. i slipped the chain under my collar, and the diamond slid down my neck, and i felt its kiss on my skin. i flew down the black corridor, bumping into scenery and nearly tripping two stage carpenters. i heard ginger, the call-boy, ahead of me and dodged behind some properties just in time. he went whistling past and i got to the stage door. i pulled it open tenderly, cautiously, and turned to shut it after me. and-- and something held it open in spite of me. no--no, mag, it wasn't a man. it was a memory. it rose up there and hit me right over the heart--the memory of nancy olden's happiness the first time she'd come in this very door, feeling that she actually had a right to use a stage: entrance, feeling that she belonged, she--nancy--to this wonderland of the stage! you must never tell tom, mag, promise! he wouldn't see. he couldn't understand. i couldn't make him know what i felt any more than i'd dare tell him what i did. i shut the door. but not behind me. i shut it on the street and--mag, i shut for ever another door, too; the old door that opens out on crooked street. with my hand on my heart, that was beating as though it would burst, i flew back again through the black corridor, through the wings and out to obermuller's office. with both my hands i ripped open the neck of my dress, and, pulling the chain with that great diamond hanging to it, i broke it with a tug, and threw the whole thing down on the desk in front of him. "for god's sake!" i yelled. "don't make it so easy for me to steal!" i don't know what happened for a minute. i could see his face change half a dozen ways in as many seconds. he took it up in his fingers at last. it swung there at the end of the slender little broken chain like a great drop of shining water, blushing and sparkling and trembling. his hands trembled, too, and he looked up at last from the diamond to my face. "it's worth at least fifty thousand, you know--valued at that." i didn't answer. he got up and came over to where i had thrown myself on a bench. "what's the matter, olden? don't i pay you enough?" "i want to see tom," i begged. "it's so long since he--he's up at--at--in the country." "sing sing?" i nodded. "you poor little devil!" that finished me. i'm not used to being pitied. i sobbed and sobbed as though some dam had broken inside of me. you see, mag, i knew in that minute that i'd been afraid, deathly afraid of fred obermuller's face, when it's scornful and sarcastic, and of his voice, when it cuts the flesh of self-conceit off your very bones. and the contrast--well, it was too much for me. but something came quick to sober me. it was gray. she stormed in, followed by lord harold and topham, and half the company. "the diamond, the rose diamond!" she shrieked. "it's gone! and the carpenters say that new girl olden came flying from the direction of my dressing-room. i'll hold you responsible--" "hush-sh!" obermuller lifted his hands and nodded over toward me. "olden!" she squealed. "grab her, topham. i'll bet she stole that diamond, and she can't have got rid of it yet." topham jumped toward me, but obermuller stopped him. "you'd win only half your bet, my lady," obermuller said softly. "she did get hold of the gray rose, worth fifty thousand dollars, in spite of all your precautions--" the world seemed to fall away from me. i looked up at him. i couldn't believe he'd go back on me. "--and she brought it straight to me, as i had asked her to, and promised to raise her salary if she'd win out. for i knew that unless i proved to you it could be stolen, you'd never agree to hire a detective to watch those things, which will get us all into trouble some day. here! scoot out o' this. it's nearly time for your number." he passed the diamond over to her, and they all left the office. so did i; but he held out his hand as i passed. "it goes--that about a raise for you, olden. now earn it." isn't he white, mag--white clean through, that big fellow obermuller? vi. i got into the train, mag, the happiest girl in all the country. i'd a big basket of things for tom. i was got up in my sunday best, for i wanted to make a hit with some fellow with a key up there, who'd make things soft and easy for my tommy. i had so much to tell him. i knew just how i'd take off every member of the company to amuse him. i had memorized every joke i'd heard since i'd got behind the curtain--not very hard for me; things always had a way of sticking in my mind. i knew the newest songs in town, and the choruses of all the old ones. i could show him the latest tricks with cards--i'd got those at first hand from professor haughwout. you know how great tom is on tricks. i could explain the disappearing woman mystery, and the mirror cabinet. i knew the clog dance that dewitt and daniels do. i had pictures of the trained seals, the great elephant act, mademoiselle picotte doing her great tight-rope dance, and the brothers borodini in their pyramid tumbling. yes, it was a whole vaudeville show, with refreshments between the acts, that i was taking up to tom dorgan. i don't care much for a lot of that truck--funny, isn't it, how you get to turn up your nose at the things you'd have given a finger for once upon a time? but tom--oh, i'd got everything pat for him--my big, handsome tom dorgan in stripes--with his curls all shaved off--ugh! i'd got just so far in my thoughts, sitting there in the train, when i gave a shiver. i thought for a minute it was at the idea of my tom with one of those bare, round convict-heads on him, that look like fat skeleton faces. but it wasn't. it was-- guess, mag. moriway. both of us thought the same thing of each other for the first second that our eyes met. i could see that. he thought i was caught at last. and i thought he'd been sharp once too often. and, mag, it would be hard to say which of us would have been happier if it had been the truth. oh, to meet moriway, bound sure enough for sing sing! he got up and came over to me, smiling wickedly. he took the seat behind me, and leaning forward, said softly: "is miss omar engaged to read to some invalid up at sing sing? and for how long a term--i should say, engagement?" i'd got through shivering by then. i was ready for him. i turned and looked at him in that very polite, distant sort o' way gray uses in her act when the charity superintendent speaks to her. it's the only decent thing she does; chances are that that's how lord gray's mother looks at her. "you know my sister, mr.--mr.--" i asked humbly. he looked at me, perplexed for just a second. "sister be hanged!" he said at last. "i know you, nat, and i'm glad to my finger-tips that you've got it in the neck, in spite of all your smartness." "you're altogether wrong, sir," i said very stately, but hurt a bit, you know. "i've often been taken for my sister, but gentlemen usually apologize when i explain to them. it's hard enough to have a sister who--" i looked up at him tearfully, with my chin a-wabble with sorrow. he grinned. "liars should have good memories," he sneered. "miss omar said she was an orphan, you remember, and had not a relative in the world." "did she say that? did nora say that?" i exclaimed piteously. "oh, what a little liar she is! i suppose she thought it made her more interesting to be so alone, more appealing to kind-hearted gentlemen like yourself. i hope she wasn't ungrateful to you, too, as she was to that kind mr. latimer, before he found her out. and she had such a good position there, too!" i wanted to look at him, oh, i wanted to! but it was my role to sit there with downcast eyes, just--the picture of holy grief. i was the good one--the good, shocked sister, and though i wasn't a bit afraid of anything he could do to me, or any game he could put up, i yearned to make him believe me--just because he was so suspicious, so wickedly smart, so sure he was on. but his very silence sort of told me he almost believed, or that he was laying a trap. "will you tell me," he said, "how you--your sister got latimer to lie for her?" "mr. latimer--lie! oh, you don't know him. he expected a lady to read to him that very evening. he had never seen her, and when nora walked into the garden--" "after getting a skirt somewhere." "yes--the housekeeper's, it happened to be her evening out--why, he just naturally supposed nora was miss omar." "ah! then her name isn't omar. what might it be?" "i'd rather not tell--if you don't mind." "but when latimer found out she had the diamonds--he did find out?" "she confessed to him. nora's not really so bad a girl as--" "very interesting! but it doesn't happen to be latimer's version. and you say latimer wouldn't lie." i got pale--but the paleness was on the inside of me. think i was going to flinch before a chump like moriway, even if i had walked straight into his trap? "it isn't?" i exclaimed. "no. latimer's note to mrs. kingdon said the diamonds were found in the bell-boy's jacket the thief had left behind him." "well! it only shows what a bad habit lying is. nora must have fibbed to me, for the pure pleasure of fibbing. i'll never dare to trust her again. do you believe then that she didn't have anything to do with the hotel robbery? i do hope so. it's one less sin on her wicked head. it's hard, having such a girl in the family!" oh, wasn't i grieved! he looked me straight in the eye. i looked at him. i was unutterably sad about that tough sister of mine, and i vow i looked holy then, though i never did before and may never again. "well, i only saw her in the twilight," he said slowly, watching my face all the time. "you two sisters are certainly miraculously alike." the train was slowing down, and i got up with my basket. i stood right before him, my full face turned toward him. "are we?" i asked simply. "don't you think it's more the expression than anything else, and the voice? nora's really much fairer than i am. good-by." he watched me as i went out. i felt his eyes on the back of my jacket, and i was tempted to turn at the door and make a face at him. but i knew something better and safer than that. i waited till the train was just pulling out, and then, standing below his window, i motioned to him to raise it. he did. "i thought you were going to get out here," i called. "are you sure you don't belong in sing sing, mr. moriway?" i can see his face yet, mag, and every time i think of it, it makes me nearly die of laughing. he had actually been fooled another time. it was worth the trip up there, to make a guy of him once more. and whether it was or not, mag, it was all i got, after all. for--would you believe tom dorgan would turn out such a sorehead? he's kicked up such a row ever since he got there, that it's the dark cell for him, and solitary confinement. think of it--for tom! i begged, i bluffed, i cried, i coaxed, but many's the nance olden that has played her game against the rules of sing sing, and lost. they wouldn't even let me leave the things for him, or give him a message from me. and back to the station i had to carry the basket, and all the schemes i had to make old tom dorgan grin. all the way back i had him in my mind. he's a tiger--tom--when he's roused. i could see him, shut up there by himself, with not a soul to talk to, with not a human eye to look into, with not a thing on earth to do--tom, who's action itself! he never was much of a thinker, and i never saw him read even a newspaper. what would he do to kill the time? can't you see him there, at bay, back on his haunches, cursing and cursed, alone in the everlasting black silence? i saw nothing else. wherever i turned my eyes, that terrible picture was before me. and always it was just on the verge of becoming something else--something worse. he could throttle the world with his bare hands, if it had but one neck, in the mood he must be in now. it was when i couldn't bear it a moment longer that i set my mind to find something else to think of. i found it, mag. do you know what it was? it was just three words--of obermuller's: "earn it now." after all, miss monahan, this graft of honesty they all preach so much about hasn't anything mysterious in it. all it is, is putting your wits to work according to the rules of the game and not against them. i was driven to it--the thought of big tom crouching for a spring in the dark cell up yonder sent me whirling out into the thinking place, like the picture of the soul in the big book at latimer's i read out of. and first thing you know, 'pon honor, mag, it was as much fun planning how to "earn it now" as any lifting i ever schemed. it's getting the best of people that always charmed me--and here was a way to fool 'em according to law. so busy i was making it all up, that the train pulled into the station before i knew it. i gave a last thought to that poor old hyena of a tom, and then put him out of my mind. i had other fish to fry. straight down to mother douty i went with my basket. "a fool girl, mother, on her way up to sing sing, lost her basket, and nance olden found it; it ought to be worth a good deal." she grinned. you couldn't make old douty believe that the lord himself wouldn't steal if he got a chance. and she knows the chances that come butting up against nancy olden. why did i lie to her? not for practice, i assure you. she'd have beaten me down to the last cent if she thought it was mine, but she always thinks there'll be a find for her in something that's stolen. so i let her think i'd stolen it in the railway station, and we came to terms. with what she gave me i bought a wig. mag, i want you some day, when you can get off, to come and see that wig. i shouldn't wonder but you'd recognize it. it's red, of very coarse hair, but a wonderful color, and so long it--yes, it might be your own, mag monahan, it's so much like it. i went to the theater and got my charity rig, took it home, and sat for hours there just looking at 'em both. when evening came i was ready to "earn it now." you see, obermuller had given me the whole day to be away, and neither gray nor the other three charities expected me back. i had to do it on the sly, you sassy mag! yes, it was partly because i love to cheat, but more because i was bound to have my chance once whether anybody else enjoyed it or not. i came to the theater in my charity rig and the wig. it looked as if i'd slept in it, and it came down to the draggled hem of the skirt. all the way there i walked like you, mag. once, when a newsboy grinned at me and shouted "carrots!" i grinned back--your own, old cruelty grin, mag. i vow i felt so much like you--as you used to be--that when i lurched out on the stage at last, stumbling over my shoe laces and trying to push the hair out of my eyes, you'd have sworn it was little mag monahan i making her debut in the cruelty room. oh, mag, mag, you darling mag! did you ever hear a whole house, a great big theater full of a peevish vaudeville audience, just rise at you, give one roar of laughter they hadn't expected at all to give, and then settle down to giggle at every move you made? girl alive, i just had 'em! they couldn't take their eyes off me. if i squirmed, they howled. if i stood on one foot, scratching the torn leg of my stocking with the other--you know, mag!--they yelled. if i grinned, they just roared. oh, mag, can't you see? don't you understand? i was it. the center of the stage i carried round with me--it was just nancy olden. and for ten minutes nancy had nothing to do but to play with 'em. 'pon my life, mag, it's just like stealing; the old graft exactly; it's so fascinating, so busy, and risky, except that they play the game with you and pay you and love you to fool 'em. when the curtain fell it was different. grays followed by the charities, all clean and spick-and-span and--not in it; not even on the edge of it--stormed up to obermuller standing at the wings. "i'll quit the show here and now," she squawked. "it's a shame, a beastly shame. how dare you play me such a trick, fred obermuller? i never was treated so in my life--to have that dirty little wretch come tumbling on like that, without even so much as your telling me you'd made up all this new business for her! it's indecent, anyway. why, i lost my cue. there was a gap for a full minute. the whole act was such a ghastly failure that i--" "that you'd better go out now and make your prettiest bow, gray. phew! listen to the house roar. that's what i call applause. go on now." she went. me? i didn't say a word. i looked at obermuller and--and i just did like this. yes, winked, mag monahan. i was so crazily happy i had to, didn't i? but do you know what he did? do you know what he did? well, i suppose i am screaming and the troyons will put me out, but--he just--winked--back! and then gray came trailing back into the wings, and the shrieking and thumping and whistling out in front just went on--and on--and on--and on. um! i just listened and loved it--every thump of it. and i stood there like a demure little kitten; or more like mag monahan after she'd had a good licking, and was good and quiet. and i never so much as budged till obermuller said: "well, nance, you have earned it. the gall of you! but it only proves that fred obermuller never yet bought a gold brick. only, let me in on your racket next time. there, go on--take it. it's yours." oh, to have fred obermuller say things like that to you! he gave me a bit of a push. 'twas just a love-pat. i stumbled out on to the stage. vii. and that's why, marguerite de monahan, i want you to buy in with the madam here. let 'em keep on calling it troyon's as much as they want, but you're to be a partner on the money i'll give you. if this fairy story lasts, it'll be your own, mag--a sort of commission you get on my take-off of you. but if anything happens to the world--if it should go crazy, or get sane, and not love nancy olden any more, why, here'll be a place for me, too. does it look that way? divil a bit, you croaker! it looks--it looks--listen and i'll tell you how it looks. it looks as though gray and the great gray rose diamond and the three charities had all become a bit of background for nance olden to play upon. it looks as though the audience likes the sound of my voice as much almost as i do myself; anyway, as much as it does the sight of me. it looks as though the press, if you please, had discovered a new stage star, for down comes a little reporter to interview me--me, nancy olden! think of that, mag! i receive him all in my charity rig, and in obermuller's office, and he asks me silly questions and i tell him a lot of nonsense, but some truths, too, about the cruelty. fancy, he didn't know what the cruelty was! s. p. c. c., he calls it. and all the time we talked a long-haired german artist he had brought with him was sketching nance olden in different poses. isn't that the limit? what d'ye think tom dorgan'd say to see half a page of nancy olden in the x-ray? wouldn't his eyes pop? poor old tom! ... no danger--they won't let him have the papers.... my old tommy! what is it, mag? oh, what was i saying? yes--yes, how it looks. well, it looks as though the trust--yes, the big and mighty t. t.--short for theatrical trust, you innocent--had heard of that same nance olden you read about in the papers. for one night last week, when i'd just come of and the house was yelling and shouting behind me, obermuller meets me in the wings and trots me of to his private office. "what for?" i asked him on the way. "you'll find out in a minute. come on." i pulled up my stocking and followed. you know i wear it in that act without a garter, and it's always coming down the way yours used to, mag. even when it doesn't come down i pull it up, i'm so in the habit of doing it. a little bit of a man, bald-headed, with a dyspeptic little black mustache turned down at the corners, watched me come in. he grinned at my make-up, and then at me. "clever little girl," he says through his nose. "how much do you stick obermuller for?" "clever little man," say i, bold as brass and through my own nose; "none of your business." "hi--you, olden!" roared obermuller, as though i'd run away and he was trying to get the bit from between my teeth. "answer the gentleman prettily. don't you know a representative of the mighty t. t. when you see him? can't you see the syndicate aureole about his noble brow? this gentleman, nance, is the great and only max tausig. he humbleth the exalted and uplifteth the lowly--or, if there's more money in it, he gives to him that hath and steals from him that hasn't, but would mighty well like to have. he has no conscience, no bowels, no heart. but he has got tin and nerve and power to beat the band. in short, and for all practical purposes for one in your profession, nancy olden, he's just god. down on your knees and lick his boots--trust gods wear boots, patent leathers--and thank him for permitting it, you lucky baggage!" i looked at the little man; the angry red was just fading from the top of his cocoanut-shaped bald head. "you always were a fool, obermuller," he said cordially. "and you were always over-fond of your low-comedian jokes. if you hadn't been so smart with your tongue, you'd had more friends and not so many enemies in--" "in the heavenly syndicate, eh? well, i have lived without--" "you have lived, but--" "but where do i expect to go when i die? good theatrical managers, nance, when they die as individuals go to heaven--they get into the trust. after that they just touch buttons; the trust does the rest. bad ones--the kickers--the fred obermullers go to--a place where salaries cease from troubling and royalties are at rest. it's a slow place where--where, in short, there's nothing doing. and only one thing's done--the kicker. it's that place mr. tausig thinks i'm bound for. and it's that place he's come to rescue you from, from sheer goodness of heart and a wary eye for all there's in it. cinch him, olden, for all the traffic will bear!" i looked from one to the other--obermuller, big and savage underneath all his gay talk, i knew him well enough to see that; the little man, his mouth turned down at the corners and a sneer in his eye for the fellow that wasn't clever enough to get in with the push. "you must not give the young woman the big head, obermuller. her own is big enough, i'll bet, as it is. i ain't prepared to make any startling offer to a little girl that's just barely got her nose above the wall. the slightest shake might knock her off altogether, or she mightn't have strength enough in herself to hold on. but we'll give her a chance. and because of what it may lead to, if she works hard, because of the opportunities we can give her, there ain't so much in it in a money way as you might imagine." obermuller didn't say anything. his own lips and his own eyes sneered now, and he winked openly at me, which made the little man hot. "blast it!" he twanged. "i mean it. if you've got any notion through my coming down to your dirty little joint that we've set our hearts on having the girl, just get busy thinking something else. she may be worth something to you--measured up against the dubs you've got; but to us--" "to you, it's not so much your not having her as my having her that--" "exactly. it ain't our policy to leave any doubtful cards in the enemy's hands. he can have the bad ones. he couldn't get the good ones. and the doubtful ones, like this girl olden--" "well, that's just where you're mistaken!" obermuller thrust his hands deep in his pockets and put out that square chin of his like the fighter he is. "'this girl olden' is anything but doubtful. she's a big card right now if she could be well handled. and the time isn't so far off when, if you get her, you people will be--" "just how much is your interest in her worth?" the little man sneered. obermuller glared at him, and in the pause i murmured demurely: "only a six-year contract." mag, you should have seen 'em jump--both of 'em; the little man with vexation, the big one with surprise. a contract! me?--nance olden! why, mag, you innocent, of course i hadn't. managers don't give six-year contracts to girl--burglars who've never set foot on the stage. when the little man was gone, obermuller cornered me. "what's your game, olden?" he cried. "you're too deep for me; i throw up my hands. come; what've you got in that smart little head of yours? are you holding out for higher stakes? do you expect him to buy that great six-year contract and divvy the proceeds with me? because he will--when once they get their eye on you, they'll have you; and to turn up your nose at their offer if in just the way to make them itch for you. but how the deuce did you find it out? and where do you get your nerve from, anyway? a little beggar like you to refuse an offer from the t. t. and sit hatching your schemes on your little old 'steen dollars a week! ... it'll have to be twice 'steen, now, i suppose?" "all right, just as you say," i laughed. "but why aren't you in the trust, fred obermuller?" "why aren't you in society, nance?" "um!--well, because society's prejudiced against lifting, but the trust isn't. do you know that's a great graft, mr. obermuller--lifting wholesale? why don't you get in?" "because a trust is a lot of sailors on a raft who keep their places by kicking off the drowning hands that clutch at it. can you fancy a fellow like tausig stooping down to help me tenderly on board to divide the pickings?" "no, but i can fancy you grappling with him till he'd be glad to take you on rather than be pulled off himself." "you'd be in with the push, would you, olden, if you were managing?" he asked with a grin. "i'd be at the top, wherever that was." "then why the deuce didn't you jump at tausig's offer? were you really crafty enough--" "i am artiste, monsieur obermuller," i gutturaled like mademoiselle picotte, who dances on the wire. "i moost have about me those who arre--who arre congeniale--" "you monkey!" he laughed. "then, when tausig comes to buy your contract--" "we'll tell him to go to thunder." he laughed. say, mag, that big fellow is like a boy when he's pleased. i guess that's what makes it such fun to please him. "and i, who admired your business sagacity in holding off, nance!" he said. "i thought you admired my take-off! of mademoiselle picotte." "well?" "well, why don't you make use of it? take me round to the theaters and let me mimic all the swell actors and actresses. i've got more chance with you than with that trust gang. they wouldn't give me room to do my own stunt; they'd make me fit into theirs. but you--" "but me! you think you can wind me round your finger?" "not--yet." he chuckled. i thought i had him going. i saw nance olden spending her evenings at the big broadway theaters, when, just at that minute, ginger, the call-boy, burst in with a note. say, mag, i wouldn't like to get that man obermuller hopping mad at me, and nancy olden's no coward, either. but the way he gritted his teeth at that note and the devil in his eyes when he lifted them from it, made me wonder how i'd ever dared be facetious with him. i got up to go. he'd forgotten me, but he looked up then. "that was a great suggestion of yours, olden, to put lord gray on to act himself--great!" his voice shook, he was so angry. "well!" i snapped. i wasn't going to let him see that a big man raging could bluff nance olden. what did he mean? why--just this: there was lord harold gray, the real lord behind the scenes, bringing the lady who was really only a chorus girl to the show in his automobile; helping her dress like a maid; holding her box of jewels as he tagged after her like a big newfoundland; smoking his one cigarette solemnly and admiringly while she was on the stage; poking after her like a tame bear. he's a funny fellow, that lord harold. he's a tom dorgan, with the brains and the graft and--and the brute, too, mag, washed out of him; a tom dorgan that's been kept dressed in swagger clothes all his life and living at top-notch--a big, clean, handsome, stupid, good-natured, overgrown boy. yes, i'm coming to it. when i'd seen him go tagging after her chippy ladyship behind the scenes long enough, i told obermuller one day that it was absurd to send the mock lady out on the boards and keep the live lord hidden behind. he jumped at the idea, and they rigged up a little act for the two--the lord and the lady. gray was furious when she heard of it--their making use of her lord in such a way--but lord harold just swallowed his big adam's apple with a gulp or two, and said: "'pon honor, it's a blawsted scheme, you know; but i'm jolly sure i'd make a bleddy ass of myself. i cawn't act, you know." the ninny! you know he thinks gray really can. but obermuller explained to him that he needn't act--just be himself out behind the wings, and lo! lord harold was "chawmed." and gray? why, she gave in at last; pretended to, anyway--sliding out of the charity sketch, and rehearsing the thing with him, and all that. and--and do you know what she did, mag? (nance olden may be pretty mean, but she wouldn't do a trick like that.) she waited till ten minutes before time for the thing to be put on and then threw a fit. "she's so ill, her delicate ladyship! so ill she just can't go on this evening! wonder how long she thinks such an excuse will keep lord harold off when i want him on!" growled obermuller, throwing her note over to me. he'd have liked to throw it at me if it'd been heavy enough to hurt; he was so thumping mad. you see, there it was on the program: the clever sketch entitled theatrical aristocracy. the duke of portmanteau .... lord harold gray. the duchess ................ lady gray. the celebrated gray jewels, including the great rose diamond, will be worn by lady gray in this number. * * * * * * * * * * no wonder obermuller was raging. i looked at him. you don't like to tackle a fellow like that when he's dancing hot. and yet you ache to help him and--yes, yourself. "lord harold's here yet, and the jewels?" i asked. he gave a short nod. he was thinking. but so was i. "then all he wants is a lady?" "that's all," he said sarcastically. "well, what's the matter with me?" he gasped. "there's nothing the matter with your nerve, olden." "thank you, so much." it was the way gray says it when she tries to have an english accent. "dress me up, fred obermuller, in gray's new silk gown and the gray jewels, and you'd never--" "i'd never set eyes on you again." "you'd never know, if you were in the audience, that it wasn't gray herself. i can take her off to the life, and if the prompter'll stand by--" he looked at me for a full minute. "try it, olden," he said. i did. i flew to gray's dressing-room. she'd gone home deathly ill, of course. they gave me the best seamstress in the place. she let out the waist a bit and pulled over the lace to cover it. i got into that mass of silk and lace--oh, silk on silk, and nance olden inside! beryl blackburn did my hair, and grace weston put on my slippers. topham, himself, hung me with those gorgeous shining diamonds and pearls and emeralds, till i felt like an idol loaded with booty. there were so many standing round me, rigging me up, that i didn't get a glimpse of the mirror till the second before ginger called me. but in that second--in that second, mag monahan, i saw a fairy with blazing cheeks and shining eyes, with a diamond coronet in her brown hair, puffed high, and pearls on her bare neck and arms, and emeralds over the waist, and rubies and pearls on her fingers, and sprays of diamonds like frost on the lace of her skirt, and diamond buckles on her very slippers, and the rose diamond, like a sun, outshining all the rest; and--and, mag, it was me! how did it go? well, wouldn't it make you think you were a lady, sure enough, if you couldn't move without that lace train billowing after you; without being dazzled with diamond-shine; without a truly lord tagging after you? he kept his head, lord harold did--even if it is a mutton-head. that helped me at first. he was so cold, so stupid, so slow, so good-tempered--so just himself. and after the first plunge-- i tell you, mag monahan, there's one thing that's stronger than wine to a woman--it's being beautiful. oh! and i was beautiful. i knew it before i got that quick hush, with the full applause after it. and because i was beautiful, i got saucy, and then calm, and then i caught fred obermuller's voice--he had taken the book from the prompter and stood there himself--and after that it was easy sailing. he was there yet when the act was over, and i trailed out, followed by my lord. he let the prompt-book fall from his hands and reached them both out to me. i flirted my jeweled fan at him and swept him a courtesy. cool? no, i wasn't. not a bit of it. he was daffy with the sight of me in all that glory, and i knew it. "nance," he whispered, "you wonderful girl, if i didn't know about that little thief up at the bronsonia i'd--i'd marry you alive, just for the fun of piling pretty things on you." "the deuce you would!" i sailed past him, with topham and my lord in my wake. they didn't leave me till they'd stripped me clean. i felt like a christmas tree the day after. but, somehow, i didn't care. viii. is that you, mag? well, it's about time you came home to look after me. fine chaperon you make, miss monahan! why, didn't i tell you the very day we took this flat what a chaperon was, and that you'd have to be mine? imagine nancy olden without a chaperon--shocking! no, 'tisn't late. sit down, maggie, there, and let me get the stool and talk to you. think of us two--cruelty girls, both of us--two mangy kittens deserted by the old cats in a city's alleys, and left mewing with cold and hunger and dirt, out in the wet--think of us two in our own flat, mag! i say, it makes me proud of us! there are times when i look at every stick of furniture we own, and i try to pretend to it all that i'm used to a decent roof over my head, and a dining-room, kitchen, parlor, bedroom and bath. oh, and i forgot the telephone the other tenant left here till its lease is up. but at other times i stand here in the middle of it and cry out to it, in my heart: "look at me, nancy olden, a householder, a rent-payer, the head of the family, even if it's only a family of two and the other one mag! look at me, with my name in the directory, a-paying milk bills and meat bills and bread bills! look at me with a place of my own, where nobody's right's greater than my own; where no one has a right but me and mag; a place where--where there's nothing to hide from the police!" there's the rub, mag, as hamlet says--(i went to see it the other night, so that i could take off the ophelia--she used to be a good mimic herself, before she tried to be a leading lady.) it spoils you, this sense of safeness that goes with the honesty graft. you lose the quickness of the hunter and the nerve of the hunted. and--worse--you lose your taste for the old risky life. you grow proud and fat, and you love every stick in the dear, quiet little place that's your home--your own home. you love it so that you'd be ashamed to sneak round where it could see you--you who'd always walked upright before it with the step of the mistress; with nothing in the world to be ashamed of; nothing to prevent your staring each honest dish-pan in the face! and, mag, you try--if you're me--to fit tom dorgan in here--tom dorgan in stripes and savage sulks still--all these months--kept away from the world, even the world behind bars! maggie, don't you wish tom was a ventriloquist or--or an acrobat or--but this isn't what i had to tell you. do you know what a society entertainer is, miss monahan? no? well, look at me. yes, i'm one. miss nance olden, whose services are worth fifty dollars a night--at least, they were one night. ginger brought me the note that made me a society entertainer. it was from a mrs. paul b. gates, who had been "charmed by your clever impersonations, miss olden, and write to know if you have the leisure to entertain some friends at my house on thursday of this week." had i the leisure--well, rather! i showed the note to gray, just to make her jealous. (oh, yes, she goes on all right in the act with lord harold every night. catch her letting me wear those things of hers twice!) well, she just turned up her nose. "of course, you won't accept?" she said. "of course, i will." "oh! i only thought you'd feel as i should about appearing before a lot of snobs, who'll treat you like a servant and--" "who'll do nothing of the sort and who'll pay you well for it," put in obermuller. he had come up and was reading the note i had handed to him. "you just say yes, nance," he went on, after gray had bounced of to her dressing-room. "it isn't such a bad graft and--and this is just between us two, mind--that little beggar, tausig, has begun his tricks since you turned his offer down. they can make things hot for me, and if they do, it won't be so bad for you to go in for this sort of thing--unless you go over to the trust--" i shook my head. "well, this thing will be an ad for you, besides,--if the papers can be got to notice it. they're coy with their notices, confound them, since tausig let them know that big trust ads don't appear in the same papers that boom anti-trust shows!" "how long are you going to stand it, mr. o?" "just as long as i can't help myself; not a minute longer." "there ought to be a way--some way--" "yes, there ought, but there isn't. they've got things down to a fine point, and the fellow they don't fear has got to fear them.... i'll put your number early to-night, so that you can get off by nine. good luck, nance." at nine, then, behold nancy olden in her white muslin dress, long-sleeved and high-necked, and just to her shoe-tops, with a big white muslin sash around her waist. oh, she's no baby, is nance, but she looks like one in this rig with her short hair--or rather, like a school-girl; which makes the stunts she does in mimicking the corkers of the profession all the more surprising. "we're just a little party," said mrs. paul gates, coming into the bedroom where i was taking of my wraps. "and i'm so glad you could come, for my principal guest, mr. latimer, is an invalid, who used to love the theaters, but hasn't been to one since his attack many years ago. i count on your giving him, in a way, a condensed history in action of what is going on on the stage." i told her i would. but i didn't just know what i was saying. think of latimer there, maggie, and think of our last meeting! it made me tremble. not that i fancied for a moment he'd betray me. the man that helps you twice don't hurt you the third time. no, it wasn't that; it was only that i longed to do well--well before him, so that-- and then i found myself in an alcove off the parlors, separated from them by heavy curtains. it was such a pretty little red bower. right behind me was the red of the turkish drapery of a cozy corner, and just as i took my place under the great chandelier, the servants pulled the curtains apart and the lights went out in the parlors. in that minute i got it, mag--yes, stage fright. got it bad. i suppose it was coming to me, but lordy! i hadn't ever known before what it was. i could see the black of the men's clothes in the long parlors in front of me, and the white of the women's necks and arms. there were soft ends of talk trailing after the first silence, and everything was so strange that i seemed to hear two men's voices which sounded familiar--latimer's silken voice, and another, a heavy, coarse bass, that was the last to be quieted. i fancied that when that last voice should stop i could begin, but all at once my mind seemed to turn a somersault, and, instead of looking out upon them, i seemed to be looking in on myself--to see a white-faced little girl in a white dress, standing alone under a blaze of light in a glare of red, gazing fearfully at this queer, new audience. fail? me? not nancy, maggie. i just took me by the shoulders. "nancy olden, you little thief!" i cried to me inside of me. "how dare you! i'd rather you'd steal the silver on this woman's dressing-table than cheat her out of what she expects and what's coming to her." nance really didn't dare. so she began. the first one was bad. i gave 'em duse's francesca. you've never heard the wailing music in that woman's voice when she says: "there is no escape, smaragdi. you have said it; the shadow is a glass to me, and god lets me be lost." i gave them duse just to show them how swell i was myself; which shows what a ninny i was. the thing the world loves is the opposite of what it is. the pat-pat-pat of their gloves came in to me when i got through. they were too polite to hiss. but it wasn't necessary. i was hissing myself. inside of me there was a long, nasty hiss-ss-ss! i couldn't bear it. i couldn't bear to be a failure with latimer listening, though out there in that queer half-light i couldn't see him at all, but could only make out the couch where i knew he must be lying. i just jumped into something else to retrieve myself. i can do carter's du barry to the queen's taste, maggie. that rotten voice of hers, like mother douty's, but stronger and surer; that rocky old face pretending to look young and beautiful inside that talented red hair of hers; that whining "denny! denny!" she squawks out every other minute. oh, i can do du barry all right! they thought i could, too, those black and white shadows out there on the other side of the velvet curtains. but i cared less for what they thought than for the fact that i had drowned that sputtering hiss-ss-ss inside of me, and that latimer was among them. i gave them warfield, then; i was always good at taking off the sheenies in the alley behind the cruelty--remember? i gave them that little pinch-nosed maude adams, and dry, corking little mrs. fiske, and henry miller when he smooths down his white breeches lovingly and sings sally in our alley, and strutting old mansfield, and-- say, isn't it funny, mag, that i've seen 'em all and know all they can do? they've been my college education, that crowd. not a bad one, either, when you come to think of what i wanted from it. they pulled the curtains down at the end and i went back to the bedroom. i had my hat and jacket on when mrs. gates and some of the younger ladies came to see me there, but i caught no glimpse of latimer. you'd think--wouldn't you--that he'd have made an opportunity to say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft voice of his? i tried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really seen me, lying down, as he must have been, or that he hadn't recognized me, but i knew that i couldn't make myself believe that; and the lack of just that word from him spoiled all my satisfaction with myself, and i walked out with mrs. gates through the hall and past the dining-room feeling as hurt as though i'd deserved that a man like latimer should notice me. the dining-room was all lighted, but empty--the colored, shaded candlesticks glowing down on the cut glass and silver, on delicate china and flowers. the ladies and gentlemen hadn't come out to supper yet; at least, only one was there. he was standing with his back to me, before the sideboard, pouring out a glass of something from a decanter. he turned at the rustle of my starched skirt, and, as i passed the door, he saw me. i saw him, too, and hurried away. yes, i knew him. just you wait. i got home here earlier than i'd expected, and i'd just got off my hat and jacket and put away that snug little check when there came a ring at the bell. i thought it was you, mag--that you'd forgotten your key. i was so sure of it that i pulled the door open wide with a flourish and-- and admitted--edward! yes, edward, husband of the dowager. the same red-faced, big-necked old fellow, husky-voiced with whisky now, just as he was before. he must have been keeping it up steadily ever since the day out in the country when tom lifted his watch. it'll take more than one lost watch to cure edward. "i--followed you home, miss murieson," he said, grabbing me by the hand and pushing the door closed behind him. "or is it miss murieson? which is your stage name, and which your real one? and have you really learned to remember it? for my part, any old name will smell as sweet, now that i'm close to the rose." i jerked my hand away from him. "i didn't ask you to call," i said, haughty as the dowager herself was when first i saw her in her gorgeous parlor, the bishop's card in her hand. "no, i noticed that," he roared jovially. "you skinned out the front door the moment you saw me. all that was left to me was to skin after." "why?" "why!" he slapped his leg as though he'd heard the best joke in the world. "to renew our acquaintance, of course. to ask you if you wouldn't like me to buy you a red coat and hat like the one you left behind you that day over in philadelphia, when you cut your visit so short. to insist upon my privilege of relationship. to call that wink you gave me in the hall that day, you little devil. now, don't look at me like that. i say, let's be friends; won't you?" "not for a red coat trimmed with chinchilla," i cried. he got between me and the door. "prices gone up?" he inquired pleasantly. "who's bulling the stock?" "never you mind, so long as his name isn't ramsay." "but why shouldn't his name be ramsay?" he cooed. "just because it isn't. i'm expecting a friend. hadn't you better go home to mrs. dowager diamonds?" "bully! is that what you call her? no, i'll stay and meet your friend." "better not." "oh, i'm not afraid. does he know as much about you as i do?" "more." "about your weakness for other girls' coats?" "yes." you do know it all, don't you? and yet you care for me, maggie monahan! i retreated before him into the dining-room. what in the world to do to get rid of him! "i think you'd better go home, mr. ramsay," i said again, decidedly. "if you don't, i'll have to call the janitor to put you out." "call, sweetheart. he'll put you out with me; for i'll tell him a thing or two about you, and we'll go and find a better place than this. stock can't be quoted so high, after all, if this is the best prospectus your friend can put up.... why don't you call?" i looked at him. i was thinking. "well?" he demanded. "i've changed my mind." oh, mag, mag, did you ever see the man--ugly as a cannibal he may be and old as the cannibal's great-grandfather--that couldn't be persuaded he was a lady-killer? his manner changed altogether. he plumped down on the lounge and patted the place beside him invitingly, giving me a wink that was deadly. "but, mrs. dowager!" i exclaimed coquettishly. "oh, that's all right, little one! she hasn't even missed me yet. when she's playing bridge she forgets even to be jealous." "playing bridge," i murmured sweetly, "'way off in philadelphia, while you, you naughty man--" oh, he loved that! "not so naughty as--as i'd like to be," he bellowed, heavily witty. "and she isn't 'way off in philadelphia either. she's just round the corner at mrs. gates', and--what's the matter?" "nothing--nothing. did she recognize me?" "oh, that's what scared you, is it? she didn't recognize you. neither did i, till i got that second glimpse of you with your hat and jacket on. but even if she had--ho! ho! ho! i say; do you know, you couldn't convince the bishop and henrietta, if you'd talk till doomsday, that that red coat and hat we advertised weren't taken by a little girl that was daffy. fact; i swear it! they admit you took the coat, you little witch, but it was when you were out of your mind--of course--of course! 'the very fact that she left the coat behind her and took nothing else from the house shows a mind diseased,' insisted henrietta. of course--of course! 'and her coming for no reason at all to your house,' adds the bishop.... say, what was the reason?" maggie, i'll tell you a hard thing: it isn't when people think worse of you than you are, but better, that you feel most uncomfortable. i got pale and sick inside of me at the thought of my poor little bishop. i loved him for believing me straight and-- "i've been dying of curiosity to know what was in your wise little head that day," he went on. "oh, it was wise all right; that wink you gave me was perfectly sane; there was method in that madness of yours." "i will tell you, mr. ramsay," i said sweetly, "at supper." "supper!" "yes, the supper you're going to get for me." his bellowing laughter filled the place. maggie, our little flat and our few things don't go well with sounds like that. "oh, you're all alike, you women!" he roared. "all right, supper it is. where shall we go--rector's?" i pouted. "it's so much more cozy right here," i said. "i'll telephone. there's brophy's, just round the corner, and they send in the loveliest things." "oh, they do! well, tell 'em to begin sending." i thought he'd follow me out in the hall to the 'phone, but he was having some trouble in pulling out his purse--to count out his money, i suppose. i got central and asked for the number. oh, yes, i knew it all right; i had called up that same number once, already, to-day. brophy's? why, maggie monahan, you ought to know there's no brophy's. at least none that i ever heard about. with my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but edward, i ordered a supper fit for a king--or a chorus girl! what didn't i order! champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed pimentoes, kirschkaffee--everything i'd ever heard beryl blackburn tell about. "say, say," interrupted edward, coming out after me. "that's enough of that stuff. tell him to send in a scotch and soda and--what--" for at that moment the connection was made and i cut in sweetly with: "mrs. edward ramsay?--just a minute." mag, you should have seen the man's face! it was red, it was white; it was furious, it was frightened. i put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him then. "i've got her on the 'phone at mrs. gates' house. shall i tell your wife where you are, edward? ... just a moment, mrs. ramsay, hold the wire; some one wants to speak with you." "you little devil!" his voice was thick with rage. "yes, you called me that some time ago, but not in that tone. quick, now--the door or ... waiting, mrs. ramsay?" he moved toward the door. "how'll i know you won't tell her when i'm gone?" he growled. "merely by my saying that i won't," i answered curtly. "you're in no position to dictate terms; i am." but i could, without leaving the 'phone, latch the chain on the door behind him, leaving it half open. so he must have heard the rest. "yes, mrs. ramsay, waiting?" i croaked like the driest kind of hello-girl. "i was mistaken. it was a message left to be delivered to you--not some one wanting to speak with you. who am i? why, this is central. here is the message: 'will be with you in half an hour.' signed 'edward.' ... yes, that's right. thank you. good night." i hung up, gave the door a touch that shut it in his face and went back into the dining-room to throw open the windows. the place smelled of alcohol; the moral atmosphere left behind by that bad old man sickened me. i leaned out and looked at the stars and tried to think of something sweet and wholesome and strengthening. "ah, nance," i cried to myself with a sob--i had pretended to take it lightly enough when he was here, but now--"if you had heard of a girl who, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she had known, and the good man ignored her and the bad one followed her--oh, nancy--what sort of girl would you think she was at heart? what sort of hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? and what sort of significance would you attach to--" and just then the bell rang again. this time i was sure it was you. and, o maggie, i ran to the door eager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. i was afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. i was afraid of the conclusion to which they were leading me. maggie, if ever a girl needed comfort and encouragement and heartening, i did then. and i got it, dear. for there was a man at the door, with a great basket of azaleas--pale, pink earth-stars they are, the sweet, innocent things--and a letter for me. here it is. let me read it to you. "my dear miss omar: once on a time there was a luckless pot, marred in the making, that had the luck to be of service to a pipkin. it was a saucy pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the health and strength the poor pot lacked--physically. morally--morally, that young pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. already its fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. it was unmindful of the treasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that good intact. and it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of baser metal. what the luckless pot did was little--being ignorant of the art by which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly--but it gave the little pipkin a chance. what the pipkin did with that chance the pot learned to-night, with such pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not to share it with her. so while he sent burnett out to the conservatory to cut azaleas, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he felt when, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respecting vessel on exhibition in mrs. gates' red room, he recognized the poor little pipkin of other days. the pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never filled the use for which pots are created. he had little human to interest him. the fate of the pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered on; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality that shone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky. this justification of his faith in the pipkin may seem a small matter to make so much of. and yet the pot--that sleeps not well o' nights, as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night a pretty, pleasant thought due just to this. but do not think the pot an idealist. if he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious vessel--a vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. no, the pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow. o pretty little pipkin, thank the potter, who made you as you are, as you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. for you, be sure, the potter's 'a good fellow and 'twill all be well.' for the pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old luckless pot, or whether he shall return at all, o pipkin, does not matter much. but it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. latimer." * * * * * * * * * * o maggie, maggie, some day i hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the pipkin needed the pot's letter! ix. it's all come so quick, maggie, and it was over so soon that i hardly remember the beginning. nobody on earth could have expected it less than i, when i came off in the afternoon. i don't know what i was thinking of as i came into my dressing-room, that used to be gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him. it may have been that i was chuckling to myself at the thought of nancy olden with a dressing-room all to herself. i can't ever quite get used to that, you know, though i sail around there with all the airs of the leading lady. sometimes i see a twinkle in fred obermuller's eye when i catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of late, but it wasn't-- yes, i'm going to tell you, but--it's rattled me a bit, maggie. i'm so--so sorry, and a little--oh, just a little, little bit glad! i'd slammed the door behind me--the old place is out of repair and the door won't shut except with a bang--and i had just squatted down on the floor to unbutton my high shoes, when i noticed the chintz curtains in front of the high dressing-box waver. they must have moved just like that when i was behind them months--it seems years--ago. but, you see, topham had never served an apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't suspect. "lordy, nancy," i laughed to myself, "some one thinks you've got a rose diamond and--" and at that moment he parted the curtains and came out. yes--tom--tom dorgan. my heart came beating up to my throat and then, just as i thought i should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. i didn't say a word. i sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him. oh, maggie-girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small space, poking his close-cropped black head out like a turtle that's not sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk out and standing over you. he used to be trim--tom--and taut, but in those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and the vest too big for him-- "well," he said, "why don't you say something?" tom's voice--mag, do you remember, the merry irish boy's voice, with its chuckles like a brook gurgling as it runs? no--'tisn't the same voice. it's--it's changed, maggie. it's heavy and--and coarse--and--brutal. that's what it is. it sounds like--like the knout, like-- "nance--what in hell's--" "i think i'm--frightened, tom." "oh, the ladyfied airs of her! ain't you going to faint, miss olden?" i got up. "no--no. sit down, tom. tell me about it. how--how did you get here?" he went to the door, opened it a bit and looked out cautiously. mag--mag--it hurt me--that. why, do you suppose? "you're sure nobody'll come in?" he asked. i turned the key in the lock, forgetting that it didn't really lock. "oh, yes, i'm sure," i said. "why?" "why! you have got slow. just because i didn't say good-by to them fellows up at the pen, and--" "oh! you've escaped!" "that's what. first jail-break in fifteen years. what d'ye think of your tommy, old girl, eh? ain't he the gamest? ain't you proud of him?" my god, mag! proud of him. he didn't know--he couldn't see--himself. he, shut in like a wild beast, couldn't see what this year has done for him. oh, the change--the change in him! my boy tommy, with the gay, gallus manner, and the pretty, jolly brogue, and the laughing mouth under his brown mustache. and this man--his face is old, mag, old--oh!--and hard--and--and tough, cheap and tough. there's something in his eyes now and about his shaven mouth--oh, maggie, maggie! "look here, nance." he caught me by the shoulders, knocking up my chin so that he could look down squarely at me. "what's your graft? what's it to be between us? what've ye been doing all this time? out with it! i want to know." i shook myself free and faced him. "i've been--tom dorgan, i've been to hear the greatest actors and actresses in the world say and do the finest things in the world. i've watched princesses and kings--even if they're only stage ones. i've read a new book every night--a great picture book, in which the pictures move and speak--that's the stage, tom dorgan. much of it wasn't true, but a girl who's been brought up by the cruelty doesn't have to be told what's true and what's false. i've met these people and lived with them--as one does who thinks the same thoughts and feels what others feel. i know the world now, tom dorgan, the real world of men and women--not the little world of crooks, nor yet the littler one of fairy stories. i've got a glimpse, too, of that other world where all the scheming and lying and cheating is changed as if by magic into something that deceives all right, but doesn't hurt. it's the world of art and artists, tom dorgan, where people paint their lies, or write them, or act them; where they lift money all right from men's pockets, but lift their souls and their lives, too, away from the things that trouble and bore and--and degrade. "you needn't sneer; it's made a different nance out of me, tom dorgan. and, oh, but i'm sorry for the pert little beggar we both knew that lied and stole and hid and ran and skulked! she was like a poor little ignorant traveler in a great country where she'd sized up the world from the few fool crooks she was thrown in with. she--" "aw, cut it!" "tom--does--doesn't it mean anything to you? can't it mean lots to both of us now that--" "cut it, i tell you! think i killed one guard and beat the other till i'd broke every bone in his body to come here and listen to such guff? you've been having a high old time, eh, and you never give a thought to me up there! i might 'a' rotted in that black hole for all you'd care, you--" "don't! i did, tom; i did." i was shivering at the name, but i couldn't bear his thinking that way of me. "i went up once, but they wouldn't let me see you. i wrote you, but they sent back the letters. mag went up, too, but had to come back. and that time i brought you--" my voice trailed off. in that minute i saw myself on the way up to sing sing with the basket and all my hopes and all my schemes for amusing him. and this is what i'd have seen if they'd let me in--this big, gruff, murdering beast! oh, yes--yes--beast is what he is, and it didn't make him look it less that he believed me and--and began to think of me in a different way. "i thought you wouldn't go back on a feller, nance. that's why i come straight to you. it was my game to have you hide me for a day or two, till you could make a strike somewhere and we'd light out together. how're ye fixed? pretty smart, eh? you look it, my girl, you look--my eye, nance, you look good enough to eat, and i'm hungry for you!" maggie, if i'd had to die for it i couldn't have moved then. you'd think a man would know when the woman he's holding in his arms is fainting--sick at the touch of him. a woman would. it wasn't my tom that i'd known, that i'd worked with and played with and--it was a great brute, whose mouth--who had no eyes, no ears, no senses but--ah!... he laughed when i broke away from him at last. he laughed! and i knew then i'd have to tell him straight in words. "tom," i gasped, "you can have all i've got; and it's plenty to get you out of the way. but--but you can't have--me--any more. that's--done!" oh, the beast in his face! it must have looked like that when the guard got his last glimpse of it. "you're kiddin' me?" he growled. i shook my head. then he ripped it out. said the worst he could and ended with a curse! the blood boiled in me. the old nance never stood that; she used to sneer at other women who did. "get out of here!" i cried. "go--go, tom dorgan. i'll send every cent i've got to you to mother douty's within two hours, but don't you dare--" "don't you dare, you she-devil! just make up your mind to drop these newfangled airs, and mighty quick. i tell you you'll come with me 'cause i need you and i want you, and i want you now. and i'll keep you when once i get you again. we'll hang together. no more o' this one-sided lay-out for me, where you get all the soft and it's me for the hard. you belong to me. yes, you do. just think back a bit, nance olden, and remember the kind of customer i am. if you've forgot, just let me remind you that what i know would put you behind bars, my lady, and it shall, i swear, if i've got to go to the chair for it!" tom! it was tom talking that way to me. i couldn't bear it. i made a rush for the door. he got there, too, and catching me by the shoulder, he lifted his fist. but it never fell, mag. i think i could kill a man who struck me. but just as i shut my eyes and shivered away from him, while i waited for the blow, a knock came at the door and fred obermuller walked in. "eh? oh! excuse me. i didn't know there was anybody else. nance, your face is ghastly. what's up?" he said sharply. he looked from me to tom--tom, standing off there ready to spring on him, to dart past him, to fly out of the window--ready for anything; only waiting to know what the thing was to be. my senses came back to me then. the sight of obermuller, with those keen, quick eyes behind his glasses, his strong, square chin, and the whole poise of his head and body that makes men wait to hear what he has to say; the knowledge that that man was my friend, mine--nancy olden's--lifted me out of the mud i'd sunk back in, and put my feet again on a level with his. "tom," i said slowly, "mr. obermuller is a friend of mine. no--listen! what we've been talking about is settled. don't bring it up again. it doesn't interest him and it can't change me; i swear to you, it can't; nothing can. i'm going to ask mr. obermuller to help you without telling him just what the scrape is, and--and i'm going to be sure that he'll do it just because he--" "because you've taken up with him, have you?" tom shouted savagely. "because she's your--" "tom!" i cried. "tom--oh, yes, now i remember." obermuller got between us as he spoke. "your friend up--in the country that you went to see and couldn't. not a very good-looker, your friend, nance. but--farming, i suppose, mr.--tom?--plays the deuce with one's looks. and another thing it does: it makes a man forget sometimes just how to behave in town. i'll be charmed, mr. tom, to oblige a friend of miss olden's; but i must insist that he does not talk like a--farmer." he was quite close to tom when he finished, and tom was glaring up at him. and, mag, i didn't know which one i was most afraid for. don't you look at me that way, mag monahan, and don't you dare to guess anything! "if you think," growled tom, "that i'm going to let you get off with the girl, you're mighty--" "now, i've told you not to say that. the reason i'll do the thing she's going to ask of me--if it's what i think it is--is because this girl's a plucky little creature with a soul big enough to lift her out of the muck you probably helped her into. it's because she's got brains, talent, and a heart. it's because--well, it's because i feel like it, and she deserves a friend." "you don't know what she is." it was a snarl from tom. "you don't--" "oh, yes, i do; you cur! i know what she was, too. and i even know what she will be; but that doesn't concern you." "the hell it don't!" obermuller turned his back on him. i was dumb and still. tom dorgan had struck me after all. "what is it you want me to do, nance?" obermuller asked. "get him away on a steamer--quick," i murmured--i couldn't look him in the face--"without asking why, or what his name is." he turned to tom. "well?" "i won't go--not without her." "because you're so fond of her, eh? so fond, your first thought on quitting the--country was to come here to get her in trouble. if you've been traced--" "ah! you wouldn't like that, eh?" sneered tom. "would you?" "well, i've had my share of it. and she ain't. still--i ... just what would it be worth to you to have me out of the way?" "oh, tom--tom--" i cried. but obermuller got in front of me. "it would be worth exactly one dollar and seventy-five cents. i think it will amount to about that for cab-hire. i guess the cars aren't any too safe for you, or it might be less. it may amount to something more before i get you shipped before the mast on the first foreign-bound boat. but what's more important," he added, bringing his fist down with a mighty thump on the table, "you have just ten seconds to make up your mind. at the end of that time i'll ring for the police." * * * * * * * * * * * i went down to the boat to see it sail, mag, at seven this morning. no, not to say good-by to him. he didn't know i was there. it was to say good-by to my old tommy; the one i loved. truly i did love him, mag, though he never cared for me. no, he didn't. men don't pull down the women they love; i know that now. if tom dorgan had ever cared for me he wouldn't have made a thief of me. if he'd cared, the last place on earth he'd have come to, when he knew the detectives would be on his track, would have been just the first place he made for. if he'd cared, he-- but it's done, mag. it's all over. cheap--that's what he is, this tom dorgan. cheaply bad--a cheap bully, cheap-brained. remember my wishing he'd have been a ventriloquist? why, that man that tried to sell me to obermuller hasn't sense enough to be a good scene-shifter. oh-- the firm of dorgan & olden is dissolved, mag. the retiring partner has gone into the theatrical business. as for dorgan--the real one, poor fellow! jolly, handsome, big tom dorgan--he died. yes, he died, maggie, and was buried up there in the prison graveyard. a hard lot for a boy; but it's not the worst thing that can happen to him. he might become a man; such a man as that fellow that sailed away before the mast this morning. x. there i was seated in a box all alone--miss nancy olden, by courtesy of the management, come to listen to the leading lady sing coon-songs, that i might add her to my collection of take-offs. she's a fat leading lady, very fair and nearly fifty, i guess. but she's got a rollicking, husky voice in her fat throat that's sung the dollars down deep into her pockets. they say she's planted them deeper still--in the foundations of apartment houses--and that now she's the richest roly-poly on the rialto. do you know, maggie darlin', what i was saying to myself there in the box, while i watched the stage and waited for obermuller? he said he'd drop in later, perhaps. "nance," i said, "i kind of fancy that apartment sort of idea myself. they tell you, nancy, that when you've got the artistic temperament, that that's all you'll ever have. but there's a chance--one in a hundred--for a body to get that temperament mixed with a business instinct. it doesn't often happen. but when it does the result is--dollars. it may be, nance--i shrewdly suspect it is a fact that you've got that marvelous mixture. your early successes, miss olden, in another profession that i needn't name, would encourage the idea that you're not all heart and no head. i think, nance, i shall have you mimic the artists during working hours and the business men when you're at play. i fancy apartment houses. they appeal to me. we'll call one 'the nancy' and another 'olden hall' and another..." "what'll i call the third apartment house, mr. o?" i asked aloud, as i heard the rings on the portiere behind me click. he didn't answer. without turning my head i repeated the question. and yet--suddenly--before he could have answered, i knew something was wrong. i turned. and in that moment a man took the seat beside me and another stood facing me, with his back against the portieres. "miss olden?" the man beside me asked. "yes." "nance olden, the mimic, who entertains at private houses?" i nodded. "you--you were at mrs. paul gates' just a week ago, and you gave your specialties there?" "yes--yes, what is it you want?" he was a little man, but very muscular. i could note the play of his muscles even in the slight motion he made as he turned his body so as to get between me and the audience, while he leaned toward me, watching me intently with his small, quick, blue eyes. "we don't want to make any scene here," he said very low. "we want to do it up as quietly as we can. there might be some mistake, you know, and then you'd be sorry. so should we. i hope you'll be reasonable and it'll be all the better for you because--" "what are you talk--what--" i looked from him to the other fellow behind us. he leaned a bit farther forward then, and pulling his coat partly open, he showed me a detective's badge. and the other man quickly did the same. i sat back in my chair. the fat star on the stage, with her big mouth and big baby-face, was doing a cake-walk up and down close to the footlights, yelling the chorus of her song. i'll never mimic that song, mag, although i can see her and hear it as plain as though i'd listened and watched her all my life. but there's no fun in it for me. i hate the very bars the orchestra plays before she begins to sing. i can't bear even to think of the words. the whole of it is full of horrible things--it smells of the jail--it looks like stripes--it ... "you're not going to faint?" asked the man, moving closer to me. "me? i never fainted in my life... where is he now--tom dorgan?" "tom dorgan!" "yes. i was sure i saw him sail, but, of course, i was mistaken. he has sent you after me, has he? i can hardly believe it of tom--even--even yet." "i don't know anything that connects you with dorgan. if he was in with you on this, you'd better remember, before you say anything more, that it'll all be used against you." the curtain had gone down and gone up again. i was watching the star. she has such a boyish way of nodding her head, instead of bowing, after she waddles out to the center; and every time she wipes her lips with her lace handkerchief, as though she'd just taken one of the cocktails she makes in the play with all the skill of a bartender. i found myself doing the same thing--wiping my lips with that very same gesture, as though i had a fat, bare forearm like a rolling-pin--when all at once the thought came to me: "you needn't bother, nancy. it's all up. you won't have any use for it all." "just what is the charge?" i asked, turning to the man beside me. "stealing a purse containing three hundred dollars from mrs. paul gates' house on the night of april twenty-seventh." "what!" it was obermuller. he had pushed the curtains aside; the crashing of the orchestra had prevented our hearing the clatter of the rings. he had pushed by the man standing there, had come in and--he had heard. "nance!" he cried. "i don't believe a word of it." he turned in his quick way to the men. "what are your orders?" "to take her to her flat and search it." obermuller came over to me then, and took my hand for a minute. "it's a pity they don't know about the gray rose diamond," he whispered, helping me on with my jacket. "they'd see how silly this little three-hundred dollar business is.... brace up, nance olden!" oh, mag, mag, to hear a man like that talk to you as though you were his kind, when you have the feel of the coarse prison stripes between your dry, shaking fingers, and the close prison smell is already poisoning your nostrils! "i don't see--" my voice shook--"how you can believe--in me." "don't you?" he laughed. "that's easy. you've got brains, nance, and the most imbecile thing you could do just now, when your foot is already on the ladder, would be just this--to get off in order to pick up a trinket out of the mud, when there's a fortune up at the top waiting for you. clever people don't do asinine things. and other clever people know that they don't. you're clever, but so am i--in my weak, small way. come along, little girl." he pulled my hand in his arm and we walked out, followed by the two men. oh, no! it was all very quiet and looked just like a little theater party that had an early supper engagement. obermuller nodded to the manager out in the deserted lobby, who stopped us and asked me what i thought of the star. you'll think me mad, mag. those fellows with the badges were sure i was, but obermuller's eyes only twinkled, and the manager's grin grew broad when, catching up the end of my skirt and cake-walking up and down, i sang under my breath that coon-song that was trailing over and over through my head. "bravo! bravo!" whispered the manager, hoarsely, clapping his hands softly. i gave one of those quick, funny, boyish nods the star inside affects and wiped my lips with my handkerchief. that brought down my house. even the biggest fellow with the badge giggled recognizingly, and then put his hand quickly in front of his mouth and tried to look severe and official. the color had come back to obermuller's face; it was worth dancing for--that. "be patient, mag; let me tell it my way." there wasn't room in the coupe waiting out in front for more than two. so obermuller couldn't come in it. but he put me in--mag, dear, dear mag--he put me in as if i was a lady--not like gray; a real one. a thing like that counts when two detectives are watching. it counted afterward in the way they treated me. the big man climbed up on the seat with the driver. the blue-eyed fellow got in and sat beside me, closing the door. "i'll be out there almost as soon as you are," obermuller said, standing a moment beside the lowered window. "you good fellow!" i said, and then, trying to laugh: "i'll do as much for you some day." he shook his fist laughingly at me, and i waved my hand as we drove of. "you know, miss, there may be some mistake about this," said the man next to me, "and--" "yes, there may be. in fact, there is." "i'm sure i'll be very glad if it is a mistake. they do happen--though not often. you spoke of dorgan--" "did i?" "yes, tom dorgan, who busted out of sing sing the other day." "surely you're mistaken," i said, smiling right into his blue eyes. "the tom dorgan i mentioned is a sleight-of-hand performer at the vaudeville. ever see him?" "n--no." "clever fellow. you ought to. perhaps you don't recognize him under that name. on the bills he's professor haughwout. stage people have so many names, you know." "yes, so have--some other people." i laughed, and he grinned back at me. "now that's mean of you," i said; "i never had but one. it was all i needed." it flashed through me then what a thing like this might do to a name. you know, mag, every bit of recognition an actress steals from the world is so much capital. it isn't like the old graft when you had to begin new every time you took up a piece of work. and your name--the name the world knows--and its knowing it makes it worth having like everything--that name is the sum of every scheme you've planned, of every time you've got away with the goods, of every laugh you've lifted, of every bit of cleverness you've thought out and embodied, of everything that's in you, of everything you are. but i didn't dare think long of this. i turned to him. "tell me about this charge," i said. "where was the purse? whose was it? and why haven't they missed it till after a week?" "they missed it all right that night, but mrs. gates wanted it kept quiet till the servants had been shadowed and it was positively proved that they hadn't got away with it." "and then she thought of me?" "and then she thought of you." "i wonder why?" "because you were the only person in that room except mrs. gates, the lady who lost the purse, mrs. ramsay, and--eh?" "n--nothing. mrs. ramsay, you said?" "yes." "not mrs. edward ramsay, of philadelphia?" "oh, you know the name?" "oh, yes, i know it." "it was printed, you know, in gold lettering on the inside flap and--" "i don't know." "well, it was, and it contained three hundred dollars, mrs. ramsay says. she had slipped it under the fold of the spread at the top of the bed in the room where you took off your things in mrs. gates' presence, and put them on again when no one else was there." "and you mean to tell me that this is all?" i raged at him; "that every bit of evidence you have to warrant your treating an innocent girl like--" "you didn't behave like a very innocent girl, if you'll remember," he said dryly, "when i first came into the box. in fact, if that fellow hadn't just come in then i believe you'd 'a' confessed the whole job.... 'tain't too late," he added. i didn't answer. i put my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes. i could feel the scrutiny of his blue eyes on my naked face--your face is so unprotected with the eyes closed; like a fort whose battery is withdrawn. but i was tired--it tires you when you care. a year ago, mag, this sort of thing--the risk, the nearness to danger, the chances one way or the other--would have intoxicated me. i used to feel as though i was dancing on a volcano and daring it to explode. the more twistings and turnings there were to the labyrinth, the greater glory it was to get out. maggie darlin', you have before you a mournful spectacle--the degeneration of nancy olden. it isn't that she's lost courage. it's only that she used to be able to think of only one thing, and now--what do you suppose it is, mag? if you know, don't you dare to tell me. when we got to the flat obermuller was already there. at the door i pulled out my key and opened it with a flourish. "won't you come in, gentlemen, and spend the evening?" i asked. they followed me in. first to the parlor. the two fellows threw off their coats and searched that through and through--not a drawer did they miss, not a bit of furniture did they fail to move. obermuller and i sat there guying them as they pried about in their shirt-sleeves. that trust business has taken the life out of him of late. all their tricks, all their squeezings, their cheatings, their bossing and bragging and bullying have got on to his nerves till he looks like a chained bear getting a drubbing. and he swears that they're in a conspiracy to freeze him and a few others like him out; he believes there's actually a paper in existence that would prove it. but this affair of the purse seemed to excite him till he behaved like a bad school-boy. and i? well, nance olden was never far behind at the cruelty when there was anything going on. we trailed after them, and when they'd finished with the bedrooms--yours and mine--i asked the big fellow to come into the kitchen with mr. o. and me, while the blue-eyed detective tackled the dining-room, and i'd get up a lunch for us all. mag, you should have seen fred obermuller with a big apron on him, dressing the salad while i was making sandwiches. the cruelty taught me how to cook, even if it did teach me other things. you wouldn't have believed that the trust had got him by the throat, and was choking the last breath out of him. you wouldn't have believed that our salaries hadn't been paid for three weeks, that our houses were dwindling every night, that-- i was thinking about it all there in the back of my head, trying to see a way out of it--you know if there is such an agreement as obermuller swears there is, it's against the law--while we rattled on, the two of us, like a couple of children on a picnic, when i heard a crash behind me. the salad bowl had slipped from obermuller's fingers. he stood with his back turned to me, his eyes fixed upon that searching detective. but he wasn't searching any more, mag. he was standing still as a pointer that's scented game. he had moved the lounge out from the wall, and there on the floor, spread open where it had fallen, lay a handsome elephant-skin purse, with gold corners. from where i stood, mag, i could read the plain gold lettering on the dark leather. i didn't have to move. it was plain enough--quite plain. mrs. edward ramsay hush, hush, mag; if you take on so, how can i tell you the rest? obermuller got in front of me as i started to walk into the dining-room. i don't know what his idea was. i don't suppose he does exactly--if it wasn't to spare me the sight of that damned thing. oh, how i hated it, that purse! i hated it as if it had been something alive that could be glad of what it had done. i wished it was alive that i could tear and rend it and stamp on it and throw it in a fire, and drag it out again, with burned and bleeding nails, to tear it again and again. i wanted to fall on it and hide it; to push it far, far away out of sight; to stamp it down--down into the very bottom of the earth, where it could feel the hell it was making for me. but i only stood there, stupidly looking at it, having pushed past obermuller, as though i never wanted to see anything else. and then i heard that blue-eyed fellow's words. "well," he said, pulling on his coat as though he'd done a good day's work, "i guess you'd just better come along with me." xi. "don't you think you'd better get out of this?" i asked obermuller, as he came into the station a few minutes after i got there. "no." "i do." "because?" "because it won't do you any good to have your name mixed up with a thing like this." "but it might do you some good." i didn't answer for a minute after that. i sat in my chair, my eyes bent on the floor. i counted the cracks between the chair and the floor of the office where the chief was busy with another case. i counted them six times, back and forth, till my eyes were clear and my voice was steady. "you're awfully good," i said, looking up at him as he stood by me. "you're the best fellow i ever knew. i didn't know men could be so good to women... but you'd better go--please. it'll be bad enough when the papers get hold of this, without having them lump you in with a bad lot like me." he put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick little shake. "don't say that about yourself. you're not a bad lot." "but--you saw the purse." "yes, i saw it. but it hasn't proved anything to me but this: you're innocent, nance, or you're crazy. if it's the first, i want to stand by you, little girl. if it's the second--good god! i've got to stand by you harder than ever." can you see me sitting there, mag, in the bright, bare little room, with its electric lights, still in my white dress and big white hat, my pretty jacket fallen on the floor beside me? i could feel the sharp blue eyes of that detective morris feeding on my miserable face. but i could feel, too, a warmth like wine poured into me from that big fellow's voice. i put my hand up to him and he took it. "if i'm innocent and can prove it, fred obermuller, i'll get even with you for--for this." "do you want to do something for me now?" "do i?" "well, if you want to help me, don't sit there looking like the criminal ghost of the girl i know." the blood rushed to my face. nance olden, a sniveling coward! me, showing the white feather--me, whimpering like a whipped puppy--me--nance olden! "you know," i smiled up at him, "i never did enjoy getting caught." "hush! but that's better.... tell me now--" a buzzer sounded. the blue-eyed detective got up and came over to me. "chief's ready," he said. "this way." they stopped obermuller at the door. but he pushed past them. "i want to say just a word to you, chief," he said. "you remember me. i'm obermuller, of the vaudeville. if you'll send those fellows out and let me speak to you just a moment, i'll leave you alone with miss olden." the chief nodded to the blue-eyed detective, and he and the other fellow went out and shut the door behind them. "i want simply to call your attention to the absurdity and unreasonableness of this thing," obermuller said, leaning up against the chief's desk, while he threw out his left hand with that big open gesture of his, "and to ask you to bear in mind, no matter what appearances may be, that miss olden is the most talented girl on the stage to-day; that in a very short time she will be at the top; that just now she is not suffering for lack of money; that she's not a high-roller, but a determined, hard-working little grind, and that if she did feel like taking a plunge, she knows that she could get all she wants from me even--" "even if you can't pay salaries when they're due, obermuller." the chief grinned under his white mustache. "even though the trust is pushing me to the wall; going to such lengths that they're liable criminally as well as civilly, if i could only get my hands on proof of their rascality. it's true i can't pay salaries always when they're due, but i can still raise a few hundred to help a friend. and miss olden is a friend of mine. if you can prove that she took this money, you prove only that she's gone mad, but you don't--" "all right, obermuller. you're not the lawyer for the defense. that'll come later--if it does come. i'll be glad to bear in mind all you've said, and much that you haven't." "thank you. good night.... i'll wait for you, nance, outside." "i'm going to ask you a lot of questions, miss olden," the old chief said, when we were alone. "sit here, please. morris tells me you've got more nerve than any woman that's ever come before me, so i needn't bother to reassure you. you don't look like a girl that's easily frightened. i have heard how you danced in the lobby of the manhattan, how you guyed him at your flat, and were getting lunch and having a regular picnic of a time when--" "when he found that purse." "exactly. now, why did you do all that?" "why? because i felt like it. i felt gay and excited and--" "not dreaming that that purse was sure to be found?" "not dreaming that there was such a purse in existence except from the detective's say--so, and never fancying for an instant that it would be found in my flat." "hm!" he looked at me from under his heavy, wrinkled old lids. you don't get nice eyes from looking on the nasty things in this world, mag. "why," i cried, "what kind of a girl could cut up like that when she was on the very edge of discovery?" "a very smart girl--an actress; a good one; a clever thief who's used to bluffing. of course," he added softly, "you won't misunderstand me. i'm simply suggesting the different kinds of girl that could have done what you did. but, if you don't mind, i'll do the questioning. nance olden," he turned suddenly on me, his manner changed and threatening, "what has become of that three hundred dollars?" "mr. chief, you know just as much about that as i do." i threw up my head and looked him full in the face. it was over now--all the shivering and trembling and fearing. nance olden's not a coward when she's fighting for her freedom; and fighting alone without any sympathizing friend to weaken her. he returned the look with interest. "i may know more," he said insinuatingly. "possibly." i shrugged my shoulders. no, it wasn't put on. there never yet was a man who bullied me that didn't rouse the fighter in me. i swore to myself that this old thief-catcher shouldn't rattle me. "doesn't it occur to you that under the circumstances a full confession might be the very best thing for you? i shouldn't wonder if these people would be inclined to be lenient with you if you'd return the money. doesn't it occur--" "it might occur to me if i had anything to confess--about this purse." "how long since you've seen mrs. edward ramsay?" he rushed the question at me. i jumped. "how do you know i've ever seen her?" "i do know you have." "i don't believe you." "thank you; neither do i believe you, which is more to the point. come, answer the question: how long is it since you have seen the lady?" i looked at him. and then i looked at my glove, and slowly pulled the fingers inside out, and then--then i giggled. suddenly it came to me--that silly, little insane dodge of mine in the bishop's carriage that day; the girl who had lost her name; and the use all that affair might be to me if ever-- "i'll tell you if you'll let me think a minute," i said sweetly. "it--it must be all of fifteen months." "ah! you see i did know that you've met the lady. if you're wise you'll draw deductions as to other things i know that you don't think i do.... and where did you see her?" "in her own home." "called there," he sneered, "alone?" "no," i said very gently. "i went there, to the best of my recollection, with the bishop--yes, it was the bishop, bishop van wagenen." "indeed!" i could see that he didn't believe a word i was saying, which made me happily eager to tell him more. "yes, we drove up to the square one afternoon in the bishop's carriage--the fat, plum-colored one, you know. we had tea there--at least, i did. i was to have spent the night, but--" "that's enough of that." i chuckled. yes, mag monahan, i was enjoying myself. i was having a run for my money, even if it was the last run i was to have. "so it's fifteen months since you've seen mrs. ramsay, eh?" "yes." he turned on me with a roar. "and yet it's only a week since you saw her at mrs. gates'." "oh, no." "no? take care!" "that night at mrs. gates' it was dark, you know, in the front room. i didn't see mrs. ramsay that night. i didn't know she was there at all till--" "till?" "till later i was told." "who told you?" "her husband." he threw down his pencil. "look here, this is no lark, young woman, and you needn't trouble yourself to weave any more fairy tales. mr. ramsay is in a--he's very ill. his own wife hasn't seen him since that night, so you see you're lying uselessly." "really!" so edward didn't go back to mrs. gates' that night. tut! tut! after his telephone message, too! "now, assuming your innocence of the theft, miss olden, what is your theory; how do you account for the presence of that purse in your flat?" "now, you've hit the part of it that really puzzles me. how do you account for it; what is your theory?" he got to his feet, pushing his chair back sharply. "my theory, if you want to know it, is that you stole the purse; that your friend obermuller believes you did; that you got away with the three hundred, or hid it away, and--" "and what a stupid thief i must be, then, to leave the empty purse under my lounge!" "how do you know it was empty?" he demanded sharply. "you said so... well, you gave me to understand that it was, then. what difference does it make? it would be a still stupider thief who'd leave a full purse instead of an empty one under his own lounge." "yes; and you're not stupid, miss olden." "thank you. i'm sorry i can't say as much for you." i couldn't help it. he was such a stupid. the idea of telling me that fred obermuller believed me guilty! the idea of thinking me such a fool as to believe that! such men as that make criminals. they're so fat-witted you positively ache--they so tempt you to pull the wool over their eyes. o mag, if the lord had only made men cleverer, there'd be fewer nancy oldens. the chief blew a blast at his speaking-tube that made his purple cheeks seem about to burst. my shoulders shook as i watched him, he was so wrathy. and i was still laughing when i followed the detective out into the waiting-room, where obermuller was pacing the floor. at the sight of my smiling face he came rushing to me. "nance!" he cried. "orders are, morris," came in a bellow from the chief at his door, "that no further communication be allowed between the prisoner and--" phew! all the pertness leaked out of me. oh, mag, i don't like that word. it stings--it binds--it cuts. i don't know what i looked like then; i wasn't thinking of me. i was watching obermuller's face. it seemed to grow old and thin and haggard before my eyes, as the blood drained out of it. he turned with an exclamation to the chief and-- and just then there came a long ring at the telephone. why did i stand there? o mag, when you're on your way to the place i was bound for, when you know that before you'll set foot in this same bright little room again, the hounds in half a dozen cities will have scratched clean every hiding-place you've had, when your every act will be known and--and--oh, then, you wait, mag, you wait for anything--anything in the world; even a telephone call that may only be bringing in another wretch like yourself; bound, like yourself, for the tombs. the chief himself went to answer it. "yes--what?" he growled. "well, tell long distance to get busy. what's that? st. francis--that's the jag ward, isn't it? who is it? who? ramsay!" i caught obermuller's hand. "i don't hear you," the chief roared. "oh--yes? yes, we've got the thief, but the money--no, we haven't got the money. the deuce you say! took it yourself? out of your wife's purse--yes.... yes. but we've got the--what? don't remember where you--" "steady, nance," whispered obermuller, grabbing my other hand. i tried to stand steady, but everything swayed and i couldn't hear the rest of what the chief was saying, though all my life seemed condensed into a listening. but i did hear when he jammed the receiver on the hook and faced us. "well, they've got the money. ramsay took the purse himself, thinking it wasn't safe there under the spread where any servant might be tempted who chanced to uncover it. you'll admit the thing looked shady. the reason mrs. ramsay didn't know of it is because the old man's just come to his senses in a hospital and been notified that the purse was missing." "i want to apologize to you, chief," i mumbled. "for thinking me stupid? oh, we were both--" "no, for thinking me not stupid. i am stupid--stupid--stupid. the old fellow i told you about, mr. o., and the way i telephoned him out of the flat that night--it was--" "ramsay!" i nodded, and then crumbled to the floor. it was then that they sent for you, mag. why didn't i tell it straight at the first, you dear old mag? because i didn't know the straight of it, then, myself. i was so heavy-witted i never once thought of edward. he must have taken the bills out of the purse and then crammed them in his pocket while he was waiting there on the lounge and i was pretending to telephone and-- but it's best as it is--oh, so best! think, mag! two people who knew her--who knew her, mind--believed in nancy olden, in spite of appearances: obermuller, while we were in the thick of it, and; you, you dear girl, while i was telling you of it. xii. when obermuller sent for me i thought he wanted to see me about that play he's writing in which i'm to star--when the pigs begin to fly. funniest thing in the world about that man, mag. he knows he can't get bookings for any play on earth; that if he did they'd be canceled and any old excuse thrown at him, as soon as tausig heard of it and could put on the screws. he knows that there isn't an unwatched hole in theatrical america through which he can crawl and pull me and the play in after him. and yet he just can't let go working on it. he loves it, mag; he loves it as molly loved that child of hers that kept her nursing it all the years of its life, and left her feeling that the world had been robbed of everything there was for a woman to do when it died. obermuller has told me all the plot. in fact, he's worked it out on me. i know it as it is, as he wanted it to be, and as it's going to be. he tells me he's built it up about me; that it will fit me as never a comedy fitted a player yet, and that we'll make such a hit--the play and i together--that ... and then he remembers that there's no chance; not the ghost of one; and he falls to swearing at the trust. "don't you think, mr. o.," i said, as he began again when i came into his office, "that it might be as well to quit cursing the syndicate till you've got something new to say or something different to rail about? it seems to me a man's likely to get daffy if he keeps harping on--" "oh, i've got it all right, nance, be sure of that! i've got something different to say of them and something new to swear about. they've done me up; that's all. just as they've fixed iringer and gaffney and howison." "tell me." he threw out his arms and then let them fall to his side. "oh, it's easy," he cried, "so easy that i never thought of it. they've just bought the vaudeville out of hand and served notice on me that when my lease expires next month they'll not be able to renew it, 'unfortunately'! that's all. no; not quite. in order to kill all hope of a new plan in me they've just let it get to be understood that any man or woman that works for obermuller needn't come round to them at any future time." "phew! a blacklist." "not anything so tangible. it's just a hint, you know, but it works all right. it works like--" "what are you going to do; what can you do?" "shoot tausig or myself, or both of us." "nonsense!" "yes, of course, it's nonsense, or rather it's only what i'd like to do.... but that's not the question. never mind about me. it's what are you going to do?" he looked straight at me, waiting. but i didn't answer. i was thinking. "you don't realize, nance, what those fellows are capable of. when gaffney told me, before he gave up and went west, that there was a genuine signed conspiracy among them to crush out us independents, i laughed at him. 'it's a dream, gaffney,' i said. 'forget it.' 'it's no dream, as you'll find out when your turn comes in time,' he shouted. 'it's a fact, and what's more, iringer once taxed tausig to his face with it; told him he knew there was such a document in existence, signed by the great tausig himself, by heffelfinger of the pacific circuit; by dixon of chicago, and weinstock of new orleans, binding themselves to force us fellows to the wall, and specifying the per cent. of profit each one of 'em should get on any increase of business; to blacklist every man and woman that worked for us; to buy up our debts and even bring false attachments, when--'" "now, weren't there enough real debts to satisfy 'em? they're hard to please, if you haven't creditors enough to suit 'em!" he looked grim, but he didn't speak. "i don't believe it, anyway, mr. o; and 'tisn't good for you to keep thinking about just one thing. you'll land where iringer did, if you don't look out. how did he know about it, anyway?" "there was a leak in tausig's office. iringer used to be in with them, and he had it from a clerk who--but never mind that. it's the blacklisting i'm talking about now. gray's just been in to see me, to let me know that she quits at the end of the season. and his lordship, too, of course. you're not burdened with a contract, nance. perhaps you'd better think it over seriously for a day or two and decide if it wouldn't be best--" "i don't have to," i interrupted then. "nance!" he cried, jumping up, as though he'd been relieved of half his troubles. "i don't have to think it over," i went on slowly, not looking at the hand he held out to me. "it doesn't take long to know that when you're between the devil and the deep sea, you'd better try--the devil rather than be forced out into the wet." "what?--you don't mean--" i knew he was looking at me incredulously, but i just wouldn't meet his eye. "my staying with you will do you no good--" was hurrying now to get it over with--"and it would do me a lot of harm. i think you're right, mr. obermuller; i'd better just go over to where it's warm. they'll be glad to get me and--and, to tell the truth, i'll be glad to get in with the syndicate, even if i can't make as good terms as i might have by selling that contract, which--like the famous conspiracy you're half mad about--never existed." he sat down on the edge of the desk. i caught one glimpse of his face. it was black; that was enough for me. i turned to go. "ah, but it did, miss olden, it did!" he sneered. "i won't believe it on the word of a man that's been in the lunatic asylum ever since he lost his theater." "perhaps you'll believe it on mine." i jumped. "on yours!" "didn't that little bully, when he lost his temper that day at the van twiller, when we had our last fight--didn't he pull a paper out of his box and shake it in my face, and--" "but--you could have them arrested for conspiracy and--" "and the proof of it could be destroyed and then--but i can't see how this interests you." "no--no," i said thoughtfully. "i only happened to lump it in with the contract we haven't--you and i. and as there's no contract, why there's no need of my waiting till the end of the season." "do you mean to say you'd--you'd--" "if 'twere done, 'twere better it'd be done--quickly," i said macbethically. he looked at me. sitting there on his desk, his clenched fist on his knee, he looked for a moment as though he was about to fly at me. then all of a sudden he slipped into his chair, leaned back and laughed. it wasn't a pleasant laugh, mag. no--wait. let me tell you the rest. "you are so shrewd, olden, so awfully shrewd! your eye is so everlastingly out for the main chance, and you're still so young that i predict a--a great future for you. i might even suggest that by cultivating tausig personally--" "you needn't." "no, you're right; i needn't. you can discount any suggestion i might make. you just want to be the first to go over, eh? to get there before gray does--to get all there is in it for the first rebel that lays down his arms; not to come in late when submission is stale--and cheap. don't worry about terms, you poor little babe in the woods. don't--" his own words seemed to choke him. "don't you think--" i began a bit unsteadily. "i think--oh, what a fool i've been!" that stiffened me. "of course, you have," i said cordially. "it's silly to fight the push, isn't it? it's only the cranks that get cocky and think they can upset the fellows on top. the thing to do is to find out which is the stronger--if you're a better man than the other fellow, down him. if he's the champion, enlist under him. but be in it. what's the use of being a kicker all your life? you only let some one else come in for the soft things, while you stay outside and gnaw your finger-nails and plot and plan and starve. you spend your life hoping to live to-morrow, while the tausigs are living high to-day. the thing to do is to be humble if you can't be arrogant. if they've got you in the door, don't curse, but placate them. think of gaffney herding sheep out in nevada; of iringer in the asylum; of howison--" "admirable! admirable!" he interrupted sarcastically. "the only fault i have to find with your harangue is that you've misconceived my meaning entirely. but i needn't enlighten you. good morning, miss olden--good-by." he turned to his desk and pulled out some papers. i knew he wasn't so desperately absorbed in them as he pretended to be. "won't you shake hands," i asked, "and wish me luck?" he put down his pen. his face was white and hard, but as he looked at me it gradually softened. "i suppose--i suppose, i am a bit unreasonable just this minute," he said slowly. "i'm hard hit and--and i don't just know the way out. still, i haven't any right to--to expect more of you than there is in you, you poor little thing! it's not your fault, but mine, that i've expected--oh, for god's sake--nance--go, and leave me alone!" i had to take that with me to the van twiller, and it wasn't pleasant. but tausig received me with open arms. "got tired of staying out in the cold--eh?" he grinned. "i'm tired of vaudeville," i answered. "can't you give me a chance in a comedy?" "hm! ambitious, ain't you?" "obermuller has a play all ready for me--written for me. he'd star me fast enough if he had the chance." "but he'll never get the chance." "oh, i don't know." "but i do. he's on the toboggan; that's where they all get, my dear, when they get big-headed enough to fight us." "but obermuller's not like the others. he's not so easy. and he is so clever; why, the plot of that comedy is the bulliest thing--" "you've read it--you remember it?" "oh, i know it by heart--my part of it. you see, he wouldn't keep away from me while he was thinking of it. he kept consulting me about everything in it. in a way, we worked over it together." the little man looked at me, slowly closing one eye. it is a habit of his when he's going to do something particularly nasty. "then, in a way, as you say, it is part yours." "hardly! imagine nance olden writing a line of a play!" "still you--collaborated; that's the word. i say, my dear, if i could read that comedy, and it was--half what you say it is, i might--i don't promise, mind--but i might let you have the part that was written for you and put the thing on. has he drilled you any, eh? he was the best stage-manager we ever had before he got the notion of managing for himself--and ruining himself." "well, he's all that yet. of course, he has told me, and we agreed how the thing should be done. as he'd write, you know, he'd read the thing over to me, and i--" "fine--fine! a reading from that fool obermuller would be enough to open the eyes of a clever woman. i'd like to read that comedy--yes?" "but obermuller would never--" "but olden might--" "what?" "dictate the plot to my secretary, mason, in there," he nodded his head back toward the inner room. "she could give him the plot and as much of her own part in full as she could remember. you know mason. used to be a newspaper man. smart fellow, that, when he's sober. he could piece out the holes--yes?" i looked at him. the little beast sat there, slowly closing one eye and opening it again. he looked like an unhealthy little frog, with his bald head, his thin-lipped mouth that laughed, while the wrinkles rayed away from his cold, sneering eyes that had no smile in them. "i--i wouldn't like to make an enemy of a man like obermuller, mr. tausig." "bah! ain't i told you he's on the toboggan?" "but you never can tell with a man like that. suppose he got into that combine with heffelfinger and dixon and weinstock?" "what're you talking about?" "well, it's what i've heard." "but heffelfinger and dixon and weinstock are all in with us; who told you that fairy story?" "obermuller himself." the little fellow laughed. his is a creaky, almost silent little laugh; if a spider could laugh he'd laugh that way. "they're fooling him a bunch or two. never you mind obermuller. he's a dead one." "oh, he said that you thought they were in with you, but that nothing but a written agreement would hold men like that. and that you hadn't got." "smart fellow, that obermuller. he'd have been a good man to have in the business if it hadn't been for those independent ideas he's got. he's right; it takes--" "so there is an agreement!" i shouted, in spite of myself, as i leaned forward. he sat back in his chair, or, rather, he let it swallow him again. "what business is that of yours? stick to the business on hand. get to work on that play with mason inside. if it's good, and we decide to put it on, we'll pay you five hundred dollars down in addition to your salary. if it's rot, you'll have your salary weekly all the time you're at it, just the same as if you were working, till i can place you. in the meantime, keep your ears and eyes open and watch things, and your mouth shut. i'll speak to mason and he'll be ready for you to-morrow morning. come round in the morning; there's nobody about then, and we want to keep this thing dark till it's done. obermuller mustn't get any idea what we're up to.... he don't love you--no--for shaking him?" "he's furious; wouldn't even say good-by. i'm done for with him, anyway, i guess. but what could i do?" "nothing, my dear; nothing. you're a smart little girl," he chuckled. "ta-ta!" xiii. just what i'd been hoping for i don't know, but i knew that my chance had come that morning. for a week i had been talking obermuller's comedy to mason, the secretary. in the evenings i stood about in the wings and watched the van twiller company in brambles. there was one fat role in it that i just ached for, but i lost all that ache and found another, when i overheard two of the women talking about obermuller and me one night. "he found her and made her," one of 'em said; "just dug her out of the ground. see what he's done for her; taught her every blessed thing she knows; wrote her mimicking monologues for her; gave her her chance, and--and now--well, tausig don't pay salaries for nothing, and she gets hers as regularly as i draw mine. what more i don't know. but she hasn't set foot on the stage yet under tausig, and they say obermuller--" i didn't get the rest of it, so i don't know what they say about obermuller. i only know what they've said to him about me. 'tisn't hard to make men believe those things. but i had to stand it. what could i do? i couldn't tell fred obermuller that i was making over his play, soul and as much body as i could remember, to tausig's secretary. he'd have found that harder to believe than the other thing. it hasn't been a very happy week for me, i can tell you, maggie. but i forgot it all, every shiver and ache of it, when i came into the office that morning, as usual, and found mason alone. not altogether alone--he had his bottle. and he had had it and others of the same family all the night before. the poor drunken wretch hadn't been home at all. he was worse than he'd been that morning three days before, when i had stood facing him and talking to him, while with my hands behind my back i was taking a wax impression of the lock of the desk; and he as unconscious of it all as tausig himself. the last page i had dictated the day before, which he'd been transcribing from his notes, lay in front of him; the gas was still burning directly above him, and a shade he wore over his weak eyes had been knocked awry as his poor old bald head went bumping down on the type-writer before him. the thing that favored me was tausig's distrust of everybody connected with him. he hates his partners only a bit less than he hates the men outside the trust. the bigger and richer the syndicate grows, the more power and prosperity it has, the more he begrudges them their share of it; the more he wants it all for himself. he is madly suspicious of his clerks, and hires others to watch them, to spy upon them. he is continually moving his valuables from place to place, partly because he trusts no man; partly because he's so deathly afraid his right hand will find out what his left is doing. he is a full partner of braun and lowenthal--with mental reservations. he has no confidence in either of them. half his schemes he keeps from them; the other half he tells them--part of. he's for ever afraid that the syndicate of which he's the head will fall to pieces and become another syndicate of which he won't be head. it all makes him an unhappy, restless little beast; but it helped me to-day. if it'd been any question of safe combinations and tangled things like that, the game would have been all up for nancy o. but in his official safe tausig keeps only such papers as he wants braun and lowenthal to see. and in his private desk in his private office he keeps-- i stole past mason, sleeping with his forehead on the type-writer keys--he'll be lettered like the obelisk when he wakes up--and crept into the next room to see just what tausig keeps in that private desk of his. oh, yes, it was locked. but hadn't i been carrying the key to it every minute for the last forty-eight hours? there must be a mine of stuff in that desk of tausig's, mag. the touch of every paper in it is slimy with some dirty trick, some bad secret, some mean action. it's a pity that i hadn't time to go through 'em all; it would have been interesting; but under a bundle of women's letters, which that old fox keeps for no good reason, i'll bet, i lit on a paper that made my heart go bumping like a cart over cobbles. yes, there it was, just as obermuller had vowed it was, with tausig's cramped little signature followed by heffelfinger's, dixon's and weinstock's; a scheme to crush the business life out of men by the cleverest, up-to-date trust deviltry; a thing that our uncle sammy just won't stand for. and neither will nancy olden, miss monahan. she grabbed that precious paper with a gasp of delight and closed the desk. but she bungled a bit there, for mason lifted his head and blinked dazedly at her for a moment, recognized her and shook his head. "no--work to-day," he said. "no--i know. i'll just look over what we've done, mr. mason," she answered cheerfully. his poor head went down again with a bob, and she caught up the type-written sheets of obermuller's play. she waited a minute longer; half because she wanted to make sure mason was asleep again before she tore the sheets across and crammed them down into the waste-basket; half because she pitied the old fellow and was sorry to take advantage of his condition. but she knew a cure for this last sorry--a way she'd help him later; and when she danced out into the hall she was the very happiest burglar in a world chock full of opportunities. oh, she was in such a twitter as she did it! all that old delight in doing somebody else up, a vague somebody whose meannesses she didn't know, was as nothing to the joy of doing tausig up. she was dancing on a volcano again, that incorrigible nance! oh, but such a volcano, maggie! it atoned for a year of days when there was nothing doing; no excitement, no risk, nothing to keep a girl interested and alive. and, maggie darlin', it was a wonderful volcano, that ones that last one, for it worked both ways. it paid up for what i haven't done this past year and what i'll never do again in the years to come. it made up to me for all i've missed and all i'm going to miss. it was a reward of demerit for not being respectable, and a preventive of further sins. oh, it was such a volcano as never was. it was a drink and a blue ribbon in one. it was a bang-up end and a bully beginning. it was-- it was tausig coming in as i was going out. suddenly i realized that, but i was in such a mad whirl of excitement that i almost ran over the little fellow before i could stop myself. "phew! what a whirlwind you are!" he cried. "where are you going?" "oh, good morning, mr. tausig," i said sweetly. "i never dreamed you'd be down so early in the morning." "what're you doing with the paper?" he demanded suspiciously. my eye followed his. i could have beaten nancy olden in that minute for not having sense enough to hide that precious agreement, instead of carrying it rolled up in her hand. "just taking it home to go over it," i said carelessly, trying to pass him. but he barred my way. "where's mason?" he asked. "poor mason!" i said. "he's--he's asleep." "drunk again?" i nodded. how to get away! "that settles his hash. out he goes to-day ... it seems to me you're in a deuce of a hurry," he added, as i tried to get out again. "come in; i want to talk something over with you." "not this morning," i said saucily. i wanted to cry. "i've got an engagement to lunch, and i want to go over this stuff for mason before one." "hm! an engagement. who with, now?" my chin shot up in the air. he laughed, that cold, noiseless little laugh of his. "but suppose i want you to come to lunch with me?" "oh, thank you, mr. tausig. but how could i break my engagement with--" "with braun?" "how did you guess it?" i laughed. "there's no keeping anything from you." he was immensely satisfied with his little self. "i know him--that old rascal," he said slowly. "i say, olden, just do break that engagement with braun." "i oughtn't--really." "but do--eh? finish your work here and we'll go off together, us two, at twelve-thirty, and leave him cooling his heels here when he comes." he rubbed his hands gleefully. "but i'm not dressed." "you'll do for me." "but not for me. listen: let me hurry home now and i'll throw braun over and be back here to meet you at twelve-thirty." he pursed up his thin little lips and shook his head. but i slipped past him in that minute and got out into the street. "at twelve-thirty," i called back as i hurried off. i got around the corner in a jiffy. oh, i could hardly walk, mag! i wanted to fly and dance and skip. i wanted to kick up my heels as the children were doing in the square, while the organ ground out, ain't it a shame? i actually did a step or two with them, to their delight, and the first thing i knew i felt a bit of a hand in mine like a cool pink snowflake and-- oh, a baby, mag! a girl-baby more than a year old and less than two years young; too little to talk; too big not to walk; facing the world with a winning smile and jabbering things in her soft little lingo, knowing that every woman she meets will understand. i did, all right. she was saying to me as she kicked out her soft, heelless little boot: "nancy olden, i choose you. nancy olden, i love you. nancy olden, i dare you not to love me. nancy olden, i defy you not to laugh back at me!" where in the world she dropped from, heaven knows. the organ-grinder picked up the shafts of his wagon and trundled it away. the piccaninnies melted like magic. but that gay little flirt, about a year and a half old, just held on to my finger and gabbled--poetry. i didn't realize just then that she was a lost, strayed or stolen. i expected every moment some nurse or conceited mamma to appear and drag her away from me. and i looked down at her--oh, she was just a little bunch of soft stuff; her face was a giggling dimple, framed in a big round hat-halo, that had fallen from her chicken-blond head; and her white dress, with the blue ribbons at the shoulders, was just a little bit dirty. i like 'em a little bit dirty. why? perhaps because i can imagine having a little coquette of my own a bit dirty like that, and can't just see nance olden with a spick-and-span clean baby, all feathers and lace, like a bored little grown-up. "you're a mouse," i gurgled down at her. "you're a sweetheart. you're a--" and suddenly i heard a cry and rush behind me. it was a false alarm; just a long-legged girl of twelve rushing round the corner, followed by a lot of others. it hadn't been meant for me, of course, but in the second when i had remembered that precious paper and tausig's rage when he should miss it, i had pulled my hand away from that bit baby's and started to run. the poor little tot! there isn't any reason in the world for the fancies they take any more than for our own; eh, mag? why should she have been attracted to me just because i was so undignified as to dance with the piccaninnies? but do you know what that little thing did? she thought i was playing with her. she gave a crow of delight and came bowling after me. that finished me. i stooped and picked her up in my arms, throwing her up in the air to hear her crow and feel her come down again. "mouse," i said, "we'll just have a little trip together. the nurse that'd lose you deserves to worry till you're found. the mother that's lucky enough to own you will be benefited hereafter by a sharp scare on your account just now. come on, sweetheart!" oh, the feel of a baby in your arms, mag! it makes the cruelty seem a perfectly unreal thing, a thing one should be unutterably ashamed of imagining, of accusing human nature of; a thing only an irredeemably vile thing could imagine. just the weight of that little body riding like a bonny boat at anchor on your arm, just the cocky little way it sits up, chirping and confident; just the light touch of a bit of a hand on your collar; just that is enough to push down brick walls; to destroy pictures of bruised and maimed children that endure after the injuries are healed; to scatter records that even i--i, nancy olden--can't believe and believe, too, that other women have carried their babies, as i did some other woman's baby, across the square. on the other side i set her down. i didn't want to. i was greedy of every moment that i had her. but i wanted to get some change ready before climbing up the steps to the l-station. she clutched my dress as we stood there a minute in a perfectly irresistible way. i know now why men marry baby-women: it's to feel that delicious, helpless clutch of weak fingers; the clutch of dependence, of trust, of appeal. i looked down at her with that same silly adoration i've seen on molly's face for her poor, lacking, twisted boy. at least, i did in the beginning. but gradually the expression of my face must have changed; for all at once i discovered what had been done to me. my purse was gone. yes, maggie monahan, clean gone! my pocket had been as neatly picked as i myself--well, never mind, as what. i threw back my head and laughed aloud. nance olden, the great doer-up, had been done up so cleverly, so surely, so prettily, that she hadn't had an inkling of it. i wished i could get a glimpse of the clever girl that did it. a girl--of course, it was! do you think any boy's fingers could do a job like that and me not even know? but i didn't stop to wish very long. here was i with the thing i valued most in the world still clutched in my hand, and not a nickel to my name to get me, the paper, and the baby on our way. it was the baby, of course, that decided me. you can't be very enterprising when you're carrying a pink lump of sweetness that's all a-smile at the moment, but may get all a-tear the next. "it's you for the nearest police station, you young tough!" i said, squeezing her. "i can't take you home now and show you to mag." but she giggled and gurgled back at me, the abandoned thing, as though the police station was just the properest place for a young lady of her years. it was not so very near, either, that station. my arm ached when i got there from carrying her, but my heart ached, too, to leave her. i told the matron how and where the little thing had picked me up. at first she wouldn't leave me, but--the fickle little thing--a glass of milk transferred all her smiles and wiles to the matron. then we both went over her clothes to find a name or an initial or a laundry mark. but we found nothing. the matron offered me a glass of milk, too, but i was in a hurry to be gone. she was a nice matron; so nice that i was just about to ask her for the loan of car-fare when-- when i heard a voice, maggie, in the office adjoining. i knew that voice all right, and i knew that i had to make a decision quick. i did. i threw the whole thing into the lap of fate. and when i opened the door and faced him i was smiling. oh, yes, it was tausig. xiv. he started as though he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw me. "the lord hath delivered mine enemy into my hand," shone in his evil little face. "why, mr. tausig," i cried, before he could get his breath. "how odd to meet you here! did you find a baby, too?" "did i find--" he glared at me. "i find you; that's enough. now--" "but the luncheon was to be at twelve-thirty," i laughed. "and i haven't changed my dress yet." "you'll change it all right for something not so becoming if you don't shell out that paper." "paper?" "yes, paper. look here, if you give it back to me this minute--now--i'll not prosecute you for--for--" "for the sake of my reputation?" i suggested softly. "yes." he looked doubtfully at me, mistrusting the amiable deference of my manner. "that would be awfully good of you," i murmured. he did not answer, but watched me as though he wasn't sure which way i'd jump the next moment. "i wonder what could induce you to be so forgiving," i went on musingly. "what sort of paper is this you miss? it must be valuable--" "yes, it's valuable all right. come on, now! quit your fooling and get down to business. i'm going to have that paper." "do you know, mr. tausig," i said impulsively, "if i were you, and anybody had stolen a valuable paper from me, i'd have him arrested. i would. i should not care a rap what the public exposure did to his reputation, so long--so long," i grinned right up at him, "so long as it didn't hurt me, myself, in the eyes of the law." mad? oh, he was hopping! a german swear-word burst from him. i don't know what it meant, but i can imagine. "look here, i give you one more chance," he squeaked; "if you don't--" "what'll you do?" i was sure i had him. i was sure, from the very whisper in which he had spoken, that the last thing in the world he wanted was to have that agreement made public by my arrest. but i tripped up on one thing. i didn't know there was a middle way for a man with money. his manner changed. "nance olden," he said aloud now, "i charge you with stealing a valuable private paper of mine from my desk. here, sergeant!" i hadn't particularly noticed the sergeant standing at the other door with his back to us. but from the way he came at tausig's call i knew he'd had a private talk with him, and i knew he'd found the middle way. "this girl's taken a paper of mine. i want her searched," tausig cried. "do you mean," i said, "that you'll sign your name to such a charge against me?" he didn't answer. he had pulled the sergeant down and was whispering in his ear. i knew what that meant. it meant a special pull and a special way of doing things and-- "you'll do well, my girl, to give up mr. tausig's property to him," the sergeant said stiffly. "but what have i got that belongs to him?" i demanded. he grinned and shrugged his big shoulders. "we've a way of finding out, you know, here. give it up or--" "but what does he say i've taken? what charge is there against me? have you the right to search any woman who walks in here? and what in the world would i want a paper of tausig's for?" "you won't give it up then?" he tapped a bell. a woman came in. i had a bad minute there, but it didn't last; it wasn't the matron i'd brought the baby to. "you'll take this girl into the other room and search her thoroughly. the thing we're looking for--" the sergeant turned to tausig. "a small paper," he said eagerly. "a--a contract--just a single sheet of legal cap paper it was type-written and signed by myself and some other gentlemen, and folded twice." the woman looked at me. she was a bit hard-mouthed, with iron-gray hair, but her eyes looked as though they'd seen a lot and learned not to flinch, though they still felt like it. i knew that kind of look--i'd seen it at the cruelty. "what an unpleasant job this of yours is," i said to her, smiling up at her for all the world as that tike of a baby had smiled at me, and watching her melt just as i had. "i'll not make it a bit harder. this thing's all a mistake. which way? ... i'll come back, mr. tausig, to receive your apology, but you can hardly expect me to go to lunch after this." he growled a wrathful, resenting mouthful. but he looked a bit puzzled just the same. he looked more puzzled yet, even bewildered, when we came back into the main office a quarter of an hour later, the woman and i, and she reported that no paper of any kind had she found. me? oh, i was sweet amiability personified with the woman and with the sergeant, who began to back-water furiously. but with tausig-- what? you don't mean to say you're not on, mag? oh, dear, dear, it's well you had that beautiful wig of red hair that puts even carter's in the shade; for you'd never have been a success in--in other businesses i might name. bamboozled the woman? not a bit of it; you can't deceive women with mouths and eyes like that. it was just that i'd had a flash of genius in the minute i heard tausig's voice, and in spite of my being so sure he wouldn't have me arrested i'd-- guess, mag, guess! there was only one way. the baby, of course! in the moment i had--it wasn't long--i'd stooped down, pretending to kiss that cherub good-by, and in a jiffy i'd pinned that precious paper with a safety-pin to the baby's under-petticoat, preferring that risk to-- risk! i should say it was. and now it was up to nance to make good. while tausig insisted and explained and expostulated and at last walked out with the sergeant--giving me a queer last look that was half-cursing, half-placating--i stood chatting sweetly with the woman who had searched me. i didn't know just how far i might go with her. she knew the paper wasn't on me, and i could see she was disposed to believe i was as nice as she'd have liked me to be. but she'd had a lot of experience and she knew, as most women do even without experience, that if there's not always fire where there is smoke, it's because somebody's been clever enough and quick enough to cover the blaze. "well, good-by," i said, putting out my hand. "it's been disagreeable but i'm obliged to you for--why, where's my purse! we must have left it--" and i turned to go back into the room where i'd undressed. "you didn't have any." the words came clear and cold and positive. her tone was like an icicle down my back. "i didn't have any!" i exclaimed. "why, i certainly--" "you certainly had no purse, for i should have seen it and searched it if you had." now, what do you think of a woman like that? "nancy olden," i said to myself, more in sorrow than in anger, "you've met your match right here. when a woman knows a fact and states it with such quiet conviction, without the least unnecessary emphasis and not a superfluous word, 'ware that woman. there's only one game to play to let you hang round here a bit longer and find out what's become of the baby. play it!" i looked at her with respect; it was both real and feigned. "of course, you must be right," i said humbly. "i know you wouldn't be likely to make a mistake, but, just to convince me, do you mind letting me go back to look?" "not at all," she said placidly. "if i go with you there's no reason why you should not look." oh, mag, it was hard lines looking. why?--why, because the place was so bare and so small. there were so few things to move and it took such a short time, in spite of all i could do and pretend to do, that i was in despair. "you must be right," i said at length, looking woefully up at her. "yes; i knew i was," she said steadily. "i must have lost it." "yes." there was no hope there. i turned to go. "i'll lend you a nickel to get home, if you'll leave me your address," she said after a moment. oh, that admirable woman! she ought to be ruling empires instead of searching thieves. look at the balance of her, mag. my best acting hadn't shaken her. she hadn't that fatal curiosity to understand motives that wrecks so many who deal with--we'll call them the temporarily un-straight. she was satisfied just not to let me get ahead of her in the least particular. but she wasn't mean, and she would lend me a nickel--not an emotionally extravagant ten-cent piece, but just a nickel--on the chance that i was what i seemed to be. oh, i did admire her; but i'd have been more enthusiastic about it if i could have seen my way clear to the baby and the paper. i took the nickel and thanked her, but effusiveness left her unmoved. a wholesome, blue-gowned rock with a neat, full-bibbed white apron; that's what she was! and still i lingered. fancy nance olden just heartbroken at being compelled to leave a police station! but there was nothing for it. go, i had to. my head was a-whirl with schemes coming forward with suggestions and being dismissed as unsuitable; my thoughts were flying about at such a dizzy rate while i stood there in the doorway, the woman's patient hand on the knob and her watchful eyes on me, that i actually-- mag, i actually didn't hear the matron's voice the first time she spoke. the second time, though, i turned--so happy i could not keep the tremor out of my voice. "i thought you had gone long ago," she said. oh, we were friends, we two! we'd chummed over a baby, which for women is like what taking a drink together is for men. the admirable dragon in the blue dress didn't waver a bit because her superior spoke pleasantly to me. she only watched and listened. which puts you in a difficult position when your name's nance olden--you have to tell the truth. "i've been detained," i said with dignity, "against my wish. but that's all over. i'm going now. good-by." i nodded and caught up my skirt. "oh!" i paused just as the admirable dragon was closing the door on me. "is the baby asleep? i wonder if i might see her once more." my heart was beating like an engine gone mad, in spite of my careless tone, and there was a buzzing in my ears that deafened me. but i managed to stand still and listen, and then to walk off, as though it didn't matter in the least to me, while her words came smashing the hope out of me. "we've sent her with an officer back to the neighborhood where you found her. he'll find out where she belongs, no doubt. good day." xv. ah me, maggie, the miserable nance that went away from that station! to have had your future in your grasp, like that one of the fates with the string, and then to have it snatched from you by an impish breeze and blown away, goodness knows where! i don't know just which way i turned after i left that station. i didn't care where i went. nothing i could think of gave me any comfort. i tried to fancy myself coming home to you. i tried to see myself going down to tell the whole thing to obermuller. but i couldn't do that. there was only one thing i wanted to say to fred obermuller, and that thing i couldn't say now. but nance olden's not the girl to go round long like a molting hen. there was only one chance in a hundred, and that was the one i took, of course. "back to the square where you found the baby, nance!" i cried to myself. "there's the chance that that admirable dragon has had her suspicions aroused by your connection with the baby, which she hadn't known before, and has already dutifully notified the sergeant. there's the chance that the baby is home by now, and the paper found by her mother will be turned over to her papa; and then it's good-by to your scheme. there's the chance that--" but in the heart of me i didn't believe in any chance but one--the chance that i'd find that blessed baby and get my fingers just once more on that precious paper. i blew in the a.d.'s nickel on a cross-town car and got back to the little square. there was another organ-grinder there grinding out coon-songs, to which other piccaninnies danced. but nary a little white bundle of fluff caught hold of my hand. i walked that square till my feet were sore. it was hot. my throat was parched. i was hungry. my head ached. i was hopeless. and yet i just couldn't give it up. i had asked so many children and nurse-maids whether they'd heard of the baby lost that morning and brought back by an officer, that they began to look at me as though i was not quite right in my mind. the maids grabbed the children if they started to come near me, and the children stared at me with big round eyes, as though they'd been told i was an ogre who might eat them. i was hungry enough to. the little fruit-stand at the entrance had a fascination for me. i found myself there time and again, till i got afraid i might actually try to get of with a peach or a bunch of grapes. that thought haunted me. fancy nance olden starved and blundering into the cheapest and most easily detected species of thieving! i suppose great generals in their hour of defeat imagine themselves doing the feeblest, foolishest things. as i sat there on the bench, gazing before me, i saw the whole thing--nancy olden, after all her bragging, her skirmishing, her hairbreadth scapes and successes, arrested in broad daylight and before witnesses for having stolen a cool, wet bunch of grapes, worth a nickel, for her hot, dry, hungering throat! i saw the policeman that'd do it; he looked like that sergeant mulhill i met 'way, 'way back in latimer's garden. i saw the officer that'd receive me; he had blue eyes like the detective that came for me to the manhattan. i saw the woman jailer--oh, she was the a.d., all right, who'd receive me without the slightest emotion, show me to a cell and lock the door, as calm, as little triumphant or affected, as though i hadn't once outwitted that cleverest of creatures--and outwitted myself in forestalling her. i saw-- mag, guess what i saw! no, truly; what i really saw? it made me jump to my feet and grab it with a squeal. i saw my own purse lying on the gravel almost at my feet, near the little fruit-stand that had tempted me. blank empty it was, stripped clean, not a penny left in it, not a paper, not a stamp, not even my key. just the same i was glad to have it. it linked me in a way to the place. the clever little girl that had stolen it had been here in this park, on this very spot. the thought of that cute young nance olden distracted my mind a minute from my worry--and, oh, maggie darlin', i was worrying so! i walked up to the fruit-stand with the purse in my hand. the old fellow who kept it looked up with an inviting smile. lord knows, he needn't have encouraged me to buy if i'd had a penny. "i want to ask you," i said, "if you remember selling a lot of good things to a little girl who had a purse this--this morning?" i showed it to him, and he turned it over in his crippled old hands. "it was full then--or fuller, anyway," i suggested. "you wouldn't want to get her into trouble--that little girl?" he asked cautiously. i laughed. "not i. i--myself--" i was going to say--well, you can imagine what i was going to say, and that i didn't say it or anything like it. "well--there she is, kitty wilson, over yonder," he said. i gasped, it was so unexpected. and i turned to look. there on one of the benches sat kitty wilson. if i hadn't been blind as a bat and full of trouble--oh, it thickens your wits, does trouble, and blinds your eyes and muffles your ears!--i'd have suspected something at the mere sight of her. for there sat kitty wilson enthroned, a hatless, lank little creature about twelve, and near her, clustered thick as ants around a lump of sugar, was a crowd of children, black and white, boys and girls. for kitty--that deplorable kitty--had money to burn; or what was even more effective at her age, she had goodies to give away. her lap was full of spoils. she had a sample of every good thing the fruit-stand offered. her cheeks and lips were smeary with candy. her dress was stained with fruit. the crumbs of cake lingered still on her chin and apron. and kitty--i love a generous thief--was treating the gang. it helped itself from her abundant lap; it munched and gobbled and asked for more. it was a riot of a high old time. even the birds were hopping about as near as they dared, picking up the crumbs, and the squirrels had peanuts to throw to the birds. and all on nancy olden's money! i laughed till i shook. it was good to laugh. nancy olden isn't accustomed to a long dose of the doleful, and it doesn't agree with her. i strolled over to where my guests were banqueting. you see, mag, that's where i shouldn't rank with the a.d. i'm too inquisitive. i want to know how the other fellow in the case feels and thinks. it isn't enough for me to see him act. "kitty," i said--somehow a twelve-year-old makes you feel more of a grown-up than a twelve-months-old does--"i hope you're having a good--time, kitty wilson, but--haven't you lost something?" she was chewing at the end of a long string of black candy-shoe-strings, all right, the stuff looks like--and she was eating just because she didn't want to stop. goodness knows, she was full enough. her jaws stopped, though, suddenly, as she looked from the empty purse in my outstretched hand to me, and took me in. oh, i know that pause intimately. it says: "wait a minute, till i get my breath, and i'll know how much you know and just what lie to tell you." but she changed her mind when she saw my face. you know, mag, if there's a thing that's fixed in your memory it's the face of the body you've done up. the respectables have their rogues' gallery, but we, that is, the light-fingered brigade, have got a fools' gallery to correspond to it. in which of 'em is my picture? now, margaret, that's mean. you know my portrait hangs in both. i looked down on the little beggar that had painted me for the second salon, and lo, in a flash she was on her feet, the lapful of good things tumbled to the ground, and kitty was off. i was bitterly disappointed in that girl, mag! i was altogether mistaken in my diagnosis of her. hers is only a physical cleverness, a talented dexterity. she had no resource in time of danger but her legs. and legs will not carry a grafter half so far as a good, quick tongue and a steady head. she halted at a safe distance and glared back at me. her hostility excited the crowd of children--her push--against me, and the braver ones jeered the things kitty only looked, while the thrifty ones stooped and gathered up the spoil. "tell her i wouldn't harm her," i said to one of her lieutenants. "she says she won't hurt ye, kit," the child screamed. "she dassent," yelled back kitty, the valiant. "she knows i'd peach on her about the kid." "kid! what kid?" i cried, all a-fire. "the kid ye swiped this mornin'. yah! i told the cop what brought her back how ye took her jest as i--" "kitty!" i cried. "you treasure!" and with all my might i ran after her. silly? of course it was. i might have known what the short skirts above those thin legs meant. i couldn't come within fifty feet of her. i halted, panting, and she paused, too, dancing tantalizingly half a block away. what to do? i wished i had another purse to bestow on that sad kitty, but i had nothing, absolutely nothing, except--all at once i remembered it--that little pin you gave me for christmas, mag. i took it off and turned to appeal to the nearest one of the flying body-guard that had accompanied us. "you run on to her and tell her that if she'll show me the house where that baby lives i'll give her this pin." he sped on ahead and parleyed with kit; and while they talked i held aloft the little pin so that kit might see the price. she hesitated so long that i feared she'd slip through my hands, but a sudden rival voice piping out, "i'll show ye the house, missus," was too much for her. so, with kit at a safe distance in advance to guard against treachery, and a large and enthusiastic following, i crossed the street, turned a corner, walked down one block and half up another, and halted before a three-story brownstone. i flew up the stairs, leaving my escort behind, and rang the bell. it wasn't so terribly swagger a place, which relieved me some. "i want to see the lady whose baby was lost this morning," i said to the maid that opened the door. "yes'm. who'll i tell her?" who? that stumped me. not nance olden, late of the vaudeville, later of the van twiller, and latest of the police station. no--not nance olden ... not ... "tell her, please," i said firmly, "that i'm miss murieson, of the x-ray, and that the city editor has sent me here to see her." that did it. hooray for the power of the press! she showed me into a long parlor, and i sat down and waited. it was cool and quiet and softly pretty in that long parlor. the shades were down, the piano was open, the chairs were low and softly cushioned. i leaned back and closed my eyes, exhausted. and suddenly--mag!--i felt something that was a cross between a rose-leaf and a snowflake touch my hand. if it wasn't that delectable baby! i caught her and lifted her to my lap and hugged the chuckling thing as though that was what i came for. then, in a moment, i remembered the paper and lifted her little white slip. it was gone, mag. the under-petticoat hadn't a sign of the paper i'd pinned to it. my head whirled in that minute. i suppose i was faint with the heat, with hunger and fatigue and worry, but i felt myself slipping out of things when i heard the rustling of skirts, and there before me stood the mother of my baby. the little wretch! she deserted me and flew to that pretty mother of hers in her long, cool white trailing things, and sat in her arms and mocked at me. it was easy enough to begin talking. i told her a tale about being a newspaper woman out on a story; how i'd run across the baby and all the rest of it. "i must ask your pardon," i finished up, "for disturbing you, but two things sent me here--one to know if the baby got home safe, and the other," i gulped, "to ask about a paper with some notes that i'd pinned to her skirt." she shook her head. it was in that very minute that i noticed the baby's ribbons were pink; they had been blue in the morning. "of course," i suggested, "you've had her clothes changed and--" "why, yes, of course," said baby's mother. "the first thing i did when i got hold of her was to strip her and put her in a tub; the second, was to discharge that gossiping nurse for letting her out of her sight." "and the soiled things she had on--the dress with the blue ribbons?" "i'll find out," she said. she rang for the maid and gave her an order. "was it a valuable paper?" she asked. "not--very," i stammered. my tongue was thick with hope and dread. "just--my notes, you know, but i do need them. i couldn't carry the baby easily, so i pinned them on her skirt, thinking--thinking--" the maid came in and dumped a little heap of white before me. i fell on my knees. oh, yes, i prayed all right, but i searched, too. and there it was. what i said to that woman i don't know even now. i flew out through the hall and down the steps and-- and there kitty wilson corralled me. "say, where's that stick-pin?" she cried. "here!--here, you darling!" i said, pressing it into her hand. "and, kitty, whenever you feel like swiping another purse--just don't do it. it doesn't pay. just you come down to the vaudeville and ask for nance olden some day, and i'll tell you why." "gee!" said kitty, impressed. "shall--shall i call ye a hansom, lady?" should she! the blessed inspiration of her! i got into the wagon and we drove down street--to the vaudeville. i burst in past the stage doorkeeper, amazed to see me, and rushed into fred obermuller's office. "there!" i cried, throwing that awful paper on the desk before him. "now cinch 'em, fred obermuller, as they cinched you. it'll be the holiest blackmail that ever--oh, and will you pay for the hansom?" xvi. i don't remember much about the first part of the lunch. i was so hungry i wanted to eat everything in sight, and so happy that i couldn't eat a thing. but mr. o. kept piling the things on my plate, and each time i began to talk he'd say: "not now--wait till you're rested, and not quite so famished." i laughed. "do i eat as though i was starved?" "you--you look tired, nance." "well," i said slowly, "it's been a hard week." "it's been hard for me, too; harder, i think, than for you. it wasn't fair to me to let me--think what i did and say what i did. i'm so sorry, nance,--and ashamed. so ashamed! you might have told me." "and have you put your foot down on the whole thing; not much!" he laughed. he's got such a boyish laugh in spite of his chin and his eye-glasses and the bigness of him. he filled my glass for me and helped me again to the salad. oh, mag, it's such fun to be a woman and have a man wait on you like that! it's such fun to be hungry and to sit down to a jolly little table just big enough for two, with carnations nodding in the tall slim vase, with a fat, soft-footed, quick-handed waiter dancing behind you, and something tempting in every dish your eye falls on. it's a gay, happy, easy world, maggie darlin'. i vow i can't find a dark corner in it--not to-day. none but the swellest place in town was good enough, obermuller had said, for us to celebrate in. the waiters looked queerly at us when we came in--me in my dusty shoes and mussed hair and old rig, and mr. o. in his working togs. but do you suppose we cared? he was smoking and i was pretending to eat fruit when at last i got fairly launched on my story. he listened to it all with never a word of interruption. sometimes i thought he was so interested that he couldn't bear to miss a word i said. and then again i fancied he wasn't listening at all to me; only watching me and listening to something inside of himself. can you see him, mag, sitting opposite me there at the pretty little table, off in a private room by ourselves? he looked so big and strong and masterful, with his eyes half closed, watching me, that i hugged myself with delight to think that i--i, nancy olden, had done something for him he couldn't do for himself. it made me so proud, so tipsily vain, that as i leaned forward eagerly talking, i felt that same intoxicating happiness i get on the stage when the audience is all with me, and the two of us--myself and the many-handed, good-natured other fellow over on the other side of the footlights--go careering off on a jaunt of fun and fancy, like two good playmates. he was silent a minute when i got through. then he laid his cigar aside and stretched out his hand to me. "and the reason, nance--the reason for it all?" i looked up at him. i'd never heard him speak like that. "the reason?" i repeated. "yes, the reason." he had caught my hand. "why--to down that tiger trust--and beat tausig." he laughed. "and that was all? nonsense, nance olden, there was another reason. there are other tiger trusts. are you going to set up as a lady-errant and right all syndicate wrongs? no, there was another, a bigger reason, nance. i'm going to tell it to you--what!" i pulled my hand from his; but not before that fat waiter who'd come in without our noticing had got something to grin about. "beg pardon, sir," he said. "this message must be for you, sir. it's marked immediate, and no one else--" obermuller took it and tore it open. he smiled the oddest smile as he read it, and he threw back his head and laughed a full, hearty bellow when he got to the end. "read it, nance," he said, passing it over to me. "they sent it on from the office." i read it. "mr. fred w. obermuller, manager vaudeville theater, new york city, n.y.: dear obermuller:--i have just learned from your little protegee, nance olden, of a comedy you've written. from what miss olden tells me of the plot and situations of and the greatest of these--your title's great--i judge the thing to be something altogether out of the common; and my secretary and reader, mr. mason, agrees with me that properly interpreted and perhaps touched up here and there, the comedy ought to make a hit. would miss olden take the leading role, i wonder? can't you drop in this evening and talk the matter over? there's an opening for a fellow like you with us that's just developed within the past few days, and--this is strictly confidential--i have succeeded in convincing braun and lowenthal that their enmity is a foolish personal matter which business men shouldn't let stand in the way of business. after all, just what is there between you and them? a mere trifle; a misunderstanding that half an hour's talk over a bottle of wine with a good cigar would drive away. if you're the man i take you for you'll drop in this evening at the van twiller and bury the hatchet. they're good fellows, those two, and smart men, even if they are stubborn as sin. counting on seeing you to-night, my dear fellow, i am most cordially, i. m. tausig." i dropped the letter and looked over at obermuller. "miss olden," he said severely, coming over to my side of the table, "have you the heart to harm a generous soul like that?" "he--he's very prompt, isn't he, and most--" and then we laughed together. "you notice the letter was marked personal?" obermuller said. he was still standing beside me. "no--was it?" i got up, too, and began to pull on my gloves; but my fingers shook so i couldn't do a thing with them. "oh, yes, it was. that's why i showed it to you. nance--nance, don't you see that there's only one way out of this? there's only one woman in the world that would do this for me and that i could take it from." i clasped my hands helplessly. oh, what could i do, maggie, with him there and his arms ready for me! "i--i should think you'd be afraid," i whispered. i didn't dare look at him. he caught me to him then. "afraid you wouldn't care for an old fellow like me?" he laughed. "yes, that's the only fear i had. but i lost it, nancy, nancy obermuller, when you flung that paper down before me. that's quite two hours ago--haven't i waited long enough?" * * * * * * * * * * * oh, mag--mag, how can i tell him? do you think he knows that i am going to be good--good! that i can be as good for a good man who loves me, as i was bad for a bad man i loved! xvii. philadelphia, january . maggie, dear: i'm writing to you just before dinner while i wait for fred. he's down at the box-office looking up advance sales. i tell you, maggie monahan, we're strictly in it--we obermullers. that broadway hit of mine has preceded me here, and we've got the town, i suspect, in advance. but i'm not writing to tell you this. i've got something more interesting to tell you, my dear old cruelty chum. i want you to pretend to yourself that you see me, mag, as i came out of the big chestnut street store this afternoon, my arms full of bundles. i must have on that long coat to my heels, of dark, warm red, silk-lined, with the long, incurving back sweep and high chinchilla collar, that fred ordered made for me the very day we were married. i must be wearing that jolly little, red-cloth toque caught up on the side with some of the fur. oh, yes, i knew i was more than a year behind the times when i got them, but a successful actress wears what she pleases, and the rest of the world wears what pleases her, too. besides, fashions don't mean so much to you when your husband tells you how becoming--but this has nothing to do with the bishop. yes, the bishop, mag! i had just said, "nance olden--" to myself i still speak to me as nancy olden; it's good for me, mag; keeps me humble and for ever grateful that i'm so happy. "nance, you'll never be able to carry all these things and lift your buful train, too. and there's never a hansom round when it's snowing and--" and then i caught sight of the carriage. yes, maggie, the same fat, low, comfortable, elegant, sober carriage, wide and well-kept, with rubber-tired wheels. and the two heavy horses, fat and elegant and sober, too, and wide and well-kept. i knew whose it was the minute my eyes lighted on it, and i couldn't--i just couldn't resist it. the man on the box-still wide and well-kept--was wide-awake this time. i nodded to him as i slipped in and closed the door after me. "i'll wait for the bishop," i said, with a red-coated assurance that left him no alternative but to accept the situation respectfully. oh, dear, dear! it was soft and warm inside as it had been that long, long-ago day. the seat was wide and roomy. the cushions had been done over--i resented that--but though a different material, they were a still darker plum. and instead of quo vadis, the bishop had been reading resurrection. i took it up and glanced over it as i sat there; but, you know, mag, the heavy-weight plays never appealed to me. i don't go in for the tragic--perhaps i saw too much of the real thing when i was little. at any rate, it seemed dull to me, and i put it aside and sat there absent-mindedly dreaming of a little girl-thief that i knew once when--when the handle of the door turned and the bishop got in, and we were off. oh, the little bishop--the contrast between him and the fat, pompous rig caught me! he seemed littler and leaner than ever, his little white beard scantier, his soft eye kindlier and his soft heart {?} "god bless my soul!" he exclaimed, jumping almost out of his neat little boots, while he looked sharply over his spectacles. what did he see? just a red-coated ghost dreaming in the corner of his carriage. it made him doubt his eyes--his sanity. i don't know what he'd have done if that warm red ghost hadn't got tired of dreaming and laughed outright. "daddy," i murmured sleepily. oh, that little ramrod of a bishop! the blood rushed up under his clear, thin, baby-like skin and he sat up straight and solemn and awful--awful as such a tiny bishop could be. "i fear, miss, you have made a mistake," he said primly. i looked at him steadily. "you know i haven't," i said gently. that took some of the starch out of him, but he eyed me suspiciously. "why don't you ask me where i got the coat, bishop van wagenen?" i said, leaning over to him. he started. i suppose he'd just that moment remembered my leaving it behind that day at mrs. ramsay's. "lord bless me!" he cried anxiously. "you haven't--you haven't again--" "no, i haven't." ah, maggie, dear, it was worth a lot to me to be able to say that "no" to him. "it was given to me. guess who gave it to me." he shook his head. "my husband!" maggie monahan, he didn't even blink. perhaps in the bishop's set husbands are not uncommon, or very likely they don't know what a husband like fred obermuller means. "i congratulate you, my child, or--or did it--were you--" "why, i'd never seen fred obermuller then," i cried. "can't you tell a difference, bishop?" i pleaded. "don't i look like a--an imposing married woman now? don't i seem a bit--oh, just a bit nicer?" his eyes twinkled as he bent to look more closely at me. "you look--you look, my little girl, exactly like the pretty, big-eyed, wheedling-voiced child i wished to have for my own daughter." i caught his hand in both of mine. "now, that's like my own, own bishop!" i cried. mag--mag, he was blushing like a boy, a prim, rather scared little school-boy that somehow, yet--oh, i knew he must feel kindly to me! i felt so fond of him. "you see, bishop van wagenen," i began softly, "i never had a father and--" "bless me! but you told me that day you had mistaken me for--for him." the baby! i had forgotten what that old edward told me--that this trusting soul actually still believed all i'd told him. what was i to do? i tell you, mag, it's no light thing to get accustomed to telling the truth. you never know where it'll lead you. here was i--just a clever little lie or two and the dear old bishop would be happy and contented again. but no; that fatal habit that i've acquired of telling the truth to fred and you mastered me--and i fell. "you know, bishop," i said, shutting my eyes and speaking fast to get it over--as i imagine you must, mag, when you confess to father phelan--"that was all a--a little farce-comedy--the whole business--all of it--every last word of it!" "a comedy!" i opened my eyes to laugh at him; he was so bewildered. "i mean a--a fib; in fact, many of them. i--i was just--it was long ago--and i had to make you believe--" his soft old eyes looked at me unbelieving. "you don't mean to say you deliberately lied!" now, that was what i did mean--just what i did mean--but not in that tone of voice. but what could i do? i just looked at him and nodded. oh, maggie, i felt so little and so nasty! i haven't felt like that since i left the cruelty. and i'm not nasty, maggie, and i'm fred obermuller's wife, and-- and that put a backbone in me again. fred obermuller's wife just won't let anybody think worse of her than she can help--from sheer love and pride in that big, clever husband of hers. "now, look here, bishop van wagenen," i broke out, "if i were the abandoned little wretch your eyes accuse me of being i wouldn't be in your carriage confessing to you this blessed minute when it'd be so much easier not to. surely--surely, in your experience you must have met girls that go wrong--and then go right for ever and ever, amen. and i'm very right now. but--but it has been hard for me at times. and at those times--ah, you must know how sincerely i mean it--at those times i used to try to recall the sound of your voice, when you said you'd like to take me home with you and keep me. if i had been your daughter you'd have had a heart full of loving care for me. and yet, if i had been, and had known that benevolent fatherhood, i should need it less--so much less than i did the day i begged a prayer from you. but--it's all right now. you don't know--do you?--i'm nance olden." that made him sit up and stare, i tell you. even the bishop had heard of nancy olden. but suddenly, unaccountably, there came a queer, sad look over his face, and his eyes wouldn't meet mine. i looked at him puzzled. "tell me what it is," i said. "you evidently forget that you have already told me you are the wife of mr.--mr. ober--" "obermuller. oh, that's all right." i laughed aloud. i was so relieved. "of course i am, and he's my manager, and my playwright, and my secretary, and--my--my dear, dear boy. there!" i wasn't laughing at the end of it. i never can laugh when i try to tell what fred is to me. but--funny?--that won him. "there! there!" he said, patting me on the shoulder. "forgive me, my dear. i am indeed glad to know that you are living happily. i have often thought of you--" "oh, have you?" "yes--i have even told mrs. van wagenen about you and how i was attracted to you and believed--ahem!" "oh--oh, have you!" i gave a wriggle as i remembered that maltese lace maria wanted and that i--ugh! but, luckily, he didn't notice. he had taken my hand and was looking at me over his spectacles in his dear, fatherly old way. "tell me now, my dear, is there anything that an old clergyman can do for you? i have an engagement near here and we may not meet again. i can't hope to find you in my carriage many more times. you are happy--you are living worthily, child? pardon me, but the stage--" oh, the gentle courtesy of his manner! i loved his solicitude. father-hungry girls like us, maggie, know how to value a thing like that. "you know," i said slowly, "the thing that keeps a woman straight and a man faithful is not a matter of bricks and mortar nor ways of thinking nor habits of living. it's something finer and stronger than these. it's the magic taboo of her love for him and his for her that makes them--sacred. with that to guard them--why--" "yes, yes," he patted my hand softly. "still, the old see the dangers of an environment that a young and impulsive woman like you, my dear, might be blind to. your associates--" "my associates? oh, you've heard about beryl blackburn. well--she's--she's just beryl, you know. she wasn't made to live any different. some people steal and some drink and some gamble and some... well, beryl belongs to the last class. she doesn't pretend to be better than she is. and, just between you and me, bishop, i've more respect for a girl of that kind than for grace weston, whose husband is my leading man, you know. why, she pulls the wool over his eyes and makes him the laughing-stock of the company. i can't stand her any more than i can marie avon, who's never without two strings--" all at once i stopped. but wasn't it like me to spoil it all by bubbling over? i tell you, maggie, too much truth isn't good for the bishop's set;--they don't know how to digest it. i was afraid that i'd lost him, for he spoke with a stately little primness as the carriage just then came to a stop; i had been so interested talking that i hadn't noticed where we were driving. "ah, here we are!" he said. "i must ask you to excuse me, miss--ah, mrs.--that is--there's a public meeting of the society for the prevention of cruelty to children this afternoon that i must attend. good-by, then--" "oh, are you bound for the cruelty, too?" i asked. "why, so am i. and--yes--yes--that's the cruelty!" the cruelty stands just where it did, mag, when you and i first saw it; most things do in philadelphia, you know. there's the same prim, official straight up-and-downness about the brick front. the steps don't look so steep now and the building's not so high, perhaps because of a skyscraper or two that've gone up since. but it chills your blood, maggie darlin', just as it always did, to think what it stands for. not man's inhumanity to man, but women's cruelty to children! maggie, think of it, if you can, as though this were the first time you'd heard of such a thing! would you believe it? i waked from that to find myself marching up the stairs behind the bishop's rigid little back. oh, it was stiff and uncompromising! beryl blackburn did that for me. poor, pretty, pagan beryl! my coming with the bishop--we seemed to come together, anyway--made the people think he'd brought me, so i must be just all right. i had the man bring in the toys i'd got out in the carriage, and i handed them over to the matron, saying: "they're for the children. i want them to have them all and now, please, to do whatever they want with them. there'll always be others. i'm going to send them right along, if you'll let me, so that those who leave can take something of their very own with them--something that never belonged to anybody else but just themselves, you understand. it's terrible, don't you know, to be a deserted child or a tortured child or a crippled child and have nothing to do but sit up in that bare, clean little room upstairs with a lot of other strangelings--and just think on the cruelty that's brought you here and the cruelty you may get into when you leave here. if i'd had a doll--if mag had only had a set of dishes or a little tin kitchen--if the boy with the gouged eye could have had a set of tools--oh, can't you understand--" i became conscious then that the matron--a new one, mag, ours is gone--was staring at me, and that the people stood around listening as though i'd gone mad. who came to my rescue? why, the bishop, like the manly little fellow he is. he forgave me even beryl in that moment. "it's nance olden, ladies," he said, with a dignified little wave of his hand that served for an introduction. "she begins her philadelphia engagement to-night in and the greatest of these." oh, i'm used to it now, maggie, but i do like it. all the lady-swells buzzed about me, and there nance stood preening herself and crowing softly till--till from among the bunch of millinery one of them stepped up to me. she had a big smooth face with plenty of chins. her hair was white and her nose was curved and she rustled in silk and-- it was mrs. dowager diamonds, alias henrietta, alias mrs. edward ramsay! "clever! my, how clever!" she exclaimed, as though the sob in my voice that i couldn't control had been a bit of acting. she was feeling for her glasses. when she got them and hooked them on her nose and got a good look at me--why, she just dropped them with a smash upon the desk. i looked for a minute from her to the bishop. "i remember you very well, mrs. ramsay. i hope you haven't forgotten me. i've often wanted to thank you for your kindness," i said slowly, while she as slowly recovered. "i think you'll be glad to know that i am thoroughly well-cured. shall i tell mrs. ramsay how, bishop?" i put it square up to him. and he met it like the little man he is--perhaps, too, my bit of charity to the cruelty children had pleased him. "i don't think it will be necessary, miss olden," he said gently. "i can do that for you at some future time." and i could have hugged him; but i didn't dare. we had tea there in the board rooms. oh, mag, remember how we used to peep into those awful, imposing board rooms! remember how strange and resentful you felt--like a poor little red-haired nigger up at the block--when you were brought in there to be shown to the woman who'd called to adopt you! it was all so strange that i had to keep talking to keep from dreaming. i was talking away to the matron and the bishop about the play-room i'm going to fit up out of that bare little place upstairs. perhaps the same child doesn't stay there very long, but there'll always be children to fill it--more's the cruel pity! then the bishop and i climbed up there to see it and plan about it. but i couldn't really see it, mag, nor the poor, white-faced, wise-eyed little waifs that have succeeded us, for the tears in my eyes and the ache at my heart and the queer trick the place has of being peopled with you and me, and the boy with the gouged eye, and the cripple, and the rest. he put his gentle thin old arm about my shoulders for a moment when he saw what was the matter with me. oh, he understands, my bishop! and then we turned to go downstairs. "oh--i want--i want to do something for them," i cried. "i want to do something that counts, that's got a heart in it, that knows! you knew, didn't you, it was true--what i said downstairs? i was--i am a cruelty girl. help me to help others like me." "my dear," he said, very stately and sweet, "i'll be proud to be your assistant. you've a kind, true heart and--" and just at that minute, as i was preceding him down the narrow steps, a girl in a red coat trimmed with chinchilla and in a red toque with some of the same fur blocked our way as she was coming up. we looked at each other. you've seen two peacocks spread their tails and strut as they pass each other? well, the peacock coming up wasn't in it with the one going down. her coat wasn't so fine, nor so heavy, nor so newly, smartly cut. her toque wasn't so big nor so saucy, and the fur on it--not to mention that the descending peacock was a brunette and ... well, mag, i had my day. miss evelyn kingdon paid me back in that minute for all the envy i've spent on that pretty rig of hers. she didn't recognize me, of course, even though the two red coats were so near, as she stopped to let me pass, that they kissed like sisters, ere they parted. but, mag, nancy olden never got haughty that there wasn't a fall waiting for her. back of miss kingdon stood mrs. kingdon--still mrs. kingdon, thanks to nance olden--and behind her, at the foot of the steps, was a frail little old-fashioned bundle of black satin and old lace. i lost my breath when the bishop hailed his wife. "maria," he said--some men say their wives' first names all the years of their lives as they said them on their wedding-day--"i want you to meet miss olden--nance olden, the comedian. she's the girl i wanted for my daughter--you'll remember, it's more than a year ago now since i began to talk about her?" i held my breath while i waited for her answer. but her poor, short-sighted eyes rested on my hot face without a sign. "it's an old joke among us," she said pleasantly, "about the bishop's daughter." we stood there and chatted, and the bishop turned away to speak to mrs. kingdon. then i seized my chance. "i've heard, mrs. van wagenen," i said softly and oh, as nicely as i could, "of your fondness for lace. we are going abroad in the spring, my husband and i, to malta, among other places. can't i get you a piece there as a souvenir of the bishop's kindness to me?" her little lace-mittened, parchment-like hands clasped and unclasped with an almost childish eagerness. "oh, thank you, thank you very much; but if you would give the same sum to charity--" "i will," i laughed. she couldn't guess how glad i was to do this thing. "and i'll spend just as much on your lace and be so happy if you'll accept it." i promised henrietta a box for to-night, maggie, and one to mrs. kingdon. the dowager told me she'd love to come, though her husband is out of town, unfortunately, she said. "but you'll come with me, won't you, bishop?" she said, turning to him. "and you, mrs. van?" the bishop blushed. was he thinking of beryl, i wonder. but i didn't hear his answer, for it was at that moment that i caught fred's voice. he had told me he was going to call for me. i think he fancied that the old cruelty would depress me--as dreams of it have, you know; and he wanted to come and carry me away from it, just as at night, when i've waked shivering and moaning, i've felt his dear arms lifting me out of the black night-memory of it. but it was anything but a doleful nance he found and hurried down the snowy steps out to a hansom and off to rehearsal. for the bishop had said to me, "god bless you, child," when he shook hands with both of us at parting, and the very cruelty seemed to smile a grim benediction, as we drove off together, on fred and nancy o. the lost princess of oz by l. frank baum this book is dedicated to my granddaughter ozma baum to my readers some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. this pleases me. imagination has brought mankind through the dark ages to its present state of civilization. imagination led columbus to discover america. imagination led franklin to discover electricity. imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities. so i believe that dreams--day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain-machinery whizzing--are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. the imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization. a prominent educator tells me that fairy tales are of untold value in developing imagination in the young. i believe it. among the letters i receive from children are many containing suggestions of "what to write about in the next oz book." some of the ideas advanced are mighty interesting, while others are too extravagant to be seriously considered--even in a fairy tale. yet i like them all, and i must admit that the main idea in "the lost princess of oz" was suggested to me by a sweet little girl of eleven who called to see me and to talk about the land of oz. said she: "i s'pose if ozma ever got lost, or stolen, ev'rybody in oz would be dreadful sorry." that was all, but quite enough foundation to build this present story on. if you happen to like the story, give credit to my little friend's clever hint. l. frank baum royal historian of oz list of chapters a terrible loss the troubles of glinda the good the robbery of cayke the cookie cook among the winkies ozma's friends are perplexed the search party the merry-go-round mountains the mysterious city the high coco-lorum of thi toto loses something button-bright loses himself the czarover of herku the truth pond the unhappy ferryman the big lavender bear the little pink bear the meeting the conference ugu the shoemaker more surprises magic against magic in the wicker castle the defiance of ugu the shoemaker the little pink bear speaks truly ozma of oz dorothy forgives the lost princess by l. frank baum chapter a terrible loss there could be no doubt of the fact: princess ozma, the lovely girl ruler of the fairyland of oz, was lost. she had completely disappeared. not one of her subjects--not even her closest friends--knew what had become of her. it was dorothy who first discovered it. dorothy was a little kansas girl who had come to the land of oz to live and had been given a delightful suite of rooms in ozma's royal palace just because ozma loved dorothy and wanted her to live as near her as possible so the two girls might be much together. dorothy was not the only girl from the outside world who had been welcomed to oz and lived in the royal palace. there was another named betsy bobbin, whose adventures had led her to seek refuge with ozma, and still another named trot, who had been invited, together with her faithful companion cap'n bill, to make her home in this wonderful fairyland. the three girls all had rooms in the palace and were great chums; but dorothy was the dearest friend of their gracious ruler and only she at any hour dared to seek ozma in her royal apartments. for dorothy had lived in oz much longer than the other girls and had been made a princess of the realm. betsy was a year older than dorothy and trot was a year younger, yet the three were near enough of an age to become great playmates and to have nice times together. it was while the three were talking together one morning in dorothy's room that betsy proposed they make a journey into the munchkin country, which was one of the four great countries of the land of oz ruled by ozma. "i've never been there yet," said betsy bobbin, "but the scarecrow once told me it is the prettiest country in all oz." "i'd like to go, too," added trot. "all right," said dorothy. "i'll go and ask ozma. perhaps she will let us take the sawhorse and the red wagon, which would be much nicer for us than having to walk all the way. this land of oz is a pretty big place when you get to all the edges of it." so she jumped up and went along the halls of the splendid palace until she came to the royal suite, which filled all the front of the second floor. in a little waiting room sat ozma's maid, jellia jamb, who was busily sewing. "is ozma up yet?" inquired dorothy. "i don't know, my dear," replied jellia. "i haven't heard a word from her this morning. she hasn't even called for her bath or her breakfast, and it is far past her usual time for them." "that's strange!" exclaimed the little girl. "yes," agreed the maid, "but of course no harm could have happened to her. no one can die or be killed in the land of oz, and ozma is herself a powerful fairy, and she has no enemies so far as we know. therefore i am not at all worried about her, though i must admit her silence is unusual." "perhaps," said dorothy thoughtfully, "she has overslept. or she may be reading or working out some new sort of magic to do good to her people." "any of these things may be true," replied jellia jamb, "so i haven't dared disturb our royal mistress. you, however, are a privileged character, princess, and i am sure that ozma wouldn't mind at all if you went in to see her." "of course not," said dorothy, and opening the door of the outer chamber, she went in. all was still here. she walked into another room, which was ozma's boudoir, and then, pushing back a heavy drapery richly broidered with threads of pure gold, the girl entered the sleeping-room of the fairy ruler of oz. the bed of ivory and gold was vacant; the room was vacant; not a trace of ozma was to be found. very much surprised, yet still with no fear that anything had happened to her friend, dorothy returned through the boudoir to the other rooms of the suite. she went into the music room, the library, the laboratory, the bath, the wardrobe, and even into the great throne room, which adjoined the royal suite, but in none of these places could she find ozma. so she returned to the anteroom where she had left the maid, jellia jamb, and said: "she isn't in her rooms now, so she must have gone out." "i don't understand how she could do that without my seeing her," replied jellia, "unless she made herself invisible." "she isn't there, anyhow," declared dorothy. "then let us go find her," suggested the maid, who appeared to be a little uneasy. so they went into the corridors, and there dorothy almost stumbled over a queer girl who was dancing lightly along the passage. "stop a minute, scraps!" she called, "have you seen ozma this morning?" "not i!" replied the queer girl, dancing nearer. "i lost both my eyes in a tussle with the woozy last night, for the creature scraped 'em both off my face with his square paws. so i put the eyes in my pocket, and this morning button-bright led me to aunt em, who sewed 'em on again. so i've seen nothing at all today, except during the last five minutes. so of course i haven't seen ozma." "very well, scraps," said dorothy, looking curiously at the eyes, which were merely two round, black buttons sewed upon the girl's face. there were other things about scraps that would have seemed curious to one seeing her for the first time. she was commonly called "the patchwork girl" because her body and limbs were made from a gay-colored patchwork quilt which had been cut into shape and stuffed with cotton. her head was a round ball stuffed in the same manner and fastened to her shoulders. for hair, she had a mass of brown yarn, and to make a nose for her a part of the cloth had been pulled out into the shape of a knob and tied with a string to hold it in place. her mouth had been carefully made by cutting a slit in the proper place and lining it with red silk, adding two rows of pearls for teeth and a bit of red flannel for a tongue. in spite of this queer make-up, the patchwork girl was magically alive and had proved herself not the least jolly and agreeable of the many quaint characters who inhabit the astonishing fairyland of oz. indeed, scraps was a general favorite, although she was rather flighty and erratic and did and said many things that surprised her friends. she was seldom still, but loved to dance, to turn handsprings and somersaults, to climb trees and to indulge in many other active sports. "i'm going to search for ozma," remarked dorothy, "for she isn't in her rooms, and i want to ask her a question." "i'll go with you," said scraps, "for my eyes are brighter than yours, and they can see farther." "i'm not sure of that," returned dorothy. "but come along, if you like." together they searched all through the great palace and even to the farthest limits of the palace grounds, which were quite extensive, but nowhere could they find a trace of ozma. when dorothy returned to where betsy and trot awaited her, the little girl's face was rather solemn and troubled, for never before had ozma gone away without telling her friends where she was going, or without an escort that befitted her royal state. she was gone, however, and none had seen her go. dorothy had met and questioned the scarecrow, tik-tok, the shaggy man, button-bright, cap'n bill, and even the wise and powerful wizard of oz, but not one of them had seen ozma since she parted with her friends the evening before and had gone to her own rooms. "she didn't say anything las' night about going anywhere," observed little trot. "no, and that's the strange part of it," replied dorothy. "usually ozma lets us know of everything she does." "why not look in the magic picture?" suggested betsy bobbin. "that will tell us where she is in just one second." "of course!" cried dorothy. "why didn't i think of that before?" and at once the three girls hurried away to ozma's boudoir, where the magic picture always hung. this wonderful magic picture was one of the royal ozma's greatest treasures. there was a large gold frame in the center of which was a bluish-gray canvas on which various scenes constantly appeared and disappeared. if one who stood before it wished to see what any person anywhere in the world was doing, it was only necessary to make the wish and the scene in the magic picture would shift to the scene where that person was and show exactly what he or she was then engaged in doing. so the girls knew it would be easy for them to wish to see ozma, and from the picture they could quickly learn where she was. dorothy advanced to the place where the picture was usually protected by thick satin curtains and pulled the draperies aside. then she stared in amazement, while her two friends uttered exclamations of disappointment. the magic picture was gone. only a blank space on the wall behind the curtains showed where it had formerly hung. chapter the troubles of glinda the good that same morning there was great excitement in the castle of the powerful sorceress of oz, glinda the good. this castle, situated in the quadling country, far south of the emerald city where ozma ruled, was a splendid structure of exquisite marbles and silver grilles. here the sorceress lived, surrounded by a bevy of the most beautiful maidens of oz, gathered from all the four countries of that fairyland as well as from the magnificent emerald city itself, which stood in the place where the four countries cornered. it was considered a great honor to be allowed to serve the good sorceress, whose arts of magic were used only to benefit the oz people. glinda was ozma's most valued servant, for her knowledge of sorcery was wonderful, and she could accomplish almost anything that her mistress, the lovely girl ruler of oz, wished her to. of all the magical things which surrounded glinda in her castle, there was none more marvelous than her great book of records. on the pages of this record book were constantly being inscribed, day by day and hour by hour, all the important events that happened anywhere in the known world, and they were inscribed in the book at exactly the moment the events happened. every adventure in the land of oz and in the big outside world, and even in places that you and i have never heard of, were recorded accurately in the great book, which never made a mistake and stated only the exact truth. for that reason, nothing could be concealed from glinda the good, who had only to look at the pages of the great book of records to know everything that had taken place. that was one reason she was such a great sorceress, for the records made her wiser than any other living person. this wonderful book was placed upon a big gold table that stood in the middle of glinda's drawing room. the legs of the table, which were incrusted with precious gems, were firmly fastened to the tiled floor, and the book itself was chained to the table and locked with six stout golden padlocks, the keys to which glinda carried on a chain that was secured around her own neck. the pages of the great book were larger in size than those of an american newspaper, and although they were exceedingly thin, there were so many of them that they made an enormous, bulky volume. with its gold cover and gold clasps, the book was so heavy that three men could scarcely have lifted it. yet this morning when glinda entered her drawing room after breakfast, the good sorceress was amazed to discover that her great book of records had mysteriously disappeared. advancing to the table, she found the chains had been cut with some sharp instrument, and this must have been done while all in the castle slept. glinda was shocked and grieved. who could have done this wicked, bold thing? and who could wish to deprive her of her great book of records? the sorceress was thoughtful for a time, considering the consequences of her loss. then she went to her room of magic to prepare a charm that would tell her who had stolen the record book. but when she unlocked her cupboard and threw open the doors, all of her magical instruments and rare chemical compounds had been removed from the shelves. the sorceress has now both angry and alarmed. she sat down in a chair and tried to think how this extraordinary robbery could have taken place. it was evident that the thief was some person of very great power, or the theft could not have been accomplished without her knowledge. but who, in all the land of oz, was powerful and skillful enough to do this awful thing? and who, having the power, could also have an object in defying the wisest and most talented sorceress the world has ever known? glinda thought over the perplexing matter for a full hour, at the end of which time she was still puzzled how to explain it. but although her instruments and chemicals were gone, her knowledge of magic had not been stolen, by any means, since no thief, however skillful, can rob one of knowledge, and that is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to acquire. glinda believed that when she had time to gather more magical herbs and elixirs and to manufacture more magical instruments, she would be able to discover who the robber was and what had become of her precious book of records. "whoever has done this," she said to her maidens, "is a very foolish person, for in time he is sure to be found out and will then be severely punished." she now made a list of the things she needed and dispatched messengers to every part of oz with instructions to obtain them and bring them to her as soon as possible. and one of her messengers met the little wizard of oz, who was seated on the back of the famous live sawhorse and was clinging to its neck with both his arms, for the sawhorse was speeding to glinda's castle with the velocity of the wind, bearing the news that royal ozma, ruler of all the great land of oz, had suddenly disappeared and no one in the emerald city knew what had become of her. "also," said the wizard as he stood before the astonished sorceress, "ozma's magic picture is gone, so we cannot consult it to discover where she is. so i came to you for assistance as soon as we realized our loss. let us look in the great book of records." "alas," returned the sorceress sorrowfully, "we cannot do that, for the great book of records has also disappeared!" chapter the robbery of cayke the cookie cook one more important theft was reported in the land of oz that eventful morning, but it took place so far from either the emerald city or the castle of glinda the good that none of those persons we have mentioned learned of the robbery until long afterward. in the far southwestern corner of the winkie country is a broad tableland that can be reached only by climbing a steep hill, whichever side one approaches it. on the hillside surrounding this tableland are no paths at all, but there are quantities of bramble bushes with sharp prickers on them, which prevent any of the oz people who live down below from climbing up to see what is on top. but on top live the yips, and although the space they occupy is not great in extent, the wee country is all their own. the yips had never--up to the time this story begins--left their broad tableland to go down into the land of oz, nor had the oz people ever climbed up to the country of the yips. living all alone as they did, the yips had queer ways and notions of their own and did not resemble any other people of the land of oz. their houses were scattered all over the flat surface; not like a city, grouped together, but set wherever their owners' fancy dictated, with fields here, trees there, and odd little paths connecting the houses one with another. it was here, on the morning when ozma so strangely disappeared from the emerald city, that cayke the cookie cook discovered that her diamond-studded gold dishpan had been stolen, and she raised such a hue and cry over her loss and wailed and shrieked so loudly that many of the yips gathered around her house to inquire what was the matter. it was a serious thing in any part of the land of oz to accuse one of stealing, so when the yips heard cayke the cookie cook declare that her jeweled dishpan had been stolen, they were both humiliated and disturbed and forced cayke to go with them to the frogman to see what could be done about it. i do not suppose you have ever before heard of the frogman, for like all other dwellers on that tableland, he had never been away from it, nor had anyone come up there to see him. the frogman was in truth descended from the common frogs of oz, and when he was first born he lived in a pool in the winkie country and was much like any other frog. being of an adventurous nature, however, he soon hopped out of his pool and began to travel, when a big bird came along and seized him in its beak and started to fly away with him to its nest. when high in the air, the frog wriggled so frantically that he got loose and fell down, down, down into a small hidden pool on the tableland of the yips. now that pool, it seems, was unknown to the yips because it was surrounded by thick bushes and was not near to any dwelling, and it proved to be an enchanted pool, for the frog grew very fast and very big, feeding on the magic skosh which is found nowhere else on earth except in that one pool. and the skosh not only made the frog very big so that when he stood on his hind legs he was as tall as any yip in the country, but it made him unusually intelligent, so that he soon knew more than the yips did and was able to reason and to argue very well indeed. no one could expect a frog with these talents to remain in a hidden pool, so he finally got out of it and mingled with the people of the tableland, who were amazed at his appearance and greatly impressed by his learning. they had never seen a frog before, and the frog had never seen a yip before, but as there were plenty of yips and only one frog, the frog became the most important. he did not hop any more, but stood upright on his hind legs and dressed himself in fine clothes and sat in chairs and did all the things that people do, so he soon came to be called the frogman, and that is the only name he has ever had. after some years had passed, the people came to regard the frogman as their adviser in all matters that puzzled them. they brought all their difficulties to him, and when he did not know anything, he pretended to know it, which seemed to answer just as well. indeed, the yips thought the frogman was much wiser than he really was, and he allowed them to think so, being very proud of his position of authority. there was another pool on the tableland which was not enchanted but contained good, clear water and was located close to the dwellings. here the people built the frogman a house of his own, close to the edge of the pool so that he could take a bath or a swim whenever he wished. he usually swam in the pool in the early morning before anyone else was up, and during the day he dressed himself in his beautiful clothes and sat in his house and received the visits of all the yips who came to him to ask his advice. the frogman's usual costume consisted of knee-breeches made of yellow satin plush, with trimmings of gold braid and jeweled knee-buckles; a white satin vest with silver buttons in which were set solitaire rubies; a swallow-tailed coat of bright yellow; green stockings and red leather shoes turned up at the toes and having diamond buckles. he wore, when he walked out, a purple silk hat and carried a gold-headed cane. over his eyes he wore great spectacles with gold rims, not because his eyes were bad, but because the spectacles made him look wise, and so distinguished and gorgeous was his appearance that all the yips were very proud of him. there was no king or queen in the yip country, so the simple inhabitants naturally came to look upon the frogman as their leader as well as their counselor in all times of emergency. in his heart the big frog knew he was no wiser than the yips, but for a frog to know as much as a person was quite remarkable, and the frogman was shrewd enough to make the people believe he was far more wise than he really was. they never suspected he was a humbug, but listened to his words with great respect and did just what he advised them to do. now when cayke the cookie cook raised such an outcry over the theft of her diamond-studded dishpan, the first thought of the people was to take her to the frogman and inform him of the loss, thinking that of course he would tell her where to find it. he listened to the story with his big eyes wide open behind his spectacles, and said in his deep, croaking voice, "if the dishpan is stolen, somebody must have taken it." "but who?" asked cayke anxiously. "who is the thief?" "the one who took the dishpan, of course," replied the frogman, and hearing this all the yips nodded their heads gravely and said to one another, "it is absolutely true!" "but i want my dishpan!" cried cayke. "no one can blame you for that wish," remarked the frogman. "then tell me where i may find it," she urged. the look the frogman gave her was a very wise look, and he rose from his chair and strutted up and down the room with his hands under his coattails in a very pompous and imposing manner. this was the first time so difficult a matter had been brought to him, and he wanted time to think. it would never do to let them suspect his ignorance, and so he thought very, very hard how best to answer the woman without betraying himself. "i beg to inform you," said he, "that nothing in the yip country has ever been stolen before." "we know that already," answered cayke the cookie cook impatiently. "therefore," continued the frogman, "this theft becomes a very important matter." "well, where is my dishpan?" demanded the woman. "it is lost, but it must be found. unfortunately, we have no policemen or detectives to unravel the mystery, so we must employ other means to regain the lost article. cayke must first write a proclamation and tack it to the door of her house, and the proclamation must read that whoever stole the jeweled dishpan must return it at once." "but suppose no one returns it," suggested cayke. "then," said the frogman, "that very fact will be proof that no one has stolen it." cayke was not satisfied, but the other yips seemed to approve the plan highly. they all advised her to do as the frogman had told her to, so she posted the sign on her door and waited patiently for someone to return the dishpan--which no one ever did. again she went, accompanied by a group of her neighbors, to the frogman, who by this time had given the matter considerable thought. said he to cayke, "i am now convinced that no yip has taken your dishpan, and since it is gone from the yip country, i suspect that some stranger came from the world down below us in the darkness of night when all of us were asleep and took away your treasure. there can be no other explanation of its disappearance. so if you wish to recover that golden, diamond-studded dishpan, you must go into the lower world after it." this was indeed a startling proposition. cayke and her friends went to the edge of the flat tableland and looked down the steep hillside to the plains below. it was so far to the bottom of the hill that nothing there could be seen very distinctly, and it seemed to the yips very venturesome, if not dangerous, to go so far from home into an unknown land. however, cayke wanted her dishpan very badly, so she turned to her friends and asked, "who will go with me?" no one answered the question, but after a period of silence one of the yips said, "we know what is here on the top of this flat hill, and it seems to us a very pleasant place, but what is down below we do not know. the chances are it is not so pleasant, so we had best stay where we are." "it may be a far better country than this is," suggested the cookie cook. "maybe, maybe," responded another yip, "but why take chances? contentment with one's lot is true wisdom. perhaps in some other country there are better cookies than you cook, but as we have always eaten your cookies and liked them--except when they are burned on the bottom--we do not long for any better ones." cayke might have agreed to this argument had she not been so anxious to find her precious dishpan, but now she exclaimed impatiently, "you are cowards, all of you! if none of you are willing to explore with me the great world beyond this small hill, i will surely go alone." "that is a wise resolve," declared the yips, much relieved. "it is your dishpan that is lost, not ours. and if you are willing to risk your life and liberty to regain it, no one can deny you the privilege." while they were thus conversing, the frogman joined them and looked down at the plain with his big eyes and seemed unusually thoughtful. in fact, the frogman was thinking that he'd like to see more of the world. here in the yip country he had become the most important creature of them all, and his importance was getting to be a little tame. it would be nice to have other people defer to him and ask his advice, and there seemed no reason so far as he could see why his fame should not spread throughout all oz. he knew nothing of the rest of the world, but it was reasonable to believe that there were more people beyond the mountain where he now lived than there were yips, and if he went among them he could surprise them with his display of wisdom and make them bow down to him as the yips did. in other words, the frogman was ambitious to become still greater than he was, which was impossible if he always remained upon this mountain. he wanted others to see his gorgeous clothes and listen to his solemn sayings, and here was an excuse for him to get away from the yip country. so he said to cayke the cookie cook, "i will go with you, my good woman," which greatly pleased cayke because she felt the frogman could be of much assistance to her in her search. but now, since the mighty frogman had decided to undertake the journey, several of the yips who were young and daring at once made up their minds to go along, so the next morning after breakfast the frogman and cayke the cookie cook and nine of the yips started to slide down the side of the mountain. the bramble bushes and cactus plants were very prickly and uncomfortable to the touch, so the frogman quickly commanded the yips to go first and break a path, so that when he followed them he would not tear his splendid clothes. cayke, too, was wearing her best dress and was likewise afraid of the thorns and prickers, so she kept behind the frogman. they made rather slow progress and night overtook them before they were halfway down the mountainside, so they found a cave in which they sought shelter until morning. cayke had brought along a basket full of her famous cookies, so they all had plenty to eat. on the second day the yips began to wish they had not embarked on this adventure. they grumbled a good deal at having to cut away the thorns to make the path for the frogman and the cookie cook, for their own clothing suffered many tears, while cayke and the frogman traveled safely and in comfort. "if it is true that anyone came to our country to steal your diamond dishpan," said one of the yips to cayke, "it must have been a bird, for no person in the form of a man, woman or child could have climbed through these bushes and back again." "and, allowing he could have done so," said another yip, "the diamond-studded gold dishpan would not have repaid him for his troubles and his tribulations." "for my part," remarked a third yip, "i would rather go back home and dig and polish some more diamonds and mine some more gold and make you another dishpan than be scratched from head to heel by these dreadful bushes. even now, if my mother saw me, she would not know i am her son." cayke paid no heed to these mutterings, nor did the frogman. although their journey was slow, it was being made easy for them by the yips, so they had nothing to complain of and no desire to turn back. quite near to the bottom of the great hill they came upon a great gulf, the sides of which were as smooth as glass. the gulf extended a long distance--as far as they could see in either direction--and although it was not very wide, it was far too wide for the yips to leap across it. and should they fall into it, it was likely they might never get out again. "here our journey ends," said the yips. "we must go back again." cayke the cookie cook began to weep. "i shall never find my pretty dishpan again, and my heart will be broken!" she sobbed. the frogman went to the edge of the gulf and with his eye carefully measured the distance to the other side. "being a frog," said he, "i can leap, as all frogs do, and being so big and strong, i am sure i can leap across this gulf with ease. but the rest of you, not being frogs, must return the way you came." "we will do that with pleasure," cried the yips, and at once they turned and began to climb up the steep mountain, feeling they had had quite enough of this unsatisfactory adventure. cayke the cookie cook did not go with them, however. she sat on a rock and wept and wailed and was very miserable. "well," said the frogman to her, "i will now bid you goodbye. if i find your diamond-decorated gold dishpan, i will promise to see that it is safely returned to you." "but i prefer to find it myself!" she said. "see here, frogman, why can't you carry me across the gulf when you leap it? you are big and strong, while i am small and thin." the frogman gravely thought over this suggestion. it was a fact that cayke the cookie cook was not a heavy person. perhaps he could leap the gulf with her on his back. "if you are willing to risk a fall," said he, "i will make the attempt." at once she sprang up and grabbed him around his neck with both her arms. that is, she grabbed him where his neck ought to be, for the frogman had no neck at all. then he squatted down, as frogs do when they leap, and with his powerful rear legs he made a tremendous jump. over the gulf they sailed, with the cookie cook on his back, and he had leaped so hard--to make sure of not falling in--that he sailed over a lot of bramble bushes that grew on the other side and landed in a clear space which was so far beyond the gulf that when they looked back they could not see it at all. cayke now got off the frogman's back and he stood erect again and carefully brushed the dust from his velvet coat and rearranged his white satin necktie. "i had no idea i could leap so far," he said wonderingly. "leaping is one more accomplishment i can now add to the long list of deeds i am able to perform." "you are certainly fine at leap-frog," said the cookie cook admiringly, "but, as you say, you are wonderful in many ways. if we meet with any people down here, i am sure they will consider you the greatest and grandest of all living creatures." "yes," he replied, "i shall probably astonish strangers, because they have never before had the pleasure of seeing me. also, they will marvel at my great learning. every time i open my mouth, cayke, i am liable to say something important." "that is true," she agreed, "and it is fortunate your mouth is so very wide and opens so far, for otherwise all the wisdom might not be able to get out of it." "perhaps nature made it wide for that very reason," said the frogman. "but come, let us now go on, for it is getting late and we must find some sort of shelter before night overtakes us." chapter among the winkies the settled parts of the winkie country are full of happy and contented people who are ruled by a tin emperor named nick chopper, who in turn is a subject of the beautiful girl ruler, ozma of oz. but not all of the winkie country is fully settled. at the east, which part lies nearest the emerald city, there are beautiful farmhouses and roads, but as you travel west, you first come to a branch of the winkie river, beyond which there is a rough country where few people live, and some of these are quite unknown to the rest of the world. after passing through this rude section of territory, which no one ever visits, you would come to still another branch of the winkie river, after crossing which you would find another well-settled part of the winkie country extending westward quite to the deadly desert that surrounds all the land of oz and separates that favored fairyland from the more common outside world. the winkies who live in this west section have many tin mines, from which metal they make a great deal of rich jewelry and other articles, all of which are highly esteemed in the land of oz because tin is so bright and pretty and there is not so much of it as there is of gold and silver. not all the winkies are miners, however, for some till the fields and grow grains for food, and it was at one of these far-west winkie farms that the frogman and cayke the cookie cook first arrived after they had descended from the mountain of the yips. "goodness me!" cried nellary the winkie wife when she saw the strange couple approaching her house. "i have seen many queer creatures in the land of oz, but none more queer than this giant frog who dresses like a man and walks on his hind legs. come here, wiljon," she called to her husband, who was eating his breakfast, "and take a look at this astonishing freak." wiljon the winkie came to the door and looked out. he was still standing in the doorway when the frogman approached and said with a haughty croak, "tell me, my good man, have you seen a diamond-studded gold dishpan?" "no, nor have i seen a copper-plated lobster," replied wiljon in an equally haughty tone. the frogman stared at him and said, "do not be insolent, fellow!" "no," added cayke the cookie cook hastily, "you must be very polite to the great frogman, for he is the wisest creature in all the world." "who says that?" inquired wiljon. "he says so himself," replied cayke, and the frogman nodded and strutted up and down, twirling his gold-headed cane very gracefully. "does the scarecrow admit that this overgrown frog is the wisest creature in the world?" asked wiljon. "i do not know who the scarecrow is," answered cayke the cookie cook. "well, he lives at the emerald city, and he is supposed to have the finest brains in all oz. the wizard gave them to him, you know." "mine grew in my head," said the frogman pompously, "so i think they must be better than any wizard brains. i am so wise that sometimes my wisdom makes my head ache. i know so much that often i have to forget part of it, since no one creature, however great, is able to contain so much knowledge." "it must be dreadful to be stuffed full of wisdom," remarked wiljon reflectively and eyeing the frogman with a doubtful look. "it is my good fortune to know very little." "i hope, however, you know where my jeweled dishpan is," said the cookie cook anxiously. "i do not know even that," returned the winkie. "we have trouble enough in keeping track of our own dishpans without meddling with the dishpans of strangers." finding him so ignorant, the frogman proposed that they walk on and seek cayke's dishpan elsewhere. wiljon the winkie did not seem greatly impressed by the great frogman, which seemed to that personage as strange as it was disappointing. but others in this unknown land might prove more respectful. "i'd like to meet that wizard of oz," remarked cayke as they walked along a path. "if he could give a scarecrow brains, he might be able to find my dishpan." "poof!" grunted the frogman scornfully. "i am greater than any wizard. depend on me. if your dishpan is anywhere in the world, i am sure to find it." "if you do not, my heart will be broken," declared the cookie cook in a sorrowful voice. for a while the frogman walked on in silence. then he asked, "why do you attach so much importance to a dishpan?" "it is the greatest treasure i possess," replied the woman. "it belonged to my mother and to all my grandmothers since the beginning of time. it is, i believe, the very oldest thing in all the yip country--or was while it was there--and," she added, dropping her voice to an awed whisper, "it has magic powers!" "in what way?" inquired the frogman, seeming to be surprised at this statement. "whoever has owned that dishpan has been a good cook, for one thing. no one else is able to make such good cookies as i have cooked, as you and all the yips know. yet the very morning after my dishpan was stolen, i tried to make a batch of cookies and they burned up in the oven! i made another batch that proved too tough to eat, and i was so ashamed of them that i buried them in the ground. even the third batch of cookies, which i brought with me in my basket, were pretty poor stuff and no better than any woman could make who does not own my diamond-studded gold dishpan. in fact, my good frogman, cayke the cookie cook will never be able to cook good cookies again until her magic dishpan is restored to her." "in that case," said the frogman with a sigh, "i suppose we must manage to find it." chapter ozma's friends are perplexed "really," said dorothy, looking solemn, "this is very s'prising. we can't even find a shadow of ozma anywhere in the em'rald city, and wherever she's gone, she's taken her magic picture with her." she was standing in the courtyard of the palace with betsy and trot, while scraps, the patchwork girl, danced around the group, her hair flying in the wind. "p'raps," said scraps, still dancing, "someone has stolen ozma." "oh, they'd never dare do that!" exclaimed tiny trot. "and stolen the magic picture, too, so the thing can't tell where she is," added the patchwork girl. "that's nonsense," said dorothy. "why, ev'ryone loves ozma. there isn't a person in the land of oz who would steal a single thing she owns." "huh!" replied the patchwork girl. "you don't know ev'ry person in the land of oz." "why don't i?" "it's a big country," said scraps. "there are cracks and corners in it that even ozma doesn't know of." "the patchwork girl's just daffy," declared betsy. "no, she's right about that," replied dorothy thoughtfully. "there are lots of queer people in this fairyland who never come near ozma or the em'rald city. i've seen some of 'em myself, girls. but i haven't seen all, of course, and there might be some wicked persons left in oz yet, though i think the wicked witches have all been destroyed." just then the wooden sawhorse dashed into the courtyard with the wizard of oz on his back. "have you found ozma?" cried the wizard when the sawhorse stopped beside them. "not yet," said dorothy. "doesn't glinda the good know where she is?" "no. glinda's book of records and all her magic instruments are gone. someone must have stolen them." "goodness me!" exclaimed dorothy in alarm. "this is the biggest steal i ever heard of. who do you think did it, wizard?" "i've no idea," he answered. "but i have come to get my own bag of magic tools and carry them to glinda. she is so much more powerful than i that she may be able to discover the truth by means of my magic quicker and better than i could myself." "hurry, then," said dorothy, "for we've all gotten terr'bly worried." the wizard rushed away to his rooms but presently came back with a long, sad face. "it's gone!" he said. "what's gone?" asked scraps. "my black bag of magic tools. someone must have stolen it!" they looked at one another in amazement. "this thing is getting desperate," continued the wizard. "all the magic that belongs to ozma or to glinda or to me has been stolen." "do you suppose ozma could have taken them, herself, for some purpose?" asked betsy. "no indeed," declared the wizard. "i suspect some enemy has stolen ozma and for fear we would follow and recapture her has taken all our magic away from us." "how dreadful!" cried dorothy. "the idea of anyone wanting to injure our dear ozma! can't we do anything to find her, wizard?" "i'll ask glinda. i must go straight back to her and tell her that my magic tools have also disappeared. the good sorceress will be greatly shocked, i know." with this, he jumped upon the back of the sawhorse again, and the quaint steed, which never tired, dashed away at full speed. the three girls were very much disturbed in mind. even the patchwork girl seemed to realize that a great calamity had overtaken them all. ozma was a fairy of considerable power, and all the creatures in oz as well as the three mortal girls from the outside world looked upon her as their protector and friend. the idea of their beautiful girl ruler's being overpowered by an enemy and dragged from her splendid palace a captive was too astonishing for them to comprehend at first. yet what other explanation of the mystery could there be? "ozma wouldn't go away willingly, without letting us know about it," asserted dorothy, "and she wouldn't steal glinda's great book of records or the wizard's magic, 'cause she could get them any time just by asking for 'em. i'm sure some wicked person has done all this." "someone in the land of oz?" asked trot. "of course. no one could get across the deadly desert, you know, and no one but an oz person could know about the magic picture and the book of records and the wizard's magic or where they were kept, and so be able to steal the whole outfit before we could stop 'em. it must be someone who lives in the land of oz." "but who--who--who?" asked scraps. "that's the question. who?" "if we knew," replied dorothy severely, "we wouldn't be standing here doing nothing." just then two boys entered the courtyard and approached the group of girls. one boy was dressed in the fantastic munchkin costume--a blue jacket and knickerbockers, blue leather shoes and a blue hat with a high peak and tiny silver bells dangling from its rim--and this was ojo the lucky, who had once come from the munchkin country of oz and now lived in the emerald city. the other boy was an american from philadelphia and had lately found his way to oz in the company of trot and cap'n bill. his name was button-bright; that is, everyone called him by that name and knew no other. button-bright was not quite as big as the munchkin boy, but he wore the same kind of clothes, only they were of different colors. as the two came up to the girls, arm in arm, button-bright remarked, "hello, dorothy. they say ozma is lost." "who says so?" she asked. "ev'rybody's talking about it in the city," he replied. "i wonder how the people found it out," dorothy asked. "i know," said ojo. "jellia jamb told them. she has been asking everywhere if anyone has seen ozma." "that's too bad," observed dorothy, frowning. "why?" asked button-bright. "there wasn't any use making all our people unhappy till we were dead certain that ozma can't be found." "pshaw," said button-bright, "it's nothing to get lost. i've been lost lots of times." "that's true," admitted trot, who knew that the boy had a habit of getting lost and then finding himself again, "but it's diff'rent with ozma. she's the ruler of all this big fairyland, and we're 'fraid that the reason she's lost is because somebody has stolen her away." "only wicked people steal," said ojo. "do you know of any wicked people in oz, dorothy?" "no," she replied. "they're here, though," cried scraps, dancing up to them and then circling around the group. "ozma's stolen; someone in oz stole her; only wicked people steal; so someone in oz is wicked!" there was no denying the truth of this statement. the faces of all of them were now solemn and sorrowful. "one thing is sure," said button-bright after a time, "if ozma has been stolen, someone ought to find her and punish the thief." "there may be a lot of thieves," suggested trot gravely, "and in this fairy country they don't seem to have any soldiers or policemen." "there is one soldier," claimed dorothy. "he has green whiskers and a gun and is a major-general, but no one is afraid of either his gun or his whiskers, 'cause he's so tender-hearted that he wouldn't hurt a fly." "well, a soldier is a soldier," said betsy, "and perhaps he'd hurt a wicked thief if he wouldn't hurt a fly. where is he?" "he went fishing about two months ago and hasn't come back yet," explained button-bright. "then i can't see that he will be of much use to us in this trouble," sighed little trot. "but p'raps ozma, who is a fairy, can get away from the thieves without any help from anyone." "she might be able to," answered dorothy reflectively, "but if she had the power to do that, it isn't likely she'd have let herself be stolen. so the thieves must have been even more powerful in magic than our ozma." there was no denying this argument, and although they talked the matter over all the rest of that day, they were unable to decide how ozma had been stolen against her will or who had committed the dreadful deed. toward evening the wizard came back, riding slowly upon the sawhorse because he felt discouraged and perplexed. glinda came later in her aerial chariot drawn by twenty milk-white swans, and she also seemed worried and unhappy. more of ozma's friends joined them, and that evening they all had a big talk together. "i think," said dorothy, "we ought to start out right away in search of our dear ozma. it seems cruel for us to live comf'tably in her palace while she is a pris'ner in the power of some wicked enemy." "yes," agreed glinda the sorceress, "someone ought to search for her. i cannot go myself, because i must work hard in order to create some new instruments of sorcery by means of which i may rescue our fair ruler. but if you can find her in the meantime and let me know who has stolen her, it will enable me to rescue her much more quickly." "then we'll start tomorrow morning," decided dorothy. "betsy and trot and i won't waste another minute." "i'm not sure you girls will make good detectives," remarked the wizard, "but i'll go with you to protect you from harm and to give you my advice. all my wizardry, alas, is stolen, so i am now really no more a wizard than any of you, but i will try to protect you from any enemies you may meet." "what harm could happen to us in oz?" inquired trot. "what harm happened to ozma?" returned the wizard. "if there is an evil power abroad in our fairyland, which is able to steal not only ozma and her magic picture, but glinda's book of records and all her magic, and my black bag containing all my tricks of wizardry, then that evil power may yet cause us considerable injury. ozma is a fairy, and so is glinda, so no power can kill or destroy them, but you girls are all mortals and so are button-bright and i, so we must watch out for ourselves." "nothing can kill me," said ojo the munchkin boy. "that is true," replied the sorceress, "and i think it may be well to divide the searchers into several parties, that they may cover all the land of oz more quickly. so i will send ojo and unc nunkie and dr. pipt into the munchkin country, which they are well acquainted with; and i will send the scarecrow and the tin woodman into the quadling country, for they are fearless and brave and never tire; and to the gillikin country, where many dangers lurk, i will send the shaggy man and his brother, with tik-tok and jack pumpkinhead. dorothy may make up her own party and travel into the winkie country. all of you must inquire everywhere for ozma and try to discover where she is hidden." they thought this a very wise plan and adopted it without question. in ozma's absence, glinda the good was the most important person in oz, and all were glad to serve under her direction. chapter the search party next morning as soon as the sun was up, glinda flew back to her castle, stopping on the way to instruct the scarecrow and the tin woodman, who were at that time staying at the college of professor h. m. wogglebug, t.e., and taking a course of his patent educational pills. on hearing of ozma's loss, they started at once for the quadling country to search for her. as soon as glinda had left the emerald city, tik-tok and the shaggy man and jack pumpkinhead, who had been present at the conference, began their journey into the gillikin country, and an hour later ojo and unc nunkie joined dr. pipt and together they traveled toward the munchkin country. when all these searchers were gone, dorothy and the wizard completed their own preparations. the wizard hitched the sawhorse to the red wagon, which would seat four very comfortably. he wanted dorothy, betsy, trot and the patchwork girl to ride in the wagon, but scraps came up to them mounted upon the woozy, and the woozy said he would like to join the party. now this woozy was a most peculiar animal, having a square head, square body, square legs and square tail. his skin was very tough and hard, resembling leather, and while his movements were somewhat clumsy, the beast could travel with remarkable swiftness. his square eyes were mild and gentle in expression, and he was not especially foolish. the woozy and the patchwork girl were great friends, and so the wizard agreed to let the woozy go with them. another great beast now appeared and asked to go along. this was none other than the famous cowardly lion, one of the most interesting creatures in all oz. no lion that roamed the jungles or plains could compare in size or intelligence with this cowardly lion, who--like all animals living in oz--could talk and who talked with more shrewdness and wisdom than many of the people did. he said he was cowardly because he always trembled when he faced danger, but he had faced danger many times and never refused to fight when it was necessary. this lion was a great favorite with ozma and always guarded her throne on state occasions. he was also an old companion and friend of the princess dorothy, so the girl was delighted to have him join the party. "i'm so nervous over our dear ozma," said the cowardly lion in his deep, rumbling voice, "that it would make me unhappy to remain behind while you are trying to find her. but do not get into any danger, i beg of you, for danger frightens me terribly." "we'll not get into danger if we can poss'bly help it," promised dorothy, "but we shall do anything to find ozma, danger or no danger." the addition of the woozy and the cowardly lion to the party gave betsy bobbin an idea, and she ran to the marble stables at the rear of the palace and brought out her mule, hank by name. perhaps no mule you ever saw was so lean and bony and altogether plain looking as this hank, but betsy loved him dearly because he was faithful and steady and not nearly so stupid as most mules are considered to be. betsy had a saddle for hank, and he declared she would ride on his back, an arrangement approved by the wizard because it left only four of the party to ride on the seats of the red wagon--dorothy and button-bright and trot and himself. an old sailor man who had one wooden leg came to see them off and suggested that they put a supply of food and blankets in the red wagon inasmuch as they were uncertain how long they would be gone. this sailor man was called cap'n bill. he was a former friend and comrade of trot and had encountered many adventures in company with the little girl. i think he was sorry he could not go with her on this trip, but glinda the sorceress had asked cap'n bill to remain in the emerald city and take charge of the royal palace while everyone else was away, and the one-legged sailor had agreed to do so. they loaded the back end of the red wagon with everything they thought they might need, and then they formed a procession and marched from the palace through the emerald city to the great gates of the wall that surrounded this beautiful capital of the land of oz. crowds of citizens lined the streets to see them pass and to cheer them and wish them success, for all were grieved over ozma's loss and anxious that she be found again. first came the cowardly lion, then the patchwork girl riding upon the woozy, then betsy bobbin on her mule hank, and finally the sawhorse drawing the red wagon, in which were seated the wizard and dorothy and button-bright and trot. no one was obliged to drive the sawhorse, so there were no reins to his harness; one had only to tell him which way to go, fast or slow, and he understood perfectly. it was about this time that a shaggy little black dog who had been lying asleep in dorothy's room in the palace woke up and discovered he was lonesome. everything seemed very still throughout the great building, and toto--that was the little dog's name--missed the customary chatter of the three girls. he never paid much attention to what was going on around him, and although he could speak, he seldom said anything, so the little dog did not know about ozma's loss or that everyone had gone in search of her. but he liked to be with people, and especially with his own mistress, dorothy, and having yawned and stretched himself and found the door of the room ajar, he trotted out into the corridor and went down the stately marble stairs to the hall of the palace, where he met jellia jamb. "where's dorothy?" asked toto. "she's gone to the winkie country," answered the maid. "when?" "a little while ago," replied jellia. toto turned and trotted out into the palace garden and down the long driveway until he came to the streets of the emerald city. here he paused to listen, and hearing sounds of cheering, he ran swiftly along until he came in sight of the red wagon and the woozy and the lion and the mule and all the others. being a wise little dog, he decided not to show himself to dorothy just then, lest he be sent back home, but he never lost sight of the party of travelers, all of whom were so eager to get ahead that they never thought to look behind them. when they came to the gates in the city wall, the guardian of the gates came out to throw wide the golden portals and let them pass through. "did any strange person come in or out of the city on the night before last when ozma was stolen?" asked dorothy. "no indeed, princess," answered the guardian of the gates. "of course not," said the wizard. "anyone clever enough to steal all the things we have lost would not mind the barrier of a wall like this in the least. i think the thief must have flown through the air, for otherwise he could not have stolen from ozma's royal palace and glinda's faraway castle in the same night. moreover, as there are no airships in oz and no way for airships from the outside world to get into this country, i believe the thief must have flown from place to place by means of magic arts which neither glinda nor i understand." on they went, and before the gates closed behind them, toto managed to dodge through them. the country surrounding the emerald city was thickly settled, and for a while our friends rode over nicely paved roads which wound through a fertile country dotted with beautiful houses, all built in the quaint oz fashion. in the course of a few hours, however, they had left the tilled fields and entered the country of the winkies, which occupies a quarter of all the territory in the land of oz but is not so well known as many other parts of ozma's fairyland. long before night the travelers had crossed the winkie river near to the scarecrow's tower (which was now vacant) and had entered the rolling prairie where few people live. they asked everyone they met for news of ozma, but none in this district had seen her or even knew that she had been stolen. and by nightfall they had passed all the farmhouses and were obliged to stop and ask for shelter at the hut of a lonely shepherd. when they halted, toto was not far behind. the little dog halted, too, and stealing softly around the party, he hid himself behind the hut. the shepherd was a kindly old man and treated the travelers with much courtesy. he slept out of doors that night, giving up his hut to the three girls, who made their beds on the floor with the blankets they had brought in the red wagon. the wizard and button-bright also slept out of doors, and so did the cowardly lion and hank the mule. but scraps and the sawhorse did not sleep at all, and the woozy could stay awake for a month at a time if he wished to, so these three sat in a little group by themselves and talked together all through the night. in the darkness, the cowardly lion felt a shaggy little form nestling beside his own, and he said sleepily, "where did you come from, toto?" "from home," said the dog. "if you roll over, roll the other way so you won't smash me." "does dorothy know you are here?" asked the lion. "i believe not," admitted toto, and he added a little anxiously, "do you think, friend lion, we are now far enough from the emerald city for me to risk showing myself, or will dorothy send me back because i wasn't invited?" "only dorothy can answer that question," said the lion. "for my part, toto, i consider this affair none of my business, so you must act as you think best." then the huge beast went to sleep again, and toto snuggled closer to the warm, hairy body and also slept. he was a wise little dog in his way, and didn't intend to worry when there was something much better to do. in the morning the wizard built a fire, over which the girls cooked a very good breakfast. suddenly dorothy discovered toto sitting quietly before the fire, and the little girl exclaimed, "goodness me, toto! where did you come from?" "from the place you cruelly left me," replied the dog in a reproachful tone. "i forgot all about you," admitted dorothy, "and if i hadn't, i'd prob'ly left you with jellia jamb, seeing this isn't a pleasure trip but stric'ly business. but now that you're here, toto, i s'pose you'll have to stay with us, unless you'd rather go back again. we may get ourselves into trouble before we're done, toto." "never mind that," said toto, wagging his tail. "i'm hungry, dorothy." "breakfas'll soon be ready, and then you shall have your share," promised his little mistress, who was really glad to have her dog with her. she and toto had traveled together before, and she knew he was a good and faithful comrade. when the food was cooked and served, the girls invited the old shepherd to join them in the morning meal. he willingly consented, and while they ate he said to them, "you are now about to pass through a very dangerous country, unless you turn to the north or to the south to escape its perils." "in that case," said the cowardly lion, "let us turn, by all means, for i dread to face dangers of any sort." "what's the matter with the country ahead of us?" inquired dorothy. "beyond this rolling prairie," explained the shepherd, "are the merry-go-round mountains, set close together and surrounded by deep gulfs so that no one is able to get past them. beyond the merry-go-round mountains it is said the thistle-eaters and the herkus live." "what are they like?" demanded dorothy. "no one knows, for no one has ever passed the merry-go-round mountains," was the reply, "but it is said that the thistle-eaters hitch dragons to their chariots and that the herkus are waited upon by giants whom they have conquered and made their slaves." "who says all that?" asked betsy. "it is common report," declared the shepherd. "everyone believes it." "i don't see how they know," remarked little trot, "if no one has been there." "perhaps the birds who fly over that country brought the news," suggested betsy. "if you escaped those dangers," continued the shepherd, "you might encounter others still more serious before you came to the next branch of the winkie river. it is true that beyond that river there lies a fine country inhabited by good people, and if you reached there, you would have no further trouble. it is between here and the west branch of the winkie river that all dangers lie, for that is the unknown territory that is inhabited by terrible, lawless people." "it may be, and it may not be," said the wizard. "we shall know when we get there." "well," persisted the shepherd, "in a fairy country such as ours, every undiscovered place is likely to harbor wicked creatures. if they were not wicked, they would discover themselves and by coming among us submit to ozma's rule and be good and considerate, as are all the oz people whom we know." "that argument," stated the little wizard, "convinces me that it is our duty to go straight to those unknown places, however dangerous they may be, for it is surely some cruel and wicked person who has stolen our ozma, and we know it would be folly to search among good people for the culprit. ozma may not be hidden in the secret places of the winkie country, it is true, but it is our duty to travel to every spot, however dangerous, where our beloved ruler is likely to be imprisoned." "you're right about that," said button-bright approvingly. "dangers don't hurt us. only things that happen ever hurt anyone, and a danger is a thing that might happen and might not happen, and sometimes don't amount to shucks. i vote we go ahead and take our chances." they were all of the same opinion, so they packed up and said goodbye to the friendly shepherd and proceeded on their way. chapter the merry-go-round mountains the rolling prairie was not difficult to travel over, although it was all uphill and downhill, so for a while they made good progress. not even a shepherd was to be met with now, and the farther they advanced the more dreary the landscape became. at noon they stopped for a "picnic luncheon," as betsy called it, and then they again resumed their journey. all the animals were swift and tireless, and even the cowardly lion and the mule found they could keep up with the pace of the woozy and the sawhorse. it was the middle of the afternoon when first they came in sight of a cluster of low mountains. these were cone-shaped, rising from broad bases to sharp peaks at the tops. from a distance the mountains appeared indistinct and seemed rather small--more like hills than mountains--but as the travelers drew nearer, they noted a most unusual circumstance: the hills were all whirling around, some in one direction and some the opposite way. "i guess these are the merry-go-round mountains, all right," said dorothy. "they must be," said the wizard. "they go 'round, sure enough," agreed trot, "but they don't seem very merry." there were several rows of these mountains, extending both to the right and to the left for miles and miles. how many rows there might be none could tell, but between the first row of peaks could be seen other peaks, all steadily whirling around one way or another. continuing to ride nearer, our friends watched these hills attentively, until at last, coming close up, they discovered there was a deep but narrow gulf around the edge of each mountain, and that the mountains were set so close together that the outer gulf was continuous and barred farther advance. at the edge of the gulf they all dismounted and peered over into its depths. there was no telling where the bottom was, if indeed there was any bottom at all. from where they stood it seemed as if the mountains had been set in one great hole in the ground, just close enough together so they would not touch, and that each mountain was supported by a rocky column beneath its base which extended far down in the black pit below. from the land side it seemed impossible to get across the gulf or, succeeding in that, to gain a foothold on any of the whirling mountains. "this ditch is too wide to jump across," remarked button-bright. "p'raps the lion could do it," suggested dorothy. "what, jump from here to that whirling hill?" cried the lion indignantly. "i should say not! even if i landed there and could hold on, what good would it do? there's another spinning mountain beyond it, and perhaps still another beyond that. i don't believe any living creature could jump from one mountain to another when both are whirling like tops and in different directions." "i propose we turn back," said the wooden sawhorse with a yawn of his chopped-out mouth as he stared with his knot eyes at the merry-go-round mountains. "i agree with you," said the woozy, wagging his square head. "we should have taken the shepherd's advice," added hank the mule. the others of the party, however they might be puzzled by the serious problem that confronted them, would not allow themselves to despair. "if we once get over these mountains," said button-bright, "we could probably get along all right." "true enough," agreed dorothy. "so we must find some way, of course, to get past these whirligig hills. but how?" "i wish the ork was with us," sighed trot. "but the ork isn't here," said the wizard, "and we must depend upon ourselves to conquer this difficulty. unfortunately, all my magic has been stolen, otherwise i am sure i could easily get over the mountains." "unfortunately," observed the woozy, "none of us has wings. and we're in a magic country without any magic." "what is that around your waist, dorothy?" asked the wizard. "that? oh, that's just the magic belt i once captured from the nome king," she replied. "a magic belt! why, that's fine. i'm sure a magic belt would take you over these hills." "it might if i knew how to work it," said the little girl. "ozma knows a lot of its magic, but i've never found out about it. all i know is that while i am wearing it, nothing can hurt me." "try wishing yourself across and see if it will obey you," suggested the wizard. "but what good would that do?" asked dorothy. "if i got across, it wouldn't help the rest of you, and i couldn't go alone among all those giants and dragons while you stayed here." "true enough," agreed the wizard sadly. and then, after looking around the group, he inquired, "what is that on your finger, trot?" "a ring. the mermaids gave it to me," she explained, "and if ever i'm in trouble when i'm on the water, i can call the mermaids and they'll come and help me. but the mermaids can't help me on the land, you know, 'cause they swim, and--and--they haven't any legs." "true enough," repeated the wizard, more sadly. there was a big, broad, spreading tree near the edge of the gulf, and as the sun was hot above them, they all gathered under the shade of the tree to study the problem of what to do next. "if we had a long rope," said betsy, "we could fasten it to this tree and let the other end of it down into the gulf and all slide down it." "well, what then?" asked the wizard. "then, if we could manage to throw the rope up the other side," explained the girl, "we could all climb it and be on the other side of the gulf." "there are too many 'if's' in that suggestion," remarked the little wizard. "and you must remember that the other side is nothing but spinning mountains, so we couldn't possibly fasten a rope to them, even if we had one." "that rope idea isn't half bad, though," said the patchwork girl, who had been dancing dangerously near to the edge of the gulf. "what do you mean?" asked dorothy. the patchwork girl suddenly stood still and cast her button eyes around the group. "ha, i have it!" she exclaimed. "unharness the sawhorse, somebody. my fingers are too clumsy." "shall we?" asked button-bright doubtfully, turning to the others. "well, scraps has a lot of brains, even if she is stuffed with cotton," asserted the wizard. "if her brains can help us out of this trouble, we ought to use them." so he began unharnessing the sawhorse, and button-bright and dorothy helped him. when they had removed the harness, the patchwork girl told them to take it all apart and buckle the straps together, end to end. and after they had done this, they found they had one very long strap that was stronger than any rope. "it would reach across the gulf easily," said the lion, who with the other animals had sat on his haunches and watched this proceeding. "but i don't see how it could be fastened to one of those dizzy mountains." scraps had no such notion as that in her baggy head. she told them to fasten one end of the strap to a stout limb of the tree, pointing to one which extended quite to the edge of the gulf. button-bright did that, climbing the tree and then crawling out upon the limb until he was nearly over the gulf. there he managed to fasten the strap, which reached to the ground below, and then he slid down it and was caught by the wizard, who feared he might fall into the chasm. scraps was delighted. she seized the lower end of the strap, and telling them all to get out of her way, she went back as far as the strap would reach and then made a sudden run toward the gulf. over the edge she swung, clinging to the strap until it had gone as far as its length permitted, when she let go and sailed gracefully through the air until she alighted upon the mountain just in front of them. almost instantly, as the great cone continued to whirl, she was sent flying against the next mountain in the rear, and that one had only turned halfway around when scraps was sent flying to the next mountain behind it. then her patchwork form disappeared from view entirely, and the amazed watchers under the tree wondered what had become of her. "she's gone, and she can't get back," said the woozy. "my, how she bounded from one mountain to another!" exclaimed the lion. "that was because they whirl so fast," the wizard explained. "scraps had nothing to hold on to, and so of course she was tossed from one hill to another. i'm afraid we shall never see the poor patchwork girl again." "i shall see her," declared the woozy. "scraps is an old friend of mine, and if there are really thistle-eaters and giants on the other side of those tops, she will need someone to protect her. so here i go!" he seized the dangling strap firmly in his square mouth, and in the same way that scraps had done swung himself over the gulf. he let go the strap at the right moment and fell upon the first whirling mountain. then he bounded to the next one back of it--not on his feet, but "all mixed up," as trot said--and then he shot across to another mountain, disappearing from view just as the patchwork girl had done. "it seems to work, all right," remarked button-bright. "i guess i'll try it." "wait a minute," urged the wizard. "before any more of us make this desperate leap into the beyond, we must decide whether all will go or if some of us will remain behind." "do you s'pose it hurt them much to bump against those mountains?" asked trot. "i don't s'pose anything could hurt scraps or the woozy," said dorothy, "and nothing can hurt me, because i wear the magic belt. so as i'm anxious to find ozma, i mean to swing myself across too." "i'll take my chances," decided button-bright. "i'm sure it will hurt dreadfully, and i'm afraid to do it," said the lion, who was already trembling, "but i shall do it if dorothy does." "well, that will leave betsy and the mule and trot," said the wizard, "for of course i shall go that i may look after dorothy. do you two girls think you can find your way back home again?" he asked, addressing trot and betsy. "i'm not afraid. not much, that is," said trot. "it looks risky, i know, but i'm sure i can stand it if the others can." "if it wasn't for leaving hank," began betsy in a hesitating voice. but the mule interrupted her by saying, "go ahead if you want to, and i'll come after you. a mule is as brave as a lion any day." "braver," said the lion, "for i'm a coward, friend hank, and you are not. but of course the sawhorse--" "oh, nothing ever hurts me," asserted the sawhorse calmly. "there's never been any question about my going. i can't take the red wagon, though." "no, we must leave the wagon," said the wizard, "and also we must leave our food and blankets, i fear. but if we can defy these merry-go-round mountains to stop us, we won't mind the sacrifice of some of our comforts." "no one knows where we're going to land!" remarked the lion in a voice that sounded as if he were going to cry. "we may not land at all," replied hank, "but the best way to find out what will happen to us is to swing across as scraps and the woozy have done." "i think i shall go last," said the wizard, "so who wants to go first?" "i'll go," decided dorothy. "no, it's my turn first," said button-bright. "watch me!" even as he spoke, the boy seized the strap, and after making a run swung himself across the gulf. away he went, bumping from hill to hill until he disappeared. they listened intently, but the boy uttered no cry until he had been gone some moments, when they heard a faint "hullo-a!" as if called from a great distance. the sound gave them courage, however, and dorothy picked up toto and held him fast under one arm while with the other hand she seized the strap and bravely followed after button-bright. when she struck the first whirling mountain, she fell upon it quite softly, but before she had time to think, she flew through the air and lit with a jar on the side of the next mountain. again she flew and alighted, and again and still again, until after five successive bumps she fell sprawling upon a green meadow and was so dazed and bewildered by her bumpy journey across the merry-go-round mountains that she lay quite still for a time to collect her thoughts. toto had escaped from her arms just as she fell, and he now sat beside her panting with excitement. then dorothy realized that someone was helping her to her feet, and here was button-bright on one side of her and scraps on the other, both seeming to be unhurt. the next object her eyes fell upon was the woozy, squatting upon his square back end and looking at her reflectively, while toto barked joyously to find his mistress unhurt after her whirlwind trip. "good!" said the woozy. "here's another and a dog, both safe and sound. but my word, dorothy, you flew some! if you could have seen yourself, you'd have been absolutely astonished." "they say 'time flies,'" laughed button-bright, "but time never made a quicker journey than that." just then, as dorothy turned around to look at the whirling mountains, she was in time to see tiny trot come flying from the nearest hill to fall upon the soft grass not a yard away from where she stood. trot was so dizzy she couldn't stand at first, but she wasn't at all hurt, and presently betsy came flying to them and would have bumped into the others had they not retreated in time to avoid her. then, in quick succession, came the lion, hank and the sawhorse, bounding from mountain to mountain to fall safely upon the greensward. only the wizard was now left behind, and they waited so long for him that dorothy began to be worried. but suddenly he came flying from the nearest mountain and tumbled heels over head beside them. then they saw that he had wound two of their blankets around his body to keep the bumps from hurting him and had fastened the blankets with some of the spare straps from the harness of the sawhorse. chapter the mysterious city there they sat upon the grass, their heads still swimming from their dizzy flights, and looked at one another in silent bewilderment. but presently, when assured that no one was injured, they grew more calm and collected, and the lion said with a sigh of relief, "who would have thought those merry-go-round mountains were made of rubber?" "are they really rubber?" asked trot. "they must be," replied the lion, "for otherwise we would not have bounded so swiftly from one to another without getting hurt." "that is all guesswork," declared the wizard, unwinding the blankets from his body, "for none of us stayed long enough on the mountains to discover what they are made of. but where are we?" "that's guesswork," said scraps. "the shepherd said the thistle-eaters live this side of the mountains and are waited on by giants." "oh no," said dorothy, "it's the herkus who have giant slaves, and the thistle-eaters hitch dragons to their chariots." "how could they do that?" asked the woozy. "dragons have long tails, which would get in the way of the chariot wheels." "and if the herkus have conquered the giants," said trot, "they must be at least twice the size of giants. p'raps the herkus are the biggest people in all the world!" "perhaps they are," assented the wizard in a thoughtful tone of voice. "and perhaps the shepherd didn't know what he was talking about. let us travel on toward the west and discover for ourselves what the people of this country are like." it seemed a pleasant enough country, and it was quite still and peaceful when they turned their eyes away from the silently whirling mountains. there were trees here and there and green bushes, while throughout the thick grass were scattered brilliantly colored flowers. about a mile away was a low hill that hid from them all the country beyond it, so they realized they could not tell much about the country until they had crossed the hill. the red wagon having been left behind, it was now necessary to make other arrangements for traveling. the lion told dorothy she could ride upon his back as she had often done before, and the woozy said he could easily carry both trot and the patchwork girl. betsy still had her mule, hank, and button-bright and the wizard could sit together upon the long, thin back of the sawhorse, but they took care to soften their seat with a pad of blankets before they started. thus mounted, the adventurers started for the hill, which was reached after a brief journey. as they mounted the crest and gazed beyond the hill, they discovered not far away a walled city, from the towers and spires of which gay banners were flying. it was not a very big city, indeed, but its walls were very high and thick, and it appeared that the people who lived there must have feared attack by a powerful enemy, else they would not have surrounded their dwellings with so strong a barrier. there was no path leading from the mountains to the city, and this proved that the people seldom or never visited the whirling hills, but our friends found the grass soft and agreeable to travel over, and with the city before them they could not well lose their way. when they drew nearer to the walls, the breeze carried to their ears the sound of music--dim at first, but growing louder as they advanced. "that doesn't seem like a very terr'ble place," remarked dorothy. "well, it looks all right," replied trot from her seat on the woozy, "but looks can't always be trusted." "my looks can," said scraps. "i look patchwork, and i am patchwork, and no one but a blind owl could ever doubt that i'm the patchwork girl." saying which, she turned a somersault off the woozy and, alighting on her feet, began wildly dancing about. "are owls ever blind?" asked trot. "always, in the daytime," said button-bright. "but scraps can see with her button eyes both day and night. isn't it queer?" "it's queer that buttons can see at all," answered trot. "but good gracious! what's become of the city?" "i was going to ask that myself," said dorothy. "it's gone!" "it's gone!" the animals came to a sudden halt, for the city had really disappeared, walls and all, and before them lay the clear, unbroken sweep of the country. "dear me!" exclaimed the wizard. "this is rather disagreeable. it is annoying to travel almost to a place and then find it is not there." "where can it be, then?" asked dorothy. "it cert'nly was there a minute ago." "i can hear the music yet," declared button-bright, and when they all listened, the strains of music could plainly be heard. "oh! there's the city over at the left," called scraps, and turning their eyes, they saw the walls and towers and fluttering banners far to the left of them. "we must have lost our way," suggested dorothy. "nonsense," said the lion. "i, and all the other animals, have been tramping straight toward the city ever since we first saw it." "then how does it happen--" "never mind," interrupted the wizard, "we are no farther from it than we were before. it is in a different direction, that's all, so let us hurry and get there before it again escapes us." so on they went directly toward the city, which seemed only a couple of miles distant. but when they had traveled less than a mile, it suddenly disappeared again. once more they paused, somewhat discouraged, but in a moment the button eyes of scraps again discovered the city, only this time it was just behind them in the direction from which they had come. "goodness gracious!" cried dorothy. "there's surely something wrong with that city. do you s'pose it's on wheels, wizard?" "it may not be a city at all," he replied, looking toward it with a speculative glance. "what could it be, then?" "just an illusion." "what's that?" asked trot. "something you think you see and don't see." "i can't believe that," said button-bright. "if we only saw it, we might be mistaken, but if we can see it and hear it, too, it must be there." "where?" asked the patchwork girl. "somewhere near us," he insisted. "we will have to go back, i suppose," said the woozy with a sigh. so back they turned and headed for the walled city until it disappeared again, only to reappear at the right of them. they were constantly getting nearer to it, however, so they kept their faces turned toward it as it flitted here and there to all points of the compass. presently the lion, who was leading the procession, halted abruptly and cried out, "ouch!" "what's the matter?" asked dorothy. "ouch--ouch!" repeated the lion, and leaped backward so suddenly that dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. at the same time hank the mule yelled "ouch!" "ouch! ouch!" repeated the lion and leaped backward so suddenly that dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. at the same time, hank the mule yelled "ouch!" almost as loudly as the lion had done, and he also pranced backward a few paces. "it's the thistles," said betsy. "they prick their legs." hearing this, all looked down, and sure enough the ground was thick with thistles, which covered the plain from the point where they stood way up to the walls of the mysterious city. no pathways through them could be seen at all; here the soft grass ended and the growth of thistles began. "they're the prickliest thistles i ever felt," grumbled the lion. "my legs smart yet from their stings, though i jumped out of them as quickly as i could." "here is a new difficulty," remarked the wizard in a grieved tone. "the city has stopped hopping around, it is true, but how are we to get to it over this mass of prickers?" "they can't hurt me," said the thick-skinned woozy, advancing fearlessly and trampling among the thistles. "nor me," said the wooden sawhorse. "but the lion and the mule cannot stand the prickers," asserted dorothy, "and we can't leave them behind." "must we all go back?" asked trot. "course not!" replied button-bright scornfully. "always when there's trouble, there's a way out of it if you can find it." "i wish the scarecrow was here," said scraps, standing on her head on the woozy's square back. "his splendid brains would soon show us how to conquer this field of thistles." "what's the matter with your brains?" asked the boy. "nothing," she said, making a flip-flop into the thistles and dancing among them without feeling their sharp points. "i could tell you in half a minute how to get over the thistles if i wanted to." "tell us, scraps!" begged dorothy. "i don't want to wear my brains out with overwork," replied the patchwork girl. "don't you love ozma? and don't you want to find her?" asked betsy reproachfully. "yes indeed," said scraps, walking on her hands as an acrobat does at the circus. "well, we can't find ozma unless we get past these thistles," declared dorothy. scraps danced around them two or three times without reply. then she said, "don't look at me, you stupid folks. look at those blankets." the wizard's face brightened at once. "why didn't we think of those blankets before?" "because you haven't magic brains," laughed scraps. "such brains as you have are of the common sort that grow in your heads, like weeds in a garden. i'm sorry for you people who have to be born in order to be alive." but the wizard was not listening to her. he quickly removed the blankets from the back of the sawhorse and spread one of them upon the thistles, just next the grass. the thick cloth rendered the prickers harmless, so the wizard walked over this first blanket and spread the second one farther on, in the direction of the phantom city. "these blankets," said he, "are for the lion and the mule to walk upon. the sawhorse and the woozy can walk on the thistles." so the lion and the mule walked over the first blanket and stood upon the second one until the wizard had picked up the one they had passed over and spread it in front of them, when they advanced to that one and waited while the one behind them was again spread in front. "this is slow work," said the wizard, "but it will get us to the city after a while." "the city is a good half mile away yet," announced button-bright. "and this is awful hard work for the wizard," added trot. "why couldn't the lion ride on the woozy's back?" asked dorothy. "it's a big, flat back, and the woozy's mighty strong. perhaps the lion wouldn't fall off." "you may try it if you like," said the woozy to the lion. "i can take you to the city in a jiffy and then come back for hank." "i'm--i'm afraid," said the cowardly lion. he was twice as big as the woozy. "try it," pleaded dorothy. "and take a tumble among the thistles?" asked the lion reproachfully. but when the woozy came close to him, the big beast suddenly bounded upon its back and managed to balance himself there, although forced to hold his four legs so close together that he was in danger of toppling over. the great weight of the monster lion did not seem to affect the woozy, who called to his rider, "hold on tight!" and ran swiftly over the thistles toward the city. the others stood on the blanket and watched the strange sight anxiously. of course, the lion couldn't "hold on tight" because there was nothing to hold to, and he swayed from side to side as if likely to fall off any moment. still, he managed to stick to the woozy's back until they were close to the walls of the city, when he leaped to the ground. next moment the woozy came dashing back at full speed. "there's a little strip of ground next the wall where there are no thistles," he told them when he had reached the adventurers once more. "now then, friend hank, see if you can ride as well as the lion did." "take the others first," proposed the mule. so the sawhorse and the woozy made a couple of trips over the thistles to the city walls and carried all the people in safety, dorothy holding little toto in her arms. the travelers then sat in a group on a little hillock just outside the wall and looked at the great blocks of gray stone and waited for the woozy to bring hank to them. the mule was very awkward, and his legs trembled so badly that more than once they thought he would tumble off, but finally he reached them in safety, and the entire party was now reunited. more than that, they had reached the city that had eluded them for so long and in so strange a manner. "the gates must be around the other side," said the wizard. "let us follow the curve of the wall until we reach an opening in it." "which way?" asked dorothy. "we must guess that," he replied. "suppose we go to the left. one direction is as good as another." they formed in marching order and went around the city wall to the left. it wasn't a big city, as i have said, but to go way around it outside the high wall was quite a walk, as they became aware. but around it our adventurers went without finding any sign of a gateway or other opening. when they had returned to the little mound from which they had started, they dismounted from the animals and again seated themselves on the grassy mound. "it's mighty queer, isn't it?" asked button-bright. "there must be some way for the people to get out and in," declared dorothy. "do you s'pose they have flying machines, wizard?" "no," he replied, "for in that case they would be flying all over the land of oz, and we know they have not done that. flying machines are unknown here. i think it more likely that the people use ladders to get over the walls." "it would be an awful climb over that high stone wall," said betsy. "stone, is it?" scraps, who was again dancing wildly around, for she never tired and could never keep still for long. "course it's stone," answered betsy scornfully. "can't you see?" "yes," said scraps, going closer. "i can see the wall, but i can't feel it." and then, with her arms outstretched, she did a very queer thing. she walked right into the wall and disappeared. "for goodness sake!" dorothy, amazed, as indeed they all were. chapter the high coco-lorum of thi and now the patchwork girl came dancing out of the wall again. "come on!" she called. "it isn't there. there isn't any wall at all." "what? no wall?" exclaimed the wizard. "nothing like it," said scraps. "it's a make-believe. you see it, but it isn't. come on into the city; we've been wasting our time." with this, she danced into the wall again and once more disappeared. button-bright, who was rather venture-some, dashed away after her and also became invisible to them. the others followed more cautiously, stretching out their hands to feel the wall and finding, to their astonishment, that they could feel nothing because nothing opposed them. they walked on a few steps and found themselves in the streets of a very beautiful city. behind them they again saw the wall, grim and forbidding as ever, but now they knew it was merely an illusion prepared to keep strangers from entering the city. but the wall was soon forgotten, for in front of them were a number of quaint people who stared at them in amazement as if wondering where they had come from. our friends forgot their good manners for a time and returned the stares with interest, for so remarkable a people had never before been discovered in all the remarkable land of oz. their heads were shaped like diamonds, and their bodies like hearts. all the hair they had was a little bunch at the tip top of their diamond-shaped heads, and their eyes were very large and round, and their noses and mouths very small. their clothing was tight fitting and of brilliant colors, being handsomely embroidered in quaint designs with gold or silver threads; but on their feet they wore sandals with no stockings whatever. the expression of their faces was pleasant enough, although they now showed surprise at the appearance of strangers so unlike themselves, and our friends thought they seemed quite harmless. "i beg your pardon," said the wizard, speaking for his party, "for intruding upon you uninvited, but we are traveling on important business and find it necessary to visit your city. will you kindly tell us by what name your city is called?" they looked at one another uncertainly, each expecting some other to answer. finally, a short one whose heart-shaped body was very broad replied, "we have no occasion to call our city anything. it is where we live, that is all." "but by what name do others call your city?" asked the wizard. "we know of no others except yourselves," said the man. and then he inquired, "were you born with those queer forms you have, or has some cruel magician transformed you to them from your natural shapes?" "these are our natural shapes," declared the wizard, "and we consider them very good shapes, too." the group of inhabitants was constantly being enlarged by others who joined it. all were evidently startled and uneasy at the arrival of strangers. "have you a king?" asked dorothy, who knew it was better to speak with someone in authority. but the man shook his diamond-like head. "what is a king?" he asked. "isn't there anyone who rules over you?" inquired the wizard. "no," was the reply, "each of us rules himself, or at least tries to do so. it is not an easy thing to do, as you probably know." the wizard reflected. "if you have disputes among you," said he after a little thought, "who settles them?" "the high coco-lorum," they answered in a chorus. "and who is he?" "the judge who enforces the laws," said the man who had first spoken. "then he is the principal person here?" continued the wizard. "well, i would not say that," returned the man in a puzzled way. "the high coco-lorum is a public servant. however, he represents the laws, which we must all obey." "i think," said the wizard, "we ought to see your high coco-lorum and talk with him. our mission here requires us to consult one high in authority, and the high coco-lorum ought to be high, whatever else he is." the inhabitants seemed to consider this proposition reasonable, for they nodded their diamond-shaped heads in approval. so the broad one who had been their spokesman said, "follow me," and turning led the way along one of the streets. the entire party followed him, the natives falling in behind. the dwellings they passed were quite nicely planned and seemed comfortable and convenient. after leading them a few blocks, their conductor stopped before a house which was neither better nor worse than the others. the doorway was shaped to admit the strangely formed bodies of these people, being narrow at the top, broad in the middle and tapering at the bottom. the windows were made in much the same way, giving the house a most peculiar appearance. when their guide opened the gate, a music box concealed in the gatepost began to play, and the sound attracted the attention of the high coco-lorum, who appeared at an open window and inquired, "what has happened now?" but in the same moment his eyes fell upon the strangers and he hastened to open the door and admit them--all but the animals, which were left outside with the throng of natives that had now gathered. for a small city there seemed to be a large number of inhabitants, but they did not try to enter the house and contented themselves with staring curiously at the strange animals. toto followed dorothy. our friends entered a large room at the front of the house, where the high coco-lorum asked them to be seated. "i hope your mission here is a peaceful one," he said, looking a little worried, "for the thists are not very good fighters and object to being conquered." "are your people called thists?" asked dorothy. "yes. i thought you knew that. and we call our city thi." "oh!" "we are thists because we eat thistles, you know," continued the high coco-lorum. "do you really eat those prickly things?" inquired button-bright wonderingly. "why not?" replied the other. "the sharp points of the thistles cannot hurt us, because all our insides are gold-lined." "gold-lined!" "to be sure. our throats and stomachs are lined with solid gold, and we find the thistles nourishing and good to eat. as a matter of fact, there is nothing else in our country that is fit for food. all around the city of thi grow countless thistles, and all we need do is to go and gather them. if we wanted anything else to eat, we would have to plant it, and grow it, and harvest it, and that would be a lot of trouble and make us work, which is an occupation we detest." "but tell me, please," said the wizard, "how does it happen that your city jumps around so, from one part of the country to another?" "the city doesn't jump. it doesn't move at all," declared the high coco-lorum. "however, i will admit that the land that surrounds it has a trick of turning this way or that, and so if one is standing upon the plain and facing north, he is likely to find himself suddenly facing west or east or south. but once you reach the thistle fields, you are on solid ground." "ah, i begin to understand," said the wizard, nodding his head. "but i have another question to ask: how does it happen that the thists have no king to rule over them?" "hush!" whispered the high coco-lorum, looking uneasily around to make sure they were not overheard. "in reality, i am the king, but the people don't know it. they think they rule themselves, but the fact is i have everything my own way. no one else knows anything about our laws, and so i make the laws to suit myself. if any oppose me or question my acts, i tell them it's the law and that settles it. if i called myself king, however, and wore a crown and lived in royal style, the people would not like me and might do me harm. as the high coco-lorum of thi, i am considered a very agreeable person." "it seems a very clever arrangement," said the wizard. "and now, as you are the principal person in thi, i beg you to tell us if the royal ozma is a captive in your city." "no," answered the diamond-headed man. "we have no captives. no strangers but yourselves are here, and we have never before heard of the royal ozma." "she rules over all of oz," said dorothy, "and so she rules your city and you, because you are in the winkie country, which is a part of the land of oz." "it may be," returned the high coco-lorum, "for we do not study geography and have never inquired whether we live in the land of oz or not. and any ruler who rules us from a distance and unknown to us is welcome to the job. but what has happened to your royal ozma?" "someone has stolen her," said the wizard. "do you happen to have any talented magician among your people, one who is especially clever, you know?" "no, none especially clever. we do some magic, of course, but it is all of the ordinary kind. i do not think any of us has yet aspired to stealing rulers, either by magic or otherwise." "then we've come a long way for nothing!" exclaimed trot regretfully. "but we are going farther than this," asserted the patchwork girl, bending her stuffed body backward until her yarn hair touched the floor and then walking around on her hands with her feet in the air. the high coco-lorum watched scraps admiringly. "you may go farther on, of course," said he, "but i advise you not to. the herkus live back of us, beyond the thistles and the twisting lands, and they are not very nice people to meet, i assure you." "are they giants?" asked betsy. "they are worse than that," was the reply. "they have giants for their slaves and they are so much stronger than giants that the poor slaves dare not rebel for fear of being torn to pieces." "how do you know?" asked scraps. "everyone says so," answered the high coco-lorum. "have you seen the herkus yourself?" inquired dorothy. "no, but what everyone says must be true, otherwise what would be the use of their saying it?" "we were told before we got here that you people hitch dragons to your chariots," said the little girl. "so we do," declared the high coco-lorum. "and that reminds me that i ought to entertain you as strangers and my guests by taking you for a ride around our splendid city of thi." he touched a button, and a band began to play. at least, they heard the music of a band, but couldn't tell where it came from. "that tune is the order to my charioteer to bring around my dragon-chariot," said the high coco-lorum. "every time i give an order, it is in music, which is a much more pleasant way to address servants than in cold, stern words." "does this dragon of yours bite?" asked button-bright. "mercy no! do you think i'd risk the safety of my innocent people by using a biting dragon to draw my chariot? i'm proud to say that my dragon is harmless, unless his steering gear breaks, and he was manufactured at the famous dragon factory in this city of thi. here he comes, and you may examine him for yourselves." they heard a low rumble and a shrill squeaking sound, and going out to the front of the house, they saw coming around the corner a car drawn by a gorgeous jeweled dragon, which moved its head to right and left and flashed its eyes like headlights of an automobile and uttered a growling noise as it slowly moved toward them. when it stopped before the high coco-lorum's house, toto barked sharply at the sprawling beast, but even tiny trot could see that the dragon was not alive. its scales were of gold, and each one was set with sparkling jewels, while it walked in such a stiff, regular manner that it could be nothing else than a machine. the chariot that trailed behind it was likewise of gold and jewels, and when they entered it, they found there were no seats. everyone was supposed to stand up while riding. the charioteer was a little, diamond-headed fellow who straddled the neck of the dragon and moved the levers that made it go. "this," said the high coco-lorum pompously, "is a wonderful invention. we are all very proud of our auto-dragons, many of which are in use by our wealthy inhabitants. start the thing going, charioteer!" the charioteer did not move. "you forgot to order him in music," suggested dorothy. "ah, so i did." he touched a button and a music box in the dragon's head began to play a tune. at once the little charioteer pulled over a lever, and the dragon began to move, very slowly and groaning dismally as it drew the clumsy chariot after it. toto trotted between the wheels. the sawhorse, the mule, the lion and the woozy followed after and had no trouble in keeping up with the machine. indeed, they had to go slow to keep from running into it. when the wheels turned, another music box concealed somewhere under the chariot played a lively march tune which was in striking contrast with the dragging movement of the strange vehicle, and button-bright decided that the music he had heard when they first sighted this city was nothing else than a chariot plodding its weary way through the streets. all the travelers from the emerald city thought this ride the most uninteresting and dreary they had ever experienced, but the high coco-lorum seemed to think it was grand. he pointed out the different buildings and parks and fountains in much the same way that the conductor does on an american "sightseeing wagon" does, and being guests they were obliged to submit to the ordeal. but they became a little worried when their host told them he had ordered a banquet prepared for them in the city hall. "what are we going to eat?" asked button-bright suspiciously. "thistles," was the reply. "fine, fresh thistles, gathered this very day." scraps laughed, for she never ate anything, but dorothy said in a protesting voice, "our insides are not lined with gold, you know." "how sad!" exclaimed the high coco-lorum, and then he added as an afterthought, "but we can have the thistles boiled, if you prefer." "i'm 'fraid they wouldn't taste good even then," said little trot. "haven't you anything else to eat?" the high coco-lorum shook his diamond-shaped head. "nothing that i know of," said he. "but why should we have anything else when we have so many thistles? however, if you can't eat what we eat, don't eat anything. we shall not be offended, and the banquet will be just as merry and delightful." knowing his companions were all hungry, the wizard said, "i trust you will excuse us from the banquet, sir, which will be merry enough without us, although it is given in our honor. for, as ozma is not in your city, we must leave here at once and seek her elsewhere." "sure we must!" dorothy, and she whispered to betsy and trot, "i'd rather starve somewhere else than in this city, and who knows, we may run across somebody who eats reg'lar food and will give us some." so when the ride was finished, in spite of the protests of the high coco-lorum, they insisted on continuing their journey. "it will soon be dark," he objected. "we don't mind the darkness," replied the wizard. "some wandering herku may get you." "do you think the herkus would hurt us?" asked dorothy. "i cannot say, not having had the honor of their acquaintance. but they are said to be so strong that if they had any other place to stand upon they could lift the world." "all of them together?" asked button-bright wonderingly. "any one of them could do it," said the high coco-lorum. "have you heard of any magicians being among them?" asked the wizard, knowing that only a magician could have stolen ozma in the way she had been stolen. "i am told it is quite a magical country," declared the high coco-lorum, "and magic is usually performed by magicians. but i have never heard that they have any invention or sorcery to equal our wonderful auto-dragons." they thanked him for his courtesy, and mounting their own animals rode to the farther side of the city and right through the wall of illusion out into the open country. "i'm glad we got away so easily," said betsy. "i didn't like those queer-shaped people." "nor did i," agreed dorothy. "it seems dreadful to be lined with sheets of pure gold and have nothing to eat but thistles." "they seemed happy and contented, though," remarked the wizard, "and those who are contented have nothing to regret and nothing more to wish for." chapter toto loses something for a while the travelers were constantly losing their direction, for beyond the thistle fields they again found themselves upon the turning-lands, which swung them around one way and then another. but by keeping the city of thi constantly behind them, the adventurers finally passed the treacherous turning-lands and came upon a stony country where no grass grew at all. there were plenty of bushes, however, and although it was now almost dark, the girls discovered some delicious yellow berries growing upon the bushes, one taste of which set them all to picking as many as they could find. the berries relieved their pangs of hunger for a time, and as it now became too dark to see anything, they camped where they were. the three girls lay down upon one of the blankets--all in a row--and the wizard covered them with the other blanket and tucked them in. button-bright crawled under the shelter of some bushes and was asleep in half a minute. the wizard sat down with his back to a big stone and looked at the stars in the sky and thought gravely upon the dangerous adventure they had undertaken, wondering if they would ever be able to find their beloved ozma again. the animals lay in a group by themselves, a little distance from the others. "i've lost my growl!" said toto, who had been very silent and sober all that day. "what do you suppose has become of it?" "if you had asked me to keep track of your growl, i might be able to tell you," remarked the lion sleepily. "but frankly, toto, i supposed you were taking care of it yourself." "it's an awful thing to lose one's growl," said toto, wagging his tail disconsolately. "what if you lost your roar, lion? wouldn't you feel terrible?" "my roar," replied the lion, "is the fiercest thing about me. i depend on it to frighten my enemies so badly that they won't dare to fight me." "once," said the mule, "i lost my bray so that i couldn't call to betsy to let her know i was hungry. that was before i could talk, you know, for i had not yet come into the land of oz, and i found it was certainly very uncomfortable not to be able to make a noise." "you make enough noise now," declared toto. "but none of you have answered my question: where is my growl?" "you may search me," said the woozy. "i don't care for such things, myself." "you snore terribly," asserted toto. "it may be," said the woozy. "what one does when asleep one is not accountable for. i wish you would wake me up sometime when i'm snoring and let me hear the sound. then i can judge whether it is terrible or delightful." "it isn't pleasant, i assure you," said the lion, yawning. "to me it seems wholly unnecessary," declared hank the mule. "you ought to break yourself of the habit," said the sawhorse. "you never hear me snore, because i never sleep. i don't even whinny as those puffy meat horses do. i wish that whoever stole toto's growl had taken the mule's bray and the lion's roar and the woozy's snore at the same time." "do you think, then, that my growl was stolen?" "you have never lost it before, have you?" inquired inquired the sawhorse. "only once, when i had a sore throat from barking too long at the moon." "is your throat sore now?" asked the woozy. "no," replied the dog. "i can't understand," said hank, "why dogs bark at the moon. they can't scare the moon, and the moon doesn't pay any attention to the bark. so why do dogs do it?" "were you ever a dog?" asked toto. "no indeed," replied hank. "i am thankful to say i was created a mule--the most beautiful of all beasts--and have always remained one." the woozy sat upon his square haunches to examine hank with care. "beauty," he said, "must be a matter of taste. i don't say your judgment is bad, friend hank, or that you are so vulgar as to be conceited. but if you admire big, waggy ears and a tail like a paintbrush and hoofs big enough for an elephant and a long neck and a body so skinny that one can count the ribs with one eye shut--if that's your idea of beauty, hank, then either you or i must be much mistaken." "you're full of edges," sneered the mule. "if i were square as you are, i suppose you'd think me lovely." "outwardly, dear hank, i would," replied the woozy. "but to be really lovely, one must be beautiful without and within." the mule couldn't deny this statement, so he gave a disgusted grunt and rolled over so that his back was toward the woozy. but the lion, regarding the two calmly with his great, yellow eyes, said to the dog, "my dear toto, our friends have taught us a lesson in humility. if the woozy and the mule are indeed beautiful creatures as they seem to think, you and i must be decidedly ugly." "not to ourselves," protested toto, who was a shrewd little dog. "you and i, lion, are fine specimens of our own races. i am a fine dog, and you are a fine lion. only in point of comparison, one with another, can we be properly judged, so i will leave it to the poor old sawhorse to decide which is the most beautiful animal among us all. the sawhorse is wood, so he won't be prejudiced and will speak the truth." "i surely will," responded the sawhorse, wagging his ears, which were chips set in his wooden head. "are you all agreed to accept my judgment?" "we are!" they declared, each one hopeful. "then," said the sawhorse, "i must point out to you the fact that you are all meat creatures, who tire unless they sleep and starve unless they eat and suffer from thirst unless they drink. such animals must be very imperfect, and imperfect creatures cannot be beautiful. now, i am made of wood." "you surely have a wooden head," said the mule. "yes, and a wooden body and wooden legs, which are as swift as the wind and as tireless. i've heard dorothy say that 'handsome is as handsome does,' and i surely perform my duties in a handsome manner. therefore, if you wish my honest judgment, i will confess that among us all i am the most beautiful." the mule snorted, and the woozy laughed; toto had lost his growl and could only look scornfully at the sawhorse, who stood in his place unmoved. but the lion stretched himself and yawned, saying quietly, "were we all like the sawhorse, we would all be sawhorses, which would be too many of the kind. were we all like hank, we would be a herd of mules; if like toto, we would be a pack of dogs; should we all become the shape of the woozy, he would no longer be remarkable for his unusual appearance. finally, were you all like me, i would consider you so common that i would not care to associate with you. to be individual, my friends, to be different from others, is the only way to become distinguished from the common herd. let us be glad, therefore, that we differ from one another in form and in disposition. variety is the spice of life, and we are various enough to enjoy one another's society; so let us be content." "there is some truth in that speech," remarked toto reflectively. "but how about my lost growl?" "the growl is of importance only to you," responded the lion, "so it is your business to worry over the loss, not ours. if you love us, do not afflict your burdens on us; be unhappy all by yourself." "if the same person stole my growl who stole ozma," said the little dog, "i hope we shall find him very soon and punish him as he deserves. he must be the most cruel person in all the world, for to prevent a dog from growling when it is his nature to growl is just as wicked, in my opinion, as stealing all the magic in oz." chapter button-bright loses himself the patchwork girl, who never slept and who could see very well in the dark, had wandered among the rocks and bushes all night long, with the result that she was able to tell some good news the next morning. "over the crest of the hill before us," she said, "is a big grove of trees of many kinds on which all sorts of fruits grow. if you will go there, you will find a nice breakfast awaiting you." this made them eager to start, so as soon as the blankets were folded and strapped to the back of the sawhorse, they all took their places on the animals and set out for the big grove scraps had told them of. as soon as they got over the brow of the hill, they discovered it to be a really immense orchard, extending for miles to the right and left of them. as their way led straight through the trees, they hurried forward as fast as possible. the first trees they came to bore quinces, which they did not like. then there were rows of citron trees and then crab apples and afterward limes and lemons. but beyond these they found a grove of big, golden oranges, juicy and sweet, and the fruit hung low on the branches so they could pluck it easily. they helped themselves freely and all ate oranges as they continued on their way. then, a little farther along, they came to some trees bearing fine, red apples, which they also feasted on, and the wizard stopped here long enough to tie a lot of the apples in one end of a blanket. "we do not know what will happen to us after we leave this delightful orchard," he said, "so i think it wise to carry a supply of apples with us. we can't starve as long as we have apples, you know." scraps wasn't riding the woozy just now. she loved to climb the trees and swing herself by the branches from one tree to another. some of the choicest fruit was gathered by the patchwork girl from the very highest limbs and tossed down to the others. suddenly, trot asked, "where's button-bright?" and when the others looked for him, they found the boy had disappeared. "dear me!" cried dorothy. "i guess he's lost again, and that will mean our waiting here until we can find him." "it's a good place to wait," suggested betsy, who had found a plum tree and was eating some of its fruit. "how can you wait here and find button-bright at one and the same time?" inquired the patchwork girl, hanging by her toes on a limb just over the heads of the three mortal girls. "perhaps he'll come back here," answered dorothy. "if he tries that, he'll prob'ly lose his way," said trot. "i've known him to do that lots of times. it's losing his way that gets him lost." "very true," said the wizard. "so all the rest of you must stay here while i go look for the boy." "won't you get lost, too?" asked betsy. "i hope not, my dear." "let me go," said scraps, dropping lightly to the ground. "i can't get lost, and i'm more likely to find button-bright than any of you." without waiting for permission, she darted away through the trees and soon disappeared from their view. "dorothy," said toto, squatting beside his little mistress, "i've lost my growl." "how did that happen?" she asked. "i don't know," replied toto. "yesterday morning the woozy nearly stepped on me, and i tried to growl at him and found i couldn't growl a bit." "can you bark?" inquired dorothy. "oh, yes indeed." "then never mind the growl," said she. "but what will i do when i get home to the glass cat and the pink kitten?" asked the little dog in an anxious tone. "they won't mind if you can't growl at them, i'm sure," said dorothy. "i'm sorry for you, of course, toto, for it's just those things we can't do that we want to do most of all; but before we get back, you may find your growl again." "do you think the person who stole ozma stole my growl?" dorothy smiled. "perhaps, toto." "then he's a scoundrel!" cried the little dog. "anyone who would steal ozma is as bad as bad can be," agreed dorothy, "and when we remember that our dear friend, the lovely ruler of oz, is lost, we ought not to worry over just a growl." toto was not entirely satisfied with this remark, for the more he thought upon his lost growl, the more important his misfortune became. when no one was looking, he went away among the trees and tried his best to growl--even a little bit--but could not manage to do so. all he could do was bark, and a bark cannot take the place of a growl, so he sadly returned to the others. now button-bright had no idea that he was lost at first. he had merely wandered from tree to tree seeking the finest fruit until he discovered he was alone in the great orchard. but that didn't worry him just then, and seeing some apricot trees farther on, he went to them. then he discovered some cherry trees; just beyond these were some tangerines. "we've found 'most ev'ry kind of fruit but peaches," he said to himself, "so i guess there are peaches here, too, if i can find the trees." he searched here and there, paying no attention to his way, until he found that the trees surrounding him bore only nuts. he put some walnuts in his pockets and kept on searching, and at last--right among the nut trees--he came upon one solitary peach tree. it was a graceful, beautiful tree, but although it was thickly leaved, it bore no fruit except one large, splendid peach, rosy-cheeked and fuzzy and just right to eat. in his heart he doubted this statement, for this was a solitary peach tree, while all the other fruits grew upon many trees set close to one another; but that one luscious bite made him unable to resist eating the rest of it, and soon the peach was all gone except the pit. button-bright was about to throw this peach pit away when he noticed that it was of pure gold. of course, this surprised him, but so many things in the land of oz were surprising that he did not give much thought to the golden peach pit. he put it in his pocket, however, to show to the girls, and five minutes afterward had forgotten all about it. for now he realized that he was far separated from his companions, and knowing that this would worry them and delay their journey, he began to shout as loud as he could. his voice did not penetrate very far among all those trees, and after shouting a dozen times and getting no answer, he sat down on the ground and said, "well, i'm lost again. it's too bad, but i don't see how it can be helped." as he leaned his back against a tree, he looked up and saw a bluefinch fly down from the sky and alight upon a branch just before him. the bird looked and looked at him. first it looked with one bright eye and then turned its head and looked at him with the other eye. then, fluttering its wings a little, it said, "oho! so you've eaten the enchanted peach, have you?" "was it enchanted?" asked button-bright. "of course," replied the bluefinch. "ugu the shoemaker did that." "but why? and how was it enchanted? and what will happen to one who eats it?" questioned the boy. "ask ugu the shoemaker. he knows," said the bird, preening its feathers with its bill. "and who is ugu the shoemaker?" "the one who enchanted the peach and placed it here--in the exact center of the great orchard--so no one would ever find it. we birds didn't dare to eat it; we are too wise for that. but you are button-bright from the emerald city, and you, you, you ate the enchanted peach! you must explain to ugu the shoemaker why you did that." and then, before the boy could ask any more questions, the bird flew away and left him alone. button-bright was not much worried to find that the peach he had eaten was enchanted. it certainly had tasted very good, and his stomach didn't ache a bit. so again he began to reflect upon the best way to rejoin his friends. "whichever direction i follow is likely to be the wrong one," he said to himself, "so i'd better stay just where i am and let them find me--if they can." a white rabbit came hopping through the orchard and paused a little way off to look at him. "don't be afraid," said button-bright. "i won't hurt you." "oh, i'm not afraid for myself," returned the white rabbit. "it's you i'm worried about." "yes, i'm lost," said the boy. "i fear you are, indeed," answered the rabbit. "why on earth did you eat the enchanted peach?" the boy looked at the excited little animal thoughtfully. "there were two reasons," he explained. "one reason was that i like peaches, and the other reason was that i didn't know it was enchanted." "that won't save you from ugu the shoemaker," declared the white rabbit, and it scurried away before the boy could ask any more questions. "rabbits and birds," he thought, "are timid creatures and seem afraid of this shoemaker, whoever he may be. if there was another peach half as good as that other, i'd eat it in spite of a dozen enchantments or a hundred shoemakers!" just then, scraps came dancing along and saw him sitting at the foot of the tree. "oh, here you are!" she said. "up to your old tricks, eh? don't you know it's impolite to get lost and keep everybody waiting for you? come along, and i'll lead you back to dorothy and the others." button-bright rose slowly to accompany her. "that wasn't much of a loss," he said cheerfully. "i haven't been gone half a day, so there's no harm done." dorothy, however, when the boy rejoined the party, gave him a good scolding. "when we're doing such an important thing as searching for ozma," said she, "it's naughty for you to wander away and keep us from getting on. s'pose she's a pris'ner in a dungeon cell! do you want to keep our dear ozma there any longer than we can help?" "if she's in a dungeon cell, how are you going to get her out?" inquired the boy. "never you mind. we'll leave that to the wizard. he's sure to find a way." the wizard said nothing, for he realized that without his magic tools he could do no more than any other person. but there was no use reminding his companions of that fact; it might discourage them. "the important thing just now," he remarked, "is to find ozma, and as our party is again happily reunited, i propose we move on." as they came to the edge of the great orchard, the sun was setting and they knew it would soon be dark. so it was decided to camp under the trees, as another broad plain was before them. the wizard spread the blankets on a bed of soft leaves, and presently all of them except scraps and the sawhorse were fast asleep. toto snuggled close to his friend the lion, and the woozy snored so loudly that the patchwork girl covered his square head with her apron to deaden the sound. chapter the czarover of herku trot wakened just as the sun rose, and slipping out of the blankets, went to the edge of the great orchard and looked across the plain. something glittered in the far distance. "that looks like another city," she said half aloud. "and another city it is," declared scraps, who had crept to trot's side unheard, for her stuffed feet made no sound. "the sawhorse and i made a journey in the dark while you were all asleep, and we found over there a bigger city than thi. there's a wall around it, too, but it has gates and plenty of pathways." "did you get in?" asked trot. "no, for the gates were locked and the wall was a real wall. so we came back here again. it isn't far to the city. we can reach it in two hours after you've had your breakfasts." trot went back, and finding the other girls now awake, told them what scraps had said. so they hurriedly ate some fruit--there were plenty of plums and fijoas in this part of the orchard--and then they mounted the animals and set out upon the journey to the strange city. hank the mule had breakfasted on grass, and the lion had stolen away and found a breakfast to his liking; he never told what it was, but dorothy hoped the little rabbits and the field mice had kept out of his way. she warned toto not to chase birds and gave the dog some apple, with which he was quite content. the woozy was as fond of fruit as of any other food except honey, and the sawhorse never ate at all. except for their worry over ozma, they were all in good spirits as they proceeded swiftly over the plain. toto still worried over his lost growl, but like a wise little dog kept his worry to himself. before long, the city grew nearer and they could examine it with interest. in outward appearance the place was more imposing than thi, and it was a square city, with a square, four-sided wall around it, and on each side was a square gate of burnished copper. everything about the city looked solid and substantial; there were no banners flying, and the towers that rose above the city wall seemed bare of any ornament whatever. a path led from the fruit orchard directly to one of the city gates, showing that the inhabitants preferred fruit to thistles. our friends followed this path to the gate, which they found fast shut. but the wizard advanced and pounded upon it with his fist, saying in a loud voice, "open!" at once there rose above the great wall a row of immense heads, all of which looked down at them as if to see who was intruding. the size of these heads was astonishing, and our friends at once realized that they belonged to giants who were standing within the city. all had thick, bushy hair and whiskers, on some the hair being white and on others black or red or yellow, while the hair of a few was just turning gray, showing that the giants were of all ages. however fierce the heads might seem, the eyes were mild in expression, as if the creatures had been long subdued, and their faces expressed patience rather than ferocity. "what's wanted?" asked one old giant in a low, grumbling voice. "we are strangers, and we wish to enter the city," replied the wizard. "do you come in war or peace?" asked another. "in peace, of course," retorted the wizard, and he added impatiently, "do we look like an army of conquest?" "no," said the first giant who had spoken, "you look like innocent tramps; but you never can tell by appearances. wait here until we report to our masters. no one can enter here without the permission of vig, the czarover." "who's that?" inquired dorothy. but the heads had all bobbed down and disappeared behind the walls, so there was no answer. they waited a long time before the gate rolled back with a rumbling sound, and a loud voice cried, "enter!" but they lost no time in taking advantage of the invitation. on either side of the broad street that led into the city from the gate stood a row of huge giants, twenty of them on a side and all standing so close together that their elbows touched. they wore uniforms of blue and yellow and were armed with clubs as big around as treetrunks. each giant had around his neck a broad band of gold, riveted on, to show he was a slave. as our friends entered riding upon the lion, the woozy, the sawhorse and the mule, the giants half turned and walked in two files on either side of them, as if escorting them on their way. it looked to dorothy as if all her party had been made prisoners, for even mounted on their animals their heads scarcely reached to the knees of the marching giants. the girls and button-bright were anxious to know what sort of a city they had entered, and what the people were like who had made these powerful creatures their slaves. through the legs of the giants as they walked, dorothy could see rows of houses on each side of the street and throngs of people standing on the sidewalks, but the people were of ordinary size and the only remarkable thing about them was the fact that they were dreadfully lean and thin. between their skin and their bones there seemed to be little or no flesh, and they were mostly stoop-shouldered and weary looking, even to the little children. more and more, dorothy wondered how and why the great giants had ever submitted to become slaves of such skinny, languid masters, but there was no chance to question anyone until they arrived at a big palace located in the heart of the city. here the giants formed lines to the entrance and stood still while our friends rode into the courtyard of the palace. then the gates closed behind them, and before them was a skinny little man who bowed low and said in a sad voice, "if you will be so obliging as to dismount, it will give me pleasure to lead you into the presence of the world's most mighty ruler, vig the czarover." "i don't believe it!" said dorothy indignantly. "what don't you believe?" asked the man. "i don't believe your czarover can hold a candle to our ozma." "he wouldn't hold a candle under any circumstances, or to any living person," replied the man very seriously, "for he has slaves to do such things and the mighty vig is too dignified to do anything that others can do for him. he even obliges a slave to sneeze for him, if ever he catches cold. however, if you dare to face our powerful ruler, follow me." "we dare anything," said the wizard, "so go ahead." through several marble corridors having lofty ceilings they passed, finding each corridor and doorway guarded by servants. but these servants of the palace were of the people and not giants, and they were so thin that they almost resembled skeletons. finally, they entered a great circular room with a high, domed ceiling, where the czarover sat on a throne cut from a solid block of white marble and decorated with purple silk hangings and gold tassels. the ruler of these people was combing his eyebrows when our friends entered the throne room and stood before him, but he put the comb in his pocket and examined the strangers with evident curiosity. then he said, "dear me, what a surprise! you have really shocked me. for no outsider has ever before come to our city of herku, and i cannot imagine why you have ventured to do so." "we are looking for ozma, the supreme ruler of the land of oz," replied the wizard. "do you see her anywhere around here?" asked the czarover. "not yet, your majesty, but perhaps you may tell us where she is." "no, i have my hands full keeping track of my own people. i find them hard to manage because they are so tremendously strong." "they don't look very strong," said dorothy. "it seems as if a good wind would blow 'em way out of the city if it wasn't for the wall." "just so, just so," admitted the czarover. "they really look that way, don't they? but you must never trust to appearances, which have a way of fooling one. perhaps you noticed that i prevented you from meeting any of my people. i protected you with my giants while you were on the way from the gates to my palace so that not a herku got near you." "are your people so dangerous, then?" asked the wizard. "to strangers, yes. but only because they are so friendly. for if they shake hands with you, they are likely to break your arms or crush your fingers to a jelly." "why?" asked button-bright. "because we are the strongest people in all the world." "pshaw!" exclaimed the boy. "that's bragging. you prob'ly don't know how strong other people are. why, once i knew a man in philadelphi' who could bend iron bars with just his hands!" "but mercy me, it's no trick to bend iron bars," said his majesty. "tell me, could this man crush a block of stone with his bare hands?" "no one could do that," declared the boy. "if i had a block of stone, i'd show you," said the czarover, looking around the room. "ah, here is my throne. the back is too high, anyhow, so i'll just break off a piece of that." he rose to his feet and tottered in an uncertain way around the throne. then he took hold of the back and broke off a piece of marble over a foot thick. "this," said he, coming back to his seat, "is very solid marble and much harder than ordinary stone. yet i can crumble it easily with my fingers, a proof that i am very strong." even as he spoke, he began breaking off chunks of marble and crumbling them as one would a bit of earth. the wizard was so astonished that he took a piece in his own hands and tested it, finding it very hard indeed. just then one of the giant servants entered and exclaimed, "oh, your majesty, the cook has burned the soup! what shall we do?" "how dare you interrupt me?" asked the czarover, and grasping the immense giant by one of his legs, he raised him in the air and threw him headfirst out of an open window. "now, tell me," he said, turning to button-bright, "could your man in philadelphia crumble marble in his fingers?" "i guess not," said button-bright, much impressed by the skinny monarch's strength. "what makes you so strong?" inquired dorothy. "it's the zosozo," he explained, "which is an invention of my own. i and all my people eat zosozo, and it gives us tremendous strength. would you like to eat some?" "no thank you," replied the girl. "i--i don't want to get so thin." "well, of course one can't have strength and flesh at the same time," said the czarover. "zosozo is pure energy, and it's the only compound of its sort in existence. i never allow our giants to have it, you know, or they would soon become our masters, since they are bigger that we; so i keep all the stuff locked up in my private laboratory. once a year i feed a teaspoonful of it to each of my people--men, women and children--so every one of them is nearly as strong as i am. wouldn't you like a dose, sir?" he asked, turning to the wizard. "well," said the wizard, "if you would give me a little zosozo in a bottle, i'd like to take it with me on my travels. it might come in handy on occasion." "to be sure. i'll give you enough for six doses," promised the czarover. "but don't take more than a teaspoonful at a time. once ugu the shoemaker took two teaspoonsful, and it made him so strong that when he leaned against the city wall, he pushed it over, and we had to build it up again." "who is ugu the shoemaker?" button-bright curiously, for he now remembered that the bird and the rabbit had claimed ugu the shoemaker had enchanted the peach he had eaten. "why, ugu is a great magician who used to live here. but he's gone away now," replied the czarover. "where has he gone?" asked the wizard quickly. "i am told he lives in a wickerwork castle in the mountains to the west of here. you see, ugu became such a powerful magician that he didn't care to live in our city any longer for fear we would discover some of his secrets. so he went to the mountains and built him a splendid wicker castle which is so strong that even i and my people could not batter it down, and there he lives all by himself." "this is good news," declared the wizard, "for i think this is just the magician we are searching for. but why is he called ugu the shoemaker?" "once he was a very common citizen here and made shoes for a living," replied the monarch of herku. "but he was descended from the greatest wizard and sorcerer who ever lived in this or in any other country, and one day ugu the shoemaker discovered all the magical books and recipes of his famous great-grandfather, which had been hidden away in the attic of his house. so he began to study the papers and books and to practice magic, and in time he became so skillful that, as i said, he scorned our city and built a solitary castle for himself." "do you think," asked dorothy anxiously, "that ugu the shoemaker would be wicked enough to steal our ozma of oz?" "and the magic picture?" asked trot. "and the great book of records of glinda the good?" asked betsy. "and my own magic tools?" asked the wizard. "well," replied the czarover, "i won't say that ugu is wicked, exactly, but he is very ambitious to become the most powerful magician in the world, and so i suppose he would not be too proud to steal any magic things that belonged to anybody else--if he could manage to do so." "but how about ozma? why would he wish to steal her?" questioned dorothy. "don't ask me, my dear. ugu doesn't tell me why he does things, i assure you." "then we must go and ask him ourselves," declared the little girl. "i wouldn't do that if i were you," advised the czarover, looking first at the three girls and then at the boy and the little wizard and finally at the stuffed patchwork girl. "if ugu has really stolen your ozma, he will probably keep her a prisoner, in spite of all your threats or entreaties. and with all his magical knowledge he would be a dangerous person to attack. therefore, if you are wise, you will go home again and find a new ruler for the emerald city and the land of oz. but perhaps it isn't ugu the shoemaker who has stolen your ozma." "the only way to settle that question," replied the wizard, "is to go to ugu's castle and see if ozma is there. if she is, we will report the matter to the great sorceress glinda the good, and i'm pretty sure she will find a way to rescue our darling ruler from the shoemaker." "well, do as you please," said the czarover, "but if you are all transformed into hummingbirds or caterpillars, don't blame me for not warning you." they stayed the rest of that day in the city of herku and were fed at the royal table of the czarover and given sleeping rooms in his palace. the strong monarch treated them very nicely and gave the wizard a little golden vial of zosozo to use if ever he or any of his party wished to acquire great strength. even at the last, the czarover tried to persuade them not to go near ugu the shoemaker, but they were resolved on the venture, and the next morning bade the friendly monarch a cordial goodbye and, mounting upon their animals, left the herkus and the city of herku and headed for the mountains that lay to the west. chapter the truth pond it seems a long time since we have heard anything of the frogman and cayke the cookie cook, who had left the yip country in search of the diamond-studded dishpan which had been mysteriously stolen the same night that ozma had disappeared from the emerald city. but you must remember that while the frogman and the cookie cook were preparing to descend from their mountaintop, and even while on their way to the farmhouse of wiljon the winkie, dorothy and the wizard and their friends were encountering the adventures we have just related. so it was that on the very morning when the travelers from the emerald city bade farewell to the czarover of the city of herku, cayke and the frogman awoke in a grove in which they had passed the night sleeping on beds of leaves. there were plenty of farmhouses in the neighborhood, but no one seemed to welcome the puffy, haughty frogman or the little dried-up cookie cook, and so they slept comfortably enough underneath the trees of the grove. the frogman wakened first on this morning, and after going to the tree where cayke slept and finding her still wrapped in slumber, he decided to take a little walk and seek some breakfast. coming to the edge of the grove, he observed half a mile away a pretty yellow house that was surrounded by a yellow picket fence, so he walked toward this house and on entering the yard found a winkie woman picking up sticks with which to build a fire to cook her morning meal. "for goodness sake!" she exclaimed on seeing the frogman. "what are you doing out of your frog-pond?" "i am traveling in search of a jeweled gold dishpan, my good woman," he replied with an air of great dignity. "you won't find it here, then," said she. "our dishpans are tin, and they're good enough for anybody. so go back to your pond and leave me alone." she spoke rather crossly and with a lack of respect that greatly annoyed the frogman. "allow me to tell you, madam," said he, "that although i am a frog, i am the greatest and wisest frog in all the world. i may add that i possess much more wisdom than any winkie--man or woman--in this land. wherever i go, people fall on their knees before me and render homage to the great frogman! no one else knows so much as i; no one else is so grand, so magnificent!" "if you know so much," she retorted, "why don't you know where your dishpan is instead of chasing around the country after it?" "presently," he answered, "i am going where it is, but just now i am traveling and have had no breakfast. therefore i honor you by asking you for something to eat." "oho! the great frogman is hungry as any tramp, is he? then pick up these sticks and help me to build the fire," said the woman contemptuously. "me! the great frogman pick up sticks?" he exclaimed in horror. "in the yip country where i am more honored and powerful than any king could be, people weep with joy when i ask them to feed me." "then that's the place to go for your breakfast," declared the woman. "i fear you do not realize my importance," urged the frogman. "exceeding wisdom renders me superior to menial duties." "it's a great wonder to me," remarked the woman, carrying her sticks to the house, "that your wisdom doesn't inform you that you'll get no breakfast here." and she went in and slammed the door behind her. the frogman felt he had been insulted, so he gave a loud croak of indignation and turned away. after going a short distance, he came upon a faint path which led across a meadow in the direction of a grove of pretty trees, and thinking this circle of evergreens must surround a house where perhaps he would be kindly received, he decided to follow the path. and by and by he came to the trees, which were set close together, and pushing aside some branches he found no house inside the circle, but instead a very beautiful pond of clear water. now the frogman, although he was so big and well educated and now aped the ways and customs of human beings, was still a frog. as he gazed at this solitary, deserted pond, his love for water returned to him with irresistible force. "if i cannot get a breakfast, i may at least have a fine swim," said he, and pushing his way between the trees, he reached the bank. there he took off his fine clothing, laying his shiny purple hat and his gold-headed cane beside it. a moment later, he sprang with one leap into the water and dived to the very bottom of the pond. the water was deliciously cool and grateful to his thick, rough skin, and the frogman swam around the pond several times before he stopped to rest. then he floated upon the surface and examined the pond. the bottom and sides were all lined with glossy tiles of a light pink color; just one place in the bottom where the water bubbled up from a hidden spring had been left free. on the banks, the green grass grew to the edge of the pink tiling. and now, as the frogman examined the place, he found that on one side of the pool, just above the water line, had been set a golden plate on which some words were deeply engraved. he swam toward this plate, and on reaching it read the following inscription: _this is_ the truth pond _whoever bathes in this water must always afterward tell_ the truth. this statement startled the frogman. it even worried him, so that he leaped upon the bank and hurriedly began to dress himself. "a great misfortune has befallen me," he told himself, "for hereafter i cannot tell people i am wise, since it is not the truth. the truth is that my boasted wisdom is all a sham, assumed by me to deceive people and make them defer to me. in truth, no living creature can know much more than his fellows, for one may know one thing, and another know another thing, so that wisdom is evenly scattered throughout the world. but--ah me!--what a terrible fate will now be mine. even cayke the cookie cook will soon discover that my knowledge is no greater than her own, for having bathed in the enchanted water of the truth pond, i can no longer deceive her or tell a lie." more humbled than he had been for many years, the frogman went back to the grove where he had left cayke and found the woman now awake and washing her face in a tiny brook. "where has your honor been?" she asked. "to a farmhouse to ask for something to eat," said he, "but the woman refused me." "how dreadful!" she exclaimed. "but never mind, there are other houses where the people will be glad to feed the wisest creature in all the world." "do you mean yourself?" he asked. "no, i mean you." the frogman felt strongly impelled to tell the truth, but struggled hard against it. his reason told him there was no use in letting cayke know he was not wise, for then she would lose much respect for him, but each time he opened his mouth to speak, he realized he was about to tell the truth and shut it again as quickly as possible. he tried to talk about something else, but the words necessary to undeceive the woman would force themselves to his lips in spite of all his struggles. finally, knowing that he must either remain dumb or let the truth prevail, he gave a low groan of despair and said, "cayke, i am not the wisest creature in all the world; i am not wise at all." "oh, you must be!" she protested. "you told me so yourself, only last evening." "then last evening i failed to tell you the truth," he admitted, looking very shamefaced for a frog. "i am sorry i told you this lie, my good cayke, but if you must know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, i am not really as wise as you are." the cookie cook was greatly shocked to hear this, for it shattered one of her most pleasing illusions. she looked at the gorgeously dressed frogman in amazement. "what has caused you to change your mind so suddenly?" she inquired. "i have bathed in the truth pond," he said, "and whoever bathes in that water is ever afterward obliged to tell the truth." "you were foolish to do that," declared the woman. "it is often very embarrassing to tell the truth. i'm glad i didn't bathe in that dreadful water!" the frogman looked at his companion thoughtfully. "cayke," said he, "i want you to go to the truth pond and take a bath in its water. for if we are to travel together and encounter unknown adventures, it would not be fair that i alone must always tell you the truth, while you could tell me whatever you pleased. if we both dip in the enchanted water, there will be no chance in the future of our deceiving one another." "no," she asserted, shaking her head positively, "i won't do it, your honor. for if i told you the truth, i'm sure you wouldn't like me. no truth pond for me. i'll be just as i am, an honest woman who can say what she wants to without hurting anyone's feelings." with this decision the frogman was forced to be content, although he was sorry the cookie cook would not listen to his advice. chapter the unhappy ferryman leaving the grove where they had slept, the frogman and the cookie cook turned to the east to seek another house, and after a short walk came to one where the people received them very politely. the children stared rather hard at the big, pompous frogman, but the woman of the house, when cayke asked for something to eat, at once brought them food and said they were welcome to it. "few people in need of help pass this way," she remarked, "for the winkies are all prosperous and love to stay in their own homes. but perhaps you are not a winkie," she added. "no," said cayke, "i am a yip, and my home is on a high mountain at the southeast of your country." "and the frogman, is he also a yip?" "i do not know what he is, other than a very remarkable and highly educated creature," replied the cookie cook. "but he has lived many years among the yips, who have found him so wise and intelligent that they always go to him for advice." "may i ask why you have left your home and where you are going?" said the winkie woman. then cayke told her of the diamond-studded gold dishpan and how it had been mysteriously stolen from her house, after which she had discovered that she could no longer cook good cookies. so she had resolved to search until she found her dishpan again, because a cookie cook who cannot cook good cookies is not of much use. the frogman, who had wanted to see more of the world, had accompanied her to assist in the search. when the woman had listened to this story, she asked, "then you have no idea as yet who has stolen your dishpan?" "i only know it must have been some mischievous fairy, or a magician, or some such powerful person, because none other could have climbed the steep mountain to the yip country. and who else could have carried away my beautiful magic dishpan without being seen?" the woman thought about this during the time that cayke and the frogman ate their breakfast. when they had finished, she said, "where are you going next?" "we have not decided," answered the cookie cook. "our plan," explained the frogman in his important way, "is to travel from place to place until we learn where the thief is located and then to force him to return the dishpan to its proper owner." "the plan is all right," agreed the woman, "but it may take you a long time before you succeed, your method being sort of haphazard and indefinite. however, i advise you to travel toward the east." "why?" asked the frogman. "because if you went west, you would soon come to the desert, and also because in this part of the winkie country no one steals, so your time here would be wasted. but toward the east, beyond the river, live many strange people whose honesty i would not vouch for. moreover, if you journey far enough east and cross the river for a second time, you will come to the emerald city, where there is much magic and sorcery. the emerald city is ruled by a dear little girl called ozma, who also rules the emperor of the winkies and all the land of oz. so, as ozma is a fairy, she may be able to tell you just who has taken your precious dishpan. provided, of course, you do not find it before you reach her." "this seems to be to be excellent advice," said the frogman, and cayke agreed with him. "the most sensible thing for you to do," continued the woman, "would be to return to your home and use another dishpan, learn to cook cookies as other people cook cookies, without the aid of magic. but if you cannot be happy without the magic dishpan you have lost, you are likely to learn more about it in the emerald city than at any other place in oz." they thanked the good woman, and on leaving her house faced the east and continued in that direction all the way. toward evening they came to the west branch of the winkie river and there, on the riverbank, found a ferryman who lived all alone in a little yellow house. this ferryman was a winkie with a very small head and a very large body. he was sitting in his doorway as the travelers approached him and did not even turn his head to look at them. "good evening," said the frogman. the ferryman made no reply. "we would like some supper and the privilege of sleeping in your house until morning," continued the frogman. "at daybreak, we would like some breakfast, and then we would like to have you row us across the river." the ferryman neither moved nor spoke. he sat in his doorway and looked straight ahead. "i think he must be deaf and dumb," cayke whispered to her companion. then she stood directly in front of the ferryman, and putting her mouth close to his ear, she yelled as loudly as she could, "good evening!" the ferryman scowled. "why do you yell at me, woman?" he asked. "can you hear what i say?" asked in her ordinary tone of voice. "of course," replied the man. "then why didn't you answer the frogman?" "because," said the ferryman, "i don't understand the frog language." "he speaks the same words that i do and in the same way," declared cayke. "perhaps," replied the ferryman, "but to me his voice sounded like a frog's croak. i know that in the land of oz animals can speak our language, and so can the birds and bugs and fishes; but in my ears, they sound merely like growls and chirps and croaks." "why is that?" asked the cookie cook in surprise. "once, many years ago, i cut the tail off a fox which had taunted me, and i stole some birds' eggs from a nest to make an omelet with, and also i pulled a fish from the river and left it lying on the bank to gasp for lack of water until it died. i don't know why i did those wicked things, but i did them. so the emperor of the winkies--who is the tin woodman and has a very tender tin heart--punished me by denying me any communication with beasts, birds or fishes. i cannot understand them when they speak to me, although i know that other people can do so, nor can the creatures understand a word i say to them. every time i meet one of them, i am reminded of my former cruelty, and it makes me very unhappy." "really," said cayke, "i'm sorry for you, although the tin woodman is not to blame for punishing you." "what is he mumbling about?" asked the frogman. "he is talking to me, but you don't understand him," she replied. and then she told him of the ferryman's punishment and afterward explained to the ferryman that they wanted to stay all night with him and be fed. he gave them some fruit and bread, which was the only sort of food he had, and he allowed cayke to sleep in a room of his cottage. but the frogman he refused to admit to his house, saying that the frog's presence made him miserable and unhappy. at no time would he look directly at the frogman, or even toward him, fearing he would shed tears if he did so; so the big frog slept on the riverbank where he could hear little frogs croaking in the river all the night through. but that did not keep him awake; it merely soothed him to slumber, for he realized how much superior he was to them. just as the sun was rising on a new day, the ferryman rowed the two travelers across the river--keeping his back to the frogman all the way--and then cayke thanked him and bade him goodbye and the ferryman rowed home again. on this side of the river, there were no paths at all, so it was evident they had reached a part of the country little frequented by travelers. there was a marsh at the south of them, sandhills at the north, and a growth of scrubby underbrush leading toward a forest at the east. so the east was really the least difficult way to go, and that direction was the one they had determined to follow. now the frogman, although he wore green patent-leather shoes with ruby buttons, had very large and flat feet, and when he tramped through the scrub, his weight crushed down the underbrush and made a path for cayke to follow him. therefore they soon reached the forest, where the tall trees were set far apart but were so leafy that they shaded all the spaces between them with their branches. "there are no bushes here," said cayke, much pleased, "so we can now travel faster and with more comfort." chapter the big lavender bear it was a pleasant place to wander, and the two travelers were proceeding at a brisk pace when suddenly a voice shouted, "halt!" they looked around in surprise, seeing at first no one at all. then from behind a tree there stepped a brown, fuzzy bear whose head came about as high as cayke's waist--and cayke was a small woman. the bear was chubby as well as fuzzy; his body was even puffy, while his legs and arms seemed jointed at the knees and elbows and fastened to his body by pins or rivets. his ears were round in shape and stuck out in a comical way, while his round, black eyes were bright and sparkling as beads. over his shoulder the little brown bear bore a gun with a tin barrel. the barrel had a cork in the end of it, and a string was attached to the cork and to the handle of the gun. both the frogman and cayke gazed hard at this curious bear, standing silent for some time. but finally the frogman recovered from his surprise and remarked, "it seems to me that you are stuffed with sawdust and ought not to be alive." "that's all you know about it," answered the little brown bear in a squeaky voice. "i am stuffed with a very good quality of curled hair, and my skin is the best plush that was ever made. as for my being alive, that is my own affair and cannot concern you at all, except that it gives me the privilege to say you are my prisoners." "prisoners! why do you speak such nonsense?" the frogman angrily. "do you think we are afraid of a toy bear with a toy gun?" "you ought to be," was the confident reply, "for i am merely the sentry guarding the way to bear center, which is a city containing hundreds of my race, who are ruled by a very powerful sorcerer known as the lavender bear. he ought to be a purple color, you know, seeing he is a king, but he's only light lavender, which is, of course, second cousin to royal purple. so unless you come with me peaceably as my prisoners, i shall fire my gun and bring a hundred bears of all sizes and colors to capture you." "why do you wish to capture us?" inquired the frogman, who had listened to his speech with much astonishment. "i don't wish to, as a matter of fact," replied the little brown bear, "but it is my duty to, because you are now trespassing on the domain of his majesty, the king of bear center. also, i will admit that things are rather quiet in our city just now, and the excitement of your capture, followed by your trial and execution, should afford us much entertainment." "we defy you!" said the frogman. "oh no, don't do that," pleaded cayke, speaking to her companion. "he says his king is a sorcerer, so perhaps it is he or one of his bears who ventured to steal my jeweled dishpan. let us go to the city of the bears and discover if my dishpan is there." "i must now register one more charge against you," remarked the little brown bear with evident satisfaction. "you have just accused us of stealing, and that is such a dreadful thing to say that i am quite sure our noble king will command you to be executed." "but how could you execute us?" inquired the cookie cook. "i've no idea. but our king is a wonderful inventor, and there is no doubt he can find a proper way to destroy you. so tell me, are you going to struggle, or will you go peaceably to meet your doom?" it was all so ridiculous that cayke laughed aloud, and even the frogman's wide mouth curled in a smile. neither was a bit afraid to go to the bear city, and it seemed to both that there was a possibility they might discover the missing dishpan. so the frogman said, "lead the way, little bear, and we will follow without a struggle." "that's very sensible of you, very sensible indeed," declared the brown bear. "so for-ward, march!" and with the command he turned around and began to waddle along a path that led between the trees. cayke and the frogman, as they followed their conductor, could scarce forbear laughing at his stiff, awkward manner of walking, and although he moved his stuffy legs fast, his steps were so short that they had to go slowly in order not to run into him. but after a time they reached a large, circular space in the center of the forest, which was clear of any stumps or underbrush. the ground was covered by a soft, gray moss, pleasant to tread upon. all the trees surrounding this space seemed to be hollow and had round holes in their trunks, set a little way above the ground, but otherwise there was nothing unusual about the place and nothing, in the opinion of the prisoners, to indicate a settlement. but the little brown bear said in a proud and impressive voice (although it still squeaked), "this is the wonderful city known to fame as bear center!" "but there are no houses, there are no bears living here at all!" exclaimed cayke. "oh indeed!" retorted their captor, and raising his gun he pulled the trigger. the cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" and at once from every hole in every tree within view of the clearing appeared the head of a bear. they were of many colors and of many sizes, but all were made in the same manner as the bear who had met and captured them. at first a chorus of growls arose, and then a sharp voice cried, "what has happened, corporal waddle?" "captives, your majesty!" answered the brown bear. "intruders upon our domain and slanderers of our good name." "ah, that's important," answered the voice. then from out the hollow trees tumbled a whole regiment of stuffed bears, some carrying tin swords, some popguns and others long spears with gay ribbons tied to the handles. there were hundreds of them, altogether, and they quietly formed a circle around the frogman and the cookie cook, but kept at a distance and left a large space for the prisoners to stand in. presently, this circle parted, and into the center of it stalked a huge toy bear of a lovely lavender color. he walked upon his hind legs, as did all the others, and on his head he wore a tin crown set with diamonds and amethysts, while in one paw he carried a short wand of some glittering metal that resembled silver but wasn't. "his majesty the king!" corporal waddle, and all the bears bowed low. some bowed so low that they lost their balance and toppled over, but they soon scrambled up again, and the lavender king squatted on his haunches before the prisoners and gazed at them steadily with his bright, pink eyes. chapter the little pink bear "one person and one freak," said the big lavender bear when he had carefully examined the strangers. "i am sorry to hear you call poor cayke the cookie cook a freak," remonstrated the frogman. "she is the person," asserted the king. "unless i am mistaken, it is you who are the freak." the frogman was silent, for he could not truthfully deny it. "why have you dared intrude in my forest?" demanded the bear king. "we didn't know it was your forest," said cayke, "and we are on our way to the far east, where the emerald city is." "ah, it's a long way from here to the emerald city," remarked the king. "it is so far away, indeed, that no bear among us has even been there. but what errand requires you to travel such a distance?" "someone has stolen my diamond-studded gold dishpan," explained cayke, "and as i cannot be happy without it, i have decided to search the world over until i find it again. the frogman, who is very learned and wonderfully wise, has come with me to give me his assistance. isn't it kind of him?" the king looked at the frogman. "what makes you so wonderfully wise?" he asked. "i'm not," was the candid reply. "the cookie cook and some others in the yip country think because i am a big frog and talk and act like a man that i must be very wise. i have learned more than a frog usually knows, it is true, but i am not yet so wise as i hope to become at some future time." the king nodded, and when he did so, something squeaked in his chest. "did your majesty speak?" asked cayke. "not just then," answered the lavender bear, seeming to be somewhat embarrassed. "i am so built, you must know, that when anything pushes against my chest, as my chin accidentally did just then, i make that silly noise. in this city it isn't considered good manners to notice. but i like your frogman. he is honest and truthful, which is more than can be said of many others. as for your late lamented dishpan, i'll show it to you." with this he waved three times the metal wand which he held in his paw, and instantly there appeared upon the ground midway between the king and cayke a big, round pan made of beaten gold. around the top edge was a row of small diamonds; around the center of the pan was another row of larger diamonds; and at the bottom was a row of exceedingly large and brilliant diamonds. in fact, they all sparkled magnificently, and the pan was so big and broad that it took a lot of diamonds to go around it three times. cayke stared so hard that her eyes seemed about to pop out of her head. "o-o-o-h!" she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath of delight. "is this your dishpan?" inquired the king. "it is, it is!" cried the cookie cook, and rushing forward, she fell on her knees and threw her arms around the precious pan. but her arms came together without meeting any resistance at all. cayke tried to seize the edge, but found nothing to grasp. the pan was surely there, she thought, for she could see it plainly; but it was not solid; she could not feel it at all. with a moan of astonishment and despair, she raised her head to look at the bear king, who was watching her actions curiously. then she turned to the pan again, only to find it had completely disappeared. "poor creature!" murmured the king pityingly. "you must have thought, for the moment, that you had actually recovered your dishpan. but what you saw was merely the image of it, conjured up by means of my magic. it is a pretty dishpan, indeed, though rather big and awkward to handle. i hope you will some day find it." cayke was grievously disappointed. she began to cry, wiping her eyes on her apron. the king turned to the throng of toy bears surrounding him and asked, "has any of you ever seen this golden dishpan before?" "no," they answered in a chorus. the king seemed to reflect. presently he inquired, "where is the little pink bear?" "at home, your majesty," was the reply. "fetch him here," commanded the king. several of the bears waddled over to one of the trees and pulled from its hollow a tiny pink bear, smaller than any of the others. a big, white bear carried the pink one in his arms and set it down beside the king, arranging the joints of its legs so that it would stand upright. this pink bear seemed lifeless until the king turned a crank which protruded from its side, when the little creature turned its head stiffly from side to side and said in a small, shrill voice, "hurrah for the king of bear center!" "very good," said the big lavender bear. "he seems to be working very well today. tell me, my pink pinkerton, what has become of this lady's jeweled dishpan?" "u-u-u," said the pink bear, and then stopped short. the king turned the crank again. "u-g-u the shoemaker has it," said the pink bear. "who is ugu the shoemaker?" demanded the king, again turning the crank. "a magician who lives on a mountain in a wickerwork castle," was the reply. "where is the mountain?" was the next question. "nineteen miles and three furlongs from bear center to the northeast." "and is the dishpan still at the castle of ugu the shoemaker?" asked the king. "it is." the king turned to cayke. "you may rely on this information," said he. "the pink bear can tell us anything we wish to know, and his words are always words of truth." "is he alive?" asked the frogman, much interested in the pink bear. "something animates him when you turn his crank," replied the king. "i do not know if it is life or what it is or how it happens that the little pink bear can answer correctly every question put to him. we discovered his talent a long time ago, and whenever we wish to know anything--which is not very often--we ask the pink bear. there is no doubt whatever, madam, that ugu the magician has your dishpan, and if you dare to go to him, you may be able to recover it. but of that i am not certain." "can't the pink bear tell?" asked cayke anxiously. "no, for that is in the future. he can tell anything that has happened, but nothing that is going to happen. don't ask me why, for i don't know." "well," said the cookie cook after a little thought, "i mean to go to this magician, anyhow, and tell him i want my dishpan. i wish i knew what ugu the shoemaker is like." "then i'll show him to you," promised the king. "but do not be frightened. it won't be ugu, remember, but only his image." with this, he waved his metal wand, and in the circle suddenly appeared a thin little man, very old and skinny, who was seated on a wicker stool before a wicker table. on the table lay a great book with gold clasps. the book was open, and the man was reading in it. he wore great spectacles which were fastened before his eyes by means of a ribbon that passed around his head and was tied in a bow at the neck. his hair was very thin and white; his skin, which clung fast to his bones, was brown and seared with furrows; he had a big, fat nose and little eyes set close together. on no account was ugu the shoemaker a pleasant person to gaze at. as his image appeared before them, all were silent and intent until corporal waddle, the brown bear, became nervous and pulled the trigger of his gun. instantly, the cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" that made them all jump. and at this sound, the image of the magician vanished. "so that's the thief, is it?" said cayke in an angry voice. "i should think he'd be ashamed of himself for stealing a poor woman's diamond dishpan! but i mean to face him in his wicker castle and force him to return my property." "to me," said the bear king reflectively, "he looked like a dangerous person. i hope he won't be so unkind as to argue the matter with you." the frogman was much disturbed by the vision of ugu the shoemaker, and cayke's determination to go to the magician filled her companion with misgivings. but he would not break his pledged word to assist the cookie cook, and after breathing a deep sigh of resignation, he asked the king, "will your majesty lend us this pink bear who answers questions that we may take him with us on our journey? he would be very useful to us, and we will promise to bring him safely back to you." the king did not reply at once. he seemed to be thinking. "please let us take the pink bear," begged cayke. "i'm sure he would be a great help to us." "the pink bear," said the king, "is the best bit of magic i possess, and there is not another like him in the world. i do not care to let him out of my sight, nor do i wish to disappoint you; so i believe i will make the journey in your company and carry my pink bear with me. he can walk when you wind the other side of him, but so slowly and awkwardly that he would delay you. but if i go along, i can carry him in my arms, so i will join your party. whenever you are ready to start, let me know." "but your majesty!" exclaimed corporal waddle in protest, "i hope you do not intend to let these prisoners escape without punishment." "of what crime do you accuse them?" inquired the king. "why, they trespassed on your domain, for one thing," said the brown bear. "we didn't know it was private property, your majesty," said the cookie cook. "and they asked if any of us had stolen the dishpan!" continued corporal waddle indignantly. "that is the same thing as calling us thieves and robbers and bandits and brigands, is it not?" "every person has the right to ask questions," said the frogman. "but the corporal is quite correct," declared the lavender bear. "i condemn you both to death, the execution to take place ten years from this hour." "but we belong in the land of oz, where no one ever dies," cayke reminded him. "very true," said the king. "i condemn you to death merely as a matter of form. it sounds quite terrible, and in ten years we shall have forgotten all about it. are you ready to start for the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker?" "quite ready, your majesty." "but who will rule in your place while you are gone?" asked a big yellow bear. "i myself will rule while i am gone," was the reply. "a king isn't required to stay at home forever, and if he takes a notion to travel, whose business is it but his own? all i ask is that you bears behave yourselves while i am away. if any of you is naughty, i'll send him to some girl or boy in america to play with." this dreadful threat made all the toy bears look solemn. they assured the king in a chorus of growls that they would be good. then the big lavender bear picked up the little pink bear, and after tucking it carefully under one arm, he said, "goodbye till i come back!" and waddled along the path that led through the forest. the frogman and cayke the cookie cook also said goodbye to the bears and then followed after the king, much to the regret of the little brown bear, who pulled the trigger of his gun and popped the cork as a parting salute. chapter the meeting while the frogman and his party were advancing from the west, dorothy and her party were advancing from the east, and so it happened that on the following night they all camped at a little hill that was only a few miles from the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. but the two parties did not see one another that night, for one camped on one side of the hill while the other camped on the opposite side. but the next morning, the frogman thought he would climb the hill and see what was on top of it, and at the same time scraps, the patchwork girl, also decided to climb the hill to find if the wicker castle was visible from its top. so she stuck her head over an edge just as the frogman's head appeared over another edge, and both, being surprised, kept still while they took a good look at one another. scraps recovered from her astonishment first, and bounding upward, she turned a somersault and landed sitting down and facing the big frogman, who slowly advanced and sat opposite her. "well met, stranger!" cried the patchwork girl with a whoop of laughter. "you are quite the funniest individual i have seen in all my travels." "do you suppose i can be any funnier than you?" asked the frogman, gazing at her in wonder. "i'm not funny to myself, you know," returned scraps. "i wish i were. and perhaps you are so used to your own absurd shape that you do not laugh whenever you see your reflection in a pool or in a mirror." "no," said the frogman gravely, "i do not. i used to be proud of my great size and vain of my culture and education, but since i bathed in the truth pond, i sometimes think it is not right that i should be different from all other frogs." "right or wrong," said the patchwork girl, "to be different is to be distinguished. now in my case, i'm just like all other patchwork girls because i'm the only one there is. but tell me, where did you come from?" "the yip country," said he. "is that in the land of oz?" "of course," replied the frogman. "and do you know that your ruler, ozma of oz, has been stolen?" "i was not aware that i had a ruler, so of course i couldn't know that she was stolen." "well, you have. all the people of oz," explained scraps, "are ruled by ozma, whether they know it or not. and she has been stolen. aren't you angry? aren't you indignant? your ruler, whom you didn't know you had, has positively been stolen!" "that is queer," remarked the frogman thoughtfully. "stealing is a thing practically unknown in oz, yet this ozma has been taken, and a friend of mine has also had her dishpan stolen. with her i have traveled all the way from the yip country in order to recover it." "i don't see any connection between a royal ruler of oz and a dishpan!" declared scraps. "they've both been stolen, haven't they?" "true. but why can't your friend wash her dishes in another dishpan?" asked scraps. "why can't you use another royal ruler? i suppose you prefer the one who is lost, and my friend wants her own dishpan, which is made of gold and studded with diamonds and has magic powers." "magic, eh?" exclaimed scraps. "there is a link that connects the two steals, anyhow, for it seems that all the magic in the land of oz was stolen at the same time, whether it was in the emerald city of in glinda's castle or in the yip country. seems mighty strange and mysterious, doesn't it?" "it used to seem that way to me," admitted the frogman, "but we have now discovered who took our dishpan. it was ugu the shoemaker." "ugu? good gracious! that's the same magician we think has stolen ozma. we are now on our way to the castle of this shoemaker." "so are we," said the frogman. "then follow me, quick! and let me introduce you to dorothy and the other girls and to the wizard of oz and all the rest of us." she sprang up and seized his coatsleeve, dragging him off the hilltop and down the other side from that whence he had come. and at the foot of the hill, the frogman was astonished to find the three girls and the wizard and button-bright, who were surrounded by a wooden sawhorse, a lean mule, a square woozy, and a cowardly lion. a little black dog ran up and smelled at the frogman, but couldn't growl at him. "i've discovered another party that has been robbed," shouted scraps as she joined them. "this is their leader, and they're all going to ugu's castle to fight the wicked shoemaker!" they regarded the frogman with much curiosity and interest, and finding all eyes fixed upon him, the newcomer arranged his necktie and smoothed his beautiful vest and swung his gold-headed cane like a regular dandy. the big spectacles over his eyes quite altered his froglike countenance and gave him a learned and impressive look. used as she was to seeing strange creatures in the land of oz, dorothy was amazed at discovering the frogman. so were all her companions. toto wanted to growl at him, but couldn't, and he didn't dare bark. the sawhorse snorted rather contemptuously, but the lion whispered to the wooden steed, "bear with this strange creature, my friend, and remember he is no more extraordinary than you are. indeed, it is more natural for a frog to be big than for a sawhorse to be alive." on being questioned, the frogman told them the whole story of the loss of cayke's highly prized dishpan and their adventures in search of it. when he came to tell of the lavender bear king and of the little pink bear who could tell anything you wanted to know, his hearers became eager to see such interesting animals. "it will be best," said the wizard, "to unite our two parties and share our fortunes together, for we are all bound on the same errand, and as one band we may more easily defy this shoemaker magician than if separate. let us be allies." "i will ask my friends about that," replied the frogman, and he climbed over the hill to find cayke and the toy bears. the patchwork girl accompanied him, and when they came upon the cookie cook and the lavender bear and the pink bear, it was hard to tell which of the lot was the most surprised. "mercy me!" cried cayke, addressing the patchwork girl. "however did you come alive?" scraps stared at the bears. "mercy me!" she echoed, "you are stuffed, as i am, with cotton, and you appear to be living. that makes me feel ashamed, for i have prided myself on being the only live cotton-stuffed person in oz." "perhaps you are," returned the lavender bear, "for i am stuffed with extra-quality curled hair, and so is the little pink bear." "you have relieved my mind of a great anxiety," declared the patchwork girl, now speaking more cheerfully. "the scarecrow is stuffed with straw and you with hair, so i am still the original and only cotton-stuffed!" "i hope i am too polite to criticize cotton as compared with curled hair," said the king, "especially as you seem satisfied with it." then the frogman told of his interview with the party from the emerald city and added that the wizard of oz had invited the bears and cayke and himself to travel in company with them to the castle of ugu the shoemaker. cayke was much pleased, but the bear king looked solemn. he set the little pink bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "is it safe for us to associate with those people from the emerald city?" and the pink bear at once replied, "safe for you and safe for me; perhaps no others safe will be." "that 'perhaps' need not worry us," said the king, "so let us join the others and offer them our protection." even the lavender bear was astonished, however, when on climbing over the hill he found on the other side the group of queer animals and the people from the emerald city. the bears and cayke were received very cordially, although button-bright was cross when they wouldn't let him play with the little pink bear. the three girls greatly admired the toy bears, and especially the pink one, which they longed to hold. "you see," explained the lavender king in denying them this privilege, "he's a very valuable bear, because his magic is a correct guide on all occasions, and especially if one is in difficulties. it was the pink bear who told us that ugu the shoemaker had stolen the cookie cook's dishpan." "and the king's magic is just as wonderful," added cayke, "because it showed us the magician himself." "what did he look like?" inquired dorothy. "he was dreadful!" "he was sitting at a table and examining an immense book which had three golden clasps," remarked the king. "why, that must have been glinda's great book of records!" exclaimed dorothy. "if it is, it proves that ugu the shoemaker stole ozma, and with her all the magic in the emerald city." "and my dishpan," said cayke. and the wizard added, "it also proves that he is following our adventures in the book of records, and therefore knows that we are seeking him and that we are determined to find him and reach ozma at all hazards." "if we can," added the woozy, but everybody frowned at him. the wizard's statement was so true that the faces around him were very serious until the patchwork girl broke into a peal of laughter. "wouldn't it be a rich joke if he made prisoners of us, too?" she said. "no one but a crazy patchwork girl would consider that a joke," grumbled button-bright. and then the lavender bear king asked, "would you like to see this magical shoemaker?" "wouldn't he know it?" dorothy inquired. "no, i think not." then the king waved his metal wand and before them appeared a room in the wicker castle of ugu. on the wall of the room hung ozma's magic picture, and seated before it was the magician. they could see the picture as well as he could, because it faced them, and in the picture was the hillside where they were now sitting, all their forms being reproduced in miniature. and curiously enough, within the scene of the picture was the scene they were now beholding, so they knew that the magician was at this moment watching them in the picture, and also that he saw himself and the room he was in become visible to the people on the hillside. therefore he knew very well that they were watching him while he was watching them. in proof of this, ugu sprang from his seat and turned a scowling face in their direction; but now he could not see the travelers who were seeking him, although they could still see him. his actions were so distinct, indeed, that it seemed he was actually before them. "it is only a ghost," said the bear king. "it isn't real at all except that it shows us ugu just as he looks and tells us truly just what he is doing." "i don't see anything of my lost growl, though," said toto as if to himself. then the vision faded away, and they could see nothing but the grass and trees and bushes around them. chapter the conference "now then," said the wizard, "let us talk this matter over and decide what to do when we get to ugu's wicker castle. there can be no doubt that the shoemaker is a powerful magician, and his powers have been increased a hundredfold since he secured the great book of records, the magic picture, all of glinda's recipes for sorcery, and my own black bag, which was full of tools of wizardry. the man who could rob us of those things and the man with all their powers at his command is one who may prove somewhat difficult to conquer, therefore we should plan our actions well before we venture too near to his castle." "i didn't see ozma in the magic picture," said trot. "what do you suppose ugu has done with her?" "couldn't the little pink bear tell us what he did with ozma?" asked button-bright. "to be sure," replied the lavender king. "i'll ask him." so he turned the crank in the little pink bear's side and inquired, "did ugu the shoemaker steal ozma of oz?" "yes," answered the little pink bear. "then what did he do with her?" asked the king. "shut her up in a dark place," answered the little pink bear. "oh, that must be a dungeon cell!" cried dorothy, horrified. "how dreadful!" "well, we must get her out of it," said the wizard. "that is what we came for, and of course we must rescue ozma. but how?" each one looked at some other one for an answer, and all shook their heads in a grave and dismal manner. all but scraps, who danced around them gleefully. "you're afraid," said the patchwork girl, "because so many things can hurt your meat bodies. why don't you give it up and go home? how can you fight a great magician when you have nothing to fight with?" dorothy looked at her reflectively. "scraps," said she, "you know that ugu couldn't hurt you a bit, whatever he did, nor could he hurt me, 'cause i wear the gnome king's magic belt. s'pose just we two go on together and leave the others here to wait for us." "no, no!" said the wizard positively. "that won't do at all. ozma is more powerful than either of you, yet she could not defeat the wicked ugu, who has shut her up in a dungeon. we must go to the shoemaker in one mighty band, for only in union is there strength." "that is excellent advice," said the lavender bear approvingly. "but what can we do when we get to ugu?" inquired the cookie cook anxiously. "do not expect a prompt answer to that important question," replied the wizard, "for we must first plan our line of conduct. ugu knows, of course, that we are after him, for he has seen our approach in the magic picture, and he has read of all we have done up to the present moment in the great book of records. therefore we cannot expect to take him by surprise." "don't you suppose ugu would listen to reason?" asked betsy. "if we explained to him how wicked he has been, don't you think he'd let poor ozma go?" "and give me back my dishpan?" added the cookie cook eagerly. "yes, yes, won't he say he's sorry and get on his knees and beg our pardon?" cried scraps, turning a flip-flop to show her scorn of the suggestion. "when ugu the shoemaker does that, please knock at the front door and let me know." the wizard sighed and rubbed his bald head with a puzzled air. "i'm quite sure ugu will not be polite to us," said he, "so we must conquer this cruel magician by force, much as we dislike to be rude to anyone. but none of you has yet suggested a way to do that. couldn't the little pink bear tell us how?" he asked, turning to the bear king. "no, for that is something that is going to happen," replied the lavender bear. "he can only tell us what already has happened." again, they were grave and thoughtful. but after a time, betsy said in a hesitating voice, "hank is a great fighter. perhaps he could conquer the magician." the mule turned his head to look reproachfully at his old friend, the young girl. "who can fight against magic?" he asked. "the cowardly lion could," said dorothy. the lion, who was lying with his front legs spread out, his chin on his paws, raised his shaggy head. "i can fight when i'm not afraid," said he calmly, "but the mere mention of a fight sets me to trembling." "ugu's magic couldn't hurt the sawhorse," suggested tiny trot. "and the sawhorse couldn't hurt the magician," declared that wooden animal. "for my part," said toto, "i am helpless, having lost my growl." "then," said cayke the cookie cook, "we must depend upon the frogman. his marvelous wisdom will surely inform him how to conquer the wicked magician and restore to me my dishpan." all eyes were now turned questioningly upon the frogman. finding himself the center of observation, he swung his gold-headed cane, adjusted his big spectacles, and after swelling out his chest, sighed and said in a modest tone of voice: "respect for truth obliges me to confess that cayke is mistaken in regard to my superior wisdom. i am not very wise. neither have i had any practical experience in conquering magicians. but let us consider this case. what is ugu, and what is a magician? ugu is a renegade shoemaker, and a magician is an ordinary man who, having learned how to do magical tricks, considers himself above his fellows. in this case, the shoemaker has been naughty enough to steal a lot of magical tools and things that did not belong to him, and he is more wicked to steal than to be a magician. yet with all the arts at his command, ugu is still a man, and surely there are ways in which a man may be conquered. how, do you say, how? allow me to state that i don't know. in my judgment, we cannot decide how best to act until we get to ugu's castle. so let us go to it and take a look at it. after that, we may discover an idea that will guide us to victory." "that may not be a wise speech, but it sounds good," said dorothy approvingly. "ugu the shoemaker is not only a common man, but he's a wicked man and a cruel man and deserves to be conquered. we mustn't have any mercy on him till ozma is set free. so let's go to his castle as the frogman says and see what the place looks like." no one offered any objection to this plan, and so it was adopted. they broke camp and were about to start on the journey to ugu's castle when they discovered that button-bright was lost again. the girls and the wizard shouted his name, and the lion roared and the donkey brayed and the frogman croaked and the big lavender bear growled (to the envy of toto, who couldn't growl but barked his loudest), yet none of them could make button-bright hear. so after vainly searching for the boy a full hour, they formed a procession and proceeded in the direction of the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. "button-bright's always getting lost," said dorothy. "and if he wasn't always getting found again, i'd prob'ly worry. he may have gone ahead of us, and he may have gone back, but wherever he is, we'll find him sometime and somewhere, i'm almost sure." chapter ugu the shoemaker a curious thing about ugu the shoemaker was that he didn't suspect in the least that he was wicked. he wanted to be powerful and great, and he hoped to make himself master of all the land of oz that he might compel everyone in that fairy country to obey him, his ambition blinded him to the rights of others, and he imagined anyone else would act just as he did if anyone else happened to be as clever as himself. when he inhabited his little shoemaking shop in the city of herku, he had been discontented, for a shoemaker is not looked upon with high respect, and ugu knew that his ancestors had been famous magicians for many centuries past and therefore his family was above the ordinary. even his father practiced magic when ugu was a boy, but his father had wandered away from herku and had never come back again. so when ugu grew up, he was forced to make shoes for a living, knowing nothing of the magic of his forefathers. but one day, in searching through the attic of his house, he discovered all the books of magical recipes and many magical instruments which had formerly been in use in his family. from that day, he stopped making shoes and began to study magic. finally, he aspired to become the greatest magician in oz, and for days and weeks and months he thought on a plan to render all the other sorcerers and wizards, as well as those with fairy powers, helpless to oppose him. from the books of his ancestors, he learned the following facts: ( ) that ozma of oz was the fairy ruler of the emerald city and the land of oz and that she could not be destroyed by any magic ever devised. also, by means of her magic picture she would be able to discover anyone who approached her royal palace with the idea of conquering it. ( ) that glinda the good was the most powerful sorceress in oz, among her other magical possessions being the great book of records, which told her all that happened anywhere in the world. this book of records was very dangerous to ugu's plans, and glinda was in the service of ozma and would use her arts of sorcery to protect the girl ruler. ( ) that the wizard of oz, who lived in ozma's palace, had been taught much powerful magic by glinda and had a bag of magic tools with which he might be able to conquer the shoemaker. ( ) that there existed in oz--in the yip country--a jeweled dishpan made of gold, which dishpan would grow large enough for a man to sit inside it. then, when he grasped both the golden handles, the dishpan would transport him in an instant to any place he wished to go within the borders of the land of oz. no one now living except ugu knew of the powers of the magic dishpan, so after long study, the shoemaker decided that if he could manage to secure the dishpan, he could by its means rob ozma and glinda and the wizard of oz of all their magic, thus becoming himself the most powerful person in all the land. his first act was to go away from the city of herku and build for himself the wicker castle in the hills. here he carried his books and instruments of magic, and here for a full year he diligently practiced all the magical arts learned from his ancestors. at the end of that time, he could do a good many wonderful things. then, when all his preparations were made, he set out for the yip country, and climbing the steep mountain at night he entered the house of cayke the cookie cook and stole her diamond-studded gold dishpan while all the yips were asleep, taking his prize outside, he set the pan upon the ground and uttered the required magic word. instantly, the dishpan grew as large as a big washtub, and ugu seated himself in it and grasped the two handles. then he wished himself in the great drawing room of glinda the good. he was there in a flash. first he took the great book of records and put it in the dishpan. then he went to glinda's laboratory and took all her rare chemical compounds and her instruments of sorcery, placing these also in the dishpan, which he caused to grow large enough to hold them. next he seated himself amongst the treasures he had stolen and wished himself in the room in ozma's palace which the wizard occupied and where he kept his bag of magic tools. this bag ugu added to his plunder and then wished himself in the apartments of ozma. here he first took the magic picture from the wall and then seized all the other magical things which ozma possessed. having placed these in the dishpan, he was about to climb in himself when he looked up and saw ozma standing beside him. her fairy instinct had warned her that danger was threatening her, so the beautiful girl ruler rose from her couch and leaving her bedchamber at once confronted the thief. ugu had to think quickly, for he realized that if he permitted ozma to rouse the inmates of her palace, all his plans and his present successes were likely to come to naught. so he threw a scarf over the girl's head so she could not scream, and pushed her into the dishpan and tied her fast so she could not move. then he climbed in beside her and wished himself in his own wicker castle. the magic dishpan was there in an instant, with all its contents, and ugu rubbed his hands together in triumphant joy as he realized that he now possessed all the important magic in the land of oz and could force all the inhabitants of that fairyland to do as he willed. so quickly had his journey been accomplished that before daylight the robber magician had locked ozma in a room, making her a prisoner, and had unpacked and arranged all his stolen goods. the next day he placed the book of records on his table and hung the magic picture on his wall and put away in his cupboards and drawers all the elixirs and magic compounds he had stolen. the magical instruments he polished and arranged, and this was fascinating work and made him very happy. by turns the imprisoned ruler wept and scolded the shoemaker, haughtily threatening him with dire punishment for the wicked deeds he had done. ugu became somewhat afraid of his fairy prisoner, in spite of the fact that he believed he had robbed her of all her powers; so he performed an enchantment that quickly disposed of her and placed her out of his sight and hearing. after that, being occupied with other things, he soon forgot her. but now, when he looked into the magic picture and read the great book of records, the shoemaker learned that his wickedness was not to go unchallenged. two important expeditions had set out to find him and force him to give up his stolen property. one was the party headed by the wizard and dorothy, while the other consisted of cayke and the frogman. others were also searching, but not in the right places. these two groups, however, were headed straight for the wicker castle, and so ugu began to plan how best to meet them and to defeat their efforts to conquer him. chapter more surprises all that first day after the union of the two parties, our friends marched steadily toward the wicker castle of ugu the shoemaker. when night came, they camped in a little grove and passed a pleasant evening together, although some of them were worried because button-bright was still lost. "perhaps," said toto as the animals lay grouped together for the night, "this shoemaker who stole my growl and who stole ozma has also stolen button-bright." "how do you know that the shoemaker stole your growl?" demanded the woozy. "he has stolen about everything else of value in oz, hasn't he?" replied the dog. "he has stolen everything he wants, perhaps," agreed the lion, "but what could anyone want with your growl?" "well," said the dog, wagging his tail slowly, "my recollection is that it was a wonderful growl, soft and low and--and--" "and ragged at the edges," said the sawhorse. "so," continued toto, "if that magician hadn't any growl of his own, he might have wanted mine and stolen it." "and if he has, he will soon wish he hadn't," remarked the mule. "also, if he has stolen button-bright, he will be sorry." "don't you like button-bright, then?" asked the lion in surprise. "it isn't a question of liking him," replied the mule. "it's a question of watching him and looking after him. any boy who causes his friends so much worry isn't worth having around. i never get lost." "if you did," said toto, "no one would worry a bit. i think button-bright is a very lucky boy because he always gets found." "see here," said the lion, "this chatter is keeping us all awake, and tomorrow is likely to be a busy day. go to sleep and forget your quarrels." "friend lion," retorted the dog, "if i hadn't lost my growl, you would hear it now. i have as much right to talk as you have to sleep." the lion sighed. "if only you had lost your voice when you lost your growl," said he, "you would be a more agreeable companion." but they quieted down after that, and soon the entire camp was wrapped in slumber. next morning they made an early start, but had hardly proceeded on their way an hour when, on climbing a slight elevation, they beheld in the distance a low mountain on top of which stood ugu's wicker castle. it was a good-sized building and rather pretty because the sides, roofs and domes were all of wicker, closely woven as it is in fine baskets. "i wonder if it is strong?" said dorothy musingly as she eyed the queer castle. "i suppose it is, since a magician built it," answered the wizard. "with magic to protect it, even a paper castle might be as strong as if made of stone. this ugu must be a man of ideas, because he does things in a different way from other people." "yes. no one else would steal our dear ozma," sighed tiny trot. "i wonder if ozma is there?" said betsy, indicating the castle with a nod of her head. "where else could she be?" asked scraps. "suppose we ask the pink bear," suggested dorothy. that seemed a good idea, so they halted the procession, and the bear king held the little pink bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "where is ozma of oz?" and the little pink bear answered, "she is in a hole in the ground a half mile away at your left." "good gracious!" cried dorothy. "then she is not in ugu's castle at all." "it is lucky we asked that question," said the wizard, "for if we can find ozma and rescue her, there will be no need for us to fight that wicked and dangerous magician." "indeed!" said cayke. "then what about my dishpan?" the wizard looked puzzled at her tone of remonstrance, so she added, "didn't you people from the emerald city promise that we would all stick together, and that you would help me to get my dishpan if i would help you to get your ozma? and didn't i bring to you the little pink bear, which has told you where ozma is hidden?" "she's right," said dorothy to the wizard. "we must do as we agreed." "well, first of all, let us go and rescue ozma," proposed the wizard. "then our beloved ruler may be able to advise us how to conquer ugu the shoemaker." so they turned to the left and marched for half a mile until they came to a small but deep hole in the ground. at once, all rushed to the brim to peer into the hole, but instead of finding there princess ozma of oz, all that they saw was button-bright, who was lying asleep on the bottom. their cries soon wakened the boy, who sat up and rubbed his eyes. when he recognized his friends, he smiled sweetly, saying, "found again!" "where is ozma?" inquired dorothy anxiously. "i don't know," answered button-bright from the depths of the hole. "i got lost yesterday, as you may remember, and in the night while i was wandering around in the moonlight trying to find my way back to you, i suddenly fell into this hole." "and wasn't ozma in it then?" "there was no one in it but me, and i was sorry it wasn't entirely empty. the sides are so steep i can't climb out, so there was nothing to be done but sleep until someone found me. thank you for coming. if you'll please let down a rope, i'll empty this hole in a hurry." "how strange!" said dorothy, greatly disappointed. "it's evident the pink bear didn't tell the truth." "he never makes a mistake," declared the lavender bear king in a tone that showed his feelings were hurt. and then he turned the crank of the little pink bear again and asked, "is this the hole that ozma of oz is in?" "yes," answered the pink bear. "that settles it," said the king positively. "your ozma is in this hole in the ground." "don't be silly," returned dorothy impatiently. "even your beady eyes can see there is no one in the hole but button-bright." "perhaps button-bright is ozma," suggested the king. "and perhaps he isn't! ozma is a girl, and button-bright is a boy." "your pink bear must be out of order," said the wizard, "for, this time at least, his machinery has caused him to make an untrue statement." the bear king was so angry at this remark that he turned away, holding the pink bear in his paws, and refused to discuss the matter in any further way. "at any rate," said the frogman, "the pink bear has led us to your boy friend and so enabled you to rescue him." scraps was leaning so far over the hole trying to find ozma in it that suddenly she lost her balance and pitched in head foremost. she fell upon button-bright and tumbled him over, but he was not hurt by her soft, stuffed body and only laughed at the mishap. the wizard buckled some straps together and let one end of them down into the hole, and soon both scraps and the boy had climbed up and were standing safely beside the others. they looked once more for ozma, but the hole was now absolutely vacant. it was a round hole, so from the top they could plainly see every part of it. before they left the place, dorothy went to the bear king and said, "i'm sorry we couldn't believe what the little pink bear said, 'cause we don't want to make you feel bad by doubting him. there must be a mistake, somewhere, and we prob'ly don't understand just what the little pink bear said. will you let me ask him one more question?" the lavender bear king was a good-natured bear, considering how he was made and stuffed and jointed, so he accepted dorothy's apology and turned the crank and allowed the little girl to question his wee pink bear. "is ozma really in this hole?" asked dorothy. "no," said the little pink bear. this surprised everybody. even the bear king was now puzzled by the contradictory statements of his oracle. "where is she?" asked the king. "here, among you," answered the little pink bear. "well," said dorothy, "this beats me entirely! i guess the little pink bear has gone crazy." "perhaps," called scraps, who was rapidly turning "cartwheels" all around the perplexed group, "ozma is invisible." "of course!" cried betsy. "that would account for it." "well, i've noticed that people can speak, even when they've been made invisible," said the wizard. and then he looked all around him and said in a solemn voice, "ozma, are you here?" there was no reply. dorothy asked the question, too, and so did button-bright and trot and betsy, but none received any reply at all. "it's strange, it's terrible strange!" muttered cayke the cookie cook. "i was sure that the little pink bear always tells the truth." "i still believe in his honesty," said the frogman, and this tribute so pleased the bear king that he gave these last speakers grateful looks, but still gazed sourly on the others. "come to think of it," remarked the wizard, "ozma couldn't be invisible, for she is a fairy, and fairies cannot be made invisible against their will. of course, she could be imprisoned by the magician or enchanted or transformed, in spite of her fairy powers, but ugu could not render her invisible by any magic at his command." "i wonder if she's been transformed into button-bright?" said dorothy nervously. then she looked steadily at the boy and asked, "are you ozma? tell me truly!" button-bright laughed. "you're getting rattled, dorothy," he replied. "nothing ever enchants me. if i were ozma, do you think i'd have tumbled into that hole?" "anyhow," said the wizard, "ozma would never try to deceive her friends or prevent them from recognizing her in whatever form she happened to be. the puzzle is still a puzzle, so let us go on to the wicker castle and question the magician himself. since it was he who stole our ozma, ugu is the one who must tell us where to find her." chapter magic against magic the wizard's advice was good, so again they started in the direction of the low mountain on the crest of which the wicker castle had been built. they had been gradually advancing uphill, so now the elevation seemed to them more like a round knoll than a mountaintop. however, the sides of the knoll were sloping and covered with green grass, so there was a stiff climb before them yet. undaunted, they plodded on and had almost reached the knoll when they suddenly observed that it was surrounded by a circle of flame. at first, the flames barely rose above the ground, but presently they grew higher and higher until a circle of flaming tongues of fire taller than any of their heads quite surrounded the hill on which the wicker castle stood. when they approached the flames, the heat was so intense that it drove them back again. "this will never do for me!" exclaimed the patchwork girl. "i catch fire very easily." "it won't do for me either," grumbled the sawhorse, prancing to the rear. "i also strongly object to fire," said the bear king, following the sawhorse to a safe distance and hugging the little pink bear with his paws. "i suppose the foolish shoemaker imagines these blazes will stop us," remarked the wizard with a smile of scorn for ugu. "but i am able to inform you that this is merely a simple magic trick which the robber stole from glinda the good, and by good fortune i know how to destroy these flames as well as how to produce them. will some one of you kindly give me a match?" you may be sure the girls carried no matches, nor did the frogman or any of the animals. but button-bright, after searching carefully through his pockets, which contained all sorts of useful and useless things, finally produced a match and handed it to the wizard, who tied it to the end of a branch which he tore from a small tree growing near them. then the little wizard carefully lighted the match, and running forward thrust it into the nearest flame. instantly, the circle of fire began to die away, and soon vanished completely leaving the way clear for them to proceed. "that was funny!" laughed button-bright. "yes," agreed the wizard, "it seems odd that a little match could destroy such a great circle of fire, but when glinda invented this trick, she believed no one would ever think of a match being a remedy for fire. i suppose even ugu doesn't know how we managed to quench the flames of his barrier, for only glinda and i know the secret. glinda's book of magic which ugu stole told how to make the flames, but not how to put them out." they now formed in marching order and proceeded to advance up the slope of the hill, but had not gone far when before them rose a wall of steel, the surface of which was thickly covered with sharp, gleaming points resembling daggers. the wall completely surrounded the wicker castle, and its sharp points prevented anyone from climbing it. even the patchwork girl might be ripped to pieces if she dared attempt it. "ah!" exclaimed the wizard cheerfully, "ugu is now using one of my own tricks against me. but this is more serious than the barrier of fire, because the only way to destroy the wall is to get on the other side of it." "how can that be done?" asked dorothy. the wizard looked thoughtfully around his little party, and his face grew troubled. "it's a pretty high wall," he sadly remarked. "i'm pretty sure the cowardly lion could not leap over it." "i'm sure of that, too!" said the lion with a shudder of fear. "if i foolishly tried such a leap, i would be caught on those dreadful spikes." "i think i could do it, sir," said the frogman with a bow to the wizard. "it is an uphill jump as well as being a high jump, but i'm considered something of a jumper by my friends in the yip country, and i believe a good, strong leap will carry me to the other side." "i'm sure it would," agreed the cookie cook. "leaping, you know, is a froglike accomplishment," continued the frogman modestly, "but please tell me what i am to do when i reach the other side of the wall." "you're a brave creature," said the wizard admiringly. "has anyone a pin?" betsy had one, which she gave him. "all you need do," said the wizard to the frogman, giving him the pin, "is to stick this into the other side of the wall." "but the wall is of steel!" exclaimed the big frog. "i know. at least, it seems to be steel, but do as i tell you. stick the pin into the wall, and it will disappear." the frogman took off his handsome coat and carefully folded it and laid it on the grass. then he removed his hat and laid it together with his gold-headed cane beside the coat. he then went back a way and made three powerful leaps in rapid succession. the first two leaps took him to the wall, and the third leap carried him well over it, to the amazement of all. for a short time, he disappeared from their view, but when he had obeyed the wizard's injunction and had thrust the pin into the wall, the huge barrier vanished and showed them the form of the frogman, who now went to where his coat lay and put it on again. "we thank you very much," said the delighted wizard. "that was the most wonderful leap i ever saw, and it has saved us from defeat by our enemy. let us now hurry on to the castle before ugu the shoemaker thinks up some other means to stop us." "we must have surprised him so far," declared dorothy. "yes indeed. the fellow knows a lot of magic--all of our tricks and some of his own," replied the wizard. "so if he is half as clever as he ought to be, we shall have trouble with him yet." he had scarcely spoken these words when out from the gates of the wicker castle marched a regiment of soldiers, clad in gay uniforms and all bearing long, pointed spears and sharp battle axes. these soldiers were girls, and the uniforms were short skirts of yellow and black satin, golden shoes, bands of gold across their foreheads and necklaces of glittering jewels. their jackets were scarlet, braided with silver cords. there were hundreds of these girl-soldiers, and they were more terrible than beautiful, being strong and fierce in appearance. they formed a circle all around the castle and faced outward, their spears pointed toward the invaders, and their battle axes held over their shoulders, ready to strike. of course, our friends halted at once, for they had not expected this dreadful array of soldiery. the wizard seemed puzzled, and his companions exchanged discouraged looks. "i'd no idea ugu had such an army as that," said dorothy. "the castle doesn't look big enough to hold them all." "it isn't," declared the wizard. "but they all marched out of it." "they seemed to, but i don't believe it is a real army at all. if ugu the shoemaker had so many people living with him, i'm sure the czarover of herku would have mentioned the fact to us." "they're only girls!" laughed scraps. "girls are the fiercest soldiers of all," declared the frogman. "they are more brave than men, and they have better nerves. that is probably why the magician uses them for soldiers and has sent them to oppose us." no one argued this statement, for all were staring hard at the line of soldiers, which now, having taken a defiant position, remained motionless. "here is a trick of magic new to me," admitted the wizard after a time. "i do not believe the army is real, but the spears may be sharp enough to prick us, nevertheless, so we must be cautious. let us take time to consider how to meet this difficulty." while they were thinking it over, scraps danced closer to the line of girl soldiers. her button eyes sometimes saw more than did the natural eyes of her comrades, and so after staring hard at the magician's army, she boldly advanced and danced right through the threatening line! on the other side, she waved her stuffed arms and called out, "come on, folks. the spears can't hurt you." said the wizard gaily. "an optical illusion, as i thought. let us all follow the patchwork girl." the three little girls were somewhat nervous in attempting to brave the spears and battle axes, but after the others had safely passed the line, they ventured to follow. and when all had passed through the ranks of the girl army, the army itself magically disappeared from view. all this time our friends had been getting farther up the hill and nearer to the wicker castle. now, continuing their advance, they expected something else to oppose their way, but to their astonishment nothing happened, and presently they arrived at the wicker gates, which stood wide open, and boldly entered the domain of ugu the shoemaker. chapter in the wicker castle no sooner were the wizard of oz and his followers well within the castle entrance when the big gates swung to with a clang and heavy bars dropped across them. they looked at one another uneasily, but no one cared to speak of the incident. if they were indeed prisoners in the wicker castle, it was evident they must find a way to escape, but their first duty was to attend to the errand on which they had come and seek the royal ozma, whom they believed to be a prisoner of the magician, and rescue her. they found they had entered a square courtyard, from which an entrance led into the main building of the castle. no person had appeared to greet them so far, although a gaudy peacock perched upon the wall cackled with laughter and said in its sharp, shrill voice, "poor fools! poor fools!" "i hope the peacock is mistaken," remarked the frogman, but no one else paid any attention to the bird. they were a little awed by the stillness and loneliness of the place. as they entered the doors of the castle, which stood invitingly open, these also closed behind them and huge bolts shot into place. the animals had all accompanied the party into the castle because they felt it would be dangerous for them to separate. they were forced to follow a zigzag passage, turning this way and that, until finally they entered a great central hall, circular in form and with a high dome from which was suspended an enormous chandelier. the wizard went first, and dorothy, betsy and trot followed him, toto keeping at the heels of his little mistress. then came the lion, the woozy and the sawhorse, then cayke the cookie cook and button-bright, then the lavender bear carrying the pink bear, and finally the frogman and the patchwork girl, with hank the mule tagging behind. so it was the wizard who caught the first glimpse of the big, domed hall, but the others quickly followed and gathered in a wondering group just within the entrance. upon a raised platform at one side was a heavy table on which lay glinda's great book of records, but the platform was firmly fastened to the floor and the table was fastened to the platform and the book was chained fast to the table, just as it had been when it was kept in glinda's palace. on the wall over the table hung ozma's magic picture. on a row of shelves at the opposite side of the hall stood all the chemicals and essences of magic and all the magical instruments that had been stolen from glinda and ozma and the wizard, with glass doors covering the shelves so that no one could get at them. and in a far corner sat ugu the shoemaker, his feet lazily extended, his skinny hands clasped behind his head. he was leaning back at his ease and calmly smoking a long pipe. around the magician was a sort of cage, seemingly made of golden bars set wide apart, and at his feet, also within the cage, reposed the long-sought diamond-studded dishpan of cayke the cookie cook. princess ozma of oz was nowhere to be seen. "well, well," said ugu when the invaders had stood in silence for a moment, staring about them. "this visit is an unexpected pleasure, i assure you. i knew you were coming, and i know why you are here. you are not welcome, for i cannot use any of you to my advantage, but as you have insisted on coming, i hope you will make the afternoon call as brief as possible. it won't take long to transact your business with me. you will ask me for ozma, and my reply will be that you may find her--if you can." "sir," answered the wizard in a tone of rebuke, "you are a very wicked and cruel person. i suppose you imagine, because you have stolen this poor woman's dishpan and all the best magic in oz, that you are more powerful than we are and will be able to triumph over us." "yes," said ugu the shoemaker, slowly filling his pipe with fresh tobacco from a silver bowl that stood beside him, "that is exactly what i imagine. it will do you no good to demand from me the girl who was formerly the ruler of oz, because i will not tell you where i have hidden her, and you can't guess in a thousand years. neither will i restore to you any of the magic i have captured. i am not so foolish. but bear this in mind: i mean to be the ruler of oz myself, hereafter, so i advise you to be careful how you address your future monarch." "ozma is still ruler of oz, wherever you may have hidden her," declared the wizard. "and bear this in mind, miserable shoemaker: we intend to find her and to rescue her in time, but our first duty and pleasure will be to conquer you and then punish you for your misdeeds." "very well, go ahead and conquer," said ugu. "i'd really like to see how you can do it." now although the little wizard had spoken so boldly, he had at the moment no idea how they might conquer the magician. he had that morning given the frogman, at his request, a dose of zosozo from his bottle, and the frogman had promised to fight a good fight if it was necessary, but the wizard knew that strength alone could not avail against magical arts. the toy bear king seemed to have some pretty good magic, however, and the wizard depended to an extent on that. but something ought to be done right away, and the wizard didn't know what it was. while he considered this perplexing question and the others stood looking at him as their leader, a queer thing happened. the floor of the great circular hall on which they were standing suddenly began to tip. instead of being flat and level, it became a slant, and the slant grew steeper and steeper until none of the party could manage to stand upon it. presently they all slid down to the wall, which was now under them, and then it became evident that the whole vast room was slowly turning upside down! only ugu the shoemaker, kept in place by the bars of his golden cage, remained in his former position, and the wicked magician seemed to enjoy the surprise of his victims immensely. first they all slid down to the wall back of them, but as the room continued to turn over, they next slid down the wall and found themselves at the bottom of the great dome, bumping against the big chandelier which, like everything else, was now upside down. the turning movement now stopped, and the room became stationary. looking far up, they saw ugu suspended in his cage at the very top, which had once been the floor. "ah," said he, grinning down at them, "the way to conquer is to act, and he who acts promptly is sure to win. this makes a very good prison, from which i am sure you cannot escape. please amuse yourselves in any way you like, but i must beg you to excuse me, as i have business in another part of my castle." saying this, he opened a trap door in the floor of his cage (which was now over his head) and climbed through it and disappeared from their view. the diamond dishpan still remained in the cage, but the bars kept it from falling down on their heads. "well, i declare," said the patchwork girl, seizing one of the bars of the chandelier and swinging from it, "we must peg one for the shoemaker, for he has trapped us very cleverly." "get off my foot, please," said the lion to the sawhorse. "and oblige me, mr. mule," remarked the woozy, "by taking your tail out of my left eye." "it's rather crowded down here," explained dorothy, "because the dome is rounding and we have all slid into the middle of it. but let us keep as quiet as possible until we can think what's best to be done." "dear, dear!" wailed cayke, "i wish i had my darling dishpan," and she held her arms longingly toward it. "i wish i had the magic on those shelves up there," sighed the wizard. "don't you s'pose we could get to it?" asked trot anxiously. "we'd have to fly," laughed the patchwork girl. but the wizard took the suggestion seriously, and so did the frogman. they talked it over and soon planned an attempt to reach the shelves where the magical instruments were. first the frogman lay against the rounding dome and braced his foot on the stem of the chandelier; then the wizard climbed over him and lay on the dome with his feet on the frogman's shoulders; the cookie cook came next; then button-bright climbed to the woman's shoulders; then dorothy climbed up and betsy and trot, and finally the patchwork girl, and all their lengths made a long line that reached far up the dome, but not far enough for scraps to touch the shelves. "wait a minute. perhaps i can reach the magic," called the bear king, and began scrambling up the bodies of the others. but when he came to the cookie cook, his soft paws tickled her side so that she squirmed and upset the whole line. down they came, tumbling in a heap against the animals, and although no one was much hurt, it was a bad mix-up, and the frogman, who was at the bottom, almost lost his temper before he could get on his feet again. cayke positively refused to try what she called "the pyramid act" again, and as the wizard was now convinced they could not reach the magic tools in that manner, the attempt was abandoned. "but something must be done," said the wizard, and then he turned to the lavender bear and asked, "cannot your majesty's magic help us to escape from here?" "my magic powers are limited," was the reply. "when i was stuffed, the fairies stood by and slyly dropped some magic into my stuffing. therefore i can do any of the magic that's inside me, but nothing else. you, however, are a wizard, and a wizard should be able to do anything." "your majesty forgets that my tools of magic have been stolen," said the wizard sadly, "and a wizard without tools is as helpless as a carpenter without a hammer or saw." "don't give up," pleaded button-bright, "'cause if we can't get out of this queer prison, we'll all starve to death." "not i!" laughed the patchwork girl, now standing on top of the chandelier at the place that was meant to be the bottom of it. "don't talk of such dreadful things," said trot, shuddering. "we came here to capture the shoemaker, didn't we?" "yes, and to save ozma," said betsy. "and here we are, captured ourselves, and my darling dishpan up there in plain sight!" wailed the cookie cook, wiping her eyes on the tail of the frogman's coat. "hush!" called the lion with a low, deep growl. "give the wizard time to think." "he has plenty of time," said scraps. "what he needs is the scarecrow's brains." after all, it was little dorothy who came to their rescue, and her ability to save them was almost as much a surprise to the girl as it was to her friends. dorothy had been secretly testing the powers of her magic belt, which she had once captured from the nome king, and experimenting with it in various ways ever since she had started on this eventful journey. at different times she had stolen away from the others of her party and in solitude had tried to find out what the magic belt could do and what it could not do. there were a lot of things it could not do, she discovered, but she learned some things about the belt which even her girl friends did not suspect she knew. for one thing, she had remembered that when the nome king owned it, the magic belt used to perform transformations, and by thinking hard she had finally recalled the way in which such transformations had been accomplished. better than this, however, was the discovery that the magic belt would grant its wearer one wish a day. all she need do was close her right eye and wiggle her left toe and then draw a long breath and make her wish. yesterday she had wished in secret for a box of caramels, and instantly found the box beside her. today she had saved her daily wish in case she might need it in an emergency, and the time had now come when she must use the wish to enable her to escape with her friends from the prison in which ugu had caught them. so without telling anyone what she intended to do--for she had only used the wish once and could not be certain how powerful the magic belt might be--dorothy closed her right eye and wiggled her left big toe and drew a long breath and wished with all her might. the next moment the room began to revolve again, as slowly as before, and by degrees they all slid to the side wall and down the wall to the floor--all but scraps, who was so astonished that she still clung to the chandelier. when the big hall was in its proper position again and the others stood firmly upon the floor of it, they looked far up the dome and saw the patchwork girl swinging from the chandelier. "good gracious!" cried dorothy. "how ever will you get down?" "won't the room keep turning?" asked scraps. "i hope not. i believe it has stopped for good," said princess dorothy. "then stand from under, so you won't get hurt!" shouted the patchwork girl, and as soon as they had obeyed this request, she let go the chandelier and came tumbling down heels over head and twisting and turning in a very exciting manner. plump! she fell on the tiled floor, and they ran to her and rolled her and patted her into shape again. chapter the defiance of ugu the shoemaker the delay caused by scraps had prevented anyone from running to the shelves to secure the magic instruments so badly needed. even cayke neglected to get her diamond-studded dishpan because she was watching the patchwork girl. and now the magician had opened his trap door and appeared in his golden cage again, frowning angrily because his prisoners had been able to turn their upside-down prison right side up. "which of you has dared defy my magic?" he shouted in a terrible voice. "it was i," answered dorothy calmly. "then i shall destroy you, for you are only an earth girl and no fairy," he said, and began to mumble some magic words. dorothy now realized that ugu must be treated as an enemy, so she advanced toward the corner in which he sat, saying as she went, "i am not afraid of you, mr. shoemaker, and i think you'll be sorry, pretty soon, that you're such a bad man. you can't destroy me, and i won't destroy you, but i'm going to punish you for your wickedness." ugu laughed, a laugh that was not nice to hear, and then he waved his hand. dorothy was halfway across the room when suddenly a wall of glass rose before her and stopped her progress. through the glass she could see the magician sneering at her because she was a weak little girl, and this provoked her. although the glass wall obliged her to halt, she instantly pressed both hands to her magic belt and cried in a loud voice, "ugu the shoemaker, by the magic virtues of the magic belt, i command you to become a dove!" the magician instantly realized he was being enchanted, for he could feel his form changing. he struggled desperately against the enchantment, mumbling magic words and making magic passes with his hands. and in one way he succeeded in defeating dorothy's purpose, for while his form soon changed to that of a gray dove, the dove was of an enormous size, bigger even than ugu had been as a man, and this feat he had been able to accomplish before his powers of magic wholly deserted him. and the dove was not gentle, as doves usually are, for ugu was terribly enraged at the little girl's success. his books had told him nothing of the nome king's magic belt, the country of the nomes being outside the land of oz. he knew, however, that he was likely to be conquered unless he made a fierce fight, so he spread his wings and rose in the air and flew directly toward dorothy. the wall of glass had disappeared the instant ugu became transformed. dorothy had meant to command the belt to transform the magician into a dove of peace, but in her excitement she forgot to say more than "dove," and now ugu was not a dove of peace by any means, but rather a spiteful dove of war. his size made his sharp beak and claws very dangerous, but dorothy was not afraid when he came darting toward her with his talons outstretched and his sword-like beak open. she knew the magic belt would protect its wearer from harm. but the frogman did not know that fact and became alarmed at the little girl's seeming danger. so he gave a sudden leap and leaped full upon the back of the great dove. then began a desperate struggle. the dove was as strong as ugu had been, and in size it was considerably bigger than the frogman. but the frogman had eaten the zosozo, and it had made him fully as strong as ugu the dove. at the first leap he bore the dove to the floor, but the giant bird got free and began to bite and claw the frogman, beating him down with its great wings whenever he attempted to rise. the thick, tough skin of the big frog was not easily damaged, but dorothy feared for her champion, and by again using the transformation power of the magic belt, she made the dove grow small until it was no larger than a canary bird. ugu had not lost his knowledge of magic when he lost his shape as a man, and he now realized it was hopeless to oppose the power of the magic belt and knew that his only hope of escape lay in instant action. so he quickly flew into the golden jeweled dishpan he had stolen from cayke the cookie cook, and as birds can talk as well as beasts or men in the fairyland of oz, he muttered the magic word that was required and wished himself in the country of the quadlings, which was as far away from the wicker castle as he believed he could get. our friends did not know, of course, what ugu was about to do. they saw the dishpan tremble an instant and then disappear, the dove disappearing with it, and although they waited expectantly for some minutes for the magician's return, ugu did not come back again. "seems to me," said the wizard in a cheerful voice, "that we have conquered the wicked magician more quickly than we expected to." "don't say 'we.' dorothy did it!" cried the patchwork girl, turning three somersaults in succession and then walking around on her hands. "hurrah for dorothy!" "i thought you said you did not know how to use the magic of the nome king's belt," said the wizard to dorothy. "i didn't know at that time," she replied, "but afterward i remembered how the nome king once used the magic belt to enchant people and transform 'em into ornaments and all sorts of things, so i tried some enchantments in secret, and after a while i transformed the sawhorse into a potato masher and back again, and the cowardly lion into a pussycat and back again, and then i knew the thing would work all right." "when did you perform those enchantments?" asked the wizard, much surprised. "one night when all the rest of you were asleep but scraps, and she had gone chasing moonbeams." "well," remarked the wizard, "your discovery has certainly saved us a lot of trouble, and we must all thank the frogman, too, for making such a good fight. the dove's shape had ugu's evil disposition inside it, and that made the monster bird dangerous." the frogman was looking sad because the bird's talons had torn his pretty clothes, but he bowed with much dignity at this well-deserved praise. cayke, however, had squatted on the floor and was sobbing bitterly. "my precious dishpan is gone!" she wailed. "gone, just as i had found it again!" "never mind," said trot, trying to comfort her, "it's sure to be somewhere, so we'll cert'nly run across it some day." "yes indeed," added betsy, "now that we have ozma's magic picture, we can tell just where the dove went with your dishpan. they all approached the magic picture, and dorothy wished it to show the enchanted form of ugu the shoemaker, wherever it might be. at once there appeared in the frame of the picture a scene in the far quadling country, where the dove was perched disconsolately on the limb of a tree and the jeweled dishpan lay on the ground just underneath the limb. "but where is the place? how far or how near?" asked cayke anxiously. "the book of records will tell us that," answered the wizard. so they looked in the great book and read the following: "ugu the magician, being transformed into a dove by princess dorothy of oz, has used the magic of the golden dishpan to carry him instantly to the northeast corner of the quadling country." "don't worry, cayke, for the scarecrow and the tin woodman are in that part of the country looking for ozma, and they'll surely find your dishpan." "good gracious!" exclaimed button-bright. "we've forgot all about ozma. let's find out where the magician hid her." back to the magic picture they trooped, but when they wished to see ozma wherever she might be hidden, only a round black spot appeared in the center of the canvas. "i don't see how that can be ozma!" said dorothy, much puzzled. "it seems to be the best the magic picture can do, however," said the wizard, no less surprised. "if it's an enchantment, looks as if the magician had transformed ozma into a chunk of pitch." chapter the little pink bear speaks truly for several minutes they all stood staring at the black spot on the canvas of the magic picture, wondering what it could mean. "p'r'aps we'd better ask the little pink bear about ozma," suggested trot. "pshaw!" said button-bright. "he don't know anything." "he never makes a mistake," declared the king. "he did once, surely," said betsy. "but perhaps he wouldn't make a mistake again." "he won't have the chance," grumbled the bear king. "we might hear what he has to say," said dorothy. "it won't do any harm to ask the pink bear where ozma is." "i will not have him questioned," declared the king in a surly voice. "i do not intend to allow my little pink bear to be again insulted by your foolish doubts. he never makes a mistake." "didn't he say ozma was in that hole in the ground?" asked betsy. "he did, and i am certain she was there," replied the lavender bear. scraps laughed jeeringly, and the others saw there was no use arguing with the stubborn bear king, who seemed to have absolute faith in his pink bear. the wizard, who knew that magical things can usually be depended upon and that the little pink bear was able to answer questions by some remarkable power of magic, thought it wise to apologize to the lavender bear for the unbelief of his friends, at the same time urging the king to consent to question the pink bear once more. cayke and the frogman also pleaded with the big bear, who finally agreed, although rather ungraciously, to put the little bear's wisdom to the test once more. so he sat the little one on his knee and turned the crank, and the wizard himself asked the questions in a very respectful tone of voice. "where is ozma?" was his first query. "here in this room," answered the little pink bear. they all looked around the room, but of course did not see her. "in what part of the room is she?" was the wizard's next question. "in button-bright's pocket," said the little pink bear. this reply amazed them all, you may be sure, and although the three girls smiled and scraps yelled "hoo-ray!" in derision, the wizard turned to consider the matter with grave thoughtfulness. "in which one of button-bright's pockets is ozma?" he presently inquired. "in the left-hand jacket pocket," said the little pink bear. "the pink one has gone crazy!" exclaimed button-bright, staring hard at the little bear on the big bear's knee. "i am not so sure of that," declared the wizard. "if ozma proves to be really in your pocket, then the little pink bear spoke truly when he said ozma was in that hole in the ground. for at that time you were also in the hole, and after we had pulled you out of it, the little pink bear said ozma was not in the hole." "he never makes a mistake," asserted the bear king stoutly. "empty that pocket, button-bright, and let's see what's in it," requested dorothy. so button-bright laid the contents of his left jacket pocket on the table. these proved to be a peg top, a bunch of string, a small rubber ball and a golden peach pit. "what's this?" asked the wizard, picking up the peach pit and examining it closely. "oh," said the boy, "i saved that to show to the girls, and then forgot all about it. it came out of a lonesome peach that i found in the orchard back yonder, and which i ate while i was lost. it looks like gold, and i never saw a peach pit like it before." "nor i," said the wizard, "and that makes it seem suspicious." all heads were bent over the golden peach pit. the wizard turned it over several times and then took out his pocket knife and pried the pit open. as the two halves fell apart, a pink, cloud-like haze came pouring from the golden peach pit, almost filling the big room, and from the haze a form took shape and settled beside them. then, as the haze faded away, a sweet voice said, "thank you, my friends!" and there before them stood their lovely girl ruler, ozma of oz. with a cry of delight, dorothy rushed forward and embraced her. scraps turned gleeful flipflops all around the room. button-bright gave a low whistle of astonishment. the frogman took off his tall hat and bowed low before the beautiful girl who had been freed from her enchantment in so startling a manner. for a time, no sound was heard beyond the low murmur of delight that came from the amazed group, but presently the growl of the big lavender bear grew louder, and he said in a tone of triumph, "he never makes a mistake!" chapter ozma of oz "it's funny," said toto, standing before his friend the lion and wagging his tail, "but i've found my growl at last! i am positive now that it was the cruel magician who stole it." "let's hear your growl," requested the lion. "g-r-r-r-r-r!" said toto. "that is fine," declared the big beast. "it isn't as loud or as deep as the growl of the big lavender bear, but it is a very respectable growl for a small dog. where did you find it, toto?" "i was smelling in the corner yonder," said toto, "when suddenly a mouse ran out--and i growled." the others were all busy congratulating ozma, who was very happy at being released from the confinement of the golden peach pit, where the magician had placed her with the notion that she never could be found or liberated. "and only to think," cried dorothy, "that button-bright has been carrying you in his pocket all this time, and we never knew it!" "the little pink bear told you," said the bear king, "but you wouldn't believe him." "never mind, my dears," said ozma graciously, "all is well that ends well, and you couldn't be expected to know i was inside the peach pit. indeed, i feared i would remain a captive much longer than i did, for ugu is a bold and clever magician, and he had hidden me very securely." "you were in a fine peach," said button-bright, "the best i ever ate." "the magician was foolish to make the peach so tempting," remarked the wizard, "but ozma would lend beauty to any transformation." "how did you manage to conquer ugu the shoemaker?" inquired the girl ruler of oz. dorothy started to tell the story, and trot helped her, and button-bright wanted to relate it in his own way, and the wizard tried to make it clear to ozma, and betsy had to remind them of important things they left out, and all together there was such a chatter that it was a wonder that ozma understood any of it. but she listened patiently, with a smile on her lovely face at their eagerness, and presently had gleaned all the details of their adventures. ozma thanked the frogman very earnestly for his assistance, and she advised cayke the cookie cook to dry her weeping eyes, for she promised to take her to the emerald city and see that her cherished dishpan was restored to her. then the beautiful ruler took a chain of emeralds from around her own neck and placed it around the neck of the little pink bear. "your wise answers to the questions of my friends," said she, "helped them to rescue me. therefore i am deeply grateful to you and to your noble king." the bead eyes of the little pink bear stared unresponsive to this praise until the big lavender bear turned the crank in its side, when it said in its squeaky voice, "i thank your majesty." "for my part," returned the bear king, "i realize that you were well worth saving, miss ozma, and so i am much pleased that we could be of service to you. by means of my magic wand i have been creating exact images of your emerald city and your royal palace, and i must confess that they are more attractive than any places i have ever seen--not excepting bear center." "i would like to entertain you in my palace," returned ozma sweetly, "and you are welcome to return with me and to make me a long visit, if your bear subjects can spare you from your own kingdom." "as for that," answered the king, "my kingdom causes me little worry, and i often find it somewhat tame and uninteresting. therefore i am glad to accept your kind invitation. corporal waddle may be trusted to care for my bears in my absence." "and you'll bring the little pink bear?" asked dorothy eagerly. "of course, my dear. i would not willingly part with him." they remained in the wicker castle for three days, carefully packing all the magical things that had been stolen by ugu and also taking whatever in the way of magic the shoemaker had inherited from his ancestors. "for," said ozma, "i have forbidden any of my subjects except glinda the good and the wizard of oz to practice magical arts, because they cannot be trusted to do good and not harm. therefore ugu must never again be permitted to work magic of any sort." "well," remarked dorothy cheerfully, "a dove can't do much in the way of magic, anyhow, and i'm going to keep ugu in the form of a dove until he reforms and becomes a good and honest shoemaker." when everything was packed and loaded on the backs of the animals, they set out for the river, taking a more direct route than that by which cayke and the frogman had come. in this way they avoided the cities of thi and herku and bear center and after a pleasant journey reached the winkie river and found a jolly ferryman who had a fine, big boat and was willing to carry the entire party by water to a place quite near to the emerald city. the river had many windings and many branches, and the journey did not end in a day, but finally the boat floated into a pretty lake which was but a short distance from ozma's home. here the jolly ferryman was rewarded for his labors, and then the entire party set out in a grand procession to march to the emerald city. news that the royal ozma had been found spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, and both sides of the road soon became lined with loyal subjects of the beautiful and beloved ruler. therefore ozma's ears heard little but cheers, and her eyes beheld little else than waving handkerchiefs and banners during all the triumphal march from the lake to the city's gates. and there she met a still greater concourse, for all the inhabitants of the emerald city turned out to welcome her return, and all the houses were decorated with flags and bunting, and never before were the people so joyous and happy as at this moment when they welcomed home their girl ruler. for she had been lost and was now found again, and surely that was cause for rejoicing. glinda was at the royal palace to meet the returning party, and the good sorceress was indeed glad to have her great book of records returned to her, as well as all the precious collection of magic instruments and elixirs and chemicals that had been stolen from her castle. cap'n bill and the wizard at once hung the magic picture upon the wall of ozma's boudoir, and the wizard was so light-hearted that he did several tricks with the tools in his black bag to amuse his companions and prove that once again he was a powerful wizard. for a whole week there was feasting and merriment and all sorts of joyous festivities at the palace in honor of ozma's safe return. the lavender bear and the little pink bear received much attention and were honored by all, much to the bear king's satisfaction. the frogman speedily became a favorite at the emerald city, and the shaggy man and tik-tok and jack pumpkinhead, who had now returned from their search, were very polite to the big frog and made him feel quite at home. even the cookie cook, because she was quite a stranger and ozma's guest, was shown as much deference as if she had been a queen. "all the same, your majesty," said cayke to ozma, day after day with tiresome repetition, "i hope you will soon find my jeweled dishpan, for never can i be quite happy without it." chapter dorothy forgives the gray dove which had once been ugu the shoemaker sat on its tree in the far quadling country and moped, chirping dismally and brooding over its misfortunes. after a time, the scarecrow and the tin woodman came along and sat beneath the tree, paying no heed to the mutterings of the gray dove. the tin woodman took a small oilcan from his tin pocket and carefully oiled his tin joints with it. while he was thus engaged, the scarecrow remarked, "i feel much better, dear comrade, since we found that heap of nice, clean straw and you stuffed me anew with it." "and i feel much better now that my joints are oiled," returned the tin woodman with a sigh of pleasure. "you and i, friend scarecrow, are much more easily cared for than those clumsy meat people, who spend half their time dressing in fine clothes and who must live in splendid dwellings in order to be contented and happy. you and i do not eat, and so we are spared the dreadful bother of getting three meals a day. nor do we waste half our lives in sleep, a condition that causes the meat people to lose all consciousness and become as thoughtless and helpless as logs of wood." "you speak truly," responded the scarecrow, tucking some wisps of straw into his breast with his padded fingers. "i often feel sorry for the meat people, many of whom are my friends. even the beasts are happier than they, for they require less to make them content. and the birds are the luckiest creatures of all, for they can fly swiftly where they will and find a home at any place they care to perch. their food consists of seeds and grains they gather from the fields, and their drink is a sip of water from some running brook. if i could not be a scarecrow or a tin woodman, my next choice would be to live as a bird does." the gray dove had listened carefully to this speech and seemed to find comfort in it, for it hushed its moaning. and just then the tin woodman discovered cayke's dishpan, which was on the ground quite near to him. "here is a rather pretty utensil," he said, taking it in his tin hand to examine it, "but i would not care to own it. whoever fashioned it of gold and covered it with diamonds did not add to its usefulness, nor do i consider it as beautiful as the bright dishpans of tin one usually sees. no yellow color is ever so handsome as the silver sheen of tin," and he turned to look at his tin legs and body with approval. "i cannot quite agree with you there," replied the scarecrow. "my straw stuffing has a light yellow color, and it is not only pretty to look at, but it crunkles most delightfully when i move." "let us admit that all colors are good in their proper places," said the tin woodman, who was too kind-hearted to quarrel, "but you must agree with me that a dishpan that is yellow is unnatural. what shall we do with this one, which we have just found?" "let us carry it back to the emerald city," suggested the scarecrow. "some of our friends might like to have it for a foot-bath, and in using it that way, its golden color and sparkling ornaments would not injure its usefulness." so they went away and took the jeweled dishpan with them. and after wandering through the country for a day or so longer, they learned the news that ozma had been found. therefore they straightway returned to the emerald city and presented the dishpan to princess ozma as a token of their joy that she had been restored to them. ozma promptly gave the diamond-studded gold dishpan to cayke the cookie cook, who was delighted at regaining her lost treasure that she danced up and down in glee and then threw her skinny arms around ozma's neck and kissed her gratefully. cayke's mission was now successfully accomplished, but she was having such a good time at the emerald city that she seemed in no hurry to go back to the country of the yips. it was several weeks after the dishpan had been restored to the cookie cook when one day, as dorothy was seated in the royal gardens with trot and betsy beside her, a gray dove came flying down and alighted at the girl's feet. "i am ugu the shoemaker," said the dove in a soft, mourning voice, "and i have come to ask you to forgive me for the great wrong i did in stealing ozma and the magic that belonged to her and to others." "are you sorry, then?" asked dorothy, looking hard at the bird. "i am very sorry," declared ugu. "i've been thinking over my misdeeds for a long time, for doves have little else to do but think, and i'm surprised that i was such a wicked man and had so little regard for the rights of others. i am now convinced that even had i succeeded in making myself ruler of all oz, i should not have been happy, for many days of quiet thought have shown me that only those things one acquires honestly are able to render one content." "i guess that's so," said trot. "anyhow," said betsy, "the bad man seems truly sorry, and if he has now become a good and honest man, we ought to forgive him." "i fear i cannot become a good man again," said ugu, "for the transformation i am under will always keep me in the form of a dove. but with the kind forgiveness of my former enemies, i hope to become a very good dove and highly respected." "wait here till i run for my magic belt," said dorothy, "and i'll transform you back to your reg'lar shape in a jiffy." "no, don't do that!" pleaded the dove, fluttering its wings in an excited way. "i only want your forgiveness. i don't want to be a man again. as ugu the shoemaker i was skinny and old and unlovely. as a dove i am quite pretty to look at. as a man i was ambitious and cruel, while as a dove i can be content with my lot and happy in my simple life. i have learned to love the free and independent life of a bird, and i'd rather not change back." "just as you like, ugu," said dorothy, resuming her seat. "perhaps you are right, for you're certainly a better dove than you were a man, and if you should ever backslide an' feel wicked again, you couldn't do much harm as a gray dove." "then you forgive me for all the trouble i caused you?" he asked earnestly. "of course. anyone who's sorry just has to be forgiven." "thank you," said the gray dove, and flew away again. the end the wonderful oz books by l. frank baum the wizard of oz the land of oz ozma of oz dorothy and the wizard in oz the road to oz the emerald city of oz the patchwork girl of oz tik-tok of oz the scarecrow of oz rinkitink in oz the lost princess of oz the tin woodman of oz the magic of oz glinda of oz witch winnie's mystery [illustration] witch winnie's mystery or the old oak cabinet _the story of a king's daughter_ by elizabeth w. champney author of "witch winnie," "vassar girls abroad," etc. with illustrations by c. d. gibson and j. wells champney. new york dodd, mead and company publishers copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. _all rights reserved._ contents. chapter page introduction, i. the first escapade of the season, ii. the cabinet, iii. the robbery, iv. trouble in the amen corner, v. l. mudge, detective, vi. halloween tricks, vii. a state of "dreadfulness," viii. in the meshes of a golden net, ix. "polo," x. the catacomb party xi. a false scent, xii. the inter-scholastic games, xiii. polo is shadowed, xiv. the clouds part, xv. the old cabinet tells its story, xvi. the mystery disclosed, introduction. for those who have not read the first volume of this series, "witch winnie, the story of a king's daughter." we four girls, adelaide armstrong, milly roseveldt, emma jane anton, nellie smith, had been chums at boarding school. (let it here be explained that although my name is nellie, i am never called anything but tib by my friends.) we occupied a little suite of apartments in the tower, consisting of a small study parlor from which opened two double bedrooms and one single one. our family was called the amen corner, because our initials, arranged as an acrostic, spelled the word amen, and because we were a set of little pharisees, prigs, and "digs," not particularly admired by the rest of the school, but exceedingly virtuous and preternaturally perfect in our own estimation. this was our status at the beginning of our first school year together, and the change that came over us, owing to the introduction into our circle of witch winnie, the greatest scape-grace in the most mischief-making set of the school, the "queen of the hornets," has already been told. a quieting, earnest influence acted upon winnie, and a natural, merry-hearted love of fun reacted on us, and we were all the better for the companionship. the greatest practical result outside the change in our own characters was the formation, by the uniting of the "amen corner" and the "hornets," of a ten of king's daughters, who founded the home of the elder brother, for little children. this institution was adopted by our parents, who formed themselves into a board of managers, but left much of the working of the enterprise in our hands.[ ] the home prospered during the first year of its existence in a truly wonderful manner. it was undenominational and unendowed. no rich church or wealthy man stood behind it. it was entirely dependent on the efforts of a few young girls, and on the voluntary subscriptions of benevolent people. but it grew day by day. little ripples of influence widened out from our circle to others. during the vacation our ten separated, and at each of their homes they formed other tens, who worked for the same object. every one who visited the home was interested in its plan of work, which was to help the poor without pauperizing them; to aid struggling women whose husbands had died, or were in hospitals or prisons, and who could have no homes of their own, by providing them with a substitute for the baby farming, so extensively carried on in the tenement districts, by offering them, on the same low terms, a sweet and wholesome shelter for their little ones. some wondered why we charged these poor women anything; why the _half_ charity was not made a free gift. but wiser philanthropists saw the superior kindness of this demand. the women whom we wished to aid were not beggars, but that worthy, struggling class who, overburdened, but still desperately striving, must sink in the conflict unless helped, but who still wished to do all in their power for their children, and brought the small sum asked for their board with a proud and happy self-respect. [ ] this home is a truthful picture of one really founded by a band of little girls--the messiah home, at rutherford place, stuyvesant square, new york, which is aided in its good work by different circles of king's daughters. one of our own members, emma jane anton, on graduating at madame's, became matron of the home, assisted by dear miss prillwitz, formerly our teacher of botany, from whose heart this beautiful thought had blossomed. the home was just across the park from the school building and we frequently visited it; but though we were all deeply interested in this sweet charity, it did not interfere with our studies or with a great deal of girlish, innocent fun. since winnie had become my room-mate we had lost much of the prestige which was formerly the boast of the amen corner, and after emma jane left the little single room, madame, feeling that our influence had done much for winnie, sent another of the "hornets" into our midst. we had accepted and adopted winnie with all our hearts, for her many lovable qualities, and above all for her genuine good fellowship and affectionate nature, but cynthia vaughn was a very different character. there was nothing but enjoyable fun in any of winnie's tricks; cynthia's were mean and malicious. we never liked her, and she openly showed her scorn of winnie and of me, while she fawned in a hypocritical manner, striving to ingratiate herself with aristocratic adelaide and with gentle milly, who was the wealthiest girl at madame's. we were no longer the best behaved set in school, and an acrostic formed from our initials could not now be made to spell anything; but the name "amen corner" clung to the little apartment, and madame still looked upon us with favor. she knew that adelaide and milly, winnie and i, were all, beneath our mischief, true-hearted, earnest girls, and she charitably hoped for great improvement in cynthia. there was one person who did not believe in us--miss noakes, our corridor teacher. she believed that winnie was filled with all iniquity and that adelaide was far too attractive to be allowed the confidence which madame reposed in her. it was miss noakes's great grievance that she could never discover the least approach to a flirtation in adelaide's conduct. i believe that she fairly gloated with anticipated triumph when madame engaged a handsome young artist to take charge of our art department, and that from this time she watched and peeped and listened with an industry which would have done credit to a better cause. she seemed to argue that as no lover of the beautiful could fail to appreciate adelaide's beauty, therefore our artist must admire adelaide, and in this deduction she was not far from the truth, but she ought not to have taken it for granted that adelaide must be equally pleased with her admirer. how her espionage tracked us through several innocent tricks and capers, and was finally foiled by our beloved winnie; how the great mystery of the robbery for a time brought doubt and suspicion between four dear friends who would, and did, go through fire and water for one another; and how, in spite of doubt and jealousy and trouble, our love and devotion for one another: burned brightly and steadily on to the end of the school year, and into the life beyond--this little book will tell. that the events which i am about to relate may be better understood, i subjoin a plan of the "amen corner." [illustration: plan of the =amen corner=] witch winnie's mystery. chapter i. the first escapade of the season. [illustration] "girls!" winnie exclaimed excitedly as we entered our study parlor after recitation, "i am wild with curiosity to know what they are doing in the hospital. all the morning, while i have been trying to study, there has been the greatest thumping and bumping going on in there. i wonder whether they are chaining down an insane patient, or if the ghostly nurses are having a war dance." "why didn't you look and see?" cynthia vaughn asked, pointing to the transom over a locked door, which formerly opened from our parlor into the hospital ward. madame had made abundant provision for sickness in the original arrangement of the school building. a large sky-lighted room had been set apart as an infirmary, and a little suite of rooms in the great tower adjoining as the physician's quarters. but it was rare indeed that any one was ill at madame's, and when a pupil was taken sick, her parents usually took her home at once. so the doctor, having nothing to do but to hear the recitations in physiology, preferred not to reside in the school building, and the pretty suite of rooms, consisting of a parlor and three bedrooms, was assigned to us, and the hospital proper was used as a trunk room. winnie always maintained that ghosts of medical students experimented there in the night watches on imaginary cases of vivisection, that corpses were embalmed, and shrieks and howls were to be heard, in the wee small hours, while phantom lights fumed blue on the other side of the transom, and sickly odors of ether and other drugs penetrated through the keyhole. we all laughed at winnie's phantasms, but there were none of us so brave as to care to visit that room after nightfall. the trunks looked too much like coffins, and there were dresses of madame's sewed up in bags made of sheets, and suspended from the roof, which had the uncanny look of corpses of people who had hanged themselves. it was broad daylight now, and we were not at all nervous, and cynthia remarked scornfully, "winnie has told us so many of her bug-a-boo stories that she has come to actually believe in them herself. she dare not for her life look through that transom to see what occasions the noise in the hospital." "you dare me to do it?" winnie asked, confronting cynthia with flashing eyes. "don't, winnie," i pled. "we have no right to peep." winnie hesitated. "i told you so," cynthia said provokingly. "she dares not look. it is only a lumber room. the noise was probably made by some cat chasing a rat around." "it would take a whole army of cats to make the noises i have heard," winnie replied hotly, at the same time rolling adelaide's great saratoga trunk in front of the door. "there it goes again!" and as a loud hammering re-echoed through the adjoining room, she sprang upon the trunk. the transom was still too high for her to reach. "quick, girls, something else," she exclaimed, and milly dragged the "commissary department" from its retirement under my bed. the "commissary" was a small, old-fashioned trunk, which had belonged to my great-grandmother. it was covered with cow-skin, the hair only partially worn off, and studded with brass-headed nails which formed the initials of my ancestors. it was lined with newspapers bearing the date , and was altogether a very quaint and curious relic. its chief interest to us, however, lay in the fact that it had come to us from my home filled with all the good things that a farm can produce and a mistakenly soft-hearted mother send. there were mince pies and pickles, a great wedge of cheese, a box of honey, pounds of maple-sugar, tiny sausages, a great fruitcake, jars of pickled peaches, ginger snaps, walnuts and chestnuts, pop-corn and molasses candy, and what milly called the _interstixes_ were filled in with delicious doughnuts. it was a treasure house of richness upon which we revelled in the night after the gas was turned out and we all met in our nightgowns, and formed a semicircle sitting on the floor around the register, while winnie told the most deliciously frightful ghost and robber stories. then, it was that the "commissary" yielded up its contraband stores and we ate, and shivered, partly with cold and partly with delightful terror inspired by the rehearsal of legends for which winnie ransacked, during the day, the pages of the detective vidocq and poe's prose tales. then if a mouse did but squeak in the deserted hospital ward, or the shuffle of miss noakes's slippers was heard in the corridor outside, we all scuttled incontinently to our beds, and winnie snored loudly, while milly buried her head beneath the blankets. miss noakes occupied a large room opposite the hospital. she was a disagreeable, prowling teacher and we had nicknamed her _snooks_. the "commissary" being now carefully poised upon the curved top of adelaide's trunk, winnie mounted upon it, and found that it was exactly what was needed, as it brought her face just on a level with the transom. "o girls!" she exclaimed, "the trunks are all gone, and they are making the room over into a studio. and that handsome man that sat at madame's table yesterday at dinner is in there hanging pictures. i wonder if he is an artist and is going to teach us. my! he is looking this way," and winnie crouched suddenly. the movement was a careless one, and the commissary slid down the sloping cover of the trunk upon which it rested, striking the door with its end like a battering-ram, and with such force that the rusted lock yielded, and the commissary, with winnie seated upon it, swept forward, like a toboggan, far into the center of the hospital. it was strange that winnie was not hurt, but she was not; and before the astonished artist could quite comprehend what had happened, she had picked herself up, scampered back into our room, and we had closed the door behind her, and were fastening it to the best of our ability by tying the knob to adelaide's trunk by means of a piece of clothes-line which had formerly served to cord the commissary. at first we laughed long and merrily over the adventure, but by degrees its serious aspects were appreciated. in the first place, milly suggested dolorously that the commissary had fallen into the hands of the enemy, while cynthia vaughn drew attention to the fact of the broken lock. "however you girls will explain that to madame is more than i know," she remarked maliciously. "_you_ girls!" winnie repeated indignantly, "as if you were not as much concerned in it as any of us." "indeed," cynthia exclaimed scornfully, "if i remember rightly, it was milly who brought the commissary from its retirement, tib who balanced it so judiciously, and winnie who dawned so unceremoniously on that strange man in the other room. i had absolutely nothing to do with the affair." "you were the instigator of it all," i retorted hotly. "if you had not dared winnie to do it she would never have tried to look in." "that is like you, tib," cynthia replied icily, "to get into a scrape and then lay the blame on some one else." "i take all the blame," winnie exclaimed loftily. "if inquisition is ever made into this affair, i and i alone am responsible," and then she uttered a little shriek and scampered into her own bedroom, for some one was knocking at the door, which we had just attempted to fasten. "who is there?" i asked, with as much boldness as i could muster; "and what do you want?" "i am carrington waite, the new professor of art, and i would like to return property which has been most unexpectedly introduced into my studio, unless it is possible that the articles to which i refer were intended as a donation." we all laughed at this sally, and made haste to unfasten the door, whereupon professor waite handed in the commissary. he had a pleasant face, and there was a merry twinkle in his eye as he said: "i tried to bundle everything in, but the trunk collided with my box of colors, and you may find rose madder in your jam, while the pickle jar actually seemed to explode, and showered pickles all over the studio. i have no doubt i shall find them along the cornice when i hang the pictures on that side of the room. the doughnuts, too, flew in every direction. some rolled under the cabinets, and a mince pie applied itself like a plaster to the back of my neck. a bottle of tomato catsup was emptied on one of my canvases, and made a fine impressionistic study of a sunset. i am afraid i stepped on the cheese, but i believe everything else is all right." he looked about him with interest, and asked, "where is the heroine who performed this astonishing acrobatic feat? i trust she was not hurt. it must have been a thrilling experience. is it a customary form of exercise with you young ladies?" we did not deign to reply to these questions, but i opened the commissary and offered the artist some of our choicest dainties. he accepted our largess, and retired with polite invitations for us to be "neighborly" and "to call again." "not in just that way," i replied, and i entreated him, if possible, to repair the broken lock. he examined it carefully. "i am afraid," he said, "that it will require a locksmith to do it thoroughly, but i can make it look all right, and you can screw a little bolt on your side which will fasten the door securely." we thanked him and he was about to close the door, when adelaide, who was the only one of our circle who had not had a part in the escapade, entered the room hastily from the corridor. "o girls," she exclaimed--but stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the open door and the young artist. at first her face showed only blank surprise, then, as she told herself that this must be a joke of winnie's, who was fond of masquerading in costume, she remarked with dignity. "really, this is quite too childish; where did you ever get that absurd costume? you look too ridiculous for anything----" cynthia vaughn shrieked with laughter. the artist bowed, but colored to the roots of his hair and closed the door, while milly threw her arms around adelaide, laughing hysterically, winnie appeared from behind her door also laughing, and i vainly attempted to explain matters. "what a mortifying situation," adelaide remarked, when she finally understood the case. "i must apologize for my rudeness, and i am sure i would rather put my hand in boiling water than speak to that man." "i am sure i only wish that i may never see him again," said winnie. "nothing in this world could induce me to join the painting class, and if there is one thing that i am profoundly grateful for, it is that i have no talent for art." chapter ii. the cabinet. [illustration] winnie's queer toboggan ride was innocent enough in itself but it brought in its train many unforeseen circumstances, chief among which was the affair of the old oak cabinet. this cabinet stood in our study parlor, in the corner diagonally opposite the door leading into the new studio, and was used as a depository of the funds of all the occupants of the amen corner. the cabinet was always left locked and there was but one key to it, which was kept in the match-box, well covered with matches. only we five knew its hiding place, or the fact that the cabinet was used as a bank. we had agreed that it was best to keep this a secret among ourselves--and it was so kept until the day after the robbery, weeks after winnie's escapade. we intended to follow professor waite's advice and buy a bolt for the door, but what was everybody's business was nobody's business, and whenever we went shopping there were so many errands that we forgot it, or some other girl, or one of the teachers was with us, and it would have been embarrassing to explain why the bolt was needed. the door, as has been explained, opened outward from our parlor into the studio. professor waite had placed a heavy carved chest against it on his side, so that there was no danger of its flying open, and we had uncorded the knob and rolled adelaide's trunk back to her bedroom. no one occupied the studio at night, and, though i spent several hours there during the day, i always entered the room by its corridor door, and we never thought when we locked our own corridor door at night how easily any one so minded could push aside the chest and enter our apartment from the studio. that the contents of the old oak cabinet on the night of the robbery may be understood, an explanation of the finances of the different occupants of the amen corner is possibly now in order. adelaide's father and mother had gone west for the winter. mr. armstrong was an able financier, and he wished to make adelaide a thorough business woman. she was eighteen years old and she might be a great heiress some day, if his wealth continued to accumulate, and he wished to accustom her to the management of money. he had given her the year before a model tenement house, built after the most approved principles, on the site of richetts' court, previously occupied by one of the worst tenement houses in the city. the new building contained accommodations for ten families; the sanitation was perfect; there were no dark rooms, but bath rooms, fire escapes, and provision for every necessity. a good janitor, stephen trimble, occupied the lower apartment and looked after the order and comfort of the building, and every month adelaide, attended by one of the teachers, went down and personally collected her rents, and listened to the complaints and requests of her tenants. there were few of either, and as a general rule the pay was prompt, for the rent was low, and adelaide did all she could to oblige her tenants, having a small drying room built for the laundress, mrs. mccarthy, who had contracted rheumatic fever from hanging out her wash on the roof and so exposing herself to the icy winds, when over-heated from the steaming tubs. adelaide had no stringent rules against pets. she caused kennels to be built in the court for several pet dogs, and added some blossoming plants to mrs. blumenthal's small conservatory in the sunny south window. noticing that the morettis were fond of art, and had pasted cigarette pictures on their walls and driven nails to suspend some gaudy prints of the virgin and saints, she had a narrow moulding with picture hooks placed just under the ceiling in every sitting-room. she patronized all their small industries as far as it was in her power, and interested her friends in them; having her boots made by the little shoemaker on the top floor, who was really a good workman, but had been turned away from a prominent firm, as they had cut down their list of employees. her underclothing was made by the little seamstress on the third floor back. she gave each of her tenants a thanksgiving dinner and a substantial present on christmas day, and only allowed those to be evicted whose flagrant misbehaviour showed that nothing could be done for them. from the income of this building her father had insisted that adelaide must pay all her expenses. as madame's boarding school was a fashionable one, the margin left, after the payment of tuition, to be divided between dress and charity, was not very large. mr. armstrong knew that adelaide's weakness was a love for beautiful clothing; that she delighted in sumptuous velvets, in the sheen of satin, and the shimmer of gauze. her regal beauty would not have been over-powered by a queen's toilette, but she adorned the simplest costume, and set the fashion in hats for the school season. mr. armstrong also knew that adelaide was very tender of heart, and that if left entirely to herself she would gladly have opened the doors of her tenement house freely to unscrupulous and undeserving people; that she would have easily credited every woeful story, and have remitted rents when it would have been no real kindness to do so. he therefore pitted these two weaknesses against each other. "we will see what comes of it at the close of the year," he said. "she may become a grinding, close-fisted proprietress, screwing the last possible dollar out of the poor to lavish it on her own personal adornment, but i hope better things of adelaide than that. it would be more like her, i think, to go to the opposite extreme--dress like an ursuline nun and take nothing from her tenants; but let us hope that she may be able to strike the golden mean." it was a hard thing to do, and adelaide went without a new winter cloak until nearly christmas time, waiting for the morettis to pay up an arrearage; and only consented to the turning out of a shiftless family who occupied the best apartment, and were three months behind hand, because the tuition for the first term at madame's would be due in a few days, and a respectable wood engraver offered to pay two months in advance. it was hard, because she did not wish to spend all the money on herself. she was as interested as any of us in the home of the elder brother, and longed to contribute more generously to it; but since these poor people were her tenants, they were in some sense her own family, and she felt that charity began at home. often i know that adelaide denied herself as really, in not being more lenient, as her tenants did to scrape together their monthly rental. she was a generous girl to her friends, and before her father had made this arrangement she deluged us all with her presents. milly, who had unlimited credit at several stores, kept up this pernicious custom of lavishly giving presents of flowers and candies. it was hard for winnie and me, who were in moderate circumstances, not to return them, but doubly so for adelaide--who entreated her to desist, as we all did, but without avail. milly was incorrigible. "you don't seem to understand," winnie said to her at christmas time, "that the receipt of a gift which one cannot return in kind is a bitter pill to a sensitive nature." "no," replied milly, "i don't understand anything of the sort. adelaide always translates my cæsar for me. you help me with my algebra, and tib as good as writes my compositions. i couldn't return any of those favors '_in kind_,' and they are pills that are not the least bit bitter to me----" "it's of no use, adelaide," laughed winnie, "we must let milly have her own way. it is such a pleasure to milly to give that we will sacrifice our own feelings and bear the infliction." mr. armstrong had given adelaide an old oak cabinet, beautifully carved in the style of the italian renaissance of the fifteenth century, with architectural columns, caryatides, scroll work, and arabesques. the upper cupboard of this cabinet was used as a strong box to hold the funds of our little circle. the interior was divided into pigeon holes and shelves, and the door was provided with a curious key with a delicate wrought-iron handle. adelaide had given each of us a compartment in this little safe, but when its entire contents were counted there was rarely much money kept here, for adelaide had a bank account, and after collecting her rents usually deposited them at the bank before returning to school, paying all her debts by cheque. milly, as before explained, had her running accounts charged to her father,--a book at arnold's, at the florist's, the confectioner's, the dressmaker's, stationer's, etc.,--but her supply of ready cash was never equal to demand, and though she could telephone for a messenger and order a coupé at any time, she was always in debt to the other girls, and i have frequently lent her postage stamps and paid her car fare. mr. roseveldt had a horror of entrusting funds to young girls with no limitation of the way in which they were to be spent; he felt that in looking over the shop-keeper's accounts he knew exactly how much milly expended, and for what the money went. but his plan was a mistaken one; and the perfect freedom which adelaide enjoyed was training her in a sense of responsibility, while milly was becoming unscrupulous as to waste, where waste was encouraged, and frequently ordered a coupé when the street car would have done just as well, or rang for a messenger to save a postage stamp. winnie and i, the two poorer girls, were the ones who usually had money in the safe. winnie received a moderate allowance from her father outside of her tuition, which he sent directly to madame. as soon as the cheque arrived, she cashed it and placed the new, crisp bills in separate envelopes labelled, "personal expenses," "charity." she was very generous, but she had a horror of debt, and she never expended the funds in the latter envelope until she had received another remittance. as winnie abhorred sweets, and would rather any day have gone to the dentist's than the dressmaker's, and as she had a supreme contempt for display of any kind, the charity envelope was always full, and she had usually a comfortable margin in personal expenditure to lend or bestow on others. winnie had always been generous, but this quality of foresight had only come to her during the past year in her work as a member of the finance committee of the home of the elder brother. my own case was different from that of the others. my father was a long island farmer, and my allowance, though meagre as related to my necessities, was liberal when compared with his own income. miss sartoris, madame's former drawing teacher, had boarded with us one summer, during which i had sketched with her, and she had persuaded father that i possessed a talent for art and had taken me back with her to madame's. so far i had easily led all the art students, and my studies, although abounding in faults, presumptuous and immature, were considered by the school as something quite remarkable. during the past summer a young man of engaging address, and otherwise irreproachable honesty, had stolen our beloved teacher, and miss sartoris, now mrs. stillman, was known to madame's no more. when the school reorganized in the fall, madame engaged me to take charge of the art department, temporarily, until she could provide herself with a more competent instructor. we had a small, crowded studio, with a poor light, but the class was large. i did the best i could, but we sorely needed ampler accommodations, and a head whose ability in his profession should be unquestioned. both were now provided. carrington waite was a young artist fresh from the _�cole des beaux arts_ at paris, and he brought to us the training traditions of the schools, and the latest european ideas in art. there were very few girls in the school sufficiently advanced to understand his instruction, but they flocked into the studio and listened with undisguised admiration to words that might as well have been uttered in an unknown tongue. poor little milly gazed at him in a rapt, adoring way, without ever comprehending what he said. the tears came to her eyes and rolled swiftly down her cheeks when he told her that it was manifestly absurd to draw a full face seen from the front with its nose in profile, but she smiled a brave little quiver of a smile while he reviled her work, and thanked him as though he had uttered the most fulsome compliments. even winnie had felt the wave of influence and joined the class in spite of her assertion that she had no taste for art and never wished to see professor waite again. only adelaide held firmly out and would none of him. winnie was not at all afraid of the professor, and seemed to devote herself especially to making his life miserable. when he informed her that she must join the "preparatory antique" section and draw in charcoal, she calmly explained that she "perfectly loathed" casts, and she had purchased an outfit of oil paints and intended to devote herself at once to color. strange to say, professor waite humored her and gave her some of his landscape studies to copy. she was never contented with reproducing these faithfully, but always "improved" upon them, as she audaciously expressed it. it was a common thing for professor waite to remark, when he sat down before winnie's easel, "well, this is about the worst atrocity you have yet committed." winnie, standing behind him, would make eyes at the rest of the girls, and remark penitently, "i am very sorry." "you look sorry," professor waite replied, on one occasion. "i don't see how you can tell how i look," winnie answered, "when you are sitting with your back to me." i do not know whether milly's denseness or winnie's impudence was the more irritating to professor waite. winnie resented his severity to milly and was always more provoking whenever he had grieved her pet and left her sobbing in a mire of charcoal and tears. "you give me more trouble than a three-week's-old baby," professor waite had remarked to poor milly, and winnie had retorted spitefully, "i wish you had to take care of one--i guess you would find a difference." winnie's sauciness and milly's dulness, combined with that of many of his other pupils, drove the professor to despair after a week's trial. he told madame, as i learned later, that he must give up the position, as her pupils were all "too hopelessly elementary." madame was disappointed. her art department had always been an attractive feature, and since the name of professor carrington waite, late of the _académie des beaux arts_, had appeared in her circulars, many had joined the school purely for the sake of the studio instruction. madame explained this to the young artist. he ran his fingers through his hair in despair. "of what manner of use is it for me to remain?" he asked. "there is only one pupil sufficiently advanced to gain anything from my instruction, and that is miss smith. the others made as much advance, perhaps more, under her teaching as they have under mine." a happy thought came to madame. "if i engage miss smith as your assistant, professor waite, perhaps she can translate your ideas into terms which will be intelligible by the students of lower intelligence or advancement, and possibly she can so enlighten some of them that they can profit later by your personal teaching." this plan struck professor waite as practicable. he now only visited the studio for an hour each morning, during which time he criticised the work which had been done under my supervision during the previous day. the new arrangement was an excellent one for me, for i profited by all his remarks, listening to them with the keenest attention, and thus received thirty lessons during the hour instead of one. as i had but three other studies, and these were in the senior class, it was possible for me to give the necessary time by preparing all of my lessons in the evening. it was unremitting, incessant work, but my health was excellent, and art was my supreme delight. moreover, madame had offered me a salary of three hundred dollars beyond my school expenses, and it was perfect joy to be able to relieve father of this burden. i had a high ambition to go abroad some day and study art in paris, and i wished to save as much as possible of my salary toward this purpose. i had the lower compartment in the safe, and here i laid away every dollar that i could spare, limiting myself in everything but my subscription to the home of the elder brother; but for this outlet i would have grown niggardly and avaricious. the same charity which made winnie prudently retrench her propensity to lavish expenditure, and take thought carefully for the morrow, kept me from utter selfishness and penuriousness by keeping one channel of generous giving open and pulsing freely toward others. cynthia vaughn's affairs were kept closely to herself. we sometimes fancied that she pretended to greater wealth and consequence than she really possessed. certainly, if the sums of which she frequently spoke of receiving were at her disposal she was a veritable miser; for her subscription to the home was the smallest of any girl in the king's daughters' ten; the presents which she ostentatiously bestowed upon adelaide and milly were cheap though showy, as was her own clothing. the treasures which she committed to the cabinet safe were carefully locked in a small japanned tin box, the key of which she kept in her pocket-book, and she was the only one of us whose belongings within the safe were so protected. we had perfect confidence in one another, and our funds lay open to the observation or handling of any one possessing the pass key in the match box. it is needless to say that up to the night of the robbery our security had been inviolate. chapter iii. the robbery. [illustration] adelaide led the school in more respects than in the style of hats, and in the amen corner she reigned as absolute queen. it may seem strange that this was so, for winnie was the genius of our coterie. she was perhaps too active and restless. she seemed born to be a leader, but the leader of a revolt, while adelaide had the calm assurance of a princess who had no need to assert her rights, but to whom allegiance came as a matter of course. even winnie was her loyal subject and delighted in being her prime minister. i have spoken of winnie's fondness for reading and telling detective stories. it really seemed as if in so doing she was preparing us for the events which followed, and the time when every one of us felt that she was a special detective charged with the mission of finding a clue to a great and sorrowful mystery. it all came about through the robbery. on the eve of my birthday it so happened that there was an unusual amount of money in the little safe. adelaide had returned from collecting her rents too late to deposit her funds in the bank. she looked very much relieved as she slipped a roll of bills, amounting to nearly one hundred dollars, into her pigeon-hole, and turning the key, deposited it in the match safe. winnie had that morning cashed a check just received from her father, and had brought back from the bank some crisp, new notes, with which she filled her envelopes for the coming month. cynthia had ostentatiously and yet mysteriously dropped some silver dollars into her cash box, and even milly had laid aside an unwonted sum, for her father had called at the school and contrary to his usual custom had given her five bright ten-dollar gold pieces. milly seemed very happy as she slipped them into her snakeskin and tucked it into her own particular corner of the safe. "unlimited pocket money this month, eh! milly?" i asked. milly laughed and shook her head. "don't know that i am obliged to account to you for everything," she said, saucily, but the sting was taken out of the speech by the kiss with which it was immediately followed, and i more than half suspected that milly intended one of those gold pieces as a birthday present for me. late in the evening i counted over my own hoard. we were all in the study parlor, with the exception of winnie, and as i counted i looked up and saw that adelaide and milly were regarding me with interest, though their glances instantly fell to the books which they had apparently been studying. "how much have you, tib?" adelaide asked; "enough yet to buy the steamer ticket for the ocean passage?" "no," i replied, "only forty-seven dollars as yet, but i hope to make it before the close of school." "of course you will," milly replied reassuringly. cynthia laughed raspingly. "you have almost enough now, if you go in the steerage," she sneered. adelaide suddenly threw a bit of drawn linen work belonging to cynthia over the money, which i had spread out in the chair before me. "what are you doing with my embroidery?" cynthia snapped. "did you mistake it for a dust rag?" "natural mistake," milly giggled. adelaide lifted her finger warningly. "hush!" she said, "i saw a face at the transom; some one was looking in from the studio." milly turned pale and clutched my hand, and we all looked at the transom with straining eyes. it was almost dark in the studio and for a few moments we saw nothing but some one was moving about, for we heard cautious steps, and a creaking sound just the other side of the door. presently a hat cautiously lifted itself into view through the transom. it was a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat of the rembrandt style, which professor waite sometimes wore. it moved about silently from one side of the transom to the other, descended, and appeared again. "i never thought that professor waite would peep or listen," cynthia whispered. "he would not," i replied aloud. "he must be at work there hanging pictures or doing something else of the sort." "then he would make more noise," cynthia suggested, as the hat continued its stealthy movements. "it may be some one else who has put on the professor's hat as a disguise," milly gasped. "that was the reason i covered up the money," adelaide replied, in a low voice. "you had better put it away, tib." i hastily bundled my money into the safe and locked the door, and we sat for some moments quietly watching the transom, but the spectre did not come again. winnie entered a few moments later and seemed greatly interested by our accounts of the incident. "do you suppose that it could have been one of that band of italian bravos who has climbed up on the fire-escape and who intends to murder us?" she asked with an assumption of terror. "hush," i whispered, pulling her dress, and pointing to milly whose eyes were staring with fright. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed winnie; "can't you tell when i'm joking? it was professor waite. of course it was professor waite. he has been in love with adelaide ever since she complimented him on his appearance at their first meeting. he is dying for a glimpse at her fair face, and as she won't join his painting class he relieves his yearning heart by gazing over the transom." there was more joking, and milly's fears were as quickly quieted as they had been raised. professor waite had undoubtedly been at work in the studio, i insisted, and i knocked on the door and called his name. no answer, and i tried to open the door, but the chest held it firmly in place. "shall i look over the transom?" i asked. "for pity's sake do not repeat winnie's experience," adelaide begged. "then i will look in by the corridor door," i said resolutely, and i stepped down the hall and into the studio. the door was open, so was miss noakes's door just opposite, and that watchful lady sat rocking and reading beside her little centre table. she was not too much absorbed, however, to give me a keen questioning glance--but she said nothing, for as assistant teacher in art i had a perfect right to frequent the studio. the moon was shining in clearly through the great window, and every object was distinctly visible, but there was no one in the room. i opened the door leading to the turret staircase and listened; all was silent, and i screwed up my courage and descended, finding the door at the foot safely locked. the great rembrandt hat lay on the chest in front of our door, and the professor's mahl-stick, or long support on which he rested his arm when painting, leaned beside it. i could not see any change in the disposition of the pictures on the wall, or other indications of what the professor had been doing, if indeed it was the professor, and i did not know of his ever before visiting the studio at that hour. as i came out i noticed that miss noakes was still rocking before her open door, her slits of eyes glancing sharply up. "have you seen any one go into the studio lately?" i asked. "no one has passed through the corridor since the beginning of study hour, with the exception of miss winifred de witt." "then this door must have been open all the time, and you have seen no one in the studio?" "i have observed no one. why do you ask?" "we thought we saw the shadow of a man on the transom." "nonsense--it is silly to be frightened at nothing. it was probably professor waite. if you young ladies would interest yourselves less in the movements of that young man it would be much more becoming in you." i turned away quickly, not relishing her tone, and looked at the corridor window, which opened on the balcony of the fire escape. it was securely fastened. i was puzzled, but did not wish to alarm milly, and i now reported only what seemed to me the favorable aspects of the case. no one there, all quiet and in order; lower turret door opening on the street, and the corridor window opening on the balcony, both locked, showing that no one could have come up the stairs or the fire escape. miss noakes, on guard, had seen no one enter the studio. of course it must have been professor waite. "of course," winnie echoed. "tib knows him too well to be mistaken even when she only sees him through a glass darkly. but think what that devotion must be, which leads a man to keep guard before his lady's door at night," and winnie shouldered an umbrella and paced back and forward, singing in a deep bass voice, "thy sentinel am i." winnie was irresistible and we all laughed merrily at her pranks. but for all that i locked the cabinet with unusual care that night and adelaide tried the door afterward to see that it was securely fastened. while doing so, she noticed something which we had not hitherto discovered--a little steel ornament like a nail head at the foot of one of the columns. touching this, a small shelf shot forward. it had evidently been intended for a writing table, for it was ink-stained. adelaide pushed it easily back into its place and its edge formed one of the three moldings which formed the base of the upper division of the cabinet. "that is a very convenient little arrangement," adelaide said. "i wonder that i have never noticed it before." i soon fell asleep, and slept long and dreamlessly. i awoke at last with an uneasy feeling of cold. it was quite dark, and putting out my hand i found that winnie's place at my side was vacant. i started up alarmed, and called her name. there was a little pause, during which i stumbled out of bed and groped vainly for a candle, which usually stood on a stand at the head of the bed. not finding it, i noticed a beam of light streaming from beneath the closed door leading into the study-parlor, and i remembered vividly that when i went to bed i had left that door open, as i always did, for more perfect ventilation. i stood hesitating, vaguely alarmed, when the door was opened from the parlor side and winnie stood before me holding a lighted candle--her face white as that of a spirit. "how you frightened me!" i exclaimed. "what is the matter?" "nothing, i merely went out to see whether the door into the corridor was locked. i was lying awake, and i could not remember seeing any one lock it." she spoke mechanically, and her voice sounded strange and hollow. "why, you did it yourself!" i exclaimed. "did i? strange i should forget." "you found everything all right, didn't you?" "the door was not only locked but bolted," winnie replied; but her manner was constrained, and her hand, which i happened to touch, was cold as ice. "come right to bed," i exclaimed, "you have taken cold." winnie did not reply, but her teeth were chattering. she curled up in bed and buried her face in her pillow. i was sleepy and soon dozed off, but i was vaguely conscious in my slumbers that i had an uneasy bedfellow; that winnie tossed and tumbled and even groaned. when i awoke she was sitting, dressed, on the window sill. it may have been the early light but her face looked gray, and there was a drawn, set expression about the mouth which i had never seen there before. "what is the matter?" i asked again. she replied, in that cold, unnatural voice, "nothing." just then there was a hard knocking at my door. milly shouted joyfully, "many happy returns of the day," and swooping down upon me buried me with kisses. adelaide followed, and in a more dignified manner congratulated me on my birthday. "no flowers, tib," milly explained, "because you set your face against that sort of thing, and i was determined to let you have your own way on your birthday. winnie, what makes you sit over there like a sphinx, with your nose touched with sunrise? come here and help us give tib her seventeen slaps and one to grow on." "tib will find my present on the stand at the head of the bed," winnie replied, and turning, i discovered an envelope labelled, "for the european tour." it contained a crisp new bill of twenty dollars. adelaide and milly looked at each other significantly, and milly exclaimed: "you dear, generous thing! why didn't you tell us that you meant to do anything so lovely? adelaide and i would have helped." winnie did not reply to milly, but answered my thanks with a close hug. "come," said milly, "and put your money in the safe, and see how much you have now toward the fund." "oh! that's easy to calculate," i replied, as i slipped on my clothing, "twenty and forty-seven--sixty-seven dollars exactly." adelaide coughed significantly. "tib seems to be very confident that two and two makes four," she remarked. a suspicion that both adelaide and milly intended to help me suggested itself to my mind, and i hastened my dressing and unlocked the safe. as i did so cynthia opened her door. "oh! it's you," she exclaimed; "whenever i hear any one at the safe i always look to see who it is." she did not retreat into her room, but stood in the door watching us with a singular expression on her disagreeable face. adelaide and milly were looking over my shoulder. milly apparently vainly endeavoring to conceal a little flutter of excitement. we were all there but winnie, who had not left her seat at the window, when i threw open the door of the safe and disclosed--nothing! the space on the floor where i usually kept my money, where the night before i had placed a long blue envelope containing forty-seven dollars--was empty. the envelope and its contents gone. milly uttered a little shriek. adelaide stepped forward and examined the space, passing her hand far in, and feeling carefully in every corner. then she took out her own roll of bills from her little pigeon-hole. i counted them with her, just fifty-dollars less than the sum which i saw her place there. she handed me a five dollar bill, saying, "tib, my dear, my only disappointment is that i cannot give you as large a birthday present as i had planned." milly threw her arms around me, "and i can't give you anything, you darling old tib. i am so sorry." "how do you know you can't?" cynthia asked. "you haven't looked to see whether you have lost anything." milly flushed. "if tib has lost her money, of course i have mine." "why, of course? the thief has obligingly left adelaide a part of her money; perhaps yours is all there." milly opened her purse. it was quite empty. she closed it with a snap. "i don't see how you knew it," cynthia remarked unpleasantly. "now i am really too curious to see whether i have been as unfortunate as the rest of you." in spite of this profession of eagerness she had seemed to me remarkably indifferent, and she unlocked her strong box with great deliberation, manifesting no surprise or pleasure as she reported "three dollars and fifty-three cents, precisely what i left there. this shows the wisdom of my double-lock; the thief evidently had no key which would fit my strong-box." "winnie," i called, "we have had a burglary; come right here and see whether you have lost anything." winnie entered the room slowly, almost unwillingly, quite in contrast with her usual impulsive action, and opened her envelopes before us. "no one has touched my money," she said; "here is exactly what i placed in the envelopes last night." "did you go to the safe in the night to get that twenty dollar bill which you gave me this morning?" i asked. cynthia vaughn turned and looked at winnie eagerly. "i kept it out last night," winnie replied, "when i put the rest away. you will remember that i sealed the envelopes then, and i find them now unopened." an expression of malice and triumph, such as i have never seen on the face of any human being, rested on cynthia's countenance. "there is something very mysterious about this," she remarked, in an eager way. "the thief has entirely spared winnie and me, and has been obliging enough to take only half of adelaide's money. tib and milly lose all of theirs, but tib's was money for which she had no immediate use. so that she will not feel its loss as much as winnie or i would have done, and milly has no real need of money at all--i wonder whether the thief was acquainted with our circumstances; if so he or she was very considerate." "i don't know what you mean about tib's not feeling the loss," winnie began indignantly, her glance resting not on cynthia but on milly. "it will be a cruel disappointment to her if she cannot go to europe to study, after all." "oh! that's not to be thought of," milly replied, feeling herself addressed. "of course tib will go. something will turn up. the money will be discovered. perhaps the thief will return it." a light flamed up in winnie's face. it was the first pleasant look that i had seen there this morning. "it must be so," she exclaimed eagerly, but very gravely; "let us hope that the person who took that money was actuated by dire necessity; that it was simply borrowed, and that it will be returned." "nonsense," exclaimed cynthia impatiently. "i have no such excuses to make for a thief, and i am going right now to report the entire affair to madame, who will of course put it in the hands of the police----" "the police!" winnie cried, in a tone of dismay. "oh! no, no!" "wait," said adelaide commandingly; "that is not the way we do things in the amen corner. this is something in which we are all interested, and the majority shall rule. now winnie, will you please tell us why the police should not take this matter in charge? my explanation is that some thief entered this room last night through the studio door. probably it was the very individual who was watching us last night through the transom." "oh! not professor waite," milly exclaimed, and winnie started as though about to speak, but restrained the impulse. "no, not professor waite, certainly," adelaide continued, "but some one disguised in his hat. this thief waited until we were all asleep, and then began to help himself to the contents of our safe, but was probably interrupted or frightened by some sound, after securing milly's and tib's money, and hurried away without taking as much as he wished. that is the simplest, most likely solution, and it seems to me that the police are the proper authorities to take the affair in hand." she paused for several moments. we all chattered together as fast and as loudly as we could. then adelaide rapped on the table with a nutcracker and said: "i shall now put the question. those in favor of reporting this matter at once to madame, please say 'ay;' those opposed, the contrary sign--but first, any remarks?" winnie hesitated. "i do not agree with you that it is a matter in which we are all equally interested," she said slowly. "tib is the principal loser. tib should decide what she wishes to do. adelaide's theory looks plausible, but it may be wrong. some member of this school may have entered through that door, and taken the money. whatever is handed over to the police, goes into the papers. we do not want to bring on the school scandal and disgrace, which would follow the publishing of the fact that one of its pupils is a thief." "winnie seems to be very certain that the thief is a pupil," cynthia remarked sneeringly. "if so, we can trust that madame will ferret her out without outside assistance." "my chief reason, however," continued winnie, "for waiting a day or two before reporting this thing, is the hope that conscience will lead the unhappy person who has committed the crime to make restitution. tib, you certainly look at the matter as i do. you are not vindictive; give the wrong-doer a chance." "certainly," i said. "the question," called cynthia. "adelaide, put the question." "those in favor of reporting at once to madame?" said adelaide. "aye," from cynthia, loud enough for two. "aye," more faintly, from milly. "those opposed?" "no," from winnie and from me. "a tie," announced adelaide. "then the chair gives the casting vote. i am in favor of reporting to madame, and i think we had better make the report in a body. there is just time to see her before breakfast." "i do not see the necessity of our going _en masse_," winnie objected. "tib, of course, as the individual who has suffered most, and who discovered the loss; cynthia, who seems to enjoy telling unpleasant things; and adelaide, who is strictly just, and the oldest and most dignified member of the amen corner. but i do not see why you should drag milly along; the child has had enough excitement already. let her lie down and rest her little head until the breakfast bell rings. as for me, i'm not going until i'm sent for. not even a burglary shall make me miss my morning constitutional," and winnie quickly equipped herself for a walk in the grounds. "milly shall do as she pleases," adelaide said; "there is really no necessity, as you say, for her to go with us." "i think i would rather go," milly said hesitatingly. an expression of keen disappointment swept across winnie's face. "come, winnie," i said, "you had better be with us; it looks better." "what do you mean?" she asked hotly. "only that the amen corner always yields to the wish of the majority, and we are in the habit of standing by one another, even when we do not quite agree." "winnie need not trouble herself," cynthia remarked; "we can get on very well without her. of course she knows no more about the affair than the rest of us." the words were innocent enough, but there was something very sarcastic in the way in which they were uttered. "evidently you would rather i would not go," winnie said, as though thinking aloud. "i am sorry to be disobliging, but if that is the case i believe i will." chapter iv. trouble in the amen corner. doubt, a soul-mist through whose rifts familiar stars beholding, we misname. --_jean ingelow_ [illustration] milly had been unhappy for days. and now a great trouble fell upon all of us. it was as though a dense fog of doubt and suspicion had drifted in upon the amen corner, separating dear friends, so that we could not recognize each other's faces through its dense folds, and our voices sounded false and far away as we called and groped for one another. our interview with madame was very brief. i simply stated the fact of the disappearance of the money, which the other girls corroborated. cynthia began to enlarge on the statement, but madame stopped her. "i have not time now to investigate this unhappy affair," she said. "indeed, it is something which will probably require the assistance of a detective. do not look so alarmed," she added to milly; "i happen to be acquainted with a gentleman--in fact, he is my lawyer--who has all the qualifications of a very clever detective. i will write, asking him to call, and to take charge of the case. he will keep it all very quiet. i am glad that you have come to me first of all, and i particularly request that you mention the fact of the robbery to no one." with this she dismissed us, and we went to breakfast a little late, feeling very important in the possession of a mystery. winnie was the only one whom this mystery did not seem to elate. cynthia, who sat beside me at table, was overflowing with glee. "it is better than the most exciting story which winnie ever told us," she whispered to me. "won't it be fun to follow the unravelling of the crime. of course the detective will be led off by false clues, and all that sort of thing, and the real thief will suffer all the torture of alternate fear of detection and hope of escape; but the toils will close gradually about the doomed individual. i shall not disclose my suspicions till toward the last. oh! what fun it will be to watch the development of the drama. i should think, tib, that you would write it up." "your suspicions?" i repeated. "do you really suspect any one?" "why, yes; don't you?" "no indeed!" "then all i've got to say is that you are a lamb. you think every one as innocent as yourself. because you have the innocence of a lamb, you have a corresponding muttony intelligence." i was very indignant, but i did not show it. "whom do you suspect?" i asked. "that's telling," she replied, "and i said that i would not tell at this stage of the game." later in the day, as i left the studio to return to our study-parlor, i met winnie coming out. she had on her hat and cloak and carried my own. "come and walk with me," she said, "i feel all mugged up, and i need a good tramp. milly is in there trying to take a nap. adelaide and cynthia are at recitation, and if you will come with me the poor child can get a little rest." as we marched around the school building together, i told her of my conversation with cynthia. winnie started. "i don't believe she really knows anything more than we do," i said. "cynthia loves to be important and aggravating. if she really knew anything she couldn't keep it in." "find out whom she suspects," winnie replied. "cynthia is a real snake in the grass, and can do a lot of mischief by fastening the crime on an innocent person. i do not mean that she would do this wilfully, unless she had a strong motive for revenge, but she is unscrupulous as to the results of her actions, and loves to imagine evil and set forth facts in their most damaging light. find out, by all means, whether she really knows anything likely to implicate any one." "cynthia is a hard orange to squeeze," i replied. "if she thinks i want to know, she will delight in tantalizing me." winnie was silent for a moment. "find out whether cynthia slept soundly all night, or whether she heard or saw any one in the parlor. she might have heard me, you know, when i went out to look at the door." "sure enough," i replied. "if that is all i will get it out of her right away." we returned to our rooms. there was no one in the parlor. winnie looked into the bedrooms. only milly sleeping peacefully, and winnie stepped to the match box, took the key, and opened the safe. i do not know what she expected to find, but she looked disappointed. "did you think the thief would help himself again in broad daylight?" i asked. "no," winnie replied shortly. at that instant cynthia entered, flushed, and as it seemed to me triumphant. "mr. mudge wants to see you, winnie, in madame's private library," she announced importantly. "who is mr. mudge?" winnie asked. "he is madame's lawyer. the keenest, shrewdest man you ever saw, with little gimletty eyes that bore the truth right out of you; and such a cross-questioner! if you have a secret, he knows it the minute he looks at you, and makes you tell it, in spite of yourself, the first time that you open your mouth. you need not try to keep your suspicions to yourself, they will be out before you can say jack robinson." winnie gave a little sigh. "and you say he wants to see me?" she asked, rising with a palpable effort. "yes, he wants to question us each separately, to see if our testimony agrees, i suppose. he asked madame, as i went in, if she had kept us apart since the robbery to guard against any--collision--i think that was the word!" "collusion," i corrected. "no matter; he meant that we might have hatched up a story between us, but madame assured him that we were all honorable girls and incapable of such a thing." "of course," he replied, "unless they happen to know or suspect the culprit, and wish to shield her. in such cases, i have known the most religious young persons to lie like a jockey." winnie left the room, throwing me a look of piteous appeal as she did so, which i understood to beg me to find out all i could from cynthia. i rocked silently for a few moments, to disclaim all eagerness, and then said casually: "i don't believe you would ever lie to save a friend." this in a propitiating tone, adding to myself, "you would be much more likely to tell a lie to get one into trouble." cynthia could not hear the thought, and she stretched herself luxuriously on the divan. "no," she replied, "i don't make any pretense of being good; but i wouldn't do that. whenever the hornets got into scrapes, i always told. madame could depend on me for that. it is sneaky not to be willing to take the consequences. besides, you get off a great deal easier if you own up; and others will be sure to throw the blame on you if you are not smart enough to get ahead of them." how i despised her. "i wonder if she thinks she is in danger of being called in question for this crime," i thought, "and has made haste to accuse some one else." "you said you meant to keep your testimony until the end, so i suppose you did not tell mr. mudge your suspicions," i remarked. "didn't i just say that i did tell him?" "well, as they are only suspicions i presume he paid no attention to them. lawyers generally tell witnesses to confine their testimony to facts." "but i had facts, suspicious facts; not ideas of my own, but important circumstantial evidence." "_in_deed!" i purposely threw as much incredulity as i could into the way in which i uttered the word. cynthia sprang from the lounge, her eyes flashing with anger. "yes, _indeed_; very awkward facts for your precious friend winnie to explain away." "winnie!" i exclaimed, and then laughed outright. cynthia was furious. "what do you say to this tib smith? i saw winnie, with my own eyes, come into this room in her nightgown, with a lighted candle in her hand, carefully close all the doors, and----" "pooh! that's nothing," i replied cheerfully. "i was awake; i saw her, too. she merely crossed the room to see whether the corridor-door was locked." "yes, and after that?" "came back to bed again." "there you are telling a fib to save your friend. she did not go back immediately. i was awakened by her softly closing my door, i got up and peeked through the keyhole, and i saw her open the safe and rummage around in it for quite a while, undoubtedly possessing herself of the money. then she locked it and hurried back to her room looking as frightened as the criminal she was." "it is not so! it is a wicked, cruel falsehood!" milly cried, springing into the room. i had forgotten her presence in the bedroom and cynthia of course did not know of it. cynthia was taken aback for a moment. "i will tell you why i know it was so," she said at length. "after winnie went back to the room, and before any one else could have entered the parlor, i examined the safe and the money was gone." "that proves nothing," i said; "it was probably taken before winnie opened the safe." "then she knew of the robbery in the morning before the rest of you, and never told." "you knew and never told either," said milly. "i was waiting for the proper time," replied cynthia. "if winnie did not take that money then she suspects who did. if she does not tell mr. mudge her suspicions, she is trying to shield the guilty person, and the--the shielder is as bad as the thief." "there is no proverb that says so," i replied; "beside, you have proved nothing. if all that you say is true--and i don't mind telling you, cynthia vaughn, that i am not entirely sure of that--if what you say _is_ true, you are as deep in the mud as winnie is in the mire." "you think winnie a saint!" cynthia sneered. "you don't half know her. before she came to room in the amen corner, and we were both in the hornets nest up under the eaves, she was the queen hornet of all. there was nothing which she would not dare to do, from letting down bouquets in her scrap-basket to the cadet band when they serenaded us, to bribing the janitor to let her slip out at night and buy goodies at the corner grocery for our spreads. she was a regular case, and her pet name all over the school was: 'the malicious, seditious, insubordinate, disreputable, sceptical queen of the hornets.'" "we know all that," i replied, "but there are some things which winnie _could_ not do. she could not tell a lie, and she could not steal." "i don't know about that," cynthia continued coldly. "she comes from an uncertain sort of bohemian ancestry. you know her mother was an actress and her father a playwright." cynthia told this with great triumph, evidently thinking that we had never heard it. "madame told us," i replied, "that mrs. de witt was a very lovely woman, who only acted in her husband's plays; that she made it her life purpose to realize and explain her husband's ideals: and that he wrote the part of the heroine especially to suit her, so that their creations were among the most charming that have ever been presented on the stage. they were devoted to one another, and when she died his heart was broken. he does not write plays any more, but articles for encyclopædias, which is an extremely respectable profession." "and you dared prejudice this mr. mudge against our own precious winnie," milly continued. "you are just the meanest girl, cynthia vaughn, that ever lived! but you never can make any one believe anything against her. if, as tib says, it lies between you two, we all know who is the more likely to have done it." cynthia turned green. "do you dare to accuse me?" she hissed. "no, milly; don't do that," i cried warningly, and the overwrought girl burst into a flood of tears and threw herself into my arms. "we accuse no one," i said to cynthia. "i trust that you have been equally cautious with mr. mudge." "what i may have said or may not have said is no business of yours," cynthia replied. "you have both of you insulted me beyond endurance, and from this time forth i shall never speak to any of you. i except adelaide," she added, after a moment's consideration. "adelaide is the only member of the amen corner who has treated me like a lady." "i think it would be pleasanter for you and for us if you would ask madame to let you room somewhere else," milly suggested. "i shall not go simply because you wish it," cynthia replied. "i shall stay to watch developments." "and, meantime, i believe you said we were to be deprived of the pleasure of any conversation with you," i remarked, rather flippantly. cynthia turned her back upon me and from that time kept her word, maintaining a sullen silence with every one but adelaide. the bell rang for luncheon. the forenoon had seemed very long, and the afternoon was simply interminable. milly left the room with me. cynthia did not stir. "do you think she took it?" milly asked, nodding back at the parlor. "no," i replied, "she is altogether too gay. she evidently enjoys the investigation. if she were the culprit she would be constrained, nervous, averse to having the affair examined." i stopped suddenly, realizing how exactly this description fitted winnie. "adelaide believes," milly said slowly, "that it was some sneak thief from outside the house. have you looked about in the studio for any suspicious circumstances?" i replied that i would do so after dinner, and then, as we passed into the dining-room together, the subject was dropped. winnie came to the table late and passed me a note, which i read beneath my napkin. "mr. mudge wants to question you next. you are to meet him in madame's parlor immediately after luncheon. hurry and finish, so that i can have a minute with you before you see him." i bolted my dinner, and winnie sat silently staring before her, eating nothing. we left the dining-room five minutes before the conclusion of the meal, bowing as we passed madame's table, as was our custom when we wished to be excused before the others. madame's attention was absorbed by the teacher with whom she was conversing, and we passed out unhindered. "what did you find out from cynthia?" winnie asked, as we walked toward the amen corner. "does she suspect any one?" "yes," i replied. "she is perfectly absurd. it is just as you said; she insists on fastening the crime on a perfectly innocent person." winnie drew in her breath. "one of us, i presume?" "yes, winnie dear. but," i hastened to add, for she grew suddenly deadly pale, "she can do no harm; her suspicions are too manifestly impossible." "i don't know," winnie chattered; "the reputation of many an innocent person has been blasted by mere circumstantial evidence. what does cynthia know? what has she told?" "that she saw you go to the safe in the night." "me? then i am the one whom she suspects, and not--you are sure she saw no one else?" winnie laughed a long, joyous laugh. "i can stand it, tib," she said, "i can stand it. it's too good a joke." "of course," i said, "no one can prove anything against you. but did you go to the safe? i didn't see you do so." winnie's face clouded. "yes, i looked in to see if everything was right. mr. mudge asked me if i had opened the safe during the night. he said that some one of us had been seen to do it, but he led me to suppose that he suspected some one else. i knew that he had his information from cynthia, and i was afraid she had seen some one else. i mean--" and here winnie corrected herself with some confusion--"i was afraid that she might have taken me for some other person, and i was very glad to acknowledge that i was the one who had opened the safe. i don't think that mr. mudge believes that i am the culprit, for he smiled at me in a very friendly way." "how could he believe such a thing?" i asked. "it is perfectly nonsensical." "but if he does not suspect me, his suspicions will probably fasten on some one else. on you, for instance, or adelaide,--and i would rather be the scapegoat than have any annoyance come to the rest of you." we had reached the amen corner, and had just opened the study-parlor door. winnie gave a little cry of surprise. the door into the studio was open and a strange man stood looking at the broken lock. chapter v. l. mudge, detective. "the look o' the thing, the chance of mistake, all were against me. that i knew the first; but knowing also what my duty was, i did it." [illustration] "why, mr. mudge!" winnie exclaimed, recovering herself, "excuse me for crying out, but really i did not expect to see you here." "i presume not," the gentleman replied dryly. "under other circumstances such intrusion would be unwarrantable, but i presume you understand that in a case like this we must question not only human witnesses but the place itself, and often our most valuable testimony is of a circumstantial character. this broken lock, for instance, would seem to prove that the thief entered through the studio." "oh! that," i cried, "proves nothing; it has been broken this long while--since the very beginning of the term." winnie clasped my hand tightly, and i understood that she did not wish her escapade with the sliding trunk explained. "are you sure of that?" mr. mudge asked, looking slightly disappointed. "even if the lock was not broken on the night of the robbery, the fact still remains that an entrance was practicable here at that time." "why, of course!" i exclaimed. "it must have been the man who looked in at the transom." "what man?" asked mr. mudge; and i told the story of the appearance the night before. winnie came forward impulsively, as though she wished to interrupt me, then seemed to change her mind and walked to the window, standing with her back to us. "and why is it," asked mr. mudge, "that neither miss cynthia nor miss winnie have mentioned this very suspicious circumstance?" "i was not in the room when it happened, i did not see the man," winnie replied, without turning her head. "this thief may have made an earlier attempt which was foiled," mr. mudge continued. "it seems to me a little careless that you did not report the fact of the broken lock when you first discovered it, and have the fastening mended." winnie's eyes shone with suppressed amusement. "you think, then, mr. mudge, that some one from the outside committed the burglary? i am very glad that you have renounced the idea that any member of this school could have been guilty of such a thing." "my dear young lady," replied mr. mudge, "i never indulge in preconceived ideas, but i give every possibility a hearing. i have nearly completed my examination of the _locale_, but must ask one trifling favor. will you kindly lend me all your keys?" "you don't mean to say that you are going through all our things?" i exclaimed, aghast at the thought that the secret of the commissary must now be disclosed. "a mere matter of form," he murmured, extending his hand with persuasive authority. winnie delivered her one key promptly, saying, "i will go and tell the other girls." "quite unnecessary," mr. mudge replied. "i have a pass key which opened miss adelaide's capacious trunk. i have shaken out all her furbelows and tried to fold them again as well as i could, but i fear that the gowns with trains were a little too difficult for me. miss milly's bureau drawers were in a wild state of mix: ribbons, laces, gloves, hair crimpers, dried-up cake, perfumery, jewelry, chewing-gum, love letters (innocent ones from other young ladies), a manicure set, a bonnet pulled to pieces, a box of huyler's, fancy work, dressmaker's and other bills (which i have taken the liberty to borrow for a day or two), dancing slippers and german favors, a tin box containing marshmallows and a bottle of french dressing, menthol pencil, pepsum lozenges for indigestion, box of salted almonds, bangles, sachet, photograph of harvard foot-ball team, notes to lectures on evidences of christianity, silver bonbonnière containing candied violets, programmes of symphony rehearsals, caramels and embroidery silks gummed together, a handsome book of etchings converted into a herbarium or pressing book for botany class, and strapped together by buckling elastic garters around it; fine geneva watch, out of order; match box containing specimens of live beetles, which i fear i released; pair of embroidered silk stockings, in need of mending; a diary, disappointing since it contains but two entries; packet of letters from home, tied with corset lacing (these i have borrowed), packet of ditto from a certain 'devotedly yours, stacey, f. s.' tied with blue ribbon--these are of no interest to me and i will not violate their secrets; badge of the kings' daughters, button of west point cadet, a fan bearing some autographs, a mouldy lemon, a dream book, etc., etc. the more i tried to examine her affairs the more confused i became, and i finally dumped them all out on the floor and then shoveled them back again. i don't believe she will ever suspect that they have been touched." i laughed, but winnie looked uneasy. "i think, sir," she said, "that it is hardly honorable to carry away milly's private letters." "any objection to having me read yours?" he asked sharply. "none at all," winnie replied, at the same time handing him her little writing desk, "but with milly the case is different. i do not think mr. roseveldt will like it." "mr. roseveldt will understand the necessity of the case," mr. mudge replied. "have you looked through cynthia's things?" i asked. "yes, first of all. everything in admirable order. she sets you other young ladies an example in point of neatness. and now, miss smith, i will thank you to give me the key to that small, old-fashioned trunk under your bed. it is the only one which my pass key will not fit; the lock has gone out of date." "any one but a detective could have opened it without a key," i replied, somewhat snappishly, "if they had had the penetration to discover that the hinges are broken. you simply swing the lid around this way." "dear, dear, and so we keep a restaurant, do we? i believe i now understand the slight trepidation which you manifested on being requested to deliver up your keys. reassure yourself. i am retained to unravel but one mystery; any others which may tumble into my possession during the search will be as safe as though buried in the grave. i believe this is all, as far as the rooms are concerned. if miss smith will accompany me now to the library, i will take her personal deposition." mr. mudge was in the main kind. he did not alarm me in the least, and asked but few questions. "have you reason to suspect any one?" "no." "very good. did you see any one in the parlor the night of the robbery?" "yes, winnie." "but you did not suspect her when you discovered that the money was gone?" "no, winnie was honest and open as the day; it was impossible that she could take it." "hum, your parlor-mate, miss vaughn, does not share your opinion of your friend. do you know of any reason for the coolness which apparently exists between them?" "yes, winnie has frankly given cynthia her opinion of certain underhanded performances of hers." "such as----" "i am not a tale-bearer." "in this examination, miss smith, you will please answer all questions put to you--and abstain from flippancy. believe me, i ask nothing from idle curiosity; nothing which does not have its bearings on this case." "cynthia is continually doing things that exasperate winnie. she put her muff between the sheets at the foot of milly's bed. when milly slipped her foot down and felt the fur she thought that it was a rat or some wild animal, and she nearly shrieked herself into convulsions. cynthia laughed till she almost cried, but winnie was raging with indignation, and gave her such a scoring that cynthia has never forgiven her." "is that the only source of unpleasantness between them?" "no; such affairs are always coming up," and i related the trick of the costumes, which has been told in the preceding volume. "and lately," i added, "cynthia has been very obsequious to milly, and they have been quite intimate. winnie has not approved of the friendship. she told milly that she did not believe cynthia was sincere, but did not succeed in separating them. cynthia surmised that winnie was not pleased, and taunted her with being jealous, and winnie let them proudly alone, until something happened at milly's dressmaker, when she interfered again, declaring that cynthia was going too far, and that milly needed some one to protect her." "what happened at the dressmaker's?" "i don't know exactly. milly went to the dressmaker's rooms last week to have a dress fitted, and winnie was with her. she came back very much displeased, and had a long talk with cynthia in her bedroom. as she came out we heard her say, 'downright dishonorable; as bad as stealing;' and cynthia called after her: 'i'll pay you for this; we shall see who is a thief, miss winifred de witt.'" "hum!" said mr. mudge. "the importance of these little tiffs between girls must not be exaggerated. they have probably made it all up by this time." "indeed they have not," i replied. "can you give me the address of miss milly's dressmaker? on second thought, it is of no consequence. i have it on this bill: 'to madame celeste, fifth avenue: for tailor-made costume in dark green cloth, trimmed with sable, sixty-seven dollars.'" "but that was cynthia's dress," i said. "it is charged here to miss milly roseveldt." "oh!" i exclaimed, a light beginning to break in. "and you never suspected what it was that occurred at the dressmaker's which displeased miss winnie?" "never, until this moment. milly has cried a great deal, but she would not tell her trouble, even to adelaide." "very well. i will step across to madame celeste. no; on reflection i will speak to miss milly first. will you kindly ask her to come to me?" "then this is all you wish to ask me?" "thank you, yes. no, one question more. can you tell me the exact time at which miss winnie visited the parlor last night? the young lady herself was very exact on that point." "that is natural!" i replied, "for the great clock at the end of the corridor was striking twelve as she came back to the bedroom. i thought it never would stop." "that tallies also with miss cynthia's testimony. she states that she saw miss winnie go to the safe a few minutes before twelve; that she, miss cynthia, lay still until the clock struck the quarter, and then examined the safe, finding your money gone. "inference (since miss winnie apparently noticed nothing out of the way when she looked in): if neither of these young ladies took it, the robbery must have been committed during that fifteen minutes." "that seems hardly possible," i said, "since cynthia, winnie, and i were all awake during that time." "it is possible, though not probable. cynthia's bedroom door, opening into the parlor, was closed. are you quite certain that you did not fall asleep before the quarter struck. did you hear it?" "no, i am not at all certain." "very good. then if the thief were standing in the studio waiting for his opportunity, he might have slipped in during that time. is there any way in which we can ascertain whether any one was in the studio between twelve and a quarter past?" "i know of no way," i replied. "there was no one in the studio at ten o'clock when i looked in." "very good; the known quantities are being gathered in, the unknown ones defined; the problem becomes simpler. i think we will be able to solve it soon. meantime, if any new developments appear, be so good as to report them to me." he rose and bowed stiffly in token of dismissal. i hurried to our rooms and found adelaide and winnie. "where is milly?" i cried; "mr. mudge wants to see her next." "milly has gone to madame celeste's," adelaide answered. "she wanted to pay a bill." "but she had no business to leave the house until she had given her testimony," i exclaimed. "i wonder why madame gave her permission." "i don't think milly asked it," adelaide replied; "and i fancy milly was not at all anxious to have this interview with the detective and merely caught at madame celeste as a way of escape. she is not often in such a twitter of promptness in settling her accounts; besides, now i think of it, all her money was taken. how could she pay celeste?" winnie looked up from the table on which her elbows were resting, her head grasped firmly between her hands as though it ached. she took no part in the conversation until i remarked: "well, if milly thinks to escape mr. mudge by running away to madame celeste's she is badly taken in, for he is going right over there." "what?" winnie almost shrieked. "does he suspect that she has anything to do with this miserable business?" "madame celeste? no, but he wants to find why cynthia had her dress charged to milly's account." "o tib, tib, why did you ever mention that?" winnie groaned; "you don't know what mischief you have made." "how did you know it, anyway?" adelaide asked. "this is the first i have heard of the matter." "i did not know it," i replied. "mr. mudge was looking over the papers he took from milly's drawer and he came across this bill for cynthia's dark green cloth dress, charged up against milly, and i--i just happened to say that was cynthia's dress----" "if you could only have just happened to hold your tongue," winnie exclaimed, springing from her seat and pacing the floor. "adelaide," she added, "won't you go to mr. mudge and keep him busy hearing your testimony until milly has time to get away from madame celeste's. that woman is a match for a lawyer even, but if he happens to meet milly there she will be frightened into anything. i knew there would be trouble when mr. mudge took that bill." "of course i will go, if you would like to have me do so," adelaide replied, rising, "but really, winnie, i can't say that i at all comprehend the situation." winnie gave each of us a look of despair. "i didn't intend you should," she said, "but since ignorance bungles in this way i will explain. milly has very weakly been getting things for cynthia and allowing them to be charged on her bills. i have remonstrated with her and she has promised to do so no more. i told her how wicked it would be to send these accounts in to her father as her own, and she has not done that. she has kept them separate, intending to settle them whenever cynthia paid up." "i don't see why cynthia could not have taken her debts on her own shoulders instead of entangling milly," adelaide remarked. "simply because cynthia has no credit. madame celeste would not trust her for a penny, while she would let milly run up any amount. well, either cynthia has paid or milly has obtained the money in some other way. one thing is certain, she has it and she has gone down to pay madame celeste; anxious, as you may well imagine, to get her feet out of the quicksand and not by any mischance to have that bill sent home to her father. now, don't you see that if mr. mudge ascertains that milly has a secret of this kind, that the next thing he will do will be to suspect that milly stole the money in order to extricate herself from this trouble." "impossible," adelaide exclaimed. "milly has only to tell where the money came from." "and i have asked her and she will not tell. it is all right, she assures me, but she can not or will not tell how." "silly goose! i will get it out of her," said adelaide. "and meantime there is no need whatever that she should be even suspected. she did not do it--and suspicion might as well start out from the first on the right track. i will go at once to mr. mudge, and enlighten his benighted mind." "what is your theory, adelaide?" i cried, but not before the door had closed behind her. "don't stop her," winnie pleaded. "time is precious; mr. mudge may have tired waiting for milly and have gone. no matter what her theory is, so long as it takes suspicion from milly. i had great hopes that cynthia would succeed in making him think i had done it." "he did have you in his mind at one time," i said. "he said, 'if neither miss winnie nor miss cynthia took it, the robbery must have been committed during the fifteen minutes between their visits to the safe!'" "he said that?" winnie inquired, with interest. "yes, and winnie, the thing is plain to me--i believe cynthia took that money." winnie shook her head. "now just listen to my reasoning. milly has been insisting that cynthia shall pay up. we know that cynthia has received no money lately. she stole it and gave it to milly, and made her promise not to tell who gave it to her. it's as plain as the nose on my face. and then," i continued triumphantly, warming to my conclusion, "she artfully throws the suspicions of the robbery on you, as a revenge for the straightforward talk you gave her. haven't i ferretted it all out well? isn't it the most likely way in the world that it could have happened? are you not perfectly convinced?" "it is the most likely story," winnie replied, "and so very feasible does it seem that even i am almost convinced, although i know positively that it did not happen that way, even cynthia must not be unjustly suspected." "how do you know it?" "because cynthia told the truth when she said that the money was stolen when she looked into the safe. it was gone when i looked in." "winifred! but you told mr. mudge that it was there." "i told mr. mudge that i found _my_ money just as i left it. it was not touched at all, you know; but yours, milly's, and a part of adelaide's, all that was stolen, was already taken." "but mr. mudge did not understand you so." "that is his own fault." "did you want him to misunderstand the situation?" "apparently, tib; but don't ask so many questions. let him proceed on the assumption that the robbery was committed in that fifteen minutes. if any innocent person is apparently implicated, i will confess. meantime, you are shocked to find that i am delaying the course of justice in order to keep suspicion from myself." "a thousand times no; you could never act a lie unless it was to shield some one else. was it to shield milly, and how?" "tib, it breaks my heart--i can't tell you--i love her so--i love her--" a great fear came over me; milly had taken the money and winnie knew it. but milly had lost all her money, and yet that was a very transparent subterfuge. what more natural than that the thief would pretend to be an innocent sufferer and steal from herself? and milly knew before she looked that there was nothing in her purse. i asked relentlessly, "was milly at the safe during the night at some time earlier than you and cynthia?" "milly will not admit that she was," winnie replied, her manner hardening as she realized that she had not quite disclosed her secret, and her determination to guard it returning with redoubled force. "then why do you suspect it?" "i do not suspect it." the fixed despair in her eyes added the words, "i know it," as plainly as if she had spoken them. "did you see milly take the money?" i insisted. "was that what wakened you? and is that the reason why you wish it to appear that the safe was intact at the time you examined it?" winnie covered her face with her hands and did not reply. i felt that i had divined the truth. a solemn silence fell upon us both for a few minutes, then winnie straightened herself with the old resolute look in her face. "tib," she said, "i have told you nothing. you know nothing from your own personal observation. whatever you may _think_ is purely guess-work, and you have no right to imagine evil against milly. she is the sweetest and dearest girl in our set. she is innocent and unsuspicious, and so kind-hearted that she is easily led. she has gone wrong in some things, terribly wrong; but she is the youngest of us all and it is cynthia's fault, and i believe she is trying desperately to get straight again. as for this terrible thing, you must not suspect her of it. it is your duty, on the contrary, to try to turn the attention of mr. mudge in some other direction." as she spoke, cynthia opened the door and winnie relapsed into silence. i felt a strange, dizzy sensation, as if the foundations were being removed. the more i tried to puzzle out the affair the more bewildered i became. there was cynthia, who believed that winnie was the culprit, or at all events was striving to make mr. mudge believe so; and when i weighed the evidence the case was strongly against her. here again was winnie, who seemed to believe that it was milly, and i knew that the evidence which could shake her faith in milly must be overwhelming. i had made it seem entirely clear to myself that cynthia had done it, and in a blind, unreasoning way, although winnie's testimony had showed that this could not possibly be, the suspicion, once started, grew and strengthened. i watched her as she sat working out algebra problems with a disagreeable smile on her face--and i said to myself over and over again, "you did it, and the truth will come out at last." chapter vi. halloween tricks and what came of them. [illustration] evening was falling when adelaide returned from her interview with mr. mudge. "has not milly returned yet?" she asked, as she entered the door. "no," replied winnie. "has mr. mudge gone to interview celeste?" "no, he is off on another scent. he has gone to interview professor waite." "what does professor waite know about the matter?" i asked in surprise. "nothing. it only shows the imbecility of these detectives who insist on pursuing every impossible as well as every possible clew." "tell us all about it," i entreated. "i should like to know how it was possible to drag professor waite into the business." "why, through the transom, of course," adelaide replied, and we all laughed at the absurd suggestion. "the first question that mr. mudge asked was, 'have you any theory or suspicions in regard to this affair, miss armstrong?' i answered that i had determined from the first that it was the act of some sneak-thief, who had watched us, through the transom, put the money into the safe." again winnie made an involuntary movement as though about to speak, but restrained herself, and adelaide continued: "i told him about the face at the transom in the rembrandt hat, and he asked me if it was professor waite. i told him that i thought not. the head looked smaller and the hat came lower down over the eyes and at the back than it would have done on the professor. besides, the professor has that little pointed paris beard, and this face had a smooth chin. i saw it plainly for a moment in profile. mr. mudge did not seem to be satisfied and made me admit that i might have been mistaken. professor waite's beard is such a very immature affair. then he asked me how an outsider could have introduced himself into the studio without coming in at the front door, which is guarded by the janitor, and coming up the grand staircase past madame's room and twenty other rooms, all occupied, and likely to have their doors open in the evening. i told him that there were two other ways: the fire escape----" "both the corridor window and our own were locked on the inside," i interrupted. "he said he found it so--and agreed with me that the turret staircase was the more likely entrance. i explained that the spiral staircase in the turret was built especially for the use of the physician when this part of the building was the infirmary, and that in order to quarantine it from the rest of the school, there were no entrances to the turret on any of the other floors--that it led directly from the studio to the street, and that no one used it but professor waite, who kept the key of the outer door; that he might have negligently left this door unlocked, and in that case a tramp could easily have slipped in, and as there was no communication with any other room he would have found himself, on reaching the end of the staircase, in the studio and in front of our door. mr. mudge then questioned me as to professor waite's habits. did he usually spend his evenings in the studio, and were we in the habit of visiting back and forward in a friendly manner through the door with the broken lock? this made me very indignant. such a thing, i assured mr. mudge, would be contrary to the rules of the school, and to the instincts of any self-respecting girl. the door had never been opened since the lock was first broken, and even tib, whose duties required her to be in the studio during half of the day, always entered it by the corridor door. as to professor waite, he did not board in the house. i believed he belonged to several artist clubs--the salmagundi, the kit kat, and others--and that he probably spent his evenings there, or in society, or at his boarding house around the corner; at all events, he never painted in the studio in the evening, for i had heard tib say that the lighting was not sufficient for night work. there was a rumor, too, that professor waite was very popular in society; but that tib could inform mr. mudge much more explicitly than i on all matters relative to the professor's habits, as i had never interested myself in him, and what he did or did not do was of no manner of consequence to me. this seemed to amuse mr. mudge very much, but he replied politely enough that he had never for an instant imagined that a young artist, like the professor, could be anything else than an object of supreme indifference to any right-minded young lady, and then he proceeded to question me more closely than ever. though professor waite did not usually spend his evenings in the studio, did he not occasionally drop in on his way home? had we ever heard him ascending or descending the turret stairs at about midnight, for instance. i was obliged to confess that i knew of one instance when he had visited the studio at that hour, for i had met him on the staircase; that he was returning from an evening spent in sketching at the life-class of the kit kat club, and he had run up to the studio to leave his drawings and materials before returning to his room at the boarding house. that it was very possible that he did this frequently. then, of course, he asked me how it happened that i was going down that staircase at such an unseemly hour on the occasion when i met professor waite, and i had to confess all that maddening halloween business." we all shouted, for this was a particularly painful subject with adelaide. it was the one practical joke which we had ever had the heart to play on our queen. such grave consequences attended this halloween trick that it is possibly worth while for me to turn aside from the direct record of the robbery and devote a chapter or two to a confession of one of our most serious scrapes. it had been suggested by cynthia and approved and carried out by winnie before the days of the breaking off of their friendship. cynthia had a way of suggesting plots for less cautious people to carry out, whereby they burned their fingers like the cat in the fable of the chestnuts. the amen corner had conducted itself with praiseworthy propriety after the opening escapade of the season--that of the roller-coaster trunk--for the space of a few weeks. but when halloween came we all felt the need of what winnie called an explosion. we had been too preternaturally goody-goody, and the escape valve must be opened. we decided to celebrate the eve of "antics and of fooleries" befittingly, and we arranged to bob for apples, to snatch raisins from burning alcohol, thereby ascertaining the number of our future lovers. we tied our garters around our feet and crossed our stockings under our head; we turned our shoes toward the street and dreamed of the ones we were going to wed. we poured molten lead into water, striving to ascertain the occupation of our future husbands from the forms which it took. adelaide's emblem was something like a letter a, and we all declared that it was a perfect easel and quite wonderful; but when we threw apple peelings over our heads, milly's broke into two sections, remotely resembling a scrawling c and a w. milly herself was the first to recognize the letters and to blushingly declare that of course it was too absurd, it could not mean carrington waite. adelaide's younger brother jim was attending the cadet school in the city. he admired milly exceedingly, as did many of the cadets who had met her at a fair given at madame's, the previous year, for the benefit of the home of the elder brother. stacey fitz simmons, drum major of the cadet band, and the best dodger and runner of the school foot-ball team, was also her devoted admirer. the button which mr. mudge had discovered in milly's bureau drawer was not from a west point uniform but from stacey's; and the foot-ball team was not the harvard--but the cadet eleven. we all tried to find emblems in the molten lead, or initials in the apple parings, suggesting the cadets, but milly would none of them. there was a mr. van silver, much favored by milly's family, a caller at their cottage at narragansett pier, whom adelaide had met while visiting milly the previous summer. he was principally remarkable for owning a coach and four-in-hand, and as he had on one occasion invited adelaide to a seat on the box, it was a little fiction of milly's that mr. van silver was her humble slave. but we were all innocent in the ways of flirtations and, with the exception of milly, heart whole and fancy free, and it was really a difficult thing to conjure up imaginary lovers--for the occasion. the _pièce de resistance_ of the evening was the trick played upon adelaide. we planned on our programme that just as the clock struck the hour of midnight we would all try the experiment of walking downstairs backward with a lighted candle in one hand and a looking-glass in the other. of course it would never do for the procession to file down the grand staircase in front of madame's rooms, but the spiral staircase, secluded in the turret, offered peculiar advantages for the scheme. it communicated with no other floor, only professor waite had the key to the door at the foot, and he was never in the studio at night. so the girls believed, until i informed them that he always came in for a few moments on wednesday nights to leave his sketches made at the kit kat--and halloween that year happened to fall upon a wednesday. "so much the better," said cynthia. "we will make adelaide head the procession, and she will see professor waite's face in her mirror. it will be too good a joke for anything, for she can't bear the sight of him since she made that unfortunate speech when she saw him standing in the open door and thought it was winnie _en masquerade_." "i am afraid it will be twitting on facts," i said; "for i more than half suspect that professor waite admires adelaide as much as she detests him. he has asked me more than once why she does not join the drawing class--and even suggested that i should induce her to pose for the portrait class. he said her profile was purely classical, and that she took naturally the most superb poses of any girl that he had ever met." "so much the better," cynthia declared. "it will be the best joke of the season. what time does he usually arrive?" "he said, in telling one of the class, that he always leaves the kit kat at half past eleven, and reaches the street door of the turret on the stroke of twelve." "delightful!" exclaimed winnie. "fortune favors our plans. what fun it will be!" it was thought best not to admit milly into our confidence, for fear that she could not keep the secret. all went well. we played our tricks and winnie told ghost stories, but it seemed as if midnight would never come. at one time we fancied we heard a noise in the turret and we looked at each other apprehensively. had anything happened to bring professor waite back earlier than usual, and would our plans miscarry, after all? at ten minutes before twelve we organized the procession. milly was timid and persisted in being in the middle. to our disgust adelaide refused to lead. "winnie proposes it; let winnie go first," she said resolutely. "all right," winnie assented, after a thoughtful pause. "i will if adelaide will come next." cynthia and i looked at her inquiringly. we did not quite see how this would answer. "tib, let's go and see if snooks is in bed and the coast is clear," winnie suggested. "it's a pity that we can't get into the studio through this door, but that chest is too heavy for us to push aside." winnie and i reconnoitered, and as we opened the door into the turret she told me her plan. "i will lead rapidly and when i get to the bottom will scud into that little closet under the stairs where they keep the lawn mower, so that adelaide will be virtually at the head. we must start right away, so as to give me a chance to get into my haven of refuge before professor waite arrives." we all tiptoed into the studio and lighted our candles there, after we had closed the corridor door. we had had quite a time collecting mirrors. adelaide and milly possessed handsome silver-backed hand-glasses. winnie carried a pretty toilet mirror with three folding leaves. i had a work box with looking-glass inside the lid, and cynthia had unscrewed the large mirror from her bureau. we were all giggling and shivering when winnie, our marshal, gave the signal for the start in the following order: winnie, adelaide, milly, myself, and cynthia bringing up the rear. the steps winding around the central pillar were narrower at one end than the other and it was rather difficult to tread them backward. the fall wind blew through the slits of unglazed windows and extinguished my candle. winnie, in her haste to get to the bottom, fell, extinguished hers also, and hurt herself quite severely, but she had determination enough to pick herself up again and limp on. suddenly there came a strong draught of air and there was a halt in our march. milly whispered that she could hear voices, then adelaide, who was a little way in advance, shrieked and came running up the stairs. we were all huddled together in a jam. cynthia was shouting with laughter, milly crying with fright, adelaide choking and incoherent with indignation. "hurry, hurry!" she cried, pushing us back; "he is coming; he is just behind me." we were only a few steps from the studio and we all bundled in--but in the confusion milly had dropped her candle, and the light mother hubbard wrapper was all in a blaze. cynthia rushed wildly out of the room. i have no recollection of what i did, but adelaide fought the flames with her hands; but she would never have conquered them, and our darling might have died a cruel death in torturing flames, if professor waite had not dashed into the room, wrapped her in a persian rug, and extinguished the fire. strange to say, she was entirely unhurt. only her beautiful blond hair was singed, and that was afterward attributed by her friends to an injudicious use of the curling irons. adelaide's hands were badly burned and professor waite bathed them in oil, while an older, serious looking man, who had followed professor waite, whom we only noticed at this stage of the proceedings, wrapped them in his white silk muffler. then cynthia appeared at the door with a white face and a small water pitcher, and we were able for the first time to laugh in a hysterical way. fortunately, no one had heard us, and we slipped back to the amen corner. milly was awe-stricken by the peril through which she had passed, but there was a strange, happy look upon her face which i did not understand until, as i tucked her away in bed, she pulled me down to her and whispered in my ear: "he held me in his arms, tib; for one heavenly minute he held me close, close in his arms. i felt the hot breath of the flames, but i did not care. i was willing to die, i was so happy----" "my poor little girl," i said, as i kissed her, "you must not let yourself care for professor waite, for he does not----" "i know," she replied, "he loves adelaide; he can't help it any more than i can help----" "hush," i said, "this is all foolishness; put it right out of your little head. you are only sixteen; you are not old enough to care for any one. you will laugh at this by and by." she shook her head solemnly. "i shall always remember, tib--that for one heavenly minute he held me tight--so." and she embraced her pillow with all her small might, nestling her hot cheek against it in a way which would have been absurd if it had not been so unspeakably pathetic. adelaide strode into the room at this juncture with the air of a tragedy queen. "thank heaven, you are safe, milly dear!" she said, pausing beside the bed, but her look was not one of pious thanksgiving. her voice had a sharp sound, and a crimson spot flamed on her dark cheeks. "he dared to hold my hands in his," she murmured, "and, worse still, to call me 'noble girl,' and his 'poor child'; and he will think that i went down those stairs on purpose to see his face in my mirror. oh, how i hate him, how i hate him!" chapter vii. a state of "dreadfulness." [illustration] miss noakes had not heard us, but our troubles were not over. it was not until i had helped adelaide to retire (for her poor hands were too badly burned to put up her own hair), and had gone away into my own room that i realized that winnie was not with us and that she had been left behind in the stampede up the turret stairs. i crept around through the corridor into the darkened studio. professor waite and his friend had gone, why had not winnie returned? i opened the door leading to the turret and called her name softly. i was answered by a groan. i hastened to light a candle and stole down the winding stair. half way down i found winnie sitting on the steps, a bundle of misery. "i came up once," she exclaimed, "but professor waite was in the studio and i had to go back to the closet and wait until he left the house." "it must have been very chilly and unpleasant with nothing but a watering can and a lawn mower to sit on," i remarked; "but why didn't you come all the way up this time. you surely don't intend to spend the night where you are." "i don't know," winnie replied, with another groan; "i've sprained my ankle or something, and i can't bear my weight on it. it was all that i could do to drag myself up and back again, and then as far as this. ow! how it hurts! no, i just cannot take another step." "dear! dear!" i exclaimed; "what a night this has been! with milly's narrow escape from death, and adelaide's burned hands, and your sprained ankle, we have had enough halloween for one year." "what do you mean?" winnie asked, in her absorption taking several little hops up the stairs. "milly's escape? what has happened? ow! wow! you'll have to get a derrick, tib, and hoist me up. i cannot budge an inch." "lean on me," i said, "and listen while i tell you all about it"; and i rehearsed the thrilling story of professor waite's rescue. "i can smell the smoke still. snooks will think the house is on fire," winnie declared, snuffing vigorously as we reached the studio. "you had better open the windows a bit and air off. and there are some burned scraps of milly's wrapper on the floor; let's pick them all up. ow! don't let go of me. this is really what milly calls a state of dreadfulness--no other word will describe it. how can i ever stand it until morning?" i helped her to her bed and bound up her ankle with pond's extract; but it had swollen so much and was so painful that when morning came winnie consented to have the school physician called. he kindly asked no questions, and treated adelaide's hands, only remarking, "i see you have been celebrating halloween." "he thinks i burned them in snatching the raisins out of the lighted alcohol," adelaide said; "or perhaps in putting out some clothing which was set on fire in that way." even madame was considerate and did not inquire closely into the details of the trouble. "i hope you have learned from this," she said, "that it is a dangerous thing to play with fire." halloween was a disagreeable subject after this to all of us, but especially to winnie. "don't mention it," she would say. "i shall never play another trick in all my mortal days. i feel as mean and demoralized as a lunch-basket on its way home from a picnic." the state of dreadfulness deepened as time went on. winnie kept her room for days, and it was necessary to feed adelaide at table, and dress and undress her; but their hurts troubled me less than the heart bruise received by my poor milly. i kept her secret and she was brave, and no one else suspected it. professor waite was very impatient with her, treating her work contemptuously, and disregarding her personally altogether. he never alluded to the accident, treating it, as winnie said, as of no more consequence than if he had extinguished a bale of cotton that had happened to take fire. "that man is utterly incapable of sentiment," winnie remarked wrathfully. "now how natural it would be to make a romance out of such a rescue, but professor waite's heart is as stony as that of the apollo belvedere." milly smiled piteously and shook her head, while she looked significantly from me toward adelaide, as much as to say: "we know better; he is not so stony-hearted as he seems." having my attention directed to the matter, i kept my eyes open for little indications of the state of professor waite's sentiments, and presently found that they were not lacking. the studio was not occupied by classes until after ten o'clock in the morning, and professor waite came every day very early, and painted there alone until the first wave of pupils swept in and filled the room with an encampment of easels. he explained to me that he was preparing a picture for the academy exhibition, the morning light was good, and as his studio in the city was shared with another young artist, he preferred to come here where he could work quietly and undisturbed for a few hours each morning. he always bolted the corridor door to secure complete seclusion, and we had often to wait a few moments until he admitted us. he did not show us the painting, but it was evident that he was deeply interested in it, for he was frequently distraught, and apparently vexed at being obliged to turn his attention to our offences against art, just as he was worked up to a fine phrensy of production. at such times he would run his fingers through his hair, and stare at the work which the first unfortunate pupil presented with a repugnance which was often more clearly than politely expressed. sometimes his ill humour vented itself on the model. we were in the habit of taking turns and, dressed in some picturesque costume, of posing for the class for a week at a time. after the halloween experience it happened to be milly's turn. we had costumed her as an italian contadina, and thought that she looked very prettily. but professor waite was not satisfied. "why have you chosen a blonde for such a character?" he asked me impatiently. "that little snub nose and milk-and-water complexion have nothing italian in their make up. if you could induce that superb creature, miss armstrong, to wear the costume, you would see the difference." milly had heard the remark though he did not intend she should do so, and her eyes suffused with tears as usual. "i will ask adelaide," she said meekly, "but i don't believe she will be willing to pose for the class." "never mind the class," professor waite replied eagerly. "if miss armstrong will honor me by giving me personally a few sittings each morning for my academy picture i shall be more gratified than i can express." milly, more than happy to attempt to do the professor a favor, besought adelaide, who was obdurate and even indignant. "the very idea!" she exclaimed. "i never heard of such assurance. _i_ figure in his picture at a public exhibition, indeed." "why, i am sure it's a great honor," milly replied, bridling feebly; "and i won't have you treat him in such a _desultory_ manner." we all laughed, for milly, as usual when excited, had mixed her words--insulting and derogatory clamoring at the same time in her small mind for utterance. "i think it would be perfectly scrum to be in an academy picture," winnie exclaimed. "i wish he would ask me." perfectly "scrum," or "scrumptious," was winnie's superlative; while adelaide, to express a similar delight, would have quoted the anglicism, "quite too far more than most awfully delicious." "i wonder what his academy picture is, anyway," winnie went on, "and why he never shows it to us. i mean to ask him to let me see it; i am sure i might help him with some suggestions." "well you _are_ unassuming," i exclaimed, never dreaming that winnie, with all her audacity, would dare to criticise a picture by our professor. what was my astonishment, therefore, on awakening the next morning, to find that winnie was already dressed. "i am going into the studio," she remarked coolly, "to take a look at professor waite's picture before he arrives." "o winnie!" i begged, "don't; you've no business to do such a thing." winnie made a little face, courtesied, and flounced out of the room. she returned presently, all aglow with excitement. "he was already there at work," she exclaimed, "painting, as the french say, like an _enragé_. he had forgotten to bolt the door and i slipped right in. his back was toward me, and he did not notice me at first, so i had one good solid look. and what do you suppose it is, tib? why, adelaide, holding a candle and glancing over her shoulder as he must have seen her going down the stairs. the rembrandtesque effect of artificial light and deep shadow is stunning. he has rigged up his lay-figure on the landing in the dark turret, and had a lighted candle wedged into her woodeny fingers, so that he gets the lighting on the face and drapery, while he has daylight on his canvas. "of course he has had to do the face from imagination or memory, but it was perfect. i screamed right out: 'don't touch that again or you'll spoil it!' he turned the canvas back forward quicker than a wink, and looked at me as if he would like to eat me, but i didn't care, and i begged him not to disturb himself or interrupt his work on my account; that i had only dropped in in a friendly way to give him a little helpful criticism. with that he put on his eye-glasses and remarked; 'well, you _are_ about the coolest young lady that it has ever been my privilege to meet,' but he had to come right down from that nifty position, for i said, 'if my opinions are of no use, perhaps madame's will be more helpful; shall i ask her to come up and take a look at the picture?' that made him wince. he turned all sorts of colors, chewed his mustache, and hadn't a word to say. i felt sort of sorry for him and i assured him that i had no intention of telling, at least not if he was nice; and i reminded him that he owed the subject to me in the first place, for if i had not suggested the trick he would never have seen adelaide in that particular lighting. with that he changed his tune and said that he was very grateful for my kind intention, and that if i would kindly lend him a photograph of adelaide he would be still more grateful. but i told him that i did not think that it was fair to exhibit a portrait of adelaide, and he admitted that it was not, and said that he had decided not to send the picture to the exhibition, but merely to keep it himself." adelaide happened to knock at our door at this juncture, and winnie told her what she had discovered. "this is past endurance," adelaide exclaimed angrily; "you must come with me, tib, and insist on professor waite's showing me this picture. if the face is recognizable as my portrait i shall destroy it then and there." "don't, adelaide," i begged. "professor waite is a gentleman; he has already told winnie that he does not intend to exhibit the picture----" "but i do not choose that he shall possess it," she cried; "if you will not go with me i shall go alone," and she hurried to the studio door. it was locked, and professor waite did not choose to reply to her oft-repeated knocks. he evidently considered winnie's visit all-sufficient for one morning. adelaide came back in a towering passion. "if my poor hands would only let me write," she exclaimed, "i would give him such a piece of my mind. winnie, be my amanuensis. write what i dictate." winnie sat down good-humoredly and dashed off in her large scrawling script, which filled a page with these lines, the following indignant protest: professor waite: i regret that i consider the liberty you have taken in painting my portrait for the academy exhibition, without my knowledge or consent, a dishonorable act of which no gentleman would be guilty, and i demand that you destroy it instantly. adelaide armstrong. she was excited and she spoke loudly. when she finished, there was dead silence in the little parlor. we all felt that adelaide had put it a little too strongly. that silence was broken by a half-suppressed sneeze on the balcony outside the window. a sneeze which we all recognized as belonging to miss noakes. had she been listening? had she heard? winnie balanced the ink bottle over the letter ready to obliterate its contents by an "accident" if miss noakes suddenly knocked. no one appeared, and going to the window a moment afterward, i saw miss noakes walking between her window and ours, and taking in great sniffs of the keen morning air with much apparent enjoyment. the bell rang for breakfast and adelaide and i walked along together, pausing to slip the note under the studio door. it would not go quite through, a little end protruding, but that did not strike us as of any consequence. i had descended one flight of stairs when i found that i had forgotten my geometry and i hastened back to get it. i met winnie before i turned into the corridor. "hurry," she exclaimed, "snooks is just leaving her door; she will mark you for tardiness." i flew along at the top of my speed, but on reaching our corridor i saw a sight which suddenly arrested my footsteps. miss noakes stood before the studio door, carefully adjusting her eye-glasses and looking at the note; presently she stooped, picked it up, and read the address. she hesitated a moment, seemed half inclined to replace it, turned it over as though she wished to open it, then glancing down the hall and spying me, she placed it in the great leather bag which hung at her side. she closed the bag with a savage click and glared at me as i turned and fled, for i had not the courage to meet her. i reported the calamity at breakfast table in an awe-stricken whisper to milly, who turned a trifle pale. "i am afraid it will get professor waite into trouble," she said, "adelaide is still very angry with him, but i am sure she does not want to make him lose his position in the school." "it may make her lose her own position," cynthia vaughn suggested. "writing notes to young men is against the rules. it's an expellable offence. but then," she added, "this wasn't exactly a love letter." "i should think not," i exclaimed. "it's all the worse," milly groaned, as she scalded her throat with hot coffee. "adelaide can say she didn't write it, you know," cynthia suggested cheerfully. "winnie wrote it; and she didn't poke it under the door either--tib did that." "do you suppose, cynthia vaughn, that adelaide would do such a mean thing as not to take the consequences of her own actions?" milly asked indignantly. then she clasped my hand, for miss noakes stood at madame's table, and had opened her black bag and was handing madame the note. we could see even at that distance that the seal was unbroken, but this gave us scant comfort; it was only putting off the evil day. "winnie might steal that note for us," cynthia suggested, "before madame has a chance to read it." "why are you always thinking up scrapes for winnie to get into?" milly asked. winnie pricked her ears, at the other side of the table. "what about winnie?" she asked. "nothing," milly replied shortly; but as we went up to the studio a little before ten o'clock, i explained the situation. to my surprise winnie's eyes danced with merriment. "snooks listened," she exclaimed, "she heard adelaide, i knew she did, and now we know how she finds out things that happen in the amen corner; often and often i have thought that i heard her, and have opened the door quickly only to find the corridor empty. of course she is smart enough to know that she would get caught if she listened at the door; she would never in the world have time enough to scuttle down to her own room before we would see her. but the balcony! strange we never thought of that. i'll lay a trap for her--no, i need not; she has trapped herself; this affair is proof enough that she peeks and listens." "but i don't see how this helps us," i exclaimed. "this is the worst scrape of the season. don't you see it is? such glee on your part is positively idiotic. we may all be expelled and professor waite too." "fret not your dear little sympathetic, apprehensive gizzard. don't say one word, except to answer questions. don't volunteer any confessions, or let adelaide do so. remember, the prisoner is not obliged to criminate himself, the burden of proof lies with snooks, and she will find it a pretty heavy burden." "not with that note!" i replied. "that note! ha! ha! but i won't tell you. it's too good a joke." "and professor waite's picture of adelaide?" "the picture, i had forgotten that," and winnie became grave at once. "he must take it right away," she added. "i will tell him to." "you talk as if you could make him do anything," i said. "anything i choose to try," winnie replied confidently. we were at the studio door a little ahead of time, and professor waite threw it open at our knock, and welcomed us in with his palette still on his thumb. "come and see my picture," he said, with a smile. "poor man!" i thought, "he would not look so happy if he knew how angry adelaide is, and what a mine is waiting to be exploded beneath him." he led us to the easel and displayed the canvas triumphantly. it was an effective, striking picture, but it did not in the least resemble adelaide. winnie uttered an exclamation of disgust. "there now, you've spoiled it. i knew you would. it was just perfect, and you've ruined it. i'm sure i never want to look at that thing again. i told you not to touch it. why couldn't you let it alone?" and a half dozen other wails of the same order. professor waite did not attempt to put a stop to her somewhat impertinent remarks. he was plainly annoyed, however, and when she had emptied the vials of her indignation, he replied: "i thought you would approve of the change, miss dewitt. it was a remark of yours this morning which made me realize that i had no right to paint miss armstrong's portrait without her permission; that probably she would be unwilling that i should possess it; and as i would gladly sacrifice any ambition or pleasure of my own for the sake of not offending her, i have, as you see, painted in an entirely new face." "you are quite right, professor," i exclaimed warmly; "and adelaide will be grateful for your consideration." at this juncture the girls trooped in and took their places at their easels, and professor waite laid the picture in the great chest in front of our door. the correction of work went on as usual until the latter part of the hour, when an ominous knock was heard at the door, and madame, accompanied by miss noakes, sailed majestically into the room. professor waite bowed deeply and expressed himself as highly honored. madame lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the class. milly was posing in her despised italian costume. madame smiled kindly at her, and then passed about from easel to easel examining the girls' work. "i do not know whether it is exactly the thing for the young ladies to allow themselves to be painted in this way," she said, "though to be sure the studies are hardly recognizable as likenesses." "the young ladies have all asked the permission of their parents to sit for each other," professor waite explained. "for each other," madame repeated doubtfully; "but do you never make sketches of them also, professor? a parent might well object to having his daughter's portrait exhibited in a public place, sold to a stranger, or even shown among studies of professional models in your studio." "i have made no studies from life from any of the young ladies," professor waite replied promptly. miss noakes drew a long breath and seemed to bristle with anticipated triumph. "i am glad that you can assure me of this," madame replied in her softest, most purring accents. then she glanced around the room again and asked, "are all of the art students present? i do not see miss armstrong." "miss armstrong has not honoured me by joining the class," professor waite replied stiffly. "but she at least sits for the others, does she not? she is such a strikingly picturesque girl, i should think you would ask her." "we have asked her," milly replied, "but she is just as obstinate as she can be. i wish, madame, you would make her." madame shook her little wiry curls. "this is a matter which must be left entirely to individual preference, my dear. it would be very wrong, indeed, for any of you to make a portrait of miss armstrong without her consent. i have known young amateur photographers to lay themselves open to an action at law by taking photographs of people without their knowledge. our personality is a very sacred thing, and whoever possesses himself of that without warrant commits a dishonorable action." milly looked as if she were about to faint, while professor waite, who felt the intention of madame's remarks, and his own thoughtlessness, bit his mustache nervously. winnie was tittering in an unseemly manner behind her easel, but, thankful as i was that the professor had changed the portrait, i still felt the gravity of the occasion. madame's manner changed. "miss vaughn," she said to cynthia, "will you ask miss armstrong to step to the studio for a moment." then turning to our teacher, she added, "i have a very painful duty to perform, my dear professor, and you must pardon me if my questions seem to you unwarranted. will you tell me whether, for any reason whatever, you have carried on a written correspondence with miss armstrong or with any other member of this school?" "i have not, madame." "have never either written to her or received letters from her?" "never, madame. who has charged me with such a clandestine and dishonourable act?" madame did not reply, for adelaide entered the room. she was very stately and pale. cynthia had not had far to go, and adelaide had come instantly. "why have you sent for me?" she asked resolutely. "merely to ask you one or two simple questions," madame replied. "but first, professor, may we be permitted to see the picture which you are preparing for the academy exhibition?" adelaide leaned forward eagerly. professor waite was about to be punished for his presumption and yet she was not so glad as she fancied that she would be. her anger had faded out and she almost pitied him. a hot blush swept up to his forehead as he felt her gaze, and silently placed the painting upon the easel. madame examined it critically through her lorgnette; it was evidently not what she had expected to see. milly, who had not known of the change, could hardly believe her eyes, and seemed to fancy that a miracle had been performed to save her dear professor. miss noakes stood at the canvas with a look of disappointed malignity on her unattractive features. "is this the only picture which you intend to exhibit?" madame asked, after a moment, during which she had assured herself that the face on the canvas was utterly unlike any of her pupils. "it is the only one that i have had time to paint this season," professor waite replied. "the face bore at one time a resemblance to miss armstrong's, but i purposely destroyed that resemblance and shall send it in as you see it." madame seemed somewhat relieved, but she turned toward adelaide, who had seated herself and was staring at the picture, her heart filled with a vague regret that she had written so unkind a letter. "young ladies," said madame solemnly, "you have heard the questions which i have asked professor waite. certain accusations have been made which have greatly troubled me. it has been suspected that a clandestine flirtation and correspondence has for some time been carried on between your professor and one of the members of this school. hitherto i have paid no attention to these reports, as they rested only on suspicion, but this morning startling evidence has been produced, and before bringing it forward i call upon any young lady who has been guilty of such an indiscretion to anticipate the discovery of her fault by a full confession." no one responded. the accusation was so much more serious than the truth, that adelaide did not imagine that she was the suspected culprit. dead silence, in the midst of which madame produced the fateful letter. adelaide started and madame asked in awful tones: "will any young lady present acknowledge that she has written this letter?" winnie and adelaide each rose promptly. madame frowned. "have we two claimants?" she asked. "i am responsible for the contents of that note," said adelaide. "but i wrote it," added winnie, "and i demand that it be read aloud." it seemed to me that winnie was absolutely insane, and even adelaide seemed to feel that there was no necessity of rushing so recklessly on the spears of the enemy. professor waite looked completely mystified, and madame said very seriously: "you will see, professor, that this note is directed to you, and that it has not been opened. i could not take that liberty; but miss noakes discovered it being sent in a very irregular manner, which justified her in confiscating it. there are other suspicious matters connected with it, which i trust its contents will fully explain." i felt that the crucial moment had arrived. miss noakes was absolutely radiant, and sat rubbing her hands with ghoulish glee. madame looked troubled but judicial. the professor was a favourite of hers, but miss noakes had brought too weighty an accusation to be glossed over. a silence like that before a thunder-clap reigned. winnie covered her face with her handkerchief and shook--could it be with suppressed laughter? if so, it seemed to me that she must be going insane. professor waite opened the letter and glanced over its contents. "this note is from miss winifred de witt," he said to madame, "and since i have her permission, i will read it aloud." and to our utter astonishment, professor waite read--not the indignant letter which adelaide had dictated, but the following: professor waite. _dear sir_: may i have your permission to place my easel on the balcony in front of the corridor window and make a study of a sunrise effect as seen across the roofs? the view is so very beautiful that miss noakes spends much of her time there absorbed in its enjoyment. very respectfully yours, winifred de witt. professor waite politely handed this effusion to madame. miss noakes snatched it from her hand and glared at it with the look of a foiled assassin. madame bit her lips with annoyance and scowled at miss noakes. she was evidently angry with her for having caused her to arraign professor waite on insufficient testimony and creating a scene derogatory to her own dignity. she quickly recovered her self-possession, however, and remarked loftily: "miss de witt, when you have any future communications to make with your professor, pray do so in a more fitting manner. placing notes under doors is really unworthy of any young lady in my school." "so is listening at windows," cynthia whispered to winnie. madame turned to professor waite and expressed herself as much pleased that this very serious accusation had been proved to be founded on an entire mistake. she had herself felt perfect confidence in the integrity of professor waite and the propriety of her pupils throughout the entire affair, and had only investigated it to give the slander its proper refutation: and her stiff silk dress rustled with dignity out of the studio. as for miss noakes, she simply disappeared, "evaporated," as milly expressed it. the door had hardly closed upon madame before our long-repressed feelings found vent in laughter. winnie congratulated professor waite on the part of the school that he had been found innocent of so heinous a crime. the girls swarmed up to shake hands with him. those who could not grasp his hand shook the skirts of his coat. exuberant confusion reigned. milly was dissolved in happy tears, and even adelaide smiled when professor waite expressed his regret that miss noakes had connected their names in so disagreeable a manner. it was not until the occupants of the amen corner had gathered in their study parlor that adelaide said: "but i really do not understand what became of my note; the one i dictated to winnie and tucked under the door." "winnie, how did you manage to steal it?" cynthia asked. "i didn't take it from snooks," winnie replied. "it struck me that adelaide had expressed herself rather strongly, and that she would regret it after she had cooled down, and if she didn't, she ought to. so while you were investigating the eavesdropping i destroyed that note, wrote one of my own and sealed it up in its place." "and i've really put this note of yours under the door?" adelaide asked. "yes, my dear, and that is why i have not shared tib's anxiety since we knew that it had been confiscated. don't you think that dig about snooks enjoying the scenery of the back yard was rather good?" and winnie chuckled with enjoyment of her own impertinence. "you should have seen her face when professor waite read that. nebuchadnezzar's when he ordered shadrach, meshech, and abednego to the burning, fiery furnace must have been amiable in comparison. she would have seen me boiled in oil with pleasure. i haven't enjoyed anything so much for ages." chapter viii. in the meshes of a golden net. [illustration] of course adelaide did not feel it necessary to tell mr. mudge all the consequences of our halloween party, but only the facts of our having used the turret staircase on that memorable night. "and now," she said, with a laugh, "mr. mudge has gone racing off to investigate professor waite. i seem doomed to get that poor man into trouble. though of course he never could be suspected of this robbery." milly had entered while adelaide was speaking, and she uttered a little cry of dismay. "professor waite suspected! that could never be!" "circumstances are against him," winnie replied. "mr. mudge believes that the robbery was committed between twelve o'clock and a quarter past. now, if professor waite was in the studio at that time----" "he was earlier than usual," milly replied. "i heard him come up the staircase. you know the head of our bed is right against the turret wall. someway, i always hear his step on the stair, and then he usually whistles an air from one of the operas. last night he whistled the wedding march in 'lohengrin.'" "then you were lying awake, too, last night," winnie remarked. "did you hear me moving about in this room?" "yes," milly replied hesitatingly. "why didn't you say so before?" "there didn't seem to be any necessity of telling of it," milly replied. "you thought it might throw suspicion on me?" "oh, no," milly disclaimed. "no one could suspect you, winnie, or professor waite, either; the ideas are equally absurd." "unless it is proved that the robbery was committed before professor waite came up the stairs, it may not seem at all absurd to mr. mudge," winnie continued mercilessly. "tib and i saw him examining the door into the studio, and he seemed possessed with the idea that the burglar entered the room from the studio. i know, too, that mr. mudge examined professor waite's tool chest in the studio, and that he found the broken lock in it, with a screw-driver and other tools, showing that professor waite had been tinkering with the door, trying unsuccessfully to mend the lock, as we all know." "you know this! how did you find it out?" adelaide asked, and winnie replied: "professor waite wanted to use his screw-driver and went to his tool chest after it during the painting lesson to-day. it was gone; so was the lock to the door. he hunted everywhere, and told me that he was afraid that miss noakes had been in his studio and had discovered the broken lock, and that we would be called in question for that old scrape. i felt sure from the first that it was mr. mudge, but i did not mention him, for madame told us to say nothing about the robbery outside of our own circle." "i would do anything to keep professor waite out of trouble," milly said. "i am the only one who knows that he was in the studio, and i will not tell." "nothing will help professor waite so much as the entire truth," winnie replied. "of course he is not the one who took the money. if the person really responsible can be discovered, or will confess, the professor and all other innocent persons will be cleared from suspicion." "of course," milly replied, looking at winnie in a puzzled way. "and i am sure," she added hopefully, "that mr. mudge will find the guilty individual soon, if he is as keen as you all seem to think him. i really dread meeting him, and i am glad he has gone away for to-day. there goes the supper bell. what a long day this has been!" after supper milly woke to a consciousness that she had not prepared one of her lessons for the next day. she sat puckering her pretty forehead into ugly wrinkles, and repeating helplessly, "'populi romani!' i am sure i've had that before." then she began a wild attempt at translation, with manifold running comments. "'because ariovistus, king of the germans, had sat down on their boundaries--' now, was there anything ever so absurd as that? why did old ariovistus want to sit down on their boundaries?" "perhaps the word doesn't mean boundaries here," adelaide suggested, and milly turned patiently to her lexicon--"if _finibus_ comes from _finitimus_ it may mean neighbors--and then ariovistus sat down on his neighbors; well i must say that was cool----" milly worked on for a little while in silence, and then exclaimed, "i'm getting into the sensibility of it now--how's this? 'these things having been known, cæsar confirmed the mind of all gaul with words.' he was always very generous of his words. we have a review to-morrow, and the ridiculosity of the whole thing comes out. now just listen to this: 'wherefore it pleased him to send legates to ariovistus, who should ask him to appoint some place in the middle of the others for a colloquy. to these legates he responded if it was too much trouble for him to come to himself, himself would come to him and he--cæsar--would then find out who ought to do the coming. besides, he would admire to see all gaul in a row, and it was no business of cæsar's or his old populo romano.' i rather like his pluck but i'm afraid my translation is rather free. then here is a place that i am not quite sure about; 'the helvetians, the tulingians, and the lotobigians, and all the other igians, in their boundaries or something, whence they had something else--he commanded to--thingummy; and because all their fruits were--were--frost bitten, i guess, and at home nothing was which could tolerate hunger--he commanded the other ninkums that they should make for them copious corn--' i perfectly hate cæsar. he was always boasting of his own benefits and clemency to one tribe in making another support it, and then 'pacifying' the other tribes by slaying a few thousand of their soldiers, and i just don't see the use of our muddling our heads with what that stupid, cruel, conceited old bandit did, anyhow. but if i don't know this lesson i shall not be able to pass in examination, and you will all graduate and leave me behind for ages and ages----" ordinarily winnie could not have resisted such an appeal as this. i have known her to patiently translate all of milly's lessons for her, and then as patiently explain them to her over and over again, until some faint idea of their meaning had penetrated her befogged little brain. and having spent the evening thus, go unprepared to her geometry, and stoically receive a cipher as her class mark, and see cynthia carry off the honors of the day. but to-night winnie did not seem to see the forget-me-not eyes turned appealingly to her. she appeared to be completely absorbed in her cicero. i endured milly's frowns as long as i could, and finally pushed aside my own studies, and said, "come into my bedroom where we will not disturb the other girls, and i will straighten it out for you." milly was delighted. she threw her arms around my neck and thrust some cream peppermints into my pocket. we were in the midst of cæsar's negotiations with ariovistus, and had nearly finished the paragraph, when milly suddenly looked up. "tib," she said, "do you know whatever became of madame celeste's last bill? i thought i put it in my bureau drawer, but i must have left it around somewhere. have you seen it? i can't find it." "then you could not pay it this afternoon?" i asked evasively. "oh, yes! she made out another bill and receipted it for me, but i want to be sure that the first one is destroyed." "i thought all your money was taken; where did you get enough to pay this bill?" "oh! that is a secret," she replied, with a pleased little flutter of importance. "it's no manner of consequence how i came by it. i've paid the bill--that's the essential thing--and i've got out of that dreadful quicksand. oh, tib, i have been so unhappy, and cynthia has been so mean! i did not think it possible that any one could be so horrid." "tell me all about it, dear," i said, caressing the curly blond head which nestled on my knee. "i believe i will. i feel like telling somebody, and winnie is so queer lately--she freezes me. she has disapproved of me and scolded me ever since she found out about cynthia's dress, and i can't bear to be disapproved of. it isn't one bit nice. adelaide is perfectly splendid; she likes me and pets me, but perhaps she wouldn't if she knew everything; but you are just my dear old tib. you would always like me, wouldn't you, even if i were real wicked?" "yes indeed, milly," i replied; "and so would winnie; you don't half realize her love for you." "then she has a very queer way of showing it. she makes me feel as if i had committed some dreadful sin, and she was urging me to confess. she is just about as pleasant a companion as that florentine monk--what's his name? who kept nagging lorenzo de medici--even when the poor man was just as busy as he could be a-dying." "savonarola acted as he thought was kindest and best for his poor guilty friend. sometimes the surgeon who probes our wound is the truest friend--but you are going to tell me about your trouble--i've noticed how red your little nose has been of late." "it was partly celeste's fault, too," milly said. "cynthia's and celeste's and mine. of course the fault was mostly mine. you see it all started with the minuet--with which professor fafalata closed his dancing class just before the christmas holidays. he wished us to be costumed in the florentine style of the early part of the sixteenth century. i was talking it over with celeste, and she said i ought to have the front of my petticoat covered with some jewelled net which she had just imported from paris. it was very expensive, but very beautiful, and showy in the evening. the net was made of gold thread set with imitation amethysts and rubies, an arabesque design, copied from some mediæval embroidery, and just the thing for me, since i was to represent a young princess of the house of medici. i thought that i would write mother, who was in florida then, and ask her to lend me one of her party dresses, and that it would be just the thing to put over it; and while i was admiring it and before i had really ordered it, or realized what she was doing, celeste had cut me off a yard of it, and had charged it to my account--fifteen dollars. i brought it here, you remember, only to find that madame had interested professor waite in the minuet, and that he had promised to lend the girls some beautiful costumes of the period which he had brought back from paris. there was that lovely heliotrope velvet edged with ermine for adelaide, and a faded pink brocade sprigged with primroses for me. "so of course there wasn't the slightest need for my golden net. i carried it to celeste to see if she would take it back. she said that she would like to oblige me, but as it was cut she couldn't quite do that, but she would try to dispose of it for me. and she did sell it a few days later for ten dollars. i thought that was better than to lose the entire sum. she handed me the money, saying that it would put her to some trouble to change her accounts, and i had better let the bill go in just as she had made it out, and i could hand mother the ten dollars and explain matters. i really intended to do so, but i was nearly bankrupt that month. my pocket money just seemed to walk away. i had invited adelaide to see the play of the 'harvard hasty pudding,' and of course i had to have miss noakes chaperone us, and i hadn't money enough left to buy the tickets." "why didn't you tell her so?" i asked. "oh! i couldn't back out after i had asked her; and i owed her a little treat of some kind, for she invited me to see the cadet drill at her brother's school. "well, after i had broken the ten dollar bill to get the tickets, the first thing i knew it was all gone. i knew mother wouldn't mind, and that i could tell her any time after she came home, but it never seemed necessary to mention it in my letters and i never did." "oh, milly!" "horrid of me, wasn't it? but i had worse temptations. my pocket money is so very skimpy compared with what the other girls have, and with what i have, too, in the way of credit for certain things, that i am often really embarrassed and have to turn and twist and borrow and pinch to make it stretch out. when you girls clubbed together and paid for polo's sisters at the home, i wanted awfully to help, but i couldn't. you see father lets me subscribe so much annually to the home and he sends in a check every year for me, and thinks that ought to be enough. but i don't feel as though i was giving it at all, for it does not even pass through my hands. i don't deny myself to give it, as adelaide does for her charities, and i haven't a penny for any special case of distress or sudden emergency which i may happen to hear of. "do you know, tib, that satan actually suggested to me how easily i might have extra pocket money by ordering things from celeste, and letting her sell them again in just the same way that she managed with the golden net? i knew that she would be glad enough to do it, for i found out afterward that rosario ricos bought that net of celeste and paid her full price for it! so you see she kept back five dollars on the second sale, besides making a good commission on the first." "but you didn't do it, milly dear; you surely did not obtain your charity money in any such dishonest way as that?" "no, tib. i didn't do it for charity. i some way felt that god would not accept such a gift from me; but there came a time when i had a worse temptation still. you know all last term papa used to ride with me every saturday afternoon either at the riding academy or in the park. well, something is the matter with his liver; it hurts him to trot, and he has had to give it up, and wiggins took me out. but i hate riding with a groom, and so one day when papa called i told him i didn't care for any more riding this winter. this happened the week you went home to help tend your mother when she was sick, and that is the reason you never heard of it. i was taking father up to the studio when i said it, to show him professor waite's academy picture, and papa was so vexed with me about my not wanting to ride that he didn't half notice the pictures. "he took to professor waite, though, right away; and just as he was leaving asked him if he rode. 'when i am so fortunate as to have the opportunity,' professor waite replied. "'very good,' said papa. 'then possibly you will oblige me by accompanying my daughter and one of her friends on an occasional ride in the park.' he explained that he had a good saddle horse, which needed exercise, which he would be glad to have him use; and that, what was more important, i needed exercise too, and was so perverse that i did not want to take it alone. 'and now,' said he, 'the cruel parent proposes, milly, to pay for another horse for one of your other girl friends. i suppose you will choose adelaide, and if professor waite will act as your escort occasionally, i think you can manage to extract some pleasure from the exercise.' "of course i was perfectly delighted, and hugged papa, and called him a dear old thing. professor waite, who had looked awfully bored and had even begun to mumble something about being too busy, began to take an interest in the matter as soon as adelaide's name was mentioned, and papa had an interview with madame and got her permission to let us ride every saturday morning. adelaide was down at her tenement, and it was left that i was to tell her when she returned, and i thought everything was settled. but when adelaide came in she was looking troubled over some of her tenants' tribulations and she only half listened to me. "'i would like above all things to ride again,' she said 'as i used to on the plains when i lived out west; but there is no use talking about it, milly dear, i can't do it. i have no riding habit, and i cannot afford to have one made. thank you just as much, but don't say another word about it.' "you can imagine how disappointed i was. i knew very well that neither madame nor mamma would let me ride alone with professor waite, even if papa would permit it; and i knew, too, that the professor would lose every bit of interest in the plan if adelaide did not go. i was not thoroughly selfish, tib. i wanted adelaide to have a good time too, and i wanted professor waite to be happy. i told myself that if he loved adelaide, i would do all i could to help him, and perhaps some day he would remember that it was through me that he had won her, and like me a little for it, and never suspect that i--that i----" her voice broke and she buried her head on my shoulder. "dear milly," i said, caressing and soothing her as best i could. "of course you were not selfish. well, and what happened next?" "i couldn't give up the plan, tib, and i thought that if all that kept adelaide from joining in it was the lack of a habit, that could be easily arranged. i would make her a present of it. i was sure that father would give me twenty-five dollars for my next birthday present, and i thought it would do no harm to spend it in advance. so i asked celeste how much cloth it would take, and i had it sent her from arnold's, a beautiful fine dark-green broadcloth. and then i told adelaide what i had done and that she must go around to celeste's with me and be fitted. do you believe it, she would not? she said that it would be wrong for her to accept such a present from me; and besides, nothing would induce her to ride with professor waite, for she couldn't endure him. that put an end to the ride in the park. cynthia would have taken adelaide's place, but when i told professor waite that adelaide would not go, he looked so angry that i saw he wanted to get out of the arrangement, and i suggested that perhaps we had better give up the plan. he said, very well, just as i pleased, and looked so relieved that i almost cried then and there. papa was so provoked when i told him of it that i did not dare say a word about the riding-habit, especially as he had just handed me my little swiss watch as my birthday present. so i pretended to be pleased with it, and there was that dreadful cloth for the riding-habit on my hands, and i didn't know what to do. mamma was still in florida, and papa said that she was not very strong and must not be worried--i must only write cheerful letters to her. i didn't feel very cheerful, i assure you. then cynthia told me one day that she had twenty dollars with which she wanted to purchase a winter suit and she would like my advice about it. i was in debt just twenty dollars for the cloth for the habit, and i told her about it and begged her to take it off my hands. she went with me to celeste's and liked it very much. the only trouble was that her mother had intended the twenty dollars to pay for both material and making, and of course she ought to get something not nearly so nice. "she said at last that if i would get celeste to wait for her pay she would take the dress and pay her later. i thought only of paying for the material at arnold's, for i had expected to have the money by that time, and had asked them to make a separate bill out, and not put it on my book that goes every month to papa. so we arranged it. cynthia gave me her twenty dollars and i settled for the cloth, and celeste made the dress for her, and furnished the trimmings. but how she did run them up! she had a band of real sable around the hem of the skirt and trimmed the jacket with it too; and made her that cute little toque with heads and tails on it, and when the bill came in it was sixty dollars. cynthia was frightened. 'i never can pay it in the world,' she said. 'i think your dressmaker is frightfully extortionate; and i had no idea it would be so much.' i felt sorry for her and i felt, too, that i was to blame for getting her into the predicament; so i said we would divide the expense, and she should only pay half. but she grumbled at that, and said that i had inveigled her into the trouble, and that she had a dressmaker on th street who would have made the suit for ten dollars. when i reminded her of the fur, she said she did not believe it was real sable, and she didn't want it any way. "i offered to take it to gunther's and see if i could get something for it, if she would rip it off, but she said she would do no such thing; the dress would be a fright without it. it was all a miserable mess, and i was so unhappy. it would have been some consolation if cynthia had been grateful, but she blamed me for everything, and i think that, considering all i have done for her, she treated me very shabbily when she said that adelaide was the only lady in the amen corner, and she did not care to speak to any of us again." "that was like cynthia, and i am sure that the loss of her friendship can only be a benefit to you. but, milly, you must bravely shoulder the greater part of the blame yourself. your first wrong step was in getting the golden net without permission, then in letting celeste pay you for it and yet having it charged to your father. then, again, in getting the cloth for adelaide's habit without consulting your father you deliberately did wrong; and in bargaining with cynthia, instead of going straight to your father and confessing your fault, you waded still more deeply in----" "i know it; but there you are scolding me just like winnie, and it doesn't make the trouble a bit easier to bear to be told that i deserve it all, and am a miserable little sinner. you needn't imagine that i did not realize what a wretch i was; only i didn't seem to see the way out. everything i did to extricate myself got me deeper into the quicksand. i saved every way, all that i could; one month i laid by two dollars and thirty-seven cents, but the next i slipped back three and a quarter, and cynthia handed me a five dollar bill one day, and told me that was every cent that she could pay, and i must let her off from the rest. and to crown it all, winnie found out about it, and nearly drove me wild. oh, tib, i have been in such trouble, what with this dreadful bill that i didn't dare tell papa about, and professor waite, and all my lessons so hard, and my marks getting worse than ever, and winnie turning on me. it just seemed as if i would die, and i almost wished i could. i thought seriously about killing myself only the night before last. i think if i could have found any poison that would not have hurt i would have taken it." "don't talk so, milly; it is wicked. you would have done nothing of the sort." "but i would. i went into the chemical laboratory and looked at the green and blue stuff in the test tubes, but i couldn't quite screw my courage up to do more than taste just a little bit of one kind that looked more deadly than the rest. it was horrid, and took the skin off of the tip of my tongue. i ate a quarter of a pound of assorted mints before i could get the taste out of my mouth. if i could have found some laudanum, or something that would not have tasted so bad, or would have killed me by putting me to sleep, i would have taken it that night, for i was miserable enough to do anything, however unscrupulous and reckless. if i hadn't been so very desperate perhaps i would never have dared to do what i did do; the thing which really broke the meshes of the golden net which seemed to have me in its toils. i didn't mean to tell any one, but i was just driven to it, and i know you will keep my secret--besides i have told you so much that you might as well know all. tib, i----" "milly, it is time we were all in bed." it was winnie who spoke. she stood in the doorway, cold and commanding, and milly cowered before her. she did not offer to kiss her, but shrank, frightened, away to her room. "oh, winnie," i said, "why did you come in just then? milly was just about to confess to me what she did to get the money with which she has just paid celeste." "you have no business to coax her secret from her," winnie replied angrily. "whatever it is, you have no right to know it unless she has wronged you. i am afraid our dear milly is in deep waters. but whatever she may have done lies between her own conscience and god, and i believe that he will show her how to make restitution and keep, in the future, strictly to the right. oh, my poor, precious milly! i wish i could suffer all the consequences of your wrong doing for you, but i can't. every sin brings suffering, and it is the suffering that purifies. i can't save you that experience, but i will shield you from open shame if i can. i forbid you, tib, to pry into milly's affairs any further, to question her, or allow her to confide in you, or even suspect her. only pray for her, and love her; that is all you can do." "it is you who suspect her," i exclaimed hotly, "and unjustly, winnie. milly has been extravagant and thoughtless; worse than that, she has been underhanded and deceitful in regard to expenditures, but she did not take the money from the cabinet; of that i am positive." "have i ever charged her with anything so dreadful?" winnie asked. "have i not tried in every way to keep that suspicion from every one? give me credit for that, at least." "in words, winnie; but in your secret thought you have wronged her. i know that you love her with a sort of a fierce, maternal love which makes you want her to be perfect, and which fears the worst and tortures yourself with imaginary impossibilities. i tell you that milly has learned a very thorough lesson in regard to deception; she will never offend in that way again; and as to this affair of the cabinet, i would as soon suspect you as her." "suspect me, then," winnie cried. "i wish you would. i hoped that cynthia was going to lead suspicion my way, but it seems she can't do it. i have too good a reputation." and winnie laughed cynically. "well, the time may come when you may not think so well of me. meantime, i thank you with all my heart for believing in milly." chapter ix. "polo." [illustration] it must not be inferred that our life that winter was all intense and tragical; if it had been so we could not have endured it. there were patches of clear sky, and the sunlight of generous acts glinted through the storm. we had all merry hearts and good digestions, and these bore us up under our troubles with the buoyancy which is so mercifully granted to youth and inexperience. then, too, our thoughts were not entirely taken up with ourselves and our own affairs. for a few days after this we saw nothing of mr. mudge, and our attention was partly diverted to another matter. one day, earlier in the school year, mrs. booth, of the salvation army, had addressed madame's school on the need of work among the poor of new york. one little parable which she gave made a great impression upon us. i cannot repeat mrs. booth's eloquent language, but will give the main points of the story. "as a young girl," said mrs. booth, "i was very selfish and hard-hearted. i did not care for the suffering and anguish of others. it was not that i was naturally cruel, but i did not think of them at all. i thought and cared only for myself, of parties and dresses, and of having a good time--and this dead sea of selfishness was numbing every generous impulse within me. my heart was growing to resemble a certain spring which my mother took me to see when a little child. i remember the walk through the wood beside a little brook which babbled over the stones, and how the light of the sky shone down into its clear amber waters, and the trees and the clouds were reflected in its quiet pools; how long mosses fringed its stones, and water plants made a little forest under its ripples; and how its depths were all alive with tiny fish and happy living creatures seeking their food and sporting among the cresses. but we came presently to a spring quite apart and very different from the brook. the water was deep, and quiet, and clear, but when i looked into it i was struck by a death-like influence, weird and sinister. there were no minnows darting through the depths like silver needles, or craw-fish burrowing in the banks, or water beetles skimming the surface like oarsmen rowing their light wherries. there was no life to be seen anywhere. the very stones had a strange, unnatural look; they were white as marble; no mosses covered them, no water-lilies or algae grew through the deadly water. the very leaves which had fallen into the pool were white and heavy, as though carved in marble. the grasses which grew downward and dipped into the spring were marble grasses, more like clumsy branching coral than the delicate bending sprays above the waves. it was a petrifying spring, and everything dipped in its waters was presently coated with a fine, stony sediment and practically turned to stone. "so the deadly, petrifying spring of selfishness will turn the heart to stone, and while having the form of life it will be cold and hard and dead." this was mrs. booth's little parable, and while none of our hearts had been dipped in this petrifying spring, it woke us to new desires to do more for the suffering poor. something happened a little after this talk, and several weeks previous to the robbery, which gave a direction to our impulses. milly and i were returning from a shopping excursion one very cold and rainy saturday, when we were approached by a poor girl who was selling pencils on a corner. "they are always useful," i said; "suppose we take some." "i should perfectly love to," milly replied, "but i haven't a cent." the girl had noticed our hesitation and came to us. "please buy some, young ladies," she said; "i haven't had a thing to eat to-day." "then come right along with me," said milly. "mother lets me lunch at sherry's, whenever i am out shopping." the girl followed us but stopped beneath the awning of the handsome entrance. "that's too fine a place for me, miss," she said. "only swells go there. it costs the eyes out of your head just for a clean plate and napkin in there. how much do you s'pose now, a lunch would cost in that there palace?" "not more than a dollar," milly replied cheerfully. "glory!" exclaimed the girl, "if you mean to lay out as much as that on me, why ten cents will get me all i want to eat at a bakery on third avenue, and i'll take the balance home to the children." "that is just where the awkwardness of papa's way of doing comes in," milly said to me. "you see," she explained to the girl, "i've spent all my money to-day, but i can have a lunch charged here." still the girl hesitated. "i'm not fit," she said, looking at her dripping, ragged clothes. we were sheltered from view by the awning, and in an instant milly had taken off her handsome london-made mackintosh and had thrown it around the girl. "there, that covers you all up," she said, "and your hat isn't so very bad." it was a tarpaulin, and, though a little frayed at the edges, its glazed surface had shed the rain and it was not conspicuously shabby. we passed into the ladies' restaurant and seated ourselves at one of the little tables. milly took up a menu and looked it over critically. "now i am going to order a very sensible, plain luncheon," she announced. "no frills, but something hot and nourishing. we will begin with soup. papa would approve of that. he is always provoked when i cut the soup. green turtle? yes, waiter, three plates of green turtle soup." "please excuse me," i interrupted. "i do not care for anything." "no? well, two plates. i usually loathe turtle soup, but i'm determined to be sensible and have a solid lunch. some way, i don't know why, i'm not very hungry this afternoon." "perhaps the ice-cream soda we had at huyler's has taken away your appetite," i suggested. the soup was brought and milly sipped a little daintily, as she afterward said merely to keep her guest company. the guest devoured it ravenously; she had evidently never tasted anything so delicious; but perhaps plain beef-stew would have seemed as good, for her feast was seasoned with that most appetizing of sauces--hunger. "what will you have next?" milly asked politely, as the waiter removed their plates. "whatever you take, miss," the girl replied. "i ain't particular. i guess anything here's good enough for me." "i declare i don't feel as if i could worry down another morsel," milly answered. "there is nothing so surfeiting as green turtle. it makes me almost sick to think of crabs or birds, or even shrimp salad. let's skip all that, and take the desert. waiter, bring us two ices. which flavor do you prefer?" she asked of the pencil vender, and again the bewildered girl left the choice to her hostess. "strawberry, mousse, and chocolate are too cloying," milly remarked meditatively. "bring us lemon water ice and pistache. don't you just dote on pistache?" "i never ate any, miss." "then i shall have the pleasure of introducing you to something new. you'll be sure to like it." the girl did like it. she ate every morsel. possibly something more solid would have proved as satisfying, but milly was pleased with her evident appreciation. "why don't you eat the macaroons? don't you like them? would you rather have kisses?" "if you please miss, might i take them home to the children?" "yes, i suppose so. it isn't exactly good form to put things in your pocket, but they will be charged for just the same, even if we leave them, so take them, quick, now that the waiter is not looking." although the waiter was not watching us, some one else was. a faultlessly dressed gentleman approached at this juncture and greeted milly in an impressive manner. "why, mr. van silver!" she exclaimed, a little fluttered by the unexpected meeting. "i haven't seen you since last summer at narragansett pier." "and whose fault is that?" mr. van silver asked plaintively. "if young ladies will shut themselves up in convents, and never send their adoring friends any invitation to a four o'clock tea or a reception or even a school examination or a prayer meeting, where they might catch a glimpse of them, it is the poor adorer's misfortune, and not his fault, if he is forgotten. won't you introduce me to your friends?" "certainly. tib, this is mr. van silver. mr. van silver, allow me to present you to tib--i mean to miss smith. i can't introduce you to the other young lady, because i don't know her name." we had all risen and the last remark was made _sotto voce_. as we left the building mr. van silver sheltered milly with his umbrella and the waif followed with me. "come with us to madame's," i had said, "and perhaps we can do something for you." as we walked on together milly and mr. van silver carried on a lively conversation, part of which i overheard, and the remainder milly reported afterward. she first told him of how we had met our new acquaintance, and he seemed much interested. "and so you have just given her a very solid and sensible lunch, consisting of green turtle soup and ice cream." he laughed a low, gurgling laugh and appeared infinitely amused. "and macaroons," milly added; "she has at least five macaroons in her pocket for the children." "oh! yes, a macaroon a piece for the children. i wonder if i couldn't contribute a cigarette for each of them," and he gurgled again in a purring, pleasant way. "you are making fun of me," milly pouted, in an aggrieved way. "not at all. i think it was just like you, miss milly, to do such a lovely thing. you are one of the most kind-hearted girls i know,--to beggars, i mean,--but the young men tell a different story. there's poor stacey fitz simmons. i saw him the other day and he was complaining bitterly of your hard-heartedness. he said you hardly spoke to him at professor fafalata's costume dance." "how unfair! he was my partner in the minuet. what more could he ask?" "there's nothing mean about stacey. he probably wanted you to dance all the other dances with him. i told him that he was a lucky young dog to be invited at all. why did you leave me out?" "i didn't think that a grown-up gentleman, in society, would care for a little dance at a boarding-school, where he would only meet bread-and-butter school girls." "oh! i'm too old, am i? well, i must say you are complimentary. and it's a fault that doesn't decrease as time passes. well, i shall tell stacey that there's hope for him. you only care for very young men. why did you send back the tickets which he sent you for the inter-scholastic games! you nearly broke his heart. he has been training for the past six months simply and solely in the hope that you will see him win the mile run." "but i will see him. i wrote him that adelaide's brother, jim, had already sent her tickets, which we should use, and as he might like to bestow his elsewhere, i returned them." "'bestow them elsewhere?' not he. stacey is constant as the pole. he's as loyal as he is thoroughbred. he was telling me about the serenade that the cadet band gave your school last year. some girl let down a scrap basket from her window full of buttonhole bouquets. he wore one pinned to the breast of his uniform for a week because he thought you had a hand in it; and you never saw a fellow so cut up as he was when he heard last summer that you had nothing to do with it, and even slept sweetly through the entire serenade." "stacey is too silly for anything. it is perfectly ridiculous for a little boy like him to talk that way." "little boy--let me see, just how old is stacey, anyway! about seventeen. six months your senior, is he not? at what age should you say that one might fall quite seriously and sensibly in love?" "oh! not till one is twenty at least," milly answered quickly; but she blushed furiously while she spoke. "sensible girl! but to return to the subject of the inter-scholastic games. i am glad that you and your friend miss adelaide are going. they are to take place out at the berkeley oval, you know. i have no doubt that the roads will be settled and we shall have fine weather by that time. may i have the pleasure of driving you out on my coach?" "certainly. that is, i must coax papa to write a note to madame, asking her to let us go." "i will call at the bank and see your papa about it to-morrow, and meantime do beam upon poor stacey. and, by the way, here is something which you may as well add to the macaroons for those poor children," and he pressed a dollar bill into milly's hand. some one passed us rapidly at that instant and gave the young man so questioning a glance that he raised his hat, asking milly a moment later if she knew the lady. "why, that is miss noakes!" milly exclaimed, in dismay. "you must not go a step further with us, mr. van silver, or we will be reported for 'conduct.'" "far be it from me to gratify the evidently malicious desire of that estimable person to report you young ladies. good-by until the games," and with another bow he was gone. as we approached the school building we saw professor waite leaving by the turret door, and i asked him to allow us to enter by it, at the same time requesting him to buy some of our new friend's pencils. he looked at the girl closely, and as milly led the way with her i explained how we had found her. "she is a picturesque creature," professor waite remarked. "i could make her useful as a model. the girls pose so badly and dislike to do it so much, it might be well to try this waif. tell her to come on monday, and if the class like her well enough to club together and pay a small amount for her services, we will engage her to sit for us." he scribbled a line on one of his visiting cards for her to show cerberus, as we called our dignified janitor, who was very particular about whom he admitted to the building; and i hastily followed our _protégé_ to the amen corner, where i found adelaide talking with her while milly ransacked her wardrobe for cast-off clothing, finding only a tam o'shanter, a parasol, and some soiled gloves. "can't you find her a pair of rubbers?" adelaide asked. "the girl's feet are soaked." "do you keep your own rubbers?" the waif asked. "that was my father's business." "what do you mean?" inquired adelaide. "my father was a rubber--a massage man for the earl of cairngorm." "oh!" said adelaide, a light beginning to dawn upon her mind. "i meant rubber overshoes, not a bath woman." "we call those galoshes," said the girl, as milly produced a pair which were not mates. "i'm sure you've given me a fine setting out, young ladies. i'll do as much for you if i ever has the chance. who knowses? maybe some day i'll be a swell and you poor. then you just call on me, and don't you forget it." with which cheerful suggestion she left us, grateful and happy. i took her down to the main entrance, and, showing the card to cerberus, explained that she had been engaged by professor waite, and was to be allowed to enter every morning. he granted a grudging consent, not at all approving of her appearance without the waterproof, and i flew back to the amen corner to join in the general conference. she had told adelaide that her name was pauline terwilliger. her father had been english, her mother swiss. they had knocked about the world as foot-balls of fortune, but had lived longest in london, where her father had died. her brother had come to new york some years previous, and her mother had brought the family over on his insistence. but this brother had failed to meet them, as he had promised to do, on their landing at castle garden. their mother had lost his address, and they were stranded in a strange city. they had advertised in the papers, and had left their own address at the barge office, but her brother had never appeared. they had taken a room in a tenement house, and the mother had obtained some work, scrubbing offices and cleaning windows. but she had taken cold and was now in a hospital, and polo was trying to support the two younger children. "they are living in one of the worst tenement houses in mulberry bend," said adelaide. "i would like to give them a room in my house, but it is full; and cheap as the rent is, they could never pay it." "the younger children ought to go to the home," i suggested. "the home is full," winnie replied. "i called there to-day. emma jane says it just breaks her heart to look at the list of applications waiting for a vacancy. our dear princess[ ] has in mind a little old-fashioned house which fronts on a side street, whose yard backs against ours. she would like to have it rented as an annex. she says the home ought to have a nursery for very little babies. you know it does not now take children under two years of age, on account of the expense of nurses; but this would be such a charming place for them, and we could call it the 'manger,' and have it connected with the main building with a long glass piazza. the scheme is a perfect one. all it needs is money to carry it out. unfortunately, that is lacking. i have corresponded with all our out-of-town circles of king's daughters. they are doing all they can, and have pledged enough, with our other subscriptions, to carry the home through the coming year on its old basis; but there isn't a cent to spare for a 'manger.'" [ ] "the princess" was a quaint little foreigner, who gave the girls botany lessons, and who originated the idea of the home, whose founding is related in the initial volume of this series. "would all of the new house be taken up by the nursery?" adelaide asked. "no; the princess proposed that the upper story, which consists of four little bedrooms, should be used as 'guest chambers' for emergency cases, convalescent children returned from hospitals, and children who, on account of peculiar distress,--like polo's sisters,--it seemed best to receive for a short time entirely free. the princess thought that we might like to club together and pay for one such room, and then we could designate at any time the persons we would like to have occupy it. there is always a list of applicants, which would be submitted to us to choose from, in case we had no candidates of our own to suggest. the occupants of such a room would then be as truly our guests as if we entertained them in our own home. it would come in very nicely now in polo's case." milly gave a deep sigh. "i wish i could help you, girls, but you know just how i am situated." adelaide knitted her brows. "we must get up some sort of an entertainment. it makes me tired to think of it, but there's no other way." "and in the mean time, emma jane must find room for those children some way," said winnie. "i will call a meeting of the hornets in our corner to-night, and we will pledge ourselves to raise money enough for one guest chamber for these children, and until it is arranged for, emma jane must make up beds for them on the school desks, or we can buy a _retroussé_ bedstead for the parlor." "_retroussé_ bedstead! what's that?" milly asked, in a puzzled way. "don't be dense, milly; it's vulgar to speak of a turn-up nose, you know; and i don't know why we should insult a parlor organ bedstead in the same way. if we can't afford that sort of thing, they might turn the dining tables upside down; they would make better cribs than the children have now, i'll venture to say." "you will tuck them up, i suppose, with napkins and table-cloths," cynthia sneered. but winnie paid no attention to the interruption. "they will not mind a little crowding, and the thing will march right along if we only plunge into it. they must not stay another night in that old tenement. polo said there was a rag-picker under them, and a woman who had delirium tremens in the next room. i am going down to-morrow afternoon to take them to the home." a meeting of our own particular circle of king's daughters, which was made up of ourselves and the "hornets," took place that evening in the hornets' nest. the hornets were a coterie of mischievous girls rooming in a little family like the amen corner, but in the attic story under the very eaves. they took up the idea of the guest chamber with great enthusiasm, but they were nearly as impecunious as ourselves. suddenly little breeze--our pet name for tina gale--exclaimed, "i have a notion! we will invite the school to a 'catacomb party, and the underground feast of the ghouls.'" "how very scareful that sounds!" said trude middleton. "what is it, anyway?" "oh! it's a mystery, a blood-curdling mystery. it will cost everybody fifty cents, but it will be worth it. i want witch winnie to be on the committee of arrangements with me, and you must all give us full authority to do just as we please; and it is to be a surprise, and you must ask no questions." "we trust you. where's it to be? in the sewers, or the cathedral crypts?" but little breeze refused to waft the least zephyr of information our way, and there was nothing for it but to wait. as we were returning rather noisily from the hornets' nest, we passed miss noakes's open door, and she rang her little bell in a peremptory manner. this meant that we were to report ourselves immediately to her, and we did so. "young ladies," said miss noakes in her most disagreeable manner, "before reporting you to madame, i would like to give you an opportunity of explaining a very irregular performance. as i was returning from a meeting of the young women's christian association this afternoon, i saw three occupants of your corner taking a promenade with a gentleman. this is, as you know, an infringement of school rules, and i would like to inquire whether the young man has any authorization from your parents for such attention." "only two of us were concerned in this matter," i replied. "we met mr. van silver quite by chance, and he very politely offered milly the protection of his umbrella for a part of the way home, as she had none. he is an old friend of her family and thoroughly approved of by mr. roseveldt." "how often have i told you young ladies never to go out, on the pleasantest day, without an umbrella or waterproof, since a storm may come up at any minute?" "i did take my waterproof," milly replied. "then you had no occasion to accept the gentleman's umbrella," miss noakes said sternly. "but i gave it to polo," milly stammered, quite fluttered. "polo! who is polo? and how can you tell me, miss smith, that miss roseveldt and you were the only ones implicated in this disgraceful affair, when i saw three of you enter the turret door?" "the third girl was polo, the new model whom professor waite has engaged to pose for the portrait class." "a professional model? worse and worse! and how comes it that you were walking with such a questionable character?" i related the entire story as simply as possible; but it was evident that miss noakes did not approve. "a most extraordinary performance," she commented. "i feel it my duty to report it to madame." "you may spare yourself that trouble, miss noakes," adelaide replied. "tib, winnie, and i are going to tell madame all about it at her next office hour. we want to ask her permission to get up a little entertainment in behalf of polo's little brother and sisters." "and i shall suggest to madame," miss noakes added, "the advisability of inquiring into the character and antecedents of this girl, before she allows her to become an accredited dependent of her establishment, or authorizes the bestowal of charity upon her family. artists' models are often disreputable people with whom your parents would not be willing that you should associate, and i advise you not to become too intimate with a perfect stranger." we had come through the ordeal on the whole quite triumphantly, but polo had excited miss noakes's enmity. she could never be won to regard her as anything but a vagabond, and always spoke of her as 'that model girl' in a tone that belied the literal signification of the words; and later, when by dint of spying and listening miss noakes learned that a robbery had been committed in the amen corner, her dislike and suspicion of poor polo led to very painful consequences. the relation of which, however, belongs to a later chapter. [illustration] chapter x. the catacomb party. [illustration] polo came on monday and posed to the satisfaction of professor waite and of the class. winnie was successful in entering the two children at the home, and adelaide had a happy thought for polo herself, who was too old to be received there. one of the smallest apartments in her tenement had been taken by miss billings and miss cohens, two seamstresses, honest, industrious old maids, who had lived and worked together since they were girls. adelaide called them the two turtle doves, the odd combination of their name suggesting the nickname, and their fondness for each other bearing it out. they were a cheerful pair, and their rooms were bright with flowers and canaries. one morning miss billings woke to find her friend dead at her side, having passed from life in sleep so peacefully that she neither woke nor disturbed the faithful friend close beside her. the poor old lady was very lonely and was glad to take polo in. the young girl brightened her life, and her own influence on the nearly friendless waif was excellent. in the intervals of posing miss billings taught polo how to cut and fit dresses. polo helped her with her sewing, and miss billings promised to take her into partnership by and by. polo was very happy and grateful, and the girls all liked her immensely. she was a character in her way, an irresistible mimic. she would take off miss noakes to the life, while she had a talent which i have never seen equalled for making the most ludicrous and horrible faces. she was almost pretty, and with miss billings's help, made over the odds and ends of clothing bestowed upon her very nicely. her one trinket was a string of coral beads and a little cross which her brother had sent her before she left england. she never gave up her faith in this brother. "albert edward'll turn up some day rich," she said. she flouted the idea that he might be dead. "he ain't the dying kind," she said, when cynthia suggested the possibility. "none of our family ain't, except father. why, i've been through enough to kill a cat, and i haven't died yet." she was especially devoted to milly, to whom she felt, with reason, that she owed all her good fortune. professor waite found her remarkably serviceable as a model, from her versatility and ability to adapt herself to any character, giving a great variety of types for us to copy. when she wore the italian costume, one would have thought her an italian, and a complete change came over her when she donned the german cap and wooden shoes. "may be that's because i've lived amongst all sorts of foreigners so much," she said, "and albert edward always said i'd make an actress equal to the best. he said i had talent. i do pity them as hasn't. i wouldn't be one of the common herd for anything." polo was certainly uncommon. her use of the english language had an individuality of its own. she hated miss noakes and said she had no business to be "tryannic" (meaning tyrannical). she spoke of native americans as abor-jines (a distortion of aborigines), and intermingled these little variations of her own with cockney phrases which were new to our untravelled ears. she found difficulty in understanding our words and expressions, and once when professor waite told her to set up a screen she astonished us all by uttering a most blood-curdling yell, under the impression that he had commanded her to set up a _scream_. she disliked cerberus, and to save her from his scornful scrutiny and contemptuous remarks, professor waite had a duplicate key made to the turret door, by which polo entered each morning and mounted directly to the studio. she was very diverting, but much as we liked her we could not forget that we had assumed a grave responsibility in taking the support of her little sisters upon our hands, and we now began to actively agitate the plans for the catacomb party, which was to raise funds for the annex with its "manger and guest chambers." one event of interest to us occurred before the evening of the catacomb party. this was the annual drill of the cadet school. all of the amen corner and the hornets had invitations. we occupied front seats in the east balcony of the great armory, vigilantly chaperoned by miss noakes. her best intentions could not prevent the young cadets from paying their respects to us during the intervals of the drill. the young men looked handsomely in their gala uniforms of white trousers and gloves, blue coats, and caps set off with plenty of frogging and brass buttons. they performed their evolutions with a precision which would have done credit to a regiment of regulars--and received the praise of general howard, who reviewed them. out of all the battalion there were two boys in whom we were chiefly interested: adelaide's younger brother jim, color sergeant of the baby company, and milly's friend stacey fitz simmons, the handsome drum-major. winnie insisted that malcolm douglas must have been thinking of the practising of this cadet drum corps when he wrote: "and all of the people for blocks around, boom-tidera-da-boom! kept time at their tasks to the martial sound, boom-tidera-da-boom! while children to windows and stoops would fly, expecting to see a procession pass by, and they couldn't make out why it never drew nigh, with its boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee; boom-tidera-da-boom! it would seem such vigor must soon abate; boom-tidera-da-boom! but they still keep at it, early and late; boom-tidera-da-boom! so if it should be that a war breaks out, they'll all be ready, i have no doubt, to help in putting the foe to rout, with their boom-tidera-da-boom-- _boom-tidera-da-boom--_ boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee, boom-boom-_boom_!" stacey was seventeen, tall for his age, with a little feathery mustache outlining his finely cut upper lip. he was elegant in appearance and manners, and we all admired and liked him with the exception of perverse, wilful milly. jim was thirteen and small for his years. the life of privation which he had led during a period when he had been lost, the account of which has been given in the previous volume, had stunted his growth, and given him an appearance of delicacy. but jim was wiry, and possessed great endurance, and his drilling that evening was noticeable for its accuracy and spirit. adelaide and jim were deeply attached to one another. they wrote each other long letters every week, remarkable for their perfect confidence. as jim's letters give an insight not only into his life at the cadet school, but also into the relations which subsisted between several of the cadets and members of our own school, as well as into a _contretemps_ which introduced great consternation into the catacomb party, i will choose two from adelaide's packet and insert them before describing the mystic entertainment of the council of ten. letter no. . dear sister: i like the barracks better than i did. i almost have gotten over being homesick, and the fellows are awfully nice now that i have come to know them. i miss mother, but i would rather die than let any one know it. i've put her photograph down at the bottom of my trunk, for it gave me the snuffles to see it, and stacey fitz simmons caught me kissing it once, and i was so ashamed. he is one of the nicest fellows here, and he didn't rough me a bit about it, only whistled, and said: "you've got a mighty pretty mother; i guess she takes after your sister. pity there wasn't more beauty left for the rest of the family." he knows you, and i guess you must remember meeting him when you visited the roseveldts last summer at narragansett pier. he asked if you and milly roseveldt were at the same school, and would i please send his regards when i wrote. he is one of the senior a boys, and is going to college next year. i am only middle c, but he is ever so good to me, i am sure i don't know why. we are drilling, drilling all the time now for the annual drill at the seventh regiment armory. stacey is an awfully good fellow. he's the head of everything. he's drum-major, and you just ought to see him in his uniform leading the drum corps [jim spelled it _core_]. he's the cockatoo of the school. stacey's folks are rich, and his mother wrote the military tailor not to spare expense, but to get stacey up just as fine as they make 'em, and i don't believe there's a drum-major of any of the crack regiments that can hold a candle to him for style. in the first place he has a high furry hat that looks like the big muffs they carried at the old folks' concerts. then he has a bright scarlet coat all frogged and padded and laced with lots of gold cord, and the nattiest trousers and patent leather boots. but his baton--oh, adelaide! words cannot express. i don't believe old ahasuerus ever had a sceptre half as gorgeous, with a great gold ball on the top, and it will do your eyes good to see him swing it. doesn't he put on airs, though! put on isn't the word, for stacey is airy naturally, and dignified, too. buttertub says he walks as if he owned the earth. when he marches backward holding his baton crosswise, i'm always afraid that he will fall and that somebody might laugh, and that would kill him. but he never does fall. he seems to see with the buttons on the small of his back, and he stepped over a banana skin while marching to the armory just as dandified as you please. and he never fails to catch his baton when he tosses it into the air, and makes it whirl around twice before it comes down. he never bows to any of the fellows or seems to see them--except me. they are going to have gilmore's band at the drill, and stacey was practising leading them around the armory. i was in the lower balcony, hanging over and watching him. he was going through his fanciest evolutions when he passed me. he looked straight ahead and never winked an eye. i didn't think he saw me till i heard him say, "how's that, dear boy?" and i clapped so hard that i nearly fell over. buttertub hates stacey; he wanted to be drum-major himself. he calls stacey wasp-waist, but it only calls attention to his own big stomach. he is always eating, and he won't train, and he can't run without having a fit of apoplexy. he weighs too much for the crew and he can't even ride a bicycle, or do anything except the heavy work on the foot ball team and study. yes, he can study; that's the disgusting part. stacy can do everything. he's a splendid sprinter. there's only one other boy in the school that can equal him, and that's a red-headed boy they call woodpecker. he has longer legs than stacey and of course takes a longer stride, and that counts. but stacey is livelier and puts in four strides to three of the woodpecker's, so they are pretty nearly equal. stacey is a prettier runner, too. he does it just as _easy_, while the woodpecker works all over, arms _and_ legs, and bites on his handkerchief, and his eyes pop out, and when it's all over he falls in a heap and looks as if he were dying, while stacey takes another lap in better time than the last, just for fun. stacey rides the bicycle, too, splendidly. he has one of those big wheels and he can manage it with his feet and do all sorts of tricks with his hands. he has been giving me points on bicycle riding. he picked out my safety for me, and has been coaching me how to manage it. he says i am the best rider for a little chap that he ever saw, and that he means to make me win the race at the inter-scholastic. i tell you stacey is a trump. he's an all-around athlete. he dances, and he rides, and he shoots in the summer when he goes hunting with his uncle; and he fences, and he's stroke on the crew, and he's our best high jump and there isn't anything that he can't do, except his lessons--sometimes--but they don't count. he says that if it wasn't for the beastly lessons school would be heavenly, and we all agree with him. ricos said that he would head a petition to have lessons abolished and the boys would all sign it, but stacey said that parents were so unprogressive he didn't believe they would, and he was afraid the head master wouldn't pay much attention to such a petition unless it bore the parents' signatures. i've written an awfully long letter, but i like to write to you, and it was rainy to-day, and we couldn't go to the grounds, and i've hurt my ankle by falling from my bicycle so that i could not practise in the gymnasium. now don't go and get scared, like a girl, and disapprove of athletics for such a little thing as that. it was only a little sprain, that will all be well before the drill, and i only barked my shin the least bit, nothing at all to what the woodpecker does most every day. i hope i shall be big enough to go on the foot-ball team next year. i know you think it's dangerous, but i've calculated the chances of getting hurt and they are so very slight that i guess i'll risk it. why, out of the whole eleven last year there were only nine that got hurt. be sure you all come to the exhibition drill. i enclose two tickets and stacey sends two more. he wants it distinctly understood that you and miss roseveldt are his guests. so you can give mine with my compliments to miss t. smith and miss winnie de witt. i don't send any for that vaughn girl, for buttertub knows her and told me he was going to invite her. no more at present, from your affectionate brother, james halsey armstrong. p. s. stacey sends his regards to miss roseveldt. p. s. no. . and to you. letter no. . the barracks, april. dear sister: wasn't the drill splendid? i knew you would enjoy it. how i wish father and mother had been in new york so they could have seen it. you looked just stunning in that stylish hat. stacey said so. you must excuse him if he didn't pay you very much attention. he could only leave the band during the intermission and of course he had to be polite to miss roseveldt. besides he said i stuck so close to you that he hadn't any chance. he says he never saw a fellow so spooney over his own sister as i am. i tell him there aren't many chaps who have such a nice sister as you are, and then we were separated so long that i am making up for lost time. i am glad you liked the french army bicycle drill. that was something quite new. stacey was detailed to command it because he's a splendid cyclist himself, and he knew how to put us through. i didn't know till the day before that he was going to call me out to skirmish. he said: "jimmy, you can manage your wheel better than any one else except the woodpecker, and i am going to have you two go through with a little fancy business that will bring the house down." and didn't it? when i fired off my gun going at full speed, they clapped so that i nearly lost my head. ricos was mad because he wasn't selected for the special manoeuvres. ricos is better for speed than i am, and he's awfully quick-tempered--he's a spaniard, you know, and he said to me, "never mind, youngster, i'll pay you up for this at the inter-scholastic races." i suppose he means to win the gold medal, and i told stacey that i believed he would, and i should be thankful to be second, or even third, for there are the best cyclists from all the other schools in the city to contend against. but stacey says, "he can't do it, you know," meaning ricos; and our trainer says that if he enters me at all he enters me to win. so i am going to try my level best. wasn't cynthia vaughn stunning in that green dress trimmed with fur! buttertub said she was the most stylish girl at the drill. stacey made him mad by saying that she was hardly that, though, as a harvard chap once said of some one else, he had no doubt that she was a well-meaning girl and a comfort to her mother! ricos invited all the hornets, and some one of them told him that you girls are going to have a great lark--a catacombing party. he thought it was to represent the games of the roman arena with cats instead of lions and tigers. i told him it must be a mistake, and that if he supposed madame's young ladies, and my sister especially, would do anything so low as to look on at a cat-fight, he didn't know what he was talking about. but stacey said that there was something up, he knew, for when he asked milly roseveldt if the girls were going to have a venetian fête for the benefit of the home, as they did last year, she said it was a sheet and pillow-case party this time, and boys were not admitted. he told her he would surely disguise himself in a sheet and pillow-case and come; but he only said so to tease her, and when he saw how distressed she was he told her he was only fooling. buttertub said cynthia mentioned it too, and stacey's idea was a good one and he believed he should try it. but stacey said he would like to see him do it and that he would have him court-martialled for ungentlemanly conduct, and reduced to the ranks if he attempted to play the spy at one of the girl's frolics. stacey wanted me to be sure to tell you to tell milly roseveldt not to worry about what he said, for the cadets are all gentlemen and wouldn't think of going anywhere where they were not invited. that's so as far as stacey is concerned, but i don't know about ricos. do tell me what you are going to do, anyway--and for pity's sake don't have any cats in it. your affectionate brother, j. h. armstrong. jim's misunderstanding of the catacomb party amused us very much. no one was alarmed by the boys' threats to attend it but milly, who insisted that she had no confidence in stacey and believed him fully capable of committing even this atrocious act. as soon as the drill was over our interest centred on this party. the committee from our circle of king's daughters waited upon madame, and obtained her permission for the projected entertainment. she stipulated, however, that it must be strictly confined to members of the school and no outsiders admitted. "the literary society," she said, "will give its public entertainment in the spring, and we do not wish to have the reputation of spending our entire time in getting up charity bazaars, and imposing on our friends to buy tickets. anything in reason which you care to do among yourselves, i will consent to. it does young girls good to have an occasional frolic." emboldened by the unusually happy frame of mind in which madame seemed to be basking, winnie asked if we might act a play and have "gentlemen characters" in it. formerly the assumption of masculine attire had been prohibited, and at one of our literary society dramas, a half curtain had been stretched across the stage, giving a view of only the upper portion of the persons of the actors. the young ladies taking the part of the male personages in the play, wore cutaway coats outside their dresses, and riding hats or tam o'shanter caps. madame laughed as she recalled that absurd spectacle. "since your audience is strictly limited to your associates, i think i may suspend that rule for this occasion," she said leniently. "when do you intend to give the play? i cannot allow you to use the chapel. how would the studio do?" "if you please," said winnie, "we would like the laundry." "the laundry!" madame exclaimed in surprise. "yes, madame. tina gale explored the lower regions under the school building one day, and the furnace room, and the long dim galleries connecting the coal bins, the cellars, and the laundry seemed to her so mysterious and pokerish that she thought it would be a nice idea to call it a catacomb party, especially as the girls have been so much interested in professor todd's early history of the christian church." madame's eyes twinkled as she heard this, for professor todd had been generally voted a prosy old nuisance; but winnie was earnestness itself. "very well," said madame kindly. "i do not want the girls to think that i am a cruel tyrant, or unduly strict or suspicious. ["she was thinking of the way in which she arraigned adelaide for corresponding with professor waite," winnie commented afterward.] if your committee will submit the programme to me, i have no doubt i shall be able to approve of everything. let me see--the laundry will be your circus maximus, or theatre. where will you have your refreshments?" we had not thought of that. "i will give you the key to the preserve closet; it is at the end of the drying-room, and you may make a raid upon it for your provisions. only please be careful not to waste or destroy any more than you can dispose of. i will have some tables placed in the drying-room, and you may partake of your collation there." this was all we needed. the preparations for the catacomb party went merrily on. trude middleton dramatized cardinal wiseman's novel, "fabiola." we who had remained at school during the christmas holidays had read it aloud together, and its thrilling pictures of the persecutions of the martyrs, the games of the arena, and all the life of imperial rome, had made a deep impression upon us. trude middleton had a genius for writing, and little breeze distributed the parts, rehearsed the play, took the rôle of the sorceress _afra_, and acted as stage manager. the classical costumes were easily arranged. professor waite showed us how to drape crinkled cheese cloth and to manage the folds of peplum and toga, to trace a key-pattern border, to fillet our hair, and lace our sandals. the rehearsals were carried on in the most secret manner. only the actors knew exactly what the play was to be. expectancy was on the _qui vive_. winnie had written some mysteriously attractive admission tickets, and had ornamented each one with a tiny white wire skeleton. these tickets the ten sold to the other members of the school to the number of one hundred and twenty, not a single member of the school declining to patronize us. the sale of these tickets had been materially aided by a manifesto, printed in red ink, supposed to simulate blood, and left dangling conspicuously from the wrist of old "bonaparte" (bonypart), the anatomy class skeleton. this manifesto read as follows: the council of ten, in secret session assembled, hereby summon you, each and all, severally and individually, to the torture chambers of the inquisition (otherwise known as the studio), on the ringing of the great tocsin (sometimes called the eight o'clock study bell). at that hour let each be prepared to render up her earthly goods to the amount of one ticket, vouching for fifty cents; and having donned a winding sheet, and likewise a winding pillow-case as headgear, submit to the office of the inquisition, which will transform her, with that happy despatch due to long experience, into a disembodied spirit. at the same time the arch witch winnie will turn back the clock of time to the first century, and each ghost, being first securely blindfolded, will be led by a spirit guide, experienced in the charge of personally conducting spirits, into the great amphitheatre of the coliseum, where she will mingle with the most renowned personages of ancient rome, and will be permitted to live a short and exciting life under the cheerful persecution of the amiable and playful cæsars. after the final scene of the gladiatorial combat in the arena each spirit will be led by her guide through the grewsome and labyrinthine catacombs--faint not! fear not! to the _feast of the ghouls!_ thence, conducted by orpheus with his lute, and beatrice, the guide of dante, they will cross the styx and join in the _dance of the dead_ in the shadowy purgatorio. at the stroke of midnight each spirit who has passed through this ordeal with a steadfast mind will be wafted to upper regions to the rest of the blessed. signed by the council of ten, as represented by witch winnie, of the amen corner, and little breeze, of the hornets; and sealed with the great seal of our office, this ---- day of ---- --. seal. these preparations were going on simultaneously with the investigation of the robbery, and served in a measure to relieve the tension to which we were all subjected. still the trouble was there, and we never quite forgot it. mr. mudge called twice, and made inquiries, from which winnie inferred that he was hopelessly puzzled. milly was sure that he had found a clew, but if so, he did not impart his discoveries. the mystic evening arrived. cynthia, who, for some reason inexplicable to us, was in a highly self-satisfied and gracious mood, invited polo to sleep with her in order that she might be able to attend the party. it was necessary to prefer this request to our corridor teacher, miss noakes, who gave us a very grudging consent; but we cared very little for her iciness since we had effected our wishes. the girls met in the studio, where all were draped in sheets, a small mask cut from white cotton cloth tied on, and a pillow case fitted about the back of the head in the fashion of a long capuchin hood. when thus robed our dearest friends were unrecognizable. then, marshalled by winnie, the company of spectres paraded through the hall and down the main staircase. miss noakes and the other teachers stood in their doors and watched the procession, but as it was known that we had madame's permission no attempt was made to stop us, and we passed on unabashed. arrived at the lower floor each of the guests was securely blindfolded and conducted by one of our ten down the cellar stairs, and through winding passages to the laundry, which had been converted for the evening into an auditorium, sheets having been hung on clothes-lines across one end, and the space in front filled with camp chairs brought from the recitation rooms. the set tubs on one side of the improvised stage were fitted up as boxes, while a semi-circle of clothes-baskets marked the space assigned to the comb orchestra. as fast as the girls arrived in the laundry they were seated, and when the last instalment was in position the lights were turned nearly out, and they were told to remove the handkerchiefs which bandaged their eyes. at the same time the comb orchestra, led by cynthia, struck up a dismal dirge-like overture, broken in upon at intervals by a tremendous thump with a potato masher on the great copper boiler. the curtain was drawn slowly aside, the lights suddenly turned on, and the play began. adelaide made a very beautiful _fabiola_. winnie acted the part of _pancratius_ with great expression. milly looked the saintly _agnes_ to perfection. i was _sebastian_. we did not indulge in all the dialogue with which the book is overloaded. our play was rather a series of tableaux, for which i had painted the scenery with the assistance of the other art students. professor waite had borrowed various classical properties from his brother artists for us. the plaster casts of the studio were made to serve as marble statues, and madame had sent us several palms in urn-shaped pots. when the play was nearly over, polo, who had acted as doorkeeper, made her way behind the scenes and took my attention from the prompter's book with the horrified whisper, "if you please, there are two girls out there that are boys." "who? where? how do you know it?" i asked in a breath. "they came in at the end of the procession, without any guides, and sat down near the door, apart from the others. one is little enough to be a girl, but the other is taller, even, than miss adelaide." "it is snooks," winnie exclaimed. "just like her to come spying and speculating here to see what we are up to." "if that's so, miss noakes has bigger feet than i ever gave her credit for," polo replied; "and she wears boots too." "then those cadets have actually dared!" winnie exclaimed, and milly gave a little shriek. "oh, that horrid stacey fitz simmons!" "hush!" commanded winnie. "we will make them wish they had never been born. oh, i will manage these gay young gentlemen. go back to your post, polo. keep the door locked, and be sure that no one leaves except in the regular order and conducted by her guide." a few moments later and the curtains were drawn at the close of the final act, tremendous applause testifying the approval of the audience. winnie now stepped to the front of the curtain and announced that the ghosts must now each submit once more to be blindfolded and "to be led through the grewsome and labyrinthine catacombs to the feast of the ghouls." little breeze and milly first led away two of the girls, and then winnie stepped boldly up to the taller of the two suspected intruders and offered to blindfold him. the rogue could only follow the example of those who had preceded him, and submit with a good grace, as any other course would have led to detection. i followed with the shorter impostor, tying the handkerchief very tight, and detecting the odor of cigarettes as i did so. winnie beckoned to me to follow, and conducted her victim to the root cellar, a dark, unwholesome little room, with a small orated window--a veritable dungeon. we led our prisoners into the centre of this gloomy cell, and, making them kneel on the cemented floor, bade them remain there until the coming of the ghouls. hastening from the place, we chained and padlocked the door securely. "now that we have secured our prisoners, what do you propose to do with them?" i asked of winnie. "call the amen corner together after supper to deliberate on their fate. in the mean time they are very well off where they are. i fancy they will hardly care to repeat this experiment." we returned to the laundry and continued the ceremony of leading our guests to the supper. when all had been led in, the bandages were removed from their eyes, and they found themselves before tables provided with plates, knives, and forks, but no edibles. little breeze, beating upon a tin pan with a great beef bone, called the meeting to order, and, indicating the preserve closet, announced that the ghouls would now search the neighboring tombs for their prey. at the same time the door of the preserve closet was thrown open, and trude middleton set the example by capturing a can of peaches. the girls fancied that they were robbing the pantry, and this gave zest to the performance to a few of the more reckless ones, but the rest held back, and winnie found it necessary to circulate the whisper that even this apparently high-handed proceeding was authorized by madame, before the raid became general. a very heterogeneous repast, consisting of pickles, crackers, dried apples, canned fruit, prunes, dried beef, and lemonade hastily mixed in a great earthen bowl, was now participated in by the hilarious ghouls. one bowl of the lemonade was ruined, after the lemons and sugar were mingled, by a ludicrous mistake. milly, mistaking it for water, filled the bowl from a jar of liquid bluing. the error was discovered when we began filling some empty jelly tumblers with the strange blue mixture, and, fortunately, no one was poisoned by drinking the ghoulish liquor. under cover of the confusion i managed to tell adelaide of the captives in the cellar, and later in the evening, while the ghosts were engaged in a virginia reel in the long underground passage leading from the furnace room to the other end of the school building, met in solemn conclave to deliberate on their fate. adelaide was for delivering the keys to madame with a statement of the case. cynthia argued strongly in favor of releasing the young men, sending them home, and saying nothing about it. while we were in the midst of the argument, a far away cry was heard. it was from polo, who had been left to guard the door of the root cellar. we rushed to the spot, only to find that the rusty staple had yielded to the efforts of two athletic boys, one of whom was heavy of weight as well as strong of muscle, and had been forced out of the wall, and our captives had escaped. polo had followed them in their flight, and returned breathless to report that they had made a dash, not for the outside door, but straight up the great staircase to the studio and had then descended the turret staircase, showing clearly that they had made their entrance in the same way. we talked the matter over for a long time. how could they have known of this staircase, and have timed their coming so as to follow the procession of sheeted ghosts as they left the studio for their march to the lower regions? the suspicion instantly suggested itself that some one of the ten had furnished the information, and this suspicion deepened to certainty as we considered the excellence of their disguise, the sheets draped exactly as ours had been, the pillow-case capuchin hood fitted about the mask cut from cotton cloth. how, too, could they have entered, since polo declared that she had locked the turret door when she came in that afternoon, and had left the key on a nail in the studio? "show me the nail," winnie commanded promptly, and polo led her to the studio. the nail was there, but the key had gone. we descended the staircase and found the lower door locked. as we were returning to the studio we heard the door open and professor waite mounted the stairs, as was his usual custom at this time. "heigho!" he exclaimed, "what are you all doing in the studio at this time of night? oh! i forgot; this is the evening of the lark. has it been a jovial bird? why do you all look so solemn? by the way, polo, i found your key in the lock on the outside of the door. it was very careless of you to leave it there; you must not let such a thing happen again. some thief might have entered the house. i met two young men running with all their might as i came across the park. they made something of a detour to avoid me--i thought at the time that they had a suspicious look. if you are so thoughtless a second time i shall take the key from you." "i didn't leave it there," polo protested. "i hung it on the nail, miss cynthia saw me. didn't you, miss cynthia?" but cynthia had gone, and as the quarter-bell struck we were all reminded that we must descend to our dancers to be present at the unmasking and close the frolic. we hurried unceremoniously away without replying to professor waite's questions. after we had dismissed our guests, we adjourned to the amen corner and we again discussed the affair. it was agreed that it was sufficiently serious to report to madame, and to this there was only one dissenting voice--that of cynthia's. it was too late to disturb madame that night, but we presented ourselves at her morning office hour and told her all the circumstances of the case. she looked very grave, but did not blame us. "i am very sorry," she said, "that some one of my pupils has abused my leniency in this way. it will of course make me hesitate to grant you such frolics in the future. the matter shall be thoroughly investigated and the offender severely punished. again i must ask you to keep this affair strictly among yourselves. you have kept the secret of the robbery wonderfully; be equally discrete with this. we do not as yet know certainly that these young men were cadets, and i shall not make any complaint to the head master until we have ascertained the culprits. mr. mudge will call to-morrow. he writes me that he has found a clue to the robbery, and we will place this matter also in his hands. you have done right to bring it directly to me, and your action only confirms the confidence i have always reposed in the amen corner. be assured that the truth will out at last. meantime don't talk this over too much, even among yourselves, for tennyson never wrote truer lines than these: i never whispered a private affair within the hearing of cat or mouse, no, not to myself in the closet alone, but i heard it shouted at once from the top of the house. everything came to be known." chapter xi. a false scent. [illustration] i think the visit of mr. mudge was much dreaded by all of us, even though we longed to have the mystery cleared up. i know that winnie, at least, trembled for the result, and she turned quite pale the next morning when she received a message from madame to meet mr. mudge in her office. it was only a few moments before she returned. "mr. mudge wishes to see us all," she said. "where are the other girls? he's coming to this room in five minutes." "milly is in the studio, adelaide in the music-room. cynthia, i don't know where." "please summon adelaide and milly, i will wait for you here--i feel almost faint." "what is the matter, winnie?" i asked anxiously. "mr. mudge says that he now knows to a certainty who the thief is, and that he will announce the name to us this morning. i am afraid, tib, that he suspects milly. he put me on oath this morning and made me confess something which i did not mean he should know." "never mind, winnie," i replied, as reassuringly as i could, "we both know that milly is perfectly innocent, and, as madame said, the truth will come out at last." winnie shaded her face with her hands but did not reply. i brought adelaide and milly to the corner, and chancing to find cynthia, summoned her also. mr. mudge was in the little study parlor when i returned. he greeted me cheerfully as he stood by the cabinet polishing his glasses with a large silk handkerchief. then he stepped across the room and examined the door leading into the studio. "so," he said. "you have had a little bolt put on this door. it is an old proverb that people always lock the stable after the horse has been stolen. but it is just as well, just as well. i agree with you that the thief came from that quarter, and having been so successful he may come again." "he!" winnie gasped. "yes; much as it may pain you to learn the fact, i must inform you that all indications now make it a certainty that the thief can be no other than your professor of art, carrington waite." milly gave a little cry and fainted dead away. the others all sprang to her assistance, but as i was quite a distance from her i did not move, and i heard mr. mudge give a suppressed chuckle, and remark below his breath: "ah! my little lady, i thought that would make you show your hand." milly speedily recovered; and with her first breath exclaimed, "oh, no, no! you are mistaken; it cannot be so." "why not?" mr. mudge asked. "was not professor waite in the studio at the time that the robbery was committed? did i not find the lock of this door in his tool chest? is it not a well-known fact that he is a poor man, and yet a few days after the robbery did he not deposit in the savings bank just one hundred dollars more than his quarter's salary? what stronger proof do we require?" "i can explain all these circumstances." milly replied eagerly, and she told the story of the broken lock, which amused mr. mudge greatly. "that disposes of one bit of circumstantial evidence," he admitted; "but the other items?" "as to the money," milly continued, with a slight flush, "papa bought one of mr. waite's small pictures, and sent him a check for a hundred dollars just at the time you speak of. i think if you inquire more particularly at the bank you will find that it was papa's check which he deposited; and i can testify that he was not in the studio at the time the robbery was committed. i was lying awake and i heard him come up the stairs. he was earlier than usual. it was some time before twelve. he hardly remained a moment, merely left his canvases and paint-box, and went right away." "that is all very well under the supposition that the robbery was committed between the time that miss winnie looked into the cabinet and miss cynthia's discovery. but miss winnie has just admitted to me that the money was gone when she opened the cabinet, so the theft must have occurred before that time." winnie threw a piteous glance at milly, which milly did not notice. "but still, after professor waite went away," milly insisted. "why are you so sure of this?" asked mr. mudge. "because, when i went to the cabinet fully five minutes after he had gone it was all there." mr. mudge's gray eyes gave a snap which reminded me of the springing of a trap. "indeed!" he said. "how many more of you young ladies investigated the cabinet during that eventful night? will you kindly inform me, miss roseveldt, for what purpose you opened the cabinet, and why we are only informed of the fact in this inadvertent way." winnie crossed the room and deliberately placed her arm around milly. "milly, dear," she said, "the truth is always the best way, though it may seem the hardest way; and, whatever you may have to confess, i for one shall love you just the same." "perhaps it is just as well," milly replied cheerfully, "though adelaide and i did not intend that tib should know it. you remember that it was the eve of tib's birthday; adelaide and i each wanted to give her fifty dollars toward her european fund. so after we were sure that she must be asleep, i slipped out into the parlor and took the money from adelaide's pigeon-hole and from my purse, and laid it on tib's shelf, where we intended she should find it in the morning. professor waite had gone when i did this, so he could not have taken it. adelaide told me to put hers with mine, for she didn't see the use of both of us going into the parlor. we were afraid we might wake the other girls." "you did waken me, milly dear," winnie said. "i heard you, and standing just behind my door i saw you go to the cabinet as you have said, and take out adelaide's money and count out fifty dollars, and then take the gold pieces from your own little purse. then i went back to bed and did not see any more until you went away, when i stepped out and examined the cabinet, and the money was gone." milly did not then comprehend the terrible suspicion which had been in winnie's mind, and she was very much pleased to find her testimony corroborated. "adelaide saw me, too," she said. "you were watching me all the time, weren't you, adelaide?" "yes," adelaide replied. "tell about the note, too, milly." "oh! that isn't of any consequence. after i had put the money in tib's compartment, i thought it would be a good idea to write her a note with it, and i pulled out the shelf in the cabinet that serves as a writing desk, but i didn't write anything for i heard a noise in tib's room. it must have been winnie going back to bed. so i shoved the shelf in and scooted back to my own room. we didn't say anything about it in the morning because adelaide and i didn't feel like boasting of the presents we had given tib, especially as she never received them." there was a great light in winnie's eyes. it was evident that the suspicion which had poisoned her life ever since the robbery had vanished. to winnie's satisfaction, at least, milly had cleared herself. mr. mudge, too, had certainly shared this suspicion. his announcement that professor waite was the culprit had been only a clever trick to make milly criminate herself, for he had guessed her attachment to the professor, and felt sure that, rather than let the blame rest with him, she would confess her crime. his next question showed that he was not yet fully satisfied. "miss roseveldt," he asked, "will you tell me where you obtained the money with which you paid madame celeste's bill for miss cynthia's costume the day after the robbery?" "i would rather not tell that," milly replied. "i must insist upon it." "papa called the day before, and i confessed all about the bill to him, and he forgave me, and gave me the money." "we know that he gave you the gold pieces which you placed in your purse, but these were stolen, and you were apparently penniless on the morning after the robbery." "papa drew a check for celeste for the amount of the bill, and that was in my pocket. i did not put it in the cabinet at all. then he said that it was a very sad, disgraceful affair, but he knew that i would never do so again, and he was glad i told him, and he forgave me freely, and now it was all over we would bury it in the dead sea and never let mortal man or woman know a word about it, and that is why i could not tell winnie how i had paid the debt. papa said too--what was not true--that it was partly his own fault, for keeping me so short in pocket money and leaving me free to run up large bills. and then he said that he would change his tactics and give me an allowance in cash every month, and i am not to have anything charged any more, but manage my expenses as adelaide does. and with that he gave me the gold pieces, and i told him that i wanted to give them to tib, and he said, 'very well, do what you please, but you will have nothing more for a fortnight, when i will give you your allowance for the coming month.'" we each of us drew a long breath. it all seemed so simple now that milly explained it that i wondered how we could ever have mistrusted her. winnie clasped her more tightly. there was a look of remorse in her eyes, which told how she reproached herself for having wronged her darling. mr. mudge tapped the table with his pencil thoughtfully. "i must acknowledge, miss roseveldt," he said, "that you have completely cleared professor waite. it is perfectly evident that he could not have taken the money; but the question still remains, who did? how long an interval was there, miss de witt, between the time that miss roseveldt returned to her bedroom, and your examination of the cabinet?" "i do not know exactly. i waited only until i fancied milly might be asleep, then i slipped out softly, closed the doors opening into all the bedrooms, lighted my candle, and examined the cabinet." "and when miss roseveldt left the room the money was there, and when you looked----" "it was gone." "it seems to me," said cynthia maliciously, "that winnie is placed in a very disagreeable position by these revelations. her testimony has been very contradictory and her manner from the first, to say the least, peculiar. she acknowledges that she was awake during the time that intervened between milly's visit to the safe and her own. if a thief came in it is very strange that she did not hear him." "it is strange," winnie acknowledged. "i can hardly believe it possible, but these are the facts in the case. i certainly did not take the money, as cynthia implies." "tut, tut," mr. mudge remarked sharply. "i am convinced that the thief is not a member of the amen corner. i have in turn taken up the supposition that the robbery might have been committed by each of you young ladies, beginning with miss cynthia and ending just now with miss milly, and i have proved to my own satisfaction that you are all innocent. miss winnie may have fallen asleep, and during her brief nap some one may have slipped in from the studio. professor waite had gone, but he may have left the turret door unlocked." "i heard no one mount the stairs," said milly. "true, but a sneak thief might steal up so softly as to disturb no one. a man bent on such an errand does not usually whistle opera tunes, and then again the rogue may have been in the studio during professor waite's hasty call. you told me, miss armstrong, that the professor was the only one who had a key to the turret door." "i did," adelaide replied, "but i was mistaken; polo has a duplicate key." "and who is this lawn tennis girl?" "polo, mr. mudge, not tennis. her name is polo, a contraction for pauline," said adelaide. "very extraordinary name. lawn tennis is a much more suitable game for a young lady. who is she, anyway?" "she is a model, and a very good girl. polo is above suspicion," winnie remarked authoritatively. "hum--of course," replied mr. mudge. "let me see, this base-ball must be the young lady of whom miss noakes spoke to madame as having conducted herself in a rather peculiar manner night before last, the evening of the subterranean entertainment." we all looked up in surprise, and mr. mudge continued: "madame has confided to me the fact that you young ladies were unpleasantly intruded upon by certain unknown persons, who may, or may not, have been connected with one of our well known schools. madame felt that they could not have effected their entrance and disguise without the connivance of some member of this household. this individual need not necessarily have been one of the young ladies; it may have been a servant. i have known it to be a fact that the chamber-maids at vassar have carried on flirtations with young gentlemen who supposed themselves to be in correspondence with vassar girls. now it is quite possible that your chambermaid may have heard of this frolic and have mentioned it to her admirers." "oh, no," we all exclaimed; while adelaide continued: "we never mentioned it in her presence; besides, she is as stupid and honest as she is old and homely. i would as soon suspect miss noakes." "but this lawn tennis, i beg pardon, base-ball, of whom we were just speaking, is neither stupid, nor old, nor ugly, and we know very little in regard to her honesty----" "that is so," cynthia assented, and we all turned and scowled upon her. "you tell me that she possesses a key to the turret door, and now miss noakes's testimony fits in like the pieces in a chinese puzzle. on the afternoon of your entertainment miss noakes says that a request was preferred from you to allow lawn tennis--no, croquet--to share miss vaughn's bedroom for the night. miss noakes says she felt a strange hesitancy about granting this request----" "not at all strange," winnie interrupted. "it is a hesitancy which is quite habitual in her case." mr. mudge waved his hand in a deprecatory manner and continued. "miss noakes further testifies that in the early evening, as she was sitting at her open window, the night being especially balmy for the season, she was startled by a long whistle, which was not that of the postman. as there was no light in her own room she could look out without being observed. the gas was lighted in miss vaughn's room, and though from its oblique position she could not see what passed within she could recognize any one leaning from it." [see plan of amen corner.] cynthia straightened herself up, and as it seemed to me turned a trifle pale, while mr. mudge went on. "miss noakes says that the first whistle did not appear to be noticed, and stepping on to her balcony she saw two young men, or boys, standing at the foot of the tower, looking up at miss vaughn's windows. she instantly retreated into her own room and awaited further developments. a second whistle, and some one in miss vaughn's room turned down the gas, and coming to the window gave an answering whistle. miss noakes says she could hardly credit her senses, for she has looked upon miss vaughn as a model of propriety; an instant later she observed that the girl now leaning out of the window and talking with the boys wore a dark blue tam o'shanter cap, and she comprehended that it was not miss vaughn, but lawn tennis, or cricket, or whatever her name is, who had been given permission to pass the night in miss vaughn's room. she could not hear the entire conversation, her desire to remain undiscovered keeping her well within her own room, but she distinctly heard one of the young men say, 'throw it out--i'll catch it.' the girl replied, 'here it is,' and said something about the sheets and things being on the upper landing. she added quite distinctly, 'don't come into the studio until i give the signal.' "miss noakes says she was too horrified to act promptly, as she should have done; but that a few moments later she visited the amen corner and found it deserted by all the young ladies with the exception of miss vaughn, who was studying quietly in the parlor. she asked where the others were, and was told that they were in the studio, where the procession was to form. on asking miss vaughn why she had not joined them, she replied that she intended to do so in a short time, but had been improving every moment for study. miss noakes asked for lawn tennis and was told that she had been appointed door-keeper for the evening. on intimating that she had seen her in miss vaughn's room, miss vaughn had replied that this was very possible as she had just left the room." during this relation of mr. mudge's, cynthia had turned different colors, from livid purple to greenish pallor. and had several times been on the point of replying, but the lawyer-detective had continued his narrative in a sing-song, monotonous way, as though reading it from a written deposition, and had left her no opportunity for interrupting. he now turned to her and remarked: "i repeat all this here, miss vaughn, in order to hear your side of the story." "i have nothing to say," cynthia replied sullenly. "then miss noakes's statement is substantially correct?" "i don't understand what you are driving at." cynthia flashed out passionately. "if you mean to insinuate that i threw the key out to some of the cadets, and helped disguise them, and gave them the signal when to join in the procession--why then all i have to say is that it is a very pretty story, but you will find it very hard to prove it." "not so hasty, not so hasty," replied mr. mudge. "my dear young lady, if you will reflect a moment, you will perceive that nothing of this kind has been charged against you. the question does not concern you at all, but this athletic young lady--lawn tennis." mr. mudge had become so firmly convinced in his own mind that polo's name was lawn tennis that we saw the futility of correcting him and gave up the attempt. "mr. mudge," winnie exclaimed, "we protest! cynthia, i call upon you to own up. it wasn't such a very bad frolic. you meant no particular harm. we will all sign a petition to madame asking her to let you off. don't let polo be unjustly suspected. you know you did it; own up to it like a man." but cynthia was in no mood to own up to anything like a man, or like a decent girl. she simply turned her nose several degrees higher and remained silent. "your cowardly silence will not shield you," adelaide exclaimed scornfully. "i have some letters from my brother which make me very positive that this is one of your scrapes, and i will show them to mr. mudge unless you confess instantly." "i have nothing to confess," cynthia replied in a low voice, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. mr. mudge next asked us, in a thoughtful manner, whether "lawn tennis" was connected with the institution at the time of the robbery. i replied that she was, but that i could not see any relation between that crime and the present escapade. "perhaps not," mr. mudge replied; "and then again we never can tell what apparently trifling circumstance may lead up to the great discovery. as i have previously remarked, it is more than probable that the thief having been once successful will try the same game again. then, too, if your thief happens to be a kleptomaniac, she could not refrain from pilfering. have you lost anything since that eventful night?" "nothing whatever." "and you have used the cabinet since as a depository for your funds?" "certainly," i replied. "we consider that we have used sufficient precaution in having the bolt put upon the door. the result seems to justify our confidence. to be sure, until night before last we have had no important sums to deposit." "how about night before last?" mr. mudge asked. "i had charge of the ticket money for the home that we gained by the catacomb party," i replied, "and i placed it in my division of the cabinet. there is just sixty dollars of it, and it is there now." "and was there during the night that lawn tennis slept in this apartment? and she knew it?" "yes, sir." "then that is very good evidence that she was not the thief on the previous occasion." so confident was i in our security and in polo's honesty that i unlocked the cabinet to give mr. mudge convincing proof. what was our astonishment to find my compartment again empty. the floor of the cabinet was as clean as though swept by a brush. the sixty dollars which we held in trust for the home were gone! chapter xii. the inter-scholastic games. [illustration] mr. mudge informed us that he did not intend to arrest polo immediately, but merely to have her "shadowed," which meant that all her habits and those of her friends and relatives were to be ascertained and every movement watched. "you will not hurt her feelings by letting her know that you suspect her?" milly begged, and mr. mudge assured her that such a thing was furthest from his intention, and in his turn he urged us not to allow polo to imagine that we suspected her. "we can't let her see that," winnie replied, "since we do not suspect her in the least." mr. mudge coughed. "i hope your confidence will be proved to be not misplaced," he replied; "but miss noakes does not share it, and i deem miss noakes to be a very discriminating woman." he bowed stiffly, and for that day the conference was ended. cynthia retired to her room, and shut the door with a bang. milly threw herself into winnie's arms, and winnie caressed her and cried over her in mingled happiness and remorse--joy that milly had been proved innocent, and repentance that she had ever doubted her. "oh! my darling, my darling," she sobbed; "can you ever forgive me for believing you capable of so dreadful a thing? i could not blame you if you refused to ever speak to me again." "don't feel so badly," milly pleaded. "appearances were awfully against me, and if papa had not come and helped me out just in the nick of time, i don't know what i might have been tempted to do. i have been so bad, winnie, that i am very humble. i shall never say i never could have done such a thing, for i cannot know what the temptation might have been. i am almost glad that you believed me so wicked, because it shows me that you would have stood by me even then. i am going to try to be a better girl for this experience, and worthier of your love." adelaide and i retired discretely, and talked over the new aspects of the second robbery. the trust funds must be made up between us. to help do this i subscribed the twenty dollars which winnie had given me on my birthday, and which fortunately had been placed in my portfolio before we had regained our confidence in the cabinet, and had never been transferred to my compartment. as the other girls had not suffered this time, they made up the amount, though it necessitated considerable self-denial. it took some time for milly to become accustomed to properly dividing her spending money, so that she need not come short before the date for receiving her allowance, but the practice was good for her and in the end she became an excellent manager. one peculiar circumstance in regard to this robbery was remarked by winnie--the fact that on both occasions money had only been taken from my shelf. it was true that adelaide and milly had each lost fifty dollars the first night, but not until it had been taken by milly from their hoards and placed with mine. "it would seem," said adelaide, "as if the thief had a special grudge against tib; a determination that she shall not save up enough to go to europe next year." "it can't be that," winnie replied, "for although the last sum stolen was taken from tib's compartment, it was not her money. the whole thing is very peculiar, and seems to be the work of some unreasoning agent, for this time, as the last, adelaide had some bills lying loosely in her pigeon hole in full sight, which were not touched at all. i have heard of things having been stolen by jackdaws and mice--and monkeys--and i believe there has been some monkey business here." "i heard a story when i was in boston," said adelaide. "it was told me by a member of a prominent firm of jewellers. it is the custom at the close of the day for one of the clerks to lock up all the jewelry in the safe for the night. he had done so, and was just about to leave the store when a box containing a valuable pair of diamond sleeve buttons was handed him. it was late, and as it would take some time to go over the combination which locked and unlocked the safe, he tucked the little box far under the safe and thrust some old newspapers in front of it. in the morning when he searched for it, what was his consternation to find that the sleeve buttons were gone. the box was there, but some one had opened it and abstracted the sleeve buttons. he reported the loss at once to one of the members of the firm, who reproved him for his carelessness in not unlocking the safe and placing the box where it would have been secure. then the gentlemen put their heads together to track the thief; and some one suggested that he had seen mice in the store, and this might be their work. the safe was moved, and a small hole was discovered in the base-board of the room. a carpenter was sent for and the wall opened, and there, cozily established in a nest formed of twine and nibbled paper, and other odds and ends, a family of little pink mice was discovered, and in their nest were the missing sleeve buttons. the mother mouse had evidently been attracted by the glitter of the gems, for she had taken great pains to convey them to her home. she had stored here many other curious articles: pieces of shiny tin foil, which she may have used as mirrors; bits of broken glass, and scraps of narrow, bright ribbon, intended for tying the boxes, all showing that she had an eye for decorative art. i am very sorry that it was considered best to kill her, for i believe that mouse could have been educated. now, the reason that i have told this long story is that i half suspect that this is a case of mouse, and not, as winnie says, of monkey business." winnie immediately examined the cabinet. the panelling was intact, not even worm-eaten; it fitted apparently as closely as the covering of a drum; not a crevice large enough for even a cricket to penetrate. "it is very mysterious, all the same," winnie remarked; "but i here and now vow, in the presence of these witnesses, to make this mystery mine, and to unravel it before the close of school, so surely as my name is witch winnie." from that time we spoke of the affair of the cabinet as witch winnie's mystery, and we all had faith that some way or other winnie would find the clue if mr. mudge did not. one day in may she said: "i feel as if there was something uncanny about the cabinet itself. i wonder who was its first owner. perhaps lucrezia borgia kept her poisons in it, and it is haunted by dreadful secrets of the middle ages. it may be that lorenzo de medici confided to its keeping a will, giving back to florence the city's liberties, and that this will was stolen by the magnificent's heir while the poor man lay dying. we can imagine that the ghost of the guilty man having, as mr. mudge says, been once successful, has contracted a habit of stealing from the cabinet, and comes in the wee small hours with stealthy tread to take whatever occupies the spot where once lorenzo's testament reposed." "what a romantic idea!" milly murmured. "you could make a lovely composition out of it, winnie." "good idea!" winnie exclaimed. "i will. i have got to have something for the closing exercises of school, and madame advised me to write on raphael. she said that professor waite's lectures on the italian artists ought to inspire me. some way they never have, but this old cabinet does. i shall pretend that i have found a package of letters in a secret compartment; and in this package i shall tell all the early history of raphael--which is not known to the world--his love story with maria bibbiena, and all the criticism and envy which he must have undergone before he arrived at success. it will be great fun and i shall go to work at once. no, i shall not go to see the inter-scholastic games to-morrow. i shall have a solid quiet afternoon to myself while you girls are skylarking, and i shall have to work like a house on fire on every saturday i can get to make my essay the success which i mean it shall be." from this decision we could not move her, though it greatly disappointed milly, who desired that mr. van silver should meet winnie. mrs. roseveldt had returned from the south, and had consented to chaperone the girls, mr. van silver taking us out on his handsome coach. it was a perfect day and the drive to the berkeley oval, where the games took place, was a delightful one. mr. van silver's brewster coach was a glorious affair. it was painted canary yellow. the four horses were perfectly matched roans. the grooms were in liveries of bottle-green coats with white breeches and top boots faced with yellow. mr. van silver wore a light-coloured overcoat, and the lap robe was of white broadcloth. all the brass about the harness had been burnished till it shone like gold. mrs. roseveldt and milly sat beside him on the box. mrs. roseveldt wore a paris costume of white cloth with louis xvi jacket with velvet sleeves and vest heavily embroidered in gold. a little bonnet formed of gold beads fitted her aristocratic head like a coronet. milly was bewitchingly pretty in a fawn coloured shoulder cape, and a pancake hat piled with yellow buttercups. she seemed, as adelaide said, cut out of a piece with her surroundings. adelaide and i occupied the back seat, with little breeze beside us in the place which had been intended for winnie. little breeze wore a simple spring suit and i had only one best gown--a gray cashmere; but adelaide made up for our simplicity. her dress was not very expensive, but milly's exclamation that it was "too exasperatingly, excruciatingly becoming" will give an idea of its effect. it was a white foulard, sprigged in black and caught here and there with black velvet bows; there was a vest of fluffy white chiffon, and her hat was trimmed with white marabout pompons powdered with black. the costume was her own design, executed by miss billings. she carried a cheap white silk parasol, made to look elaborate by a cover constructed from an old black lace flounce. "papa has forbidden me ever to enter celeste's rooms again," milly said to adelaide; "and i am sure if miss billings can make me look as _recherché_ as you do, she is good enough for me." "i seem fated never to meet miss winnie," mr. van silver said as he started. "she is to visit us during the summer," said mrs. roseveldt, "and you must come out to the pier and see her." "you are very good, but i am going to take my coach over to the other side this summer. my mother is visiting at the castle of the earl of cairngorm and wants me to take a lot of people for a coaching trip through the scottish highlands." "how many of our friends are going to europe in the summer," adelaide remarked. "professor waite told me he intended to return to france for a term of years, and tib here is going over to study----" "i'm afraid not," i replied doubtfully. "oh, yes you are," milly insisted; "that will all come out right." "what a lovely day for the games," mrs. roseveldt remarked. "what is your favorite school, milly? columbia, berkeley, cutler, morse? oh! yes, i remember--the cadets. but where is your badge? i see that miss armstrong and miss smith wear theirs quite conspicuously, and mr. van silver, too, has decorated his whip and the coach horn with the cadet colours." "adelaide has a brother among the cadets, which accounts for her preference," milly replied evasively; "but i don't see why i should prefer them to any other school." "why, have you forgotten," mrs. roseveldt asked, much surprised, "your old friend stacey fitz simmons is a cadet?" milly tossed her head disdainfully. she could not tell the story of the intrusion of the two boys whom we believed to be cadets, for we had promised madame not to bruit it abroad; but her reason for not wearing the cadet colours was her indignation on account of this act. she believed, or affected to believe, that one of these boys was stacey, and she had determined to punish him for the outrage. "girls," she had said, before leaving, "after the insult which our school has received from the cadets, i do not see how any of you can wear their colours." "we do not know certainly that those interlopers were cadets," adelaide replied; "and, even if they were, my brother is still a member of the school. he rides in the bicycle race and he expects to see me wear his colours." i sympathized with adelaide and made myself a badge to encourage little jim. "stacey is a friend of mine," mr. van silver asserted. "i expect to see him carry off several events to-day, and i have come out prepared to wave and cheer and bawl myself hoarse in his honour." what a charming drive it was through the park, where many of the trees and shrubs were in blossom. we passed many a merry party bound in the same direction, and several great stages laden with boys, who carried flags, tooted horns, and shook immense rattles. arrived at morris heights the sight was even still more inspiring, for every train emptied several carloads of passengers, who hastened to the grounds to be in time for the opening. as we drove in we could see that the grand stand and the long rows of seats on either side were well filled. there were at least four thousand spectators gathered to witness this athletic contest between the champions of the principal schools of the city. some of the contestants were grouped on the verandas of the pavilion waiting for their turn to take part. others were already on the field, practising the long jumps, or pacing about with "sweaters," or knit woollen blouses, over their scanty running costumes. on the grand stand and the "bleaching boards" the adherents of the different schools had collected in groups, which displayed the school colours as prominently as possible. these groups were now engaged in making as hideous an instrumental and vocal din as possible. each orchestra, if it might be called so, was led by a sort of master of discord, who called at intervals upon his constituency for cheers for the different school favorites, as, "now, boys, a loud one for harrison. one, two, three, 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! c-u-t-l-e-r, cutler!--harrison!" while the columbia grammar boys would reply, "c-o-l-u-m-b-i-a--burke!" and the berkeleys would yell forth the name of allen, who has so long covered the school with glory. buttertub was conspicuous as leader of the chorus for the cadets. he wore an immense cockade, made of sash ribbon, pinned to the front of his coat, while his hat and a great cane with a knobby handle, too large for insertion even in his wide mouth, also flaunted the school colours. our coach had hardly taken its position before stacey and jim spied it and came toward us. stacey was in running costume--"undress uniform," he called it--but he had knotted a rose-coloured russian bath gown about him to keep him from taking cold. "doesn't he look exactly like a girl?" milly remarked as he approached, and then she gave him a curt little bow and turned with great _empressement_ to professor waite, who had come out on horseback, and who now rode up, hoping for a word with adelaide. but jim had clambered up on the wheel on the other side of the coach, and adelaide was glad of this excuse to turn her back squarely on professor waite, who felt the avoidance and would have turned instantly away had not milly insisted on introducing him to her mother. meantime stacey stood quite neglected. i longed to speak to him, but as i had never been introduced, did not dare to do so. just as a hot flush was sweeping up toward his forehead, mr. van silver, whose attention had been taken up with his horses, noticed him. "hello, stacey," he cried, "make that little chap get down off that wheel, will you? these horses are pretty nervous, even with the grooms at their heads. they are not used to all this racket. see how they are pawing up the driveway." stacey laughed. "jim is a splendid wheel-man," he said. "you needn't be afraid for him. but aren't you going to get down? you can see ever so much better from the grand stand. did the girls get the tickets that jim and i sent?" adelaide acknowledged the receipt of the tickets, and spoke so pleasantly that stacey seemed a little comforted. one of the grooms set up the steps and we all climbed down, stacey assisting. when it was milly's turn he spoke to her very earnestly in a low tone, but milly did not reply. mr. van silver called to us to keep together, and led the way to seats near the centre of the stand; and stacey retired to the field, much displeased and puzzled by milly's conduct. professor waite looked after us longingly. he did not dare to leave his horse, and he was disappointed that we had left the coach, near which he had intended to hover. "how very provokingly things do arrange themselves," i thought to myself. "cupid must certainly be playing a game of cross purposes with us. here is stacey longing for a kind word from milly, and milly breaking her little heart for professor waite, and professor waite desperate because of adelaide's indifference, adelaide trying politely to entertain mr. van silver, who, in his turn, is provoked because winnie has not come; and i, who would be very grateful if any of these gentlemen would be agreeable to me--left quite out in the cold, without the shadow of an admirer." i soon forgot this circumstance, however, in my interest in the games. "there is the cup," said mr. van silver, "on that table with the gold and silver medals, berkeley holds it now. see, it is draped with blue and gold ribbons, the berkeley colours. the school which wins the greatest number of points will take it after the games are over. this is the first heat of the hundred yard dash. now we shall see some fun. it's a foregone conclusion that allen of berkeley will win. he does not enter for long distances, but as a sprinter he has no equal in the other schools." very easily and handsomely allen won this race and several others. then we admired the light and graceful way in which an agile youth took the hurdles, and the professional style of two walkers, and after this my glance wandered for a time over the spectators. cynthia vaughn and rosario ricos had come out in the cars, chaperoned by miss noakes. they did not desire her company, and it was a great bore to her to come, but madame would not let the girls come unattended. i was much surprised presently to see a gentleman make his way to her side. i nudged adelaide, exclaiming under my breath, "only see, miss noakes actually has an admirer!" adelaide lifted her opera-glass. "tib," she ejaculated, "it is mr. mudge. you know he said she was a most discriminating woman. see, she is so much entertained that she does not notice that ricos and buttertub have made their way to cynthia and are talking with her." "mr. mudge notices them, though," i replied; "see how sharply he eyes them." mr. mudge came to us presently, and chatted pleasantly in regard to the games. "i did not know that you were so much interested in athletics," i remarked. "a lawyer and a detective must be interested in everything which interests his clients," he replied. "did you come out alone?" i asked, more for the purpose of making conversation than from any desire to know. "no; i had very charming company," he replied. "miss noakes?" adelaide asked mischievously. mr. mudge looked at her with stern reproof in his gray eyes. "lawn tennis," he remarked snappishly. "i came out with that young lady, though she is quite unconscious of my escort." "what! is polo here?" i asked. "one of the most interested spectators. her eyes are nearly popping out of her head with every strain of the muscles of that tug-of-war team." the team to which mr. mudge referred was now pulling, and was made up of members of the cadet school. they were finely developed young men, and in their leather apron-like protections, with their muscular arms and glowing faces, looked like blacksmiths' apprentices. they lay on the cleats, pulling at the great rope, and the cords swelled in their necks, as from time to time they ground their teeth, and threw their heads back with a jerk, which told how intense was the strain. the trainer of the team, a wiry, eager young man, in a jockey cap, stood with his hands on his knees, watching the white mark on the rope, which the team were very slowly working toward their side. "that is a professional trainer," said mr. van silver. "he has coached the cadets, and is intensely interested in their success." at intervals, the captain and anchor of the cadets uttered exclamations of encouragement to his team, or vituperated at the other. "we're in it, boys, we're in it," he shrieked, as he gave another twist to the rope. "steady, hold your own, and you'll pull 'em right off the cleats. heave, now--heave! oh! those fellows don't know how to pull," he cried again; "they're weakening! see how purple they're getting in the face. hold on another two seconds, and you'll pull them into the middle of next week." "what a noisy fellow!" adelaide remarked. "why doesn't colonel grey shut him up?" "not he," replied mr. van silver. "see how his ribald and irreverent remarks put new courage into the team. i should not wonder if they won back that three inches which the other side pulled away from them during the first minute. time's up. which side won?" for the announcement of the judges was drowned in a roar of the cadet claque, led by buttertub, who had struggled back to his place in time to head the 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! stacey had been looking on close to the rope, and he now shouted across to mr. van silver, "the cadets have it by half an inch!" and waving the skirts of his bath-robe with great _abandon_, he threw himself into the arms of the little man in the jockey cap, and hugged him enthusiastically. "now, notice your friend," mr. mudge said to me, in a low voice; and, looking in the direction in which he pointed, i saw polo standing on one of the front seats of the bleaching boards, waving her tam o'shanter, and shouting as wildly as the cadets. "i did not know that polo knew any of the boys who go to that school," i said, much puzzled. "i don't believe she does," mr. mudge replied, "but terwilliger, the trainer there, is her brother, and he hasn't the best record that was ever known. he was a jockey in england, but outgrew that profession, and has been a little of everything since. he came over to this country on the earl of cairngorm's yacht. he was associated shortly after with a noted pickpocket called limber tim, and some months since was sent with him to the island to serve a term of imprisonment for participation in a confidence swindle. all of which, you see, has a rather damaging look for your friend lawn tennis. what i would like to know is, how he ever came to get the position of trainer at the cadet school." "the boys seem to be very fond of him," i ventured. "naturally; it was his training which has just won the school this event. did you notice that young swell, fitz simmons, give him a greenback as soon as the victory was assured. i have not been able to discover yet whether terwilliger has renewed his friendship with limber tim. if he has, it is more than likely that they are the two unknown boys who introduced themselves into your school on the night of your party." "has adelaide shown you her brother's letters?" i asked. "we think that the young man who leads the applause and rosario ricos's brother are the scamps." "that supposition might be entertained provided it had been only a boyish caper; but the two robberies can hardly be attributed to these young gentlemen." i groaned. so our poor polo was beginning to be "shadowed." she had told us with such delight, a few days before this, that she had found her brother. he had been away from new york for two years, but had left no stone unturned on his return in his search for them. he had a kind friend who had secured him a fine position, and she was so happy. the good news had nearly cured her mother. i was drawn from my reverie by adelaide's announcement that the time had come for the one mile safety bicycle race for boys under fifteen, in which jim was to take part. this was the great event of the day for us. there were two entries from the cadet school--jim and ricos. "ricos is certainly over fifteen," i said to adelaide. "he is no taller than jim," adelaide replied doubtfully. "he is a little fellow," i admitted, "but those cubans are all stunted, weazened little monkeys." adelaide smiled faintly, but watched the preparations for the race with straining eyes. so did all the cadets. there were many entries from the other schools, but they were confident in the prowess of their own champions. the only question was which would be successful. "come boys," shouted buttertub, "let's give them a rousing send-off. whoop her up for ricos! one, two, three,--'rah! 'rah! 'rah! _ricos!_" a red-haired boy, whom i at once recognized as the woodpecker, shouted from the field, "cheer armstrong, too!" but buttertub either did not hear him, or wilfully disregarded his request. stacey's rose-coloured bath-gown was conspicuous, fluttering here and there; he got a bottle of alcohol from the trainer and was presently seen kneeling on the track, vigorously rubbing down jim's legs. he mounted him carefully, and scrutinized every part of his little safety bicycle, with the most zealous care. the starter gave jim the inside of the track, which was an advantage loudly contested by ricos. "no use kicking," stacey remarked. "you've had one medal for cycling, and jim is the youngest chap entered. i should like to know now just when you passed your fourteenth birthday." ricos was silent and sullenly took his place. jim turned and waved his hand to his sister. stacey was holding his bicycle, ready to push it off at the signal. how jaunty and gay he looked in his dark blue jersey, with the silver c on his breast, and with the wind blowing his blonde hair from his eager face. "he's a jolly little chap," mr. van silver remarked admiringly; and milly murmured, "i think he's perfectly sweet." adelaide said nothing, but the tears came to her eyes. i think that just for that moment she was perfectly happy. her mood was contagious. the glamour of spring was in the hazy atmosphere. the plum trees were blossoming white out beyond the track, and the blue of bursting buds and the tender green of the earliest leafage spread itself in a shimmering haze over all the sweet spring landscape. it was a good world, after all. at the report of the starter's pistol, all of the boys were off in line, but they had hardly made half a lap when two, jim and ricos, shot from the rank and sped on in advance of the others. "'rah! 'rah! for the cadets!" shouted buttertub. "'rah! for armstrong!" yelled the woodpecker. "he's second!" shouted buttertub. "he's first!" shrieked the woodpecker, "and gaining every instant. 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" "he can't keep it! ricos won't let himself be beaten as easily as that," replied buttertub. "see him bend to it. there, he's up with him! they're even! he's trying to get the inside! 'rah! 'rah!" "look out! there'll be a smash-up!" cried the trainer. "keep to the right, you lummox." "hi!" cried mr. van silver, springing to his feet, "that's a bad tumble." "ricos fouled him on purpose," cried the woodpecker. a groan ran round the stand. "they are both down--no, only one." "which one?" cried adelaide. "i don't know," i replied, but i held her down firmly on my shoulder, for i saw a rose-coloured bath-robe skimming across the field like a pink comet, and i knew that stacey would not have manifested such concern if an accident had happened to ricos. "armstrong's up!" yelled the trainer in the jockey cap. "he's mounting again!" "he is!" ejaculated mr. van silver. "by george! jim's the pluckiest little fellow i ever saw in my life!" for an instant the spectators went crazy with cheers, then they quieted down and watched. ricos swept by, he had gained the first lap easily; but only a faint cheer greeted him. it was thought by many that the collision was intended, and all eyes were fixed on the little figure in the blue jersey, now the very last in the race, but who, having been assisted to his seat by the rose-coloured bath-robe, was now wheeling manfully along in the rear. adelaide opened her eyes and waved her handkerchief as he passed the stand. "go it, jim; go it! you've got the sand," yelled the woodpecker; while stacey, the bath-robe cast aside, came forging up, running at jim's side; in his friendly anxiety to see that all was right, unconsciously breaking his own previous record as a sprinter. if he had been timed just then even his most enthusiastic friends would have been astonished. but, convinced that jim was gaining, he contented himself with cutting across the oval to note his place at the end of the second lap. ricos had held his own, and passed the stand well ahead of all the other competitors; but jim was making up and had distanced two of the laggards, his legs propelling like the driving-bars of an engine. "he's gaining!" cried mr. van silver. "i should not wonder if he caught up with the other fellow; for, see, he has two more rounds to make." when he passed the stand for the third time and the starter rang the bell which announced that this was the last lap, jim had passed all the others and was following ricos at a distance of only a few rods. he looked up toward us with a pitiful smile on his wan face. "cheer, boys, cheer!" cried the woodpecker, "you don't applaud half enough. whoop 'em up, tub! hurry up, jim! hurry up! go it for all you're worth!" "take it easy--easy!" roared stacey, who saw that the boy was straining every nerve. "take your time, jim. you've got him, now. take--your--time!" the spectators were nearly all silent. the boys belonging to other schools, seeing that there was no hope for their own champions, had ceased to applaud and were now deeply interested in the two cadets. rosario ricos had fainted, and miss noakes was calling shrilly for water, but even mr. mudge was so much absorbed in the contest that he paid no attention to her appeal. people near me held their breath in suspense. it reminded me of gérome's picture of the chariot race, and the fall had been not unlike the one described in "ben hur." "why is it," whispered adelaide, "that jim has tied a crimson ribbon just below his knee? red is not a cadet colour; see it flutter against his leg." i saw the crimson streak to which she referred; but a swift intimation flashed upon me that this was no ribbon, but a little rill of blood flowing from a gash cut by ricos's wheel. i contrasted jim's face, deadly pale, with that of ricos's, flushed to a dark purple, and wondered whether his strength would hold out to the end. i need have had no fear, jim was clear grit through and through. as he neared the goal he set his teeth and bent nearly flat, throwing no glance this time in our direction, but with graze fixed straight before him, he worked the pedals with wonderful velocity and swooped forward, like a little hawk, far beyond ricos, and past the finish, on, on, as though the momentum of that final spurt would never be exhausted. the thunder of applause which burst forth at this exploit was something which i had never heard equalled. the spectators all stood upon the benches, the ladies waving their handkerchiefs, hats, and scarfs, crying and laughing hysterically. the men yelled and shouted themselves hoarse. every kazoo, tin horn, rattle, and other instrument of torture sounded forth its discordant triumph. the boys stamped and hooted. the cadets, to a man, acted like raving maniacs. even buttertub, who had no love for jim, led his gang with "bully for armstrong!" "hi--yi--whoop, three times three and a tiger!" "hooray! hooray! hooray! what's the matter with armstrong? he's all right!" "'rah, 'rah, 'rah--ta-tara-da boomerum a boom-er-um. boom, boom, bang!" but jim was not all right. he heard the great roar of applause, but it sounded far, far away to his numbing senses. then all the light went out of the sweet spring landscape, and he toppled over, bicycle and all, into stacey's friendly arms. no one was surprised to see him stretched upon the grass wrapped in the rose-coloured bath-gown, for it was a common thing for victors to faint just as they secured their laurels. "he'll be up in a minute; stacey is rubbing his feet," mr. van silver asserted reassuringly. "good-hearted fellow, that stacey. he's devoted to your brother." but adelaide watched him anxiously, until a crowd of boys closed around him and hid him from her view. how terribly long he lay there--could anything serious be the matter? suddenly polo's brother came running toward us. "is there any doctor on the grand stand!" he shouted; "if so, he's wanted _immejiently_." adelaide sprang to her feet and clambered down the ranks of seats. i followed. i have no clear idea of how we reached the ground, but we hurried on together, the boys making way for us as we came. they had an instinctive feeling that this handsome, imperious girl, with the white face, had a right to pass. a panting boy, lying with his face to the ground, looked up and asked, "what's up?" "they can't bring armstrong to," replied the trainer. "looks like he is going to die." "glad of it," retorted the other, turning his face to the sod again. it was ricos, deserted by every one, unnoticed in his defeat. but through his humiliation and resentment there presently shot a pang of conscience. "what if jim should die? would i not be a murderer?" and with pallid face he staggered to his feet and tottered after us. the crowd around jim opened for us. there he lay with his head on stacey's lap. a portly surgeon, with a river of watch-chain flowing around his vest, knelt at jim's side examining the wound below his knee. colonel grey, the principal of the school, a retired army officer, and a tall soldierly man, bent his white head over the doctor and inquired into jim's condition. "the wound is not a serious one, only a minor artery cut, which i have just tied. the only question is whether the little fellow has lost too much blood." "oh, my darling brother!" adelaide cried. "for heaven's sake, control yourself, my dear miss armstrong!" exclaimed colonel grey. he realized the importance of not exciting jim, and he loved the boy tenderly. he offered his arm to adelaide now, while four of the cadets lifted jim and bore him very gently to the piazza of the pavilion. "to think," said the colonel, "that i was just congratulating myself on the number of points he was winning for the school. why, i would rather the school had not gained a single point than have had this happen." "darn the games," muttered stacey, switching his bath-robe about savagely. when we reached the piazza and jim had been stretched on a bench, his eyes opened feebly. he recognized adelaide fanning him and smiled. "they are calling the mile run," said the trainer. "you entered for that, mr. fitz simmons. they say you are sure of winning the race, and if you do you'll gain the cup for the school." "confound the race!" ejaculated stacey. "do you suppose i am going to leave jim in this condition?" "i cannot ask it, my boy," said the colonel. but jim's forehead furrowed slightly, and he said very feebly: "go, stacey; don't--let the school--lose the cup." "go!" cried adelaide. "he wishes it." and stacey strode out to the track. milly told me afterward that she was greatly surprised, and not a little indignant, to see him take his place with the runners, who were mustering just in front of us. "how's armstrong?" mr. van silver called to him. stacey came nearer. "badly hurt, i'm afraid," he replied. "then i think it is very heartless in you to run," milly exclaimed. it was the only thing she had said to him that day. he flushed violently. "jim begged me to do so," he said, "or else you may be sure that i would not be here." the race was called, and stacey threw himself into the "set," his chin protruding with bull-dog determination, but milly's thoughtless remark had taken all of the spirit out of him. "he was the very last to get off," said the trainer. "he's running in awful bad form, too. fifth from the front. what's he thinking of to let harrison pass him?" around they came, and stacey looked appealingly to milly, but with nose turned in the air, she was waving the morse colours, snatched from a girl sitting near her, and applauding the morse champion, emerson. the sight stung him. he would show her that he was a better runner than the boy she had selected as her favorite, and he put forth every energy, and gained rapidly. "i told 'em," said the trainer oracularly, "that fitz simmons would wake up, and sprint further on. _he_ wasn't running this first lap. he ain't a-running now, he's just taking it easy, to show us some tall running toward the finish, when he'll have it all to himself." the cadets evidently thought so too, and stacey's own drum corps, who had brought out their drums on the top of a stage in expectation of this event, beat an encouraging charge as he came around for the second time. stacey smiled as he recognized the familiar: boom a tid-e-ra-da boom a diddle dee, boom a tid-e-ra-da boom! he turned for an instant, waved his hand to the boys, and then buckled down to his very best effort. "it's one in a million if any civilian his figure and form can surpass," hummed mr. van silver. "how's that for the cup?" shouted buttertub, who forgot personal animosities in the school triumph. he flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and yelled across to the drum corps, "who's fitz simmons?" it was a well-known school cry and the boys on the stage responded lustily: "first in peace, first in war; he'll be there again, he's been there before; _first in the hearts of his own drum corps_; that's fitz simmons!" stacey was leading--only a little way now to the finish. he said to himself, "now's the time to sprint." how strange that his muscles would _not_ obey the command telegraphed to them by his brain. strain every nerve as he did, he could not increase the pace. emerson, the morse flyer, shot by him with his magnificent stride, as fresh and unwearied in this final burst of speed as milton's conception of a young archangel. stacey staggered on, but the drum corps was suddenly silent, and there was no shout as he passed the cadet contingent. they and he knew that the contest was now hopeless. he did not look up at milly. he knew, without looking, that she was applauding his rival, who had won the race and was now being borne off the field on the shoulders of his rejoicing comrades, amidst their delirious cheers. stacey finished the course, then stalked moodily a little distance and sat down upon the grass, with his forehead resting on his knees. his disappointment was very bitter. the woodpecker, who had not run in this race, came up to stacey with his bath-gown, which he threw thoughtfully about the exhausted runner. "played out, are you, stacey?" he asked kindly. "well, i don't wonder; you tired yourself out keeping up with armstrong in the bicycle race. you made staving good time then, but you'd ought to have saved yourself and put in the licks now, old chap. never mind, we all know what your record has been." "i don't care beans for my own record," groaned stacey, "but i've lost the school the cup, and i can never look the fellows in the face again." chapter xiii. polo is shadowed. [illustration] polo ran up and with her was her brother, and mrs. roseveldt left her seat on the stand, as soon as the mile run was decided, and joined us as we stood around jim. she was a woman of kindly impulses in spite of her fondness for fashionable life. "you must let me have the boy conveyed to my house," she said to colonel grey. "his father and mother are abroad, and you have no conveniences at the 'barracks' for sickness." "oh, thank you, mrs. roseveldt," adelaide murmured, "and will you let me come too and nurse him?" "you had better not sacrifice your studies," mrs. roseveldt replied kindly. "we will have a trained nurse and you shall come and sit with him for a time every afternoon. the hospitalities of my house are just now taxed by company. i shall have to give jim milly's old room and put a cot in my dressing-room for the nurse." "but my studies are of no consequence whatever in comparison with jim," adelaide pleaded; "and the cot in the dressing-room will do finely for me. please let me be the nurse, mrs. roseveldt." mrs. roseveldt, seeing how much in earnest adelaide was, turned to the physician and asked, "doctor, do you think that an untrained girl like miss adelaide, with all the good intentions in the world, is capable of nursing your patient?" "perfectly," the physician replied. "i am assured now that the boy will recover. the artery cut was an unimportant one, but the gash just missed the tibialis; he has had a very fortunate escape. all he needs now is rest, and careful attendance, to recuperate. i have no doubt that his sister's society would enliven and benefit him far more than that of a stranger." "how shall i get him to my home?" mrs. roseveldt asked. "he is hardly able to ride on the coach." "some one must go to the station and telegraph for an ambulance," said the physician. "i will undertake that service. i have a good horse here," volunteered professor waite, who had hurried to the pavilion as soon as he saw that adelaide was in trouble. no one had noticed him up to this time, but adelaide now accepted his offer very gratefully. "anything that i can do for you, miss armstrong----" professor waite replied; but adelaide was not listening to him, and he left his remark unfinished. "if we can do nothing further here," said mrs. roseveldt, "i will ask mr. van silver to take us home at once. i would like to order some preparations for the reception of my little guest." "if you please, mrs. roseveldt," said adelaide. "i would rather wait for the ambulance and ride down with jim." "i will take charge of miss armstrong and her brother until the arrival of the ambulance," said colonel grey. and so adelaide was left. mrs. roseveldt collected her party and mr. van silver gathered up the reins; but before we started milly noticed that miss noakes was fanning rosario ricos, who had only partially recovered from her fainting fit, and that the poor woman looked dejected and puzzled. "oh, mr. van silver," said milly, "won't you invite rosario to take adelaide's place? she doesn't look able to go back in the cars." "anything you please, miss milly," mr. van silver replied; and milly was down from her seat in a moment, miss noakes accepting the offer most joyfully. stacey came up just as we were leaving. he made no attempt to speak to milly, but asked mrs. roseveldt if he might call on jim occasionally. "my house is always open to you, stacey," mrs. roseveldt replied kindly, and stacey thanked her and assisted rosario to climb up beside her. "aren't you going to compete for the high jump?" asked mr. van silver. stacey shook his head. "that accident took all the starch out of you, didn't it?" mr. van silver continued. "well, i don't wonder; a nervous shock like that makes a fellow as weak as a rag. never mind, stacey, we'll hear from you next year at harvard. i shouldn't wonder if you got on the 'varsity crew." on our way home, mrs. roseveldt condoled with rosario. "i am sorry for your brother's disappointment," she said; "though we were all interested in adelaide's brother. it is the great pity in these contests that every one cannot win." "it was not him to lose the race what troubled me," said rosario. "it was that he to hurt little jim armstrong, and some so bad boys near by to me did say he to do it upon purpose. they called him one 'chump' and 'mucker.' i know not what these words to mean, but i think that they are not of compliment." we assured her that we did not believe it possible that her brother had intentionally hurt jim, and she was somewhat comforted. "fabrique is one little wild," she said, "and his temper is not of the angels, but he could not be so bad." "who was that old gentleman who came and spoke to you during the games?" mr. van silver asked of me. "he is madame's lawyer," i replied. "we see him sometimes at the school." "didn't i hear him mention the earl of cairngorm?" "did he? oh, yes! i remember, he said that the earl of cairngorm brought polo's brother to this country on his yacht." "he must mean terwilliger, the ex-jockey and cabin-boy, now trainer at the cadet school." "exactly. do you know him?" "rather. i got him his present position. if it had not been for me i don't think colonel grey would have engaged him." "i'm so glad," i cried, "if you can vouch for his character. you see----" and then i hesitated, bound by madame's orders not to mention our trouble. "what interests you particularly in terwilliger?" asked mr. van silver. "he is polo's brother, for one thing." "and polo is the young lady that miss milly was lunching so sumptuously on turtle-soup and ice-cream the afternoon i saw you at sherry's? i wanted to inquire whether that large family of starving children were still subsisting on macaroons." "mr. van silver, you are just as mean as you can be," milly pouted. "oh, no! you have yet to learn my capabilities in that direction. i am glad to know that your _protégé_ is a sister of my favorite, for i like terwilliger, and i think he has had a harder time than he deserves. there is one portion of his history that i could have testified to if i had been in the city and possibly have saved his being sent unjustly to prison, so i feel that i owe it to him to do him any kindness that i can." "what was it, mr. van silver?" i asked eagerly. "oh! it's my secret; and as it is too late to help terwilliger now, i shan't confess." "perhaps it is not too late to help him," i exclaimed. "mr. van silver, i can't tell you now, but mr. mudge will explain everything, and when i send him to you will you please tell him all you can in terwilliger's favor. indeed, he never needed your friendship more." "i'm there," mr. van silver replied; "and in return what will you do for me?" "winnie is writing a composition on the life of raphael. i will copy it and send it to you," said milly. mr. van silver made a wry face; he had not a very favorable opinion of school-girl compositions. "i would rather see the young lady herself," he replied; "but i don't believe there is any witch winnie. she is a will-o'-the-wisp, margery daw sort of girl." "she is thoroughly real, i do assure you." "what does she look like? how does she dress?" "well, out of doors she likes to wear a boy's jockey cap of white cloth and a jaunty little jacket, and i regret to say that she is not unfrequently seen with her hands in its pockets, and her elbows making aggressive angles." "and, i presume, she also wears stiffly-laundried shirt waists, with men's ties, and divided skirts, and her hair is short and parted on the side, and she rides a bicycle. i know the type--the young lady who affects the masculine in her attire." "she has just the loveliest long hair in the world, and her skirts are not divided, and she doesn't ride a bicycle, nor wear shirt waists, at least not horrid, starched, manny ones. she likes the soft, washable silk kind; and she is a great deal more lady-like than you are, and lovely, and just splendid; so there!" mr. van silver chuckled; he liked to tease milly. adelaide remained at mrs. roseveldt's for two weeks. jim did not gain as fast as the physician had expected. the nervous shock and the great strain of the race after the accident had been more than the boy's slight physique could well endure. adelaide read to him, and played endless games of halma and backgammon, and discussed plans for the summer, or told him of the people in her tenement, in whom jim was even more interested, if that were possible, than adelaide herself. polo called and brought a bouquet, for which she had paid seven cents on fourteenth street. jim was glad to meet polo when he knew that she was terwilliger's sister, for the trainer had been especially proud of jim, and had given him many points on bicycling. one day when polo was present, jim suddenly asked adelaide, "say, sister, did the boys really go to your cat-combing party?" "i don't know," adelaide replied. "there were two suspicious characters there, but we never found out who they were." "they was boys," polo insisted; "and one of 'em was fat, and trod on my toe, and one of 'em was little, and smelled of cigarettes." "if i was only back at school," jim replied, a little fretfully, "i'd find out for you, fast enough, whether it was buttertub and ricos. but what can a fellow do penned up here?" "never mind, jim," adelaide replied soothingly. "the truth will all come out at last." polo's great eyes snapped. "albert edward could find out," she said. "the boys tell him lots of things." adelaide did not tell polo that her brother's testimony would count for little, as he was himself suspected, and the girl went away determined to assist in unravelling the mystery. stacey called frequently and adelaide could but admire his patience with the whims of the sick boy. jim asked him to try to find out whether buttertub and ricos were the intruders on our catacomb party, and this was one of the very few requests which jim made that stacey refused. "i don't want to have anything to do with those fellows," he said, "and you know i never could act the spy." "i have been thinking," stacey said, after adelaide had told him polo's history and the needs of the home, "that we boys might get up some sort of an athletic entertainment in behalf of the home of the elder brother. the cadets all like terwilliger, and if they knew that his little brother and sister were supported by the home, they would all chip in willingly." "terwilliger has such a good salary," adelaide replied, "that polo tells me they intend, as soon as their mother is able to leave the hospital, to take the children from the home, rent an apartment in my tenement, and set up housekeeping for themselves. but, if the terwilligers do not need it, you may be sure there will always be poor children enough who do. and something might happen, terwilliger might lose his place at your gymnasium, and not be able to support his brother and sister, after all." adelaide was thinking uneasily as she spoke of the cloud which shadowed polo and her brother. what if it should be proved that the ex-convict had committed the two robberies in the amen corner with the assistance of his sister. "oh, terwilliger won't lose his situation," stacey remarked confidently. "colonel grey likes him, and so do all the fellows. he's up on every kind of athletics; knows all the english ways of doing things, for he has been a jockey at the ascot races and a coach to the cambridge crew. he's so good-natured too; doesn't mind helping fellows outside of hours. he goes out rowing with me every wednesday night in a two-oared gig on the harlem." "were you rowing with him on the th?" adelaide inquired eagerly, for this was the night of the catacomb party. "yes," stacey laughed, "and we were late, and i got a special blowing up for it, too. you see, they lock the door at ten, and i had to ring the janitor up, and he was raving, for he had already been disturbed to let ricos and buttertub in, and he was in no mood to pass it over. he reported us all to colonel grey, who gave us order marks for it." "ah!" thought adelaide, "this is encouraging. buttertub and ricos were out late on the night of our party, and stacey can prove an alibi for terwilliger. i shall report all this to mr. mudge." jim returned persistently to the idea of the entertainment for the home of the elder brother. "i wish you would see to it, stacey. what are the boys doing now?" "tennis, and base-ball. you ought to see woodpecker; he is going to be our tennis champion; he can make the neatest underhand cut. he's simply great." "any better than the club down at the pier?" jim asked. "what! the sand-flies? they can't hold a candle to us." "it would be nice to have the cadets play the sand-flies," jim suggested. "colonel grey would give the tennis club a field-day if you asked him, and the excursion to the pier by boat would be lovely. mrs. roseveldt says she's going to open her cottage earlier than usual this year, and she will get the sand-flies interested. say, is it a go?" stacey lashed his boots lightly with his riding-whip; for he was on his way to the park for a ride. "we couldn't make a success of the affair without miss milly's help," he said, "and after the way she treated me at the games i'll never ask another favor of her--never." jim was much distressed. "that tournament scheme was such a good one," he said. "the sand-flies are already interested in the home of the elder brother, and we could make a big affair of it and rake in lots of money for the home. i mean to talk with mrs. roseveldt about it, any way." "all right," stacey replied as he rose to take his leave; "so long as you don't talk with miss milly. she would think it a put-up job between us." "now it was real vexatious in stacey to say that," jim remarked, after his friend had left. "i meant to have it out with miss milly the next time i saw her. won't you wrestle with her, adelaide?" "i'm afraid it's of no use," adelaide replied, but jim would not give up the idea so easily. he talked it over with mrs. roseveldt, who approved of the tennis tournament. it would be just the thing with which to open the season. the cadet team would be a great attraction. she would intercede with colonel grey to allow them to remain several days. "it must take place early in june," she said, "just after milly's commencement exercises, and while adelaide and you are visiting us, before your father and mother return and take you away. i will drop a line to milly that i want her to come home for my last reception this season, and i'll invite stacey to talk it over." jim was afraid that milly might not be inclined to receive stacey's proposal with favor, and he accordingly wrote her a long and labored epistle, urging her, for the sake of the home of the elder brother, to bury the war hatchet. jim's intentions were better than his spelling, which was even worse than milly's, and his letter amused her very much. one phrase struck her as especially diverting: "stacey says you treated him worse than a niger." jim had spelled the word with an economy of g's, and a capital letter, which suggested visions of darkest africa. milly laughed till she cried. "perhaps i have been impolite to him," she thought. milly had a horror of being discourteous, and she wrote jim that if stacey would not be "soft," she would be nice to him for the sake of the home of the elder brother. jim considered this quite a triumph, and showed the letter to stacey on the occasion of his next visit. stacey did not look as pleased as jim had expected. "catch me being soft with her," he muttered. "i'll show miss milly how much i care for her airs. by the way, jim, we are to have two invitations each to give away for the prize essays and declamations at the close of school. i intend to invite miss winnie de witt and miss vaughn. i thought i would mention it, as it might influence your invitations." jim opened his eyes aghast at what he heard. "you don't mean to say that you are not going to send miss milly one of your tickets?" "yes, i do." "and you are going to invite that hateful, horrid vaughn girl?" "i heard buttertub boast that he was going to invite her, and i thought it would be rather a pleasant thing for him to receive his ticket back again with the information that as she had already accepted mine she had no need for it." jim could hardly believe his ears. "well, of all things," he said. "you shan't do it, stacey; you shan't do it! i'll invite miss milly, with sister, if you don't want to, but it's a downright insult to fill her place with such a pimply faced, common, loud----" "i do not see that it is the young lady's fault if she has a _humorous disposition_, and as for her being loud----" "you said yourself that you could hear her hat at the battery if she was walking in central park. sister says she toadies fearfully, and she flirted like a silly at the games, and at the drill. i think you must be hard up to ask her." stacey coloured, but was too proud to back down, and he left jim in tears. poor little fellow, as he expressed it, it seemed as if all the sticks which he tried to stand up straight were determined to fall down. he could see that something was wrong with his hero, for stacey's disappointment at the games had cut deeply, and the boy was on the verge of falling into a dangerous state of "don't care." when jim asked him what subject he intended to choose for his essay, stacey said that he had about decided not to compete. the subject must be connected with greek history or life, and he despised the whole business, and the honour wasn't worth the trouble. adelaide took stacey in hand and suggested a subject, in which he manifested some interest, but all this worried jim and kept him from recovery. adelaide watched him anxiously. she had at first thought it best not to notify her parents of jim's accident, fearing to spoil their tour; but as she felt certain that he was not improving she sent a cablegram, and received an answering one stating that they would sail for america at once. adelaide watched eagerly for their coming. jim pined for his mother, and one day, to give her little invalid something pleasant to look forward to, adelaide told him that their parents were on the way home. the news did him more good than all the physician's tonics. he brightened every day and talked of his mother incessantly. once it seemed to occur to him that his delight was a poor return for adelaide's care, and he asked her anxiously, "you don't mind, do you, sister, that i am so glad mother is coming? you are the very best sister in all the world, but then you are not quite mother. you never can know just what she was to me when we were so very poor." "of course, i am not jealous, dear jim," adelaide replied. "i can well understand that you and mother are bound together even more closely than most mothers and sons, by that long fight together with poverty. i only wish that i had been with you to help you bear it. but then i do not know what father would have done. he suffered so much while you were lost to us, that if i had not been there to live for i think he would have died or have gone insane." "i don't wonder that father loves you so much and is so proud of you, sister. i am very glad you were not with us when we were so very wretched. you ought not to know what it is to be poor, adelaide. you ought to be a queen." "i am a queen now, jim, and i think i do know what it is to be poor. when you told me all your bitter experiences, i felt them as keenly, it seemed to me, as if i had passed through them myself. i believe that god sent us this intimate knowledge of how the poor suffer in order that we might sympathize with and help them." then adelaide told him of the tenement and described each of the families. some of them jim had known in that other life which has been related in a former volume, and he inquired eagerly for the inventor, stephen trimble, and for the rumples, and others. adelaide told him, too, of the two turtle-doves, and of the sad death of miss cohens, and how the terwilligers were soon to be established in one of the best suites. this last information pleased jim very much. "i like terwilliger," he said. "he is so funny; he drops all his h's, and calls everything 'bloomin'.' buttertub is a 'bloomin' fool,' and stacey is a 'bloomin' swell,' and when i got hurt he said it was a 'bloomin' shame,' and ricos was a 'bloomin' cad,' and the fellows ought to have made a 'bloomin' row' about it." that evening it happened that mrs. roseveldt was to give a _musicale_, and as jim was feeling very bright, adelaide had consented to take part. she was a creditable performer upon the violin, and had decided upon a romance by rubenstein. she came to the school early in the afternoon for her music, and, to give her more of a visit with us, mrs. roseveldt had suggested that she should remain until after dinner, promising to send the carriage for her. stacey was expected to call that afternoon and would keep jim from being lonely. we were all delighted to have adelaide with us once more, for we had missed her greatly. i was painting in the studio, and professor waite had just told me that it was all for the best that i could not probably go to europe in vacation. "you are not ready for it," he said. "you will profit far more by european instruction after a year of thorough training in the art students' league. i would advise you to attend it next winter. our disappointments are often blessings in disguise. providence keeps the things for which we are not prepared, saved on an upper shelf for us until we deserve them." as he said this, a joyful hub-bub rang out in the amen corner, led by a wild, comanche shriek from polo, who happened to be in the corridor: "miss adelaide's come! glory! oh, glory!" professor waite flushed and paled, took two steps impulsively toward the door, and then sat down before my easel, and began insanely to spoil a sky with idiotic dabs of green paint. i wondered whether providence was saving up adelaide until he deserved her. if so, the shelf was for the present a very high one. to my surprise, adelaide tapped at the studio door a moment later. she greeted professor waite cordially. "i am so glad to find you," she said, "for i want to impose upon you for a little help." professor waite beamed. "stacey fitz simmons has asked me for a subject for an essay and i have suggested 'the athletic contests of ancient greece,' as giving a subject in which he is greatly interested--athletic sports--a classical turn, suitable for the dignified occasion. at first he thought he could make nothing original of it, but would have to crib everything from books of reference; but it occurred to me that he might treat it from a rather new standpoint by taking his information from remains of ancient sculpture. i told him he had better study the casts at the metropolitan museum, as that would be the next best thing to attending the games at corinth. can you give him any additional sources of information?" professor waite threw himself into the idea with enthusiasm and poured forth at once a dissertation which would have taken the highest honours at the competition. then he made a memorandum of several works on art, which stacey would do well to consult, and rummaged about in his portfolios for photographs of ancient statues of athletes and heroes, the procession from the frieze of the parthenon, and the like. when we finally got adelaide into the amen corner, we scarcely gave her an opportunity to dress for the _musicale_, we had so many little nothings to talk over with her. in the midst of it all mr. mudge called, and we opened fire upon him at once with the testimony which we had collected in favor of polo and her brother. he was not greatly impressed with stacey's avowal that he had been out rowing with terwilliger on the night of the catacomb party. "i had already ascertained that he was out late that night," he said. "miss milly told me that young fitz simmons on the night of the drill threatened to attend your party. what assurance have we that he did not attend it with terwilliger as his companion? a lark on the young gentleman's part, and a clever opportunity to steal on the part of the trainer. my assistant has discovered that terwilliger has had no dealings with his old associate nimble tim since his release from prison. having to discard the idea that tim was his companion, i have been looking about to find another possible one. i thank you for your assistance." milly was very angry. with true womanly inconsistency she scouted the idea that stacey could have had any part in the proceedings, although she was the very one who had at first suggested it. "and here," she said, "is something which ought to be perfectly convincing to any sane man. polo told me last night that her brother heard ricos and buttertub boasting that they had fooled us all so nicely, and had seen our play. they made fun of winnie, and said she had a little squeaky voice for so manly a part, and that it was 'nuts' to see us try to manage our togas. oh! i'd just like to choke them." mr. mudge smiled. "it is very natural," he said, "that terwilliger should attempt to throw suspicion on some one else." "but you know that buttertub and ricos were out late that night," i suggested. "ricos obtained permission from colonel grey to hear professor ware's lecture on architecture, at columbia college." "and did they say they attended it?" adelaide asked. "ricos so reported at the barracks." "well, i happen to know that professor ware delivers those lectures on tuesday evenings," adelaide replied triumphantly; "and this was wednesday night." "are you sure of this?" "i am sure because i attend the lectures, and neither of those boys were there." mr. mudge rubbed his brow with his pencil. "terwilliger's previous bad record counts against him," he said persistently. "mr. mudge," i entreated, "will you do me the favor to call on a friend of ours, mr. van silver, who knows all about that previous record of terwilliger's." "how is that?" mr. mudge asked, and i related my conversation with mr. van silver on our return from the games. "i will interview this gentleman," said mr. mudge, "for though appearances are strongly against terwilliger, i do not wish to act on appearances alone. and meantime, if you could find some other witness than young fitz simmons who could prove that he and the trainer were really boating on the harlem the night of your party, and some other witness than terwilliger to the admission of ricos and his friend of the dairy nickname, the cause of lawn tennis and her brother would be materially strengthened." "i agree to produce such witnesses," said winnie rashly. "i have called it my mystery and i intend to fathom it, if it takes all summer." mr. mudge bowed and withdrew. his boots creaked down the hall a little way and then we heard a knock and the opening of a door. "girls, he's calling on miss noakes," winnie cried, in high glee. "now, what's to hinder my running out on the balcony and showing her that two can play at the game of peek-a-boo." "nothing but the honour of the amen corner," adelaide remarked. the words threw a wet blanket on winnie's proposal, but there was a flickering smile about adelaide's lips which showed that she was bent upon mischief, a rare thing for adelaide. "i will wait until mr. mudge is gone," she said,--"i would not interrupt two young lovers for the world,--and then i think i'll call on miss noakes. i want her to help me translate the visit of �neas to queen dido." "that's just like winnie," milly exclaimed; "but you would never do such a thing." "won't i? you don't half know me, milly, dear," and adelaide actually fulfilled her threat. [illustration] "she expected him," adelaide exclaimed, when she returned. "i found her all gotten up regardless--that low-necked black net of hers! she did look too absurd for anything, but happy is no name for it. there was a blush on her withered old cheeks, and i actually believe a real tear in her eye. when i told her what i wanted her to translate, she glared at me haughtily, but i looked as demure as i could, and she went through it without flinching. 'men are deceivers ever, aren't they, miss noakes?' i said. 'just think of pious �neas behaving so cruelly to his dear dido.' 'how should i know, child?' she replied rather curtly." while we were laughing, cerberus knocked to inform us that mrs. roseveldt's carriage waited and had sent him to inquire for miss armstrong. adelaide found that stacey had waited for her return. he woke to animation over the photographs. "this decides me," he said. "i shall try for the prize. i didn't imagine there was anything in greek civilization that i cared a rap for; but that quoit player is fine. just look at his muscles. i always thought that discobolus was the fellow's name. it never dawned upon me that it meant a quoit player. and this mercury hardly needs wings on his heels, his legs are built for a runner. and isn't that fighting gladiator superb? and that hercules and vulcan? well, now, here is something curious. i do believe that baker got his 'set' from that statue; the left arm is extended in the very same way, and the boys all thought it was original with him." so he ran on, his eyes kindling once more with enthusiasm. "well, i must go now and 'bone' on my geometry--beastly bore; but buttertub has been having very good marks lately, and i am not going to let him rank me." he had hardly gone before it was time for adelaide's romance, and after that mr. van silver came up to express his compliments. "i was sorry stacey could not stay to hear you play," he said, "but he seems to have a virtuous fit on, and said he must hurry to the barracks and spend the evening in study. perhaps, however, it was only an excuse for mischief." "do you think so?" adelaide asked. "it has seemed to me of late that stacey has had little heart for anything, even for mischief." "that's a fact. i haven't seen him on the river since the games, and he used to be very fond of rowing." adelaide gave a little gesture of despair. "there," she said, "i forgot to ask him whether any one knew of his going out boating, the night of our party, with terwilliger, and winnie was so particular about it. how provoked she will be with me." "why is it that you young ladies have developed an overweening interest in terwilliger?" asked mr. van silver. they were sitting on the staircase apart from the others, and adelaide replied: "it is because he is suspected of a robbery which has occurred at our school. we have been cautioned not to mention it, but i think i may say as much to you, for mr. mudge, the detective who has been engaged to investigate the affair, told me this afternoon that he intended to interview you in regard to terwilliger's part in the crime for which he was sent to prison." a cloud passed over mr. van silver's face. "i hoped that thing was dead and buried," he said. "it only proves that nothing is really ever settled unless it is settled right. if it will do terwilliger any good, i will testify openly, as i ought to have done in the first place." adelaide looked at mr. van silver wonderingly. he understood and said quickly, "i cannot bear to lose your respect, miss armstrong; perhaps i had better tell you just how it all happened." "not to gratify any curiosity on my part," adelaide replied; "you might be sorry afterward. and if it is something that the world has no business to know----" "the _world_! heaven forbid that an account of the affair should get into the _world_, the _herald_, or any of our newspapers. i would rather no one knew anything about it; but when i have told you the entire story you will be able to judge how much of it i ought to confide to your friend mudge, in order to aid terwilliger. you see, young cairngorm is a regular cub. his father sent him across on his yacht to us. he wanted mother to comb him out, introduce him in new york circles, and get him married, if she could, to some american heiress. if you girls only knew what scamps some of those slips of nobility are you would not be so crazy for titles." adelaide's eyes snapped. "i do not care a fig for a title," she said indignantly. "i think a great deal more of an enterprising, hard-working, true-hearted american, than of a mere name. i think that the american pride of having accomplished some worthy work in life is much more allowable than the english pride of belonging to a leisure class." "i beg pardon. i did not intend to be personal. when my mother saw what sort of a specimen had been confided to her hands, she made no efforts in the matrimonial direction, but simply tried to keep the chap out of harm's way for a season, using me as her aide-de-camp. he had a passion for betting and gaming, and i was at my wits end sometimes to head him off. terwilliger came over with him, you know; but he left the yacht on its arrival for he wanted to establish himself permanently in america. cairngorm liked terwilliger, tipped him handsomely on parting, and asked me to take an interest in him. i promised to look out for him and immediately forgot his existence. terwilliger drifted about, waiting for something to turn up, and satan, who is the only employer who is on the lookout for poor fellows who are out of work, appeared to terwilliger, in the person of a new acquaintance, limber tim. tim told him that he was connected with a sort of club devoted to athletics. it was really a gambling saloon. tim knew of terwilliger's acquaintance with cairngorm, and he promised terwilliger a five dollar bill if he would persuade cairngorm to patronize his establishment. 'tell him,' he said, 'that we are to have a very select game of poker to-night, only gentlemen present, and get him to come down.' "now, how terwilliger happened to be such a lamb, i can't say; but he had never heard of poker, and he asked tim if it was anything like single stick. this amused tim and he did not undeceive terwilliger, who appeared at our house in search of cairngorm, and, not finding him, left a labored epistle inviting him to come to no. -- bowery, and see some fun in the way of a sleight of hand performance with a 'poker.' cairngorm saw through it, though terwilliger did not, and went out after dinner without explaining where he was going. he took the note with him for fear he might forget the number of the house, and thought that he replaced it in his pocket, after consulting it under a corner gaslight; but, as his luck would have it, he dropped the note there, and a policeman, who had seen him read it, picked it up. the policeman knew that the house was a gambling saloon, and immediately surmised the truth, that this finely dressed young swell had been decoyed to his ruin. terwilliger had begun his letter simply, 'nobble sur,' and our address was not on the letter, so that there was no clue to cairngorm's identity; but he had signed his own name in full, and the astute policeman had this bit of convincing evidence of terwilliger's complicity in the confidence game. "we knew nothing of this at the time, but it was late at night before cairngorm returned to our house, and we had all been very anxious about him. his statements were to the point, for he had been thoroughly frightened. he had lost heavily, and in the midst of the game the police had raided the place, and he had escaped by springing into a dumb-waiter, which had landed him in a kitchen, where he had remained secreted until all was quiet. "'it is very fortunate for you,' my father said sternly, 'that the police did not secure you, for in that case the reporters would have had a sensation for the morning papers, and your noble father would have learned of your lodgment in the tombs. as it is, you had better leave new york at once. your yacht is at newport. i advise you to report at home as soon as possible. it is your own fault that your american visit has had so sudden and so disgraceful an ending.' "i saw cairngorm off, much relieved to get him off my hands, for we had very little in common, and he was so lacking in principle that my feeling for him was only one of contemptuous pity. on our way to newport cairngorm told me that terwilliger was perfectly innocent of any connivance with the gamblers, and that as soon as he saw that they were playing for money had attempted to induce him to leave the place, using every persuasion possible, and making the gamblers very angry with him. they had tried to put him out of the room, but he had insisted on remaining, and when the police appeared it was terwilliger who had shown cairngorm into the dumb-waiter. immediately after cairngorm's departure to scotland, i sailed for a long trip around the world, so that it was over a year before i returned to new york. "what was my chagrin to find that terwilliger had been arrested and sent to prison with the gamblers. my father had succeeded in keeping cairngorm's name out of the papers, but as he believed that terwilliger had knowingly acted as a decoy he had made no attempt to save him. terwilliger would not disclose cairngorm's name at the trial when confronted with the letter which he acknowledged having written. nor did he write him asking his assistance, so determined was he not to implicate his patron in the affair. i looked up terwilliger, and finding that he had only a few weeks more to serve, set myself to work in earnest to secure him a good position. i told the entire story to colonel grey, who met him with me, on his release, and feeling confident that he had not been contaminated by his prison associations, gave him the position of trainer at his gymnasium. he has had a good record there ever since, and i have been very unhappy that he has suffered so much on my graceless friend's account. if i had known that an innocent person was to be sent to prison i would never have helped him away after his scrape, but would have insisted on his disclosing the entire truth, and braving the consequences like a man. as it is i am going to make cairngorm do something for terwilliger this summer. one of my grooms does not care to go to europe with me, and if terwilliger has nothing better to do while the cadets are on vacation, i will take him across. i shall bring him back in the fall in time for the opening of the school." adelaide was intensely interested in this story. "you will tell it all to mr. mudge, will you not?" she asked, "and convince him that terwilliger was unjustly imprisoned." mr. van silver promised to do this, and soon after took his leave. adelaide had not intended to tell jim anything of the suspicion which had fallen upon the trainer, but jim had left his bedroom and come out upon the landing to listen to the music, and had overheard all of mr. van silver's account. when adelaide went in to kiss jim goodnight, she found his cheeks hot and his eyes quite wild. "you will go to mr. mudge right away, will you not, sister?" he urged. and he was not at all satisfied when adelaide assured him that this was not necessary, as mr. mudge had promised to call on mr. van silver on the following day. the next day mr. and mrs. armstrong arrived, and jim's delight threw him into a fever of excitement. such alternations of happiness and worry were bad for the boy, who needed calm, and mr. armstrong wished to remove him to old point comfort, but jim begged that he might not be taken from the city until the closing exercises of the cadet school. "i shall be well enough to attend them, i know," he pleaded, "and i want to see sister graduate, and to know how the mystery turns out, and whether terwilliger is all right." to gratify the boy mr. armstrong took furnished apartments fronting on central park, and mrs. armstrong devoted herself to the care of her little invalid, while adelaide returned to school. commencement was near at hand, and adelaide felt that she must work hard to pass the final examination creditably. our life at madame's was not all frolic, though i am conscious that my story would seem to indicate that such was the case. naturally, a full report of the solid lessons which we learned would make a very stupid story, but the lessons formed our daily diet, and the scrapes and good times that i have chronicled occurred only at intervals. we had what milly called a thousand miles of desert, without even the least little oasis of fun, between the inter-scholastic games and the examinations. winnie had taken a fit of serious study, and when winnie studied she did it, as she played, with all her might. our only lark for quite a time was a house-warming which we gave the terwilligers. polo told us how she was fitting up the little flat of three rooms with the assistance of her brother, and it certainly seemed as if the cloud which had shadowed her had drifted away. the largest room was the kitchen, also used as a dining-room. adelaide had provided a range, and many other things, with the rooms. the cadets clubbed together and made terwilliger a handsome present in money, with which he purchased a lounge, which served for his own bed, and an easy chair for his mother; and our king's daughters ten provided all the tinware and crockery. madame sent down a nice bedstead and some bedding. professor waite contributed a neatly framed portrait of polo, and miss noakes gave a box of soap. polo purchased the table linen, towels, etc., with her own earnings, and miss billings hemmed them and the curtains, which were made of cheese cloth. mrs. roseveldt sent her carriage to take mrs. terwilliger from the hospital to her new home and gave a carpet, and mr. van silver ordered a barrel of flour and a half ton of coal. mrs. armstrong selected a lamp as jim's present, and took the two children from the home to one of the large stores and provided them well with clothing for the summer before delivering them to their mother. it was a very happy and united family that met together that evening in adelaide's tenement, and mrs. terwilliger, who had not been credited by her acquaintances as being a religious woman, exclaimed reverently, "it seems to me we'd orter be grateful to providence for all these mercies;" and her son responded emphatically: "grateful to providence? you bet your life, i am!" chapter xiv. the clouds part. [illustration] then suddenly, just as they were sitting down to the first meal in their new home, there was a knock at the door, and a policeman said: "i am sorry, terwilliger, but you are wanted again." "what for?" the trainer asked, thunderstruck. "mysterious robbery up at madame ----'s boarding-school," replied the officer. "mudge gave me the order for your arrest." "go and tell mr. van silver," terwilliger said to polo. "he won't let me go to prison again." and polo was off like the wind. mr. van silver came at once, and gave bail for terwilliger's appearance at trial, so that he did not go to prison; but this action of mr. mudge's showed that he felt sure that terwilliger was the thief, and threw us all into consternation. mr. mudge had called on mr. van silver, but had unfortunately not found him in, and while he had not received the explanation which had been given adelaide, one of his detectives informed him that terwilliger had made arrangements to leave the country soon in mr. van silver's employ, and that he had lately been expending large sums in extravagantly fitting up an apartment for his family. it was the fear that his man might escape him, which had precipitated mr. mudge's action. he felt that the case was a pretty clear one, and that the trial would develop more evidence. winnie was at her wits' end. she had promised to produce witnesses proving that stacey and terwilliger were on the river the night of the catacomb party; and in her desperation she wrote directly to stacey in regard to it. unfortunately, stacey could think of no one who had seen them just at the time when the boys were known to have been in the school building, and stacey's own testimony would not be regarded as of sufficient weight to clear terwilliger, as mr. mudge suspected stacey of being the trainer's companion. this rendered stacey very indignant. it seemed to him that he had trouble enough before this, and he was desperate now. his father, commodore fitz simmons, was a naval officer, a bluff old sea dog, who had married, late in life, a refined and beautiful woman. she was lonely in her husband's long absences, and her heart knit itself to her son. her husband had planned that stacey should follow his career, but when he understood how this would afflict his wife, he partly relinquished this idea. "you can have the training of the boy till he is eighteen," he said to his wife. "if he does you credit up to that time, i shall feel sure of him for the rest of his life, and he may have a harvard education and follow whatever profession he pleases. but if he takes advantage of petticoat government, and develops a tendency to go wrong, i'll put him on a school ship, and let the young scamp learn what discipline is." commodore fitz simmons had been away for a long cruise, but stacey's mother now wrote from washington that the ship was in, and that the commodore and she would take great pleasure in attending the closing exercises of his school. she hoped that her son would distinguish himself at them, and that there was no doubt about his passing his harvard examinations, for his father had referred to their agreement that stacey must go to sea if he had not improved his opportunities. "and you know," she added, "that i could never bear to have you both on that terrible ocean." stacey could not bear the thought, either, for he loathed the sea, and he suddenly faced the fact that he had not been distinguishing himself in his studies and had no certainty of passing the examinations. this suspicion of being implicated in an escapade which had a possible crime connected with it, was more than he could bear. when he read, in winnie's letter, "mr. mudge suspects you," he threw the letter upon the floor and uttered such a cry that buttertub, who was studying in the room, sprang to him, thinking that he had hurt himself. "i don't care who knows it," stacey cried, beside himself with despair; "i am suspected of being a thief, and it will kill my mother, and my father will just about kill me." buttertub gave a low whistle. "it can't be so bad as that," he said; "what do you mean?" "some fellows sneaked into the girls' party, and they think i was one of them and terwilliger the other." "well, what if they do?" buttertub asked. "there is nothing so killing about a little thing like that." "perhaps not; but there was a robbery committed in the school that very night, and that's the milk of the cocoanut." "they can't suspect a _cadet_ of being a burglar." "well, it looks like it," stacey replied. "they've arrested terwilliger, and i've just had warning that my turn may come next, unless i can prove that i was boating that night, and i can't." "ginger!" exclaimed buttertub. "you are in a mess." he was on the point of confessing his own share in the escapade, when he reflected that it was not entirely his own secret, he must see ricos first. buttertub was naturally good-natured, and he had no idea that the frolic would take so serious a turn, but his brain worked slowly, and he did not quite see what he ought to do. stacey was nearly wild. he strode up and down the room. "i haven't seen father for two years, and mother has written him such glowing accounts of me that he expects great things. it would be bad enough, without this last trouble, to have him find out what a slump i am. i can never look him in the face--never." "fathers are pretty rough on us fellows, sometimes," said buttertub. he was thinking of his own father, bombastic old bishop buttertub, and wondering, after all, whether he could quite bear to shoulder all the consequences of his frolic. when the bishop was angry he had been compared to a wild bull of bashan, and buttertub, jr., would rather have faced a locomotive on a single track bridge than his paternal parent on a rampage. he wished now that he had not yielded to the wiles of the entrancing cynthia, and attended the party. "hang that girl!" he growled aloud. "who?" asked stacey. "miss vaughn," buttertub replied. "some one was saying you meant to invite her to the declamations. you are welcome to for all me." "hang all girls," replied stacey. "i shan't invite any one." buttertub rose awkwardly. "don't be too blue, stacey," he said kindly. "something's bound to turn up," and he ambled briskly off to find ricos. "it's tough," he said to himself, "but i'm no sneak, so here goes." but ricos was not in the barracks, and buttertub, thankful for a little postponement of the evil day, went into the great hall to practice his declamation. he had chosen a dignified oration, and he possessed a sonorous voice and a pompous manner. colonel grey smiled as he heard him. "you remind me strikingly of your father," he said. "i am sure that i shall see you in sacred orders one of these days. perhaps you too will become a bishop." buttertub hung his head. "better be a decent, honorable man, first," he thought. the boys were cheering over in the gymnasium: "hip! hip! hip!" "yes--hypocrite," he said to himself, "i'll punch ricos until he consents to making a clean breast of it." but there was no need for resorting to this means of grace. deliverance was coming, and, strange to say, through ricos himself. ricos had more food for remorse than buttertub. his sister had written him from time to time of jim's condition, and this morning he had received a letter which woke the pangs of conscience. mr. armstrong had thoughtlessly told jim of terwilliger's arrest, and the news had affected him very seriously. he could not sleep, and he could talk and think of nothing else. the physician feared that his reason would give way. he sent for stacey, and his friend went to him immediately, but he could give him no encouragement, and his call only made jim worse. as stacey left the door he met ricos. "you had better not call on armstrong to-day," stacey said. "he is awfully sick. i shouldn't wonder if he died. he had an attack something like this last year, but the doctor pulled him through because there was nothing on his mind to worry him; but now everything seems to be in a snarl, and he isn't strong enough to bear it. you come back with me, seeing you ain't likely to do him any good." "it is of needcessity," ricos said. his face was white and scared. "rosario, she write me that he will die, and if i see him not before, and assure myself that he carry no ill-will of me to the paradiso, then my life shall be one purgatorio. indeed, i must see him; it is of great needcessity." mrs. armstrong also hesitated when ricos presented himself, but jim heard his voice and called him eagerly. "ricos! ricos! is it really you? oh, i'm so glad!" "of a surety, it is i," ricos replied. "i have come to ask your forgiveness. alas! i am one miserable." "i will forgive you, ricos, if you will tell colonel grey all about it, so that terwilliger need not go to prison. you know they have arrested him, and really it is he and stacey who ought to forgive you, and not i at all." "i do not comprehend of what you refer. i ask you to forgive me for your hurt----" "but that is nothing! i am sorry that i beat you, ricos. i wanted to win awfully, but i know now that you wanted the medal a great deal more than i did, and i'm so sorry stacey did not run the best. mother read me a verse that seemed just to be written for our games. i read it to stacey and he said it would help him. mother, please read it to ricos, perhaps it will help him, too." and mrs. armstrong read: even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. but they that wait upon the lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint. ricos looked still more frightened. the bible to him was a book only for priests. jim must certainly be at the point of death, or he would not ask to have it read; but jim spoke up earnestly: "i suppose, ricos, that waiting on the lord means doing our whole duty, and i want you to do something for my sake. i want you to tell that you went to the girl's cat-combing party. you know you went, ricos. we are all sure of it, but nobody can prove it. please tell colonel grey. it would be such a noble thing to do." "and you will make me assurance of your forgiveness?" "with all my heart, and i will stick up for you with all the boys." "thank you, my friend; now i shall enjoy some comfort of the mind. and you will tell those in paradise that ricos is not so devil as they may have heard." jim looked puzzled. he did not quite understand that ricos's motive was fear of retribution. he thought that jim was going to die, and he felt himself in a measure responsible for his death; but jim's forgiveness and promise of intercession in his behalf was a boon to be purchased at any price, and he readily promised to disclose everything. jim fell back upon his pillow, exhausted but happy, and fell asleep for the first time in many hours. ricos hurried back to the barracks. he had no scruples about implicating buttertub in his confession, and he would have gone to colonel grey without consulting his friend had buttertub not been on the lookout for him. they were each relieved to find that they had come separately to similar conclusions, and they sought colonel grey together. they were obliged to wait some time, for their instructor was closeted with mr. mudge. "i am just going out with this gentleman," said colonel grey, as he noticed them standing in the hall. "is it anything which cannot wait?" "it is of needcessity," said ricos, and then his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and buttertub made the confession for both. "your acknowledgment of your fault comes just in time," said colonel grey. "make your statement once more to this gentleman, and it may save an innocent classmate from disgrace, and our unfortunate terwilliger from unjust imprisonment." "you shall imprison me," said ricos, in a theatrical manner. "that will make me one supreme happiness." buttertub turned pale, but did not falter, and told the story frankly and simply. "so you are the two gentlemen who introduced yourselves in disguise into a young ladies' boarding-school," said mr. mudge. "will you tell me how you made the acquaintance of terwilliger's sister, the young lady they call lawn tennis, who gave you admittance." "but it was not terwilliger's sister at all. miss vaughn threw us out the key to the turret door," said buttertub. "a reliable witness to the affair assures me that it was lawn tennis. she was recognized partly by a tam o'shanter cap which she is in the habit of wearing." "miss vaughn wore a tam o'shanter when she looked out of the window. she had it pulled down over her forehead." "in view of these disclosures," mr. mudge said to colonel grey, "i shall withdraw my prosecution of terwilliger. i have not sufficient evidence to make out a case against him, since it is now shown that the other young gentleman, mr. fitz simmons, did not visit the school on the night in question, and consequently had no motive for testifying falsely. i think any court would admit him as a competent witness in terwilliger's behalf, and consider the _alibi_ established. there will be no trial of terwilliger. i must confess myself completely at fault in this matter." buttertub drew a long breath. he felt dazed and sick. ricos swayed from side to side, and sank into a chair. colonel grey was bowing mr. mudge out, and buttertub poured a glass of water and handed it to ricos in his absence. "don't give in yet," he said; "we've fixed it all right for fitz simmons and terwilliger, but we've got to face the music now on our own account." but ricos had gone to the extent of his capabilities, and had fainted dead away. colonel grey returned and assisted buttertub in restoring him to consciousness. his first words were, "when is it that we go to the prison?" "my dear boy," said the colonel, "you were not suspected of any connection with the robbery. but if you imagined that you would be, and made the avowal which you did in the face of that apprehension, you deserve all the more credit." "shall we not be expelled, sir?" buttertub asked. "never! my school has need of young men who can acknowledge a fault so honourably. i consider that your generous conduct has wiped the misdemeanour from existence. you have suffered sufficiently, and i have no fear that such a thing will ever occur again. i shall only ask you to make this acknowledgment complete by sending madame ---- a written apology for intruding in so unwarrantable a manner upon her school. i shall call upon her personally and deliver it." "and my father will not feel that i have disgraced him," buttertub said slowly, unconscious that he was speaking aloud. "i shall tell the bishop," said colonel grey, "that he has a son to be proud of." ricos staggered off to bed, and buttertub sought stacey and reported. "you are a trump!" stacey cried, "i never realized before what a hero you are. i beg your pardon for every unkind thing i have thought or said about you, and if you will accept my friendship it's yours forever. it is time for supper now, and after that we'll find terwilliger and tell him the news." jim improved rapidly after this. if ricos had known that he would recover he might not have confessed, and there was a lingering feeling in his mind that jim had no right to get well, and was taking a mean advantage of him in not fulfilling his part of the bargain and winging his way to paradise, to tell the angels that ricos was not such a bad fellow after all. still, he never really regretted jim's recovery or his own avowal. it cleared his conscience of a great load, and the boys, having heard that ricos had made _amende honorable_, no longer complimented him with the terms "chump and mucker," but accepted his presents of guava jelly and other west india delicacies, and as he had the spanish gift for guitar-playing, elected him to the banjo club. a little after this mrs. roseveldt gave her last reception for that season. she had not forgotten the proposed plan of the tennis tournament at narragansett pier, and she invited stacey to come and talk it up with milly. in spite of his declaration of war against all womankind, stacey accepted the invitation eagerly. stacey was himself again, yet not quite his old giddy self. the disappointment and trouble which he had experienced had changed him for the better. he was less of a fop and more of a man, than when he tossed his baton so airily before his drum corps at the annual drill. but he was still something of an exquisite in dress. his father had given him permission to order a dress suit for the occasion of prize declamation, and stacey besieged his tailor until he agreed to have it done in time for mrs. roseveldt's reception. milly went home the day before. we had all been invited, but had decided virtuously that we could not spare the time from our studies, while i had, as an additional reason, the knowledge that i had no costume suitable for such a grand society affair. milly described it all afterward, and i enjoyed her description more than i would have cared for the party itself. the mandolin club played softly in the dining-room bay-window, hidden by a bank of palms and ferns, and the lights glowed through rose-coloured shades. the supper-table, in honour of a riding club to which mr. and mrs. roseveldt belonged, whose members were the guests of the evening, as far as possible suggested their favorite exercise. the table itself was horseshoe in shape; saddle-rock oysters, and tongue sandwiches were served. there was whipped cream, the ices were in the form of top-boots, saddles, jockey-hats, and riding whips, and the bonbonnières were satin beaver hats. stacey appeared early in the evening. it was the first time that milly had seen him in a dress suit, and milly confided to me privately that he seemed to her to have suddenly grown several inches taller. he was very grave and dignified, not at all like the old rollicking, boyish stacey with whom milly was familiar. milly, quite inexplicably to herself, felt a little awed by him and was at loss for a subject of conversation. she referred to the inter-scholastic games, and stacey scowled so violently that milly saw that this was an unfortunate beginning, and hastened to change the subject to that of the proposed tournament at narragansett pier. they were practically alone, for the parlor had been deserted by the onslaught on the supper table, and stacey said confidentially: "i'll tell you just how it is, milly; i ought not to take part in that tournament." "oh, do!" pleaded milly. [illustration] "i will if you say so. it shall be just as you say, for i'll do anything for you; but if i go into this thing i lose every last chance of passing my examinations for harvard. all the same, i'll do it if you want me to." "no, no;" murmured milly; "not at such a cost; but it can't be as bad as that. what do you mean?" "i mean that i have made a precious fool of myself all winter. i have gone in for athletics at the expense of my studies, and i've failed in both; and now that the time is coming for my examinations it will be a tight squeeze if i pass. i made up my mind to reform after i extinguished myself at the games, and i've been cramming ever since. do you know what the boys call me now?" "a regular dig, i suppose." "no, that's obsolete. at harvard a hard student is a 'grind,' and a very hard student is a 'long-haired grind.' woodpecker is complimentary enough to call me a 'sutherland sister hair invigorator grind.'" milly laughed. "no laughing matter, i tell you. i've broken training. i haven't been to the oval, or on the river, or riding in the park but once since the games. instead of that, i put myself in the hands of our professor of mathematics, and i am letting him give me a private overhauling. his motto is, 'find out what the boys don't like and give them lots of it.'" "how horrid!" milly murmured sympathetically. "he's just right. if you want to put it in a little kinder way, you might say, 'find out where the boys are weak, and then make them strong.' the trouble is i'm weak all through, so i'm having a rather serious time just now. i shall have to sit up till one o'clock to pay for the pleasure of this interview. the examinations take place between the th and th of june, inclusive. if i go into this tournament, or even think of it before then, i lose every ghost of a chance for harvard, and will have to take to the sea, and i loathe it. but that's nothing--if you want me to do it. you don't half know me, milly. i tell you, it's nothing at all--why i'd give up life itself for you. there isn't anything i wouldn't give up for your sake. no, you shan't run away. we've got to have it out some time, and we might as well understand one another now. i love you, milly; i have always loved you; and if you don't like me--why, i have no use for harvard, or life either." he looked so despairing and yet so wildly eager, that milly was very sorry for him. "of course, i like you, stacey," she said kindly. "you do?" he cried. "i can't believe it. you are fooling me." "no, stacey; but you are fooling yourself. you would be very sorry, by and bye, if i took you at your word now, and snapped you up before you had time to know your own mind. why, stacey, we are both of us too young to know whether we are in earnest. we ought to wait, and we ought neither of us to be bound in any way. perhaps everything will seem very different to us four years from now. don't you think so yourself?" "i can never change," stacey asserted confidently. "but i may," milly said with a smile, thinking of her own foolish little heart, and of how appropriate the advice she was giving to stacey was to her own case. "i don't believe you will," stacey replied. "i am sure it's a great comfort to know that you care for me a little; it's a great deal better than i expected." "did i say so? i didn't mean to," milly exclaimed in consternation. "no, you haven't committed yourself to anything, but you have intimated that i may ask you again after i have graduated from harvard. and since i desire that time to come as soon as possible, i presume i have your permission to give up the tennis tournament and go on preparing for my examinations." "yes, certainly. but i'm sorry for the home. i don't quite see how we are going to raise the money for the annex. still, i suppose, as students, our first duty is to our studies." "exactly. but vacation is coming and we will see what we can do for the home then. if your mother will only postpone the time i will see if i can get the boys together in july." the old butler came in at this juncture with a tray of ices. he was followed by mr. van silver, who protested against his introducing "coolness" between old friends, but who remained all the same, and spoiled their opportunity for any further conversation on the subject uppermost in stacey's mind. "i've an idea, stacey," said mr. van silver. "i want you to go to europe with me this summer. you'd enjoy the trip i propose to make among the scottish hills and lakes. i know your parents will approve, for it will be a regular education for you, especially with my improving society thrown in." mr. van silver winked as he said this, and he was greatly surprised when stacey answered promptly: "awfully kind of you, mr. van silver, but i can't go possibly." "why not?" "well, first of all, i'm bound to be conditioned on some of my studies at my harvard examinations, and i shall have to coach all summer in a less agreeable way than the one which you suggest. then i have engaged to get up a tennis tournament at the pier----" "tennis! what's that to such a trip as i propose. don't be an idiot, stacey." "it is really not an ordinary tournament," milly added, with a desire to make peace between the two. "but, mr. van silver, when do you sail? perhaps stacey can go after the tournament." "i sail the last of june." "then there's no use talking," said stacey. "unless you could join mr. van silver by going over later." stacey shook his head vigorously. he had no desire to be expatriated this summer. "i comprehend," said mr. van silver. "the pier possesses greater attractions than i can offer, but you needn't try to humbug me into believing that tennis is the magnet which draws you thither. tell that to the unsophisticated, but strive not to impose on your grandfather. he has been young himself." mrs. roseveldt came in with quite a party from the supper, and stacey promptly took his leave. when milly confided this to me,--as she did nearly all of her joys and sorrows,--i could not help expressing my sympathy for stacey. "stacey will recover," she said confidently. "men are never as constant as we women." and milly nodded her head with the gravity of an elderly matron who had experienced all the vicissitudes of life, and who could now regard the ardours of youthful affection and despair with a benign tolerance, as foreseeing the end from the beginning. "do you know, tib," she continued, "mr. van silver was joking in the way that he always does about stacey, when papa came to us; and papa said, 'don't put such notions in my little girl's head, mr. van silver. stacey has his college course before him and may be able to quote from my favourite poet when it is over.' with that he took down an old volume of praed and read something which is so cute that i copied it afterward. here it is: we parted; months and years rolled by; we met again four summers after. our parting was all sob and sigh; our meeting was all mirth and laughter. for in my heart's most secret cell there had been many other lodgers: and she was not the ball-room's belle but only--mrs. something rogers. "i wonder whether i shall be mrs. rogers, or mrs. smith, or mrs. what? i'd rather be just miss milly roseveldt." "and how about professor waite?" i asked, hardly daring to believe that the fresh wind of common sense had cleared away the old miasmatic glamour. "oh, adelaide must repent. they would make such a romantic couple. i have set my heart on it. and tib, i believe she does like him, just a little, though she hasn't found it out herself yet. i am going to take charge of their case, and some day you and i will be bridesmaids, tib. i've planned just how it will be. it's a pity celeste acted so. do you really think miss billings will be equal to a wedding dress?" "what, yours, milly?" "mine? no, indeed. i don't want to be married. it's a great deal nicer not to be. don't you think so?" "milly, darling, i really believe that you have recovered from that old folly." "why, of course i have--ages and centuries ago." and milly laughed a wholesome, gay-hearted laugh, which astonished as much as it pleased me. "alas for woman's constancy," i laughed; "but, indeed, milly, i am very glad that you are so thoroughly heart-whole. we will keep a jolly old maids' hall together, only you must not encourage poor stacey." "why not?" asked the incomprehensible milly. "i am sure he is a great deal happier with matters left unsettled than he would have been if i had told him that i hated him; and that would not have been true either." "you told him that he might ask you again after he graduates, and you certainly ought not to allow him any shadow of hope when you know positively that you can never love him." what was my surprise to hear milly reply very seriously: "but i don't know that, tib. four years may change everything. stacey may not care a bit for me at the end of his college course. in that case, i'm sure i shan't repine. but then, again, if he should happen to hold out faithful, perhaps my stony heart may be touched by the spectacle of such devotion. who knows?" and milly looked up archly, with a pretty blush that augured ill--for the old maids' hall. chapter xv. the old cabinet tells its story. [illustration] a few weeks passed with no excitement except cynthia's withdrawal from the amen corner. madame was very indignant when mr. mudge reported cynthia's part in inviting the boys to attend our catacomb party, and assisting them in entering and disguising themselves. it was rumoured that cynthia was to be publicly expelled as a terrible example to all would-be offenders. she remained closeted in her room, whence the sound of weeping and wailing could be heard behind her locked door, but she steadily refused all overtures of sympathy on our part. we waited upon madame in a body, and begged her to pardon cynthia. madame replied that she would consider the matter, and we hurried back and shouted the hopeful news through cynthia's keyhole. there was no reply. "do you think she has killed herself?" milly asked in an awestruck whisper. i applied my ear closely and heard stealthy steps. "she merely wishes to be let alone," i said; "perhaps we are a little too exuberant in our expressions of sympathy." miss noakes entered presently and announced that madame wished to see cynthia; and that young lady went, with a very red nose, turned up at a very haughty angle. she returned shortly, and addressing herself to adelaide, as she always did, even when she had something which she wished to communicate to the rest of us, said scornfully: "miss armstrong, will you kindly say to the other young ladies [we were all present], that madame has just told me that i am indebted to you for permission to remain and graduate with the class." a murmur of satisfaction ran around the room. cynthia's eyes flashed fire. "do not imagine for one moment," she exclaimed, "that i would accept your hypocritical condescension, if i believed that it had been offered." "don't you believe that we interceded with madame?" winnie asked. "i believe," cynthia replied, "that you have done the best you can, by tale-bearing, to induce madame to expel me, and have not succeeded; and as i do not wish to associate with you any longer, i have written my parents asking them to withdraw me from the school." "i am sure no one will regret your departure," adelaide replied, with indignation. but cynthia did not leave the school. either her parents were too sensible to take her away just before her graduation, or her remark had been merely an idle threat. madame gave her a room in another part of the building, and her place in the amen corner remained vacant for the rest of the term. winnie had finished her essay, and one evening we gathered in the little study parlor to hear her read it. the time for our parting was now very near, and we were all more or less sentimentally inclined. the old amen corner was very dear to us. every piece of furniture had its associations, but none of them were quite so tragical as those which clustered around the old oak cabinet, and it seemed only fitting that winnie should celebrate it in her parting essay. she apologized for the length of her paper. "don't think, girls," she explained, "that i intend to read all this at commencement. i am going to ask madame to make selections from it. the task that professor waite set me was to give a picture of florentine life in the early part of the sixteenth century, and to bring in the characters who lived then as naturally as i could--raphael, leonardo da vinci, michael angelo, fra bartolommeo, the medici, macchiavelli, bibbiena and his niece, and others. while i was writing, my imagination carried me away, and i gave it free rein. you are the only ones who will have the full dose." we were very willing to hear it all. winnie sat in the great comfortable wicker armchair with the lamplight gloating o'er her mischievous face. adelaide had ensconced herself on the window seat, her classical profile clear cut against the night. milly nestled on a cushion at her feet, and i had stretched myself luxuriously on the old lounge, and watched the others from the shadowy side of the room. milly occasionally patted the cabinet at her side as winnie referred to it. the flickering light almost seemed to make the carved faces with which it was decorated grin sardonically, or knit their brows with threatening scowls, as winnie read: "i am the ghost of the cabinet, giovanni de' medici they called me, in , when the drops from the font fell on my forehead in the baptistry in florence, and leo x, when in i was made pope of rome. i was the second son of lorenzo the magnificent, christianly christened as a babe and created abbot of fontedolce at the age of seven and cardinal at seventeen, for my father was convinced, since the eldest son must carry down the family glory in succession, for me promotion lay only in the way of the church. "nevertheless, i held, as it were, to that plough but with one hand, continually looking back, and ready to drop it altogether, so that, while i enjoyed the rank and revenue of a prince of the church, i was not made a priest with vows of celibacy until the papacy was as good as in my hand, and until i had been determined thereunto by the closing to me of a fair pathway which led in quite another direction. for of my father's choice for me i might have said: "for that my fancy rather took the way that led to town, he did betray me to a lingering book, and wrap me in a gown. "none but the readers of this confession know of my lost love or fancy that i was capable of any passion save the ambition to reinstate my family in its ancient position of glory in florence. cardinal though i was, i yet played the spy and the thief to get at the opinions of florentines of note and influence, and one of my confederates in my schemes was a certain carved oak cabinet, which stood in the library of the palazzo of my nephew by marriage, filippo strozzi. this strozzi was a man so well regarded in florence, that although he espoused maddalena de' medici, the daughter of my banished brother piero, yet was he never suspected of any plots to advance our family, and lived even with great freedom and popularity, keeping open house to all the literati of the city. "my niece, who shared not altogether the republican sentiments of her husband, and in whom family affection was most deeply rooted, did sometimes entertain me after my banishment when my presence in florence was not known by the florentines in general or even to her most worshipful spouse. at such times i had for my bedchamber a little room partitioned only from the library of which i have spoken by heavy hangings of tapestry. against this tapestry, on the library side, was set the oak cabinet, which was also a desk for writing, and here my nephew, filippo strozzi, was accustomed to write his letters. hearing the scratch of his pen when he little suspected my neighbourhood, filled me with such an itching desire to know what he wrote, that one night after he had finished his writing, and had left the room, i slipped into the library, and found that, having completed his epistle, he had laid it inside the cabinet, and that this was without doubt the usual rendezvous for the letters of the family while awaiting the time for the departure of the post, for other letters, sealed and directed and ready for the sending, lay on the same shelf. on further examination of the cabinet i found that its back was a sliding panel, and that by cutting through the tapestry with my penknife i could open the cabinet from my own room, and abstract any letters which might have been placed within it under surety of lock and key. this seemed to me a most providential circumstance, for not only did my nephew write his letters here, but other guests of the house had the same custom, and it was most convenient for me thus to become acquainted with their secret opinions. "i had another motive for lingering in florence besides my political schemes, for as i have said i had not at this time so irrevocably fastened upon myself the vows of the church that they could not be shaken off, and i was greatly enamoured of the niece of the merry cardinal bibbiena, the incomparable maria, whom i had met before my brother's banishment at his court in florence, she being a maid in waiting to his wife and greatly attached to her. "maria bibbiena came frequently to visit my niece maddalena strozzi; and my niece, knowing my passion, gave me opportunity of meeting her, and i thought that i sped well in my wooing until the cabinet told me otherwise. my cabinet told me no lies, for count baltazar castiglione, a most polished man of the world, and guarded in his spoken opinions of others, opened his mind most frankly in a letter to his friend and confidante, the gentle and witty vittoria colonna, which he wrote in that room and left in my power, and which was expressed with a freedom which he would never have allowed himself had he fancied that it would ever have fallen under my eye. "i had one friend in florence in whom i trusted, niccolo macchiavelli. i admired his statecraft and his policy, and i deemed him devoted to our family, but a letter from his own hand, obtained in like manner with the others, showed him to be two-faced and treacherous to all who trusted him--to the medicis and to strozzi, whose hospitality he scrupled not to abuse. it would seem at first sight that my thefts of letters were of service to me; but i was never able to really profit by them, and the knowledge which the letters gave me of the perfidy or dislike of their writers caused me only fruitless indignation and lasting pain, while the habit into which i had fallen of suspecting, prying, and stealing grew upon me day by day, till even death itself was powerless to correct it. when will mankind learn that habit can be so deeply fixed as to follow us beyond the portals of death. "the old cabinet and i have been so long partners in guilt that my erring ghost visits it as of old, abstracting from it whatever is left to its treacherous keeping. i give back herewith the letters, and when this confession shall have been publicly read, i will render the moneys which i have more lately filched, and then my troubled spirit will be laid at rest. for i was not a great villain. "witch winnie lied when she said i stole from this cabinet the freedom of the city of florence, which my father writ out and placed here after the last visit of the unmannerly monk, savonarola. i pardoned the enemies of our family in the day of my triumph, and i pardoned raphael, yea, and befriended him and loved him, since he wronged me unwittingly; and none grieved more than i when we buried him beside his maria, whom i fain would have called my own. and so, having forgiven those who have trespassed against me, and now making restitution, may i also be pardoned for filching these few letters, whereof the first was from: "_count baltazar castiglione to the excellent lady vittoria colonna, marchesa di pescara, at naples._ "florence, th october, . "most worshipful madonna and admired friend: "i feel myself highly flattered in that you express yourself satisfied with my cortigiano (which i caused to be writ out at your request), and which endeavoured, in some slight way, to reproduce the facetious pleasantry joined to the strictest morals which subsist at the court of urbino. and i deem your request for a like picture of florentine society as a most pleasing proof that i have not been hitherto wearisome to you. "in florence, since the passing of the rule of the medici, there has been a passing away also of all standards of aristocracy, so that many of the old families hang their heads in political disgrace, and there be many upstart ones who flaunt and wanton in gorgeousness of apparel. neither is it possible to say what will be the outcome of this state of social incertitude. i have adopted what seemed to me a safe rule, and have paid my court neither to birth nor to fortune, but to genius. for it is not to be gainsayed that there is gathered in florence at this time a remarkable circle of learned and clever men, who form, as it were, an order of aristocracy by themselves. "i paid my respects first to maestro pietro perugino, my sometime friend at urbino, and whom we there regarded as the very cream and quintessence of painting. he has a home here, living in a goodly and comfortable state, but has grown somewhat crabbed and soured, as happens to men who feel themselves out of fashion and forgotten of the world. he has a rival here, one michael angelo, and perugino having criticised a cartoon which this fellow had set up, representing i know not what absurdity, of bathing soldiers, angelo replied that he considered perugino to be a man ignorant in art matters. which saying so cut to the quick my friend that he somewhat inconsiderately went to law upon the matter, where he gained scant salve for his bruises, being dismissed with the decree that the defendant had only said what was not to be denied. "this discourteous fellow angelo formeth the greatest contrast to leonardo da vinci, now the leading artist of florence, in whom the word gentleman hath as full a showing as in any noble living. his fortune is sufficient to his tastes (which are of no niggard order), and his audience chamber is frequented by the nobles, the wits, the fashion, the learning, and beauty of the day. "but truly, i must not further speak of this paragon, this florescence of his day and generation, or i shall have no space in which to make mention of lesser luminaries, and especially of my young friend, raphael santi of urbino, who is also visiting at this time in florence. raphael, while he accords to da vinci a full meed of praise, and goes daily to sketch from his masterpiece in the palazzo vecchio, and while he is as free from envy as an egg from vitriol, yet surprised me by this wondrously assuming assertion, greatly at variance with his usual modesty. 'my dear baltazar,' said he, 'keep the sketches and miniature i have made for thee. they will one day be as valuable as though signed by da vinci!' truly, presumption dwelleth in the heart of youth, but experience with the world will drive it far from him. "i am writing this at the palazzo strozzi, where i am for the time a grateful guest. mine host and friend filippo gave recently an artistic supper, the guests being either artists or lovers of that guild, whether patricians, such as giocondo, nasi, soderini, and others; or scriveners, as vasari, macchiavelli, and guicciardini, and churchmen, as bibbiena, and bembo; for all florence will have its finger in this art pie, and they who have not the wit to paint or the money to purchase, affect superior knowledge, and wag their tongues in dispraise. finding myself partitioned off between two of these worthies, i should have died of weariness had i not closed my ear on the one side to the borings of macchiavelli (who had it upon his mind that giovanni de' medici was in florence, and would have fain tortured from me his hiding place), and on the other from the sleep-producing maunderings of vasari, who delivered himself of condemnatory criticisms on raphael. i would not for the world have awakened him to questions by a hint that i already knew more of raphael than he was like to know in his whole life, but i suffered him to wander on, straining my ears the while to catch some shreds of a merry story with which the cardinal of santa maria in portico (bibbiena) was setting his end of the table in a roar. supper being ended, i marked that the cardinal drew raphael's arm within his own, and leading him to the garden, there left him with his niece maria, a most sweet and loving damsel, and one exceptionally endowed by nature; for neither in florence nor in the various outlandish cities which it hath been my hap to visit in the character of diplomatist, have i found in any five ladies, saving in yourself, worshipful madame, such gentleness, sprightliness, and wit as is bound up in one bundle in the person of maria bibbiena. "madonna maddalena strozzi has confided to me that her uncle giovanni de' medici was in time past so greatly enamoured of this same maria that he would fain have given up the church. this were madness indeed on his part, since the wisest policy for any of that family is to keep himself from political ambition, than which there would seem to be no more convincing evidence to the vulgar than devotion to a life of celibacy and monkish austerity; a renouncing of the world, its pomps and vanities, and especially of family alliances and succession plots, friendships, betrothals, marriages, and the like; which, if they be not fooleries of youthful passion, savour of worldly ambition. "all of this i imparted as my opinion to my hostess, but she sighed so deeply as to show that her sympathies are with her love-lorn uncle. after this we were bidden by her husband to an upper room, where was displayed a picture of raphael's. "but to report the critiques which followed would be greatly wearisome to your ladyship, and so i kiss your hands, beseeching our lord to make you as happy as you are pious. "your sincere friend and servitor, "baltazar castiglione. "_maria bibbiena to the lady alfonsina orsini medici, wife of piero de' medici, in exile at urbino._ "florence, october , . "most magnificent, noble, and unfortunate lady: "for whom my tears cease not to fall, and my heart to long after with true devotion. "truly, madame, whatever may have been your heavy and sore trials in separation from your beloved florence, you cannot have experienced more poignant smart than that which wrings the heart of your little friend, who in lonesomeness and delaying of hope counts the days of your absence. my uncle's friend, messer macchiavelli, who passes for a man of deep designs, raised my hopes at one time by whispering that there was a plot to bring you back. but nothing came of it, and instead we were given up to the dreadful piagnoni, so that my uncle, than whom there never was a more jocund man, so long as he was chancellor to your most worshipful husband, was forced to abandon politics and even for a time to hang his head in sadness. but having returned from rome with a cardinal's hat, since the death of savonarola, i discern some faint return to his old cheerfulness. "i was minded of you anew but recently. you will doubtless remember madonna lisa giocondo. she is now having her portrait painted by maestro da vinci. it is his manner to invite light and diverting society to his studio to converse with and cheer the lady during her sitting, and to strive to bring to her lips a certain marvelous smile about which he is mightily concerned. now it chanced that maestro da vinci heard that i played upon the lute at your court, in former days, and so he persuaded my uncle to bring me to his studio to play for the diversion of mona lisa. presently there came in with count castiglione a young man of a most beautiful countenance, a divine tenderness suffusing his eyes; and a smile of such heavenly sweetness upon his lips, that methought that of mona lisa but an affected simper in comparison. after greeting us he remained a long time in a muse, his eyes fastened upon the canvas. mona lisa, perceiving that his entranced gaze was not so much in admiration of her beauty as in delight at the skill of the painter, took her departure, in some pique, while maestro da vinci waited upon her to the door. raphael santi, for so is this young man called, turned to me and spoke of the genius of da vinci. after that the maestro brought forward a portfolio of sketches and we overlooked them together. i mind me there was one drawing of the madonna seated in the lap of sta. anna, caressing the infant christ, who, in his turn, was toying with a lamb. and the younger artist said that what pleased him most in da vinci's paintings was the lovingness which he displayed, as here sta. anna was beaming proudly and graciously upon her daughter, who playfully and tenderly yearned over her son, who as charmingly petted his little lamb. and many more things he said, so sweetly, and with such courteous and gentle behaviour, that i wondered not that he was called saint raphael, for indeed he seemed unto me as one of the company of the blessed. "but with all this i have not told you why it was that this should remind me of you. it was because i was told that he was from urbino, and because he was able to give me comfortable tidings concerning you, which did not a little solace and unburden my heart. "after this i met him several times in the outer cloisters of san marco, whither i went first by chance with my uncle, who had some business with the prior of the convent, and who left me to wait for him in this place, which is assigned to the laity. "presently, while i waited here, raphael came hastily in, having just completed his lesson in colouring with the fra bartolommeo, an artist who turned monk under the preaching of savonarola, and whom raphael has chosen as master during his stay in florence. he told me somewhat of this good monk; how when he was a talented and rising young man, with life and ambition all before him, he gave his paintings to the flames with which the piagnoni consumed the vanities of this world in the public streets, because he feared lest he loved his art more than god. but since he has renounced the world, the prior has told him that he can best serve the church by painting altar-pieces, so that his cell is changed to a studio, and god has granted him such access of genius that he paints more divinely than before, and churches and monasteries in venice and other distant cities send daily for his paintings. but he knows not where they go, nor how much money they bring the convent, for he paints only for the love of god. "raphael told me also of the heavenly frescoes of fra angelico, with which the walls of the passages and even the cells of the convent, are covered, and he added, 'truly, i think that art and a monastic life wed well together, and i would willingly retire to some cloistered garden afar from the world, if i might carry my box of colours with me, and might sometimes see in a vision a face like thine to paint from!' "then was i seized with a foolish timidity, so that i could in no wise answer, but my heart said, 'and why afar from the world, why not in it, making all things better and happier?' "ah! sweet lady, i know you will say, 'my little maria is grown wondrous foolish and love-sick'; but i pray you chide me not, seeing that the matter cannot grow further, for i am not likely again to meet with raphael, since i have come to visit for some days, on invitation of your sweet daughter madonna maddalena strozzi. nor were it best that i should see him often, for i do fear me that in such case my heart might become so rashly pitched and fixed upon him that i should in time most inconsiderately fall in love, which were a bold and unmaidenly thing to do; and i mind me that you were wont to tell me that no woman should allow her affections to conduct themselves thus insubordinately, until the church hath by the sacrament of marriage given her license thereto. "and so, madame, praying maria sanctissima and maria the sister of lazarus, my patroness, to keep me constant in this mind, i rest your loving friend and devoted servitor, "maria bibbiena. "_niccolo macchiavelli to bramante, architect to pope julius i, at rome_: "messer bramante mio: "we have no longer any politics in florence. the medici trusted to the luck of their name; but florence would have none of them, and piero had not the head for his position. he might have had the advantage of my brains if he had so chosen; but he had not the wit to appreciate wit. the magnificent was right when he said that he had three sons, the one good, the second crafty, the third a fool. the good die young: piero, the fool, has lost his inheritance; it remains for the crafty giovanni to make good the prestige of his family. the chances are against him, but if he has something better than maccaroni under his tonsure, he will make the church his ladder to power. i thought at one time that savonarola was perhaps shrewder than he seemed, and that he would succeed in tumbling alexander out of the papal chair and in taking his seat therein as the pope angelico. but it seemed that the dolt never cared for the papacy, but only for saving souls! i fear no such cause of defeat for a medici, but i hear rumours concerning giovanni which make me fear that he is not crafty enough for success. he has been dissolute; that is no hindrance to a cardinal's hat or even to the tiara; the folly i dread is more fatal. they say that he has reformed his life and is thinking of marriage. if this is true, i renounce his cause in favor of that of cæsar borgia, who has the audacity of a lion joined to the rascality of a fox, and who is not hindered from the putting in practice of my principles by any so cowardly and stupid a thing as a conscience. and yet they say that his superb physical manhood is now a wreck, bloated and permeated through and through with the subtle poison which his family alone knows how to prepare, and whose effects they can only partially eradicate. savonarola, borgia, medici, blunderers all! what name will the next wave bring to the surface? "but a truce to politics. you know this is a subject from which i can no more keep my thoughts than a greedy urchin can forbear thrusting his fingers into a pot of comfits. i am not so absorbed in my favourite pastime, however, but i can take an interest in all that interests my friends, especially in such matters as are flavoured with a spice of intrigue, than which no condiment soever is better suited to my palate. touching, therefore, the matter concerning which you wrote me, i think that you, as chief architect to his holiness, have indeed cause to fear the rivalry of michael angelo, for i am credibly informed that he is minded presently to journey toward rome. moreover, since it is the practice of popes to be always meddling with works of art, marring and defacing the excellent things done in the pontificates of those preceding them,--when they cannot improve upon them,--and whereas they are a whimsical lot, not long contented with one object or one workman, be he ever so excellent, you have sufficient cause, i say, to fear, having now continued in favour for some time, that this michael angelo will supplant you in the favour of his holiness. i would suggest, therefore, that you search about for some new artist, who shall occupy himself with a line of work as fresco painting, not in any way interfering with your own architectural designs, but rather depending upon them; and that you make haste to introduce him to the pope, and if possible ingratiate him into his favour that, his mind being taken up with this new favourite, and his purse lightened by the dispensing of moneys for these new works, he will be less inclined to look favourably upon a new architect such as michael angelo. and inasmuch as it seemeth to me that this thing requireth haste, i have looked about me somewhat in florence to find a man suited to your occasions. "i first bethought me of leonardo da vinci as being the successful rival of michael angelo in this city, and against whom he could not for a moment contend. but da vinci hath no drawings toward rome. i have marked for a long time that he cutteth his doublet after the french fashion. trust me, he is no man for us; he would rather trip it merrily with french dames than wear out his knees on the cold scagliola of the vatican. i have bethought me also that leonardo is too old and subtle for you; you need a man whom you can manage; who shall look up to you as a patron and as a superior. my eye hath lately fallen upon a youngster of surprising talent as a painter, a stranger in florence, of no great influence, and utterly unknown to fame. he hath as yet no great opinion of himself; make haste to secure him before others shall enlighten him as to his merits. this youth is called raphael santi, and i make sure that the pope will greatly prefer this silken dove to that porcupine angelo. "i would the more willingly see him advanced in some foreign city in that my good friend cardinal bibbiena seems desirous with all expedition to get him forth from florence, and yet it is not so much from a desire to pleasure bibbiena, as from a conviction that i have found here a tool of proper service to thee, that i thus recommend him to thy good offices. "to conclude, my bramante, make all speed to inform his holiness that the walls of the vatican are cracked, smoky, filthy, and disgraceful, and above all things fetch thy raphael quickly and gain for him a personal interview; for i trust more to the charm of his presence than to volumes of thy bungling speech. "and when thou hast need of further counsel, or seest that the pope desireth an ahithophel,--now the counsel of ahithophel which he counselled in those days was as if a man had enquired at the oracle,--why send then and fetch thy ever loving and honest friend, "macchiavelli. "florence, october , . "_maria bibbiena to the lady alfonsina orsini medici, wife of piero dei medici, at urbino_: "florence, october , . "most magnificent, most beloved, and most sweet lady: "since i last made bold to write you of my small matters, others more weighty to me have transpired, which, as i have made a beginning, i will also make an end in the way of their narration. and first i have met with a small disquietness from your highness's brother-in-law, the cardinal, concerning whose presence in florence i had not heard. for yestreen, when i was playing upon my lute in the garden of the palazzo of your daughter, madonna strozzi, he came upon me suddenly walking with your daughter. whereat he seemed at first taken all aback, but the lady maddalena exclaimed, 'a new petrarch, and new laura,' and commanded him on his fame as a scholar to make some rhymes on that subject. whereat he replied that if i would continue playing he would write, as his patron, st. cupid, gave him utterance, and with that he improvised and wrote out the nonsense herewith following: "in all avignon's gardens the nightingales were mute as at her open casement she played upon her lute. the lonely scholar petrarch wandered all listlessly; 'the old man with the hour-glass has sure some grudge 'gainst me. the sands they fall so sluggishly that tell the flight of time; my studies all are tedium, and weariness my rhyme.' 'twas then the lady laura, with lips like ripened fruit, and lily-petalled fingers, full sweetly touched the lute. the lonely petrarch listened, as she sang, so sweet and low, a soft love-laden sonnet, writ by boccaccio. till cupid snatched the hour-glass from loitering father time, and petrarch's life was all too short to tell his love in rhyme. "after the reading, our lady daughter would have me crown the poet, but this i would in no manner consent unto. nay, i even flung down my lute in vexation of spirit, and ran away to another part of the garden. but i gained nothing thereby, for giovanni pursued after me and came up with me at the fountain, where he caught my hand and would in no wise restore my freedom till he had delivered his mind of what lay thereon, namely, that he sought me for his wife. whereupon i told him very plainly that i knew that he had been bred up for the church, and that it were disloyalty to his brother, your highness's husband, and to his nephew, your son lorenzo, for him to think of marriage and a worldly life, for by so doing the medici interest would be divided. but he said that if i would but be his wife he would relinquish all claim to political power and lorenzo should not fear for his succession, for he would go with me to dwell in foreign parts. and while i sought in the corners of my mind for some answer which should convince him of my utter lothness, and yet not offend so noble a gentleman, came suddenly your daughter to warn him that others were entering the garden; but ere he went he kissed a rose and tossed it to me saying, 'this rose comes not from giovanni the cardinal, but giovanni the soldier, for henceforth go i to fight the french and to win my bride.' "scarcely was he gone than i tore the rose in pieces, wroth that i had been so tongue-tied in his presence. and while i shred the petals all about me, i was aware of raphael coming to meet me, and holding in his hand a lily such as we see in the pictures of the virgin, which lily he placed in my hand, saying: sicut lilium inter spinas sic maria inter filias. "and as he saw me to tremble with the vexation and the disquiet of my interview with the gay cardinal, he most courteously and gently inquired the cause of my discomfort, and did so comfortably avail to assuage my distress that i presently forgot it. he told me also that since he had known me he had so grown into an affection for the name of maria, that he had resolved to devote his life, in so far as choice should be vouchsafed him, to the painting of maria sanctissima. and many other things he said which it is not meet nor proper that i should write out here. suffice it that you, who love your dear lord, can well understand my present joyful state, and why it is that the nuns, singing now the canticle for the feast of the purification in the convent next to the palazzo, seem to be addressing their song to me: gaude, virgo gloriosa! super omnes speciosa! "for happiest of all virgins is thy little "maria. "it was this last letter which broke my heart, and yet did not so much break as bend it so that i gave up the hope which i could no longer keep not in bitterness or in wrath, and resigned myself to my destiny as monk and pope; when maria bibbiena died, all too early, i wept not my own shattered future alone, but raphael's as well, and so took him to my heart, though he knew not the reason, and so i beseech the efficacious prayers of all christians for all true lovers. "_et pro nobis christum exora._ "giovanni de' medici, "_the ghost of the cabinet._" chapter xvi. the mystery disclosed. [illustration] winnie's romance of the cabinet pleased us all, but adelaide was sure that madame would not allow it to be read without certain changes, especially the reference to the robbery in the school, and the "lovering" parts. "you need not imagine," said milly, "that because you object to lovering, all the rest of the world does. why, even miss noakes has a softer heart than adelaide's. but really and truly, winnie, how much of that is true? was raphael really engaged?" "most certainly, my dear." "and did leo x love her too? you made me ever so sorry for the poor old pope." "well, no, that part is the only one for which i have no warrant in history. that is, i have no doubt that leo x really did love some one before he took the irrevocable vows. he was what browning calls 'sworn fast and tonsured pate, plain heaven's celibate, and yet earth's clear accepted servitor, a courtly, spiritual cupid, and fit companion for the like of you; your gay abati with the well turned leg, and rose i' the hat rim. canon's cross at neck, and silk mask in the pocket of the gown.'" "the cabinet is such an uncanny old thing," said milly, "that i begin almost to believe that you have divined the truth, and that an uneasy spirit really haunts its vicinity." "perhaps the fact that we now only keep school books in the cabinet is the reason the ghost has been so very quiet of late," said winnie. "or, perhaps it has repented its evil deeds and my essay has given it the peace of conscience which only comes through confession. if it were an unrepenting spirit it would, as milly suggests, be very unwilling that i should publish its evil deeds by reading this essay. i believe that i will give it an opportunity of showing whether it approves of my reading its confessions. here, tib, take everything else off your shelf, and i will lay my essay there and call on the spirit to make away with it, if, indeed, he is able and wicked enough to do it." adelaide, milly, and i watched the incantation with much amusement. "guilty ghost," exclaimed winnie, striking an attitude, "if you have repented of your crimes, and the reading of this essay will allow you henceforth to rest in peace, i hereby exorcise you, and command you to affix some seal of your approval to this paper--either the print of a bloody hand or at least x your mark." hereupon winnie, with a flourish, laid her essay on my shelf and closed the cabinet door. "if, guilty ghost," she continued, "you are still up to your tricks, and having taken the money which tib confided to her shelf, are determined to go on in your evil ways, i hereby dare you to steal that essay within the next half hour, we keeping watch and ward in this room!" "i think it is no fair test," i said, "unless you leave it there overnight. both of the other robberies were committed just at midnight. this ghost may be of a bashful disposition, or possibly not good-natured enough to walk at your call in broad daylight." "well, if he doesn't appear within a half hour i'll give him another chance, 'in the dead vast and middle of the night,' 'when churchyards yawn,' et-cetera. here, milly, lend me your watch, that i may time our visitor." we all sat for a few moments silently watching the cabinet, but presently adelaide tired of this mummery and exclaimed: "really, this is too absurd! i have my latin prose composition to write, and cannot spend any more time in such nonsense, winnie." "write your exercise in this room. we will all keep still, and i must have all the amen corner as witnesses of my little experiment." winnie pulled out the writing shelf, and adelaide seated herself at the cabinet and wrote steadily until winnie cried, "time's up." milly and i approached the cabinet, and winnie made a few magical passes in the air and repeated an ancient hocus-pocus: "there was a frog lived in a well, to a rigstram boney mite kimeo. and mistress mouse she kept the mill, to a karro karro, delto karro, rigstram pummiddle arry boney rigstram rigstram boney mitte kimeo, keemo kimo darrow wa, munri, munro, munrum stump, pummididle, nip cat periwinkle, sing song, kitchee wunchee kimeo." adelaide pushed in the writing shelf and stepped aside, and winnie threw open the cabinet door. we could hardly believe our eyes--the essay had disappeared. milly gave a shriek of dismay. "it must have been a ghost. how else could it have vanished with all of us on the watch?" "have you been playing a trick on me, adelaide?" winnie asked. "did you manage to slip it out while we were not looking?" adelaide disclaimed any such action, and milly and i confirmed her assertion, for we had been watching the door all the time. winnie wheeled the cabinet away from the wall, almost expecting to find a concealed door opening into cynthia's room. but the wall was perfectly solid, there was not even a mouse hole in the base-board, while the back of the cabinet was not a sliding panel. we banged it, and pushed it, and examined it with a magnifying glass for concealed springs or hinges. it was simply an honest piece of work, a secure, heavy back, conspicuously fastened in its place with wooden pegs, a construction to which cabinet makers give the term dowelling, and to make assurance doubly sure, the edges had been glued with a cement which had turned black with age, but had not cracked. there was no possible way in which the cabinet could have been opened from behind. "there goes my pet theory," said winnie, in an aggrieved tone. "it would have been just like cynthia to have removed things from the back of the cabinet, if we could only have discovered a concealed door in the partition behind it. you see the cabinet backs so conveniently against her room." but there was no possibility of any door having ever existed here. the partition wall was not of boards, which might have been sawed through and removed. it was clean white plaster which had never been papered, and would have betrayed the least scratch, and winnie was obliged to relinquish this romantic method of access to the cabinet. "i shall always think," said adelaide, "that the first robbery was committed by that individual we saw through the studio transom in professor waite's great rembrandt hat." winnie laughed heartily. "girls, i may as well confess," she exclaimed, "that was your humble servant." "you, winnie?" "yes, i, winnie. don't you remember that i was not in the parlor when the head appeared? i was in the studio, and it struck me that it would be rather a good joke to pretend to be professor waite, tramping up and down before that door, tormented by a consuming passion for adelaide. wait, i will put the hat on again and let you see." winnie dashed into the studio and returned wearing the rembrandt hat, and we all laughed at her cavalier appearance. "but, girls," she exclaimed, throwing the hat on the floor, "this is really no laughing matter. do you realize that my essay is gone? my essay that i am to read next week. and how i am ever to find time to write it over again, with examinations and all that i have to do between now and then, is more than i know. just see how wickedly giovanni de' medici leers at me!" and winnie pointed to the carved head which adorned the centre of the cabinet door. "oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" winnie soon answered that question for herself, by writing another essay, and improving it in the process. but the disappearance of the florentine letters was a nine days' wonder. we searched the room thoroughly and even stepped out on the fire-escape and looked up and down for some bird of heaven that might have carried them away. "i shall always maintain," said milly, "that it is no real thief at all. of course, none of us really believe in the ghost theory, though it is almost enough to make one turn spiritualist to be made the victim of such a trick. i believe that in the end it will be found that somebody's little pet poodle has found his way in here, and like old mother hubbard's dog has a weakness for cupboards, and has chewed up everything that he has found. sometime nemesis will overtake that little poodle and he will be laid upon the dissecting table, and all of the money and winnie's essay will be found in his little gizzard." it was an absurd suggestion, but nothing seemed to explain the mystery, and we finally all gave it up. all but winnie. she continued to worry about it. she laid many traps for her ghost, baiting them with edibles under the supposition that the thief might be an animal; and with money, tying silken threads around the cabinet, fastening the handle of the door to a bell in her own room, but they were all unavailing; the robber came no more. the cadets' prize declamation came before our graduation, and we all attended the exercises. stacey did not take a prize, but, as he laughingly told milly, his coat did, and that was honour enough. woodpecker was the honour man that day, and as woodpecker was a poor man's son, he had no dress suit, and stacey lent him his coat to appear in while he delivered his oration--stacey sitting in his shirt sleeves behind the scenes meantime. woodpecker's long arms soared and the stitches in the back cracked, but he spoke with fire, and the committee unanimously awarded his "description of a chariot race" the first prize, while buttertub's sonorous voice and grandiloquent manner secured the second for his "philosophy of socrates," and stacey's "athletic games of greece" came off with an "honourable mention" only. there was a good deal of what jim called "kicking" at this decision. the drum corps, to a man, felt that stacey ought to have had the first prize, and there was not a boy in the school, not excepting buttertub, who did not think stacey's essay infinitely more entertaining than the socratic philosophy. the commodore, fortunately, was of this opinion. stacey's stock had risen rapidly in his father's estimate. the essay interested the commodore, and it made no difference to him that the committee did not agree with him; in his opinion stacey was the brightest boy in the school. we girls shared this feeling. stacey's bouquets proclaimed him the most popular fellow in the class. the usher kept bringing them up, and it was impossible for stacey to carry all his floral tributes from the stage at one time. woodpecker enjoyed the popularity of his friend more than his own honors. he had laid a wager with ricos that stacey would carry off the first prize, promising that if he did not, he, woodpecker, would trundle a wheelbarrow down fifth avenue. having lost the wager by his own triumph woodpecker gaily proceeded to pay the penalty by carrying stacey's bouquets in a light wheelbarrow to the buckingham hotel--where commodore and mrs. fitz simmons had taken rooms--immediately after the exercises. stacey himself did not overestimate this expression of his friend's regard, but it helped soften his disappointment at not obtaining the first prize. he was not embittered as at his failure at the games, but humbled in a salutary way. he saw his true position: a talented fellow, who until recently had not tried to make the best use of his opportunities, and who could not reasonably hope for the highest rewards after such brief effort. but something within him whispered, "you can do it yet. you can be something more than a dude and a good fellow," and he resolved to devote his vacation to serious training in his studies. it gave him a thrill of pleasure, strangely mingled with humility, to see the commodore's delight, just as he was handing mrs. fitz simmons into the carriage, at hearing the old cry from the drum corps, who had been lined up in front of the barracks by buttertub for that purpose, and gave it with a will--jim's shrill voice joining in the final cheer: "who's fitz simmons?" "first in peace, first in war, he'll be there again, as he's been there before, first in the hearts of his own drum corps, that's fitz simmons!" the roseveldts were coming down the steps, and milly heard it too, and waved her handkerchief, and stacey opened the carriage door and waved his hat to her--though the drum corps thought it was in acknowledgment of their salute, and closing round woodpecker and his wheelbarrow escorted him down the avenue. there were tears in mrs. fitz simmons's eyes as she pressed her husband's hand, and the commodore, not wishing to show his satisfaction too plainly, asked who that pretty girl was who waved her handkerchief so enthusiastically. "you don't deserve it, you young dog," he asserted. "now if she had smiled in that way at me i would have cared more for it than for all the hullabaloo those young rascals are making." "perhaps i do," was the reply on stacey's lips, but it was uttered so quietly that only his mother heard it, and understood as mothers always do. and then through the days that followed, stacey buckled down to hard work again, and won, as such work is sure to win, its reward. "passed his examinations, admitted to harvard! why, of course," said the commodore. "there never was any doubt of it." but stacey knew that there had been great doubt, and that the expression of esteem by which he was held by his classmates, which had pleased his father so much, was a very slight thing compared to this quiet victory, gained through hours of unregarded toil and for which no cheers were shouted or flowers borne after him in noisy triumph. the opening of the college gates was the entering of a better race for stacey. he felt that he was now indeed a man, and must put away childish things. we of the amen corner had been chatting together, the evening before our commencement, of what we intended to do during vacation. "first of all," said adelaide, "i want some home life. i want to get acquainted with my own mother. i feel now that we can be companionable. i am not very learned, it is true, but i am certainly more mature than when we were together last. i ought to be not only a help to her, but a sort of comrade. she has kept herself young at heart, and her society will recompense me in part for the loss of yours. we are going to study music seriously together. she plays my accompaniments very nicely. indeed, i think she has more talent than i have, only she is out of practice, and her repertoire is a little old-fashioned, but it will be very easy for her to put herself in touch with modern requirements. then father has planned a delightful occupation for me. you know how fond i am of practical architecture. well, he has purchased a delightful old colonial mansion in deerfield, a charming village in western massachusetts. it is an old homestead which has fallen into disrepair from having been long unoccupied, for the family which once inhabited it have all died. the one distant relative who owns the place lives in the west, and has sold it to father. i am to have the direction of all the repairs and restorations, and i mean to truly restore the old house to its original condition. we will board in the village while the changes are being made. it will be just the place for jim to grow strong in. father writes that it has the loveliest elm-shaded street, and a hundred different drives over the hills and along its three rivers." "you need not tell us anything about deerfield," winnie interrupted. "tib and i drove through the old town on our coaching trip. it is the most charming spot that i ever saw. i congratulate you on having such a delightful prospect before you." "and i hereby invite you all to come to the hanging of the crane when my restorations are finished," adelaide continued cordially. "that will be in september, i think, for they will take all summer at least, and you've no idea how i shall enjoy planning everything and directing the workmen. jim and i are going to carve some of the woodwork ourselves. we will have a portico like that at mount vernon, with ionic columns, and the windows will have tiny panes and broad seats, and there are to be china closets with glass doors, and fan work carved over the mantelpieces, and a raftered ceiling with a great 'summer-tree' in the 'keeping room.' i shall enjoy it more than i can make you understand. i don't mean so much the possession of the house when it is done, as altering it, for i love architecture, and wish i could be an architect. so much for my plans. what are yours, tib?" "work," i replied; "solid work." "i knew you would say that," adelaide answered. "i have felt dissatisfied all this year with madame's course of instruction. if it were not that i really must see my mother and have some home life, i would go to bryn mawr. i positively crave some good solid study. madame's curriculum makes me think of the course of study aurora leigh pursued." adelaide took down her favourite blue and gold volume from its companions in the "poets' corner,"--a set of shelves,--and read with comments: "i learnt a little algebra, a little of the mathematics; brushed with extreme flounce the circle of the sciences, because she misliked women who are frivolous. i learnt: the internal laws of the burmese empire; by how many feet mount chimborazo outsoars himmeleh. i learnt much music, such as would have been as quite impossible in johnson's day as still it might be wished--fine sleights of hand and unimagined fingering, shuffling off the hearers' soul through hurricanes of notes to a noisy tophet." "and here you are, tib." "and i drew costumes from french engravings, nereides neatly draped, with smirks of simpering godship. i washed in from nature, landscapes (rather say washed out), spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax, because she liked accomplishments in girls." "no," i interrupted, "i will not have you malign professor waite. his teaching at least has been thorough, and i feel that i have received very valuable training in my art." "then i suppose that by solid work you mean that you will devote yourself to art this summer, and camp under a sketching umbrella in front of every picturesque nook you can find." "art will have to wait until winter," i replied. "i mean that i shall cook for the farm hands during haying season, and let mother go off for a visit to her sisters in northfield, where she can attend the moody meetings, and i shall get all the preserving done before she returns, too." "you are just lovely, tib," milly replied, giving me a hug. "and now won't you be surprised when you hear what i am going to do. father says he is going to superintend my education for a while. he sent me a squib from one of the papers about the sweet girl graduate: 'she talks with tears about her mates and quotes from ancient lore. she says the past is left behind, the future is before. her gown is simply stunning, but she can't subtract or add, oh, what an awful humbug is the sweet girl grad!' father is going through practical business arithmetic with me, and says he means to teach me how to take care of money, and even fit me to take a position in his bank." "i pity your father," said winnie. "but seriously, milly, it is the best thing you could do." "there is something else," milly said, with a painful blush, "which father says is the foundation of business, and in which i have already had one lesson, and that is honesty. he says that all the sad failures, embezzlements, and defalcations come from borrowing money that does not belong to one--using money for one purpose that was intended for another; and he means to go over a great many such cases with me to show me on what a terrible precipice i have been playing. but indeed he need not say another word, for i have been severely punished, and i think i would rather put my hand into fire than go into debt one dollar, or spend a penny for marsh-mellows that father had given me for chocolate creams." winnie turned and kissed milly. "i would trust you with millions," she said; "but adelaide is the only one in the corner who knows anything about business." "i am sure, winnie," i replied, "that the way you have managed the home finances disproves that modest assertion. what are you going to do during the summer?" "i have no mother, you know," winnie said gravely, "but i am going to my father, and shall try to make his life a little less lonely for him. he writes that his eyes have been troubling him. perhaps he can dictate to me and i can be his amanuensis. i shall take my paint-box with me, and mean to daub a little all summer. professor waite has no faith in my genius, but i intend to astonish that gentleman one of these days. he admits that i have an eye for colour, and the rest can be learned. if father can spare me for a week i shall accept your invitation, adelaide, and when i appear you must give me the interior of a room to decorate. it will be startling, i tell you. i have a good deal of king's daughter work to do, too. you know we have not raised the money for the manger, and the home must have it, for they have been receiving the babies, though they have no good nursery. now in the summer we all do more or less fancy work, and i am going to write to all the circles of king's daughters with whom we are in correspondence, and ask them to work for a fair, which we will hold in new york in the autumn. i have had a talk with madame and she favors the idea. she even suggested that each circle should be invited to send a delegate who should assist in selling the articles at the tables, and very generously offered to entertain them here for three days during the continuance of the fair. you see, the school is never full at the beginning of the term, and perhaps she thinks it will be a good advertisement of her institution, to have girls from all over the county meet here, though there is really no need of imputing such mercenary motives to her. i have spoken about it at the home to emma jane, and she will see that the proposition is made at the next meeting of the board of managers." "well, you certainly have your hands full," milly remarked, "but i think i can help you after our tennis tournament is over. i will get the girls at the pier to make fancy work for you if i can get any time from my arithmetic. where will you hold the fair?" "i haven't planned as far as that." "i think the new armory at the barracks will be a splendid place," milly suggested. "i will get stacey to ask colonel grey if we can use it, and then perhaps the cadets will be interested to do something to assist in the entertainment. they might act a play or furnish the music at least." "i will drum up the two circles of king's daughters at scup harbor," i said, "and we will have a useful table, with holders and aprons and dish-wipers; pickles, honey, butter, and preserves. why, certainly, home-made preserves. while i'm about it this summer i will make you some currant jelly and pickled peaches." "you had better paint something," adelaide said; "and you must take charge of the art department." "if i can come to town," i said. "and i will start the movement before i go by asking professor waite to get contributions from his artist friends before he goes abroad." "i have been greatly touched by one thing," said winnie. "the interest which the terwilligers have taken in this scheme. i happened to mention it to polo, and the entire family have risen to the occasion. mrs. terwilliger sent word that she wouldn't consider it too much if she worked for us to her dying day, considering the way her young ones had been 'done for' while she was sick. she has been collecting scraps of silk for a long time past to make a crazy quilt, and she intends to donate it to us. i fear me it will be a horror; but it shows her good-will all the same. terwilliger, the trainer, says he means to collect sticks from noted places during mr. van silver's coaching tour, to be made into canes and other souvenirs for us. polo will not have time to work for the fair, for she must sew with miss billings this summer. i wish she could go to the country instead." "i am going to invite her to deerfield for august," said adelaide. "the home children ought to be able to do something for the fair. have you thought of them, winnie?" "emma jane will see that they manufacture a quantity of little articles in their sewing class," winnie replied. "they can hem towels and make bibs and bags and useful articles. i am really sorry that we cannot have the reception at the home, for i would like to have people see those nice, fat babies." "they shall see them," milly replied. "i've an idea. we will devote one afternoon at the fair to a baby show. do you remember the bicycle drill? well, i will get stacey to lend me his artillery tactics, and i will get up some manoeuvres with baby carriages. we will call it the infantry brigade. the older children shall wheel the carriages. i will drill them without the babies at first. and then we will have them well strapped in, and then there will be a triumphal procession by twos and fours, and i'll deploy them in line and draw them up in a hollow square, and make them 'present arms,' and 'carry' and 'shoulder arms,' and double quick and charge. it will be lots of fun; and one baby carriage shall have a flag fastened to it, for that baby must be the colour bearer, and we'll have music, of course, and medals for all the babies. then when people see what a lot of children we have, with no annex to put them in, they will rise to the occasion and contribute."[ ] [ ] the messiah home for children, rutherford place, new york city, the actual analogue of the home in which the girls of the amen corner was interested, is greatly assisted in its good work by circles of king's daughters in different parts of the united states. these circles intend to unite in a fair to be given in new york city immediately before the holidays, and they invite other circles of king's daughters, and any nimble-fingered, warm-hearted girl to whom this greeting may come, to aid them in this enterprise. any donations may be sent to the home in care of the matron, miss weaver. "i think something of the kind might really be arranged," winnie replied. "the hornets are sure to be equally fertile in expedients. i foresee that the plan will be a great success, and it has one admirable feature--it will reunite us all in new york next winter for a week at least, and i wonder what will happen after that." "i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me," said adelaide softly, quoting from "lead, kindly light," her favorite hymn. there was something strangely vibrant in her tone. i knew without looking that adelaide was on the point of tears, but i was at a loss to understand the reason. the rest of us had had our fits of hysterical weeping at the idea of parting from one another, but adelaide was always so superior to any weakness of that sort. what could be the matter? our great, last school day, so paradoxically called commencement, came at last. the exercises were in the evening, and we of the amen corner and many others of the girls would not leave the school until the following morning. we received our diplomas in the school chapel, which had been beautifully decorated for the occasion. buttertub's father, who was a friend of madame's, addressed us at some length as we stood before him on the platform. i remember that adelaide never looked more peerless, nor milly more bewitching; and that winnie, mischievous as ever, found a rose bug on her bouquet and could not forbear dropping it on commodore fitz simmons's bald head. the commodore was in full uniform and had been shown to a front seat just beneath the platform. i think winnie really meant to snap the rose bug at stacey, but the projectile fell short of its aim. then the sweet girl graduates in clouds of mull and chiffon, drifted into the school parlours, and there was a reception, and adelaide and milly were besieged by battalions of friends, but i was quite lonely and awkward, and held my bouquet and rolled diploma stiffly, until winnie caught me about the waist and whirled me off for a little dance, for madame had permitted this. after the dance there were refreshments in the dining-room, and we all went down, with the exception of adelaide, who was on the reception committee, and had been stationed in the front parlour to receive any tardy guest. i met professor waite bringing up an ice as i went down the stairs, and milly drew me into a corner, her eyes dancing with mischief as i entered the supper-room. "something is going to happen," she said to me mysteriously. "i have given professor waite his opportunity, and if he doesn't seize it and propose i shall never forgive him. i saw him moving around here, looking bored to death, and i asked him to please take an ice to adelaide, who, i happened to mention, was all alone in the parlour. he seized the idea and the ice simultaneously. i saw resolve in his eye, and now we must keep people down here as long as we can." "what shall we do with mr. and mrs. armstrong and jim?" i asked. "they are all so proud of adelaide they will be with her in a moment." "winnie is in the plot and has special care of them. jim thinks there never was quite so jolly a girl as winnie. they are discussing the cabinet now. mrs. armstrong thinks that some one of us may be a somnambulist and have hidden the things in our sleep." "what a strategic little girl you are, milly! what made you think of this opportunity for professor waite?" "oh! that was the way stacey found his chance, you know. speak of angels----how nice of you, stacey, to bring me that salad. i am positively dying for something to eat. wasn't the bishop too longsome for anything? i thought i should expire, and i was wild to get across the stage at winnie, whose back hair was coming down. no, i shall not tell you what we were saying about you. do get me some chicken salad. i can't endure lobster;" and as the obedient stacey ambled briskly away, milly confided to me: "do you know, tib, adelaide is beginning to care for professor waite? what makes me think so? oh, i know the symptoms. she was packing so late last night that i nearly fell asleep, but not quite, for just as i was dozing off i saw her drop on her knees before her trunk with her face in a great white handkerchief, and while i was wondering where she ever got such a great sheet of a thing, it suddenly dawned upon me that it was the silk muffler which professor waite wrapped around her burned hands the night of our halloween scrape. suddenly it seemed to occur to her that i might be looking, and she turned to look at me, but i had my eyes shut and was snoring like an angel. of course angels snore, stacey fitz simmons. did you ever catch an angel asleep? and if not what right have you to make fun of me? dear me, there is the bishop starting to go upstairs, and they don't need him a bit--as yet." milly darted across the room, planted herself squarely in the bishop's way, and exerted her powers of entertainment to such effect that stacey became blindly jealous, though buttertub had not come with his father, apparently having had quite enough of madame's young ladies and their entertainments. and meantime, how was professor waite thriving with his wooing? adelaide told me long afterward, so long that it was too late for any word of mine to set all right, and filled my heart with pity, not alone for the professor, but, alas! for adelaide also. professor waite offered her the ice, which she took and thanked him very sweetly, though he had dripped it awkwardly upon her dress. then, as adelaide began to eat it, he inconsistently took it away from her, saying, "don't eat now, i have something important to say to you, and i want your entire attention." "oh! certainly. what is it?" adelaide replied, knowing exactly what he wished to say, and determined to prevent his saying it. "miss adelaide, i began to say what was on my mind last halloween----" "oh! yes, and pardon me for interrupting you, but you remind me that i must return your muffler, which i have kept all this time. i will get it now," and adelaide tried to slip by him and out of the door. "no, you must not get it now," the professor exclaimed, barring her way with his extended hand in which he still held the dish of ice-cream. "i must speak to you, miss adelaide. i may never have another opportunity." "in that case do set down that ice-cream, for you are spilling it over everything." the professor obeyed her. "see," she added pathetically, "you have nearly ruined the front of my gown----" "but that is nothing," he asserted, "and you must not try to divert me from my purpose by calling my attention to such a trifle. these little subterfuges are unworthy of you, adelaide. you know what it is that i wish to say and you must hear me." thus driven into a corner adelaide looked him squarely in the eyes, and braced herself for the attack. "you know that i love you, adelaide?" "yes, i know it." "that i have loved you from the first moment that i saw you--desperately, hopelessly?" "thank you for saying that, professor waite; it would have been wicked in me to have given you hope. i never meant to do so. i am glad that you have not misunderstood me. and since you give me credit for not encouraging you, rather for striving to keep you from this avowal, why have you spoken? i would so gladly have spared you the pain, the humiliation of a refusal." "you have not allowed me to finish what i was saying. i loved you at first hopelessly for i saw that you scorned me; but lately you have not scorned me. you have pitied me; you have been very kind and considerate; your manner has wholly changed, and i believed that your feelings had changed also." something in adelaide's honest eyes flamed up as he spoke. she could not even look a lie, though she tried hard to do so. "i am right," he cried triumphantly, "you have changed! you love me? adelaide, you love me!" his arms were almost about her, but she kept him off. "it is impossible, professor waite. it can never be," she replied solemnly. "never is a long day. i will not urge you, or hasten you. i will be patient and wait, for you have changed, and you will love me wholly by and by. it is our destiny. god meant us for each other. i cannot make thee glorious by my pen and famous by my sword, but i can do it with my brush, and i will spend my life painting you, adelaide. art and love! it is too much for mortal man to possess and live." "be content with art," adelaide replied gently. "it is a great gift, and must console you, for i cannot be your wife." "cannot? why not?" "i will tell you. you think you love me, but it will pass. i regard you very highly, but not above duty. the feeling which i have for you, professor waite, cannot be love, since it is perfectly easy for me now to give you up----" "no," he assented; "if that is true you do not love me." "listen! the reason that it is easy for me, is not that i do not respect and admire you; not that i am not grateful to you, and do not suffer in giving you pain; not that i might not come to care still more for you, but because i know that a far tenderer heart than mine is wholly yours; that some one else, who richly deserves your affection, loves you with an utter self-abnegation of which i am incapable----" "i know of whom you speak," he cried impatiently, "but she is a child, and will outgrow this fancy. god knows that i am innocent, adelaide, of having ever deluded her foolish little heart." "all too innocent; you might have treated her more kindly!" "what! when i can never love her?" "never is a long day. you have said so. you are going away. try to forget me and to love her, and when you return again two years hence to america----" "when i return she will be married; she will, at least, have outgrown this silly dream." adelaide shook her head. "promise me that you will do as i ask; that you will go and ask her when you come again." "and if she refuses me, as she certainly will, may i come to you for the reward of my obedience?" again the tell-tale light flashed in adelaide's eyes, but she only said: "she will not refuse you." and in the hall milly's voice was heard in a high key, with the best of intentions, announcing the return of the guests from the dining-room, as she replied to some banter of stacey's: "indeed, stacey fitz simmons, i never change my mind--never." "good-by," said adelaide. professor waite raised the _portière_ for her to pass. "you are very cruel," he murmured. "you will thank me for this some day," she said, and the curtain of an impenetrable fate fell between them. milly seized my arm a few moments later. "i don't understand it at all," she said, "but adelaide has certainly refused professor waite. i met him just now in the hall, and he glared at me like a maniac. i was positively afraid of him. i ran in to speak to adelaide, but others had entered before me, and she only took my hand and squeezed it tight, while she talked with the bishop. and tib, she was as white as a sheet." while making allowances for milly's exaggerations, it seemed probable to me that her deductions were correct. something unusual had happened, for when we went to our rooms we found that adelaide had already retired for the night, and had taken cynthia's empty room, leaving a note for milly saying that she had a headache and would rather be alone. if we had known, milly and i, that adelaide had put from her a love whose dearness she only realized after its sacrifice, we might have saved her years of heroic self-abnegation, and so have frustrated god's plan for making her a resolute, generous, and noble character. but we did not know it, and the two girls who loved each other so dearly looked into each other's eyes at parting, and thought that they read each other's souls there, and yet misunderstood the reading as completely as if they had been utter strangers. it was fortunate, shall we not say providential, that adelaide occupied cynthia's room that night, and that she was so disturbed that she could not sleep? for toward morning she noticed a bright light shining through the transom over the door. her first thought was that the thief was at work at the cabinet, and stealing cautiously from her bed she peered through the key-hole. there was no one near the cabinet, and throwing on a wrapper she softly opened the door. the room was vacant and the light which she had noticed streamed in from the window. on looking out what was her horror to see that the rear of the house was in flames. the fire had originated in the kitchen, and was making its way toward the front of the building. her presence of mind did not desert her. she stepped to milly's room, wakened her gently and told her what was the matter, and then her clear voice rang out, "fire, fire!" as she hastened to madame's room, sounding the telegraphic alarm in the corridor as she went. how differently people behave during a crisis like this! with the exception of adelaide, i think we all lost our wits to a certain extent. milly, although wakened so gently, was quite frightened out of hers. she dressed herself with extreme deliberation, heating her curling irons in the gas jet and crimping her bangs very prettily. she put on one high-buttoned boot and one louis seize slipper, but was particular about her gloves--fastening every button--and came to me to be helped with her graduation dress, which laced in the back. winnie was also greatly excited. she donned a diminutive blazer tennis jacket over her nightgown, and seeming to consider herself in full dress, rushed off to awaken miss noakes, carrying a small pitcher of ice-water in her hand with which to help extinguish the fire. having forcibly entered miss noakes's room, she emptied her pitcher in the face of that indignant woman. i was not much better. possessed with the idea that i must save things, i dragged "the commissary" from under my bed, and filled it with an absurd collection of useless articles--old school books, empty pickle jars, the tidies from the chairs, all the soap from the wash-stand, a soap stone which my mother had insisted on my having as a remedy for cold feet; this i carefully wrapped in my flannel petticoat to avoid breakage. i then tossed in the globes from the gas fixtures, and finding that the cover of the trunk would not go down, sat upon it, crushing the frail glass globes to atoms. it was at this juncture that milly came out to have her dress laced, and i was so dazed that i obeyed her. adelaide entered a few moments later, and, spreading a blanket on the floor, opened the door leading into the studio for the first time since our initial escapade of the school year. her intensity of feeling gave her the strength required to push the heavy chest aside, and she hastily collected all of professor waite's sketches and studies, wrapped them in the blanket, and descended the turret stairs with them. managing--how, she never knew--to burst open the door at the foot, and to carry the heavy package through the crowd which had now collected across the park to the home of the elder brother, where emma jane received them. winnie meantime had returned from her life-saving expedition, and assisted me in tumbling the commissary out of the window, following it with every other piece of furniture in the room. we had some difficulty with the cabinet, but finally our united efforts succeeded in toppling it over the balcony, narrowly missing crushing a fireman who was coming up the escape to order us to stop throwing out the furniture, as the fire had been extinguished. "how provoking!" was winnie's first exclamation. "all this excitement for nothing!" the fire had merely burned out the interior woodwork of the kitchen; but had it not been for adelaide's prompt alarm, it was impossible to tell how much damage or even loss of life might have ensued. on ascertaining that there was no longer any danger, adelaide attempted to carry back the pictures, but found herself quite unable to do so, and a procession of four of the home boys was formed to bring them. adelaide begged us all to promise not to tell professor waite of her attempt to rescue his property, and as we were all very much mortified by our own absurd performances, we readily complied with her request. it was late in the morning when we bethought ourselves of picking up our shattered property, which winnie and i had tossed into the yard. fortunately, our trunks of clothing had been so heavily packed that they had not shared this fate. we descended and viewed the heap of wreckage with dismay. cerberus came out to aid us, and, removing the broken lounge and table, discovered the old oak cabinet an almost unrecognizable jumble of carved panels, for after it had fallen the lounge had descended upon it with the force of a catapult. winnie and i picked up the panels, lamenting loudly over the mischief which we had done. "no great harm, after all," said adelaide consolingly. "the panels are only separated at the joints; the wood is so hard that they have not really broken," and then she gave a little cry: "winnie, what does this mean? here is your essay!" "has giovanni de' medici returned it?" i asked. "it would seem so," winnie replied, in great excitement. "see, girls, here is every bit of the stolen money! the ghost has kept his word, and has returned it after his confession was read publicly." "where did you find it?" i asked, utterly mystified. "right here, in the drawer to which we had lost the key, just under the upper part of the cabinet. you remember it has been locked since the very first day of school." "but is the money all there?" "yes; your forty-seven dollars, and the sixty from the catacomb party for the home." "how did it ever come there?" "that is what i am trying to find out. you know it is my mystery; and, girls, i have it! this sliding writing shelf which we pulled out to write upon is really the floor of the cabinet, on which tib deposited her treasures. when you pull it out you rake everything upon it into the drawer below." "it must be," said adelaide, "that some one pulled out that writing shelf before each of those mysterious disappearances." and when we came to review the circumstances, we remembered that it had been so in every instance. the lost money and essay had simply been dropped into the drawer below. all that had seemed so inexplicable was now made plain, and in our very last hour together--for, as we carried the fragments around to the turret door, we saw that the express man had come for our trunks, and noticed the roseveldt carriage waiting behind a hansom, which had just driven up to the main entrance. on the steps madame was parting tenderly from miss noakes, who was in travelling costume, and mr. mudge sprang from the interior of the hansom to assist her to a place beside him. catching sight of his well-known features, winnie impulsively waved the drawer of the cabinet and darted across the lawn. "no wonder i could not discover the thief," he exclaimed testily, as winnie showed the mechanism of the sliding shelf. "the cleverest detective could not have done that when there was no thief to discover. but, my dear young lady, pray do not detain us; miss noakes and i have a particular engagement for this very minute at the church of the blessed unity." as he spoke he dodged an old shoe which the astute polo projected from the studio window, and springing into the hansom drove rapidly away. if there had been any doubt as to these indications we would have been fully enlightened on finding the announcement of their marriage in our next mail; but the truth was evident to all. madame listened to us with a smile. "it was kind of you, winnie," she said, "not to solve your mystery earlier and so take away the excuse for mr. mudge's frequent calls." "i shall have the dear old cabinet put in order again," adelaide said, "and i shall keep your essay in the drawer, winnie, for i shall always believe that you were right, and that there was a ghost." and so with tears and embraces, and with vows never to forget, and to meet again, and to write often, the old delightful school life and witch winnie's mystery came to an end together. the end. transcriber's notes: obvious printer's errors have been silently corrected. otherwise spelling, hyphenation, interpunction and grammar have been preserved as in the original. scamp and i a story of city by-ways by l.t. meade published by john f. shaw and co, paternoster row, london ec. this edition dated . scamp and i, by l.t. meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ scamp and i, by l.t. meade. chapter one. i'd choose to be a queen. the time was the height of the london season for ; the height of that gay time when the parks, and streets, and shops are full, when pleasure-promoters are busy keeping up a fresh supply of every form of entertainment, when pleasure-seekers are flocking to the garden parties, and strawberry parties, the operas, and theatres, and all other amusements provided for them; when the world--the world at least of regent street, and piccadilly, of eaton square, and all belgravia--looks so rich and prosperous, so full of life and all that makes life enjoyable. it was that gay time when no one thinks of gloom, when ambitious men dream of fame, and vain women of vanity, when the thoughtless think less than any other time, and when money seems to be the one god that rules in every breast. this was the time in the merry month of may, when one afternoon, at the hour when regent street is brightest and fullest, a little ragged urchin of about ten pushed his way boldly through the crowd of carriages and people surrounding swan and edgar's, and began staring eagerly and fearlessly in at the windows. he was the only ragged child, the only representative of poverty, within sight, and he looked singularly out of place, quite a little shadow in the midst of the splendid carriages, and brilliant and prosperous men and women. the few who noticed him wondered languidly what brought him there, why he intruded his disreputable little person in the midst of scenes and people with which he never had, and never could have, anything in common. the little fellow seemed to guess the thoughts which a few in the crowd favoured him with, and in his own way to resent them. in and out among the rich and fashionable people his small head kept bobbing, his agile body kept pushing. he avoided the police, he escaped unhurt from under the impatient horses' legs, he was never stationary, and yet he was always there. he pressed his dirty little form against more than one fine lady's dress, and received more than one sharp reprimand, and sharper tap on the head, from the powdered and liveried footmen. still he held his ground and remained faithful to swan and edgar's. he was a dirty, troublesome little imp, but on his worn and prematurely old face might have been seen a curious, bright expression. those who looked at him might have pronounced him hungry, certainly poor, but, for the time being, not at all unhappy. round and round the splendid establishment he dodged rather than walked, examining with a critical eye the mantles and costumes on view in the windows; then he carefully looked over and reckoned the carriages, gazed up with a full, bright, impudent stare into the face of more than one proud and titled dame, and at last, apparently satisfied, turned his back on the gay shop and gay crowd, and set off down regent street at a swinging pace. presently, by means of a series of short cuts, he found himself in old compton street, from thence he proceeded through seven dials into a street which we will call duncan street. he had come this distance very quickly, and had withstood several temptations to linger on his road. a band of musical niggers, who danced, and sang, and played the bones, had waylaid him in vain; his own particular chum, jenks, had met him, and called to him to stop, but he had not obeyed; the shrimp man, who always gave him a handful, had come directly in his path. he had paused for nothing, and now dashing headlong, not into a house, but through a hole in the pavement, down a slippery ladder, into a cellar, he called out "flo." from the bright sunshine outside, the gloom of this place, lit by the flickering flame of one tallow candle, was profound. its roof was on a level with the road, its floor several feet below the gas-pipes and sewage; it had no window, and its only means of light and ventilation was through the narrow opening in the pavement, against which a ladder was placed. the ragged boy, rushing down these steps, made his way to a cobbler's stool, in the middle of the room, on which was seated a little girl busily repairing an old boot, while a heap of boots and shoes, apparently in the last stage of decay, were scattered round her. this child, a year or so younger than the boy, had the utterly colourless appearance of a flower shut away from the sunshine. "flo," said her companion eagerly. a little voice, very thin, but just as eager, responded with,-- "yes, dick dear." "is you up to a bit o' 'joyment this 'ere blessed minit, flo?" "oh, dick! _is_ it the shops, and the picters, and the fine ladies? _is_ it, dick?" "yes; queens, and ladies, and lords goin' about in golden carriages, and shops full up to bustin', and we a standin' and a lookin' on. better'n wittles, eh?" "oh yes, dick!" she threw aside the old boot, held out her dirty little hand to dick, and together the children scampered up the broken, rickety ladder into the air and light of day. "now, flo, you 'as got to put your best foot forrard, 'cos we 'as a goodish bit o' a way to tramp it. then i'll plant you front o' me, flo; and when we gets there, you never mind the perleece, but look yer fill. oh, my heyes! them is hosses!" flo, seen by daylight, had brown eyes, very large and soft; curling, golden brown hair, and a sweet gentle little face. had she been a lady she would have been pronounced a lovely child, and in all probability would have been a lovely child, but her cellar-life had produced sharp shoulders, a complexion of greyish-white, and a certain look of premature age and wisdom, which all children so brought up possess. she raised her hand now to shade her face, as though the daylight pained her, looked round eagerly, then tightened her clasp of dick. "is there blue, and yaller, and red, and majinta dresses in them 'ere winders, dick? and is there lace on 'em? and is there welwet and silk dresses, dick?" dick winked, and looked mysterious. "silk gownds, and satin gownds, and welwet gownds," he replied, "and gownds--some trimmed with wot looks like paper cut into 'oles, and gownds made o' little round 'oles hall over. and the bonnets in them shops! my heyes, flo! them bonnets 'ave got about hevery bird in saint martin's lane killed and stuffed, and stuck in 'em. but come," he added, hastily bringing his vivid description to a close, "the lords and ladies will be gone." he held the slight little fingers placed in his, with a firm hold, and together they trotted swiftly from their dark saint giles's cellar, to the bright fairy-land of regent street. there were plenty of people, and carriages, and grand ladies and gentlemen still there; and the dresses were so fine, and the feathers so gay, that flo, when she found herself really in their midst, was speechless, and almost stunned. she had dreamed of this day for months--this day, when dick was to show her the other side of london life, and she had meant when the time came to enter into it all, to realise it if possible. she and dick were to carry out quite a pretty play; they were to suppose _themselves_ a grand lady and gentleman; flo was to single out the nicest looking and most beautifully dressed lady present, and imagine _herself_ that lady; those clothes were _her_ clothes, those silken dresses, those elegant boots and gloves, that perfect little bonnet, were all flo's; the carriage with its spirited horses was hers, and the fine gentleman with the splendid moustache seated by her side, was none other than dick. they had arranged the whole programme; the carriage was to drive off rapidly--where? well, _first_ dick said they would stop at a restaurant, and instead of, as the real flo and dick did, standing a sniffin' and a sniffin' outside, they would walk boldly in, and order--well, beef, and potatoes, and plum-pudding were vulgar certainly, but once in a way they _would_ order these for dinner. then back in the carriage to swan and edgar's, where flo would have the creamiest of silk dresses, and a new bonnet with a pink tip, and dick, who was supposed to be in perfect attire as it was, would talk loudly of "my tailor," and buy the most beautiful flower, from the first flower-girl he met, to put in his button-hole. then at night they would have a box at the theatre. their whole plan was very brilliantly constructed, and dick, having got flo into a capital position, just opposite a row of lovely dresses, with carriages close up to the footway, and grand ladies sweeping against her tattered gown each moment, was very anxious for her to begin to carry out their play. "come, flo," he said, giving her a nudge. "s'pose a bit, flo. which fine lady'll yer be? look at that 'ere little 'un, in blue and white, i guess she's an hearl's wife. come, flo, choose to be her. i'll be the hearl, and you the hearl's wife, flo." "be hearls the biggest swells?" asked flo. dick opened his eyes. "bless us!" he said. "why, flo, i'm 'shamed o' yer hignorance. why there's markises, and dooks, and there's kings and queens--all them's bigger than hearls, flo." "is queens the biggest of all swells?" asked flo. "sartinly, they be the biggest woman swells." "then, dick, i'll s'pose to be the biggest swell, i'll s'pose to be a queen. find me hout a queen to take pattern of, dick." "oh! flo, there ain't none yere, there be but one queen, flo, and 'ers away, locked hup at bucknam palace. you can't s'pose to be the queen, flo, but i guess we'll be the hearl and the hearl's wife, and let us s'pose now as we is turnin' in fur our dinners, and the kivers is orf the roast beef, and the taters is 'ot and mealy, and a whackin' big puddin' is to foller." at this juncture, when dick's imagination was running riot over his supposed dinner, and flo's little face was raised to his with a decided gesture of dissent, a hand was laid familiarly on his shoulder, and turning quickly he discerned the smiling, mischievous face of his friend jenks. "wot ails the young 'un?" said jenks. dick was ashamed of his play beside his tall friend (jenks was fourteen), and answered hastily-- "nothing." but flo replied innocently, and in an injured tone-- "i wants fur to be a queen, and there is no queens hout this arternoon fur me to take pattern of." the black eyes of jenks sparkled more mischievously than ever; but he liked flo, and knew she was fond of supposing herself a great lady. "look at that 'ere 'oman," he said, pointing to a stout old lady in black velvet and white lace shawl; "s'pose you is 'er, flo. my heyes! wot a precious big swell you would look in that 'ere gownd." here dick and jenks both laughed uproariously, but the ambitious little flo still answered in a fretful tone-- "i'll not be that 'ere swell, i'll choose to be a queen." "then come along both o' yers," said jenks, "and see the queen. she 'ave got to pass hout of bucknam palace in arf an 'our, on 'er way to victoria station. come, flo, i'll 'old yer 'and. come, dick, old pal." the children, only too delighted to be seen anywhere in jenks's company, followed eagerly, and led by their clever friend down several by-ways, soon found themselves in the midst of the crowd which had already collected outside buckingham palace gates to see the queen. flo was excited and trembling. _now_ she should behold with her own eyes the biggest swell in all the world, and for ever after in her dark saint giles's cellar she could suppose, and go over in her imagination, the whole scene. no vulgar "dook" or "markis" could satisfy flo's ambition; when she soared she would soar high, and when she saw the queen she would really know how to act the queen to perfection. so excited was she that she never observed that she was really alone in the crowd, that jenks and dick had left her side. she was a timid child, not bold and brazen like many of her class, and had she noticed this she would have been too frightened even to look out for the greatest woman in the world. but before she had time to take in this fact there was a cheer, a glittering pageant passed before flo's eyes,--she had never seen the life guards before!--a carriage appeared amidst other carriages, a lady amidst other ladies, and some instinct told the child that this quietly-dressed, dignified woman was the queen of england. the eager crowd had pushed the little girl almost to the front, and the queen, bowing graciously on all sides, looked for an instant full at flo. she was probably unconscious of it, but the child was not. her brown eyes sparkled joyfully; she had seen the queen, and the _queen had seen her_. they were to meet again. chapter two. a hot supper. when the royal carriage had passed by, the crowd immediately scattered, and then for the first time flo perceived that she was deserted by her companions. she looked to right and left, before and behind her, but the little rough and ragged figures she sought for were nowhere visible. she was still excited by the sight she had witnessed, and was consequently not much frightened though it did occur to her to wonder how ever she should find her way home again. she turned a few steps,-- saint james's park with the summer sunshine on it lay before her. she sat down on the grass, and pulled a few blades and smelt them--they were withered, trampled, and dry, but to flo their yellow, sickly green was beautiful. she gathered a few more blades and tucked them tenderly into the bosom of her frock--they would serve to remind her of the queen, they had sprouted and grown up within sight of the queen's house, perhaps one day the queen had looked at them, as to-day she had looked at flo. the child sat for half-an-hour unperceived, and therefore undisturbed, drinking in the soft summer air, when suddenly a familiar voice sounded in her ears, and the absent figures danced before her. "i say, flo, would yer like somethink _real_, not an ony s'pose?" flo raised her eyes and fixed them earnestly on dick. "no, dick," she replied slowly, "there beant but one queen, and i've seen the queen, and she's beautiful and good, and she looked at me, dick, and i'm not a goin' to take 'er place, so i'll be the hearl's wife please, dick dear." the two boys laughed louder than ever, and then jenks, coming forward and bowing obsequiously, said in a mock serious tone-- "will my lady countess, the hearl's wife, conderscend to a 'elpin' o' taters and beef along o' her 'umble servants, and will she conderscend to rise orf this 'ere grass, as hotherwise the perleece might feel obligated to give 'er in charge, it being contrary to the rules, that even a hearl's wife should make this 'ere grass 'er cushion." considerably frightened, as jenks intended she should be, flo tumbled to her feet, and the three children walked away. dick nudged his sister and looked intensely mysterious, his bright eyes were dancing, his shock of rough hair was pushed like a hay-stack above his forehead, his dirty freckled face was flushed. jenks preceded the brother and sister by a few steps, getting over the ground in a light and leisurely manner, most refreshing to the eyes of dick. "ain't 'ee a mate worth 'avin'?" he whispered to flo. "but wot about the meat and taters?" asked flo, who by this time was very hungry; "ain't it nothink but another `s'pose' arter all?" "wait and you'll see," replied dick with a broad grin. "here we 'ere," said jenks, drawing up at the door of an eating-house, not quite so high in the social scale as verrey's, but a real and substantial eating-house nevertheless. "now, my lady countess, the hearl's wife, which shall it be? smokin' 'ot roast beef and taters, or roast goose full hup to chokin' o' sage and onions? there, flo," he added, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking and looking like a different jenks, "you 'as but to say one or t'other, so speak the word, little matey." seeing that there was a genuine eating-house, and that jenks was in earnest, flo dropped her assumed character, and confessed that she had _once_ tasted 'ot fat roast beef, long ago in mother's time, but had never so much as _seen_ roast goose; accordingly that delicacy was decided on, and jenks having purchased a goodly portion, brought it into the outer air in a fair-sized wooden bowl, which the owner of the eating-house had kindly presented to him for the large sum of four pence. at sight of the tempting mess cooling rapidly in the breeze, all flo's housewifely instincts were awakened. "it won't be _'ot_ roast goose, and mother always did tell 'as it should be heat up 'ot," she said pitifully. "'ere, dick, 'ere's my little shawl, wrap it round it fur to keep it 'ot, do." flo's ragged scrap of a shawl was accordingly unfastened and tied round the savoury dish, and dick, being appointed bowl-bearer, the children trudged off as rapidly as possible in the direction of duncan street. they were all three intensely merry, though it is quite possible that a close observer might have remarked, that dick's mirth was a little forced. he laughed louder and oftener than either of the others, but for all that, he was not quite the same dick who had stared so impudently about him an hour or two ago in regent street. he was excited and pleased, but he was no longer a fearless boy. an hour ago he could have stared the world in the face, now even at a distant sight of a policeman he shrank behind jenks, until at last that young gentleman, exasperated by his rather sneaking manner, requested him in no very gentle terms not to make such a fool of himself. then dick, grinning more than ever, declared vehemently that "_'ee_ wasn't afraid of nothink, not 'ee." but just then something, or some one, gave a vicious pull to his ragged trouser, and he felt himself turning pale, and very nearly in his consternation dropping the dish, with that delicious supper. the cause of this alarm was a wretched, half-starved dog, which, attracted doubtless by the smell of the supper, had come behind him and brought him to a sense of his presence in this peremptory way. "no, don't 'it 'im," said flo, as jenks raised his hand to strike, for the pitiable, shivering creature had got up on its hind legs, and with coaxing, pleading eyes was glancing from the bowl to the children. "ain't 'ee just 'ungry?" said flo again, for her heart was moved with pity for the miserable little animal. "well, so is we," said dick in a fretful voice, and turning, he trudged on with his load. "come, flo, do," said jenks, "don't waste time with that little sight o' misery any more, 'ees ony a street cur." "no 'ee ain't," said flo half to herself, for jenks had not waited for her, "'ees a good dawg." "good-bye, good dawg," and she patted his dirty sides. "ef i wasn't so werry 'ungry, and ef dick wasn't the least bit in the world crusty, i'd give you a bite o' my supper," and she turned away hastily after jenks. "wy, i never! 'ee's a follerin' o' yer still, flo," said jenks. so he was; now begging in front of her, paying not the least attention to jenks--dick was far ahead--but fixing his starved, eager, anxious eyes on the one in whose tone he had detected kindness. "oh! 'ee _is_ starvin', i must give 'im one bite o' my supper," said flo, her little heart utterly melting, and then the knowing animal came closer, and crouched at her feet. "poor brute! hall 'is ribs is stickin' hout," said jenks, examining him more critically. "i 'spects 'ees strayed from 'ome. yer right, flo, 'ees not such a bad dawg, not by no means, 'ee 'ave game in 'im. i ses, flo, would you like to take 'im 'ome?" "oh, jenks! but wouldn't dick be hangry?" "never you mind dick, i'll settle matters wid 'im, ef you likes to give the little scamp a bite o' supper, you may." "may be scamp's 'ees name; see! 'ee wags 'is little tail." "scamp shall come 'ome then wid us," said jenks, and lifting the little animal in his arms, he and flo passed quickly through seven dials, into duncan street, and from thence, through a gap in the pavement, into the deep, black cellar, which was their home. chapter three. what the children promised their mother. in the cellar there was never daylight, so though the sun was shining outside, flo had to strike a match, and poking about for a small end of tallow candle, she applied it to it. then, seating herself on her cobbler's stool, while jenks and dick squatted on the floor, and scamp sat on his hind legs, she unpacked the yellow bowl; and its contents of roast goose, sage and onions, with a plentiful supply of gravy and potatoes, being found still hot, the gutter children and gutter dog commenced their supper. "i do think 'ees a dawg of the right sort," said jenks, taking scamp's head between his knees. "we'll take 'im round to maxey, and see wot 'ee ses, dick." "arter supper?" inquired dick indistinctly, for his mouth was full. "no, i wants you arter supper for somethink else; and look yere, dick, i gives you warning that ef you gets reg'lar in the blues, as you did this arternoon, i'll 'ave no callin' to you." "i'll not funk," said dick, into whose spirit roast goose had put an immense accession of courage. "lor! bless yer silly young heyes, where 'ud be yer supper ef you did? no, we'll go on hour bis'ness to-night, and we'll leave the little dawg with flo. he's lost, por little willan, and 'ave no father nor mother. he's an horfan, is scamp, and 'as come to us fur shelter." the boys and girl laughed, the supper, however good and plentiful, came to an end, and then dick in rather a shamefaced way prepared to follow jenks; the two lads ran up the ladder and disappeared, and flo stood still to watch them with a somewhat puzzled look on her woman's face. she was eight years old, a very little girl in any other rank of life, but in this saint giles's cellar she was a woman. she had been a woman for a whole year now; ever since her mother died, and she had worked from morning to night for her scanty living, she had put childish things away, and taken on herself the anxieties, the hopes, and fears, of womanhood. dick was ten, but in reality, partly on account of her sex, partly on account of the nature within her, flo was much older than her little brother. it was she who worked all day over those old shoes and boots, translating them, for what she called truly "starvegut" pay, into new ones. it was dick's trade, but flo really did the work, for he was always out, looking, as he said, for better employment. but the better employment did not come to dick, perhaps because dick did not know how to come to it, and flo's little fingers toiled bravely over this hard work, and the wolf was barely kept from the door. her mother had taught her the trade, and she was really a skilful little work-woman. comforted now by her good meal, by her run in the open air, by the wonderful sights, and by the crowning sight of all she had seen; comforted also not a little by scamp's company, she resumed her employment. the dog, satisfied and well pleased, rolled himself up as close as possible to her ragged gown, and went to sleep; and flo, feeling sure that she would be now undisturbed, arranged quite a nice amusement for herself. she would begin supposing now in earnest. she had seen the queen, she had seen fine ladies, she knew at last what velvet and silk, what lace and feathers, what horses and carriages were like. she could suppose to any amount. she had no longer need to draw wholly on her own resources, she knew what the real things were, at last. she had a very vivid imagination, and she dropped her work, and her big brown eyes looked far away from the real and ugly things about her, to beautiful things elsewhere. but somehow, and this was strange, unpleasant thoughts would intrude, a present anxiety would shut away imaginary joys, and with a sigh the little girl resumed her work and her cares. her trouble was this. what railed dick? his embarrassment, his fear of the police, his forced mirth, had none of them escaped flo's observant eyes. generally he was the merriest little fellow in the world, but to-night, even while partaking of a supper that would have rejoiced any heart, even while eating those exasperatingly delicious morsels, he had been grave, subdued, and his laugh (for through it all he laughed constantly) had no true ring in it. he was also the bravest little boy possible; he had never in all his life funked any one or anything, and yet to-night at the sight of a policeman even in the far distance he had got in the most cowardly way behind jenks. there was some cause for this. there was also something else to be accounted for. how was that supper bought? where had the money come from? flo knew well that 'ot roast goose, with sage and onions, with taters and gravy, not to make any mention of the bowl that held them, had not been purchased for a few pence; so where, where had the money come from? dick had it not, and jenks, though _werry_ liberal, liberal to the amount of now and then presenting her with a whole red herring for their supper, was to all appearance as poor and as hard up as themselves. true, flo did not know how jenks made his living; his trade--for he told her he had a trade--was a secret, which he might enlighten her about some time, but certainly not at present. jenks got his money, what little money he had, in some mysterious way, of that there was no doubt. she thought over it all to-night, and very grave were her fears and suspicions. was it possible that jenks was a bad boy, and that he was teaching dick to be a bad boy? was it possible that jenks was not honest, and that the delicious supper they had just eaten was not honestly come by? what a pity if this was so, for 'ot roast goose _was_ so good. perhaps dick had helped some old lady to find a cab, and she had given him a shilling, and perhaps jenks, who was _werry_ good-natured, had kindly assisted some other body, and thus earned 'arf-a-crown; this sum would pay for their supper, good as it was! but no; had they earned the money in that way, they would have told flo, they would have been proud to tell flo, whereas the word money had never been mentioned at all between them! had dick got the money rightly he would have been only too glad to speak of it; so it was clear to flo that in some wrong manner alone had it come into his possession! well! why should she care? they were very poor, they were as low down in the world as they well could be; nobody loved them, nobody had ever taught them to do right. dick and flo were "horfans," same as scamp was an orphan. the world was hard on them, as it is on all defenceless creatures. if dick _could_ "prig" something from that rich and greedy world that was letting them both starve, would it be so very wrong? if he could do this without the police finding out, without fear of discovery, would it not be rather a good and easy way of getting breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers? for surely some people had _too_ much; surely it was not fair that all those buns and cakes, all those endless, countless good things in the west end shops should go to the rich people; surely the little hungry boys and girls who lived, and felt, and suffered in the east end should have their share! and if only by stealing they could taste roast goose, was it very wrong, was it wrong at all to steal? flo knew nothing about god, she had never heard of the eighth commandment, but nevertheless, poor ignorant little child, she had a memory that kept her right, a memory that made it impossible for her, even had she really starved, to touch knowingly what was not her own. the memory was this. a year ago flo's mother had died in this cellar. she was a young woman, not more than thirty, but the damp of the miserable cellar, together with endless troubles and hardships, had fanned the seeds of consumption within her, and before her thirty-first birthday she had passed away. she knew she was dying, and in her poor way had done her best to prepare her children for her loss. she taught them both her trade, that of a translator,--not a literary translator, poor mrs darrell could not read,--but a translator of old boots and shoes into new; and flo and dick, young as they were, learned the least difficult and lighter parts of the business before her death. she had no money to leave them, no knowledge beyond that of her trade; she knew nothing of god or of heaven, but she had one deeply-instilled principle, and this she endeavoured by every means in her power to impart to the children. living in a place, and belonging to a grade of society, where _any_ honesty was rare, she was nevertheless a perfectly honest woman. she had never touched a penny that was not her own, she was just and true in all her dealings. she was proud of saying--and the pride had caused her sunken, dying eyes to brighten even at the last--that none of her belongings, however low they had fallen, had ever seen the inside of a prison, or ever stood in a prisoner's dock. they were honest people, and dick and flo must keep up the family character. come what might, happen what would, they must ever and always look every man in the face, with the proud consciousness, "i have stolen from none." on the night she died, she had called them both to her side, and got them to promise her this. with pathetic and solemn earnestness, she had held their little hands and looked into their little faces, and implored of them, as they loved their dead father and mother, never, never to disgrace the unstained name they had left to them. "'tis just hevery think," said the dying woman. "arter hall my 'ard life, 'tis real comfa'ble to look back on. remember, dick and flo, i dies trustin' yer. you'll never, wot hever 'appins, be jail-birds-- promise me that?" "never, mother," said flo, kissing her and weeping; and dick promised, and kissed her, and wept also, and then the two children climbed up on the bed and lay down one at each side of her, and the poor dying woman closed her eyes and was cheered by their words. "is you dying to-night, mother?" asked flo, gazing with awe at her clammy cold face. "yes, dearie." "where'll you be to-morrer, then, mother?" a shadow passed over the peaceful, ignorant face, the brown eyes, so like her little daughter's, were opened wide. "oh! i doesn't know--yes, it be _werry_ dark, but i guess it 'ull be all right." then after a pause, very slowly, "i doesn't mind the grave, i'd like a good bit o' a rest, for i'm awful--awful tired." before the morning came the weary life was ended, and dick and flo were really orphans. then the undertaker's men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more. but they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves. this was no easy task; it sent them supperless to bed, it gave them mouldy crusts for dinner, it gave them cold water breakfasts; still they persevered, flo working all day long at her cobbling, while dick, now tried a broom and crossing, now stood by the metropolitan stations waiting for chance errands, now presented himself at every shop where an advertisement in the window declared a boy was wanting, now wandered about the streets doing nothing, and occasionally, as a last resource, helped flo with her cobbling. but the damp, dark cellar was unendurable to the bright little fellow, and he had to be, as he himself expressed it, a goodish bit peckish before he could bear it. so flo uncomplainingly worked in the dismal room, and paid the small rent, and provided the greater part of the scanty meals, and dick thought this arrangement fair enough; "for was not flo a gel? _she_ could bear the lonely, dark, unwholesome place better'n him, who was a boy, would one day be a man, and--in course it was the place of womens to kep at 'ome." so flo stayed at home and was honest, and dick went abroad and was honest, and the consciousness of this made them both happy and contented. but about a month before this evening dick returned from his day's roaming very hungry as usual, but this time not alone, a tall boy with merry twinkling eyes accompanied him. he was a funny boy, and had no end of pleasant droll things to say, and dick and flo laughed, as they had not laughed since mother died. he brought his share of supper in his pocket, in the shape of a red herring, and a large piece of cold bacon, and the three made quite merry over it. before the evening came to an end he had offered to share the cellar, which was, he said, quite wasted on two, pay half the rent, and bring in his portion of the meals, and after a time, he whispered mysteriously, he would go "pardeners" with dick in his trade. "why not at once?" asked dick. "i'd like to be arter a trade as gives folks red 'errings and bacon fur supper." but jenks would neither teach his trade then, nor tell what it was; he however took up his abode in the cellar, and since his arrival flo was much more comfortable, and had a much less hard time. scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of jenks's pocket. such funny things too. now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. but this unfortunately flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs. on the whole she and dick enjoyed his society very much. dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl's trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught dick to teach her also. "wot?" said jenks eagerly; "you'd like to be bringin' carrots and heggs out o' yer pocket fur supper? eh!" "yes, jenks, i fell clemmed down yere, fur ever 'n ever." then jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that "she'd do; and he'd be blowed ef she wouldn't do better'n dick, and make her fortin quite tidy." so it was arranged that when dick learned, flo should learn also. she had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night. but now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. that supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. once in his life dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. this accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. he and jenks had stolen something, they were thieves. but perhaps--and here flo trembled and turned pale--perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. she shivered again at the thought. flo was, as i said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of god, of christ, of the gospel. nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. that law was honesty, that gospel was her mother. she had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. nevertheless for her mother's sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it. dick had loved it also. dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty. in the end they felt sure honesty would pay. and dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women's stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers' shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts. and dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a "p'leece-man" out of countenance. but to-night dick had been afraid of the "p'leece." tears rolled down flo's cheeks at the thought. how she wished she had never tasted that 'ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard! "i'm feared as mother won't lay com'fable to-night," she sobbed, "that is, ef mother knows. oh! i wish as dick wasn't a thief. s'pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired." the little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with dick to regent street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl's wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when flo had seen the great queen of england going by, then must have been the moment when dick first learned to be a thief. chapter four. a dog and his story. if ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated "knowing," the dog scamp was that creature. it shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. his career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it. only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. but as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones. on this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. he had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. by birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking. he had however good eyes and teeth, and both these advantages of nature he was not slow in availing himself of. by the pathos of his eyes, and a certain knack he had of balancing himself on the hinder part of his body, he had won flo's pity, and secured a shelter and a home. he guessed very accurately the feelings of his hosts and hostess towards him. dick's hospitality was niggardly and forced, jenks made him welcome to his supper, for he regarded him with an eye to business, but flo gave him of her best, from pure kindness of heart. the wise dog therefore resolved to take no notice of dick, to avoid jenks, and as much as possible to devote himself to flo. he had passed through a terrible day, had scamp. in the morning he had been led out to execution. to avoid the dog-tax, his master, who truth to tell had never regarded him with much affection, had decreed that scamp should be drowned. in vain had the poor faithful creature, who loved his brutal master, notwithstanding the cruel treatment to which he so often subjected him, looked in his face with all the pathetic appeal of his soft brown eyes, in vain he licked his hand as he fastened the rope with a stone attached to it round his neck. drowned he was to be, and drowned he would have been, but for his own unequalled knowingness. scamp guessed what was coming, hence that appeal in his eyes; but scamp was prepared for his fate, rather he was prepared to resist his fate. as his master was about to raise him in his arms and fling him far into the stream, he anticipated him, and leaped gently in himself, when, the stone being round his neck, he sank at once to the bottom. his master, well pleased, and thinking how nicely he had "done" scamp, laughed aloud, and walked away. the dog, not wasting his breath in any useless struggles, heard the laugh as he lay quietly in the bottom of the stream, he heard also the retreating footsteps. now was _his_ time. he had managed to sink so near the edge of the stream as to be barely out of his depth, he dragged himself upright, pulled and lurched the heavy stone until his head was above water, and then biting through the rope with those wonderful teeth, was a free dog once more. quite useless for him to go home; he must turn his back on that shelter, and come what may, face the great world of london. so all day long he had wandered, foot-sore, exhausted, and hungry, over many a mile of street, until at last the smell of hot roast goose had so overcome him, that he had in his desperation fastened his teeth into dick's trousers, thereby ultimately securing for himself a supper, and another home. now after all his troubles, hardships, and alarms, he was sleeping sweetly, enjoying the repose of the weary. it was unpleasant to be disturbed, it was truly annoying to have to open those heavy brown eyes, but scamp had a heart, and sobs of distress had roused him from his pleasant dreams. he cocked his ears, stretched himself, rose, and pushing his big awkward head against flo's, bent low in her hands, began licking her face with his small, rough tongue. finding she took no notice of this, he forced her to look up and attend to him, by jumping wholesale into her lap. "oh! scamp," said the child, putting her arms round him, "does _you_ know as dick isn't an honest boy no more." had scamp comprehended the words addressed to him, he would not have considered them a subject for sorrow, as any means by which such a supper as they had just eaten was attained would have been thought by him quite justifiable. it was however his wisest course at present to sympathise with flo, and this he did by means of his tail, tongue, and eyes. "oh! you _be_ a nice dawg," said the little girl, comforted by his caressing. she laid her head on his shaggy coat, and in a few moments both were asleep. two hours later jenks and dick returned. dick's cheeks were now flushed, and his eyes bright. jenks, on the contrary, was as cool as usual. "shall we take orf the dawg now, or in the mornin'?" asked the little boy of his companion. "no, no, in the mornin', or maybe to-morrow night; old maxey's sure ter be shut up afore now." "how much 'ull he give us, jenks?" "well, scamp's a likely lookin' tyke, and good size. i 'spect he'll about suit fur 'is young 'un. maybe, ef we're lucky, we may get a matter o' a bob, or a bob and a tanner, but wot i'll count on more, and bargain fur, is a sight o' the fight." "oh, jenks! is it werry jolly?" "awful--real pretty sport," said jenks, "partic'lar ef yer cur 'ave a bit of blood in 'im, as i 'spects this 'un 'ave." "will you bring me to see it, jenks?" "i can't rightly say yet, but don't tell nothink to the little 'un," jerking his thumb over his shoulders at flo. "now come to bed, and don't let us talk no more." they lay down, and soon jenks was asleep. yes, jenks was asleep--his hardened heart knew no fears, his conscience did not trouble him. flo, wearied with her sorrow, was also slumbering, and gentle breathings of sweet content and rest came from scamp, who knew nothing of his impending fate, and felt that he had done his duty. but dick could not sleep; he lay in the dark tired enough, but wide awake and trembling. on that very bed in this cellar had lain not quite a year ago the still, stiff, and cold form of his mother; of the mother who, with her thin arms round his neck, and her beseeching eyes looking into his, had begged of him to keep from bad ways, and to be honest. he had promised that never, happen what might, would he touch what was not his own, he had promised her solemnly, as even such ignorant little children will promise their dying mothers, that he would ever and always be an honest boy; and until to-day he had kept his word bravely, kept it too in the midst of very great temptations, for he was only a street arab, a gutter child, living on his wits, and for such children to live on their wits without prigging off stalls and snatching off counters, is very hard work indeed. he was such a clever little fellow too, and had such a taking innocent face, that he could have made quite a nice living, and have had, as he expressed it, quite a jolly time, if only he had consented to yield to his many temptations, and do as his companions did. but he never had yielded. one by one, as the temptations arose, as the opportunities for thieving came, he had turned from them and overcome them. not that he thought thieving wrong--by no means. whatever he might say to flo, he had in his heart of hearts a strong admiration for those plucky young thieves, his companions, and though they _were_ afraid of the "p'leece," and often did disappear for longer or shorter periods altogether from their gay life, yet still they had a jolly time of it on the whole. then, how splendidly the robbers acted at those delightful 'penny gaffs!--oh, yes! it was nonsense to starve rather than take from those who had more than they could use themselves. nevertheless dick had often passed a day from morning to night without food rather than steal--why was that? ah! how strongly we cling to our first and tenderest memories! dick could never forget the time when poor as they were, when, struggling as they were, he and flo were rich, as the richest of all children, in love. he could never forget the pressure of his mother's arms, he could never forget the sweetness of the dry crust eaten on his mother's knee. had he an ache or a trouble, his mother was sorry for him. even when he was bad and vexed her, his mother forgave him. she was always working for her children; never resting on account of her children. she stood between them and the cold world, a great shelter, a sure refuge. they thought it mighty and everlasting, they did not know that it was mortal, and passing away. she grew tired--awful tired, as she herself expressed it, so weary that not even her love for dick and flo could keep her with them, so exhausted that no rest but the rest of the grave could do her any good. so she went to her grave, but before she went her children had promised her to keep honest boy and girl, to grow up honest man and woman, and this promise was to them both more precious than their lives. they kept it faithfully,--it was a great principle for light in the minds of these little children. yes, they had both kept their promise carefully and faithfully until to-day; but to-day, in a moment of great and sudden temptation, goaded and led on by jenks, dick had slipped his clever little hand into a lady's pocket, and drawn out a purse with six bright new shillings in it. the theft had been most cleverly done, and triumphant with his success, and elated by the praise jenks had lavished on him, he had felt little compunction until now. but remorse was visiting him sternly now. he was frightened, he was miserable; he had let go the rudder that kept him fast to anything good,--he was drifting away. but the act of thieving gave him no pain, he was not at all sorry for that smiling, good-natured looking woman whose purse he had taken; he was quite sure _she_ never knew what hunger was; he quite agreed with jenks in his remark, that "'ee and dick and flo wanted 'ot roast goose more'n 'er." no; the agony was the memory of his mother's face. he was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day's deed. he was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. and he loved his mother,--oh, how he loved his mother! a second time that night was scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from flo this time. the tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog's neck. scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake flo. the sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off flo's lap and on the bed with dick,--he was cuddling down by dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face. the boy repulsed him rudely. it was quite beyond the capacity of scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. nevertheless, scamp had again done his duty. in his rude exit from flo's lap he had effectually awakened her. she, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler's stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother. "i'm real glad as you is cryin', dick," said flo. this speech of flo's was an immense relief to dick. of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft. he dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. he nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck. "is mother in the room, flo?" "no, no, dick; wot makes you say that? mother's in her grave, 'avin' a good tidy bit o' a sleep." "you ain't sure," said dick, half-defiantly, "you ain't sure but ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you mightn't see mother--just there, acrost our bed and jenks'--standin' and a shakin' her 'ead." "why, ef she were i couldn't see," said flo. "it be as dark as dark,--i couldn't see nothink ef i was to look ever so." "oh yes, you could," said dick, "you could see ghosts, and mother's a ghost. i seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about 'em. ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, flo." "well, i 'as 'em open," said flo, "and i tell you there ain't no ghosts, nor nothink." "are you sure?" asked dick. "no doubt on it," responded flo encouragingly. "mother ain't yere, mother's in 'er grave, 'avin' a good time, and restin' fine." "are you quite sure?" persisted dick. "are you quite sartin as she ain't turnin' round in 'er corfin, and cryin'?" "oh no; she's restin' straight and easy," said flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case. "then she don't know, flo?" "it ain't reached 'er yet, i 'spect," said flo. then hastening to turn the conversation-- "wot was it as you took, dick?" "a purse," said dick. "a purse full o' money?" questioned flo. "there was six bobs and a tanner," said dick, "and jenks said as i did it real clever." "that was wot bought us the 'ot roasted goose," continued flo. "yes. jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should 'ave a rare treat. they cost three bobs, that 'ere goose and taters. i say, worn't they jist prime?" "'ave you any more o' that money?" asked flo, taking no notice of this last query. "yes, i 'ave a bob and i 'ave the purse. jenks said as i was to have the purse, and i means the purse for you, flo." "you needn't mean it for me, then," said flo, raising her gentle little voice, "fur i'd rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you 'as got to give back that 'ere bob to jenks, dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won't neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. i thought as you was sorry, dick, when i heard you cryin', but no, you ain't, and you 'ave furgot mother, that you 'ave." at these words dick burst out crying afresh. flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise. "no, i 'aven't forgot, flo--i be real orfle sorry." "you won't never do it again?" "no." "and you'll give back the purse and bob to jenks, and tell 'im yer'll 'ave no more to do wid 'is way?" "oh! i doesn't know," said dick, "'ee would be real hangry." "very well," replied flo; "good-night to you, dick. i ain't goin' to sleep 'long of a thief," and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler's stool. but this proposal filled dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him. "'zactly wot i ses?" asked flo. "yes, flo, i'll stick fast to you and never funk." "you'll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?" "yes." "and you'll break orf wid jenks, and be his pardener no more?" "yes," with a sinking heart. "werry well--good-night." "but, flo," after a long pause, "is you _sure_ as mother isn't ris from her grave?" "no, i'm not sure," answered flo slowly, "but i thinks at the most, she 'ave on'y got a sort o' a wake, and i thinks, dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother'll 'ave a good longish rest yet." chapter five. jenks passes his word. but flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for dick to steal the second time than the first. very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers' shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen's pockets, when once they had begun to do so. not punishment, not even prison, could break them. they had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever. her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with--penal servitude for life--sometimes even the gallows. she had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers' cells--how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves. and children once as innocent as flo and dick had come to this. now flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief. the only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from jenks. flo liked jenks very much--he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings. still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better. she knew well that dick would never have courage to say to jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers. accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, flo, rising softly, for fear of waking dick, followed him. "jenks," she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, "i wants fur to speak to you." jenks turned round with merry eyes. "i'm yer 'umble servant, my lady, the hearl's wife," he said, with a mock bow to flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. "why, wot hever ails you, young 'un? you is all of a tremble. come along and 'ave a drop of 'ot coffee at the stalls." "no, jenks, i doesn't want to. jenks, i come fur to say as you, and me, and dick mustn't be pardeners no more. you mustn't come no more to this yere cellar, jenks." jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone. "my lady, you is alwis werry perlite--you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too 'igh and mighty to speak to a chap. might a poor and 'umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin' as to tell 'im the reason of this 'eart-breakin' horder." here jenks pretended to whimper. "yes, jenks, i'll tell you," said flo; "'tis because dick and me isn't never goin' to be _thiefs_, jenks. dick did prig the purse yesterday, but 'ees never, never goin' to do so no more." jenks was silent, and flo after a pause continued--"i wants fur to be perlite to you, jenks. i likes you, jenks, and now i'm goin' to tell you why." "oh! my heyes," said jenks, "that's an honour. oh! my stars! can i abear so big an honour? 'old me, flo, i feels kind of top 'eavy. now then, break it heasy, flo." "i never know'd as yer trade was that of a thief, jenks," quietly continued the little girl. "i thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and dick might larn, and we mustn't larn that, not ef we was to starve. dick and me must never be thiefs. but, jenks, i'm not a blamin' you--it ain't wrong fur you, jenks--you 'adn't never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy." at these words jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky. "why does you say that?" he asked rather savagely. "how does yer dare say as i 'av'n't a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked." "i doesn't say it, jenks. i on'y ses that _if_ you 'ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin' would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin', and she axed yer werry soft and lovin' to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother 'cause you loved 'er; would you be a thief then, jenks?" "moonshine!" growled jenks. "no, but _would_ you, jenks?" "how can i tell?" replied jenks. "look yere, flo, leave _off_ about mothers, do. wot does i know of such? say wot yer 'as to say, as i must be gone." "i wants you not to come back no more, dear jenks, and never, never to speak to dick no more." "_dear_ jenks, come back no more," mimicked the boy. "and why not, little sweetheart?" "'cause you is a thief, and you is larnin' thiefin' to dick." "oh my! the precious young cove, i didn't know as 'ee was to be reared hup so tender. but why does you say as _i_ am a thief, flo--it wor dick tuk the purse yesterday." "but you larned 'im _'ow_ to take it, jenks." "no, i didn't, 'ee larned 'imself, 'ee wanted none of my coddlin' and dressin'. tell yer 'ee'd make a real stunnin' thief arter a bit. but i'll not teach 'im nothink, not i. no, flo," (this gravely), "i'll promise yer this, and yere's my 'and on it, ef i sees 'im touch so much as a brass farthing, i'll give 'im a whackin' as 'ull soon teach 'im to be an honest boy." "and you won't come back no more?" "i won't say that--the cellar's conwenient, and i pays fur 'arf. yes, i'll turn in to-night, and as long as i 'ave a mind to. now i'm orf to my work--wot _ain't_ that of a thief," and snapping his fingers disdainfully, jenks disappeared. flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking. flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her. chapter six. give the poor dog a bone. that knowing dog scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of dick and jenks towards him. clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. not a bit of it. here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while flo and dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play. "flo," said jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, "ef you'll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, i'll pay 'em." and then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog's nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. as scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world's end. and so jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called scamp, and the boys and the dog went out. they walked nearly to the end of the street, and then jenks caught up scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. this was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly--too large in one part, too small in another. impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. as it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so. the boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with jenks; on which jenks and scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, jenks and scamp would once more make their appearance. at last they came to streets of so low a character, where the "nippers," as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation. dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. he had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. the dog was theirs, had come to them. if they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? _they_ were too poor to keep scamp. just then dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature's affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for _he_ knew to _what_ they were selling scamp. "s'pose as scamp beats maxey's young 'un?" he questioned to his companion. "not 'ee," said jenks contemptuously, "'ee's nothink but a street cur, and that young 'un is a reg'lar tip-topper, _i_ can tell yer." "well, scamp 'ave sperrit too," said dick. "and ef 'ee 'adn't, would i bring 'im to maxey? would i insult maxey's young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? why, maxey wouldn't give a tanner fur a cur _widout_ sperrit, you little greenhorn." here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly "doggy." jenks transferred scamp to dick's care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect. "i 'ave named my price," said jenks, putting scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. "two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o' the fight fur me and this 'ere chap." "come, that's werry fine," said the man addressed as maxey; "but 'ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as _i_ 'ave dog-fights? doesn't you know as dog-fight's 'gainst the law of the land? you wouldn't like to see the hinside of newgate fur bringin' this 'ere dog to me fur the purpose o' fightin' another dog? you didn't reckon _that_ in the price of the dog. come now, ef i doesn't give you into the hands of the perleece, and ef i takes the dog, and puts 'im away tidy, and gives you and yer pardener a tanner between yer? come, that's lettin yer off cheap, ain't it?" dick was considerably frightened, but jenks, taking these threats for what they were worth, held out firmly for two bobs and a tanner, which in the end he obtained a promise of, on condition that for one week he should tie up scamp at home and feed him well. at the end of that time maxey was to have him back, who further promised that jenks and dick should see the fight. "and that 'ere's pretty sport," said jenks, as well satisfied he turned away. "maxey's young 'uns are alwis tip-toppers. won't 'ee just give it to this willan! i guess there'll be an hawful row, and not much o' scamp left, by the time 'tis hover." but the further details with which jenks favoured his young companion are too horrible to relate here. in our christian england these things are done--done in the dark it is true, but still done. dog-fights, though punishable by law, are still held, and young boys and old men flock to them, and learn to be lower than the brutes in diabolical cruelty because of them. it may still however puzzle those who read scamp's history to know of what use he could be in a dog-fight, as only thorough-bred dogs can fight well. alas! scamp could be made use of; such dogs as scamp can further this wicked sport. such dogs are necessary in the training of the fighting-dogs. jenks knew this well, hence his desire to obtain the poor animal. his use was this--i here quote from mr greenwood's well-known "low life deeps." "he at once good-naturedly explained to me the way in which a young (fighting) dog is trained. "i was given to understand that the first practice a fighting pup had was with a `good old gummer,' that is to say, with a dog which had been a good one in his day, but was now old, and toothless, and incapable of doing more than `mumble' the juvenile antagonist that was set against him, the one great advantage being that the young dog gained practical experience in the making of `points.' "the next stage, as i was informed, in training the young aspirant for pit-honours was to treat him to a `real mouthful,' or, in other words, `to let him taste dog'..." what this means, mr greenwood goes on partially to explain, but the explanation is too fearful to be repeated here; suffice it to say that scamp was the dog that maxey's young 'un was to taste. considerably elated, the boys started off on their way home. the thought of two-and-sixpence, and a sight of a real dog-fight, was quite enough to silence all dick's scruples, and jenks never had any. yet once, long ago now, jenks had cried when the cat pounced on his canary, once jenks had a kind heart. it was not all hard yet, though very nearly so. still some things could touch him, some faces, some words, some tones, could reach a vulnerable part within him. he hardly knew himself that the better part of him, not yet quite dead, was touched, he only called it being in a fix. he was in a fix about dick. it had been his intention, it had been his motive, in coming to live in the saint giles's cellar, to train dick as a thief, and if possible flo also. he was a very expert young hand himself,--no boy in london with lighter fingers, or more clever in dodging the police, than he. he knew that the first requisite for any successful thief was to possess an innocent appearance, and the moment he saw dick and flo he knew that their faces would make their own, and probably his fortune, in this criminal trade. he had gone cautiously about his work, for eyes much less sharp than his must have perceived that the children were strictly honest. their honesty, their horror of theft, had filled him with surprise, and added greatly to his difficulties. he saw, however, that dick was the weaker of the two, and his scruples he determined first to overcome. it took him some time, a whole month, but at last dick fell, and jenks was triumphant. all now was smooth sailing with him, he was in high, the highest spirits. dick should be taken down skilfully step by step the broad descent, and presently flo would follow. the bad boy's plans were all laid, when suddenly there came an obstacle--such an obstacle too--such a feather of a thing,--only a child's pleading voice and tearful eyes. what a fool jenks was to mind so slight a thing! he _was_ a fool then, for mind it he did. he liked flo, in his way he was fond of flo, but she herself might go to ruin sooner than have any of his plans injured. it was not for her sake he hesitated. no. but she had told him _why_ they were honest, why hard crusts and lives full of hunger and want were sweeter to them than luxuries unfairly come by; and strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this motive for honesty approved itself to the boy, for some reason known only to himself it raised a pain in his hardened heart, it roused the nearly dead conscience within him. he said to himself that the children's conduct was plucky--real, awful plucky; that it would be a mean act of him to make thieves of them. for ten minutes after his interview with flo he resolved that nothing in the world should induce him to do so; he resolved to go away as she had asked him to go away, and leave them to pursue their honest career unmolested, untempted by such as he. but in half-an-hour he had wavered, had partly laughed off flo's words, and had called all that stuff about mothers--dead mothers--nonsense. all day long he was undecided--he came back to the cellar at night undecided; he had gone out with dick and scamp still not sure whether to keep his promise to flo or to break it. how was it that in returning from his interview with maxey his resolutions to do right wavered more and more? perhaps it was because he had committed another cruel and evil deed, and so the little good in him died quickly out; perhaps, as certainly was the case, satan was tempting him more than ever. be this as it may, before jenks fell asleep that night his mind was made up. flo's scruples were all folly, dick had yielded once, he could, would, and should yield again. if he proved obstinate jenks had means in his possession which would compel him to lead the life he wished. yes, jenks resolved that before many months were over their heads, not only dick, but flo herself should be a thief. it should not be his fault if dick and flo were not two of the cleverest little thieves in london. chapter seven. at the derby. scamp had spent a very patient but not unhappy week in the cellar. he knew nothing of his impending fate, consequently, as he had his meals regularly, he felt himself troubled by no present cares. _had_ he known of his fate it is doubtful whether it would have caused him uneasiness. "fight with another dog! with pleasure; with all the good will in the world, and never show signs of flight, or turn felon." so would have thought the dog whose father and mother were curs, but in whose breast reigned as brave a spirit as ever one of the canine species possessed. but scamp, alas for you, poor fellow! you are inexperienced, and you do not know how the trained bull-dog can fight. jenks had secured him with a piece of rope to the broken table, but when jenks and dick were out flo would unfasten him, and he would lie at her feet and never attempt to run away. flo felt happy too at her hard work, for scamp was such good company, and since his arrival none of the wicked boys and girls dared to throw down broken bits of crockery, or sticks, or other rubbish at her. knowing she was timid they had often led her a sorry life, but now one note of scamp's fine deep bay (a gift from an old ancestor) would send them flying, and flo could pursue her work in peace. for the present, too, her mind was at rest about dick--he was not only not thieving, but he was doing quite a profitable business in another way. every morning he carried away his broom, and every evening, the weather being rather wet, he brought her in a nice little handful of coppers, as the result of his day's brooming; quite enough money to buy honest red herrings and other dainties for supper and even breakfast. flo began to consider a broom and crossing quite a good trade, and rather contemplated taking it up herself. but in this desire both jenks and dick quite vehemently opposed her, and for the present she was happy over her never-ending cobbling. scamp's company was so pleasant, and so soothed the tedium of her life, that now and then little snatches of mother's old songs would rise to her lips. she was walking down duncan street one day singing one of these in quite a sweet, clear voice, when a little pale girl on crutches, who lived in a cellar some six doors off, stopped her with the question-- "does yer know the glory song?" "no," said flo; "wot is it?" "i doesn't know it hall," said the little pale girl, "on'y a bit. yere it is: "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.'" "go on," said flo, "that's pretty--that is." "oh! i doesn't know any more," said the little girl. "i larned that bit wen i wor in 'orspital, time my leg was tuk orf. sister evelina taught it to me. there wor a lot more, and it wor werry pretty, but i on'y 'members that bit." "well, sing it agen," said flo. the little girl sang. "wot's `read and pray'?" asked flo. "oh! doesn't you know? read! hout o' books of course; and pray! pray to god--you knows that?" "no, i doesn't," said flo. "oh dear," said the other child rather patronisingly, "doesn't you know, `our--father--chart--'eaven'? why, yer _be_ hignorant." "yes, i be," said flo, no way offended. "i knows nothink 'cept being honest. wot's `our father,' janey?" "oh! 'tis quite long," said janey, "you couldn't 'member it a bit. `our--father--chart 'eaven.' our father lives in 'eaven. there! that's hall--i'm in a 'urry." "then that ain't true," said flo, "that ain't a bit o' it true. my father ain't in 'eaven, wherehever that is, 'ee's dead and in 'is grave, and yer father is at the dolphin most times i guess. i wouldn't tell lies ef i was you." the pale girl flushed up angrily. "there now, yer real oncivil," she said, "and i'll 'ave no more words wid yer." and she disappeared down the ladder into her cellar. flo went back also to hers and resumed her work. she had a great deal to do, for that evening she, and dick, and jenks, were to start on foot for the derby. jenks went every year as long as he could remember, but dick and flo had never been. they had heard of it of course, as what london child has not? and were much excited at the prospect of at last joining the great and vast army of tramps who year by year find their way to epsom downs. jenks assured them, too, that money honestly come by was made wholesale at the derby. money come to you almost for the asking; sixpences were changed into sovereigns by some magic art at that wonderful place. the children were not going empty-handed. flo was to be a "little-doll" girl. some dozens of these bought for twopence a dozen were to be sold to-morrow for a penny a-piece, or perhaps for more. flo counted how much she could make on her six dozen of dolls, and quite expected to realise a sum that would make things comfortable in the cellar for some weeks. dick was to sell fusees, and jenks was to appear on the scenes in the character of a boot-cleaning boy, balancing a black-box and brushes on his head, and scamp was to stay at home and keep house. flo had proposed his coming with them, but to this the boys objected, and she, considering she would have more than enough use for her legs, hands, voice, and eyes, and _might_ find scamp an extra care, did not grieve much over their decision. what walking she would have, all the way from london to epsom downs; what use for her hands in holding her tray of dolls for so many hours; what use for her voice in advertising her property, in properly proclaiming the value of her property, and endeavouring to attract the gents with white hats, who were fond of wearing such goods in their button-holes, or stuck in a row round their head gear; above all, and this was the pleasant part, what use for her eyes! right and left, before and behind, pretty things would surround her, and flo _did_ so love pretty things. it would be a grander sight than regent street, or swan and edgar's, grander, because the fine ladies, and the smart dresses, and the lovely spirited horses would be there in such much vaster numbers! she had her own slight but essential toilet preparations too to make. her poor ragged cotton frock had got a rinse, and was drying by a small fire, which, hot as the day was, was lit for the purpose, and she meant to look up mother's old bonnet, and if it _could_ be made presentable, wear it. she hauled it out of a pasteboard band-box, and sat down on her cobbler's stool to contemplate it. it was a very shaky, indeed fall-to-pieces, affair. a bonnet that had once been of a delicate white, but in its journey through life, having had to put up at several pawn-shops, had now reached a hue as far removed from that colour as possible. flo, however, thought it quite fit to wear. she snipped it, and dusted it, and by the aid of some pins secured the battered old crown in its place. she unfolded carefully every leaf of the gorgeous bunch of artificial flowers with which mother had ornamented it before she died. that bunch, consisting of some full-blown roses, tulips, and poppies, which at a second-hand finery establishment had cost twopence, and to purchase which mother had once done without her dinner, that bunch was placed so as to rest on flo's forehead, while two dirty ribbons of flaming yellow were to do duty under her chin. but while she worked she thought of janey's words. she was sorry janey had turned crusty, for undoubtedly the words were pretty, prettier than any of mother's old songs. she would have liked to know more about them! "`i'm glad i hever saw the day,'" sang flo, catching the air with her quick ear and voice. but then she stopped to consider. what day was she glad to see? well! no day that she knew of, unless it was to-morrow, the derby day. she was not glad of the day she could read and pray, for that day had never come to her. in her duncan street cellar, "the board," that object of terror, had never reached her, therefore she could not read--and pray?--she did not even know what "pray" meant. why did janey go about singing such songs as nobody could understand? just then jenks and dick came rattling down the ladder crying noisily that it was full time to be off; and flo had to bustle about, and pack her dolls, and put on her clean frock and wonderful bonnet, and finally, when she thought no one was looking, to stoop down and kiss scamp on his forehead, in return for which he washed her face quite over again with his tongue. a basin of broken bread was set near the dog, then the children ran up the ladder, fastened down the door of the cellar, and set off. "will maxey know which is _hour_ cellar wid the door shut?" asked dick. this remark flo could make nothing of, but she was too much excited then to ask an explanation. it was eight o'clock when the children started, therefore the great heat was over. at first they walked alone, then two or three, going in the same direction, joined them, then half-a-dozen more, and so on, until they found themselves with quite a number of people all epsom bound. at first flo did not like this, she would have much preferred to trudge along, away past hot and dismal london, with only dick and jenks for company, but after a time she saw the advantage of this arrangement, for she was unaccustomed to walking, and soon her little feet grew very, very weary, and then the good-natured cadgers and tramps turned out agreeable acquaintances. one woman kindly carried her tray of dolls, and some men with a large barrow of fried fish, taking pity on her weary little face, allowed her to have a seat on one corner of their great barrow, and in this way she got over many a mile. but the way was very long, and by the time the weary multitude had reached epsom town it was nearly one in the morning. no rest for them here, however; whether they wished it or not, whether they could pay for food and shelter or not, the vigilant police would allow no halt in the town, they must move on. so on they moved, until at last flo and dick and jenks, with many other worn-out tramps, were very glad to huddle together against the walls of the grand stand, which, quiet enough now, would in a few hours blaze with such life and beauty. the little girl was in a sound sleep, dreaming confused dreams, in which janey's songs, scamp's face, and the epsom races were all mingled, when a hand laid on her shoulder roused her from her slumbers. "wot is it, jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin'?" she exclaimed with a confused start. "no, no," said jenks, "it ain't time fur hages yet. wait till the folks begin to come. why, there's on'y us tramps yere yet." "then why did you wake me, jenks? i was so werry sound asleep." "well--see, flo--i wanted fur to tell yer--you see this is a big place, and we 'as come, you and me and dick, to do a trade yere, and wot i ses is this, as we mustn't keep together, we mustn't on no 'count keep together. you go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny _they'll_ fetch this blessed day, i hears said; dick 'ull start in another 'rection wid the fusees, and i must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents' boots bright. so good mornin' to yer, flo; you meet us yere in the evenin' wid a good pocket full, and yere's sixpence fur yer breakfast," and before flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, jenks was gone. she was alone, alone on epsom common. with that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone. very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. however tender their hearts may be--and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, god bless them!--there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears. but something very smarting did come up now to the little girl's eyes. she sat down wearily,--so much fun had she expected roaming about with dick and jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun--he never shone like that in the town--shining on her face. and now she would be afraid--for she was a timid child--to stir. oh, it was wrong of jenks, though jenks was only her friend, but how truly _unkind_ it was of dick to leave her! just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said-- "is anything the matter, little child?" flo raised her eyes, and a middle-aged woman, with a face as kind as her voice, and an appearance very much more respectable than the crowds about her, stood by her side. "are you waiting for your mother, my dear?" said the woman again, finding that flo only gazed at her, and did not speak. "or don't you want to come and get some breakfast?" "please, mum," said flo, suddenly starting to her feet, and remembering that she was very hungry, "may i go wid you and 'ave some breakfast? i 'ave got sixpence to buy it, mum." "come, then," said the woman, "i will take care of you. here, give me your dolls," and holding the dolls' tray in one hand, and the child herself by the other, she went across to where a bustling, hungry throng were surrounding the coffee-stalls. flo and her companion were presently served, and then they sat down on the first quiet spot they could find to enjoy their meal. "is you in the small-dolls, or the aunt sally, or the clothes' brusher's, or the shoe-blacker's line, mum?" asked flo, who observed that her companion was not carrying any goods for sale. "no, child, i don't do business here--i only come to look on." "oh, that's werry fine fur you!" said flo; "but is it as yer don't find sellin' make? why, i 'spects to make a penny, and maybe tuppence, on hevery one of these blessed dolls." "is this the first time you have been here?" asked the woman. "yes, mum." "and have you come alone?" "oh no, mum; i come along o' my brother, a little chap, and a bigger feller." "then you ought to be with them. this is not a safe place for a little girl to be all alone in." "oh, they doesn't want me," said flo; "the little chap's in the fusee line, and the big 'un's in the blackin' line, and they says as it 'ud spile the trade fur a small-dolls seller to be along o' them. that's 'ow i'm alone, ma'am," and here veritable tears did fill the child's eyes to overflowing. "well, i am alone too," said her companion in a kinder tone than ever; "so if you wish to stay with me you may; i can show you the best parts to sell your dolls in." and this was the beginning of one of the brightest days flo had ever yet spent. how she did enjoy the breezes on the common now that she had a companion, how she did gaze at the wonderful, ever-increasing crowd. she had soon told her story to her new friend; all about dick and herself, and their mother, and their promise to be honest; something too about scamp, and also about the big feller who she was afraid was a thief, but whose name somehow she forgot to mention. in return her companion told her something of her own story. "i come year after year out here," she said sadly. "not that i sells here, or knows anything of the derby; but i come looking for one that i love--one that has gone like the prodigal astray, but like the prodigal he'll come back--he'll come back." this speech was very strange and incomprehensible to flo; but she liked her companion more and more, and thought she had never met so kind a woman, she looked at her once or twice nearly as nicely as mother used to look. but now the business of the day began in earnest. the grand stand was filled; the men with betting lists were rushing with heated faces here and there; the cadgers and tramps, the vendors of small dolls, of pails of water, of fried fish, of coffee and buns, of ices, of fruit and sweeties, the vendors of every conceivable article under the sun were doing a roaring trade; and even flo, aided by her kind companion, made several shillings by her dolls. the races went on, and at last the great event of the day, the derby race, was to be run. by this time flo had sold all her dolls, and stood in the midst of the heaving, swaying mass of people, as eager as anybody else. an unwonted excitement had taken possession of the little girl, the joy of a fresher, brighter life than she had hitherto ever felt, drove the blood quickly through her languid veins, she stood by her companion's side, her large bonnet thrown back from her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes quite bright with interest and pleasure. perhaps to her alone the beautiful, wonderful sight came without alloy-- she had no high stakes at issue, nothing either to gain or to lose. but when the race was over, and the name of _galopin_, the winning horse, was in everybody's mouth, and men, some pale and some flushed with their losses, turned broken-hearted away; and men, some pale and some ruddy with their gains, joined in the general cheer; then flo began again to think of and miss her absent companions. already vast numbers of tramps were returning to london--the kind little woman by her side had also expressed a wish to go, but nowhere were jenks and dick in sight. they had promised to meet her in the evening, but she could neither ask her companion to wait until then, nor wait herself alone in the midst of the vast, unruly multitude. "i will see you safe as far as our roads lie together," said the little woman, and flo, without a word, but no longer with an exultant, joyful heart, accompanied her. they walked slowly, keeping close to the other walkers, but still a little apart, and by themselves. now and then a good-natured neighbour gave them a lift, but they walked most of the way. "'as you found 'im whom you loves, mum?" questioned flo once; but the little woman shook her head, and shook it so sorrowfully that flo ventured to say no more. it was quite dusk when they got to london, or rather to the outskirts of london, for they went very slowly, and often paused on the road. by this time they were quite a vast army, fresh tramps arriving to swell their ranks each moment. here too they were met by numbers of londoners who had not gone to the races, but who now thronged the footways to see them return. at one particular angle of the road these crowds congregated so thickly that for a few moments there was quite a block, and neither multitude could proceed. as flo stood by her companion's side, two boys pushed quickly and roughly against her. they did not recognise or look at her, but she did them--they were jenks and dick. she was quite overjoyed at seeing them so near her, but how funny they looked! or rather, how funny dick looked! his face was blackened, and he had on a false nose; he carried a little fiddle which he capered about with, and pushing his way fearlessly into the very heart of the throng, made altogether such a droll appearance that many people looked at him, and laughed very heartily, and shied him halfpence jenks, on the contrary, was grave and sober, no one minding him. but suddenly, while all eyes and tongues were eagerly greeting some fresh arrivals, flo observed dick give a red-faced, stout old gentleman a tremendous push, and quick as lightning jenks had his hand in the old man's pocket, and out had come his purse and gold watch. and before the terrified and astonished child had time to utter an exclamation, or to draw a breath, police constable b. laid his hand heavily on jenks' shoulders, and with the other drawing dick towards him, informed them both that they were his prisoners. chapter eight. a ghost in the cellar. in the confusion that immediately ensued, flo found herself torn away from her kind companion, and brought very near to police constable b. and his charge. like most children of her class she had been taught to consider policemen very dreadful people, but she had no fear of this one now: her whole desire was to save dick. she went boldly up and laid her little dirty hand on the great tall man's arm. "please--please," said flo, "it ain't dick as tuk them things. indeed i thinks as dick _is_ an honest boy." "oh! yes, and i suppose you are an honest girl," said the policeman, looking down with some contempt at the queer disreputable-looking little figure. "tell me now, what do you know about dick? and which of the two is dick to begin with?" "that 'ere little chap wot yer 'ave such a grip of," said flo, "that's dick, and i be 'is sister, i be." "oh! so you are his sister. and what's the name of the big fellow? you are his sister too?" "no, i ain't," said flo, "i ain't that, but 'ee lives wid dick and me." "he does--does he? perhaps you saw what he did just now?" flo had seen--she coloured and hesitated. "you need not speak unless you wish to," said the policeman more kindly, "but i perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. see! where do you live?" "cellar number , duncan street, saint giles," said flo promptly. "ah!" said the policeman, "i thought those cellars was shut up. they ain't fit for pigs. well, my dear, 'tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and i'll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. don't you go hiding, for wherever you are i'll find you. on thursday morning at o'clock at q--police-station." and nodding to flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him. "come 'ome wid me, dear," said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another duncan street cellar. "come 'ome wid me," she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; "i'll take care of yer the rest of the way," and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd. "there now," said the woman kindly, "don't yer fret, dearie--it ain't so bad, and it won't be so bad. dick, 'ee'll on'y get a month or two at the 'formatary, and t'other chap a bit longer, and hout they'll come none the worse. don't yer fret, dearie." "no, ma'am," answered flo with a little smile, "i ain't frettin'." nor was she exactly. she had an awful vision before her of mother's dead face, that was all. during the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. she was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet--that would come by and by. her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. it was quite dusk, past o'clock, when they reached duncan street, and the cellar door of number , which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the derby the day before, was now open. flo hardly noticed this. she ran down, eager to throw her arms round scamp's neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom. "but--what had happened?" flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. she called to him, no answer. she struck a match and lit the tallow candle,--scamp's place was empty, scamp was gone. she stooped down and examined the spot carefully. if he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone. it was quite plain, then, some one had come and stolen scamp, some one had come meanly while they were away and carried him off--he was gone. one extra drop will overflow a full cup, and this extra trial completely upset the little tired, sad child. she sat down on the floor, that damp wretched floor, surely an unfit resting-place for any of god's creatures, and gave way to all the agony of intense desolation. had the dog been there he would have soothed her: the look in his eyes, the solemn slow wag of his unwieldy tail, would have comforted her, would have spoken to her of affection, would have prevented her feeling utterly alone in the world. and this now was flo's sensation. when this awful storm of loneliness comes to the rich, and things look truly hard for them, they still have their carpeted floors, and easy-chairs, and soft beds, and though at such times they profess not to value these things in the least, yet they are, and are meant to be, great alleviations. only the poor, the very, very poor know what this storm is in all its terrors, and the desolate little child sitting there in this dark cellar felt it in its full power that night. dick was gone from her, dick was a thief, he was in prison, gone perhaps never to come back--and jenks was gone, he had done wrong and tempted dick, and broken his word to her, so perhaps it was right for him to go--and scamp, dear scamp, who had done no harm whatever, was stolen away. yes, she was alone, alone with the thought of her mother's face, all alone in the damp, dark, foul cellar, and she knew nothing of god. just then a voice, and a sweet voice too, was heard very distinctly at the mouth of the cellar. "sing glory, glory, glory," tuned the voice. "janey," said flo, starting to her feet and speaking eagerly. "oh dear!" said the voice at the cellar door, "ain't you a fool to be settin' there in the dark. strike a light, do--i'm a comin' down." flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side. "oh dear!" she said, "ain't this a stiflin' 'ole? why 'tis worse nor 'ourn." "wot's `read and pray,' janey?" asked flo. "my!" said janey, "ef yer ain't a real worry, flo darrell. read--that's wot the board teaches--and pray--our--father--chart--'eaven--that's pray." "and `sing glory,' wot's that?" continued flo. "that!" laughed janey, "why that's a choros, you little goose. niggers 'ave alwis choroses to their songs--that ain't nothink else." "well, 'tis pretty," sighed flo, "not that i cares for nothink pretty now no more." "oh! yes yer will," said janey with the air of a philosopher. "yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as i wor wen i broke my leg, and i wor lyin' in the 'orspital, all awful full o' pain hup to my throat, but now i 'as on'y a stiff joint, and i doesn't mind it a bit. that's just 'ow you'll feel 'bout dick by and by. 'ee'll be lyin' in prison, and you won't care, no more nor i cares fur my stiff joint." flo was silent, not finding janey's conversation comforting. "come," said that young person after a pause, "i thought you'd want a bit o' livenin' hup. wot does yer say to a ghost story?" flo's eyes, slightly startled, were turned on her companion. "as big a ghost story as hever was got up in any gaff," continued janey, her naughty face growing full of mischief, "and it 'appened in this 'ere cellar, flo." "oh! it worn't mother come back, wor it?" asked flo. "just you wait heasy. no, it worn't yer mother, ef you _must_ know, but as real a ghost as hever walked fur all that." "tell us," said flo, really roused and interested. "oh, you wants fur to know at last! well, i must be paid. i'm poor and clemmed, and i can't tell my tale fur nothink, not i." "'ow can i pay you, janey?" "oh, yer can, heasy enough. why mother said as yer sold quite a 'eap o' dolls to-day at the races, there! i'll tell 'bout the ghost fur a penny, no fur three ha'pence--there!" "well, tell away," said flo, throwing the coins into her companion's lap. janey thrust them into her mouth, then taking them out rubbed them bright with her pinafore, and held them firmly in her bony little hand. "pease puddin' fur the ha'penny," she said, "meat and taters fur the penny--'tis real mean o' yer not to make it tuppence. now i'll begin. were's that ere dawg? were's that hawful, 'owlin' dawg?" "oh! i don't know," said flo, "i don't know nothink 'bout my dear scamp." "oh yes, 'ees dear scamp to be sure," said janey. "well, _i'll_ tell yer 'bout scamp, and hall i 'opes is that we may never lay heyes on 'im no more." "why?" asked flo. "there! i'm a comin' to wy. last night wen you, and dick, and jenks, and mother was orf to the derby, and i mad like at bein' left, which mother _would_ do 'cause i was lame, i came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin' to scamp, who was 'owlin' real orfle, and i thought as it 'ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur i knew he wor tied, and hanger 'im a bit, and i tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit i went away, and i got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there i dropped orf asleep. and wen i 'woke it wor dark, and on'y the `twinkle, twinkle, little stars' hout, and there wor a noise, and i looked, and hout o' your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man's 'ead a comin'--a man wid a round 'ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in 'is arms, a 'owlin' and a struggling that 'ere blessed dawg." "oh! the willan!" said flo. "'ee stole my dawg. did yer foller 'im, janey?" "no, i didn't," said janey; "_i_ foller 'im--i'd like it. wy, flo darrell, 'ee worn't a man at all. 'ow was a _man_ in yer locked hup cellar? no, 'ee wor a ghost--_that's_ wot 'ee wor. and scamp ain't a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o' 'im, flo darrell." chapter nine. flo in the witness-box. a small knot of policemen stood outside q--police-court. they chatted and talked one to another, now and then alluding to the different cases to be tried that day, now and then dwelling on the ordinary topics of the times, now and then, too, speaking to a companion of home interests, and home, and personal hopes and fears. for these stalwart-looking myrmidons of the law are just human beings like the rest of mankind, and they are quite capable now and then even of feeling and showing pity for a prisoner. "any cases of interest coming on to-day?" asked a young policeman of constable b. "nothing of moment--a few thefts committed on the derby day. by the way, i have just brought in the drollest figure of a child to appear as witness in one of these cases." just then a little woman in a black dress, black, tight-fitting bonnet, and black veil, came up timidly to the constable and asked if she might see the trials. "certainly, missis; you have nothing to do but to walk in. stay, i will show you the way to the court. may i ask if there is hany particular case as you is wanting to hear?" "not--not--that is, i am not a witness," replied the little woman, whose lips trembled. "i have a curiosity to see the proceedings." "well, ma'am, the affairs coming on are mostly hacts of robbery committed on the derby day--but some of them may interest you. walk this way, ma'am," and the constable preceded the little woman into the court. "there," he said kindly, seeing that for some reason she appeared a good deal either upset or excited, "you need not stand where the crowd are, you may go up and seat yourself on that bench where the witnesses be. you'll be more quiet and comfortable hup there, and will see heverything." "thank you," replied the little woman, and she placed herself on the extreme edge of the witnesses' bench. there was a case then on hand, one of those sad cases which police-courts see so many of. a woman had been brought up to be tried for that sin which, more than any other, blights homes, ruins children, spreads destruction through the land, sends souls to hell,--she was accused of drunkenness and disorderly conduct. she stood in the prisoner's dock with a sullen, bleared, indifferent face, her half-dead, listless eyes gazing vacantly at the magistrate. she had appeared in that court charged with the same offence forty times. mr vernon, the gentleman before whom she was accused, asked her what she had to say for herself. even at this question the indifferent countenance never woke into life. "nothing," she answered listlessly, for the love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman's breast. she hardly listened as mr vernon addressed her in a few solemn but kindly words, and when her sentence--a month at wandsworth with hard labour--was pronounced, received it with the same stoical indifference. then two boys were led in by the jailor, and constable b. appeared as the first witness against them. as he passed into his place in the witnesses' box he gave the little woman in black a nudge and an intelligent look, which would have told her, even if she had not known it before, that one of the derby robbery cases had come on. through her thick veil she looked at the two lads; one hung down his face, but the other gazed about him, apparently untroubled and unashamed. this hardened expression on the elder boy's face seemed to cause her much pain, she turned her head away, and some tears fell on her hands. and yet, could she but have seen into their hearts, she would have perceived something which would have kindled a little hope in her soul. each boy, standing in this dreadful position, thought of his mother. dick, with that sea of faces about him, with the eyes of the judge fixed on him, felt that the memory of his mother was the hardest thing of all to bear, for the conscience of the child who had stood out against temptation for so long was by no means yet hardened, and though he knew nothing of god, his mother's memory stood in the place of god to him. so the most ignorant among us have a light to guide us. let us be thankful if it is a star so bright as that of mother's love. for, strange to say, the older lad, the boy who stood in the dock with that brazen, unabashed face, the clever, accomplished london thief, who though not unknown to the police, had hitherto by his skill and cunning almost always escaped the hands of justice, he too, down deep in his heart of hearts, thought of his mother; he took one quick, furtive glance around as if to look for her, then, apparently relieved, folded his arms and fixed his bold eyes on mr vernon. then the trial, in the usual form in which such trials are conducted in police-courts, went on. the prisoners' names and ages were first ascertained. "william jenks, aged fourteen; richard darrell, aged ten," sounding distinctly in the small room. then police constable b. identified the boys as the same whom he had caught in the act of removing a gold watch and purse from a gentleman's pocket in the midst of the crowds who thronged the streets on tuesday. he described very accurately the whole proceedings, stating how and why his suspicions had been aroused--how he had dodged the boys for some little time, had observed them whispering together, had seen dick buy his false nose and sixpenny fiddle, had overheard a few words which gave him a further clue to some mischief, had seen them separate, had closely noticed dick's antics, had watched the violent push he gave the old gentleman, and finally had laid his hand on jenks as he drew forth the watch and purse from his victim's pocket. his statements, delivered slowly and impressively, were taken down by a clerk of the court, and then read over to him, and signed as quite correct; then the constable retiring, the old gentleman who had been the victim of the robbery appeared in the witness-box. very irate was this witness, and very indignant the glances he gave over his spectacles at the prisoners. those were the boys of course! well, he had been befooled by the small chap's funny nose and absurd antics--any one else would have been the same. well, he _had_ a personal interest in the great race, and had come out to meet some friends who were returning from epsom, he had given the small boy only a passing thought. when violently knocked by him, he had believed it to be accidental, and caused by the eagerness and swaying of the crowd--his was not a suspicious nature. no, he had felt no hand in his pocket--and knew nothing of any robbery until the policeman showed him his own purse and watch in the elder prisoner's hand. though obliged to the constable for his zeal, he must add he thought it _shameful_ that such a thing could happen in any well-governed land! "will you tell us precisely what your purse contained, and describe its appearance?" asked mr vernon. "i can do that to the letter," replied the angry man. "i am not likely to forget my own purse or my own money." "we must ask you to confine your remarks to answering the questions put to you," interfered the magistrate. "how much did your purse contain, and what kind of purse was it?" "the purse you wish me to describe, and which i repeat i _can_ describe, was a green russian leather one, with silver fastenings. it contained (i know to a farthing what it contained) five sovereigns in gold, a half-sovereign, two florins, and sixpence, besides in one pocket a cheque for twenty pounds on the city bank. the cheque was not signed." the purse being opened, and its contents found to answer to this description, it was handed back to the old gentleman, who was then requested to describe his watch; and on his doing so, and also getting back this property, he became much more gracious, and retired, with his anger considerably cooled, to his former place beside the little woman in black. "if you have a watch, ma'am, hold it safely," he whispered to her. "even here, and surrounded by the officers of the law, we are not safe from the light fingers of these young ruffians." just then there was a bustle, and a movement of fresh interest in the court. another witness was appearing. led by the hand of constable b. a little girl was led into the witnesses' box, a little girl with an old woman's face, grave, worn, pale. at the sight of this witness dick changed colour violently, and even jenks gave way to some passing emotion. for an instant a pair of sad dark eyes gazed steadily at both the boys. they were speaking eyes, and they said as plainly as possible--"i cannot save you. i would help you, even _you_, jenks, out of this, but i cannot. i have come here to speak the truth, and the truth _will_, the truth _must_ do you harm." flo, with all her deep ignorance, had one settled conviction, that no one was ever yet heard of who told a lie in the witnesses' box. "how old is the little girl?" asked mr vernon. the question was repeated to her. "don't know," she answered promptly. "have you no idea, child? try and think!" "no, i doesn't know," said flo. then she added after a pause, "_mother_ knowed me age, and she said ef i lived till this month (ain't this month june?) as i'd be nine." "nine years old," said the magistrate, and the clerk of the court took a note of the fact. "now, little girl, what is your name?" "darrell." "darrell, do you know the nature of an oath?" "eh?" questioned flo. "do you know who god is? you have got to take a solemn oath to god that you will speak nothing but the truth while you stand there." "yes," said flo, "i'll on'y speak the truth." "do you know about god?" "mother used to say `god 'elp me.' i don't know nothink else--'cept 'bout heve," she added after another pause. "what do you know about eve?" "she wor the first thief, she wor. she prigged the apple off god's tree." a laugh through the court; but the odd little figure in mother's old bonnet never smiled, her eyes were turned again reproachfully on dick-- he was following in the footsteps of "heve." "you may administer the oath," said the magistrate to the usher of the court, and then the bible was placed in flo's hands and the well-known solemn words addressed to her. "the evidence you shall give to the court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, so help you god." "yes," answered flo. "kiss the book," said the usher. she did so gravely, and handed it back to him. "now, darrell, just answer the questions put to you, and remember you are on your oath to speak the truth. who are these boys? do you know them?" "yes, yer washup." flo had heard mr vernon spoken to as "your worship," and had adopted the name with avidity. "what are they called?" "little 'un's dick--t'other jenks." "which of the two is your brother?" "little chap." "do you live together--you and your brother and jenks?" "yes; number seven, duncan street." "have you a father and mother?" "no. father fell from a 'ouse and wor killed--he wor a mason; and mother, she died a year ago. we 'ad scamp wid us too," added flo; "leastways we 'ad till the night o' the derby." "who is scamp?" "my dawg." a laugh. "do not mind about your dog now, darrell," said the magistrate. "tell me how you live." "'ow i lives? course i lives on wittles; and when i can't get wittles i lives on nothink." "mr vernon means, what do you do to earn money?" explained the constable. "oh! i translates." "you translate!" said mr vernon, raising his eye brows in wonder that anything literary should find its way to flo's hands; "i did not know that you could read." "no, more i can--i knows nothink 'bout `read and pray.' i never was glad to see that 'ere day. no--i translates; and ef they is down at the 'eel, and bust at the sides, and hout at the toes, wy i makes 'em as good as new fur hall that." "she cobbles old boots and shoes, your worship," explained the amused constable. "they call it translating down in duncan street." "oh! does your brother translate also, darrell?" "no, yer washup; dick 'ave a broom and crossin'. 'ee wor doin' a tidy lot lately wid 'is broom and crossin'." "now remember you are on your oath. how did you spend your time on the derby day?" "i sold small dolls to the gents." "were you with your brother and the other prisoner?" "no, yer washup. jenks 'ee said as we worn't to keep company." "did he tell you why?" "'ee said as we'd do better bis'ness apart. 'ee was in the blackin' line, and dick in the fusee line." "where were you at the time of the robbery?" "close ahint jenks and dick." "did they see you?" "no." "what were they doing? what did you see them do?" "dick, 'ee 'ad a funny little red nose on, and 'ee capered about, and played the fiddle." "well, go on." "the people, they was pressing hevery way, and the folks was cheerin', wen--hall on a sudden--" "well?" "dick--'ee gave a great leap in the hair, and down 'ee come slap-bang 'gainst that 'ere gent," pointing to the red-faced gentleman; "and jenks--" "what about jenks? don't forget your oath, darrell." "i'm not a forgettin'--i'm a comin' to jenks. no, jenks," suddenly turning round and addressing him, "i wouldn't tell on you ef i wasn't standin' yere where no lies was hever spoke. 'ee stepped forrard as soft as soft, and pulled hout a purse and a watch hout o' the gent's pocket." "are these the watch and purse?" "yes." the clerk of the court then read over flo's evidence, and as she could neither read nor write, she was shown how to put her mark to the paper. "you may go now," said the magistrate; "i don't wish to ask you anything further." constable b. took her arm, but she struggled against him, and held her ground. "please, yer washup, i 'ave spoke the truth." "indeed, i hope so." "may the little chap come 'ome wid me, and i'll--" but here official authority was called to interfere, and flo was summarily ejected from the witness-box. she found a seat at the other side of the little woman in black, who took the child's trembling hand in hers. a few moments of patient summing up of evidence, and then the magistrate asked the prisoners if they had anything to say for themselves. "please, i'll never do it no more," said poor little dick, in a tone which nearly broke his sister's heart; but jenks, the older and more hardened offender, was silent. then the sentence was made known. dick, in consideration of his youth, and its being a first offence, was only to go to a reformatory school, but jenks was doomed to wandsworth house of correction for nine long months. chapter ten. the little woman in black. "come home with me," said the little woman by flo's side. she had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as pale and sad as her own. she hardly noticed it, however, she was absorbed in a recognition. the little woman in black had the gentle voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black _was_ her friend of the derby day. "my dear, i am real glad to find you again. you shall come to my house and have a bit of dinner." "no, ma'am," said flo, shaking away her hand, "i knows yer, ma'am, and you is werry kind. but i'm not a goin' 'ome wid yer, missis; i'm not 'spectable to be in yer 'ouse. dick, 'ee be a thief and in prison, i'm not 'spectable no more." flo said this without tears, and defiantly. "oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. you are poor and in trouble, child--just the one that jesus christ wants; and surely if the king of glory wants you, i may want you too." "wot's glory?" asked flo. "glory, child; that's where the king lives." "ain't kings and queens the same?" "oh! now, my dear, i see you don't know nothing about the matter, or you wouldn't speak of any king or queen in the breath with my king. come and have a bit of dinner with me, and then i'll tell you about my king." "i ain't 'ungry," said flo; "but i'd real like to 'ear o' that king as wants me. would 'ee make a swell o' me, missis?" "he can raise you very high, little girl," said the woman; and taking flo's hand, they walked together in silence. "you was fond of poor jenks?" said the little woman at last. "yes, ma'am; 'ee wasn't a bad sort o' a feller. but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted the little chap. i don't go fur to blame jenks, ma'am, fur 'ee 'adn't no mother--but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted dick." at these words the little woman withdrew her hand from flo's, and pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and flo, wondering what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked again by her side in silence. they passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to london district visitors. there are sun streets in london, where the sun never shines--there are jubilee courts, where feasts are never held, where satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice. this place was called pine apple court, and doubtless a few years ago it as nearly resembled cherry court and may-blossom court as three peas resemble each other; but now, as flo and the little woman walked into it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy of its name. here, in the midst of london, was actually a place where the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. [one of miss octavia hill's courts.] the freshly-painted, white-washed houses had creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the children could play. the little woman conducted flo across this pleasant court into one of the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. the polished steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the fire-place. the window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full blossom. the rose was ticketed, prize st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot, doubtless its prize at the last poor people's flower show. had flo ever heard of paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose. she sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her hostess and gazed around. "please, ma'am," she said presently, "wot am i to call yer?" at this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. "why, now," she said, "that's a curious thing, but my name's jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning--mrs jenks is my name, little darrell." "yes, missis," replied flo respectfully. she had admired mrs jenks very much on the derby day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. for aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a "dook's" wife in disguise. "you sit in this chair and rest," said mrs jenks, "and i'll see about dinner." and flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her. mrs jenks had made her take off mother's old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes. there were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and mrs jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for flo, and another for herself. but before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. the little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words:-- "i thank thee, my god, for the dinner thou hast given me; but more than all i thank thee that thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little ones to share it with." then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped flo. and flo, who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of mrs jenks' liberal helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of her eyes. "now," said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were washed up and put away, "now," she said, "i will get to my work, and you shall tell me all that story over again. all about your poor dear mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as mine came to live with you." "yes," answered flo, whose little heart was so drawn to mrs jenks, and so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to her lips; and the story of the derby day was repeated with fuller confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on the part of her kind listener. flo told over again all about her mother, and mother's death, and the promise they had given mother--then of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little dick earned by his broom and crossing--finally how jenks came, and how good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach them both his trade. then at last, on the day she saw regent street and the queen, and tasted 'ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that jenks was a thief. then she related her interview with jenks, and how he had promised to leave dick alone, and _not_ to teach him his wicked trade, and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any more. here flo broke down and sobbed bitterly. "i think if i were you, i would leave all that about your dear mother to god, my child," said little mrs jenks. "his ways are not as our ways. if i were you, i would not fret about your mother--i would just leave her to god." "who is god?" asked flo, stopping her tears and looking up. "who is god?" repeated mrs jenks. "why, he's the king of glory i had to tell you about; and now i remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to know very little about him--nothing, in fact. well, you shall not leave this house without knowing, i promise you that. why, god--god, little darrell, he's your best friend, and your poor mother's best friend, and dick's best friend, and my--that is, jenks' best friend too. he loves you, child, and some day he'll take you to a place where many poor people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down here, are having rest, and good times for ever." "and will god give me a good time in that place?" asked flo. "yes. if you love him he will give you a better time than the queen has on her throne--a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world." "tell me about god," asked flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at mrs jenks' feet. "god," said little mrs jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, "god--he's the father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. god's your father, child." "our--father--chart--'eaven," repeated flo. "your father in heaven--yes, that's it." then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. words came to her at last, and flo learned what every child in our england is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of. do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime? doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. in church we thank god that we are not as these men are--murderers--thieves--unclean--unholy. let them go to prison, and to death--fit ends for such as they. true! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all. the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in _their_ path. their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned. christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a place in his kingdom; but they know nothing of christ, and we who do know, to whom his name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention, his story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion--we are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance, to tell them of him. now for the first time flo learned about god, and about god's dear son, our saviour. a little too about heaven, and a very little about prayer. if she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, god would hear her, and some day, mrs jenks said, he would come for her, and carry her away to live with him in heaven. only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the child's dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and thick darkness, and this difference took place in flo's mind that day. she listened with hardly a question--a breathless, astonished look on her face, and when mrs jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and tied on mother's old bonnet. "may i come again?" asked flo, raising her lips to kiss the little woman. "yes, my child, come again to-morrow. i shall look out for you to-morrow." and flo promised to come. chapter eleven. maxey's young 'un. as flo walked down the street, the wonderful news she had heard for the first time completely absorbed her mind, so much so that she forgot that dick was a thief, that dick and jenks were both suffering from the penalty of their crime, that she was returning to her cellar alone, without even scamp to keep her company. the news she had heard was so great, so intensely interesting in its freshness and newness, that she could think of nothing else. she walked down, as her wont was, several by-streets, and took several short cuts, and found herself more than once in parts of the town where no respectable person was ever seen. the gutter children working at their several wretched trades called after her as she passed, one addressing her as "old bonnet," another asking how much she wanted a-piece for the flowers that dangled so ludicrously on her forehead. and being a timid child, and, london bred as she was, sensitive to ridicule, she walked on faster and faster, really anxious to find any quiet place where she could sit down and think. at last, as she was passing a more open piece of ground, where a group of boys were playing pitch-and-toss, they, noticing her quickened movements, and rather frightened face, made a rush at her, and flo, losing all presence of mind, began to run. little chance would she have had against her tormentors, had not just then a tall policeman appeared in sight, whereupon they considered it more prudent to give up their chase, and return to their interrupted amusements. poor flo, however, still believing them to be at her heels, ran faster than ever down a narrow lane to her right, turned sharp round a corner, when suddenly her foot tripped against a cellar grating, the grating, insecurely fastened, gave way, and the child, her fall partly broken by a ladder which stood against the grating, found herself bruised, stunned, almost unconscious, on the ground several feet below the street. for some moments she lay quiet, not in pain, and not quite insensible, but too much frightened and shaken to be capable of movement. then a sound within a foot or two of her caused her heart to leap with fresh fear. she sat up and listened intently. it was a stifled sound, it was the whine of a dog. for scamp's sake flo had learned to love all dogs. she made her way, though not without pain, to this one now, and put her hand on its head. instead of being angry and resenting this freedom, as a strange dog might, a quiver of joy went through the animal, its tail wagged violently, its brown eyes cast melting glances of love at flo, its small rough tongue tried to lick her face and hands, and there, gagged and tied, but well fed, as yet unhurt, and a platter of broken meat by its side, was her own dog, her lost dog, scamp. flo laid her head on the head of the dog, and burst into tears of joy. the pain of her fall was forgotten, she was very glad she had knocked against that broken grating, that by this means she had stumbled into this cellar; her dog could accompany her home--she would not be so lonely now. with her own hands she unfastened the gag, and loosened the chain from scamp's neck, and the dog, delighting in his recovered freedom, danced and scampered madly round her, uttering great, deep bays of joy. alas! for scamp, his foolish and untimely mirth excited undue attention to him. his loud and no longer muffled bark brought two men quickly into the cellar. flo had the prudence of mind to hide behind some old boards, and scamp with equal prudence did not follow her. "down, you brute," said the short thick-set man whom jenks on a former occasion had addressed as maxey. "wot a noise, 'ee's makin'; the perleece'll get scent of the young dawg wid his noise," and the cruel wretch shied a great blow at scamp, which caused the poor animal to quiver and cry out with pain. "'ee'll be quiet enough afore the night is hover," said the man's companion, with a loud laugh. "lor! won't it be fun to see the bull-dawg a tearin' of 'im? i'm comin' to shave and soap 'im presently; but see, maxey, some one 'as been and tumbled inter the cellar, down by the gratin', as i'm alive! see! them two bars is broke right acrost." "run and put them together, then, the best way possible," called out maxey, "and i'll look round the cellar to give it to any one as is in hidin'." how fast flo's heart beat at those words, but maxey, though he imagined he had searched in every available nook, never thought of examining behind the three thin boards almost jammed against the wall, and behind which the child had crushed her slight frame. he believed that whoever had fallen into the cellar had beaten a hasty retreat, and after tying up scamp more firmly than ever, took his departure. now was flo's time. she had only a few moments to effect her escape and the dog's escape. a dreadful meaning had maxey's words for her--her dog's life was in peril. never heeding an acute agony which had set in by this time in her right foot, she made her way to scamp's side, and first putting her arms round his neck, entreated him in the most pathetic voice to be quiet and not to betray them by any more barking. if dogs cannot understand words and their meanings, they are very clever at comprehending tones and _their_ meanings. perfectly did this dog's clear intelligence take in that flo meant them both to escape, that any undue noise on his part would defeat their purpose. he confessed to himself that in his first joy at seeing her he had acted foolishly, he would do so no more. when she unfastened him he bounded up the ladder, and butting with his great strong head against the broken grating, removed it again from its place, then springing to the ground, was a free dog once more. half a moment later flo was by his side. there were plenty of people, and idle people too, in the streets, but, strange to say, no one noticed the child and dog, and they passed on their way in safety. a few moments' walking brought them to duncan street, then to their own cellar, down the ladder of which scamp trotted with a happy, confident air. flo followed him feebly, and tottering across the floor, threw herself on her straw bed. not another step could she go. she was much hurt; she was in severe pain. was her foot broken? hardly that, or she could not have walked at all, but her present agony was so great, that large drops stood on her brow, and two or three sharp cries came from her patient lips. how she longed for dick then, or jenks then, or janey then. yes, she had scamp, and that was something--scamp, who was lying abject by her side, pouring out upon her a whole wealth of love, who, knowing what she had done for him, would evermore do all that dog could do for her sake. she raised her hand to his head and patted him, glad, very glad that she had rescued him from an unknown but dreadful fate. but she wanted something else, something or some one to give her ease in her terrible agony, and god, her loving father, looking down from heaven, saw his little child's sore need, and though as yet he sent her no earthly succour, he gave to her the blessed present relief of unconsciousness. flo fainted away. when she recovered an hour or two later, the scanty light that ever penetrated into the cellar had departed, and at first, when the child opened her eyes in the darkness, pain and memory of all recent events had completely left her. she fancied she was lying again by her mother's side on that very straw mattress, she stretched out her arms to embrace her, and to ask her the question with which she had greeted her for the last three months of her life. "be yer werry tired, mother?" but then the empty place, the straw where the weary form was no longer lying, brought back remembrance; her mother was not there--her mother was gone. she was resting in her quiet grave, and could never help, or succour, or protect her more. but then again her thoughts were broken. there were rude noises outside, a frightened cry from scamp at the foot of the bed, the cellar door was violently opened, two men scrambled down the ladder, and with many oaths and curses began tossing about the wretched furniture, and calling loudly for the missing dog. where was he? not on flo's bed, which they unmercifully raked about, unheeding her moans of pain; not anywhere apparently. vowing vengeance on _whoever_ had stolen the dawg, the men departed at last. then again all was silence, and in a few moments a cowed-looking and decidedly sooty animal might, had any light been there to see, have been observed descending from the chimney where he had lain _perdu_. of the life-preserving qualities scamp possessed a large share, as doubtless before this his story proves. perhaps his cur mother had put him up to a wrinkle or two in his babyhood; at any rate, fully determined was he to meet no violent end, to live out his appointed time, and very clever were the expedients he used to promote this worthy object. now he shook himself as free as he could of the encumbrances he had met with in the smoky, sooty chimney, and again approached flo's side. she laid her hand on his head, praised him a little for the talent he had shown in again escaping from maxey, and the dreadful fate to which maxey meant to consign him; then the two lay quiet and silent. a child and a dog! could any one have looked in on them that night they would have said that in all the great city no two could be more utterly alone and forsaken. that individual, whoever he might have been, would have gone away with a wrong impression--they were not so. any creature that retains hope, any creature that retains faith, which is better, than hope, cannot be really desolate. the dog had all the large, though unconscious faith of his kind in his creator. it had never occurred to him to murmur at his fate, to wish for himself the better and more silken lives that some dogs live. to live at all was a blessed thing, to love at all a more blessed thing--he lived and he loved--he was perfectly happy. and the child--for the first time she knew of and had faith in a divine father, she had heard of some one who loved her, and who would make all things right for her. she thought of this love, she pondered over it, she was neither desolate nor unhappy. god and god's son loved her, and loved dick--they knew all about her and dick; and some day their father would send for them both and give them a home in his house in heaven. flo had at all times a vivid imagination, since her earliest days it had been her dear delight to have day dreams, to build castles in the air. no well-dressed or happy-looking child ever crossed her path that she did not suppose herself that child, that she did not go through in fancy that child's delightful life. what wardrobes had flo in imagination, what gay trinkets adorned her brow, her arms, her neck! what a lovely house she lived in, what heaps of shillings and sovereigns she possessed! now and then, in her moments of most daring flight, she had even a handle to her name, and people addressed her as "lady flo." but all the time, while happy in these dreams, she had always known them to be but dreams. she was only flo, working as a translator of old boots and shoes, down in a dark cellar--she had no fine dresses, no pretty ornaments, no money, she was hungry and cold, and generally miserable, and as far as she could possibly see there was never any chance of her being anything else. she generally came down from her high imaginings to this stern reality, with a great burst of tears, only one sad thought comforting her, to be alive at all she could never be worse than she was, she could never sink any lower. she was mistaken. last night, lying all alone and waiting for dick's trial, lying hour after hour hoping and longing for sleep to visit her, and hoping and longing in vain, she had proved that she was mistaken. lower depths of sorrow and desolation could be reached, and she had reached them. through no fault of hers, the stern hand of the law was stretched out to grasp her one treasure, to take her brother away. dick had broken a promise sealed on dying lips--dick was a thief. henceforth and for ever the brand of the prison would be on him. when, their punishment over, he and jenks were free once again, nothing now, no power, or art, or persuasion, on her part could keep those two apart. together they would plunge into deeper and more daring crime, and come eventually to the bad and miserable end her mother had so often described to her. it was plain that she and dick must separate. when the boys were released from prison, it was plain that she and they could not live together as of old. the honest could not live with the dishonest. her mother had often told her that, had often warned her to be sure, happen what might, to choose honest companions. so flo knew that unless _she_ too broke her word to mother, they must part--dick and she must part. and yet how much she loved him--how much her mother had loved him! he was not grave like her; he had never carried an old head on young shoulders; he was the merriest, brightest, funniest boy in the world-- one of those throw-all-care-to-the-winds little fellows, who invariably give pleasure even in the darkest and most shady homes. his elastic spirits never flagged, his gay heart never despaired, he whistled over his driest crusts, he turned somersaults over his supperless hours--he had for many a day been the light of two pairs of eyes. true, he had often been idle, and lately had left the brunt of the daily labour, if not all of it, to flo. but the mother heart of the little sister, who was in reality younger than himself, accepted all this as a necessity. was he not a boy? and was it not one of the first laws of nature that all girls should work and all boys should play? but now dick must work with the hard labour the law accords to its prisoners. that bright little face must look out behind a prisoner's mask, he must be confined in the dark cell, he must be chained to the whipping-post, he must be half-starved on bread and water. out of prison he was half his time without the former of these necessities of life, and at his age he would not be subjected to hard labour. but flo knew nothing of these distinctions, and all the terrible stories she had ever heard of prisoners she imagined as happening to dick now. so the night before the trial had been one long misery to the sensitive, affectionate child. now the trial was over, now dick was really consigned to prison, or to what seemed to flo like prison. with their eyes they had said good-bye to each other, he from the prisoners' dock, she from her place in the witnesses' box. the parting was over, and she was lying alone in her dark cellar, on her straw pallet, bruised, hurt, faint, but strange to say no longer unhappy, strange to say happier than she had ever been in her life before. she had often heard of bright things--she had often imagined bright things, but now for the first time she heard of a bright thing for her. she was not always to be in pain, she had heard to-day of a place with no pain; she was not always to be hungry, poor, and in rags--she had heard to-day of food enough and to spare, of white dresses, of a home more beautiful than the queen's home, of a good time coming to her who had always, always, all her life had bad times. and dick, though he was a thief, might share in the good time, and so might jenks. our saviour gave of his good times to thieves, and sinners, and poor people, if only they wanted them, and of course they had only to hear of them to want them. "may i come down, flo?" called out janey's voice at this juncture, at the cellar door. "father 'ave beat me hawful; may i come down and set by yer a bit?" the lame girl was sobbing loudly, and without waiting for flo's reply she scrambled down the ladder and threw herself on the bed by the child's side. "there now," she said, panting out her passionate words, "'ee 'ave me hall black and blue, and my lame leg 'urt worse nor hever; and i wish 'ee wor in prison, i do; and i wish i wor dead, i do." "oh! janey," said flo, with a great gasp of longing, "_wouldn't_ it be nice to be dead?" this corroboration of her desire startled janey into quiet, and into a subdued-- "_what_, flo darrell?" "to be dead, janey, and 'avin' a good time?" "well," said janey, recovering herself with a laugh, "wen i'm down haltogether in the dumps, as i wor a minute ago, i wishes fur it, but most times i 'ates the bear thought o' it--ugh!" "that's cause yer doesn't know, janey, no more nor i did till to-day. plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead." janey gave her companion an angry push. "there now, ef yer ain't more than hagriwating, a comin' on me wid yer old game of s'posin', and me fairly clemmed wid the 'unger. there's no good time fur me, nor never will be, i reckon," and she again lifted up her voice and wept. "there's our--father--chart--'eaven," began flo, but janey stopped her. "i don't want 'im--one father's too much fur me." flo was silent--she would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears. after a time she spoke in a different tone. "janey?" "well?" "i'd like fur to 'ear the glory song." janey had a good voice, and desired nothing better than to listen to herself. she complied readily. "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.' "why, flo! my 'eart alive! flo, 'ere's scamp." "sing it again," murmured flo. and janey did sing it again, and again, and yet again, until the dark cellar seemed to grow full of it, and to be lit up and brightened by it, and to its music the sick and weary child went to sleep. chapter twelve. i was an hungered and ye gave me meat. all through the night flo had visions of bright, and clean, and lovely things. she dreamt that she had left the cellar for ever, that all the musty, ragged boots and shoes were mended, and paid for, and gone, and that instead of earning her bread in that hard and wretched way, god had come and placed her in a beautiful room, looking out on green fields, such as mother had told her of, and given her pure white dresses to make for the angels. and god looked so kind, and so like what she had imagined her own father to look like, that she had ventured to ask him what had become of dick, and god had told her that he himself was taking care of dick, and he himself had placed him in a good school, and all would be well with him. and she thought she sat by the open window and made the angels dresses, and was, oh! so very, very happy; and scamp lay at her feet, and was also happy; and mrs jenks was in the room, ready whenever she liked to tell her more about god, and she too was happy. yes, they all were happy, with a happiness flo had never conceived possible hitherto, and she felt that it was not the nice room, nor the lovely view, nor the pleasant occupation that made her happy, but just because god was near. at last the morning came, and she awoke to find that it all was only a dream. she was still in the cellar, she must get up as usual, she must work as usual at her old thankless work, the work that barely kept starvation from the door. she felt very faint and hungry, but she remembered that she had two shillings of the money she had earned on the derby day locked away in the box where she usually kept mother's old bonnet. she would get up at once and buy some breakfast for herself and scamp. she called the dog and told him what she was about to do, and, to judge from the way he wagged his tail and rubbed his head against her hands, he understood her, and was pleased with her intention. nay, more, to hurry her movements, he placed himself under the ladder, mounted a few rungs, came down again, and finally darted from the ladder to her, and from her to the ladder, uttering short impatient barks. what ailed flo? she was hungry, very hungry, but how slowly she rose from her bed. she removed her head from the pillow, she steadied herself on her elbow--how strange, and weak, and giddy she felt. she lay down again, it was only a passing weakness; then once more she tried, back came that overpowering sense of sickness and giddiness. well, it _should_ not conquer her this time; happen what might, she _must_ get up. she tried to put her right foot to the ground, but a great, sharp cry of agony brought scamp to her side in consternation, and brought also beads of pain to her brow. no, hungry as she was, she could not walk, by no possible means could she even stand. she lay perfectly still for a moment or two, suffering so intensely that every breath was an agony. at last this passed, and she was able to realise her position a little. in truth it was not a pleasant one. even the night before, she had been in great need, she had longed much for a drink, her pain had brought on intense thirst, she had meant to ask janey to put a cup, and a jug of cold water, by her side before she left, but the sweetness of janey's song had caused her to fall asleep before she had made known her request, and the lame girl had gone away unconscious that anything was the matter with her. it was highly probable that she might not pay flo a visit for days; unless her father gave her another beating, or some quite unexpected event occurred, the chances were that she would not come. and now flo needed meat and drink, and nursing, as she had never needed them in all her life before. though pale and delicate-looking, she had hitherto been possessed of a certain wiry strength, which those little withered city children, with every one of health's necessaries apparently denied them, in some strange way seem to have. she had never gone through severe pain before; and never, with all her privations, had she known the hunger and thirst which now tormented her. scamp, seeing that she had changed her mind about going out, fixed on her one or two reproachful glances, and then in a very discontented manner resigned himself to his fate, and to a few more hours' sleep. and flo lay and wondered what was going to become of her. she was very ill, she knew. she was alternately hot and then cold, she was alternately tortured by pangs of the most acute hunger, and then deadly sickness seemed to make the bare thought of food insupportable. she wondered what was to be her fate. was she to lie there, a little more sick, a little more weak, a little more hungry and thirsty, in a little more pain, until at last she died, as mother had died? well, what then? only last night she had thought dying a good thing, the best thing. it was bidding good-bye to all that now troubled her, it was beginning at once the good time god had put by so carefully for little outcast children like her. if only it would come at once, this kind, beautiful death--if only she had not to walk the dark bit of road between now and then, between now and the blessed moment when god would take her in his arms to heaven. but flo had been too long with the poor, with the very, very poor, had seen too many such die, not to know well that dying was often a very long business, a business so long, and so sad, that, though the dying were suffering just as much as she now suffered, yet many weary hours, sometimes many weary days, had to be passed before relief and succour came to them; before kind death came and took away all their sorrows and gave them rest, and sleep, and a good time. and this long period of waiting, even though the end was such brightness, felt very terrible to the lonely child. then, suddenly, words mrs jenks had said to her yesterday came into her head. "when you want food, or anything else very bad, and you don't know how to get it, then is the time to ask god for it. all you have to do is to say up your want, whatever it be, in as few, and small, and simple words as you like, and though you speaks down in your dark cellar, god will hear you up in heaven, and if 'tis any way possible he'll give you what you want." flo remembered these words of mrs jenks' now with great and sudden gladness. if ever a time of need and sore want had come to any one it had come to her now. what a good thing to have a father like god to tell it all to, what a wonderful thing that he could hear her, without her having to get up to go to him. her ideas of god were misty, very misty, she had not the least conception where heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there _was_ a god, there _was_ a heaven--a god for her, a heaven for her; and with all her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth do not know as much. now for the first time she would pray. she thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to god. no more hard to tell him of a want than it was, when her mother lived, to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her. "please, i wants fur janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore long," she said; "i wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to eat. and there is two shillings stored away in mother's old bonnet-box. janey'd buy lots of wittles wid it. she'd be glad to come, 'cause i'd pay 'er, and i'm werry faint like. you'd 'ave to fetch 'er, please, god, 'cause she's not at 'ome, but away to the paper factory--but you that is real kind won't mind that." then flo lay still and listened, and waited. she had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment. any instant janey's quick step and the sound of her crutch might be heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say that notwithstanding her employer's anger she had been fetched away by god himself, and meant to wait on flo all day. and then flo pictured how quickly she would send janey out, and how eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little hand, janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large mutton bones for scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice--for flo felt more thirsty than hungry now--for herself. for half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch janey's expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. she had never prayed before, but mrs jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an answer would come. well, she had prayed, she had spoken to god very distinctly, and told him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. he was to fetch janey to her, and no janey arrived. she had not made a hard request of him,-- she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come and give her a cup of cold water,--but the child never appeared, and flo's parched lips were still unmoistened. how strange of mrs jenks to tell her god would hear and answer prayer--not a bit of it. at least he would not hear little prayers like hers. very likely he was too busy listening to the queen's prayers, and to the great people's prayers. the great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should they not have the best of god's time too? or, perhaps--and this was a worse and darker thought--perhaps there was no god; perhaps all mrs jenks' talk of yesterday had been just a pretty fable--perhaps wicked mrs jenks had been deceiving her all the time! the more flo considered, the more did she believe this probable. after all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and never, until yesterday, have heard anything of god and heaven, very unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without knowing of these things! if there was a good time coming, was it likely that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it? slowly and reluctantly flo gave up the hope that had brightened and rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. she had no father in heaven, there was no god! great sobs broke from the poor little thing, a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two. she cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. all through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. at last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. be her agony what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard, where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. she rolled herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three feet on the damp floor. but further movement of any description was impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of her hunger; she must stay still--by no possible means could she even get back to her wretched bed. she was past all reasoning or any power of consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily suffering. every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished. in a much milder degree, it is true, scamp had also spent an uneasy day--scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. it was at its height now, as he crouched by flo's side on the floor. during the time of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large platter of broken meat; since flo had set him free neither bite nor sup had passed his lips. hungry in the morning, without doubt he was ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated "knowing," saw clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. as a rule he partook of flo's spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself. he had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and accomplished thief. he had some butchers' shops in his mind's eye now, some tempting butchers' shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with flo yesterday. from those butchers' stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. a leisurely walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize would be his. should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once more? why did he not go? why did he not at once go? why? because he had a heart,--not a human heart, which often, notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog's heart. with considerable disquietude he had watched flo all day. not for nothing had she lain so still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now. drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected, in dog-fashion, how flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that day. she too was hungry and in a worse plight than him--it was his bounden duty to provide her with food. what should he bring her? a bone? bones were delicious, but strange to say neither flo, nor dick, nor jenks ever ate them! a nice pork or mutton chop: how good they were--too good for a hungry dog to think about patiently, as he reflected that a chop, if he could get it, would be only supper, and not too large a supper, for one. no, he must give up that butcher's meat in which his spirit delighted and attack the bread shops. a loaf of bread would satisfy them both! rising to his feet, and bestowing on flo one or two looks of intense intelligence, looks which said as plainly as possible, "i have not an idea of deserting you, i am going for our supper," he started off. up the ladder with nimble steps he went, and then, by a succession of cunning dives, along the street, until he came to the butchers' stalls. here his demeanour totally changed, he no longer looked timid and cowed: the currish element very prominent when, with his tail between his legs, he had scuttled up duncan street, now had vanished; he walked along the centre of the road soberly and calmly, a meditative look in his eyes, like a dog that has just partaken of a good dinner, and is out for a constitutional: not one glance did he cast at the tempting morsels, so near and yet so far. a baker's cart turned the corner--this was what scamp wanted, and expected. he joined the cart unknown to the baker's boy, he walked demurely behind, to all appearance guarding the tempting, freshly-baked loaves. his eye was on them and yet not on them. to the passers-by he looked like a very faithful, good kind of dog, who would fasten his teeth into the leg of any one who attempted to appropriate his master's property. more than one little hungry street _gamin_, on thieving intent, wished him anything but well as he passed. the cart stopped at several doors, the bread was delivered, but still no opportunity of securing a supper for himself and flo arose. scamp's lucky star was, however, in the ascendant. at number , q--street, jerry, the baker's boy, had brought mrs simpson's little bill, and evinced to that worthy woman a very righteous desire to have it settled. mrs simpson, whose wishes differed from jerry's, thought mercy, not justice, should be exercised in the matter of bills owing _from_ herself, when owing _to_ herself the case was different. in the dispute that ensued, jerry stepped into the house. here was scamp's golden opportunity. did he lose it? not he. half a moment later he might have been seen at his old game of diving and scuttling, his tail again tucked under his legs, a hangdog look on his face, but victorious for all that, for jerry's brownest and most crusty loaf was between his teeth. woe to any one who attempted to dispossess scamp of that loaf; his blood would have been up then, and serious battle would have ensued. in safety he bore it through the perilous road, down the ladder into the cellar, and panting and delighted, looking like one who had done a good deed, which indeed he had, he laid the bread under flo's nose. the smell of the good food came sweetly to the nostrils of the starving child, it roused her from the stupor into which she had been sinking, she opened her eyes, and stretched out her hot little hand to clutch at it eagerly. the dog crouched at her side, his lips watering, his teeth aching to set themselves once more into its crisp brown crust. just then footsteps stopped in reality at the cellar door, footsteps that had no idea of going away, footsteps that meant to come right in and find out about everything. for a moment flo's heart stood still, then gave a great cry of joy, for little mrs jenks stood by her side. "who sent you?" asked the trembling child. "god sent me, little darrell," said the woman, bending over her with, oh! such a tender, loving face. "then there be a god, after all," said flo, and in her weakness and gladness she fainted away. chapter thirteen. the bed god lent to flo. yes, there was a god for flo--a god and a father. for some wise and loving reason, all of which she should know some day, he had tested her very sorely, but in her hour of extremest and darkest need he sent her great and unexpected succour, and that night flo left the gloomy and wretched cellar in duncan street, never to return to it. she was unconscious of this herself, and consequently gave the miserable place no farewell looks. from that long swoon into which she sank she awoke with reason quite gone, so was unaware of anything that happened to her. she knew nothing of that drive in the cab, her head pillowed on mrs jenks' breast; nothing of that snowy little bed in mrs jenks' room where they laid her; nothing of the kind face of the doctor as he bent over her; nothing of anything but the hard battle with fever and pain, the hard and fierce conflict with death she had got to fight. for a week the doctor and mrs jenks both thought that she must die, and during all that time she had never one gleam of reason, never one instant's interval from severe pain. at the end of that time the crisis came, as it always does, in sleep. she fell asleep one evening moaning with all the exhaustion caused by fever and suffering, but the faithful little woman who sat by her side marked how by degrees her moans grew less, then ceased; her breathing came slower, deeper, calmer. she was sleeping a refreshing, healing sleep. late that night flo awoke. very slowly her eyes, the light of consciousness once more in them, travelled round the apartment. the last thing she remembered was lying very ill and very hungry on the damp cellar floor, the dog's faithful face close to her, and a loaf of bread within reach of her starving lips. where was she now? in a pure, white, delicious bed, in a room that might have been a little room out of heaven, so lovely did it look in her eyes. perhaps she was dead and was in heaven, and god had made her lie down and go to sleep and get rested before she did anything else. well, she had not had enough sleep yet, she was dreadfully, dreadfully tired still. she turned her weary head a very little--a dog was lying on the hearth-rug; a dog with the head, and back, and eyes of scamp, and those eyes were watching her now lazily, but still intently. and seated farther away was mrs jenks, darning a boy's sock, while a boy's jacket lay on her lap. the sight of the little woman's pale face brought back further and older memories to flo, and she knew that this little room was not part of heaven, but was just mrs jenks' beautiful little earthly room. how had she got here? however had she got here from that cellar where she had lain so ill and unable to move? perhaps after eating that bread that scamp had brought her she had got much stronger, and had remembered, as in a kind of dream, her appointment with mrs jenks, and still in a dream, had got up and gone to her, and perhaps when she reached her room she had got very faint again and tired, and mrs jenks had put her into her little bed, to rest for a bit. but how long she must have stayed, and how at home scamp looked! it was night now, quite night, and mrs jenks must want to lie down in her own nice pleasant bed; tired and weak as she was, she must go away. "please, mum," she said faintly, and her voice sounded to herself thin, and weak, and miles off. in an instant the little pale woman was bending over her. "did you speak to me, darling?" "please, mum," said flo, "ef you was to 'old me werry tight fur a bit, i'll get up, mum." "not a bit of you," said mrs jenks, smiling at her, "you'll not get up to-night, nor to-morrow neither. but you're better, ain't you, dearie?" "yes, mum, but we mustn't stay no later, we must be orf, scamp and me. 'tis werry late indeed, mum." "well, so it be," said mrs jenks, "'tis near twelve o'clock, and wot you 'as got to do is not to stir, but to drink this, and then go to sleep." "ain't this yer bed, mum?" asked flo, when she had taken something very refreshing out of a china mug which mrs jenks held to her lips; "ain't this yer bed as i'm a lyin' in, mum?" "it is, and it isn't," replied mrs jenks. "it ain't just that exactly now, fur god wanted the loan of it from me, fur a few nights, fur one of his sick little ones." "and am i keepin' the little 'un out o' it, mum?" "why no, flo darrell, you can hardly be doing that, for you are the very child god wants it fur. he has given me the nursing of you for a bit, and now you have got to speak no more, but to go to sleep." flo did not sleep at once, but she asked no further questions; she lay very still, a delicious languor of body stealing over her, a sense of protection and repose wrapping her soul in an elysium of joy. there was a god after all, and this god had heard her cry. while she was lying in such deep despair, doubting him so sorely, he was busy about her, not fetching janey, who could do so little, but going for mrs jenks, who was capable, and kind, and clever. he had given mrs jenks full directions about her, had desired her to nurse and take care of her. she need have no longer any compunction in lying in that soft bed, in receiving all that tender and novel treatment. god meant her to have it--it was all right. when to-morrow, or the day after, she was quite well and rested again she would try and find out more about god, and thank him in person, if she could, for his great kindness to her, and ever after the memory of that kindness would be something to cheer and help her in her cellar-life. how much she should like to see god! she felt that god must be beautiful. before her confused and dreamy eyes the angels in their white dresses kept moving up and down, and as they moved they sang "glory, glory, glory." and flo knew they were surrounding god, and she tried to catch a glimpse of god himself through their shining wings. she was half asleep when she saw them, she was soon wholly asleep; she lay in a dreamless, unbroken slumber all night. and this was the beginning of her recovery, and of her knowledge of god. when the doctor came the next day he said she was better, but though the fever had left her, she had still very much pain to suffer. in her fall she had given her foot a most severe sprain, and though the swelling and first agony were gone, yet it often ached, without a moment's intermission, all day and all night. then her fever had turned to rheumatic, and those little thin bones would feel for many a day the long lie they had had on the damp cellar floor. but flo's soul was so happy that her body was very brave to bear this severe pain; such a flood of love and gratitude was lighting up her heart, that had the ceaseless aching been worse she would have borne it with patient smiles and unmurmuring lips. for day after day, by little and little, as she was able to bear it, mrs jenks told her what she herself called the story of god. she began with adam and eve, and explained to her what god had done for them; she described that lovely garden of eden until flo with her vivid imagination saw the whole scene; she told how the devil came and tempted eve, and how eve fell, and in her fall, dishonesty, and sin, and misery, all came into the world. and because sin was in the world--and sin could not remain unpunished--adam and eve must die, and their children must die, and all men must die. and then she further explained to the listening child how, though they were sinners, the good god still cared for them, and for their children, and for all the people that should come after them; and because he so loved the world he sent his only begotten son into the world, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. and because little mrs jenks loved god and christ with all the strength of her nature in return, she told the story of the birth of jesus, of his life, of his death, so tenderly and so solemnly, that the child wept, and only the knowledge that his sufferings were now over, that he was happy now, and that he loved her, could stay her tears. what could she give him in return? why, all he asked for, all he needed. lying there on mrs jenks' little white bed which god had lent her, she offered up to the father, to the son, and to the spirit, the love and obedience of her whole heart and life for time and for eternity. chapter fourteen. the best robe. it took flo a long time to get well, but when the autumn came, and the fierce summer heat had passed away, she began to pick up strength, to leave her little white bed, to hobble on her lame foot across the floor, to sit on the crimson hearth-rug and fondle scamp; and after pondering on the fact for many days, and communicating her feelings on the subject to the dog in mrs jenks' absence, she felt that, painful as it would be to them both, they must now once more go out into the world. they must say good-bye to this bright little room and its much-loved inmate, and face once more the old days of poverty and privation. not that they ever would be quite the old days back again. however cold she now was, however hungry she now was, she had a hope which would charm away the hunger and cold, she had a strong friend who in her hour of extreme need would come again, as he had come once, to her succour. but must they both go out into the world again? this question perplexed her very often. that scamp should love quarters where beef and mutton bones were at least _sometimes_ tasted, where his bed was warm, and his life easy, was not to be wondered at. under his present gentle treatment he was growing into quite a handsome dog, a dog that really did credit to his friends. his ribs no longer stuck out in their former ungainly manner, his coat was thick and good, his eyes bright. of course he liked the comfortable feelings which accompanied these outward signs of prosperity: still he was not the dog to desert his mistress in her need; and cheerfully, and without a murmur, would he have followed her through hunger and privation, to the world's end. but the question was not, would he go, but should she take him? had she, who could do so little for him, any right to take him? perhaps when she had him back in her cellar, that dreadful maxey would again find him, and carry him away to fight with his bull-dogs, and his life would be sacrificed to her selfishness. the desolate side of the picture, which represented herself in the cellar without scamp, she resolutely turned away from, and determined that if mrs jenks would be willing to keep her dog, she should have him. and mrs jenks loved him, and had already paid the dog-tax for him, so it was very unlikely that she would refuse his society. flo thought about this for several nights while lying, awake in bed, and for several days when mrs jenks was out, and at last one evening she spoke. "mrs jenks, ma'am, is you fond of scamp?" mrs jenks had just returned after a day's charing, and now, having washed up, and put away the tea-things, and made herself clean and comfortable, she was seated in her little arm-chair, a tiny roll of coloured calico in her lap, and a mysteriously small thimble in her hand. at flo's question she patted the dog's head, and answered gently-- "yes, dear, i loves all dumb creatures." "then, mrs jenks, may be yer'd like fur to keep scamp?" "why, my child, of course you are both on a little visit with me for the present. see, flo, i am going to teach you needlework--it is what all women should be adepts in, dear." at another time flo could not have resisted this appeal, but she was too intensely in earnest now to be put off her subject. "i means, ma'am," she said, rising to her feet and speaking steadily, "i means, ma'am, wen my little wisit is hover, and you 'as back yer bed, ma'am, as god gave me the loan of--i means then, ma'am, seeing as you loves my dawg, and you'll be kind to 'im, and hall 'ee wants is no bed, but to lie on the rug, why, that you might keep my dawg." flo's voice shook so while renouncing scamp, that the animal himself heard her, and got up and thrust his great awkward head between her hands. she had hard work to restrain her tears, but did so, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on mrs jenks. that little woman sat silent for fully a moment, now returning flo's gaze, now softly stroking scamp's back--at last she spoke. "no, flo," she said, "i won't part you and scamp--you love each other, and i think god means you to stay together. he has made you meet, and let you pass through a pretty sharp little bit of life in company, and i have no idea but that he sent you his dumb creature to be a comfort to you, and if that is so, i won't take him away. as long as you stay he shall stay, but when you go back to your cellar he shall go too." scamp, whose eyes expressed that he knew all about it, and fully believed that mrs jenks understood his character, looked satisfied, and licked her hand, but flo had still an anxious frown on her face. "ef you please, ma'am," she said, "'tis better fur me to know how much longer am i to have the loan of your bed, ma'am?" "why, flo, my dear, mrs potter, who lent me the mattress i sleeps on, sent me down word that she must have it to-morrow morning for her niece, who is coming to live with her, so i'll want my bed, flo, and 'tis too little for both of us." mrs jenks paused, but flo was quite silent. "well, dear," she said cheerfully, "we'll all three lie warm and snug to-night, and we needn't meet to-morrow's troubles half way. now come over, child, and i'll give you instruction in needlework, 'tis an hart as all women should cultivate." flo, still silent and speechless, went over and received the needle into her clumsy little fingers, and after a great many efforts, succeeded in threading it, and then she watched mrs jenks work, and went through two or three spasmodic stitches herself, and to all appearance looked a grave, diligent little girl, very much interested in her occupation. and mrs jenks chatted to her, and told her what a good trade needlework was, and for all it met so much abuse, and was thought so poor in a money-making way, yet still good, plain workers, not machinists, could always command their price, and what a tidy penny she had made by needlework in her day. and to all this flo replied in monosyllables, her head hanging, her eyes fixed on her work. at last mrs jenks gave her a needle freshly threaded, and a strip of calico, and bade her seat herself on the hearth-rug and draw her needle in and out of the calico to accustom her to its use, and she herself took up a boy's jacket, and went on unpicking and opening the seams, and letting it out about an inch in all directions. night after night she was engaged over this work, and it always interested flo immensely: for mrs jenks took such pains with it, she unpicked the seams and smoothed them out with such clever fingers, then she stitched them up again with such fine, beautiful stitching, and when that was done, she invariably ironed them over with a nice little iron, which she used for no other purpose, so that no trace of the old stitching could be seen. she had a very short time each day to devote to this work, seldom more than ten minutes, but she did it as though she delighted in it, as though it did her heart and soul good to touch that cloth, to draw those careful, beautiful stitches in and out of it. and every night, while so engaged, she told flo the story of the prodigal son. she began it this night as usual, without the little girl looking up or asking for it. "once there was a man who had two sons--they were all the children he had, and he held them very dear. one--the eldest--was a steady lad, willing to abide by his father, and be guided by him, but the other was a wild, poor fellow, and he thought the home very small and narrow, and the world a big place, and he thought he'd like a bit of fun, and to see foreign parts. "so he asked his father for all the money he could spare, and his father gave him half his living. and then the poor foolish boy set off, turning his back on all the comforts of home, and thinking now he'd see life in earnest; and when he got to the far-off lands, wild companions, thieves, and such, came round him, and between them the good bit of money his father had given him melted away, and he had not a penny to call his own. then he began to be hungry, to want sore, and no man gave to him, and no man pitied him; and then, sitting there in the far country, came back to the poor, desolate, foolish lad the thoughts of home, and the nice little house, and the father's love, and he thought if he was there again, why, he'd never be dying of hunger, for in the father's house even the servants had enough and to spare. "and he thought, why should he not go back again? and he said to himself, `i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son.' "and he got up and went back to his father. but the loving father was looking out for him, and when he saw him coming over the hill-top, he ran to meet him, and threw his arms about him; and the son said-- "`father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' "but the father said, `bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and let us make a feast and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'" night after night flo had listened to this story, always with a question at the top of her lips, but never until to-night had she courage to put it. "was the best robe, a jacket and trousers and little weskit, ma'am?" "very like," said mrs jenks, bending over a fresh seam she was beginning to unpick. "but you hasn't no lad comin' back fur that 'ere jacket, ma'am?" mrs jenks was silent for fully two minutes, her work had fallen from her hands, her soft, gentle eyes looked afar. "yes, flo dear," she said, "i have such a lad." "wot's 'is name, ma'am?" "willie," said mrs jenks, "willie's 'is name--leastways 'is home name." "and is he a comin' back any day, ma'am? is you a lookin' hout o' the winder fur 'im any day?" "no, flo, he won't come any day, he won't come fur a bit." "wen 'is best robe is ready, ma'am?" "yes; when he comes it shall be ready." "'ow soon is 'ee like to walk in, ma'am?" "i don't know exact," said mrs jenks, "but i'll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out--he's very like to turn up then." as mrs jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged flo's foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly. "god has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that i am, i was near going to sleep without yer 'aving it." "wot's the message, mum?" "the message is this, straight from god himself--`certainly i will be with thee.' do you know what that means, my child?" "i can part guess, ma'am." "ay, i dare say you can part guess, but you may as well know the whole sweet meaning of it. 'tis this, flo darrell--_wherever_ you be, god will be with you. back in your cellar, dark as it is, he'll come and keep you company. if you stay with me, why he's here too. when you go to sleep his arm is under your head; when you walk abroad, he's by your side--he's with you now, and he'll be with you for ever. when you come to die he'll be with you. you need never fear for nothing, for god will be always with you. he says `certainly,' and his certainly, is as big, and wide, and strong as eternity, flo darrell." "yes, ma'am," replied flo very softly, and then mrs jenks went and lay down on her mattress, and was presently sleeping the sweet and heavy sleep of the hard worker. but flo could not sleep--she lay awake, feeling the soft white sheets with her fingers, looking with her brown eyes all round the pretty room. how bright, and pure, and fresh it all looked, with the firelight flickering over the furniture, to the beauty-loving child. she was taking farewell of it then--she must go away to-morrow; back again to their cellar the dog and she must go--away from the sunlight of this bright little home, into the homeless darkness of their duncan street life. she had not expected it quite so soon, she had thought that god would give her a little more notice, a little longer time to prepare, before he asked her to return that comfortable bed to mrs jenks. well, the time had come for her to do it, and she must do it with a good grace, she must not show dear mrs jenks even half how sorry she was. that little woman had done so much for her, had changed and brightened her whole existence, had been specially chosen by god himself to do all this for her, to save her life. not for worlds would she look as though she expected more from mrs jenks. she must go away to-morrow, very, very thankful, and not too sad, otherwise the little woman would feel uncomfortable about her. she resolved that in the morning she would wear quite a cheerful face, and talk brightly of all people _had_ made by translating. she would walk away when the time came, as briskly as her lame foot would permit, scamp wagging his tail, and supposing he was only going for an ordinary walk, by her side. then they would reach the cellar, and janey's mother, who kept the key, would open it for them, and, perhaps janey herself would come down and listen to all flo's wonderful stories. well; these were for to-morrow, to-night she must say farewell; to-night, with eyes too sad, and heart too heavy for childish tears, she must look around at this cleanliness, this comfort, this luxury for the last time. flo was a poor child, the child of low people, but she had a refined nature, a true lady's heart beat in that little breast. all the finer instincts, all the cravings of a gentle and high spirit, were hers. pretty things were a delight to her, the sound of sweet music an ecstasy. born in another sphere, she might have been an artist, she might have been a musician, but never, under any circumstances, could she have led a common-place life. the past six weeks, notwithstanding her anxiety and sorrow about dick, had been one bright dream to her. the perfect neatness, the little rough, but no longer tattered, dress mrs jenks had made for her, the sense of repose, the lovely stories, had made the place little short of paradise to the child. and now by to-morrow night it would all be over, and the old dark life of poverty, hunger, and dirt would begin again. as flo was thinking this, and, leaning on her elbow, was looking sadly around, suddenly the verse mrs jenks had said good-night to her with darted like a ray of brightest sunshine into her soul. "certainly, i will be with thee." what a fool she was, to think janey's company necessary, to have any fear of loneliness. god would be with her. though unseen by her (she knew that much about god now), he would still be by her side. was it likely, when he was down with her in the dark cellar, that he would allow her to want, or even have things very hard for her? or suppose he did allow her to go through privations? suppose he asked her to bear a few short, dark days for him down here, he would give her a for-ever and for-ever of bright days, by and by. after a time she grew weary, and her heavy lids closed, and she went to sleep, but her face was no longer sad, it was bright with the thought of god. chapter fifteen. miss mary. the next morning flo watched mrs jenks very narrowly, wondering and hoping much that she would show some sorrow at the thought of the coming parting. a shade, even a shade, of regret on the little woman's face would have been pleasing to flo; it would have given her undoubted satisfaction to know that mrs jenks missed her, or would be likely to miss her, ever so little. but though she watched her anxiously, no trace of what she desired was visible on the bright little woman's features. she was up earlier than usual, and looked to flo rather more brisk and happy than usual. she went actively about her work, singing under her breath for fear of disturbing flo, whom she fancied was still asleep, some of the hymns she delighted in. "christ is my saviour and my friend, my brother and my love, my head, my hope, my counsellor, my advocate above," sang mrs jenks, and while she sang she dusted, and tidied, and scrubbed the little room; and as she polished the grate, and lit the small fire, and put the kettle on for breakfast, she continued-- "christ jesus is the heaven of heaven; my christ, what shall i call? christ is the first, christ is the last, my christ is all in all." no, mrs jenks was not sorry about anything, that was plain; there was a concealed triumph in her low notes which almost brought tears to the eyes of the listening child. perhaps she would have sobbed aloud, and so revealed to mrs jenks what was passing in her mind, had not that little woman done something which took off her attention, and astonished her very much. when she had completed all her usual preparations for breakfast, she took off her old working gown, and put on her best sunday-go-to-meeting dress. this surprised flo so utterly that she forgot she had been pretending to be asleep and sat up on her elbow to gaze at her. over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally a clean widow's cap, drew up the blinds and approached flo's side. "i'll just see about that poor foot now," she said, "and then, while i am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself, dearie." but poor flo could not help wondering, as mrs jenks in her brisk clever way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion, who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion to put. she longed to find courage to ask mrs jenks to allow her to take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was finished her foot would be well. and flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. she remembered only too vividly what hard times janey, even with a father and mother living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find courage to ask for the lotion, and mrs jenks, after using a sufficient quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away. "there's an improvement here," said the little woman, touching the injured ankle. "there's more nerve, and strength, and firmness. you'll be able to walk to-day." "i'll try, ma'am," said flo. "so you shall, and you can lean on me--i'll bear your weight. now get up, dearie." as flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. it was very evident from mrs jenks' words, that she intended going with her to her cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home. to do this she must give up her day's charing, so flo knew that her going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought, as i have said, comforted her greatly. she dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and repeating "our father" quite through very softly under her breath, the three--the woman, child, and dog--sat down to breakfast. it would be absurd to speak of it in any other way. in that household scamp ate with the others, he drew up as gravely to every meal as mrs jenks did herself. his eyes were on a level with the table, and he looked so at home, so assured of his right to be there, and withal so anxious and expectant, and he had such a funny way of cocking his ears when a piece of nice fried herring was likely to go his way, that he was a constant source of mirth? and pleasure to the human beings with whom he resided. mrs jenks was one of the most frugal little women in the world; never a crumb was wasted in her little home, but she always managed to have something savoury for every meal, and the savoury things she bought were rendered more so by her judicious cooking. her red herrings, for instance, just because she knew where to buy them, and how to dress them, did not taste at all like poor flo's red herrings, cooked against the bars, and eaten with her fingers in the duncan street cellar. so it was with all her food; it was very plain, very inexpensive, but of its kind it was the best, and was so nicely served that appetites far more fastidious than flo's would have enjoyed it. on this morning, however, the three divided their herring and sipped their tea (scamp had evinced quite a liking for tea) in silence, and when it was over, and flo was wondering how soon she could break the ice and ask mrs jenks _when_ she meant to take her to duncan street, she was startled by the little woman saying to her in her briskest and brightest tones-- "i wonder, child, whether i'd best trim up that old bonnet of your mother's for you to wear, or will you go with yer little head exposed to the sun? "the bonnet's very old, that's certain, but then 'tis something of a protection, and the sun's 'ot." "please, ma'am," said flo, "i can walk werry well wid my head bare; but ef you doesn't mind i'd like to carry 'ome the bonnet, fur it was mother's sunday best, it wor." "lor, child, you're not going home yet awhile, you've got to go and pay a visit with me. here, show me the bonnet--i'll put a piece of decent brown upon it, and mend it up." which mrs jenks did, and with her neat, capable fingers transformed it into by no means so grotesque-looking an object. then when it was tied on flo's head they set off. "a lady wishes to see you, flo, and she wishes to see scamp too," explained mrs jenks; and calling the dog, they went slowly out of the court. flo had very little time for wonder, for the lady in question lived but a few doors away, and notwithstanding her slow and painful walking she got to her house in a very few moments. it was a tiny house, quite a scrap of a house to be found in any part of the middle of london--a house back from its neighbours, with little gothic windows, and a great tree sheltering it. how it came to pass that no railway company, or improvement company, or company of something else, had not pounced upon it and pulled it down years ago remained a marvel; however, there it stood, and to its hall door walked mrs jenks, flo, and scamp, now. the door was opened by a neat little parlour-maid, who grinned from ear to ear at sight of mrs jenks. "is your mistress at home, annie?" "that she is, ma'am, and looking out for you. you're all to come right in, she says--the dog and all." so flo found herself in a pretty hall, bright with indian matting, and some fresh ferns towering up high in a great stone jar of water. "we was in the country yesterday, ma'am, miss mary and me, and have brought back flowers, and them 'igh green things enough to fill a house with 'em," explained the little handmaid as she trotted on in front, down one flight of stairs and up another, until she conducted them into a long low room, rendered cool and summery by the shade of the great tree outside. this room to-day was, as annie the servant expressed it, like a flower garden. hydrangeas, roses, carnations, wild flowers, ferns, stood on every pedestal, filled twenty, thirty vases, some of rarest china, some of commonest delf, but cunningly hid now by all kinds of delicate foliage. it was a strange little house for the midst of the city, a strange little bower of a room, cool, sweet-scented, carrying those who knew the country miles away into its shadiest depths--a room furnished with antique old carvings and odd little black-legged spindle chairs. on one of the walls hung a solitary picture, a water-colour framed without margin, in a broad gilt frame. a masterpiece of art it was--of art, i say? something far beyond art-- genius. it made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore. those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy days when they were young. it was a picture of waves--waves dancing and in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight glancing on their tops. no other life in the picture, neither ship nor bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed. the effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that flo and mrs jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories, and went and stood under the picture. "ah! there's the sea," said mrs jenks with a great sigh, and a passing cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face. "the sea shall give up her dead," said a young voice by her side, and turning quickly, flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. was she old? the hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. was she young? her voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of generous youth. she might be thirty--forty--fifty--any age. she had a story--who hasn't? she had met with sorrow--who hasn't? but she had conquered and risen above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. she was a brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out at you from under their straight black brows, declared. long afterwards she told flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history. "god took away from me all, child--father--mother--lover--home. he made me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel what it was like: but when i had tasted the full bitterness, he came and filled me with himself--brim full of himself. then i had my mission from him. go feed my sheep--go feed my lambs. is it not enough?" "you like my picture, mrs jenks," she said now, "and so does the child," touching flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers. "come into this room and i will show you another--there." she led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree, but by venetian blinds. over the mantel-piece was another solitary picture--again a water-colour. some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background-- over all the evening sky. "that picture," said the lady, "is called `repose,'--to me it is repose with stagnation; i like my waves better." "and yet, miss mary," replied the widow, "how restful and trustful the dumb creatures look! i think they read us a lesson." "so they do, mrs jenks; all his works read us a lesson--but come back to my waves, i want their breezes on my face, the day is stifling." she led the way back into the first room, and seated herself on a low chair. "this is your little girl, and this the dog--scamp, you call him. why did you give him so outlandish a name? he does not deserve it, he is a good faithful dog, there is nothing scampish about him, i see that in his face." "yes, ma'am, he's as decent conducted and faithful a cretur as ever walked. wot scamp he is, is only name deep, not natur deep." "well, that is right--what's in a name? come here, scamp, poor fellow, and you, little flo, you come also; i have a great deal to say to you and your dog." the child and the dog went up and stood close to the kind face. miss mary put her arm round flo, and laid one shapely white hand on scamp's forehead. "so god has taken away your little bed," she said to the child, "and you don't know where to sleep to-night." "oh! yes, mum, i does," said flo in a cheerful voice, for she did not wish mrs jenks to think she missed her bed very much. "scamp and me, we 'as a mattress in hour cellar." miss mary smiled. "now, flo," she said, "i really don't wish to disappoint you, but i greatly fear you are mistaken. you may have a mattress, but you have no mattress in number , duncan street, for that cellar, as well as every other cellar in the street, has been shut up by the police three weeks ago. they are none of them fit places for human beings to live in." if miss mary, sitting there in her summer muslin, surrounded by every comfort, thought that flo would rejoice in the fact that these places, unfit for any of god's creatures, were shut up, she was vastly mistaken. dark and wretched hole of a place as number , duncan street, was, it was there her mother had died, it was there she and dick had played, and struggled, and been honest, and happy. poor miserable shred of a home, it was the only home she had ever possessed the only place she had a right to call her own. now that it was gone, the streets or the adelphi arches stared her in the face. veritable tears came to her eyes, and in her excitement and distress, she forgot her awe of the first lady who had ever spoken to her. "please, mum, ef the cellar is shut up, wot 'ave come of my little bits o' duds, my mattress, and table, and little cobbler's stool?--that little stool wor worth sixpence any day, it stood so steady on its legs. wot 'ave come o' them, mum, and wot's to come o' scamp and me, mum?" "ah!" said the lady more kindly than ever, "that is the important question, what is to become of you and scamp? well, my dear, god has a nice little plan all ready for you both, and what you have to do is to say yes to it." "and i 'ave brought you here to learn all about it, flo," said mrs jenks, nodding and smiling at her. then miss mary made the child seat herself on a low stool by her side, and unfolded to her a wonderful revelation. she, flo, was no stranger to this lady. mrs jenks once a week worked as char-woman in this house, and had long ago told its mistress of her little charge; and miss mary was charmed and interested, and wanted to buy scamp, only mrs jenks declared that that would break flo's heart. so instead she had contributed something every week to the keep of the two. now she wished to do something more. miss mary graham was not rich, and long ago every penny of her spare money had been appropriated in various charitable ways, but about a fortnight ago a singular thing had happened to her. she received through the post a cheque for a small sum with these words inside the envelope-- "_to be spent on the first little homeless london child you care to devote it to_." the gift, sent anonymously, seemed to point directly to flo, and miss graham resolved that she should reap the benefit. her plan for her was this,--she and scamp were to live with mrs jenks for at least a year, and during that time mrs jenks was to instruct flo in reading and writing, in fine sewing, and in all the mysteries of household work and cooking, and when flo was old enough and strong enough, and if she turned out what they earnestly trusted she would turn out, she was to come to miss mary as her little servant, for miss mary expected that in a year or two annie would be married and have a home of her own. "does this plan suit you, flo? are you willing when the time comes to try to be a faithful little servant to any master or mistress you may be with?" whatever flo's feelings may have been, her answer was a softly, a very softly spoken-- "yes, ma'am." "do you know how you are to learn?" "no, ma'am; but mrs jenks, she knows." "mrs jenks knows certainly, and so may you. you must be god's little servant first--you must begin by being god's little servant to-day, and then when the time comes you will be a good and faithful servant to whoever you are with." "yes, ma'am," answered flo, a look of reverence, of love, of wonder at the care god was taking of her, stealing over her downcast face. miss mary saw the look, and rose from her seat well satisfied, she had found the child her heavenly father meant her to serve. "but please, mum," said flo, "does yer know about dick?" "yes, my dear, i know all about your little brother. mrs jenks has told me dick's story as well as yours. and i know this much, which perhaps you may not know; his stealing was a bad thing, but his being taken up and sent, not to prison, but to the good reformatory school where he now is, was the best thing that could happen to him. i have been over that school, flo, and i know that the boys in it are treated well, and are happy. they are taught a trade, and are given a fair start in life. "many a boy such as dick owes his salvation to the school he now is in. "by the way, did you notice annie, my little servant?" "yes, ma'am," and a smile came to flo's face at the remembrance of the bright, pleasant-looking handmaiden. "she has given me leave to tell you something, flo; something of her own history. "once my dear, faithful annie was a little london thief--a notorious little london thief. she knew of no god, she knew of nothing good--she was not even as fortunate as you and dick were, for she had no mother to keep her right. when not quite ten years old she was concerned in a daring city robbery--she was taken up--convicted--and at last sentenced, first for a month to wandsworth house of correction, afterwards for four years to the girls' reformatory school at that place. "she has often told me what happened to her on the day she arrived at this school. she went there hating every one, determined never to change her ways, to remain for ever hardened and wicked. "the matron called her aside and spoke to her thus: "`i know what is said of you, but i do not believe half of it--_i am going to trust you_. "`here is a five-pound note; take this note to such a shop, and bring me back four sovereigns in gold, and one in silver.' "that noble trust saved the girl. at that moment, as she herself said, all inclination for thieving utterly left her. [a fact.] from that day to this she has never touched a farthing that is not strictly her own. you see what she is now in appearance; when you know her better, you will see what she is in character--a true christian--a noble woman. all the nobler for having met and conquered temptation." miss mary paused, then added softly, "what she has become, dick may become." when mrs jenks, and flo, and scamp came home that morning, flo, who after all that had happened felt sure that nothing ever _could_ surprise her again, still could not help, when she entered the neat little room-- her _real_ home now--starting back and folding her hands in mute astonishment. the rough-looking, untidy mattress was gone, and in its place stood a tiny, bright-looking iron bedstead, on which the smallest of snowy beds was made up. over the bedstead, pinned against the wall, was a card with these words printed on it-- "god's gift to flo." chapter sixteen. bright days. and now began a happy time in a hitherto very dark little life. all her cares, her anxieties for dick even, swept away, flo had stept into a state of existence that to her was one of luxury. the effect on many a nature, after the first burst of thankfulness was over, would have been a hardening one. the bright sunshine of prosperity, without any of the rain of affliction, would have dried up the fair soil, withered, and caused to die, the good seed. but on flo the effect was different; she never forgot one thing, and this memory kept all else straight within her. in counting up her mercies, she never forgot that it was god who gave them to her; and in return she gave him, not love as a duty, but love rising free and spontaneous out of a warm, strong heart. and he whom she loved she longed to hear more of, and mrs jenks, whose love for god and faith in god was as great as her own, loved to tell her of him. so these two, in their simple, unlearned way, held converse often together on things that the men of this world so seldom allude to, and doubtless they learned more about god than the men of this world, with all their talents and cultivated tastes, ever attain to. it was mrs jenks' simple plan to take all that the bible said in its literal and exact meaning, and flo and she particularly delighted in its descriptions (not imagery to them) of heaven. and when mrs jenks read to flo out of the st and nd chapters of the revelation, the child would raise her clear brown eyes to the autumn sky, and see with that inner sense, so strong in natures like hers, the gates of pearl and golden streets. god lived there--and many people who once were sad and sorrowful in this world, lived there--and it was the lovely happy home where she hoped she and dick should also live some day. "and you too, mrs jenks, and that poor lad of yours," she would say, laying her head caressingly on the little woman's knee. but mrs jenks rather wondered why flo never mentioned now that other jenks, her namesake, who was wearing out his slow nine months' imprisonment in the wandsworth house of correction. once flo had been very fond of him, and his name was on her lips twenty times a day, now she never spoke of him. why was this? had she forgotten jenks? hardly likely. she was such a tender, affectionate little thing, interested even in that poor prodigal lad, whose best robe would soon be as ready, and as bright, and fresh, and new, as mrs jenks' fingers could make it. no, flo had not forgotten jenks, but she had found out a secret. without any one telling her, she had guessed _who_ the lad was who was expected back in the spring; who that jacket, and trousers, and vest were getting ready for. a certain likeness in the eyes, a certain play of the lips, had connected poor jenks in prison with mrs jenks in this bright, home-like, little room. she knew they were mother and son, but as mrs jenks had not mentioned it herself, she would never pretend that she had discovered her secret. but flo had one little fear--she was not quite sure that jenks _would_ come home. she knew nothing of his previous history, but in her own intercourse with him she had learned enough of his character to feel sure that the love for thieving was far more deeply engrafted into his heart than his gentle, trusting little mother had any idea of. when he was released from prison, bad companions would get round him, and he would join again in their evil ways. he could not now harm dick, who was safe at that good school for two or three years, but in their turn others might harm him, and the jacket and trousers might lie by unused, and the crocuses and snowdrops wither, and still jenks might not come. he might only join in more crime, and go back again to prison, and in the end break his mother's gentle, trusting heart. now flo wondered could _she_ do anything to bring the prodigal home. she thought of this a great deal; she lay in her little white bed, the bed god had given her, and told god about it, and after a time a plan came into her head. three times a week she went to miss mary's pleasant house to be taught knitting by annie, and reading and writing by that lady herself, and on one of these occasions she unfolded her idea to this kind listener, and between them they agreed that it should be carried out. chapter seventeen. two locks of hair. it was sunday morning at wandsworth house of correction--a fair, late autumnal morning. the trees had on their bright, many-coloured tints, the sky above was flecked with soft, greyish-white clouds, and tender with the loveliest blue. the summer heat was over, but the summer fragrance still dwelt in the air; the summer beauty, subdued, but perhaps more lovely than when in its prime, still lingered on the fair landscape of wandsworth common. in the prison the walls were gleaming snowy white, but so they gleamed when the frost and snow sparkled a little whiter outside, when the hot breath of fiercest summer seemed to weigh down the air. the symbols of the four seasons--the leafless trees, the tender, pale green trees, the drooping, heavily-laden, sheltering trees, the trees clothed in purple and gold--were unknown to those within the house of correction. the prisoners saw no trees from the high windows of their cells. when they walked out in that walled-in enclosure, each prisoner treading in those dreary circles five feet apart from his fellow, they saw a little withered grass, and a little sky, blue, grey, or cloudy, but no trees. the trees are only for the free, not for men and women shut in for the punishment of their crimes. so the seasons are felt in the temperature, but unknown to the sense of sight. on this particular sunday morning a warder might have been seen pacing slowly down the dismal corridor which divides the dark and light punishment cells. he was whistling a low tune under his breath, and thinking how by and by he should be off duty, and could enjoy his sunday dinner and go for a walk across the common with his wife and the child. he thought of his sunday treat a great deal, as was but natural, and just a little of the prisoners, whom he apostrophised as "poor brutes." not that he felt unkindly towards them--very far from that; he was, as the world goes, a humane man, but it was incomprehensible to him how men and boys, when they _were_ confined in wandsworth, did not submit to the rules of the place, and make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, instead of defying everything, and getting themselves shut up in those dreary dark cells. "and this willan 'ave been in fur four days and nights now," he soliloquised, as he stopped at the door of one. "well, i'm real glad 'is punishment is hover, though 'ee's as 'ardened a young chap as hever see daylight." he unlocked the double doors, which, when shut, not only excluded all sound, but every ray of light, and went in. a lad was cowering up in one corner of the wooden bedstead--a lad with a blanched face, and eyes glowing like two coals. the warder went over and laid his hand on his shoulder--he started at the touch, and shivered from head to foot with either rage or fear. "now then, g. . ," in a kindly voice, "your punishment's hover for _this_ time, and i 'opes you'll hact more sensible in future--you may get back to your cell." the lad staggered blindly to his feet, and the warder, catching hold of him, arranged his mask--a piece of dark grey cloth, having eyelet holes, and a tiny bit of alpaca inserted for the mouth--over his face. on the back of his jacket were painted in white letters two inches long, h.c.w.s., which initials stood for house of correction, wandsworth, surrey. staying his staggering steps with his strong arm, the warder conducted him back to his cell, into which he locked him. then the boy, with a great groan, or sigh of relief, threw up his mask, and looked about the little room. he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and his sunday breakfast, consisting of a pint of oatmeal gruel and six ounces of bread, stood ready for his acceptance, and by the side of the bread was--what? something that made him forget his great bodily hunger, and start forward with a ray of joy breaking all over his sullen face. this was what he saw. a letter was here--a letter ready for him to open. he had heard that once in three months the wandsworth prisoners were allowed to write and receive letters. this rule he had heard with indifference--in all his life he had never had a letter--what matter was it to him whoever else got them. he knew how to read and write. long ago, when a little lad, he had learned these accomplishments--he could also decipher the writing of other people, and spelt his own name now on the little oblong packet which had found its way into his cell. yes, it was a _bona fide_ letter, it had a stamp on it, and the london post-mark. it was a _bona fide_ letter, and his letter also--a letter directed to him. he gazed at it for a moment or two, then took it up and handled it carefully, and turned it round, and examined the back of it, and held it up to the light--then he put it down, and took a turn the length of his cell. unless we are quite dunned by creditors, and mean never to open anything that is sent to us by the post, we have a kind of interest in that sharp double knock, and a kind of pleasure in opening our various epistles. however many we get, our pulses _do_ beat just a quarter of a shade quicker as we unfasten the envelope. there is never any saying what news the contents may announce to us; perhaps a fortune, an advantageous proposal, the birth of a new relation, the death of an old friend, that appointment we never thought to have obtained, that prize we never hoped to have won: or perhaps, the loss of that prize, the filling up by another man of that appointment. a letter may bring us any possible or impossible news, therefore at all times these little missives, with the queen's head on them, are interesting. but what if we are in prison, if we have just been confined for days and nights in the dark cell, fed on bread and water, sentenced to the horrors and silence of the tomb; if bad thoughts, and hardening thoughts, and maddening thoughts, if satan and his evil spirits, have been bearing us company? what, if we are only addressed when spoken to at all as a number, and our human name, our christian name, is never pronounced to us; and what if we have been going through this silent punishment, this unendurable confinement, for months, and we feel that it is right and just we should be so punished, right and just that all men should forsake us, and pass us by, and forget us--and all the time, though we know that justice is dealing with us, and we ought neither to cry out nor to complain, we know and feel also, that seven devils are entering into us, and our last state will be worse, far worse than our first? and then, when we come back from the darkness, and feel again the blessed light of day, and the pure breeze of nature--coming in through the open window of our cell--is fanning our face, and though our spirit is still burning with mad and rebellious passions, our body is grateful for the relief of god's own gifts of light and air, then we, who never before, never in our happiest days, received even a halfpenny wrapper's worth through the post, see a letter--our first letter--pure, and thick, and white, awaiting us--a little dainty parcel bearing our baptismal name, and the name, unspotted by any crime, which our father bequeathed to us, lying ready for our acceptance? jenks had returned to his cell after all this severe punishment as hardened and bad a lad as ever walked--sullen, disobedient, defiant. the kind of boy whom chaplains, however tender-hearted, and however skilful in their modes of dealing with other men and boys, would regard as hopeless, as past any chance of reform. he gazed at the letter, so unexpected, so welcome. at first he was excited, agitated, then he grew calm, a look of satisfaction changed utterly the whole expression of his face. somebody in that great, wide, outer world had not forgotten him. he sat down and ate his breakfast with appetite and relish; he could enjoy things again; he was still william jenks to somebody--the boy felt human once more. but he would not open his letter at once--not he. no irreverent fingers, no hasty fingers, should tear that precious envelope asunder. when a man only gets a letter after three months of absolute silence he is never over-hasty in perusing its contents. the sweets of anticipation are very good, and must not be too quickly got over, and when a letter is once opened its great charm is more or less gone. but the first letter of all, the first letter received in one's entire life, and received in prison, must be made a very long pleasure indeed. jenks had hitherto found sunday at wandsworth the most unendurable day of the seven: the slow hours seemed really leaden-weighted. on other days he had his oakum to pick, his routine of labour to get through--on this day, with the exception of chapel and meals, he had nothing whatever wherewith to wile away the long hours. true, the chaplain supplied him with books, but jenks could not read well enough to take pleasure in reading for its own sake, and never was there a nature less studiously inclined than his. so on sunday he thought his darkest thoughts, and hatched his worst plots for the future, and prepared himself for the week of rebellion and punishment which invariably ensued. but, on this sunday all would be different, his letter would give him employment and satisfaction for many hours. he grudged the time he must spend in chapel, he wanted the whole day to hold his little missive, to gaze at the cover, to put it up to the light, to spell out the beloved direction, after a time to spell out the contents. first of all he must guess who sent it. if it took him two hours, three hours, he must guess from whom it came. who could have written to him? he was popular in his way--he had too bright a manner, too merry a face, not to be that. he had a good many acquaintances, and friends and chums, lads who, with all their thieving propensities and ruffianly ways, would have shared their last crust with him, and one and all voted him a jolly good fellow. but not one of these would write to him; he passed them over in silent contempt, at the bare possibility of their being either able or willing to write to him. jim stokes, or bob allen, or any of those other fine daring young fellows, send him a letter! send him too a letter looking like this, or directed like this! why, _this_ letter had a more genteel appearance than long ago the letters his sailor father had sent to his mother had worn. was it likely that either jim or bob, or any of the companions of jim or bob, those ignorant lads who could hardly sign their names, would send him a letter like this? had they wished it ever so much, the thing was impossible. could it be from dick? well, that was certainly an unlikely guess. dick, who was also in prison, able to write to another boy? he passed this thought by with a little laugh of derision. his next idea was flo. he had been really in his own rough fashion fond of flo, he had liked her pretty little face, and enjoyed in his flush and successful days bringing home dainties for her to cook for all their suppers. in spite of himself he had a respect for flo, and though he might have loved her better if she had been willing to learn his trade, and help him in his thieving, yet the pluck she showed in keeping honest, roused a certain undefined respect within him. but of all the ignorant children he ever met, he often said to himself that flo was the most ignorant. why she knew nothing of the world, nothing whatever. how he had laughed at her ideas of earls and dukes and marquises--at her absurd supposition that she could be the queen. was there ever before in the records of man, a london child so outrageously ignorant as this same little flo? _she_ write him a letter! she had probably never heard of a letter. besides, even if she could write, would she? what were her feelings to jenks now, that she should show him so great a kindness? he had broken his word to her, he had converted her brother, her much-loved, bright little brother, into a thief. by means of him he had tasted prison discipline, and was branded with a dishonest stain for ever. he remembered the reproach in her eyes when she stood in the witnesses' box, and gave those funny little reluctant answers about him and dick. even there too she had shown her ignorance, and proclaimed to the whole police-court that she was the greatest little simpleton that ever walked. no, be she where she might now, poor child, it was his wildest guess of all to suppose that she could write to him. _who_ wrote the letter? there was no one else left for him to guess, unless! but here his breath came quick and fast, the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, he caught up the letter and gazed at it, a white fear stealing over him. no, thank god! he flung it down again with a gesture of intense relief--that was not _her_ writing. she knew how to write, but not like that. she had not written to him. no, thank god!--he murmured this again fervently,--things were bad with him, but they had not come to such a dreadful pass as that. _she_ thought him dead, drowned, come to a violent end; anyhow, done with this present life--she did _not_ know that he, his honest, brave father's only son, had stood in the prisoner's dock, had slept in the dark cell, had worn the prisoner's dress, with its mask, and distinguishing brand! the chapel-bell rang; he started up, thrust his precious unopened letter into his pocket, adjusted his, mask, and walked with his fellow-prisoners in silent, grim, unbroken order into chapel. had any one looked beneath the mask, they would have seen, for the first time since perhaps his entrance into that prison, that the old sullen expression had left his face, that it wore a look of interest and satisfaction. he hugged his letter very close to his breast, and edged himself into the queer little nook allotted to him, from which he could just see the chaplain, and no one else. as a rule he either went to sleep in chapel, or made faces at the chaplain, or fired pellets of bread, which he kept concealed about him, at the other prisoners. on one occasion the spirit of all evil so far possessed him, that one of these, as hard as any shot, came with a resounding report on the mild nose of the then officiating chaplain, as he was fumbling for a loose sheet of his sermon, and nobody discovered that he was the offender. how often he had chuckled over this trick, over the discomfiture of the rev gentleman, and the red bump which immediately arose on his most prominent feature; how often, how very often, he had longed to do it again. but to-day he had none of this feeling: if he had a thousand bread pellets ready, they might have lain quite harmless in his pocket. he was restless, however, and longed to get back to his cell, not to open his letter, he did not mean to do that until quite the evening, but to hold it in his hand, and turn it round and gaze at it; he was restless, and wished the hour and a quarter usually spent in chapel was over, and he looked around him and longed much to find somebody or something to occupy his attention, for jenks never dreamed of joining in the prayers, or listening to the lessons. the prison chapel is not constructed to enable the prisoners to gaze about them, and as the only individual jenks could see was the chaplain, he fixed his eyes on him. he did this with a little return of his old sullenness, for though he was a good man, and even jenks admitted this, he was so tired of him. he had seen him so very, very often, in his cell and at chapel. after spending his life amid the myriad faces of london, jenks had found the months, during which he had never gazed on any human countenance but that of his warder, the governor, chaplain, and doctor, interminably long. he was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. but of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. but to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew--so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. he did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day--a stranger was in the chaplain's place, he had a fresh face to study. he had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a london crowd must have occupied his attention. a man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him. jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his--jenks'--throat with those great muscular hands. suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. the strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him. the new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated "our father" beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. then old habits overcame him--he fell asleep. he was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him--awoke him thoroughly. he started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text. this was the text: "and he said, who art thou, lord? and the lord said, i am jesus, whom thou persecutest." the stranger's voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men. he looked round at them, and then he gave it to them. in that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of god's wrath. not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs--drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving--as the bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly. when he said this--without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home--he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would. they were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. the murderer's last night in his cell--the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him--the lost woman dying out in the snow. then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone. with infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them. their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when god arose to execute vengeance. on every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. it was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison. then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable. "_i am jesus, whom thou persecutest_." did they know that? then let them hear it now. every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame. _it was jesus of nazareth whom they persecuted_. would god allow such love as his son's love to be trampled on and used slightingly? no, surely. he had borne too long with them; vengeance was his, and he would repay. when the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness. he had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. for every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of god. jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. _still loved them_! why, his heart was yearning over them, his pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. they were not too bad for jesus--not a bit of it. for such as them he died, for such as them he pleaded with his father. if they came to him--and nothing was easier, for he was always looking out for them--he would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in his blood, and make them ready for heaven. and while on earth he would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides himself up the steep paths of virtue. such as they too wicked for heaven? no, thank god. jesus himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of god! there was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. the prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. no human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. they were quieter than usual, that was all. as for jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. his face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. but the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone. _that parson_ had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be--had gone down, and found that same heart still there--nearly dead, it is true, but still there--and probed it to the quick. he sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think. old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy--pure scenes and holy memories. once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. how far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal's life! hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. he had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events. they were coming now, and he could not keep them off. o god! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him! though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother's kiss. he wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid. for the last year and more jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. he called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. the daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition. his prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. he quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. he would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken--oh no. he, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom. it was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! _he_ would not be down on his luck like that! he would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money. this was his plan--all for the present life. he had never given the other life a thought. but now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate--the wrath of god. some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before god; and god would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. and his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and god would pass sentence on him--he could not escape. he had crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame! jenks was not ignorant, like flo and dick, he knew of these things. the thought in his mind became intolerable. he paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his sunday dinner. when it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. but it did not. try as he might, it did not. he endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. he thought of flo, and he thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. but, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter. it was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. his fingers trembled, he did not know why. he threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. this time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. they dropped from jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. he gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. a soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter. "jenks,-- "i thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werry cherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. she 'av them let hout hal rond, and they'l fit yo fine. she livs in the old place--wery butiful it his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livd yer hever sins yo and dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo jenks, wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen the singin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kut orf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and jenks, i wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but no words, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel-- "flo. "miss mary, she put in the stops." "_i am jesus of nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_." this latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. he snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses. his mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him. she knew he was a thief, and she loved him. how he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! her only son, and she a widow, dead! far better--far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief! he recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. he had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his god, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. and with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. and for a time jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. but then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways. his mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. he was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils. one evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. he had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. on his way home he saw a policeman dodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. the boy's heart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. he managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. he reached it, and lay down on his bed. there was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother's. in that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. this letter brought the account of his father's death--he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. his last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter. "tell wife, that willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before i went away to keep a faithful and good lad." the boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two. but when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. his mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. for this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. and his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways. but now she did know, the letter said she did know. what suffering she must have gone through i what agony and shame! he writhed at the thought. then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him-- she knew, and yet she loved him. she was preparing for his return, getting ready for him. now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! would she do this, and would he go with her? "_i am jesus whom thou persecutest_." back again came the sermon and its text to his memory. "every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute jesus," said the preacher. jenks had known about jesus, but hitherto he had thought of him simply as an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down his life for him, and yet whom he persecuted. if he went on being a thief he would persecute jesus--_that_ was plain. and little flo had said in her letter that god loved him, god and jesus loved him. why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and god loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, _perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? and when it all was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel his guilty soul dragged before god to receive the full vials of the wrath of him whom he had persecuted. he was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips. chapter eighteen. god calls his little servant. at last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. they were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in mrs jenks' box along with her sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet. flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. she was quite as sure now as mrs jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the god who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for jenks also. about this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, _never_ would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, flo would pay him a little visit! when this letter was shown to miss mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only flo, but miss mary herself, and the widow, and scamp, and perhaps the widow's lad, should pay dick a visit. and flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy. her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. she could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that mrs jenks taught her; and miss mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when annie was married; and flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be god's servant first. yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her heavenly father felt he could do better for her--anyhow the end came. it came in this way. since flo arrived and mrs jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad's return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen. the secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond glenfield's starch, or anybody else's starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. mrs jenks made this starch herself, and through miss mary's aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for willie when he came home--money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by. but there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in whitechapel road. mrs jenks used to buy it of a little old jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house. no londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis. on one of these days in february, mrs jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. flo sat at one side of her and scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. she had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her. here was a state of affairs! she wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings' worth thrown away. then flo came to the rescue. if mrs jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she--flo--would start off at once to whitechapel road, and be back with the necessary powder before mrs jenks was ready for it. the widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head--the child was delicate, and the day--why, even the 'buses were hardly going--it could not be! but here flo overruled her. she reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. as to the 'buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with scamp. accordingly, leading scamp by his collar and chain, which miss mary had given him, she set off. mrs jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak--another gift of miss mary's--and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow--and how scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart. she did not know--god help her--she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back. the snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, "what fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside," but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to whitechapel road. they had gone a good way, when suddenly flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the jew's shop. it led through one of the most villainous streets in london, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags. she had gone through this street before--she would try it again to-day! she plunged in boldly. how familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place,--she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother,-- but the style of this place. the bird-fanciers' shops, the rags-and-bones' shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. she looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her. she resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her father in heaven. she resolved that she, too, as well as miss mary, would be a sister of the poor. she was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice. "i'm starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in god's name." flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. a few months ago flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. besides the five shillings mrs jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear miss mary's birthday, but doubtless god meant her to give it to the starving child. she pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl. "god bless yer, missy," she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. they had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps. flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for mrs jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground. the place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. in that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. the wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. one secured the dog, while another divested flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. a third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption. an unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for flo's relief. this friend was the dog, scamp. we can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since flo turned into this bad street scamp--as the vulgar saying has it--smelt a rat. perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with maxey--be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken flo's movements. but when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact--a bare and dreadful fact--the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger. as he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing saint bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man's hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. in an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man's companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal's brains on the spot. he sank down without even a sigh at flo's feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone. the little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog's wounds and lay on the child's upturned face. just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. he tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child's body. the firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view. these men, after examining flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the london hospital, and one, at parting, gave scamp a kick. "dead! poor brute!" he said, and so they left him. they left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him. thus god himself made a shroud for his poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of scamp. chapter nineteen. queen victoria and flo. flo was carried into the buxton ward for children. they laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her. here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her--she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries. late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back. consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew 'ee'd give 'is life fur 'er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home. they asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in mrs jenks' room. the next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, mrs jenks, all trembling and crying, and miss mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it. she looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again. "i don't know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures," said little mrs jenks, "but ef i was you, i'd leave it to god, dearie." "yes," answered flo, "i leaves heverythink to god." and when miss mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant. she was going to the place where _his servants shall serve him_. yes, flo was going to god. the doctors knew it--the nurses knew it--she could not recover. what a bright lot for the little tired out london child! no more weary tasks-- no more dark days--no more hunger and cold. her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her--god, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. he loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in his presence. but though flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why mrs jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. she was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that god had lent her--what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. there was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well. in the pleasant buxton ward were at this time a great many little children, and as flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to god about them. there was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot. such a baby as it was! such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin! the child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby's throat? its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person's fingers--and its face! oh! that any of god's human creatures should wear the face of that baby! it was an old man's face, but no man ever looked so old--it was a monkey's face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. all the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin. it was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. [the writer saw exactly such a baby at the evelina hospital a short time ago.] the nurses and doctors said it might recover, but flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to god. "doesn't you think that it 'ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the gold streets?" she said to god, every time she looked at it. and then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever--and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby. perhaps she does take care of the baby, up there! one day great news came to the london hospital--great news, and great excitement. it was going to be highly honoured. her gracious majesty the queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called the grocers company's wing. she was coming in a few days, coming to visit her east-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great hospital. flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement--they had only a short time to prepare--should they ever be ready to receive the queen?--what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance. flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word queen--queen--struck on her half dull ear. what were they saying about the queen? who was the queen? had she ever seen the queen? then like a flash it all came back to her--that hot afternoon last summer--her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, jenks, and dick had taken to buckingham palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the life guards! then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture--the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. the remembrance of the glance the queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl's memory. she had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things god had given her. long ago, before she knew of god, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living. a thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. how _much_ she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well. trembling and eager, she started up in bed. "please is the queen coming?" the sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. she was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face. "yes, dear," she said, "the queen is coming to see the hospital." "and shall i see the queen?" "we are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her." "oh!" said flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, "ef i sees the queen i shall get well." the sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. she knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified. the next day, as mrs jenks was going away, flo whispered to her-- "ef you please, ma'am, i'd like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you 'ave in yer box at 'ome." "what do you want it for, dearie?" "oh! to tie hup my 'air with. i wants fur to look nice fur the queen. the queen is comin' to pay me a wisit, and then i'll get well." "but, my child, the queen cannot make you well." "oh! no, but she can pray to god. the queen's werry 'igh up, you knows, and maybe god 'ud 'ear 'er a bit sooner than me." "no, indeed, flo, you wrong him there. your heavenly father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the queen might offer up to him." "well, then, we'll both pray," said flo, a smile breaking over her white face. "the queen and me, we'll both pray, the two of us, to god--he'll 'ave 'er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you'll fetch me the ribbon, ma'am dear." mrs jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the queen, more and more sure that when they both--the poor little london child and the greatest woman in the world--sent up their joint petitions to heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear mrs jenks. at last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the east end. how gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets! at the eastern boundary of the city was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word "welcome." and as the royal procession passed into whitechapel high-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them. but better to the heart of the queen of england than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. these thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers' shops, and stood out upon the roofs. yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the east end, and of course most of all by those in the great hospital which the queen was to visit. but here, there was also disappointment. it was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for her majesty to see, the buxton ward in the alexandra wing was not mentioned. more than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her. but the day before, flo had said to mr rowsell, the deputy chairman-- "i shall see the queen, and then i shall get well." and that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted. accordingly, when the queen had visited the "grocers company's wing," and had named the new wards after herself and the princess beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the gloucester ward, then flo's little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child's desire. contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the buxton ward a visit. flo, quite sure that it was god's wish that the great queen of england should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright. it was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth--for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of god's own peace. "my darling," said the queen to the little girl, "i hope you will be a little better now." but queen victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little flo darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again. they knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet--though she herself knew not of it--were in the waters of jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the city. chapter twenty. sing glory. "i 'ave seen the queen," said flo that night to miss mary. "i shall get well now." she was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes. "do you want to get well very much, flo?" asked the lady. "yes--fur some things." "what things?" "i wants fur to help dick wen 'ee gets hout of that prison school, and i wants fur to tidy up fur mrs jenks the day 'er lad comes 'ome, and i wants to do something fur you, miss mary." "to be my little servant?" "yes." "do you remember what i said to you when first i asked you to be my servant?" "i must be god's servant." "just so, dear child, and i believe fully you have tried to be his servant--he knows that, and he has sent you a message; but before i give it to you, i want to ask you a question--why do you suppose that having seen the queen will make you well?" "oh! not _seein'_ 'er--but she looked real kind-'earted, and though i didn't ax 'er, i knows she be prayin' to god fur me." "yes, flo, it is very likely the queen did send up a little prayer to god for you. there are many praying for you, my child. you pray for yourself, and i pray for you, and so does mrs jenks, and better than all, the lord christ is ever interceding for you." "then i'll soon be well," said flo. "yes, you shall soon be well--but, flo, there are two ways of getting well." "two, miss mary?" "yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by--to suffer pain again, and sickness again--that is the earthly way." flo was silent. "but," continued the lady, "there is a better way. there is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever--that is the heavenly way." "yes," whispered flo. "which should you like best?" "to be well for ever-'n-ever." "flo, shall i give you god's message?" "please." "he says that his little servant shall get quite well--quite well in the best way--you are to go up to serve him in heaven. god is coming to fetch you, flo." "to live up in the gold streets wid himself?" asked flo in a bright, excited manner. "yes, he is coming to fetch you--perhaps he may come for you to-night." "i shall see god to-night," said flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still. so white and motionless was the little face that miss graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. she was trying to realise this wonderful news. she should see god to-night. it was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her--she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before--she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death--this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop! a sudden and great joy stole over her--she was going to god--he was coming himself to fetch her--she should lie in his arms and look in his face, and be always with him. "are you glad, flo?" asked miss mary, who saw her smile. "yes." "i have another message for you. when dick comes out of the prison school, i am to take care of him--god wishes that." "you will tell him about god." "certainly, i shall do that--and, flo, i feel it will be all right about the widow's son." "yes, god'll make it right,"--then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, "i'd _like_ to 'ear the glory song." "what is that, darling?" "oh! you knows--`i'm glad--i hever--'" "`saw the day'?" finished miss mary. "yes, that's it. poor janey didn't know wot it meant--'tis 'bout god." "shall i sing it for you?" "yes--please." miss mary did so; but when she came to the words, "i'll sing while mounting through the air to glory, glory, glory," flo stopped her. "that's wot i'll do--sing--wile mountin'--'tis hall glory." and then again she lay still with closed eyes. during that night mrs jenks and miss mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away. surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. a quiet passing into a better land. an anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the blood of the lamb, on a rock that could never be moved. just before she died she murmured something about the queen. "tell 'er--ef she 'ears o' me--not to fret--i'm well--the best way--and 'tis hall glory." so it was. chapter twenty one. the prodigal's return. in the evening after flo's funeral mrs jenks was seated by her bright little fire. nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. this might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of flo. mrs jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not overmuch. those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. god had come and fetched her--that was what they said. and the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain. no, mrs jenks was not mourning for flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet. "'tis only me, mrs jenks," said miss mary graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on flo's little stool at one side of the fire. "i thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you." "thank you, ma'am--yes--i'm missing the child and her dog, maybe. anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, i'm very low like. if i 'ad scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up. it was 'ard he should come by such a bad end." "oh! mrs jenks, it was not a bad end. it was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved best. and, do you know, i could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now." "no, ma'am--that is true. he always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. and they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him." "yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at flo's feet." miss mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm. "you are going to wandsworth in the morning--may i come with you?" at the word wandsworth, mrs jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head. "oh! miss mary, don't mind me, ma'am--i'm a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. suppose the lad should refuse to come back?" "suppose the lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied miss mary, softly. "oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. he's gracious any way, anyhow. no, miss mary dear, i feels your kindness, but i'll go alone. it will daunt the poor boy less if i 'ave no one beside me. down on my bended knees, if need be, i'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the lord will hear me." "yes, mrs jenks, the lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost son." miss mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire. "yes," she said after a pause. "i were a fool to misdoubt god. don't his heavenly father and his blessed saviour care more fur the lad than i do? "'twill be all right for 'im, and if flo was here to-night, she'd say, sweet lamb,-- "`mrs jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?' "well! i just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me." the widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire. there they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor. mrs jenks contemplated them with pride. how well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! they would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye that sad day when he was taken to prison! she examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them over again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them. as she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind. holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out. she had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. a lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips. for the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures. she stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones. "come in, poor fellow, come in. don't lie there perishing--come in, and i'll give you a cup of tea. i've just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you." as she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm. "i'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?" something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart. "of all people on earth, those i 'ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves," she said. "if you're one of them, you 'ave a sure welcome. why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, "i've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented. he's in prison, but i feel he 'ave repented." "would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice. "let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! what do you take me for? i'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have." then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow's neck. "mother," he said, "i'm that repentant lad." jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon. he had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that jesus whom once he persecuted. all the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother. and of her it might be said, "o woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest." these things happened a few months ago. how do the characters in this little story fare now? truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them. jenks, partly through miss mary's aid, and partly through his mother's savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother. pick is still at the reformatory school, but he promises to do well, and miss mary promises never to cease to look after him. even little janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the glory song. as for miss mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her master left her an example, doing good--and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed. and the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. she is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her. thus all are doing well. but surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her father's house--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as scamp and i. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. bessie bradford's prize the third of a series of sequels to "the bessie books" by joanna h. mathews illustrated by w. st. john harper dedicated to my dear little friend and fellow author elizabeth leiper martin ("elsie") with the wish that the path of authorship may have for her as many flowers and as few thorns as it has had for her friend and well wisher j. h. m. contents. i. at the policeman's, ii. letters, iii. lena's secret, iv. percy, v. robbing the mail, vi. a confidence, vii. a box of bonbons, viii. "innocents abroad," ix. an unexpected meeting, x. frankie to the front again, xl a trust, xii. discovery, xiii. accusation, xiv. who wins? chapter i. at the policeman's. "here comes mrs. fleming," said jennie richards, in a tone indicative of anything but pleasure in the coming of mrs. fleming. mrs. granby responded with an exclamation which savored of a like sentiment, and rising, she tossed aside the little frock she was working on, as she added: "i don't see what she's comin' for! i didn't want her a comin' here, bringin' her mournin' an' frettin' an' lookin' out for troubles to pester you, mary richards, an' i told her i would be over to her place this evenin'. i did tell her, you know, i'd fit that dress for her mrs. bradford give her to christmas, but she just needn't a come here when i told her i'd go there; an' a kill-joy she is an' no comfort to nobody. you go into the kitchen, mary, an' stay there till she's gone, which i won't be long fittin' her, an' i'll get rid of her soon's i can," mrs. richards was about to comply with the suggestion, when jennie, who was still gazing out of the window, exclaimed with a total change of tone: "and here come the little miss bradfords, with jane, and miss belle powers and miss lily norris along with them." the little sister whom she was diverting by holding her up to the window, began to clap her hands, and mrs. richards settled herself back into her chair again, saying: "i ain't going into the kitchen to miss _them_, and i'll set the sunshine they'll bring against the clouds mrs. fleming drags." mrs. granby beamed upon her. "well, i declare, mary richards, you ain't no great hand to talk, but when you do, you just do it beautiful; now don't she, jennie? that's the po'tryest talkin' i've heard this long while, real live po'try, if there ain't no jingle about it. i allers did think you might a writ a book if you'd set about it, an' if you'd put such readin' as that kind of talk into it, i'll be boun' it would bring a lot of money, an' i'm right glad the little young ladies is comin', on'y i wish amandy flemin' hadn't hit the same time." it was plain to be seen that the visit of the young party who were on the way to the door was a source of gratification to the policeman's family, whatever that of mrs. fleming might be. their quicker footsteps brought them in before mrs. fleming, and they received a warm welcome. it is to be feared that the younger girl had an eye to the loaves and fishes with which they usually came laden on their visits to the richards' household, as she ran to them on their entrance, saying, "what did oo b'ing me?" "augh! shame!" said the scandalized mrs. granby, snatching her up; and, "you'll excuse her, young ladies," said mrs. richards, mortified also; "but she's only a little thing, and you spoil her, always bringing her something when you come." that they were not offended or hurt was soon evidenced by the fact that lily presently had the little one on her lap, while belle was showing her a linen scrap-book which had been brought for her. mrs. granby was a seamstress, and jane had brought some work which her mistress, mrs. bradford, had sent; and maggie and bessie, with belle and lily, who were spending the day with them, had chosen to accompany her, the first three because they were generally ready for a visit to the family of the policeman, who had befriended bessie when she was lost, the latter because she thought mrs. granby "such fun." to have mrs. fleming come in, as she presently did, was bliss indeed to lily, who delighted in pitting the cheery, lively little mrs. granby against the melancholy, depressing mrs. fleming. nor was the entertainment long in beginning. jane was to carry home some work which mrs. granby had finished, and as the latter was putting it up mrs. fleming came in and was bidden by her to take a seat till she was ready to attend to her. "and how's little miss neville, miss maggie?" asked mrs. richards. "i think that's the name of the young lady who was so brave in saving her little sister, and was so burned." "yes, that's her name," answered maggie. "she is a great deal better, mrs. richards. the doctor has said she is out of danger, and her mother has been able to leave her and to go back to the son who is ill." "i'm very glad to hear it," said mrs. richards, cordially. "my husband was telling me how wonderful and brave she was, and how she never thought of herself trying to save the other children; and how the gentleman miss staunton is to marry was burned very bad saving her." "yes; it was a terrible time," said maggie; "but mr. howard is much better now, too; so we are all very happy." all this time mrs. fleming had sat nodding her head mournfully, as if she would say, "don't be encouraged; there is no ground for hope." "look! look at her!" lily whispered to bessie. "she's like an insane chinese mandarin, rolling round her old head that way." "hush!" whispered bessie, "she'll hear you." "don't care if she does," answered lily. and now mrs. fleming broke forth in just such a lackadaisical, tearful tone as one would have expected to issue from her lips. "oh, miss maggie," she whined, "if the dear lady, your ma, 'ad but listened to me. i told her no good wouldn't come of 'avin' that number of children to her christmas tree--twice thirteen; an' i said if thirteen was hunlucky, twice thirteen was twice worse; an' your ma just laughed at me; an' the next day came the burnin'." bessie looked gravely at her. "my mother says that is wrong and foolish, too," she said, in an admonitory tone, "and that thirteen is no worse than any other number." "you nor your ma can't gainsay that there come the burnin', miss," persisted the woman. "i know that colonel rush's house was on fire, and that miss lena was burned, and mr. howard, too," answered bessie, equally determined to maintain her side of the case. "but they are both a great deal better, and it ought to show you that such things don't make any difference to god, and that he can take just as good care of one number as another." the other children were rather surprised to hear bessie speak so decidedly to one older than herself; but this was a subject on which she felt strongly; her own faith and trust and reliance on the goodness and power of god were very strong; and more than one occurrence in her little life had tended to foster these, and she always rather resented the want of them in others. and now mrs. fleming, in her turn, resented being chidden by this mite who appeared even younger than she really was. but it pleased her, as usual, to assume the injured role. "well, miss," she said, "'tain't for me to contradick you nor your ma. i can't help havin' my hown feelin's an' hopinions; but the lord made me to be down-trod, an' i'm willin' to habide 'is will an' stay down-trod." this was beyond bessie; she had no answer, no argument for folly such as this, if, indeed, she grasped the woman's meaning; but she did understand that she was still making her moan over matters and things in general, and that in some way she seemed to be blaming her own dear mother. she looked displeased and turned away; but here mrs. granby, who had her head in a wardrobe, looking for a large sheet of paper, withdrew it and came to the front. "well," she said, raising her voice so that it might be heard above the rattle of the stiff paper which she unfolded and wrapped about the completed work jane was to carry back, "well, if so be as you enjoy bein' 'down-trod,' as you do enjoy most things as other folks don't find pleasin', there ain't nobody goin' to hinder you; but you look here, mrs. flemin', you nor nobody else ain't goin' to cast no slurs onter mrs. bradford which there never was a better lady, nor one that was so far from down-treadin' folks but more like to be upliftin' 'em if only they'll let themselves be uplift, an' all her family the same an' the little ladies brought up accordin'; so, if you please, no slurs on any of 'em afore me an' mary richards which we would have feelin's on account of it an' wouldn't stan' it in _this_ house. i don't see why you can't live agreeable like other folks; an' it does fret me outer patience to hear a body mortifyin' the lord's mercies an' you such a heapin' lot sent to you this very winter, an' it's for your own good i speak, which the lord he does get out of patience with us sometimes i do believe when we're faithless an' mistrustin', an' takes back his blessin's when he finds we don't hold 'em in no appreciation." by this time mrs. fleming had dissolved into tears and buried her face in an already much bewept pocket-handkerchief. seeing this mrs. granby resumed in a soothing tone and with some self-reproach. "but just hear me now rattlin' on about my neighbors' short-comin's an' me plenty of my own, me that ain't a woman of many words neither. there, mrs. flemin', don't mind, an' if you've a min' to compose your feelin's in the kitchen just step in an' i'll fit your dress soon's jane's business is over." but mrs. fleming had no idea of retiring to privacy to compose her "feelin's;" she preferred to indulge them in public, and she sat still, sobbing only the louder. the situation was becoming embarrassing to the young party, and maggie, with her usual ready tact, seized upon an opening to change the subject. "why, mrs. granby," she said, "i did not know you made dresses. i thought you only did plain sewing such as you have done for our family." "i do a bit at it, miss maggie," answered the seamstress; "though, to be sure, i wouldn't undertake to dress-make for ladies like your ma and aunts an' the like, but for them as hasn't much ambition as to their figgers, i can make out, an' i did tell mrs. flemin' i'd fit hers, so she could make it herself an' she shouldn't have to do no expenses about it, for it's on'y right we should all lend a helpin' hand, an' where would me an' the richardses be if your folks hadn't thought the same an' acted accordin', which there's never a night on my bended knees i don't ask the almighty's blessin' on you, an' there's none more deserves it, an' i do b'lieve the dear lord's of the same way of thinkin', for there's none as i see happier nor more prosperin' an' does one's heart good to see it, an' never will i forget the night we was in such a peck of troubles an' seein' no way out of 'em me an' the richardses, an' your pa comin' in an' turnin' the tide, an' since then, yes, ever since, all goin' so comfortable an' pleasant with us. i did think when i saw mr. bradford's face that night i first opened the door to him that he was the agreeablest-lookin' gentleman i ever did see, but me no idea what a blessin' he was a bringin' us all an' help outer our troubles, which the richardses' troubles is always mine too. but i declare, just hear me runnin' on, as i always do if i get on them times; you'd think i was the greatest hand to talk ever was." lily was having her "fun," and she was quite loth to take leave when mrs. granby had the parcel ready and maggie made the move to go. "i'm sure, miss maggie," said mrs. richards, "that i am truly glad to hear that miss neville is likely to get well. i suppose she'll be leaving her uncle's now and going away with her mother. it isn't likely mrs. neville will want to be leaving her child again after such an escape as she's had. i'm sure i couldn't abide one of mine out of my sight after such a thing. and the bravery of her, too, the dear young thing. my husband says it was a risk a strong man, and one of the police themselves, might have shrunk from." this was an unusually long speech for mrs. richards, who was that which mrs. granby so mistakenly called herself, "a woman of few words," for she, as well as the rest of the family, had been greatly interested in the adventure of the heroic little girl who had braved and endured so much to rescue her young brother and sister. maggie hesitated one moment, then said: "no, mrs. richards. mrs. neville has gone back to her son, but miss lena has not gone with her. she is to stay with colonel and mrs. rush for a long time, perhaps a year, and we are all so glad about it." "and could the mother go and leave her, and she might any time take a turn for the worse, and be took off sudden?" interposed mrs. fleming, whose tears did not prevent her from hearing all that passed. "you never know when there's been burnin' if there ain't smothered fire, an' it shows up when you least hexpect it." no one took any notice of this cheerful prophecy, but mrs. granby asked: "and the young lady is like to be quite well again and about soon, miss maggie?" "oh, yes," answered maggie, confidently; "and we hope to have her back at school before long. she is quite well enough now to enjoy everything except walking; but her feet are still tender and she cannot yet walk about. but come, girls, it is time to go;" and the young party took their leave. when not far from their respective homes, which were all in the same neighborhood, they met gracie howard, and maggie stopped to speak to her, although gracie had shown no sign of wishing to do so; indeed, she seemed as if she would rather pass on. of course, the others lingered too. "gracie," said maggie, "i hope you will come to the meeting of our club the day after to-morrow. it is so long since you have been." gracie colored violently, looked down upon the ground, and in a nervous way dug the toe of her overshoe into the snow which had fallen that morning and still lay in some places on the street. "i don't know; no, i think not--i think--perhaps i may go out with mamma," she stammered, anxious for some excuse, and yet too honest to invent one that was altogether without foundation. perhaps she would go out with her mother; she would ask her to take her. "oh, come, gracie; do come," persisted maggie, determined to carry her point if possible. "it is so long since you have been, and you know there is a paper owing from you. your turn is long since passed; and we'll all be so glad to have you." grade's color deepened still more, and she cast a sidelong glance at lily, who stood at maggie's elbow; and lily saw that she was doubtful if that "all" included herself. lily was very outspoken, particularly so where she saw cause for disapproval, and above all if she thought others were assuming too much; and she had on certain occasions so plainly made known her opinion of some of grade's assumption, that a sort of chronic feud had become established between the two, not breaking out into open hostility, but showing itself in a half-slighting, half-teasing way with lily, and with gracie in a manner partly scornful, partly an affectation of indifference. some six weeks since, at a meeting of the club of the "cheeryble sisters," to which all three little girls belonged, gracie's overweening self-conceit and irrepressible desire to be first had led her into conflict with another of her classmates, lena neville, in which she had proved herself so arrogant, so jealous and ill-tempered that she had excited the indignation of all who were present. but if they had known what followed after gracie had been left alone in the room where she had so disgraced herself, how would they have felt then? how she had stood by and seen the source of contention, a composition, which she believed had been written by lena, torn to atoms by a mischievous little dog, withholding her hand from rescuing it, her voice from warning the dog off from it simply for the indulgence of that same blind, overpowering jealousy. the destruction was hardly wrought, when repentance and remorse too late had followed--repentance and remorse, intensified a thousandfold by after events on the very same day. but that guilty secret was still locked within her own heart, weighing heavily upon her conscience, but still unconfessed, still unsuspected by others. ever since that miserable afternoon she had shrunk from meeting her classmates, and although she had been obliged to do so at school, she had avoided all other opportunities of seeing them, and on one excuse and another had refused to attend the meetings of the club which came together every friday afternoon, the place of rendezvous being at mrs. bradford's, maggie being the president as she had been the originator of the club. it was true that gracie had later discovered that the ruined paper was one of her own, a composition on the very same subject as lena's, and which had, by the merest accident, and without her knowledge, been exchanged for that of the young classmate whom she chose to consider as her rival; and this had in some measure relieved the weight of sorrow and remorse she had felt when lena was severely burned and lay for days hovering between life and death. but she could not shut her eyes or blind her conscience to the fact that she had been guilty in intention, if not in actual deed, and she could not shake off the haunting sense of shame or the feeling that others must know of the contemptible action of which she had been guilty. knowing nothing of this, maggie and the other members of the club believed that her avoidance of them and her low spirits were caused by shame and distress for the bad temper and unkindness she had shown to lena on that memorable day; and now maggie, feeling sorry for her and also very loath to have any unpleasantness in the club, would fain have persuaded her to join them once more and to put things on their old footing. gracie was not doubtful of maggie, nor of bessie, nor yet of belle powers and fanny leroy; in fact, she knew she would be received kindly by the majority of the members, but about lily and two or three others she had her misgivings, and hence that doubtful, half-deprecating glance at the former, who stood at maggie's elbow. lily caught it, and, although she had intended to be very offish and high and mighty with gracie for the rest of her days, her heart smote her, and flinging her former resolution to the winds, she followed maggie's example, and laying her hand persuasively on gracie's muff, said, with her usual directness: "oh, come on, gracie! don't let's have any more madness and being offended among us. it's horrid; so let by-gones be by-gones, and come to the club meetings again." "if they only knew," thought gracie, "they would not ask me, would not say 'let by-gones be by-gones;'" but she said that she would come to the meeting, and then they parted and went their separate ways. when maggie and bessie reached home, they found colonel rush there awaiting them, and heard that he had come to take them to his own house. lena, his niece, was coming down to dinner for the first time since she had been so badly burned; that is, she was to be carried down, for her poor little feet were still too tender to suffer her to put them to the ground, or to take any steps upon them. but she had been so long a prisoner upstairs that it was quite an event for her to be allowed to join the family at dinner once more; and the colonel had seen fit to make it a little more of a celebration by coming for maggie and bessie to make merry with them on the occasion. indeed, he was apt to think that such occasions were not complete without the company of his two pets, and they had both been perfectly devoted to lena during the period of her confinement, so that he was more than ready to make this a little jubilee for all concerned. mamma's permission being readily obtained--indeed the colonel had secured it before the two little maidens had appeared upon the scene--the three friends set forth again, well pleased with one another and with the prospect before them. "lena has had quite an eventful day," said the colonel, as they were on their way to his house. "first and greatest, i suppose, was a letter from her brother russell--only a few lines, it is true, but the first she has had since he was taken ill, and it was full of loving praises for her presence of mind and her bravery, and for the patience with which she has borne her suffering; so it was very precious to her, for she adores him, you know; and there was another from her father, containing news which she would like to give you herself, i am sure; so i leave it for her to do so. and now comes her first dinner with the family, with you to dine with her. but she is such a cool, composed little woman, and takes things so quietly, that we are less afraid of over-excitement for her than we would be for some i could name." "now, uncle horace," said maggie, as he looked down at her with a twinkle in his kind eyes, "you know i would keep quiet if you told me to." "you would try, i am sure, midget," answered her friend, "but there are girls and girls, you know, and it is easier for one species to keep quiet under exciting causes than it is for another." "but you can't tell how _this_ species would be in such circumstances," said maggie, "because i have never been very ill or had any terrible injury, such as lena's burns." "i can tell that you are a very 'happy circumstance' yourself, and that i am quite satisfied with you as you are," answered the colonel, bending another loving look upon the rosy, glowing face upturned to his, and which broke into dimples at the allusion to an old-time joke. long ago, when maggie was a very little girl, she had been very fond of using long words--indeed, she had not yet outgrown this fancy; but in former days, whenever she heard what she called "a new word," she would presently contrive some occasion for using it, not always with the fullest understanding of its exact meaning; and the results, as may be supposed, were sometimes rather droll. one summer, when mr. bradford's family were at the sea-shore, and colonel and mrs. rush were their near neighbors, maggie had taken a violent dislike to the mistress of the house where she boarded. the woman was somewhat rough and unprepossessing, it is true, and hence maggie had conceived the prejudice against her; but she was kind-hearted and good, as the little girl learned later. having heard some one use the expression, "happy circumstance," maggie took a fancy to it; and, as she informed bessie, immediately resolved to adopt it as one of "my words." an opportunity soon presented itself. mrs. jones offended both children, maggie especially, and soon after, she asked mr. jones in confidence, if he thought mrs. jones "a very happy circumstance." fortunately, the man, a jolly, rollicking farmer with a very soft spot in his heart for all children, took it good-naturedly and thought it a tremendous joke, and his uproarious merriment called mrs. jones upon the scene to reprove him and inquire the cause, greatly to the confusion and distress of poor embarrassed, frightened maggie. and this was increased by the fact that she took occasion to praise maggie and bessie and to say what good, mannerly children they were. mr. jones, however, did not betray confidence, and later on, maggie changed her opinion; but the "happy circumstance" had remained a family joke ever since, and the expression was frequently brought into use in the sense in which maggie had employed it, and the children laughed now as the colonel used the old familiar phrase. chapter ii. letters. they found lena in the library, ensconced in state in her uncle's comfortable rolling chair, in which, in by-gone days when he was lame and helpless, he had spent many hours, and in which she could easily be conveyed from room to room by the colonel's man, starr, without putting her still tender little feet to the ground. it was natural that she should be glad to be down-stairs again after all the past weeks of confinement and suffering; but maggie and bessie found her in a state of happiness and excitement unusual with the calm, reserved lena, and which seemed hardly to be accounted for by the mere fact that she had once more been allowed to join the family circle. but this was soon explained. "maggie and bessie," she said, with more animation than her little friends had ever seen her show before, "what do you think has happened? such a wonderful, such a delightful thing! i cannot see how it did happen!" such a thing as had "happened" was indeed an unwonted occurrence in lena's young life; but she had been through so many new experiences lately, that she might almost have ceased to be surprised at anything. if she could have looked in upon her father and mother and invalid brother russell, in their far away southern sojourn a few days since, she would have seen what led to the present unexpected occurrence. mrs. neville had just read to the two gentlemen a letter from her brother, colonel rush, speaking of lena's continued imprisonment; and they had continued to talk of their little heroine and her achievement. "was lena delirious at any time while she was so very ill?" asked russell. "not exactly delirious," answered his mother, "but somewhat flighty at times; and at those times, and indeed when she was herself, her chief thought and her chief distress seemed to be that she would not be able to enter into competition with her schoolmates for some prize to be gained for composition. your aunt marion told me that this prize was an art education provided by some one for a girl with talent, whose circumstances would not permit her to obtain one for herself; and she said that lena had become very much interested in an english girl, the daughter of the rector of a poor struggling church in the suburbs of the city, a girl with a very remarkable artistic talent; and that she and those little bradfords, on whose education and training horace and marion seem to base all their ideas respecting children--if, indeed, they have any ideas except those of the most unlimited indulgence and license--had set their hearts on winning this prize for that child. had it been brought about in any other way and without physical injury to herself, i should be glad that lena was removed from such competition. i highly disapprove of all such arrangements. children should be taught to seek improvement and to do their duty because it _is_ their duty, and not with the object of gaining some outside advantage either for themselves or others." "in this case, it certainly seems to have been for a praiseworthy, unselfish object. poor, dear little lena!" said russell, who was the only member of his family who ever ventured to set up his opinion in opposition to his mother's. "it is the principle of the thing i object to," she said, a little severely. "as i say, i wish my children to do right because it is right, and not with any ulterior object." "the inducement seemed to have one good effect, at least," persisted russell, with a slight shrug of his shoulders which was not, perhaps, altogether respectful, "and that was the wonderful improvement lena made in letter-writing; in the matter and manner, the style and the handwriting, she has certainly made rapid progress during the time she has been with miss ashton. do you not agree with me, father?" "ahem-m-m! yes, i do indeed," answered mr. neville, thinking of a little letter which lay snugly ensconced in his left-hand waistcoat pocket, a letter which had come by the same mail as that which his wife held in her hand, but which he had not thought fit to submit to her perusal. it was a letter thanking him for giving her the liberty of asking for anything she wished for--her choice had been that she might be allowed to remain at her uncle's house during the stay of the family in the country--a letter sweet, tender, and confiding, and giving him glimpses into the child's heart which were a revelation to him; a letter which had touched him deeply, but which he believed mrs. neville would call "gush" and "nonsense." and just now he did not care to have it so criticised, so he would not show it to his wife, at least at present. but before the subject of the conversation had changed, mrs. neville was called from the room, and mr. neville said to his son: "russell, i am feeling that i owe--ahem!--i owe some recognition--ahem!--to the almighty for the very signal mercies granted to us during the past few weeks, some thank-offering--and, ahem!--perhaps i owe some to lena, too. you, in a fair way of recovery; and, through lena's wonderful heroism, a frightful casualty averted; and now she herself doing far better than we had dared to hope. if the child is set upon giving an artist's education to this young countrywoman of our own, and your uncle horace thinks well of it,--perhaps it might give her pleasure to have the means of doing so. being now disabled it will be impossible for her to enter into farther competition with her schoolmates, and i wish her to have the pleasure of making the gift herself. what say you?" the idea met with unqualified approbation from his son; and not only this, but russell expressed a wish to join his father in his thank-offering. he was liberal and open-handed, this young man, and, having lately come of age and into possession of quite a fortune in his own right, he was ready to seize upon any opportunity of benefiting others out of his own means. he was a young man after maggie's and bessie's own hearts, and they would instantly have stamped him with the seal of their approval had they known of this most desirable characteristic. some little further conference on the matter ensued between the father and son, with the result that lena's eyes and heart had to-day been gladdened by the receipt of two checks of no inconsiderable amount--a fortune they seemed to her--the one from her father representing one thousand dollars, the other from russell for five hundred. they were enclosed in a letter from mr. neville to his little daughter, saying that they were to be appropriated to any charitable purpose which she might designate, subject to her uncle's approval--either for the use of the young artist, or, if she were likely to gain the instruction she required through the means of any of lena's schoolmates, for any good object which would gratify her. "it's worth all the burns," said the delighted lena to her uncle, when she had shown her prize to him and consulted him as to the best disposition of it. "the true martyr spirit," the colonel said later to his wife. "and she shows herself a wise and prudent little woman; for when we were discussing the matter she said she would wait to decide what should be done with the money until she knows if maggie or bessie or any one of those interested in gladys seabrooke wins the prize. she knows that mr. ashton's gift will go to gladys in that case; and then she wishes to devote the money to repairing the old church. if she were thirty instead of thirteen she could not show better judgment or more common sense." "i am glad that her father is learning to appreciate her at last," said mrs. rush, who, being very fond of children herself, deeply resented the keep-your-distance system and constant repression under which her husband's sister and brother-in-law brought up their family. so this was the prize which lena had to show to her young friends, this the story she had to tell. they, maggie and bessie, were enchanted in their turn, and as lena displayed to them the two magic slips of paper which held for them such wonderful possibilities, and which appeared as untold wealth to their eyes, they could not contain their delight and enthusiasm. "why, that will build a whole new church; will it not, uncle horace?" asked bessie, whose faith that her own maggie would win the prize was absolute, especially now that gracie howard seemed to have withdrawn from the contest, and that lena had been disabled, and who therefore never doubted that the rector's little daughter was sure of the gift tendered by mr. ashton. "well, hardly," said the colonel, smiling, as he laid aside the evening paper; "hardly, although it will go far towards making some of the repairs which are so much needed, and also towards beautifying the inside of the church a little. and i think that you must let me also have a hand in this, for i, too, have occasion for a thank-offering. so altogether, i hope we shall be able to put the little church into a fairly presentable condition; that is, in case you decide, lena, to use your funds for that purpose," he added, with the private resolve that the needy church should not be the loser even if the checks were applied to gladys seabrooke's benefit. she was the first object with all three children, that was plainly to be seen; but if it should fall out that the means of improvement she so much desired and so much needed were gained for her by mr. ashton's trust, then this small fortune was to be devoted to the church of which her father was rector. then, too, these young home missionaries intended to devote the proceeds of the fair they were to hold at easter to the help of the same church; so that altogether the prospect for its relief seemed to be promising. [illustration: "that will build a whole new church"] "i had a letter from russell, too, written by his own hand, the very first since he has been ill," said the happy lena. "oh! and i forgot; i had a letter from percy, too. i did not read it, i was so excited by papa's and russell's and the two checks. let me see; where is it? oh, here it is!" and she opened it; but seeing at a glance that it was unusually long, she decided that she would not try to decipher percy's irregular, illegible handwriting at that time, but would wait till maggie and bessie should have left her and would make the most of their society. poor little lena! her day was not to be all sunshine, for a cloud came over the heaven of her happiness before she laid her head upon her pillow that night. but this cast no shadow as yet, and the evening passed merrily to all three children. "i do wish that you could come to the club-meeting on friday, lena," said bessie, shortly before it was time for them to separate for the night. "so do i," said maggie. "i am sure that i wish it," said lena, "but i suppose it will be some weeks yet before i can go." mrs. rush, who was sitting near, overheard the little colloquy, and at once made a charming suggestion. "suppose," she said, "that you meet here till lena is well enough to go to your house, maggie. my morning room shall be at your service, as your mother's is at present." "oh, how good in you!" cried maggie and bessie, both in one breath, while lena's pale face flushed with gratitude and pleasure; and so the matter was arranged, maggie undertaking to tell all the members of the club of the change in the place of meeting. but, glancing at bessie, maggie saw that she looked somewhat perturbed, and she suddenly remembered what had passed with gracie howard that very afternoon, and that she had been urged to resume her accustomed place among the "cheeryble sisters," and had consented to do so. how would that do now? would lena feel like having gracie come here? gracie who had treated her so badly, who had shown such jealousy and unkindness towards her. this was rather a complication, and considering it, maggie became uneasy and embarrassed, and lena, who was very quick-sighted, saw it. "what is the matter, maggie?" she asked. "do you think you would rather not come here?" "oh, no!" answered maggie, "you know i always love to come here. but, lena, this afternoon we met gracie howard, and i begged her to come to the meeting to-morrow. she has not been since--since--the day--of the fire." the flush which pleasure at her aunt's offer had brought to lena's face deepened to crimson, which mounted to the very roots of her hair as she heard maggie. then after a moment's hesitation, she said, "will you ask her to come, maggie?" "yes," answered maggie, doubtfully, "i'll ask her." "but you think that she will not come?" said lena. "i am afraid she will not," answered maggie; then added, "i am sure i should not if i were in her place; i should be too ashamed. i think she is ashamed, lena, and sorry, too; i really do." lena seemed to be considering for a moment; then she said, evidently with a great effort,-- "do you think she would come if i wrote and asked her? i--i would do it if you thought she would be friends again. and, perhaps," she added, with a little pathetic wistfulness which nearly made the tears come to the eyes of the sympathetic maggie and bessie, "perhaps she would, now, after such a thing happened to me. do you know," sinking her voice to a whisper, and speaking with an unreserve which she never showed towards any one save these little friends, and seldom to them, "do you know that when they thought i was going to die--oh, i know that every one thought i was going to die--i used to feel so sorry for gracie, because we had that quarrel that very afternoon; and i knew how i should have felt if i had been in her place, and i used to wish that i could make up with her; and now i would really like to if she will. shall i write?" bessie, whose eyes were now brimming over, stooped and kissed her cheek; and maggie followed her example, as she answered, with a break in her own voice, "i don't see how she could help it, lena; you dear lena." maggie and bessie were not a little astonished, not only at this burst of confidence from the shy, reserved lena, but also at the feeling she expressed and her readiness to go more than half way in making advances for the healing of a breach in which she certainly had not been to blame. but in the border-land through which lena's little feet had lately trod, many and serious thoughts had come to her; thoughts of which those about her were all unconscious, as she lay seemingly inert and passive from exhaustion, except when pain forced complaint from her; and chief among these had been the recollection of the unpleasant relation which for some time had existed between herself and gracie howard, and which had culminated in the attack of jealousy and ill-temper which the latter had shown towards her on the very afternoon of the day in which lena had been so badly, almost fatally, injured in the fire. and lena herself, as has been said, had been altogether blameless in the affair, had no cause whatever for self-reproach; nevertheless, she had wished that she could have made friends with gracie before she died. but she had spoken to no one of this until now, when she thus opened her heart, at least in a measure, to maggie and bessie. knowing all that they did--and still neither they nor lena knew one-half of gracie's misconduct--what wonder was it that they were touched, and filled with admiration for this little friend who, a stranger only a few months since, had come to fill so large a place in their affection and interest. but maggie, feeling confident, as she said, that gracie was both ashamed and repentant, was also overjoyed at this opening towards a reconciliation; for her peace-loving soul could not abide dissension in any shape, and this breach between two members of the once harmonious club of the "cheeryble sisters" had been a sore trial to her. nor was bessie much less pleased; and thinking that there was no time like the present, and that it would be well that lena should act before she had opportunity to change her mind,--this showed that she did not know lena well, for having once made up her mind that a thing was right, lena was not more apt to change than she would have been herself,--she offered to bring writing materials, that the note might be written at once; and running into the library, where colonel rush was smoking his cigar, she begged for and received them. but even with those before her and her resolve firmly taken, lena found not a little embarrassment and difficulty in wording her note; for, owing to the state of affairs between her and gracie, it was not the easiest thing in the world for her to do. however, by maggie's advice, she resolved to write as though nothing unpleasant had passed between herself and gracie, and she finally produced the following simply-worded note, ignoring all that was disagreeable. "dear gracie, "aunt marion has said that i may have the 'cheeryble sisters,' club here to-morrow, and she says she will make it a little celebration for us because it is so long since i have been with you girls. please come, for i want to have all of you here. "your schoolmate, "lena h. neville." she hesitated over the manner of closing it, for she could not put "affectionately yours," as, although she was striving to put from her all hard thoughts of gracie, she certainly did not regard her with any affection, nor would she pretend to do so; for lena was a most determinately honest child and would never express, even in a conventional way, that which she did not feel. she even shocked maggie and bessie now and then, truthful and sincere as they were, by her extreme and uncompromising plain-speaking; and perhaps it was as well that she was a child of so few words, or she would often have given offence. maggie had suggested "truly yours," as being a common form even between strangers; but lena rejected that also as expressing a sentiment she did not feel, and bessie finally proposed "your schoolmate," which satisfied the requirements of both truth and civility. maggie and bessie posted the note on the way home, so that it might be sure to reach gracie early in the morning, and that, as bessie said, she might have "time to get over the shock of lena's forgiveness before she came to school." lena had been carried upstairs and safely deposited in her own room by starr; and hannah, the nurse of the young nevilles, had gone down-stairs to seek the food which it was still considered necessary for the little invalid to take before going to rest, when lena bethought herself of her brother percy's letter, still unopened in the excitement which had attended the receipt of the two from her father and russell. with a half-remorseful feeling that she had so long left it unnoticed, she broke the seal of percy's letter. but the first words on which her eyes lighted sent a pang to her heart, and as she heard hannah's heavy step returning, she thrust the letter hurriedly out of sight. "dear, dear, child!" said the old nurse, as she saw that lena's hand shook so that she could hardly hold the bowl of broth, or carry the spoon to her lips, and with some triumph in, as she believed, the fulfilment of her own prophecies, "dear, dear, you're hall hupset, miss lena. i told the mistress and i told the doctor you wasn't in no state to go downstairs yet, or worse still, to be 'avin' company, not if it was miss maggie and miss bessie, leastways not hout of your hown room. 'ere, let me 'old the basin; you're not fit to do it. there now, here, child,--why, bless your 'eart, miss lena, what is it?" poor little girl! she was still so weak, so nervous from the effects of the frightful experience through which she had lately passed, and of all the consequent suffering, that she was in no state to bear even the slightest shock or excitement. had hannah not noticed her agitation she would probably have controlled herself; but the questions and pressing of the old servant were too much for her, and she burst into a flood of hysterical tears. she retained sufficient presence of mind, however, when hannah ran to the door to call her assistant, who was in the next room, to open the drawer of the table by which she sat, and shut the letter within. no one must see that letter until she had had time to read it, and find what those first few sentences meant. letitia was sent by hannah for mrs. rush, who speedily came; and, knowing no other cause, she believed, as the servants did, that this came from all the excitement of the day, and that they would have to be more guarded with their little convalescent. she soothed and petted her, mingling therewith a little judicious firmness, till lena's sobs ceased and she was comfortably settled in bed, where she soon forgot both joys and troubles in the sleep of exhaustion. "well!" said mrs. rush, when she had left her patient in hannah's care and rejoined her husband, "this puts an end to the project of having the children's club here to-morrow. we have gone too fast, and now prove that lena is not so strong and cannot bear so much as we thought. i must at once send word to maggie and bessie." chapter iii. lena's secret. when mrs. rush came up a couple of hours later to inquire about her little niece, she found her still in that heavy sleep; and with directions to hannah to call her if needful, left her, with the hope that she would rest undisturbed till morning. when lena woke from that dull sleep some time after midnight, all the house was still; the only sound she heard was the regular breathing of hannah, who slept on a cot on the other side of the room, that she might be near in case lena needed anything in the night. she roused to a bewildered half-consciousness of something unusual; what was it, good or ill? what had happened before she went to sleep? then came the recollection of those delightful letters from papa and russell, confiding to her disposal those precious slips of paper which represented so much; oh! what a pleasure it was to have the power of doing so much good; then with a shock came the remembrance of that other letter, and those two or three first lines, which seemed to have burned themselves upon her eyes as she read. "dear lena, "i am in the most awful scrape any one was ever in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. if you can't, there is nothing for me but to be arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family too, and the--" this was as far as lena had read when hannah's returning footsteps had impelled her to put the letter out of sight; but it had been enough in her weak state to startle her out of her self-control, and it has been seen what a shock it gave her. "arrested" had a terrible significance to lena. not very long before mrs. neville's family had left home, lena had seen a boy, about her brother percy's age, arrested in the streets of london. he had been taken up for some grave misdemeanor, and having violently resisted his captors, they had found it necessary to handcuff him, and when lena saw him he was being forced along between two policemen, still fiercely struggling, and with his face and hands covered with blood. the sight had made a dreadful impression upon the little girl, and when she heard the word "arrested" it always came back to her with painful force. had it been maggie or bessie, or any other child whose relations with her mother were as tender and confiding as are usually those between mothers and daughters, the impression might have been lessened by learning that such a sight was not a usual one, and that people when arrested were not apt to resist as desperately as the unhappy youth whom she had seen; but not being accustomed to go to mrs. neville with her joys or troubles, lena had kept her disagreeable experience to herself and supposed it all to be the necessary consequence of an arrest, and percy's words had conjured up at once all manner of dreadful possibilities. in imagination she saw him dragged along the streets in the horrible condition of the criminal she had seen, and the whole family covered with shame and disgrace. percy was four years older than lena, but had not half his young sister's strength of character, judgment or good sense, and he was, unfortunately, afflicted with that fatal incapacity for saying no, which brings so much trouble upon its victims. he was selfish, too; not with a deliberate selfishness, but with a heedless disregard for the welfare and comfort of others, which was often as trying as if he purposely sought first his own good. he would not have told a falsehood, would not have denied any wrong-doing of which he had been guilty, if taxed with it; but he would not scruple to conceal that wrong, or to evade the consequences thereof, by any means short of a deliberate untruth. his faults were those with which his father and mother had the least patience and sympathy, and those which needed a large share of both; had he ever received these, the faults would probably never have attained to such a growth, for he was in mortal dread of both parents, especially of his mother, and this, of course, had tended to foster the weakness of his character. poor lena lay wakeful but quiet for hours, wondering and wondering what could be the matter, and what those terrifying words with which percy's letter commenced could portend. and she, he wrote, was "the only one who could help him." she wished vainly for the letter, that she might know the worst at once; but she had no means of reaching it at present. her feet could not yet bear to be touched to the ground, and she dared not wake hannah and ask for it. such an unusual request at this time of night would arouse wonder and surmise, even if hannah could be induced to bring her the letter and give her sufficient light to read it. the old nurse would think her crazy or delirious, perhaps run and call her aunt and uncle. no, no; that was not to be thought of, the poor child said to herself as she lay and reasoned this all out; she must wait till the day came, and then she must contrive to read the letter when she was alone. then she could decide whether or no it would do to take colonel and mrs. rush into her confidence. she could not bear to think of keeping anything from this kind uncle and aunt, who had shown themselves so ready to enter into all her joys and sorrows, who took such an interest--so novel to her--in all her duties, her occupations, and amusements; who, with a genuine love for young people, were at no little pains to provide her with every pleasure suitable for her. but--percy--she must think of him first. oh, if she only knew all that was in that dreadful letter! but at last she fell asleep again, sleeping late and heavily, far beyond the usual hour. when she awoke, she insisted upon being taken up and dressed, although her aunt and nurse would fain have persuaded her to lie still and rest; and that done, her object was to obtain possession of percy's letter without attracting attention to it. being totally unaccustomed to anything like manoeuvring or planning, she could think of no excuse by which she might have the table brought near her chair, or the chair rolled near the table. the maids thought her remarkably fractious and whimsical and hard to please, but laid it all to the reaction from last night's hysterical attack. do what she would, she could not contrive, poor helpless child, to come at the drawer of the table unless she spoke out plainly, which she could not do, and she had been wheeled into the nursery before the opportunity offered. but here she found the way opened to her. hannah, who would let no one else attend to her young lady's meals when they were taken upstairs, departed for lena's breakfast; and after she had gone, lena speedily bethought herself of a way of procuring letitia's absence for a while by sending her down-stairs with directions for some change in her bill of fare. then calling her little sister elsie, who was playing about the nursery, she sent her into her own room, bidding her open the table drawer and bring her the letter she would find there. elsie, a demure, sedate little damsel, who always did as she was told and was a pattern child after mrs. neville's own heart, discharged her commission and came back with the letter, which she handed to her sister without asking any inconvenient questions, and returned to her dolls in the corner. lena ventured to open the letter, knowing that hannah, at least, was sure to be absent for some moments yet, and sure that letitia, who was a dull, unobserving girl, would take no notice. she felt that she could wait no longer. there was a few moments' silence in the room; elsie, absorbed in her quiet play, took no heed to her sister; letitia did not return, having stopped on her way back to the nursery to gossip with one of mrs. rush's maids; and lena read on undisturbed, read to the very end of the letter. then she spoke to elsie again, spoke in a voice so changed from its natural tone that the little one looked up in surprise. "what's the matter, lena?" she asked, coming to her sister's side; "is your throat sore? oh!" scanning her curiously, "did something frighten you?" lena did not heed either question. "elsie," she said, still in that strained voice, as if it were an effort to speak, "put this in the fire, away far back in the fire." "why, lena!" answered the child, "i'm forbidden to go near the fire. did you forget that?" lena thought a moment, then said, with a strong effort for self-control, and still in that same measured tone: "then go in my room and open the small right-hand compartment of my writing-desk and put this letter in it and shut the door tight, tight again, and lock it and bring me the key. quick, elsie." but again, influenced by conscientious scruples, elsie objected. "i 'spect hannah wouldn't like me to go in your room so much, lena; the windows are all open. she didn't say don't go in there, but i 'spect she thinked it, 'cause she always says don't go where the windows are open." for the first time in her life lena condescended to something like cajolery. "and you will not do that for your poor sister who cannot walk?" she asked, reproachfully. "oh, yes, yes; and burned herself for me to save me out the fire," exclaimed elsie, throwing her arms about lena, "i don't care if hannah does scold me; i'd just as lief be scolded for you. but your voice is so queer, lena; you must be thirsty for your breakfast." taking the letter from her sister's hand, the child turned to obey her request, but was again assailed by doubts as to the course of duty. "if hannah or letitia come, shall i tell them to put it away?" she asked. "no, no!" answered lena, sharply; then feeling that she must take the child, at least in a measure, into her confidence, she added, hurriedly, "hannah is not to see it. no one is to see it, no one; and you are not to speak of it, elsie. go now, quickly, and put it in the secretary." rather startled by her voice and manner, the little one obeyed and returned to lena's room with the letter. but now she fell into difficulties. the door of the compartment into which lena had told her to put the letter was hard to open; it stuck, and elsie vainly struggled with it, for it would not yield. meanwhile letitia, hearing hannah come up from the kitchen, had hurriedly returned to her post of duty. she exclaimed on finding the door between the rooms open and a draught of cold air sweeping through, and hastening to shut it, discovered elsie still struggling with the door of the little closet. "well, did i ever!" exclaimed the nursery-maid. "you here in this cold draught, miss elsie; an' what'll hannah say, i wonder?" "i want to put this in here, and i can't open this door," said the loyal little soul, refraining from shifting the blame from her own shoulders, by saying that she had come on lena's errand. letitia went to her assistance, but the door was still obstinate, and before the letter was hidden it was made plain "what hannah would say;" for the old nurse came bustling in in a transport of indignation at finding elsie exposed to the risk of taking cold, for she was a very delicate child. she rated both her little charge and her assistant in no measured terms, especially the latter, who, as she said, "had not even had the sense to put down the windows on the child." she snatched the letter from elsie's hand, the little girl repeating what she wanted to do with it, and bidding her at once to go back to the other room, gave a violent pull to the small door, which proved more successful than the efforts of her predecessors. "what's all this fuss about putting the letter away, anyway?" she said, glancing at the unlucky document. "bless me, if t'aint from master percy, an' to miss lena! well, an' she never saying a word of it. what's she so secret habout it for?" now hannah's chief stumbling-block was a most inordinate curiosity, and once aroused on the subject of that letter, was not likely to be laid to rest until it had received some satisfaction. she turned the letter over and over, scrutinizing it narrowly; but there was nothing to be learned from the address or the post-mark farther than that it was certainly from percy, whose handwriting she well knew. had she dared she would have opened it; but that was a thing upon which even she scarcely ventured, autocrat though she was within the nursery dominions. also, lena was rather beyond her rule since the neville family had come to colonel rush's house. elsie had lost no time in escaping from the storm which her seeming imprudence had evoked, and the nursery maid had followed; the little girl reporting to her sister that hannah had taken the letter from her and was putting it away. poor lena found her precautions of no avail, and she knew hannah well enough to feel sure that she would be subjected to the closest questioning. she must brave it out now, and she forced herself to face it. "_i_ sent elsie in there; it was my fault, not hers," she said, throwing down the gauntlet with an air of defiance which rather astonished hannah. "you know she oughtn't to go in that cold hair," said hannah, sharply. "and why for couldn't you wait till me or letitia came to put by your letter if you _was_ in 'aste habout it? there," mollified by the look in the beautiful dark eyes, now so unnaturally large and pathetic through illness and suffering, which lena turned piteously upon her without answering, "there, there, child; never mind now. heat your breakfast, my dear, for you look quite spent and worn out. ye've got a setback by yesterday's doin's that'll last a week. come, now, miss lena, take this nice chicken an' put a bit of strength into you." and the old woman bustled about, displaying to the best advantage the dainty breakfast she had brought to tempt the appetite of her young charge. but lena could not eat; she was still too sick at heart, and seeing this, hannah connected it with the letter. "you 'av'n't 'ad hany bad news, miss lena?" she suddenly asked, as she bade letitia remove the tray with its contents almost untouched. "master percy--none of 'em isn't hill?" "no, no," answered lena, replying to the latter question and ignoring the former. "i have not heard that any one was ill. letitia," in a tone of imperious command, very unusual with her when speaking to a servant, "hand me that book--and--hannah--let me alone." hannah was now indeed dumb with amazement, and her suspicions were more than ever aroused. there was something wrong with percy; he might not be ill--he was sure not to be if the absolutely truthful lena denied it, but he was in some trouble, and she would not rest until she found it out. percy was, of all her nurslings, hannah's favorite, perhaps for the very reason that the instability of his character had so often led him into scrapes in which she had shielded and helped him. he had, in his childhood, frequently escaped punishment by her connivance, and it was her theory that "the poor boy was put upon" more than any of the others. now he had been sent away to school, while the rest were enjoying the unwonted liberty and pleasures of their uncle's house; and her affectionate old heart was often sore within her as she pondered over the wrongs she fancied he endured. she was not over-scrupulous as to the means she took to avert the consequences of misdoing from percy, or any other one of the flock whom she had nursed from earliest babyhood; but so guarded was she that mrs. neville had never suspected her of anything like double-dealing, or assuredly her reign in the nursery would soon have come to an end. that she was right in her surmises she became more and more convinced as she watched lena and saw that though she kept her eyes fixed upon the open book in her lap, she never turned a leaf. it was evidently to avoid observation and to have a pretext for keeping quiet that she had taken the book. then, by dint of adroit questioning of the other servants, she managed to ascertain, without letting them know that anything was wrong, that no letters had been carried to lena that morning, but that starr had handed her three on the previous afternoon. lena had spoken of two of these, her papa's and russell's, had told the old nurse what treasures they contained, but she had said nothing of the other, percy's. hannah guessed the truth when she surmised that in the excitement over the first two, lena had forgotten percy's and opened it later. "when she'd come up to bed last night! i see, i see," the nurse said to herself. percy was surely in some difficulty again, and both he and lena were trying to hide it; but she would leave no means untried to discover what it was. mrs. rush was quite shocked at lena's looks when she came up to see her, and so was the colonel in his turn, and lena found it very difficult to parry their questions, and to appear even comparatively unembarrassed and at her ease in their presence. they both positively vetoed any attempt at coming down-stairs to-day, or the reception of any visitors; and, indeed, lena had no inclination for either, but was quite content to accept their verdict that she must keep absolutely quiet and try to recover from the over-excitement of yesterday. she did not wish to see any one; even maggie and bessie would not have been welcome visitors now when that dreadful secret was weighing upon her, and as for going down-stairs she had no desire to do so; she wanted to remain as near as might be to the fatal letter, would have insisted upon being carried back to her own room had she not feared it would occasion wonder. she was half frantic, too, about the key of the compartment of the secretary. hannah had not brought it to her, and she dared not ask for it. oh, how miserable it was to be so helpless with so much at stake! not to be able even to touch one's feet to the ground to go to find out if the key were still in the lock, the letter safe in the secretary. her apprehensions were of the vaguest, for there was no reason that any one should go to her secretary without permission, and she had no cause to suspect that any one would do so, and thus she reasoned with herself; but had she known it, they were not without cause, for hannah had resolved that she would find out what that letter contained. it must be said for her that although her curiosity was greatly aroused, she was actuated chiefly by her affection for percy, and the desire to rescue him from any trouble into which he might have fallen. an opportunity was not long in presenting itself, for when the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived, hannah made a plausible errand into lena's room and secured the letter. having gained her object the dishonorable old woman found the agitation of her invalid charge amply accounted for. she carried the letter to a place where she could read it undisturbed and free from observation, and make herself mistress of its contents; then returned to lena's room and put the letter in the place whence she had taken it. but hannah's face was very pale, and she was most unusually quiet all that day, falling into fits of abstraction as if her thoughts were far away. she was more tender than ever with lena, knowing now too well the trouble which was weighing upon the heart and spirits of the sensitive young sister, and secretly sharing it with her. hour after hour she pondered upon ways and means for relieving her favorite from the trouble into which his own folly and weakness had led him, and how she might do so without betraying either this or her own shameless conduct in possessing herself of the secret. chapter iv. percy. percy neville had been placed by his parents at a small private school where only twelve pupils were taken, and where they intended he should be, as mrs. neville said, "under the strictest personal supervision." the school had been chosen not only on this account, but also because the principal was an englishman, and had formerly been tutor in a school which mr. neville had attended when a boy. only two of the masters and tutors resided in the school, one of them being a young man of the name of seabrooke, who was half tutor, half scholar, giving his services for such lessons as he took. he was a youth of uncommon talent, studious and steady, and much thought of by dr. leacraft and the other masters. six of the twelve pupils were in one dormitory under charge of this young man; the other six in another, in the care of mr. merton. had dr. leacraft but known it, just the opposite arrangement would have been advisable, as the half-dozen boys in mr. merton's room were a much more steady set than those in young seabrooke's. seabrooke himself had little idea of the lawlessness which reigned in the quarters under his charge; he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and all manner of pranks were carried on at night without rousing him. the leader of these escapades was a boy of the name of flagg, utterly without principle or sense of honor; but plausible, and, being quick at his studies, making a fair show with his masters. over percy neville this boy had acquired a most undesirable influence, and led him into many pranks and violations of rules which were little suspected by the authorities. poor percy, weak, vacillating, and utterly without resolution or firmness of character, was easily led astray, although his conscience, his judgment, and his sense of truth were often offended by the wrong-doing into which he suffered himself to be persuaded. about a mile from the school lived a man of the name of rice, who kept boats, fishing-tackle and one or two horses which he let out; while back of his place was a small lake which afforded good fishing in the summer and excellent skating in the winter. his house was not a gambling or drinking place, at least not avowedly so; but some rather questionable doings had taken place there, and the spot was one absolutely forbidden to the scholars of dr. leacraft's school. nevertheless, some of the wilder spirits were in the habit of going there when they could do so without risk of discovery; and they also employed rice to procure for them such articles as were tabooed and which they could not purchase for themselves. lewis flagg was one of his most constant customers, and he had gradually drawn every one of the boys in his dormitory into various infringements of regulations. he had found percy an easy victim, and by degrees had drawn him on from bad to worse, until he had brought him to a pass where he was afraid to rebel lest lewis should reveal his former misdoings, as he threatened to do. within the last few weeks it had been the practice of the six boys in seabrooke's dormitory to slip out of the window at night upon the roof of the porch, thence by the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to rice's house, where a hot supper, previously ordered, awaited them. this flagrant violation of rules and order had taken place several times, and, so far, thanks to seabrooke's heavy slumbers, had not yet been discovered. about this time a hard frost of several days duration had made the skating unusually good; and there was no place within miles of the school so pleasant or so favorable for that pastime as rice's pond. tempted by this, all the boys under dr. leacraft's care had signed a petition, asking that they might be allowed to go upon this pond if they would promise not to go into the house. an hour or two after this petition had been sent in, but before it had received an answer, a telegram came to the doctor calling him to harvard, to his only son, who had been dangerously hurt. the boys were all assembled at the time for recitation to the doctor, and rising in his place he made known the subject of the despatch, and then said: "in answer to the request which i have just received from you, young gentlemen, i must return a positive negative. my reasons for forbidding you to go near rice's place have lately been given additional force, and, although i cannot take time to mention them now, i must request, i must absolutely _forbid_ each and every one of you from going in the neighborhood of rice's house or rice's pond. i cannot tell how long i may be away; meanwhile the school will be left under the charge of mr. merton and mr. seabrooke, and i trust that you will all prove yourselves amenable to their authority, and that i shall receive a good report. i leave by the next train. good-bye." the doctor's face was pale and his voice was husky, as he bade them farewell, dreading what might have come to him before he should see them again. he was gone in another moment, and in half an hour had left the house. dr. leacraft was a kind, a just, and a lenient master, granting to his pupils all the indulgence and privileges consistent with good discipline, and the more reasonable among the boys felt that he must have just cause for this renewed and emphatic prohibition against rice's place. but lewis flagg and his followers were not reasonable, and many and deep, though not loud, were the murmurs at his orders. lewis' boon companions saw from the expression of his eye that he meditated rebellion and disobedience even while the doctor was speaking; and percy neville and one or two others resolved that they would refuse to share in them. nor were they mistaken. no sooner were the six choice spirits alone together than lewis unfolded a plan for "a spree" for the following night. the moon was about at the full, and his proposal was that they should leave the house in the manner they had done more than once before, by means of the window and the root of the porch, go to rice's and have a supper, which was to be previously ordered, and afterwards a moonlight skate on the lake. "rip van winkle will never wake," said flagg, "not if you fire a cannon-ball under his bed, and we'll be back and in our places and have a good morning nap before he suspects a thing." but some of the better disposed among the boys demurred, fresh as they were from the doctor's late appeal to them, and their knowledge of the sad errand upon which he had gone; and foremost among them was percy neville. "i don't know," he said, doubtfully, when lewis flagg unfolded his plan. "i don't know. isn't it rather shabby after what the doctor said to us? and--you know--dick leacraft might be dying--might be dead--they say he's awfully hurt--and we wouldn't like to think about it afterwards if we were breaking rules when the doctor--" but the expression upon flagg's face stopped him. "hear the sentiment of him!" sneered the bad, reckless boy; "just hear the sentiment of him! who'd have thought neville was such a miss nancy, such a coward? but you're going if the rest go, for we're all in the same box and have got to stand by one another--none are going to be left behind to make a good thing for themselves if anything does leak out." "i shouldn't, you know i shouldn't say a word!" ejaculated percy, indignantly. "no, i don't believe you would," said flagg; "but we can't have any left behind. one in for it, all in for it. pluck up your courage and come along, percy. if you don't,"--meaningly--"you and i'll have some old scores to settle." this threat, which meant that former misdeeds and infringements of rules would be betrayed by lewis if percy did not yield, took effect, as it had done more than once before; and percy agreed to join in the prohibited sport. he had not the strength, the moral courage, to tell lewis that cowardice and weakness lay in that very yielding, in the fear which led him into new sin sooner than to face the consequences of former misdeeds,--misdeeds more venial than that now proposed. it was not the doctor of whom percy stood in such awe half so much as his parents, especially his mother. it is more than possible that he would have gone to the former and made confession of past offences rather than continue in such bondage as flagg now maintained over him; but he could not or would not face the displeasure of his father and mother, or the consequences which were likely to follow. leniency, or a tender compassion for their faults, were not looked for by any of the neville children; when these were discovered they must be prepared to bide the fullest penalty. "i don't know about seabrooke." said raymond stewart. "he has not slept as soundly as usual these last few nights. i've been awake myself so much with the toothache, and i know that he has been restless and wakeful; and he might chance to rouse up at the wrong time and find us going or gone." "he's seemed to have something on his mind and to be uneasy in the daytime, too," said another boy, "and he's been so eager for the mail, as if he were expecting something more than usual. he's everlastingly writing, too, every chance he finds." "oh, he fancies he has literary talent," said flagg, "and he's forever sending off the results of his labors. i suppose he expects to turn out an author and to become famous and a shining mark." "the doctor says he will be," said raymond, "and i know that one or two of his pieces have been accepted by the magazines and paid for, too. i saw them myself in a magazine at home. it must be a great thing for a fellow who has his own way to make in the world, as seabrooke has. i know his family are as poor as rats. his father is rector of a little shabby church just out of the city, and i know they have hard work to get along. you know seabrooke teaches for his own schooling." "i'll see that he sleeps sound enough not to interfere with us to-morrow night," said lewis flagg. "leave that to me." he spoke confidently; but to all the questions of the other boys as to how he was to bring about this result, he turned a deaf ear. but he succeeded in bringing every one of his five schoolmates to his own way of thinking, or, at least, to agreeing to join in the proposed expedition; and his arrangements were carried on without any further demur openly expressed from them. seabrooke was in the habit of taking a generous drink of water every night the last thing before he retired. on the evening of the following day, and that for which the aforesaid frolic had been planned, lewis flagg might have been found in the dormitory at a very unusual hour; and had there been any one there to see, he might have been observed to shake the contents of a little paper, a fine white powder, into the water carafe which stood filled upon the wash-stand in seabrooke's alcove. then, with the self-satisfied air of one who has accomplished a great feat, he stole from the room and back to his schoolmates. "seems to me seabrooke has been uncommonly chirk and chipper this evening," said charlie denham, when the boys had gone to their rooms, as their masters supposed-for the night. "yes, he had a letter by the evening mail which seemed to set him up wonderfully," said raymond. "i hope it has eased his mind of whatever was on it so that he won't be wakeful to-night." "oh, he'll sleep sound enough, i'll warrant you," said lewis flagg, with a meaning laugh. ensconced in bed, every boy fully dressed, but with other clothes so arranged as to deceive an unsuspecting observer into the belief that all was as usual, they waited the time when seabrooke should be asleep. the young tutor's alcove was not within the range of lewis' vision, but percy from his bed could see all that went on there, and he lay watching seabrooke. as usual, at the last moment the latter poured out a glass of water and proceeded to drink it down; but he had not taken half of it when he paused, and percy saw him hold it up to the light, smell it, taste of it again and then set the glass down, still more than two-thirds full. harley seabrooke had no mental cause for restlessness that night; the evening mail had, as raymond said, brought him that which had lifted a load of suspense and anxiety from his mind, and he was unusually light-hearted and at ease. his head was scarcely upon his pillow when he was asleep, but not so very sound asleep, for flagg had over-shot his mark, and the sleeping potion which he had so wickedly put into the carafe of water had given it a slightly bitter taste, so that seabrooke had found it disagreeable and had not drank the usual quantity, and the close he had taken was not sufficient to stupefy him, but rather to render him wakeful as soon as it began to act. believing themselves safe as soon as they heard his regular breathing, the six conspirators slipped from their beds out of the window upon the roof of the piazza, and thence down the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to rice's. hardly had they gone when seabrooke, on whom the intended anodyne began to have an exciting effect, awoke, and lay tossing for more than an hour. weary of this, he rose at last, intending to read awhile to see if it would render him sleepy; but as he drew the curtain before his alcove, in order to shield the light from the eyes of the companions whom he supposed to be safe in their beds fast asleep, he was struck with the unusual silence of the room. not a rustle, not a breath was to be heard, although he listened for some moments. he could hardly have told why, but he was impressed with the idea that he was entirely alone, and striking a light, he stepped out into the main room and went to the nearest bed. empty! and so with each one in succession. not a boy was there! remembering the petition to dr. leacraft and the resentment which his refusal to accede to it had provoked, it did not take him long to surmise whither they had gone; and hastily dressing himself he made his exit from the house in the same way that they had done and hastened in the same direction, filled with indignation at such flagrant disobedience and treachery at a time when the doctor was in such trouble. the runaways had had what they called a "jolly supper" and were in the hall of rice's house donning great-coats and mufflers before going out upon the lake, when the outer door was opened, and percy, who stood nearest, saw seabrooke. his exclamation of dismay drew the attention of all, and the delinquents, one and all, felt themselves, as percy afterwards said, "regularly caught." "you will go home at once, if you please," was all the young tutor said; but, taken in the very act of rebellion to the head master's orders, not one ventured to dispute the command. he marshalled them all before him, and the party walked solemnly home, five, at least, thoroughly shamefaced. "don't you feel sneaky?" whispered raymond to lewis flagg. "no" answered the other; "i'm not the one to feel sneaky. i haven't been spying and prying and trapping other fellows." but this bravado did not make the others easy. seabrooke made his captives enter by the way in which they had left, so that the rest of the household might not be disturbed, and ordered them at once to bed. "what are you going to do about this?" lewis asked. "report to mr. merton in the morning; and then write to the doctor, i presume, as mr. merton's hand is too lame for him to write. it will be as he thinks best," answered seabrooke, dryly. "i do not wish to talk about the matter now." contrary to his usual custom, lewis flagg did not attempt to treat lightly and as a matter of no consequence the displeasure of his masters, but seemed depressed and restless the next morning, and percy remarked upon it. "you'd be cut up too if you were in my place," said lewis, roughly; "you're only afraid of your father and mother and the doctor; and you see i've been in a lot of scrapes this term and been awfully unlucky about being found out, and my uncle threatened to stop my allowance if he caught me in another, and he'll do it, too; and i've lots of debts out--a big one to rice--and you know what the doctor is about debt, and my uncle is still worse; there'll be no end of a row if he knows it. if this fuss could only be kept quiet till after i have my next quarter-and that's due the first of next week--i could pay off rice, at least. but if word goes to the doctor, he'll let my uncle know--he promised to, by special request," he added, bitterly. "uncle will make ten times more row over my debts than he will over one lark, and i promised rice he should have his money next week. i'm in awfully deep with him, percy, and i don't dare let it be found out. we'll see what old merton says this morning. but--the doctor sha'n't hear of it just yet if i can help it." percy wondered how he _could_ help it; but before he could ask the question the school-bell rang and the boys took their places. after school was opened, mr. merton rose, and, with what lewis called "threatening looks" at the delinquents, said, quietly: "young gentlemen of mr. seabrooke's dormitory, it is hardly necessary to say that this evening's mail will carry to dr. leacraft an account of last night's flagrant misconduct. till i hear from him, i shall take no further steps, save to request that you will not go outside the house without either myself or mr. seabrooke in attendance." lewis flagg was a bright scholar, and so far as recitations went, maintained his standing in the class with the best; but to-day he was far below his usual mark, and his attention constantly wandered; and most of his fellow culprits were in like case. in view of the escapade of the previous night and its impending consequences, that was hardly to be wondered at; but lewis was wont to make light of such matters, and he was evidently taking this more seriously than usual. but the truth was that this did not rise from shame or regret--at least not from a saving repentance--but because he was absorbed in trying to find a way out of his difficulties. mr. merton was suffering from acute rheumatism in his right hand, and being disabled from writing, he had, after consultation with his junior, delegated him to make the necessary disclosures to the absent doctor. seabrooke was observed to be doing a great deal of writing that afternoon, and was supposed to be giving a full account of the affair. the letters to be taken out were always put into a basket upon the hall table, whence they were taken and carried to the post-office at the proper hour by the chore-boy of the school. here, lewis thought, lay his opportunity. drawing percy aside again, he said that seabrooke's letter to the doctor must be taken from the basket before tony carried all away, and be kept back for a day or two; then it could be posted and nothing more would be suspected than that it had been belated. meanwhile his allowance would arrive, and then dr. leacraft was welcome to know all the particulars of the escapade. percy was startled and shocked, and at first refused to have any part in the matter; but the old threat brought him to terms, and he at last agreed to lewis' plans that they should contrive to abstract seabrooke's letter to dr. leacraft from among the others laid ready for the post, and keep it back until lewis' allowance had been received. but although the two boys made various errands to the hall, they found no opportunity of carrying out their dishonorable purpose before tony had started on his round of afternoon duties, taking with him the letters for the post. scarcely had he disappeared when mr. merton said to the six culprits: "young gentlemen, you will go for afternoon exercise to walk with mr. seabrooke. the cold will prevent me from venturing out," touching the crippled right-arm, which lay in a sling, "or i should not trust you from beneath my own eyes; but if i hear of any farther misconduct, or you give him any trouble, there will be greater restrictions placed upon you, and there will be another chapter to add to the sad account which has already gone to the doctor." "dr. leacraft will be tired before he comes to a second volume of the thing seabrooke has written to him," flagg whispered to percy, as they started together for the walk under seabrooke's care. "did you see him writing and writing page after page? he must have given him every detail, and made the most of it. and he fairly gloated over it; looked as pleased as punch while he was doing it; never saw him look so happy." "i'm likely to lose my easter vacation, and dear knows what else for this," said percy, who was exceedingly low in his mind over the consequences of his lawlessness. "i'll have worse than that," answered lewis. "i wouldn't mind that; but if my quarter's allowance is stopped i don't know what i _shall_ do. oh, if i only could get hold of that letter!" percy made no response; for, much as he dreaded to have this affair come to the knowledge of his parents, he shrank from the thought of abstracting and destroying that letter. seabrooke had not much reason to enjoy his walk that afternoon if he had depended upon his company; his charge were all sulky and depressed; but, somewhat to their exasperation, their young leader did not pay much heed to their humors; his own thoughts seemed sufficient for him; and, to judge by the light in his eye and his altogether satisfied expression, these were pleasant society. "seabrooke's been awfully cock-a-hoop all clay," said raymond stewart; "wonder what's up with him." "he's glad we're in a scrape," said lewis, bitterly. "don't believe it," said raymond; "that's not like him." seabrooke led the way to the village store, a sort of _omnium-gatherum_ place, as village stores are apt to be, and which contained also the post-office. entering, the party found tony there before them, the letters he had carried from the school lying on the counter; for there were several small parcels and newspapers which would not go into the receiving box, and the post-mistress was sorting the afternoon up mail, and the delivery window of the office was closed; so tony was waiting his chance for attention. he stood with his back to the counter, examining some coal shovels, having received orders to buy one. seabrooke was at the other side of the store, making some purchases; the rest of the boys scattered here and there. "he hasn't put the letters in the box yet; now's our chance," whispered lewis to percy, and he sauntered up to the counter where the letters lay, drawing the reluctant percy with him. with a hasty glance at the letters, he snatched up the bulky one which he believed to be that to dr. leacraft, gave another quick look at the address and thrust it within his pocket; then, humming a tune, he walked leisurely away with an air of innocent unconcern, still with his arm through that of percy. "that was good luck, wasn't it?" he said. "now we'll keep it till my allowance comes and then post it." seabrooke and the six boys had just reached the door of the school, when tony rushed up to the young tutor, and said, hurriedly: "mr. seabrooke, sir, did you take that letter you told me to be particular of?" "no," said seabrooke, turning hastily. "you haven't lost it?" "i couldn't find it, sir," faltered the boy; "but i know i had it when i passed the bridge, for i was lookin' at it and rememberin' what you told me about it." seabrooke waited for no more, but darted off upon the road back to the village, followed by tony. "we're in a fix, now," whispered lewis to percy, "if there's going to be a row about that letter. isn't he the meanest fellow in the world to be so set upon having the doctor knowing about last night? percy, i'll tell you what! we've got to put the letter out of the way now. and there's old merton coming, and he's asking for me. quick, quick; take it!" drawing the stolen letter from his pocket and thrusting it into percy's unwilling hands. "put it in the stove, quick, quick! there's no one to see; no one will suspect! quick now, while i go to mr. merton and keep him back. you're not fit to meet him: why, man, you're as pale as a ghost." and lewis was gone, meeting mr. merton in the hall without. with not a moment for thought, save one of terror lest he should be found with the missing letter in his hand, percy opened the door of the stove, thrust the letter within upon the glowing coals, and closed the door again, leaving it to its fate, a speedy and entire destruction, accomplished in an instant. an hour passed; the supper gong had sounded and the boys had taken their places at the table, when seabrooke returned, pale as death, and with compressed lips and stern eyes. mr. merton, who was extremely near-sighted, did not observe his appearance as he took his seat, but the boys all noticed it. "i have not seen it," or, "i have not found it," was all the response he had to make to the inquiries of, "have you heard anything of your letter?" and so forth. "have you lost a letter, harley?" asked mr. merton, at length, his attention being attracted. "yes, sir," answered seabrooke. "how was that? was it a letter of importance?" asked the gentleman, "yes, sir, a letter of importance, a letter to my father," answered his junior, but in a tone which told the older man that he did not care to be questioned further on that subject. to his father! percy's fork dropped from his hand with a clatter upon his plate, and lewis' face took an expression of blank dismay which, fortunately for him, no one observed. his father! had they then run all this risk, been guilty of this meanness, only to delay, to destroy a letter to seabrooke's father, while that to the doctor, exposing their delinquencies, had gone on its way unmolested. chapter v. robbing the mail. "neville and flagg, i want to speak to you. will you come into the junior recitation-room?" said seabrooke, as soon after supper as he could find opportunity of speaking apart to the two terrified culprits. fain would the guilty boys have refused, but they dared not; and they followed seabrooke to the place indicated, where he closed the door and, turning, confronted them. "lewis flagg and percy neville," he said, sternly, and his voice seemed to carry as much weight and authority as that of dr. leacraft himself when he had occasion to administer some severe reproof, "i suppose that you are striving to annoy me in this manner in revenge for my detection of your deliberate infringement of rules last night, but your tricks have recoiled upon your own heads, although even now i will spare you any farther disgrace and punishment if you will make restitution at once, for you do not know the extent of the crime of which you have been guilty. robbing the mail is an offence which is punished by heavy penalties. you, lewis, were seen to take a letter from among those which tony carried to the post-office; you, percy, standing by and not interfering, even if you were not aiding and abetting. no matter who told me; you were seen; but it is looked upon as a school-boy trick, and, by my request, will not be spoken of if you return the letter without delay. nor shall i betray you. lewis, where is that letter? for your own sake, give it to me at once. you do not know what you have done." lewis would have braved it out, would perhaps even have denied taking the letter, for he was not at all above telling a lie; but he could not tell how far evidence would be given against him, and, at least, immunity from farther punishment was held forth to him and his fellow-culprit. but--restitution! percy, as he knew, had followed out his instructions and put the letter in the fire. "i'm sorry," he said, with a forced laugh, but with his voice faltering; "but we had no idea the letter was of special importance. we thought it was to the doctor about last night, and we only meant to keep it back for a day or two and--and--well, when you made such a row about it--percy--percy burned it up. but to call it 'robbing the mail--'" he was stopped by the change in seabrooke's face. "_you burned it!_" he almost shouted, forgetting the caution he had hitherto observed in lowering his voice so that it might not be heard by any one who might be outside the door. for one instant he stared at the two startled boys, looking from one to the other as if he could not believe the evidence of his ears. "you burned it!" he repeated, in a lower tone; then, covering his face with his hands, he bent his head upon the table before him with something very like a groan. when he raised his head and uncovered his face again he was deadly pale. "there were two hundred dollars in that letter," he said; "you have not only stolen and destroyed my letter, but also all that sum of money." stolen! all that money! they were sufficiently appalled now, these two reckless, thoughtless boys; percy to an even great degree than his more unprincipled comrade. lewis was the first to find his voice. "there was not! you're joking! you're only trying to frighten us," he said, although in his inmost soul he was convinced that this was no joking matter, no mere attempt to punish them by arousing their fears. seabrooke's agitation was not assumed, that was easy to be seen. then followed a long and terrible pause, while the three boys, the injured and the injuring, stood gazing at one another. then, despite his wrongs, the unutterable terror in the faces of the latter touched seabrooke, especially in the case of percy, for whom he had a strong liking; for the boy had many lovable traits, notwithstanding the weakness of his character. "what can we do?" faltered percy, at last. "what will you do?" asked lewis, almost in the same breath. trembling and anxious, the two culprits stood before the young man, scarcely older than themselves, who had become their victim and was now their accuser and their judge, in whose hands lay their sentence. "wait, i must think a minute," he said, willing, out of the kindness of his noble heart, to spare them ruin and disgrace, and yet scarcely seeing his way clear to it. "listen," he said, after some moments' pondering. "you thought that letter was to dr. leacraft, you say, giving an account of last night. mr. merton, who is disabled, as you know, asked me to write to the doctor; but i begged him to let me off and to ask one of the professors to do it. that letter you destroyed was to my father, and, as i told you, contained two hundred dollars in money--money earned by myself--money which i must have and which you must restore. give it back to me--i will wait till after the easter holidays for it--and this matter shall go no farther. no one but myself knows that the letter contained money; only one saw you take it out, and that one will be silent if i ask it. i will write out a confession and acknowledgment for you both to sign. bring me, after the holidays or before, each your own share of the money and i will destroy that paper; but if you fail, i will carry it to the doctor and he must require it of your friends. i will not--i cannot be the loser through your wickedness and dishonesty. if you refuse to sign i shall go to mr. merton now and to the doctor as soon as he returns. i do not know if i am quite right in offering to let you off, even upon such conditions; but if i can help it i will not ruin you and cause your expulsion from the school, which, i know, would follow the discovery of your guilt." percy, overwhelmed, was speechless; but lewis answered after a moment's pause, during which seabrooke waited for his answer: "how are we to raise the money?" "i do not know," answered seabrooke, "that is your affair. i worked hard for mine and earned it; you have taken it from me and must restore it--how, is for you to determine. if your friends must know of this, and i suppose that it is only through them that you can repay me, it seems to me that it would be better for you to make a private confession to them than to risk that which will probably follow if dr. leacraft knows of it. are you ready to abide by my terms?" "you will give us till--" stammered lewis, seeing no loophole of escape, but, as he afterwards told percy, hoping that something "would turn up" if they could gain time. "till easter--after the holidays--no longer," answered seabrooke. "i know very well that you could hardly raise so much at a moment's notice; so, although it is a bitter disappointment not to have it now, i will wait till then if you agree to sign the paper which i will have ready this evening after study hour. quick now; the bell will ring in two minutes." what could they do? seabrooke was evidently inexorable, and they knew well that he could not be expected to bear this loss. "yes, i will sign it," said the thoroughly cowed percy. but lewis suddenly flashed up and answered impudently: "how are we to know that the money was in that letter?" "i can prove it," answered seabrooke, quietly; "and, lewis flagg, i can prove something more. i tested the water that was in my carafe last night, and found that it had been tampered with. i know the object now, and have discovered who bought the drug at the apothecary's. do you comprehend me? if the doctor hears of one thing he will hear of all." utterly subdued now, lewis stammered his promise to comply with the young tutor's request. "one question," said seabrooke, as the two younger boys turned to leave the room. "how did you come to take a letter directed to my father for one addressed to dr. leacraft?" "i don't know," replied percy, at whom he was looking. "i didn't look at it particularly, but just put it in the stove when lewis handed it to me and told me to do it. we saw you writing for ever so long, and thought that thick letter was to the doctor. we are--were in such a hurry, you see." "and i am sure leacraft and seabrooke are not so very different when one is in a hurry," said lewis. "i see," said seabrooke; "you made up your minds that the letter was to the doctor, and were so afraid of being caught at your mean trick that you did not take time to make sure. there's the study bell." the confession and acknowledgment of their indebtedness was signed that night by both of the guilty boys. and this was the story which the sensitive, honorable lena, the faithful old hannah had read--percy's letter, which had commenced: "dear lena, "i am in the most awful scrape any boy ever was in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. if you can't there is nothing for me but to be expelled from the school and arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family; and the worst is that russell will be so cut up about it--you know his royal highness always holds his head so high, especially about anything he thinks is shabby--and i am afraid it will make him worse again. as for the mother! words could not paint her if she hears about it. and if the doctor gets hold of it!! i've told you how strict he is and what the rules are. if it hadn't been an iron-clad place, i shouldn't have been sent here. i hate these private schools where one can't do a thing without being found out. well, here goes; you must hear about it, and it is a bad business." then followed, in school-boy language, an account of the whole disgraceful transaction. a "bad business," indeed; even worse it appeared to the young sister and the old nurse than it did apparently to percy. "and now, dear lena," he continued, "there's no one but you who can help me. lewis flagg is going to have his share. he has a watch that was his father's, a very valuable one, and his older brother wants it awfully, and told him long ago he would give him a hundred dollars for it; he has money of his own, the brother has, and lewis says it isn't half what the watch is worth; but he'll have to let it go. so he's all right. "but what am i to do? i have no such watch. i have nothing i could sell without mamma and papa finding it out, and think of the row there would be if they did. you are my only hope, lena, and you might do something for me. at any rate, think of russell. havn't you something you could sell? or--i do not like very much to ask you, but what can a fellow in such a scrape do?--couldn't you ask uncle horace to let you have it? i am sure he owes you something for saving his house from being burnt up, and things would have been a great deal worse if you hadn't found it out and been so brave; and besides, he thinks so much of you since he will do anything for you, and you can just tell him you want it for a private purpose. he'll give it to you; it's only twenty pounds, lena, and what is twenty pounds to him? what is it to any of our people, only one wouldn't dare to ask papa or mamma for it. we wouldn't get it if we did, and everything would have to come out then; they never trust any one and _would_ know. only get it for me, dear lena, and save me and save russell, too. you have from now till after the easter holidays; and think what you'll save me from! oh, dear! i wish i'd never seen lewis flagg. he don't care a bit, so that he sees the way out of his own scrape. as for that solemn prig, seabrooke, who you'd think was one of the grown masters with his uppish airs, well, never mind, i suppose he has let us off easy on the whole, if i only raise my share of the money; and he is honor bright about it and don't even act as if we two had done anything worse than the others. oh! do think of some way, and try uncle horace. i know he'll prove all right, and you see we never meant to do this. "your affectionate brother, "percy h. neville. "oh, i forgot, how are the feet? "save russell!" the shock of the whole thing; the disobedience and rebellion against rules; the disgraceful theft of the letter; its destruction; the peril in which percy himself stood--all faded into comparative insignificance with the risk for her adored elder brother. absolute quiet, freedom from all worry and anxiety during his protracted convalescence had been peremptorily insisted upon by his physicians, and it had proved before this that any excitement not only retarded his recovery, but threw him back. that the knowledge of percy's guilt could be kept from russell if it came to the ears of her father and mother never occurred to her, and beyond words did she dread its effect upon him. she knew that the news of her own serious injuries a few weeks since had been very hurtful to him, and now her chief thought was for him. she lost sight altogether of the contemptible meanness of percy's appeal to her--a helpless girl--to rescue him from the consequences of his own worse than folly, but she was bitterly stung by his suggestion--nay, almost demand--that she should ask from their kind and indulgent uncle the means of satisfying the justly outraged seabrooke; the uncle who had opened his heart and home to them, whom she credited with every known virtue, and for whose good opinion and approbation she looked more eagerly than she did for those of any other human being, even the beloved brother russell. no, no; she would never ask him for such a thing, that honorable, high-minded, hero-uncle, with his scorn for everything that was contemptible or mean; "fussy," percy had called him, about such matters. nor did it occur to her that in his selfish desire to secure her aid, percy had perhaps exaggerated the risk to himself--the risk of his arrest and public disgrace, which would reflect upon the family. poor little girl! in her inexperience and alarm she did not reflect that it was not at all probable that percy would be arrested, even though he should not be able to comply with seabrooke's just demands; and all manner of direful possibilities presented themselves to her mind. little wonder was it that she was perfectly overwhelmed, or that mental excitement had prostrated her again and brought on a return of her fever. nor was hannah less credulous. she magnified the danger for percy as much as the young sister did, although her fears were chiefly for the culprit himself. she had the means of relieving the boy's embarrassment if they were but in her own hands, but she had put the greater part of these in her master's care for investment, and she could not obtain any large sum of money without application to him. and, like lena, she was afraid of exciting some inquiry or suspicion if she did so. the poor old soul stood almost alone in the world, having neither chick nor child, kith nor kin left to her, save one bad and dissipated nephew whom she had long since, by the advice of her master, cast off. if she asked mr. neville for the sum necessary to help percy out of his difficulty, he would, she felt confident, suspect that she was about to give it to this reprobate nephew, and would remonstrate. besides the accumulated wages in her master's hands she had one other resource, quite a sum, which she carried about with her; a number of bright, golden guineas tied in a small bag which she wore fastened about her waist, and which was really a burden to her, since she lived in constant fear of losing it. but this was for a purpose dear to old hannah's heart, namely, her own funeral expenses and the erection of what she considered a suitable head-stone for herself after she should have done with life. she would not trust this precious gold to any bank or company, lest it should fail and leave her without the means for what she considered a fitting monument for herself. within the bag was also an epitaph, composed by herself, which was to be put upon the proposed gravestone. for hannah had no mean opinion of her own merits, and this set her forth as an epitome of many christian graces, reading thus: "here lies the mortal body of hannah achsah stillwell which she was hed nurse in the family of howard neville eskire for years and brung up mostly by hand his children and never felt she done enuf for them not sparin herself with infantile elements walkin nites and the like, pashunt and gentle not cross-grained like some which the poor little things they can't help theirselves teethin and the like, respeckful to her betters knoin her place, kind to them beneth her--which she was much thort of by all above and below her--and respected by her ekals. which to her gabriel shall say in fittin time: "well done good and faithful servant come to the skys stranger read this pious lesson go and do likewise." this gem she had read in turn to each of her nurslings as they came to what she considered a fitting age to appreciate it; and they had regarded it with great awe and admiration, till they outgrew it and began to consider it as a joke. not to hannah, however, did any one of them confide the change in his or her views, although they made merry over it among themselves; and harold and elsie still looked upon it as a most touching and fitting tribute to the merits of their faithful old nurse, albeit it had been composed and arranged by herself. hannah had also frequently found the bag and its contents an incentive to well-doing, or an effective and gentle means of coercion, as upon any rare symptoms of rebellion or mischief which would occasionally arise within the nursery precincts, in spite of iron rules and severe penalties, she was wont to detach the bag from its hiding-place and, retiring to a corner, would count the gold and read over the future epitaph, murmuring in sepulchral tones, befitting such a lugubrious subject, that she should soon have need of both. this course had generally sufficed to bring the small rebel to terms at once, and it would promise to be good if she would only consent to live and continue her care of the nursery. and now, how could she make up her mind to sacrifice this cherished sum even for the reckless, selfish boy whom she loved? it had been dedicated to that one purpose, and it had never before entered her thoughts to divert it to any other. she was devoted to each one and all of her charges, past and present; but for no other one than percy would she ever have thought of resigning this gold. not to relieve the sickening terror and anxiety of the poor little invalid; not to save the whole family from the disgrace which she apprehended, would she have entertained the slightest thought of doing so; but for the sake of her beloved scrapegrace! could she resolve to do it, was the question which was now agitating her mind. if hannah was worried she was apt to be cross, and for the next day or two she was captious and exacting beyond anything within the past experience of the nursery, driving letitia to the verge of rebellion, and exciting the open-eyed wonder of the pattern elsie. over lena she crooned and hovered, petting and coddling her, and longing to speak some words of hope and comfort, but not daring to do so lest she should betray herself and the dishonorable way in which she had become possessed of the child's secret. colonel rush was seated in his library one afternoon when there came a knock at the door; and being bidden to enter, the portiere was drawn aside and old hannah appeared, her face wearing an unusually solemn and portentous expression. "beggin' your pardon, colonel," she said, dropping her curtsey, "but i'm not much hacquainted with these hamerican monies, and would you be so good as to tell me the worth of twenty-one gold guineas in the dollars they uses in this country. more shame to 'em, say i, that they didn't 'old by what was their hown when they was hunder the rule of hour gracious lady, queen victoria, but 'ad to go changin' an' pesterin' them what 'asn't no partickler hacquaintance with harithmetic." hannah was a privileged character, and sometimes expressed her opinions with some freedom in the presence of her superiors. the colonel did not think it worth while to enlighten her on the subject of american history, or to explain that the united states, and even the early colonies, had never been beneath the rule of queen victoria; but he gave her the information she desired. "twenty-one golden guineas would be somewhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and ten or fifteen dollars, hannah," he said; "it might be even a little more; that would depend upon what is called the price of gold. a guinea would be worth something over five dollars in american money at any time, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always beyond the five. why?"--knowing of the secret fund for future expenses, the story having been told to him by his nephews,--"have you gold of which you wish to dispose? if so, i will do my best to sell it for you at advantage." "no, thank'ee, sir," she answered. "i'm only fain to know what it would fetch," and with another curtsey she was gone, not daring either to wait for farther questioning or to ask the gentleman to exchange her gold for her. indeed, upon the latter point she had not, hitherto, at all made up her mind. but now it seemed to her that it was clearly intended that she should make the sacrifice. "seems as if it was a callin' of providence," she murmured to herself, as she slowly and thoughtfully mounted the stairs and returned to the nursery; and had any one known the circumstances he might have seen that the old nurse's resolution respecting that gold was wavering; "seems as if it was a callin' of providence. 'twould just be a little more than the poor boy needs--oh, will he never learn to say no when it's befittin 'he should!--just a little more, and it do seem as if it were put hinto my 'ands to do it. an' i s'pose i might believe the lord will take care of them banks and railroads an' things where the master 'as put what he's hinvested for me. i don't know as i put so much faith in this hinvestin', you never know what'll come of it with the ups and downs of them things. dear, dear! if i 'ad it now there needn't be no trouble about master percy. but"--feeling for the precious bag--"i think i couldn't rest heasy in my grave if i 'ad the statoo of the queen 'erself hover me if i'd let the child i brought up come to this disgrace an' 'im the puny, weakly baby he was, too, when i took 'im, the fine, sturdy lad he is now if he is maybe a bit too soon led hastray. but what can you hexpect of a lad when he's kept hunder the way hour boys is. an' he's not a bad 'eart, 'asn't master percy, an' maybe he might put up a monyment and a hepithet 'imself for me if he did but know i'd done that for 'im. it's a risk, too; percy's no 'ead on his shoulders, an' i might be left with no tombstone an' no hepithet." to one who knew hannah it might have been easy to see which way the balance was likely to turn; that cherished gold was sure to be taken for percy's rescue from the difficulty he was in; but she persuaded herself that she had not yet made up her mind about the matter. chapter vi. a confidence. meanwhile lena was fretting herself ill over the terrible secret which she imagined she shared with no one in the house; turning over and over in her mind all manner of impossible devices for the relief of her scapegrace brother. not for one instant would she entertain the thought of applying to her uncle in accordance with his indelicate suggestion; and her father and mother were, to her mind, as well as to percy's, utterly out of the question. no idea of applying to them entered her head. the change in her, her troubled, worried expression, the almost hunted look in her beautiful eyes made her uncle and aunt extremely anxious, especially as they could find no clew to the cause, for they knew nothing of the letter from percy. the child wrote to her brother and told him that she could see no way of procuring the money for him, for she _would not_ apply to their uncle; but she would try and contrive some means of helping him. with the heedless _insouciance_ which distinguished him, or rather with the selfish facility with which he threw a share, and a large share, of his burdens upon others, he had comforted himself with the thought that lena would surely contrive some way of helping him; would, in spite of her declarations to the contrary, apply to colonel rush, guarding his secret, and taking upon herself all the weight and embarrassment of asking such an unheard of favor. but although he did strive to be hopeful, he had times of the deepest despondency and dread, when he looked his predicament fully in the face; and he felt it hard that lewis, who, after all, had been the chief offender, should be, as he in his careless way phrased it, "all right" at what seemed to be so little cost to him, while he, percy, was under this cloud of apprehension and uncertainty. harley seabrooke was not hard-hearted, although he was determined that the two boys should make full restitution, and justly so, and he could not but feel sorry for percy when these fits of despair overtook him. "neville," he said to him one day, "have you written to your parents about this matter?" "to my father and mother! oh, no!" answered percy, looking dismayed at the bare idea of such a thing; "oh, no, of course not. how could i?" "it seems to me," said harley, eying the boy curiously, "that such a thing is the most natural course when one is in such a difficulty. certainly it must involve confession, but they would be the most lenient and tender judges one could have. why not make a clean breast of it, percy, and have it over? you hardly, i suppose, can obtain such a sum of money except by application to them; or have you some other friend who will help you?" "i have--i did--i mean i will," stammered percy. "i have asked and--and--i know i must have it somehow." he looked so utterly depressed and forlorn that harley's heart was moved for him. "if i were rich, percy," he said, "if i could in any way afford it, i would not insist upon such early payment of my loss; but it is only just that you should make it good. you did not know what you were doing, it is true, the extent of the injury to me; but you had suffered yourself to be tempted into wrong by a boy much worse than yourself, and you meant to play me a sorry trick, which has recoiled upon yourself. that money, the check you destroyed, i had received from a publisher for a piece of work over which i had spent much time and which i had devoted to a special purpose. i have a young sister who has a wonderful talent for drawing and painting, is, in fact, a genius; and her gift ought to be cultivated, for we hope it will, in time, be a source of profit to herself and others; but my father is a poor clergyman, and all of us try to do what we can to help ourselves and one another. you know on what terms i am here; and it is only through the kindness of dr. leacraft that i enjoy the advantages i do; and of late i have been able to earn a little by articles i have written for papers and magazines. this two hundred dollars i had received for a little book, and i intended it should be the means of giving my little sister at least a beginning of the drawing lessons which would be of so much use to her. you may judge then if i do not feel that i must have it back, and that without farther delay. i am sorry for you, but i cannot sacrifice my sister." seabrooke was regarded by the boys as unsympathetic, cold, and stiff in his manner--perhaps he was somewhat so--and as he seldom spoke of himself they knew little of his affairs or of his family relations; and he was also considered to have a rather elderly style of talking, unbefitting his comparatively few years. percy's manner, which had been rather sullen and listless when the other began to speak, had brightened as seabrooke went on; and when he mentioned his sister, his face lighted with a look of interest which somewhat surprised his senior. "what is your sister's name? gladys?" he asked. "yes," answered harley, surprised at the question. "do you know her?" "yes--no--my sister and some other girls i know, know her," said percy; and then followed the story of the meeting in the church and of the interest taken in the young artist by lena, maggie and bessie. "so it was your friends and relatives, then, who sent the check for the church to my father, and the christmas box to my sister?" said seabrooke, feeling much more inclined to forgive percy than he had felt since the destruction of his letter. "i don't know anything about a check," answered percy, for colonel rush had not mentioned that little circumstance to the junior portion of his family, "but i do know that the girls sent your sister a christmas box, for i helped to pack it myself, and they are all agog about some prize they hope to win among them, a prize which will give them somehow, an artist education, which they can give to some girl who needs it. i don't know exactly how it is, only i do know they are all just agog about it, and they want it for your sister gladys, at least for a girl of that name. but i believe i ought not to have spoken of that; it is only a chance, you know; there are ever so many girls to try for the prize, and our girls may not gain it." "and my sister don't want the chance," said harley, the stubborn pride which was one of his characteristics, up in arms at once. "we may be and are poor, but we will not ask for charity." "well, you needn't be so highty-tighty about it," said percy, taking a more sensible view of the matter than his older companion did. "_i_ don't call it charity, and if it is, it comes from somebody who is dead, so one needn't feel any special obligation to the girls. it is only that they earn the right to say to whom the gift shall go; they don't _give_ it. and," he added, with his usual happy faculty for saying the wrong thing, "i don't see why you should be so stiff about it when you yourself"--he paused, seeing by the dark look which came over seabrooke's face that he had touched upon a sore point. "you would say," said harley, stiffly, "when i accept favors from dr. leacraft for myself; but you will please remember that i, at least, give some equivalent for my tuition, so i am not altogether a charity scholar. and it is my object to provide for my sister myself, and i still insist that you shall pay me what you owe me, neville. if your friends earned forty scholarships for gladys, that would make no difference in my just demands." "nobody asked that it should!" exclaimed percy, flying into one of the rare passions to which his amiable, easy-going nature would occasionally lapse under great provocation, "nobody asked that it should; and you are"--and here he launched into some most uncomplimentary remarks, and then dashed from the room, leaving harley to feel that he had made a great mistake, and missed, by the insinuation that percy fancied he would abate his demands for restitution, an opportunity of influencing the boy, who was easily led for either good or evil. the result of this was, on percy's part, another frantic appeal to lena to find some means of helping him before easter, that seabrooke was very hard on him and determined not to spare him. this letter would never have reached lena had it not been delivered into the hands of colonel rush, who met the postman at the foot of his own steps, and took this with others from him. for hannah, following out her policy that the end justified the means, and undeterred by the scrape into which percy had brought himself by means somewhat similar, kept on the watch for letters for lena, determined to hide and destroy any which should come from percy. she fancied that she had not yet made up her mind to the course she would pursue; but she really had done so, though the faithful old nurse clung till the last moment to the cherished gold, with a faint hope that something might yet chance to save it. the colonel went up to pay a little visit to lena, and came down looking rather perturbed and anxious. "that child continues to look badly," he said to mrs. rush, "and she appears to me to have something on her mind. do you think it is possible, now that russell is better?" "i am sure of it," answered his wife, "sure that something is troubling her very much, and i was about to speak of it to you. she is such a reticent, reserved child, that i did not like to try and force her confidence, although i have opened the way for her to give it to me if she chose to do so." "i brought her a letter from percy yesterday," said the colonel, "and when i handed it to her, she flushed painfully and seemed very nervous, and i noticed that she did not open it while i was in the room. i wonder if he is in any trouble." mrs. rush shook her head. she had not even noticed this, and had no clew whereby she might guess at the cause of lena's depression; but she said: "i am going to send for maggie and bessie to come and spend the day with her. she is able, i think, to have them with her, and they may brighten her a little." no sooner said than done; the colonel, always glad of any excuse for bringing these prime favorites of his to his own house, went for them himself, and finding them disengaged, this being saturday and a holiday, brought them back with him. he had the pleasure of seeing lena's pale face light up when she saw them, and soon left the young patient with her two little friends to work what healing influences they might. now, although lena was very fond of both these girls, bessie was her special favorite, perhaps because she, being less shy than maggie, had been the first to offer her sympathy and comfort at the time when lena had been left at her uncle's with her heart wrung with anxiety and distress for her brother russell who was then very dangerously ill. and bessie was now quick to see that something was wrong with lena. maggie saw it too, but shy maggie, unless it was with some one as frank as herself, could not seek to draw forth confidences. but, with her usual considerate thoughtfulness, she did that which was perhaps better; she presently withdrew herself to the next room with elsie and little may and amused them there, so that lena might have the opportunity of speaking to bessie if she so chose. but not even to bessie would or could lena confide the story of percy's misdoing and its direful results, longing though she might be for her sympathy and advice. lena knew bessie's strict conscientiousness, which was almost equalled by her own, and she knew also bessie's complete trust in her parents, and how in any trouble her first thought would be to confide in them in full faith that they would be only too ready to lift the burden from her shoulders. no, bessie was not like herself; she had no dread of her father and mother, nor had any of the children in that large and happy family; and it would have seemed unnatural to them to have any such fears. but there was a question which had been agitating her own mind which she meant to ask bessie and hear her clear, straightforward views on the matter; for lena feared, and justly, that her own wishes might have too much weight with her own opinion, and she dared not yield to these for fear of doing wrong. "lena, dear," said bessie, "is your brother russell worse?" "no," answered lena, "he is improving every day now, mamma says." "you seem rather troubled and as if something were the matter," said bessie, simply, but in half-questioning tones, thus opening the door for confidence if lena wished to give it. "i would like to ask you something," said lena, wistfully. "you remember the checks papa and russell sent me?" "oh, yes, of course," answered bessie. "how could i forget them?" "do you think," said lena, slowly and doubtfully, "that if a person who was not a poor person was in great trouble, it would be quite right to use some of that money to help them out of their trouble? you know papa and russell say i may use it for any charity i choose. do you think it would be called charity to do that when the person was in trouble only because he had been--had done very wrong?" "i don't know. i don't quite understand," said bessie, quite at sea, as she might well be, at such a vague representation of the case. "i suppose," thoughtfully, "that it might be right if you felt quite sure that your father or brother would be willing." "but they would not be--at least--oh, i do not know what to think or what to do," exclaimed poor lena, breaking down under the weight of all her troubles and perplexities. "i can't tell what to say unless i know more about it," said bessie, taking lena's hand; "but, lena dear,"--approaching the subject of lena's relations with her own family with some reluctance, "but, lena dear, if you do not want to ask your father and mother, why do you not ask uncle horace? he is so very nice and good, and he knows about almost everything." but before she had finished speaking she saw that the suggestion did not meet the case at all. "uncle horace! oh, no!" ejaculated lena, "that would be worse than all! oh, if i could only tell russell!" "why do you not?" asked bessie. "it would make him ill again; it might kill him," answered lena, more excitedly than ever. "tell me what it is right to do by myself, bessie." "how can i, dear, when i do not know what it is?" said the troubled and sympathizing bessie. lena looked into the clear, tender eyes before her own, and her resolution was taken; although, knowing, as she did, bessie's almost morbid conscientiousness and her horror of anything small, mean or tricky, she knew that she would be terribly shocked when she heard the source of the trouble; but she _must_ tell some one, must have a little advice. "i want to tell you, bessie," she said, falteringly, "but you will not tell any one, will you? not even maggie?" "no. maggie is very good about that, and not at all curious," said bessie. "i couldn't keep a secret of my own from her; but some one else's she would not mind. but mamma--could i not tell mamma?" "oh, no," said lena, "no! _must_ you tell your mother everything--things that are not secrets of your own?" bessie stood thoughtful for a moment. "no," she at last answered, a little reluctantly. "if mamma knew it would be a help to some one to have me keep a secret, i do not think she would mind; for mamma has a good deal"--of confidence in her children, she would have added, but checked herself with the thought that lena enjoyed no such blessing, and that she was presenting too forcible a contrast between her own lot and that of her little friend, and she hastily substituted, "a great deal of good sense for her children. but, lena dear, you do not know how well my mamma keeps a secret, and how she can help people out of trouble." "no, no!" said lena again, "i couldn't let her know. he wouldn't like it; he would never forgive me," she added, forgetting herself. light flashed upon bessie. "lena, is it percy?" she asked. "yes," faltered lena; and then followed the whole story; at least, the whole as she knew it, so much as percy had revealed to her. bessie was indeed shocked, perhaps even more at the contemptible selfishness and weakness which had led percy to throw the burden of this secret upon his young sister, and to appeal to her for help, than she was by his original fault. her own brother harry was noted for his chivalrous gallantry to girls; so much so, that it was a subject of joke among his schoolmates and companions; and fred, although known as a tease, was quite above anything small or petty, and would have scorned to ask such a thing as this from any girl, especially from one who was weak and ill, and but just coming back from the borders of the grave. bessie felt no sympathy whatever for percy, but more than she could express for the innocent lena; and her indignation at the reckless brother found vent in terms unusually emphatic for her. but, alas for lena! bessie could see no way out of the difficulty more than lena could herself. in spite of her ardent wish to do this, her upright little soul could by no means advise or justify for this purpose the use of any part of the sums put by mr. neville and russell into lena's hands. "for you know, dear lena," she said, "your father and brother said for charity, didn't they? and percy is not a 'charity.'" "no," answered lena, with a pitiful, pleading tremor in her voice, "but papa said i could use it for any good object i chose. see, bessie, here is his letter, and that is just what he says." "yes," said bessie, glancing at the lines in mr. neville's letter to which lena pointed, "yes; but percy is not an 'object.' at least not what your father means by 'any object.'" "and he certainly is not good" she added to herself; then said slowly again: "but, lena, why don't you tell your brother russell, when you say he is so good and nice?" but to this also lena returned the most decided negative. no, russell must not be worried or made anxious and unhappy, no matter what might happen to percy or to the rest of the family. russell must be spared, at all hazards, and it was plainly to be seen that, distressed as she was for percy, his welfare was by no means to be weighed in the balance against that of his elder brother. bessie, helpless as lena herself, had no farther suggestion to offer, and save that she now shared the burden of her secret with some one who could sympathize, lena had gained nothing by imparting it to her little friend; and when maggie returned, she found her looking as depressed and anxious as before, while bessie's sweet face also now wore a troubled expression. maggie asked no questions; but when they were at home that evening, bessie said to her: "maggie, dear, i have to have a secret from you. it is not mine, but lena's, and she will not let me tell even you; and she will not tell uncle horace or aunt marion or any of her people. and then again it is not her very own secret, but some one else's, and it is a great weight on her mind because she does not know what to do about it. and so it is on mine," she added, with a deep sigh. "i wish you could tell me," said maggie; "not that i am so very curious about it, although, of course, i should like very much to know; but cannot you tell mamma, bessie?" "no," answered bessie; "it seemed to me mamma would not mind if i promised i would not tell even her, when lena seemed to have such a trouble and wanted to tell me. i can't bear not to tell her or not to tell you; but i thought i would promise, because lena is such a very good girl and so very true, and she has such a perfectly horrible mother. maggie, every night when you say your prayers, do you thank god that mrs. neville is not your mother? i do." "yes, and about a thousand times a day besides," answered maggie. "but, bessie, could you help lena in her trouble?" "no," said bessie, her face shadowed again, "and i do not see how any one can help her, so long as she will not tell any grown-up person. not one of us children could help her." bessie was depressed and very thoughtful that evening, and so silent as to attract the attention of her family; but to all inquiries she returned only a faint smile without words, while to her mother she confessed that she had "a weight on her mind," but that this was caused by another person's secret which she could not tell. accustomed to invite and receive the unlimited confidence of her children, mrs. bradford still treated them as if they were reasonable beings, and on the rare occasions, such as the present, when they withheld it, she was satisfied to believe that they had good and sufficient reasons for so doing. chapter vii. a box of bonbons. if there was one of the two sisters who lay awake after the proper time in the pretty room which maggie and bessie bradford called their own--a thing not of frequent occurrence, it was usually maggie, when she was revolving in her mind some grand idea, either as the subject of a composition, or some of the schemes for business or pleasure which her fertile brain was always devising. but on this night it was bessie who could not sleep for worry and anxiety over lena's perplexities. as a usual thing she was off to the land of nod the moment her head was on the pillow; but to-night she lay tossing and uneasy until she thought the night must be almost gone. then suddenly, as a bright thought came to her--an idea which she thought almost worthy of maggie herself--she heard her mother in her own room. "mamma," she called, "is it almost time to rise?" "why, no, my darling," said mrs. bradford, coming in, "it is only half-past ten o'clock. what woke you?" "oh, i have not been asleep at all, mamma," answered her little daughter. "i thought i had been awake all the night." "oh, no," said mrs. bradford; "but it is certainly time that you were asleep. have you been troubling yourself, dear, over that secret?" "i suppose that i have, mamma," answered bessie; "but i have had a very nice thought which i believe will help that secret, and i will try not to be troubled about it any more." and five minutes later, when her mother looked in again to see if she were quiet, she found her sleeping. "papa," said bessie, walking into the library the next morning, all ready for school, and not seeing for the moment that any one was with her father, "papa, are you going early to your office?" mr. bradford was fond of a long walk on a pleasant morning, and would occasionally start from home with his little girls on their way to school, leave them at miss ashton's, and then proceed on his way down town. they always considered this a treat, and he knew now that bessie hoped for his company in lieu of that of jane, the nursery-maid. "i think that i shall do so that i may have the pleasure of escorting two little damsels to school," he answered. "then perhaps i shall be fifth wheel to a coach that only needs three," said a deep, jolly voice from the other side of the room; and bessie, turning, saw the tall form of her uncle ruthven standing before one of the book-cases, in which he was searching for a book he had come to borrow. her face brightened with a look which told that this "fifth wheel" could never be _de trop_; and she sprung toward him with a welcoming kiss and good morning. uncle ruthven was mamma's dear and only brother, and a great favorite with his young nieces and nephews, who thought this much travelled, "much adventured uncle," as bessie had once called him, a wonderful hero, and the most entertaining of mortals. so maggie was as well pleased as bessie when she heard by whom they were to be escorted to school, papa and uncle ruthven forming as desirable a pair of cavaliers as could well be imagined by any two little maidens. but uncle ruthven was somewhat amused to see how bessie contrived that he should walk with maggie, while she took mr. bradford's hand and tried to keep him a little behind. observing this, and rightly conjecturing that she had something to say to her father, mr. stanton obligingly drew maggie on a little faster till they were sufficiently in advance of the others to permit bessie to make her confidences. "papa," said the little girl, as soon as she thought that her sister and uncle were out of hearing, "papa, you know that you told me i might begin to take music lessons after easter?" "i remember my promise quite well, dear, and you shall certainly do so," answered her father. "you have been a dear, patient child about those lessons, and you may depend now upon your reward." bessie had for a long time been anxious to take lessons upon the piano; but her father and mother had thought it best to defer it, as she was not very strong, and they had considered that her daily lessons at school were sufficient for her without the extra labor which music lessons and practising would involve. this decision had been a disappointment to her, but she had borne it well, never fretting and teasing about it, only looking forward eagerly to the time when she might begin; and her parents now thought her old enough for this. "well, i want to ask you something, papa," she said, coloring a little, but throwing back her head to look up into his face with her clear, fearless eyes. "how much would it cost for me to take music lessons?" "forty dollars a quarter is miss ashton's price, i think," answered mr. bradford, wondering what this earnest little woman was thinking of now. "and two quarters would be eighty dollars--and twenty more would be a hundred," slowly and thoughtfully said bessie, who was not remarkably quick at figures. "that would take two quarters and a half a quarter to make up a hundred dollars, would it not, papa?" "yes," answered her father. "then," said bessie, eagerly, "if i wait for my music lessons for two quarters and a half longer, will you let me have the hundred dollars they would cost, papa? i would rather have it; oh, much rather, papa." "my child," said her father, "what can you possibly want of a hundred dollars? have you some new charity at heart?" "no, papa," answered the child with growing earnestness; "it is not a _charity_, but it is for a secret--not my secret, papa,--you know i would tell you if it was--but another person's secret. and that person is so very deserving, anybody ought to be very glad to do a kindness for that person, and she cannot tell anybody about it--only she told me, and mamma knows i have a secret--and i do want so very much to help her, and i think i would say i would never take music lessons all my life to do it." and more she poured forth in like incoherent style, pleading too, with eyes and voice and close pressure of her father's hand. mr. bradford was a lawyer of large practice and not a little note, accustomed to deal with knotty problems, and to solve without difficulty much more intricate sums than the putting of this two and two together, and he could guess pretty well in whose behalf bessie was pleading now. he had heard during the past week of lena neville's unaccountable depression and nervousness, and of her refusal to disclose its cause; knew that his little daughters had spent the previous afternoon with her, and that bessie had returned from colonel rush's house with "a weight on her mind," as she always phrased it when she was troubled or anxious, and that even to her mother and maggie she had not confided the source of that "weight." to mr. bradford, accustomed to the open natures and sweet, affectionate ways of his own daughters, lena neville was by no means an attractive child; but so far as he could judge, she was upright and perfectly straightforward, and with no little strength of will and purpose; and petted as she was by her indulgent aunt and uncle, he could not believe that she had brought herself into any difficulty which she could not confess, on her own account. no; there must be something behind this; there must be some other person whom she was shielding, and whom she and bessie were striving to rescue from the consequences of his or her own folly and wrong-doing, and mr. bradford believed that he had not far to look for this person. he had, even in the short period of the christmas holidays, when percy had been much with his own boys, marked the weakness of his character and the ease with which he was swayed for either good or evil, according to the temptations or influences presented to him; and he now felt assured that he had fallen into some trouble and had appealed to his sister for pecuniary aid; and that this must be very serious, mr. bradford rightly judged, since lena dared not apply to the uncle who was so ready to do everything to make her happy and contented in his house. and what to do now, mr. bradford did not know. it might not be best that percy--if it were indeed he for whom these two little girls were acting--should be shielded from the consequences of his wrong-doing; and in his own want of knowledge of the circumstances he could not, of course, judge how this might be; but his pity and sympathy were strongly moved for lena; and she was, indeed, unselfish, little heroine that she was, deserving of any kindness or relief that could be extended to her. but to act thus in the dark was repugnant to him; and his judgment and his feelings were strongly at variance as he listened to bessie's pleadings that she might be allowed to make this sacrifice. "i must think this over for a little, my darling," he said; but when he saw the disappointment in her face and the gathering tears in her eyes, he felt that he could not altogether resist her, and he added, "i think we shall find some way out of this difficulty; but are you sure that this person has no grown friend to whom she could apply?" "she thinks not, papa," answered bessie,"_i_ think she could and ought to, but she thinks not; and i feel quite sure you would let me do this if you knew all the reasons." "mamma and i will talk the matter over, dear," said mr. bradford; "and you are a dear, generous little girl, to be willing to do this; for i know how much your heart has been set upon your music lessons." "but my heart is more set upon this, papa; oh, quite, quite more set," said bessie, quaintly. "we must hurry on now a little," said mr. bradford, giving an encouraging pressure to the small hand within his own, "and you must try not to worry yourself over this matter." "what is in that little woman's mind? may i know?" asked mr. stanton, when he and his brother-in-law had left their two young charges at miss ashton's door and had turned their faces business-ward. "or is it of a private nature?" he added. "well, i suppose i may tell you what she asked; for if i yield every one will know it, as she has talked so much of her music lessons," said mr. bradford; "and i will tell you my suspicions. i fear that i am perhaps too much inclined to yield to her plea, while i am not satisfied that it is wise to do so. but i am not sure that you will be a very unprejudiced adviser," he added, knowing well that uncle ruthven was generally of the opinion that it was well to yield to the wishes of his favorite nieces, maggie and bessie. then he told of bessie's proposal, and of whither his own suspicions tended. "the dear little soul!" said mr. stanton, "and these music lessons have been the desire of her heart for the last two years." "yes for a longer time than that," said mr. bradford; "she is making a real sacrifice in offering to give them up. of course, there is no necessity for her to do that; she shall have her music lessons. but the question with me is whether it is well to work blindly in this way, even for the purpose of relieving these two innocent children." "i ask nothing better for my girls than that they may grow up like yours," said mr. stanton, extending his hand to his brother-in-law. but he offered no advice, expressed no opinion. many a time during his busy day did his little daughter's pleading face rise before mr. bradford, and he found himself unable to resist it, and resolved that he would cast scruples to the winds and tell bessie she should have the sum she had asked for. but although he would not tell her this yet, she should not lose her much desired lessons; she should begin them at the promised time, and they should be his easter gift to her. mr. stanton found a little private business of his own--quite unexpected when he left home--to attend to after he parted from his brother-in-law at the door of his office, a little business which was attended with the following results. mr. bradford reached home that afternoon, and entering the door with his latch-key was just closing it behind him when bessie came flying down the stairs and precipitated herself upon him like a small whirlwind, followed by maggie in a state of equal excitement and making like demonstrations. "spare me, ladies," he said, when he could speak; "with your kind permission i should wish to take farewell of the remainder of my family before i am altogether suffocated. might i ask the cause of this more than usually effusive greeting?" the answer to this was continued embraces and caresses from both his captors, a series of the little ecstatic squeals maggie was wont to give when she was especially delighted with anything, and from bessie the exclamation of: "oh, you dear, darling papa! you needn't try to be anonymous, for we know you did it! there was nobody else, for nobody else knew. we know it was you; we know it!" "if i might be allowed to take off my overcoat and to sit down," gasped mr. bradford. then he was released, and proceeded to take off his overcoat, while the two little girls seized upon one another and went dancing about the hall to the music of maggie's continued squeals. "have i made a mistake as to my own house and found my way into a private insane asylum?" said mr. bradford, pretending to soliloquize. "it must be so, else why this wild excitement? these must be two of the wildest and most excitable of the inmates. i must escape." [illustration: "have i found my way into a private insane asylum?"] and he made a feint of trying to do so, running into his library and sinking into an easy chair where he was speedily held captive again by two pair of arms piled one above the other about his neck, while all manner of endearing epithets were lavished upon him. "thank you very much," he said at last, "for all these compliments, but really i am ignorant why i am particularly deserving of them at the present moment." "oh, you needn't pretend you don't know now, you sweet, lovely darling," said maggie, with a fresh squeeze and a kiss, planted directly upon his right eye. "you have lifted the most dreadful weight off of bessie's mind. i don't know what it was, but i know that she had one, and now it is all gone." "and you did it in such a delightful way, too, papa," said bessie; "sending it in that lovely box of bonbons." "sending what--the weight?" said mr. bradford. "now, papa!" expostulated both at once. "you know what we mean, and you needn't pretend that you don't," said bessie. "no, you took away the weight, and you're just too good for anything." "if you would throw a little light, perhaps i could understand," answered her father; "but really, as it is, i cannot take credit to myself for having lifted any one's burdens to-day, at least, not knowingly." "oh, papa," said bessie again, "you know you sent me what i asked you for this morning in a box of huyler's, all beautifully done up, and--oh! i know you, papa--my name written on the parcel by some one else, so i wouldn't know. but just as if i wouldn't know; it _could not_ be any one but you, because no one else knew that i wanted it." "upon my word, this is very embarrassing," said mr. bradford. "i should be very glad to be able to say that i had been so generous and given so much pleasure; but i must disclaim the deed. upon my honor, as a gentleman, i know nothing of your box of bonbons or its contents." to tell the truth, he was really somewhat embarrassed, for he could give a very good guess as to the donor of the gift, who, since he had chosen to be "anonymous," must not be betrayed, and these very interested inquirers were likely to put some searching questions which it might be difficult to evade. to avoid these--truth compels me to state--mr. bradford took an ignominious flight, for, saying that he must hasten upstairs to dress for dinner, he put aside the detaining arms which would have kept him till conjecture was satisfied, and once more assuring his little girls that he had absolutely nothing to do with the box of bonbons and its valuable contents, and congratulating bessie that her heart's desire was attained, he hurried away to his own room. here he found mrs. bradford, who had thought, as did the little girls, that he had been the one to relieve bessie's mind by this means. discreet bessie, and equally discreet maggie, had neither one betrayed the little circumstance of the gift to the former to the general household, mamma alone sharing the secret, and even she did not know for what purpose it was destined. the two girls had been with their mother in mrs. bradford's morning-room after they returned from school, when patrick came to the door and delivered "a parcel for miss bessie." the nature of this parcel disclosed itself even before it was opened. there is a peculiar distinctive air about such parcels which stamps them at once as mines of delight, and maggie had little hesitation in pronouncing it to be "a monstrous box of huyler's! must be three pounds at least!" uncle ruthven--that which proved a mystery to maggie and bessie need prove no mystery to us--was a generous giver, and when he did a kind action it was carried out munificently; and the wrappings being taken off and the cover of the box removed, a most tempting sight was disclosed. "there is a note to tell you who it is from," said maggie, seeing an envelope lying on the top of the bonbons. but maggie was mistaken, for the envelope contained no writing, nothing to give, by words, a clue to the giver; but the candies were forgotten when bessie drew therefrom a new crisp one hundred dollar bill. for a moment both she and maggie stood speechless with surprise; then the color surged all over bessie's face, and clasping her hands together she said, softly, but not so softly but that mamma and maggie did not catch the words: "papa, oh, papa! i know what that is for." then turning to her mother, she said: "it is my secret, mamma; that is, that other person's secret." but mamma and maggie, although in the dark and much puzzled about all this mystery, rejoiced with her in the relief which was evidently afforded by this gift, the removal of the "weight;" and maggie was quite as ecstatic over papa's goodness as was bessie herself. and nowhere was papa disclaiming all knowledge of the gift, at least disclaiming all responsibility therefor. the mystery thickened for all concerned. who could have known, thought bessie, how very much she wished for this sum of money? but how to convey this money to lena was now the question with bessie. in her innocent simplicity she believed that she had not disclosed the identity of the person whose secret she was bearing, that this was still unsuspected by her parents and maggie, to whom she had confided that the secret existed. mystery and management and all concealment were hateful to her; and as has been seen, she was no adept at them, and she now felt herself much nonplussed. if she asked to go to lena, or to send the money to her, suspicion would be at once aroused, and loyalty to lena forbade this. moreover, judging not only by herself, but also by what she knew of lena, she feared that the pride and independence of the latter would rebel, even in such a strait, against receiving pecuniary aid from one who, until a few short months ago, had been a stranger to her, and she would spare her if possible. then suddenly an idea occurred to her which removed, at least, the latter difficulty. why not make use of the very way in which this well timed gift had come to her and send it to lena anonymously? no thought of keeping it or converting it to her own use had for one instant entered bessie's mind; to her it seemed heaven-sent, and as if destined for the very purpose for which she had been longing for it. to the bonbons she felt that she could lay claim for herself and her brothers and sisters, but for her own part she could not really enjoy them until the more valuable portion of the contents of the box was on its way to its destination. after some thought and planning about the method of accomplishing this, she carried an envelope to jane, the nursery maid, believing rightly that lena would not recognize her handwriting, made her put lena's address upon it, and then privately enclosed therein the precious hundred dollar note; and the next morning on the way to school with her own hand she posted it in the letter-box on the nearest corner. lena was not to know whence or from whom it came. she never thought of any risk in sending it in this unprotected manner; but happily it fell into honest hands throughout the course of its journeyings and safely reached those for which it was intended. the relief that it was to bessie to have this accomplished can scarcely be told. "oh!" she said to herself, "i'll never, never, never again let any one tell me a secret which i may not tell to mamma and maggie, especially mamma." the concealment and the management to obtain her object without revealing it had been more of a cross to her than can well be imagined, unaccustomed as she was to anything of the kind. chapter viii. "innocents abroad." hannah had asked for "a morning out;" a request which greatly amazed her temporary mistress, mrs. rush, inasmuch as the old woman had no friends or acquaintances in the city, and was possessed of a wholesome dread of the snares and pitfalls with which she believed it abounded, and even when out with her charge would never go without an escort beyond the park on which colonel rush's house fronted and whence she could keep it in view. but permission, of course, was granted, and hannah, after ascertaining that a banker's office was the proper place to exchange her precious gold, sallied forth with it, having finally resolved to sacrifice it for percy's relief without further delay, as easter was drawing near and the time of reprieve was coming to a close. it would take too long to tell of the trials and tribulations she encountered on her way to her destination. she consulted every single policeman she met, and then had so little confidence in their directions and advice that she still felt herself hopelessly bewildered and at sea in the business streets of the great city; while whenever she was obliged to cross among the trucks, express-wagons and other vehicles, she felt as if there would be an immediate necessity for the epitaph. as may be supposed, she afforded no little sport to the guardians of the peace, but they were, on the whole, kind and considerate to her and often passed her on from one to another. but at length, unshielded for the time by any such friendly protection, she stood at the corner of the greatest and most thronged thoroughfare and one almost equally crowded which intersected it, and vainly strove to cross. the policeman on duty there was for the moment engaged with a lost child and had no eyes for her. she made several frantic dives forward; but the confusion of wheels, horses' heads and shouting drivers speedily drove her back to the sidewalk after each fresh essay; and she was beginning to be in despair when she felt herself spasmodically seized by the arm, and a terrified voice said in her ear--no, not in her ear, for hannah's ear was far above the diminutive person who had clutched her, and whom she turned to face,-- "don't! don't! you'll be run over--yes, over--over indeed! wait for the policeman--yes, policeman--'liceman, indeed!" hannah's eyes fell upon a very small old lady, attired in a quaint, old-fashioned costume, with little corkscrew curls surrounding her face, and carrying a good-sized leather satchel, while her every movement and word betrayed a timid, nervous, excitable temperament. "don't, don't!" she reiterated, "you'll be crushed--yes, crushed, indeed, crushed; that horse's head touched you, head--indeed--yes, head. what a place this city is--city, indeed, yes, city. why did i come back to it, back, yes, back?" there are some who may recognize this old lady, but to hannah she was an utter stranger, and she gazed upon her in surprise. she was generally very offish and reserved with strangers, but now a common misery made her have a fellow-feeling for the little oddity, and she responded graciously. seizing the hand of the woman, whom she could almost have put into her pocket, she drew it through her arm, and said: "ye may well say it; what a place hindeed! but hover i must go some ow, so come on, ma'am. if so be we're sent to heternity, we'll go together, an' i'll see you safe through it." but, apparently, the prospect of going to eternity at such short notice and under such doubtful protection was not pleasing to miss trevor, and she shrank back from the thronging dangers before her. but now came the policeman and escorted the two women, both large and small, through the terrors which had beset them, landing them safely on the other side of the street. hannah's eye had recognized the lady even beneath miss trevor's shabby black dress and strange manner, and she now turned to her with a respectful: "which way are you bound, ma'am? if so be your way's mine, we might 'old on together. there seems to be pretty much men around 'ere, an' i never did take much stock in men. leastway honly in one or two," with an appreciative remembrance of colonel rush and her young master, russell neville. "i'm going to the banker's--yes--banker's--banker's--yes, going," answered miss trevor, still flustered and nervous, and forgetting, in the distractions of the crowd, her usually besetting terror that every one who addressed her or looked at her in the street was actuated by purposes of robbery, and speaking as if there were but one banker in the great city. but hannah was wiser. "there be a lot of 'em i 'ear," she said, "an' i don't know which is the best of 'em. what do you say, ma'am? who be you goin' to, by your leave?" "to mr. powers," answered miss trevor. "powers, yes, powers. a good man and a kind--yes, man, indeed, man." "is he the kind of a one--a banker, i mean," said hannah, "that would give you a note for gold--golden guineas?" miss trevor looked at her suspiciously for one moment. was this a trap? was this friendly person, who was seemingly as much at sea as she was herself in this wilderness of business streets and crowd of business men, some swindler in petticoats, some decoy who would lead her where she might be robbed of all she had about her that was valuable, of the really precious contents of that shabby, worn satchel? the bare idea of such a thing was enough to lend wings of terror to miss trevor's feet; and she was about to dart away from hannah's side when the hand of the latter in its turn arrested her, giving, if possible, new force to the fears of the old lady. "what did i come for?" she ejaculated, "yes, come. i wish i was back in sylvandale--yes, sylvandale, indeed, 'dale." "sylvandale!" the name had a familiar--since the events of the last few days, an unpleasantly familiar sound to hannah, and she gave a little start. "sylvandale," she repeated; "do you know sylvandale?" but again her inquiry only provoked increased alarm in the breast of miss trevor. she had heard of swindlers pretending to know of places and people belonging to those whom they would victimize; and had not hannah's hold upon her been firm she would have wrenched herself free and fled. hannah repeated her question in a rather different form and with an addition. "do you come from sylvandale? and you maybe know dr. leacraft's school? an' you maybe 'ave seen my boy, master percy neville, my boy that i nursed?" now it so happened that miss trevor had seen and marked percy neville, and moreover that she had a very exalted opinion of the young scapegrace. for she did live in sylvandale, with a nephew who had some years since persuaded her to give up teaching in the city in miss ashton's and other schools, and to come to him and let him care for her in her old age. the home she had gladly accepted; but she possessed a spirit of independence, and insisted on giving such lessons as she could procure. she had been fairly successful in this, and had laid by quite a little sum, which she intended to leave to this kind nephew. but while this money was in her own keeping, it was a burden and a care to her, for she lived in constant dread of robbers and of losing her little savings; therefore she had come to the city to place it in safe keeping. belle powers had been her favorite pupil while she taught at miss ashton's, the child having a remarkable talent for drawing and making the most of the instruction she received. belle thought so much of her queer little teacher that she had interested her doting father in the old lady, and he had performed two or three small acts of kindness for her which her grateful heart had never forgotten. consequently she credited mr. powers and belle with every known virtue, and believed that she could not possibly place her savings in any safer place than the hands of that gentleman; and perhaps she was not far wrong. but on her way to the city and to mr. powers' office she had been warily on her guard for snares and pitfalls tending swindlerwise, until she had fallen into the hands of hannah. but her unworthy suspicions of that good person were speedily put to flight by the mention of percy neville's name. coming up the village street of sylvandale one day, she had been chased by a flock of geese, and as she was hurrying along as fast as her age and infirmities permitted--anything in the shape of dignity she had cast to the winds before such foes--she encountered some of dr. leacraft's scholars returning from an afternoon ramble. most of them had laughed at the predicament of the terrified old lady, who certainly presented a ridiculous sight; but percy, pitying her plight, and with a strongly chivalrous streak in his nature, had made a furious onslaught on the geese, and presently turned the pursuers into the pursued. then he had picked up the ubiquitous satchel which miss trevor had dropped in her flight, attempted to straighten her bonnet which was all awry--she thought none the less of him because his awkward efforts left it rather worse than before--and escorted her quite beyond the reach of the hissing, long-necked enemy, who seemed inclined to renew the attack were his protection removed and the coast clear. from this time percy neville was a hero and a young knight _sans peur et sans reproche_ with miss trevor. she had inquired his name, and maintained that it just suited him, and her wits had been constantly at work all winter to devise such small gifts and treats for him as she was able to procure. many a basket of nuts and apples, many a loaf of gingerbread, or other nice home-made dainty, had found its way into percy's hands, and had met with ready acceptance and been heartily enjoyed by the schoolboy appetites of himself and his companions. percy always exchanged a cheery nod and smile with her when he met her, or a pleasant word or two if he encountered her in the village store or elsewhere. and now she heard his name in terms of proprietorship and tenderness from this woman who claimed to be his nurse; and she was at once arrested in her attempt to shake her off. "master percy neville--neville, indeed, percy!" she exclaimed; "yes, yes--oh, yes--the dear boy! those other geese were after me--yes, geese, indeed, chasing me down the sidewalk--yes, sidewalk, geese they were--geese--and he came, the dear boy--came and shoo-ed them away--shoo-ed them, yes, shoo-ed, indeed, shoo-ed." and now she was quite ready to answer any and every question which hannah might put to her, and, so far as she was able, to put her in the way of that which she was seeking. she confided her own purpose to the old nurse, and hannah was fain to tell her hers, at least so much as that she was anxious to convert her gold into a bank-note which she might send to percy without exciting his suspicions as to whence it came. of course she gave no hint of his wrong-doing, saying only that she wished him to have the money and that he should not know the donor. but, jostled and pushed about by the passers-by hurrying on during the most busy time of the day, they could not talk at their ease there on the sidewalk; and presently hannah proposed retiring within the shelter of the broad hallway of an imposing building, where the two old innocents sat themselves down on a flight of stone stairs and exchanged confidences. they exchanged more; for before the close of the conference hannah's gold, or the greater part of it, was in miss trevor's satchel and a hundred-dollar note in hannah's hands. hannah's arithmetic was much at fault, notwithstanding the information she had gained from colonel rush on the subject of her finances; and her unheard-of confidence in this utter stranger of an hour since was further strengthened when miss trevor, with her superior knowledge, made it clear to her that she was about to give her too much gold in exchange for the bank-note. moreover, the odd little drawing-teacher, whom hannah afterwards, when some qualms as to her own prudence assailed her, characterized as "hevery hinch a lady if she was that queer you'd think she'd just hescaped the lunatic hasylum," removed another stumbling-block from the path of the latter. she offered, if hannah desired it, to carry the money for percy back to sylvandale, and to see that it was safely given into his hands; thus delivering the faithful old nurse from her dilemma as to the means of conveying it to him. having once lost some money through the mail, she had also lost all faith in that, and knowing nothing of the ways now afforded for sending it in safety, she had been in some perplexity over this. and, will it be believed? she committed it to miss trevor's keeping without other guarantee than her word that percy should receive it without knowing whence it came. hannah would readily have let the boy know that she had sent it, for she was not disposed to hide her light under a bushel; but she dared not, lest she should betray the dishonorable part she had played in reading his letter to lena and so discovering the disgraceful secret. she was further satisfied, however, as to miss trevor's good faith, after she had, at her request, accompanied her to mr. powers' office. the name of powers had not conveyed any especial meaning to hannah, although she did know that one of lena's classmates was named belle powers, and she had seen the little girl once or twice; but when she entered the gentleman's office and remembered that she had seen him at the christmas party at mr. bradford's and afterwards at colonel rush's, she at once set the seal of her approval upon him as being "the friend of such gentry;" and when mr. powers received miss trevor with great respect and attention, and promised with many expressions of good will to carry out her wishes, she plumed herself upon her sagacity in so intuitively discovering the quality of the little old lady's "hinches." it is true that these were few in quantity, but hannah believed that they were of the right material; nor was she far wrong. but to make assurance doubly sure she stepped up to mr. powers at a moment when miss trevor, intent upon securing the lock of her satchel, had turned her back, and whispered to him: "she's all right, isn't she, sir?" "oh, yes, yes; only a little odd, but quite herself; as sane as you are," answered the gentleman, supposing that miss trevor's manner had led hannah to infer that she was insane. "if she wasn't hall right i'd lose my buryin' and my moniment for nothing," said hannah, almost in the same breath; and mr. powers stared at her, believing that she herself must be a candidate for the lunatic asylum. hitherto he had not paid much attention to her, merely glancing at her as she came in, and supposing her to be miss trevor's attendant; but at this extraordinary speech he scrutinized her narrowly, wondering if she were quite in her right mind and if it were safe to let miss trevor go about under her guidance. having transacted her business, miss trevor asked mr. powers concerning belle and some of her young friends whom she also taught. and then, to hannah's dismay, she asked him if he could tell her anything of mrs. rush and her sister, mrs. stanton, names very familiar to hannah, and which she was not pleased to hear at the present juncture. she would never have taken miss trevor into partial confidence, would never have entrusted her with the mission to percy, had she known that the old lady was acquainted with members of the very family in whose service she was, with the uncle and aunt of the boy whom she was secretly striving to save from disgrace. what should she do now? and here was mr. powers actually advising the old lady to go up and see mrs. rush and her late pupils if she had time to do so. poor hannah! she may almost be forgiven for the dishonorable way in which she had contrived to possess herself of lena's letter, for the sake of her loyalty to and self-sacrifice for her nurslings. her chief thought now was less for her money than for the risk of the discovery of percy's secret by his relatives. she must be very careful to keep out of the way of any one coming to colonel rush's house, at least, for a day or two. she was in a very bad humor now, this old hannah, and as dissatisfied with the turn matters had taken as but a short time since she had been well pleased. she quite resented miss trevor's acquaintance with mrs. rush and other friends of the neville family, and her looks toward that lady were now so glum and ill-natured that mr. powers could not fail to notice them, and was more than ever beset by doubts as to her perfect sanity. they were a queer couple, he thought, to go wandering together through the distracting business streets. when hannah was worried she was cross, as has been seen; and now, being thus assailed with doubts as to the wisdom of the course she had pursued, she proved herself no agreeable companion, and laid aside the respectful tone and manner with which she had hitherto treated miss trevor, till the old lady began to feel uneasy in her turn, and her manner and speech became more queer, jerky, and confused than ever. at last, when they reached the corner of the street, she grabbed the arm of a policeman and in her broken, incoherent way, begged to be put into a street car; and as one happened to be passing at the moment, the request was complied with and miss trevor borne away before hannah had fairly realized that she had left her. poor hannah! if she had been uneasy before, it may be imagined what a state of mind she was in now. she stood watching the retreating conveyance in a bewildered sort of way till it was almost lost to sight among the crowd of vehicles; and then, with some vague notion of pursuing miss trevor and demanding back her money, hailed another car and entered it. but after she was seated, sober second thought came to her aid, and all the reasons she had before formed for trusting miss trevor, returned to her, till she once more rested satisfied that the means for percy's rescue from the toils he had woven for himself were in safe hands. chapter ix. an unexpected meeting. "who do you think is going to win that prize of mr. ashton's?" asked fred bradford of his sisters that day at the dinner table. "it is coming near easter, you know, and you must have some idea by this time." "why, maggie, of course," answered bessie, positively, for the question was not one which admitted of dispute to bessie's mind. she gave no time for her sister to answer, and maggie did not reply. "you seem to be very sure of your position, little woman," said her father. "well, papa," said bessie, still confidently, "lena has not been able to try for it, you know, since she was burned; and gracie _will not_ try. she says she don't want it, and she acts very queerly and seems to have no interest about it at all." "perhaps she's ashamed of the way she behaved that day she had the row with lena," said fred, who had heard the account of gracie's ill-behavior, not from maggie and bessie, but from some of "the other fellows" whose sisters were members of the "cheeryble sisters." bessie shook her sunny head. "no, i don't think so," she answered. "at least she has never said so, and if she felt sorry enough to keep her from trying for the prize, i should think she would tell lena so." "_you_ would, but not she," said fred. "catch gracie howard eating humble pie. but you don't seem to have much idea of gaining it yourself." "i!" said bessie, opening wide her eyes in undisguised astonishment, "why, no; i am not even trying for it." "well, it is too late now, as it is so near easter," said harry; "but since the prize is for general improvement and not for any one particular composition, i do not see why you should not have tried and generally improved as well as the others." "well, i did try to do the best i could and to improve myself," answered bessie; "but i did not think about gaining the prize. i know i couldn't." "catch bess not doing her level best for conscience' sake, prizes, or no prizes," said fred. "oh, i say, bess, you are going to begin your music lessons at easter, are you not?" the color flushed all over bessie's face and neck as she answered, after a moment's hesitation, "no, i am not, fred; and no questions asked." "'no questions asked,'" repeated fred, laughing, "but that is rather hard on our curiosity, when you have been so wild for music lessons for the last year or more. what have you been doing that they are forfeited, for i know papa promised them to you after easter?" "i told you no questions asked," repeated bessie, in a slightly irritated tone, and looking very much disturbed. "hallo!" said the astonished fred, taking these for the signs of guilt. "hallo! our pattern bess has never been doing anything wrong, has she? and so very wrong that--ouch! hal, what was that for? i'll thank you not to be kicking me that way under the table!" for harry had given him a by no means gentle reminder of that nature; and now his father, too, came to the rescue. "let your sister alone, fred," he said. "i can tell you that she has done nothing wrong. she and i have a little understanding on this matter; but she has forgotten that there is no necessity for doing without the music lessons, and she is, i assure you, to have them. but, as bessie says, 'no questions asked.' we will drop the subject." bessie's soft eyes opened wide, as she gazed at her father in pleased surprise. although the money which had been devoted by her to lena's relief had not come through him, it actually had not occurred to her until this moment that she would not be called upon to give up the music lessons. she had made the sacrifice freely for lena's sake, and had had no thought of evading its fulfilment, even after circumstances had turned out so differently from anything that she had expected. she flashed a grateful, appreciative glance at her father from out of the depths of those loving eyes, but said nothing; and, as mr. bradford had decreed, the subject was changed. the father and his little daughter understood one another. mr. bradford did not, however, tell bessie that he had never intended that she should be obliged to carry out her sacrifice; she had offered it unselfishly, and in good faith, and he would let her have the satisfaction of feeling that she had been willing to do this for her little friend. bessie was not sure whether or no she was in haste to see lena and hear from her of the providential gift she had received. she was so little accustomed to conceal her feelings, to evasion, or to affectation of an ignorance which did not exist, that she did not know how she was to maintain an appearance of innocence when lena should tell her that which she would doubtless believe to be surprising news; and more and more confirmed became her resolution "never, never, never to have another secret" which she could not share with her mother and maggie. but when she did see lena--which was not until the latter had sent for her to come to her--all difficulty on that score was removed, for the news which her friend had to communicate to her was really so extraordinary and unlocked for that she did not need to affect surprise, or to feel embarrassed over her own share in the events lena had to relate. and the possibility of bessie being the donor of that sum of money never occurred to lena. perhaps she would have been glad to know it, for lena was a proud child, with a very independent spirit, and in spite of the immense relief it was to her to be able to free percy from the difficulties in which he had involved himself, there had been an uncomfortable feeling back of that from the sense of obligation to some unknown person. who could have sent her that money? who could have been aware of her extreme need of it? there is small occasion to say that it had scarcely come into her hands when it was sent again on its travels; this time to percy. the hilarious acknowledgment which immediately came back to her was a relief in more ways than one, although she was half provoked at the _insouciant_, devil-may-care-now spirit which it evinced. percy wrote: "dear lena, "you're the dearest of little sisters, the brickiest of bricks! but there is no need for me to rob you of your hundred dollars. you say somebody sent it to you anonymously; well, the same somebody, i suppose, has done the same good office for me, sent me a hundred dollars. you say you don't know who it could be; why, it was russell, of course. you know he's just as generous as generous can be, and since he came into his own money he can't rid himself of it fast enough, but must always be finding out ways of spending it for other people. and i don't see anything so strange in this way of doing it. he knew the powers that be would make an awful row if they knew we had all that money to spend at our own sweet wills, so he took this way of sending it to us, so that we could keep our own counsel; and if they do find out we have it, we can say we don't know where it came from. it is a blessed thing they will never know that i had mine, at any rate, or ask where it went. you may be sure it did not stay in my hands long, but went into those of seabrooke in five minutes. how i did want to keep it too. but there, seabrooke is paid, and i'm free and no one the wiser; at least, no one that i'm afraid of, so no harm is done. but to think i've had to lose that money for such a thing as that. i suppose it was a shabby trick to play, and i tell you i think i never heard anything quite so scurvy as flagg putting that stuff into seabrooke's carafe to make him sleep, and i'm sure seabrooke feels more put out about that than he does about the letter, because that was malice prepense, and the other was--well--an accident; at least, we did not know the mischief we were doing, and we have made it all right. but he can't get over the drugging, and i'm glad i had no hand in it, for i do not know what the doctor will say to it. he is not back yet; but his son is better, and he will be here when we come after the easter holidays. i'm rather sick of flagg anyway; he has mean ways, and our dear old russell wouldn't tolerate him for a moment, so i'll shake him off all i can when i come back to school. i'll keep your hundred dollars till i come home, and hand it to you then. you're a trump, lena, and i never would have taken it if i could have helped it. but i would have had to do it if this other hundred had not come. and, do you know, there is one thing that puzzles me. it came by post from new york in a hair-pin box, and done up in about a thousand papers-at least there were six--so i suppose russell sent to some one in the city to do it for him; but the whole thing was awfully womanish. the address was in the most correct, copy-book-y handwriting, every point turned just so, every loop according to rule. but it came just in the nick of time, and saved me and your money. bless your heart, how are the feet? "your own all the same everlastingly obliged brother, "percy neville." thankful as lena had been to receive this letter, so annoyed was she by percy's indifferent, careless way of looking upon his own misdeeds that she did not show it to bessie; she was ashamed to do so, knowing, as she did, bessie's conscientiousness and strict sense of honor and honesty. "all right now." was this indeed all the impression made upon percy by his late peril, all the shame and regret he could feel? child though she was, and several years younger than her erring brother, the ways of right and wrong were so much clearer to her than they were to him, she had so much more steadfastness of character and purpose. "now," she said, when she had told bessie all, "now if i could only find out who sent me that money and return it when percy sends it back to me. but you see, bessie, i am not so sure that it was russell. it is not at all like the way he does things; he is never mysterious or anonymous; and he is not at all afraid of papa or mamma, and can do what he likes with his own money. he is very, very generous, and always takes such nice ways of being kind to people and giving them pleasure; and i do not think that this would be at all a nice way of sending presents to percy and me. do you, bessie?" "no," answered bessie, doubtfully, remembering her own way of conveying to lena the means of rescuing percy,--"no--i--do not like anonymousity very much; but i suppose there are times when one has to do it." "um-m-m; no, i do not think so," said lena, all unconscious of bessie's secret, and looking at her with surprise; for she knew bessie's ideas about underhand dealings to be as uncompromising as her own. but bessie stuck to her point; she had known of a case where "to be anonymous" was the best and only course to take, so it had seemed to her, and she was not to be convinced that there were not times when it was justifiable. however, she was not anxious to dwell upon the subject, and soon changed it. she knew that lena's unknown friend was not her brother russell, and she was herself mystified about the other sum sent to percy; but, fearful of betraying her own part, she began to talk of something else. "do you remember, lena," she said, "that next sunday is easter sunday, and that saturday is the day for miss ashton to name the one who deserves mr. ashton's prize?" "yes," answered lena, rather despondently, "but that cannot make much difference to me, except that i shall be so glad if you or maggie win it." "oh, maggie will, certainly," said bessie, secure in her belief that no one could compete with her sister, now that lena was supposed to be out of the question and gracie howard had decidedly withdrawn from the contest. "maggie is sure to have it, and you know that she is anxious for it so she can give it to gladys seabrooke, as you would have done." "i was thinking," said lena, with a little hesitation, very different from her usual straightforward, somewhat blunt way of speaking, "i was thinking that you and maggie praise me too much for wishing to earn the prize for gladys seabrooke. i would like to be the one to win it for her; but i think--i know--it is more for my own sake than for hers. you know i told you i wished so much that papa and mamma would think me so much improved by miss ashton's teaching that they would wish me to stay with her; and they would think it a sign of that if i did win the prize." "yes, i know," answered bessie; "but i thought your father had promised that you should stay with uncle horace and aunt may, and go to miss ashton's while you were in our country." "yes," said lena, "but i want to stay here till i am quite grown up and educated. i want papa and mamma to think that i am doing better here, improving more than i have ever done before--as i am--so that they will leave me till i am grown up and quite old. uncle horace and aunt may would keep me; uncle horace said he would like to have me for his girl always." not even her opinion of mrs. neville as a mother, not even her appreciation of the happiness of a home with her beloved colonel and mrs. rush could quite reconcile bessie to the fact that lena was not only willing but anxious to leave her own home and family and to remain in a country where she would be separated from them for years to come; but nevertheless she felt a great sympathy for her and a strong desire that this wish should be fulfilled. still she could not but have a little feeling of gladness that, according to her belief, there was no one who could now compete with her own maggie for the prize; and she rather evaded the subject and took up that of school-news until maggie, who had come with jane, the nursery-maid, to take bessie home, ran in. she brought with her the papers read at the last meeting of the "cheeryble sisters' club," such papers being, at lena's special request, always turned over to her for perusal. "whose are these?" asked the young convalescent, when maggie delivered them to her. "one is bessie's, and it is poetry. did you know that bessie had begun to write poetry?" said maggie. "two poetesses in one family!" said lena. "no, i did not hear that bessie wrote poetry too." "and this is so sweet," said maggie; "such a pretty idea. and this paper is lily's. lily has given up the resolution that she would never let her compositions be read in the club, and this is the second one she has given us. it is good, too," she added. "and this is another one from frankie. he seems to think himself quite a 'cheeryble sister,'" she added, laughing. "can you not read them to me before you go?" asked lena, and maggie assented. "i'll read the best first," with a smile full of appreciative pride at bessie, "for fear jane comes and asks me to hurry because she has a million things to do." and accordingly she unfolded one of the papers she had laid upon lena's table when she came in; but before she had time even to commence it, jane put her head in at the door with the usual formula. "miss maggie and miss bessie, will you please come. i have a million things to do, and ought to be at home." "in a few moments," answered maggie; but jane added to her persuasions by saying: "and it's snowing, too; a snow kind of soft-like that'll be turning into rain before long, and miss bessie'll get wet." this moved maggie, as the politic jane knew that it would do, for it was not expedient for bessie to be out in the damp or wet; and when she glanced out of the window and saw that the maid's words were true, she lingered no longer, but laid the papers down again and told lena they must go; and jane, congratulating herself that she had gained her point so easily, was bearing away her young charge when an interruption occurred. the children were in mrs. rush's sitting-room, and just at this moment she came in, accompanied by a little old lady, who will, doubtless be immediately recognized by those who have met her before. "maggie and bessie, you are not just going, are you?" said mrs. rush. "here is an old friend who would like to see you, at least for a few moments." "i think we must go, aunt may," said maggie, "for it is snowing, and mamma would not like bessie to be out." then, turning to the little old lady, "how do you do, miss trevor? it is a long time since we have seen you." "time, indeed; time, yes, time," said miss trevor, shaking hands warmly with both maggie and bessie. "and you've grown, yes, grown, actually grown--why, grown!" she added, in a tone which would indicate that it was a matter of surprise two girls of the ages of maggie and bessie should grow. then she put her head on one side and critically scanned her quondam pupils, giving them little nods of approval as she did so. maggie and bessie were used to miss trevor's odd ways and manner of speaking; but to lena they were a novelty, as she had never seen her before, although she had heard of her from her aunt and from her schoolmates, who often made merry over the recollection of her peculiarities when she had been their teacher in writing and drawing. presently she turned to lena and surveyed her as if she were a kind of natural curiosity; yet there was nothing rude or obtrusive in the gaze. "my niece, lena neville, miss trevor," said mrs. rush. "lena, dear, this is miss trevor, of whom you have often heard me speak." "so this is the little heroine," murmured miss trevor, "heroine, yes, heroine, indeed. fire, oh yes, indeed, fire; such courage, such presence of mind, yes, mind, indeed, mind." lena was annoyed. she did not like allusions to the fire, to her own bravery and her rescue of her little sister, even from those who were near and dear to her; and from strangers they were unendurable to her. she shrank back in her chair and half turned her face from miss trevor, while the dark look which mrs. rush knew so well, but which she seldom wore now, came over it. she hastened to effect a diversion. "miss maggie, if you please, it's snowing fast," said jane, "and i've a mil--" "the young ladies cannot walk home in this wet snow," interposed mrs. rush. "the carriage has gone for the colonel; when it returns it shall take them home. and, miss trevor, it shall take you also. you can go to the nursery if you choose, jane." so jane, forgetting the "million things" in the prospect of a comfortable gossip with old margaret, departed to the nursery till the carriage should return and her young ladies be ready to go. miss trevor, who was at her ease with mrs. rush and her former pupils of miss ashton's class if she was with any one, asked many questions about the studies of the latter and of the progress they were making in the two branches in which she had been their instructress, and gave some information respecting herself; lena listening and looking on in wonder at her peculiarities of speech and manner, but taking no part in the conversation. but at last miss trevor turned to her again. "neville, you said, my dear mrs. rush,--your niece--yes, neville, indeed, neville. such a favorite with me--me, indeed, yes, favorite. i know a boy, yes, boy--indeed, youth--such a fine youth--such a hero--ro, indeed, ro--does not fear geese--hissing creatures, my dears--yes, creatures, indeed creatures, my dears, yes, creatures, indeed. neville he is, yes, neville--chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche, 'proche_, indeed, _'proche_." now, as may be supposed, lena was far from regarding her brother percy as a "chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_." she had little reason, in view of late occurrences, to do so, and she never connected him with the heroic youth on whose praises this odd little old lady was dwelling. she felt no interest in her, only a sort of impatient surprise, and wished that her aunt would take her away. miss trevor dwelt farther upon the episode of the geese and percy's coming to the rescue; and while lena maintained a sober face, seeing nothing especially funny in the story, maggie and bessie, and even mrs. rush, had some difficulty in restraining themselves from laughing outright at the tragic tale she contrived to make out of it, and the thought of the droll spectacle the old lady must have presented as she flew down the street, pursued by the hissing, long-necked foe. but presently lena's attention was aroused. "but are flocks of geese allowed to wander loose in the streets of utica, miss trevor?" asked mrs. rush. "i thought it was too much of a place for that." "oh, no, my dear not utica, no indeed, not utica--did you not know? we moved, yes, moved, a year ago, yes, 'go, to sylvandale, yes, sylvandale--yes, 'dale," said miss trevor. "sylvandale! neville!" said mrs. rush. "lena has a brother at school at sylvandale. percy neville! can it be that our percy is your young cavalier, miss trevor?" "percy neville," repeated miss trevor, "yes, indeed, that is his name, name, yes, name. is it possible he is your brother?" turning to lena with a face now radiant with pleasure at this discovery. "ah! such a boy, boy, indeed, boy!" lena was interested now, and, perhaps a trifle uneasy, lest by any possibility some knowledge of percy's escapades should have come to miss trevor and might by her be incautiously betrayed to colonel and mrs. rush. she turned rather an anxious eye upon the old lady, wishing that she would not pursue the theme of percy and his valorous deeds, but not seeing very well how she could change the subject. words did not come easily to lena. and her fears were not without foundation, although miss trevor knew nothing of percy's troubles. further and more startling revelations were to come. for just at the moment, to this assembled group, entered hannah, bearing in her hands a tray, on which was a cup of beef-tea for lena. she was close to her little lady before she perceived the stranger, whom she would have shunned as she would a pestilence. the recognition was mutual, and to hannah most unpleasant, and in the start it gave her she nearly dropped the tray and its contents. "merciful lord!" she ejaculated, taken completely off her guard; but the exclamation was far more of a prayer than an irreverent mention of her maker's name. for was not her beloved nursling in danger? her master percy, for whom she had sacrificed so much, was he not in danger of betrayal and disgrace in case this old lady should touch upon the subject of the money confided to her care to be conveyed to him? she was not gifted with presence of mind, and she stood perfectly still, staring in undisguised perturbation at miss trevor. perceiving this, miss trevor believed that it was caused not only by surprise at seeing her there when she had told hannah that she expected to return at once to sylvandale, but also by the fear that the money had not reached its destination in good time, and she hastened to relieve her, thus bringing on the disclosures which hannah was dreading. "good morning," she said, kindly. "your money has gone, yes gone, my good woman, gone. i stayed in the city, yes, stayed, but the money has gone. he has it, the dear boy, yes, boy, he has it." it was not her money but her boy that hannah was fearing for now, and for whom she stood dismayed at the sight of miss trevor. moreover, although she knew her place, and generally treated her superiors with all due respect, if there was one thing more than another which exasperated her, it was to have any one call her "my good woman;" and, hastily setting her tray upon the table, she looked daggers at miss trevor, as she answered, snappishly: "i wasn't askin' ye nothin', ma'am." then she turned and fled, desirous to avoid all questions, although it was not hannah's way to flee before danger, either real or apprehended. [illustration: "i wasn't askin' ye nothin', ma'am."] chapter x. frankie to the front again. it was the worst thing she could have done for her cause. it was her custom to stand over lena "till hevery drop of that beef-tea is taken," knowing, as she did, that her young charge was averse to the process; and, had she stood her ground she might have evaded or parried questions, and perhaps have conveyed to miss trevor her desire for secrecy; but her dark looks and sudden exit, evidently caused by the presence of the latter, put the timid old lady into one of her flutters. "what is it, my dear?" she asked, turning to mrs. rush, and speaking in a kind of panic. "what did i do? does she think--yes--think that the money has not gone? oh, yes, indeed, yes, i sent it so carefully, carefully indeed, fully, and the dear boy has it, yes, has it, indeed, long before this, long!" then to lena, "your brother, my dear, yes, brother. oh, i would have gone home myself to take it to him, yes, take, if i could not have sent it quite safely, yes, safe; but they persuaded me to stay, and so i sent it by post, sent it, yes, post." lena gave a little gasp. here then was a partial solution of the mystery of that second hundred dollars. she and bessie both saw it; hannah had sent it to percy, and by some strange means, through miss trevor. and hannah was now evidently very angry and disturbed. what could it all mean? bessie wondered: but the matter was not of as much moment to her as it was to lena, who was more bewildered, if possible, than ever. and she knew what must follow--questions, explanations, and disclosure to her aunt and uncle of percy's wrong-doing. now, however, that he was released from the other dangers that had threatened him, the child felt this to be almost a relief: she had so suffered under the knowledge that she was keeping his secret from them, had felt such a sense of positive guiltiness in their presence. "what is all this, miss trevor?" asked mrs. rush. "where have you met lena's old nurse before? and what is this about percy; for i take it for granted he is the brother of lena of whom you are speaking." her manner was so grave that miss trevor was alarmed, and imagining that she had brought herself and her young cavalier into some difficulty, she became more incoherent, nervous and rambling than usual. repeating herself over and over again, she related, in such a confused manner, the story of her encounter with hannah, and of how the latter had entrusted her with the money for percy; of how she had intended to return to sylvandale at once when she had accepted the trust, but had been persuaded by her friends to remain in the city until after easter, and how she, mindful of the task she had undertaken, and not knowing where she could find hannah to inform her of the change in her plans, had sent the money by post; but, as she assured mrs. rush, with the greatest precautions. only those who were accustomed to her ways of speech could have thoroughly understood her, and even mrs. rush, who had known the old lady from her own childhood, had some difficulty in patching together a connected tale; and all she arrived at in the end only increased her desire to know more of the matter and to understand for what purpose hannah had sent such a sum of money to percy, and in such a mysterious manner. as for lena, a new thorn was planted in her poor little heart, a new shame bowed her head. this much she understood, that hannah had been sending money to percy. was it possible that her reckless brother had been so lost to all sense of what was fitting that he had actually applied to his faithful old nurse, this servant in his father's family, for aid? oh, percy, percy; shame, shame! as we know, she wronged percy in this; but as she had no means of ascertaining how hannah had become possessed of his secret and of his extremity, it was the most natural thing in the world that she should think he had so far forgotten himself. she could guess at more than mrs. rush or bessie bradford could, and had no doubt to what purpose the money entrusted to miss trevor had been destined. and an added pang of shame and regret was given to the proud, high-spirited child when, at the conclusion of miss trevor's rambling tale, her aunt turned to her, and said: "why, lena, that gold must have been those cherished sovereigns which hannah destined for her monument and '_epithet_.' why should she have sent them to percy? it is not possible that she would trust them to the keeping of a careless schoolboy." as yet, it was plain, mrs. rush had suspected nothing wrong, so far as percy was concerned about the disposal of hannah's money, but now when she observed the painful flush and startled, shamed look upon the little girl's face, she could not but see that lena was distressed, and instantly coupled this with the low spirits and nervous restlessness which had, for some time past, so evidently retarded her recovery. lena could make her no answer in words, but her expression and manner were enough, and mrs. rush asked no more, intending to leave the matter to the judgment of her husband. she gave no hint of her suspicions to lena, moreover, passing over the child's agitation in silence; and when the carriage had returned with the colonel, and the visitors departed, she set herself to divert lena, offering, if she chose, to read the "club papers" maggie had brought with her. lena assented, more to divert attention from herself and to turn her aunt's thoughts from the subject of the mysterious doings of hannah, than from any real interest in the compositions; but as mrs. rush read her attention was presently attracted. "this is one of maggie's, i see," said mrs. rush, perceiving one in maggie's handwriting. "oh, no," glancing at the commencement and seeing that it was by no means in maggie's style, "it is another effusion of frankie's; she has only written it out from his dictation. i wonder if it will be as droll as 'babylon babylon.'" "the man that broke good friday." "once there was a boy, and he never told a lie, and his name wasn't george washington either. and i don't think it was anything so great to tell about that everlasting cherry-tree that everybody's tired hearing about; and when i come to be the father of my country and i do something bad, i'll just go and tell my papa about it without waiting for him to go poking round and having to ask me if i did it. i think it is awfully mean to do a fault and wait till somebody comes and asks you about it; it is skimpy of telling the truth. and if you do bad things your fathers don't always claps you in their arms and say they'd rather you'd do a hundred bad things than tell a lie; sometimes they punish you, all the same, and you don't always get out of it that way. "well, this boy didn't think so much of himself because he didn't tell lies; he was used to not telling them, and he didn't get himself put into the history books about it and make himself chestnuts. he was very polite to girls, too, and always got up and gave them a chair and gave them the best of everything, just like our hal. hal's awfully generous, and fred is, too; only fred teases, and the boys call hal 'troubadour.' "well, there was a man lived by this boy's house, and he was a real bad man, and it came good friday, and this man didn't go to church or anything; but he bought a flag--a great big, new one, and he put it right up on his flag-staff with his own hands. he just must have been glad that god was dead. the good boy saw it, and he knew it wasn't any use to tell that man he was breaking good friday, 'cause he would just say 'mind your own business,' so the boy ran to the president and told him about it, and the president came down out of his capitol and ran with the truth-telling boy and came to the man and said, 'hi, there, you! pull down that flag this minute on good friday! and the man was awfully frightened 'cause he knew the president has such lots of soldiers and policemen, and he was afraid he'd set them on him; so he pulled down the flag mighty quick. but he was so mad he made faces at the president; but the president didn't care a bit. presidents grow used to disagreeable things, and it is worse having people not vote for you than it is to be made faces at. he had a lot of laws to make that day and he thought he'd make a new one about putting up flags on good friday; so he hurried home to his capitol; but when he came there, he said to his wife: "'my dear, i'm afraid that man might do something horrid to that truth-telling boy--i know just by the look of him he don't like people who tell the truth; so you run and peep round the corner and watch!' "and the president's wife said, 'yes, your presidency, i will'; and she put on her best frock and her crown, so as to make the man think she was very grand, so he'd be respectful to her, and she kissed the president for good-by and went and peeped around the corner. "well, you see after the president went away that man had grown madder and madder, but he didn't dare to put the flag up again, only he didn't like it 'cause somebody meddled with his business; generally people don't like it if you meddle with their business; and he stamped his feet and clenched his hands, and just screamed, he was so mad. it sometimes makes you feel a little better to scream if you're mad, only your fathers and mothers don't like it, but this man was so old and grown up his father and mother had had to die long ago; but they saw him out of heaven and were mad at him. well, all of a sudden he said, 'i guess it was that boy who never tells lies; he looked real mad when he saw that flag, and i'll pay him off, oh, won't i though!' then he cut off a great big piece of his flag-staff; he forgot the flag wouldn't go so high if he did it, and he was going to run at that boy who didn't tell lies; but the boy wasn't going to wait for him to ask, and he went up to him and said: "'hi, there, you! i told the president about you; i don't want you to ask me any kestions, 'cause always i speak the truth without waiting for people to ask me, and i did it, so, there now!' "then the bad man struck at the boy with the piece of the flag-staff in his hand; but the boy was too quick for him, and he couldn't reach him, and the president's wife screamed right out and ran for her husband's soldiers. she would have gone to help the boy herself; but she had to be very proud and stiff of herself because she was the president's wife. "when the president heard her scream he knew it was because that man was trying to do something to the boy; so he looked in his laws dictionary to find what to do to him; but the man that made the dictionary never thought that any one would be so bad as to break good friday, so there was nothing about it. so he made a new law himself very quick and told the soldiers what to do, and they came; and the president's wife was hollering like anything and nervous; but the boy was just laughing and jumping around the man, saying, 'catch me; why don't you catch me, old good friday breaker.' "well, this boy had a fairy of his own--this is partly a fairy tale and partly a bible story, 'cause it is about good friday; and i don't know if it's very pious to mix up the two, but i have to end up the story--and this fairy came to help him, and she opened a hole in the ground and let the man fall right through to africa, where the cannibals got him and eat him up; but he was so bad he disagreed with them, so even after he was killed he was a nuisance. then the president gave the boy a beautiful present, and told him he'd vote for him to be president when he grew up, and he'd give him a whole regiment of soldiers for his own. "so this is what you get for always telling the truth, and for not being afraid to tell when you've done a bad thing. anybody is an awful old meaner to hide it when he's done it, and you ought to tell right out and not be sneaky. a boy who hides what he's done _is_ a sneak, i don't care. the end." there were some parts of this fanciful tale which made lena wince, as she saw how much clearer an idea of right and wrong, truth and justice, had this little boy of seven than had her own brother of more than twice his age. if percy could but think that it was "mean and sneaky" to endeavor to hide a fault, could but see how much nobler and more manly it was to make confession, and, so far as possible, reparation. true, the money had been repaid to seabrooke; but through what a source had it come to him; and there were so many other things to confess, things which had led to this very trouble with seabrooke. the rambling, half-incoherent nonsense written, or rather, dictated by the little brother of her young friends made her feel more than ever the shame and meanness of percy's conduct, and she could not laugh at frankie's contribution to the "cheeryble sisters," as her aunt did. and frankie practised that which he preached, as lena very well knew. mischievous and heedless, almost to recklessness, he was not only always ready to confess his wrong-doing when questioned, but when conscious of his fault, did not wait for his parents to "go poking about to find him out," but would go straightway and accuse himself. like all the bradford children, strictly truthful and upright, he scorned concealment or evasion, and accepted the consequences of his naughtiness without attempt at either. but well could lena remember how in the nursery days from which she and percy had but so recently escaped, he would hide, by every possible device, his own misdoings, even to the very verge of suffering others to be blamed for them. hannah would even then strive to shield him from detection and punishment at his parents' hands, thus fostering his weakness and moral cowardice. with over-severity on the one hand, and over-indulgence on the other, what wonder was it that percy's faults had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength? it cannot be said that lena put all this into words, even to herself: but such thoughts were there, or those very much like them. she was given to reasoning and pondering over things in the recesses of her own mind, and she was uncommonly clear-sighted for a girl of her age. probably the child was not the happier for that. to maggie and bessie, in their joyous lives, full of the tenderness and confidence and sympathy which existed between them and their parents, such ideas would never have come, even while they wondered at and pitied the utter lack in lena's existence of all that made the happiness of theirs. and another trouble, perhaps now the greatest which weighed upon lena's mind, was the knowledge that their faithful old nurse had sacrificed her long-cherished gold, with its particular purpose, to the rescue of percy from his dilemma. for, after hearing miss trevor's story, lena could not--did not doubt that this was so. and aunt may, having also heard the tale, would tell uncle horace; there was no doubt of that. lena was not at all relieved by the fact that her aunt asked no questions, never once alluded to the subject. she suspected something wrong, and was only waiting for an opportunity to submit it to the colonel. lena did not imagine, of course, that her aunt blamed her in any way in the matter; there was no reason that she should do so, and in one respect it would be almost a relief to have her aunt and uncle know all. but for percy's sake she still shrank from that. but hannah, and hannah's cherished money! dear, faithful old hannah! oh, the shame, the shame of it! mrs. rush, with her suspicions already tending percy-wise in connection with lena's late low spirits, and noting how devoid of interest she seemed to be in the papers she was reading for her benefit, had those suspicions more than ever confirmed since she observed the effect miss trevor's revelation had had upon her; she felt assured now that percy had fallen into some trouble from which his sister and his old nurse had endeavored to extricate him. and it must be indeed a serious trouble which made needful such secrecy, such mysterious, underhand doings. suddenly mrs. rush saw lena's countenance change; a look of relief passed over it, and her head was lifted and her eye brightened again. for it had flashed upon the child that there was a way out of a part of the difficulty, at least. that second hundred dollars could be taken to return to hannah that which she had sacrificed. percy had written that he would bring it to her when she came home for the easter holidays; she would somehow contrive to have it turned into gold and give it back to the old woman, telling her at the same time that she and percy had discovered her generosity, and loved her all the more for her faithful tenderness. ah! she said to herself, how stupid she had been not to see this at once, and how strange that percy had not thought of doing it when he must at least have suspected the truth after applying to hannah. mrs. rush took up the second paper and glanced over it, then laughed. "this is lily's," she said. "spelling does not seem to be her strong point." "no," answered lena, "she says she never can spell, and i do not think she tries very hard. miss ashton takes a great deal of trouble with her, too; but lily just laughs at her own spelling and does not seem to think that it matters very much. but she is so nice," she added, apologetically, "and we all like her so much." "yes," answered mrs. rush, "lily is a dear child, and so truly noble and upright and conscientious, in spite of her sometimes careless way of speaking of right and wrong. shall i read this, lena; do you care to hear it?" for she had noticed that lena appeared _distraite_ during the reading of frankie's composition. "oh, yes, if you please, aunt marian," answered lena, more cheerfully than she had spoken before. "lily's compositions are always rather droll, even if they are not very correct." "but does miss ashton leave it to lily's own choice to say whether she will write compositions or no?" asked mrs. rush. "oh, no," answered lena, "she has to write them regularly, as the rest of us do; but she has never before been willing to have one read in the club, and even this she will not allow to go in our book." "'good resolutions' is the title of the piece," said mrs. rush, beginning to read from the paper in her hand. "good resolutions are capitle things if you keep them, but generally they are made to be broken; at least i am afraid mine are. i think i've made about a thousand in my life, and about nine hundred and ninety-seven have been broken. but there is one good resolution i made i have never broken and never shall, and that is, forever and ever and ever to hate oliver cromwell. i shall always kepe that. i know of lots of bad men, but i think he was the worst i ever knew. he made believe he was very pious, but he was not at all, he was a hipokrit and deceiver; and he made believe he had the king killed for writeousness' sake, and i know he only did it so as to take the head place himself. i think i can't bear cromwell more than any one i ever knew. i just hate him, and it is no use for any one to say he was doing what he thought was best for his country and he meant well. i don't believe it, and i hate people who mean well; they are always tiresome. the poor dear king! i would like to have been there when they tryed him, and i would have been like lady fairfax and would have called out, 'oliver cromwell is a rogue and a traitor,' and not been afrade of anybody when i wanted to stand up for my king. i love lady fairfax." "what a stanch little royalist lily is and would have been had she lived in those days," said mrs. rush, smiling as she came to a pause. "yes," said lena, "she always stands up for kings and the rights of kings." "but i am amazed," said mrs. rush, "that lily does not write a better composition than this. it is really not as good as some which i have seen written by the younger children of the class, bessie, belle and amy." "no," answered lena, "and we all think it is because lily does not choose to take pains with her compositions. she is so bright and clever about all her other lessons, history, geography, french, and everything but composition and spelling; but she only laughs about her bad report for those two, and does not seem to care at all or to take any trouble to improve in them. miss ashton is sometimes quite vexed with her, and says it is only carelessness." "and even the wish to earn the prize did not spur her on?" asked mrs. rush. "oh, no," answered lena, "she only said she knew she could never gain it, and wasn't going to try. i think maggie persuaded her to write a paper to be read in the club in the hope that it would make her take a little pains and try to improve." "but it hardly seems to have answered the purpose," said mrs. rush. "but" she added, as she took up again lily's paper, which she had laid upon the table, "she is a dear child, and as you say, very bright. do you wish to hear more of this, dear; or are you tired?" "oh, yes, please," answered lena, who was now so relieved by the remembrance that the debt to hannah could be paid as soon as her brother returned, that she felt as if some heavy weight had been lifted from her, and looked, spoke, and acted like a different child from the one of a few moments since; "if you please, aunt marian. lily goes on for some time in such a nonsensical way and then comes out with something so clever and droll that we cannot help laughing. i would like to hear the rest of it; and there is bessie's piece, too." but before mrs. rush had time to commence once more the reading of lily's composition, the colonel sent up a message to ask his wife to come to him. chapter xi. a trust. the puzzled colonel, even more puzzled than were his wife and lena, since he had not all the clews to guide him which they had received, and, moreover, rather astonished that the former had not come to greet him, according to her usual custom, when he entered the house after an absence of some hours, had his tale to tell and his riddle to solve. "where have you been? why did you not come before? is lena worse?" were questions he propounded in a breath, not waiting for an answer to the first till he had asked all three. no, lena was not worse, mrs. rush said, but she had been startled and worried, and she had stayed with her and tried to divert her until she should be more comfortable. and then she told the story of miss trevor's visit, of her encounter with hannah, and the latter's evident dismay and displeasure at seeing her there; of how the old lady had betrayed that which the old nurse had plainly intended should be kept a profound secret; of how there could be no doubt that lena had had the key to these revelations, and of how she had been much distressed and agitated by them, but had tried to conceal this and had told her nothing. the colonel had his say also, and told how he had met miss trevor at the door with maggie and bessie when they came down to take the carriage; of how she had, in her own queer, incoherent way, told him some story of which he could make nothing clear save that hannah had, through her, sent a large sum of money to percy; and how he, coupling one thing with another, had arrived at the conclusion that percy had fallen into trouble through his own fault, and so had not dared to apply for help to those upon whom he had a legitimate right to call, but had confided in hannah, and begged and received aid from her. there could be no doubt of this, both the colonel and his wife agreed; nor that the depression and anxiety shown by lena some time since was to be referred to the same cause, whatever that might be. but as percy would be home for the easter vacation in a couple of days, the colonel said he would not question lena or disturb her further at present. if percy were in fault and had been guilty of any wrong-doing, he must be made to confess; if not, it would still be expedient that it should be known why a sum of money, so large for such a boy, should have been conveyed to him by a servant in such a surreptitious manner. if no information on the matter could be obtained from either lena, percy or hannah, he should feel it only right to write to percy's father and place it in his hands; and in any case hannah must be repaid. the story of the exchange of the gold for miss trevor's bank-notes left little doubt in the mind of either colonel or mrs. rush that the sum consecrated to the monument and epitaph which were to commemorate the virtues of the faithful old woman, had been sacrificed to percy's needs; and now the colonel remembered how she had asked him the value of british gold in american paper. so nothing more was said till percy should come, and lena, seeing that her uncle and aunt were just as usual, and that they plied her with no questions, took heart of grace, and consoled herself with the reflection that she had alarmed herself unnecessarily, and that they were not going to "make a fuss" over miss trevor's revelations. meanwhile percy had kept his promise to his sister, namely, that he would henceforth avoid lewis flagg; at least, he had done so as far as he was able, for it is easier to take up with bad company than it is to shake it off; that is, if the desire to do so is not mutual, and the bad company has no mind to be discarded. and this was the case with lewis. he had reasons of his own for wishing to keep his influence over percy, and he did not intend that he should escape it if it were possible to maintain it. so, in spite of percy's avoidance of him, which became so marked that the other boys noticed it, he persisted in seeking his company at all times and in all places. he was not by any means blind to percy's endeavors to avoid him, but chose to ignore them and to be constantly hail-fellow-well-met with him as he had been before. but, fortunately for percy, seabrooke had his eye on both. while seeing all the weakness and instability of the younger boy's character, he saw also much that was lovable and good; and moreover, a kindly feeling towards him had been aroused through gratitude to his friends and relations. he had heard through his sister gladys and his father, not only of the kindness shown to the little girl, but also of the generous donation made by colonel rush to the struggling church of which his father was rector; and he knew through percy of the efforts of lena and her young friends to gain the scholarship for gladys. in spite of his rather stubborn pride which had led him so haughtily to answer percy that his sister was not an object of charity, he could not but feel grateful to the sweet little strangers who were striving to earn such a benefit for his own sister; and for the sake of percy's relatives as well as for that of the boy himself, he had resolved to keep an eye upon him during the few remaining days of the term and to endeavor to keep him from going astray again. and percy, who had been pretty thoroughly frightened, and also truly ashamed of the disgraceful scrape into which he had fallen, was far more amenable than usual to rules and regulations, and was not without gratitude to seabrooke for having dealt so leniently with him. but even now, as harley seabrooke could plainly see, percy had no proper sense of the gravity of his late offence; the dread of dr. leacraft's displeasure and of the exposure to his relatives being what chiefly concerned him. percy had told seabrooke whence he had received the money with which he had been enabled to repay him, and had been rather troubled by his reluctance to accept it through the means of a girl who was totally innocent of any share of blame. careless as he was, percy could not but feel that it cast a reflection upon him. hence he had been glad when that second remittance arrived in such a mysterious manner to let harley know of it, and to declare that he should repay his sister at once on his return to his uncle's house at the approaching easter holidays. but seabrooke had little faith in percy's strength of purpose in case any new temptation presented itself in the meantime; that is, any temptation to spend the money in any other way. "don't you think it is what i ought to do?" asked percy, when he had told seabrooke of his intentions, and observed, as he could not help doing, that the other seemed a little doubtful. "certainly, i think it is what you ought to do; it is the only thing you _can_ do if you have any sense of right and honor," answered seabrooke, looking at him steadily. "but you think i won't," said percy, awakening to a sense that seabrooke had no confidence in his good resolutions. "i think you are open to temptation, neville, more than any one i know," answered his uncompromising mentor; and percy could not deny that there was too much truth in the assertion. he took it in good part, however, although he made no answer beyond what was conveyed by a rather sheepish look; and presently seabrooke said: "does any one know that you have received this money, neville?" he would not ask the direct question which was in his mind, namely, whether lewis flagg knew of it. "oh, yes, all the fellows know of it," answered percy; "they were all there when i opened that odd-looking parcel. i thought it was a hoax--wrapped up in paper after paper that way--and i was not going to open the hair-pin box when it came out at last; but raymond stewart cut the string and there was the hundred-dollar note. a nice thing it would have been if i had tossed it in the fire, as i had a mind to do half-a-dozen times while i was unrolling those papers. oh, yes; they all saw it. flagg says i am the luckiest fellow he knows." "yes," thought seabrooke, "and he'll persuade you to make way with it before it goes into your sister's hands, if i know him aright. i say, percy," aloud, "why don't you put that money into mr. merton's hands till you are going home?" "why?" asked percy, rather indignantly. "you don't suppose any one is going to steal it, do you?" "of course not," answered seabrooke, who really had no such thought, and only feared that percy himself might be tempted to do something foolish--in his situation something almost dishonorable seabrooke thought it would be. it was due to percy's sister that this sum should be employed to repay her; it would be an absolute wrong to employ it for anything else. "only," he added, with a little hesitation, "i thought you might find it a sort of a safeguard to have it in the hands of some one else." "a safeguard against myself, eh?" said percy, laughing good-naturedly, and not at all offended, as seabrooke feared he might be. "all right, if you are unhappy about it take care of it yourself." and drawing his purse from his pocket he opened it, took from it the hundred dollar note, and thrust the latter into seabrooke's hand. "i suppose it's wisest," he said; "but i _know_ i shouldn't spend it. however, if it gives you any satisfaction it is as well in your pocket as mine." "it will not lodge in my pocket," said seabrooke; "how can you carry such a sum of money in such an insecure place, neville? playing rough-and-tumble games, too, when any minute it is likely to fall out of your pocket. i shall lock it up, i can tell you; and what if you tell me not to return it to you till we are breaking up?" "all right," said percy again. "i request you not to give it back to me until the day we leave." "i promise," said seabrooke. "remember now; i shall keep my word and take you at yours, and _will_ not return this money to you until thursday morning of next week." "no, don't," said percy, laughing. "i give you full leave to refuse to return it to me till then." "self-confident, careless fellow!" said seabrooke to himself as the other turned away in a series of somersaults down the slope on the edge of which they had been standing. "he is so sure of himself; and yet, i know, at the very first temptation he would forget all about his debt to his sister and make way with that money. but i can't help having a liking for him, and for the sake of that sister who has been so nice to gladys i shall do what i can to keep him straight." "i say, neville," said raymond stewart, meeting percy not half an hour afterward, "aren't you going to stand treat out of that fortune of yours?" "no," answered percy, "not this time. i have something else to do with that fortune of mine." "turned stingy all of a sudden, eh?" said raymond, with the disagreeable sneer which was almost habitual with him; and percy, in spite of his boasting self-confidence, felt glad that his money was in other keeping than his own. he knew perfectly well that he would not have stood proof against the persuasions and sneers, perhaps even threats, which might be brought into use to induce him to part with at least a portion of it. seabrooke had foreseen just some such state of affairs when he heard that the other boys all knew of percy's fortune, and hence the precautions he had taken. he would have felt that they were fully justified had he overheard the present conversation. further pressure, not only from raymond stewart, but from several of the other boys was brought to bear upon percy: but, as he laughingly declared, he had not the money in his hands, and so could not spend it. "where is it, then?" "what have you done with it?" "have you sent it home?" asked one and another; but percy still refused to tell. only lewis flagg did not beset him, did not ask any questions or seem to take any interest in the matter; but that would easily be accounted for by the coolness which had arisen between percy and himself during the last few days. but this state of affairs had really nothing to do with it, for lewis did not choose to be snubbed so long as he had any object to gain, and the coolness was all on percy's side. but lewis could give a very good guess as to the whereabouts of percy's money at present, or at least, as to the person in whose custody it was. he had been standing at one of the school-room windows while seabrooke and percy had been talking at the top of the slope, and had seen the latter take out his pocket-book, take something from it and hand it to seabrooke, and he rightly conjectured how matters were, that seabrooke had persuaded percy to give him the money for safe-keeping. and then arose a thought which had made itself felt before, that it was hard that percy had been furnished not only with the means to defray the claim of seabrooke, and that through no sacrifice or exertion of his own, but also with a like sum which he was at liberty to spend as he pleased, while he himself had been obliged to dispose of his watch in order to obtain the sum which would save him. he felt quite wronged, and as if some injustice had been done to him, forgetting or losing sight of all the meanness, underhand dealing and disobedience of rules which had brought him to his present predicament. and the doctor would be here tomorrow,--for his son was out of danger and he was coming back to close the school,--would hear the account of his misconduct and would report at home, if nothing worse. a feeling of intense irritation against both seabrooke and percy neville took possession of him, a feeling as unreasonable as it was spiteful; and he said to himself that he would find means to be revenged on both, especially on seabrooke, whom he chose to look upon as the offender instead of the offended, the injurer instead of the injured. then another idea took possession of him, and one worthy of his own mean spirit, namely, that seabrooke had been demanding and percy giving a further prize for the silence of the former in the matter of the burnt money; and he immediately formed in his own mind a plan by which he might be revenged upon seabrooke. he called it to himself, "playing a jolly good trick;" but lewis flagg's "jolly good tricks" were apt to prove more jolly to himself than to his victims, and they did occasionally, as we have seen, recoil upon his own head. "i say, percy," said raymond stewart, "you hav'n't made over that hundred dollars to flagg, have you? we know that he can get out of you anything that he chooses. has he, flagg? own up now if he has. i shouldn't wonder." "no, i hav'n't," said percy, exasperated by the assertion that flagg could do as he pleased with him. "no, i haven't given it to him, and he can't make me do as he pleases. no one can." at this assumption of his own independence from the facile, easily-led percy a shout of derision was raised; and then began a running fire of schoolboy jeers and jests. the good humor with which percy generally took such attacks was apt to disarm his tormentors; but now, probably because he was conscious that their taunts were so well-deserved, he resented them and showed some irritability in the matter. had he not felt assured that seabrooke would abide by his word and insist upon keeping possession of the money until the day of the breaking up of school, there is little doubt that he would have allowed himself to be urged into demanding it back and spending at least some portion of it for the entertainment of his school-fellows. "see here," said one of the boys, apropos of nothing it seemed, "see here, do you know seabrooke is going to dine with the dons up at mr. fanshawe's to-night?" "then who's going to be sentinel at evening study?" asked raymond stewart. "mr. merton," answered the other. "isn't he invited?" asked raymond. "yes, but he wants seabrooke to go because he says he has but little pleasure; so he told him he would decline and take the evening study, so that he might go to the dinner. here he comes now. hallo! seabrooke, what a big-bug you're getting to be! going out to dine with the dons and so forth." seabrooke passed on with a cold, indifferent smile just moving the corners of his mouth. he had little of the spirit of good comradeship and was not accustomed to meet any joke or nonsense from his companions in a responsive manner; so it was little wonder that he was not very popular with the other boys. but as he passed percy, who stood leaning with his back against a tree, rather discontentedly kicking the toe of his shoe into the ground, he saw that the boy was vexed about something, and paused to speak to him. "hallo, neville," he said; "what is the matter? you look as if the world were not wagging your way just now." "nothing," answered percy, half-sulkily, "only i wish i hadn't given you that money. the fellows think i'm awfully mean." "so soon!" said seabrooke to himself; then replied aloud, "why, because you wish to pay a just debt?" "no, they don't know about that," said percy, "only they think i ought to stand treat." "i shall keep my word to you," said seabrooke, significantly, and walked on. "you wouldn't like it yourself," answered percy; but seabrooke only shrugged his shoulders and gave no symptom of yielding to his unspoken desire. "weak, unstable fellow!" he said to himself. "he would have asked me for that money if he had thought there was the slightest chance i would give it to him, and would have spent a part of it rather than have those fellows chaff and run him. after his sister's sacrifice, too. pah!" he had never been a boy who was subject to temptations of this nature, or who cared one iota for the opinion of others, especially if he believed himself to be in the right; and he had no patience with or pity for weakness of character or purpose. to him there was something utterly contemptible in percy's indulging in the least thought of withdrawing from his resolution of using the sum he had confided to his keeping to repay his debt to his sister, and he wasted no sympathy upon him or his fancied difficulties. seabrooke went to dine with "the dons," caring not so much for the social pleasure as for the honor conferred upon him by the invitation; mr. merton taking, as had been arranged, his place in the schoolroom during evening study. the tutor cast his eye around the line of heads and missed one. "where is lewis flagg?" he asked. "i don't know, sir," answered one of the boys. "i saw him about ten minutes ago." scarcely had he spoken when the delinquent entered the room and hastened to his seat. "late, lewis," said mr. merton, placing a tardy mark against his name. "i did not hear the bell, sir," answered lewis, telling his falsehood with coolness, although his manner was somewhat flurried and nervous. percy was running across the play-ground the next morning when he came full against seabrooke, who was just rounding the corner of an evergreen hedge. he would have been thrown off his balance by the shock had not seabrooke caught him; but the next instant he shook him off, while he regarded him with a look of the most scornful contempt. "hallo!" said percy, not observing this at first, "that was a concussion between opposing forces. i beg your pardon. i should have been down, too, but for you" "you're pretty well _down_, i should say," replied seabrooke, sneeringly. "you're a nice fellow to call yourself a gentleman, are'n't you?" percy opened his eyes in unfeigned astonishment. the grave, studious, young pupil-teacher was no favorite with the other boys, who thought him priggish and rather arbitrary; but at least he was always courteous in his dealings with them, and, indeed, rather prided himself upon his manners. "well, that's one way to take it," said the younger boy, resentfully, his regrets taking flight at once as they met with this apparently ungracious reception. "accidents will happen, and, after all, it was just as much your fault as mine." "i would not try to appear innocent. it will hardly serve your turn under the circumstances," said seabrooke, still with the same disagreeable tone and manner. "but let me tell you, mr. neville, that i have a great mind to report you for trespassing in my quarters. you may think you have the right to demand your own if you choose to break a compact made for your own good, but you have no right to be guilty of the liberty and meanness of ransacking another man's belongings in search of it." "i don't know what you are talking about. what do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished percy, really for the moment forgetting that seabrooke had anything belonging to him in his keeping. but seabrooke only answered, as he turned away, "such an assumption of innocence is quite thrown away, i repeat, sir and the next time you meddle with my things or places, you shall suffer for it, i assure you." but percy seized him by the arm. "you shall not leave me this way," he said. "what do you mean? explain yourself. who touched your things?" "it shows what you are," answered seabrooke, continuing his reproaches, instead of giving the straightforward answer which he considered unnecessary, "that you have not the decent manliness to demand that which rightfully belonged to you because you were ashamed of your own folly and weakness, but must go and ransack in my quarters to find your money. let me go; i wish nothing more to do with you." light broke upon the bewildered percy. seabrooke was accusing him of searching for and taking the money he had confided to his care, but which he, percy, certainly had no right to recover by such means. "you say i took back my money without asking you for it, and hunted it out from your places?" he asked, incredulously, but fiercely. "i do," answered seabrooke, "and i've nothing more to say to you now or hereafter." percy contradicted him flatly, and in language which left no doubt as to his opinion of his veracity, and very hard words were interchanged. both lost their temper, and seabrooke his dignity--poor percy had not much of the latter quality to lose--and the quarrel presently attracted the attention, not only of the other boys, but of one or two of the masters who happened to be within hearing. naturally this called forth inquiry, and it soon became known that percy had entrusted to seabrooke's keeping a large sum of money, lest he should himself be tempted to spend any portion of it, as it was to be reserved for a special purpose; that seabrooke before going to the dinner on the previous evening had put it, as he supposed, in a secure place, and that this morning the money was gone, while he had discovered slight but unmistakable evidence that his quarters had been ransacked in search of it. he had, perhaps, not unnaturally, at once arrived at the conclusion that percy himself had searched for and taken it, being determined to have it, and yet ashamed to demand its return. it was a grave accusation, and one which percy denied in the most emphatic and indignant manner which convinced nearly every one who heard him of his innocence. seabrooke was not among these. he maintained that no one but percy knew that he had taken the money in charge; no one but percy had any object in finding it, and he appeared and professed himself perfectly outraged that any one "should have dared" to open his trunk, bureau and so forth. there could be no question of actual theft, since the money was percy's own, to dispose of as he pleased, but the liberty was a great one, and it was a very mean way of regaining possession even of his own property, had he been guilty of it. but percy was popular, seabrooke was not; and even the masters were inclined to believe that the latter must have been careless and forgetful and mislaid the money, while believing he had put it in the place he indicated, and presently--no one knew exactly how it started or could trace the rumor to its source--presently it began to be bruited about among the boys that seabrooke was keeping it for his own use and had never intended to return it to percy, and was now making him his scape-goat. but percy, even in the midst of his own wrath and indignation, generously combated this; he inclined to the first supposition that seabrooke had mislaid or lost the note, and he even maintained that it would shortly be found. but this did not make seabrooke any more lenient in his judgment. he said little, but that little expressed the most dogged and obstinate belief in percy's weakness of purpose, and in his search for and abstraction of his own property. the situation was one hard to deal with, and mr. merton and the other tutors resolved to let the matter rest until the return of dr. leacraft, who was expected that very evening. school closed the next day, and the various actors in this little drama were to scatter to their respective homes for the easter holidays. "what a miserable report we have to make to the doctor on his return!" said mr. merton. "when he has been through so much, too, and is just feeling a little relief from his anxiety. he will find that his boys--the majority at least--have not had much consideration for him in his trouble." what would he have said had he known how much worse the record might have been--had all been revealed, had seabrooke disclosed the drugging, the theft of his letter to his father, and the destruction, unintentional though it was, of the money? seabrooke went about the business of the day with all his accustomed regularity and precision, but with a sort of defiant and i-am-going-to-stick-to-it air about him which in itself incited the other boys to covert thrusts and innuendoes tending to throw distrust upon his version of the story and to make known their thorough sympathy with percy, not only for his loss, but also for the aspersions cast upon him by the young pupil-teacher. seabrooke professed, and perhaps with truth, not to care particularly for popularity or for what others said about him; but he found this hard to bear, more especially as he fully believed percy to be guilty of the meanness he had ascribed to him. but for some unknown reason lewis flagg, who was usually the ringleader in all such little amenities, held his peace and had nothing to say. chapter xii. discovery. if dr. leacraft expected to be received with much enthusiasm on his return that evening he was destined to disappointment. the boys cheered him on his arrival, it is true, and came about him with inquiries for his injured son and congratulations on his partial recovery; but there was a certain restraint in the manner of the majority which to his experienced eye and ear told that all things had not gone quite well. and that it was something more than the by-gone offence of the expedition to rice's was evident. only one-half of the boys were implicated in that affair; they had already been punished by the restrictions which had been placed upon them, and were to be further disgraced by the public reprimand which he intended to give them on the dismissal of the school; and these culprits were probably dreading this or some other severe punishment which would be meted out to them by the report of their misconduct which would be sent home. but there was something here beyond all this; the boys were looking askance at one another, and as if there were some new revelation to be made. mr. merton would have spared the doctor the recital of any further disturbance until the morning; but the principal, having observed all this, would not be put off; the time was short, and if the matter were a serious one which required investigation, he must have knowledge of it at once. serious, indeed, the doctor thought it when he heard the tale: the disappearance of a hundred-dollar note confided by one boy to another, and the question as to who was responsible for it. but was it certain that this responsibility lay solely between these two boys? this was an idea which now presented itself to the minds of the two gentlemen, as it had before this to the minds of the pupils. it had been started by raymond stewart, who had said: "how do we know that some one else has not been meddling with that money? i do not see that it follows no one could touch it but seabrooke or percy." "that would say that there was a thief among us," said another boy, indignantly. "that's about it," answered raymond. the boys had looked from one to another almost in dismay. whatever their faults and shortcomings--and some of these had been grave enough--such an idea, such an implication as this had never before presented itself to them--that there was a thief in their midst, that one of their number had been guilty of flagrant dishonesty, of an absolute theft, and that of a large sum. "that's a nice thing for you to say," broke forth malcolm ainslie. "whom do you accuse?" "i accuse no one," answered raymond. "i only said such a thing might be." but percy and seabrooke had both scouted the idea; no one, they both said, knew that the former had intrusted his money to seabrooke; no one had been present at the time, and both declared that they had spoken of it to no one. but the suspicion aroused by raymond was not set at rest by this, and an uncomfortable atmosphere had reigned ever since, and, as has been seen, was remarked by dr. leacraft as soon as he returned home. thursday morning, and the closing day arrived, and there was a general feeling of shame and annoyance that such a cloud should be resting upon the school as its members separated even for a few days. it seemed now as if nothing could "come out," as the boys said, there was so little time for any investigation, for the pupils, none of whom lived at more than a few hours distance from sylvandale, were to leave by the afternoon trains. the morning lessons were to continue as usual, but those for the after part of the day were to be dispensed with. the matron did the boys' packing, so that there were no especial calls upon their time before leaving. "henderson, are you ill?" asked dr. leacraft, coming into the junior class-room about eleven o'clock, and noticing that charlie henderson, the youngest boy in the school and a pattern scholar, was deathly pale, and supporting his head upon his hand. the boy was subject to frightful headaches, which for the time unfitted him for all study or recitation; and seabrooke, who was hearing the lesson in progress, had excused him from taking any part in it. these headaches were of few hours duration; but the boy needed absolute rest and quiet to enable him to conquer them. as he lifted his heavy, suffering eyes to the doctor's face, seabrooke answered for him. "yes, sir, he has one of his headaches, and is afraid he will not be able to go this afternoon. i have excused him from recitation, and was going to ask if he may go to his room. he is not fit to be here." "certainly. go at once, my child," said the doctor, laying his hand kindly on the boy's throbbing head. "you must have a sleep, and ease this poor head before afternoon. you will feel better by train time." charlie rose with a murmured word of thanks, every step and movement adding a fresh pang to his pain, and went slowly from the room and up to the dormitory devoted to the younger boys. but there seemed small prospect of quiet here. the matron and three housemaids were in the room, half a dozen trunks were standing here and there, bureau drawers and closets were standing open, and a general appearance of disorder attendant upon the packing for half-a-dozen boys reigned throughout the apartment. charlie gave a little groan of despair as he stood at the open door and looked in. "oh, master henderson, my dear!" ejaculated the matron, as she caught sight of the pale, suffering young face, "you've never gone and got one of your headaches to-day of all days. such a hubbub as there is here. you can't come in, my dear; you'll never get rest for your poor head. come to the other dormitory; we're all done there, and it's as quiet as a nunnery, and one can get to sleep, and sleep you must have if you are going home this afternoon. come now; you have five hours to get rid of that good-for-nothing headache." and the voluble but kind-hearted woman led the way to the dormitory of the older boys, where all was quiet and in order, and installed her patient on percy neville's bed, covered him, gave him the medicine prescribed for his relief, and having made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, left him to the coveted rest and quiet in the half-darkened room. the healing sleep was not long in coming, and for three hours or more charlie lay motionless and lost to all around him, mrs. moffat coming once or twice to look in upon him, and depart with a satisfied nod of her head, confident that he would wake sufficiently restored to undertake the journey home at the appointed hour. it was with a grave face that the doctor rose at the close of the morning lessons to dismiss his charge for the easter holidays. his customary leave-taking was one simply of good-will and kind wishes for the enjoyment of his pupils, and for their return at the commencement of another term; but this time there was much to be said that was not so agreeable. to the younger boys he addressed only a few commendatory words, praising them for their fair progress and general good conduct, and wishing them a very pleasant holiday. to those of the senior department he then turned with stern looks and tones, saying he had thought it but right to inform their parents and guardians of their misconduct during his absence. he did not intend to leave punishment entirely to them, however, but on the return of the boys to school, further restrictions would be placed upon their liberty, and many of their past privileges would be taken from them for the remainder of the school year. he spoke severely, not only of the want of principle shown by the culprits, but alluded also to the lack of feeling they had shown in so defying his express wishes and orders at a time of such distress and anxiety to himself, although he did not dwell much upon this. but to those among them who had any sense of honor left, there was an added shame when this was presented anew to them, and as percy afterwards said, he did "feel uncommonly mean and sneaky." he must speak of another and still more painful matter, the doctor continued. a matter so serious that he felt he must allude to it before they separated. a large sum of money was missing under very mysterious circumstances; he believed that there was no need to enter into particulars. he wished and was inclined to think that some forgetfulness and carelessness lay at the bottom of this. here seabrooke's hand, which lay upon his desk, clenched itself, and a dark scowl passed over his face, while percy glanced over at him with suspicion and resentment written on every feature, and a battery of eyes turned in his direction, not one among them with friendly look for himself. but the doctor said there might be even a worse interpretation put upon the disappearance of the money, an interpretation he was both to entertain, but which must occur to all, namely, that some one had succumbed to temptation, and had appropriated the missing sum, which one of their number had been so positive he left in a safe place. was it possible that there was one among the circle who would do such a thing? if so, let him make confession and restitution before he left to-day, and although he could not be suffered to return to the school, he might at least be spared the shame of confronting his schoolmates after discovery. for he would leave no stone unturned, he said, emphatically, to unravel the mystery; and if nothing came to light before to-night, he should at once place the matter in competent hands for its solution. a dead silence fell upon the boys as he concluded, and if they had been uneasy and inclined to look askance upon one another before, how was it with them now? so the higher powers shared the suspicions which, they scarcely knew how, had made themselves felt among them since yesterday morning. what an uncomfortable puzzle it all was! and who was to read the answer to the riddle? had seabrooke lost the money? had percy been guilty of possessing himself of his own property by such unjustifiable means? or was one of their number an actual thief? in a few more words dr. leacraft then dismissed the school, and the boys were free for discussion of the matter among themselves. it was easy for seabrooke to see, as it had been from the first, in which direction the current of opinion tended, and not caring to talk further upon the subject, he withdrew to the shelter of his own alcove. charlie henderson, in the solitary dormitory, lay quiet and undisturbed, until, having nearly slept off his headache, he woke with the delightful sense of relief and peace which comes after the cessation of severe pain. he lay still, however, feeling languid, and waiting till some one should come whom he could ask for the cup of strong coffee which was always needed to perfect his cure, and thinking happily of home and the pleasure he anticipated in the holidays just at hand. at last mrs. moffat put her head into the room. "ah, master henderson, my dear," she said, at once appreciating the change in the situation, "so you're better. that's a dear boy"--as though it were highly meritorious in charlie to have allowed himself to feel better. "well, now, you must have your cup of coffee to tone you up for your trip. you lie still, while i see about it. there's lots of time yet, and i'm not going to send you home faint and miserable to your mother, and have her say there's nobody at sylvandale academy to look after her head-ache-y boy." and she was gone, while charlie, nothing loth, obeyed orders and lay almost motionless. suddenly quick footsteps came along the hall, and the door of the room, which mrs. moffat had left ajar, was pushed open and a boy entered--one of the older boys--and charlie knew that his presence here would be questioned, and that he must hasten to explain. who was it? there were boys and boys belonging to that dormitory, and charlie felt that he would rather be found there by some than by others. it was for this reason that he had chosen the bed of the good-natured, easy-going percy to rest upon; he would "raise no fuss," or make him feel himself an intruder. it was lewis flagg. certainly he was not the one by whom charlie would choose to be faced, and seeing that he was not perceived, he hesitated whether he should speak and reveal his presence, or pretend to be still asleep and trust to silence and good fortune to remain undiscovered. but before he had quite made up his mind which course to pursue the matter was decided for him, and he found that he had no need to betray himself. lewis was upon business which necessitated haste and secrecy; and knowing that all the other legitimate occupants of the dormitory were below stairs, he never gave a thought to the possibility that there might be some one else there, and believed himself quite alone. his hurried movements were very mysterious to the young spectator. lewis went to the alcove occupied by seabrooke, where his trunk, like that of the other boys, stood packed and closed, but not locked or strapped lest there should be "some last things to put in." he stooped over the trunk, lifted the lid, and taking something from his pocket, thrust it down beneath the contents, hastily closed it again, and darted from the room. the whole performance took but a moment, but there was an unmistakable air of guilt and terror about lewis which did not fail to make itself apparent even to the inexperienced eye of charlie. [illustration: an unsuspecting witness] "i wonder what he was doing. he hates seabrooke; so he wasn't giving him a pleasant surprise," said the little boy to himself. "he's a sneak, and i suspect he was doing something sneaky. i've a great mind to tell seabrooke to look in his trunk before he locks it. perhaps he has put in something to explode or do some harm to the things in seabrook's trunk or to himself." charlie was a nervous child and rather imaginative, and was always conjuring up possibilities of disaster in his own mind. he did not make these public; he knew better than to do such a thing in a house full of schoolboys, but they existed all the same. he did not wish to "tell tales;" but he had not too much confidence in lewis flagg--it would be hard to find the boy in the school who had, especially among the younger ones--and he could not bear to think that he might have planned some scurvy trick on seabrooke. charlie was a pattern scholar, a boy after seabrooke's own heart, because of his sincere efforts to do right; and hence he had found favor in his eyes, and he had shown many little tokens of partiality toward the child which had won for him the younger boy's gratitude and affection. he lay waiting for mrs. moffat and trying to make up his mind what he had better do, when seabrooke himself entered the room and went directly to his alcove, in his turn unconscious of charlie's presence. he looked troubled and harassed, as he well might do, and sat down for a moment, leaning his head upon his hand, and seemingly in deep thought. should he tell him? charlie asked himself. presently with a sigh and a despondent shake of the head, to which he would never have given vent had he known that any one was observing him, seabrooke rose, and going to his trunk proceeded to lock it. it was too much for charlie. "seabrooke!" he said, in a low tone, and raising himself from his pillows. seabrooke looked up, startled at finding that he was not the sole occupant of the room. "charlie," he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?" then with a flash of recollection, "oh! i suppose they put you here to sleep off your headache." "yes," answered charlie, "and--seabrooke--" "well, what is it?" asked the other, as the boy hesitated. "won't you look in your trunk--carefully--before you lock it?" said charlie. "why?" asked seabrooke, much surprised, and thinking for a moment that charlie's headache must have produced something like delirium. "oh, because," said charlie, thinking how he could best warn seabrooke and yet not betray flagg, "because--there's something in your trunk." "of course there is," said seabrooke, "lots of things, i should say--pretty much all i possess is there." and he wondered as he spoke if he should ever bring any of his possessions back there again, whether, with this cloud, this suspicion of a possible betrayal of his trust resting upon him, he should ever return to sylvandale school. "but--" stammered charlie, "i mean--seabrooke--somebody put something there. i--i saw him--but he did not see me here. he's playing you a trick, i know. do look." seeing that the boy was quite himself and thoroughly in earnest, seabrooke turned to his trunk and began taking the clothes out, charlie sitting up and watching him anxiously, and wondering what would be discovered. "it's in the left-hand corner in front," he said; and then there was silence for a moment. seabrooke laid aside half-a-dozen articles, then suddenly started to his feet with an exclamation, holding in his hand a creased and crumpled envelope, which he hastily opened, and took from it--percy's hundred-dollar note! he turned deathly pale and for a moment stood gazing at it as if stupefied. "what is it? percy neville's money?" asked charlie, who, in common with every other boy in the school, knew the story of percy's lost banknote. "yes," answered seabrooke in a stern, cold tone, "did you say you saw some one put it there?" "yes," said charlie, "but you must not ask me who it was, for i cannot tell." "you _must_ tell me," said seabrooke, striding up to the bed, "you _must_ tell me. who was it?" "i won't, i won't; i will not," said charlie, firmly. "i told you because i thought you ought to know some one went to your trunk; but i _won't_ tell who it was." "ah, i know," answered seabrooke; "no need to look very far. it was neville himself. who would have believed it of him, weak, miserable coward that he is? he would have set some one to search my trunk, i suppose, that it might be found there and prove me a thief." "percy neville! it was not percy! oh, no!" exclaimed charlie; "you ought not to say it." "who then? tell me at once," persisted seabrooke, just as mrs. moffat returned with the coffee, to find her young patient flushed and distressed, with seabrooke standing over him in rather a threatening manner. "i won't," repeated charlie, "but it wasn't percy." "hi! what's the matter? what is this?" demanded mrs. moffat. "if master henderson's been breaking any rules, you'll please not nag him about it now, mr. seabrooke. you'll have him all worried into another headache, and he is not fairly over this one yet, and he'll not be fit for his journey home." seabrooke paid no more attention to her than if she had not spoken. "do you hear me, henderson?" he asked. "i _will_ know." "i won't--" began charlie again; but mrs. moffat interposed once more. "mr. seabrooke," she said, actually pushing herself between the two boys, the tray with the coffee in her hand, "mr. seabrooke, master henderson is under my care so long as he is in here, and i will not have him worried in this way. let him alone if you please." seabrooke was blind and deaf to all her interference. "i will know," he repeated. "i will bring the doctor here if you do not tell. who was it?" charlie's eyes turned involuntarily towards the corner of the room occupied by lewis flagg's bed and other belongings, and seabrooke caught the look. quick-sighted and quick-witted, he drew his own inferences and attacked the boy from another quarter. "it was flagg, then," he persisted. the color flashed up over charlie's pale face, but he only answered sharply: "i tell you to let me alone. you're real mean, seabrooke." "so he is," said mrs. moffat, "and i wish the doctor would come. we'd see if he'd have this sick boy put about this way, mr. seabrooke. i tell you i have the care of him now, and i'll not have him plagued this way." but seabrooke was gone before she was half through with this speech, and poor charlie was left to take his coffee in such peace as he might with the dread hanging over him of being reported as a tell-tale. mrs. moffat's sympathy and her almost abuse of seabrooke did him little good; he was very sensitive to praise or blame, and could not bear the thought of incurring the ill-will of any one of the boys. chapter xiii. accusation. quiet and self-contained and little given to impulse as he was, seabrooke, when roused to anger or resentment, was a very lion in his wrath, and there was one thing which he could never tolerate or overlook, and that was any attempt to take an unfair advantage of him. he had been exasperated to a great degree by flagg's endeavor to drug him on the night of the expedition to rice's, and that with good reason; and now his suspicions, nay, more than suspicions aroused that he was trying to make it appear that he, seabrooke, had wrongfully kept percy's money and then pretended that the latter had taken it from him by stealth, enraged him beyond bounds. striding in among the group of boys who were still discussing the very question of the disappearance of the money which had been the main topic of interest ever since the loss was discovered, the bank-note in his hand, he advanced directly to flagg, who was taking an active part in the conversation--that is, he had been doing so within the last few moments, since he had returned after a short absence from the school-room, looking, as more than one of the boys observed, "flushed and rather flurried." indeed one boy had remarked: "you seem to be short of breath, flaggy; you're purring like a steam-engine. what ails you?" "can't a fellow take a run around the house without anything being the matter with him?" asked lewis, sharply, but with a little nervous trepidation in his tone and manner; but the subject was now dropped, and he had more than recovered his composure and was taking an apparently interested part in the renewed discussion over percy's loss, when the enraged seabrooke entered the room. "you scoundrel!" he ejaculated between his set teeth, and with his eyes actually blazing, "you stole this, did you?"--flourishing the note before the now terrified lewis, who, taken thus by surprise, had no time to collect his wits and assume an appearance of unconcern and innocence. "you stole this, and to make it appear that i was the thief--the thief!--you put it in my trunk. don't deny it," as lewis endeavored to speak, "don't dare to deny it.--you were _seen_ to do it!" no other thought entered the head of the terrified lewis than that seabrooke himself had seen him at his shameful work, and that he had chosen to confront and convict him with it here in the presence of the rest of the school. he would have denied it could he have found words in which to do it, had he had time to frame a denial, but he was so entirely off his guard, so confounded by seabrooke's sudden accusation and this evidence of the dastardly deed he had performed that he was utterly overwhelmed, and stood speechless, and the picture of detected guilt. the doctor happened to be in one of the adjoining recitation rooms in conference with some of the other teachers over this very matter, and the raised tones--so very unusual--of seabrooke's angry voice arrested his attention and called him into the main schoolroom. to him seabrooke, without waiting to be questioned, made known his complaint, and again displayed the note in proof thereof, accusing lewis flagg of stealing it and then placing it in his trunk for the purpose of criminating him, hoping that it might be found there before school broke up. in this he did flagg some partial injustice. lewis had searched for and taken the money with the object of playing an annoying trick upon seabrooke and percy, but proposing, after giving both "a good fright," to put it back where he had found it, or in some other place in seabrooke's alcove where he might be supposed to have mislaid it. but once in his possession, the note excited his cupidity and a strong desire to keep it. if it were but his, he could easily clear off sundry debts which he had contracted, especially the remainder of that to rice, which he had only partially satisfied. on his return to school after the easter holidays it might well appear that he had an unusual amount of funds; a boy's relations were apt to be generous at such times, and no one need ever know the extent of his riches. so reasoned this unprincipled boy, and he had actually made up his mind to make no attempt to restore the money to a place where it might be found, but to retain it for himself, when the doctor's address and a dread that his crime might after all be detected, decided him to return to his first intentions. there was little time to be lost now. seizing the first opportunity of slipping away from his schoolmates, he rushed upstairs to the dormitory with the design of throwing the note under seabrooke's bed or bureau, where it might be supposed to have fallen; but seeing the trunk standing there ready packed, the impulse had taken him to put it in that, and without reflecting--perhaps hardly caring--that this would place seabrooke in a still more embarrassing position, he thrust the note within, as charlie henderson saw, and fled from the room. he was rid of it in any event, and he cared little what the consequences might be to any one else, especially seabrooke. and now he was confronted with the evidence of his misdeeds, and even when he began to recover himself a little, knew not what to say, what excuse to make. and here was dr. leacraft awaiting his answer to seabrooke's accusations, and regarding him with stern and questioning eyes. the doctor was a just man, however, and would condemn no culprit unheard, and he had no proof that lewis flagg was the culprit in the present case, other than seabrooke's asseverations and the boy's own guilty appearance. as the latter stood hesitating for words which would not plunge him deeper, dr. leacraft turned to seabrooke. "_who_ saw flagg do this thing?" he questioned. "did you, seabrooke?" "no, sir," answered seabrooke, who was becoming more calm; "i did not see him myself, but he was seen to do it." "by whom?" persisted the doctor. seabrooke hesitated. he was beginning to realize that he was placing charlie henderson in rather an unpleasant position: that young involuntary detective might be scouted at by the boys for the part he had taken in bringing flagg to justice, for "telling." he knew that there were those among the older scholars who would make the child's school-life a misery to him if they heard that he had informed, and he would not betray him to them. "could i see you a moment alone, sir?" he asked the doctor. dr. leacraft assented, and retired with seabrooke to one of the adjoining class-rooms, bidding every boy remain where he was till their return. alone with the doctor, seabrooke told his story and besought him not to let it be known that charlie had been the unsuspected observer of flagg's actions. "the boy is as honest as the day, doctor," said seabrooke. "i know it; above suspicion. a most honest and loyal little fellow," said the doctor. "his secret shall be kept, if possible." then he went up to see charlie, and received from him the fullest confirmation of all that seabrooke had told; and he assured the boy that his knowledge of the transaction should not be betrayed to the others. charlie himself had taken such precautions against "being found out" as he was able to do; he would not even drink his coffee until he had persuaded mrs. moffat to let him go to his own dormitory, lest any of the "big fellows" should find him in their quarters. he told mrs. moffat enough to let her understand that he had unwittingly seen something he was not intended to see, and she, knowing enough of boys in general and of that senior class in particular, to be sure that charlie would not go scot free, if the truth were known, hastened to comply with his request. charlie had faith enough in seabrooke to believe that he would not betray him if it were possible not to do so, and as no boy save he and flagg had been into the dormitory, he hoped that it would not be discovered that he had been there. and it was so; when the boys came up to make the final preparations for leaving, charlie was in his own room, all tokens of his presence in that of the senior class removed by mrs. moffat's willing hands, and no one suspected that the boy had slept off his headache in any other than his usual place. during the doctor's absence, and when he had time to collect his thoughts a little, lewis had made up his mind as to the course he would pursue. he was in a bad position, there was no doubt of that; but he resolved to brave it out and to treat the whole affair as a huge joke. he might be punished; there was little doubt but that he would be, and probably his misconduct would be reported at home, but he would make the best he could out of a bad business. as he did not know who it was that had seen him in the dormitory, he did not dare to deny having been there; his suspicions turned toward mrs. moffat, and as she was an old and trusted member of the household, he knew very well that her word would be taken at any time against his own, which had not too much credit with either teacher or scholars. he broke forth into a hoarse, forced laugh, looking around him with defiance and an assured contempt upon the circle of his schoolmates, who were, one and all, regarding him with suspicion and unconcealed scorn. the most careless and reckless among them were shocked at the enormity of the offence with which he stood charged, a theft of such magnitude, and then the scoundrelly attempt to make it appear that another had been guilty of it. "what a row about a small matter!" he exclaimed. "the whole thing was a joke; but i never thought it would be so successful as this, putting the whole school in a fever. see here; i did take that bank-note, of course. i wanted to see seabrooke and neville in a war over it, and then i was going to put it in some place here it would be found. i was going to throw it under seabrooke's bed or somewhere; but i saw his trunk standing there, and the chance was too good to be lost. i knew he would find it there, and send it to percy as soon as he reached home. if it hadn't been for old moffat it would all have worked right." utter silence met this tissue of impudence, defiance, truth and falsehood, and he saw plainly enough that he was believed to have committed the theft of percy's money for theft itself, pure and simple, and that fear of detection only had induced him to make the effort at restoration. "i say, neville," he continued, "you know i did not mean to keep the money, don't you?" but percy only turned contemptuously away without any reply in words. none were needed. lewis was answered. "i'm going to do my best not to be sent back here," said lewis, striving to continue his bravado, although his heart was sinking as he began to realize more and more in what a predicament he had placed himself. "such a set of muffs, teachers and scholars, i never met. no one can take a joke, or even see it." "i think it likely your efforts will be crowned with success," said raymond stewart, himself a boy of not too much principle, but who, in common with the rest of the school, had been inexpressibly shocked and revolted by lewis' conduct. "you are dismissed," said mr. merton, appearing at the door. "lewis flagg, you are to go to the doctor in his study." what sentence was meted out to lewis in that interview with the doctor the boys did not know until their return to school after the holidays, when he did not appear among them, and they were told on inquiry that he would not do so. he endeavored to brazen it out with dr. leacraft as he had with the boys, insisting that the whole affair, the abstraction of the money and the placing it in seabrooke's trunk, was "only a joke;" but the doctor altogether refused to look upon it in any other light than that of an unmitigated theft and an atrocious attempt to fasten it upon another when he feared detection for himself. no protestations to the contrary served lewis' turn, and from this day forth his evil influence was happily lost to the school. and this was the story which percy had to pour into the ears of his innocent young sister on his return home. on the first opportunity which presented itself the morning after his arrival at his uncle's he told her all, extenuating nothing of his own misconduct and weakness in the beginning, and acknowledging that he had almost wilfully suffered himself to be led into disobedience and wrong, and richly deserved all the shame and trouble which had fallen upon him. lena was inexpressibly shocked by the account of this last wickedness of flagg's, for she, in common with dr. leacraft and every one else who heard the tale, gave him credit only for the deliberate theft of percy's money and then of the effort to throw it upon seabrooke, either as an act of revenge or else because he feared that it would be found in his possession. he returned to her the hundred-dollar note which had such a story attached to it, and in his turn had to hear from lena her belief that the second sum sent for his relief had come from hannah, and that the old nurse had sacrificed the gold which she had destined for her own glorification to his rescue from his predicament. she reproached him for having appealed to hannah, a servant in his father's house, for aid; and in her turn had to hear his reproaches for believing that he would condescend to such a thing, and received an emphatic and solemn denial that he had been guilty of this, or that he had ever let hannah know of the straits he was in. he had never, he asseverated, spoken or written to any one concerning this, save herself; if he had done so it would have been to his indulgent uncle, colonel rush, to whom he would have applied. how then had hannah become possessed of his secret, was the question which the brother and sister now asked of each other and of themselves. here was a mystery, indeed; for that it had been hannah who sent that second hundred dollars could not be doubted after miss trevor's revelations. and why should she have sent the money unless she had known that percy was in sore need? "did you tell hannah anything about it?" he asked. "no!" answered lena, indignantly. "how could i tell her such a thing? and you know how you told me i must never, never tell." "and you did not show her my letter?" asked the puzzled percy, who was by no means pleased, as may be imagined, by the knowledge that one other, at least, must share the secret. "no," repeated lena, still more vexed that he should suppose her to be capable of such an evasion, which to her sense of uprightness would have been as bad as speaking a falsehood by word of mouth; "no, of course i did not, that would have been telling her, would it not? one can _do_ a falsehood as well as tell it," and although she had intended no reflection upon her brother, no thrust at him, percy was ashamed as he remembered how often, during the last few months, he had done this very thing; how he had shuffled and evaded, and thought it no great harm as long as he did not put his falsehood into actual words. "well, no one knows how thankful i am to you, lena, dear," he said. "what can i ever do for you?" "tell uncle horace. i wish, oh, i do _wish_ you would tell him," said his sister. "tell uncle horace; no, never!" exclaimed percy. "i couldn't. think of that look in his eyes when he hears of anything he thinks shabby or--well--dishonorable. he'd be ready to put me out of his house if he heard about that letter, even though we didn't know what was in it. i couldn't, lena; i couldn't." "i think it would be better for you," said his sister, "for aunt may knew about hannah and miss trevor, and she is sure to have told him. they have said nothing about it to me; but i know uncle horace will ask you, and then you must confess. it will be best to tell him without waiting till you must; he will not think so badly of you." but percy could not be persuaded to do this; he lacked the moral courage to follow his sister's advice and to confess all to his uncle before he should be obliged to do so, hoping that after all she might be mistaken and that he should still escape that humiliation. since colonel rush had not spoken at once upon the subject, percy believed that he would not do so at all, either because he had no knowledge of these money transactions or because he thought the matter of no importance. "why should uncle horace worry himself about hannah's money?" he said to his sister. "she is nothing to him, and what she chooses to do with it is no business of his. she is not his servant." "no," said the sensible and more far-sighted lena; "but she is in his house. and you are his nephew and under his care, and he must think it strange that a servant would send you so much money and in such a secret way, and he must know that something is wrong; he must suspect that you are in some very bad scrape." but percy was still immovable. easily swayed as he was in general, he was not to be influenced in the only right direction now, and all lena's arguments were thrown away. "but i say, lena," he said, with a sudden change of subject and with his usual, easy-going facility for putting aside for the time being anything which troubled him, "i say, isn't it queer that the girl you are all trying to win this prize for should be the sister of seabrooke? how things do come around, to be sure. i can tell you he's as uppish as the grand panjandrum himself about it, too; says his sister is not an object of charity, and her father and brother are able to look after her." "oh, did you tell him? how could you, percy?" exclaimed lena. "and now he'll tell her, and we meant it to be a surprise to her if any one gained it for her. what will the girls say, maggie and bessie, and the others who are trying for her!" "i let it out without intending to," said percy. "i was so taken by surprise myself when seabrooke told me what he intended to do with that money, that i just let it out without thinking. but afterwards i told him it was a secret, and he said he wouldn't say anything about it. but he was awfully high and mighty, i can tell you. you won't make the thing go down with him. but who is likely to win it,--you won't, of course, whatever your chances may have been in the beginning--any one of your chums? maggie bradford or bessie, or those?" "i don't know," answered lena. "maggie would, of course, if it were for the best composition written by the class; but it is not for that, you know, but for the greatest general improvement in composition. but so many of the girls are interested about gladys seabrooke that i think almost any of our class would give it to her. but it somehow seems as if maggie or bessie _ought_ to have the pleasure because we are the ones who found her out. the girls are all going to miss ashton's on saturday morning, when they will be told; and if any one gains the prize who will give it to gladys seabrooke, it will be sent to her as an easter present." chapter xiv. who wins. a damper had been thrown upon lena's satisfaction in the belief that gladys seabrooke would probably be the recipient of the gift of mr. ashton's trust, by the assurance of her brother percy that seabrooke would be high and mighty and oppose the acceptance of it. she did not reflect that, having a father and mother, it was not at all likely that her brother's fiat would decide the matter for gladys either one way or the other. her first thought and wish was to confide this doubt to maggie and bessie when she should next see them; but she presently felt that she could not well do this without in some measure, at least, betraying the heedless percy. she did not dare to speak of his connection with seabrooke, lest she should draw suspicion upon him after her confidences to bessie. so she must needs keep this little fretting worry to herself, too. there was the question about hannah, also: how the money was to be returned to her, in the uncertainty as to how much she knew, and how she had acquired any knowledge of percy's predicament; for that she knew something of it lena was convinced; and yet the child was equally sure that that letter had never been out of her own keeping. percy had at once put into her hand the hundred-dollar note, telling her that she must find means of conveying it to the old nurse. oh, what a puzzle and a tangle it all was! poor little lena! truly she was having a hard time with all the perplexities and anxieties which percy's worse than folly had brought upon her. but one source of worry, in fact two, were to be lifted before long. colonel rush, having waited for what he considered a sufficient length of time for percy to make a confession had he been disposed to do so, resolved to bring him to it whether he would or no. that percy had been in some serious difficulty, that he was in some way heavily involved, was very evident; likewise that hannah knew of this and had sacrificed her much prized savings to rescue him. at present he--the colonel--stood in the relation of parent to percy and master to hannah; he therefore felt that it was both his right and his duty to make inquiries and put matters straight, so far as he could. on saturday morning, therefore, he called the boy into his library and asked him if there were anything which he would like to tell him, and receive his counsel and perhaps help. he made no accusation; did not tell percy that he knew he had been involved in some trouble which had brought about the necessity--real or fancied--for him to free himself by the payment of this--for a boy--large sum. he put his question and offer kindly and freely, but in a way which showed his nephew he was not to be trifled with. and, indeed, his uncle was the last man in the world with whom percy would have chosen to trifle. not his father, not dr. leacraft, had half the influence over him that this hero-uncle had, the brave, distinguished soldier whose very name was a synonym for all that was honorable and daring. there was no one in the world whose good opinion could have influenced him so much; no one whose scorn and disapprobation he so dreaded, or from whose reproof he would have shrunk. he had shown this when he had pleaded with lena not to betray him to their uncle, of all people. he would really rather have borne some severe punishment at the hands of his parents or teacher than he would one contemptuous word or look from him who was regarded by all his young relations and friends as a chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_. no prevarication, no shuffling would do here; if he said anything, if he answered at all, it must be the truth and nothing but the truth. he hesitated for a moment, not from any intention of refusing to give his uncle his confidence, or denying that he had been in trouble, but from a desire to frame his confession in the best manner possible; but nothing came to his aid other than the plain, unvarnished truth; nothing else, he felt, would serve his turn here with that steady, searching eye upon him; and in a moment he had taken his resolve, and the whole shameful tale was poured into colonel rush's ears. bad as it was, it was not as bad as colonel rush had feared. rebellion against lawful authority, rank disobedience and deception were to be laid at percy's door, not to speak of the pitiable weakness which had suffered him to be led into this wrong, and the enormity of his at least passive acquiescence when flagg had stolen seabrooke's letter; still worse his own destruction of it, almost involuntary though it was. what he had apprehended the colonel would hardly have confessed even to himself; but the truth was that he had suspected percy of nothing less than the appropriation of some sum which he was compelled to replace or to face open disgrace. and yet colonel rush was not a suspicious man or one ready to believe evil of others, but circumstances had looked very dark for percy, and there had seemed but one interpretation to place upon them. and now, by percy's confession, one part of the mystery was solved; but there still remained that of hannah's presumed knowledge that he was in trouble and had been in sore need of money. assuredly, hannah, devoted as she was to the interests of her nurslings, especially percy, would never have thought of making this sacrifice had she not felt that there was some pressing necessity; but how in the world had the old nurse acquired this knowledge. the nephew was as much puzzled as the uncle, and denied, with an indignation which seemed rather out of place in the light of past occurrences, any imputation that he had asked her to assist him. but now, percy inquired, could the colonel have the hundred-dollar note exchanged for gold so that it might be restored to faithful hannah in the form in which she had always kept it. it was easy enough to do this, the colonel said; but the trouble would be to make hannah confess that she had sent it, still more so why she had sent it. colonel rush would not say so to the children, seeing that no such idea had occurred to them, but it was his own opinion that hannah had in some way obtained unlawful possession of percy's letter to lena, had mastered its contents, and then taken steps for his relief which she believed could not be discovered. of the kindly advice and admonition given to percy by his uncle there is no need to speak further; but it resulted in making percy feel that he would do anything rather than again run the risk of forfeiting the good opinion which he now valued more than ever. meanwhile, during the time that percy was closeted with his uncle in the library, that portion of the members of the "cheeryble sisters' club" which constituted the choice band of "inseparables," namely maggie and bessie bradford, belle powers, lily norris, and fanny leroy, having joined forces on their way to miss ashton's, had called in to see lena. this had been done at the suggestion of the ever considerate maggie, who, although naturally heedless about the little everyday business of life, never forgot to do "nice things" for others. when she was much younger, extreme carelessness had been her besetting fault, and, as is the manner of this "little fox," had created much trouble for herself and for others; but having become convinced that it was her duty to cure herself of this, she had set to work to do it in such earnest that that which had been a burden and a care to her was fast becoming a settled habit, and it was but seldom now that any act or word of heedlessness could be laid to her charge, while her ever obliging disposition and loving heart prompted many a deed of kindness which she never failed to carry out if it were in her power to do so. "but we have to stop as we come back, to tell her that you have the prize," said bessie. "we will stop again and tell her who has gained it as we come back," answered maggie. "but i think she will like it if we stop now, so that she will know we are thinking about her and are so sorry that she cannot be with us. but, bessie, i think you are quite mistaken in believing so surely that i will have the prize. i know quite well that there are two or three who have improved in composition more than i have." bessie made no reply in words, but shook her head as if unconvinced. with lena neville and gracie howard out of the lists, she found it quite impossible to believe that any one but her own maggie could be the successful competitor. but all agreed that it would be well to call in and see lena for a moment and let her be sure that she was not forgotten. "and," said maggie, "there is the doctor's carriage at the door. we will wait till he comes downstairs and ask him how soon lena will be able to go about and have a little excitement, so that we can arrange about the fair. it is just a good chance for us. then we will tell lena what he says if he is encouraging." maggie and bessie were almost as much at home in colonel rush's house as they were in their own, and had they chosen to go in and out twenty times a day, they would always have been welcome; and the young friends who accompanied them were about as much at their ease, although not one among the quintette would ever have been obtrusive or troublesome. the doctor, who knew each one of them, being, as it happened, family physician to their respective households, was just about taking leave and was standing in the hall talking to mrs. rush. "hallo!" he said, his kindly face beaming upon the smiling flock who trooped in when starr opened the door for them. "hallo! what a bevy of birdlings! but how comes it that you are not at miss ashton's? i have just left my laura there, and she is in a state of frantic expectation over this composition prize the finest authoress among you is to gain this morning. are none of you interested?" "oh, yes, sir, all of us," answered lily norris, always ready to be spokeswoman; "we are going to miss ashton's in a few moments. but we are not to be there until twelve o'clock, and it is not that yet. and if the finest authoress is to have the prize, it will be maggie's." "so laura seems to think," said dr. middleton, and shy maggie, not caring to put forth in his presence any further disclaimer to the still undecided honors which her sister and friends seemed determined to put upon her head, smiled doubtfully. "doctor," she said, "would you mind telling me how soon you think lena will be able to bear a little excitement?" the doctor looked grave. "my child," he said, "i fear lena is under more excitement now than is good for her." then turning to mrs. rush, he added, "there is little use in expecting her to make rapid progress while she is fretting herself, as she is evidently doing, over some real or imaginary evil. do you think it possible," an idea occurring to him, "that she is troubled about losing the chance to win this prize?" "i scarcely think so," said mrs. rush. "she was even more than anxious for it at one time; but the principal object for which she wanted it is gained now, and she is not the child to fret herself over a disappointed ambition." "well," said the doctor, "find out the trouble if you can. you cure the mental ill and i will answer for the physical. but what is this excitement you are speaking of, maggie?" "we are going to have a fair, doctor," answered maggie. "we wanted to have it at easter, but put it off because lena is so lame and not strong enough, and we would like to know how soon she will be well enough." the doctor thought a moment. "perhaps," he said, presently, "if she were interested in this fair it might do her good and take her mind from whatever is troubling her. try it, maggie; set the time for your fair at no distant date, and see what it will do for her. good-morning, mrs. rush. good-by, my cheerybles." and the busy physician departed on his rounds. "i believe it is the prize," said lily, as the whole flock, bidden to do so by mrs. rush, mounted the stairs to lena's room. "i know that lena was perfectly crazy to have that prize so she could spite her father and mother--and i would be, too, if i were she--and i am sure she feels very badly about it." "why, lily!" said maggie. "well," said lily, "i'm sure it's perfectly natural if she does--_such_ a father and mother--specially mother. she's the kind that always think they're right, and she turned up her nose at miss ashton, and then she had to find out what a splendid teacher she is, and lena improved so much in composition and everything else before she was burned that i expect she could have taken the prize even before maggie. she just wanted her mother to _know_ that she couldn't do a better thing than to leave her with miss ashton to the end of her days. and if you mean, maggie, that i am not respectful in my speaking of mrs. neville, i know i am not, and i don't mean to be. such an unmothery mother don't deserve any respect, and i'm not going to give it to her." "hush!" said maggie, as they reached the door of lena's room. lily's strong impression that lena was unhappy because of her inability to compete for the prize was strengthened when she saw her, and the other children were inclined to agree with her, for lena seemed so little disposed to talk upon the subject that they were all convinced that it was a disagreeable one to her. the only voluntary allusion she made to it was when maggie bade her good-by with the promise of a return after the matter had been decided; then she drew her down to her and whispered, "i hope you will have it, maggie, i hope you will." maggie smoothed her cheek, smiled, and said: "thank you, dear; but i would rather have you well so that we may have our fair. the doctor says he thinks you will soon be well enough to come to it, and we are only waiting for that now." then the little party left with a renewed promise to return and let her know how the day had turned, and took their way to miss ashton's. all the "cheeryble sisters," save lena neville and gracie howard, were present, each one full of eager expectancy, although there was scarcely a doubt in any mind who would be the winner. it had been impossible to induce gracie to take any part or to show any interest in the competition, and she had resolutely refused to come with the rest of her classmates this morning, and there was no obligation upon her to do so, as it was now holiday time and this was something outside of the regular school duties. mr. ashton, fond as he was of giving prizes and of stimulating the emulation of his niece's pupils, was content to bring matters to a speedy conclusion when the time arrived, and never detained the little girls long or kept them in suspense by tiresome speeches. so now in a few words he praised them for their earnest and faithful efforts; said that he had been treated to a perusal of many of the compositions written during the last term in order that he might himself have an opportunity of judging whether miss ashton's verdict were just, and that he had been both surprised and gratified to observe the improvement made by almost every member of the class. "but," he said in conclusion, "in comparing the compositions written at the commencement of the term of trial and those last submitted to miss ashton, i had, from my own unbiassed judgment, and before i had learned the choice of your teacher, decided that the one best entitled to the prize and the bestowal of this art education is miss bessie bradford." "excuse me, sir; you mean _maggie_ bradford," said bessie, in her own quiet, demure little way, still unable to shake off her conviction that maggie and no one but maggie must be the winner, and believing that mr. ashton had merely mistaken the name of the sisters. "no," said mr. ashton, smiling at her, "while giving all due credit to your sister maggie's compositions, which i have read with much pleasure, i still repeat that no little girl in the class has made such manifest improvement as yourself, and to you both your teacher and myself award the prize." "thank you, sir," said bessie, simply, but with a sparkle in her eye and a flush of pleased surprise rising to her cheek, "thank you very much. but, miss ashton"--turning to her teacher, "do you not think that if lena had been able to try with the rest of us all the time, she would have been the one to gain this prize?" miss ashton smiled kindly at her. "well, yes, bessie," she said, with some seeming reluctance; "since you ask me so plainly, i must say that had lena been able to continue in competition with the rest, i think she would have distanced every one. i never saw such rapid improvement as she was making; her whole heart seemed to be in it. my uncle was astonished at her progress in that short time." "then," said bessie, rising, "i think she ought to have the prize. please excuse me, sir,"--quaintly--"for saying _ought_ to you and miss ashton, but it was not lena's fault that she could not go on trying with the rest of us, but only because she was so very brave and unselfish in the fire. and if she improved so much in that time, she would have improved a great deal more; and i think the prize ought to be given to her. i am very glad you liked my compositions, sir, but it would be a great deal more prize for me if lena had it. please let her, mr. ashton. she has a very good and excellent reason, too, for wanting it so much; it is so that her father and mother will think miss ashton the best teacher that ever was, and let her stay with her a very long time." in her earnestness to carry her point she had forgotten that she was saying so much; and she now stood looking from mr. ashton to his niece, quite unembarrassed, but evidently set in this purpose. mr. ashton looked at her, then turned to his niece; there was a moment's whispered conversation between them, and then the gentleman addressed himself to the class. "what do you all say?" he asked. "do you all agree that since lena neville has been providentially prevented from continuing her efforts, and since she made so much improvement while she was able to enter the lists, that bessie shall be permitted to resign this reward to her, and that she shall be the one to name the candidate for my trust?" "yes, sir; yes, sir," came without one dissenting voice from the young group. "then you shall have the pleasure of telling this to lena, bessie," said mr. ashton. "you have certainly fairly earned that right." "and," said bessie, looking round upon her classmates, "if everybody will be so kind as not to tell lena that she was not chosen first. it would be quite true, would it not, to say that she had done so well at the first that we all thought it fair for her to have it?" "it shall be as you say," said mr. ashton; then continued, "we all bind ourselves, do we not, to do as bessie wishes and to keep this little transaction a secret among ourselves, making no mention to lena neville that the prize was not awarded to her in the first instance?" "unless she asks any questions; but i do not think she will," said conscientious bessie. miss ashton came over to her with her eyes very suspiciously shining, and stooping down kissed bessie, saying, "you blessed child!" while maggie, always readily moved to tears or smiles, as befitted the occasion, put her arms about bessie's neck, and grasping her teacher's skirts with the other hand and laying her head against her, began to cry softly. but sentiment and lily norris could not long exist in the same atmosphere, and she now exclaimed: "how i wish we were all boys just for ten minutes, so we could give three cheers and a tiger for bessie and three more for lena. i suppose it wouldn't do, would it, miss ashton?" "hardly for little girls," said miss ashton, although she herself looked very much as if she were ready to lead a round of applause. "well, we can clap, anyway," said lily, "that's girly enough," and she forthwith set the example, which was speedily followed by the rest, mr. ashton himself joining in from his post at his niece's desk. "i'd like to give thirty-three groans for mrs. neville," said lily, in an undertone, "but i suppose we couldn't." there was little doubt that the whole class were even better pleased to have the decision given in favor of lena than they had been for bessie, favorite though she was, so strongly had their sympathies been aroused for the former. imagine the surprise and delight of lena when the news was brought to her by her jubilant little friends. she could hardly believe it, hardly believe that in spite of her enforced absence from school, in spite of her inability to hand in her compositions for so many weeks, she had been the one to receive this much coveted opportunity, and that she was not only free to bestow it upon her own little country-woman, but that her own credit would redound to that of miss ashton. of how gladys received the gift--for her parents set aside all harley's objections to her doing so--of how she became warm friends with nearly all of our "cheeryble sisters," and of what came of that may be read later on in "maggie bradford's fair." transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. the haunted mine by harry castlemon author of "the gunboat series," "rocky mountain series," "war series," etc. the john c. winston co., philadelphia, chicago, toronto. copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. the sale of "old horse," ii. casper is disgusted, iii. julian is astonished, iv. where the box was, v. casper thinks of something, vi. a mr. haberstro appears, vii. a plan that didn't work, viii. claus calls again, ix. the master mechanic, x. where are the valises? xi. in denver, xii. casper nevins, the spy, xiii. getting ready for work, xiv. how casper was served, xv. how a mine was haunted, xvi. good news, xvii. mr. banta is surprised, xviii. grub-staking, xix. going to school, xx. waterspouts and blizzards, xxi. the camp at dutch flat, xxii. the haunted mine, xxiii. haunted no longer, xxiv. "that is gold," xxv. claus, again, xxvi. claus hears something, xxvii. bob tries strategy, xxviii. an inhuman act, xxix. a tramp with the robbers, xxx. home again, xxxi. conclusion, the haunted mine. chapter i. the sale of "old horse." "going for twenty-five cents. going once; going twice; going----" "thirty cents." "thirty cents! gentlemen, i am really astonished at you. it is a disgrace for me to take notice of that bid. why, just look at that box. a miser may have hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it. here it is, neatly dovetailed, and put together with screws instead of nails; and who knows but that it contains the treasure of a lifetime hidden away under that lid? and i am bid only thirty cents for it. do i hear any more? won't somebody give me some more? going for thirty cents once; going twice; going three times, and sold to that lucky fellow who stands there with a uniform on. i don't know what his name is. step up there and take your purchase, my lad, and when you open that box, and see what is in it, just bless your lucky stars that you came to this office this afternoon to buy yourself rich." it happened in the adams express office, and among those who always dropped around to see how things were going was the young fellow who had purchased the box. it was on the afternoon devoted to the sale of "old horse"--packages which had lain there for a long time and nobody had ever called for them. when the packages accumulated so rapidly that the company had about as many on hand as their storeroom could hold, an auctioneer was ordered to sell them off for whatever he could get. of course nobody could tell what was in the packages, and somebody always bought them by guess. sometimes he got more than his money's worth, and sometimes he did not. that very afternoon a man bought a package so large and heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the counter, and so certain was he that he had got something worth looking at that he did not take the package home with him, but borrowed a hammer from one of the clerks and opened it on the spot, the customers all gathering around him to see what he had. to the surprise of everybody, he turned out half a dozen bricks. a partner of the man to whom the box was addressed had been off somewhere to buy a brickyard, and, not satisfied with the productions of the yard, had enclosed the bricks to the man in st. louis, to see how he liked them. the purchaser gazed in surprise at what he had brought, and then threw down the hammer and turned away; but by the time he got to the door the loud laughter of everybody in the office--and the office was always full at the sale of "old horse"--caused him to arrest his steps. by that time he himself was laughing. "i'll tell you what it is, gentlemen," said he; "those bricks, which are not worth a nickel apiece, cost me just two dollars." he was going on to say something more, but the roar that arose caused him to wait until it was all over. then he went on: "i have spent fifty dollars for 'old horse,' and if anybody ever knows me to spend another dollar in that way i will give him my head for a football. a man who comes here to squander his money for anything like that is a dunce, and ought to have a guardian appointed over him. i wish you all a very good day." but in spite of this man's experience, julian gray had invested in this box because he thought there was something in it. he did not care for what the auctioneer said to him, for he talked that way to everybody; but julian knew there were no bricks in it, for it was done up too neatly. the box was not more than twelve inches long and half as wide, and by shaking it up and down the boy became aware that there were papers of some kind in it. he paid the clerk the amount of his bid upon it, picked up his purchase, and started for the door, paying no heed to the remarks that were offered for his benefit. there he met another boy, dressed in a uniform similar to the one he himself wore, and stopped to exchange a few words with him. "well, you got something at last," said the boy. "it is not bricks, i can swear to that." "no, sir, it is not," said julian. "lift it. it contains papers of some kind." "why don't you open it, and let us see what is in it?" "i won't do that, either. i am not going to have the whole party laughing at me the way they served that man a little while ago. come up to my room when jack comes home, and then i will open it." "i would not be in your boots for a good deal when jack sees that box," said the boy, hurrying away. "he says you have no business to spend the small earnings you get on such gimcracks as 'old horse.'" "i don't care," said julian, settling the box under his arm and going away in the opposite direction. "i've got the box, and if jack does not want to see what is in it, he need not look." julian broke into a run,--he knew he had no business to spend as much time in that express office as he had done,--and in a few minutes reached the headquarters of the western union telegraph company, in whose employ he was. he laid down his book of receipts for the dispatches he had delivered, then picked up his box again and stowed it away under the counter, where he was sure it would be out of everybody's way. "i don't care," julian repeated to himself, when he recalled what his older companion, jack shelden, would have to say to him when he found that he had been investing in "old horse." "i don't know that i expect to make anything out of it, but somehow or other i can't resist my curiosity to know what is in those bundles. when you can get the packages for little or nothing, where's the harm? but that is no way to save my money. i will never go near that express office again." with this good resolution, julian took his seat among the other boys and waited in silence for the operator to call upon him to deliver a dispatch. it came at last, and during the rest of the afternoon julian was kept busy. when six o'clock came he put his box under his arm and started for home. his duties were done for that day. the place that julian called home was a long way from the office, for, being a poor boy, he was obliged to room where he could get it as cheaply as possible. he passed along several streets, turned numerous corners, and finally sprang up the stairs in a sorry-looking house which seemed almost ready to tumble down, and when he reached the top he found the door of his room open. there he met his chum, who had already returned from his work, going about his preparations for supper, and whistling as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. "halloo!" he exclaimed, as julian came in. "what's the news to-day? well, there. if you haven't been to that old express office again!" these two boys were orphans--or at least jack was. julian had a stepfather who, when his mother died, told the boy that he could not support him any longer, and that he must look out for himself. he no doubt expected that the boy would find himself in the poorhouse before he had been long out of his care; but julian was not that sort of a fellow. he wandered aimlessly about the streets, looking for something to do, sleeping in dry-goods boxes or on a plank in some lumber-yard; and one morning, while passing along the street, wondering where he was going to get something to eat, he saw a scene that thrilled him with excitement. a span of horses was running away, and a telegraph operator--julian knew that he was an operator from the uniform he wore--in making an attempt to stop them, lost his footing and fell on the ground right in front of the frantic team. julian was nearer to him than anybody else, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, but scarcely knowing why he did so, he dashed forward, seized the young man by the shoulders, and pulled him out of the way. it was all done in an instant, and julian shuddered when he thought of what he had done. "thank you, my lad," said the man, when he got up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and looked after the flying horses. "you saved my life, but you couldn't save the man in the buggy. now, what can i give you?" "i don't want anything, sir," said julian. the man was neatly dressed, and looked as though he had some money, and julian had more than half a mind to ask him for enough with which to get some breakfast. but he concluded that he would not do it; he would look farther, and he was sure that he could get something to do, such as sweeping out a store, and earn some breakfast in that way. "you don't want anything?" exclaimed the man. "well, you are the luckiest fellow i ever saw!" the man now turned and gave julian a good looking over. it was not necessary that he should ask any questions, for poverty was written all over him. "where's your home?" he asked. "i haven't any, sir." "have you had any breakfast?" "no, sir." "well, here's enough to enable you to get a good fill-out," said the man, pulling out a dollar. "get the very best breakfast you can, and then come down to the western union telegraph office and ask for wiggins. i will see what i can do for you." the man hurried away, and julian looked at the dollar he held in his hand, then gazed in the direction in which his benefactor had gone, and could hardly believe that he was awake. a dollar was a larger sum of money than he had ever had before. of course julian followed the operator's instructions. when he reached the western union telegraph office he was asked several questions about his habits, and what he knew about the city, and it finally ended by his being offered employment. julian jumped at the chance. he had no money with which to purchase a uniform, but wiggins got around that, and he had been there ever since, trying hard to do his duty, except in one particular, and his highest ambition was to become an operator. long before this time he made the acquaintance of jack sheldon, who finally came to room with him, and they had been fast friends ever since. jack had formerly gained a good living by shining boots and shoes around the st. louis foundry-works, until one day the master mechanic, who had taken a wonderful shine to him, offered to take him away from his blacking-brush and give him a position where he could make a man of himself. jack was waiting for this, and he promptly closed with it. of course his wages were small now, but he wanted to get away from the bootblacks and mingle with persons more like himself, and when julian made him a proposition to take him in as a roommate, jack was only too glad to agree to it. he was but a year older than julian, but he often took it upon himself to advise him; and one thing he could not stand was julian's longing to find out what was concealed in those packages that every once in a little while were sold in the express office. being economical himself, and never spending a cent unless absolutely necessary, he wanted to make his companion so, too. "that is no way for you to save money, julian," said jack. "to go to that express office when you ought to be at your work, and spending money for 'old horse' when you don't know what is in the bundle you bid on, is the very way for you to wear a poor man's clothes the longest day you live. i want to go into business myself some time, and i should think you would, too." this was the way he talked to julian every time he brought home a bundle of "old horse," and he was ready to talk to him now in the same way. chapter ii. casper is disgusted. "well, you have been to that old express office again and invested some of your hard earnings in 'old horse,' haven't you?" repeated jack, placing his hands on his hips and looking sullenly at the box, which julian placed upon the table. "is that any way for you to save your money?" "no, it is not; but, jack, i've got something in this," said julian. "see how nicely this box is done up----" "i don't care to know anything about it," said jack, turning away and going on with his preparations of getting supper. "that is the only thing i have against you. what do you care what is in those bundles? if they were worth anything don't you suppose that the people to whom they were addressed would have come after them? how much money have you got in bank, anyway?" "about forty dollars, i guess, including tips and everything." "well, i've got a hundred," said jack. "you will never be able to go into business by doing this way." "lend me your knife and talk about it afterward. i want to get these screws out." "take your own knife. i don't want to have mine broken." "well, i want you to remember one thing, jack. if i get anything out of this box, it is mine entirely. you will have no interest in it." "all right--i will agree to that." seeing that he must depend entirely upon himself to get his box open, julian took his knife from his pocket and went to work upon the screws; but they had been put there to stay, and he finally gave it up in disgust. then jack relented and came to his assistance. the strong blade of his knife presently worked the screws loose, and the inside of the box was revealed to them. there was nothing but a mass of papers, which looked so ancient that jack declared they had been through two or three wars. he took one look at them, and then went on with his work of getting supper. "what's the use of fooling away your time with that stuff?" said he. "that's all your 'old horse' amounts to. if you are going to spend money in that way, i wish you would get something that is of some use." julian did not reply. he took his box to an out-of-the-way corner where he would not be in jack's way, and devoted himself to the reading of the first paper he took up. "who's haberstro?" said he. "don't know him," said jack. "here's a letter addressed to him." "what is in it?" "oh, you want to know something about it, now, don't you?" "of course i do. if we can find out who haberstro is, we must take the letter to him." julian began and read the letter, which was written in a very plain hand, and before he had read a page of it he stopped and looked at jack, while an expression of astonishment came to his face. "go on with it," said jack; "we might as well know it all." julian "went on with it," and when he got through he had read a very good description of a gold-mine located somewhere out west, and inside the letter was a map which would lead anyone straight to it. there was one thing in it that did not look exactly right, and here is the passage that referred to it: "they have got the story around that the mine is haunted, but don't you believe it. i worked for almost six months in that mine alone after my partner took sick and died, going down into it and shovelling the dirt in, coming up and hoisting the bucket out, and went through the process of washing, and i never found anything to scare me yet. i took out, with every bucketful i washed, anywhere from ten to fifty dollars; anyway, i got fifty thousand dollars out of it. there is one thing about it: the mine is fully five miles from anybody's place, and in all that region you won't find a man who will prospect anywhere near you. it shows that all the country about dutch flat is not played out yet." a little farther on the letter spoke of the manner in which the miner came to turn his claim over to haberstro: "you know that very shortly after we got there my partner died, and was buried near the mine. perhaps that has something to do with the story of the mine's being haunted. i went to work and dug in the claim alone, not knowing anything about mining, until i made the sum that i told you of. finally i received a letter from some lawyer in europe, who told me that my father had died and left me heir to all his wealth. he urged me to come home and settle my claim at once, and who should my mind revert to but to you, old fellow, who stood by me when i was sick unto death. i know that we did not have the stamps to buy a mule-halter, but that did not make any sort of difference to you. you stayed at my back until i got well; and as i can't pay you in any other way i give you this mine, hoping it will make you as rich as it did me. more than that, for fear that the mine may play out on you, which i don't believe, i give you the deeds of several little pieces of property located in denver and vicinity, which you will find will be more than enough to run you, even if you don't choose to go mining. for me, nothing would suit me. you know how you used to rail at me because i wanted to go from one thing to another. after i had accumulated that property in denver, i had to go and look for claims, and that is the way i come to have this mine. "i send all these things to you by express, for i am in new york, now, and all ready to sail. by the time you get them i shall be on the deep sea. i forgot to say that the property which i have given to you for your kindness to me is worth, in round numbers, one hundred thousand dollars. take it, and live happily with it. i don't know that i shall ever see you again; but if i do not, remember that my blessing always goes with you." "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian, as he folded up the letter. jack sheldon did not know what to say. he sat with a case-knife in his hand and with one leg thrown over the table, his mouth open, and listening with all his ears to the contents of the letter. "i tell you that auctioneer uttered a prophecy when he said that some miser had hidden the secret of a gold-mine inside the lid of that box," said julian. "he told me that when i got home and opened this thing i would bless my lucky stars that i had come to that office to buy myself rich." "but there is one thing that you don't think of, julian," replied jack. "what's that?" "that we must make every effort to find this man haberstro." "yes," said julian, with a sigh, "i did think of that. but it seems hard to have so much money in our grasp, and then to have it all slip away." "of course it does. but that is the honest way of going at it." "here's the deeds for a block of buildings that cost this man twenty-five thousand dollars," said julian, continuing to examine the papers in the box. "oh, put the box away," said jack. "and he gives it all to this man haberstro. we must find him, julian, the first thing we do. who's that coming upstairs, i wonder?" the boys turned toward the door, which opened almost immediately, admitting casper nevins, the boy who had met julian at the express office. there was something about the boy that jack did not like. he could not have told what it was, but there are those we meet in every-day life who have certain traits of character that excite our suspicions. jack had often warned julian to keep away from him, and the latter did not cultivate his acquaintance any more that he could help; but, being employed in the same office that casper was, of course he was thrown into his company oftener than he desired. "good-evening, boys," said casper. "i was on my way home, and i thought i would drop in and see what julian bought to-day at the express office. you promised to show me if i would come up," he added, turning to julian. "i did, and there it is," said julian, passing over the letter. "sit down in this chair. we are so poor just now that we have only one chair apiece, but when we get out to our gold-mine we shall have two chairs." "ah! you have a gold-mine, have you?" said casper, with a smile. "when do you start?" "read the letter, and you will think we ought to start right away," said julian, while jack got up and proceeded with his supper. "we think of starting to-morrow morning." "i would like to have my hand on your coat-tail about the time you get out there," said casper. "now, the question is, does the mine pay anything?" "read the letter, and you will understand as much as we do." casper began the letter, and he had not gone far with it before he broke out with "jerusalem!" and "this beats me!" and "fifty thousand dollars!" when he had got done with the letter, he folded it up and passed it back to julian without saying a word. "and that is not all of it," said the latter. "do you see the rest of the papers there in that box? well, they are deeds of property which amount to one hundred thousand dollars." "whew!" whistled casper. "by gracious! you're lucky--are you not? when do you start?" "laying all jokes aside, we don't intend to start at all," said jack. "you don't?" exclaimed casper. "have you got something better on hand?" "no, i don't know that we have; but our first hard work must be to find this man haberstro. it would not be right for us to keep what is in that box without turning the city upside down in order to locate him." "why, the box was sold to you, was it not?" said casper, turning to julian. "of course it was. didn't i pay thirty cents of my hard earnings for it?" "did you agree to hunt up this man haberstro?" "no, because the clerks did not know where he was." "then i say the box and everything in it belongs to you. undoubtedly the man does not live here any more. he has gone somewhere else. i would not make a precious fool of myself, if i were you. take the money and say nothing to nobody." "and go out there and take possession of that property while there is another man waiting for it?" asked jack, with some heat. "yes, sir; that's what i would do." "then, sir, you are not honest. i am glad you don't train in my crowd." "i don't call it dishonest in holding fast to what you have. a hundred thousand dollars! you would not need to go mining at all." "we are well aware of that; but we must find out where that man lives, if we can. after having exhausted every means to find out, then i would consider that the property belongs to us. julian, we will have to see a lawyer about that." "that's what i was thinking," said julian. "well, of all the plumb dunces that ever i saw, you are the beat!" said casper, getting up and putting on his hat. "i tell you that if that property was mine i would never let anyone know that i had it. i would throw up my position to-morrow, borrow money, go out there and take possession; and you are fools if you don't do it." and casper went out, slamming the door behind him. chapter iii. julian is astonished. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked julian, when he heard the noise the telegraph boy made in running down the stairs. "he really acts as though he were mad about it." "he is a dishonest fellow," said jack, once more coming up to the table and throwing his leg over it. "you don't believe everything he said, do you?" "not much, i don't," replied julian, emphatically. "i could not go out there and work the mine as he talks of doing. i should think it was haunted, sure enough." "well, put the papers away, and then let us have supper. while we are doing that, we will decide what we are going to do with the box." "i say, don't let us do anything with it. we will put it up there on the mantel, and when we are through supper one of us will write an advertisement calling upon mr. haberstro to come up and show himself. i guess the _republican_ is as good a paper as any, isn't it?" "but haberstro may be a democrat, instead of a republican," said jack. "well, then, put it in both papers. that will cost us two dollars--seventy-five cents for the first insertion and a quarter for the second." it did not take the boys a long time to get their supper. they had nothing but bacon, baker's bread, tea, and a few cream cakes which jack had purchased on his way home; but there was an abundance, they were hungry, and they did full justice to it. after supper came something that everybody hates--washing the dishes; but that was something the two friends never neglected. the dishes must be washed some time, and the sooner it was done the sooner it would be over with. then one picked up the broom and went to sweeping, while the other lighted the lamp and brought out the writing materials. "i have already made up my mind what i want to say," said julian, who, being a better scribe than his companion, handled the pen. "wait until i get the advertisement all written out, and then i will read it to you." the pen moved slowly, and by the time that jack had finished sweeping and seated himself in a chair ready to listen, julian read the following: "information wanted regarding the whereabouts of s. w. haberstro, formerly of st. louis. if he will communicate with the undersigned he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. any relative or friend of his who possesses the above information will confer a favor by writing to the name given below." "there; how will that do?" said julian. "by the way, whose name shall i sign to it--yours or mine?" "sign your own name, of course. your place of business is much handier than mine." "i tell you, jack, it requires something besides a knowledge of penmanship to write out an advertisement for a newspaper. i have worried over this matter ever since we were at supper, and then i didn't know how you would like it. now, the next thing is to put it where it will catch the public eye in the morning." the boys did not intend to let the grass grow under their feet. they put on their coats and turned down the lamp, but before they went out they took particular pains to put the box where they knew it would be safe. they opened the closet, pushed the box as far back as they could on the top shelf, and threw some clothing in front of it to hide it from anyone who might look in there. burglaries were common in the city, and the boys never left anything in their room that was worth stealing. the friends did not ride on the street cars, for they believed that five cents was worth as much to them as it was to the conductor, but walked all the distance that lay between them and the business part of the city. they reached the newspaper offices at last, paid for two insertions in each paper, and went away satisfied that they had done all in their power to find mr. haberstro. "now we have done as we would be done by," said julian, "and i believe a glass of soda water would help me sleep easier. come in here." "we don't want any soda water," exclaimed jack, seizing julian by the arm and pulling him away from the drug store. "we don't need it. when we get home we will take a glass of cold water, and that will do just as well as all the soda water in town." "i suppose i shall have to give in to you," said julian, continuing his walk with jack, "but i think we deserve a little credit for what we have done. here we are with a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars in our pockets, and yet we are anxious to give it up if mr. haberstro shows himself. i tell you, it is not everybody in the world who would do that." "i know it, but that is the honest way of doing business. i never could look our master mechanic in the face again if i should go off and enjoy that money without making an effort to find the owner." in due time the boys reached home and went to bed, but sleep did not visit their eyes before midnight. they were thinking of the fortune that was in their grasp. no one would have thought these boys very guilty if they had kept silent about the contents of that box and had gone off to reap the pleasure which good luck or something else had placed in julian's hands; but such a thought had never entered their heads until casper nevins had suggested it to them. by being at the sale of "old horse" julian had stumbled upon something that was intended for mr. haberstro, and he was just as much entitled to the contents of it as anybody. "but i would be dishonest for all that," said he, rolling over in his bed to find a more comfortable position. "i never could enjoy that money, for i should be thinking of mr. haberstro, who ought to have it. no matter whether he is alive or dead, he would come up beside me all the while, and reach out his hand to take the money i was getting ready to use for my own pleasure. no, sir. we will do the best we can to find mr. haberstro, and if he does not show up within any reasonable time, then jack says the money belongs to us. i can spend it, then, to get anything i want, with perfect confidence." when julian got to this point in his meditations he became silent, and thought over the many things he stood in need of, and which he thought he could not possibly get along without, until finally he fell asleep; but the next morning, when he arose and returned jack's hearty greeting, that fortune came into his mind immediately. "i tell you what it is, jack," said he. "if, after waiting a few days, we don't hear from mr. haberstro or any of his kin, suppose i go to mr. wiggins with it? he will know exactly what we ought to do." "all right," said jack. "that will be better than going to a lawyer, for he won't charge us anything for his advice." "and shall you keep still about this?" "certainly. don't lisp it to anybody. we don't want somebody to come along here and claim to be haberstro, when perhaps he don't know a thing about what is in the box." "of course he would not know a thing about it," said julian, in surprise. "haberstro himself don't know what there is in the box. he has got to prove by outside parties that he is the man that we want, or we can put him down as a fraud." "that's so," said jack, after thinking a moment. "we must be continually on the lookout for breakers." why was it that jack did not go further, and say that they must be continually on the lookout for the safety of the box when they were not there to watch over it? it was not safe from anybody who knew it was there, and it would have been but little trouble for them to have taken it with them and put it into the hands of mr. wiggins. if they had thought of this, no doubt they would have lost no time in acting upon it. long before the hands on jack's watch had reached the hour of half-past six the two friends were on their way toward their places of business, and when julian reached the office almost the first boy he saw was casper nevins, who had denounced them for trying to find out what became of mr. haberstro. "good-morning, julian," said he. "have you advertised for that man of yours yet?" "what do you want to know for?" said julian, remembering what jack had said about keeping the matter still. "oh, nothing; only i want to tell you that if you get yourselves fooled out of that fortune you can thank yourselves for it. what is there to prevent some sharper from coming around and telling you that he is haberstro? you didn't think of that, did you?" "yes, we thought of it," said julian, with a smile. "do you suppose we will take any man's word for that? he must prove that he is the man we want, or else we won't have anything to do with him." "pshaw! that is easy enough. i can find fifty men right here in this town who will prove that they are president of the united states for half of what that box is worth. say!" he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "you haven't said a word to anybody about advertising for him, have you?" "no; and i have not said a word to you about it either," said julian. "that's all right, but you can't fool me so easy. i want to tell you right now that there are a good many here who know about it, and that they are bound to have that box. ah!" he added, noting the expression that came upon julian's face, "you didn't think of _that_, did you?" "who are they?" asked julian. "there were men in the express office yesterday who know all about it. you needn't think you are going to keep that express box hid, for you can't do it. where did you put it?" "it is safe. it is where nobody will ever think of looking for it." "then you are all right," said casper, who was plainly very much disappointed because he did not find out where the box was. "but you had better keep an eye out for those fellows in the express office, for, unless the looks of some of them belied them, they will steal that box from you as sure as you are a foot high." "if they thought so much of the box, why didn't they buy it in the first place?" "that is for them to tell. i don't know but they have somehow got an idea that there is something in it. you are going to get fooled out of it, and it will serve you just right for advertising for haberstro." that day was a long one to julian, for he could not help turning over in his mind what casper had said to him. when he reached home after his day's work was done he went straight to the closet, paying no sort of attention to jack, who looked at him in surprise, took a chair with him, and hunted up the box. it was where he put it, and he drew a long breath of relief. "now, then, i would like to have you explain yourself," said jack, after he had waited some little time for julian to say what he meant by his actions. "it is there," said julian, "but i have been shaking in my shoes all day. did it ever occur to you that some of those people who saw me buy the box at the express office would come up here to take it?" "no; and i don't believe they will do it." "well, casper said they would." "you tell casper nevins to keep his long, meddlesome nose out of this pie and attend strictly to his own affairs," said jack, in disgust. "it is ours, and he has nothing to do with it. if anybody comes into this room when we are not here, it will be casper himself." "he can't; he has not got a key." "i know that. if he had, we would have trouble with that box. what did he say to you?" julian then repeated the conversation he held with casper that morning, and jack nodded his head once or twice to say that he approved of it. "you did perfectly right by declining to answer his question about advertising for our man," said jack. "what did he want to know that for? if they wanted the box, why did they not buy it in the first place?" during the next few days the two friends were in a fever of suspense, for they did not want somebody to come and take their fortune away from them. every man who came into the telegraph office julian watched closely, for he had somehow got it into his head that haberstro must be a german; but every german who came in there had business of his own, and as soon as it was done he went out. no one came to see julian about the box, and, if the truth must be told, he began to breathe easier. of late he had got out of the habit of looking for the box as soon as he came home, and perhaps the sport that jack made of him for it was the only thing that made him give it up. "one would think you owned that fortune," said he. "i don't believe a miser ever watched his gold as closely as you watch that box." "i don't care," said julian. "the fortune is ours, or rather is going to be in a few days. now you mark my words, and see if i don't tell you the truth." "there's many a slip. we will never have such luck in the world." "well, i am going to look at it now. it seems to me that if haberstro is around here he ought to have put in an appearance before this time. we have waited a whole week without seeing anything of him." "a whole week!" exclaimed jack, with a laugh. "if you wait a month without seeing him you may be happy. if we keep the box for three months without the man appearing, then i shall think it belongs to us." julian did not believe that. he thought that the contents of the box would belong to them before that time. he made no reply, but took a chair to examine the closet. he moved the clothing aside, expecting every minute to put his hand upon the box, and then uttered an exclamation of astonishment and threw the articles off on the floor. "what's the matter?" asked jack, in alarm. "the box is gone!" replied julian. chapter iv. where the box was. this startling piece of information seemed to strike jack sheldon motionless and speechless with astonishment. his under jaw dropped down, and he even clutched the back of a chair, as if seeking something with which to support himself. the two boys stood at opposite sides of the room looking at each other, and then jack recovered himself. "gone!" he repeated. "you are mistaken; you have overlooked it. i saw it night before last myself." "i don't care," said julian, emphatically; "i have taken the clothes all out, and the box is gone. look and see for yourself." julian stepped down from the chair and jack took his place. he peered into every nook and corner of the dark shelf, passed his hands over it, and then, with something like a sigh, got down and began to hang the clothes up in their proper places. then he closed the door of the closet, took a chair, and gazed earnestly at the floor. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian. "didn't i tell you that if anybody came in here to look for that box while we were not here it would be casper nevins, and nobody else?" said jack. "you surely don't suspect him!" exclaimed julian. "i _do_ suspect him; if you could get inside his room to-night you would find the box." "why, then he is a thief!" said julian, jumping up from his chair and walking the floor. "shall we go down to no. station and ask the police to send a man up there and search him?" "i don't know whether that would be the best way or not," said jack, reflectively. "has casper got many friends among the boys of your office?" "i don't believe he's got one friend there who treats him any better than i do. the boys are all shy of him." "and well they may be. that boy got a key somewhere that will fit our door, and came in here and took that box. you say he has not any friends on whom he can depend in the office?" "not one. if he has any friends, none of us know who they are." "then he must be alone in stealing the box from us. he has it there in his room, for he has no other place to hide it. do you know what sort of a key he has to fit his door?" "of course i do. i was with him when he got it. it is a combination key; one that he folds up when he puts it into his pocket." "do you believe you can buy another like it?" "by george! that's an idea. let us go down and find out. then to-morrow, if i can get away, i will come up here and go through his room." that was jack's notion entirely. he wanted to see "the biter bit"--to know that he would feel, when he awoke some fine morning and found his fortune gone, just how they were feeling now. they put on their coats and locked the door,--it seemed a mockery to them now to lock the door when their fortune was gone,--and, after walking briskly for a few minutes, turned into the store where casper had purchased his key. when julian told the clerk that he wanted to see some combination keys, he threw out upon the counter a box which was filled to overflowing. "do you remember a telegraph boy who was in here several months ago and bought a combination lock to fit his door?" asked julian. "i was in here at the time, and i know he bought the lock of you." "seems to me that i _do_ remember something about that," said the clerk, turning around to the shelves behind him and taking down another box, "and we have got just one lock of that sort left." "are you sure this key will open his door?" asked julian. "i am sure of it. if it don't open his door, you can bring it back and exchange it for another." julian told him that he would take the lock, and while the clerk was gone to another part of the store to do it up he whispered to jack, "i have just thought of something. he has not any closet in his room that i know of, and who knows but that he may have put that box in his trunk? i had better get some keys to his trunk while i am about it." "do you remember how the key looked?" asked jack. "i guess i can come pretty close to it," answered julian. the work of selecting a key to the trunk was not so easy; but julian managed to satisfy himself at last, and the boys left the store. julian did not say anything, but he was certain that the box would be in his own possession before that time to-morrow. that would be better than calling the police to search his room. in the latter case, casper would be held for trial, and julian did not want to disgrace him before all the boys in the office. "i will give mr. wiggins the box as soon as i get my hands on it, but i shan't say anything to him about casper's stealing it," said he. "would you?" "you are mighty right i _would_," exclaimed jack, who looked at his friend in utter surprise. "he stole it, didn't he? he was going to cheat haberstro out of it if he showed up, and, failing that, he would leave us here to work all our lives while he lived on the fat of the land. no, sir; if you get the box you must tell mr wiggins about it." for the first time in a long while the boys did not sleep much that night. jack was thinking about casper's atrocity,--for he considered that was about the term to apply to him for stealing their box,--and julian was wondering if he was going to get into casper's room and recover the fortune which he was attempting to deprive them of. "i tell you, that boy is coming to some bad end," said jack. "i would not be in his boots for all the money he will ever be worth." "i don't care what end he comes to," said julian, "but i was just thinking what would happen to us if this key did not open his door. we would then have to get the police, sure enough." morning came at length, and at the usual hour julian was on hand in the telegraph office, waiting to see what his duties were going to be. as usual, he found casper nevins there. he looked closely at julian when he came in, but could not see anything in the expression of his face that led him to believe there was anything wrong. "good-morning, julian," said he. "good-morning," said julian. "how do you feel this morning?" "right as a trivet. i feel much better than you will when you find that that box is gone," added casper to himself. "he hasn't found it out yet, and i hope he will not until i get my pay. i have waited and watched for this a long time, and, thank heaven! i have found it at last. i wish i knew somebody who would take that box and hide it for me; but i can't think of a living soul." all the fore part of that day julian was kept busy running to the lower part of the city with messages, and not a chance did he get to go up past casper's room. two or three times he was on the point of asking mr. wiggins to excuse him for a few minutes, but he always shrunk from it for fear of the questions that gentleman would ask him. "where did he want to go?" "what did he want to go after?" "what was he going to do when he got there?" and julian was quite certain that he could not answer these questions without telling a lie. while he was thinking it over he heard his name called, and found that he must go right by casper's room in order to take the message where it was to go. he seemed to be treading on air when he walked up to take the telegraphic dispatch. "do you know where that man lives?" asked the operator. "i know pretty nearly where he lives," answered julian. "well, take it there, and be back as soon as you can, for i shall want to send you somewhere else. what's the matter with you, julian? you seem to be gay about something." "i don't know that i feel any different from what i always do," replied julian. "i will go there as soon as i can." when julian got into the street, his first care was to find his keys. they were all there; and, to gain the time that he would occupy in looking about the room, julian broke into a trot, knowing that the police would not trouble him while he had that uniform on. at the end of an hour he began to draw close to casper's room, and there he slackened his pace to a walk. "ten minutes more and the matter will be decided," said julian, his heart beating with a sound that frightened him. "that boy has the box, and i am going to have it." a few steps more brought him to the stairs that led up to casper's room. it was over a grocery store, and the steps ran up beside it. he turned in there without anybody seeing him, and stopped in front of the door. the combination key was produced, and to julian's immense delight the door came open the very first try. "i guess i won't lock it," muttered julian. "i might lock myself in. he does not keep his room as neat as we do ours." julian took one glance about the apartment, taking in the tumbled bedclothes, and the dishes from which casper had eaten his breakfast still unwashed on the table, and then turned his attention to what had brought him there. there was no closet in the room, and the box was not under the bed; it must therefore be in his trunk. one after another of the keys was tried without avail, and julian was about to give it up in despair, when the last key--the one on jack's bunch--opened the trunk, which he found in the greatest confusion. he lifted off the tray, and there was the box, sure enough. julian took it, and hugged it as though it was a friend from whom he had long been separated. "now the next question is, are the papers all here?" thought he. "there were seven of them besides the letter, and who knows but that he has taken a block of buildings away from us." but the papers were all there. however much casper might have been tempted to realize on some of the numerous "blocks of buildings" which the box called for, he dared not attempt the sale of any of them. it was as much as he could do to steal the papers. julian placed the tray back and carefully locked the trunk, and then looking around, found a paper with which to do up his box. then he locked the door, came down, and went on to deliver his message. "that boy called us foolish because we advertised for mr. haberstro," said julian, as he carefully adjusted the box under his arm. "i would like to know if we were bigger fools than he was. we could have found the police last night as easy as not, and it would have been no trouble for them to find the box. he ought not to have left it there in his trunk. he didn't think that we could play the same game on him that he played upon us." julian conveyed his message and returned to his office in less time than he usually did, and, after reporting, told mr. wiggins in a whisper that he would like to see him in the back room. "i know what you want," said mr. wiggins, as he went in. "you have been up to the express office, buying some more of that 'old horse.' some day i am going to give you fits for that. it is the only thing i have stored up against you." "can you tell when i did it?" asked julian, slowly unfolding the box which he carried under his arm. "haven't i carried my telegraphic dispatches in as little time as anybody? now, i have something here that is worth having. read that letter, and see if it isn't." mr. wiggins seated himself on the table and slowly read the letter which julian placed in his hands, and it was not long before he became deeply interested in it. when he had got through he looked at the boy with astonishment. "i declare, julian, you're lucky," said he. "now, the next thing for you to do is to advertise for haberstro." "we have already advertised for him. we have put four insertions in the papers." "and he doesn't come forward to claim his money? put two other advertisements in, and if he don't show up the money is yours." "that is what i wanted to get at," said julian, with a sigh of relief. "now, mr. wiggins, i wish you would take this and lock it up somewhere. i don't think it safe in our house." "certainly i'll do it. by george! who would think you were worth a hundred thousand dollars!" "it isn't ours yet," said julian, with a smile. "about the time we get ready to use it, here will come mr. haberstro, and we will have to give it up to him." "well, you are honest, at any rate, or you would not have advertised for him. this beats me, i declare. i won't scold you this time, but don't let it happen again." "i'll never go into that express office again while i live," said julian, earnestly. "i have had my luck once, and i don't believe it will come again." when julian went out into the office he saw casper there, and he was as white as a sheet. julian could not resist the temptation to pat an imaginary box under his arm and wink at casper. "what do you mean by that pantomime?" said he. "it means that you can't get the start of two fellows who have their eyes open," said julian. "i've got the box." "you have?" gasped casper. "you've been into my room when i was not there? i'll have the police after you before i am five minutes older!" casper jumped to his feet and began to look around for his hat. chapter v. casper thinks of something. julian stood with his hands in his pockets looking at casper, and something that was very like a smile came into his face. "i know what you went in there with mr. wiggins for," said casper; and having found his cap by that time, he jammed it spitefully on his head, "and i just waited until you came out so that i could ask you. i don't need to ask you. i tell you once for all----" "well, why don't you go on?" asked julian. "you will tell me once for all--what?" casper had by this time turned and looked sternly at julian, but there was something about him which told him that he had gone far enough. "go and get the police," said julian. "right here is where i do business. look here, casper: you came into our room and stole that box out of our closet." "i never!" said casper, evidently very much surprised. "so help me----" "don't swear, because you will only make a bad matter worse. i found the box in your trunk, just where you had left it. the way i have the matter arranged now, there's nobody knows that you took it; but you go to work and raise the police, and i will tell all i know. if you keep still, i won't say one word." casper backed toward the nearest chair and sat down. this conversation had been carried on in whispers, and there was nobody, among the dozen persons who were standing around, that had the least idea what they were talking about. if casper supposed that he was going to scare julian into giving up the box, he failed utterly. "i won't give up that fortune," said he, to himself, when julian turned away to go to his seat. "a hundred thousand dollars! i'll have it, or i'll never sleep easy again." during the rest of the day julian was as happy as he wanted to be. the box was now safe in the hands of mr. wiggins, and he would like to see anybody get hold of it. furthermore, mr. wiggins had told him to put two more advertisements in the papers, and, if mr. haberstro did not show himself in answer to them, the money was his own. "i do hope he won't come," said julian. "i don't believe in giving up that fortune." the boy was glad when the day was done, and the moment he was safe on the street he struck a trot which he never slackened until he ran up the stairs to his room. jack was there, as he expected him to be, and he was going about his work of getting supper. he looked up as julian came in, and he saw at a glance that he had been successful. "i've got it!" shouted julian; and, catching jack by the arm, he whirled him around two or three times. "it was in the trunk, just as i told you it was. mr. wiggins has it now, and he will take care of it, too." "that's the best news i have heard in a long time," said jack, throwing his leg over the table. "did you tell mr. wiggins about the way casper acted?" "no, i did not. somehow, i couldn't bear to see the boy discharged. i simply told mr. wiggins that it wasn't safe in our room." "well, i don't know but that was the best way, after all," said jack, looking reflectively at the floor. "but i tell you, if i had been in your place i would have let it all out. now tell me the whole thing." julian pulled off his coat, and, while he assisted jack in getting supper, told him all that passed between mr. wiggins and himself, not forgetting how the latter had promised to scold him at some future time for going to the express office and investing in "old horse." "i hope he will tell you some words that will set," said jack. "all i can say to you has no effect upon you." "i will never go near that express office again--never!" said julian, earnestly. "i hope you will always bear that in mind." "i've had my luck, and if i live until my head is as white as our president's i never shall have such good fortune again. i will get bricks the next time i buy." "you had better sit down and write out that advertisement for two more insertions, and after supper we'll take it down and put it in. if haberstro does not appear in answer to them the money is ours. that's a little better fortune than i dared to hope for." anybody could see that jack was greatly excited over this news, but he tried not to show it. if he had gone wild over it, he would have got julian so stimulated that he would not have known which end he stood on. he had to control himself and julian, too. he ate his supper apparently as cool as he ever was, and after the room had been swept up and the dishes washed he put on his coat and was ready to accompany his friend to the newspaper offices. "remember now, julian, we don't want any soda water to-night," said jack. "if you want anything to drink, get it before you start." julian promised that he would bear it in mind, and during the three hours that they were gone never asked for soda water or anything else. "just wait until i get that fortune in my hands, and then i will have all the soda water i want," said julian to himself. "but, after all, jack's way is the best. i don't know what i should do without him." in due time the boys were at home and in bed; and leaving them there to enjoy a good night's rest, we will go back to casper nevins and see what he thought and what he did when he found that he had lost the box he had risked so much to gain. he was about as mad as a boy could hold when he ran down the stairs after his interview with them in their room, and he straightway began to rack his brain to see if he could not get that box for himself. "of all the dunces i ever saw, those two fellows are the beat!" said he, as he took his way toward his room. "they have got the fortune in their own hands; no one will say a word if they use it as though it was their own; and yet they are going to advertise for the man to whom it was addressed. did anybody ever hear of a fool notion like that? i was in hopes that i could get them to go partners with me, but under the circumstances i did not like to propose it. why didn't i happen into that express office and bid on that box? gee! what a fortune that would be!" casper was almost beside himself with the thought, and he reached his room and cooked and ate his supper, still revolving some plan for obtaining possession of that box. he had suddenly taken it into his head that he ought to go into partnership with the two boys in order to assist them in spending their money, although there was not the first thing that he could think of that induced the belief. julian had always been friendly with him,--much more so than any of the other boys in the office,--although he confessed that he had not always been friendly with julian. "of course i have little spats with him, but julian isn't a fellow to remember that," said casper to himself. "i've had spats with every boy, and some of them i don't want anything more to do with. but julian ought to take me into partnership with him, and i believe i'll ask him. but first, can't i get that box for my own? that is an idea worth thinking of." it was an idea that had suddenly come into casper's head, and he did not think any more about the partnership business just then. of course their advertising for haberstro knocked all that in the head; but then if he had the box he could do as he pleased with it. the next day, at the office, he did say something about partnership, but julian laughed at him. he said that he and jack could easily spend all that money, and more too, if they had it. it was made in a joking way, and julian had not thought to speak to jack about it. "it is no use trying you on," said casper to himself, getting mad in a minute. "you can spend all that money yourselves, can you? i'll bet you don't. there must be some keys in the city that will fit your door, and i am going to have one." from that time forward casper had but just one object in view, and that was to get the box. he spent three days in trying the different keys which he had purchased to fit the lock, and one time he came near getting himself into difficulty. he was out a great deal longer than he ought to have been with a message, and when he got to the office mr. wiggins took him to task for it. "how is this, casper?" said he. "you have been gone three-quarters of an hour longer than you ought to have been." "i went just as soon as i could," replied casper, who was not above telling a lie. "the man wasn't at his place of business, and so i went to his home." "then you are excusable. it seems strange that he should be at home at this hour." casper did not say anything, but he was satisfied that he was well out of that scrape. he had not been to the man's home at all. he was trying the lock on julian's door. although he made two attempts without getting in, he succeeded on the third. the door came open for him, and after searching around the room in vain for the box, he looked into the closet. "aha! i've got you at last!" said he, as he drew the clothing aside and laid hold of the object of his search. "now i wish i had my money that is due me from the telegraph office. to-morrow would see me on my way toward denver." hurriedly locking the door, casper made the best of his way down the stairs and to his room, and put the box into his trunk. then he broke into another run and went to the office, where he arrived in time to avoid a second reprimand. "oh, you feel mighty well now," said casper, watching julian, who was talking and laughing with some of the boys, "but i bet you you will feel different in a little while. now who am i going to get to hide that box for me? none of the boys in here will do it, so i must go elsewhere." during the rest of the week casper was as deeply interested in watching the persons who came there as julian was. he did not advertise for haberstro, because he did not want to give up the box. he was more than half inclined to go to mr. wiggins and tell him he was going to leave when his month was out, but some way or other he did not. something compelled him to wait, and in three days more he found out what it was. he was in the office waiting for a message to deliver, when julian came in with a bundle wrapped up in a newspaper under his arm. casper was thunderstruck, for something told him that julian had played the same game that he had. he had been to his room and got the box. his face grew as pale as death when he saw mr. wiggins follow julian into the back room, and his first thought was to leave the office before he came out. "it is all up with me now," said he, rising to his feet and looking around for his cap, which, boy fashion, he had tossed somewhere, on entering the room. "he will tell mr. wiggins that i stole the box, and i will be discharged the first thing. i'll deny it," he added, growing desperate. "i haven't seen his box. he did not find it in my room, but got it somewhere else. i will make a fight on it as long as i can." so saying, casper sat down to await julian's return; but the boy came out alone, and the antics he went through drove casper frantic. "i've got the box," said julian, when casper asked him what he meant by that pantomime. the guilty boy was given plenty of opportunity to "deny it all," but he gave it up in despair when he found that julian was not to be frightened into giving up the box. the latter was perfectly willing that the police should come there, but if they did, he would tell all casper had done. he might get julian in a scrape, but he would get into a worse one himself. he was glad when julian moved off to his chair and left him alone. "i guess it is the best way as it is," said casper, getting upon his feet and looking out into the street. "if he sets the police onto me--good gracious, what should i do? so that plan has failed, and now the next thing is something else. i'll have that box, or die trying to get it." all that day, while he was in the office or carrying his telegraphic dispatches around the street, casper thought of but one thing, and that was, how was he going to get that box again? he did not have much to say to anybody, and when six o'clock came he lost no time in getting home. he had evidently determined upon something, for he ate a very scanty supper, changed his clothes, and hurried out again. his changing his uniform for a citizen's suit was something that would have brought him his instant discharge if his company officers had found him in that fix. he could mingle with loafers about the pool-rooms, and no one could have told that he was any different from anybody else. he could drink his beer, too, and no one would suspect that he was going back on the pledge he made to the company. but, then, casper was used to such things, and he thought nothing of it. more than that, he had an object to gain, and he had already picked out the person whom he hoped to induce to enter into a scheme to possess that box. "claus is the fellow i am going to try," said he, as he hurried along toward a pool-room which he often frequented. "he is a german, he is well along in years, and i know he isn't above making a dime or two whenever he gets the chance. now for it. it is make or break." chapter vi. a mr. haberstro appears. as casper nevins uttered these words he turned into an entry, ran up a flight of stairs, and opened the door of the pool-room. the apartment was always crowded at night, and the players were mostly young men who ought by rights to have been somewhere else. one end of the room was occupied with pool-tables, and the other was taken up by billiards, which were in full blast. casper gave out among the players that he was a broker's clerk, and the story seemed to satisfy the young men, who asked no further questions. there was no chance for him in a pool game, and consequently he did not look for it. he looked all around, and finally discovered his man claus, who was sitting near one of the tables, watching the game. this man was one of the loafers about the pool-rooms. he always dressed very neatly, but he was never known to have any money. he was a german, and that fitted the name of the man to whom the box was addressed. "i am living on the interest of my debts," said he, when some one asked what his occupation was. "i never have any money. i don't need it. i can get along without it. you fellows have to work every day, while i do nothing but sit around the pool-room and wait for some one to challenge me for a game." "but you must make some money sometime, or else you couldn't play pool as often as you do." "oh, as to that, i make a dollar or two when i find the right man who can play a little, and sometimes i make more. if i could get a chance to make a hundred thousand dollars i would take it in a minute. after that, i would not be obliged to work." these remarks were made in the presence of casper nevins, who remembered them. after he had stolen the box, and before julian had got it back again, he thought it best to try him on a new tack. "supposing you didn't get a hundred thousand dollars the first time trying," said he. "would not fifty thousand do you?" "well, i think i could live on that much. fifty thousand would tempt me awfully. i wish i had a chance to try it." "there is claus, and i am going to speak to him the first thing i do," said casper. "if there is anybody who can play the part of the missing haberstro, he is the man." "ah! good-evening, casper," he exclaimed, as the boy approached him. "how is the brokerage business to-day? have you made any money?" "i don't make any. the boss does all that." "well, why don't you pick up some money and go in yourself? you will never be a man in the world as long as you stay in the background. do you want to see me? here i am, and all ready for business. is there any money in this thing you have to propose?" claus, following casper's lead, occupied an arm-chair in a remote corner of the room, away from everybody, and casper sat down alongside of him. it was not any work for him to begin the conversation, for claus "had given himself away" every time the subject of money was introduced. "were you in earnest the other day when you said that if you had a chance to steal a hundred thousand dollars you would try it on?" said casper. "i want you to deal fairly with me now. i want to know just how you feel about it." "my dear boy, i was never more in earnest in my life," said claus emphatically. "just give me a chance, and you will see whether or not i meant what i said." "well, i have got a chance for you to make something," said casper. "you have? let her rip. i am all attention. but hold on a bit. let us get a cigar. have you any money?" "i have ten cents." "that is enough. anything to keep our jaws puffing. i can listen a great deal better with a cigar than i can without it." the two arose from their seats and made a trip to the bar. they lighted their cigars, and casper paid ten cents for them. it made no difference to claus that casper had paid out some of his hard earnings and wondered where his next morning's breakfast was coming from. as long as he got the cigar, it mattered little to him whether casper had any more money or not. "now i am all ready to listen," said claus, seating himself in his arm-chair once more. "be explicit; go into all the minutiæ, so that i may know what i have to do." there was no need that claus should tell casper this, and for the next fifteen minutes claus never said a word, but listened intently. he told about julian's habit of going to the express office on the day that "old horse" was offered for sale, until finally he bought the secret of a gold-mine which was hidden away in a box that came near being sold for twenty-five cents. the box was addressed to s. w. haberstro, and the boys had put four advertisements in the papers asking that man to show himself; and, if he did not show up in reasonable time, the money was to be theirs. "here is a copy of the _democrat_, with a copy of the advertisement in it," said casper. "i knew you would want to know everything, and so i brought it along. a hundred thousand dollars! now, why couldn't i have bid on that box? that little snipe does not get any more money than i do, and yet he had to go and buy himself rich." "then it seems that you are not a broker's clerk after all," said claus. "i don't know as i blame you." "you see i would get discharged if any of the company officers should find me dressed up in citizen's rig," said casper. "i can go among the boys, now, and have a good time." "i don't know that i blame you," repeated claus. "i will keep your secret. well, go on. i begin to understand the matter now." "i tell you i was mad when i found out that they were going to advertise for old man haberstro," said casper. "i called them everything but decent boys, and went to work to conjure up some plan for getting the box for my own. i got it, too----" "you did? then you are all right." "not so near right as you think i am. julian got some keys that would fit my door, and went in and stole it." "whew! they are a desperate lot; ain't they?" "that is just what they did; and, furthermore, julian gave the box into the hands of mr. wiggins, our chief telegraph operator. now, i want you to come down there, pass yourself off for haberstro, and claim that box. can you do it?" mr. claus did not answer immediately. he stretched his legs out before him and slid down in his chair until his head rested on the back of it. he was thinking over the details of the plan. casper did not interrupt him, but waited to see what he was going to say about it. "and you are willing to give me half the contents of that box if i will get it for you?" said he. "you have given me the hardest part of the work. where do you suppose that man wiggins keeps the box?" "in the bank, of course. he's pretty sharp, and you must look out for that. if we can get that box, i won't go near the mine. i am not going to handle a pick and shovel when i have fifty thousand dollars to fall back upon. i am not going to work every day when i am afraid that something will come up and scare me to death. i will take half the block of buildings described there, and you can take the other half. that is fair, isn't it?" "yes, it is fair enough, but i am afraid of that man wiggins. what sort of a looking man is he?" "the worst part about him is his eyes. they are steel-gray, and when he turns them on a culprit in the office you would think he was going to look him through. you will have to be pretty sharp to get around him." "well, suppose i go and see julian first. if i can get around him, that will be so much gained." this was the beginning of a long conversation between casper and claus, and when it was done the latter felt greatly encouraged, and told himself that he was nearer getting the box for his own than he ever was before. casper told him everything he could think of that related to the matter, and when claus got up, removed his hat and wiped his face with his handkerchief, casper said that if he would just act that way in the presence of mr. wiggins, he would carry the day. "you act more like a german than i ever saw you act before," said he. "if you will just do that way to-morrow, i will answer for your success." "i can act the german all over, if that is what he wants," said claus, with a laugh. "you haven't got another ten cents, have you? well, let it go. i will go home and sleep upon it." "but look here," said casper, earnestly. "if you come to that telegraph office you must not know me. you never saw me before." "of course not. i won't give you away. that money is worth trying for. what is the reason that you and i have not some good friends to leave us that amount of money?" "because we are not honest enough," said casper, bitterly. "honesty has nothing to do with it. we ain't sharp; that is what's the matter with us. well, good-night. i will go and see julian to-morrow night, and the next day i may be down to the telegraph office. i want to go easy, because i don't want to spoil the thing by being too brash." as it was already late, casper did not attempt to enter any game that night. he went home and tumbled into bed, and for a long time he lay thinking over what he had said to claus. there was another thing that came into his mind every once in a while, and that was, where was his breakfast to come from? "i was not going to get any cigars to-night, because ten cents was all i had left," said casper. "but i could not well refuse claus. no matter. if he succeeds in getting that box, i will have all the cigars i want." the next morning casper went to the office without any breakfast; but the first message he had to carry took him to a saloon where they set a free-lunch table. there he took the edge off his appetite and ate enough to last him until supper-time, when he was to get his pay. julian was there, looking as happy as ever. casper did not blame him for that. if he had a box with that amount of money in it, he would be happy, too. "by george! it is six o'clock," said casper, at length. "in two hours more i will know what julian says to claus. till then, i must have patience." casper received his money when the others did, and without saying a word to anybody set out for home. julian was not in quite so big a hurry. he walked along with his hands in his pockets, and once, when passing by a baker's shop, he went in and bought some cakes with which to top off their supper. jack sheldon always reached home before he did, and julian found him in his usual act of getting supper. in reply to his ordinary greetings, he answered that there had been nothing unusual going on in the telegraph office, and that no man who said his name was haberstro had been there to see about the advertisement that had appeared in the papers. "i tell you, jack, that fortune in the box is ours," said julian. "that man has had ample time to show up, and it won't be long before we will be on our way to denver." "don't be too sure of that," said jack. "haberstro may be off on a vacation somewhere. i shall believe we are in denver when we get there, and not before." almost as jack said the words there was a sound of somebody coming up the stairs. he stopped in front of the door, and called out to somebody he left below, "does mr. julian gray live here? thank you;" and a moment afterward his rap sounded upon the door. "what did i tell you?" whispered jack. "that's haberstro, as sure as you live." for an honest boy, julian's heart fell. his fortune was gone, and there were no two ways about it. he stepped to the door and opened it, and there stood claus, more neatly dressed than ever. "good-evening," said he, while his eyes roved from one boy to the other. "which one of you is julian gray?" "i am, sir." "i am delighted to meet you," said he; and he thrust out his hand, into which julian put his own. then he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a card on which the name s. w. haberstro was engraved. "i got belated in my hotel while waiting for the train, and i picked up this paper and saw this advertisement in it. as it happened to be my name, i read it through." "come in, sir," said jack, placing a chair for him. "it is one of four advertisements that we put into the daily papers. your name is haberstro, i believe?" "that is my name. you said you had something of great value to tell me. what is it?" julian could not have opened his mouth to save him. he was obliged to let jack do all the talking. chapter vii. a plan that didn't work. julian gray took his stand in one corner of the room, with his hands in his pockets and his feet spread out, and looked at this man who called himself haberstro. he was a german, there were no two ways about that; and he had a habit of taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face with it that nobody but a pompous and well-to-do german ever imitated. "do you know of a man of the name of winkleman?" asked jack. "know him?" exclaimed the german. "of course i do. he was living here in st. louis with me, but all on a sudden he took the gold fever and went out to denver. i was engaged in pretty good business, and so i did not go with him. i never heard what he was doing out there. he--he isn't dead, is he?" "oh, no. he accumulated some property while he was out there. he got a notice that his father had died in europe and left all his property to him, and he has gone home to take possession of it." "then that accounts for his not writing to me. he always said that his folks were immensely rich, and that some day he would have more than he wanted. what property did he collect out there?" "he is worth several buildings which are worth a hundred thousand dollars. furthermore, he has given them to you." "to me?" cried the german, rising to his feet. "yes, to you. and, more than that, he has a mine out of which he took fifty thousand dollars, and you come into possession of that, also." "lord bless my soul!" exclaimed the german. "i don't remember that i ever did anything to him to give him so good an opinion of me." "did you not nurse him while he was sick?" "did you not care for your mother when she was sick?" returned the german. "of course that did not amount to anything. he was my chum, and i had to stand by him." "well, he gave you the property for it, anyway. he sent you the deeds by express, and julian bought them for thirty cents." "well, sir, that is a heap of money. i don't know anybody that needs it more than i do. where is the box now?" "it is safe in the hands of mr. wiggins. we were not going to have somebody come along here and claim to be haberstro. have you anybody here in st. louis to whom you can recommend us? we want to know who you are before we give up the box." "that is perfectly right and proper. you see, my home is in chicago, and i know but few persons here. if you think this mr----what do you call him?" "wiggins?" said jack. "yes; if you think he will want somebody to vouch for me, i can give him the names of all the germans in the city. where does he hang out?" "the union telegraph office. you know where that is?" "i can easily find it, for i have a tongue in my head. i don't believe i will go near that mine at all. i will sell it." "you had better not. the miners have a story around that it is haunted." the german threw back his head and laughed heartily. "i am not afraid of that. if he took fifty thousand dollars out of it, it is surely worth as much more. well, if you have told me everything, i guess i had better go back to my hotel. i was going back to my home to-night, but now i am glad i did not go." "i guess we have told you everything that pertains to the matter," said jack. "do you think of any questions you would like to ask us?" "no; but i may think of some to-morrow. good-night." "by the way," said jack, as if he had just thought of something. "where were you when this man winkleman was sick? you were out in the mines, i suppose?" "oh, no, we were not; we were here in st. louis. if we had been out at the mines, where no doctor could have been reached, he would have gone up on my hands. look here--i don't want you to do this for nothing. make up your minds what you ought to have and i will give it to you. if it had not been for you i would never have seen the box. good-night." the german bowed himself out and closed the door behind him. the boys waited until he got to the street, and then julian took possession of the chair he had just vacated. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked jack, using companion's expression. "i think our fortune is gone up," answered julian; and then he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor. jack laughed as loudly as the german did a few moments before. julian straightened up and looked at him in surprise. "what do you mean by that?" he exclaimed. "is a hundred thousand dollars such a sum in your eyes that you can afford to be merry over it?" "no; but you will never lose it through that man. his name is not haberstro any more than mine is." "jack, what do you mean?" "you were so busy with your own thoughts that you didn't see how i was pumping him, did you? in the first place he told us that winkleman was sick in st. louis; and yet winkleman says in his letter that they were so poor that they could not raise enough to buy a halter for a mule. now, he would not have used such an expression as that if he had been here in the city, would he?" "no, i don't think he would," said julian, reflectively. "he used the words of the country in which he lived." "that is what i think. in the next place, he said that he was engaged in a paying business here, and consequently did not go with winkleman to the mines; and then, almost in the same breath, he said he could not refer me to anybody here because his home was in chicago. you didn't see those little errors, did you?" julian began to brighten up. he remembered all the german had said to jack, but somehow he did not think of it. the box was not lost, after all. "now, he must have had somebody to post him in regard to these matters," said jack. "who do you think it was?" "casper nevins!" said julian, who just then happened to think of the boy's name. "that is what i think. he is bound to have that box, is he not? don't you give that box up; do you hear me?" "i am mighty sure i won't give it up," said julian, emphatically. "i shan't give it up until you are on hand. i had better take mr. wiggins into my confidence to-morrow." "of course. tell him the whole thing. tell him about the mistakes this man made in his conversation with me, and let him draw his own conclusions. i never saw such a desperate fellow as that casper nevins is. now let us go on and get supper." "i feel a good deal better than i did a few minutes ago," said julian, with something like a long-drawn sigh of relief. "i thought the box was lost to us, sure." the boys were impatient to have to-morrow come because they wanted to see what the german--they did not know what his true name was--was going to do about it. "i will tell you one thing, jack," said julian. "if that dutchman goes to-morrow and sees mr. wiggins about it, he will get a look that will last him as long as he lives. i ought to know, for i have had those eyes turned on me two or three times. if that man stands against them i shall think he is a nervy fellow." the night wore away at last, and at the usual hour the boys were at their posts. casper was in the office, and he seemed to be uneasy about something. he could not sit still. he was continually getting up and going to the door, and then he would come back and walk around the room. when mr. wiggins came in and wished them all a good-morning, julian followed him into the back room. "julian, have you some news about that box?" said he. "yes, sir; there was a man up to our room and handed us this card, and i thought----" "halloo," said mr. wiggins. "the box does not belong to you, after all." "hold on until i get through explaining things," said julian. with this julian began, and told him of the conversation that had taken place between jack and the german, not omitting the smallest thing. mr. wiggins listened intently, and when the story was done he said, "somebody has been posting that man in regard to that box. now, who have you told about it except jack sheldon?" "i don't know as that has anything to do with it," said julian, who resolved that he would stand by casper as long as he could. "yes, it has; it has a good deal to do with it. does casper nevins know all about it?" "what do you know about casper?" said julian in surprise. he wondered if there was any boy in the office who could do anything wrong without mr. wiggins finding it out. "because he has been uneasy for the past week. does casper know all about it?" "yes, sir, he does. he was there when we read the letter." "that is all. i will see you again after a while." julian went out and sat down, and in a few minutes mr. wiggins came from the back room and spoke to the operator, who immediately sent off a dispatch. nobody was called to carry this, for the message went straight to the office for which it was intended. five minutes passed, and then a stout man, who was a stranger to all of them, strolled into the office. one of the boys got up to wait upon him, pushing some blanks toward him, but the stout man did not want to send any telegraphic dispatches. "i just want to look around and see how you do things here," said he. "then take this chair, sir," said mr. wiggins. "i guess you will find that we do things about right." the minutes passed, and all the boys who had congregated in the office had been sent off with messages--all except casper. there did not seem to be any dispatches for him. the chief operator was busy at his desk, when suddenly the door opened, and the same german who had called at julian's room the night before, came in. mr. wiggins glanced toward him and then he looked toward casper. the latter never could control himself when he was in difficulty, and his face grew white. "is this the western union telegraph office?" said the german, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "do i speak to mr. wiggins? well, sir, i would like to see you about a box that one of your boys bought at a sale of 'old horse' in the express office. that box contains something that is off immense value to me--s. w. haberstro." and he handed out his card with his name engraved on it. "there is a box here addressed to a man of that name," said mr. wiggins, "but it is in the bank now. i suppose you have plenty of friends here to whom you can refer?" "i am sorry to say that i have not," replied the german. "my home is in chicago. i can refer you to all the germans there." "then, would it not be worth while for you to write to some of your friends there and get some letters of recommendation? you see, we don't want to give the box to anybody unless we know who it is." "that is all right, sir. i have some business on hand in chicago, and i will go up there and get them." "that will be sufficient. good-day, sir." the german, who appeared to be in a great hurry, closed the door and hastened up the street. as soon as he was gone, mr. wiggins beckoned to casper and went into the back room. "who was that man who just went out?" said he, in a tone of voice which did not admit of argument. "tell me the truth." "his name is claus, sir," said casper. "where does he stay, principally?" "he stays first in one pool-room, and then in another. where he lives i don't know." "that will do," said mr. wiggins. "i never have been guilty of such a thing before," began casper. "i said that would do," interrupted mr. wiggins. "i may see you again after a while." when mr. wiggins and casper got out into the other room they found that the stout man had disappeared. he had gone out about the time that the german disappeared. in half an hour he came back, leaned over the desk, and spoke to the chief operator. "that fellow is no more haberstro than i am," he whispered. "his name is solomon claus. we have had him up a time or two for vagrancy, and i'll take him up for the same cause, if you say so." "no; let him go, but keep your eyes on him. he has not done us any harm yet. if he comes here again i will send for you." chapter viii. claus calls again. when the stout man reached the sidewalk he saw the german a short distance in advance of him, still hurrying along as though he had no time to waste. he turned several corners, and at last disappeared up the stairs that led to the pool-room. the detective, for that was what he was, did not seem to notice what had become of the german, but he marked the place where he had gone up and kept on to the station-house. there he changed his coat and hat, and picked up a huge walking-stick which stood in one corner. when he came out on the streets again, everybody noticed that he walked with difficulty, and there was an expression on his face which only those who were intimate with the detective would have thought belonged to him. it was very different from his ordinary appearance. instead of the frank, open look with which he regarded everybody, it was drawn up as though he was suffering intense pain, from which he could not get a moment's relief. the detective speedily found the place where the german had disappeared, walked wearily up the stairs, opened the door, and sank into the nearest chair. then he pulled a pair of eye-glasses from his pocket and became interested in a paper. but he used his eyes to some advantage, and quickly discovered the man he wanted seated off by himself, with his legs outstretched before him and his chin resting on his breast. "i guess he found some difficulty in getting that box," said the detective, who knew what mr. wiggins wanted of him before he came to the office. "you want to go easy, my friend, or i'll have you up for vagrancy again." there were not so many in the pool-room as there were the night before, and nobody seemed to bother the german; but presently, while he was thinking about it, another party came in. he took off his coat, seized a cue, and looked all around the room for an antagonist, until he discovered the german sitting there doing nothing. "halloo, claus!" he shouted, "come on, and let us have a game of billiards." "no, you must excuse me," was the reply; "i don't feel in the humor for billiards or anything else." "have you anybody on a string that you are trying to make some money out of?" asked his friend. "come on, and perhaps a game will brighten you up." "'claus,'" muttered the detective. "i know you now. i was told to find out what his name was, so i will go back. so this is where you hang out. i will remember you." the detective hobbled out the door and down the stairs; but by the time he got down to the street his lameness had all disappeared, and he walked as briskly as anybody. he went to the western union telegraph office, told mr. wiggins he had discovered that the man's name was claus, and not haberstro, and then went back to the station. casper nevins was called into the back room a moment afterward, but he was not there more than long enough to receive his discharge. "i have never done anything like this before," said casper, trying to beg off. "if you will overlook this----" "i can't do it," said mr. wiggins. "you are a boy that i can't trust. why, casper, do you know what will become of you if you do not mend your ways? you will get into the state's prison before you are five years older. i paid you up yesterday, and you have not done anything to-day, and so you can go." "it would not be of any use for me to ask for a letter of recommendation, would it?" asked casper. he always had a good deal of audacity about him, but this made mr. wiggins open his eyes in surprise. "not from me, you can't," he answered. "you will have to go somewhere else to get it." casper put on his cap and left the office, and on the way to the pool-room, where he expected to find claus, he blamed everybody but himself for the disgrace he had got into. he blamed claus, although it is hard to see what that man had done, for he worked as hard as anybody could to get that box; but he reproached julian gray more than all for his interference in the matter. "come to think of it, i don't know but i am to blame a little myself," said he, after he had thought the affair all over. "why did i not dig out the moment i got that box? i would have been in denver by this time, and enjoying my wealth. it beats the world what luck some people do have." but claus was not in the pool-room. he wanted to be alone, so that he could think over the matter, and he had gone out where he would be by himself. the barkeeper did not know where he had gone, and casper went home to change his clothes. as he pulled his uniform off he told himself that it would be a long time before he ever wore it again. then he threw himself into a chair and tried to determine what he should do next. "i have just ten dollars," he mused, taking the bill from his pocket, "and what i shall do when that is gone is another and a deeper question. i'll bet that claus don't get any cigars out of me to-night." meanwhile julian gray came in from delivering his message. his face was flushed, and he acted as though he had been running. he made his report, and then went into the back room in obedience to a sign from mr. wiggins. "well, julian, your box is still safe," said the latter. "has that dutchman been around here?" asked julian. mr. wiggins said he had, and then went on to give the boy a complete history of what claus had done to secure the box. "i got rid of him very easily," said mr. wiggins. "i told him that it would be well for him to write to some german friends in chicago, where he said he lived, and he said he was going up there on business and would bring the letters back with him. i found out that his name is claus, and that he hangs out in a pool-room. you don't know him, do you?" no, julian could not say that he had ever heard of him before. "well, don't you let the box go without seeing me about it." "nobody shall have it. mr. wiggins, i don't know how to thank you for what you have done." "you are a good boy, julian, and the only thing i have against you is that you will hang around that express office so much. some day i am going to give you a good scolding for that." "you will never hear of my being there again. i am done going there forever." "i don't think you will have to do it any more. you have your fortune, easy enough." "oh, mr. wiggins! do you think it is ours sure enough?" "well, perhaps i ought not to speak so positively; it is hard to tell at this stage of the game. i _hope_ you have." julian was delighted to hear mr. wiggins talk in this way, but before he could ask him any more questions that gentleman had gone back into the office. he then went out and looked around for casper. one of the boys told him he believed casper had got the "sack," for he put on his cap and left the office. "i don't know what he has been doing," said the boy; "do you?" "mr. wiggins knows, and he will not tell," replied julian. "i wonder what the poor fellow will do now?" julian was impatient for night to come, so that he could go home and see jack about it. it came at last, and julian never broke a trot until he ran up the stairs and burst into his room. "well?" said jack. "you look happy. tell us all about that dutchman." "there is not much to tell. his name is claus, and he lives in a pool-room." "i knew i was not mistaken in him," said jack, taking his usual seat by throwing his leg over the table. "that man had better go somewhere else." but that he did not feel inclined to go somewhere else just then was evident, for just as jack pronounced his name the boys heard his step coming up the stairs. he had a peculiar step, which, once heard, could not be forgotten. "well, he is coming again," said julian. "now, what are you going to say to him?" "that depends upon what he has to say to me," said jack. "go to the door, let him in, and put out a chair for him." he rapped on the door the minute he got there, and julian opened it for him. he looked closely from one to the other of the boys, but did not see anything in their faces to make him hide what he had on his mind. he had a new plan, but it did not promise as well as the one which had been defeated by mr. wiggins. he wanted to induce one of them to get the box for him and let him read the papers that were in it. if he could prevail upon them to bring the box out of the bank, he was certain that in some way he could get an opportunity to steal it. he did not intend to go about it slyly; he intended to take it, open and above-board, and let jack and julian help themselves if they could. he was certain that a revolver, presented at their heads and cocked, would surely keep them quiet until he had locked the door and got into the street. where he would go after that he neither knew nor cared. what he wanted was to get possession of the box. "ah! good-evening," said claus, bowing very politely. "i came back to see you about that box." "take a chair," said jack. "what about the box?" "mr. wiggins said it was in the bank," said claus, "and i want to know if you could get it out of there and let me read the letter and the papers. you see, the thing may not be for me, and i don't want to go home and bother my friends about it until i know what the box contains." "oh! your friends won't care anything about that," said jack. "you tell them that the box is for you, and they will give you all the letters you want. besides, i don't think mr. wiggins would agree to what you ask." the german did not like the way julian was acting. he had kept his eyes roaming from one to the other; but, although the boy occupied his favorite position, with his hands buried in his pockets and his feet spread out, his expression was different from what it had been the night before. there was a smile on his face, and it would not have taken very much to set him to laughing outright. claus began to think there was something up. "why, the box is your own, ain't it?" asked claus. "you can do what you please with it." "not now, we can't. we have told mr. wiggins that we wanted him to watch over it for us, and he will have to be present when you read the papers." "then you can't get it for me?" "no, i don't believe i could, mr. claus. you don't need anybody to give you a recommend. go to some of your friends here----" "claus! claus! that is not my name. my name is haberstro." julian grinned broadly, and even jack did not appear to be above merriment. "what do you mean by applying that name to me?" exclaimed claus. "there is my card." "i don't want to see it. i have one already. your name is claus, you live in a billiard saloon, and you got a full history of this box from casper nevins." "young man, i will have you arrested before you are an hour older!" said claus, getting upon his feet. "i come here and ask a civil question of you, and you insult me!" "do so, and we will have casper arrested for burglary and you for trying to obtain money under false pretenses. the sooner you get about it the better it will suit us." "very well--i will have a policeman here in less than ten minutes!" mr. claus went out, and this time he did not bow himself through the door as he had done the night before. the boys heard him going downstairs, and then turned and looked at each other. "somebody has been posting those fellows," said claus, as he hurried away toward casper's room. "i wonder if there was a detective in there while i was at the office? two attempts have failed, but the third is always successful." claus was almost beside himself with fury, but he retained his wits sufficiently to guide him on the road to casper's room. he found the boy in, seated in a chair, with his elbows on his knees, trying his best to make up his mind what he was going to do, now that he had been discharged from the telegraph office. he had sat that way ever since eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and had not been able to determine upon anything. the first intimation he had that anybody was coming was when the door was thrown open and claus came in, muttering something under his breath that sounded a good deal like oaths. "there is no need that you should say anything," said casper. "you have failed." "yes, sir, i have; failed utterly and plump," said claus. "and i have been discharged." "whew!" whistled claus. "you are in a fix, aren't you?" "yes, and i don't know what i shall do now. tell me your story, and i will tell you mine." "have you a cigar handy?" "no; and i have no money." "how long before you will be paid?" "oh, it will be two weeks yet." "then i will have to go down and get some cigars myself. i can think more clearly while my jaws are puffing than i can without." "you got your last cigar out of me, old fellow," said casper to himself, when claus had left the room. "i have but little money, and i am going to keep it." chapter ix. the master mechanic. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian, when he was certain that claus had gone down the stairs and out on the street. "he had better try some other way of getting that box." "he has failed," said jack, putting a frying-pan filled with bacon on the stove. "casper nevins is at the bottom of that. i tell you, that money is safe yet." "do you know that i looked upon it as gone when he first came here and handed out his card?" said julian. "i thought he was haberstro, sure enough." "i confess that i thought so, too. now let us go on and get supper. the next time we save that money, somebody else will have a hand in it." "why, will we have to fight for it?" "it looks that way to me now. we don't know anything about business, and the first thing we know we'll get tripped up." "i did not think of that," said julian, drawing a long breath. "i wish mr. wiggins were going out to denver with us. i will get advice from him before we start." "we have not got out there yet," said jack, with a laugh. "if we do get there, we will go to the lawyer who drew up those deeds. he must be an honest man." the boys continued to talk in this way until the room was swept up and the dishes washed, and when bedtime came they went to sleep. the next morning found them on duty again. casper was not there to greet him and make inquiries concerning the box, but there were other boys there who wanted to know why casper had been discharged. they appealed to julian, for he was in the back room shortly before; but he thought the best thing he could do was to keep a still tongue in his head. "mr. wiggins knows why he discharged casper, and if he won't tell you, i don't know where else you can apply." "you had a hand in it and i know it," said one boy who was enough like casper to have been his brother. "maybe you are a spy on us." "you come out in the back yard and i'll show you who is a spy!" said julian, rising to his feet. "no one ever accused me of that before. if i am a spy, you want to do your duty right up to the handle." this was something new on julian, for we know how hard he worked to keep the police off from casper's track. some of the other boys turned away as if they were quite willing to believe that julian was seeking for promotion, while some others stood up close to him, as if to assure him of their protection. "if you will stay by me when mr. wiggins comes here, i will ask him before you if i had anything to do with casper's discharge. he will tell you the truth." but the boys wisely appealed to him not to do that. since casper had been discharged, they wanted their skirts clear of him, and the best way to do that would be to say nothing about it. "but, julian, you want to keep clear of that fellow who called you a spy," said one of the boys. "he has been jealous of you for a long time, in fact ever since the day you came into the office, and just as soon as he gets a good chance he is going to split on you." "thank you; i did not suppose i had an enemy in this city. let him keep watch, if he wants to. my conduct will bear investigation." julian did not do his work with his usual energy that day, for he could not bear to think that one boy was acting as a spy upon him. he carried his dispatches as well as he could, never stopping to gaze in at the prize windows or to make one of a crowd who gathered around some show that had stopped for a moment on a corner, and that was as well as anybody could do. jack laughed loudly when he saw what a gloomy face julian had on when he told him of the matter. "what do you care for spies?" said jack. "do your duty faithfully, and then you will be all right. in our place we don't have any such things. the boys are always glad to see me promoted, for they think they have a new mechanic to assist them when they get into trouble." for another month things moved along in their usual way, and nothing was heard from mr. haberstro. julian did not meet casper or claus, for they had disappeared completely. he held frequent and earnest consultations with mr. wiggins on the subject of the box, put other advertisements in the papers, and finally mr. wiggins took julian down to the bank and talked to the president. it excited julian wonderfully to know that the box was theirs. "i should not wait any longer, if i were in your place," said the president. "you have done all that you can to find the owner, and he does not make his appearance. you can go out there and lay claim to the property, and enjoy it; and if at any time this mr. haberstro turns up, you can give the property over to him. but i want you to be careful in what you are doing. there are plenty of haberstros in the world who would like nothing better than to get that box." "by george, jack," said julian, when he went home that night, "did i not tell you that that box was ours? i have talked with the president of the bank about it, and he says we can go out there and enjoy that property." jack took his usual seat, with his leg thrown over the table, and looked at julian without speaking. he had never laid great stress on having that box. he supposed that haberstro would show himself in due time, and all they would have to do would be to give up the money and go on with their work. his good fortune was a little too much for him to take in all at once. a dollar a day was pretty big wages for him, and he supposed that it would last till he learned his trade, and that then he would receive more money. but a hundred thousand dollars, to say nothing of the gold-mine! why, that mine had already yielded its owner fifty thousand dollars! "jack, why don't you say something?" exclaimed julian. "you don't act as though you were a bit pleased. i wish, now, that i had been a mile away when that box was put up for sale." jack roared. he was always ready to laugh when julian talked in this way. "i am very glad you _were_ there when it was sold," said he; "but the idea of owning so much money rather takes my breath away. i was just wondering what we would do if some more haberstros came up and demanded the money. i suppose there are some men like that in denver, as well as there are here." "the president cautioned me about that. he told me to be careful in what we did. now, jack, when will we start?" "i don't know. i shall have to see the master mechanic about that. you know that i am as deeply indebted to him as you are to mr. wiggins." "does he know about the box?" "not a thing. i thought i had better see you about that before i broached the subject to him." "well, then, tell it to him to-morrow. we don't want to be any longer in getting out there than we can help. we want to be there before the snow flies, or the first thing we know we'll be snowed up." "are you going to see mr. wiggins about it?" "i am. let us go out to denver at once." "i tell you it comes hard to say good-bye to those fellows; i have been with them so long that i hate to do it. if i get in trouble in any way, they will always help me out." the next day julian talked to mr. wiggins about going out to denver, and the latter's face grew grave at once. he could not bear to let julian go out there among strangers. he had always had him under his eye, was waiting for a chance to promote him, and now he was going away. "i will go down and get the box," said he. "and remember one thing, julian: you may get into a hard row of stumps out there, and i want you to write to me fully and plainly of what you are doing. if you want some money, say so; and if you want to come back here in the office, say that also, and i will try and make room for you." julian's eyes filled with tears when he saw mr. wiggins go out on the street and turn toward the bank. he found, with jack, that it was going to be hard work to say good-bye. when he went out into the other room, the boys noticed at once that he had been crying. "aha!" said the boy who had once accused him of being a spy, "you have come up with a round turn, have you?" "yes," said julian, "i've got it at last." "it serves you right!" said the boy. "if wiggins gave it to you in pretty good order i shall be satisfied. you know now how casper felt when he was discharged." "are you discharged, julian?" whispered another of the boys. "i guess i have got something like it," was the reply; "you won't see me here to-morrow." julian walked to the window and looked out on the street, and in a few minutes mr. wiggins came up with the box. the boy followed him into the back room, all the boys, of whom there were half a dozen in the office, looking on with surprise. mr. wiggins's face was grave, but he was not angry, and they did not know what to make of it. "i think i would do this up and send it by express--wouldn't you?" said he. "if this is put in your trunk, and the cars run off the track and get smashed, your trunk might get smashed, too, and the box with it. before i put the cover on i will write a letter to our agent in denver. i have never seen him, but that won't matter; and then, if you want any good advice, go to him. come in in the course of half an hour--" "no, sir!" said julian, emphatically; "i am going to do my duty as long as i stay in the office." "well, go ahead; i will give you the box, sealed and addressed to yourself, to-night." julian went out and took his seat among the boys, and about half of them felt a little bit sorry for him, but the other half did not. here was one favorite out of the way, and consequently there was a chance for somebody else. presently his name was called, and then julian went away to deliver his dispatch. when six o'clock came, julian went into the back room and received the package. "you will be around here before you go?" said mr. wiggins, extending his hand. "then i won't bid you good-bye. take this box to the express office and send it off. have you any money?" yes, julian had plenty of money. did mr. wiggins suppose that he was going to spend all his month's wages in two days? he took the box and went out, and took his way toward the express office, wondering what the clerk would say if he knew what was in that package. the clerk turned out to be the same one who had given him the box, but he said nothing about it; and when julian had paid the express charges on it he came out and started for home. as he was going up the stairs he heard the sound of voices in the room, and opened the door to find a man there, dressed in his best, and with a very smiling face, which he turned toward julian. "so this is the boy who bought himself rich," said he, getting on his feet "i know you from the description i have received of your uniform. i congratulate you heartily, but i am sorry you are going to take jack away from me. when you are awful home-sick, and are short of money, you can write to me, and i will send you something to come home on." "this is mr. dawson, our master mechanic," said jack. "i am glad to meet you, mr. dawson," said julian, shaking the man's hand very cordially. "jack often found fault with me for going to that office, but i struck it once,--didn't i?" "well, i should say you _did_," returned mr. dawson, with a laugh; "you couldn't do it again if you were to try it your lifetime." "sit down, sir; we will have supper ready after awhile, and you must join us." "that's just what i came up here for. jack is going away pretty shortly, and i shall not see him any more, so i came up to be with him as long as i could." mr. dawson moved back his chair so that he would not be in the way, and julian pulled off his coat and went to work; but he saw by the extra bundles there were on the table that his chum had been going back on his principles. there were cream cakes and peaches by the dozen, as well as sundry other little things that jack had purchased for supper. it was a better meal than they had been accustomed to for a long time, and if there was any faith in the way that master mechanic asked for peaches, he thoroughly enjoyed it. "i hope you boys will live this way while you are gone," said he, as he pushed back his chair and declined having any more. "you must remember that a hundred thousand dollars don't go very far. there certainly is an end to it, and the first thing you know you'll be there. now, i hope you fellows won't object if i smoke a cigar?" the "fellows" did not object, nor did he raise any complaint when they proceeded to wash the dishes. it was eleven o'clock when mr. dawson said it was time he was going home, and when the boys felt the hearty grasp of his hand at parting, they told themselves that there was one friend they were leaving behind. chapter x. where are the valises? for the next two days julian did not know whether he stood on his head or heels. jack went about his preparations very moderately, but the fact of it was, julian was in a great hurry. he could not help telling himself that if they did not get away from st. louis, that man haberstro would appear just at the wrong time, and they would have to go back to work again. he donned a citizen's dress and tied his uniform up neatly in a bundle, calculating to take it down to the office and present it to a boy there who did not act as though he had more in this world than the law allows. "i will give this up to hank," said he. "the poor fellow don't have any too much, and perhaps this suit will help him." jack accompanied him to the office--it was the first time he had ever been there--and while he was looking around to see how they did business, julian found the boy of whom he was in search. "here's a present i have brought for you, hank," said he in a whisper. "you asked me yesterday if i had been discharged, and that showed that you were a friend of mine. i told you the truth; i have been discharged, and i am going out to denver. this is my uniform. take it and wear it, and think of me." julian did not wait for the boy to raise any protests, but laid the bundle down on his seat, and then turned toward mr. wiggins. "i haven't gone yet," said he. "we are going to-morrow night." "well, come in and say good-bye before you go," said mr. wiggins. julian took the opportunity to introduce jack, who raised his cap respectfully. he listened while mr. wiggins congratulated him on his good fortune, and heard some very good advice in regard to saving his money. "i tell you what it is, julian," said he, when they had left the office behind them, "everybody who is anybody is glad that we are going to improve ourselves, and many seem to think there is going to be an end to that hundred thousand dollars." "i'll bet you that it don't come to an end with _me_," said julian, emphatically. "i am going to purchase some things that i need, but i shan't touch the principal at all." the first thing was to go to a store and buy a trunk. up to this time they had never had any receptacle for their clothes, carrying all their belongings in a traveling-bag. they concluded that one trunk was enough, and, after they had purchased it, jack shouldered it and was going to take it home. "come, now, that won't do," whispered julian; "it is three miles to our room." "no matter if it is a thousand," said jack; "i can take it there." "put it down, and i will get a carriage." "well, i won't pay for it." "i _will_; i don't see what's the use in our being so particular." jack put the trunk down, and julian went out, and very soon returned with a carriage. the boys held a consultation, and decided that, now that they had a conveyance, they might as well stop at some places on the way home and invest in some other articles they needed. "but i'll tell you one thing," said jack; "you are keeping this rig too long; i won't pay for it." it was three hours before the friends got home, and then they had their trunk more than half-filled with new clothing. the hackman carried it upstairs for them, and julian, having paid him his price, threw himself into a chair to wait until jack did the packing. in addition to the trunk, the boys bought small traveling-bags, in which they carried several handy little articles they thought they might need during their journey, such as towels, comb and brush; and julian stowed away in his a book that he had long desired to possess--"the last chronicle of barset," by anthony trollope. jack could hardly conceal his disgust; he was going to look out of the window when they were fairly on the train, and he would see more fun in that than julian could in reading his book. "there, sir, i guess it's all done," said jack, going to the closet to make sure that they had left nothing behind. "all right; lock the trunk and put the key in your pocket," said julian. "now give me half of what this room will come to during the present month, and i will go down and pay the landlady. we haven't anything to eat, so i guess we will have to go down to a restaurant and get dinner and supper all in one." "i think a sandwich and a cup of coffee would go pretty well," said jack. "oh! i am going to have a better meal than that. where's the money?" jack counted out his share of the rent, and julian posted off to see the landlady. he was gone a long time, but he came back with a receipt in his hand which he showed jack, and then the two boys went out to get their dinner. jack ordered what he had said he would; but anyone who could have seen what julian sent for would have thought he was a millionaire already. jack looked on but did not say anything; he was old enough to know that the change in julian's circumstances would make him reckless for a while. he remarked that he might as well go down to the shop and bid the fellows good-bye, and then it would be done with; so they turned their faces in that direction when they came out, and in a short time they were among the railroad shops. jack knew where to go; and, after leading his companion through a long workshop, where julian would certainly have got in somebody's way if he had not stuck close to his heels, finally ushered him into the helpers' room. he shook hands with them one after the other--dirty, begrimed fellows they were, too, looking very unlike the well-dressed men they were when dressed up for sundays--and presently he came to the master mechanic. the latter threw his arm around jack, led him away out of earshot of the others, and held an earnest conversation with him. he even put his hand into his pocket, but jack shook his head and turned away. "come on, julian; i guess i have said good-bye to them all," said he, as he led the way to the street. "every one of those fellows wanted to give me money--as if they didn't know i have enough already. well, i hope the last one of them will be successful. if they want any money, they can apply to me." julian had never seen jack look sad before. after going a little way on the street, jack turned and looked at the shop as if he thought he never would see it again. julian did not know that jack had so much heart in him. the next day was devoted to julian, who went down to the office and took leave of all his friends. even the boy who had accused him of being a spy came in for a good, hearty hand-shake. he did not know how to take it, but stammered out something about being sorry he had treated julian in the way he did. "that's all right," said the boy; "only, the next time don't you accuse any boy of being a spy on you unless you know whereof you speak." mr. wiggins had something more to say to julian. he conducted him into the back room, and kept him there until jack began to be impatient. when he came out again, julian was wiping his eyes. "i tell you, jack," said he, when they were well on their way to the railroad depot to purchase their tickets, "when one has been here and done the best he could in the office, it comes hard to say good-bye. every boy--and man, too--has used me white, if i except that fellow who accused me of being a spy. but this isn't the last time we will see st. louis, i hope. when we get out to denver, and get fairly settled, we will come back again." the friends waited a long time at the depot, for the ticket office was not open; but they had much to talk about. what sort of a looking place was denver? they had not read much about that, and they had somehow got it into their heads that it was a little settlement, and that they should find more wigwams there than houses. but at last the window was opened, and, falling in behind the others, they purchased tickets which were to carry them farther west than they had ever been before. "now, the next thing is to get a sleeping-car," said julian. "we don't want a sleeping-car," said jack, catching julian by the arm and leading him away. "you can lie down on one seat, and i can take the other, and we'll sleep just as well there as we would on a pile of down." julian was obliged to give up, but told himself that it would not always be so. he wanted to spend money for something he really needed, and he thought he could sleep better in a sleeping-car than he could in another which was devoted to passengers who were wide awake. nothing now remained but to get their supper and call a carriage to take them to the depot. the boys took coffee and sandwiches, and during the meal hardly spoke to one another. that was the last meal they would eat in st. louis, and they wondered what the future had in store for them. perhaps, when they got to denver, they would find that haberstro had been there already, and by some hook or crook had managed to get the property into his own hands. "but i don't see how that could be done," said jack, when julian hinted at this. "the deeds are in winkleman's name, and we have them. how is he going to get the property, then?" "i don't know; but i am afraid he will get it some way." "if he does, all we have to do is to give it up." but this was going to be a hard job, in julian's estimation. he did not confess that much, but it would be disastrous to him to have to surrender those blocks of buildings. he thought of it all that day, and while he was seated in the cars, going with as much speed as steam could put forth to carry him to his destination, it still bothered him. the master mechanic was there to bid them once more a good-bye, and julian was certain, when he turned away and hung his head down, that there were tears in his eyes. as long as daylight lasted, julian was busy looking out of the window as they rushed through the country; but when the lamps were lighted he began to grow sleepy. julian was sitting on one bench, and jack, having turned his seat over, was sitting on the other, and, having arranged their beds, they lay down on them; but it was a long time before they fell asleep. "now, you see, if we had a sleeping-car we wouldn't have to go to all this trouble," said julian. "wait until you get too tired to keep your eyes open, and you won't know whether we are in a sleeping-car or not," said jack; "i am most ready to go off this minute." jack's words came out true, for after they had given up their tickets and been furnished with a slip to put in their caps, julian speedily lost himself in the land of dreams, and the next thing he knew jack was shaking him by the shoulder. it was broad daylight, and the train was still whirling them onward. "can we get anything to eat along here?" said julian, looking out of the window; "i am hungry." "there is a place a few miles ahead, so i heard the conductor tell a passenger, where we will stop to get breakfast," said jack. "that was the reason i called you. if you are anything like me, you can eat a whole pan of baked beans." "baked beans!" said julian. "they have something better than that to eat on the railroad. i am going to get a breakfast that is worth the money." there was another thing that bothered julian, and that was, he did not have any place to wash; but jack told him that that would be remedied when they came to their stopping-place. they rode on for a dozen miles or so, and when the whistle sounded, and the brakeman announced fifteen minutes for breakfast, they left their valises in their racks and moved up nearer the door. "that wakes a fellow up," said julian, as he plunged his face into a basin of water. "we have to hurry, jack, for fifteen minutes is not a great while." the boys' breakfast was all that could be asked, although, if the truth must be told, they were not long in eating it. julian boarded the train first, and led the way along to their seats; but where were the valises they left there when they went out to breakfast? "is this our car?" said julian, running his eyes over the passengers. "why yes, this is our car," said jack. "there is that red-faced man who sat behind you; he was sitting there when we left st. louis. but what is the matter with you?" "matter enough; our valises are gone!" "by george! so they are!" "say!" said the red-faced man, leaning over the back of the seat. "i saw the man who took those valises, but i supposed he was a member of your party and that you had sent him for them; therefore i did not stop him." "what sort of a looking man was he?" "he was a very genteel fellow, but i noticed that he toed in, and that he had a very german cast of countenance." "i wonder if it was claus?" said julian. "i don't know what his name was, but he got the valises. say! if i were you i would search the train, and if you find him you can make him give your property up." "we will do it. i wonder if we are ever going to see the last of that man?" the train had been gathering headway all the while, and was now running at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour. if claus, or whoever stole the valises, was on the train, the boys were certain he could not jump off to escape them. chapter xi. in denver. "did the man find anything of value in your valises?" asked the red-faced man, as the boys turned toward the front part of the car. "he could have bought everything i had in my valise for two dollars," said jack, with a laugh. "it seems funny that he should want to put himself in danger of arrest for that" "he got a book in mine," said julian. "of course i have read it before, but i wanted to read it again. say, jack," he continued, when the latter reached the door and was about to open it, "if the man was claus, don't you suppose he had an eye on that box?" jack released the door and leaned up heavily against it. such an idea had never occurred to him. "he watched us while we were in st. louis, and when he saw us ready to come out, he got on the same train with us." "what a lucky thing it was that we sent that box off by express!" jack almost gasped. "of course it was claus, and we shall not find him on this train, either. he jumped off at that station back there." "let us go and see. if he is going to follow us in this way, we are going to be in a fix, the first thing you know." jack opened the door and went out, and julian followed close at his heels. they went slowly through the cars, looking sharply at every man they saw on the train, but nobody with "a very german cast of countenance" could be seen. the next thing was to try the other end of the train. jack led the way, as before, and when they got into their own car the red-faced man, who seemed to take an interest in their success, said, in a low tone, "did you find him?" "no," replied jack; "he must have got off at the station. we are going through the sleeping-cars, and, if he is not there, we will have to give him up." in the next car there was no one who looked like claus, and when they opened the door of the next car, and entered the vestibuled part of the train, they found themselves in an entry which was fitted up in the most gorgeous manner. a negro porter stood in front of the window looking out, and when he saw who the boys were, he stepped up in front of them. "does you want to see somebody on dis train?" he asked. "well, i should say we did," replied jack. "some one has stolen our valises, and we want to find him." "dat's bad. has you got a ticket?" "of course we have. don't you see the slips in our caps?" "but i mean a ticket for dis part of de train. if you hasn't got one, you can't go in." this was a new arrangement to jack. the last time he travelled on the railroad it was when the hands connected with the railroad-shop gave an excursion and a picnic, and then he had no difficulty in going all over the train; but he saw the beauty of it at once. "then we will have to give it up," said he, turning toward the door. "that man may be here and have our valises, and we can't help ourselves." "mebbe not," said the negro. "what kind of a looking man was he? i will go over the train and look for him." jack described the man as well as he could from the description the passenger had given him, and the negro went out. "just see what we would have got we had taken a sleeping-coach," whispered julian. "no one can come near you except those who purchased tickets at the depot." "we'll come to that after a while," said jack. "wait until we get our money. just now it seems as though we shall have to be constantly on the watch." the negro was gone a long time, but our friends found themselves busy in taking a note of all their surroundings. there must have been a good deal of money spent upon that sleeping-car. there did not seem to be a cheap thing about it. one or two passengers, who had slept late and were just getting up, came in, and yawned, and stretched, and prepared to go through their ablutions. they merely glanced at the two boys, and went on with their work. they did not care for the eating-stations that were scattered along the route; when they were hungry, they could go into the dining-coach and get all they wanted. "i tell you, it is worth while to know where your money is coming from when you travel," thought julian; "one feels so much safer." by the time he had reached this conclusion the negro appeared. "dar ain't a man on dis train that looks like the one you spoke of," said he. "dey's all americans; the last man-jack of them." "thank you," said jack. "our man has got off at the station. i hope he will get rich on what he found in those valises." the two friends went back to their own car, and to the inquiry of the passenger who sat behind them replied that the man had left the train as soon as he got the valises. then they settled down and prepared to enjoy their journey; but it must be confessed that claus came into their minds very frequently. if he was the one who took their valises, they were certain that they had not seen the last of him yet. "and to think that that fellow watched us all the while we were in st. louis," said jack, leaning over and whispering the words to julian. "he may watch us after we get in denver. who knows?" but claus, if that was the man, did not come near them any more during their journey. they grew weary, of course, and julian, having no book to read, slept most of the way. their night was passed in much the same way that the first one was, and about two o'clock in the morning they arrived at denver. the appearance of the city, wrapped though it was in slumber, surprised them. there were as many people running about in the depot as there were in st. louis, and all appeared to have work to do. the man to whom they had given their check was there to show them the way to their omnibus, and julian, while he was on the way to it, looked all around for indians, but did not see any. the hotel was as large as those they had left in st. louis, and almost before they knew it they were in their room with two beds in it, the porter had carried up their trunk, had bid them good-night, and they were alone. "say, jack, there's more houses than wigwams here, is there not?" "i was just thinking so myself," said jack. "denver is a big city. now, the next thing is something else. it is something i don't like to think of. that letter which mr. wiggins wrote to the agent here may help us some, but we have something to prove after that." "well, don't let us worry about that to-night," said julian. "perhaps in the morning it will look different." julian had never slept in so comfortable a bed before, and when sleep overpowered him he did not know a thing until he opened his eyes in the morning and saw jack standing at the window, with his suspenders about his waist, looking through the window at some mountains which seemed to be looming up close at hand. "when we get settled, if we ever do, we must walk out there and take a view from the top," said he. "how far are they away from here?" "about two or three miles, probably. i believe if we get on the summit of those mountains we can see california." "i have just thought of another thing that may bother us some," said julian. "i don't know whether the express clerks will want us to identify ourselves before they give us that box, but if they do--then what?" "although we are in the right, there is always something to bother us," said jack, seating himself in the nearest chair. "what will we do?" "we can't do anything except to write to st. louis. there is nobody here that knows us from adam." that was something that bothered jack during breakfast, but at eight o'clock, the hour when the express offices are generally open, they were directed by the clerk how to reach it, and in process of time drew up before the counter. to julian's inquiry if there was a box there addressed to himself the clerk placed the box before him, and never asked him who he was or where he came from. "now, the next thing is to keep an eye out for the telegraph office. if you see a sign sticking out, let me know it." "i see a sign already," said jack, pointing it out. julian began to feel a little more at home. he had worked in a telegraph office, and he was certain that he was going among friends. the boys were there, and they came up to wait on him, but julian went ahead until he confronted the operator at his desk. "is mr. fay in?" julian asked. "yes, sir. he is in his private office. would you like to see him?" "i would thank you first to give me a screw-driver so that i can take this cover off. there is a letter in here addressed to him." the screw-driver was soon forthcoming, and while julian was at work at it, a hustling little man suddenly stood before him. "do you want to see me?" he asked, in a business way. julian had by this time taken out the letter, which was placed on top, and handed it to mr. fay, who leaned against the counter and read it. the boys watched him closely, and finally saw his eyes light up with surprise. "this letter has a stamp on it, so i know it is all right," said he. "but this man wiggins i never heard of. come into the office." the boys followed him, seating themselves in chairs that were pointed out to them, while mr. fay went on reading the letter. he was utterly amazed, and looked at the two friends as if he could scarcely believe it. "which one of you boys is julian gray?" he asked. "you are? then i congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. you struck it rich once in buying 'old horse,' didn't you? how long have you been with mr. wiggins?" julian began, and told as much of his history as he was willing that any stranger should know--all except about pulling him out from under the feet of the runaway horses. he thought that that was a sacred matter between him and mr. wiggins, and so he said nothing about it. "and how about your friend, here, john sheldon?" said he. "you see, i want to get at the bottom of all your doings, so that i can explain it to mr. gibson, mr. winkleman's lawyer. we know of that man, and we know why he left; but we want to be certain that you have a right to the box." jack began and related his story; and although mr. wiggins did not say much about it, never having been acquainted with jack, the tale he told was so honest and truthful that mr. fay could not but believe him. "well, boys, i will go with you to see mr. gibson," said the operator. "it all rests with him. you see, all these things happened eleven months ago, and he has collected considerable money in rent for all these places. you will come in for fifteen or twenty thousand dollars at the start. he may want to ask you some questions." what mr. fay said almost took the boys' breath away. they had hardly anything in their pockets, and to be told that they were worth ten thousand dollars apiece was almost too good for belief. they followed mr. fay out on the street--the way he moved proved that he had come up from the ranks--and up the stairs that led to mr. gibson's office. they found the lawyer in there, walking up and down, but he stopped long enough to bid mr. fay good-morning. "what have these young men been doing?" said he, pulling up a chair for each one to sit down. "more lawsuits, i suppose." "no, sir, there is no law in this except what you have a mind to tell us. read this letter; but first let me introduce the boys." mr. gibson said he was glad to see them, and then commenced the letter, and before he had read it half-way through he whistled and looked at them with intense surprise. "well, sir, you have done it, have you not?" said he. "now, whom have you to prove that you bought this 'old horse' at the express office?" "read on, sir, and i think the letter will answer that question for you," replied julian. "i told mr. wiggins about it. that is all he knows of it." mr. gibson finished the letter at last, and then turned and gave the boys a good looking over. he evidently was not thinking about them at all, but about some point of law that had just occurred to him. finally he said, "i want you to understand that i believe your story, but in order to be all right in everything, and leave nothing for anybody to pick a flaw with, i would like to know what you did to look up this man haberstro." "if i were in your place, gibson," said mr. fay, "i would write to mr. wiggins and the president of that bank, and get a full history of the boys. they will tell the truth." "let me suggest to you, also, the name of mr. dawson," said jack. "i used to work for him, and he knows all about me." the lawyer took down the three addresses of the men he wanted to write to. "have you young fellows any money?" asked the lawyer. "yes, sir, a little." "will it last you two weeks?" the two friends were sure it would last them as long as that. "where are you stopping?" julian replied that they were stopping at some hotel, but they did not know which one. "well, fay will no doubt direct you to a cheaper boarding-house than that. what are you boys going to do with this?" said mr. gibson, placing his hand upon the box. "we want to put it somewhere so it will be safe," said julian. "shall i take charge of it for you? i will put it in the bank. it is most too valuable for me to carry around." "yes, sir." after a little more conversation his two clients went out. the lawyer sat for a long time thinking the matter over, and at last he got up, took the box under his arm and started for the bank. he had decided that he would go to st. louis that very night. chapter xii. casper nevins, the spy. "no, sir," said casper, leaning over and placing his elbows on his knees, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the floor; "you don't get any more five cents out of me, yet awhile, to pay for cigars. i have got only ten dollars, and i am anxious to make that do. now, what shall i go at next?" casper nevins was in a predicament the first thing he knew. he claimed to be an orphan, the same as julian was; but those who were well acquainted with his history knew that he had a mother in a western village who was a dressmaker, and who would have been glad to get every cent he could send her. but casper never sent her any money. on the contrary, he often appealed to her to forward him a few dimes, to pay his debts for pool and cigars. claus often got into him a dollar or two on the games he lost, and his mother was the only person he had to call on. now he had lost his position, and the next thing was to find something else to do. he was really afraid he would have to go to work with his hands. he thought of jack sheldon, dirty and begrimed as he was when he came from the shop, and wondered how he would look in that fix. and, another thing, he wasn't satisfied that he could get as good a position as jack held. aside from being acquainted with the city and carrying the telegraphic dispatches, there was nothing else that he could do. "i tell you i am up a stump," said casper to himself; "i shall soon be sweeping out saloons, as julian did, to pay for my breakfast. i would rather die than do that." when he had reached this point in his meditations the door opened, and claus came in with a couple of cigars in his hand. he did not seem to be at all worried over his failure to get his hands upon that box, but he was whistling a jig as he closed the door and offered a cigar to casper. "what is the matter with you, any way?" he asked, when he saw the gloomy look on casper's face. "you act as though you had lost your last friend." "what am i going to do now?" asked casper. "i have no trade, no profession, and i must do something to keep myself in grub. there is no pool or cigars for me from this time on." "well, let that thing go until i tell you my story," said claus, who did not like to hear a man talk in this way. he knew that he was to blame for casper's shortness of funds--a good deal of his hard earnings was located in claus's own pockets--and he wanted to make him look on the bright side of things while he was in his presence. when he got away where he could not see him, then he could indulge in moody thoughts as often as he pleased. "i wish i had not played pool with you as often as i have," said casper, showing a little spirit. "every time i have crossed cues with you i have always been out three or four dollars. why don't you play with somebody else?" "well, if you are going to talk that way i'll go on," said claus, getting up from his chair. "what i was going to say was that i don't believe that box is gone yet. i have tried twice to get it and have failed; but there is a charm in everything. three times and out is what i go by; but if you don't want to hear what i have to say, why, good-night." "well, sit down," said casper, who couldn't bear to let claus go away if he had anything to say concerning that box; "but you yourself would be angry if you were in my fix." "oh, i have been that way lots of times. i have been so i didn't know where my next meal was coming from." "i have been that way, too," said casper. "the other night you got ten cents of me, and it was the last cent i had in the world; i had to get my next meal at the free-lunch saloons." "i didn't know you were as hard up as that," said casper, with surprise. "have you money with which to get breakfast to-morrow?" "not a cent." "then here are twenty cents," said claus, putting his hand into his pocket. "two meals will do you. in the meantime, if you get hard up for something to eat, go to the saloons; that's the way i do." "yes, but you always get something else. if i go in there and dabble with their lunch, the barkeeper will want to know why i don't get something to drink." "then walk out and go to another saloon. you ain't posted. now, i want to tell you my story. it isn't long, and i want to ask you a question before i get through." when claus said this, casper settled back in his chair and tried to look interested; but the trouble was, he only succeeded in looking guilty. "i have just come from julian's room," continued claus, "and i threatened him with the police. he called me by my own name, or jack did, and i want to know who has been telling him that. did you?" "i never said a word to him about you or anybody else," said casper, looking claus squarely in the eye. "did you say anything to mr. wiggins about it?" "never a word. there might have been a detective in the office while you were there." "a detective? who was it?" "i am sure i don't know. but if he knew your name, there was where he got it. you went up to the pool-room after you got through there? well, did anybody follow you up to see what your name was?" "there was nobody up there that i saw, and i took mighty good care to watch out. i threatened him with the police for addressing me by that name, and he just as good as told me to go and get them." "what made you say police at all? what had he done?" "i wanted him to get the box and let me read the papers in it, because i wanted to be sure that they were intended for me; but he would not do it." "of course he would not!" exclaimed casper, in disgust. "that was a pretty way to do business, wasn't it?" "i calculated, if he brought the box in there, to steal it away from them," said claus. "if i once got out on the street, i would like to see anybody catch me. i would have hung around this city for a month but that i would have got away with it." "and what would i be doing in the meantime?" "you would have known where i was," said claus, bending toward casper and speaking in a whisper. "i would have found means to communicate with you. of course if i had got that box you would have had a share of it." casper did not know whether to believe this or not. somehow he had felt suspicious of claus ever since the first night he spoke to him about the box. if the german got it without any of his help, he was sure that he never would see any of it. "well, you failed in that scheme, and i would like to know if you have some other means of getting hold of it." "certainly i have. three times and out is what i go by. my next scheme will be to steal the box from them on the train." "how are you going to do that?" "we will keep watch of them, and when they are ready to go to denver, we will go, too. you know their habits better than i do, and by keeping your eyes on them--" "well, i won't do it," said casper, emphatically. "they may not go for a month yet, and i must have something to eat in the meantime." "i will give you twenty cents a day and enough to pay your rent," said claus. "that will keep you going, won't it?" "you must give me more than that. i shall need a cigar once in a while, won't i?" "then i will give you thirty cents. you don't want to smoke more than two cigars every day, do you?" the question where claus earned the money he had was a mystery to every one except himself. when the police arrested him for vagrancy and the justice fined him ten dollars, believing that he was going to shut him up for two months, claus pulled out a roll of greenbacks as large as one's wrist. the justice gazed at him in surprise and said, "i had no idea that you were so well heeled as that." "i have a relative in europe who sends me money once in a while," said claus. "well, get out of here, and don't come into this station any more." "i won't," said claus; "and i wouldn't have come in here this time, only the police brought me." "you must go easy on me, because i haven't too many ducats," said claus, continuing the conversation which we have broken off. "i think thirty cents a day will see you through in good fashion." "of course that puts a different look on the matter. begin by giving me ten cents to get a cigar with to-night. thank you. now, what do you want me to do?" "you are to begin and keep your eye on julian, and report to me every day at the pool-room. whenever you see preparations made for them to go out to denver, you must let me know it; then we will go, too." "but how are you going to steal their valises, if they have any?" "they will leave their valises behind them when they go out to get their meals, and i will slip up and get them. you won't have anything to do with stealing them at all." "that is a bargain," said casper. "i believe that is the best way yet. but remember--you must keep out of their sight; and i will, too." a little more conversation was held on the subject, and then claus took his leave. when the door closed behind him casper arose to his feet, placed his thumb against his nose, and wiggled his fingers. that was his opinion of mr. claus's scheme. "i know what you mean to do," said he, in a voice that was choked with passion. "you are going to get me out there on the railroad and leave me. but i will see that you don't do it; i will stick closer to you than a brother, and when you get that box i will be close at hand. now i will go off to some restaurant and get some supper." the next morning dawned clear and bright, and when casper opened his eyes his first thought was to get up; but remembering that he had not to go to the office that day, he rolled over and dropped asleep again. but he had to get up at last; and after a good, hearty breakfast, and smoking a cigar, he strolled down toward the telegraph office. julian was there, sitting in his chair, for he could see him through the window. he had not made preparations to go to denver yet. and so it was during every day that the boys waited for haberstro to show up. julian was as impatient as casper, and even claus began to growl for fear there was being too big a haul made upon his money. "i am not an astor, to be giving you thirty cents a day to watch those fellows," said he. "if they don't begin to make some move very soon i shall be sorry that i hired you." "they are going to denver some time, and if you are bound to have a hand in the box, the best thing for you to do is to keep on hiring me," said casper. "i know what you want," he added to himself. "if you were to give me every cent of money you have, i would just about get my own back." but not long after this, when casper was strolling by the telegraph office to see what was going to happen, he saw julian and jack go in there. the two boys were dressed in citizens' clothes, too, and that proved that there was something up. while he was wondering whether or not he had better go back and report the matter to claus, mr. wiggins came out and took his way toward the bank. in a little while he came back again with the box under his arm. casper concluded to wait still longer, and the result proved satisfactory. the two friends came out of the office, and julian held the door open long enough to say, "i haven't gone yet; i will come back and bid you good-bye before i start." "by gracious, they are going!" said casper, so excited that he could not stand still. "now, the next thing is to find out _when_ they are going. i guess i will go and see what claus has to say about it." claus was found in the pool-room, and he was playing a game with somebody. he drew off on one side, and casper hurriedly related what he had to say to him. for a wonder claus smiled. "they are going to-morrow night," said he. "you talk as though you knew all about it. how do you know?" asked casper, with the accent on the adverb. "because julian has got his discharge, he is dressed in citizen's clothes, and they will have to take to-day in order to bid their friends good-bye and get some things that are necessary for the trip," said claus. "watch them closely, and when you see a carriage drive up to their door and a trunk put on, come to me here and i will be ready for you." "how are you going to get your own luggage down?" asked casper. "i don't want any luggage," replied claus; "i have more money than enough to buy--humph!" he had intended saying that he had money enough to buy all the clothing he wanted, but seeing casper's eyes fastened upon him he caught his breath in time and said, "i have money enough to pay for a night's lodging, and that is all we want. now you go and do just as i tell you." claus turned again to his game and casper went slowly out of the room. the german watched him, as he opened the door, and said to himself, "i wonder if that fellow knows what i am up to? he acts like it; but if he does, i would like to see him help himself." chapter xiii. getting ready for work. "i know just what you are going to do," repeated casper, as he ran down the stairs--"you are going to steal the box, and leave me out on the prairie to get back the best way i can. for two cents i would not have anything to do with it." but in spite of this resolution, casper, as soon as he reached the street, turned his gaze in every direction in the hope of finding julian and jack; but the boys had disappeared. he walked along the streets looking everywhere for them, and finally came to a standstill opposite julian's room. "they will have to come here some time, and i will just take my stand here in this door and watch for them," said casper. "they will not take that box with them, anyhow; it is much too valuable to lug about in a valise. they will send it by express." this was something that had occurred to casper on the spur of the moment, and he thought seriously of going back to claus with it; but, on the whole, he decided to keep still about it. he was getting thirty cents a day for doing nothing, and he did not want to bring that to an end too speedily. claus had plenty of money. casper had seen the inside of his pocketbook when he took it out to pay him his money, and he might as well have thirty cents of it as not. at the end of three hours casper saw the carriage coming up the street. he was certain that he was right in his suspicions, because carriages of that description were not often seen in that by-street; and, more than that, there was a trunk perched in front of the driver. he drew up in front of julian's room, and a moment afterward the boys got out. casper saw the driver catch up the trunk and carry it upstairs, and presently he came down again, mounted to his box, and disappeared up the street. "they are gentlemen now, and of course they could not carry that trunk upstairs," sneered casper, coming out of his concealment. "now, i wish i knew when they are going to start. if things were all right between julian and myself i would go upstairs and find out; but as it is, i guess i had better keep away; he would not tell me, anyhow. i stole that box from him once, and that was where i missed it. i ought to have gone to denver at once." after some time spent in rapid walking, casper once more found himself in the pool-room, and saw claus busy with his game. claus drew off on one side, while casper whispered the result of his investigations to him. "that is all right," said he, and a smile overspread his face. "you are much better at watching than i thought you were. wait until i get through here and i will give you a cigar." "but, claus, though they had a valise apiece in their hands, they have no idea of carrying the box in them," said casper; "it is too valuable." "that's the very reason they will take it with them," whispered claus. "they will not trust it out of their sight." "i'll bet you that they will send it by express," answered casper; "that is what i should do with it." "but all persons are not as careful as you are," said claus; and he turned to take his shot at the game. "you need not think you can soft-sawder me in that style," thought casper, as he backed toward a chair and took his seat to see how the game was coming out. "you have some other little trick that you want me to play. well, if it is not too dangerous i'll do it; if it is, i won't." "there is nothing more that we can do to-night, but i shall expect to see you bright and early to-morrow morning," resumed claus, as he finished his game and hung the cue up in its proper place. "here is a dollar. you may get yourself all the cigars you want." "thank you for nothing," said casper to himself, as he turned to leave the room. "the last game i played with you you got an even five dollars out of me. this does not make me straight with you by a long way." casper did not rise bright and early the next morning, because he did not think there was any need of it. he spent a quarter of claus's dollar for breakfast, smoked a cigar, and strolled leisurely down to the telegraph office. he was just in time to see julian and jack coming out. the face of the former wore a very sad expression, and there was a suspicious redness about his eyes, which looked as though he had been crying. "by gracious! i don't think i would shed tears if i were in your place," said casper, in disgust. "and you are going away with a hundred thousand dollars in your pocket! it beats me, how many people go to make up a world! julian has been bidding them good-bye in there, and so he must be getting ready to go off very soon. now i will go and see claus." casper found his companion in guilt at the very place he said he would be; and, for a wonder, he was sitting there alone, in one corner of the room. he told what he had seen, adding that julian could not keep back his tears when he came out. "we'll give him something to cry for when he goes out of that car," said claus, with a wink; "he will be just a fortune out of pocket." casper had several times been on the point of asking claus how he was going to work in order to secure to himself the full possession of all that property. he thought there would have to be some legal steps taken before the agent, or whoever had charge of those blocks of buildings, would be willing for claus to call them all his own. suppose the agent should write to some of the many friends he was presumed to have in chicago, and should get no answer from them; what would claus do then? all the friends he had were in st. louis; he did not know anybody in chicago, and consequently he would receive a check at the very start. if the german thought of this, he did not say anything about it. he wanted first to get the box, and then he could settle these things afterward. "well, there is only one thing for you to do now," said claus, after thinking the matter over; "you must stay around julian's room, and wait for them to go to the depot. you will find me right here." "i shall want a cigar to smoke in the meantime," said casper. it was right on the end of claus's tongue to make a flat refusal, but there was something in casper's eye, which he turned full upon him, that made him hesitate. he growled out something about not being made of money, but finally put his hand into his pocket and produced another dollar. "you need not mutter so lustily every time i ask you for money," said casper to himself as he left the pool-room. "i will have to give up this business before long, and i am going to make all i can." casper went straight to a restaurant and got his dinner, and with a cigar for company took up his usual hiding-place in the doorway and waited to see what was going to happen. he stayed there until four o'clock in the afternoon, and then began to grow interested. he saw julian come out and hasten away, and something told him that he had gone for a carriage. but why was it that casper got so mad, and threw his cigar spitefully down upon the pavement? julian was dressed in a suit of new clothes, and he looked like a young gentleman in it. the suit that casper wore was the only one he had, and when that was gone he did not know what he should do to get another. "that fellow must have received a good many tips while he was in the office," muttered casper, "or else he saved his money. i wish to goodness i had saved mine, instead of giving it all to claus." julian soon came back with a carriage, and it became evident that they were going to take the train for denver. julian and the hackman went upstairs, and when the boys came down again they each wore a traveling-coat and had a small valise in their hands. they got into the carriage and were driven away for the depot. "now, then, i am going to see if claus is fooled," thought casper, as he hurried off in another direction. "the box is not in those gripsacks; they are not large enough. now, you mark what i tell you." "what's the news?" said claus, who was loitering at one of the windows of the pool-room. "did you see them go?" he asked, in a whisper. "i did," answered casper. "we have just time to get down there, and that is all. you are making a mistake by not taking some baggage along." "no, i am not. we shall go as far as the station at which the passengers take breakfast, and then we will stop and come back. that is as far as we want to go." "and come back as empty-handed as we went," said casper to himself. "i'll bet there won't be anything worth having in those valises." it took claus and casper a long time to walk to the depot, although they went with all the speed they could command; but when, at last, they got there, they found that the ticket office was not open. it was no trouble at all for them to find the boys whom they were seeking; they occupied a couple of seats in the gentlemen's waiting-room, sitting pretty close together, too, and were engaged in earnest conversation. "those are the ones, are they not?" questioned claus. "they are dressed up so fine that i would not have known them." "yes; they have new clothes on," said casper. "they are going off as though they were business men starting out on a vacation." "that is the way we will travel when we get our money," said claus, with a wink. "and when we do get it you may go your way and i will go mine," said casper to himself; "i am not going to stay around where you are all the while bothering me to play a game with you. i am going to save my money; that's what i will do." it was shortly after they reached the depot that the ticket office was opened, and julian went to purchase tickets for himself and companion. casper watched them until they were safe in the train, and then claus bought two tickets for casper and himself, and they took seats in the car behind julian's. in that way they would keep out of sight. they did not intend to show themselves until the train stopped for breakfast the next morning, and then they would show themselves to some purpose. the night was a long and wearisome one to casper, who did not once close his eyes in slumber. he was wondering what was going to be the result of this new scheme of theirs, and telling himself over and over again that it would not amount to anything. it did not look reasonable that the boys should carry their box in a valise, and leave it behind when they went to breakfast while there was so much in it that needed their constant care. "and then, after he gets the valises and finds that there is nothing in them, that is the time for me to look out," thought casper. "he won't get away from me if i have to stay awake for two or three nights to watch him." finally, to casper's immense relief, day began to dawn and some of the wakeful passengers to bestir themselves. he arranged his hair with the aid of a comb which he had in his pocket, and then sat on the seat and waited impatiently for claus to wake up. all night long the german had slumbered heavily, as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. that was something that casper could not understand. here he was, fully intending to steal a fortune from a boy who had come honestly by it, and yet he could sleep peacefully and quietly over it! "i wonder if i shall be the way he is?" soliloquized casper. "i will try this once, and if we don't get the box i will go back and go to work--that's the best thing i can do." it was not long before a brakeman came in and told them that they were approaching the place where they would be allowed fifteen minutes for breakfast; whereupon casper leaned over and shook claus by the shoulder. "it was time you were getting up," said he in a whisper; "it is time to go to work." "i heard every word that was said," said claus. "this is the place to which i bought tickets, and it is as far as we shall go. go forward, and see if they are in the car ahead of us." "but suppose they see me?" said casper. "you must not let them see you. keep out of their sight. if they leave their valises behind when they go out to breakfast, it is all i want." casper went, but he walked slowly, as if he did it under protest. when he arrived at the end of the car he found he could not see anything from there, so he opened the door and went out on the platform. he was gone a good while, but when he came back his face told claus all he wished to know. "they are there," casper whispered, "and are getting ready to go out. i saw the valises in the rack over their seats." "that's all right. now, when we go out you must keep close behind me. i will come in at the front end of the car as if i had a perfect right there, and if i say anything to you, you must just nod your head." "what must i do that for?" asked casper. "because there may be somebody looking. i want to convince everybody that i have a right to the valises. now, you go on ahead, and do as i tell you." casper did not approve of this plan at all. the understanding between him and the german was that he was to have no hand in stealing the valises, but this looked as though he was the prime mover in the affair. before he could make any further objection the cars stopped, the gong sounded for breakfast, and the passengers began to move toward the door. chapter xiv. how casper was served. "come on, now, and remember what i told you," said claus, getting on his feet. "there they go! all we have to do, now, is to go in there and get the valises. you know where they sat, don't you?" casper glanced toward the front end of the car, and saw julian and jack step down and hurry toward the dining-room. claus waited until most of the passengers got off, and then, with a motion to casper to follow him, he went boldly forward and climbed the steps. he opened the door, and, when casper went in, he said, "now tell me exactly where they sat, so that i can pick up the valises without exciting anybody's suspicions." "do you see that red-faced man sitting on the right-hand side?" whispered casper. "and do you see those valises in the rack directly in front him? well, they are the ones you want." "all right! we will have them out of there in a jiffy." "i don't like the way that man looks at us," casper ventured to remark; "perhaps he knows them." "it don't make any difference to me whether he does or not. if he says anything to us, we will tell him the valises belong to us, and that we have come after them." calling a smile to his face, claus went down the passage-way, looking at the various valises stowed away in the racks. when he arrived opposite the seat where julian had sat before he left the train, a look of surprise spread over his countenance, and he stepped in and took them down, one after the other. "these are ours, ain't they?" he asked, turning to casper. "yes--they are the ones." "i don't see what those boys put them in here for. now we will take charge of them ourselves." he passed one valise to casper, who took it and made his way out of the car, while claus kept close at his heels. "now we want to go somewhere and get out of sight as soon as we can," said casper, looking around guiltily, and almost expecting a policeman to take him by the collar. "i shall not feel easy until this train goes." "well, we don't want to get out of sight just yet," said claus. "that red-faced man kept his eyes on us, didn't he? let us see what he will make of it now." "why, claus, you are not going in there?" queried casper, when his companion led the way toward the waiting-room. "julian and jack went in there, and they will be certain to discover us." "no, they won't. you follow me, and do just as i do." casper turned his eyes and looked back at the train. there was the red-faced man, sitting by the car window, closely watching all their movements, and when he saw them enter the waiting-room into which julian and jack had gone a few moments before, his suspicions, if he had any, were set at rest, and he settled back in his seat and picked up a newspaper which he had just purchased. claus kept on to the waiting-room, but he did not stop when he got there. he kept right on through and went out at the other door, and after walking briskly for a few minutes, and turning several corners until he was sure that the depot had been left out of sight, he seated himself on the steps of a deserted house, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead. "it was not such an awful thing to get those valises, after all," said he. "when that train goes, we will go and get our breakfast." "but i would like to know what is in those valises first," said casper. "i tell you, you are fooled. i have felt this valise all over on the outside, and there is nothing in it that feels like a box." "i don't suppose you could feel anything of that kind in it, because i don't believe the box was put in there," said claus. "my only hope is that they took the papers out of the box and put them in here; consequently they left the box at home." "good enough!" exclaimed casper, catching up his valise and feeling the outside of it, to see if he could feel anything that seemed like papers that were stowed away on the inside of it; "i never thought of that. now, how shall we go to work to get the valises open? i haven't a key in my pocket that will fit them." "i haven't, either; but as soon as we get our breakfast we will go up the road a little distance and cut them open. these gripsacks will never be worth anything to anybody after we get done with them." even while they were talking in this way they heard the shriek of the whistle twice, followed by the ringing of the bell, and knew that their train was getting ready to start on again; whereupon claus got up and said he was as hungry as a wolf, and that he must procure a breakfast somewhere. "i shall not eat much till i find out what those valises are hiding from us," said casper. "it would be just dreadful if we should fail, after all the trouble we have been to." by the time they got back to the depot the train was well under way; but claus went out and looked after it, to satisfy himself that the coast was clear. then they placed their valises in charge of the clerk at the desk, enjoyed a good wash, and went in and took their seats at the table. their meal was a better one than they had had served up to them at st. louis, especially when they were hard up for money; and, after taking their time in eating it, claus settled the bill, took his valise, and started up the railroad track. "have you a cigar?" he asked, before they had gone a great ways. "that is all right. we will go on until we get into that sagebrush, and then we will stop and look into these things. i will take just a hundred thousand dollars for my find." "i'll bet you will take less than that," said casper; for, somehow, he could not get over the idea that the box had been sent by express. "there is nothing in them that you want." it did not take them more than a quarter of an hour to get into the sagebrush; and, after looking all around to make sure that there was no one in sight, they stepped down from the track and seated themselves on the bank beside it. claus did not waste any time in trying his keys upon the valise, but stretched out his legs and put his hand into his pocket, and when he pulled it out again he held a knife in it. "the shortest way is the best," said he, thrusting the blade into the valise he held in his hand. "come out here, now, and let us see what you have." his knife made short work of the valise, but nothing in the way of papers could be found. it was jack's valise that he had destroyed, and all he found in it was a brush and comb, and half a dozen handkerchiefs. "i just knew how it would be," said casper, despairingly. "you will find the same things in here." he had never seen claus look so angry and disappointed as he was at that moment. with a spiteful kick of one foot he sent the valise out of sight in the sagebrush, and was about to send the other things to keep it company, when he happened to think of something. "i guess i'll keep the handkerchiefs and brush and comb for the good they may do me," said he. "where's your valise?" casper handed it over, and in a moment more that valise was a wreck, also. they found things in it similar to those found in jack's gripsack, with the exception of a book which julian had purchased to read on his journey, the leaves of which were uncut. casper took possession of the handkerchiefs and the brush and comb, while claus slowly rolled up the book and sat with his eyes fastened on the ground. he was mad--casper could easily see that, and he dared not interrupt his train of thought. claus sat for some moments communing with his own thoughts, then broke into a whistle and got upon his feet. "to say that i am disappointed, and angry, too, would not half express my feelings," said he, pulling off his hat with one hand and digging his fingers into his head with the other. "i did not suppose they would send those papers by express, for i know it is something that i would not have done. i would have kept them by me all the while, so that i could see that they were safe. now, the next thing is to determine upon something else." "do you intend to make another effort to get the money?" asked casper, very much surprised. "your 'three times and out' did not amount to anything--did it?" "no, i don't suppose it did," said claus, who was evidently thinking about something else. "i guess you have done about all you can do, and so you had better go back to st. louis." this was nothing more than casper expected. he had his ten dollars stowed away somewhere about his clothes, together with small sums which he had saved from the amount that claus had paid him, and so he could pay his way back to st. louis easily enough; but what should he do when he got there? he shuddered when he thought of it. here was winter coming on, and unless he should obtain work very soon he would have to go out to where his mother lived, which was all of two hundred and fifty miles from there. and what should he say when he got home? he had gone to st. louis with big boasts of what he intended to do when he got there, and for him to turn up penniless and friendless at his mother's house was rather more than he had bargained for. "and what will _you_ do?" asked casper. "i haven't had time to think the matter over," said claus, who was rather surprised that his companion took his discharge, or whatever you might call it, so easily, "but i think i shall go on to denver." "and i can't be of any use to you there?" "no, i don't think you can. i may not be back to the city before next spring." "i wish you would tell me what you are going to do when you get there. you can't get the box; that will be safe in the bank." "but perhaps i can pass myself off for mr. haberstro. i have some of his cards in my pocket." "but you will only get yourself into trouble if you try that game. there are people out there who know haberstro." "well, that is so," said claus, looking reflectively at the ground. "i shall have to think up some way to get around that. at any rate, you cannot be of any further use to me, and so you had better start by the next train." "well, you had better give me some money before you turn me off in this way," said casper. "how am i going to get back to the city without money?" "where is that ten dollars you got out of the telegraph office when your time was up?" asked claus, who did not like it whenever the subject of giving some of his hard earnings was brought up before him. "you have not spent all of that, i know." "yes, i have. i have just a quarter, and there it is," said casper, pulling out of his pocket the coin in question. "i wish to goodness i had never seen you!" said claus, shoving his hand into the pocket in which he kept his money. casper heard the jingling of some silver pieces, and thought that perhaps his companion might be tempted to give him a few dollars. that would be better than nothing, and he would have some money left when he reached st. louis. "if i had never seen you, i would have more dollars left in my pocket than i have now," said claus, bringing out a handful of small change. casper said nothing in reply. he wanted to see how much claus was going to give him; and, once he had the money in his hand, he could talk to him as he pleased. "there are five dollars that i will give you, and you need not ask me for any more," said claus, counting out the money; "for, if you do, you won't get it." "i don't know whether five dollars will pay my fare to st. louis or not," said casper. "give me six." "no, sir; that's all i have to spare. it will take you so close to the city that you can easily walk in," said claus, turning on his heel and starting toward the town they had just left. "you can walk twenty-five miles very easily." it was right on the point of casper's tongue to "open out" on claus, and give him as good as he sent. wouldn't he have had more dollars in _his_ pocket if he had never met the man who was anxious at all times to play a game of billiards or pool with him, especially on pay-day, when casper was known to have money in his pocket? but, on thinking the matter over, he decided that he would say nothing about it. claus was a pretty big man, and there was no knowing what he would do if the boy made him angrier than he was now. "he is going to be fooled again," said casper, as he fell in behind claus, who walked toward the town as if he were in an awful hurry to get there. "what good will it do him to go on to denver? he can't get the box there, neither can he cheat julian out of his money. julian will find any amount of friends there--i never heard of a boy with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket who could not find somebody to stand by him--and they will tell him what to do. oh! why did i make so great a mistake! i ought to have started for denver the moment i got my hands on that box. well, i got five dollars out of claus, anyhow." casper sauntered along behind claus, who was walking rapidly, and when he reached the depot he looked all around for his companion, but failed to see him. claus had gone off somewhere, and casper was there alone. chapter xv. how a mine was haunted. "well, boys," said mr. fay, when they had reached the street and were walking toward their hotel, "i have somehow taken a great interest in you, and i am anxious to see you come out all right. it is the most remarkable thing i ever heard of. you did not know what was in that box when you bought it, did you?" "no, sir," replied julian; "it was all sealed up. the auctioneer said something about a miner having hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it, and i bought it for thirty cents." "the auctioneer happened to hit the matter right on the head. i will go with you in search of a cheaper boarding-house than the one at which you are now stopping, and you had better remain there until mr. gibson hears from those people in st. louis. that will be two weeks, probably. if, at any time, you grow weary of walking about our city, looking at what little there is worth seeing, come down to the office, and we'll sit there and swap a few lies." mr. fay continued to talk in this way while they were walking along the streets, meanwhile turning several corners, and the longer he talked the more the boys saw the traits of his western character sticking out all over him. he talked like a gentleman, and then spoiled it all by remarking that they would "swap a few lies" when they came around to his office. he had probably been out west so long that he had become accustomed to western ways of conversation. at length mr. fay turned off from the sidewalk, ascended the steps that led to the door of a house, saying, as he did so, "now we will go in here and see what we can do," and rang the door-bell. it was a very different-looking house from the one they had been in the habit of living in when in st. louis. there were no broken-down doors to be opened before they went in, nor any rickety steps to be climbed, but everything was neat and trim, and kept in perfect order. a motherly-looking old lady answered mr. fay's pull at the bell. "ah! good-morning, mrs. rutherford," was the way in which mr. fay greeted her. "let me introduce julian gray and john sheldon. they are looking around for a cheap boarding-house,--not too cheap, mind you,--and i have called to see if you have any place in which to hang them up for the night." mrs. rutherford was glad to meet julian and jack, invited them into the parlor, and asked them if they wanted a room together. the boys replied that they did, and she conducted them upstairs, to show them a room that was vacant. they were gone not more than five minutes, and when they came downstairs again mrs. rutherford was putting some bills away in her pocket-book, and the boys acted as though they were well satisfied. "well, you have found a place, have you?" said mr. fay. "have you jotted down the street and number?" no, the boys had not thought of that, and julian quickly pulled his note-book from his pocket. "your city is somewhat larger than we expected to find it," began julian. "you don't find many wigwams around here now," answered mr. fay. "we keep spreading out all the time. can you boys find the way back to your hotel?" julian and jack thought they could find it if they were given time enough, but mr. fay thought he had better go with them. it was right on the road to his office, and he walked off so rapidly that his young companions were obliged to increase their speed in order to keep up with him. before they had gone a great way, julian, who was anxious to learn all he could about their surroundings, asked how far it was to the mountains behind them. mr. fay had evidently answered such questions before, for all he said in reply was, "how far do you think it is?" "i think two miles would cover the distance," he answered, for he was determined he would guess enough while he was about it. "how far do _you_ say it is, john?" said mr. fay, turning to jack. "i would rather be excused from expressing an opinion, but i think we could walk out there in two hours." "and come back the same day?" "why, yes; certainly." "now, let me tell you," said mr. fay: "if you have made up your minds to go out to the mountains, hire a good, fast walking-horse, and go out one day and come back the next." "is it as far as that?" exclaimed the boys, looking at each other with amazement. "it is all of twelve miles. you must take into consideration that the air is very rare up here, and that things appear nearer than they are. you are feet above the level of the sea." "my goodness! i didn't think we were so far out of the world!" "we have awfully uncertain weather here," continued mr. fay, "but still we regard our climate as healthy. our thermometer sometimes changes as much as forty degrees in twenty-four hours. since professor loomis took charge of the matter, the mercury has changed forty-five times in one day. what sort of a place did you expect to find denver, anyway?" "well, i did not know what sort of a place it was," said julian. "we thought we should find more wigwams here than houses, and you can't imagine how surprised we were when we found ourselves in a depot full of people." "denver used to be full of wigwams, but it is not so now. until the year the indians lived in peace; but in that year gold was discovered by w. g. russell, a georgian, on the banks of the river platte, which is but a little way from here, and that settled the business of the indians in a hurry. denver, black hawk, golden city, and many other cities that i can't think of now, were founded in , and a host of immigrants appeared. since that time we have been spreading out, as i told you, until we have a pretty good-sized city." "it shows what western men can do when they once set about it," said jack. "now, answer another question while you are about it, if you please. if the mercury changes forty degrees in twenty-four hours, working in the mines must be dangerous business." "that depends upon where you are working," said mr. fay. "if you are at work in a placer-mine, you stand a good chance of leaving your bones up there for somebody to bring home; but if you are working under the ground, it does not make any difference. are you thinking of going out to dutch flat to try your hand at it? i don't know where that is, but you can find plenty of men here who can tell you." "i have not said anything to julian about it, but i think that would be one of the best things we could do. you see, we are not settled in that property yet." "i see," said mr. fay. "gibson may get word from those fellows in st. louis that you are impostors, and that you stole that box instead of buying it at a sale of 'old horse.' that would be rough on you." the boys did not know how to take this remark. they looked at mr. fay, but he was walking along as usual, with his hands in his pockets, bowing right and left to the many persons he met on the streets, and did not seem to think anything of it. perhaps it was his ordinary style of talking. "i am not at all afraid of that," remarked jack. "if he finds us impostors, we are willing to go to jail." mr. fay threw back his head and laughed heartily. "i have no idea of anything of the kind," said he, as soon as he could speak. "i was just wondering what you would think of it. but what were you going to say?" "this property is not settled on us yet," replied jack, "and we may want something to keep us in grub while we are here. we have a perfect right to work that mine, have we not?" "if you can find it--yes. go up there, and if nobody else is working it, pitch in and take fifty thousand dollars more out of it." "and what will we do if somebody else is working it?" "you had better give up to them, unless you think you are strong enough to get the better of them. but you need not worry about that. the mine is haunted, and you won't catch any of the miners going around where ghosts are." "who do you suppose are haunting it?" asked julian. "that letter says the writer worked the mine alone, and took lots of money out of it, and never saw a thing to frighten him." "perhaps somebody has been murdered up there; i don't know. you won't see anything until you get down in the mine, and then you want to look out. i heard of a mine up at gold cove that was haunted in that way. there were a dozen miners tried it, and each one came away without getting anything, although the gold was lying on top of the ground. as often as a miner went below (it was about thirty feet down to the bottom), he was sure to see somebody at work there before him. he was picking with a tool at the bottom of the shaft in order to loosen it up, accompanying every blow he made with a sonorous 'whiz!' which showed that he was an irishman. some of the miners retreated to their bucket and signaled to their helper to pull them up, and you couldn't hire them to go into the mine again. others, with a little more bravery than they had, went up to put their hands on the man, but as fast as they advanced he retreated; and when they got to the end of the shaft, the phantom miner was still ahead, and picking away as fast as ever." "then the mine is deserted?" "yes, and has been for years. it is one of the richest mines around here, too." "why, i should think somebody would shoot him," said jack. "shoot him! he has been shot at more times than anybody could count; but he pays no attention to it. he is a ghost, and he knows you can't hurt him. i never saw it, and, what is more, i don't want to; but i would not go down into that mine for all the gold there is in the hills." "did anybody think a murder had been committed somewhere around there?" said julian. "i never heard that there was." "well, i just wish our mine would be haunted with something like that," said jack. "i would find out what he was, and what business he had there, or i would know the reason why." "well, you may have a chance to try it. does this look like your hotel? now i will bid you good-bye, and i will see you again to-morrow, if you come around." mr. fay departed, taking with him the hearty thanks of the boys for all his kindness and courtesy, and then they slowly ascended the steps to the office. they had secured one thing by his attentions to them--a boarding-house at which the money they had in their pockets would keep them safely for a month, if it took mr. gibson that long to hear from st. louis; but, on the whole, jack wished mr. fay had not used his western phraseology so freely. "does he want us to work that mine or not?" asked jack. "i don't know. he talked pretty readily, did he not?" "i wonder if that is the way all westerners talk? did he scare you out of going up there to that mine?" "no, sir," replied julian, emphatically. "do you know that i rather like that man? he reminds me of mr. wiggins, and talks exactly like him." "what do you suppose it was that those fellows saw in that mine?" "i give it up. some of these western men are good shots with a revolver, and it seems to me they might have struck the fellow if they had had a fair chance at him." "but he was a ghost, you know." "oh, get out! if they saw him there, you can bet that there _was_ somebody there. some of the miners had their minds all made up to see something, and of course they saw it." "but how do you account for that 'whiz!' that he uttered every time he struck with his pick?" "they never heard any 'whiz!' coming from that man; they only imagined it." "do you think their ears could be deceived, as well as their eyes?" "jack, i am surprised at you. you are big enough and strong enough to whip any ghost that i ever saw, and yet you are afraid to go down in that mine!" "wait until we find it, and then i'll show you whether i am afraid or not. now, if you will go on and pay our bill and have our trunk brought down, i'll go and get a carriage." in five minutes this was done, and the boys were soon on their way to their boarding-house. chapter xvi. good news. for a week after julian and jack went to their new boarding-house they had much to occupy their attention--so much, indeed, they did not think of going down to the telegraph office and "swapping a few lies" with the chief operator. their new home charmed them in every particular. mr. fay had not forgotten that _he_ had been a boy in the not so very long ago, and the boarding-house he had chosen for them was such as he would have chosen for himself. the boarders were young men who, like themselves, had come out west to seek their fortunes, and they were all employed in various avocations in the city. jack noticed one thing, and that was they did not run around of evenings to any extent; or, if they did, they went down to the library, where they spent their time in reading. "do you know that that is something that strikes me," said jack one night when they went upstairs to their room. "we ought to join the young men's christian association." "have you forgotten our mine?" asked julian. "no, i have not; but i don't believe in going up there in winter. a thermometer that can change so many times within twenty-four hours is something that i want to keep clear of." "well, where is the money to come from?" "humph!" said jack, who had not thought of that before; "that's so. where is it?" the first thing the boys thought of, when they got up the next morning, was to take a trip to the mountains. jack was in favor of walking. it was only twelve miles, and the amount they would have to pay out for a horse would keep one of them a week at their boarding-house. but julian could not see it in that light. "i tell you, you have never walked twenty-four miles in a day," remarked the latter. "i have done it many a time, but i am not going to do it now, when there is no need of it." "you act as though you had that money in your hands already," retorted jack. "now, i'll tell you what's a fact: i am going to have the same trouble with you that i had in st. louis. there won't be any 'old horse' for you to spend your money on, but you will squander it in some other way." "you will see," said julian, with a laugh. "come on, now; i am going to get a saddle-horse--one that can take me out there in an hour." jack reluctantly yielded to his companion, who made his way toward a livery-stable which he had seen when they came to their boarding-house. there they engaged a couple of saddle-horses which seemed to know what they were expected to do, for when allowed the rein they put off toward the mountains, and went along at a brisk pace. jack could not get over grumbling about hiring horses to do what they could do themselves, but julian did not pay the least attention to it. when they had gone a long distance on the road they met a teamster, and of him jack inquired how many miles they had yet to travel to reach their destination. "them mountains?" asked the man, facing about in his seat. "they are a matter of six miles from here." "if i had a good start for a run i believe i could jump that far," said jack. "yes, it does look that way," said the man; "but it would be a mighty lengthy jump for you. i guess you are a tenderfoot--ain't you?" "i never was so far west as this in my life." the man had evidently heard all that he wanted to hear, for he started his team, smiling and nodding his head as if to say that jack would learn more about distances on the prairie before he had been there long. the distance was fully as great as the boys expected to find it; and, when they drew up in front of a little hotel in the foothills, the mountains seemed to be as far off as ever. the proprietor came to the door, bid them good-morning in his cheery way, and asked if there was anything that he could do for them. "how far off are those peaks from here?" questioned jack. "twenty miles," said the man. "you are not going out there to-day, are you?" "why, the folks in denver told us that the mountains were twelve miles away," said jack, greatly surprised. "well, you are twelve miles from denver now. these little hills here are the beginning of the mountains." "i guess you may feed our horses and give us some dinner, and then we will go back," said julian. "well, jack, we've seen the mountains." "yes, and laid out six dollars for the horses besides," replied jack, in disgust. "the next time you want anything to carry you, we will go on foot." the man laughed heartily as he took charge of their horses, and the boys went into the hotel, where they found a fire on the hearth, and were glad to draw up close to it. "i declare, i did not know it was so cold," said julian. "i suppose it is warm enough in st. louis. how high is that city above the sea-level?" "i don't know," answered jack, who could not get over the feeling that those people in denver had played too much on his credulity. "twenty miles! i guess we won't go up to the top of those mountains, yet a while, and look for california. i wish those horses were back in the stable where they belong." "we will have them back there in three hours," answered julian, "and if you don't want me to hire any more horses, i won't do it." the boys got back to denver without any mishap, and after that they were eager to see the city. jack did not have anything to grumble about during the week that followed, for they went on foot, and there were no horses hired. finally, after viewing all the fine buildings that were to be seen, they thought of the telegraph operator, and decided to take him in the next day; so on monday they presented themselves at his office. mr. fay was there; and, unlike mr. wiggins, he did not seem to have much to do, for he was sitting in an easy-chair, with his feet perched upon the desk in front of him, playing with a paper-cutter. the boy who came forward to attend to their wants seemed to have made up his mind that mr. fay was the man they wanted to see, and so he conducted them into his private office. "halloo! boys," he cried, taking down his feet and pushing chairs toward them; "you are here yet, are you? have you been out to look at your gold-mine?" "no, sir," replied julian; "we could hardly go out there and come back in a week--could we?" "no, i don't believe you could. i have been thinking about you," continued mr. fay, depositing his feet on the desk once more, "and if you know when you are well off you won't go out there this fall. i was talking with a man who has come in from dutch flat, and he says it is getting most too cold up there to suit him. he has made a heap of money, and has come here to spend it. i suppose that is what you will be doing when you get to work out there--make all you want in summer, and come here in winter and spend it." "no, sir," asserted julian, emphatically; "we have worked hard for what little money we have, and we know how to take care of it. i thought it would not make any difference to us how cold it was if we were working under the ground; i thought you said something like that." "certainly, i said so," affirmed mr. fay; "but you will have to take provisions with you to last you six months. if you don't, you will get snowed up in the mountains; the drifts will get so deep that you can't get through them." "i did not think of that," said julian. "well, you had better think of it, for if you get up there, and get blocked by drifts, my goodness!--you will starve to death!" "did you say anything to the man about our claim up there?" "no, i did not, for i did not know where it was located. i will tell you what you can do, though. he is going back in the spring, and he can assist you in getting everything you need." "we are very much obliged to you for saying that," responded jack, who felt that a big load had been removed from his and julian's shoulders. "i am only speaking of what i know of the man," remarked mr. fay. "miners are always ready to help one another, and i know he will do that much for you. i will tell you where you can see him. do you know where salisbury's hotel is?" the boys replied that they did not. they had been all over the city, but did not remember having seen any sign of that hostelry. "well, i will go with you," said mr. fay "come around about two o'clock and we'll start. by the way, that lawyer has got back." "what lawyer, and where has he been?" "i mean gibson--the lawyer that you employed to do your business for you. he has been to st. louis." "good enough!" exclaimed jack. "he has found out by this time more than we could tell him." "i saw him last night just as he got off the train, and he desired me to tell you, if i happened to see you before he did, that he would be glad to see you around at his office as soon as you could get there," said mr. fay. "so you can run down there as soon as you please. you know where he hangs out--don't you?" yes, the boys were certain they could find his office without any help, and arose and put on their caps. they told mr. fay they would be sure to come around at two o'clock, to go with him to call upon the miner who had recently come from dutch flat, bade him good-bye, and left the office. "what do you think of the situation now?" asked julian, as they hurried along toward the place where the lawyer "hung out." "are you still sorry that i bid on that 'old horse?'" "i only hope there will be no hitch in the business," said jack. "if he should ask us some questions that we could not answer--then what?" "we will tell him the truth," said julian. "he can't ask us any questions that we can't answer. claus and casper could go in on telling lies, but that way would not suit us." as the boys had taken particular note of the location of mr. gibson's office, they went there as straight as though they had been in denver all their lives, ran up the stairs to the first floor, and opened the lawyer's door. mr. gibson was there, as well as two men whom he was advising on some law-point they had brought to him to clear up. when the boys came in he stopped what he was saying, jumped up, and extended a hand to each of them. "i was coming around in search of you fellows as soon as i got through with these men," said he. "how have you boys been, out here, so far away from home? please excuse me for fifteen minutes or so." the boys took the chairs he offered them, and for a few minutes kept track of what he was saying; but that did not last long. it was about a fence that a neighbor of the two men had built, but which their cattle had broken down, and they were anxious to get out of a lawsuit for the field of wheat their cattle had ruined. they heard the lawyer advise them, honestly, that they must either compromise the matter or get into a lawsuit, in which case they would have to pay full damages; and while he was talking to them he proved that he was a man who could do two things at once. he opened a drawer and took out two photographs, which he compared with the boys, one after the other. it did not take him long to decide upon this business, and then he devoted himself to the question of fences again. "it is as plain as daylight to me," said he, as he arose to his feet. "your cattle broke the fence down, went in, and ate up the man's wheat. it was a good, strong, staked-and-ridered fence, too. there are only two ways out of it: yon can either settle the matter with him, or you can go to law; and if you do that, you will get beaten." one of the men then asked him how much he charged for his advice, and when he said "five dollars," the boys cast anxious glances at each other. if he charged that way for advising a man to keep out of law, what price would he demand for taking care of one hundred thousand dollars? mr. gibson showed them to the door, bowed them out, and then turned to the boys. "i ought to have charged that man ten dollars," he declared, with an air of disgust. "he is always in a row; he never comes here to seek advice but that he wants to beat somebody. do you recognize these pictures?" "of course i do," replied julian. "this is a photograph of me, and that is my signature on the back; the other one is jack's." "i have been to st. louis since you were here," mr. gibson went on. "i called upon the men whose addresses you gave me, and found out all about you. i tried my best to find mr. haberstro, but could not do it, and so i have concluded that the money is yours." "everything?" exclaimed julian. "the gold-mine and all?" "everything belongs to you," answered mr. gibson; and one would have thought, from the way in which he announced the fact, that somebody had left the fortune all to julian. "of course, if mr. haberstro ever turns up you will have to surrender the money; but i don't take any stock in his turning up. julian, you now have very nearly twenty thousand dollars coming to you." "but jack must have half," said julian, earnestly. "he has stuck to me like a good fellow, and i don't know what i should have done without him." "well, then, that makes you worth ten thousand dollars apiece." julian drew a long breath and looked at jack. the latter leaned his elbows on his knees, whirled his cap in his hand, and looked at the floor. chapter xvii. mr. banta is surprised. "you fellows look surprised," said mr. gibson, running his eyes from one to the other of the boys. "it seems to me, if a man told me i had that amount of money coming to me, and that i had ten thousand dollars where i could draw on it at my leisure, this room would not hold me; i should want the whole city to splurge in." the boys made no reply. jack drew his hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to brush away some wrinkles, while julian got up and walked to the window. "you did not expect to get it--did you?" continued mr. gibson. "no, sir, we did not," replied julian; "but we hoped to get it. we tried our level best to find mr. haberstro, following the advice of mr. wiggins in everything he told us to do; but he was out of our reach." "he is dead, probably," said mr. gibson. "i know just what you tried to do, and all about it. of course there will be some law to go through with before you can step into the property. do you wish me to take charge of it for you?" "oh, mr. gibson, we really wish you would. we know nothing about law, and consequently we should not know how to act." "and do you wish me to take charge of the rental of your blocks of buildings?" "yes, sir; go on just as you did before, and when we want money we will come to you." "well, that is a different thing altogether," said mr. gibson, looking down at the floor. "the twenty thousand dollars that i told you of is now in the bank, subject to my order. i guess i had better go up there with you and have it changed. you can then get money whenever you want it. by the way, julian, mr. wiggins sent his kindest regards to you; and, furthermore, he gave me a letter which he wished me to hand to you. i've got one for you, jack, from your boss; what do you call him?" "master mechanic," replied jack. mr. gibson opened his desk and took out two letters, which he gave to the boys. the sight of mr. wiggins's handwriting on the envelope was almost too much for julian, for he put the letter into his pocket and walked to the window again. "there is some good advice in those letters, and i want you boys to follow it out implicitly," said the lawyer. "you will always find me here, ready to tell you what to do in case you get into trouble. you must come to me or to mr. fay every time you get into a box. but, first and foremost, don't have anything to do with strangers. there are some of them who are bound to hear of your good fortune, and will take every means in their power to get hold of it. don't sign any papers unless you bring them to me." "we have already had a little experience in that line," said julian, with a smile. "claus came up to us and tried to pass himself off for mr. haberstro, and he is the one who stole our valises on our way here; but he didn't make anything by it." "yes--i heard all about this man claus, and about that friend of yours, casper nevins. you know enough to steer clear of such fellows in future. now, if you are all through, we'll go up to the bank." the boys followed mr. gibson out of the office, along the street, turning three or four corners, until they reached the bank. he did not have any business to do with the man who stood behind the desk counting out the money, but he simply asked him, "is e. a. in?" "yes, sir; he is in his private office," replied the cashier. the boys did not know who e. a. was, but they found out a moment later, for the lawyer led them into the presence of the president of the bank. he was gray-headed and wore a pair of gold spectacles, but he stopped his work and shook mr. gibson warmly by the hand. he looked curiously at the boys, but when the lawyer began his story, talking very rapidly, for there was a card hung up over his desk which said on it, "this is my busy day," he laid down his pen and glanced at julian and jack with some interest. "and you want the twenty thousand dollars changed, so that it will be subject to their order?" said he. "yes, sir, that is my errand up here." the president got upon his feet and walked into the room where the cashier was. when he went, the boys had not more than ten dollars in their pockets that they could call their own; when he came back, they had a small fortune coming to them. "it is all right," said he. "and which of you boys was it who bid on the 'old horse?'" he continued, extending a hand to each of them. "you are the one? well, my son, remember that there is an end to your money somewhere, and if you go to work and spend it all without waiting for some more to come in, the end of it is not far off. i wish you good luck." the boys retraced their steps to the cashier's desk, and the transfer of the property from mr. gibson's order to their own was easily completed. mr. gibson signed a check, the boys attached their names to a big book which was thrust out at them, and then the cashier wanted to know if they needed any money. "we would like about one hundred dollars apiece," said julian. "very well; make out a check for it and sign your names to it, and you can get it all right. you will find the checks there on that desk." the boys accordingly made out their checks for the money, and mr. gibson stood watching them, smiling to himself when he saw how the boys' hands trembled, and how anxious they were to have everything correct. the money was paid on the checks, and julian and jack put it into their pockets. "you got it, didn't you?" said the lawyer. "yes, sir; thanks to you, we have got it," said julian. "mr. gibson, i can't begin to tell you how much we thank you----" "oh, that is all right," said the lawyer, opening the door of the bank; "only, don't get into a fuss and lose it all." "when we came here," continued julian, "we had no money at all; now see how different it is! i assure you that we are not going to get into any fuss. the money is safe where it is." "well, let it stay there. i am pretty busy this morning, so i beg that you will excuse me. good-bye." the lawyer hurried away, and julian stood a little on one side of the door of the bank, one hand thrust into his pocket where he had placed the bills, and his eyes fastened upon mr. gibson as long as he remained in sight. "say, jack," said he, suddenly; "i don't believe mr. gibson had any right to give us this money." "he hadn't?" exclaimed jack. "why, it was his." "no, it was not; it belongs to that haberstro estate. it seems to me he ought to have got an order from the court before giving any of the money up to us." "perhaps he has an order," said jack. "then why did he not say something about it? i would like to know when the court sits. if the judge finds any blundering in the business, why, then we are up a stump. what will we do if this man haberstro comes up, all on a sudden, and tells us he wants this hundred dollars?" "whew!" said jack; "i did not think of that." "but mr. gibson probably knew what the decision of the court was going to be or he would not have done this," added julian, after a moment's pause. "i guess we are all right, but i shall feel better when we have all that property in our hands." julian wished now, when it was too late, that he had not spoken to jack about this. during the dinner hour he was unusually silent and thoughtful, and the landlady's questioning could not get a word out of him. he would arouse up long enough to reply, and then he would fall to thinking again. "i will never tell you another piece of news as long as i live," said julian, as they went up to their room to get ready to accompany mr. fay to call on the miner. "you always have enough to say at dinner, but to-day you were as solemn as an owl." "i could not help it," said jack. "if that man who owns this property turns up here, i tell you we shall be in a fix. we shall spend this before the winter is over, and how are we to get a hundred dollars to pay him? i'll speak to mr. gibson about that the next time i see him." "i believe that would be a good plan," said julian, after thinking the matter over. "i'll bet you that he has some good reason for it." in due time the boys arrived at mr. fay's office, and found him ready to accompany them. all he said was that he was going out for half an hour, and if anybody came to see him he was to be told that he would soon be back; and then he set off, with his long strides, to lead the way to salisbury's hotel. the boys found it as much as they could do to keep up with him. "i guess you have been a messenger-boy in your day," said julian. "i was a messenger-boy for six years," replied mr. fay. "of course i did not want to hold that position all my life, so i learned telegraphy at odd times, and got my promotion as fast as i was qualified for it, until at last i got where you see me now. that's the way that young men ought to do--look out for promotion." "we received good news down there at mr. gibson's office," continued julian. "i knew you would. have you the property all in your hands?" "no; there is some law-business to go through with, first. we told mr. gibson to go ahead with it, as he did before." "that was the best thing that you ever did," said mr. fay, earnestly. "gibson is an honest man, even if he is a lawyer, and you will get every cent that is coming to you. now, then, here we are. you will find this rather a different hotel from the one you first stopped at when you came here, but the old fellow makes lots of money out of the miners. there is nobody stays here except those who have shovelled dirt." mr. fay opened the door as he spoke, and the boys speedily found themselves in the living-room of the hotel. before they had time to look around them the chief telegraph operator walked up and laid his hand upon the shoulder of a man who sat with his back to him. "you are here yet, are you, banta?" said he. "yes," replied the miner, looking up to see who it was that accosted him. "i am on hand, like a bogus coin made out of iron pyrites; you can't get rid of me." "i have brought some boys with me who would like to know something about the mines at which you are working," said mr. fay; and he proceeded to introduce julian and jack. banta speedily proved that he was a gentleman, for he straightway got upon his feet to shake hands with the boys. "all right," said the miner; "if anybody can tell them about dutch flat, i am the man." "they are going to stay here this winter, and go out with you next spring," mr. fay went on. "all right," said the miner, again; "i will put them where they can dig gold so fast that you won't see anything but gold coming out of the pit." "but they have a gold-mine up there already." "they have? where is it located?" mr. fay could not answer this question, so he stood aside and waited for julian to tell him the whereabouts of the mine. the boy began by asking him, "do you know the mine that winkleman used to work when he was here?" mr. banta started, and looked at julian to see if he was in dead earnest. the boy gazed fixedly at him, and the miner finally settled back in his chair and pulled himself down until his neck rested on the back of it. "of course i know that mine," said he. "you don't think of working there, do you?" "we thought some of trying it," replied julian. "pete, what do you think of that?" asked mr. banta, pushing his hand against the shoulder of the man who sat nearest him, with his eyes closed, as if he were fast asleep. "here are two boys going up to dutch flat next spring to work the winkleman mine." "well," replied pete, without lifting his head, "i am glad i am not going up there." "are the ghosts so awful thick up there?" asked julian, who felt his courage oozing out at the ends of his fingers. "you know something about it--don't you? the ghosts are so thick up there that you can't go down in the mine to shovel a bucketful of dirt without scaring some of them up." "well, you will have to excuse me," said mr. fay. "i should like to see what those ghosts are, but my work calls me. you will take charge of the boys next spring, will you, mr. banta?" "sure i will; but they are plumb dunces if they try to work that mine. i will go with them as far as i can, and the balance of the way they will have to depend on themselves." mr. fay said he believed they could do that, opened the door and went out, and julian and jack were left alone. chapter xviii. grub-staking. "sit down," said banta, pushing chairs toward the two boys with his foot; "i want to talk to you about that mine. what loon has been so foolish as to grub-stake you?" "grub-stake us?" repeated julian, for the words were quite new to him. "yes; he does not expect to get his money back again very soon. i mean the fellow who has furnished you with grub and tools, and such things, to work the mine with." "we never heard that before; we did not know there was anybody who _could_ grub-stake us." "say, pete, what do you think of that?" said banta, once more pushing the man who sat nearest him. "here are a couple of tenderfeet, come away out west from--where did you come from?" "from st. louis; this is as far west as we have ever been." "here are a couple of tenderfeet from st. louis who didn't know that they could get anybody to grub-stake them," continued banta. "what do you think of that?" pete, who had by this time got his wits about him, straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and regarded the boys with some curiosity. julian and jack looked at him, too, and concluded that he and banta were partners in working a mine. he was roughly dressed, but there was a good-natured look about him that made the boys take to him at once. there were other men, dressed as miners, in the room, and they all seemed to be interested in the conversation. "then i reckon i shall have to tell you about this grub-staking business," said banta, squaring around in his chair so as to face the boys. "you are going to lay in a supply of things yourselves, i suppose?" "yes, we are; and we shall have to depend on you to tell us what to get." "well, there is plenty of time between this and spring, and we will have time to talk that over afterward. now, about this grub-staking business. there are lots of fellows who come out here who haven't got the money to enable them to go prospecting, and what do they do but hunt up some fellow who is willing to buck against a hole in the ground, and get their provisions and tools of him. he gets half of what they make. the men stay out there until they have eaten up all their provisions and then come in; and if they have had good luck, so much the better. but if they have wasted their time in looking for gold where there wasn't any to be found, why, so much the worse; that man is just so much out of pocket. "well, along in ' pete and me struck this very town, and we flew so light that we couldn't hardly stay on the ground. we didn't have enough to buy our next meal with; but we struck a gang whom we knew, and headed along with them for the gold country. of course we had nothing, but we managed to strike a grub-stake and went prospecting up there behind dutch flat. we lit into that rock and dirt, working like beavers, but the sign didn't come right. it looked well enough at the start, but it did not pan out much. we stuck to it for nearly three months, and then concluded that we had better go down and get another grub-stake and strike in somewhere else. so i stayed up there alone, and pete went down and brought up the man that employed us. he looked at the hole, liked the looks of it, and wanted us to go farther; but pete and i couldn't see it in that light. one word brought on another, and he offered us three hundred dollars for the hole." "for the hole!" exclaimed julian. "and there was not a sign of gold about it?" "now, hold on till i tell you," returned banta. "there was a little sign of gold about it, but there was not enough to pay pete and me for digging. we snapped him up quicker'n a flash, and what does that man do? he went down to dutch flat, brought up his tools, and set in to working the hole, and before he had gone two feet farther he struck the richest vein you ever clapped your eyes on. he took sixty thousand dollars out of it. now, some of you fellows talk about hard luck. if any of you can beat that story, i'll give you what little i made on dutch flat this summer." "that _was_ hard luck, i must say," said julian. "and you lacked only two feet of being rich?" "only just two feet," returned banta, "we might have been running around now with two niggers to drive the team--one dressed as a coachman and the other as a footman. pete didn't get over pulling his hair for a month after that." "but we are going to stake ourselves next summer," said julian. "if we lose, it will come out of our own pockets. have you been anywhere near this mine that we are going to work?" "what do you think of that, pete?" exclaimed banta. "he wants to know if we have been near his mine. not much! i'll bet there are two hundred miners on dutch flat this minute, and not one of them has ever seen that mine. they have heard about it, they know there is plenty of gold up there, but nobody has ever been near it. the last two that went up there came away so badly frightened that they packed up and left the country so quick that you could not see them for the dust they kicked up along the trail. they saw something down there in the pit, and it took all the pluck out of them." "what did they see?" asked julian. "well, perhaps i was a little too fast in saying that they saw something," said banta. "they heard something, and that was as good as though they had seen it. it first began with a scurrying on the ground, as if somebody was hurrying over it. where it came from nobody knew; it seemed to fill the air all around them. before they had time to get frightened at this there was a shriek that made it appear as if the pit was full of unearthly spirits, and then all was still; but the fellows had heard enough. the man down below yelled to his partner to pull him up, and when he found himself safe on top he laid down on the ground and swore he would never go down there again. oh, you boys have something to face, if you are going up there!" "could not the sound they heard have been occasioned by bats that had been disturbed while trying to take a rest?" asked julian. "he had a light, of course." "bats!" exclaimed banta, with deep disgust; "it was a great deal larger than bats. and he could have seen them if he had a light, could he not?" "and, besides, bats don't shriek that way," said a miner who had not spoken before. "there used to be a miner who was working that pit along with winkleman----" "you hold your yawp," exclaimed banta, fiercely; "i am telling the boys nothing but facts. i want them to know just what they have to face. i don't go into any of this cock-and-bull story about a dead miner. if that man died up there, and was buried, he's there yet, and he can't come out to work in the pit any more." "what about him?" asked julian. "we want to know everything connected with the mine, then we will be prepared for anything." "but this thing is not connected with the mine," said banta; "it is some sort of a story the miners have, and there is not a word of truth in it. they tell about a miner being seen there by everyone who goes down, and when you try to get up to him, he is not there. he goes farther and farther away every time you approach him." "we have heard that story before," said julian, with a smile; "mr. fay knows all about it." "then of course you don't believe it. i have told you the truth about the mine, and now you can go up with me next spring or stay away, just as you have a mind to." "oh, we will go with you," said julian. "i never was interested in any property yet that i was afraid to work just on account of some things you could not see. when we bid you good-bye at dutch flat we shall know what there is in that mine before we come back." "i like your pluck," said banta; and the look of admiration he bestowed upon julian more than confirmed his words. "if you live up to that, i hope you will get some gold." "they say that gold is plenty up there," said another miner. "they say it is lying around under your feet." "and you never went there to get it!" exclaimed julian with surprise. "it isn't as thick as that," said banta. "probably every bucketful you send up to be washed will yield you from ten to fifty dollars. you will get rich at that rate." "well, i guess we have troubled you long enough," said julian, rising to his feet. "we are really obliged to you, mr. banta, for offering to take charge of us, although we are nothing but tenderfeet. there are no indians out there, are there?" "indians!--no; and if there were some on the warpath, we have miners enough up there to make them hunt their holes." "i am glad of that; we don't want anything to do with those savages, after what we have read about them. we will see you again, mr. banta." "do so, and the next time i will tell you what things you want to buy, to make your enterprise successful. good-morning." "there's two boys that have gone plumb crazy," said one of the miners, after the door had closed upon julian and jack. "i wonder how they got that mine, in the first place?" "the boys are bound to get gold there, if they can stick it out," said another. "one of the men who came down from there showed me a piece of metal as big as a marble, which he had picked up on the bottom of that pit; but the trouble is, can they stick it out?" "i believe _they_ will," said banta, settling down in his chair once more. "that boy who did most of the talking is one who has plenty of 'sand' to see him through. after they get fairly settled, i believe i'll go up and see how they are getting along." "then you will go without me," said pete; "i am as close to that mine as i want to be." "well, jack," said julian, as he buttoned his coat, "what do you think of our mine? shall we go up and try it? the miners all think there is gold up there." "we will have plenty of time to talk about that between this time and spring," returned jack. "mr. haberstro may come up before we get ready to start, and demand his money." "i have no fears on that score," replied julian. "did not the lawyer say that he did not look for that? but, jack, i really believe you are afraid of that mine." "you need not be. when we get up there, and get things fixed, i will be the first to go into it." "all right. i'll stand back and let you. now, jack, what are we going to do this winter? we can't sit around all the time without something to occupy our minds." "i have been thinking about that. let us call on mr. fay, and see what he says." julian thought this a piece of advice worth acting upon, and they bent their steps toward mr. fay's office, where they found him seated, as before, with his feet on the desk in front of him. when he saw who his visitors were, he jumped up hastily and seized each of them by the arm with a firm grip. "oh, boys, you surely haven't made up your minds to go up to that mine next spring, have you?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "why, yes, sir," said julian, somewhat surprised by the man's actions. "i reckon it is ours, and we want to see what gold is to be found in it." "but think of the ghosts you will have to contend with," said mr. fay. "you will hear scurrying of feet--what was that?" he continued, looking toward a distant part of his office and pulling the boys around in front of him. "i am certain there is a ghost there." julian and jack began to see into the matter now. the man was so full of his fun that he could not keep it in under any circumstances, and it had come to the surface when he saw the boys come into his office. perhaps a lingering smile around his mouth had something to do with it. "i don't believe you heard any ghost there," said julian; "they are so busy up there at the mine that they have no time to come down here to trouble you." "all right, boys; sit down. what did banta say the spirits looked like?" julian replied that he could not tell, for he had not seen them; and with this as an introduction he went on and repeated the miner's conversation as nearly as he could recall it. mr. fay listened, highly amused, and when julian ceased speaking he said, "if you can see them, what's the use of your being afraid? and as for that phantom miner, that happened a long ways from here. i ought to be kicked for trying to frighten you." "it will take something more than that to scare us out," said julian. "now, mr. fay, we want to ask your advice." "i am ready to give it. do you want to invest some property in a gold-mine?" no; julian assured him that it had no reference to their property, which was not theirs yet until the court had passed upon it, but it was in regard to their going to school in order to learn something. mr. fay was all attention now, and when julian spoke of joining some mercantile academy, he slapped his hands down upon his knees as if that was the best thing the boys could do. "i have no fears that your money will not prove useful to you," said he; "the idea of your wanting to go to school is a big feather in your caps. some young men, with such an amount of money as you have coming to you, would loaf around and do nothing until their funds were all gone; but you don't act that way. believe me, there is an end to that hundred thousand dollars somewhere." "that is just what the president of the bank told us when we called upon him," said julian. "we have worked so hard for the little money we have that we intend to take care of it. but, mr. fay, we don't believe that mr. gibson did right in giving us these funds." "what's the reason you don't?" "why, he said he would have to get word from the court before all the property could be turned over to us--" "oh, that's all right; mr. gibson knew what he was doing. you will find it all right when the judge hears the case. now, do you know where the business college is situated?" julian was not so sure about that, but he received certain instructions from mr. fay that made him think he could find it; so the boys put on their caps and went out. chapter xix. going to school. "is the boss mechanic anywhere about?" asked jack, who chanced to be the first who entered the college when they found it. they had opened a door, and found themselves in one of the study-rooms of the school. there were fifty men and women there, all interested with their books, and the best of order prevailed. a young man, whose seat was near the door, on seeing that the boys were strangers, had arisen and asked them what he could do for them. "the boss mechanic?" he repeated, in a surprised tone. "he means the man who is at the head of this institution," said julian. we want to see him for a few minutes, if you please." "oh, yes," said the young man, as he gave jack a looking over. "i guess you have worked at manual labor all your life." "yes, i have," replied jack; "i have done nothing but lift heavy iron for a good many years, and now i want to find an easier way of making a living." "you have come to the right place to find it. step this way." the student led the way around the room, passing close to the scholars, some of whom merely glanced up, others paying not the least attention to them, until he opened a door and ushered them into a private office. he introduced the boys as persons who had come there to see the "boss mechanic," and then went out; while a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman replied that he was the "boss mechanic" of that school, and asked them what they wanted. jack, who had made a blunder by the first question he asked, remained silent, leaving julian to do all the talking. "we want to get an education," said julian. "well, that is what this school can give you," said the man. "what do you want to study?" "stenography and type-writing." "and you?" he added, turning to jack. "bookkeeping and writing; i write a fearful hand." the superintendent, having made a start with the boys, invited them to sit down, and in a few minutes he learned something of the boys' history, and what occupation they had been engaged in previous to coming to denver. without telling him anything of their circumstances, they chanced to mention the names of mr. fay and mr. gibson, and after that julian thought he seemed to take more interest in them. after a little conversation the boys pulled out their roll of bills and paid for six months' instruction and the books they would need, and then arose to go, after telling him they would be on hand in the morning, ready to go to work. "i'll tell you what's a fact," said jack, pausing on the stairs and pulling out his diminished roll of bills; "we will have to go to the bank and get some more money, the first thing you know." "that is so," replied julian. "and i have just thought of another thing. did you see how neatly all those students were dressed? i am going to draw two hundred dollars--" "man alive!" said jack, appalled by the sum mentioned. "suppose mr. haberstro comes up--" "i don't bother my head about him. we will go and get some money, and then we will go to a tailor's and get some clothes worth having. if mr. haberstro is going to appear, mr. gibson will show us the way out." jack was not convinced by any means, but he kept close by julian's side until he reached the bank. julian made out the check for him and he signed his name, and the money was paid to each of them without a word of protest. jack felt a little uneasy after that. he did not like to have so much money about him. he carried his left hand in the pocket where he had placed the bills, and looked at every roughly-dressed man he met, as if he were afraid that somebody would rob him. "i don't feel exactly right," said he to julian. "as soon as we get home i'll put this money in my trunk, and then i know it will be safe." "don't keep your hand on it all the while, or you will lead somebody to suspect something," said julian. "now, here is a tailor shop; let us go in and see what we can do." jack fairly gasped when julian said he wanted the finest suit of clothes there was in the store. he wanted two suits--one for every day and one for sundays. of course the merchant was eager to show them to him, and the result was that he ordered the best suits he had ever had in his life. jack did not believe in expensive clothes, but julian urged it upon him, telling him that he would look as though he came from the country among all those nicely-dressed students, and jack finally yielded to him. "that's the worst expenditure of money that i was ever guilty of," said he, when they were fairly on the street. "grumbling again, are you?" was julian's comment. "never mind; you will get used to it after a while." the next thing the boys had in view was to join the young men's christian association, so that they could get some books to take home with them; and when that was done they considered themselves settled for the winter. they went to school the next day, and from that time until spring opened they never missed a lesson. jack was rather awkward at first. the hands which had been in the habit of lifting heavy bars of iron could not accommodate themselves to a pen very readily; and oftentimes, when julian sat in his room, of nights, reading, jack was there learning to write. no two boys ever behaved themselves better than they did, and it was not long before they became favorites, both with the boarders and others who came there to visit. jack soon got used to his fine clothes, and wore them as if he had been accustomed to them all his life. they took an evening now and then to call upon mr. banta, and they always found him as talkative as ever. sometimes they became so interested in his tales of life in the gold-camps that it was ten o'clock before they returned home. mr. fay and mr. gibson also came in for visits occasionally, and once the latter took out a bundle of papers, which he handed to julian. "what are these?" he asked. "they are your property," said the lawyer. "you can keep the papers yourself, or you can let me keep them, and i will put them in my till in the bank." "do you mean that all comes to us?" inquired julian, while a thrill shot all through him. "yes, sir; the court decided so a week ago." "jack," said julian, turning to his companion, "are you sorry, now, that i went to the express office and invested in that 'old horse'?" jack could not say anything. he remembered how he had scolded julian for that, and he did not want it thrown up to him so often. julian then went on and told mr. gibson what had happened in their room the night he brought the "old horse" home, and the lawyer laughed loudly at his description of it. "mr. gibson, we really wish you would take charge of this matter for us," said julian. "you hope so, too--don't you, jack?" "of course; we don't know what to do with it." and so the matter was settled, and the boys breathed a good deal easier while they were on their way home. there was one thing that often came into their minds, and that was, what had become of claus and casper nevins? had they given up all hopes of gaining possession of that hundred thousand dollars? jack scouted the idea. casper might have given it up, but claus would stick to his idea until he got into jail by it. he was not a man who gave up so easily. it is true they had not seen anything of him since they came to denver, but jack was sure they would hear from him at some other time. "you will see," exclaimed jack, when he confided his opinions to julian. "you want to be on the watch, or the first thing you know he will jump down on us." "i guess mr. gibson can shut him up very easily," said julian. "yes; but it may happen when mr. gibson is not around." "eh? do you mean that he will come down on us while we are up at the mine?" "such things as that have happened. when you see a german you want to look out." things went along in denver as they usually did, and when winter fairly opened on them the boys thought they had never experienced such cold weather before. but it did not interfere with their business in any way. it was not long before mr. banta began to talk to them about the things that would be necessary for them to have if they were going to operate their mine successfully, and the boys had a lengthy list of things they would have to buy. they thought they could get along without some of them, but banta assured them that everything they had down would be of use to them sooner or later. as time wore on, the prospect of leaving denver and going off to the mountains alone, where they were destined to encounter some risks that they did not know whether they could stand up against or not, made the boys silent and thoughtful. in denver they had friends--they were sure of that; but when they got out to their mine they would be left all to themselves, and julian and jack did not know what they would make of it. jack had less to say about it than his companion, but it was plain enough to see that he was not going to back out. "i tell you i hate to go away and leave all the kind friends we have gathered about us," said julian, as they left salisbury's hotel after mr. banta had told them that by two weeks from monday they must be on hand bright and early, all ready to start for the mountains. "i wish i knew what was in that mine." "so do i; and the only way we can find out is to go and see," replied jack. "i don't believe in ghosts, but i have heard so much about the things up there in that mine that i am almost ready to give in to them." there was another thing that jack thought of, although he did not mention it. julian had always been one of the first to talk about going to the mine, and he was ready to accuse jack of cowardice; but when the time for their departure drew near, julian did not open his mouth. jack thought of that, but said nothing. mr. banta told them, finally, that they had better go to work and get their things ready, and they set about it in earnest. the first thing they did was to take leave of the students at the college. the boys were all sorry to see them go, and the superintendent said he hoped julian and jack had given up the idea of a gold-mine, for they were getting on so rapidly in their studies that he trusted to see them complete the course. he predicted they would come back poorer than when they went away. he had heard of such things before; and, after the young men had eaten up all their provisions, they would be glad to find somebody to grub-stake them back to denver. "you will see us back here in the fall," said julian, confidently. "we are not going to give up our chances of learning something." "but you may meet your death up there," said the superintendent. "i have often heard of such things." "i was awfully afraid you were going to say something about the ghosts in our gold-mine," said jack, as they went down the stairs. "you looked at me several times as though you wanted to say something about it." "it was right on the end of my tongue," said julian, "but i thought i had better keep still about it. if we should come back here before fall, they would say right away that we had been frightened out and dared not go back." mr. banta was busy getting his own things together, but he found time now and then to overlook the boys' expenditures. under his instructions they bought three horses,--two of them for riding, the other intended as a pack-horse to carry their utensils,--and then he led the boys away to a gun-shop, where they were to purchase rifles. "look here, mr. banta," said julian; "we don't need anything in here. we have got a revolver apiece, and, if the truth must be told, we have spent a good deal of time in practicing with them." "what good will a revolver do you?" asked banta, greatly surprised. "if we chance to meet any indians----" "but you told us there were no indians," said julian. "we don't want to shoot at anybody unless they are close at hand. maybe they will come in handy on the ghosts, you know." "well, you don't know anything about the plains--i can see that, plain enough. if you think revolvers are going to do you, why, i am done with you." "then we have purchased everything we want, have we?" "i think so. be on hand on monday morning, because we shall be off before the sun gets an hour high." the boys drew a long breath when they heard this. if they had not talked so much about visiting their mine it is probable that both of them would have backed squarely out. chapter xx. waterspouts and blizzards. "hi! nellie; get on, there! strike a trot! we won't get to the mountains in seven years, at this gait." it was mr. banta who spoke, and he emphasized his remarks by making the whip he carried in his hand crack loudly. the old, white bell-mare pricked up her ears and slowly quickened her pace, closely followed by all the pack-mules and horses belonging to the train. "that old pack-mare knows where we are going as well as we do," said banta, squaring around and throwing his leg over the horn of his saddle so that he could face the two boys whom he was addressing. "she has been up here so often that she knows every foot of the way. if we get hard up for deer meat, all we have to do is to take her bell off, and then we can go twenty miles out on the prairie, and she will bring us back home again. you can't get lost if you are on her." "why do you take the bell off when you want to go hunting with the mare?" asked julian of mr. banta, who, by reason of his age and experience, acted as leader of the company. "does the noise of the bell frighten the game?" "that is one reason," replied banta; "and the other is, we don't want all the pack-mules and horses to follow us. wherever they hear the bell, they will go to it. if we were on the other side of a wide river, even though it was swimming-deep, and some of these mules don't like water any too well, and should sound that bell a few times, they would all come over. if anything should happen to that old bell-mare, and she should die, we'd send a man on with that bell, and the mules would follow him wherever he went." it was monday morning, and the sun was just rising. the cavalcade had been on its way for two hours, for they left the hotel, amid wishes for good luck from all who saw them go, at the first peep of day. they went directly past the hotel at which julian and jack had stopped to eat dinner when they first came there, and were now alone in the foothills which arose on all sides of them. there were at least a dozen miners in the company, and they had all set out for dutch flat in the hope of digging up a fortune before the winter's storms overtook them. julian and jack were there, dressed in rough miners' clothing, and the horse which bore their provisions and tools was with the others who were following the bell-mare. anybody could see at a glance that these boys were tenderfeet, and they did not attempt to deny it. every other miner had a heavy winchester slung at his back, while the only firearms the boys exhibited were smith & wesson revolvers, which they carried strapped to their waists. they did not look forward to the future with as brave hearts as most of the miners did. they could not get the idea out of their minds that the gold they wanted to find was protected by something which they did not want to see. the miners now and then cast curious looks at them, to see if they were not afraid of the prospect before them, but finally came to the conclusion that the boys were "going through with it." the miners were happy, and sang rude songs and cracked jokes with each other; but the boys were busy with their own thoughts, and took no part in what was going on around them. "and i don't blame them, either," said one miner, in a low voice, to his companion. "i wouldn't take any part in the singing if i were in their place. they are brave enough now, but wait until they have been up to that mine about two days; then we will see them at our camp, frightened to death." "banta has rather taken them under his care, judging by the way he keeps watch over them," said the other miner. "yes; he was made acquainted with them by some high man in denver, and so he keeps an eye on them. but he can't go up to their mine with them. more than that, those ghosts will not stop for him or anybody else." julian and jack were not accustomed to being in the saddle from daylight until dark, and the ride was long and wearisome to them. they stopped at noon to eat their lunch and to let their animals crop the grass for a few minutes; but their packs were never removed from them until they halted for the night at a place which showed that there had been a camp before. lean-to's were scattered around, partly unroofed by the storms of winter, and remnants of fires were to be seen; and banta said that no one had been there since he and his party made the camp last fall. "we made this camp while we were going down to the city," said he. "it was raining when we stopped here, and that accounts for the lean-to's. we had a waterspout that night, this little stream was filled twenty feet deep, and some of us began to look wild." "a waterspout?" queried jack. "what is that?" "why, i don't know that i can describe it so that you can understand it," answered banta, scratching his head. "it is caused by the large quantity of water that sometimes falls among the hills up-country, and when it all rushes into these ravines--well, you can imagine how it looks, but i cannot describe it. this stream has not much water in it now--you can step across it anywhere; but i have seen it bank full from rains in the up-country, while there was not a drop of it fell here. i remember that night. i was sound asleep in a lean-to. i had told the boys that before morning we would have to get farther up the bank or run the risk of having some of our things carried off, and about midnight i awoke with a feeling that there was something going on. you don't know anything about that, do you? well, you wait until you have acted as guide for two or three mule-trains, and then you'll know it. everything depends upon you to see that the train comes out all right. "i could not go to sleep again when once i woke up, and so i arose and went out. it was still raining heavily, but the brook didn't show much sign of it. i placed myself on the edge of the bank, and hardly had i got there before a long, creamy wave, which extended clear across this gully, crept with a hissing sound across the sand and rocks. following with equal speed, and about a hundred feet behind it, was another wave, an unbroken mass of water at least five feet in height. it was not rounded into a wave, as at sea or on the lakes, but rose sheer and straight, a perfect wall of water. i knew that in five minutes this little creek would be brim full, so i raised a yell and awoke everybody in camp. the men i had with me were all veterans, and there was no need that i should explain matters. they took just one look at the water, and then grabbed their things and made a rush for the high bank behind the lean-to's. after placing them where they would be safe, they came back and made a rush for the horses. pete, there, caught the bell-mare, and by dint of pulling and boosting we finally got them to that level spot you see up there." mr. banta pointed to the bank, which seemed almost as straight as the side of a house, and the boys looked on with perfect astonishment. "how in the world did you get the mules and horses up there?" inquired julian. "a man can do a heap of things when he is working for his life and for things that he can't afford to lose," said banta, with a laugh. "pete has a heap of strength in those arms of his, and when i get hold of a mule's tail and begin to twist it, he goes somewhere as soon as he can. we got them up easy enough, and there we stayed for two whole days, until the water had all passed away. we didn't lose so much as a pound of bacon. but if i had been asleep, like the rest of the fellows were, we would have had a time of it; somebody would have had to swim for his life, and the current ran like lightning, too." "i did not know you had to look out for water on the plains," remarked julian. "is there anything you don't stand in fear of out here? you see, we want to know it all." "well, a waterspout is one thing, and a blizzard is the next," said banta. "i mean a blizzard where the clouds send down chunks of ice at you as big as your fist. oh, you needn't laugh. look at that." banta stripped up his leggings, and showed the boys a long, ragged scar which he had received in one of the commotions of nature referred to. the wound must have been a dangerous one. "and the worst of it was, i did not have a doctor look at it for two weeks," banta went on. "you see, i was out alone, and making the best track i could for the fort. the sky had all along been hazy, and on this day i had to go across the twenty-mile desert, where there was not a willow-twig big enough for me to get under. when i was about half-way over it began to rain, and in less than an hour afterward the blizzard came a-ripping. my horse and mule were made so frantic by the pelting of the ice that i finally let them go; but before i released the horse i took my knife and cut the saddle and blankets off him. what did i do that for? because i was too cold to use my fingers. i settled down there on the prairie, put the saddle and blankets over my head, and waited for the storm to cease; but before i did that, there came a big bunch of ice and struck me on the leg. i never had anything hurt so bad in my life." "how long did you have to stay there?" asked jack. "i hear that some of these storms last two or three days." "this one lasted one day, and i was glad to see the ice quit dropping. i was thirty miles from the fort, and i'll bet i didn't do two miles of walking in all that distance. i left everything except my weapons and crawled all the way. this is the saddle, right here." "i should keep that for the good it had done," said julian. "your saddle probably saved your life." "it will stay with me while i live," said banta, casting an affectionate look upon the article in question. "now, boys, suppose you get ready and chop some wood and start the fire. i'll take the things off the animals and straighten up the lean-to. you boys don't know how to make a lean-to, do you? if you take a good look at this one, you will see how it is done." there was one satisfaction the boys had in listening to mr. banta's stories--they were true, every word of them. if any of the "boys" tried to make things different from what they were, banta always shut them up. that was the reason the boys thought so much of him, and anything he had to say in regard to working their mine was always listened to with the keenest interest. the change that a few experienced men made in that deserted camp in a short time was wonderful. every stroke of the axe counted for something, and every step the men made to and from the places they had chosen to make their beds seemed to count for something else; so that by the time julian and jack had cut wood enough to last them all night the lean-to's were covered with fresh boughs, those who did not choose to sleep under shelter had their beds made up under the protecting branches of trees, the animals were staked out, and two of the cooks were busy getting supper. it was all done without the least commotion, for each man knew what his duty was. "if a rain-storm was coming up you couldn't have made this camp quicker," said julian. "it beats the world how soon men can get ready for the night." "yes, but that comes from experience, you know," said banta. "do you know that i have been thinking of something? when we get up to dutch flat, and you get ready to go up to your mine, i believe i will go with you." "that's the best piece of news i have heard for a long time," declared julian, who was delighted beyond measure. "we don't ask you to go down in the mine, you understand, but if you will just stay there until we get things fixed you will confer a great favor upon us." "yes, i guess i had better see to your wants a little," said banta. "you are tenderfeet, you have never lived alone in the mountains, and perhaps i can tip you a wink now and then that will be of use to you. you will need the mine cleared away--it has all grown up to grass by this time--and you will need a windlass and a lean-to; and maybe i can be of assistance." "i know you can; and of great assistance, too. i tell you, i feel easier. i have often wondered how that mine looked, and how we were going to get it in shape to work it, but i don't worry about it now. we are much obliged to you for your offer." "oh, that's all right. i remember that i was a boy myself, and any such little help as i have offered you would have been a regular blessing to me. now let us go and see if supper is ready." supper was almost ready, and the neat manner in which it was served up, and the way it was cooked, told the boys that if the miners could always get such food as that, they could work their claims to the best possible advantage. "can we help you a little?" said julian to one of the cooks after the meal was over and the man began gathering up the dishes. "what a-doing?" asked the cook. "we want to help you wash the dishes," said julian. "why, bless you, that's no trouble. there is only one way you can help us, and that is by sitting by and looking on. i never yet saw a tenderfoot that didn't get in the way. you will have enough of it to do when you get up to that ghost-haunted mine of yours and have to cook your own meals. you had better take my advice," said the cook, in a lower tone, "and stay down on dutch flat with us. there are no spirits down there." "but it is ours, and i don't see why we can't work it," replied julian. "if there is anybody there, we will make him show himself." "you will see," said the cook, going to the camp-fire for a bucket of water. "the next time we see you, you will be all ready to go back to denver." the cook struck up a whistle as he began washing the dishes, and the boys, taking this as a gentle hint that he would rather be alone, walked off to another fire which had been kindled in the upper end of the camp. all the miners were gathered about there, and each one of them had a story to tell about some wonderful "find" which he had almost struck, and then ceased digging because he was discouraged by the way the gold "showed up." banta was there, and after relating three or four stories of his own, he began to stretch and yawn as though he were sleepy, and finally arose and went into his lean-to. the boys followed him, hoping he would say something more about going up to their mine with them; but he talked on other topics until he got into bed, and then he became silent. he had already decided what he would do when they reached dutch flat, and there the matter ended. chapter xxi. the camp at dutch flat. the boys slept as comfortably as if they had been at home in their boarding-house. it is true their blankets were rather hard, and their pillows were not as soft as they might have been, being simply their saddles with nothing but the horse-blankets over them, but they never knew a thing from the time they went to bed until they heard mr. banta's voice roaring out "catch up!" they found all in the camp busy. some were raking the embers of the fire together, others were getting ready to cook breakfast, but most of them were engaged in packing the animals. this last was a task that the boys always wanted to see, for the operation was so complicated that they did not think they could ever learn how to do it. the mules were blinded, in the first place, so that they could not kick when the heavy pack was thrown upon their backs, and the man on the near side, who seemed to "boss" the business, placed his foot against the mule's side and called lustily for the rope which the other fellow held in his hands. "you have more rope there, and i know it," was the way in which he began the conversation. "here you are," said his companion, and the rope was passed over the pack to where the other fellow was waiting to receive it. "come, let's have a little more rope," repeated the first man. "there's oceans of it here, and you can have all you want of it." "are you all fast there?" "i will be in a minute. here's your end." "all fast here. now let us see him kick it off," said the first man; whereupon a dexterous twist tore off the blinders, and the mule was free to go and join his companions. it was all done in two minutes, and the pack was safe to last until the train halted for the night. "come on, boys," said mr. banta, turning to julian and jack, who stood, with towel and soap in their hands, watching the operation of packing the animals. "you must get around livelier than this. when you get to digging out gold by the bucketful you won't wait to wash your faces or get breakfast; you'll be down in that mine before the sun is up." "are we not going to eat at all?" asked julian, who was amused at the man's way of telling them that they would be so anxious to find the gold that they would not spend time to cook their meals. "yes, i suppose you will have to eat sometimes, but you will hold your grub in one hand and use the spade with the other." the miners were in a hurry, now, to resume their journey, and it took them about half as long to eat breakfast as they devoted to their supper. five minutes was about the time they applied themselves to their meal, and when mr. banta arose from his seat on the ground and drew his hairy hand across his mouth to brush away the drops of coffee that clung to his mustache the miners all arose, too. in less time than it takes to tell it they were all in their saddles and under way, and when they stopped again for the night they were in a camp which they had occupied on the way down to denver. mr. banta was as talkative as usual, and when he had got his pipe going, and had taken three or four puffs to make sure that it was well started, he began his round of stories, which the boys were always ready to listen to. they were all of a week in making their journey; and about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the old bell-mare struck a trot, mr. banta turned to jack and gave him a poke with his finger. "we are almost home," said he, joyfully. "i don't suppose this will seem like home to you, but it does to me, for it is the only home i have." "do you never get tired of this business?" asked julian. "i should think you would like to go back to the states, where you belong." "how do you know that i belong in the states?" asked mr. banta. "i judge by your way of talking, as much as anything. you were not raised in this country--i am certain of it." "well, i will go back when i get enough." "how much do you call enough?" "half a million dollars." julian and jack opened their eyes and looked surprised. "i've got three hundred thousand now in the bank at denver." "then you are not so badly off, after all. i think i could live on the interest of that much." "there are some objections to my going back," said mr. banta, looking off toward the distant mountains. "when i get back there i will have to settle down to a humdrum life, and there won't be nothing at all to get up a little excitement. here the thing is different. we live here, taking gold in paying quantities all the time, and the first thing we know we hear of some new placers, which have been found somewhere else, that make a man rich as fast as he can stick a shovel into the ground. of course we pack up and go off to find the new placers. we have a muss or two with some outlaws, and when we get rid of them we go to work and find out that there is nothing there." "then you wish yourself back at dutch flat," said jack. "that's the way it happens, oftentimes. it is the excitement that keeps us a-going. now, in the states i would not have any of that." "did you find many outlaws in this country when you first came here?" "they were thicker than flies around a molasses barrel," answered mr. banta. "but we have got rid of them all, and your life is just as safe here as it would be in st. louis. whenever we go to a new country, the outlaws are the first things we look out for. there's the camp, all right and tight, just as we left it." the camp covered a good stretch of ground; but then mr. banta had not told them that there were fully two hundred miners in it, and of course such a multitude of men, where nobody owned the land, would spread over a good deal of territory. the boys had a fine opportunity to take a survey of the first mining camp they had ever seen. they were surprised at the neatness of it. things in the shape of old bottles or tin cans were not scattered around where somebody would stumble over them, but such articles were thrown into a ravine behind the camp, out of sight. the most of the miners had erected little log cabins to protect them from the storms of winter, and the others had comfortable lean-to's which served the same purpose. most of the men were busy with their mines, but there were three or four of them loafing about, and when the noise made by the pack-animals saluted their ears they turned to see who was coming. one glance was enough; they pulled off their hats and waved them by way of welcome. "well, if here ain't banta!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "did you drop your roll down at denver and come back to get more?" "nary a time," replied mr. banta, emphatically. "we got just what we could eat and drink, and that is all the money we spent. who has passed in his checks since i have been gone?" (this was a miner's way of asking "who's dead?") "none of the boys who are here shovelling for gold," said the man, coming forward to shake hands with mr. banta, "but those four outlaws who came up here from denver to deal out some whiskey and start a faro bank could tell a different story, if they were here." "they did not get a foothold here, did they?" asked mr. banta. "i'll bet they didn't. we hardly gave them time to unpack their goods before we jumped on them and spilled their traps on the ground. one of the bums grew huffy at that, and he took a wounded arm down for the doctor to bandage up." "have any of the boys made their pile?" "some have, and some have not. tommy moran has struck a vein with sixty thousand dollars in it, and has been loafing around for the last two months, doing nothing. he went out to-day to see if he can get some more. he wants to go home, now." "i should not think he would like to travel between here and denver with that amount of money about him," said mr. banta. "well, there will be plenty more to join in with him when he is ready to go. the discouraged ones number a heap. the sign looks right, but the paying-stuff don't pan out first-rate. some are going home, and the rest are going off to hunt up new diggings." having briefly got at the news of what had been going on at the camp while he had been away, mr. banta led the way toward his own log cabin, which was fastened up just as it was when he left it. there was one bed, made of rough boards, an abundance of dishes, a fireplace, and one or two chairs, and that was all the furniture to be seen. but mr. banta thought his cabin just about right. "it don't matter how hard it rains or blows, this little house has sheltered me for a year, and has got to do so until my vein gives out. now, boys, catch the pack-animals and turn them over to me, and i'll soon make things look as though somebody lived here." julian and jack managed to secure the pack-animals by catching the bell-mare and leading her up to the door of the cabin, and it was not long before the bundles which they had borne for two hundred miles were placed on the ground, and mr. banta was engaged in carrying the things into his house. he unpacked all the bundles except the one that belonged to the boys, and that would not be opened until they reached their mine. "are you fellows decided on that matter yet?" he asked. "had you not better stay with us here on the flat? we will promise you that no spooks will trouble you here." "the more you talk about that mine, the more determined we are to see what is in it," answered jack. "you need not think you can scare us out in that way." "i like your pluck, and if you are determined to go there, why, i am going with you. it is only five miles, and we can easily ride over there in two hours." "where is it you are going?" asked one of the miners, who stood in the doorway unobserved. "you know that haunted mine, don't you?" "great moses! you ain't a-going up there!" said the man; and as he spoke he came into the cabin and sat down in one of the chairs. "the boys are going there, and i thought i would go with them to see them started," said mr. banta. "the mine is all grown up to grass, because there hasn't been anybody up there for some time now." "no, i should say not!" exclaimed the miner, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "are the boys plumb crazy? i tell you, lads, when you see----" "tony, shut your mouth!" cried mr. banta. "the boys won't see anything, but they'll hear something that will take all the sand out of them. i have talked to the boys many times about that mine, during the past winter, but they have their heads set on it, and i don't see any other way than to let them go." "well, if we hear anything, there must be something that makes the noise," asserted julian. "it will be something that you can't see," said the miner, shaking his head and looking thoughtfully at the ground. "two fellows went up there since i knew the mine, and when they got down to the bottom of the pit they were so frightened that they came down here as fast as they could and struck out for denver. they were both big, stout men, and were armed with winchesters and revolvers. if they had seen what made the noise, they would have been apt to shoot--wouldn't they?" "i should think they would," answered jack. "will you go down into the mine when you get there?" asked the man, turning to mr. banta. "not much, as anybody knows of," declared the latter, shivering all over. "the ghosts don't bother anybody working at the top, so i shall get along all right." "well, that puts a different look on the matter," remarked tony, evidently much relieved. "then i shall expect to see you back in two or three days." "yes, i'll be back by that time," asserted mr. banta; and he added to himself, "if anything happens to the boys after that, why, i shall be miles away." this was the first time that mr. banta had anything to say to the miners about what he intended to do when he reached dutch flat, but it was all over the camp in less than five minutes. the miner went slowly and thoughtfully out of the cabin, as if he did not know whether it was best to agree to his leader's proposition or not, and it was not long before the men who were busy with things about their houses came up in a body to inquire into the matter. they were filled with astonishment; and, furthermore, they were anxious to see the boys who were going to take their lives in their hands and go up to work that pit, from which strong men had been frightened away. and it was so when six o'clock arrived, and the men all came in to get their supper. some of the miners declared that it was not to be thought of, and some said that if mr. banta was bound to go, they would go with him to see that he came out all right. "you see what the miners think of this business," remarked mr. banta, as he began preparations for their supper. "they think you are out of your heads." "well, you will not see anything of it, because you won't go into the mine," said jack. "you are mighty right i won't go into the mine," declared mr. banta, looking furtively about the cabin, as if he expected to see something advancing upon him. "we will go up there and put the pit all right, and then you will have to work it." "i wonder if there is any gold up there?" asked julian. "there is more gold up there than you can see in dutch flat in a year's steady digging. the men who have been down in the mine say so." "well, when we come back you may expect to see us rich," said julian, compressing his lips. "and you may be sure that the spooks won't drive us out, either." this was all that was said on the subject--that is, by those in the cabin; but when the men had eaten their suppers they all crowded into it, and the stories that would have been told of ghosts interfering with miners who tried to take away their precious belongings would have tested the boys' courage; but mr. banta did not allow them to go on. "as i told these boys down at denver, i am telling them nothing but facts in regard to this mine, and i want you to do the same," said he. "don't draw on your imagination at all." before the miners returned to their cabins, it came about that the boys were going to have a small army go with them on the morrow. at least a dozen miners declaimed their readiness to go with banta "and see him through," and banta did not object. "the more, the merrier," said he, when they had been left alone and he turned down his bedclothes. "now, you boys can spread your blankets on the floor in front of the fire and go to sleep; i will have you up at the first peep of day." chapter xxii. the haunted mine. mr. banta kept his word the next morning, for the day was just beginning to break when he rolled out on the floor and gave the order to "catch up." all the miners were astir soon afterward; but there was no joking or laughing going on in the camp, as there usually was. the men went silently about their work of cooking breakfast, or sat smoking their pipes in front of the fire, for their thoughts were busy with that mine up in the mountains. even the talkative mr. banta had nothing to say. he seemed to have run short of stories, all on a sudden. "say, julian," remarked jack, as they stood by the stream washing their hands and faces, "why don't banta talk to us the way he usually does? i'll bet he is thinking about what is going to happen to us." "i was just thinking that way myself," replied julian. "but we have gone too far to back out; we have got to go on." "of course we have. i wouldn't back out now for anything." breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the same silence prevailed; and that same silence did more to shake the boys' courage than all that had been said against their mine. mr. banta answered their questions in monosyllables, and when he had satisfied his appetite he put the dishes away unwashed and went out to catch his horse. "take hold of the bell-mare and lead her up the path," said he, addressing the miners who were getting ready to accompany him. "we have to take her and all the stock along, or the boys' pack-horse won't budge an inch." the miners were talkative enough now, when they saw the boys getting ready to start on their journey. they crowded around them, and each one shook them by the hand. "good-bye! kids," said one. "the next time i see you, you will be so badly scared that you won't be able to tell what happened to you up there; or, i sha'n't see you at all. i wish you all the good luck in the world, but i know that will not amount to anything." "do you think they can whip all these men?" asked jack, running his eye over the miners, who were getting on their horses and making ready to go with mr. banta. "that ain't the thing; you won't see anybody; but the sounds you will hear when you get fairly on the floor of that pit you will never want to hear again." the bell-mare was caught and led along the path, the stock all followed after her, and the miners brought up the rear. then mr. banta opened his mouth and proceeded to talk all the way to the mine. "you boys may come along here pretty sudden, some time, and if you don't find dutch flat you will stray off into the mountains and get lost; so i will just blaze the way for you." as mr. banta spoke he seized a handful of the branches of an evergreen and pulled them partly off, so that they just hung by the bark. "now, whenever you see that, you are on the right road," said he; "but if you don't see it, you had better turn back and search for a blaze until you find it." for once the boys did not pay much attention to mr. banta's stories, for their minds were fully occupied with their own thoughts. at last--it did not seem to them that they had ridden a mile--the man with the bell-mare sung out "here we are!" and led the way into a smooth, grassy plain which seemed out of place there in the mountains, and to which there did not appear to be any outlet except the one by which they had entered it. it was surrounded by the loftiest peaks on all sides except one, and there the plain was bounded by a precipitous ravine which was so deep that the bottom could not be seen from the top. near the middle of the plain was a little brook, placed most conveniently for "washing" their finds, which bubbled merrily over the stones before it plunged into the abyss before spoken of; and close on the other side were the ruins of the mine--a strong windlass, which had hauled up fifty thousand dollars' worth of gold--and the rope that was fast to the bucket, or rather to the fragments of it, for the bucket itself had fallen to pieces from the effects of the weather, and lay in ruins on the ground. still farther away stood the lean-to--firmly built, of course, but not strong enough to stand the fury of the winter's storms. taken altogether, a miner could not have selected a more fitting camp, or one better calculated to banish all symptoms of homesickness while they were pulling out the gold from the earth below. mr. banta kept a close watch on the boys, and saw the pleased expression that came upon their faces. "i know it looks splendid now, but it will not look so before long," said he, with a knowing shake of his head. "now, boys, let us get to work. we want to get through here, so as to get back to dutch flat to-night." the miners unsaddled their horses, grabbed their axes and spades, and set in manfully to make the "mine all right," so that the boys could go to work at it without delay. some repaired the lean-to, others laboriously cleared the mouth of the pit from the grass and brush which had accumulated there, and still another brought from the boys' pack the new bucket and rope which they expected would last just about long enough for one of them to go down and up--and they were positive that the boy would come up a great deal faster than he went down. the boys did not find anything to do but to get dinner, and they were rather proud of the skill with which the viands were served up. "i didn't know you boys could do cooking like this," said mr. banta, as he seated himself on the grass and looked over the table--a blanket spread out to serve in lieu of a cloth. "if the cooking was all you had to contend with you could live like fighting-cocks as long as you stay here." "we had hardly enough money to pay for a housekeeper while we were in st. louis, and so we had all this work to do ourselves," said julian. "you must give jack the credit for this. we kept bachelor's hall while we were at home. he cooked, and i swept out and helped wash the dishes." "now, boys," said mr. banta, after he had finished his pipe, "i guess we have julian and jack all ready to go to work whenever they feel like it. look over your work, and see if there is anything you have missed, and then we will go back to dutch flat. i tell you, i hate to leave you up here in this sort of a way." "you need not be," said jack. "if you will come up here in two weeks from now, we will have some gold-dust to show you." mr. banta did not say anything discouraging, for he had already exhausted all his powers in that direction. he inspected all the work, to satisfy himself that it was properly done, and then gave the order to "catch up." "of course your stock will go back with us," said he. "you could not keep them here away from that old bell-mare." "that was what we expected," said julian; "we may be so badly frightened that we won't think to bring our weapons with us." "i am not afraid to say that i'll risk that," said mr. banta, leaning over to shake julian by the hand. he told himself that the miner's heart was in that shake. it was very different from the clasp of the hand that he gave him when he was first introduced to him in denver. "good-bye, julian. that is all i can say to you." the other miners rode up to take leave of them, and all looked very solemn. some had a parting word to say, and some shook them by the hand without saying anything, the man with the bell-mare led off, the stock followed, the miners came last, and in two minutes more they were alone. julian sat down on the grass feeling lonely indeed, but jack jumped up and began to bestir himself. "come on, boy--none of that!" said he, beginning to gather their few dishes together. "we must get these things out of the way and i must get ready to go into that mine." "are you going down to-day?" asked julian. the time had come at last. for long months julian had talked about going down into that mine--not boastingly, to be sure, but he had said enough to make people believe he would not back out, and now the opportunity was presented for him to do as he had agreed. "why can't you let it go until to-morrow?" "because i am just ready to go now," said jack; and there was a determined look on his face which julian had never seen there before. "i am fighting mad, now, and to-morrow i may be as down-hearted as you are." "do you think i am afraid?" exclaimed julian, springing up and beginning to assist his chum. "i'll show you that i am not! if you want to go first you can go, and i will go the next time." julian went to work with a determination to get the dishes done as soon as possible. when they had got them all stowed away where they belonged, jack stopped to roll up his sleeves, examined his revolver, which he strapped to his waist, lighted his lamp, and led the way toward the mine without saying a word. julian gave a hasty glance at him and saw that his face was as calm as it usually was, and he began to take courage from that. "it looks dark down there, does it not?" asked julian, leaning on the windlass and peering down into the pit. "it is dark enough now, but it will be lighter when i get down there with my lamp," replied jack. "now, julian, are you sure you can hold me up?" "of course i can. if i can't, we had better get another man up here." jack stopped just long enough to shake julian by the hand, then seized the rope and stepped into the bucket, his partner holding the windlass so that he would not descend too rapidly. slowly he went down, until finally the bucket stopped. "all right!" called jack; and his voice sounded strangely, coming up from thirty feet underground. "this hole is bigger down here than it is at the top. somebody has cut away on each side to try to find gold," and at last he started off toward the gully. julian leaned over the pit and followed his companion's movements by the light of his lamp. he saw him as he went around to the "false diggings," and finally his lamp disappeared from view as jack went down toward the ravine. his face was very pale; he listened intently, but could not hear that rustling of feet nor that moaning sound that had frightened two men away from there, and his courage all came back to him. "i wonder what those men were thinking of when they started that story about this mine being haunted?" julian muttered to himself. "there is nothing here to trouble anyone." hardly had this thought been framed in julian's mind than there came a most startling and thrilling interruption. the boy was leaning over the pit with his head turned on one side, so that he could hear any unusual sounds going on below, and all of a sudden he sprang to his feet and acted very much as though he wanted to go below to jack's assistance. he distinctly heard that rustling of feet over the rocks below, some of them made by jack as he ran toward the bucket, and the other by something else that made julian's heart stand still. and with that sound came others--moans or shrieks, julian couldn't tell which--until they seemed to fill the pit all around him. this lasted but a few seconds, and then came the report of jack's revolver and the sound was caught up by the echoes until it appeared to julian that a whole battery of artillery had been fired at once. "there!" said julian, greatly relieved to know that jack had seen something to shoot at. "i guess one ghost has got his death at last!" a moment afterward came jack's frantic pull on the rope, accompanied by his frightened voice-- "pull me up, julian! for goodness' sake, pull me up!" julian jumped for the windlass and put every atom of his strength into it. at first the resistance of the bucket was just about what it would have been if jack had stepped into it; but suddenly the resistance ceased, the crank was jerked out of his hand, and julian was thrown headlong to the ground. "what was that?" exclaimed the boy, regaining his feet as quickly as he could. "jack, did you fall out of the bucket?" there was no response to his question. he leaned over and looked into the pit; but jack's light had gone out, and everything was silent below. the rustling of feet had ceased, the moans had died away, and the mine was as still as the grave. "something has happened to jack!" exclaimed julian, running to his lean-to after his revolver and lamp. "i am going down there to see about it if all the ghosts in the rocky mountains should be there to stop me!" julian worked frantically, and in less time than it takes to tell it he was ready to go down to jack's help. he hastily unwound the rope until all the length was out except the extreme end, which was fastened to the windlass by a couple of staples, and swung himself into the mine. he went down much faster than jack did, and when he reached the bottom he let go his hold on the rope, and, holding his revolver in readiness for a shot, he turned slowly about, as if he were expecting that whatever had frightened jack would be upon him before he could think twice. but nothing came. in whatever direction he turned his light, everything seemed concealed by egyptian darkness, and finally he resolved to let the ghosts go and turned his attention to jack. there he lay, close to julian's feet, his lamp extinguished and his revolver at a little distance from him; and it was plain that he was either frightened or dead, for julian had never seen so white a face before. his own face, if he only knew it, was utterly devoid of color, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely use them. "i would like to know what it was that could make jack faint away in this fashion," muttered julian, first looking all around to make sure that nothing had come in sight before he laid his revolver down. "how to get him into that bucket, and the bail over him, is what bothers me just now; but he must go in, and get out of this." jack was a heavyweight, and if any boy who reads this has ever been called upon to handle a playmate who remained limp and motionless in his arms he will know what a task julian had to put him into the bucket. and remember that he must go inside the bail, otherwise he could not pull him out; and the bail would not stay up without somebody to hold it. but julian worked away as only a boy can under such circumstances, and was just getting him in shape, so that in a moment more he would have had him in, when he noticed that one of his hands was wet. he stopped for a moment to look at it, and at the sight of it he seemed ready to sit down beside jack and faint away, too. "it is blood!" murmured julian. "my goodness! you must get out of here, and be quick about it! what was that?" julian straightened up again, but he had his revolver in his hand. that moaning sound was repeated again, but the boy could not tell where it came from. it was not so great in volume as the first one that had saluted jack, but it was a complaining kind of a sound, such as one might utter who was being deserted by the only friend he had upon earth. julian stood there with his revolver in his hand, but, aside from the sound which rung in his ears for many a night afterward, his eyes could not reveal a single thing for him to shoot at. julian thought now that he had got at the bottom of the mystery. hastily slipping his revolver into his belt, he turned his attention to jack, and in a few moments had him ready to hoist to the top. then he seized the rope, and, climbing it hand over hand, he reached the surface, when, throwing off his hat and revolver, he turned around to haul up jack. chapter xxiii. haunted no longer. this time julian laid out all his strength on the windlass; but the bucket resisted, and he knew that jack's weight was safely within it. presently his head and shoulders appeared above the pit, whereupon julian slipped a bucket over the crank, and in a few minutes jack was safe above ground. to tumble him out of the bucket and dash into his face some water that he dipped up from the stream with his hat occupied but little of his time, and almost at once jack opened his eyes and looked about him. "well, sir, you saw them, did you not?" asked julian, with a smile. "i tell you, you wouldn't have smiled if you had been in my place," replied jack. "that thing looked awful as it came at me." "what thing?" "there is some animal down there who is not going to let us work this mine if he can help it," said jack, feeling around with his right hand to examine his shoulder. "as i stepped into the bucket with one foot he jumped--my goodness! i don't like to say how far it was; but i saw his eyes shining green in the darkness, and just as i pulled on him he sprang at me, dug his claws into my shoulder, and pulled me out. i thought i was gone up, sure; then all was blank to me. did you see him?" "i did not see anything," said julian. "when the bucket came up easily, as though you were not in it, i went down after you; but i did not see a thing. what was it?" "you tell. it was some kind of an animal that i never saw before. and didn't he make a howling just before he jumped! i wish you would look at my shoulder; it smarts awfully." jack could handle himself well enough now, and it was no trouble for him to roll over on his face and give julian a chance to view his wounds. his shirt was torn completely off, and underneath were four scratches which went the whole length of his back and spent themselves on the thick waistband of his trousers, which they had ripped in two. very little blood came from the wounds, and julian assured him that they were not deep enough to cause him any inconvenience. "you must have killed him before he got to you," said julian. "a bear could not jump that far, and if it were a panther--why, you have done something to be proud of. you have done it anyway, for you have cleared up something that scared those two men away from here." "do you really think so?" asked jack. "i know it." "but think of the howling he made! it seemed as if the pit was full of bears and panthers, and i didn't know which way to look. have you got all the blood off? then let us go down there and see about it. we can't work our mine with those fellows in there. if i killed him at once, how did he come to jump so far? and then he took himself off after clawing me; that is something i don't understand." "you have to shoot one of those fellows through the brain or in the spine, in order to throw him in his tracks. did you have a fair chance at his heart?" "i don't know. i simply shot a little ways below that green spot, in the darkness, and the next thing i knew i didn't know anything." "because, if you had a fair chance at his heart, a wild animal will sometimes run a good way before he drops. he is down there somewhere, and i'll bet you will find him. but, jack, there are others that we must get rid of before we own this mine." "what do you mean by that? i was in hopes i had shot the last one of them." "well, you did not. while i was working over you i heard those moans repeated. that proves others are there--don't it?" "i am going down to clear it up," persisted jack, who had got upon his feet by this time and started toward the lean-to. "hold on till i get cartridges to put in this revolver. i used to grumble at you because you spent so much money in denver, last winter, in shooting at a mark, but i begin to believe you were right and that i was wrong. if i had been as awkward with this shooting-iron as i used to be, you would have got the whole of that hundred thousand dollars to spend for yourself." "don't speak about it!" exclaimed julian, who wondered what he should do if jack was taken away from him. "i need somebody to grumble at me, and you will do as well as anybody. are you not going to put on another shirt?" "not much, i ain't. maybe i did not kill that animal, whatever it was and he will come for me again. now, you hold up and let me go," said jack, when he saw julian place one foot in the bucket." "i am a better shot than you are, and if i pull on one of those ghosts you will see him drop," returned julian, drawing the other foot in. "take hold of the windlass and let me down easy. if i halloo, you must lose no time in hauling me up." jack was obliged to submit to this arrangement, and he carefully lowered julian out of sight. when the bucket stopped he seized the rope, and in a moment more stood beside him. "i am glad it is animals that are interfering with us, for i am not at all afraid of them," declared jack. "now, where is that other sound you heard?" the question had hardly been formed on jack's lips when that sound came to their ears--not faint and far off, as was the one that caused julian to handle his revolver, but louder and clearer, as though the animal that made it was close upon them. sometimes they thought it was in front, and they held their revolvers ready to shoot at a moment's warning, and then, again, it sounded behind them; and in a second more it appeared as if the rocks on each side of them concealed the enemy that was uttering those startling sounds. "it is the echo--that's what it is," said julian. "there is only one animal in here, and we can't shoot him any too quick." julian, aided by his lamp, led the way cautiously along the subterranean passage, which would have been level but for the carelessness or haste of the men who had worked the pit before them, peering into every little cavity he saw, until at last he stopped suddenly and pointed his revolver at something that lay upon the floor. "what is it, julian?" whispered jack, pressing eagerly to his side. "well, sir, you have done it now," answered julian, bending over and examining the animal as well as he could by the light of his lamp. "this is the thing that frightened the other two men away." "what is it?" repeated jack. "a panther?" "no, sir; this animal will make two of the biggest panthers you ever saw. it is a lion!" "in america?" said jack, in astonishment. "it is what the miners call them, anyway. when we get it into the bucket i will let you have the crank, and we will see if it does not weigh almost as much as you do. this animal is a mother, and her babies are crying for her." jack was surprised when he saw what a monster animal his lucky shot had put out of the way, for he did not lay any claim to his skill as a marksman in making that shot. he must have shot her plumb through the heart, or else she would not have died so quickly. she looked as big as a yearling, marked for all the world like the panthers he had seen in the shows which he had attended; but it was her size more than anything else which impressed him. it was wonderful, too, what a change the sight of this animal made in jack. his courage all came back to him, and after taking a hasty glance at his trophy he took the lead and pressed on toward the farther end of the passage. every few feet he found what the miners called "false diggings"--that is, places that they had dug, either on the right-hand side or the left, to see if the vein they were following turned that way. in one of these "false diggings" jack stopped and pointed silently before him. julian looked over jack's shoulder, and saw that the miner had dug through the embankment there and into a cave which extended through into the gulch--the boys could see that by the little streaks of light which came in at the other end. on a slight shelf which formed one side of the passageway some leaves had been gathered, and in this bed were two cubs about the size of full-grown cats, while a third had crawled out and was trying, in his clumsy way, to follow his mother into the mine. the little thing was wild, and set up a furious spitting as the boys approached. "these things account for the noise you heard," remarked jack, picking up the cub and beating its head against the floor. "what made you do that, jack?" exclaimed julian. "we ought to save the young ones alive." "well, suppose we do; what will we raise them on? it is true that we might tell the milkman to leave us an extra quart or two to feed them on, for such little things can't eat bacon and hard-tack. now, after we get through--" "by gracious, jack--look out!" exclaimed julian, suddenly. "the old man is coming home to see what's the matter with his young ones!" jack dropped the cub he had picked up, and which he was about to serve as he had the first, and, looking toward the farther end of the passageway, saw that the light was shut off by the head and shoulders of another monstrous lion that had stopped when he discovered the boys. in an instant two revolvers were aimed at the white spot on his chest. "be sure you make as good a shot as you did before," whispered julian, whose face was as pale as jack's was when he pulled him out of the pit. "it's a matter of life and death with us." the revolvers cracked in quick succession, raising an echo that almost deafened them. without a moment's delay they fired again, then threw themselves prone upon the floor of the cave, for they saw the lion coming. he had evidently got all ready for a spring, and when the first two bullets struck him he made it, jumping over them and landing in the pit beyond. the moment he touched the ground two more balls went into him, and then the boys jumped to their feet; for they did not want the lion to spring upon them while lying down. but the animal made no effort to recover his feet; he was too badly hurt for that. he struggled frantically, springing from the ground as high as the boys' heads, and his motions were so quick and rapid that there was no chance to shoot him again; but this lasted only for a few seconds. his struggles grew weaker, and he soon lay upon the floor, stone dead. "there, sir," said julian, who was the first to speak; "this is a haunted mine no longer. our little -caliber revolvers did as good work as banta would have done with his winchester." "whew! i am glad it is all over, and that we were not frightened out of coming here. i don't believe in ghosts, anyway." "how do you account for that man in the mine up the country who always gets farther and farther away every time anybody tries to touch him?" asked julian. "i believe that story originated in the minds of some miners who were afraid to go there. and as for their shooting at him, i don't take any stock in that, either. now, i will finish what i was going to say when the old gentleman came in and interrupted me. after i have killed these cubs, we will go to work and fill this cave so full of the rocks which some of the miners have left scattered about that there won't be a chance for any other animal to make a commotion in this mine." the work of dispatching the cubs was very soon accomplished, and then the boys wanted to get the lions above ground, so that they could see how they looked. but when they undertook to lift the "old gentleman," to carry him to the bucket, they found they had more than they could do; so they each took hold of a hind leg and dragged him to the shaft. when they came to put him in, they saw there was not room enough for the cubs, for the bucket would not hold any more. "i'll go up and haul the old fellow out," said jack. "i tell you, he is big enough to scare anybody--is he not?" "yes," answered julian, with a laugh; "and if we had been frightened away, and somebody else had found out that they were lions, and not unearthly spirits, it would have been all over denver inside of a month." jack, who said he thought that was so, seized the rope and began working his way toward the top. then the bucket began to move, and presently julian saw it go out over the top. in a few minutes jack came down again, and they got the mother of the family ready to be hoisted up. julian went up this time, tumbled the lion out beside his mate, and let down the bucket for the dead cubs and jack, who, when he stepped out, found julian with his hat off and drawing his shirt-sleeves across his forehead. "i tell you, jack, if the dirt you send up weighs as much as these ghosts did, the one who pulls it out will have the hardest part of the work," said julian. "now let us sit down and take a good look at them." the longer the boys looked, the larger seemed to grow the animals that had created so great an uproar in the country for miles around. they regretted they had not brought a tape-line with them, that they might take measurements; but they came to one conclusion--if they found an animal like either of those in the mountains, they would give it a wide berth. they had read of encounters with them by men, and during their stay in denver had listened to some thrilling stories, told by miners, of their fierceness, and they decided that those men had more pluck than they had. "let us take the skins off, and by that time it will be night," said julian. "we can fill up the hole to-morrow." "i don't know how to go to work at it--do you?" asked jack, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "i never did such a piece of business in my life." "we are not going to take them off with the intention of selling them; we are going to show them to the miners. if we tell them our story without anything to show for it, they will think we are trying to shoot with a long bow. if we make a few holes in the skins by a slip of our knives, who cares?" the boys went to work on the cubs first, one holding the hind legs and the other doing the skinning, and they got along so well with them that they went to work on the big ones with more confidence. by the time it grew dark the skins were removed, and the carcasses were dragged away and thrown into the ravine. then the boys began supper with light hearts. the mystery of the haunted mine had been unearthed, and julian and jack were ready to dig up the treasure--that is, if there was any there waiting for them. chapter xxiv. "that is gold." "jack, come up here; i have something to show you." "what is it? have you made yourself rich by washing out the last bucket of earth i sent up?" "i have something, and it looks like gold. wait until i haul this bucket up, and then i'll send it down for you." this conversation took place between julian and his chum on the third morning after their arrival at the mine. the hole that led into the cave which the lions had made their habitation had been filled up so tight that even a ground-squirrel would have found it a hard task to work his way through; all the little rocks had been cleared away from the floor of the pit, making it an easy matter for them to carry the earth in a basket to the bottom of the shaft, and the digging had been going on for two days without any signs of "color" rewarding their anxious gaze. the buckets of dirt, as fast as they were sent up, were washed in the brook by the aid of a "cradle" which the boys had brought with them, but their most persistent "rocking" failed to leave a sediment behind. all the dirt went out with the water, and the cradle was as clean when they got through rocking it as it was before they began. "i believe the fellow who wrote that letter must have taken all the gold in the mine," remarked julian, one night, after they had spent a hard day's work at the pit. "fifty thousand dollars! that's a heap of money to take out of one hole in the ground." "i think so myself," replied jack; "but we will keep it up until our provisions are gone, and then we will go back to dutch flat." but on this particular day julian, who was washing the dirt at the head of the shaft, thought he saw some settlings in the bottom of his cradle, and forthwith began to handle it a little more carefully. the longer he rocked the more the sediment grew, until at last he had a spoonful, which he gathered up and then approached the mouth of the pit. "if you have any gold to show me i'll come up before the bucket does," declared jack; "the bucket can wait." "i have enough here to buy another block of houses," exclaimed julian, as jack's head and shoulders appeared. "what do you think of that?" "is it gold or not?" asked jack, who was inclined to be suspicious. "maybe it is some of that iron that mr. banta told us about." "that is just what i was afraid of," said julian; "but i reckon iron pyrites comes in lumps, don't it? if it does, this is gold, sure enough." the boys did not know what to make of it, and they finally decided that they would put it away until mr. banta came up to see how they were getting along, which he had agreed to do at the end of two weeks. the boys spoke of their "find" as iron pyrites, for they did not like to think they would be lucky enough to dig gold out of the ground, and this was not the only spoonful of dust that went into their bag. the bag grew in size as the days wore on, and finally, at the end of two weeks, it was almost full. "i tell you, jack, i don't like to show this to mr. banta," declared julian, holding up the bag, and looking ruefully at it. "perhaps we have done all our best digging all for nothing." "well, it can't be helped," was jack's reply. "they were inexperienced when they first came out here, and there was nobody to tell them whether they had iron pyrites or gold. but we have done one thing that he can't laugh at--we have worked the haunted mine." two weeks had never passed so slowly to the boys before. they worked early and late, but they found time now and then to glance toward the entrance of the valley, to see if mr. banta was approaching. all this while the bag grew heavier and fuller, until julian declared that it would not hold another spoonful. "then we must tie it up tight and hide it somewhere," said jack. "what is the use of hiding it?" asked julian. "nobody knows that we have been so successful in our haunted mine." "no matter; such things have happened, and we want to be on the safe side. we must hide it a little way from the lean-to, for there is the first place anybody will look for it." julian readily gave in, although he could not see any necessity for it, took a spade, and went with jack to what he considered to be a good hiding-place. a hole was dug, the bag put in, some leaves were scattered over the spot, and then jack drew a long breath of relief. "one would think we are surrounded by robbers," said julian. "who do you suppose is going to steal it?" "i don't know; but i have never had so much money, or what is equivalent to money, in my charge before, and, as i said before, i think it best to be on the safe side." "our two weeks have passed, and mr. banta ought to be here to-morrow," observed julian, leading the way back to the lean-to. "i expect he will look for us to be all chawed up." the very next day mr. banta appeared. the boys had found an extra "find" that morning. julian was rocking the cradle back and forth, and jack was leaning over his shoulder to see what gold there was in it, when they heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the rocks, and looked up to find the miner and his partner, pete, standing in the entrance to the valley. "now we will soon have this thing cleared up," exclaimed julian, joyfully. "mr. banta, you don't know how glad we are to see you again!" mr. banta did not say anything in reply. he and his partner rode slowly toward them, looking all around, as if they expected to discover something. "is it the ghosts you are looking for?" asked jack. "come along, and we will show them to you." "boys," stammered mr. banta, as if there was something about the matter that looked strange enough to him, "you are still on top of the ground. put it there." the boys readily complied, and they thought, by the squeeze the miner gave their hands, that he was very much surprised to see them alive and well, and working their mine as if such things as ghosts had never been heard of. "did you see them?" he continued. "you are right, we did," answered julian. "jack, pull off your shirt. he has some marks that he will carry to his grave." jack did not much like the idea of disrobing in the presence of company, but he divested himself of his shirt and turned his back to the miners. on his shoulder were four big welts, which promised to stay there as long as he lived. "it was a lion!" exclaimed mr. banta. "that is just what it was. now come with me and i will show you the skins. we have something to prove it." the miners followed after the boys, when, as they were about to pass their pit, julian said he wanted to see them about something that had been worrying them a good deal ever since they first discovered it. "what do you call that?" he asked, gathering up a pinch of the sediment that still remained in the cradle. "good gracious! do you gather much of this stuff?" exclaimed mr. banta, who was all excitement now. "it is not iron pyrites, is it?" "iron your grandmother!" retorted mr. banta. "it is gold, and a bag full of that stuff will be worth about ten thousand dollars to you!" "we have a bagful of it hidden away," asserted julian; while jack was so overcome with something, he didn't know what, that he sat right down on the ground. "jack thought we had best hide it, but i will get it and show it to you." "well, well! this beats anything in the world that i ever heard of! don't it you, pete?" asked mr. banta, dismounting from his horse. "here's you two, come out here as tenderfeet from st. louis, who never saw or heard of a gold-mine before, and you come up to this pit, which has all manner of ghosts and other things wandering about it at will,--so much so that they scared away two of the best men we had on dutch flat,--and then you get the upper hand of the spirits and make ten thousand dollars out of the mine in two weeks! i tell you that bangs me; don't it you, pete?" jack came up to take the horses and hitch them to swinging limbs, and mr. banta turned to julian and told him he was anxious to see that bag with the ten thousand dollars in gold in it; whereupon julian caught up a spade and hurried out, and jack, who had returned to the lean-to, was told to sit down and tell them the story about the haunted gold-mine. "there isn't much to tell," said jack, who, like all modest fellows, disliked to talk about himself. "i went down to see what the inside of the mine looked like, and one of the lions pitched onto me and i shot him." "there's more in the story than that comes to," declared mr. banta. "let us go out and look at the skins; we will hear the straight of the matter when julian comes in." the skins were rolled up,--they had been stretched on the ground until the sun dried them,--but jack quickly unrolled them, and the miners looked on as if greatly surprised. they could not understand how one ball, fired in the dark, had finished the lion so speedily. "it is a wonder she did not tear you all to pieces," said pete. "you must have made a dead-centre shot." the other skin was unrolled, too, and by the time the miners had examined it to their satisfaction julian came up with the bag. mr. banta untied it, and one look was enough. "that is gold," said he; "there is no iron pyrites about that. now, jack, you go on and get dinner for us, and we will listen while julian tell us about those ghosts." "i told you i did not believe in such things," remarked julian. "and the whole thing has come out just as i said it would." "what have you in this pack?" asked jack. "it looks like provisions." "that is just what it is. we thought you must be nearly out by this time, and so we brought some along. let the mule go home, if she wants to; she misses that old bell-mare." the story which jack did not tell lost nothing in going through julian's hands. he described things as nearly as he could see them before jack's light went out, and told of the lucky shot and the savage shrieks that came up to him through the pit. "those shrieks were what got next to me," declared julian, with a shudder. "i can't get them out of my mind yet. i thought that the ghost had jack, sure." "well, go on," said mr. banta, when julian paused. "there were two lions there--how did you get the other one?" when julian told how jack had taken charge of the matter, and had gone ahead in order to hunt up the other ghost, mr. banta acted as though he could scarcely believe it; while pete thrust his spurred heels out before him and broke out into a volley of such quaint oaths that julian threw back his head and laughed loudly. "if you had not done anything else since you have been up here but go to hunt up that lion with revolvers, i should know you were tenderfeet pure and simple," declared mr. banta. "why, boys, that was the most dangerous thing you ever did!" "well, we did not know what else to do," explained julian, modestly. "jack said the lion would not let us work the mine if he could help it, and so we had to go and find him." "i know some miners down at dutch flat who would think twice before going for that lion with their winchesters," declared pete, "and you had nothing but little popguns!" "they did the work, anyhow," asserted julian. "well, boys, you have been very lucky," said mr. banta. "take your bag of dust and hide it where nobody will ever think of looking for it. and remember--if any person comes here and asks you for money, you are to give him what is in the other bag, and keep still about this full one." julian's eyes began to open wide as this hint was thrown out. he looked at jack, who was by this time engaged in dishing up the dinner; but the latter only shook his head at him, as if to say, "didn't i say we had better hide that gold while we had the opportunity?" "who do you think is going to rob us?" asked julian, as soon as he could speak. "i am sure i don't know; but we have some men down at the flat who would not be any too good to come up here and see how you are getting along. of course this thing will get all over the flat in less than five minutes after we get there. we must tell just how we found you; for, if we try to keep it secret, the miners will suspect something and come up here in a body. but if they do that, then you will be safer than if you were alone." "we don't want any truck with such people," declared jack. "if we shoot as well as we did at the lion that wore that big skin, you will hear something drop. now sit up and eat some dinner." "jack, i believe you have the most pluck," said pete. "he has it all," replied julian. "he don't say much, but he keeps up a dreadful lot of thinking." dinner over, the miners lit their pipes, and then mr. banta said they wanted to go down into the mine to see how it looked. "it is my opinion that you won't get much more gold out of here," said he, as he stepped into the bucket. "you are gradually working your way toward the ravine, and when you break through the wall, you will find no color there." "i don't care," replied julian. "if it will hold out until we get another bag filled, that will be all we want. we can say, when we get back to denver, that we have been in the mines." "and had some adventures there, too," remarked mr. banta. "lower away." julian and pete followed mr. banta down to the bottom of the mine, and jack stayed up above to manage the bucket. they were gone a long time, for julian was obliged to tell his story over again; and, when they were pulled up, mr. banta repeated what he had said before he was let down, namely, that the boys had about reached the end of their vein. "but even with these bags full, you have got more than some men have who have been on the flat for two years," said he. "now, boys, is there anything we can do for you before we bid you good-bye?" no, julian and jack could not think of anything they wanted. they thanked the miners for bringing them some provisions, and offered payment on the spot; but mr. banta said they would let that go until the boys had got through working their mine. they shook them by the hand, wished them all the good luck in the world, turned their faces toward home, and in a few moments the sound of their horses' hoofs on the rocks had died away in the distance. chapter xxv. claus, again. "there!" said mr. solomon claus, as he entered at a fast walk the railroad depot, passed through it, and took up the first back street that he came to; "i guess i have got rid of him. now, the next thing is to go somewhere and sit down and think about it." claus kept a good watch of the buildings as he passed along, and at last saw a hotel, into which he turned. he bought a cigar at the bar, and, drawing a chair in front of one of the windows, sat down to meditate on his future course; for this german was not in the habit of giving up a thing upon which he had set his mind, although he might fail in every attempt he undertook. he had set his heart upon having a portion of that money that julian had come into by accident, and, although something had happened to upset his calculations, he was not done with it yet. "that was a sharp trick, sending off the box by express, when they might as well have carried its contents in their valises," said claus, settling down in his chair and keeping his eyes fastened upon the railroad depot. "wiggins was at the bottom of that, for i don't believe the boys would ever have thought of it. i wonder how they felt when they found their valises gone? now, the next thing is something else. shall i go home, get my clothes, and spend the winter in denver, or shall i go home and stay there? that's a question that cannot be decided in a minute." while claus was endeavoring to come to some conclusion on these points he saw casper nevins coming along the railroad and entering the depot. by keeping a close watch of the windows he discovered him pass toward the ticket office, where he made known his wants, and presently claus saw him put a ticket into his pocket. "so far, so good," muttered claus, as he arose from his chair. "i guess i might as well get on the train with him, for i must go to st. louis anyhow. perhaps something will occur to me in the meantime." casper was sitting on a bench, with his hands clasped and his chin resting on his breast, wondering what in the world he was going to do when he got back to st. louis, when he heard claus's step on the floor. he first had an idea that he would not speak to him at all; but solomon acted in such a friendly manner, when he met him, that he could not fail to accost him with "you were trying to shake me, were you?" "shake you! my dear fellow," exclaimed claus, as if he were profoundly astonished. "such a thing never entered my head! i simply wanted to get away by myself and think the matter over. have a cigar." "i don't want it!" declared casper, when claus laid it down upon his knee. "i don't believe i shall want many cigars or anything else very long." "disappointed over not finding that wealth, were you?" asked claus, in a lower tone. "well, i was disappointed myself, and for a time i did not want to see you or anybody else. i have wasted a heap of hard-earned dollars upon that 'old horse.'" "have you given it up, too?" inquired casper. "what else can i do? of course i have given it up. i will go back home again and settle down to my humdrum life, and i shall never get over moaning about that hundred thousand dollars we have lost." "do you think we tried every plan to get it?" "every one that occurred to me. they have it, and that is all there is to it. what are you going to do when you get back to st. louis?" inquired claus, for that was a matter in which he was very much interested. he was not going to have casper hanging onto him; on that he was determined. "i suppose i shall have to do as others do who are without work," replied casper. "i shall go around to every store, and ask them if they want a boy who isn't above doing anything that will bring him his board and clothes. i wish i had my old position back; i'll bet you that i would try to keep it." "that is the best wish you have made in a long time," said claus, placing his hand on casper's shoulder. "if i was back there, with my money in my pocket, i would not care if every one of the express boys would come and shove an 'old horse' at me. i tell you, 'honesty is the best policy.'" casper was almost ready to believe that claus had repented of his bargain, but he soon became suspicious of him again. that was a queer phrase to come from the lips of a man who believed in cheating or lying for the purpose of making a few dollars by it. for want of something better to do, he took up the cigar which claus had laid upon his knee and proceeded to light it. "well, i guess i'll go and get a ticket," remarked claus, after a little pause. "i don't know how soon that train will be along." "'honesty is the best policy,' is it?" mused casper, watching claus as he took up his stand in the door and looked away down the railroad. "some people would believe him, but i have known him too long for that. i wish i knew what he has in his head. he is going to try to get his hands on that 'old horse'; and if he does, i hope he will fail, just as we have done. he need not think that i am going to hold fast to him. i have had one lesson through him, and that is enough." claus did not seem anxious to renew his conversation with casper. he had heard all the latter's plans, as far as he had any, and now he wanted to think up some of his own. he walked up and down the platform with his hands behind his back, all the while keeping a bright lookout down the road for the train. "i must go to denver, because i shall want to make the acquaintance of some fellows there whom i know i can trust," soliloquized claus. "i can get plenty of men in st. louis, but they are not the ones i want. i must have some men who know all about mining, and perhaps i can get them to scrape an acquaintance with julian. that will be all the better, for then i can find out what he is going to do. well, we will see how it looks when i get home." for half an hour claus walked the platform occupied with such thoughts as these, and finally a big smoke down the track told him the train was coming. he stuck his head in at the door and informed casper of the fact, and when the train came up he boarded one of the forward cars, leaving his companion to do as he pleased. "you are going to shake me," thought casper, as he stepped aboard the last car in the train. "well, you might as well do it at one time as at another. i have all the money i can get out of you, but i am not square with you by any means. from this time forward i'll look out for myself." and the longer casper pondered upon this thought, the more heartily he wished he had never seen claus in the first place. he did not sleep a wink during his ride to st. louis, but got off the train when it reached its destination and took a straight course for his room. the apartment seemed cheerless after his experience on the train, but he closed the door, threw himself into a chair, and resumed his meditations, for thus far he had not been able to decide upon anything. "i am hungry," thought he, at length, "and after i have satisfied my appetite i will do just what i told claus--go around to the different stores and ask them if they want a boy. i tell you that will be a big come-down for me, but it serves me right for having anything to do with claus." we need not go with casper any further. for three nights he returned from his long walks tired and hungry, and not a single storekeeper to whom he had applied wanted a boy for any purpose whatever. sometimes he had sharp words to dishearten him. "no, no; get out of here--you are the fifth boy who has been at me this morning;" and casper always went, for fear the man would lay violent hands on him. on the fourth night he came home feeling a little better than usual. he had been hired for a few days to act as porter in a wholesale dry-goods store, and he had enough money in his pocket to pay for a good supper. the wages he received were small--just about enough to pay for breakfast and supper; but when the few days were up the hurry was over, and casper was once more a gentleman of leisure. and so it was during the rest of the summer and fall. he could not get anything to do steadily, his clothes were fast wearing out, and the landlord came down on him for his rent when he did not have a cent in his pocket. utterly discouraged, at last he wrote to his mother for money to carry him to his home; and so he passes out of our sight. as for claus, we wish we could dispose of him in the same way; but unfortunately we cannot. everybody was glad to see him when he entered the pool-room where he had been in the habit of playing, and more than one offered him a cigar. he told a long story about some business he had to attend to somewhere out west, and when he talked he looked up every time the door opened, as if fearful that casper would come in to bother him for more money. but casper was sick of claus. the lesson he had received from him was enough. claus remained in st. louis for two months; and he must have been successful, too, for the roll of bills he carried away with him was considerably larger than the one which casper had seen. when he was ready to go he bade everybody good-bye, and this time he carried his trunk with him. he was going out west to attend to "some business," which meant that he was going to keep watch of julian and jack in some way, and be ready to pounce upon them when they worked their mine--that is, if they were successful with it. "that will be the only thing i can do," decided claus, after thinking the matter over. "they have the buildings by this time, at any rate, so that part of it has gone up; but when they get out alone, and are working in their mine, that will be the time for me to take them. they will have all the work, but i will have the dust they make." when claus reached this point in his meditations, he could not help remembering that some of the men who were interested in the mines were dead shots with either rifle or revolver, and that if he robbed the boys he would be certain to have some of them after him, and what they would do if they caught him was another matter altogether. "i can shoot as well as they can," thought he, feeling around for his hip pocket to satisfy himself that his new revolver was still in its place. "if i have some of their money in my pocket, i would like to see any of the miners come up with me." when claus reached denver, his first care was to keep clear of julian and jack, and his next was to find some miners who were familiar with the country in the region bordering on dutch flat; for thus far claus had not been able to learn a thing about it. dutch flat might be five miles away or it might be a hundred, and he wanted somebody to act as his guide. he put up at a second-rate hotel, engaged his room, and then came down into the reading-room to keep watch of the men who tarried there. "i must find somebody whose face tells me he would not be above stealing a hundred thousand dollars if he had a good chance," decided claus; "but the countenances of these men all go against me--they are too honest. i guess i'll have to try the clerk, and see what i can get out of him." on the second day, as claus entered the reading-room with a paper in his hand, he saw before him a man sitting by a window, his feet elevated higher than his head, watching the people going by. he was a miner,--there could be no doubt about that,--and he seemed to be in low spirits about something, for every little while he changed his position, yawned, and stretched his arms as if he did not know what to do with himself. claus took just one look at him, then seized a chair and drew it up by the man's side. the man looked up to see who it was, and then looked out on the street again. "excuse me," began claus, "but you seem to be a miner." "well, yes--i have dabbled in that a little," answered the man, turning his eyes once more upon claus. "what made you think of that?" "i judged you by your clothes," replied claus. "have a cigar? then, perhaps you will tell me if you know anything about dutch flat, where there is--" "don't i know all about it?" interrupted the man. "ask me something hard. a bigger fraud than that dutch flat was never sprung on any lot of men. there is no color of gold up there." "then what made you go there in the first place?" asked claus. "it got into the hands of a few men who were afraid of the indians, and they coaxed me and my partner to go up," replied the man. "but there were no indians there. i prospected around there for six months, owe more than i shall ever be able to pay for grub-staking, and finally, when the cold weather came, i slipped out." "i am sorry to hear that," remarked claus, looking down at the floor in a brown study. "i have a mine up there, and i was about to go up and see how things were getting on there; but if the dirt pans out as you say, it will not be worth while." "you had better stay here, where you have a good fire to warm you during this frosty weather," said the man, once more running his eyes over claus's figure. "if you have a mine up there you had better let it go; you are worth as much money now as you would be if you stayed up there a year." "but i would like to go and see the mine," replied claus. "there was a fortune taken out of it a few years ago, and it can't be that the vein is all used up yet." "where _is_ your mine?" "that is what i don't know. i have somehow got it into my head the mine is off by itself, a few miles from everybody else's." "do you mean the haunted mine?" asked the man, now beginning to take some interest in what claus was saying. "i believe that is what they call it." "it is five miles from dutch flat, straight off through the mountains. you can't miss it, for there is a trail that goes straight to it." "do you know where it is?" "yes, i know; but that is all i do know about it. i saw two men who went there to work the pit, and who were frightened so badly that they lit out for this place as quick as they could go, and that was all i wanted to know of the mine." "then you have never been down in it?" "not much, i haven't!" exclaimed the man, looking surprised. "i would not go down into it for all the money there is in the mountain." "did those men see anything?" "no, but they heard a sight; and if men can be so badly scared by what they hear, they don't wait to see anything." "well, i want to go up there, and who can i get to act as my guide?" "i can tell you one thing," answered the man, emphatically--"you won't get me and jake to go up there with you. i'll tell you what i might do," he added, after thinking a moment. "are you going to stay here this winter?" "yes, i had thought of it. it is pretty cold up there in the mountains--is it not?" "the weather is so cold that it will take the hair right off of your head," replied the man. "if you will stay here until spring opens, you might hire me and jake to show you up as far as dutch flat; but beyond that we don't budge an inch." "how much will you charge me? and another thing--do i have to pay you for waiting until spring?" "no, you need not pay us a cent. we have enough to last us all winter. i was just wondering what i was going to do when spring came, and that made me feel blue. but if you are going to hire us--you will be gone three or four months, won't you?" yes, claus thought that he would be gone as long as that. then he asked, "how far is dutch flat from here?" "two hundred miles." the two then began an earnest conversation in regard to the money that was to be paid for guiding claus up to dutch flat. the latter thought he had worked the thing just about right. it would be time enough to tell him who julian and jack were, and to talk about robbing them, when he knew a little more concerning the man and his partner. he had not seen the other man yet, but he judged that, if he were like the miner he was talking to, it would not be any great trouble to bring them to his own way of thinking. chapter xxvi. claus hears something. never had a winter appeared so long and so utterly cheerless as this one did to solomon claus. the first thing he did, after he made the acquaintance of jake and his partner, was to change his place of abode. jake was as ready to ask for cigars as claus had been, and the latter found that in order to make his money hold out he must institute a different state of affairs. he found lodgings at another second-rate hotel in a distant part of the city, but he found opportunity to run down now and then to call upon bob and jake,--those were the only two names he knew them by,--to see how they were coming along, and gradually lead the way up to talking about the plans he had in view. it all came about by accident. one day, when discussing the haunted mine, claus remarked that he knew the two boys who were working it, and hoped they would have a good deal of dust on hand by the time he got here. "then they will freeze to death!" declared bob. "what made you let them go there, if you knew the mine was haunted?" "oh, they are not working it now," said claus. "they are in st. louis, and are coming out as soon as spring opens. they are plucky fellows, and will find out all about those ghosts before they come back." "yes, if the ghosts don't run them away," answered bob. "i understood you to say they are boys. well, now, if they get the better of the ghosts, which is something i won't believe until i see it, and we should get there about a month or two after they do, and find that they have dug up dust to the amount of ten or fifteen thousand dollars--eh?" "but maybe the gentleman is set on those two boys, and it would not pay to rob them," remarked jake. "no, i am not set on them," avowed claus, smiling inwardly when he saw how readily the miners fell in with his plans. "i tried my level best to get those boys to stay at home, for i don't want them to dig their wealth out of the ground, but they hooted at me; and when i saw they were bound to come, i thought i would get up here before them and see what sort of things they had to contend with." "what sort of relationship do you bear to the two boys?" asked bob. "i am their uncle, and i gave them a block of buildings here in denver worth a hundred thousand dollars and this haunted mine; but, mind you, i did not know it was haunted until after i had given it to them. but, boy like, they determined to come up, brave the ghosts, and take another fifty thousand out of it." bob and jake looked at each other, and something told them not to believe all that claus had said to them. if he was worth so much money that he was willing to give his nephews a hundred thousand dollars of it, he did not live in the way his means would allow. "and another thing," resumed claus. "i would not mind their losing ten thousand dollars, provided i got my share of it, for then they would learn that a miner's life is as full of dangers as any other. but remember--if you get ten thousand, i want three thousand of it." this was all that claus thought it necessary to say on the subject of robbing the boys, and after finishing his cigar he got up and went out. jake watched him until he was hidden in the crowd on the street, and then settled back in his chair and looked at bob. "there is something wrong with that fellow," he remarked. "his stories don't hitch; he has some other reason for wishing to rob those boys. now, what is it?" "you tell," retorted bob. "he has something on his mind, but he has no more interest in that pit than you or i have. he never owned it, in the first place." "then we will find out about it when we show him the way to the flat," said jake. "oh, there will be somebody there working the mine--i don't dispute that. but he is no uncle to them two boys. but say--i have just thought of something. we are not going up there for three dollars a day; and if we don't make something out of the boys, what's the reason we can't go to headquarters?" jake understood all his companion would have said, for he winked and nodded his head in a way that had a volume of meaning in it. the two moved their chairs closer together, and for half an hour engaged in earnest conversation. there was only one thing that troubled them--they did not like the idea of staying at dutch flat, among the miners, until they heard how the boys were getting on with their mine. "you know they did not like us any too well last summer," said bob, twisting about in his chair. "if we had not come away just when we did, it is my belief they would have ordered us out." "yes; and it was all on your account, too. you were too anxious to know how much the other fellows had dug out of their mines. you must keep still and say nothing." claus went away from the hotel feeling very much relieved. bob and jake had come over to his plans, and they had raised no objection to them. the next thing was to bring them down to a share in the spoils. he was not going to come out there all the way from st. louis and propose that thing to them, and then put up with what they chose to give him. "i must have a third of the money they make, and that is all there is about it," said he to himself. "they would not have known a thing about it if it had not been for me. who is that? i declare, it is julian and jack!" the boys were coming directly toward him, and this was the first time he had seen them since his arrival in denver, although he had kept a close watch of everybody he had met on the street. he stepped into a door, and appeared to be looking for some one inside; and when the boys passed him, he turned around to look at them. the latter were in a hurry, for it was a frosty morning, and they felt the need of some exercise to quicken their blood; besides, they were on their way to school, in the hope of learning something that would fit them for some useful station in life. they were dressed in brand-new overcoats, had furs around their necks and fur gloves on their hands, and julian was bent partly over, laughing at some remark jack had made. he watched them until they were out of sight, and then came out and went on his way. "i tell you we are 'some,' now that we have our pockets full of money," soliloquized claus, who grew angry when he drew a contrast between his and their station in life. "most anybody would feel big if he was in their place. but i must look out--i don't want them to see me here." fortunately claus was not again called upon to dodge the boys in his rambles about the city. he kept himself in a part of the city remote from that which the boys frequented. the winter passed on, and spring opened, and he did not again see them; but he heard of them through bob and jake, who made frequent visits to the hotel where mr. banta was located. "i guess we saw your boys to-day," said bob, who then went on to give a description of them. "they have it all cut and dried with banta, and he is going to show them the way to their mine. no, they did not mention your name once. they are going to buy a pack-horse, and load him up with tools and provisions, and are going out as big as life." "that is all right," said claus. "now, remember--i am to have a third of the dust you get." "of course; that is understood," answered jake, who now seemed as anxious to go to dutch flat as he had before been to keep away from it. "it would not be fair for us to take it all. where are you going after you get the money?" "i haven't got it yet," remarked claus, with a smile. "those ghosts may be too strong for the boys, and perhaps they will come away without anything." "then we will pitch in and work the mine, ourselves," said bob. "they say that gold is so thick up there that you can pick it up with your hands. we won't come away and leave such a vein behind us." "what about the ghosts?" queried claus, who could not deny he was afraid of them. "they may be too strong for you, also." "if they can get away with cold steel we'll give in to them," said jake. "but i'll risk that. where are you going when you get the money? of course you can't go back to st. louis." "no; i think i shall go on to california. i have always wanted to see that state." "well, we will go east. three thousand dollars, if they succeed in digging out ten thousand, added to what we shall make--humph!" said bob; and then he stopped before he had gone any further. it was a wonder that claus did not suspect something, but his mind was too fully occupied with other matters. where was he going when he got the money? that was something that had not occurred to claus before, and he found out that he had something yet to worry him. "you fellows seem to think you will get rich by robbing those boys," remarked claus, knowing that he must say something. "no, we don't," answered jake; "but that will be enough to keep us until we can turn our hands to some other kind of work. now about our pack-horse, tools and provisions. you have money enough to pay for them, i suppose?" "oh, yes--that is, i have a little," claus replied, cautiously, for he was afraid the miners might want more of it than he felt able to spend. "but i tell you i shall be hard up after i get those things." "you have other money besides what you gave the boys," said bob. "you can write to st. louis for more." "but i don't want to do that. i have with me just what i can spare, for my other funds are all invested." "oh, you can get more for the sake of what is coming to you," said jake, carelessly. "now, we want to start for dutch flat in about a week. that will give the boys time to fight the ghosts and get to work in their pit. suppose we go and see about our pack-horse and tools." claus would have been glad to have put this thing off for a day or two, but he could not see any way to get out of it. he went with the miners, who knew just where they wanted to go, and the horse he bought was a perfect rack of bones that did not seem strong enough to carry himself up to dutch flat, let alone a hundredweight of tools and provisions with him. the tools he bought were to be left in the store until they were called for, and the miners drew a long breath of relief, for that much was done. if claus at any time got sick of his bargain, and wanted to haul out, he could go and welcome; but they would hold fast to his tools and provisions, and use them in prospecting somewhere else. the morning set apart for their departure came at last, and claus and his companions put off at the first peep of day. they made the journey of two hundred miles without any mishap, and finally rode into the camp of dutch flat just as the miners were getting ready to have their dinner. they all looked up when they heard the newcomers, and some uttered profane ejaculations under their breath, while others greeted them in a way that claus did not like, for it showed him how his partners stood there with the miners. "well, if there ain't bob i'm a dutchman!" exclaimed one, straightening up and shading his eyes with his hand. "you are on hand, like a bad five-dollar bill--ain't you? i was in hopes you were well on your way to the states by this time." "no, sir; i am here yet," answered bob. "you don't mind if i go and work my old claim, do you? i don't reckon that anybody has it." "mighty clear of anybody taking your claim," said another. "you can go there and work it, for all of us; but we don't want you snooping around us like you did last summer." "what is the matter with those fellows?" asked claus, when they were out of hearing. "what did you men do here last summer?" "just nothing at all," replied jake. "we wanted to know how much gold everybody was digging, and that made them jealous of us." "but if you can't mingle with them as you did then, how are you going to find out about the haunted mine?" "oh, we'll mix with them just as we did last year, only we sha'n't have so much to say to them," said jake. "here is our claim, and it don't look as though anybody had been nigh it." claus was both surprised and downhearted. if he had known that the miners were going to extend such a reception as that to him he would have been the last one to go among them. there he was, almost alone, with two hundred brawny fellows around him, each one with a revolver strapped to his waist, and their looks and actions indicated that if necessity required it they would not be at all reluctant to use them. he managed to gather up courage to visit the general camp-fire, which was kindled just at dark, where the miners met to smoke their pipes and tell about what had happened in their mines during the day. this one had not made anything. the dirt promised fairly, and he hoped in a few days to strike a vein that would pay him and his partner something. another had tapped a little vein, and he believed that by the time he got a rock out of his way he would stumble onto a deposit that would make him so rich that he would start for the states in short order. "well, partner, how do you come on?" asked the man who was sitting close to claus, who was listening with all his ears. "does your dirt pan out any better than it did last summer?" "we have not seen the color of anything yet," replied claus. "i do not believe there is any gold there." "you are a tenderfoot, ain't you?" "yes; i never have been in the mines before." "and you will wish, before you see your friends again, that you had never seen them this time. if you get any dust, you hide it where your partners can't find it." there was one man, who did not take any part in the conversation, that kept a close watch on claus and listened to every word he said. it was mr. banta, who wondered what in the world could have happened to bring so gentlemanly appearing a man up there in company with bob and jake. "he must have money somewhere about his good clothes, and that is what bob is after," said he to himself. "but if that is the case, why did they not jump him on the way here? i think he will bear watching." three nights passed in this way, claus always meeting the miners at the general camp-fire, while his partners stayed at home and waited for him to come back and tell them the news, and on the fourth evening banta seemed lost in thought. he sat and gazed silently into the fire, unmindful of the tales that were told and the songs that were sung all around him. at last one of the miners addressed him. "well, banta, i suppose this is your last evening with us," he remarked. "yes; i go off to-morrow." "don't you wish you had not promised to go up there?" "no, i don't; i shall find out if the boys are all right, anyway. that is what i care the most about. i shall take some provisions with me, and if the boys are above ground i will leave them; otherwise, i shall bring them back." "oh, the boys must have the better of the ghosts by this time," said another; "they would have been here before this time if they had not. you will find them with more gold stowed away than they know what to do with." "and didn't they see the ghosts at all?" "why, as to that, i can't say. but they have beaten them at their own game. you will see." claus pricked up his ears when he heard this, and when the miners had all drawn away, one by one, and sought their blankets in their lean-to's, he asked of the man who sat near him, and who was waiting to smoke his pipe out before he went to bed, "where is banta going?" "up to the haunted mine," was the reply. "you see, he went up there two weeks ago with the boys, and promised to come back in two weeks to see how they were coming on. his two weeks are up to-night." "what is up there, anyway?" "well, you can ask somebody else to answer that question," said the miner, getting upon his feet. "i don't know what is up there, and i don't want to know." the miner walked off and left claus sitting there alone. he was certain that he was on the right track at last. as soon as banta came back they would know something about the haunted mine. chapter xxvii. bob tries strategy. "well, what did you hear this time?" asked bob, who lay on his blanket with his hands under his head and a pipe in his mouth. "everybody kept still about the haunted mine, i suppose?" "no, sir; i heard about it to-night for the first time," answered claus. "banta is going up there to-morrow." "then we will know something about it when he comes back," remarked bob. "i hope the boys have got the better of those ghosts in some way, and that they are working their mine. go on, and tell us what you have heard." claus did not have much to tell, for the miners had cut the conversation short; but what little he did say created great excitement between those who heard it now for the first time. the boys had got the better of those unearthly spirits in some way, for if the ghosts had driven them out and not allowed them to work their mine, the miners would have found it out long before this time. "i don't see why banta put it off for two weeks," said jake; "i reckon he was afraid of them spirits." the next day was one which claus often remembered. there was much excitement in the camp, although it did not show itself. there was none of that singing and whistling going on, but every man worked in silence. banta and his partner had got off at daylight, and ten hours must pass away before they could look for their return; but evening came on apace, the camp-fire was lighted, and the miners gathered around it and smoked their pipes without making any comments on the long delay of mr. banta and the man who had gone with him. there was one thing that troubled them, although no one spoke of it--the mule which had carried their pack-saddle came home alone, and was now feeding in company with the old bell-mare. that looked suspicious, but the men said nothing. for an hour they sat around the fire, and then one of them broke the stillness. he was an old, gray-headed man, experienced in mining, and of course all listened to what he had to say. he spoke in a low tone, as if there had been a patient there and he was afraid to arouse him. "ten miles in ten hours," said he, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "boys, something's got the better of those two men. i remember that several years ago i was waiting for a partner of mine who had gone away to prospect a mine----" "what was that?" exclaimed a miner, jumping to his feet. "i heard something, but i don't know what it was," said another. it was done quicker than we could tell it. in less than a second two hundred men sprang to their feet, and two hundred hands slipped behind them and laid hold of as many revolvers. of all those men, there was not one who would have hesitated to fight indians with the fear of death before their eyes, but there was not a single instance of a miner who did not change color at the sound of a noise which seemed to come upon them from no one could have told where. "which way did the noise come from?" asked a miner. "what did it sound like?" queried another. "there it is!" said the miner who had at first detected it--"it sounds like a horse's hoofs on the rocks. there! don't you hear it?" and so it proved. the noise was heard plainly enough by this time, and in a few moments more two men came out of the willows and rode into the circle of light that was thrown out by the camp-fire. they were banta and his partner; and one look at their faces was enough--they were fairly radiant with joy. "halloo! boys," cried banta. "i declare, you act as though you had lost your best friend; and some of you have revolvers drawn on us, too!" "say, pard," said one of the miners, shoving his revolver back where it belonged and extending a hand to each of the newcomers, "where have you been so long? your pack-mule has been home all the afternoon, and has kept the camp in an uproar with her constant braying. she acted as though she wanted to see your horses. did you see the boys?" "yes, sir, we saw the boys," answered banta. he did not seem in any particular hurry to relieve the suspense of his friends, which was now worked up to the highest degree, but dismounted from his horse very deliberately and proceeded to turn him loose. "well, why don't you go on with it?" asked another miner. "were the boys all right?" "the boys were all right and tight, and digging away as hard as they could." "did they--did they see the ghosts?" "of course they did; and the ghosts are now lying up there with their skins off." "were they animals?" "you are right again. now, hold on till i light my pipe and i'll tell you all about it. tony, you ought to have gone up there; you would be ten thousand dollars better off than you are this minute." tony was a man who was noted far and near for his success in killing the lions which were so abundant in the mountains. he would rather hunt them than dig for gold, because he was almost sure to get the animal he went after. he was filling his pipe when banta was speaking, but he dropped it and let it lay on the ground where it had fallen. "it is the truth i am telling you," declared banta. "if you don't believe it, you can go up there to that haunted mine and find out all about it. the boys killed them with nothing but revolvers." banta had his pipe lit by this time, and the miners crowded around him, all eager for his story. bob and jake were there, and no one seemed to pay the least attention to them; but they were impatient to learn all the particulars of the case. there was one question they wanted answered immediately, and that was, did the boys really have a bagful of dust, or was banta merely joking about that? fortunately tony recovered his wits and his pipe at the same time and asked the question for them. "did the boys get ten thousand dollars in two weeks?" he asked. "well, they brought a bag out for us to examine, and they thought it was nothing but iron pyrites," said banta; and then he went on smoking his pipe. "we took one look at the bag," said his partner, "and we took a big load off the boys' minds when we told them it was gold, and nothing else. yes, sir--they have it fair and square." "the boys are going ahead as though there had never been any ghosts there," said banta; and then he went on to tell the miners everything that had happened during their trip to the haunted mine; and when he got started, he followed julian's narrative, and paid no attention to jack's. it was certain that the story did not lose anything by passing through his hands. "jack pulled off his shirt," said he, in conclusion, "and he has some wounds on his back that will go with him through life." "and is the gold as thick as they say it is--so thick that one can pick it up with his hands?" "it is not quite as thick as that," replied banta, with a laugh. "but every time one washes out a cradleful he finds anywhere from a teaspoonful to three or four which he wants to put in his bag. i tell you, the boys have been lucky." "i am going up there the first thing in the morning," said a miner. "here i have been slaving and toiling for color for six months, and i can hardly get enough to pay for my provisions, but i'll bet it won't be that way, now, much longer." "wait until i tell you something," answered banta. "neely, you can go up there, if you are set on it; there's no law here that will make you stay away. there are plenty of places where you can sink a shaft without troubling the boys any, but whether or not it will pay you is another question. the boys will be down here themselves in less than two weeks' time." "how do you account for that?" "their vein is giving out. it will end in a deep ravine that is up there, and there their color ends." "why don't they go back farther and start another?" asked the miner. "it won't pay. the man who started that shaft upon which they are now at work was a tenderfoot, sure enough. there is not the first sign of color about the dirt anywhere. he thought it was a pretty place and so went to work, and the consequence is, it has panned out sixty thousand dollars. but go ahead if you want to, neely." neely did not know whether or not he wanted to go ahead with such a warning in his ears. banta was an experienced prospector, and he could almost tell by looking at the ground if there was any gold anywhere about there. a good many who had been on the point of starting for the haunted mine with the first peep of day shook their heads, and concluded they would rather stay where they were than go off to a new country. there were three, who did not say anything, whose minds were already made up as to what they would do. they waited until the miners were ready to go to their blankets, and then bob attracted the attention of those nearest him by saying, "what banta says throws a damper on me. the haunted mine is going to play out in a day or two, this place here is not worth shucks, and we are going off somewhere at break of day to see if we can't do better than we are doing here." "where are you going?" asked one. "i don't know, and in fact i don't care much. i'll go to the first good place i hear of, i don't care if it is on the other side of the rocky mountains. i came out here expecting to get rich in a few days, and i am poorer now than i was ten years ago. these mountains around here have not any gold in them for me." "and i say it is good riddance," whispered the miner to some who stood near him. "if you had acted as you did last year, you would have been sent out before this time." having paved the way for the departure of himself and companions, bob joined them and led the way into his own cabin. they seated themselves close together, for they did not want to talk loud enough to be heard by anyone who was passing their camp. "well, they have it!" exclaimed claus, who was so excited that he could not sit still. "and it is gold, too," declared jake. "banta says so, and that is enough." "in the morning, after we get breakfast," said bob, "we'll hitch up and take the back trail toward denver. we will go away from the haunted mine, and that will give color to what i told them a while ago." "what if you should chance to miss your way?" asked claus. "you can't lose me in these mountains; i have prospected all over them, and i have seen where the haunted mine is located a hundred times. what a pity it was that i did not stay there. sixty thousand dollars! jake, if we had that sum of money we would be rich." jake did not say anything--that is, anything that would do to put on paper. he stretched himself out on his blanket and swore softly to himself, so that nobody but his companions could hear him. "that will be three thousand three hundred dollars apiece," said claus, who did not like the way that bob and jake left him out entirely. "remember, i am to have a third of it." "of course; and it will be more than that. the boys will have some time to do more digging, and maybe they'll have another bagful. i understood you to say that the boys were pretty plucky." "you may safely say that," replied claus. "the way they stood up against those lions, when they did not know what was onto them, is abundant proof of that. you will have to go easy when you tackle them, or some of you will get more than you want." the three continued to talk in this way until they grew tired and fell asleep--that is, all except claus, who rolled and twisted on his blanket for a good while before he passed into the land of nod. but he was out before daybreak and busy with breakfast, while the others brought up the animals and packed them for their journey. there was only one man who came near them, and that was banta, who wanted to make sure they were not going toward the haunted mine. "well, boys, are you going to leave us?" he inquired. "where are you going?" "not giving you a short answer, we don't care much _where_ we go," replied bob. "there is nothing here for us, and we will go elsewhere. we are going to take the back track." "are you not deciding on this matter suddenly?" "we determined on it yesterday. we decided to go up to the haunted mine if you came back with a favorable report of the condition of things, but you say the lead is played out, and of course that knocks us. wherever we go, we can't find a much worse place than this." "well, boys, i wish you luck, and we'll all go away from here before a great while." "why are you so anxious to find out about where we are going?" asked bob. "because i wanted to remind you to keep away from that mine up the gully," answered banta, looking hard at bob while he spoke. "the boys have that mine all to themselves, and we are going to stand by them." "we have no intention of going near that haunted mine," asserted bob, rather sullenly. "if those boys have gold, let them keep it." "all right! then i have nothing further to say to you." so saying, banta turned on his heel and walked away. there was nothing insulting in what he said, but bob and his companions knew that he was in earnest about it. they all kept watch of him as long as he remained in sight, and then looked at each other with a broad grin on their faces. "i guess banta didn't make anything by trying to pump me," said bob. "when we get a mile or two down the gully, we'll save what little provisions we want, push our horses over the bluff----" "what do we want to do that for?" exclaimed claus, in great amazement. "can't we turn them loose?" "yes, and have them come back here and join the old bell-mare," said jake, in disgust. "we have to be in a hurry about what we do, for we must get a long start of the men here. if our nags appeared among the other horses here, the miners would know we had been fooling them and would start for the haunted mine at once." "couldn't we tie them up?" asked claus; "or, we could shoot them. that would be an easier way than pushing them over the bluff." "but there's the report our pistols would make," replied bob, turning fiercely upon claus. "the easiest way is the best. now, if we have everything we want, let us dig out from here." the men in the camp saw them when they mounted their horses and started down the gully toward denver, but there was not one who shouted a farewell after them. when they disappeared from view, banta drew a long breath of relief. "it is just as well that they took themselves off before we had a chance to tell them that their room was better than their company. i do not like the way they have been acting since they have been here." chapter xxviii. an inhuman act. "i'll bet no men ever went away from a camp before without somebody said good-bye to them," said jake. "they don't care where we go, or what luck we have, provided we don't go near the haunted mine. if they will just stay that way until to-morrow, they can all come on at once, if they have a mind to." claus was the soberest man in the party. he was waiting and watching for that bluff at which their faithful steeds were to give up their lives to make it possible for their owners to get away with the amount they expected to raise at the haunted mine. there was something cold-blooded about this, and claus could not bring himself to think of it without shivering all over. "i don't see why you can't tie them there," claus ventured to say; "they won't make any fuss until we are safely out of the way. it looks so inhuman, to kill them." "look here!" said bob, so fiercely that claus resolved he would not say anything more on the subject--"if you don't like the way we are managing this business, you can just go your way, and we'll go ours." "but you can't go yet," interrupted jake; "we are not going to have you go back to dutch flat and tell the men there what we are going to do. you will stay with us until we get that money." "of course he will," assented bob. "when we get through with that haunted mine we'll go off into the mountains, and then you'll be at liberty to go where you please." "of course i shall stay with you," said claus, not a little alarmed by the threat thus thrown out. then he added to himself, "i reckon i played my cards just right. if i can keep them from searching me, i'll come out at the big end of the horn, no matter what happens to them." for the next hour claus held his peace; but he noticed that his horse turned his head and looked down the gully as if he feared they were not going the right away. he did not remember that he had come that route before, but concluded that bob was gradually leaving the trail behind them, and was veering around to get behind the camp at dutch flat. then the mule which bore their pack-saddle began to be suspicious of it, too, for he threw up his head and gave utterance to a bray so long and loud that it awoke a thousand echoes among the mountains. "shut up!" exclaimed jack, jerking impatiently at his halter. "i hope that bluff is not far away. we'll soon put a stop to your braying when we get there." in another hour they came upon the bluff, one side of which was bounded by a deep ravine that seemed to extend down into the bowels of the earth, and the other was hemmed in by lofty mountains which rose up so sheer their tops seemed lost in the clouds above. here again the mule became suspicious, for, in spite of the jerks which jake gave at his halter, he set up another bray that sounded as if the mountains were full of mules. "hold fast to him, jake, until i take his saddle off," said bob, hastily dismounting from his horse; "i can soon stop that, if you can't. there--his pack is off. take him by the foretop--don't let him get away from you. now, then, look at you!" the mule got away in spite of all jake's efforts to hold fast to him. the moment the bridle was out of his mouth he dodged the grab that jake made for his foretop, and with a flourish of his heels and another long bray made for the gully by which he had entered the bluff. the horses made a vain attempt to follow him, and the animal on which claus was mounted seemed determined to go away, but he was finally stopped by his rider before he reached the gully. bob and jake were fairly beside themselves with anger. bob stamped up and down so close to the ravine that the least misstep would have sent him over the brink, and jake sat down on the ground and swore softly to himself. "i tell you, this won't do!" said bob, coming back to the horses. "let us put them over without the least delay; and, mind you, we won't take their bridles off at all. that mule will be in camp in less than an hour, so we must make tracks. let their saddles go, too." the men went to work at pushing the horses over into the ravine as if they were in earnest. first bob's horse went; then jake's; and finally they took claus's bridle out of his hands and shoved his horse over, too. claus did not see any of this work. the animals went over without making any effort at escape beyond putting out their feet and trying to push themselves away from the brink; but the miners got behind them, and all their attempts to save themselves amounted to nothing. he heard the horses when they crashed through the branches of the trees below him, and then all was silent. "what else could we do?" exclaimed bob, who thought claus looked rather solemn over it. "dutch flat is not a mile from here, and some one there would have heard their whinnying. i am sorry to do it, too, but when there is ten thousand dollars in sight, i don't stop at anything. now pitch that mule's things over, also, and then we'll get away from here." this being done, the three, with a small package of provisions on their shoulders, set out once more at a rapid pace, bob leading the way. for a long time no one spoke, the travelling being so difficult that it took all their breath to keep pace with bob; but finally he turned about and made a motion of silence with his hand, and then they began to pick their way through the bushes with more caution. after a few moments he stopped, pushed aside the branches of an evergreen, and after taking a survey of the scene presented to his gaze he made another motion, which brought his companions up beside him. "we have caught them at it!" said he. 'julian is on top, and jack is down below, shovelling dirt. where are your revolvers?" "those fellows from the flat have not come yet," said jake, looking all around to make sure that the boys were alone. "lead ahead, bob, and remember that we are close at your heels." leaving his provisions behind him, bob arose to his feet, stepped out of his place of concealment and advanced toward the pit. julian was so intent on watching his companion below that he did not hear the sound of their footsteps until they were so close to him that he could not pull his partner up; so he simply raised his head, and was about to extend to them a miner's welcome, when he saw something that made him open his eyes and caused him to stare harder than ever. there was something about that short, fleshy man which he was sure he recognized. it did not make any difference in what style of clothing claus was dressed in,--whether as a gentleman of leisure or as a miner,--his face betrayed him. he saw that it was all up with him, for he had no time to go to the lean-to after his revolver. "pitch that dirt out of the bucket and come up, jack," called julian, shaking the rope to attract the attention of his comrade. "claus is up here." there was a moment's silence; then jack's voice came back in no very amiable tones. "get away with your nonsense!" he exclaimed. "if i come up there again for just nothing at all, i pity _you_! if claus is there, make him show himself." "why, he's your uncle," asserted bob, who began to wonder if that was the first lie that claus had told them. "that man?" exclaimed julian. "not much, he ain't. jack, is claus your uncle?" "tell him to come down here and i'll see about it," said jack, who could not yet be made to see that there was something really going on at the top. "that makes two i have against you, old fellow." "no, you haven't got anything against me," said julian. "here is claus. don't you see his face? any man who would claim such an uncle as that--" "that is enough out of you!" interrupted jake. "fetch that partner of yours up, and then bring out your money--we must get away from here in a hurry." "well! well!" cried jack, who happened to look up and catch a glimpse of claus's face. "i will come up directly." "say, you, down there," called bob, bending over the shaft, "if you have a revolver down there, be careful that you keep it where it belongs." "don't worry yourself," answered jack; "i haven't anything in the shape of a revolver about me. hoist away, julian." the dirt was emptied out by this time, and jack stepped into the bucket and was promptly hoisted to the top. then he stood waiting for the three men to make known their wants; but he devoted the most of his time to scrutinizing the face of claus, to whom he was indebted for the presence of the other two. "do you think you could recognize me if you should chance to meet me again anywhere?" asked claus. "certainly, i could," answered julian; "i would recognize you if i saw you in asia. you are bound to have some of that money, are you not?" "that is just what i am here for," said claus, with a grin. "you have one bagful and another partly full, and we want them both as soon as you can get them." jack was astonished when he heard this, for mr. banta had told him to keep the full bag hidden where no one could find it. how, then, did claus know anything about it? julian was equally amazed; but, after thinking a moment, he turned on his heel and led the way toward their lean-to. bob and his companion kept close by the side of the two boys, for they did not want them to find their revolvers before they knew something about it. they had heard from various sources that the boys were fair shots, and they did not want to see them try it on. "well, claus, you slipped up on one thing," said julian; "you didn't get any of that block of buildings--did you?" "come, now, hurry up!" insisted bob. "where are those bags?" "here's one you have been talking about," answered jack, pulling the head of his bed to pieces and producing the article in question. "julian, you know where the other one is." while jack was engaged in performing this work the revolvers were kept pointed straight at him, for fear he might pull out another one and turn it loose upon them before they could draw a trigger. but the boys did not seem to care any more about the revolvers than if they had been sticks of wood that were aimed at them. claus had a revolver, but he did not seem inclined to use it. "are you sure it is gold in here, and not something else?" asked bob. "you have got the bag in your hands, and you can look and see for yourself," said jack. "go out in front of the lean-to and sit down on the ground so that i can watch you," said bob. "jake, go with that boy and dig up the other one. is this all you have made since you have been here?" "yes, that's all. now, what are you going to do with us?" "i'll tell you when jake comes back. is there much more of that lead down there?" "well, you have charge of the mine, now, and there is no law to hinder you from going down and finding out," retorted jack. "claus, where are you going? i don't expect to see these gentlemen any more, but i should like to keep track of you." claus did not see fit to answer this question, and in the meantime julian and jake returned with the other bag. chapter xxix. a tramp with the robbers. "oh, it is gold!" exclaimed jake, as bob took the bag and bent over it; "it is not iron pyrites." "stow that about your clothes, jake, and then we'll go on," said bob; "and we want you boys to gather up provisions enough to last you for three or four days. but, in the first place, where are your revolvers?" "don't you see them hung up there, in plain sight?" asked jack, pointing to the articles in question, which were suspended from the rack of the lean-to, in plain sight. "what are you going to do with us?" "we are going to take you a three days' journey with us, and then turn you loose." "why can't you let us go now?" queried julian. "we have nothing else that is worth stealing." "no, but you are too close to dutch flat," jake replied. "we haven't got anything against you, and when we get out there in the mountains--" "you might as well shoot us on the spot as to lose us among these hills. i pledge you my word that we will not stir a step--" "that is all very well," interrupted bob with a shake of his head which told the boys that he had already decided on his plan; "but, you see, it don't go far enough. if you don't go to the miners, the miners will come here to you, so we think you would be safer with us. gather up your grub and let us get away from here." the boy saw very plainly that bob and jake wanted to make their escape from the miners sure; so julian collected some bacon and hard-tack, which he wrapped up in a blanket and fixed to sling over his shoulders. there was one thing that encouraged him--"if he did not go to the miners, the miners would come after him"--and proved that they must in some way have had their suspicions aroused against bob and jake. jack also busied himself in the same way, and in a very few minutes the boys were ready to start. "i must say you are tolerably cool ones, to let ten or fifteen thousand dollars be taken from you in this way," remarked bob, who was lost in admiration of the indifferent manner in which the boys obeyed all orders. "i have seen some that would have been flurried to death by the loss of so much money." "if claus, here, told the truth, they have a whole block of buildings to fall back on," answered jake. "but maybe that is a lie, too." "no, he told you the truth there," said julian. "he tried to cheat us out of those buildings while we were in st. louis--" "i never did it in this world!" declared claus, emphatically. "did you not claim to be our uncle?" asked julian. "uncle!" ejaculated jack. "great scott!" claus did not attempt to deny this. bob and jake were almost within reach of him, and they looked hard at him to see what he would say, and he was afraid to affirm that there was no truth in the statement for fear of something that might happen afterward. he glanced at the boys, who were looking steadily at him, and jack moved a step or two nearer to him with his hands clenched and a fierce frown on his face, all ready to knock him down if he denied it; so claus thought it best not to answer the question at all. "you won't think it hard of me if i hit him a time or two?" asked jack. "come here and behave yourself," said julian, walking up and taking jack by the arm. "i think, if the truth was known, he is in a worse fix than we are." "but he claims to be my uncle!" exclaimed jack. the tone in which these words were uttered, and jack's anger over the claim of relationship, caused bob and jake to break out into a roar of laughter. "we'll take your word for it," said bob, as soon as he could speak; "but we can't waste any more time here. follow along after me, and jake will bring up the rear." bob at once set off to the spot where they had left their provisions, and, having picked them up, led the way down the almost perpendicular side of the ravine until they reached the bottom. now and then he would look over his shoulder at jack, who was following close behind him, and would break into another peal of laughter. "so you didn't want that fellow to claim relationship with you?" said he. "well, i don't blame you. he has done nothing but tell us one pack of lies after another ever since we met him. the only thing that had the least speck of truth in it was that we should find you here at the haunted mine." this remark was made in a low tone, so that it did not reach the ears of claus, who was following some distance behind. if claus had not seen already that he was in a "fix," he ought to have seen it now. "now, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling us what you are going to do with us," jack ventured to say, in reply. "well, the men there at dutch flat are hot on our trail now," asserted bob. "how do you know that?" "because our mule got away from us when we tried to shove him over the bluff. we wanted to destroy everything we had that we could not carry on our backs, but he got away from us. banta warned us against coming up here, and we fooled him by making him believe we were going straight down to denver; but he will be after us now. if he comes, he had better take us unawares; that's all." "we don't want to see that fight," remarked jack. "you'll let us go before that comes off?" "oh, yes; when we get you so deep in the mountains that you can't find your way back readily, why, then we'll let you go. if you behave yourselves, you won't get hurt." bob led the way at a more rapid pace when they reached the bottom of the gorge, jumping from rock to rock, and climbing over fallen trees that lay in their road, and jack followed his example. he knew that bob was making the trail more difficult to follow, but it was done in order to keep out of argument with his charge; for bob often stopped, whenever he came to a place that took some pains to get over, and saw that those who were following him left no tracks behind them. "there!" said bob, pulling off his hat and looking back at the way they had come; "i reckon banta will find some trouble in tracking us up here. i am hungry, and we'll stop here and have something to eat." after they had satisfied their appetites they took a little time to rest, and then set off again at a more rapid pace than ever. it was almost dark when they stopped to camp for the night. the boys were tired, and they showed it as soon as they had disposed of their bacon and hard-tack by wrapping their blankets about them and lying down to sleep, with their feet to the fire. their slumber was as sound as though they were surrounded by friends instead of being in the power of those who had robbed them of their hard-earned wealth. it seemed to them that they had scarcely closed their eyes when they were awakened by the sound of footsteps moving about, and threw off their blankets in time to see bob cutting off a slice of bacon. it was as dark as pitch in the woods, and the boys did not see how bob was to find his way through them. "it will be light enough by the time we have our breakfast eaten," said he, in response to the inquiry of julian. "you have a watch with you. what time is it?" julian had a watch with him, it is true, but he had been careful how he drew it out in the presence of bob and jake. it had no chain attached to it, and the boy was not aware that bob knew anything about it; but he produced the gold timepiece and announced that it was just five o'clock. this was another thing over which julian had had an argument with jack, who believed that, with the money he had at his disposal, he ought to have the best watch that could be procured, and, in spite of jack's arguments, he had purchased the best american patent lever he could find. jack's watch was an ordinary silver one, and he said that by it he could tell the time when dinner was ready as well as he could by a good timepiece. "do you want this watch?" asked julian, because he thought the man who would steal his money would not be above stealing his watch also. "oh, no," replied bob, with a laugh; "you can keep that. i wanted your money, and, now that i have it, i am satisfied." by the time breakfast was cooked and eaten there was light enough to show them the way, and bob once more took the lead. there was no trail to guide them--nothing but the gully, which twisted and turned in so many ways that julian almost grew heart-sick when he thought of finding his way back there in company with jack. more than once he was on the point of asking bob if he did not think they had gone far enough, but the man had been so friendly and good-natured all the time that he did not want to give him a chance to act in any other way. so he kept with him during that long day's tramp, looking into all the gullies he crossed, and once or twice he slyly reached behind him and pulled down a branch of an evergreen that happened to come in his way. "that's the way our women used to do in old revolutionary times when they were captured and wanted to leave some trail for their rescuers to follow," soliloquized julian; "but bob doesn't take any notice of it." "well, i reckon we'll stop here for the night," remarked bob, when it got so dark that he could scarcely see. "this is as far as we shall ask you to go with us, julian. i suppose you are mighty glad to get clear of us." "yes, i am," assented julian, honestly. "if you will give us what you have in your pockets, you can go your way and we will make no attempt to capture you." "oh, we couldn't think of that! you have wealth enough to keep you all your lives, and i have struggled for ten years to gain a fortune, and to-day i have just got it." "what would you do if somebody should catch you along the trail, somewhere? you would come in for a hanging, sure." "don't you suppose we know all that? it is a good plan for you to catch your man before you hang him. we have two revolvers apiece, and you know what that means." "you don't count claus worth anything, then," remarked jack. "eh? oh, yes, we do," exclaimed bob, who wondered what claus would think of him for leaving him out entirely. "but claus is not used to this sort of business, you know. he could make a noise, and that is about all he could do." "we know we should come in for a hanging if those fellows at dutch flat should ever get their hands on us, but when they do that we'll be dead. you need not think we are going to stay in this country, where everybody has got so rich, and we be as poor as job's turkey all the while. we have just as good a right to be rich as they have." when jake got to talking this way it was a sure sign that he was rapidly getting toward a point which bob called "crazy." he was always mad when he spoke of others' wealth and his own poverty; and the boys, who were anxious to get him off from that subject, began their preparations for supper. they were glad to know they had gone far enough with the robbers to insure their escape, and they were disposed to be talkative; but they noticed that claus was more downhearted than he had ever been. he lit his pipe, leaned back against a tree, and went off into a brown study. "i suppose he'll get a portion of the money that was stolen from us," said jack, in a low tone. "no, he won't," answered julian in the same cautious manner. "he has been promised some of that money, but i'll bet you he don't get a cent of it. he is here in these fellows' power, and they'll take what they please out of him." the boys, although as tired as they were on the previous day, were not by any means inclined to sleep. in fact they did not believe they had been asleep at all until they heard bob moving around the fire. it was five o'clock by julian's watch, and his first care was to find out what had become of claus, who lay muffled up, head and ears, in his blanket; but he would not have stayed there if he knew what was going to happen to him during the day. "now perhaps you will be good enough to tell us what route we have to travel in order to get out of here," said jack. "have you a compass with you?" asked jake. no, the boys had none; they did not think they would need one when they were surrounded by friends who knew the woods, and consequently they had not brought one with them. "you know which way is east, don't you? well, place your backs to the sun, and keep it there all the time. dutch flat lies directly west of here." "that will be good if the sun shines all the time," said julian. "but if it goes under a cloud--then what?" "then you will have to go into camp, and stay until it comes out again," replied bob. "but at this time of the year you have nothing to fear on that score. are you going already? well, good-bye. why don't you wish us good luck with that money we took from you?" "because i don't believe it will bring you good luck," said jack. "we worked hard for it, and we ought to have it. i wish you good-bye, but i don't wish you good luck." "shake hands with your uncle, why don't you?" asked bob. "not much!" returned jack. "if that money doesn't bring him some misfortune i shall miss my guess." julian and jack shouldered the blankets which contained the few provisions they had left, plunged into the thicket, and were out of hearing in a few minutes. the robbers sat by the fire without making any effort to continue their journey, and presently bob turned his eyes upon claus. "now, my friend, it is time for you to go, too," said he. chapter xxx. home again. claus had been expecting something of this kind. it is true he had a revolver, but by the time he could reach back to his hip pocket and draw it he could be covered by jake, whose weapon lay close at hand. there was but one thing to be done--he had to surrender. instead of getting three thousand dollars for his share in the robbery, he would be turned loose in that country, two hundred miles from anybody, without a cent left in his pockets--that is, if bob searched him. "well," said claus, "i suppose you want all the money i have around me. i should think you might leave me a little." "how much have you?" asked bob. without saying a word, claus unbuttoned his vest, worked at something on the inside, and presently hauled out a belt, which he handed over to bob. it did not stick out as though there was much money in it, and when bob began to investigate it, all he drew forth was twenty-five dollars. "you are a wealthy millionaire, i understood you to say," exclaimed bob, in great disgust. "this looks like it!" "i told you, when i had purchased the pack-mule, provisions and tools, that i should not have much left," answered claus. "that's all i have, and if you take it from me i shall starve." "stand up!" commanded jake, who was as disgusted as bob was. "you are sure you haven't got any about your clothes? but, first, i'll take possession of that revolver." the revolver having been disposed of, jake then turned his attention to feeling in all claus's pockets, but he found nothing more there--claus had evidently given them the last cent he had. "take your little bills," said bob, throwing claus's belt back to him. "if you are careful of them, they will serve you till you get back to denver." "and when you get there, you can go to one of those men who own that block of buildings and borrow another thousand or two. now, get out of here!" put in jake. "i thank you for this much," returned claus. "but i should thank you a good deal more if you would give me my revolver. i may want it before i reach denver." "give it to him, jake. he hasn't pluck enough to shoot at us or anybody else. make yourself scarce about here!" "they think they are awful smart!" thought claus, when he had placed some bushes between him and the robbers. "why didn't they think to look in my shoe? i have three hundred dollars that they don't know anything about. now i guess i'll go back to st. louis; and if anybody ever says anything to me about an 'old horse,' i'll knock him down." we are now in a position to take a final leave of claus, and we do it with perfect readiness. did he get back to st. louis in safety? yes, he got there in due course, but he had some fearful sufferings on the way. in the first place, he was nearly a week in finding his way out of the mountains; and by the time he reached a miner's cabin he was so weak from want of food that he fell prone upon the floor, and stayed there until the miner came from his work and found him there. of course he was taken in and cared for, and when he was able to resume his journey he offered to present the miner with every cent he had,--twenty-five dollars,--to pay him for his kindness; but the miner would not take it. "you will need every cent of that before you get to denver," said he. "the food and care i have given you don't amount to anything. good-bye, and good luck to you." he was nearly three times as long in finding his way back to denver. he tried to buy a horse on the way, but no one had any to sell. he now and then found a chance to ride when he was overtaken by a teamster who was going somewhere for a load, but the most of his journey was accomplished on foot. his long tramp never cost him a cent, for everybody pitied his forlorn condition. "i tell you, if i had been treated this way by those robbers i wouldn't look as bad as i do now," claus often said to himself; "i would have seen california before i went home." all this while, claus was on nettles for fear he would see some of the men from dutch flat who were in pursuit of him; but the trouble was, the miners all went the other way. they never dreamed that claus was going home, but saddled their horses at mr. banta's command, and, making no attempt to follow the devious course of the robbers through the mountains, took the "upper trail," and did their best to shut them off from the towns toward which they knew the men were hastening to buy some more provisions. what luck they met with we shall presently see. no man ever drew a longer breath than claus did when he came within sight of denver. he went at once to the hotel where he had left his clothes, but the landlord did not recognize him and ordered him out of the house; but he finally succeeded in making himself known; and, now that he was safely out of reach of the miners at dutch flat, he had some fearful stories to tell of his experience. "you know i left my clothes with you on condition that you would keep them for me for a year," said claus, who thought that was the wisest thing that he ever did. "well, i want them now. i have the key to my trunk, so everything is all right." claus was not long in recovering from the effects of his journey, for he could not help thinking that mr. banta, or some other man who belonged to the flat, would find out that he had gone to denver and come after him; so he remained there but two days before he took the cars for home. "now i am safe," said he, settling down in his seat and pulling his hat over his eyes; "i would like to see them catch me. but what shall i do when i get back to st. louis? i must settle down into the same old life i have always led, and that will be a big come-down for me." claus is there now, spending his time at the pool-rooms, where he makes the most of his living, and ready at any time to talk about the mines and the terrible experience he had there. and where were julian and jack all this while? to begin with, they were in the ravine, making all the haste they could to leave the robbers behind and reach the haunted mine before their provisions gave out. that troubled them worse than anything. "if our grub stops, where are we going to get more?" asked jack. "i don't believe there is a house any nearer than dutch flat." "and we can't get there any too soon," returned julian. "at any rate, we are better off than claus is. what do you suppose they intend to do with him?" "i suppose they intend to divide the money with him. what makes you think they would do anything else?" "from the way they treated him. if we could learn the whole upshot of the matter, you would find that they don't intend to give him a dollar." "i wish we could see mr. banta for about five minutes," said jack. "i don't like to give up that money. it is the first we ever earned by digging in the ground, and i was going to suggest to you that we keep some of it." julian replied by lengthening his steps and going ahead at a faster rate than ever. he, too, did not like to confess that the money was lost,--that is, if they could only get word to mr. banta in time. he did not know where the robbers were heading for; but, with two hundred men at his back, julian was certain he could come up with them before they had left the country entirely. "but i hope they will not hurt the robbers," said julian. "if they will just get the dust, that is all i shall ask of them." about five o'clock in the afternoon, when it began to grow dark in the ravine, julian, who had been all the time leading the way, stopped and pointed silently before him. jack looked, and there was the camp they had occupied two nights before. "we are on the right road, so far," said he. "if we don't miss our way to-morrow we are all right." the boys had not stopped to eat any dinner, and for that reason they were hungry. they spent a long time in cooking and eating their bacon, and julian said there was just enough for two more meals. he did not like to think of what might happen when it was all gone, and, after replenishing the fire, bade his companion good-night, wrapped his blanket about him, and laid down to rest; but sleep was out of the question. a dozen times he got up to see the time, and there was jack, snoring away as lustily as he had done at the haunted mine. julian wished that he, too, could forget his troubles in the same way, but when morning came he had not closed his eyes. julian proved to be an invaluable guide, for that night they slept in the first camp they had made after leaving the haunted mine. if he had always known the path, he could not have brought his companion straighter to it. "now keep your eyes open for the trail we made when we came down from our mine, and then we are at home. but i say, julian, i shall not be in favor of staying here. all our money is gone, i don't feel in the humor to work for any more, and we will go down to dutch flat." "and we'll stay there just long enough to find somebody starting out for denver, and we'll go with him," replied julian. "i don't want anything more to do with the mines as long as i live." the night passed away, and the next morning, without waiting to cook breakfast, the two boys started to find the trail that led up the bluff to the haunted mine. they were a long time in finding it--so long, in fact, that julian began to murmur discouraging words; but finally jack found it; and now began the hardest piece of work they had undertaken since they left the robbers. the cliff was as steep as it looked to be when they gazed down into its depths from the heights above, and they did not see how they had managed to come down it in the first place. "are you sure the mine is up here?" asked julian, seating himself on a fallen tree to rest. "i should not like to go up there and find nothing." "didn't you see the trail we made in coming down?" inquired jack. "of course we are on the right track; but if you spend all your time in resting, we shall never be nearer the top than we are this minute." julian once more set to work to climb the hill, and in half an hour more jack pushed aside some branches that obstructed his way and found himself in plain view of the mine. julian was satisfied now, but declared he could not go any farther until he had recovered all the wind he had expended in going up the bluff; but jack wanted to see that everything in the camp was just as they left it. he walked on toward the lean-to, and the first thing that attracted his attention was that his goods had been disturbed. the skins were gone, some of the blankets were missing, and there were hardly provisions enough to get them a square meal. julian came up in response to his call, and was obliged to confess that there had been other robbers while they were absent. "let us dish up the few provisions left, take those things we want to save, and dig out for the flat," said julian. "i am sure there is nothing here to keep us, now." "and we'll leave the dirt-bucket here for somebody else to use," added jack. "if he thinks there is a lead down there, let him go and try it. i did not send up enough dust the last time i was down there to pay for the rope." at the end of an hour the boys resumed their journey, each one loaded with a few things they wanted to save, and in two hours more they arrived within sight of dutch flat. some few of the men had already given up their workings and were sitting in front of the store, smoking their pipes; but one of them speedily caught sight of the boys, and the miners broke out into a cheer. in a few seconds more they were surrounded, shaking hands with all of them, and trying in vain to answer their questions all at once. "this is no way to do it," declared julian. "let us put our things in the cabin and get our breath, and i will tell you the story." "in the first place," began jack, as he deposited the things with which his arms were filled and came out and seated himself on the doorsteps of mr. banta's cabin, "let me ask a few questions. i won't delay the story five minutes. where is the man who owns this house?" "mr. banta?" said one of the miners. "he took the upper trail two or three days ago, and rode with all possible speed in the direction of mendota. he hopes in that way to cut off those villains." "he will do it, too, for they have no horses," said julian. "no horses? what did they do with them?" "i don't know, i am sure," answered julian, in surprise. "they were on foot when they came to rob us." "why, their mule came up here a few hours after they left, and made the biggest kind of a fuss, and banta suspected something at once. he called for some men to go with him, and he went as straight as he could to your mine. you were not there, and that proved that those miners had paid you a visit." "we are going to get our dust again!" said julian, slapping jack on the shoulder. "but i hope they won't hurt the robbers after they catch them." "well, that is rather a difficult thing to tell. a man who comes into a mining-camp and watches his chance to steal money instead of working for it, takes his life in his hand." "then they must have been the ones who disturbed our things," said jack. "probably they were. they brought the skins of the ghosts back, and also some of your provisions. they are there in his cabin now. now let us have that story." chapter xxxi. conclusion. when julian had fairly settled down to tell his story, which he did by crossing his right leg over his left leg and clasping his hands around his knee, he discovered that there was not so much to be told as he had thought for. his adventure with the robbers was nothing more than might have happened to any one of the miners who were standing around him; the only question in his mind was, would the other miner have fared as well as he did? "they came to our mine and stole our dust; but i don't see how they found out about the full bag. mr. banta told us to be careful about that." "why, mr. banta told it himself!" remarked one of the miners. "he said you had a bagful hidden away." "you see, he had to do it, or the men here would have become suspicions and gone up to your mine in a body," explained another. "go on--what next?" "they took the full bag, as well as the half-empty one, and told us we would have to go with them on a three days' journey into the mountains, so as to keep you fellows here in ignorance of the robbery as long as possible but they took us only a two days' journey, and then told us we had gone far enough. that's all there was of it." "is that all you have to tell?" asked one. "well, no. they went away from here on horseback, you said. now, what did they do with their animals? they were on foot when they came to see us, and they never said 'horses' once during the two days we were with them." "probably they rode their horses as far as they could, and then killed them." "no doubt they pushed them over a bluff," said a man who had not spoken before. "we did not see any horses; of that much we are certain. the only thing i can't see into is, what they did with claus after we went away. of course they agreed to give him a portion of the money they got off us." "maybe so, but i don't think they did it. go on--how did they treat you?" "as well as they knew how," answered julian, emphatically. "that is the reason why i hope mr. banta will be kind to them if he catches them." "well, you'll see how he'll treat them," retorted a miner. "you'll never see those three men again." julian became uneasy every time the men spoke of the way the miners would use their prisoners if they found them, but he knew it would be of no use to say a word. if anything was done to them, he was in hopes the miners would get through with it before they came to camp. he was not used to any western way of dealing with criminals, and he thought he was getting too old to become used to it now. this was the way julian told his story, in answer to numerous questions of the miners, who finally heard all they wanted to know. in regard to what had happened to claus, none of the miners had any idea. he did not get any of the dust that was stolen from the boys, and he would be lucky if he got away with a dollar in his pocket. "do you know, i have been on the watch for them fellows to get into a squabble of some kind before we saw the last of them?" remarked a miner. "that bob was a regular thief--one could tell that by looking at him. the short, pursy fellow--you called him claus, didn't you?--looked like a gentleman; but his face did not bear out his good clothes." the miners then slowly dispersed, one after the other,--some to their work, and some to lounge in front of the grocery, smoking their pipes,--and the boys were left to themselves. their first care was to get something to eat, for they had not had a sufficient quantity of food, the bacon and hard-tack they first put into their blankets having disappeared until there was none left. provisions were handy in mr. banta's cabin, and when they had got fairly to work on it they heard a sound from the miners whom they had left outside. "here they come!" shouted a voice. "now we'll see what will be done with those prisoners!" the boys looked at each other in blank amazement. they had caught the robbers, so their dust was safe; but what were they going to do with the culprits, now that they had captured them? "i declare," said another miner, at length, "they haven't brought any prisoners with them! and there's tony, with his arm tied up in a sling!" the boys had by this time reached the door, and saw mr. banta, accompanied by a dozen miners, ride into the camp. the boys looked closely at them, but could not see anybody that looked like bob and jake; but tony did not seem to have left all the fight there was in him up in the mountains, for he raised his rifle and flourished it over his head. "halloo! mr. banta," shouted julian. "you meant to catch them, did you? but i guess you came out at the little end of the horn." "well, there!" exclaimed mr. banta, stopping his horse and addressing himself to his men; "didn't i tell you those boys would come back all right? put it there, kids!" julian and jack shook hands with all the returning miners before they saw an opportunity to propound any other questions; and then, when they did ask them, they did not get any satisfactory answers. "did you get our dust?" asked jack. "yes, sir! and the men--ah!" said mr. banta, who stopped and looked around at the miners as if he hardly knew what to say next. "well, what about the men?" inquired julian. "you saw them, of course." "oh, yes, we saw the men; and when we asked them where the dust was that they stole down here at the haunted mine, they took it out of their clothes and gave it to us. ain't that so, boys?" the men around him nodded their heads emphatically, as if to say their leader had told nothing but the truth, but there was something in their faces that told a different story. the boys concluded they would ask no more questions while mr. banta was around, but when he went away they were sure they would get at the truth of the matter. "and, julian, there's your money," continued mr. banta, who had been trying to take something out of his coat-pocket. "there is the full bag, and there is the other. the next time i leave you with such an amount of money to take care of, i'll give you my head for a football." "why, mr. banta, _you_ told them all about this!" asserted jack, laughingly. "no, i never!" shouted mr. banta. "didn't you tell the men what we had done and all about the dust we had?" asked julian. "you _did_ tell them, and the robbers were sitting by the camp-fire, and heard it all." "eh? oh, well--i did say--i could not well help it--let us go into the cabin and see what you have to eat." mr. banta lost no time in getting into the cabin, for the boys had asked a question he could not answer, and when they followed him in he was engaged in filling his pipe. "we rode to the haunted mine and found you were not there, so we came back and took the upper trail on the way to mendota," said the miner, talking rapidly, as if he hoped to shut off any questions the boys might have ready to ask him. "we had a good time. we found the men there and asked them for the money, and they gave it over as peaceable and quiet as could be. now, don't let us hear any more about it. you know the whole of the story. is this all you have to ease a man's appetite? why, i could eat it all myself!" "that's a funny story," whispered jack, as he and julian went to the spring after a bucket of water. "well, keep still," said julian. "he told us not to say anything more about it, and that's just the same as an order. we'll get the straight of the matter yet." "who will you go to?" "we'll go to tony for it. he was the man who was shot in the fracas, and he will tell us all about it." it was two days before julian had an opportunity to speak to tony in private. tony's right arm was injured so badly that he could not use a shovel, and the boys volunteered to go down in his mine and help him--a voluntary act on their part which gained them the good-will of all the miners. one day, when tony was sitting by his mine smoking his pipe and julian was waiting for jack to fill up their bucket, the latter thought the chance had come, for tony was unusually talkative that morning. "now, there is no need that you should keep this thing away from us any longer," said julian, suddenly. "who shot those two men?" tony was taken off his guard and looked all around as if he was waiting for some one to suggest an answer. finally he took off his hat and dug his fingers into his hair. "who said anything about shooting a man?" he asked. "no one has said anything about it this morning, but i just want to know if everything i suspect is true," answered julian, with his eyes fastened on tony's face. "some one who was there can't keep his mouth shut," remarked tony, in great disgust. "mr. banta said he didn't want you to know anything about it, and here that man has gone and blowed the whole thing! but you'll remember that i didn't say a word about it--won't you?" "no one shall ever know what you tell me," asserted julian. "did you shoot them?" "well, i couldn't help it--could i? we came up with them just before we got to mendota. we rode right plump onto them before we knew it, and without saying a word they began to shoot. if they had had rifles, some of us would have gone under; but they had nothing but revolvers, and the first thing i knew something went slap through my arm, and i began to shoot, too. i got in two shots while you would be thinking about it, and then mr. banta looked through their clothes and got the dust. we went down to mendota and reported the matter to the sheriff, and he sent up and buried them." "it is a wonder to me that they didn't arrest you," said julian. "who--me? what did i do? the men were shooting at us, and i was defending myself. it would have taken more men than they had there to arrest me, for any man would have done the same. anyhow, we got your money back. say! don't lisp a word of this to mr. banta. he would go for me hot and heavy." julian was obliged to promise again that mr. banta should never hear a word of what tony had told him; but that night he told it to jack, who said that his "funny story" had come out just as he thought it would. "you said you didn't want them to deal with the culprits here in camp, and you have your wish," said jack. not long after that the miners, discouraged, packed up, by companies of half a dozen or more, bid good-bye to their associates, and struck out for other localities. dutch flat was "played out," there was no gold there for them, and they were going where they could do better. some of them talked of going home, while others, whose "piles" were not quite as large as they wished, were going to try it again for another year. mr. banta lingered there for some time, and then he, too, astonished the boys by bringing up his tools and telling them that next day he would strike for denver. "and when i get there i don't think i shall stop," said he. "i have been away from my home in the granite hills so long that i won't know how to act when i get there, and i can't learn any younger than i can now. i am going as far as st. louis with you, and then i shall strike off alone." this put new life into the boys. as soon as it became known in camp that mr. banta was going away, a dozen others joined in with his party, and when they rode away from the camp the few miners who were left behind cheered themselves hoarse. the boys had been "to the mines," had met with some adventures while there, and they were ready to go back among civilized people once more. their stay in denver did not last more than a week, and the boys were made to promise, over and over again, that after they had seen their friends in st. louis they would go back there to live. everything they had in the world was there, the western country seemed to agree with them, and there they would remain. they had not yet completed their course at the business school, and when that was done they must look for some useful occupation in which to spend their lives. mr. banta proved that he had some money in the bank before he had been in denver two days. the boys left him at his old hotel, clad in a miner's suit, and looking altogether, as he expressed it, "like a low-down tramp," and when they saw him again they could hardly recognize him. the barber had been at work on him, the tailor had done his best to fit him out; but the squeeze he gave their hands proved that he was the same "old banta" still. the boys never forgot him; his kindness had saved them many a dollar. after taking leave of mr. banta at st. louis the boys took up their quarters at a leading hotel, and for two weeks devoted themselves to calling upon their friends. as they signed their names to the register julian whispered, "i have often thought, while i have been carrying messages here in the city and looked into this hotel while hurrying past it, that the men who could put up at a first-class house like this must be a happy lot, and now i have a chance to see how it goes myself. jack, let us go down and have a glass of soda water. why don't you grumble about that the way you did the last time we were here?" but jack did not feel like grumbling--he was too happy for that. he did not think, while he was finding fault with julian for the wages he had spent at the express office in buying 'old horse,' that he was one whose fortunes hung upon the letter that was to tell him about the haunted mine. the end. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. harry castlemon. how i came to write my first book. when i was sixteen years old i belonged to a composition class. it was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. one day he gave out "what a man would see if he went to greenland." my heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up i had one side of my slate filled. the teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." that gave me something to ponder upon. i did not say so out loud, but i knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. by the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. i was reading at that time one of mayne reid's works which i had drawn from the library, and i pondered upon it as much as i did upon what the teacher said to me. in introducing swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "no visible change was observable in swartboy's countenance." now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, i ought to be able to do it, too. i went home that very day and began a story, "the old guide's narrative," which was sent to the _new york weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. it was written on both sides of the sheets but i didn't know that this was against the rules. nothing abashed, i began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, i wrote it on only one side of the paper. but mind you, he didn't know what i was doing. nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard saturday's work--the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond--i shyly broached the subject to my mother. i felt the need of some sympathy. she listened in amazement, and then said: "why, do you think you could write a book like that?" that settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what i was up to until i sent the first four volumes of gunboat series to my father. was it work? well, yes; it was hard work, but each week i had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the "young naturalist" was all complete.--_harry castlemon in the writer._ gunboat series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . frank the young naturalist. frank on a gunboat. frank in the woods. frank before vicksburg. frank on the lower mississippi. frank on the prairie. rocky mountain series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . frank among the rancheros. frank in the mountains. frank at don carlos' rancho. sportsman's club series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . the sportsman's club in the saddle. the sportsman's club afloat. the sportsman's club among the trappers. frank nelson series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . snowed up. frank in the forecastle. the boy traders. roughing it series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . george in camp. george at the fort. george at the wheel. rod and gun series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . don gordon's shooting box. the young wild fowlers. rod and gun club. go-ahead series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . tom newcombe. go-ahead. no moss. war series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . true to his colors. marcy the blockade-runner. rodney the partisan. marcy the refugee. rodney the overseer. sailor jack the trader. houseboat series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . the houseboat boys. the mystery of lost river cañon. the young game warden. afloat and ashore series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . rebellion in dixie. a sailor in spite of himself. the ten-ton cutter. complete catalog of best books for boys and girls mailed on application to the publishers the john c. winston co., philadelphia the roundabout library for young people this well-known series of books is recognized as the best library of copyright books for young people, sold at popular prices. the authors represented in the roundabout library are not only the best well-known writers of juvenile literature, but the titles listed comprise the best writings of these authors, over titles are now in this library and all new titles will be selected with the same care as in the past, for stories that are not only entertaining but equally _instructive_ and _elevating_. this respect for wholesome juvenile literature is what has made and kept _the roundabout library better than any other library of books for boys and girls_. our aim is to maintain the supremacy of these books over all others _from every viewpoint_, and to make the superior features so apparent that those who have once read one, will always return to the roundabout library for more. _bound in extra cloth, with gold title and appropriate cover designs stamped in colors, attractive and durable, printed on the best paper from large clear type. illustrated, mo._ price per. volume, $. catalogue mailed on application to the publishers. the john c. winston co., publishers philadelphia roundabout library for young people selected from the works of alger, castlemon, ellis, stephens, henty, mrs. lillie and other writers. price, per volume, $ . =across texas.= by edward s. ellis. =adventures in canada; or, life in the woods.= by john c. geikie. =alison's adventures.= by lucy c. lillie. =american family robinson, the; or, the adventures of a family lost in the great desert of the west.= by w. d. belisle. =bear hunters of the rocky mountains, the.= by anne bowman. =ben's nugget; or, a boy's search for a fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. =bob burton; or, the young ranchman of the missouri.= by horatio alger, jr. =bonnie prince charlie; a tale of fontenoy and culloden.= by g. a. henty. =brave billy.= by edward s. ellis. =brave tom; or, the battle that won.= by edward s. ellis. =by england's aid; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ).= by g. a. henty. =by pike and dyke; a tale of the rise of the dutch republic.= by g. a. henty. =by right of conquest; or, with cortez in mexico.= by g. a. henty. =by love's sweet rule.= by gabrielle emelie jackson. =cabin in the clearing, the.= a tale of the frontier. by edward s. ellis. =camping out, as recorded by "kit."= by c. a. stephens. =camp in the foothills, the.= by harry castlemon. =cornet of horse, the.= a tale of marlborough's wars by g. a. henty. =cruise of the firefly.= by edward s. ellis. =dear days, a story of washington school life.= by ada mickle. =diccon the bold.= a story of the days of columbus. by john russell coryell. =do and dare; or, a brave boy's fight for fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. =dog crusoe, the. a tale of the western prairies.= by r. m. ballantyne. =dog of cotopaxi, the.= by hezekiah butterworth. =doris and theodora.= by margaret vandegrift. =dr. gilbert's daughters.= by margaret h. matthews. =dragon and the raven, the; or, the days of king alfred.= by g. a. henty. =elam storm, the wolfer; or, the lost nugget.= by harry castlemon. =elinor belden; or, the step brothers.= by lucy c. lillie. =esther's fortune.= by lucy c. lillie. =floating treasure.= by harry castlemon. =four little indians.= by ella mary coates. =family dilemma.= by lucy c. lillie. =floating light of the goodwin sands, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =for honor's sake.= by lucy c. lillie. =four boys; or, the story of the forest fire.= by edward s. ellis. =fox hunting, as recorded by "raed."= by c. a. stephens. =freaks on the fells.= by r. m. ballantyne. =gascoyne, the sandalwood trader.= by r. m. ballantyne. =girl's ordeal, a.= by lucy c. lillie =gorilla hunters, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =great cattle trail, the.= by edward s. ellis. =hunt on snow shoes, a.= by edward s. ellis. =hartwell farm, the.= by elizabeth b. comins. =hector's inheritance; or, the boys of smith institute.= by horatio alger, jr. =helen glenn; or, my mother's enemy.= by lucy c. lillie. =helping himself; or, grant thornton's ambition.= by horatio alger, jr. =honest ned.= by edward s. ellis. =haunted mine, the.= by harry castlemon. =in freedom's cause.= a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. =in the reign of terror; the adventures of a westminster boy.= by g. a. henty. =jack midwood; or, bread cast upon the waters.= by edward s. ellis. =joe wayring at home; or, the adventures of a fly rod.= by harry castlemon. =kangaroo hunters, the; or, adventures in the bush.= by anne bowman. =king's rubies, the.= by adelaide fulaer bell. =lady green satin.= by baroness deschesnez. =left on labrador; or, the cruise of the yacht "curlew."= by c. a. stephens. =lena wingo, the mohawk.= by edward s. ellis. =lenny, the orphan.= by margaret hosmer. =lion of the north. the; a tale of the times of gustavus adolphus.= by g. a. henty. =luke walton; or, the chicago newsboy.= by horatio alger, jr. =lynx hunting.= by c. a. stephens. =limber lew, the circus king.= by edward s. ellis. =marion berkley.= by elizabeth b. comins. =missing pocket-book, the.= by harry castlemon. =mysterious andes, the.= by hezekiah butterworth. =northern lights.= stories from swedish and finnish authors. =off to the geysers; or, the young yachters in iceland.= by c. a. stephens. =on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler."= by c. a. stephens. =on the trail of the moose.= by edward s. ellis. =orange and green; a tale of the boyne and limerick.= by g. a. henty. =oscar in africa.= by harry castlemon. =our boys in panama.= by hezekiah butterworth. =our fellows; or, skirmishes with the swamp dragoons.= by harry castlemon. =path in the ravine, the.= by edward s. ellis. =plucky dick; or, sowing and reaping.= by edward s. ellis. =queen's body guard, the.= by margaret vandegrift =question of honor.= by lynde palmer. =righting the wrong.= by edward s. ellis. =river fugitives, the.= by edward s. ellis. =romain kalbris.= his adventures by sea and shore. translated from the french of hector malot. =rose raymond's wards.= by margaret vandegrift. =ruth endicott's way.= by lucy c. lillie. =shifting winds; a story of the sea.= by r. m. ballantyne. =snagged and sunk; or, the adventures of a canvas canoe.= by harry castlemon. =squire's daughter, the.= by lucy c. lillie. =steel horse, the; or, the rambles of a bicycle.= by harry castlemon. =store boy, the; or, the fortunes of ben barclay.= by horatio alger, jr. =storm mountain.= by edward s. ellis. =struggling upward; or, luke larkin's luck.= by horatio alger, jr. =tam; or, holding the fort.= by edward s. ellis. =through forest and fire.= by edward s. ellis. =true to the old flag; a tale of the american war of independence.= by g. a. henty. =two bequests, the; or, heavenward led.= by jane r. sommers. =two ways of becoming a hunter.= by harry castlemon. =under drake's flag. a tale of the spanish main.= by g. a. henty. =under the holly.= by margaret hosmer. =under the red flag; or, the adventures of two american boys in the days of the commune.= by edward king. =ways and means.= by margaret vandegrift. =where honor leads.= by lynde palmer. =wilderness fugitives, the.= by edward s. ellis. =wild man of the west, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =with clive in india; or, the beginning of an empire.= by g. a. henty. =with wolfe in canada; or, the winning of a continent.= by g. a. henty. =wyoming.= by edward s. ellis. =young adventurer, the; tom's trip across the plains.= by horatio alger, jr. =young circus rider, the.= by horatio alger, jr. =young conductor, the; or, winning his way.= by edward s. ellis. =young explorer, the; or, among the sierras.= by horatio alger, jr. =young miner, the; or, tom nelson in california.= by horatio alger, jr. =young ranchers, the; or, fighting the sioux.= by edward s. ellis. =young wreckers the.= by richard meade bache. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles j. t. trowbridge. neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. he stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. the jack hazard series of stories, published in the late _our young folks_, and continued in the first volume of _st. nicholas_, under the title of "fast friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. the delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. they go to the right spot every time. trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of american country life and character. the drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. the constable, sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than miss wansey, and mr. p. pipkin, esq. the picture of mr. dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little stephen treadwell, "step hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. on the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_scribner's monthly._ the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. jack hazard series. vols. by j. t. trowbridge $ . jack hazard and his fortunes the young surveyor. fast friends. doing his best. a chance for himself. lawrence's adventures. charles asbury stephens. this author wrote his "camping out series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "we do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_worcester spy._ "the author of the camping out series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_buffalo courier._ camping out series. by c. a. stephens. all books in this series are mo. with eight full page illustrations. cloth, extra, cents. camping out. as recorded by "kit." "this book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_the christian register_, boston. left on labrador; or, the cruise of the schooner yacht "curlew." as recorded by "wash." "the perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_new bedford mercury._ off to the geysers; or the young yachters in iceland. as recorded by "wade." "it is difficult to believe that wade and read and kit and wash were not live boys, sailing up hudson straits, and reigning temporarily over an esquimaux tribe."--_the independent_, new york. lynx hunting: from notes by the author of "camping out." "of _first quality_ as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_richmond enquirer._ fox hunting. as recorded by "raed." "the most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. it overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_boston gazette._ on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler." as recorded by "wash." "gives vivid pictures of brazilian adventure and scenery."--_buffalo courier._ +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] a young hero; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis, _author of_ "adrift in the wilds," etc., etc. illustrated. [illustration: logo] new york: a. l. burt, publisher. copyright , by a. l. burt. a young hero. chapter i. the peacemaker. "a fight! a fight! form a ring!" a dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. they had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "give it to him, sam! black his eyes for him! hit him under the ear! bloody his nose!" thus shouted the partisans of sammy mcclay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. the friends of joe hunt were just as loud and urgent. "sail in, joe! you can whip him before he knows it! kick him! don't be a coward! you've got him!" a party of boys and girls were on their way home from the tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. the girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell mr. mccurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. the other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about sam and joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. the fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "you just hit me if you dare! that's all i want!" exclaimed sammy mcclay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of joe hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "you touch me, sam mcclay, just touch me! i dare you! double, double dare you." matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. jimmy emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of sam mcclay, and, addressing his opponent said: "knock that off, joe!" "yes, knock it off!" shouted sam, "i dare you to knock it off!" "who's afraid?" demanded joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "well, you just try it--that's all!" joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "what's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "what do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "he run against me," said sammy mcclay, "and knocked me over jim emery." "well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? what's the matter of _you_, joe hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "what did he punch me for, when i stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. the other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at sammy mcclay, and his left at joe hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. this created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. if his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. at the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "that's enough! now come on!" sam and joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. they glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, sam mcclay and joe hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. the name of the lad who had stopped the fight was fred sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. chapter ii. the call to school. fred sheldon, as i have said, is the hero of this story. he was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. he was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. on the monday morning after the fight, which fred sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the tottenville public school to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. these flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "hart's half-acre," near the village of tottenville. these scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "hart's half-acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. the interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. this bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. it was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "to-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said sammy mcclay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and i'm going." "how are you going," asked joe hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "i'm goin'--that's all." "goin' to try and crawl under the tent. i know. but you can't do it. you'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. don't i know--'cause, didn't i try it?" "i wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. i think i know a little better than that." at this moment, mr. abijah mccurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. this was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. in a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. they were all talking earnestly, sammy mcclay, joe hunt, jimmy emery and fred sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and mr. mccurtis seized it with pleasure. rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and fred sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. his plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "i don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why i roll mine so high up. don't you see i'm ready to run into the water, and----" "how about going through the bushes and briars?" asked joe hunt. "i don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "i feel so supple and limber that i just jump right over the top. i tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. with a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. the other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with fred sheldon at the front. each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "i'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted mr. mccurtis, striding wrathfully after them. a man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. the plump, shapely legs of fred sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to mr. mccurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "it's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and i mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" fred sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. the cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. the spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun mr. mccurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. at that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. there is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, sammy mcclay also went tumbling over the grinning fred sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. then came joe hunt and jimmy emery, and fred sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. but the difficulty was that fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. the latter was dented, but fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. by the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. mr. mccurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. chapter iii. startling news. fred sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. a half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. the broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from holland long before the revolution, and about the time when george washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. in this old structure lived the sisters perkinpine--annie and lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. they were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. the property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. michael heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. young fred sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the misses perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. he was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. he visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. the misses perkinpine lived very well indeed, and fred sheldon was not long in discovering it. when he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which fred, like all boys, was very fond. there was no denying that fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. on the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "your uncle william is quite ill, fred, and has sent for me. you know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. to-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his uncle will's, he might miss it. "miss annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the misses perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "that will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but i'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "i ain't afraid," laughed fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. he was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. he appeared to be ill-dressed, and fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "what do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "i want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "i didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "my mother, mrs. mary sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." the stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "can you tell me where the miss perkinpines live?" "right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. the tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "how fur is it?" "about half a mile." the stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. he must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. fred sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. the question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. he thought of going down to the village and telling archie jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the misses perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. as he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "i'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. i wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if i had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, i'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. but the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. it was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. there was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. but he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old holland brick mansion. to reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "maybe he isn't here, after all," said fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and i guess----" just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. he was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. as the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. at any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. the instant he was gone fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. when his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. when fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "i'll eat some," replied fred, "but i don't feel very hungry." "why, what's the matter?" asked miss annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? if you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall i mix you up some?" "o my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; i ain't sick that way--i mean i'm scared." "scared at what? afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked miss lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "i tell you," said fred, glancing from one to the other, "i think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that i'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." when the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. but the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. they looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "what a little coward you are, fred," said miss annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "but they want your money," persisted fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and lizzie said: "we haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "you can't tell about that, then i 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "yes, so they are," said annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "but," interposed lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "what in?" "a great big strong chest." "anybody could break it open, though." "yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "well," said fred, with a great sigh, "i hope there won't anybody disturb you, but i hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "we always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "have you got a gun in the house?" "mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "is there anything the matter with it?" "nothing, only the lock is broke off, and i think father said the barrel was bursted." fred laughed in spite of himself. "what under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "it has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." the cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. he walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "i wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "if i hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window i wouldn't feel so bad, and i declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, i never thought to tell 'em that. never mind, i'll give 'em the whole story when i finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, i think, they'll believe i'm right." for several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "i wish i was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" just then the door creaked, and, looking up, fred sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. his clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. his hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. as the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. he held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. his voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. as he bowed he said: "good evening, young man; i hope i don't intrude." as he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, miss lizzie saying: "this poor man, frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. i'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "yes, i'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "i was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but i'm through and he can have the table to himself." "you said you were a shipwrecked sailor, i believe?" was the inquiring remark of miss lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the jarsey coast; i was second mate and all was drowned but me. i hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "mercy goodness," gasped annie; "when was that?" "last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked fred, as he moved away from the table. the tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; i'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and i'd advise you to listen arter this." fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "yes, mum," continued the tramp; "i was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where i was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "how dreadful." "you are right, ladies, and i've been tramping ever since." "how far away is your home?" "only a hundred miles, or so." "you have a family, have you?" "a wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." the tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but fred sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. but he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. the movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. and just then fred sheldon noticed another fact. the hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. the ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. the guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. all at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. at the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "i'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and i shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry i can't pay you better, mums." the sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. he promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "you may laugh all you're a mind to," said fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man i saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." the boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. chapter iv. on guard. the sisters perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. when they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. this served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "the chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "leave the door open and let me sleep there," said fred, stoutly. "gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "i don't know as i can do anything, but i can try; i want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "why, it will go off and kill you." fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. when he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. the sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. but he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. it may well be asked what young fred sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. the spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "i'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded fred, "and i'll stay in here with the gun. if he comes up-stairs and gets into the room i'll try and make him believe i've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." the door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. it would take much effort to force such a door, but fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. he piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. to his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. the room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. young as fred sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "if that tramp, that i don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." the night was so warm that fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. this being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. from his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "what's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. the wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. the trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. where fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "i hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." one of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. the sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. if he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. when fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the rocky mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. he begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. and yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all fremont could do to arouse him. fred sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "i could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. the night remained solemn and still. far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. but among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. in short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. as his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. in his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. with an exclamation of terror fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. in his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. in the confusion of the moment fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "i'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "i don't suppose that i was awake more than a half hour. it must be past midnight, so i've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." he resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. it was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. it was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. the same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. so far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. but at this juncture fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "it's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." the noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. this window was the front, and fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "halloo, down there! what do you want?" as may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, fred concluded to give a warning. "if i hear anything more of you, i'll try and shoot; i've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" this threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. he thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "i shouldn't wonder if i had scared him off----" just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. chapter v. brave work. when fred sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. the intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise i'll wring your head as if you was a chicken i wanted for dinner." fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "do you hear what i said?" "yes, sir; i hear you." "well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while i look through this chest for a gold ring i lost last week." poor fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "i forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way i'll give you a touch of that." as he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. it looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. while he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. the scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. for a few moments fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. the tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. the marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. one of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. he muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. the action of the man seemed to rouse fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. he thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. but the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. the diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. they made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. it was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. while fred sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. it would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "he has dropped it," was the thought of fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway i'll hold on to it for awhile." he quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. but the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. if such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. at the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. it was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. he might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and i might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and i wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" at that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. the gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "why didn't i think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "i can hold on and swing to the ground." it looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. by reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. that was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. the next minute fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. all was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. the sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. he alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "there," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "i ain't afraid of him now, i can outrun him if i only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. but fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. if the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. but there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring archie jackson, the constable, to the spot. "the nearest house is mike heyland's, the hired man, and i'll go for him." filled with this thought, fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. an active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and fred took up that pace. "it's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road i'll tumble over it, for i never miss----" "halloo there, you boy!" as these startling words fell upon young sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. there was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "o, i'm so glad to see you! i was afraid i'd have to run clear to tottenville to find somebody." "what's the matter, my little man?" "why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the misses perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if i made any noise or tried to get away, but i catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here i am!" exclaimed fred, stopping short and panting. "well now, that's lucky, for i happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. i'm visiting mr. spriggins in tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than i intended, and was going home across lots when i struck the lane here without knowing exactly where i was; but i'm glad i met you." "so'm i," exclaimed the gratified fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "indeed i will; come on, my little man." the stranger stepped off briskly, fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "you needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "there's where he went in," whispered fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "all right," said fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "i'll follow." the man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "he may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. we'll make it hot for him." this seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. the man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "i guess we've got him," thought fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as mr. mccurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." for several minutes the vigilant fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "i wonder if miss annie and lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought fred; "i don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." young sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. this made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. fifteen more minutes went by, and fred began to wonder what it all meant. it seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "there's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before i came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" loth to leave his post, fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "i'll go in and find out for myself!" boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. he was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. when he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. he could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. he knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. he could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "i 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause miss annie and lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" just then fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "that must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. he listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. it followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "any way, i don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. it is hardly necessary to tell what followed. let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. fred sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. the heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "i wonder what they thought when i tumbled over the chair," pondered fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. as he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. with his heart beating very fast fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. by this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. all was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "that's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that i met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. the sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. the lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. on the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. this, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. money and silverware were gone! "the tramp got away while we were down the lane," said fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" fred sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. these two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "why didn't i think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. it is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was fred sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. he sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "i can't see anything i've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if i had any sense about me." indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "i knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and i ought to have started right off for constable jackson, without running to tell the folks. then they laughed at me and i thought i was mistaken, even after i had seen him peeping through the window. when he was eating his supper i was sure of it, and then i should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when i tried to keep guard i fell asleep, and when i woke up i was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while i had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." then, as fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "well, i'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and i hope i won't have to tell anybody the whole story. halloo!" just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. the handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "the man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. true enough. on the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "n. h. h." chapter vi. on the outside. when fred sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "i think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if aunt lizzie and annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." at this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. it would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "they must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. i'll see." he felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. his heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. but it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "i am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. even then it was broken by the gentle voice of aunt lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. the old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when aunt lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "i hope you are mistaken, fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "i shall see now," said her sister annie, starting up the steps, followed by fred and the other. there they quickly learned the whole truth. eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. they were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced aunt lizzie. "why, what would you have done if i had called you?" asked fred, in turn. "we would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "gracious alive! if i had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when i swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which i'd rather have than all your silver," said fred. "what's that?" he drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "you may be sure i will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." the old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. however, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for constable archie jackson. the hired man, michael heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. as fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "i wish miss annie and lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe i could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and i'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." running forward, fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. at every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. when the town of tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. the men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. as the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. there was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than fred sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to tottenville. as usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "that's the cage that has the great african lion," said fred to jimmy emery and joe hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "them's tottenhots," said joe hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of africa, on the hang ho river, close to london." "my gracious," said fred, with a laugh; "you've got europe, asia and africa all mixed up, and the people are the hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as tottenhots." "yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in tottenville tottenhots, smarty?" "let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." the young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. he was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. his trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. the boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when jimmy emery said in an excited undertone: "why, don't you see who he is? he's bud heyland." "so he is. his father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but i forgot all about it." bud heyland was the son of michael heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. he was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. he generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. if they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. if they appealed to mr. mccurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. fred sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. bud was especially ugly in his actions toward fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while mr. heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with bud and had given him up long ago. finally mr. mccurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. this suited bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. the boys were a little backward when they recognized bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "halloo, bud!" called out fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" the boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "is that you, younkers? what'er you doin' here?" "oh, looking around a little. we're all coming this afternoon." "you are, eh? do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "no, we're going to pay our way in; jim and joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "i watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when i bring the lash down on 'em. do you see?" as he spoke, bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. chapter vii. "the lion is loose!" "i'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. he followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "they wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause i wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so i thought i would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "you mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "it wan't be the first time," said bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and i reckon i can get out ag'in, as i've done often enough." fred sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of tottenville to see the constable, archie jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the misses perkinpine the preceding evening. archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. there's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. it's been some of 'em, i'm sure; very well, very well, i'll go right out and investigate." he told fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. the fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. the officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. he looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of bandman's menagerie and circus. "purely as a matter of business," said he, "i'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; i don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" the sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "in the meantime," added the bustling officer, "i suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "the suggestion is a good one," said aunt annie, "for i do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." after some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. they would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "i know mr. carter, a very skillful detective in new york," said archie jackson, as he prepared to go, "and i will send for him. he's the sharpest man i ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." the confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. as the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. the doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. as may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel bud heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. on this special occasion fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. the "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. these were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. the hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "monarch of the western wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. the chief interest of fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the numidian lion. he was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but fred and joe hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." it was bud heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. he raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "i'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant fred, "and i'll stand here as long as i want to." "you will, eh? i'll show you!" this time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so archie jackson, standing near, called out: "you touch him if you dare!" bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "what's the matter with you?" "that boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him i'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "this boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "that's a falsehood, for i saw him buy his ticket. come now, young man, i _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." it would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. it may have been that bud heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but fred sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "can it be bud knows anything about last night?" fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. he walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "what are you staring at me so for?" asked bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. the little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "bud, how about last night?" young sheldon had no warrant to assume that bud heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by archie jackson himself. this may have been the reason that fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of bud heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. the young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "what are you talking about?" fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. as he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. he gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. the end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. bud heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. he spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "the lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] chapter viii. a day of excitement in tottenville. if any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. the name of that young man was bud heyland. among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. they were jimmy emery, joe hunt and fred sheldon. the last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. high above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "don't kill the lion! don't kill the lion!" it was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. it may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. there is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. he seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. one young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. the brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. the next moment he was on the outside. the bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. a number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. the beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. the incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. this was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said archie jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. in brazil and italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "we must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "i think we had better call on the governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "no need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted archie. "a half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. the constable cleared his throat before saying: "i've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. if you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "by that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "it looks very much, archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." the constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "gentlemen, i'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, i'll lead you." "that's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "who says i'm a coward--show him to me----" at this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "gentlemen, my name is jacob kincade, and i'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. he is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the bushman country, at a great expense. his being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "of course not," said archie jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "you prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. my friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. yes, sir," added archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. the glorious american eagle----" "one minute," interrupted mr. kincade, with a wave of his hand. "it isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. the menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. bud heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. you will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." while these important words were being uttered, archie jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. but when the showman stopped archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "go on," suggested one at his elbow. but the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "i had a good thing about the emblem of british tyranny, but he put me out. will give a hundred dollars, eh? that's another matter altogether. but i say, mr. kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? that sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and i don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." old mr. scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of texas, but he restrained himself. he thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "i may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. you will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "that is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "i am warranted, therefore," added mr. kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. you should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "yes, but will he stay there?" "if the trap is strong enough." "how would it do to lasso him?" "if you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. by that i mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." all eyes turned toward old mr. scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. it was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the southwest. when the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "yes, boys, i'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." the important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. mr. kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. it was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. on the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at archie jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. the constable dipped into several professions. he sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. as soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: one hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from bandman's great menagerie and circus on tuesday the twenty-first instant. nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. the undersigned will be at the tottenville hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. jacob kincade. directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. five hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the misses perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. a liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with archibald jackson, constable, in tottenville. the menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "i tell you i'd like to catch that lion," said jimmy emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but i don't see how it can be done." "why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked joe hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "but mr. mccurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said fred sheldon. joe hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "that's one reason why i am so anxious to get the lion in there." "well, younkers, i s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" it was bud heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. his face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. he was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that bud would not have been the choice of all. "i don't think there's much chance for us," said fred sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for i don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "it would not do for him to see you," said bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at fred. "why not?" "he's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "that's why he tried so hard to get at you, i s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, mr. mccurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." he walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent fred sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. young fred sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when bud heyland stood talking to the boys before school fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the misses perkinpine a couple of nights before. "i s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which i s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody i've heard, but i can't think who the person can be." fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. when he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "they're 'n. h. h.,'" he said, "as sure as i live; but 'n. h. h.' don't stand for bud heyland, though the last name is the same. if that was bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though i don't see how he could do it without knowing it. i s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." the boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. he could not help believing that bud heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "he'll deny it, of course, and even aunt annie and lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as i wanted, anyway. he's such a mean, ugly boy that i wish i could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." that day fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. accordingly fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. the boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "gracious," he muttered, "but if i could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. five hundred dollars! it would more than pay the mortgage on our place. then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "i wonder where that lion is. he's been loose twenty-four hours, and i should like to know how many people he has killed. i heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but i think maybe there's some mistake about it. "i wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. he jumped right down in front of me, and i just gave up, and wished i was a better boy before i should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." now that fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. there was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of bud heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. the rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. but at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. the moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "i guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" the heart of fred sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. and well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. chapter ix. several mishaps. on this same eventful evening, archie jackson, the constable of tottenville, started from the residence of the misses perkinpine for his own house in the village. he had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. at the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of fred sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "i've sent for that new york detective, carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but i haven't seen anything of him. like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. i don't know as i care, for i begin to feel as though i can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "then the lion. well, i can't say that i desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for i never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. i've organized the company, and scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "if i can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "i shall make a nice little fee. i'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. all the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" and just then came the greatest shock of archie jackson's life. he was walking along the road toward tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. he had taken a different route home from that pursued by fred sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. the constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. he stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. the lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. finally, archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. the situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "i will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." this was his resolve. archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. he measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. it is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. he danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "that beats anything i ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad i am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "halloo, archie, what's the matter?" the cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. in the dim moonlight he saw old man scrapton and two neighbors, vincent and emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of fred sheldon. each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "we're after the lion," said mr. scrapton; "have you seen him?" "no, i don't think he's anywhere around here." "i've had vincent and emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "yes," said mr. vincent, "but i don't regard that as much of a success. mrs. vincent objected, and before i could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, i'd prefer to talk of something else." the constable laughed and said: "it's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "i suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested mr. scrapton, with a chuckle. archie jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "but do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "yes, we know just where to look for him," said mr. scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting i catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "do you want me to go with you?" "certainly." "but i have no weapon." "all the better; i made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. like the boys at ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "but i don't see what help i can give you, as i haven't got a rope; and even if i had, i wouldn't know how to use it." "come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." it cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. however, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. a walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. none of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "i don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said archie jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "but i have made preparation," answered scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "how?" "i killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" at the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. they were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "if you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "certainly," assented mr. vincent, through his chattering teeth. "certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "he's there," said scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "where?" "right behind the fence; i see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "when he gets through with that he will come for us." "like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "how so?" "when he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "but," said mr. vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "we can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "that is, if he don't happen to have us," said mr. jackson. "as i haven't got any rope, s'pose i climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." the idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "the man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't archie jackson. i've business elsewhere." and thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. meanwhile old mr. scrapton and vincent and emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. they didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. the danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "he may start to run away," weakly suggested mr. vincent. "i don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "but he can run faster than we----" "there he comes!" in the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "there he comes!" called out mr. scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" at the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. mr. vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished mr. emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. mr. emery missed his mark altogether, although mr. scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. the old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. chapter x. a brave act. meanwhile fred sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. there might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. it was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. master fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. it is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. almost unconsciously, fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. if the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the african hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. the boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and fred had read about the king of beasts. he knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. the lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. he did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. the lion was invisible. fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "i don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the misses perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "i think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. but nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. it was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. however, fred sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. so slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. it seemed a good while to fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and aunt annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "oh, it's you, fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "you are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "i started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "what's the matter now, freddy?" asked aunt lizzie. "why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "a what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "land sakes alive!" gasped aunt annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" aunt lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. there was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "they've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "a hundred dollars!" exclaimed aunt lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. if i were a man i wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "i'm going to try to catch him," said fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; i'm beginning to feel as though i'm going to make that hundred dollars." but the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "they've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named kincade and the other is bud heyland, you know him--the son of michael, your hired man." "yes; he called here to-day." "he did. what for?" "oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "he did, eh?" said fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "i think bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added aunt annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. he said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." master sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. the hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. after saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of fred; "i wonder who it can be." he listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. in a twinkling fred sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "now, if he don't hear me coming, i'll have him sure," fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. chapter xi. a reward well earned. the smoke-house attached to the perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. a stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. a supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. there had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. the lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by fred sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. it is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. the instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. he expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. having done all he could to secure him, fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. to his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. it followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. but was the little structure strong enough to hold him? when he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? these were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. while the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever michael heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. after a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. fred sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. the moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. the smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "he's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. he was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. when fred told the misses perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. they instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward tottenville. "the lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." jacob kincade sat on the porch of the tottenville hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. bud heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. the talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "as i was saying," observed mr. kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. he has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in africa. colonel bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "what is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "it was originally a hundred dollars, but i've just received a letter from colonel bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "what does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "the only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. i have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "if he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "that is all, sir." "_i've got your lion for you!_" this rather weighty assertion was made by fred sheldon, from his position in the group. an instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "i've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me i will show you where he is." mr. kincade laughed, as did one or two others. taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." but in that little party were a number who knew fred sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. they made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. mr. kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. the cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; jake kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the misses perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but bud heyland in a state of great excitement. he was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "i've got him! i've got him! i've got the lion!" the wagon and company halted for him to explain. "i've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. i put some meat in there last night, for i seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! i'll take that reward, jacob, if you please." and the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward fred sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "he tells a falsehood," said fred. "he never knew a thing about it till this morning." "i didn't, eh?" shouted bud. "i'll show you!" thereupon he raised his whip, but mr. emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "well, i don't want anybody telling me i don't tell the truth, for i'm square in everything i do, and i won't be insulted." mr. kincade was on the point of taking the word of bud heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "if you've got the animal secure i'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "you two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and i only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." mr. emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. turning to fred he said: "the people here have heard your story, and bud can now tell his." "why, i hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "as i said awhile ago, i seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. he likes to eat good little boys, and i s'pose he was looking for freddy there," said young heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "so i didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. this morning the old man awoke afore i did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "the old man (bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. when he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why i laughed, and told 'em how i'd set the trap and earned the reward. with that the old man cooled down, and i got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then i started to tell you about it, jake, when i meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. i believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." this fiction was told so well that several looked at fred to see what he had to say. the lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "i'd like to ask bud a question or two." as he spoke, fred addressed mr. emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "go ahead with all you're a mind to." "you say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "that's just what i done, freddy, my boy." "where did you get the meat?" "at home of the old woman." "after you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "no, sir; my little sunday school lad." "who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" bud heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "who shut the door? why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. mr. emery quietly turned to kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "the reward of two hundred dollars belongs to master fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. bud heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. a reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. the cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. he growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. the door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! when all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? jacob kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. his teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. if driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. the blow which he received in the eye from bud heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by bud heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. as fred sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. it is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. as he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. not only was jake kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but bud heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. despite fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. his dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. he wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. he had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and bud heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. they sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. as fred approached he saw bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. fred was moving rather timidly toward kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. wondering what he could want, fred sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "i wouldn't stand bareheaded, freddy, dear," said bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "what is your name, please?" "frederick sheldon." "and you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "yes, sir." "well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. well, all i want to say, fred, is that i'm cyrus sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and i'm somewhat interested in cattle. bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. bud and i are strong friends, and i've formed a rather good opinion of you and i congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. mr. kincade is ready and glad to pay you." squire jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with fred sheldon and jacob kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. all was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of fred sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. the lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "i am real glad, frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and i know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "save it." "i know, but how and where? it will not be safe in your house nor at the misses perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. it ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "tell me where to put it." "there is the lynton bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. i have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which i have many valuable papers. if you wish it, i will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. then, whenever you want it, i will turn it over to you." fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. when he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were no longer visible. he supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the misses perkinpine. after reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. the boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "if i could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, i would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but i don't see where there is much chance----" "halloo, there, freddy dear!" it was bud heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. chapter xii. a business transaction. when fred sheldon saw bud heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "hold on, freddy, i won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but i have a little business with you." wondering what all this could mean fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "jake sent me," added bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "what does mr. kincade want?" asked fred. "why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "i guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "no, it isn't, for squire jones and i counted it over twice." "that don't make any difference; i tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "why didn't you come over to squire jones' office, then, and fix it?" "i didn't know you was there." fred knew this was untrue, for bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "i want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "i sha'n't do it." "i guess you will; you've got to." "but i can't." "what's the reason you can't?" "i haven't got the money with me." "you haven't!" exclaimed bud, in dismay. "where is it?" "locked up in squire jones' safe." the bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. it was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "i've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "what have i done," asked fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, bud, to hurt me?" "what have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." but at this juncture, when poor fred thought there was no escape for him, bud heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "i'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. when i come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. here is a twenty-dollar bill. i want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." fred sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "there's another thing i want to say to you," added bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "you must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." the wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and bud added, impatiently. "don't tell anybody i gave it to you. say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. do you understand?" fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. bud heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted fred, continued in the direction of tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. the sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. he was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. he felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "if she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day i'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for i'll burst if i have to hold this news much longer. and won't she be glad? it's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and i can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that i can go to school. i thought i would be happy when i got the money, and so i am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" it seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. as fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was cyrus sutton. the boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with bud heyland and jacob kincade. nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "your name is frederick sheldon, i believe?" fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "you met bud heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "yes, sir; how could you know it?" "i saw him going in that direction, and i saw you come out the path; what more natural than that i should conclude you had met? he gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "he did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from bud heyland himself. "let me see the money." fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. as he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. he quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. mr. sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. as soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. he stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "are you going to keep that?" asked fred. "it isn't yours." "he wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "of course not, of course not; excuse me, but i only wanted to change the bill for you. here you are." thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "one word," he added. "bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. i haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "i won't," said fred, giving his promise before he thought. "very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. good evening, my son." "good evening," and fred was moving on, when mr. cyrus sutton said: "hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "i understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "i was, sir; the whole village knows that." "you were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." the lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" the question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. cyrus sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of fred. the latter looked up and said: "the voice of the man i met in the lane sounded just like yours. are you the man?" it surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "well, that's the greatest joke of the season. am i the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? well, i should say not." nevertheless fred sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. mr. sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that michael, the hired man, had left for him. when these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. the old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "now, if you could only find our silverware," said aunt annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "wouldn't i? i'd just roll in wealth, and i'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "but i'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed miss lizzie, with a deep sigh. "wasn't there some money taken, too?" "yes; several hundred dollars. but we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "you haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "my goodness! how old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "i never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? has archie jackson been here to-day?" "yes. he says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "a detective," repeated fred to himself. "that's a man, i believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "yes," said aunt lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. i don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "he don't know how to climb," said fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said aunt annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. i am quite anxious about him, but i hope no bones were broken." "i saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when i inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though i don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. but there has been some one else here." "who was that?" asked fred, excitedly. "a very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. his name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "cyrus sutton?" "that's it--yes, that's his name." "what was he after?" demanded fred, indignantly. "he said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "i would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "why, frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "yes; so it was in them other two chaps, i s'pose; this ain't the first time mr. cyrus sutton has been in your house." "what do you mean, frederick?" "i mean this," answered fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that mr. cyrus sutton, as he calls himself, is the man i met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" the ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "impossible! you must be mistaken!" "i know it, and i told him so, too!" "you did! didn't he kill you?" "not that i know of," laughed fred. "i don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, i knew his voice." young sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against bud heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that jacob kincade was the partner of bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "have you told archibald of this?" asked aunt lizzie, when fred had repeated his declaration several times. "what's the use of telling him? he would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. then, he'd get the reward, too, and i wouldn't have any of it." "we will see that you have justice," said miss lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "i don't want it, and i won't have it until i can earn it, that's certain. i must go to school to-morrow, and i brought over two of my books to study my lessons. i had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but i was out to-day, and i s'pose mr. mccurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. anyway, i'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till i learn how the land lies." this seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. at the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "i forgot to tell michael," said aunt annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and i would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "i'll take the order to him if you will write it out." thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, fred sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of michael heyland, the hired man. "i wonder whether bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "i don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. as he did so he saw that mrs. heyland was the only one at home. "michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but i'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "i guess there isn't any need of it. aunt annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and i can leave it with you." "is it writ out?" "yes; here it is," said fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the bible and a copy of the tottenville _weekly illuminator_. the lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. but when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "where is bud?" "he's down to the village, too." "when will he be home?" "that's a hard question to answer, and i don't think bud himself could tell you if he tried. you know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. bud was always a good boy, and i don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." fred sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "michael was always hard on bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as i did." "is bud going to be home long?" "he got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. they've worked him too hard altogether. you observed how pale-looking he is?" fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "does bud like it with the circus?" "oh, yes, and they just dote on him. bud tells me that colonel bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "mrs. heyland, why do you call him bud?" "he was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. when he went to school he was called budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is nathaniel higgens, though most people don't know it." fred sheldon had got the information he was seeking. chapter xiii. the eavesdropper. fred sheldon had learned one most important fact. beyond all doubt the letters "n. h. h." stood for the name nathaniel higgens heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to colonel bandman's menagerie and circus. by some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. it was proven, therefore, that bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. but young, as bright, honest fred sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. how was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? how could the guilt of bud heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? although fred was sure that the stranger who called himself cyrus sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of bud's criminality would convince others. bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. fred sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. the one man to whom his thoughts first turned was archie jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. the one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. it was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. the memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to god and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. held in the mother's arms, fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. but, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "let him be spared to me, oh, heavenly father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. it was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the gracious father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "i sha'n't tell anybody a word of what i've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the misses perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, i don't want it unless i earn it. i'll bet mother can give me a lift." and holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "we've never been apart so long since i can remember," he added, "and i'm beginning to feel homesick." the night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. he was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. in the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. he heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. he at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. he could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. his intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. no doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. his recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. at this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. the boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. fred instantly recognized it as that of cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for bud heyland. "i'll bet that bud is there, too," muttered fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" in imitation of the loud voice of sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of michael heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with cyrus sutton. it was natural that young sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. at the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of bud heyland. it was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. fred sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. there may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. this indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. bud heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, sutton." the reply of the companion was not audible, but bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. in a moment, however, fred caught the profile of cyrus sutton against the starlight background, while that of young heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, bud, don't be in a hurry." this, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "that may all be--but----" just then bud heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. fred sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. it seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. that is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "that sutton is a regular burglar," thought fred, "and he has come down here to join bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. i wonder whom they're thinking about now." the anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. his situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. as silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which heyland and sutton sat. the fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. it was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. but, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. it looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. cyrus sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young sheldon. bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "it's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." this remark was made by sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by bud in his off-hand style. "of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? haven't we done it in more than one other place than tottenville?" "yes," said sutton, "and i've run as close to the wind as i want to, and closer than i mean to again, if i can help it." "well, then," said bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "all right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, bud, for this is a dangerous business." "i reckon i'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." these words disclosed one important fact to fred sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "they're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. now, if i can only learn whose house it is, i will tell archie jackson." this caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "do you think we can manage it alone?" asked sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "what's to hinder? halloo! what's that?" bud heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. the affrighted fred sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. what was it they had heard? the lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of heyland startled him. "i heard something move, as if in the grass." "it would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said cyrus sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. where did it seem to come from?" "maybe i was mistaken; it was very faint, and i couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." fred sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "i guess you were mistaken," said sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "you was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; i'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." the last clause referred to the hiding place of fred sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. it looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. the lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. but he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. as bud heyland spoke he started across the highway, while cyrus sutton called out: "all right!" as he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor fred sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. chapter xiv. fred's best friend. fred sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. cyrus sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. even then he might not have said or done anything had not bud heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "why don't you shoot him?" demanded bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! let's capture him! come on! it will never do for him to get away! if we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" the impetuous bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. he was in dead earnest, for he and sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. he held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. the skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. sutton kept close beside bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "he's running as fast as we," said sutton; "you had better hail him." bud heyland did so on the instant. "hold on there! stop! surrender and you will be spared! if you don't stop i'll shoot!" master frederick sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. the terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "i give you warning," called out bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that i'll shoot, and when i take aim i'm always sure to hit something." "that's what makes me so afraid," said sutton, dropping a little behind, "for i think i'm in more danger than the one ahead." bud heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. a person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "that bullet grazed him," said bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how i'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when i pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." to make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. but there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when sutton said with a laugh: "i don't see him jump and yell, bud," the marksman, retorted: "you'd better shoot yourself, then." "no; i was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. i think you came nearer me than you did him. hark! did you hear the man laugh then. he don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "did he laugh?" demanded bud, savagely. "if he laughed at me he shall die!" hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. had bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular cyrus sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. it would seem that bud heyland and cyrus sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as fred sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. meanwhile fred sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of bud heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. when he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. he was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. he was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. it would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. this change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by bud and cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. they were aiming to cut off fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. this checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. as it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of india ink against the sky beyond. even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. as he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. possibly bud heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to colonel bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. he would have succeeded but for the top three rails. as it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [illustration: bud heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of fred. --(see page .)] he rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "did you fall?" asked cyrus sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "i tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and i don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" to the astonishment of the cattle dealer, bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. fred sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, sutton just a little behind his friend. "you might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "i'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and i'll pay him for all this." no more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. bud heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where fred lay flat on the ground. "do you hear him?" asked bud. "hear him? no; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. but nothing was heard, and sutton moved forward, passing so close to fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "how could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined bud heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. some distance away bud heyland and sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that fred sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. but it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. he was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "he looked to me like a very small man," said bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "of course he was," replied sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "i don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "it's too bad, i broke my pipe all to pieces when i fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "i thought you had broken your neck," said sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. fred sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "i guess i've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the misses perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. they seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. his recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by aunt lizzie. this was friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. as he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, mr. mccurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. however, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "i have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at fred, "for absence, but i have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and i do not intend to do so. those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." this remark was intended especially for fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. and it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. it had always been said by mrs. sheldon that fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. he felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "there's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than i can say of a good many of you. i think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." this was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of goldsmith's "deserted village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. mr. mccurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. at recess and noon fred was quite a hero among the scholars. they gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. like most boys of his age, fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "i'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and i will take her advice as to what i should do." he brought the lunch the misses perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. as the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of bud heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. as he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. he did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "keep still!" said fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." but young heyland was not to be misled so easily. observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. fred sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure bud was looking for him. "he must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." but it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "halloo, bud," called out several, as he approached. "how are you getting along?" "none of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is fred sheldon there?" "i'm here," said fred, rising to the sitting position. "what do you want of me?" bud heyland acted curiously. he looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "i don't want anything of you just now, but i'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. he kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either bud or cyrus sutton. "it seems to me," said fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that i ought to hear something from mother by this time. there isn't any school to-morrow, and i'll walk over to uncle will's and find out when she's coming home, and then i'll tell her all i've got to tell, which is so much, with what i want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! what does that mean?" he stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "i wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "if it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." a minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "it must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. anyway, i will soon find out----" just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. one glance was enough for fred sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "halloo, mother! ain't i glad to see you? how are you? bless your dear soul! what made you stay away so long?" "fred, my own boy!" and leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. the fact of it was, fred sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. a few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. the mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. she therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. and then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. she shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that providence had protected him. then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. all this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. as i have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. he told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "bud" heyland. "that may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet bud may be as innocent as you or i." "how is that?" asked fred, wonderingly. "he may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward bud. such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." fred opened his eyes. "then bud is innocent, you think?" "no, i believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. as to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "why, mother, i'm surer of him than i am of bud, and i'm dead sure of him, you know." "what are your reasons?" fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. the wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "i don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as i understand, of mr. kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "that is so," assented fred, "but i hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." the boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. when he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. the matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "nor was it reasonable to think i would out-general a big lion," said fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "no; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "but we didn't know that." "but you know that bud heyland and this mr. sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "so was the lion," ventured fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "i have been thinking that maybe i ought to tell mr. jackson, the constable, about the knife, with bud's name on it." "no," said the mother. "it isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. he boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." mrs. sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the misses perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "yes, i told them i would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for i didn't say anything about your coming home, because i thought uncle will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." the affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. the same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of bud heyland and cyrus sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. the boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "what under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. it had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "well, that beats everything i ever heard of," muttered fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though i don't think there is anything left for them." the distance to the house was so short that fred soon reached the yard. on his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. when the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of aunt lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "why, aunt lizzie!" called out fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" the good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "why, frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and i thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "why, aunties, i've had supper," laughed fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "we didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. chapter xv. the meeting in the wood. fred sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." the lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. he had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. there was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. but so many strange things had happened to fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. as it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. as it came directly opposite fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. at the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as bud heyland. "that's odd," thought fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with cyrus sutton, there's something wrong on foot." not knowing what was best for him to do, fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. but all at once bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. young sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. brave as he undoubtedly was, fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. but fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which bud heyland drove by a short while before. "that's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." the darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. the beast approached at a slow walk, while bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. he must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. the light from this pipe was so marked that fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. his withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "who's that?" demanded bud heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, sutton?" fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. wondering what it could all mean, young sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "there's some mischief going on, and it may be that i can--halloo!" once more bud heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. but it was only for a minute or two, when bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. fred sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. it was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. all at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, fred sheldon replied, imitating bud's call with astonishing accuracy. instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "why don't you speak?" called out bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" although this question could have been easily answered, fred sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "if you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of bud heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. when he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between fred sheldon and himself. it came from some point beyond fred, but evidently in the highway. the angry heyland called out: "what's the matter with you? why don't you come on, you fool?" the person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "halloo, bud, where are you?" guarded as the voice was, fred immediately recognized it as belonging to cyrus sutton, the cattle drover. "i'm here; where would i be?" growled the angry bully. "tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, i suppose," said sutton, with a laugh; "when i whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" it is easy to picture the scowling glare which bud heyland turned upon sutton as he answered: "you're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? after answering me half a dozen times, and i got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while i went groping about, i came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. when you heard me, why did you stop?" "heard you? what are you talking about?" "didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till i got here, and then you stopped? what are you talking about, indeed!" "i was a little late," said sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; i whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than i think is good taste, and i came forward and here i am, and that's all there is about it." "wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked bud heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "no, sir; as i have explained to you, i signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and i heard nothing of the kind from you." "then we're betrayed!" words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which bud heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. his voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. he sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to cyrus sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. but cyrus sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by fred sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "you remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked bud. "of course i do." "well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. i wish i had a chance to draw a bead on him." "you drew several beads last night," said sutton. "see here," snarled bud, "that's enough of that. i'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "well, bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. so drive back to tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. if the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "it's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; i've got to j'ine the circus on monday, and i must start on sunday to make it." "very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "agreed," said bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" this exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. chapter xvi. bud's mishaps. when a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. bud heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. in the hope of scaring the brute into stopping bud shouted: "whoa! whoa! stop, or i'll kill you!" if the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. it is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. in fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. when, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. he then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "it'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled bud, "and i'll have to pay for the damages." as nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "get out of the road!" called bud, excitedly. "this hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" at such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. it is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. as it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "why didn't you get out the way when i hollered to you?" demanded the panting bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "i yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as i told you. i hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "i can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and i'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" bud snarled: "i generally say just what i mean, and what are you going to do about it, old hay seed?" the gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "i say again," added bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which fred sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. at the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "what's getting into folks?" growled bud heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon i ever seen. if i'd knowed he was so sensitive i wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. jingo! but he knows how to swing a whip. when he brought down the lash on to me, i orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and i'd done it, too, if i hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. plague on him! i'll get even with him yet. i wish----" bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. the assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "i don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward tottenville, "but i must learn to wake up sooner. i'm sure i got in some good work to-day, and i'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't nathaniel higgins heyland, and then i'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. what's that?" he discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "yes, i might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one i hired of grimsby, and i'll have a pretty bill to pay when i get there. i 'spose i'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. after that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "it's about time i begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "i wouldn't care if i came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for i'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but i won't get the chance, for old grimsby won't let me have him agin when i go out to take a ride to-morrow night." things could not have been in a worse condition than when bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. old mr. grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. mr. grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "the damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "will you call it square for that?" asked bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "yes, of course i will?" "very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and i'll pay it." mr. grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "if you're in earnest come over to my office." bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. while he was thus employed bud heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to mr. grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. as he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. he carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. and as bud heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. chapter xvii. two unexpected visitors. fred sheldon did not give much attention to bud heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. he did not forget that cyrus sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with bud heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "it looks as though bud heyland and this mr. sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "i don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if i hadn't whistled to bud, wouldn't it?" "perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "i'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; i think i will find out something worth knowing." "you cannot be too careful, fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. the fussy little constable, archie jackson, stood before them. "good evening, frederick; good evening, mrs. sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. the handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. it was easy to see from the manner of archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. he was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "a pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon mrs. sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. after this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "mrs. sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward fred, who turned quite red in the face. "i am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "i understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and i know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. mrs. sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. he remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "i don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for i understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give fred just the chance he needed. i regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "you are altogether too modest, mrs. sheldon--altogether too modest. think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! i tell you, mrs. sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." the lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that fred had been favored by providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "what i want to come at," added archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that i would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the misses perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "it would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "i'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. i thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. once more the constable cleared his throat. "but such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--i thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which i know he must feel, i have called to make a statement." having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "when this robbery was made known to me i sent to new york city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which i cannot understand, mr. carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so i undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "i hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by mrs. sheldon. "i have, i am glad to inform you. i have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the misses perkinpine on monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "you've fastened it on bud, eh?" asked fred, greatly interested. the constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "there's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. i was sure it was bud from what you told me, and you will remember i hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "his face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but i set to work and i found the guilty man." "and it wasn't bud?" "he hadn't anything to do with it." "but there were two of them, for i saw them." "of course; and i know the other man also." this was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. the constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. those who know me, know that i am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. but i may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "when is it going to come?" asked fred. "very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by monday at the latest." mrs. sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. but she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. mrs. sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "i can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "i don't believe it," replied fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that bud had nothing to do with it, i know he is wrong. suppose i had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "it wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. he is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "perhaps i will find out something to-morrow." "more than likely you will fail altogether----" to the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said fred, springing up to answer the summons; "i thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" but the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of bud heyland? he smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "i am sure you hardly expected me, and i only came because it was necessary that i should meet you both. ah!" mrs. sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. and cyrus sutton did the same respecting her; fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "this is a surprise, indeed! i had no idea that mrs. sheldon was you." "and when i heard of mr. cyrus sutton i never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. she was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. mr. cyrus sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. this continued several minutes, and then mrs. sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "my dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. i know mr. cyrus sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "but he's a thief and robber," said fred, "and i don't like to have him in the house unless i'm awake to take care of you." "you need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "i would be willing to talk before you, but i saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that i should show that much deference to him." "well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. his mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. but nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. in the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as mr. sutton gave his permission. fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. this day was saturday, and fred sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. after breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where sutton and bud heyland had held their meeting of the night before. he had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of bud himself coming toward him on foot. the sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. the bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. he slouched along until close to fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. he walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "halloo, bud." "hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "i want to see you." "well, what is it?" asked fred, stopping before him. "you want to play the thief, do you?" "i don't know what you mean," replied fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "how about that twenty dollars i gave you to get changed?" "i declare i forgot all about it," replied fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "did you get it changed?" "yes, and here are your ten dollars." bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and fred started on again. "hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till i tell you to. did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "who was it that done it for you?" "i told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing i mustn't tell anything about him." bud heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "who was he?" "i cannot tell you." "you cannot? you've got to." "but i can't break my promise, bud; i wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; i'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "if you don't tell me all about him i'll break every bone in your body." "you can do it then, for you won't find out." believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. while in the act of opening it, bud heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "where did you get that?" "i found it," replied fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "let me look at it," said bud, reaching out his hand for it. fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. bud heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. one glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. he opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "i'll take charge of that, i reckon." "is it yours?" "i rather think it is, now," answered bud, with an impudent grin! "where did you find it?" "down yonder," answered fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "it was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. you can go now; i'll let you off this time, 'cause i'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." and to the surprise and delight of fred sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "i wonder whether i was wrong," said fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that bud is guilty because his knife was found there. some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "that agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't bud or cyrus sutton. bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe i was mistaken." the lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that heyland and sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "i don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. he first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. he did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "i noticed that when i spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so i will." he now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable american indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. chapter xviii. eureka! this was the wood where bud heyland and cyrus sutton held their stolen interview the night before. the former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that fred sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. no one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. he was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. having reached this point, fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "i wonder where bud has gone. there is something in the wood which he is interested in----" the thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and fred knew some one was near him. afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. no doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. at any rate the advantage was on the side of fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "it's bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." the trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. however, he was in mortal dread of discovery by bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. it was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after bud heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. the wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. he was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that bud heyland was not moving. fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "if it was only the night time," thought fred, "i wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." the sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of bud heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in sunday-school: "bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." a boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, fred began to get fidgety. "he has gone on further, and i have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and i won't see anything more of him." but the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of bud heyland than he wished. the rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. as he did so, he caught sight of bud heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. as fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. it would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. shortly after fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. he shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. the prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to fred sheldon how it was bud heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. but bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. the sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. not until sure the fellow was out of sight did fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. then, instead of following bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "he has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "he's the only one who has been here lately, and i think i can track him through the wood. if he had been as careful as i, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." the work of trailing bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. but fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain bud heyland had been. "here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of fred; "though i can't see what he did it for." it was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. there were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. but, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. it had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. the bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. fred sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. he had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. at first all was blank darkness, but shortly fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. he thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. eureka! there was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. not a piece was missing! fred sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the united states of america! [illustration: on finding the stolen silver, fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] chapter xix. a slight mistake. when archibald jackson, constable of tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of widow sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of new york. "a man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. i was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from irish yard or welsh yard or scotland yard, or whatever they call it. "queer i never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; i've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the misses perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains i must send for mr. carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "i s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. then for the first time i sot down and begun to use my brains. it didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." but archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "i don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. the new york papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. they'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! i forgot about that post!" he was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. with the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. with this farewell archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of walsingham, fifty miles distant. he bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "to-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in new york. they've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. they were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "the warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when i place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." a couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where colonel bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. it was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. the constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for colonel bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. after a long time colonel bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "colonel james bandman, you are my prisoner!" the other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "on what charge am i arrested?" "burglary." "let me see the warrant." "oh, that's all right," said mr. jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." the colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "my name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest thomas gibby, who is my ticket agent." "oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." with which he gave colonel james bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded archibald jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "i presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "certainly, certainly, sir; i will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. where can i find mr. gibby?" "i will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." colonel bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "no you don't; i'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; i don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." the colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. when gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from colonel bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "i've got this thing down fine on you," ventured mr. jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." colonel bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. as they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. when made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "i should like to ask mr. jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "the house of the misses perkinpine, near tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on monday night last. it was the night before the circus showed in that town. fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. a bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. the description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of colonel bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. the account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as mr. gibby, there. when i was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches i took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and i now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, mr. jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. colonel bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. that official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "you are certain this offense was committed on last monday evening?" "there can be no possible mistake about it." "and it was done by these two?" "that is equally sartin." "if one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "it becomes my duty to inform you then, mr. jackson, that colonel bandman has not been out of the town of walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. this complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. good day, sir." archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. he was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. chapter xx. all in good time. between nine and ten o'clock on the saturday evening succeeding the incidents i have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of tottenville with two persons on the front seat. the driver was jacob kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to colonel bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by bud heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when bud assumed charge. "i was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why i tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot i was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "that was all well enough," observed mr. kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which i don't like. you said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and sutton was talking about this business." "that's so; but sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. we have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. that's an idee of mine." "but you said some one--and i've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "that rather got me, but sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. that ain't the way detectives do." "maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "me and sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. that's the biggest joke i ever heard of," laughed bud, "that 'ere jackson going out to walsingham and arresting the colonel and gibby." "yes," laughed kincade, "it took place just as i was coming away. i wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. but he and gibby were discharged at once. i came on in the same train with jackson, though i didn't talk with him about it, for i saw he felt pretty cheap. "however," added kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which i feel a little nervous over. it was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last monday night, and i felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. s'pose somebody has found it!" "no danger of that," said bud. "i was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "sure nobody was watching you?" "i took good care of that. we'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to tom carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." tom carmen lived at the "four corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. it was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. the arrangement with carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. it did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by bud heyland and cyrus sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "you're sure sutton will be there?" asked kincade, as they approached the wood. "you can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. he's one of the best fellows i ever met," added bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "am i in?" "of course," said bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. we're going to make a bigger pile than colonel bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "i liked sutton--what little i seen of him," said kincade. "oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. the weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. a few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. here bud heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. to prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, bud uttering the same signal as before. it was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute cyrus sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "i've been waiting more than two hours, and thought i heard you coming a half dozen times." he shook hands with kincade and bud, the latter asking: "is everything all right?" "yes, i've had my eyes open, you may depend." "will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked kincade. "none at all--no one will disturb him." "then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "i guess i can find the way best," said bud, taking the lead. "i've been over the route so often i can follow it with my eyes shut." sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. the distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "here we are!" it was bud heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. there was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. the little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "you can reach down to it, can't you?" asked sutton, addressing bud heyland. "yes; it's only a little ways down." "hand it out, then," added kincade; "i shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with tom carmen at the 'four corners.'" "all right," responded bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. he remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "it's all gone!" "what?" gasped jake kincade. "somebody has taken everything away----" in the dim light, bud heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. these were cyrus sutton and jacob kincade, but the struggle was short. in a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "it's no use," said sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, jacob." before bud heyland could understand that he and kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. this third man was archie jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "we've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. this gentleman whom you two took for cyrus sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend james carter, the detective, from new york." and such was the truth indeed. chapter xxi. how it was done. as was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as cyrus sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality james carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. when he received word from archie jackson of the robbery that had been committed near tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. mr. carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. the detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. so the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing jackson to disport himself as seemed best. he was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of bud heyland. it would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young heyland. he learned that bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and jacob kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in new york. the detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that bud and kincade were taken. it required a little time for mr. carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. he easily drew the most important facts from bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. the officer was annoyed by the failure of kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. he could have taken him at the time fred sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of squire jones. bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. he, however, gave fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. then bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. when fred sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, cyrus sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. he scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. it was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of mary sheldon, who was the widow of george sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. george sheldon and james carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. the two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. carter held the head of sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of carter's. an aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. he reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that mrs. sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. but the moment carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the misses perkinpine. circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. mr. carter was afraid to take fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. as he was too prudent to trust the constable, archie jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that mrs. sheldon returned home. then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. she was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve fred as was proposed. the detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. the boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for carter had already learned from bud heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. when fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. this took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. within the next hour james carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "it was the wisest thing that could have been done." "why so?" asked the widow. "don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. he has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "but the thieves have not been caught." "that is my work; i will attend to that." "and what shall fred do?" "keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." mrs. sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. so she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when fred sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as cyrus sutton. mrs. sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." when archie jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by james carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. it seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous new york detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. mr. carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by master fred sheldon. archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. a little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. accordingly, archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain bud heyland and jacob kincade would appear, later in the evening. at a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. chapter xxii. an attempted rescue. now since the reader knows how it happened that archie jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of cyrus sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. bud heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. none knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. while the valiant archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "i'll make you smart for this," bud heard kincade say. "things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." taking his cue from the speech, bud added in an injured tone: "that's a fact. i was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to colonel bandman, an' he kicked because i left it." "after the plans we have laid, heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," carter asked sternly. "i don't know what you're talkin' about. jake has told how we happened to come here." "he didn't explain why you wanted fred sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "i've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and i defy you to prove it," kincade cried, energetically. "who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "it will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. it so chances, however, that i have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" this question was asked because bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "we've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "i'll take the chances," carter replied, laughingly. "step out lively, for i intend to get some sleep to-night." "hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "i think we should take the silver with us. there may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "i fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see fred again, for i haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "but, you see----" "now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "you have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." this bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused archie to remain silent. he was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. he even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged bud forward. "if you make the slightest show of trying to run away, i'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. the two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once carter made a mistake. having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed archie jackson to manage matters from this point. the valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to bud: "there's just a chance that some of our people are coming. i heard colonel bandman say he should send albers and towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "much good it will do us with that fool of a jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," bud replied petulantly. "go on without so much talk," archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "you can't play any games on me." "from what i've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' i'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. when i give the word, run the best you know how." bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "now's our time! run for your life!" kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. it was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived archie of all power of motion. he lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. he was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. neither bud nor kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "that's some of our crowd. i'm sure nobody but jake could yell so loud." "it _is_ me!" kincade shouted. "hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" by the sounds which followed, carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. for the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when kincade and bud arrived. the little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "but that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "i'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? i left the fellows in your charge." "i was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. when we got ready for this trip, i felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "another time i should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," carter said, quietly. "i'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "there's no question about it, if i had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "and i, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "you have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "fortunately, i never did," carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. this was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible heyland and kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was carter driving. "we'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "the road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "no more for us than for them. i'll take a good many chances rather than go back to tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." the little constable had nothing more to say. he also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. this, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. during half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and carter said, in a low tone to archie: "the chase is nearly ended! be ready to leap out the instant we stop." then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "there's no chance of your giving us the slip. pull up, or i shall fire! if the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "i'll pull up. look out that you don't run into us!" it required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "don't shoot! i'll agree to go peacefully." "then see that you behave yourself, or i'll blow the whole top of your head off," archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. bud heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "i won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "i've done nothing for which i can be arrested, and you shan't take me." the long chase had exhausted all of carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, archie kept vigilant watch over them. the least movement on the part of either, as carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. but for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "it is considerably past midnight," carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "what do you mean?" "are we to leave the silver and money?" "of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw fred." "exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? when the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and i can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. the two drove directly to the sheldon home, and fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as cyrus sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "what is the matter, mr. carter?" "nothing, except that we want fred. the case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. have you any objection to his going with me?" "not the slightest. i will awaken him." "i'll be down in a minute," fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why bud heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. as a matter of course it was necessary for mrs. sheldon to explain to her son who cyrus sutton really was and fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "no good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, i can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when i passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "did you see me then?" "certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as i placed in bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "where is archie?" "out in the wagon waiting for you. kincade and bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "did mother tell you i found it?" "she did, and i am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." fred did not wait to ask any further questions. in a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "we have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "this is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. the only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing archie should take it all. "get into the wagon, fred," carter said impatiently. "it will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "it is nearly daylight," carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to fred's home, where he and i can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "in that case i may as well go home awhile," archie said reflectively. "doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. chapter xxiii. the silverware returned. the sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, misses annie and lizzie perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. it required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. they were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "i was afraid, sister," said annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that i would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but i am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "i could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "what's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as i live." "the folks must have forgot that it is the sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "but this is something out of the common. heigho!" this exclamation was caused by the sight of cyrus sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while fred sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. mr. sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "my gracious!" exclaimed aunt lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "you are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. they have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." the massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old von tromp was pounding the british tars off goodwin sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. the detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "where did you find them?" asked aunt lizzie, addressing herself directly to mr. carter, as was natural for her to do. the detective pointed to the boy and said: "ask him." "why, what can fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "he knows everything, for it was not i, but he, who found them." "why, fred, how can that be?" "i found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "this gentleman helped me to bring them here, for i never could have lugged them alone." "of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. to-day is the holy sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "and i want to say," said aunt annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "and there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of mr. carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when aunt lizzie, walking to the window, said: "i wonder what is keeping michael." "i am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "why, what has michael done." "nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "of course we remember him." "well, that tramp was michael's son bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "what is the world coming to?" gasped aunt lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. in their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. but that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. they asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but mr. carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but i don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." at this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, archie jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "it seems to me you're deef." "why so?" "i've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "i assure you, archie, that i would have stopped on the first call, if i had heard you, for you know how glad i am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." the detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "i knowed you was coming here," explained archie, "and so i come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "you are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with master fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "i'm glad to hear it; how far, may i ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on monday evening last?" "the plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to fred until to-morrow morning. "accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. the ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. he complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "before i leave," said mr. carter, addressing the ladies, "i must impress one important truth upon you." "you mean about the sin of stealing," said aunt annie; "oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." the officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "you mistake me. i refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. the fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the fred sheldons and detectives in the united states." "your words are wise," said aunt annie, "and i have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "i think i know a better plan than _that_," aunt lizzie hastened to say. "what's that?" inquired the visitor. "we'll get michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "neither of your plans will work," said mr. carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "i have heard of such things," said aunt lizzie, "and i think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. what do you think, sister?" "the same as you do." "then we will buy the safe." "and until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "i shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _sunday_." the beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. you may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. not only that, but i know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. from this statement, i must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, p. t. barnum, has any connection. nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. trained in this pernicious school, jacob kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. he and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the state prison. the youth of bud heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. it could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. in truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. a fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. he was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. true, the proposition to rob the perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. his parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. as for master fred sheldon, i almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. i tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. the sisters perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. the time at last came, when our "young hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of new york to carve his fortune. there he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--his mother. the walnut rod. by r. f. colwell. my father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. we played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of march. at the time of which i speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. harry, carl and francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. i, royal by name, a junior in a well-known new england college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. we packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early april, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. at the station the hired man met us with a pair of morgan horses than which i do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with aunt celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. she was a widow, having lost her husband in the mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern new york. she was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling aunt celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. we had a cozy tea. the special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. this was saturday evening. the next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that i remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "henry's boys take after him for their good voices." father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. the next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. we fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. the next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _epigæa repens_, arbutus, or may flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since i have picked one. carl and francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "don't be a coward, harry!" "a girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. when i was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence i knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. a boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. it was saturday afternoon; we were to leave monday morning, and i had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us monday noon. behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. the boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. he called to carl to follow him. carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "fran, shall i strike all right?" dropped and was happy. then they both called to harry, "come on, hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. when they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than carl and francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. nothing more was said. i returned soon after. we had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. i occupied an antique chair i had found in the attic, and which i was to carry home for my own room. carl and francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while aunt celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. we remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" we looked up in swift surprise. the walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at bunker hill and yorktown. often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "oh, yes, aunt celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "i suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "i was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. there were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. your uncles, john, william, and elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. accordingly, henry and i were much together. we studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' but your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and i knew better than they, that he was no coward. they called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. i'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." here francis and carl felt their faces grow hot, but aunt celia said no more and went on. "it was one day in april, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick may flowers. henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and i was ten. it had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "we all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle elijah said, as we were going along, 'i wonder what hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, i guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but henry said nothing, though i saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "we found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. we picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. i saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. all the boys started up, looking about eagerly. the bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'jump, celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "i could not move. i must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though i was but a child, i could not misunderstand my danger. of course, what i am telling happened in a few seconds, but i remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. there he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. we walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. i shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how i wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "nothing was ever said to the older boys. they had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the latin _cor_, and down through the french _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "the snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. there has never since been seen another in this locality." we sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on harry's curls: "i seem to see my boy henry again in his son, harry. i hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward francis and carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. if the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." how the hatchet was buried. by octavia carroll. a feud, as fierce as that between the montagues and capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "lilies of the valley" and "ground moles," while if a lily chanced to whip a mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a mole went above a lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. by general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted roy hastings of the former, and stronger, bright carl duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "it is so absurd in roy," said helen hastings, "to want me not to visit maizie, whom i love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "and helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little miss duckworth, "even if carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." so matters stood when, one evening in early june, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile mark tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "dun'no; some bee, duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy hugh blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "it takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from carl's head, he gaily chanted: "and the duck with the feather curled over his back, he leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "good enough! all right, ducky, proceed with your quacking! let's know what's up! are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? and to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "to neither. those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. i have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. in fact, fellers, they intend to fresco valleytown a decided carmine on the 'glorious fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "what form is their celebration to take?" asked little peter wheatly. "fireworks, principally. real stunners! not just a few roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "right you are there, cap," said hugh. "they will have all the country down on the green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. it's a pretty bright move for the lilies, and i don't see how we can prevent it." "get up a counter-attraction. pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from round knob than down yonder in the dale." "sure. but where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "from the city, of course. see here, i wrote to a firm there as soon as i learned the lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." young duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. the hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky new england soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "guess you think we are rothschilds or vanderbilts," snickered small peter. "pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said mark. "i might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "well, i know you are an impecunious lot," continued carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. if you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put roy hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. i don't believe the valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "what sort of a piece?" asked bud perkins. "why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. just listen to what powder & co. offer!" and carl read aloud: "'realistic spectacle of mother goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. the head of george washington, the father of his country, surrounded by thirteen stars. very fine. superb figure of christopher columbus landing from his spanish galleon upon the american shore. one of our most magnificent designs." "there, don't that sound prime? they're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. i warrant a mother goose or, better yet, a washington would shut up the lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "or christopher columbus--i vote for old chris," shouted mark. "yes, yes, chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "it is the dearest of them all," remarked carl, somewhat dubiously. "no matter, 'chris or nothing,' say we." so it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the fourth of july celebration. there is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to powder & co., and when, on the third of july, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of farmer duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and indian-like dances. it may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of roy hastings and his chum ed spafford. "how do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "i don't know, confound 'em! but i do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "yes, indeed, and surely, roy, there must be some way!" "there always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" boom, boom, boom! old captain stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another independence day shortly after midnight, and young america was quickly abroad with the chinese cracker and torpedo. helen hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "i am so glad you have come, nell, dear, for i was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the fourth of july!" "why, darling, what is the matter?" "oh, i am so worried because pa is worried. he don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out west. it would just break my heart to leave this place." "so it would mine. but there, maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. it is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "there is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. we will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." this, with some assistance, helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "eleven o'clock," announced helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and i am both sleepy and thirsty." "well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and i will go and make lemonade for us both." "really? oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. the twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. she sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "what has happened! is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "oh, this is terrible!" was she, helen hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "don't jump, helen; don't jump! you will be killed! wait! courage! i am going for help." even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. across lots from round knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came carl duckworth, hugh blossom and bud perkins. they were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "looks like roy hastings and ed spafford," replied hugh. "though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "i hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. a moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the landing of columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "all our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "and it is roy hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled hugh; while carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while maizie rushed toward them crying, "oh, carl, carl! the old barn is on fire, and helen is in there!" "what! roy hastings' sister?" and hugh actually laughed aloud. "serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said bud perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed maizie; "but carl, i know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. in a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? but the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "we can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! so here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. his breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. to the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. with trembling fingers he knotted this about helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of bud and hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. the flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. mrs. duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "oh, my boy! my boy!" and maizie hid her face. but, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. hugh sprang forward. "carl, drop! let yourself drop," he called. "we will catch you," and carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively carl duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. but, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "see, the conquering hero comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "lilies" of valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. it was something of an astonishment, too, to have roy hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "i can't tell you, duckworth, how glad i am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. it was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. so the grasp he gave roy was warm and cordial as he said, "well, i'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, i am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "oh, i am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced helen with her hands full of flowers. "you dear, heroic carl. i have come to thank you, too, though i never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "what do you mean?" asked carl, thoroughly mystified. "i mean that christopher columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. they plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "paint mine!" "yes, sir. non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "it's true, carl, every word true," laughed maizie, who had stolen softly up. "papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. judge hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. it has been quite the excitement of the summer in valleytown." "well, well! this is glorious news! hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed mark tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "for if you have the 'lilies of the valley' request the captain of the 'ground moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the fourth of july, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, carl duckworth, and of our peace jubilee." all laughed at mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. so at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between valleytown and hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. hanschen and the hares. from the german, by ellen t. sullivan. long ago, in a little house near a forest in germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. they were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little hanschens. "oh! if hanschen would only grow like other boys, i should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "he is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with hans and say, "yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. when he runs around the room i can hardly catch him." one day she said to her husband, "i am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. the grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for hanschen. that will make him grow faster. i will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. give him some clover blossoms to suck. we are too poor to buy candy for him." out through the green forest went hanschen and his mother. the boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. he thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. when they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. while the mother was working hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. all at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. he was not at all afraid. he nodded to them and said, "how do you do?" the little hares had never seen a child. they thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. they stared at him a minute and then one said, "hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "can you do that?" said they to hanschen. "yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." and a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to hanschen. so he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. his bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "just look through the bushes. did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "bring me my spectacles, child," said mrs. hare. "it may be the poor thing has been hurt. that terrible hunter is around again. he chased your poor father yesterday. then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. it may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. if so, i'll soon cure him by good nursing." that was what kind mrs. hare said to her little son. he brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. then she cried out, "why bless me! this is no hare! this is a human child! he is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. my children, i fear you led him astray. tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. it is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "we thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. we found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. then good mrs. hare gave hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. it fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. the three little hares were delighted and said, "he's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said mrs. hare. in the meantime hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. all that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. the hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their sunday clothes, for mr. hare had said to his wife, "i want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. i'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." when all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. they had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard hanschen's mother calling, "hanschen! hanschen! darling!" "here i am, mother;" cried he. "i hear him! i hear him! oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "i do hear his voice but i can see nothing except a little brown hare." hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. how surprised his father and mother were! by this time the hare family had come up and mr. hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "mr. man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. their mother and i try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. they brought him home with them last night. my good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. i hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. it is a present from all of us. we are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. and now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "not yet! not yet!" cried hanschen's father and mother. "tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? one good turn deserves another. we should be so glad to do something for you." "sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said mr. hare. "if you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked mr. fox, will make us very happy. and good mrs. man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good hare family; then the two happy families went home. one day soon after hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. he had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. he opened the door and there stood--mr. fox! "good morning, shoemaker," said he; "i want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or i'll kill every one of your hens to-night. i'm hare hunting, to-day. i know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. i mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. they run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. but, see one of my shoes is torn, so i must have a new pair before i can walk so far." the shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. then he said, "mr. fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." that pleased mr. fox, so he said, "well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." the shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. he put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. he said to himself, "mr. fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." mr. fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "they seem stiff and tight. i fear i cannot run very fast in them." "just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "well, i will hurry off now; but i'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said mr. fox. a little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. a hare had leaped in through the window behind her. it was one of their friends--the father of the hare family. "save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. he did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. she had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "give me the hare that i have been chasing. i saw him leap into your window. i must have him. there he is now, springing on your table." "there is my little hanschen," said the shoemaker. "no wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "yes," said hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. but, mr. hunter, you must not shoot my hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. but say, good people, how in the world am i to know whether i am chasing hanschen or a hare?" "oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "you have only to wait a minute and call out, 'hanschen!' if the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be hanschen." "i will remember and call out," said the hunter. "well, then, to pay you for your kindness, i'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, i'll be bound." "thank you, mr. shoemaker," said the hunter; "i'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. only last night he killed three of my hens." the hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. then hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. mr. hare flew over the ground on his way home. his good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. oh, how happy the hares were! to this day hares often sit up like a child. hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "he is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." so hanschen became postman. he never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "our good friend, hans, is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! he springs as well as the best hare can; hip, hurrah! beneath his coat is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! we may be sure he will take our part; hip, hurrah! we need not starve though the world be white; hip, hurrah! our good friend, hans will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! this is his time he is drawing near; hip, hurrah! off with hats; now cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" the end. the pothunters by p. g. wodehouse [dedication] to joan, effie and ernestine bowes-lyon contents patient perseverance produces pugilistic prodigies thieves break in and steal an unimportant by-product certain revelations concerning the mutual friend a literary banquet barrett explores barrett ceases to explore enter the sleuth-hound mr thompson investigates the sports an interesting interview sir alfred scores the long run mr roberts explains the disappearance of j. thomson 'we'll proceed to search for thomson if he be above the ground' in which the affairs of various persons are wound up [ ] patient perseverance produces pugilistic prodigies 'where _have_ i seen that face before?' said a voice. tony graham looked up from his bag. 'hullo, allen,' he said, 'what the dickens are you up here for?' 'i was rather thinking of doing a little boxing. if you've no objection, of course.' 'but you ought to be on a bed of sickness, and that sort of thing. i heard you'd crocked yourself.' 'so i did. nothing much, though. trod on myself during a game of fives, and twisted my ankle a bit.' 'in for the middles, of course?' 'yes.' 'so am i.' 'yes, so i saw in the sportsman. it says you weigh eleven-three.' 'bit more, really, i believe. shan't be able to have any lunch, or i shall have to go in for the heavies. what are you?' 'just eleven. well, let's hope we meet in the final.' 'rather,' said tony. it was at aldershot--to be more exact, in the dressing-room of the queen's avenue gymnasium at aldershot--that the conversation took place. from east and west, and north and south, from dan even unto beersheba, the representatives of the public schools had assembled to box, fence, and perform gymnastic prodigies for fame and silver medals. the room was full of all sorts and sizes of them, heavy-weights looking ponderous and muscular, feather-weights diminutive but wiry, light-weights, middle-weights, fencers, and gymnasts in scores, some wearing the unmistakable air of the veteran, for whom aldershot has no mysteries, others nervous, and wishing themselves back again at school. tony graham had chosen a corner near the door. this was his first appearance at aldershot. st austin's was his school, and he was by far the best middle-weight there. but his doubts as to his ability to hold his own against all-comers were extreme, nor were they lessened by the knowledge that his cousin, allen thomson, was to be one of his opponents. indeed, if he had not been a man of mettle, he might well have thought that with allen's advent his chances were at an end. allen was at rugby. he was the son of a baronet who owned many acres in wiltshire, and held fixed opinions on the subject of the whole duty of man, who, he held, should be before anything else a sportsman. both the thomsons--allen's brother jim was at st austin's in the same house as tony--were good at most forms of sport. jim, however, had never taken to the art of boxing very kindly, but, by way of compensation, allen had skill enough for two. he was a splendid boxer, quick, neat, scientific. he had been up to aldershot three times, once as a feather-weight and twice as a light-weight, and each time he had returned with the silver medal. as for tony, he was more a fighter than a sparrer. when he paid a visit to his uncle's house he boxed with allen daily, and invariably got the worst of it. allen was too quick for him. but he was clever with his hands. his supply of pluck was inexhaustible, and physically he was as hard as nails. 'is your ankle all right again, now?' he asked. 'pretty well. it wasn't much of a sprain. interfered with my training a good bit, though. i ought by rights to be well under eleven stone. you're all right, i suppose?' 'not bad. boxing takes it out of you more than footer or a race. i was in good footer training long before i started to get fit for aldershot. but i think i ought to get along fairly well. any idea who's in against us?' 'harrow, felsted, wellington. that's all, i think.' 'st paul's?' 'no.' 'good. well, i hope your first man mops you up. i've a conscientious objection to scrapping with you.' allen laughed. 'you'd be all right,' he said, 'if you weren't so beastly slow with your guard. why don't you wake up? you hit like blazes.' 'i think i shall start guarding two seconds before you lead. by the way, don't have any false delicacy about spoiling my aristocratic features. on the ground of relationship, you know.' 'rather not. let auld acquaintance be forgot. i'm not thomson for the present. i'm rugby.' 'just so, and i'm st austin's. personally, i'm going for the knock-out. you won't feel hurt?' this was in the days before the headmasters' conference had abolished the knock-out blow, and a boxer might still pay attentions to the point of his opponent's jaw with an easy conscience. 'i probably shall if it comes off,' said allen. 'i say, it occurs to me that we shall be weighing-in in a couple of minutes, and i haven't started to change yet. good, i've not brought evening dress or somebody else's footer clothes, as usually happens on these festive occasions.' he was just pulling on his last boot when a gymnasium official appeared in the doorway. 'will all those who are entering for the boxing get ready for the weighing-in, please?' he said, and a general exodus ensued. the weighing-in at the public schools' boxing competition is something in the nature of a religious ceremony, but even religious ceremonies come to an end, and after a quarter of an hour or so tony was weighed in the balance and found correct. he strolled off on a tour of inspection. after a time he lighted upon the st austin's gym instructor, whom he had not seen since they had parted that morning, the one on his way to the dressing-room, the other to the refreshment-bar for a modest quencher. 'well, mr graham?' 'hullo, dawkins. what time does this show start? do you know when the middle-weights come on?' 'well, you can't say for certain. they may keep 'em back a bit or they may make a start with 'em first thing. no, the light-weights are going to start. what number did you draw, sir?' 'one.' 'then you'll be in the first middle-weight pair. that'll be after these two gentlemen.' 'these two gentlemen', the first of the light-weights, were by this time in the middle of a warmish opening round. tony watched them with interest and envy. 'how beastly nippy they are,' he said. 'wish i could duck like that,' he added. 'well, the 'ole thing there is you 'ave to watch the other man's eyes. but light-weights is always quicker at the duck than what heavier men are. you get the best boxing in the light-weights, though the feathers spar quicker.' soon afterwards the contest finished, amidst volleys of applause. it had been a spirited battle, and an exceedingly close thing. the umpires disagreed. after a short consultation, the referee gave it as his opinion that on the whole r. cloverdale, of bedford, had had a shade the worse of the exchanges, and that in consequence j. robinson, of st paul's, was the victor. this was what he meant. what he said was, 'robinson wins,' in a sharp voice, as if somebody were arguing about it. the pair then shook hands and retired. 'first bout, middle-weights,' shrilled the m.c. 'w.p. ross (wellington) and a.c.r. graham (st austin's).' tony and his opponent retired for a moment to the changing-room, and then made their way amidst applause on to the raised stage on which the ring was pitched. mr w.p. ross proceeded to the farther corner of the ring, where he sat down and was vigorously massaged by his two seconds. tony took the opposite corner and submitted himself to the same process. it is a very cheering thing at any time to have one's arms and legs kneaded like bread, and it is especially pleasant if one is at all nervous. it sends a glow through the entire frame. like somebody's something it is both grateful and comforting. tony's seconds were curious specimens of humanity. one was a gigantic soldier, very gruff and taciturn, and with decided leanings towards pessimism. the other was also a soldier. he was in every way his colleague's opposite. he was half his size, had red hair, and was bubbling over with conversation. the other could not interfere with his hair or his size, but he could with his conversation, and whenever he attempted a remark, he was promptly silenced, much to his disgust. 'plenty o' moosle 'ere, fred,' he began, as he rubbed tony's left arm. 'moosle ain't everything,' said the other, gloomily, and there was silence again. 'are you ready? seconds away,' said the referee. 'time!' the two stood up to one another. the wellington representative was a plucky boxer, but he was not in the same class as tony. after a few exchanges, the latter got to work, and after that there was only one man in the ring. in the middle of the second round the referee stopped the fight, and gave it to tony, who came away as fresh as he had started, and a great deal happier and more confident. 'did us proud, fred,' began the garrulous man. 'yes, but that 'un ain't nothing. you wait till he meets young thomson. i've seen 'im box 'ere three years, and never bin beat yet. three bloomin' years. yus.' this might have depressed anybody else, but as tony already knew all there was to be known about allen's skill with the gloves, it had no effect upon him. a sanguinary heavy-weight encounter was followed by the first bout of the feathers and the second of the light-weights, and then it was allen's turn to fight the harrow representative. it was not a very exciting bout. allen took things very easily. he knew his training was by no means all it should have been, and it was not his game to take it out of himself with any firework business in the trial heats. he would reserve that for the final. so he sparred three gentle rounds with the harrow sportsman, just doing sufficient to keep the lead and obtain the verdict after the last round. he finished without having turned a hair. he had only received one really hard blow, and that had done no damage. after this came a long series of fights. the heavy-weights shed their blood in gallons for name and fame. the feather-weights gave excellent exhibitions of science, and the light-weight pairs were fought off until there remained only the final to be decided, robinson, of st paul's, against a charterhouse boxer. in the middle-weights there were three competitors still in the running, allen, tony, and a felsted man. they drew lots, and the bye fell to tony, who put up an uninteresting three rounds with one of the soldiers, neither fatiguing himself very much. henderson, of felsted, proved a much tougher nut to crack than allen's first opponent. he was a rushing boxer, and in the first round had, if anything, the best of it. in the last two, however, allen gradually forged ahead, gaining many points by his perfect style alone. he was declared the winner, but he felt much more tired than he had done after his first fight. by the time he was required again, however, he had had plenty of breathing space. the final of the light-weights had been decided, and robinson, of st paul's, after the custom of paulines, had set the crown upon his afternoon's work by fighting the carthusian to a standstill in the first round. there only remained now the finals of the heavies and middles. it was decided to take the latter first. tony had his former seconds, and dawkins had come to his corner to see him through the ordeal. 'the 'ole thing 'ere,' he kept repeating, 'is to keep goin' 'ard all the time and wear 'im out. he's too quick for you to try any sparrin' with.' 'yes,' said tony. 'the 'ole thing,' continued the expert, 'is to feint with your left and 'it with your right.' this was excellent in theory, no doubt, but tony felt that when he came to put it into practice allen might have other schemes on hand and bring them off first. 'are you ready? seconds out of the ring.... time!' 'go in, sir, 'ard,' whispered the red-haired man as tony rose from his place. allen came up looking pleased with matters in general. he gave tony a cousinly grin as they shook hands. tony did not respond. he was feeling serious, and wondering if he could bring off his knock-out before the three rounds were over. he had his doubts. the fight opened slowly. both were cautious, for each knew the other's powers. suddenly, just as tony was thinking of leading, allen came in like a flash. a straight left between the eyes, a right on the side of the head, and a second left on the exact tip of the nose, and he was out again, leaving tony with a helpless feeling of impotence and disgust. then followed more sparring. tony could never get in exactly the right position for a rush. allen circled round him with an occasional feint. then he hit out with the left. tony ducked. again he hit, and again tony ducked, but this time the left stopped halfway, and his right caught tony on the cheek just as he swayed to one side. it staggered him, and before he could recover himself, in darted allen again with another trio of blows, ducked a belated left counter, got in two stinging hits on the ribs, and finished with a left drive which took tony clean off his feet and deposited him on the floor beside the ropes. 'silence, _please_,' said the referee, as a burst of applause greeted this feat. tony was up again in a moment. he began to feel savage. he had expected something like this, but that gave him no consolation. he made up his mind that he really would rush this time, but just as he was coming in, allen came in instead. it seemed to tony for the next half-minute that his cousin's fists were never out of his face. he looked on the world through a brown haze of boxing-glove. occasionally his hand met something solid which he took to be allen, but this was seldom, and, whenever it happened, it only seemed to bring him back again like a boomerang. just at the most exciting point, 'time' was called. the pessimist shook his head gloomily as he sponged tony's face. 'you must lead if you want to 'it 'im,' said the garrulous man. 'you're too slow. go in at 'im, sir, wiv both 'ands, an' you'll be all right. won't 'e, fred?' 'i said 'ow it 'ud be,' was the only reply fred would vouchsafe. tony was half afraid the referee would give the fight against him without another round, but to his joy 'time' was duly called. he came up to the scratch as game as ever, though his head was singing. he meant to go in for all he was worth this round. and go in he did. allen had managed, in performing a complicated manoeuvre, to place himself in a corner, and tony rushed. he was sent out again with a flush hit on the face. he rushed again, and again met allen's left. then he got past, and in the confined space had it all his own way. science did not tell here. strength was the thing that scored, hard half-arm smashes, left and right, at face and body, and the guard could look after itself. allen upper-cut him twice, but after that he was nowhere. tony went in with both hands. there was a prolonged rally, and it was not until 'time' had been called that allen was able to extricate himself. tony's blows had been mostly body blows, and very warm ones at that. 'that's right, sir,' was the comment of the red-headed second. 'keep 'em both goin' hard, and you'll win yet. you 'ad 'im proper then. 'adn't 'e, fred?' and even the pessimist was obliged to admit that tony could fight, even if he was not quick with his guard. allen took the ring slowly. his want of training had begun to tell on him, and some of tony's blows had landed in very tender spots. he knew that he could win if his wind held out, but he had misgivings. the gloves seemed to weigh down his hands. tony opened the ball with a tremendous rush. allen stopped him neatly. there was an interval while the two sparred for an opening. then allen feinted and dashed in. tony did not hit him once. it was the first round over again. left right, left right, and, finally, as had happened before, a tremendously hot shot which sent him under the ropes. he got up, and again allen darted in. tony met him with a straight left. a rapid exchange of blows, and the end came. allen lashed out with his left. tony ducked sharply, and brought his right across with every ounce of his weight behind it, fairly on to the point of the jaw. the right cross-counter is distinctly one of those things which it is more blessed to give than to receive. allen collapsed. '... nine ... ten.' the time-keeper closed his watch. 'graham wins,' said the referee, 'look after that man there.' [ ] thieves break in and steal it was always the custom for such austinians as went up to represent the school at the annual competition to stop the night in the town. it was not, therefore, till just before breakfast on the following day that tony arrived back at his house. the boarding houses at st austin's formed a fringe to the school grounds. the two largest were the school house and merevale's. tony was at merevale's. he was walking up from the station with welch, another member of merevale's, who had been up to aldershot as a fencer, when, at the entrance to the school grounds, he fell in with robinson, his fag. robinson was supposed by many (including himself) to be a very warm man for the junior quarter, which was a handicap race, especially as an injudicious sports committee had given him ten yards' start on simpson, whom he would have backed himself to beat, even if the positions had been reversed. being a wise youth, however, and knowing that the best of runners may fail through under-training, he had for the last week or so been going in for a steady course of over-training, getting up in the small hours and going for before-breakfast spins round the track on a glass of milk and a piece of bread. master r. robinson was nothing if not thorough in matters of this kind. but today things of greater moment than the sports occupied his mind. he had news. he had great news. he was bursting with news, and he hailed the approach of tony and welch with pleasure. with any other leading light of the school he might have felt less at ease, but with tony it was different. when you have underdone a fellow's eggs and overdone his toast and eaten the remainder for a term or two, you begin to feel that mere social distinctions and differences of age no longer form a barrier. besides, he had news which was absolutely fresh, news to which no one could say pityingly: 'what! have you only just heard _that_!' 'hullo, graham,' he said. 'have you come back?' tony admitted that he had. 'jolly good for getting the middles.' (a telegram had, of course, preceded tony.) 'i say, graham, do you know what's happened? there'll be an awful row about it. someone's been and broken into the pav.' 'rot! how do you know?' 'there's a pane taken clean out. i booked it in a second as i was going past to the track.' 'which room?' 'first fifteen. the window facing away from the houses.' 'that's rum,' said welch. 'wonder what a burglar wanted in the first room. isn't even a hair-brush there generally.' robinson's eyes dilated with honest pride. this was good. this was better than he had looked for. not only were they unaware of the burglary, but they had not even an idea as to the recent event which had made the first room so fit a hunting-ground for the burgling industry. there are few pleasures keener than the pleasure of telling somebody something he didn't know before. 'great scott,' he remarked, 'haven't you heard? no, of course you went up to aldershot before they did it. by jove.' 'did what?' 'why, they shunted all the sports prizes from the board room to the pav. and shot 'em into the first room. i don't suppose there's one left now. i should like to see the old man's face when he hears about it. good mind to go and tell him now, only he'd have a fit. jolly exciting, though, isn't it?' 'well,' said tony, 'of all the absolutely idiotic things to do! fancy putting--there must have been at least fifty pounds' worth of silver and things. fancy going and leaving all that overnight in the pav!' 'rotten!' agreed welch. 'wonder whose idea it was.' 'look here, robinson,' said tony, 'you'd better buck up and change, or you'll be late for brekker. come on, welch, we'll go and inspect the scene of battle.' robinson trotted off, and welch and tony made their way to the pavilion. there, sure enough, was the window, or rather the absence of window. a pane had been neatly removed, evidently in the orthodox way by means of a diamond. 'may as well climb up and see if there's anything to be seen,' said welch. 'all right,' said tony, 'give us a leg up. right-ho. by jove, i'm stiff.' 'see anything?' 'no. there's a cloth sort of thing covering what i suppose are the prizes. i see how the chap, whoever he was, got in. you've only got to break the window, draw a couple of bolts, and there you are. shall i go in and investigate?' 'better not. it's rather the thing, i fancy, in these sorts of cases, to leave everything just as it is.' 'rum business,' said tony, as he rejoined welch on terra firma. 'wonder if they'll catch the chap. we'd better be getting back to the house now. it struck the quarter years ago.' when tony, some twenty minutes later, shook off the admiring crowd who wanted a full description of yesterday's proceedings, and reached his study, he found there james thomson, brother to allen thomson, as the playbills say. jim was looking worried. tony had noticed it during breakfast, and had wondered at the cause. he was soon enlightened. 'hullo, jim,' said he. 'what's up with you this morning? feeling chippy?' 'no. no, i'm all right. i'm in a beastly hole though. i wanted to talk to you about it.' 'weigh in, then. we've got plenty of time before school.' 'it's about this aldershot business. how on earth did you manage to lick allen like that? i thought he was a cert.' 'yes, so did i. the 'ole thing there, as dawkins 'ud say, was, i knocked him out. it's the sort of thing that's always happening. i wasn't in it at all except during the second round, when i gave him beans rather in one of the corners. my aunt, it was warm while it lasted. first round, i didn't hit him once. he was better than i thought he'd be, and i knew from experience he was pretty good.' 'yes, you look a bit bashed.' 'yes. feel it too. but what's the row with you?' 'just this. i had a couple of quid on allen, and the rotter goes and gets licked.' 'good lord. whom did you bet with?' 'with allen himself.' 'mean to say allen was crock enough to bet against himself? he must have known he was miles better than anyone else in. he's got three medals there already.' 'no, you see his bet with me was only a hedge. he'd got five to four or something in quids on with a chap in his house at rugby on himself. he wanted a hedge because he wasn't sure about his ankle being all right. you know he hurt it. so i gave him four to one in half-sovereigns. i thought he was a cert, with apologies to you.' 'don't mention it. so he was a cert. it was only the merest fluke i managed to out him when i did. if he'd hung on to the end, he'd have won easy. he'd been scoring points all through.' 'i know. so _the sportsman_ says. just like my luck.' 'i can't see what you want to bet at all for. you're bound to come a mucker sooner or later. can't you raise the two quid?' 'i'm broke except for half a crown.' 'i'd lend it to you like a shot if i had it, of course. but you don't find me with two quid to my name at the end of term. won't allen wait?' 'he would if it was only him. but this other chap wants his oof badly for something and he's leaving and going abroad or something at the end of term. anyhow, i know he's keen on getting it. allen told me.' tony pondered for a moment. 'look here,' he said at last, 'can't you ask your pater? he usually heaves his money about pretty readily, doesn't he?' 'well, you see, he wouldn't send me two quid off the reel without wanting to know all about it, and why i couldn't get on to the holidays with five bob, and i'd either have to fake up a lot of lies, which i'm not going to do--' 'of course not.' 'or else i must tell him i've been betting.' 'well, he bets himself, doesn't he?' 'that's just where the whole business slips up,' replied jim, prodding the table with a pen in a misanthropic manner. 'betting's the one thing he's absolutely down on. he got done rather badly once a few years ago. believe he betted on orme that year he got poisoned. anyhow he's always sworn to lynch us if we made fools of ourselves that way. so if i asked him, i'd not only get beans myself, besides not getting any money out of him, but allen would get scalped too, which he wouldn't see at all.' 'yes, it's no good doing that. haven't you any other source of revenue?' 'yes, there's just one chance. if that doesn't come off, i'm done. my pater said he'd give me a quid for every race i won at the sports. i got the half yesterday all right when you were up at aldershot.' 'good man. i didn't hear about that. what time? anything good?' 'nothing special. - and three-fifths.' 'that's awfully good. you ought to pull off the mile, too, i should think.' 'yes, with luck. drake's the man i'm afraid of. he's done it in - twice during training. he was second in the half yesterday by about three yards, but you can't tell anything from that. he sprinted too late.' 'what's your best for the mile?' 'i have done - , but only once. - 's my average, so there's nothing to choose between us on paper.' 'well, you've got more to make you buck up than he has. there must be something in that.' 'yes, by jove. i'll win if i expire on the tape. i shan't spare myself with that quid on the horizon.' 'no. hullo, there's the bell. we must buck up. going to charteris' gorge tonight?' 'yes, but i shan't eat anything. no risks for me.' 'rusks are more in your line now. come on.' and, in the excitement of these more personal matters, tony entirely forgot to impart the news of the pavilion burglary to him. [ ] an unimportant by-product the news, however, was not long in spreading. robinson took care of that. on the way to school he overtook his friend morrison, a young gentleman who had the unique distinction of being the rowdiest fag in ward's house, which, as any austinian could have told you, was the rowdiest house in the school. 'i say, morrison, heard the latest?' 'no, what?' 'chap broke into the pav. last night.' 'who, you?' 'no, you ass, a regular burglar. after the sports prizes.' 'look here, robinson, try that on the kids.' 'just what i am doing,' said robinson. this delicate reference to morrison's tender years had the effect of creating a disturbance. two school house juniors, who happened to be passing, naturally forsook all their other aims and objects and joined the battle. 'what's up?' asked one of them, dusting himself hastily as they stopped to take breath. it was always his habit to take up any business that might attract his attention, and ask for explanations afterwards. 'this kid--' began morrison. 'kid yourself, morrison.' 'this lunatic, then.' robinson allowed the emendation to pass. 'this lunatic's got some yarn on about the pav. being burgled.' 'so it is. tell you i saw it myself.' 'did it yourself, probably.' 'how do you know, anyway? you seem so jolly certain about it.' 'why, there's a pane of glass cut out of the window in the first room.' 'shouldn't wonder, you know,' said dimsdale, one of the two school house fags, judicially, 'if the kid wasn't telling the truth for once in his life. those pots must be worth something. don't you think so, scott?' scott admitted that there might be something in the idea, and that, however foreign to his usual habits, robinson might on this occasion be confining himself more or less to strict fact. 'there you are, then,' said robinson, vengefully. 'shows what a fat lot you know what you're talking about, morrison.' 'morrison's a fool,' said scott. 'ever since he got off the bottom bench in form there's been no holding him.' 'all the same,' said morrison, feeling that matters were going against him, 'i shan't believe it till i see it.' 'what'll you bet?' said robinson. 'i never bet,' replied morrison with scorn. 'you daren't. you know you'd lose.' 'all right, then, i'll bet a penny i'm right.' he drew a deep breath, as who should say, 'it's a lot of money, but it's worth risking it.' 'you'll lose that penny, old chap,' said robinson. 'that's to say,' he added thoughtfully, 'if you ever pay up.' 'you've got us as witnesses,' said dimsdale. 'we'll see that he shells out. scott, remember you're a witness. 'right-ho,' said scott. at this moment the clock struck nine, and as each of the principals in this financial transaction, and both the witnesses, were expected to be in their places to answer their names at . , they were late. and as they had all been late the day before and the day before that, they were presented with two hundred lines apiece. which shows more than ever how wrong it is to bet. the news continuing to circulate, by the end of morning school it was generally known that a gang of desperadoes, numbering at least a hundred, had taken the pavilion down, brick by brick, till only the foundations were left standing, and had gone off with every jot and tittle of the unfortunately placed sports prizes. at the quarter-to-eleven interval, the school had gone _en masse_ to see what it could see, and had stared at the window with much the same interest as they were wont to use in inspecting the first eleven pitch on the morning of a match--a curious custom, by the way, but one very generally observed. then the official news of the extent of the robbery was spread abroad. it appeared that the burglar had by no means done the profession credit, for out of a vast collection of prizes ranging from the vast and silver mile challenge cup to the pair of fives-gloves with which the 'under twelve' disciple of deerfoot was to be rewarded, he had selected only three. two of these were worth having, being the challenge cup for the quarter and the non-challenge cup for the hundred yards, both silver, but the third was a valueless flask, and the general voice of the school was loud in condemning the business abilities of one who could select his swag in so haphazard a manner. it was felt to detract from the merit of the performance. the knowing ones, however, gave it as their opinion that the man must have been frightened by something, and so was unable to give the matter his best attention and do himself justice as a connoisseur. 'we had a burglary at my place once,' began reade, of philpott's house. 'the man--' 'that rotter, reade,' said barrett, also of philpott's, 'has been telling us that burglary chestnut of his all the morning. i wish you chaps wouldn't encourage him.' 'why, what was it? first i've heard of it, at any rate.' dallas and vaughan, of ward's, added themselves to the group. 'out with it, reade,' said vaughan. 'it's only a beastly reminiscence of reade's childhood,' said barrett. 'a burglar got into the wine-cellar and collared all the coals.' 'he didn't. he was in the hall, and my pater got his revolver--' 'while you hid under the bed.' '--and potted at him over the banisters.' 'the last time but three you told the story, your pater fired through the keyhole of the dining-room.' 'you idiot, that was afterwards.' 'oh, well, what does it matter? tell us something fresh.' 'it's my opinion,' said dallas, 'that ward did it. a man of the vilest antecedents. he's capable of anything from burglary--' 'to attempted poisoning. you should see what we get to eat in ward's house,' said vaughan. 'ward's the worst type of beak. he simply lives for the sake of booking chaps. if he books a chap out of bounds it keeps him happy for a week.' 'a man like that's bound to be a criminal of sorts in his spare time. it's action and reaction,' said vaughan. mr ward happening to pass at this moment, the speaker went on to ask dallas audibly if life was worth living, and dallas replied that under certain conditions and in some houses it was not. dallas and vaughan did not like mr ward. mr ward was not the sort of man who inspires affection. he had an unpleasant habit of 'jarring', as it was called. that is to say, his conversation was shaped to one single end, that of trying to make the person to whom he talked feel uncomfortable. many of his jars had become part of the school history. there was a legend that on one occasion he had invited his prefects to supper, and regaled them with sausages. there was still one prefect unhelped. to him he addressed himself. 'a sausage, jones?' 'if you please, sir.' 'no, you won't, then, because i'm going to have half myself.' this story may or may not be true. suffice it to say, that mr ward was not popular. the discussion was interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing for second lesson. the problem was left unsolved. it was evident that the burglar had been interrupted, but how or why nobody knew. the suggestion that he had heard master r. robinson training for his quarter-mile, and had thought it was an earthquake, found much favour with the junior portion of the assembly. simpson, on whom robinson had been given start in the race, expressed an opinion that he, robinson, ran like a cow. at which robinson smiled darkly, and advised the other to wait till sports day and then he'd see, remarking that, meanwhile, if he gave him any of his cheek he might not be well enough to run at all. 'this sort of thing,' said barrett to reade, as they walked to their form-room, 'always makes me feel beastly. once start a row like this, and all the beaks turn into regular detectives and go ferreting about all over the place, and it's ten to one they knock up against something one doesn't want them to know about.' reade was feeling hurt. he had objected to the way in which barrett had spoiled a story that might easily have been true, and really was true in parts. his dignity was offended. he said 'yes' to barrett's observation in a tone of reserved _hauteur_. barrett did not notice. 'it's an awful nuisance. for one thing it makes them so jolly strict about bounds.' 'yes.' 'i wanted to go for a bike ride this afternoon. there's nothing on at the school.' 'why don't you?' 'what's the good if you can't break bounds? a ride of about a quarter of a mile's no good. there's a ripping place about ten miles down the stapleton road. big wood, with a ripping little hollow in the middle, all ferns and moss. i was thinking of taking a book out there for the afternoon. only there's roll-call.' he paused. ordinarily, this would have been the cue for reade to say, 'oh, i'll answer your name at roll-call.' but reade said nothing. barrett looked surprised and disappointed. 'i say, reade,' he said. 'well?' 'would you like to answer my name at roll-call?' it was the first time he had ever had occasion to make the request. 'no,' said reade. barrett could hardly believe his ears. did he sleep? did he dream? or were visions about? 'what!' he said. no answer. 'do you mean to say you won't?' 'of course i won't. why the deuce should i do your beastly dirty work for you?' barrett did not know what to make of this. curiosity urged him to ask for explanations. dignity threw cold water on such a scheme. in the end dignity had the best of it. 'oh, very well,' he said, and they went on in silence. in all the three years of their acquaintance they had never before happened upon such a crisis. the silence lasted until they reached the form-room. then barrett determined, in the interests of the common good--he and reade shared a study, and icy coolness in a small study is unpleasant--to chain up dignity for the moment, and give curiosity a trial. 'what's up with you today?' he asked. he could hardly have chosen a worse formula. the question has on most people precisely the same effect as that which the query, 'do you know where you lost it?' has on one who is engaged in looking for mislaid property. 'nothing,' said reade. probably at the same moment hundreds of other people were making the same reply, in the same tone of voice, to the same question. 'oh,' said barrett. there was another silence. 'you might as well answer my name this afternoon,' said barrett, tentatively. reade walked off without replying, and barrett went to his place feeling that curiosity was a fraud, and resolving to confine his attentions for the future to dignity. this was by-product number one of the pavilion burglary. [ ] certain revelations during the last hour of morning school, tony got a note from jim. 'graham,' said mr thompson, the master of the sixth, sadly, just as tony was about to open it. 'yes, sir?' 'kindly tear that note up, graham.' 'note, sir?' 'kindly tear that note up, graham. come, you are keeping us waiting.' as the hero of the novel says, further concealment was useless. tony tore the note up unread. 'hope it didn't want an answer,' he said to jim after school. 'constant practice has made thompson a sort of amateur lynx.' 'no. it was only to ask you to be in the study directly after lunch. there's a most unholy row going to occur shortly, as far as i can see.' 'what, about this burglary business?' 'yes. haven't time to tell you now. see you after lunch.' after lunch, having closed the study door, jim embarked on the following statement. it appeared that on the previous night he had left a book of notes, which were of absolutely vital importance for the examination which the sixth had been doing in the earlier part of the morning, in the identical room in which the prizes had been placed. or rather, he had left it there several days before, and had not needed it till that night. at half-past six the pavilion had been locked up, and biffen, the ground-man, had taken the key away with him, and it was only after tea had been consumed and the evening paper read, that jim, thinking it about time to begin work, had discovered his loss. this was about half-past seven. being a house-prefect, jim did not attend preparation in the great hall with the common herd of the houses, but was part-owner with tony of a study. the difficulties of the situation soon presented themselves to him. it was only possible to obtain the notes in three ways--firstly, by going to the rooms of the sixth form master, who lived out of college; secondly, by borrowing from one of the other sixth form members of the house; and thirdly, by the desperate expedient of burgling the pavilion. the objections to the first course were two. in the first place merevale was taking prep. over in the hall, and it was strictly forbidden for anyone to quit the house after lock-up without leave. and, besides, it was long odds that thompson, the sixth form master, would not have the notes, as he had dictated them partly out of his head and partly from the works of various eminent scholars. the second course was out of the question. the only other sixth form boy in the house, tony and welch being away at aldershot, was charteris, and charteris, who never worked much except the night before an exam, but worked then under forced draught, was appalled at the mere suggestion of letting his note-book out of his hands. jim had sounded him on the subject and had met with the reply, 'kill my father and burn my ancestral home, and i will look on and smile. but touch these notes and you rouse the british lion.' after which he had given up the borrowing idea. there remained the third course, and there was an excitement and sporting interest about it that took him immensely. but how was he to get out to start with? he opened his study-window and calculated the risks of a drop to the ground. no, it was too far. not worth risking a sprained ankle on the eve of the mile. then he thought of the matron's sitting-room. this was on the ground-floor, and if its owner happened to be out, exit would be easy. as luck would have it she was out, and in another minute jim had crossed the rubicon and was standing on the gravel drive which led to the front gate. a sharp sprint took him to the pavilion. now the difficulty was not how to get out, but how to get in. theoretically, it should have been the easiest of tasks, but in practice there were plenty of obstacles to success. he tried the lower windows, but they were firmly fixed. there had been a time when one of them would yield to a hard kick and fly bodily out of its frame, but somebody had been caught playing that game not long before, and jim remembered with a pang that not only had the window been securely fastened up, but the culprit had had a spell of extra tuition and other punishments which had turned him for the time into a hater of his species. his own fate, he knew, would be even worse, for a prefect is supposed to have something better to do in his spare time than breaking into pavilions. it would mean expulsion perhaps, or, at the least, the loss of his prefect's cap, and jim did not want to lose that. still the thing had to be done if he meant to score any marks at all in the forthcoming exam. he wavered a while between a choice of methods, and finally fixed on the crudest of all. no one was likely to be within earshot, thought he, so he picked up the largest stone he could find, took as careful aim as the dim light would allow, and hove it. there was a sickening crash, loud enough, he thought, to bring the whole school down on him, followed by a prolonged rattle as the broken pieces of glass fell to the ground. he held his breath and listened. for a moment all was still, uncannily still. he could hear the tops of the trees groaning in the slight breeze that had sprung up, and far away the distant roar of a train. then a queer thing happened. he heard a quiet thud, as if somebody had jumped from a height on to grass, and then quick footsteps. he waited breathless and rigid, expecting every moment to see a form loom up beside him in the darkness. it was useless to run. his only chance was to stay perfectly quiet. then it dawned upon him that the man was running away from him, not towards him. his first impulse was to give chase, but prudence restrained him. catching burglars is an exhilarating sport, but it is best to indulge in it when one is not on a burgling expedition oneself. besides he had come out to get his book, and business is business. there was no time to be lost now, for someone might have heard one or both of the noises and given the alarm. once the window was broken the rest was fairly easy, the only danger being the pieces of glass. he took off his coat and flung it on to the sill of the upper window. in a few seconds he was up himself without injury. he found it a trifle hard to keep his balance, as there was nothing to hold on to, but he managed it long enough to enable him to thrust an arm through the gap and turn the handle. after this there was a bolt to draw, which he managed without difficulty. the window swung open. jim jumped in, and groped his way round the room till he found his book. the other window of the room was wide open. he shut it for no definite reason, and noticed that a pane had been cut out entire. the professional cracksman had done his work more neatly than the amateur. 'poor chap,' thought jim, with a chuckle, as he effected a retreat, 'i must have given him a bit of a start with my half-brick.' after bolting the window behind him, he climbed down. as he reached earth again the clock struck a quarter to nine. in another quarter of an hour prep, would be over and the house door unlocked, and he would be able to get in again. nor would the fact of his being out excite remark, for it was the custom of the house-prefects to take the air for the few minutes which elapsed between the opening of the door and the final locking-up for the night. the rest of his adventures ran too smoothly to require a detailed description. everything succeeded excellently. the only reminiscences of his escapade were a few cuts in his coat, which went unnoticed, and the precious book of notes, to which he applied himself with such vigour in the watches of the night, with a surreptitious candle and a hamper of apples as aids to study, that, though tired next day, he managed to do quite well enough in the exam, to pass muster. and, as he had never had the least prospect of coming out top, or even in the first five, this satisfied him completely. tony listened with breathless interest to jim's recital of his adventures, and at the conclusion laughed. 'what a mad thing to go and do,' he said. 'jolly sporting, though.' jim did not join in his laughter. 'yes, but don't you see,' he said, ruefully, 'what a mess i'm in? if they find out that i was in the pav. at the time when the cups were bagged, how on earth am i to prove i didn't take them myself?' 'by jove, i never thought of that. but, hang it all, they'd never dream of accusing a coll. chap of stealing sports prizes. this isn't a reformatory for juvenile hooligans.' 'no, perhaps not.' 'of course not.' 'well, even if they didn't, the old man would be frightfully sick if he got to know about it. i'd lose my prefect's cap for a cert.' 'you might, certainly.' 'i should. there wouldn't be any question about it. why, don't you remember that business last summer about cairns? he used to stay out after lock-up. that was absolutely all he did. well, the old 'un dropped on him like a hundredweight of bricks. multiply that by about ten and you get what he'll do to me if he books me over this job.' tony looked thoughtful. the case of cairns _versus_ the powers that were, was too recent to have escaped his memory. even now cairns was to be seen on the grounds with a common school house cap at the back of his head in place of the prefect's cap which had once adorned it. 'yes,' he said, 'you'd lose your cap all right, i'm afraid.' 'rather. and the sickening part of the business is that this real, copper-bottomed burglary'll make them hunt about all over the shop for clues and things, and the odds are they'll find me out, even if they don't book the real man. shouldn't wonder if they had a detective down for a big thing of this sort.' 'they are having one, i heard.' 'there you are, then,' said jim, dejectedly. 'i'm done, you see.' 'i don't know. i don't believe detectives are much class.' 'anyhow, he'll probably have gumption enough to spot me.' jim's respect for the abilities of our national sleuth-hounds was greater than tony's, and a good deal greater than that of most people. [ ] concerning the mutual friend 'i wonder where the dear mutual gets to these afternoons,' said dallas. 'the who?' asked macarthur. macarthur, commonly known as the babe, was a day boy. dallas and vaughan had invited him to tea in their study. 'plunkett, you know.' 'why the mutual?' 'mutual friend, vaughan's and mine. shares this study with us. i call him dear partly because he's head of the house, and therefore, of course, we respect and admire him.' 'and partly,' put in vaughan, beaming at the babe over a frying-pan full of sausages, 'partly because we love him so. oh, he's a beauty.' 'no, but rotting apart,' said the babe, 'what sort of a chap is he? i hardly know him by sight, even.' 'should describe him roughly,' said dallas, 'as a hopeless, forsaken unspeakable worm.' 'understates it considerably,' remarked vaughan. 'his manners are patronizing, and his customs beastly.' 'he wears spectacles, and reads herodotus in the original greek for pleasure.' 'he sneers at footer, and jeers at cricket. croquet is his form, i should say. should doubt, though, if he even plays that.' 'but why on earth,' said the babe, 'do you have him in your study?' vaughan looked wildly and speechlessly at dallas, who looked helplessly back at vaughan. 'don't, babe, please!' said dallas. 'you've no idea how a remark of that sort infuriates us. you surely don't suppose we'd have the man in the study if we could help it?' 'it's another instance of ward at his worst,' said vaughan. 'have you never heard the story of the mutual friend's arrival?' 'no.' 'it was like this. at the beginning of this term i came back expecting to be head of this show. you see, richards left at christmas and i was next man in. dallas and i had made all sorts of arrangements for having a good time. well, i got back on the last evening of the holidays. when i got into this study, there was the man plunkett sitting in the best chair, reading.' 'probably reading herodotus in the original greek,' snorted dallas. 'he didn't take the slightest notice of me. i stood in the doorway like patience on a monument for about a quarter of an hour. then i coughed. he took absolutely no notice. i coughed again, loud enough to crack the windows. then i got tired of it, and said "hullo". he did look up at that. "hullo," he said, "you've got rather a nasty cough." i said "yes", and waited for him to throw himself on my bosom and explain everything, you know.' 'did he?' asked the babe, deeply interested. 'not a bit,' said dallas, 'he--sorry, vaughan, fire ahead.' 'he went on reading. after a bit i said i hoped he was fairly comfortable. he said he was. conversation languished again. i made another shot. "looking for anybody?" i said. "no," he said, "are you?" "no." "then why the dickens should i be?" he said. i didn't quite follow his argument. in fact, i don't even now. "look here," i said, "tell me one thing. have you or have you not bought this place? if you have, all right. if you haven't, i'm going to sling you out, and jolly soon, too." he looked at me in his superior sort of way, and observed without blenching that he was head of the house.' 'just another of ward's jars,' said dallas. 'knowing that vaughan was keen on being head of the house he actually went to the old man and persuaded him that it would be better to bring in some day boy who was a school-prefect than let vaughan boss the show. what do you think of that?' 'pretty low,' said the babe. 'said i was thoughtless and headstrong,' cut in vaughan, spearing a sausage as if it were mr ward's body. 'muffins up, dallas, old man. when the sausages are done to a turn. "thoughtless and headstrong." those were his very words.' 'can't you imagine the old beast?' said dallas, pathetically, 'can't you see him getting round the old man? a capital lad at heart, i am sure, distinctly a capital lad, but thoughtless and headstrong, far too thoughtless for a position so important as that of head of my house. the abandoned old wreck!' tea put an end for the moment to conversation, but when the last sausage had gone the way of all flesh, vaughan returned to the sore subject like a moth to a candle. 'it isn't only the not being head of the house that i bar. it's the man himself. you say you haven't studied plunkett much. when you get to know him better, you'll appreciate his finer qualities more. there are so few of them.' 'the only fine quality i've ever seen in him,' said dallas, 'is his habit of slinking off in the afternoons when he ought to be playing games, and not coming back till lock-up.' 'which brings us back to where we started,' put in the babe. 'you were wondering what he did with himself.' 'yes, it can't be anything good so we'll put beetles and butterflies out of the question right away. he might go and poach. there's heaps of opportunity round here for a chap who wants to try his hand at that. i remember, when i was a kid, morton smith, who used to be in this house--remember him?--took me to old what's-his-name's place. who's that frantic blood who owns all that land along the badgwick road? the m.p. man.' 'milord sir alfred venner, m.p., of badgwick hall.' 'that's the man. generally very much of badgwick hall. came down last summer on prize day. one would have thought from the side on him that he was all sorts of dooks. anyhow, morton-smith took me rabbiting there. i didn't know it was against the rules or anything. had a grand time. a few days afterwards, milord sir venner copped him on the hop and he got sacked. there was an awful row. i thought my hair would have turned white.' 'i shouldn't think the mutual poaches,' said vaughan. 'he hasn't got the enterprise to poach an egg even. no, it can't be that.' 'perhaps he bikes?' said the babe. 'no, he's not got a bike. he's the sort of chap, though, to borrow somebody else's without asking. possibly he does bike.' 'if he does,' said dallas, 'it's only so as to get well away from the coll., before starting on his career of crime. i'll swear he does break rules like an ordinary human being when he thinks it's safe. those aggressively pious fellows generally do.' 'i didn't know he was that sort,' said the babe. 'don't you find it rather a jar?' 'just a bit. he jaws us sometimes till we turn and rend him.' 'yes, he's an awful man,' said vaughan. 'don't stop,' said the babe, encouragingly, after the silence had lasted some time. 'it's a treat picking a fellow to pieces like this.' 'i don't know if that's your beastly sarcasm, babe,' said vaughan, 'but, speaking for self and partner, i don't know how we should get on if we didn't blow off steam occasionally in this style.' 'we should probably last out for a week, and then there would be a sharp shriek, a hollow groan, and all that would be left of the mutual friend would be a slight discolouration on the study carpet.' 'coupled with an aroma of fresh gore.' 'perhaps that's why he goes off in the afternoons,' suggested the babe. 'doesn't want to run any risks.' 'shouldn't wonder.' 'he's such a rotten head of the house, too,' said vaughan. 'ward may gas about my being headstrong and thoughtless, but i'm dashed if i would make a bally exhibition of myself like the mutual.' 'what's he do?' enquired the babe. 'it's not so much what he does. it's what he doesn't do that sickens me,' said dallas. 'i may be a bit of a crock in some ways--for further details apply to ward--but i can stop a couple of fags ragging if i try.' 'can't plunkett?' 'not for nuts. he's simply helpless when there's anything going on that he ought to stop. why, the other day there was a row in the fags' room that you could almost have heard at your place, babe. we were up here working. the mutual was jawing as usual on the subject of cramming tips for the aeschylus exam. said it wasn't scholarship, or some rot. what business is it of his how a chap works, i should like to know. just as he had got under way, the fags began kicking up more row than ever.' 'i said', cut in vaughan, 'that instead of minding other people's business, he'd better mind his own for a change, and go down and stop the row.' 'he looked a bit green at that,' said dallas. 'said the row didn't interfere with him. "does with us," i said. "it's all very well for you. you aren't doing a stroke of work. no amount of row matters to a chap who's only delivering a rotten sermon on scholarship. vaughan and i happen to be trying to do some work." "all right," he said, "if you want the row stopped, why don't you go and stop it? what's it got to do with me?"' 'rotter!' interpolated the babe. 'wasn't he? well, of course we couldn't stand that.' 'we crushed him,' said vaughan. 'i said: "in my young days the head of the house used to keep order for himself." i asked him what he thought he was here for. because he isn't ornamental. so he went down after that.' 'well?' said the babe. being a miserable day boy he had had no experience of the inner life of a boarding house, which is the real life of a public school. his experience of life at st austin's was limited to doing his work and playing centre-three-quarter for the fifteen. which, it may be remarked in passing, he did extremely well. dallas took up the narrative. 'well, after he'd been gone about five minutes, and the row seemed to be getting worse than ever, we thought we'd better go down and investigate. so we did.' 'and when we got to the fags' room,' said vaughan, pointing the toasting-fork at the babe by way of emphasis, 'there was the mutual standing in the middle of the room gassing away with an expression on his face a cross between a village idiot and an unintelligent fried egg. and all round him was a seething mass of fags, half of them playing soccer with a top-hat and the other half cheering wildly whenever the mutual opened his mouth.' 'what did you do?' 'we made an aggressive movement in force. collared the hat, brained every fag within reach, and swore we'd report them to the beak and so on. they quieted down in about three and a quarter seconds by stopwatch, and we retired, taking the hat as a prize of war, and followed by the mutual friend.' 'he looked worried, rather,' said vaughan. 'and, thank goodness, he let us alone for the rest of the evening.' 'that's only a sample, though,' explained dallas. 'that sort of thing has been going on the whole term. if the head of a house is an abject lunatic, there's bound to be ructions. fags simply live for the sake of kicking up rows. it's meat and drink to them.' 'i wish the mutual would leave,' said vaughan. 'only that sort of chap always lingers on until he dies or gets sacked.' 'he's not the sort of fellow to get sacked, i should say,' said the babe. ''fraid not. i wish i could shunt into some other house. between ward and the mutual life here isn't worth living.' 'there's merevale's, now,' said vaughan. 'i wish i was in there. in the first place you've got merevale. he gets as near perfection as a beak ever does. coaches the house footer and cricket, and takes an intelligent interest in things generally. then there are some decent fellows in merevale's. charteris, welch, graham, thomson, heaps of them.' 'pity you came to ward's,' said the babe. 'why did you?' 'my pater knew ward a bit. if he'd known him well, he'd have sent me somewhere else.' 'my pater knew vaughan's pater well, who knew ward slightly and there you are. _voila comme des accidents arrivent_.' 'if ward wanted to lug in a day boy to be head of the house,' said vaughan, harping once more on the old string, 'he might at least have got somebody decent.' 'there's the great babe himself. babe, why don't you come in next term?' 'not much,' said the babe, with a shudder. 'well, even barring present company, there are lots of chaps who would have jumped at the chance of being head of a house. but nothing would satisfy ward but lugging the mutual from the bosom of his beastly family.' 'we haven't decided that point about where he goes to,' said the babe. at this moment the door of the study opened, and the gentleman in question appeared in person. he stood in the doorway for a few seconds, gasping and throwing his arms about as if he found a difficulty in making his way in. 'i wish you two wouldn't make such an awful froust in the study _every_ afternoon,' he observed, pleasantly. 'have you been having a little tea-party? how nice!' 'we've been brewing, if that's what you mean,' said vaughan, shortly. 'oh,' said plunkett, 'i hope you enjoyed yourselves. it's nearly lock-up, macarthur.' 'that's plunkett's delicate way of telling you you're not wanted, babe.' 'well, i suppose i ought to be going,' said the babe. 'so long.' and he went, feeling grateful to providence for not having made his father, like the fathers of vaughan and dallas, a casual acquaintance of mr ward. the mutual friend really was a trial to vaughan and dallas. only those whose fate it is or has been to share a study with an uncongenial companion can appreciate their feelings to the full. three in a study is always something of a tight fit, and when the three are in a state of perpetual warfare, or, at the best, of armed truce, things become very bad indeed. 'do you find it necessary to have tea-parties every evening?' enquired plunkett, after he had collected his books for the night's work. 'the smell of burnt meat--' 'fried sausages,' said vaughan. 'perfectly healthy smell. do you good.' 'it's quite disgusting. really, the air in here is hardly fit to breathe.' 'you'll find an excellent brand of air down in the senior study,' said dallas, pointedly. 'don't stay and poison yourself here on _our_ account,' he added. 'think of your family.' 'i shall work where i choose,' said the mutual friend, with dignity. 'of course, so long as you do work. you mustn't talk. vaughan and i have got some livy to do.' plunkett snorted, and the passage of arms ended, as it usually did, in his retiring with his books to the senior study, leaving dallas and vaughan to discuss his character once more in case there might be any points of it left upon which they had not touched in previous conversations. 'this robbery of the pots is a rum thing,' said vaughan, thoughtfully, when the last shreds of plunkett's character had been put through the mincing-machine to the satisfaction of all concerned. 'yes. it's the sort of thing one doesn't think possible till it actually happens.' 'what the dickens made them put the things in the pav. at all? they must have known it wouldn't be safe.' 'well, you see, they usually cart them into the board room, i believe, only this time the governors were going to have a meeting there. they couldn't very well meet in a room with the table all covered with silver pots.' 'don't see why.' 'well, i suppose they could, really, but some of the governors are fairly nuts on strict form. there's that crock who makes the two-hour vote of thanks speeches on prize day. you can see him rising to a point of order, and fixing the old 'un with a fishy eye.' 'well, anyhow, i don't see that they can blame a burglar for taking the pots if they simply chuck them in his way like that.' 'no. i say, we'd better weigh in with the livy. the man ward'll be round directly. where's the dic? _and_ our invaluable friend, mr bohn? right. now, you reel it off, and i'll keep an eye on the notes.' and they settled down to the business of the day. after a while vaughan looked up. 'who's going to win the mile?' he asked. 'what's the matter with thomson?' 'how about drake then?' 'thomson won the half.' 'i knew you'd say that. the half isn't a test of a chap's mile form. besides, did you happen to see drake's sprint?' 'jolly good one.' 'i know, but look how late he started for it. thomson crammed on the pace directly he got into the straight. drake only began to put it on when he got to the pav. even then he wasn't far behind at the tape.' 'no. well, i'm not plunging either way. ought to be a good race.' 'rather. i say, i wonder welch doesn't try his hand at the mile. i believe he would do some rattling times if he'd only try.' 'why, welch is a sprinter.' 'i know. but i believe for all that that the mile's his distance. he's always well up in the cross-country runs.' 'anyhow, he's not in for it this year. thomson's my man. it'll be a near thing, though.' 'jolly near thing. with drake in front.' 'thomson.' 'drake.' 'all right, we'll see. wonder why the beak doesn't come up. i can't sit here doing livy all the evening. and yet if we stop he's bound to look in.' 'oh lord, is that what you've been worrying about? i thought you'd developed the work habit or something. ward's all right. he's out on the tiles tonight. gone to a dinner at philpott's.' 'good man, how do you know? are you certain?' 'heard him telling prater this morning. half the staff have gone. good opportunity for a chap to go for a stroll if he wanted to. shall we, by the way?' 'not for me, thanks. i'm in the middle of a rather special book. ever read _great expectations_? dickens, you know.' 'i know. haven't read it, though. always rather funk starting on a classic, somehow. good?' 'my dear chap! good's not the word.' 'well, after you. exit livy, then. and a good job, too. you might pass us the great sherlock. thanks.' he plunged with the great detective into the mystery of the speckled band, while vaughan opened _great expectations_ at the place where he had left off the night before. and a silence fell upon the study. curiously enough, dallas was not the only member of ward's house to whom it occurred that evening that the absence of the house-master supplied a good opportunity for a stroll. the idea had also struck plunkett favourably. he was not feeling very comfortable down-stairs. on entering the senior study he found galloway, an upper fourth member of the house, already in possession. galloway had managed that evening to insinuate himself with such success into the good graces of the matron, that he had been allowed to stay in the house instead of proceeding with the rest of the study to the great hall for preparation. the palpable failure of his attempt to hide the book he was reading under the table when he was disturbed led him to cast at the mutual friend, the cause of his panic, so severe and forbidding a look, that that gentleman retired, and made for the junior study. the atmosphere in the junior study was close, and heavy with a blend of several strange odours. plunkett went to the window. then he noticed what he had never noticed before, that there were no bars to the window. only the glass stood between him and the outer world. he threw up the sash as far as it would go. there was plenty of room to get out. so he got out. he stood for a moment inhaling the fresh air. then, taking something from his coat-pocket, he dived into the shadows. an hour passed. in the study above, dallas, surfeited with mysteries and villainy, put down his book and stretched himself. 'i say, vaughan,' he said. 'have you settled the house gym. team yet? it's about time the list went up.' 'eh? what?' said vaughan, coming slowly out of his book. dallas repeated his question. 'yes,' said vaughan, 'got it somewhere on me. haynes, jarvis, and myself are going in. only, the mutual has to stick up the list.' it was the unwritten rule in ward's, as in most of the other houses at the school, that none but the head of the house had the right of placing notices on the house board. 'i know,' said dallas. 'i'll go and buck him up now.' 'don't trouble. after prayers'll do.' 'it's all right. no trouble. whom did you say? yourself, haynes--' 'and jarvis. not that he's any good. but the third string never matters much, and it'll do him good to represent the house.' 'right. i'll go and unearth the mutual.' the result was that galloway received another shock to his system. 'don't glare, galloway. it's rude,' said dallas. 'where's plunkett got to?' he added. 'junior study,' said galloway. dallas went to the junior study. there were plunkett's books on the table, but of their owner no signs were to be seen. the mutual friend had had the good sense to close the window after he had climbed through it, and dallas did not suspect what had actually happened. he returned to vaughan. 'the mutual isn't in either of the studies,' he said. 'i didn't want to spend the evening playing hide-and-seek with him, so i've come back.' 'it doesn't matter, thanks all the same. later on'll do just as well.' 'do you object to the window going up?' asked dallas. 'there's a bit of a froust on in here.' 'rather not. heave it up.' dallas hove it. he stood leaning out, looking towards the college buildings, which stood out black and clear against the april sky. from out of the darkness in the direction of stapleton sounded the monotonous note of a corn-crake. 'jove,' he said, 'it's a grand night. if i was at home now i shouldn't be cooped up indoors like this.' 'holidays in another week,' said vaughan, joining him. 'it is ripping, isn't it? there's something not half bad in the coll. buildings on a night like this. i shall be jolly sorry to leave, in spite of ward and the mutual.' 'same here, by jove. we've each got a couple more years, though, if it comes to that. hullo, prep.'s over.' the sound of footsteps began to be heard from the direction of the college. nine had struck from the school clock, and the great hall was emptying. 'your turn to read at prayers, vaughan. hullo, there's the mutual. didn't hear him unlock the door. glad he has, though. saves us trouble.' 'i must be going down to look up a bit to read. do you remember when harper read the same bit six days running? i shall never forget ward's pained expression. harper explained that he thought the passage so beautiful that he couldn't leave it.' 'why don't you try that tip?' 'hardly. my reputation hasn't quite the stamina for the test.' vaughan left the room. at the foot of the stairs he was met by the matron. 'will you unlock the door, please, vaughan,' she said, handing him a bunch of keys. 'the boys will be coming in in a minute.' 'unlock the door?' repeated vaughan. 'i thought it was unlocked. all right.' 'by jove,' he thought, 'the plot thickens. what is our only plunkett doing out of the house when the door is locked, i wonder.' plunkett strolled in with the last batch of the returning crowd, wearing on his face the virtuous look of one who has been snatching a whiff of fresh air after a hard evening's preparation. 'oh, i say, plunkett,' said vaughan, when they met in the study after prayers, 'i wanted to see you. where have you been?' 'i have been in the junior study. where did you think i had been?' 'oh.' 'do you doubt my word?' 'i've the most exaggerated respect for your word, but you weren't in the junior study at five to nine.' 'no, i went up to my dormitory about that time. you seem remarkably interested in my movements.' 'only wanted to see you about the house gym. team. you might shove up the list tonight. haynes, jarvis, and myself.' 'very well.' 'i didn't say anything to him,' said vaughan to dallas as they were going to their dormitories, 'but, you know, there's something jolly fishy about the mutual. that door wasn't unlocked when we saw him outside. i unlocked it myself. seems to me the mutual's been having a little private bust of his own on the quiet.' 'that's rum. he might have been out by the front way to see one of the beaks, though.' 'well, even then he would be breaking rules. you aren't allowed to go out after lock-up without house beak's leave. no, i find him guilty.' 'if only he'd go and get booked!' said vaughan. 'then he might have to leave. but he won't. no such luck.' 'no,' said dallas. 'good-night.' 'good-night.' certainly there was something mysterious about the matter. [ ] a literary banquet charteris and welch were conversing in the study of which they were the joint proprietors. that is to say, charteris was talking and playing the banjo alternately, while welch was deep in a book and refused to be drawn out of it under any pretext. charteris' banjo was the joy of his fellows and the bane of his house-master. being of a musical turn and owning a good deal of pocket-money, he had, at the end of the summer holidays, introduced the delights of a phonograph into the house. this being vetoed by the house-master, he had returned at the beginning of the following term with a penny whistle, which had suffered a similar fate. upon this he had invested in a banjo, and the dazed merevale, feeling that matters were getting beyond his grip, had effected a compromise with him. having ascertained that there was no specific rule at st austin's against the use of musical instruments, he had informed charteris that if he saw fit to play the banjo before prep, only, and regarded the hours between seven and eleven as a close time, all should be forgiven, and he might play, if so disposed, till the crack of doom. to this reasonable request charteris had promptly acceded, and peace had been restored. charteris and welch were a curious pair. welch spoke very little. charteris was seldom silent. they were both in the sixth--welch high up, charteris rather low down. in games, welch was one of those fortunate individuals who are good at everything. he was captain of cricket, and not only captain, but also the best all-round man in the team, which is often a very different matter. he was the best wing three-quarter the school possessed; played fives and racquets like a professor, and only the day before had shared tony's glory by winning the silver medal for fencing in the aldershot competition. the abilities of charteris were more ordinary. he was a sound bat, and went in first for the eleven, and played half for the fifteen. as regards work, he might have been brilliant if he had chosen, but his energies were mainly devoted to the compilation of a monthly magazine (strictly unofficial) entitled _the glow worm_. this he edited, and for the most part wrote himself. it was a clever periodical, and rarely failed to bring him in at least ten shillings per number, after deducting the expenses which the college bookseller, who acted as sole agent, did his best to make as big as possible. only a very few of the elect knew the identity of the editor, and they were bound to strict secrecy. on the day before the publication of each number, a notice was placed in the desk of the captain of each form, notifying him of what the morrow would bring forth, and asking him to pass it round the form. that was all. the school did the rest. _the glow worm_ always sold well, principally because of the personal nature of its contents. if the average mortal is told that there is something about him in a paper, he will buy that paper at your own price. today he was giving his monthly tea in honour of the new number. only contributors were invited, and the menu was always of the best. it was a _punch_ dinner, only more so, for these teas were celebrated with musical honours, and charteris on the banjo was worth hearing. his rendering of extracts from the works of messrs gilbert and sullivan was an intellectual treat. 'when i take the chair at our harmonic club!' he chanted, fixing the unconscious welch with a fiery glance. 'welch!' 'yes.' 'if this is your idea of a harmonic club, it isn't mine. put down that book, and try and be sociable.' 'one second,' said welch, burrowing still deeper. 'that's what you always say,' said charteris. 'look here--come in.' there had been a knock at the door as he was speaking. tony entered, accompanied by jim. they were regular attendants at these banquets, for between them they wrote most of what was left of the magazine when charteris had done with it. there was only one other contributor, jackson, of dawson's house, and he came in a few minutes later. welch was the athletics expert of the paper, and did most of the match reports. 'now we're complete,' said charteris, as jackson presented himself. 'gentlemen--your seats. there are only four chairs, and we, as wordsworth might have said, but didn't, are five. all right, i'll sit on the table. welch, you worm, away with melancholy. take away his book, somebody. that's right. who says what? tea already made. coffee published shortly. if anybody wants cocoa, i've got some, only you'll have to boil more water. i regret the absence of menu-cards, but as the entire feast is visible to the naked eye, our loss is immaterial. the offertory will be for the church expenses fund. biscuits, please.' 'i wish you'd given this tea after next saturday, alderman,' said jim. charteris was called the alderman on account of his figure, which was inclined to stoutness, and his general capacity for consuming food. 'never put off till tomorrow--why?' 'i simply must keep fit for the mile. how's welch to run, too, if he eats this sort of thing?' he pointed to the well-spread board. 'yes, there's something in that,' said tony. 'thank goodness, my little entertainment's over. i think i _will_ try one of those chocolate things. thanks.' 'welch is all right,' said jackson. 'he could win the hundred and the quarter on sausage-rolls. but think of the times.' 'and there,' observed charteris, 'there, my young friend, you have touched upon a sore subject. before you came in i was administering a few wholesome words of censure to that miserable object on your right. what is a fifth of a second more or less that it should make a man insult his digestion as welch does? you'll hardly credit it, but for the last three weeks or more i have been forced to look on a fellow-being refusing pastry and drinking beastly extracts of meat, all for the sake of winning a couple of races. it quite put me off my feed. cake, please. good robust slice. thanks.' 'it's rather funny when you come to think of it,' said tony. 'welch lives on bovril for, a month, and then, just as he thinks he's going to score, a burglar with a sense of humour strolls into the pav., carefully selects the only two cups he had a chance of winning, and so to bed.' 'leaving master j. g. welch an awful example of what comes of training,' said jim. 'welch, you're a rotter.' 'it isn't my fault,' observed welch, plaintively. 'you chaps seem to think i've committed some sort of crime, just because a man i didn't know from adam has bagged a cup or two.' 'it looks to me,' said charteris, 'as if welch, thinking his chances of the quarter rather rocky, hired one of his low acquaintances to steal the cup for him.' 'shouldn't wonder. welch knows some jolly low characters in stapleton.' 'welch is a jolly low character himself,' said tony, judicially. 'i wonder you associate with him, alderman.' 'stand _in loco parentis_. aunt of his asked me to keep an eye on him. "dear george is so wild,"' she said. before welch could find words to refute this hideous slander, tony cut in once more. 'the only reason he doesn't drink gin and play billiards at the "blue lion" is that gin makes him ill and his best break at pills is six, including two flukes.' 'as a matter of fact,' said welch, changing the conversation with a jerk, 'i don't much care if the cups are stolen. one doesn't only run for the sake of the pot.' charteris groaned. 'oh, well,' said he, 'if you're going to take the high moral standpoint, and descend to brazen platitudes like that, i give you up.' 'it's a rum thing about those pots,' said welch, meditatively. 'seems to me,' jim rejoined, 'the rum thing is that a man who considers the pav. a safe place to keep a lot of valuable prizes in should be allowed at large. why couldn't they keep them in the board room as they used to?' 'thought it 'ud save trouble, i suppose. save them carting the things over to the pav. on sports day,' hazarded tony. 'saved the burglar a lot of trouble, i should say,' observed jackson, 'i could break into the pav. myself in five minutes.' 'good old jackson,' said charteris, 'have a shot tonight. i'll hold the watch. i'm doing a leader on the melancholy incident for next month's _glow worm_. it appears that master reginald robinson, a member of mr merevale's celebrated boarding-establishment, was passing by the pavilion at an early hour on the morning of the second of april--that's today--when his eye was attracted by an excavation or incision in one of the windows of that imposing edifice. his narrative appears on another page. interviewed by a _glow worm_ representative, master robinson, who is a fine, healthy, bronzed young englishman of some thirteen summers, with a delightful, boyish flow of speech, not wholly free from a suspicion of cheek, gave it as his opinion that the outrage was the work of a burglar--a remarkable display of sagacity in one so young. a portrait of master robinson appears on another page.' 'everything seems to appear on another page,' said jim. 'am i to do the portrait?' 'i think it would be best. you can never trust a photo to caricature a person enough. your facial h.b.'s the thing.' 'have you heard whether anything else was bagged besides the cups?' asked welch. 'not that i know of,' said jim. 'yes there was,' said jackson. 'it further appears that that lunatic, adamson, had left some money in the pocket of his blazer, which he had left in the pav. overnight. on enquiry it was found that the money had also left.' adamson was in the same house as jackson, and had talked of nothing else throughout the whole of lunch. he was an abnormally wealthy individual, however, and it was generally felt, though he himself thought otherwise, that he could afford to lose some of the surplus. 'how much?' asked jim. 'two pounds.' at this jim gave vent to the exclamation which mr barry pain calls the englishman's shortest prayer. 'my dear sir,' said charteris. 'my very dear sir. we blush for you. might i ask _why_ you take the matter to heart so?' jim hesitated. 'better have it out, jim,' said tony. 'these chaps'll keep it dark all right.' and jim entered once again upon the recital of his doings on the previous night. 'so you see,' he concluded, 'this two pound business makes it all the worse.' 'i don't see why,' said welch. 'well, you see, money's a thing everybody wants, whereas cups wouldn't be any good to a fellow at school. so that i should find it much harder to prove that i didn't take the two pounds, than i should have done to prove that i didn't take the cups.' 'but there's no earthly need for you to prove anything,' said tony. 'there's not the slightest chance of your being found out.' 'exactly,' observed charteris. 'we will certainly respect your incog. if you wish it. wild horses shall draw no evidence from us. it is, of course, very distressing, but what is man after all? are we not as the beasts that perish, and is not our little life rounded by a sleep? indeed, yes. and now--with full chorus, please. '"we-e take him from the city or the plough. we-e dress him up in uniform so ne-e-e-at."' and at the third line some plaster came down from the ceiling, and merevale came up, and the meeting dispersed without the customary cheers. [ ] barrett explores barrett stood at the window of his study with his hands in his pockets, looking thoughtfully at the football field. now and then he whistled. that was to show that he was very much at his ease. he whistled a popular melody of the day three times as slowly as its talented composer had originally intended it to be whistled, and in a strange minor key. some people, when offended, invariably whistle in this manner, and these are just the people with whom, if you happen to share a study with them, it is rash to have differences of opinion. reade, who was deep in a book--though not so deep as he would have liked the casual observer to fancy him to be--would have given much to stop barrett's musical experiments. to ask him to stop in so many words was, of course, impossible. offended dignity must draw the line somewhere. that is one of the curious results of a polite education. when two gentlemen of hoxton or the borough have a misunderstanding, they address one another with even more freedom than is their usual custom. when one member of a public school falls out with another member, his politeness in dealing with him becomes so chesterfieldian, that one cannot help being afraid that he will sustain a strain from which he will never recover. after a time the tension became too much for barrett. he picked up his cap and left the room. reade continued to be absorbed in his book. it was a splendid day outside, warm for april, and with just that freshness in the air which gets into the blood and makes spring the best time of the whole year. barrett had not the aesthetic soul to any appreciable extent, but he did know a fine day when he saw one, and even he realized that a day like this was not to be wasted in pottering about the school grounds watching the 'under thirteen' hundred yards (trial heats) and the 'under fourteen' broad jump, or doing occasional exercises in the gymnasium. it was a day for going far afield and not returning till lock-up. he had an object, too. everything seemed to shout 'eggs' at him, to remind him that he was an enthusiast on the subject and had a collection to which he ought to seize this excellent opportunity of adding. the only question was, where to go. the surrounding country was a paradise for the naturalist who had no absurd scruples on the subject of trespassing. to the west, in the direction of stapleton, the woods and hedges were thick with nests. but then, so they were to the east along the badgwick road. he wavered, but a recollection that there was water in the badgwick direction, and that he might with luck beard a water-wagtail in its lair, decided him. what is life without a water-wagtail's egg? a mere mockery. he turned east. 'hullo, barrett, where are you off to?' grey, of prater's house, intercepted him as he was passing. 'going to see if i can get some eggs. are you coming?' grey hesitated. he was a keen naturalist, too. 'no, i don't think i will, thanks. got an uncle coming down to see me.' 'well, cut off before he comes.' 'no, he'd be too sick. besides,' he added, ingenuously, 'there's a possible tip. don't want to miss that. i'm simply stony. always am at end of term.' 'oh,' said barrett, realizing that further argument would be thrown away. 'well, so long, then.' 'so long. hope you have luck.' 'thanks. i say.' 'well?' 'roll-call, you know. if you don't see me anywhere about, you might answer my name.' 'all right. and if you find anything decent, you might remember me. you know pretty well what i've got already.' 'right, i will.' 'magpie's what i want particularly. where are you going, by the way?' 'thought of having a shot at old venner's woods. i'm after a water-wagtail myself. ought to be one or two in the dingle.' 'heaps, probably. but i should advise you to look out, you know. venner's awfully down on trespassing.' 'yes, the bounder. but i don't think he'll get me. one gets the knack of keeping fairly quiet with practice.' 'he's got thousands of keepers.' 'millions.' 'dogs, too.' 'dash his beastly dogs. i like dogs. why are you such a croaker today, grey?' 'well, you know he's had two chaps sacked for going in his woods to my certain knowledge, morton-smith and ainsworth. that's only since i've been at the coll., too. probably lots more before that.' 'ainsworth was booked smoking there. that's why he was sacked. and venner caught morton-smith himself simply staggering under dead rabbits. they sack any chap for poaching.' 'well, i don't see how you're going to show you've not been poaching. besides, it's miles out of bounds.' 'grey,' said barrett, severely, 'i'm surprised at you. go away and meet your beastly uncle. fancy talking about bounds at your time of life.' 'well, don't forget me when you're hauling in the eggs.' 'right you are. so long.' barrett proceeded on his way, his last difficulty safely removed. he could rely on grey not to bungle that matter of roll-call. grey had been there before. a long white ribbon of dusty road separated st austin's from the lodge gates of badgwick hall, the country seat of sir alfred venner, m.p., also of a lancaster gate, london. barrett walked rapidly for over half-an-hour before he came in sight of the great iron gates, flanked on the one side by a trim little lodge and green meadows, and on the other by woods of a darker green. having got so far, he went on up the hill till at last he arrived at his destination. a small hedge, a sloping strip of green, and then the famous dingle. i am loath to inflict any scenic rhapsodies on the reader, but really the dingle deserves a line or two. it was the most beautiful spot in a country noted for its fine scenery. dense woods were its chief feature. and by dense i mean well-supplied not only with trees (excellent things in themselves, but for the most part useless to the nest hunter), but also with a fascinating tangle of undergrowth, where every bush seemed to harbour eggs. all carefully preserved, too. that was the chief charm of the place. since the sad episodes of morton-smith and ainsworth, the school for the most part had looked askance at the dingle. once a select party from dacre's house, headed by babington, who always got himself into hot water when possible, had ventured into the forbidden land, and had returned hurriedly later in the afternoon with every sign of exhaustion, hinting breathlessly at keepers, dogs, and a pursuit that had lasted fifty minutes without a check. since then no one had been daring enough to brave the terrors so carefully prepared for them by milord sir venner and his minions, and the proud owner of the dingle walked his woods in solitary state. occasionally he would personally conduct some favoured guest thither and show him the wonders of the place. but this was not a frequent occurrence. on still-less frequent occasions, there were large shooting parties in the dingle. but, as a rule, the word was 'keepers only. no others need apply'. a futile iron railing, some three feet in height, shut in the dingle. barrett jumped this lightly, and entered forthwith into paradise. the place was full of nests. as barrett took a step forward there was a sudden whirring of wings, and a bird rose from a bush close beside him. he went to inspect, and found a nest with seven eggs in it. only a thrush, of course. as no one ever wants thrushes' eggs the world is over-stocked with them. still, it gave promise of good things to come. barrett pushed on through the bushes and the promise was fulfilled. he came upon another nest. five eggs this time, of a variety he was unable with his moderate knowledge to classify. at any rate, he had not got them in his collection. nor, to the best of his belief, had grey. he took one for each of them. now this was all very well, thought barrett, but what he had come for was the ovular deposit of the water-wagtail. through the trees he could see the silver gleam of the brook at the foot of the hill. the woods sloped down to the very edge. then came the brook, widening out here into the size of a small river. then woods again all up the side of the opposite hill. barrett hurried down the slope. he had put on flannels for this emergency. he was prepared to wade, to swim if necessary. he hoped that it would not be necessary, for in april water is generally inclined to be chilly. of keepers he had up till now seen no sign. once he had heard the distant bark of a dog. it seemed to come from far across the stream and he had not troubled about it. in the midst of the bushes on the bank stood a tree. it was not tall compared to the other trees of the dingle, but standing alone as it did amongst the undergrowth it attracted the eye at once. barrett, looking at it, saw something which made him forget water-wagtails for the moment. in a fork in one of the upper branches was a nest, an enormous nest, roughly constructed of sticks. it was a very jerry-built residence, evidently run up for the season by some prudent bird who knew by experience that no nest could last through the winter, and so had declined to waste his time in useless decorative work. but what bird was it? no doubt there are experts to whom a wood-pigeon's nest is something apart and distinct from the nest of the magpie, but to your unsophisticated amateur a nest that is large may be anything--rook's, magpie's, pigeon's, or great auk's. to such an one the only true test lies in the eggs. _solvitur ambulando_. barrett laid the pill-boxes, containing the precious specimens he had found in the nest at the top of the hill, at the foot of the tree, and began to climb. it was to be a day of surprises for him. when he had got half way up he found himself on a kind of ledge, which appeared to be a kind of junction at which the tree branched off into two parts. to the left was the nest, high up in its fork. to the right was another shoot. he realized at once, with keen disappointment, that it would be useless to go further. the branches were obviously not strong enough to bear his weight. he looked down, preparatory to commencing the descent, and to his astonishment found himself looking into a black cavern. in his eagerness to reach the nest he had not noticed before that the tree was hollow. this made up for a great many things. his disappointment became less keen. few things are more interesting than a hollow tree. 'wonder how deep it goes down,' he said to himself. he broke off a piece of wood and dropped it down the hollow. it seemed to reach the ground uncommonly soon. he tried another piece. the sound of its fall came up to him almost simultaneously. evidently the hole was not deep. he placed his hands on the edge, and let himself gently down into the darkness. his feet touched something solid almost immediately. as far as he could judge, the depth of the cavity was not more than five feet. standing up at his full height he could just rest his chin on the edge. he seemed to be standing on some sort of a floor, roughly made, but too regular to be the work of nature. evidently someone had been here before. he bent down to make certain. there was more room to move about in than he suspected. a man sitting down would find it not uncomfortable. he brushed his hand along the floor. certainly it seemed to be constructed of boards. then his hand hit something small and hard. he groped about until his fingers closed on it. it was--what was it? he could hardly make out for the moment. suddenly, as he moved it, something inside it rattled. now he knew what it was. it was the very thing he most needed, a box of matches. the first match he struck promptly and naturally went out. no first match ever stays alight for more than three-fifths of a second. the second was more successful. the sudden light dazzled him for a moment. when his eyes had grown accustomed to it, the match went out. he lit a third, and this time he saw all round the little chamber. 'great scott,' he said, 'the place is a regular poultry shop.' all round the sides were hung pheasants and partridges in various stages of maturity. here and there the fur of a rabbit or a hare showed up amongst the feathers. barrett hit on the solution of the problem directly. he had been shown a similar collection once in a tree on his father's land. the place was the headquarters of some poacher. barrett was full of admiration for the ingenuity of the man in finding so safe a hiding-place. he continued his search. in one angle of the tree was a piece of sacking. barrett lifted it. he caught a glimpse of something bright, but before he could confirm the vague suspicion that flashed upon him, his match burnt down and lay smouldering on the floor. his hand trembled with excitement as he started to light another. it broke off in his hand. at last he succeeded. the light flashed up, and there beside the piece of sacking which had covered them were two cups. he recognized them instantly. 'jove,' he gasped. 'the sports pots! now, how on earth--' at this moment something happened which took his attention away from his discovery with painful suddenness. from beneath him came the muffled whine of a dog. he listened, holding his breath. no, he was not mistaken. the dog whined again, and broke into an excited bark. somebody at the foot of the tree began to speak. [ ] barrett ceases to explore 'fetchimout!' said the voice, all in one word. 'nice cheery remark to make!' thought barrett. 'he'll have to do a good bit of digging before he fetches _me_ out. i'm a fixture for the present.' there was a sound of scratching as if the dog, in his eagerness to oblige, were trying to uproot the tree. barrett, realizing that unless the keeper took it into his head to climb, which was unlikely, he was as safe as if he had been in his study at philpott's, chuckled within himself, and listened intently. 'what is it, then?' said the keeper. 'good dog, at 'em! fetch him out, jack.' jack barked excitedly, and redoubled his efforts. the sound of scratching proceeded. 'r-r-r-ats-s-s!' said the mendacious keeper. jack had evidently paused for breath. barrett began quite to sympathize with him. the thought that the animal was getting farther away from the object of his search with every ounce of earth he removed, tickled him hugely. he would have liked to have been able to see the operations, though. at present it was like listening to a conversation through a telephone. he could only guess at what was going on. then he heard somebody whistling 'the lincolnshire poacher', a strangely inappropriate air in the mouth of a keeper. the sound was too far away to be the work of jack's owner, unless he had gone for a stroll since his last remark. no, it was another keeper. a new voice came up to him. ''ullo, ned, what's the dog after?' 'thinks 'e's smelt a rabbit, seems to me.' ''ain't a rabbit hole 'ere.' 'thinks there is, anyhow. look at the pore beast!' they both laughed. jack meanwhile, unaware that he was turning himself into an exhibition to make a keeper's holiday, dug assiduously. 'come away, jack,' said the first keeper at length. 'ain't nothin' there. ought to know that, clever dog like you.' there was a sound as if he had pulled jack bodily from his hole. 'wait! 'ere, ned, what's that on the ground there?' barrett gasped. his pill-boxes had been discovered. surely they would put two and two together now, and climb the tree after him. 'eggs. two of 'em. 'ow did they get 'ere, then?' 'it's one of them young devils from the school. master says to me this morning, "look out," 'e says, "saunders, for them boys as come in 'ere after eggs, and frighten all the birds out of the dratted place. you keep your eyes open, saunders," 'e says.' 'well, if 'e's still in the woods, we'll 'ave 'im safe.' '_if_ he's still in the woods!' thought barrett with a shiver. after this there was silence. barrett waited for what he thought was a quarter of an hour--it was really five minutes or less--then he peeped cautiously over the edge of his hiding-place. yes, they had certainly gone, unless--horrible thought--they were waiting so close to the trunk of the tree as to be invisible from where he stood. he decided that the possibility must be risked. he was down on the ground in record time. nothing happened. no hand shot out from its ambush to clutch him. he breathed more freely, and began to debate within himself which way to go. up the hill it must be, of course, but should he go straight up, or to the left or to the right? he would have given much to know which way the keepers had gone, particularly he of the dog. they had separated, he knew. he began to reason the thing out. in the first place if they had separated, they must have gone different ways. it did not take him long to arrive at that conclusion. the odds, therefore, were that one had gone to the right up-stream, the other down-stream to the left. his knowledge of human nature told him that nobody would willingly walk up-hill if it was possible for him to walk on the flat. therefore, assuming the two keepers to be human, they had gone along the valley. therefore, his best plan would be to make straight for the top of the hill, as straight as he could steer, and risk it. just as he was about to start, his eye caught the two pill-boxes, lying on the turf a few yards from where he had placed them. 'may as well take what i can get,' he thought. he placed them carefully in his pocket. as he did so a faint bark came to him on the breeze from down-stream. that must be friend jack. he waited no longer, but dived into the bushes in the direction of the summit. he was congratulating himself on being out of danger--already he was more than half way up the hill--when suddenly he received a terrible shock. from the bushes to his left, not ten yards from where he stood, came the clear, sharp sound of a whistle. the sound was repeated, and this time an answer came from far out to his right. before he could move another whistle joined in, again from the left, but farther off and higher up the hill than the first he had heard. he recalled what grey had said about 'millions' of keepers. the expression, he thought, had understated the true facts, if anything. he remembered the case of babington. it was a moment for action. no guile could save him now. it must be a stern chase for the rest of the distance. he drew a breath, and was off like an arrow. the noise he made was appalling. no one in the wood could help hearing it. 'stop, there!' shouted someone. the voice came from behind, a fact which he noted almost automatically and rejoiced at. he had a start at any rate. 'stop!' shouted the voice once again. the whistle blew like a steam siren, and once more the other two answered it. they were all behind him now. surely a man of the public schools in flannels and gymnasium shoes, and trained to the last ounce for just such a sprint as this, could beat a handful of keepers in their leggings and heavy boots. barrett raced on. close behind him a crashing in the undergrowth and the sound of heavy breathing told him that keeper number one was doing his best. to left and right similar sounds were to be heard. but barrett had placed these competitors out of the running at once. the race was between him and the man behind. fifty yards of difficult country, bushes which caught his clothes as if they were trying to stop him in the interests of law and order, branches which lashed him across the face, and rabbit-holes half hidden in the bracken, and still he kept his lead. he was increasing it. he must win now. the man behind was panting in deep gasps, for the pace had been warm and he was not in training. barrett cast a glance over his shoulder, and as he looked the keeper's foot caught in a hole and he fell heavily. barrett uttered a shout of triumph. victory was his. in front of him was a small hollow fringed with bushes. collecting his strength he cleared these with a bound. then another of the events of this eventful afternoon happened. instead of the hard turf, his foot struck something soft, something which sat up suddenly with a yell. barrett rolled down the slope and halfway up the other side like a shot rabbit. dimly he recognized that he had jumped on to a human being. the figure did not wear the official velveteens. therefore he had no business in the dingle. and close behind thundered the keeper, now on his feet once more, dust on his clothes and wrath in his heart in equal proportions. 'look out, man!' shouted barrett, as the injured person rose to his feet. 'run! cut, quick! keeper!' there was no time to say more. he ran. another second and he was at the top, over the railing, and in the good, honest, public high-road again, safe. a hoarse shout of 'got yer!' from below told a harrowing tale of capture. the stranger had fallen into the hands of the enemy. very cautiously barrett left the road and crept to the railing again. it was a rash thing to do, but curiosity overcame him. he had to see, or, if that was impossible, to hear what had happened. for a moment the only sound to be heard was the gasping of the keeper. after a few seconds a rapidly nearing series of crashes announced the arrival of the man from the right flank of the pursuing forces, while almost simultaneously his colleague on the left came up. barrett could see nothing, but it was easy to understand what was going on. keeper number one was exhibiting his prisoner. his narrative, punctuated with gasps, was told mostly in hoarse whispers, and barrett missed most of it. 'foot (gasp) rabbit-'ole.' more gasps. 'up agen ... minute ... (indistinct mutterings) ... and (triumphantly) cotched im!' exclamations of approval from the other two. 'i assure you,' said another voice. the prisoner was having his say. 'i assure you that i was doing no harm whatever in this wood. i....' 'better tell that tale to sir alfred,' cut in one of his captors. ''e'll learn yer,' said the keeper previously referred to as number one, vindictively. he was feeling shaken up with his run and his heavy fall, and his temper was proportionately short. 'i swear i've heard that voice before somewhere,' thought barrett. 'wonder if it's a coll. chap.' keeper number one added something here, which was inaudible to barrett. 'i tell you i'm not a poacher,' said the prisoner, indignantly. 'and i object to your language. i tell you i was lying here doing nothing and some fool or other came and jumped on me. i....' the rest was inaudible. but barrett had heard enough. 'i knew i'd heard that voice before. plunkett, by jove! golly, what is the world coming to, when heads of houses and school-prefects go on the poach! fancy! plunkett of all people, too! this is a knock-out, i'm hanged if it isn't.' from below came the sound of movement. the keepers were going down the hill again. to barrett's guilty conscience it seemed that they were coming up. he turned and fled. the hedge separating sir alfred venner's land from the road was not a high one, though the drop the other side was considerable. barrett had not reckoned on this. he leapt the hedge, and staggered across the road. at the same moment a grey-clad cyclist, who was pedalling in a leisurely manner in the direction of the school, arrived at the spot. a collision seemed imminent, but the stranger in a perfectly composed manner, as if he had suddenly made up his mind to take a sharp turning, rode his machine up the bank, whence he fell with easy grace to the road, just in time to act as a cushion for barrett. the two lay there in a tangled heap. barrett was the first to rise. [ ] enter the sleuth-hound 'i'm awfully sorry,' he said, disentangling himself carefully from the heap. 'i hope you're not hurt.' the man did not reply for a moment. he appeared to be laying the question before himself as an impartial judge, as who should say: 'now tell me candidly, _are_ you hurt? speak freely and without bias.' 'no,' he said at last, feeling his left leg as if he were not absolutely easy in his mind about that, 'no, not hurt, thank you. not much, that is,' he added with the air of one who thinks it best to qualify too positive a statement. 'left leg. shin. slight bruise. nothing to signify.' 'it was a rotten thing to do, jumping over into the road like that,' said barrett. 'didn't remember there'd be such a big drop.' 'my fault in a way,' said the man. 'riding wrong side of road. out for a run?' 'more or less.' 'excellent thing.' 'yes.' it occurred to barrett that it was only due to the man on whom he had been rolling to tell him the true facts of the case. besides, it might do something towards removing the impression which must, he felt, be forming in the stranger's mind that he was mad. 'you see,' he said, in a burst of confidence, 'it was rather a close thing. there were some keepers after me.' 'ah!' said the man. 'thought so. trespassing?' 'yes.' 'ah. keepers don't like trespassers. curious thing--don't know if it ever occurred to you--if there were no trespassers, there would be no need for keepers. to their interest, then, to encourage trespassers. but do they?' barrett admitted that they did not very conspicuously. 'no. same with all professions. not poaching, i suppose?' 'rather not. i was after eggs. by jove, that reminds me.' he felt in his pocket for the pill-boxes. could they have survived the stormy times through which they had been passing? he heaved a sigh of relief as he saw that the eggs were uninjured. he was so intent on examining them that he missed the stranger's next remark. 'sorry. what? i didn't hear.' 'asked if i was going right for st austin's school.' 'college!' said barrett with a convulsive shudder. the most deadly error mortal man can make, with the exception of calling a school a college, is to call a college a school. 'college!' said the man. 'is this the road?' 'yes. you can't miss it. i'm going there myself. it's only about a mile.' 'ah,' said the man, with a touch of satisfaction in his voice. 'going there yourself, are you? perhaps you're one of the scholars?' 'not much,' said barrett, 'ask our form-beak if i'm a scholar. oh. i see. yes, i'm there all right.' barrett was a little puzzled as to how to class his companion. no old public school man would talk of scholars. and yet he was emphatically not a bargee. barrett set him down as a sort of superior tourist, a henry as opposed to an 'arry. 'been bit of a disturbance there, hasn't there? cricket pavilion. cups.' 'rather. but how on earth--' 'how on earth did i get to hear of it, you were going to say. well, no need to conceal anything. fact is, down here to look into the matter. detective. name, roberts, scotland yard. now we know each other, and if you can tell me one or two things about this burglary, it would be a great help to me, and i should be very much obliged.' barrett had heard that a detective was coming down to look into the affair of the cups. his position was rather a difficult one. in a sense it was simple enough. he had found the cups. he could (keepers permitting) go and fetch them now, and there would--no. there would _not_ be an end of the matter. it would be very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant, to go to the headmaster and the detective, and present the cups to them with a 'bless you, my children' air. the headmaster would say, 'barrett, you're a marvel. how can i thank you sufficiently?' while the detective would observe that he had been in the profession over twenty years, but never had he seen so remarkable an exhibition of sagacity and acumen as this. that, at least, was what ought to take place. but barrett's experience of life, short as it was, had taught him the difference between the ideal and the real. the real, he suspected, would in this case be painful. certain facts would come to light. when had he found the cups? about four in the afternoon? oh. roll-call took place at four in the afternoon. how came it that he was not at roll-call? furthermore, how came it that he was marked on the list as having answered his name at that ceremony? where had he found the cups? in a hollow tree? just so. where was the hollow tree? in sir alfred venner's woods. did he know that sir alfred venner's woods were out of bounds? did he know that, in consequence of complaints from sir alfred venner, sir alfred venner's woods were more out of bounds than any other out of bounds woods in the entire county that did _not_ belong to sir alfred venner? he did? ah! no, the word for his guidance in this emergency, he felt instinctively, was 'mum'. time might provide him with a solution. he might, for instance, abstract the cups secretly from their resting-place, place them in the middle of the football field, and find them there dramatically after morning school. or he might reveal his secret from the carriage window as his train moved out of the station on the first day of the holidays. there was certain to be some way out of the difficulty. but for the present, silence. he answered his companion's questions freely, however. of the actual burglary he knew no more than any other member of the school, considerably less, indeed, than jim thomson, of merevale's, at present staggering under the weight of a secret even more gigantic than barrett's own. in return for his information he extracted sundry reminiscences. the scar on the detective's cheekbone, barely visible now, was the mark of a bullet, which a certain burglar, named, singularly enough, roberts, had fired at him from a distance of five yards. the gentleman in question, who, the detective hastened to inform barrett, was no relation of his, though owning the same name, happened to be a poor marksman and only scored a bad outer, assuming the detective's face to have been the bull. he also turned up his cuff to show a larger scar. this was another testimonial from the burglar world. a kensington practitioner had had the bad taste to bite off a piece of that part of the detective. in short, barrett enlarged his knowledge of the seamy side of things considerably in the mile of road which had to be traversed before st austin's appeared in sight. the two parted at the big gates, barrett going in the direction of philpott's, the detective wheeling his machine towards the porter's lodge. barrett's condition when he turned in at philpott's door was critical. he was so inflated with news that any attempt to keep it in might have serious results. certainly he could not sleep that night in such a bomb-like state. it was thus that he broke in upon reade. reade had passed an absurdly useless afternoon. he had not stirred from the study. for all that it would have mattered to him, it might have been raining hard the whole afternoon, instead of being, as it had been, the finest afternoon of the whole term. in a word, and not to put too fine a point on the matter, he had been frousting, and consequently was feeling dull and sleepy, and generally under-vitalized and futile. barrett entered the study with a rush, and was carried away by excitement to such an extent that he addressed reade as if the deadly feud between them not only did not exist, but never had existed. 'i say, reade. heave that beastly book away. my aunt, i have had an afternoon of it.' 'oh?' said reade, politely, 'where did you go?' 'after eggs in the dingle.' reade was fairly startled out of his dignified reserve. for the first time since they had had their little difference, he addressed barrett in a sensible manner. 'you idiot!' he said. 'don't see it. the dingle's just the place to spend a happy day. like rosherville. jove, it's worth going there. you should see the birds. place is black with 'em.' 'how about keepers? see any?' 'did i not! three of them chased me like good 'uns all over the place.' 'you got away all right, though.' 'only just. i say, do you know what happened? you know that rotter plunkett. used to be a day boy. head of ward's now. wears specs.' 'yes?' 'well, just as i was almost out of the wood, i jumped a bush and landed right on top of him. the man was asleep or something. fancy choosing the dingle of all places to sleep in, where you can't go a couple of yards without running into a keeper! he hadn't even the sense to run. i yelled to him to look out, and then i hooked it myself. and then the nearest keeper, who'd just come down a buster over a rabbit-hole, sailed in and had him. i couldn't do anything, of course.' 'jove, there'll be a fair-sized row about this. the old man's on to trespassing like tar. i say, think plunkett'll say anything about you being there too?' 'shouldn't think so. for one thing i don't think he recognized me. probably doesn't know me by sight, and he was fast asleep, too. no, i fancy i'm all right.' 'well, it was a jolly narrow shave. anything else happen?' 'anything else! just a bit. that's to say, no, nothing much else. no.' 'now then,' said reade, briskly. 'none of your beastly mysteries. out with it.' 'look here, swear you'll keep it dark?' 'of course i will.' 'on your word of honour?' 'if you think--' began reade in an offended voice. 'no, it's all right. don't get shirty. the thing is, though, it's so frightfully important to keep it dark.' 'well? buck up.' 'well, you needn't believe me, of course, but i've found the pots.' reade gasped. 'what!' he cried. 'the pot for the quarter?' 'and the one for the hundred yards. both of them. it's a fact.' 'but where? how? what have you done with them?' barrett unfolded his tale concisely. 'you see,' he concluded, 'what a hole i'm in. i can't tell the old man anything about it, or i get booked for cutting roll-call, and going out of bounds. and then, while i'm waiting and wondering what to do, and all that, the thief, whoever he is, will most likely go off with the pots. what do you think i ought to do?' reade perpended. 'well,' he said, 'all you can do is to lie low and trust to luck, as far as i can see. besides, there's one consolation. this plunkett business'll make every keeper in the dingle twice as keen after trespassers. so the pot man won't get a chance of getting the things away.' 'yes, there's something in that,' admitted barrett. 'it's all you can do,' said reade. 'yes. unless i wrote an anonymous letter to the old man explaining things. how would that do?' 'do for you, probably. anonymous letters always get traced to the person who wrote them. or pretty nearly always. no, you simply lie low.' 'right,' said barrett, 'i will.' the process of concealing one's superior knowledge is very irritating. so irritating, indeed, that very few people do it. barrett, however, was obliged to by necessity. he had a good chance of displaying his abilities in that direction when he met grey the next morning. 'hullo,' said grey, 'have a good time yesterday?' 'not bad. i've got an egg for you.' 'good man. what sort?' 'hanged if i know. i know you haven't got it, though.' 'thanks awfully. see anything of the million keepers?' 'heard them oftener than i saw them.' 'they didn't book you?' 'rather fancy one of them saw me, but i got away all right.' 'find the place pretty lively?' 'pretty fair.' 'stay there long?' 'not very.' 'no. thought you wouldn't. what do you say to a small ice? there's time before school.' 'thanks. are you flush?' 'flush isn't the word for it. i'm a plutocrat.' 'uncle came out fairly strong then?' 'rather. to the tune of one sovereign, cash. he's a jolly good sort, my uncle.' 'so it seems,' said barrett. the meeting then adjourned to the school shop, barrett enjoying his ice all the more for the thought that his secret still was a secret. a thing which it would in all probability have ceased to be, had he been rash enough to confide it to k. st h. grey, who, whatever his other merits, was very far from being the safest sort of confidant. his usual practice was to speak first, and to think, if at all, afterwards. [ ] mr thompson investigates the pavilion burglary was discussed in other places besides charteris' study. in the masters' common room the matter came in for its full share of comment. the masters were, as at most schools, divided into the athletic and non-athletic, and it was for the former class that the matter possessed most interest. if it had been that apple of the college library's eye, the original ms. of st austin's private diary, or even that lesser treasure, the black-letter eucalyptides, that had disappeared, the elder portion of the staff would have had a great deal to say upon the subject. but, apart from the excitement caused by the strangeness of such an occurrence, the theft of a couple of sports prizes had little interest for them. on the border-line between these two castes came mr thompson, the master of the sixth form, spelt with a _p_ and no relation to the genial james or the amiable allen, with the former of whom, indeed, he was on very indifferent terms of friendship. mr thompson, though an excellent classic, had no knowledge of the inwardness of the human boy. he expected every member of his form not only to be earnest--which very few members of a sixth form are--but also to communicate his innermost thoughts to him. his aim was to be their confidant, the wise friend to whom they were to bring their troubles and come for advice. he was, in fact, poor man, the good young master. now, it is generally the case at school that troubles are things to be worried through alone, and any attempt at interference is usually resented. mr thompson had asked jim to tea, and, while in the very act of passing him the muffins, had embarked on a sort of unofficial sermon, winding up by inviting confidences. jim had naturally been first flippant, and then rude, and relations had been strained ever since. 'it must have been a professional,' alleged perkins, the master of the upper fourth. 'if it hadn't been for the fact of the money having been stolen as well as the cups, i should have put it down to one of our fellows.' 'my dear perkins,' expostulated merevale. 'my dear merevale, my entire form is capable of any crime except the theft of money. a boy might have taken the cups for a joke, or just for the excitement of the thing, meaning to return them in time for the sports. but the two pounds knocks that on the head. it must have been a professional.' 'i always said that the pavilion was a very unsafe place in which to keep anything of value,' said mr thompson. 'you were profoundly right, thompson,' replied perkins. 'you deserve a diploma.' 'this business is rather in your line, thompson,' said merevale. 'you must bring your powers to bear on the subject, and scent out the criminal.' mr thompson took a keen pride in his powers of observation. he would frequently observe, like the lamented sherlock holmes, the vital necessity of taking notice of trifles. the daily life of a sixth form master at a big public school does not afford much scope for the practice of the detective art, but mr thompson had once detected a piece of cribbing, when correcting some latin proses for the master of the lower third, solely by the exercise of his powers of observation, and he had never forgotten it. he burned to add another scalp to his collection, and this pavilion burglary seemed peculiarly suited to his talents. he had given the matter his attention, and, as far as he could see, everything pointed to the fact that skilled hands had been at work. from eleven until half-past twelve that day, the sixth were doing an unseen examination under the eye of the headmaster, and mr thompson was consequently off duty. he took advantage of this to stroll down to the pavilion and make a personal inspection of the first room, from which what were left of the prizes had long been removed to a place of safety. he was making his way to the place where the ground-man was usually to be found, with a view to obtaining the keys, when he noticed that the door was already open, and on going thither he came upon biffen, the ground-man, in earnest conversation with a stranger. 'morning, sir,' said the ground-man. he was on speaking terms with most of the masters and all the boys. then, to his companion, 'this is mr thompson, one of our masters.' 'morning, sir,' said the latter. 'weather keeps up. i am inspector roberts, scotland yard. but i think we're in for rain soon. yes. 'fraid so. been asked to look into this business, mr thompson. queer business.' 'very. might i ask--i am very interested in this kind of thing--whether you have arrived at any conclusions yet?' the detective eyed him thoughtfully, as if he were hunting for the answer to a riddle. 'no. not yet. nothing definite.' 'i presume you take it for granted it was the work of a professional burglar.' 'no. no. take nothing for granted. great mistake. prejudices one way or other great mistake. but, i think, yes, i think it was probably--almost certainly--_not_ done by a professional.' mr thompson looked rather blank at this. it shook his confidence in his powers of deduction. 'but,' he expostulated. 'surely no one but a practised burglar would have taken a pane of glass out so--ah--neatly?' inspector roberts rubbed a finger thoughtfully round the place where the glass had been. then he withdrew it, and showed a small cut from which the blood was beginning to drip. 'do you notice anything peculiar about that cut?' he enquired. mr thompson did not. nor did the ground-man. 'look carefully. now do you see? no? well, it's not a clean cut. ragged. very ragged. now if a professional had cut that pane out he wouldn't have left it jagged like that. no. he would have used a diamond. done the job neatly.' this destroyed another of mr thompson's premises. he had taken it for granted that a diamond had been used. 'oh!' he said, 'was that pane not cut by a diamond; what did the burglar use, then?' 'no. no diamond. diamond would have left smooth surface. smooth as a razor edge. this is like a saw. amateurish work. can't say for certain, but probably done with a chisel.' 'with a chisel? surely not.' 'yes. probably with a chisel. probably the man knocked the pane out with one blow, then removed all the glass so as to make it look like the work of an old hand. very good idea, but amateurish. i am told that three cups have been taken. could you tell me how long they had been in the pavilion?' mr thompson considered. 'well,' he said. 'of course it's difficult to remember exactly, but i think they were placed there soon after one o'clock the day before yesterday.' 'ah! and the robbery took place yesterday in the early morning, or the night before?' 'yes.' 'is the pavilion the usual place to keep the prizes for the sports?' 'no, it is not. they were only put there temporarily. the board room, where they are usually kept, and which is in the main buildings of the school, happened to be needed until the next day. most of us were very much against leaving them in the pavilion, but it was thought that no harm could come to them if they were removed next day.' 'but they were removed that night, which made a great difference,' said mr roberts, chuckling at his mild joke. 'i see. then i suppose none outside the school knew that they were not in their proper place?' 'i imagine not.' 'just so. knocks the idea of professional work on the head. none of the regular trade can have known this room held so much silver for one night. no regular would look twice at a cricket pavilion under ordinary circumstances. therefore, it must have been somebody who had something to do with the school. one of the boys, perhaps.' 'really, i do not think that probable.' 'you can't tell. never does to form hasty conclusions. boy might have done it for many reasons. some boys would have done it for the sake of the excitement. that, perhaps, is the least possible explanation. but you get boy kleptomaniacs just as much in proportion as grown-up kleptomaniacs. i knew a man. had a son. couldn't keep him away from anything valuable. had to take him away in a hurry from three schools, good schools, too.' 'really? what became of him? he did not come to us, i suppose?' 'no. somebody advised the father to send him to one of those north-country schools where they flog. great success. stole some money. got flogged, instead of expelled. did it again with same result. gradually got tired of it. reformed character now.... i don't say it is a boy, mind you. most probably not. only say it may be.' all the while he was talking, his eyes were moving restlessly round the room. he came to the window through which jim had effected his entrance, and paused before the broken pane. 'i suppose he tried that window first, before going round to the other?' hazarded mr thompson. 'yes. most probably. broke it, and then remembered that anyone at the windows of the boarding houses might see him, so left his job half done, and shifted his point of action. i think so. yes.' he moved on again till he came to the other window. then he gave vent to an excited exclamation, and picked up a piece of caked mud from the sill as carefully as if it were some fragile treasure. 'now, see this,' he said. 'this was wet when the robbery was done. the man brought it in with him. on his boot. left it on the sill as he climbed in. got out in a hurry, startled by something--you can see he was startled and left in a hurry from the different values of the cups he took--and as he was going, put his hand on this. left a clear impression. good as plaster of paris very nearly.' mr thompson looked at the piece of mud, and there, sure enough, was the distinct imprint of the palm of a hand. he could see the larger of the lines quite clearly, and under a magnifying-glass there was no doubt that more could be revealed. he drew in a long breath of satisfaction and excitement. 'yes,' said the detective. 'that piece of mud couldn't prove anything by itself, but bring it up at the end of a long string of evidence, and if it fits your man, it convicts him as much as a snap-shot photograph would. morning, sir. i must be going.' and he retired, carrying the piece of mud in his hand, leaving mr thompson in the full grip of the detective-fever, hunting with might and main for more clues. after some time, however, he was reluctantly compelled to give up the search, for the bell rang for dinner, and he always lunched, as did many of the masters, in the great hall. during the course of the meal he exercised his brains without pause in the effort to discover a fitting suspect. did he know of any victim of kleptomania in the school? no, he was sorry to say he did not. was anybody in urgent need of money? he could not say. very probably yes, but he had no means of knowing. after lunch he went back to the common room. there was a letter lying on the table. he picked it up. it was addressed to 'j. thomson, st austin's.' now mr thompson's christian name was john. he did not notice the omission of the _p_ until he had opened the envelope and caught a glimpse of the contents. the letter was so short that only a glimpse was needed, and it was not till he had read the whole that he realized that it was somebody else's letter that he had opened. this was the letter: 'dear jim--frantic haste. can you let me have that two pounds directly you come back? beg, borrow, or steal it. i simply must have it.--yours ever, allen.' [ ] the sports sports weather at st austin's was as a rule a quaint but unpleasant solution of mud, hail, and iced rain. these were taken as a matter of course, and the school counted it as something gained when they were spared the usual cutting east wind. this year, however, occurred that invaluable exception which is so useful in proving rules. there was no gale, only a gentle breeze. the sun was positively shining, and there was a general freshness in the air which would have made a cripple cast away his crutches, and, after backing himself heavily both ways, enter for the strangers' hundred yards. jim had wandered off alone. he was feeling too nervous at the thought of the coming mile and all it meant to him to move in society for the present. charteris, welch, and tony, going out shortly before lunch to inspect the track, found him already on the spot, and in a very low state of mind. 'hullo, you chaps,' he said dejectedly, as they came up. 'hullo.' 'our james is preoccupied,' said charteris. 'why this jaundiced air, jim? look at our other thompson over there.' 'our other thompson' was at that moment engaged in conversation with the headmaster at the opposite side of the field. 'look at him,' said charteris, 'prattling away as merrily as a little che-ild to the old man. you should take a lesson from him.' 'look here, i say,' said jim, after a pause, 'i believe there's something jolly queer up between thompson and the old man, and i believe it's about me.' 'what on earth makes you think that?' asked welch. 'it's his evil conscience,' said charteris. 'no one who hadn't committed the awful crime that jim has, could pay the least attention to anything thompson said. what does our friend thucydides remark on the subject?-- '"_conscia mens recti, nec si sinit esse dolorem sed revocare gradum_." very well then.' 'but why should you think anything's up?' asked tony. 'perhaps nothing is, but it's jolly fishy. you see thompson and the old 'un pacing along there? well, they've been going like that for about twenty minutes. i've been watching them.' 'but you can't tell they're talking about you, you rotter,' said tony. 'for all you know they may be discussing the exams.' 'or why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings,' put in charteris. 'or anything,' added welch profoundly. 'well, all i know is that thompson's been doing all the talking, and the old man's been getting more and more riled.' 'probably thompson's been demanding a rise of screw or asking for a small loan or something,' said charteris. 'how long have you been watching them?' 'about twenty minutes.' 'from here?' 'yes.' 'why didn't you go and join them? there's nothing like tact. if you were to go and ask the old man why the whale wailed or something after that style it 'ud buck him up like a tonic. i wish you would. and then you could tell him to tell you all about it and see if you couldn't do something to smooth the wrinkles from his careworn brow and let the sunshine of happiness into his heart. he'd like it awfully.' 'would he!' said jim grimly. 'well, i got the chance just now. thompson said something to him, and he spun round, saw me, and shouted "thomson". i went up and capped him, and he was starting to say something when he seemed to change his mind, and instead of confessing everything, he took me by the arm, and said, "no, no, thomson. go away. it's nothing. i will send for you later."' 'and did you knock him down?' asked charteris. 'what happened?' said welch. 'he gave me a shove as if he were putting the weight, and said again, "it's no matter. go away, thomson, now." so i went.' 'and you've kept an eye on him ever since?' said charteris. 'didn't he seem at all restive?' 'i don't think he noticed me. thompson had the floor and he was pretty well full up listening to him.' 'i suppose you don't know what it's all about?' asked tony. 'must be this pavilion business.' 'now, my dear, sweet cherub,' said charteris, 'don't you go and make an utter idiot of yourself and think you're found out and all that sort of thing. even if they suspect you they've got to prove it. there's no sense in your giving them a helping hand in the business. what you've got to do is to look normal. don't overdo it or you'll look like a swashbuckler, and that'll be worse than underdoing it. can't you make yourself look less like a convicted forger? for my sake?' 'you really do look a bit off it,' said welch critically. 'as if you were sickening for the flu., or something. doesn't he, tony?' 'rather!' said that expert in symptoms. 'you simply must buck up, jim, or drake'll walk away from you.' 'it's disappointing,' said charteris, 'to find a chap who can crack a crib as neatly as you can doubling up like this. think how charles peace would have behaved under the circs. don't disgrace him, poor man.' 'besides,' said jim, with an attempt at optimism, 'it isn't as if i'd actually done anything, is it?' 'just so,' said charteris, 'that's what i've been trying to get you to see all along. keep that fact steadily before you, and you'll be all right.' 'there goes the lunch-bell,' said tony. 'you can always tell merevale's bell in a crowd. william rings it as if he was doing it for his health.' william, also known in criminal circles as the moke, was the gentleman who served the house--in a perpetual grin and a suit of livery four sizes too large for him--as a sort of butler. 'he's an artist,' agreed charteris, as he listened to the performance. 'does it as if he enjoyed it, doesn't he? well, if we don't want to spoil merevale's appetite by coming in at half-time, we might be moving.' they moved accordingly. the sports were to begin at two o'clock with a series of hundred-yards races, which commenced with the 'under twelve' (cameron of prater's a warm man for this, said those who had means of knowing), and culminated at about a quarter past with the open event, for which welch was a certainty. by a quarter to the hour the places round the ropes were filled, and more visitors were constantly streaming in at the two entrances to the school grounds, while in the centre of the ring the band of the local police force--the military being unavailable owing to exigencies of distance--were seating themselves with the grim determination of those who know that they are going to play the soldiers' chorus out of _faust_. the band at the sports had played the soldiers' chorus out of _faust_ every year for decades past, and will in all probability play it for decades to come. the sports at st austin's were always looked forward to by everyone with the keenest interest, and when the day arrived, were as regularly voted slow. in all school sports there are too many foregone conclusions. in the present instance everybody knew, and none better than the competitors themselves, that welch would win the quarter and hundred. the high jump was an equal certainty for a boy named reece in halliday's house. jackson, unless he were quite out of form, would win the long jump, and the majority of the other events had already been decided. the gem of the afternoon would be the mile, for not even the shrewdest judge of form could say whether jim would beat drake, or drake jim. both had done equally good times in practice, and both were known to be in the best of training. the adherents of jim pointed to the fact that he had won the half off drake--by a narrow margin, true, but still he had won it. the other side argued that a half-mile is no criterion for a mile, and that if drake had timed his sprint better he would probably have won, for he had finished up far more strongly than his opponent. and so on the subject of the mile, public opinion was for once divided. the field was nearly full by this time. the only clear space outside the ropes was where the headmaster stood to greet and talk about the weather to such parents and guardians and other celebrities as might pass. this habit of his did not greatly affect the unattached members of the school, those whose parents lived in distant parts of the world and were not present on sports day, but to st jones brown (for instance) of the lower third, towing mr brown, senior, round the ring, it was a nervous ordeal to have to stand by while his father and the head exchanged polite commonplaces. he could not help feeling that there was _just a chance_ (horrible thought) that the head, searching for something to say, might seize upon that little matter of broken bounds or shaky examination papers as a subject for discussion. he was generally obliged, when the interview was over, to conduct his parent to the shop by way of pulling his system together again, the latter, of course, paying. at intervals round the ropes old austinian number one was meeting old austinian number two (whom he emphatically detested, and had hoped to avoid), and was conversing with him in a nervous manner, the clearness of his replies being greatly handicapped by a feeling, which grew with the minutes, that he would never be able to get rid of him and go in search of old austinian number three, his bosom friend. at other intervals, present austinians of tender years were manoeuvring half-companies of sisters, aunts, and mothers, and trying without much success to pretend that they did not belong to them. a pretence which came down heavily when one of the aunts addressed them as 'willie' or 'phil', and wanted to know audibly if 'that boy who had just passed' (_the_ one person in the school whom they happened to hate and despise) was their best friend. it was a little trying, too, to have to explain in the middle of a crowd that the reason why you were not running in 'that race' (the 'under thirteen' hundred, by jove, which ought to have been a gift to you, only, etc.) was because you had been ignominiously knocked out in the trial heats. in short, the afternoon wore on. welch won the hundred by two yards and the quarter by twenty, and the other events fell in nearly every case to the favourite. the hurdles created something of a surprise--jackson, who ought to have won, coming down over the last hurdle but two, thereby enabling dallas to pull off an unexpected victory by a couple of yards. vaughan's enthusiastic watch made the time a little under sixteen seconds, but the official timekeeper had other views. there were no instances of the timid new boy, at whom previously the world had scoffed, walking away with the most important race of the day. and then the spectators were roused from a state of coma by the sound of the bell ringing for the mile. old austinian number one gratefully seized the opportunity to escape from old austinian number two, and lose himself in the crowd. young pounceby-green with equal gratitude left his father talking to the head, and shot off without ceremony to get a good place at the ropes. in fact, there was a general stir of anticipation, and all round the ring paterfamilias was asking his son and heir which was drake and which thomson, and settling his glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. the staff of _the glow worm_ conducted jim to the starting-place, and did their best to relieve his obvious nervousness with light conversation. 'eh, old chap?' said jim. he had been saying 'eh?' to everything throughout the afternoon. 'i said, "is my hat on straight, and does it suit the colour of my eyes?"' said charteris. 'oh, yes. yes, rather. ripping,' in a far-off voice. 'and have you a theory of the universe?' 'eh, old chap?' 'i said, "did you want your legs rubbed before you start?" i believe it's an excellent specific for the gout.' 'gout? what? no, i don't think so, thanks.' 'and you'll write to us sometimes, jim, and give my love to little henry, and _always_ wear flannel next your skin, my dear boy?' said charteris. this seemed to strike even jim as irrelevant. 'do shut up for goodness sake, alderman,' he said irritably. 'why can't you go and rag somebody else?' 'my place is by your side. go, my son, or else they'll be starting without you. give us your blazer. and take my tip, the tip of an old runner, and don't pocket your opponent's ball in your own twenty-five. and come back victorious, or on the shields of your soldiers. all right, sir (to the starter), he's just making his will. good-bye jim. buck up, or i'll lynch you after the race.' jim answered by muffling him in his blazer, and walking to the line. there were six competitors in all, each of whom owned a name ranking alphabetically higher than thomson. jim, therefore, had the outside berth. drake had the one next to the inside, which fell to adamson, the victim of the lost two pounds episode. both drake and jim got off well at the sound of the pistol, and the pace was warm from the start. jim evidently had his eye on the inside berth, and, after half a lap had been completed, he got it, drake falling back. jim continued to make the running, and led at the end of the first lap by about five yards. then came adamson, followed by a batch of three, and finally drake, taking things exceedingly coolly, a couple of yards behind them. the distance separating him from jim was little over a dozen yards. a roar of applause greeted the runners as they started on the second lap, and it was significant that while jim's supporters shouted, 'well run', those of drake were fain to substitute advice for approval, and cry 'go it'. drake, however, had not the least intention of 'going it' in the generally accepted meaning of the phrase. a yard or two to the rear meant nothing in the first lap, and he was running quite well enough to satisfy himself, with a nice, springy stride, which he hoped would begin to tell soon. with the end of the second lap the real business of the race began, for the survival of the fittest had resulted in eliminations and changes of order. jim still led, but now by only eight or nine yards. drake had come up to second, and adamson had dropped to a bad third. two of the runners had given the race up, and retired, and the last man was a long way behind, and, to all practical purposes, out of the running. there were only three laps, and, as the last lap began, the pace quickened, fast as it had been before. jim was exerting every particle of his strength. he was not a runner who depended overmuch on his final dash. he hoped to gain so much ground before drake made his sprint as to neutralize it when it came. adamson he did not fear. and now they were in the last two hundred yards, jim by this time some thirty yards ahead, but in great straits. drake had quickened his pace, and gained slowly on him. as they rounded the corner and came into the straight, the cheers were redoubled. it was a great race. then, fifty yards from the tape, drake began his final sprint. if he had saved himself before, he made up for it now. the gap dwindled and dwindled. neither could improve his pace. it was a question whether there was enough of the race left for drake to catch his man, or whether he had once more left his sprint till too late. jim could hear the roars of the spectators, and the frenzied appeals of merevale's house to him to sprint, but he was already doing his utmost. everything seemed black to him, a black, surging mist, and in its centre a thin white line, the tape. could he reach it before drake? or would he collapse before he reached it? there were only five more yards to go now, and still he led. four. three. two. then something white swept past him on the right, the white line quivered, snapped, and vanished, and he pitched blindly forward on to the turf at the track-side. drake had won by a foot. [ ] an interesting interview for the rest of the afternoon jim had a wretched time. to be beaten after such a race by a foot, and to be beaten by a foot when victory would have cut the gordian knot of his difficulties once and for all, was enough to embitter anybody's existence. he found it hard to accept the well-meant condolences of casual acquaintances, and still harder to do the right thing and congratulate drake on his victory, a refinement of self-torture which is by custom expected of the vanquished in every branch of work or sport. but he managed it somehow, and he also managed to appear reasonably gratified when he went up to take his prize for the half-mile. tony and the others, who knew what his defeat meant to him, kept out of his way, for which he was grateful. after lock-up, however, it was a different matter, but by that time he was more ready for society. even now there might be some way out of the difficulty. he asked tony's advice on the subject. tony was perplexed. the situation was beyond his grip. 'i don't see what you can do, jim,' he said, 'unless the rugby chap'll be satisfied with a pound on account. it's a beastly business. do you think your pater will give you your money all the same as it was such a close finish?' jim thought not. in fact, he was certain that he would not, and tony relapsed into silence as he tried to bring another idea to the surface. he had not succeeded when charteris came in. 'jim,' he said 'you have my sympathy. it was an awfully near thing. but i've got something more solid than sympathy. i will take a seat.' 'don't rag, charteris,' said tony. 'it's much too serious.' 'who's ragging, you rotter? i say i have something more solid than sympathy, and instead of giving me an opening, as a decent individual would, by saying, "what?" you accuse me of ragging. james, my son, if you will postpone your suicide for two minutes, i will a tale unfold. i have an idea.' 'well?' 'that's more like it. now you _are_ talking. we will start at the beginning. first, you want a pound. so do i. secondly, you want it before next tuesday. thirdly, you haven't it on you. how, therefore, are you to get it? as the song hath it, you don't know, they don't know, but--now we come to the point--i _do_ know.' 'yes?' said jim and tony together. 'it is a luminous idea. why shouldn't we publish a special number of _the glow worm_ before the end of term?' jim was silent at the brilliance of the scheme. then doubts began to harass him. 'is there time?' 'time? yards of it. this is saturday. we start tonight, and keep at it all night, if necessary. we ought to manage it easily before tomorrow morning. on sunday we jellygraph it--it'll have to be a jellygraphed number this time. on monday and tuesday we sell it, and there you are.' 'how are you going to sell it? in the ordinary way at the shop?' 'yes, i've arranged all that. all we've got to do is to write the thing. as the penalty for your sins you shall take on most of it. i'll do the editorial, welch is pegging away at the sports account now, and i waylaid jackson just before lock-up, and induced him by awful threats to knock off some verses. so we're practically published already.' 'it's grand,' said jim. 'and it's awfully decent of you chaps to fag yourselves like this for me. i'll start on something now.' 'but can you raise a sovereign on one number?' asked tony. 'either that, or i've arranged with the shop to give us a quid down, and take all profits on this and the next number. they're as keen as anything on the taking-all-profits idea, but i've kept that back to be used only in case of necessity. but the point is that jim gets his sovereign in any case. i must be off to my editorial. so long,' and he went. 'grand man, charteris,' said tony, as he leant back in his chair in search of a subject. 'you'd better weigh in with an account of the burglary. it's a pity you can't give the realistic description you gave us. it would sell like anything.' 'wouldn't do to risk it.' at that moment the door swung violently open, with merevale holding on to the handle, and following it in its course. merevale very rarely knocked at a study door, a peculiarity of his which went far towards shattering the nervous systems of the various inmates, who never knew when it was safe to stop work and read fiction. 'ah, thomson,' he said, 'i was looking for you. the headmaster wants to see you over at his house, if you are feeling well enough after your exertions. _very_ close thing, that mile. i don't know when i have seen a better-run race on the college grounds. i suppose you are feeling pretty tired, eh?' 'i am rather, sir, but i had better see the head. will he be in his study, sir?' 'yes, i think so.' jim took his cap and went off, while merevale settled down to spend the evening in tony's study, as he often did when the term's work was over, and it was no longer necessary to keep up the pretence of preparation. parker, the head's butler, conducted jim into the presence. 'sit down, thomson,' said the head. jim took a seat, and he had just time to notice that his namesake, mr thompson, was also present, and that, in spite of the fact that his tie had crept up to the top of his collar, he was looking quite unnecessarily satisfied with himself, when he became aware that the head was speaking to him. 'i hope you are not feeling any bad effects from your race, thomson?' jim was half inclined to say that his effects were _nil,_ but he felt that the quip was too subtle, and would be lost on his present audience, so he merely said that he was not. there was a rather awkward silence for a minute. then the head coughed, and said: 'thomson.' 'yes, sir.' 'i think it would be fairest to you to come to the point at once, and to tell you the reason why i wished to see you.' jim ran over the sins which shot up in his mind like rockets as he heard these ominous words, and he knew that this must be the matter of the pavilion. he was, therefore, in a measure prepared for the head's next words. 'thomson.' 'yessir.' 'a very serious charge has been brought against you. you are accused of nothing less than this unfortunate burglary of the prizes for the sports.' 'yes, sir. is my accuser mr thompson?' the headmaster hesitated for a moment, and mr thompson spoke. 'that is so,' he said. 'yes,' said the head, 'the accusation is brought by mr thompson.' 'yes, sir,' said jim again, and this time the observation was intended to convey the meaning, 'my dear, good sir, when you've known him as long as i have, you won't mind what mr thompson says or does. it's a kind of way he's got, and if he's not under treatment for it, he ought to be.' 'i should like to hear from your own lips that the charge is groundless.' 'anything to oblige,' thought jim. then aloud, 'yes, sir.' 'you say it is groundless?' this from mr thompson. 'yes, sir.' 'i must warn you, thomson, that the evidence against you is very strong indeed,' said the head. 'without suggesting that you are guilty of this thing, i think i ought to tell you that if you have any confession to make, it will be greatly, very greatly, to your own advantage to make it at once.' 'and give myself away, free, gratis and for nothing,' thought jim. 'not for me, thank you.' 'might i hear mr thompson's evidence, sir?' he asked. 'certainly, thomson.' he effected a movement in mr thompson's direction, midway between a bow and a nod. mr thompson coughed. jim coughed, too, in the same key. this put mr thompson out, and he had to cough again. 'in the first place,' he began, 'it has been conclusively proved that the burglary was the work of an unskilful hand.' 'that certainly seems to point to me as the author,' said jim flippantly. 'silence, thomson,' said the head, and counsel for the prosecution resumed. 'in the second place, it has been proved that you were at the time of the burglary in great need of money.' this woke jim up. it destroyed that feeling of coolness with which he had started the interview. awful thoughts flashed across his mind. had he been seen at the time of his burglarious entry? at any rate, how did mr thompson come to know of his pecuniary troubles? 'did you say it had been proved, sir?' 'yes.' 'how, sir?' he felt the question was a mistake as he was uttering it. your really injured innocent would have called all the elements to witness that he was a millionaire. but it was too late to try that now. and, besides, he really did want to know how mr thompson had got to hear of this skeleton in his cupboard. the headmaster interrupted hurriedly. 'it is a very unfortunate affair altogether, and this is quite the most unfortunate part. a letter came to the college addressed to j. thomson, and mr thompson opened and read it inadvertently. quite inadvertently.' 'yes, sir,' said jim, in a tone which implied, 'i am no george washington myself, but when you say he read it inadvertently, well--' 'this letter was signed "allen"--' 'my brother, sir.' 'exactly. and it asked for two pounds. evidently in payment of a debt, and the tone of the letter certainly seemed to show that you were not then in possession of the money.' 'could i have the letter, sir?' then with respectful venom to mr thompson: 'if you have finished with it.' the letter was handed over, and pocketed, and jim braced his moral pecker up for the next round of the contest. 'i take it, then, thomson,' resumed the head, 'that you owe your brother this money?' 'yes, sir.' 'two pounds is a great deal of money for one boy to lend another.' 'it was not lent, sir. it was a bet.' 'a bet!' in a nasty tone from the head. 'a bet!' in a sepulchral echo from mr thompson. there was a long pause. 'at any other time,' said the head, 'i should feel it my duty to take serious notice of this, but beside this other matter with which you are charged, it becomes trivial. i can only repeat that the circumstances are exceedingly suspicious, and i think it would be in your interests to tell us all you know without further delay.' 'you take it for granted i am guilty, sir,' began jim hotly. 'i say that the circumstances seems to point to it. in the first place, you were in need of money. you admit that?' 'yes, sir.' 'in the second place,' said the head slowly, 'in the second place, i am told that you were nowhere to be found in the house at half-past eight on the night of the burglary, when you ought certainly to have been in your study at your work.' bombshell number two, and a worse one than the first. for the moment jim's head swam. if he had been asked just then in so many words where he had been at that time, it is likely that he would have admitted everything. by some miracle the head did not press his point. 'you may go now, thomson,' he said. 'i should like to see you after morning school on monday. good-night.' 'good-night, sir,' said jim, and went without another word. coming so soon after the exertion and strain of the mile, this shock made him feel sick and dizzy. when he had gone, the head turned to mr thompson with a worried look on his face. 'i feel as certain as i do of anything,' he said thoughtfully, 'that that boy is telling the truth. if he had been guilty, he would not have behaved like that. i feel sure of it.' mr thompson looked equally thoughtful. 'the circumstances are certainly very suspicious,' he said, echoing the head's own words. 'i wish i could think he was innocent, but i am bound to say i do not. i regard the evidence as conclusive.' 'circumstantial evidence is proverbially uncertain, mr thompson. that is principally the reason why i was so bent on making him confess if he had anything to confess. i can't expel a boy and ruin his whole career on mere suspicion. the matter must be proved, doubly proved, and even then i should feel uneasy until he owned himself guilty. it is a most unpleasant affair, a terrible affair.' 'most,' agreed mr thompson. and exactly the same thing was occurring at that moment to jim, as he sat on his bed in his dormitory, and pondered hopelessly on this new complication that had presented itself so unexpectedly. he was getting very near to the end of his tether, was j. thomson of merevale's. it seemed to him, indeed, that he had reached it already. possibly if he had had a clearer conscience and a larger experience, he might have recognized that the evidence which mr thompson had described as conclusive, was in reality not strong enough to hang a cat on. unfortunately, he did not enjoy those advantages. [ ] sir alfred scores soon after jim had taken his departure, mr thompson, after waiting a few minutes in case the headmaster had anything more to say, drifted silently out of the room. the head, like the gentleman in the ballad, continued to wear a worried look. the more he examined the matter, the less did he know what to make of it. he believed, as he had said to mr thompson, that jim was entirely innocent. it was an incredible thing, he thought, that a public school boy, a school-prefect, too, into the bargain, should break out of his house and into a cricket pavilion, however great a crisis his finances might be undergoing. and then to steal two of the prizes for the sports. impossible. against this, however, must be placed the theft of the two pounds. it might occur to a boy, as indeed mr thompson had suggested, to steal the cups in order to give the impression that a practised burglar had been at work. there was certainly something to be said in favour of this view. but he would never believe such a thing. he was a good judge of character--a headmaster generally is--and he thought he could tell when a boy was speaking the truth and when he was not. his reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door. the butler entered with a card on a tray. 'sir alfred venner, m.p., badgwick hall,' said--almost shouted--the card. he read the words without any apparent pleasure. 'is sir alfred here himself, parker?' he said. 'he is, sir.' the headmaster sighed inaudibly but very wearily. he was feeling worried already, and he knew from experience that a _tete-a-tete_ with sir alfred venner, m.p., of badgwick hall, would worry him still more. the head was a man who tried his very hardest to like each and all of his fellow-creatures, but he felt bound to admit that he liked most people a great, a very great, deal better than he liked the gentleman who had just sent in his card. sir alfred's manner always jarred upon him. it was so exactly the antithesis of his own. he was quiet and dignified, and addressed everybody alike, courteously. sir alfred was restless and fussy. his manner was always dictatorial and generally rude. when he had risen in the house to make his maiden speech, calling the attention of the speaker to what he described as 'a thorough draught', he had addressed himself with such severity to that official, that a party of siamese noblemen, who, though not knowing a word of english, had come to listen to the debate, had gone away with the impression that he was the prime minister. no wonder the headmaster sighed. 'show him in, parker,' said he resignedly. 'yessir.' parker retired, leaving the head to wonder what his visitor's grievance might be this time. sir alfred rarely called without a grievance, generally connected with the trespassing of the school on his land. 'good evening, sir alfred,' he said, as his visitor whirled into the room. 'o-o-o, this sort of thing won't do, you know, mr perceval,' said sir alfred fussily, adjusting a pair of gold pince-nez on his nose. the head's name, which has not before been mentioned, was the reverend herbert perceval, m.a. he had shivered at the sound of the 'o-o-o' which had preceded sir alfred's remark. he knew, as did other unfortunate people, that the great man was at his worst when he said 'o-o-o'. in moments of comparative calm he said 'er'. 'i can't put up with it, you know, mr perceval. it's too much. a great deal too much.' 'you refer to--?' suggested the head, with a patience that did him credit. 'this eternal trespassing and tramping in and out of my grounds all day.' 'you have been misinformed, i fear, sir alfred. i have not trespassed in your grounds for--ah--a considerable time.' the head could not resist this thrust. in his unregenerate 'varsity days he had been a power at the union, where many a foeman had exposed himself to a verbal counter from him with disastrous results. now the fencing must be done with buttons on the foils. 'you--what--i don't follow you, mr perceval.' 'i understand you to reproach me for trespassing and--ah--tramping in and out of your grounds all day. was that not your meaning?' sir alfred almost danced with impatience. 'no, no, no. you misunderstand me. you don't follow my drift.' 'in that case, i beg your pardon. i gathered from the extreme severity of your attitude towards me that i was the person to whom you referred.' 'no, no, no. i've come here to complain of your boys.' it occurred to the head to ask if the complaint embraced the entire six hundred of them, or merely referred to one of them. but he reflected that the longer he fenced, the longer his visitor would stay. and he decided, in spite of the illicit pleasure to be derived from the exercise, that it was not worth while. 'ah,' he said. 'yes,' continued sir alfred, 'my keepers tell me the woods were full of them, sir.' the head suggested that possibly the keepers had exaggerated. 'possibly. possibly they may have exaggerated. but that is not the point. the nuisance is becoming intolerable, mr perceval, perfectly intolerable. it is time to take steps.' 'i have already done all that can be done. i have placed your land out of bounds, considerably out of bounds indeed. and i inflict the severest penalties when a breach of the rule is reported to me.' 'it's not enough. it's not nearly enough.' 'i can scarcely do more, i fear, sir alfred. there are more than six hundred boys at st austin's, and it is not within my power to place them all under my personal supervision.' here the head, who had an eye to the humorous, conjured up a picture of six hundred austinians going for walks, two and two, the staff posted at intervals down the procession, and himself bringing up the rear. he made a mental mem. to laugh when his visitor had retired. 'h'm,' said the baffled m.p. thoughtfully, adjusting his pince-nez once more. ''m no. no, perhaps not. but'--here he brightened up--'you can punish them when they do trespass.' 'that is so, sir alfred. i can and invariably do.' 'then punish that what's-his-name, plinkett, plunkett--i've got the name down somewhere. yes, plunkett. i thought so. punish plunkett.' 'plunkett!' said the head, taken completely by surprise. he, in common with the rest of the world, had imagined plunkett to be a perfect pattern of what should be. a headmaster, like other judges of character, has his failures. 'plunkett. yes, that is the name. boy with spectacles. good gracious, mr perceval, don't tell me the boy gave me a false name.' 'no. his name is plunkett. am i to understand that he was trespassing on your land? surely there is some mistake? the boy's a school-prefect.' here it suddenly flashed upon his mind that he had used that expression before in the course of the day, on the occasion when mr thompson first told him of his suspicions in connection with jim. 'why, mr thompson, the boy's a school-prefect,' had been his exact words. school-prefects had been in his eyes above suspicion. it is a bad day for a school when they are not so. had that day arrived for st austin's? he asked himself. 'he may be a school-prefect, mr perceval, but the fact remains that he is a trespasser, and ought from your point of view to be punished for breaking bounds.' the head suddenly looked almost cheerful again. 'of course,' he said, 'of course. i thought that there must be an explanation. the rules respecting bounds, sir alfred, do not apply to school-prefects, only to the rest of the school.' 'indeed?' said sir alfred. his tone should have warned the head that something more was coming, but it did not. he continued. 'of course it was very wrong of him to trespass on your land, but i have no doubt that he did it quite unintentionally. i will speak to him, and i think i can guarantee that he will not do it again.' 'oh,' said his visitor. 'that is very gratifying, i am sure. might i ask, mr perceval, if school-prefects at st austin's have any other privileges?' the head began to look puzzled. there was something in his visitor's manner which suggested unpleasant possibilities. 'a few,' he replied. 'they have a few technical privileges, which it would be a matter of some little time to explain.' 'it must be very pleasant to be a prefect at st austin's,' said sir alfred nastily. 'very pleasant indeed. might i ask, mr perceval, if the technical privileges to which you refer include--smoking?' the head started as if, supposing such a thing possible, someone had pinched him. he did not know what to make of the question. from the expression on his face his visitor did not appear to be perpetrating a joke. 'no,' he said sharply, 'they do not include smoking.' 'i merely asked because this was found by my keeper on the boy when he caught him.' he produced a small silver match-box. the head breathed again. the reputation of the school-prefect, though shaky, was still able to come up to the scratch. 'a match-box is scarcely a proof that a boy has been smoking, i think,' said he. 'many boys carry matches for various purposes, i believe. i myself, though a non-smoker, frequently place a box in my pocket.' for answer sir alfred laid a bloated and exceedingly vulgar-looking plush tobacco-pouch on the table beside the match-box. 'that also,' he observed, 'was found in his pocket by my keeper.' he dived his hand once more into his coat. 'and also this,' he said. and, with the air of a card-player who trumps his opponent's ace, he placed on the pouch a pipe. and, to make the matter, if possible, worse, the pipe was not a new pipe. it was caked within and coloured without, a pipe that had seen long service. the only mitigating circumstance that could possibly have been urged in favour of the accused, namely that of 'first offence', had vanished. 'it is pleasant,' said sir alfred with laborious sarcasm, 'to find a trespasser doing a thing which has caused the dismissal of several keepers. smoking in my woods i--will--not--permit. i will not have my property burnt down while i can prevent it. good evening, mr perceval.' with these words he made a dramatic exit. for some minutes after he had gone the head remained where he stood, thinking. then he went across the room and touched the bell. 'parker,' he said, when that invaluable officer appeared, 'go across to mr ward's house, and tell him i wish to see plunkett. say i wish to see him at once.' 'yessir.' after ten minutes had elapsed, plunkett entered the room, looking nervous. 'sit down, plunkett.' plunkett collapsed into a seat. his eye had caught sight of the smoking apparatus on the table. the head paced the room, something after the fashion of the tiger at the zoo, whose clock strikes lunch. 'plunkett,' he said, suddenly, 'you are a school-prefect.' 'yes, sir,' murmured plunkett. the fact was undeniable. 'you know the duties of a school-prefect?' 'yes, sir.' 'and yet you deliberately break one of the most important rules of the school. how long have you been in the habit of smoking?' plunkett evaded the question. 'my father lets me smoke, sir, when i'm at home.' (a hasty word in the reader's ear. if ever you are accused of smoking, please--for my sake, if not for your own--try to refrain from saying that your father lets you do it at home. it is a fatal mistake.) at this, to employ a metaphor, the champagne of the head's wrath, which had been fermenting steadily during his late interview, got the better of the cork of self-control, and he exploded. if the mutual friend ever has grandchildren he will probably tell them with bated breath the story of how the head paced the room, and the legend of the things he said. but it will be some time before he will be able to speak about it with any freedom. at last there was a lull in the storm. 'i am not going to expel you, plunkett. but you cannot come back after the holidays. i will write to your father to withdraw you.' he pointed to the door. plunkett departed in level time. 'what did the old 'un want you for?' asked dallas, curiously, when he returned to the study. plunkett had recovered himself by this time sufficiently to be able to tell a lie. 'he wanted to tell me he'd heard from my father about my leaving.' 'about your leaving!' dallas tried to keep his voice as free as possible from triumphant ecstasy. 'are you leaving? when?' 'this term.' 'oh!' said dallas. it was an uncomfortable moment. he felt that at least some conventional expression of regret ought to proceed from him. 'don't trouble to lie about being sorry,' said plunkett with a sneer. 'thanks,' said dallas, gratefully, 'since you mention it, i rather think i won't.' [ ] the long run vaughan came up soon afterwards, and dallas told him the great news. they were neither of them naturally vindictive, but the mutual friend had been a heavy burden to them during his stay in the house, and they did not attempt to conceal from themselves their unfeigned pleasure at the news of his impending departure. 'i'll never say another word against mr plunkett, senior, in my life,' said vaughan. 'he's a philanthropist. i wonder what the mutual's going to do? gentleman of leisure, possibly. unless he's going to the 'varsity.' 'same thing, rather. i don't know a bit what he's going to do, and i can't say i care much. he's going, that's the main point.' 'i say,' said vaughan. 'i believe the old man was holding a sort of reception tonight. i know he had thomson over to his house. do you think there's a row on?' 'oh, i don't know. probably only wanted to see if he was all right after the mile. by jove, it was a bit of a race, wasn't it?' and the conversation drifted off into matters athletic. there were two persons that night who slept badly. jim lay awake until the college clock had struck three, going over in his mind the various points of his difficulties, on the chance of finding a solution of them. he fell asleep at a quarter past, without having made any progress. the head, also, passed a bad night. he was annoyed for many reasons, principally, perhaps, because he had allowed sir alfred venner to score so signal a victory over him. besides that, he was not easy in his mind about jim. he could not come to a decision. the evidence was all against him, but evidence is noted for its untrustworthiness. the head would have preferred to judge the matter from his knowledge of jim's character. but after the plunkett episode he mistrusted his powers in that direction. he thought the matter over for a time, and then, finding himself unable to sleep, got up and wrote an article for a leading review on the subject of the doxology. the article was subsequently rejected--which proves that providence is not altogether incapable of a kindly action--but it served its purpose by sending its author to sleep. barrett, too, though he did not allow it to interfere with his slumbers, was considerably puzzled as to what he ought to do about the cups which he had stumbled upon in the wood. he scarcely felt equal to going to the dingle again to fetch them, and yet every minute he delayed made the chances of their remaining there more remote. he rather hoped that reade would think of some way out of it. he had a great respect for reade's intellect, though he did not always show it. the next day was the day of the inter-house cross-country race. it was always fixed for the afternoon after sports day, a most inconvenient time for it, as everybody who had exerted or over-exerted himself the afternoon before was unable to do himself justice. today, contrary to general expectation, both drake and thomson had turned out. the knowing ones, however, were prepared to bet anything you liked (except cash), that both would drop out before the first mile was over. merevale's pinned their hopes on welch. at that time welch had not done much long-distance running. he confined himself to the hundred yards and the quarter. but he had it in him to do great things, as he proved in the following year, when he won the half, and would have beaten the great mitchell-jones record for the mile, but for an accident, or rather an event, which prevented his running. the tale of which is told elsewhere. the course for the race was a difficult one. there were hedges and brooks to be negotiated, and, worst of all, ploughed fields. the first ploughed field usually thinned the ranks of the competitors considerably. the distance was about ten miles. the race started at three o'clock. jim and welch, merevale's first string, set the pace from the beginning, and gradually drew away from the rest. drake came third, and following him the rest of the houses in a crowd. welch ran easily and springily; jim with more effort. he felt from the start that he could not last. he resolved to do his best for the honour of the house, but just as the second mile was beginning, the first of the ploughed fields appeared in view, stretching, so it appeared to jim, right up to the horizon. he groaned. 'go on, welch,' he gasped. 'i'm done.' welch stopped short in his stride, and eyed him critically. 'yes,' he said, 'better get back to the house. you overdid it yesterday. lie down somewhere. g'bye.' and he got into his stride again. jim watched his figure diminish, until at last it was a shapeless dot of white against the brown surface. then he lay down on his back and panted. it was in this attitude that drake found him. for a moment an almost irresistible wish seized him to act in the same way. there was an unstudied comfort about jim's pose which appealed to him strongly. his wind still held out, but his legs were beginning to feel as if they did not belong to him at all. he pulled up for an instant. 'hullo,' he said, 'done up?' for reply jim merely grunted. 'slacker,' said drake. 'where's welch?' 'miles ahead.' 'oh lord!' groaned drake and, pulling himself together, set out painfully once more across the heavy surface of the field. jim lay where he was a little longer. the recollection of the other runners, who might be expected to arrive shortly, stirred him to action. he did not wish to interview everyone on the subject of his dropping out. he struck off at right angles towards the hedge on the left. as he did so, the first of the crowd entered the field. simpson _major_, wearing the colours of perkins's house on his manly bosom, was leading. behind him came a group of four, two school house, dallas of ward's, and a representative of prater's. a minute later they were followed by a larger group, consisting this time of twenty or more runners--all that was left of the fifty who had started. the rest had dropped out at the sight of the ploughed field. jim watched the procession vanish over the brow of the hill, and, as it passed out of sight, began to walk slowly back to the school again. he reached it at last, only to find it almost entirely deserted. in merevale's house there was nobody. he had hoped that charteris and tony might have been somewhere about. when he had changed into his ordinary clothes, he made a tour of the school grounds. the only sign of life, as far as he could see, was biffen, who was superintending the cutting of the grass on the cricket-field. during the winter biffen always disappeared, nobody knew where, returning at the beginning of sports week to begin preparations for the following cricket season. it had been stated that during the winter he shut himself up and lived on himself after the fashion of a bear. others believed that he went and worked in some welsh mine until he was needed again at the school. biffen himself was not communicative on the subject, a fact which led a third party to put forward the awful theory that he was a professional association player and feared to mention his crime in a school which worshipped rugby. 'why, mr thomson,' he said, as jim came up, 'i thought you was running. whoa!' the last remark was addressed to a bored-looking horse attached to the mowing-machine. from the expression on its face, the animal evidently voted the whole process pure foolishness. he pulled up without hesitation, and biffen turned to jim again. 'surely they ain't come back yet?' he said. 'i have,' said jim. 'i did myself up rather in the mile yesterday, and couldn't keep up the pace. i dropped out at that awfully long ploughed field by parker's spinney.' biffen nodded. 'and 'oo was winning, sir?' 'well, welch was leading, the last i saw of it. shouldn't wonder if he won either. he was going all right. i say, the place seems absolutely deserted. isn't anybody about?' 'just what mr macarthur was saying to me just this minute, sir. 'e went into the pavilion.' 'good. i'll go and hunt for him.' biffen 'clicked' the _blase_ horse into movement again. jim went to the pavilion and met the babe coming down the steps. 'hullo, babe! i was looking for you.' 'hullo! why aren't you running?' 'dropped out. come and have tea in my study.' 'no, i'll tell you what. you come back with me. i've got rather a decent dog i want to show you. only got him yesterday.' jim revelled in dogs, so he agreed instantly. the babe lived with his parents in a big house about a mile from the college, and in so doing was the object of much envy amongst those who had to put up with life at the houses. jim had been to his home once or twice before, and had always had a very good time indeed there. the two strolled off. in another hour the place began to show signs of life again. the school began to return by ones and twos, most of them taking up a position near the big gates. this was where the race was to finish. there was a straight piece of road about two hundred yards in length before the high road was reached. it was a sight worth seeing when the runners, paced by their respective houses on each side of the road, swept round the corner, and did their best to sprint with all that was left in them after ten miles of difficult country. suddenly a distant shouting began to be heard. the leaders had been sighted. the noise increased, growing nearer and nearer, until at last it swelled into a roar, and a black mass of runners turned the corner. in the midst of the black was one white figure--welch, as calm and unruffled as if he had been returning from a short trot to improve his wind. merevale's surged round him in a cheering mob. welch simply disregarded them. he knew where he wished to begin his sprint, and he would begin it at that spot and no other. the spot he had chosen was well within a hundred yards from the gates. when he reached it, he let himself go, and from the uproar, the crowd appeared to be satisfied. a long pause, and still none of the other runners appeared. five minutes went by before they began to appear. first jones, of the school house, and simpson, who raced every yard of the way, and finished in the order named, and then three of philpott's house in a body. the rest dropped in at intervals for the next quarter of an hour. the headmaster always made a point of watching the finish of the cross-country run. indeed, he was generally one of the last to leave. with the majority of the spectators it was enough to see the first five safely in. the last man and lock-up arrived almost simultaneously, and the head went off to a well-earned dinner. he had just finished this meal, and was congratulating himself on not being obliged to spend the evening in a series of painful interviews, as had happened the night before, when parker, the butler, entered the room. 'well, parker, what is it?' asked he. 'mr roberts, sir, wishes to see you.' for a moment the head was at a loss. he could not recall any friend or acquaintance of that name. then he remembered that roberts was the name of the detective who had come down from london to look into the matter of the prizes. 'very well,' he said, resignedly, 'show him into the study.' parker bowed, and retired. the head, after an interval, followed him, and made his way to the study. [ ] mr roberts explains inspector roberts was standing with his back to the door, examining a photograph of the college, when the head entered. he spun round briskly. 'good evening, mr roberts. pray be seated. you wish to see me?' the detective took a seat. 'this business of the cups, sir.' 'ah!' said the head, 'have you made any progress?' 'considerable. yes, very considerable progress. i've found out who stole them.' 'you have?' cried the head. 'excellent. i suppose it _was_ thomson, then? i was afraid so.' 'thomson, sir? that was certainly not the name he gave me. stokes he called himself.' 'stokes? stokes? this is curious. perhaps if you were to describe his appearance? was he a tall boy, of a rather slight build--' the detective interrupted. 'excuse me, sir, but i rather fancy we have different persons in our mind. stokes is not a boy. not at all. well over thirty. red moustache. height, five foot seven, i should say. not more. works as a farmhand when required, and does odd jobs at times. that's the man.' the head's face expressed relief, as he heard this description. 'then thomson did not do it after all,' he said. 'thomson?' queried mr roberts. 'thomson,' explained the head, 'is the name of one of the boys at the school. i am sorry to say that i strongly suspected him of this robbery.' 'a boy at the school. curious. unusual, i should have thought, for a boy to be mixed up in an affair like this. though i have known cases.' 'i was very unwilling, i can assure you, to suspect him of such a thing, but really the evidence all seemed to point to it. i am afraid, mr roberts, that i have been poaching on your preserves without much success.' 'curious thing evidence,' murmured mr roberts, fixing with his eye a bust of socrates on the writing-desk, as if he wished it to pay particular attention to his words. 'very curious. very seldom able to trust it. case the other day. man charged with robbery from the person. _with violence_. they gave the case to me. worked up beautiful case against the man. not a hitch anywhere. whole thing practically proved. man brings forward _alibi._ proves it. turned out that at time of robbery he had been serving seven days without the option for knocking down two porters and a guard on the district railway. yet the evidence seemed conclusive. yes, curious thing evidence.' he nodded solemnly at socrates, and resumed an interested study of the carpet. the head, who had made several spirited attempts at speaking during this recital, at last succeeded in getting in a word. 'you have the cups?' 'no. no, cups still missing. only flaw in the affair. perhaps i had better begin from the beginning?' 'exactly. pray let me hear the whole story. i am more glad than i can say that thomson is innocent. there is no doubt of that, i hope?' 'not the least, sir. not the very least. stokes is the man.' 'i am very glad to hear it.' the inspector paused for a moment, coughed, and drifted into his narrative. '... saw at once it was not the work of a practised burglar. first place, how could regular professional know that the cups were in the pavilion at all? quite so. second place, work very clumsily done. no neatness. not the professional touch at all. tell it in a minute. no mistaking it. very good. must, therefore, have been amateur--this night only--and connected with school. next question, who? helped a little there by luck. capital thing luck, when it's not bad luck. was passing by the village inn--you know the village inn, i dare say, sir?' the head, slightly scandalized, explained that he was seldom in the village. the detective bowed and resumed his tale. 'as i passed the door, i ran into a man coming out. in a very elevated, not to say intoxicated, state. as a matter of fact, barely able to stand. reeled against wall, and dropped handful of money. i lent helping hand, and picked up his money for him. not my place to arrest drunken men. constable's! no constable there, of course. noticed, as i picked the money up, that there was a good deal of it. for ordinary rustic, a _very_ good deal. sovereign and plenty of silver.' he paused, mused for a while, and went on again. 'yes. sovereign, and quite ten shillings' worth of silver. now the nature of my profession makes me a suspicious man. it struck me as curious, not to say remarkable, that such a man should have thirty shillings or more about him so late in the week. and then there was another thing. i thought i'd seen this particular man somewhere on the school grounds. couldn't recall his face exactly, but just had a sort of general recollection of having seen him before. i happened to have a camera with me. as a matter of fact i had been taking a few photographs of the place. pretty place, sir.' 'very,' agreed the head. 'you photograph yourself, perhaps?' 'no. i--ah--do not.' 'ah. pity. excellent hobby. however--i took a snap-shot of this man to show to somebody who might know him better than i did. this is the photograph. drunk as a lord, is he not?' he exhibited a small piece of paper. the head examined it gravely, and admitted that the subject of the picture did not appear to be ostentatiously sober. the sunlight beat full on his face, which wore the intensely solemn expression of the man who, knowing his own condition, hopes, by means of exemplary conduct, to conceal it from the world. the head handed the photograph back without further comment. 'i gave the man back his money,' went on mr roberts, 'and saw him safely started again, and then i set to work to shadow him. not a difficult job. he walked very slowly, and for all he seemed to care, the whole of scotland yard might have been shadowing him. went up the street, and after a time turned in at one of the cottages. i marked the place, and went home to develop the photograph. took it to show the man who looks after the cricket-field.' 'biffen?' 'just so, biffen. very intelligent man. given me a good deal of help in one way and another all along. well, i showed it to him and he said he thought he knew the face. was almost certain it was one of the men at work on the grounds at the time of the robbery. showed it to friend of his, the other ground-man. he thought same. that made it as certain as i had any need for. went off at once to the man's cottage, found him sober, and got the whole thing out of him. but not the cups. he had been meaning to sell them, but had not known where to go. wanted combination of good price and complete safety. very hard to find, so had kept cups hidden till further notice.' here the head interrupted. 'and the cups? where are they?' 'we-e-ll,' said the detective, slowly. 'it is this way. we have only got his word to go on as regards the cups. this man, stokes, it seems is a notorious poacher. the night after the robbery he took the cups out with him on an expedition in some woods that lie in the direction of badgwick. i think badgwick is the name.' 'badgwick! not sir alfred venner's woods?' 'sir alfred venner it was, sir. that was the name he mentioned. stokes appears to have been in the habit of visiting that gentleman's property pretty frequently. he had a regular hiding place, a sort of store where he used to keep all the game he killed. he described the place to me. it is a big tree on the bank of the stream nearest the high road. the tree is hollow. one has to climb to find the opening to it. inside are the cups, and, i should say, a good deal of mixed poultry. that is what he told me, sir. i should advise you, if i may say so, to write a note to sir alfred venner, explaining the case, and ask him to search the tree, and send the cups on here.' this idea did not appeal to the head at all. why, he thought bitterly, was this wretched m.p. always mixed up with his affairs? left to himself, he could have existed in perfect comfort without either seeing, writing to, or hearing from the great man again for the rest of his life. 'i will think it over,' he said, 'though it seems the only thing to be done. as for stokes, i suppose i must prosecute--' the detective raised a hand in protest. 'pardon my interruption, sir, but i really should advise you not to prosecute.' 'indeed! why?' 'it is this way. if you prosecute, you get the man his term of imprisonment. a year, probably. well and good. but then what happens? after his sentence has run out, he comes out of prison an ex-convict. tries to get work. no good. nobody will look at him. asks for a job. people lock up their spoons and shout for the police. what happens then? not being able to get work, tries another burglary. being a clumsy hand at the game, gets caught again and sent back to prison, and so is ruined and becomes a danger to society. now, if he is let off this time, he will go straight for the rest of his life. run a mile to avoid a silver cup. he's badly scared, and i took the opportunity of scaring him more. told him nothing would happen this time, if the cups came back safely, but that he'd be watched ever afterwards to see he did not get into mischief. of course he won't really be watched, you understand, but he thinks he will. which is better, for it saves trouble. besides, we know where the cups are--i feel sure he was speaking the truth about them, he was too frightened to invent a story--and here is most of the money. so it all ends well, if i may put it so. my advice, sir, and i think you will find it good advice--is not to prosecute.' 'very well,' said the head, 'i will not.' 'very good, sir. good morning, sir.' and he left the room. the head rang the bell. 'parker,' said he, 'go across to mr merevale's, and ask him to send thomson to me.' it was with mixed feelings that he awaited jim's arrival. the detective's story had shown how unjust had been his former suspicions, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the apology which he felt bound to make to him. on the other hand, this feeling was more than equalled by his relief at finding that his faith in the virtue of the _genus_ school-prefect, though at fault in the matter of plunkett, was not altogether misplaced. it made up for a good deal. then his thoughts drifted to sir alfred venner. struggle with his feelings as he might, the head could _not_ endure that local potentate. the recent interview between them had had no parallel in their previous acquaintance, but the head had always felt vaguely irritated by his manner and speech, and he had always feared that matters would come to a head sooner or later. the prospect of opening communication with him once more was not alluring. in the meantime there was his more immediate duty to be performed, the apology to thomson. but that reminded him. the apology must only be of a certain kind. it must not be grovelling. and this for a very excellent reason. after the apology must come an official lecture on the subject of betting. he had rather lost sight of that offence in the excitement of the greater crime of which thomson had been accused, and very nearly convicted. now the full heinousness of it came back to him. betting! scandalous! 'come in,' he cried, as a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. he turned. but instead of thomson, there appeared parker. parker carried a note. it was from mr merevale. the head opened it. 'what!' he cried, as he read it. 'impossible.' parker made no comment. he stood in the doorway, trying to look as like a piece of furniture as possible--which is the duty of a good butler. 'impossible!' said the head again. what mr merevale had said in his note was this, that thomson was not in the house, and had not been in the house since lunchtime. he ought to have returned at six o'clock. it was now half-past eight, and still there were no signs of him. mr merevale expressed a written opinion that this was a remarkable thing, and the head agreed with him unreservedly. [ ] the disappearance of j. thomson certainly the head was surprised. he read the note again. no. there was no mistake. 'thomson is not in the house.' there could be no two meanings about that. 'go across to mr merevale's,' he said at last, 'and ask him if he would mind seeing me here for a moment.' the butler bowed his head gently, but with more than a touch of pained astonishment. he thought the headmaster might show more respect for persons. a butler is not an errand-boy. 'sir?' he said, giving the head a last chance, as it were, of realizing the situation. 'ask mr merevale to step over here for a moment.' the poor man bowed once more. the phantom of a half-smoked cigar floated reproachfully before his eyes. he had lit it a quarter of an hour ago in fond anticipation of a quiet evening. unless a miracle had occurred, it must be out by this time. and he knew as well as anybody else that a relighted cigar is never at its best. but he went, and in a few minutes mr merevale entered the room. 'sit down, mr merevale,' said the head. 'am i to understand from your note that thomson is actually not in the house?' mr merevale thought that if he had managed to understand anything else from the note he must possess a mind of no common order, but he did not say so. 'no,' he said. 'thomson has not been in the house since lunchtime, as far as i know. it is a curious thing.' 'it is exceedingly serious. exceedingly so. for many reasons. have you any idea where he was seen last?' 'harrison in my house says he saw him at about three o'clock.' 'ah!' 'according to harrison, he was walking in the direction of stapleton.' 'ah. well, it is satisfactory to know even as little as that.' 'just so. but mace--he is in my house, too--declares that he saw thomson at about the same time cycling in the direction of badgwick. both accounts can scarcely be correct.' 'but--dear me, are you certain, mr merevale?' merevale nodded to imply that he was. the head drummed irritably with his fingers on the arm of his chair. this mystery, coming as it did after the series of worries through which he had been passing for the last few days, annoyed him as much as it is to be supposed the last straw annoyed the proverbial camel. 'as a matter of fact,' said merevale, 'i know that thomson started to run in the long race this afternoon. i met him going to the starting-place, and advised him to go and change again. he was not looking at all fit for such a long run. it seems to me that welch might know where he is. thomson and he got well ahead of the others after the start, so that if, as i expect, thomson dropped out early in the race, welch could probably tell us where it happened. that would give us some clue to his whereabouts, at any rate.' 'have you questioned welch?' 'not yet. welch came back very tired, quite tired out, in fact and went straight to bed. i hardly liked to wake him except as a last resource. perhaps i had better do so now?' 'i think you should most certainly. something serious must have happened to thomson to keep him out of his house as late as this. unless--' he stopped. merevale looked up enquiringly. the head, after a moment's deliberation, proceeded to explain. 'i have made a very unfortunate mistake with regard to thomson, mr merevale. a variety of reasons led me to think that he had had something to do with this theft of the sports prizes.' 'thomson!' broke in merevale incredulously. 'there was a considerable weight of evidence against him, which i have since found to be perfectly untrustworthy, but which at the time seemed to me almost conclusive.' 'but surely,' put in merevale again, 'surely thomson would be the last boy to do such a thing. why should he? what would he gain by it?' 'precisely. i can understand that perfectly in the light of certain information which i have just received from the inspector. but at the time, as i say, i believed him guilty. i even went so far as to send for him and question him upon the subject. now it has occurred to me, mr merevale--you understand that i put it forward merely as a conjecture--it occurs to me--' 'that thomson has run away,' said merevale bluntly. the head, slightly discomposed by this sherlock-holmes-like reading of his thoughts, pulled himself together, and said, 'ah--just so. i think it very possible.' 'i do not agree with you,' said merevale. 'i know thomson well, and i think he is the last boy to do such a thing. he is neither a fool nor a coward, to put it shortly, and he would need to have a great deal of both in him to run away.' the head looked slightly relieved at this. 'you--ah--think so?' he said. 'i certainly do. in the first place, where, unless he went home, would he run to? and as he would be going home in a couple of days in the ordinary course of things, he would hardly be foolish enough to risk expulsion in such a way.' mr merevale always rather enjoyed his straight talks with the headmaster. unlike most of his colleagues he stood in no awe of him whatever. he always found him ready to listen to sound argument, and, what was better, willing to be convinced. it was so in this case. 'then i think we may dismiss that idea,' said the head with visible relief. the idea of such a scandal occurring at st austin's had filled him with unfeigned horror. 'and now i think it would be as well to go across to your house and hear what welch has to say about the matter. unless thomson returns soon--and it is already past nine o'clock--we shall have to send out search-parties.' five minutes later welch, enjoying a sound beauty-sleep, began to be possessed of a vague idea that somebody was trying to murder him. his subsequent struggles for life partially woke him, and enabled him to see dimly that two figures were standing by his bed. 'yes?' he murmured sleepily, turning over on to his side again, and preparing to doze off. the shaking continued. this was too much. 'look here,' said he fiercely, sitting up. then he recognized his visitors. as his eye fell on merevale, he wondered whether anything had occurred to bring down his wrath upon him. perhaps he had gone to bed without leave, and was being routed out to read at prayers or do some work? no, he remembered distinctly getting permission to turn in. what then could be the matter? at this point he recognized the headmaster, and the last mists of sleep left him. 'yes, sir?' he said, wide-awake now. merevale put the case briefly and clearly to him. 'sorry to disturb you, welch. i know you are tired.' 'not at all, sir,' said welch, politely. 'but there is something we must ask you. you probably do not know that thomson has not returned?' 'not returned!' 'no. nobody knows where he is. you were probably the last to see him. what happened when you and he started for the long run this afternoon? you lost sight of the rest, did you not?' 'yes, sir.' 'well?' 'and thomson dropped out.' 'ah.' this from the headmaster. 'yes, sir. he said he couldn't go any farther. he told me to go on. and, of course, i did, as it was a race. i advised him to go back to the house and change. he looked regularly done up. i think he ran too hard in the mile yesterday.' the head spoke. 'i thought that some such thing must have happened. where was it that he dropped out, welch?' 'it was just as we came to a long ploughed field, sir, by the side of a big wood.' 'parker's spinney, i expect,' put in merevale. 'yes, sir. about a mile from the college.' 'and you saw nothing more of him after that?' enquired the headmaster. 'no, sir. he was lying on his back when i left him. i should think some of the others must have seen him after i did. he didn't look as if he was likely to get up for some time.' 'well,' said the head, as he and merevale went out of the room, leaving welch to his slumbers, 'we have gained little by seeing welch. i had hoped for something more. i must send the prefects out to look for thomson at once.' 'it will be a difficult business,' said merevale, refraining--to his credit be it said--from a mention of needles and haystacks. 'we have nothing to go upon. he may be anywhere for all we know. i suppose it is hardly likely that he is still where welch left him?' the head seemed to think this improbable. 'that would scarcely be the case unless he were very much exhausted. it is more than five hours since welch saw him. i can hardly believe that the worst exhaustion would last so long. however, if you would kindly tell your house-prefects of this--' 'and send them out to search?' 'yes. we must do all we can. tell them to begin searching where thomson was last seen. i will go round to the other houses. dear me, this is exceedingly annoying. exceedingly so.' merevale admitted that it was, and, having seen his visitor out of the house, went to the studies to speak to his prefects. he found charteris and tony together in the former's sanctum. 'has anything been heard about thomson, sir?' said tony, as he entered. 'that is just what i want to see you about. graham, will you go and bring the rest of the prefects here?' 'now,' he said, as tony returned with swift and daintree, the two remaining house-prefects, 'you all know, of course, that thomson is not in the house. the headmaster wants you to go and look for him. welch seems to have been the last to see him, and he left him lying in a ploughed field near parker's spinney. you all know parker's spinney, i suppose?' 'yes, sir.' 'then you had better begin searching from there. go in twos if you like, or singly. don't all go together. i want you all to be back by eleven. all got watches?' 'yes, sir.' 'good. you'd better take lanterns of some sort. i think i can raise a bicycle lamp each, and there is a good moon. look everywhere, and shout as much as you like. i think he must have sprained an ankle or something. he is probably lying somewhere unable to move, and too far away from the road to make his voice heard to anyone. if you start now, you will have just an hour and a half. you should have found him by then. the prefects from the other houses will help you.' daintree put in a pertinent question. 'how about trespassing, sir?' 'oh, go where you like. in reason, you know. don't go getting the school mixed up in any unpleasantness, of course, but remember that your main object is to find thomson. you all understand?' 'yes, sir.' 'very good. then start at once.' 'by jove,' said swift, when he had gone, 'what an unholy rag! this suits yours truly. poor old jim, though. i wonder what the deuce has happened to him?' at that very moment the headmaster, leaving philpott's house to go to prater's, was wondering the same thing. in spite of mr merevale's argument, he found himself drifting back to his former belief that jim had run away. what else could keep him out of his house more than three hours after lock-up? and he had had some reason for running away, for the _conscia mens recti,_ though an excellent institution in theory, is not nearly so useful an ally as it should be in practice. the head knocked at prater's door, pondering darkly within himself. [ ] 'we'll proceed to search for thomson if he be above the ground' 'how sweet the moonlight sleeps on yonder haystack,' observed charteris poetically, as he and tony, accompanied by swift and daintree, made their way across the fields to parker's spinney. each carried a bicycle lamp, and at irregular intervals each broke into piercing yells, to the marked discomfort of certain birds roosting in the neighbourhood, who burst noisily from the trees, and made their way with visible disgust to quieter spots. 'there's one thing,' said swift, 'we ought to hear him if he yells on a night like this. a yell ought to travel about a mile.' 'suppose we try one now,' said charteris. 'now. a concerted piece, _andante_ in six-eight time. ready?' the next moment the stillness of the lovely spring night was shattered by a hideous uproar. 'r.s.v.p.,' said charteris to space in general, as the echoes died away. but there was no answer, though they waited several minutes on the chance of hearing some sound that would indicate jim's whereabouts. 'if he didn't hear that,' observed tony, 'he can't be within three miles, that's a cert. we'd better separate, i think.' they were at the ploughed field by parker's spinney now. 'anybody got a coin?' asked daintree. 'let's toss for directions.' charteris produced a shilling. 'my ewe lamb,' he said. 'tails.' tails it was. charteris expressed his intention of striking westward and drawing the spinney. he and tony made their way thither, swift and daintree moving off together in the opposite direction. 'this is jolly rum,' said tony, as they entered the spinney. 'i wonder where the deuce the man has got to?' 'yes. it's beastly serious, really, but i'm hanged if i can help feeling as if i were out on a picnic. i suppose it's the night air.' 'i wonder if we shall find him?' 'not the slightest chance in my opinion. there's not the least good in looking through this forsaken spinney. still, we'd better do it.' 'yes. don't make a row. we're trespassing.' they moved on in silence. half-way through the wood charteris caught his foot in a hole and fell. 'hurt?' said tony. 'only in spirit, thanks. the absolute dashed foolishness of this is being rapidly borne in upon me, tony. what _is_ the good of it? we shan't find him here.' tony put his foot down upon these opinions with exemplary promptitude. 'we must go on trying. hang it all, if it comes to the worst, it's better than frousting indoors.' 'tony, you're a philosopher. lead on, macduff.' tony was about to do so, when a form appeared in front of him, blocking the way. he flashed his lamp at the form, and the form, prefacing its remarks with a good, honest swearword--of a variety peculiar to that part of the country--requested him, without any affectation of ceremonious courtesy, to take his something-or-other lamp out of his (the form's) what's-its-named face, and state his business briefly. 'surely i know that voice,' said charteris. 'archibald, my long-lost brother.' the keeper failed to understand him, and said so tersely. 'can you tell _me_,' went on charteris, 'if you have seen such a thing as a boy in this spinney lately? we happen to have lost one. an ordinary boy. no special markings. his name is thomson, on the grampian hills--' at this point the keeper felt that he had had enough. he made a dive for the speaker. charteris dodged behind tony, and his assailant, not observing this, proceeded to lay violent hands upon the latter, who had been standing waiting during the conversation. 'let go, you fool,' cried he. the keeper's hand had come smartly into contact with his left eye, and from there had taken up a position on his shoulder. in reply the keeper merely tightened his grip. 'i'll count three,' said tony, 'and--' the keeper's hand shifted to his collar. 'all right, then,' said tony between his teeth. he hit up with his left at the keeper's wrist. the hand on his collar loosed its grip. its owner rushed, and as he came, tony hit him in the parts about the third waistcoat-button with his right. he staggered and fell. tony hit very hard when the spirit moved him. 'come on, man,' said charteris quickly, 'before he gets his wind again. we mustn't be booked trespassing.' tony recognized the soundness of the advice. they were out of the spinney in two minutes. 'now,' said charteris, 'let's do a steady double to the road. this is no place for us. come on, you man of blood.' when they reached the road they slowed down to a walk again. charteris laughed. 'i feel just as if we'd done a murder, somehow. what an ass that fellow was to employ violence. he went down all right, didn't he?' 'think there'll be a row?' 'no. should think not. he didn't see us properly. anyhow, he was interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty. so were we, i suppose. well, let's hope for the best. hullo!' 'what's up?' 'all right. it's only somebody coming down the road. thought it might be the keeper at first. why, it's biffen.' it was biffen. he looked at them casually as he came up, but stopped short in surprise when he saw who they were. 'mr charteris!' 'the same,' said charteris. 'enjoying a moonlight stroll, biffen?' 'but what are you doing out of the 'ouse at this time of night, mr charteris?' 'it's this way,' said tony, 'all the house-prefects have been sent out to look for thomson. he's not come back.' 'not come back, sir!' 'no. bit queer, isn't it? the last anybody saw of him was when he dropped out of the long race near parker's spinney.' 'i seen him later than that, mr graham. he come on to the grounds while i was mowing the cricket field.' 'not really? when was that?' 'four. 'alf past four, nearly.' 'what became of him?' ''e went off with mr macarthur. mr macarthur took 'im off 'ome with 'im, i think, sir.' 'by jove,' said charteris with enthusiasm. 'now we _are_ on the track. thanks awfully, biffen, i'll remember you in my will. come on, tony.' 'where are you going now?' 'babe's place, of course. the babe holds the clue to this business. we must get it out of him. 'night, biffen.' 'good-night, sir.' arrived at the babe's residence, they rang the bell, and, in the interval of waiting for the door to be opened, listened with envy to certain sounds of revelry which filtered through the windows of a room to the right of the porch. 'the babe seems to be making a night of it,' said charteris. 'oh'--as the servant opened the door--'can we see mr macarthur, please?' the servant looked doubtful on the point. 'there's company tonight, sir.' 'i knew he was making a night of it,' said charteris to tony. 'it's not mr macarthur we want to see. it's--dash it, what's the babe's name?' 'robert, i believe. wouldn't swear to it.' 'mr robert. is he in?' it seemed to charteris that the form of this question smacked of ollendorf. he half expected the servant to say 'no, but he has the mackintosh of his brother's cousin'. it produced the desired effect, however, for after inviting them to step in, the servant disappeared, and the babe came on the scene, wearing a singularly prosperous expression, as if he had dined well. 'hullo, you chaps,' he said. 'sir to you,' said charteris. 'look here, babe, we want to know what you have done with jim. he was seen by competent witnesses to go off with you, and he's not come back. if you've murdered him, you might let us have the body.' 'not come back! rot. are you certain?' 'my dear chap, every house-prefect on the list has been sent out to look for him. when did he leave here?' the babe reflected. 'six, i should think. little after, perhaps. why--oh lord!' he broke off suddenly. 'what's up?' asked tony. 'why i sent him by a short cut through some woods close by here, and i've only just remembered there's a sort of quarry in the middle of them. i'll bet he's in there.' 'great scott, man, what sort of a quarry? i like the calm way the babe talks of sending unsuspecting friends into quarries. deep?' 'not very, thank goodness. still, if he fell down he might not be able to get up again, especially if he'd hurt himself at all. half a second. let me get on some boots, and i'll come out and look. shan't be long. when he came back, the three of them set out for the quarry. 'there you are,' cried the babe, with an entirely improper pride in his voice, considering the circumstances. 'what did i tell you?' out of the darkness in front of them came a shout. they recognized the voice at once as jim's. tony uttered a yell of encouragement, and was darting forward to the spot from which the cry had come, when the babe stopped him. 'don't do that, man,' he said. 'you'll be over yourself, if you don't look out. it's quite close here.' he flashed one of the lamps in front of him. the light fell on a black opening in the ground, and jim's voice sounded once more from the bowels of the earth, this time quite close to where they stood. 'jim,' shouted charteris, 'where are you?' 'hullo,' said the voice, 'who's that? you might lug me out of here.' 'are you hurt?' 'twisted my ankle.' 'how far down are you?' 'not far. ten feet, about. can't you get me out?' 'half a second,' said the babe, 'i'll go and get help. you chaps had better stay here and talk to him.' he ran off. 'how many of you are there up there?' asked jim. 'only tony and myself,' said charteris. 'thought i heard somebody else.' 'oh, that was the babe. he's gone off to get help.' 'oh. when he comes back, wring his neck, and heave him down here,' said jim. 'i want a word with him on the subject of short cuts. i say, is there much excitement about this?' 'rather. all the house-prefects are out after you. we've been looking in parker's spinney, and tony was reluctantly compelled to knock out a keeper who tried to stop us. you should have been there. it was a rag.' 'wish i had been. hullo, is that the babe come back?' it was. the babe, with his father and a party of friends arrayed in evening dress. they carried a ladder amongst them. the pungent remarks jim had intended to address to the babe had no opportunity of active service. it was not the babe who carried him up the ladder, but two of the dinner-party. nor did the babe have a hand in the carrying of the stretcher. that was done by as many of the evening-dress brigade as could get near enough. they seemed to enjoy it. one of them remarked that it reminded him of south africa. to which another replied that it was far more like a party of policemen gathering in an 'early drunk' in the marylebone road. the procession moved on its stately way to the babe's father's house, and the last tony and charteris saw of jim, he was the centre of attraction, and appeared to be enjoying himself very much. charteris envied him, and did not mind saying so. 'why can't _i_ smash my ankle?' he demanded indignantly of tony. he was nearing section five, sub-section three, of his discourse, when they reached merevale's gates. it was after eleven, but they felt that the news they were bringing entitled them to be a little late. charteris brought his arguments to a premature end, and tony rang the bell. merevale himself opened the door to them. [ ] in which the affairs of various persons are wound up 'well,' he said, 'you're rather late. any luck?' 'we've found him, sir,' said tony. 'really? that's a good thing. where was he?' 'he'd fallen down a sort of quarry place near where macarthur lives. macarthur took him home with him to tea, and sent him back by a short cut, forgetting all about the quarry, and thomson fell in and couldn't get out again.' 'is he hurt?' 'only twisted his ankle, sir.' 'then where is he now?' 'they carried him back to the house.' 'macarthur's house?' 'yes, sir.' 'oh, well, i suppose he will be all right then. graham, just go across and report to the headmaster, will you? you'll find him in his study.' the head was immensely relieved to hear tony's narrative. after much internal debate he had at last come to the conclusion that jim must have run away, and he had been wondering how he should inform his father of the fact. 'you are certain that he is not badly hurt, graham?' he said, when tony had finished his story. 'yes, sir. it's only his ankle.' 'very good. good-night, graham.' the head retired to bed that night filled with a virtuous resolve to seek jim out on the following day, and speak a word in season to him on the subject of crime in general and betting in particular. this plan he proceeded to carry out as soon as afternoon school was over. when, however, he had arrived at the babe's house, he found that there was one small thing which he had left out of his calculations. he had counted on seeing the invalid alone. on entering the sick-room he found there mrs macarthur, looking as if she intended to remain where she sat for several hours--which, indeed, actually was her intention--and miss macarthur, whose face and attitude expressed the same, only, if anything, more so. the fact was that the babe, a very monument of resource on occasions, had, as he told jim, 'given them the tip not to let the old man get at him, unless he absolutely chucked them out, you know'. when he had seen the headmaster approaching, he had gone hurriedly to jim's room to mention the fact, with excellent results. the head took a seat by the bed, and asked, with a touch of nervousness, after the injured ankle. this induced mrs macarthur to embark on a disquisition concerning the ease with which ankles are twisted, from which she drifted easily into a discussion of rugby football, its merits and demerits. the head, after several vain attempts to jerk the conversation into other grooves, gave it up, and listened for some ten minutes to a series of anecdotes about various friends and acquaintances of mrs macarthur's who had either twisted their own ankles or known people who had twisted theirs. the head began to forget what exactly he had come to say that afternoon. jim lay and grinned covertly through it all. when the head did speak, his first words roused him effectually. 'i suppose, mrs macarthur, your son has told you that we have had a burglary at the school?' 'hang it,' thought jim, 'this isn't playing the game at all. why talk shop, especially that particular brand of shop, here?' he wondered if the head intended to describe the burglary, and then spring to his feet with a dramatic wave of the hand towards him, and say, 'there, mrs macarthur, is the criminal! there lies the viper on whom you have lavished your hospitality, the snaky and systematic serpent you have been induced by underhand means to pity. look upon him, and loathe him. _he_ stole the cups!' 'yes, indeed,' replied mrs macarthur, 'i have heard a great deal about it. i suppose you have never found out who it was that did it?' jim lay back resignedly. after all, he had not done it, and if the head liked to say he had, well, let him. _he_ didn't care. 'yes, mrs macarthur, we have managed to discover him.' 'and who was it?' asked mrs macarthur, much interested. 'now for it,' said jim to himself. 'we found that it was a man living in the village, who had been doing some work on the school grounds. he had evidently noticed the value of the cups, and determined to try his hand at appropriating them. he is well known as a poacher in the village, it seems. i think that for the future he will confine himself to that--ah--industry, for he is hardly likely ever to--ah--shine as a professional house-breaker. no.' 'oh, well, that must be a relief to you, i am sure, mr perceval. these poachers are a terrible nuisance. they do frighten the birds so.' she spoke as if it were an unamiable eccentricity on the part of the poachers, which they might be argued out of, if the matter were put before them in a reasonable manner. the head agreed with her and rose to go. jim watched him out of the room and then breathed a deep, satisfying breath of relief. his troubles were at an end. in the meantime barrett, who, having no inkling as to the rate at which affairs had been progressing since his visit to the dingle, still imagined that the secret of the hollow tree belonged exclusively to reade, himself, and one other, was much exercised in his mind about it. reade candidly confessed himself baffled by the problem. give him something moderately straightforward, and he was all right. this secret society and dark lantern style of affair was, he acknowledged, beyond him. and so it came about that barrett resolved to do the only thing he could think of, and go to the head about it. but before he had come to this decision, the head had received another visit from mr roberts, as a result of which the table where sir alfred venner had placed plunkett's pipe and other accessories so dramatically during a previous interview, now bore another burden--the missing cups. mr roberts had gone to the dingle in person, and, by adroit use of the divinity which hedges a detective, had persuaded a keeper to lead him to the tree where, as mr stokes had said, the cups had been deposited. the head's first act, on getting the cups, was to send for welch, to whom by right of conquest they belonged. welch arrived shortly before barrett. the head was just handing him his prizes when the latter came into the room. it speaks well for barrett's presence of mind that he had grasped the situation and decided on his line of action before welch went, and the head turned his attention to him. 'well, barrett?' said the head. 'if you please, sir,' said barrett, blandly, 'may i have leave to go to stapleton?' 'certainly, barrett. why do you wish to go?' this was something of a poser, but barrett's brain worked quickly. 'i wanted to send a telegram, sir.' 'very well. but'--with suspicion--'why did you not ask mr philpott? your house-master can give you leave to go to stapleton.' 'i couldn't find him, sir.' this was true, for he had not looked. 'ah. very well.' 'thank you, sir.' and barrett went off to tell reade that in some mysterious manner the cups had come back on their own account. when jim had congratulated himself that everything had ended happily, at any rate as far as he himself was concerned, he had forgotten for the moment that at present he had only one pound to his credit instead of the two which he needed. charteris, however, had not. the special number of _the glow worm_ was due on the following day, and jim's accident left a considerable amount of 'copy' to be accounted for. he questioned tony on the subject. 'look here, tony, have you time to do any more stuff for _the glow worm?_ 'my dear chap,' said tony, 'i've not half done my own bits. ask welch.' 'i asked him just now. he can't. besides, he only writes at about the rate of one word a minute, and we must get it all in by tonight at bed-time. i'm going to sit up as it is to jellygraph it. what's up?' tony's face had assumed an expression of dismay. 'why,' he said, 'great scott, i never thought of it before. if we jellygraph it, our handwriting'll be recognized, and that will give the whole show away.' charteris took a seat, and faced this difficulty in all its aspects. the idea had never occurred to him before. and yet it should have been obvious. 'i'll have to copy the whole thing out in copper-plate,' he said desperately at last. 'my aunt, what a job.' 'i'll help,' said tony. 'welch will, too, i should think, if you ask him. how many jelly machine things can you raise?' 'i've got three. one for each of us. wait a bit, i'll go and ask welch.' welch, having first ascertained that the matter really was a pressing one, agreed without hesitation. he had objections to spoiling his sleep without reason, but in moments of emergency he put comfort behind him. 'good,' said charteris, when this had been settled, 'be here as soon as you can after eleven. i tell you what, we'll do the thing in style, and brew. it oughtn't to take more than an hour or so. it'll be rather a rag than otherwise.' 'and how about jim's stuff?' asked welch. 'i shall have to do that, as you can't. i've done my own bits. i think i'd better start now.' he did, and with success. when he went to bed at half-past ten, _the glow worm_ was ready in manuscript. only the copying and printing remained to be done. charteris was out of bed and in the study just as eleven struck. tony and welch, arriving half-an-hour later, found him hard at work copying out an article of topical interest in a fair, round hand, quite unrecognizable as his own. it was an impressive scene. the gas had been cut off, as it always was when the house went to bed, and they worked by the light of candles. occasionally welch, breathing heavily in his efforts to make his handwriting look like that of a member of a board-school (second standard), blew one or more of the candles out, and the others grunted fiercely. that was all they could do, for, for evident reasons, a vow of silence had been imposed. charteris was the first to finish. he leant back in his chair, and the chair, which at a reasonable hour of the day would have endured any treatment, collapsed now with a noise like a pistol-shot. 'now you've done it,' said tony, breaking all rules by speaking considerably above a whisper. welch went to the door, and listened. the house was still. they settled down once more to work. charteris lit the spirit-lamp, and began to prepare the meal. the others toiled painfully on at their round-hand. they finished almost simultaneously. 'not another stroke do i do,' said tony, 'till i've had something to drink. is that water boiling yet?' it was at exactly a quarter past two that the work was finished. 'never again,' said charteris, looking with pride at the piles of _glow worms_ stacked on the table; 'this jelly business makes one beastly sticky. i think we'll keep to print in future.' and they did. out of the twenty or more numbers of _the glow worm_ published during charteris' stay at school, that was the only one that did not come from the press. readers who have themselves tried jellygraphing will sympathize. it is a curious operation, but most people will find one trial quite sufficient. that special number, however, reached a record circulation. the school had got its journey-money by the time it appeared, and wanted something to read in the train. jim's pound was raised with ease. charteris took it round to him at the babe's house, together with a copy of the special number. 'by jove,' said jim. 'thanks awfully. do you know, i'd absolutely forgotten all about _the glow worm_. i was to have written something for this number, wasn't i?' and, considering the circumstances, that remark, as charteris was at some pains to explain to him at the time, contained--when you came to analyse it--more cynical immorality to the cubic foot than any other half-dozen remarks he (charteris) had ever heard in his life. 'it passes out of the realm of the merely impudent,' he said, with a happy recollection of a certain favourite author of his, 'and soars into the boundless empyrean of pure cheek.' book was produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: the mysterious letter] the young game-warden by harry castlemon author of "the house-boat boys," "gunboat series," "rocky mountain series," etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago toronto copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. silas morgan, ii. the brothers, iii. the mysterious letter, iv. hobson's house, v. what dan overheard, vi. the young game-warden, vii. brotherly love, viii. joe's plans in danger, ix. volunteers, x. why the letter was written, xi. the plot succeeds, xii. a mystery, xiii. dan is scared, xiv. the "hant," xv. joe's new home, xvi. joe's "first official act," xvii. who fired the four shots? xviii. dan's secret, xix. dan tells his story, xx. a run for home, xxi. a treacherous guide, xxii. mr. brown takes his departure, xxiii. exploring the cave, xxiv. robbers, xxv. what the grip-sack contained, xxvi. mr. hallet hears the news, xxvii. joe's plans, xxviii. capture of bob emerson, xxix. the hunt for the robbers, xxx. brierly's squad captures a robber, xxxi. silas in luck at last, xxxii. bob emerson's story, xxxiii. turning over a new leaf, xxxiv. the transformation, the young game-warden. chapter i. silas morgan. "i do think in my soul that of all the mean things a white man has to do, hauling wood on a hot day like this is the very meanest." the speaker was silas morgan--a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose tattered garments and snail-like movements proclaimed him to be the very personification of indolence and shiftlessness. as he spoke, he took off his hat and drew his shirt-sleeve across his dripping forehead, while the lazy old horse, which had pulled the rickety wood-rack up the long, steep hill from the beach, lowered his head, dropped his ears, and fell fast asleep. the man had two alert and wide-awake companions, and they were a brace of finely-bred gordon setters, which, after beating the bushes on both sides of the road in the vain effort to put up a grouse or start a hare, now came in, and lay down near the wagon. they were a sight for a sportsman's eye, and that same sportsman would very naturally ask himself how it came that this poverty-stricken fellow could afford to own dogs that would have won honors at any bench-show in the land. "yes, i reckon them dog-brutes air just about nice," silas said, whenever any inquisitive person propounded this inquiry to him, "and they were given to me for a present by a couple of city shooters who once hired me for a guide. you see, birds of all sorts, and 'specially woodcock, was mighty skeerce that year, but i took 'em where there was a little bunch that i was a saving for my own shooting, and they had the biggest kind of sport. they give me them dogs in consequence of my perliteness to 'em." there was no one in the neighborhood who could dispute this story, but there were those who took note of the fact that at certain times the dogs disappeared as completely as though they had never existed, and that they were never seen when there were any strange sportsmen in the vicinity. "the luck that comes to different folks in this world is just a trifle the beatenest thing that i ever heared tell on," continued silas, leaning heavily upon the wood-rack and fanning his flushed face with his brimless straw hat. "i can think and plan, but it don't bring in no money, like it does for some folks that ain't got nigh as much sense as i have. now, there's them two setter dogs that was accidentally left on my hands last year! i thought sure that i'd make my everlasting fortune out of them; but if there's been a reward offered for their safe return to their master, i never seen or heared of it. i've tried every way i can think of to make something, so't things in and around my house won't look so sorter peaked and poor, but i'm as fur from hitting the mark now as i was ten year ago. i wish i could think up some way to make a strike, but i can't; and so here goes for that wood-pile. it won't always be as hot as it is to-day. winter will be here before long, the roads will be blocked with drifts, and if this wood ain't down to the beach directly, me and the ole woman will have to shiver over a bare hearth." with this reflection to put life and energy into him, silas straightened up and turned toward the wood-pile with slow and reluctant steps, all unconscious of the fact that every move he made was closely watched by two recumbent figures, who, snugly concealed by a thicket of evergreens, a short distance away, had distinctly caught every word of his soliloquy. the dogs knew they were there, for they had run upon their hiding-place, but as the recumbent figures were neither birds nor hares, they did not even bark at them, but gave a friendly wag with their tails, as if to say that it was all right, and returned to their master, to whom they gave no sign to indicate that they had discovered anything. silas went about his work in that indescribably lazy way that a boy or man generally assumes when he is laboring under protest. every stick he lifted from the pile to the wagon seemed to tax his strength to the very utmost, and he was often obliged to stop and rest; but still he made a little headway, and when the rack was about half-loaded he concluded that he could do no more until he had refreshed himself with a smoke. "i have always heared," said silas, aloud (whenever he thought himself safely out of hearing, he invariably gave utterance to the thoughts that were in his mind)--"i have always heared 'em say that all this country around here is historical, and that if these mountings could speak, they'd tell tales that would make your eyes stick out as big as your fist. "they do say that there's been a heap of stealing and plundering going on about here in the days gone by"--as silas said this he glanced around him a little apprehensively--"and that there's heaps and stacks of gold and silver hid away where nobody won't ever think of looking for 'em. if i thought that was so, wouldn't i try my level best to find some of it? i'd leave joe and dan to run the ferry, and then i'd put a shovel on to my shoulder and come up here, and never leave off digging till i'd turned some of these mountings t'other side up. but i guess i won't smoke. i was fool enough to come away and leave my matches to home." silas held his pipe in his hand, and ran his eye along the wood-pile as if he were looking for a light. as he did so, he gave a sudden start, his eyes opened to their widest extent, his under jaw dropped down, and the hand in which he held the pipe fell to his side. the object that riveted his gaze was a letter. it had been thrust into a crack in the end of a stick of wood, and looked as though it might have been placed there on purpose to attract his attention. "now, don't that beat you?" exclaimed silas, who was greatly astonished. "who in the world has been using my wood-pile for a post-office, i'd like to know?" if the truth must be told, silas was frightened as well as surprised. like all ignorant men, he was superstitious, and whenever he saw or heard anything for which he could not account on the instant, he was sure to be overcome with terror. his first thought was to take to his heels, make the best of his way to the cabin, and send his boys back after the wagon; but if he did that, they would be sure to see the letter--they couldn't help it, if they kept their eyes open--and might they not read it and make themselves masters of some information that he alone ought to possess? "it's mighty comical how that thing come there, and who writ it," said silas, "and somehow i can't get my consent to tech it." and he didn't touch it, either, until he had viewed it from all sides. first, he bent down, with his hands upon his knees, and twisted his body into all sorts of shapes in the vain effort to see the other side of the letter. then he straightened up and made a wide circle around it; and finally, he climbed upon the wood-pile and looked at it from another direction. at last, he must have satisfied himself that it was a letter and nothing else, for he reached out his hand and took possession of it. "it's mighty comical," repeated silas, looking first at the letter, and then turning suspicious glances upon the surrounding woods, "and i can't for the life of me think who put it there. now, who'll i get to read it for me? i can spell out printing with the best of them, but i can't say that i know much about them turkey-tracks they call writing." as silas was walking around the wood-pile toward his wagon, he turned the letter over in his hands, and then he saw that there was something inscribed upon the envelope. the characters were printed, too, and the man had little difficulty in deciphering the following: "notis "to the luckey person in to whose hans this dockyment may happen to fall. thare is a big fortune for you in this mounting if you have got the pluck to do what i have writ on the inside. thare is danger in it, but mebbe that hant won't bother you as it has bothered me ever since i pushed him in to the gorge." silas was in another profuse perspiration long before he spelled out the last word in the "notis," but now the cold chills began creeping all over him. his breath came in short, quick gasps, and his hand trembled visibly, as he thrust the letter into his pocket. then he cast frightened glances on all sides of him, glided back to his wagon with long noiseless footsteps and reached for the reins. the commands which he usually shouted at his aged and infirm beast, were uttered in a whisper, and the horse, not being accustomed to that style of driving, had to be severely admonished with a hickory switch before he would settle into the collar and start the very light load behind him. silas never could have told how he got down the hill without breaking his crazy old wagon all to pieces, for his mind was so completely taken up with other matters that he never thought to look out for the rough places in the road, or to give a wide berth to the stumps. he seemed to be treading on air. he hoped and believed that he was on the point of making a most important discovery; but, great as was his desire to make himself the possessor of the fortune that was hidden somewhere in the mountain he had just left, he could not screw up courage enough to stop and read the letter. he wanted to put the woods far behind him before he did that. the "notis" he had read contained some words that he did not like to recall to mind. "didn't i say that there had been a heap of plundering and stealing a going on in this country in bygone days?" said silas to himself. "this letter proves it, and the words that's printed onto the envelope tells me some things that i don't like to hear tell of. there's likewise been some killing a going on up there. a feller has been shoved into one of the gorges, and his hant (some folks calls it a ghost or spirit) has come back, and keeps a bothering of the feller that pushed him in. i don't know whether or not i can get my consent to go up there and dig for that fortune, even if i knew where to look for it, which i don't." at the end of half an hour, silas morgan drew a long breath of relief, and stopped looking behind him. he was safely out of the woods, and moving quietly along the river road, within shouting distance of his cabin. then his courage all came back to him, and he was ready for any undertaking, no matter how dangerous it might be, so long as there was money behind it. "now, silas, let's look at this thing kind o' sensible like," said he to himself. "there must be as much as a thousand dollars up there in the mounting. if there wasn't, it wouldn't be a fortune, would it? and what's to hender you from getting it for you own? if you go up there in the daytime, that hant can't bother you none, 'cause i've heard folks say that they never show themselves except on dark and stormy nights; but if this one comes out and tells you to leave off digging for that fortune, you can fill him so full of bird shot that he won't be of no use as a hant any more, can't you? get along with you!" he shouted, bringing the heavy switch down upon the horse's back with no gentle hand. "i ain't got much more wood hauling for you to do, 'cause i'm going after them thousand dollars." a few minutes later silas reached his home. dropping the reins and whip to the ground, he bolted into the cabin, closing the door behind him. chapter ii. the brothers. "toot! toot! t-o-ot!" this was the third time the horn had been blown--first warningly, then persuasively, and at last angrily. the hunters on the other side of the river, who had been trying for more than twenty minutes to bring the ferryman over to them, were beginning to get impatient. so was joe morgan, the ferryman's youngest son--a sturdy, sun-browned boy of fifteen, who stood in the flat, holding one of the heavy sweeps in his hand, all ready to shove off. he looked toward the men on the opposite shore, and then he looked at his brother, who sat on the bank, with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. "there's eighty cents in that load," said joe, who was in a great hurry to respond to the angry blasts of the horn. "if they get tired of waiting, and go down to the bridge, we shall be just that much out of pocket." "let 'em go, if they want to," replied the boy on the bank, in a lazy, indifferent tone. "there's no law to hinder 'em that i know of. pap don't seem to be in no great hurry, and neither be i. i'm sick and tired of pulling that heavy flat over the river every time anybody takes a fool notion into his head to toot that horn. some day i'll get mad and sink it so deep that it can't never be found again--i will so!" "now, dan, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed joe, impatiently. "you know well enough that as long as we run the ferry, we must hold ourselves in readiness to serve any one who may call upon us; and if you should destroy the flat, we would have to get another or give up the business." "and that's just what i want to do," answered dan. "then how would we make a living?" "easy enough. can't we all shoot birds and rabbits when the season's open, and snare 'em when it's shut? and can't mother earn a dollar every day by washing for them rich--" "dan, i'm ashamed of you," interrupted joe. "what mother wants is rest, and not more work. come on; what's the use of being so lazy? you've got to make a start some time or other." but dan made no move, and joe, who was very much disgusted with his brother's obstinacy, threw down the sweep, sprang ashore and ran up the bank toward the little board cabin that stood at the top. finding that the door would not open for him, joe ran around the corner of the building, and looked in at a convenient window, just in time to catch his father in the act of thrusting a letter into his pocket. the ferryman's face was flushed, and his movements were nervous and hurried. the boy saw at a glance that he was greatly excited about something. "as long as i have been acquainted with him, i never knew him to get a letter before," said joe to himself. "he has heard some very good or some very bad news, for he is so upset that he doesn't seem to know what he is about." "i heard 'em blowing, joey," said silas, without waiting for the boy to speak, "and now we'll go and bring 'em over. thank goodness, i won't have to follow this mean business much longer. i don't like it, joey. i wasn't born to wait on other folks, and i'm going to quit it." "then you will have to quit ferrying," said joe, as he followed his father down the bank. "that's just what i intend to do," answered silas, and then the boy noticed that there was a triumphant smile on his face, and that he rubbed his hands together as if he were thinking about something that afforded him the greatest satisfaction. "i've got an idee into my head, and if i don't make the folks around here look wild some of these days, i'm a goat," added the ferryman. and then he raised a yell to let the men on the other side of the river know that he had at last made up his mind to respond to their signals. but before he did so, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a good look at the group on the opposite bank, after which he walked around the cabin, snapping his fingers as he went. this was a signal to the dogs that it was time for them to retire from public gaze for a short season; in other words, to go into a miserable lean-to behind the cabin, which silas called a wood-shed, and stay there until the hunters, who were now on the other side of the river, should have passed out of sight. they went in in obedience to a sign from the ferryman, and the latter closed the door and put a stick of cord-wood against it to hold it in place. "if them setter brutes was a present to pap, like he says they was, it's mighty comical to me why he takes so much trouble to hide 'em every time some of them city shooters comes along and toot that horn," soliloquized dan, as he slowly, almost painfully, arose from the ground, and, after much stretching and yawning, followed his father and brother down the bank toward the flat. "he says he's scared that somebody will take a notion to 'em and steal 'em; but that's all in my one eye, 'cording to my way of thinking. now, i'll just tell him this for a fact. if he don't quit being so stingy with the money i help him earn with this ferry, i'll bust up the plans he's got into his head about them dogs--i will so. i wonder what's come over him all of a sudden? here he's been clear up the mounting and come back with only an armful of wood on his wagon, and he don't generally whoop in that there good-natured way, less'n he's got something on his mind." that was true enough. the ferryman's replies to the hails that came to him from over the river, usually sounded more like the complaints of a surly bear than anything else to which we can compare them. the tone in which they were uttered seemed to say, "i'll come because i can't help myself," and he was so long about it, and made himself so very disagreeable in the presence of his passengers, that those who knew him would often go ten miles out of their way to reach a bridge rather than put a dime into his pocket. but on this particular morning, his voice rang out so cheerily that it attracted joe's attention as well as dan's. silas was always good-natured when he had something besides his poverty to think about, and joe would have known that his father had some new idea in his head, even if he had not said a word about it. "lively, dannie!" exclaimed silas, seizing the steering-oar and pushing the flat away from the bank. "put in your very best licks, 'cause there won't none of us have to follow this miserable business much longer. there'll be a day when we won't have to go and come at everybody's beck and call, and that day ain't so very far away neither." the two boys took their places at the sweeps, and the flat moved out into the river. joe did his best to make a quick passage, as he always did, while the lazy dan, who had the current in his favor, merely put his oar into the water and took it out again, without exerting himself in the least. his father's hopeful and encouraging words did not infuse a particle of energy into him. he had heard him talk that way too often. "it ain't right that we should be so poor, while other folks, who never did a hand's turn in their lives, have got more than they know what to do with," continued silas, as he dropped the steering-oar into the water. "i've got just as much right to have money, and the fine things that money'll buy, as anybody has, and i'm going to have 'em, too. i ain't going to live like the pigs in the gutter no longer. just think of the hundreds and thousands of dollars that's spent down to the beach every summer by the city chaps who come there to loaf! _i_ can't lay around under the shade of the trees or swing in a hammock just 'cause the weather's hot. i've got to work. i've got to cut cord-wood in winter and run this ferry during the summer, in order to make a living; but other fellows can stay around and do nothing, just 'cause they've got money. i say again, that such things ain't right." "it makes me savage every time i go down to the beach," chimed in dan, "when i see them city folks, who ain't a cent's worth better than i be, wearing their good clothes, and walking around with their fine guns and fish-poles on their shoulders--" "like them over there," said his father, nodding his head toward the bank, which was now but a short distance away. dan faced about on his seat, and took a good look at the party in question. there were ninety cents in the load instead of eighty. there were three sportsmen in brown hunting-suits, who were walking restlessly about as if they did not know what to do with themselves, and they had a double team, with a negro to drive it. with them were half a dozen setters and pointers, which were exercising their muscles by racing up and down the bank. the sight of the negro set the ferryman's tongue in motion again, while the good clothes the strangers wore had about the same effect upon dan that a piece of red cloth is supposed to have upon a pugnacious turkey gobbler. "more 'ristocrats!" sneered silas. "why don't they drive their own team?" "probably they don't want to," replied joe. "besides, they are able to hire some one to drive it for them." "of course they are!" exclaimed silas, who was angry in an instant. "but i ain't able to hire a nigger to run this ferry for me. i say that such a state of things ain't right." "well, it isn't their fault, is it?" said joe. "i didn't say it was," snapped his father. "it ain't my fault, neither, that i haven't got as much money as the richest of them, but it will be my fault if i don't have it before the season's over. they're going after woodcock," added silas, who was a market-shooter as well as a ferryman and wood-cutter. "i would like to bet them something that they won't get enough birds to pay them for crossing the river. i've got all the covers pretty well cleaned out." "them's the sort of fellers i despise," said dan, turning around on his seat and resuming his work at the sweep--or, rather, his pretence of it. "the money them dogs cost would keep me in the best kind of grub and clothes for a whole year. just look at the clothes they've got on, and then cast your eye at these i've got on. dog-gone such luck! i hope they won't get nothing, and if they should hire me for a guide, i would take good care to lead them where such a bird as a woodcock wasn't never seen." "perhaps they don't need a guide," said joe. "because they wear good clothes and own fine dogs, it is no sign that they don't know woodcock ground or a snipe bog when they see it, as well as you do. perhaps they are all better hunters and wing-shots than you ever dare be." "not much they ain't," exclaimed dan, who got fighting mad whenever his brother threw out a hint of this kind. "i can beat any feller who wears them kind of clothes; and as for them fine dogs of their'n, i'll take bony and get more partridges in a day than they can shoot in a week." "well, then, why ain't you satisfied? what are you growling about?" "'cause they're 'ristocrats--that's what i'm growling about," answered dan, looking savagely across the flat at his brother, while silas nodded a silent but hearty approval. "i am getting tired of seeing so much style every day, while i am so poor that i can't hardly raise money enough to buy powder and shot, and some fine day i'll bust up some of these hunting parties. i've got just as much right to see fun as they have." "so you have, dannie," said his father. "there ain't no sense in the way things go in this world anyway, and i am glad to see you kick agin it. i have always told you, that i would be better off some day, and i have hit upon the very idee at last. me and you will stick together, and i'll warrant that we will make more money than joe does by toadying to these 'ristocrats who come here to take the bread out of our mouths, by shooting the game that rightfully belongs to us." "i don't toady to anybody," replied joe, with some spirit. "i am glad of the chances they give me to earn something now and then, and i am sure we need it bad enough." "i have thought up a way to get more out of them than you do, and the first good chance i get i am going to try it on," observed dan. "i won't go halvers with you, neither, and you needn't expect me to. you never give me a cent." "of course i don't. you are as able to make something for yourself as i am to make it for you. mother gets all i earn." by this time the flat was within a few lengths of the shore, and the crew were obliged to give their entire attention to the sweeps, in order to make a landing. the ferryman, who up to this time had been in a state of nervousness and expectancy, now began to act more like himself--that is to say, he greeted his passengers with an angry scowl, and gave them about as much polite attention as he would have bestowed upon so many bags of corn. he had kept his gaze fastened upon them, and he was both relieved and disappointed to discover that the owner of the dogs that were shut up in his woodshed was not among them. at the proper moment the "apron"--a movable gangway which could be raised and lowered at pleasure--was dropped upon the bank, and in five minutes more the team and the passengers were all aboard, and the flat was moving back across the river. chapter iii. the mysterious letter. having landed his passengers and pocketed his money, silas morgan made his way toward the cabin with so much haste that he again drew the attention of the boys, who gazed after him with no little surprise and curiosity. silas was as lazy as a man ever gets to be, and joe and dan could not imagine what had happened to put so much life into him. "i knew that something or 'nother had come over pap when he yelled in that good-natured way to let them fellers on t'other side know that he was coming," observed dan, who walked back to his seat on the bank, and sunned himself there like a turtle on his log, while joe hauled in the sweeps and made the flat secure. "he's got another of them money-making plans into his head, i reckon." those who were well acquainted with silas morgan knew that he always had plans of that kind in his head. he was full of schemes for getting rich without work, some of which, if carried into execution, would have brought him into serious trouble with the officers of the law; but the idea that occupied his busy brain on this particular morning was a little ahead of anything he had ever before thought of. you will probably laugh at it when you know what it was, but silas didn't. of all the thousand and one plans which he had conjured up and pondered over, this one, which had come into his possession by the merest accident, seemed to hold out the brightest promises of success. "but it wasn't accident, neither," silas kept saying to himself. "there isn't a day during the shooting season that them mountings ain't just covered with hunters, and how did the man that put this letter into my wood-pile know that i was the one who was to take it out? he didn't know it. i found it 'cause it was to be so, that's the reason." the first thing the ferryman did when he reached the cabin was to close and fasten the door, to prevent interruption, and the next to draw from his pocket the mysterious letter, which he spread upon the table before him. to make himself master of its contents was a work of no little difficulty. silas did not know much about books, and, besides, some of the characters that were intended to represent letters were so badly printed that it was hard to tell what they were intended for. he read as follows: "december --in the mountings. "i write this to inform whoever finds it that i have a secret to tell you. i was born in europe, and am now forty years of age. i am a gentleman, and my father is a rich man and a large land-owner. i am the second son, and fell in love with a girl when i was twenty years of age. "everything went well till my older brother came home from the war, and when she found out that i was not entitled to the estates, she left me, and went to concerts and balls with my brother, and that was something i could not stand. so i sent her a bottle of sody-water, with my best wishes, and i put in strickning, and the next day she was dead. the doctors said she died of heart disease, but i knew better. so i told my father that i was going to america. so he gave me five hundred pounds in money--" "five hundred pounds of money!" exclaimed silas, after he had spelled the words over three times to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake. "how did he ever make out to carry that heft of greenbacks clear across the ocean and up into these mountings? if i find it, i'll have to bring it down on my wagon, won't i? and where'll i put it after i get it so that it will be safe? that's what's a bothering of me now." silas was already beginning to feel the responsibilities that weigh upon capitalists, one of whom assures us that he finds it harder work to take care of his money than it was to accumulate it. silas made a note of all the good hiding-places which he could recall to mind on the spur of the moment, and then went on with his reading: --"and the next day i shipped for new york. i wish i had never done it. a coming over the ocean, i made the acquaintance of a man who coaxed me to go to californy with him, and there we fell in with two more who were as bad as we was, and we went into a bank there, and took out seventy thousand dollars. so we went to canady, and stayed there till the country got too hot for us, and then we come to these mountings. so we went along till we come to the old indian road. one day my chum dropped his pipe down a crack in the rocks, and he said he would have it again if he broke his neck a getting it. so he slid down about twelve feet, and there was as nice a cave in the rock as you ever see. "there is a crack in the ground that goes down about twelve feet, and then you come onto the level, and can go a hundred feet before you come to the place where a lot of sand and stones has fell in. the cave has been lived in before, by robbers most likely, 'cause we found a lot of money and some guns and pistols there, of a kind that we never see before. i and my chum lived in this cave about three weeks, and then we started to go to the lake. "when we got to the top of the indian road, i refused to go any farther, and when my chum made as if he were going to shoot me for being a coward, i give him a shove, and down he went into the gulf. he's there now, where nobody will ever find him; but his hant (ghost) comes back to me every day and night, and that's why i am going to jump into the lake--just to get away from that hant. now i must tell you about the money. "there is twelve thousand in bills, and about three hundred in gold and silver. it is in a leather satchel in the bottom. it has a false plate on the bottom, put on with screws. and there you will find the money. i will and bequeath it to you and your heirs and assanees forever. i leave this in a wood-pile, and the one who draws the wood will find it. "the cave is about a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile, near a large hemlock tree. there is a rope that goes down into the cave, and it hangs under the roots of the tree. look close or you can't find it. i leave a map of the route from the pile of wood to the cave in this letter. i hope the hant won't bother you while you are getting the money, as he has bothered me ever since i have been writing this letter. "julius jones." words would fail us, were we to attempt to tell just how silas felt after he had finished reading this interesting communication. he hoped it might be true--that there was a cave with a fortune in it which he could have for the finding of it--and consequently it was very easy for him to believe that it _was_ true; but there were one or two things that ought to have attracted his attention and aroused his suspicions at once. in the first place, there was the document itself. it was now the latter part of august, and if the letter was left in the wood-pile on the day it purported to be written, it had been exposed for eight long months to some of the most furious snow and rain storms that had ever visited that section of the country, and yet the writing looked fresh, and there was not a single wrinkle or even the suspicion of a stain upon the envelope. it could not have been cleaner if it had but just been taken out of the post office. another thing, the writer would have found it an exceedingly difficult task to drown himself in the lake during the month of december, for he would have been obliged to cut through nearly two feet of ice in order to reach water. but the ferryman did not notice these little discrepancies. he gave his imagination full swing, and worked himself into such a state of excitement that his nerves were all unstrung; consequently, when hasty steps sounded outside the cabin, and dan's heavy hand fumbled with the latch, it was all silas could do to repress the cry of alarm that trembled on his lips as he sprang to his feet. finding that the door was fastened on the inside, dan came around the corner, and looked in at the window. "say, pap," he whispered excitedly, "dog-gone my buttons, what did you go and lock yourself up for? think somebody was about to steal all the gold dishes? open up, quick! here's a go--two of 'em." although the ferryman heartily wished dan a thousand miles away, he complied with this peremptory demand for admission, whereupon the boy stepped quickly across the threshold and locked the door behind him. "say, pap," he continued, in a hurried whisper, "don't it beat the world how some folks can make money without ever trying? now, there's that joe of our'n. he don't never seem to do much of nothing but just loaf around in the woods with them city fellers that come up here to show their fine guns, and yet he's always got money. he takes mighty good care to keep it hid, too, 'cause i can't never find none of it." "is that all you've got to say?" exclaimed silas impatiently. "i know it as well as you do." "well, it ain't all i've got to say, neither," replied dan. "i've got a heap more, if you will only let me tell you. old man warren is out there talking with joe now. you remember them blue-headed birds you killed for him last year, don't you?" "them english partridges?" said silas with a grin. "i ain't forgot 'em. old man warren offered me ten dollars a month if i wouldn't shoot over his grounds, 'cause he wanted them birds pertected till there were lots of 'em; but i wouldn't agree to nothing of the kind. he brung them birds from england on purpose to stock his covers with. they cost him six dollars a pair, and i made more'n forty dollars out of 'em. well, what of it? i don't care for such trifling things any more." "well," answered dan, "he's gone and got more of them to take the place of them you shot--old man warren has--a hundred pair of 'em--six hundred dollars worth, and--" "ah! that makes it different," said silas, rubbing his hands and looking up at his old muzzle-loader, which rested on a couple of wooden hooks over the door. "it's true that six hundred dollars ain't no great shakes of money to a man who--hum! but still i am obliged to old warren. they won't bring me in no such sum as that, them birds won't, but they'll be worth a dollar a brace this season easy enough, and that'll pay me for the trouble i'll have in shooting them. ain't i going to make a power of money this winter?" "no, you ain't," snapped dan, who had made several ineffectual attempts to induce his father to stop talking and listen to him. "and you ain't by no means as smart as you think you be, neither." "what for?" demanded his father. "'cause you keep jawing all the while and won't let me tell you. he's going to have them birds pertected, the old man is, and you can't shoot them loose and reckless like you did last winter." "_that_ for his pertection!" cried the ferryman, snapping his fingers in the air. "he can't do it, and i won't pay no heed to him if he tries it." "then he'll have the law on you." "he can't do that, neither, 'cause there ain't no close season for english partridges. there's no such birds in this country known to the law. besides, how is old man warren going to tell whether it was me or some of them city sportsmen that shot 'em?" "he's going to post his land, and put a game-warden up there in the woods to watch them partridges," observed dan. "what kind of a feller is that?" asked silas. "is it the same as a game-constable?" "just the same, only the old man will pay him out of his own pocket, instead of looking to the county to pay him. he's going to have that there game-warden shoot every dog and 'rest every man who comes on to the grounds with a gun in his hands, if he don't go off when he's told to." "well, i'd like to see him shoot one of my dogs, and i wouldn't go off, neither, less'n i felt like it," said silas, doubling his huge fists and looking very savage indeed. "do you know how much he is going to give him?" "fifteen dollars a month from the first of september to the first of may," answered dan, "and his grub is throwed in--the best kind of grub, too." "well, that ain't so bad," said silas, slowly. "fifteen dollars a month and grub for eight months--that would be a hundred and twenty dollars, wouldn't it, dannie? that's more'n i could make by shooting the birds. is old man warren out there now? if he is, i'll go and tell him that i'll take the job. you and joe can run the ferry during the rest of the summer, and pocket all you can make. i don't care for such trifling things any more." "whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. this was the expression he always used and the performance he went through whenever he got mad and became possessed with an insane desire to smash things. "now i'll just tell you what's a fact, pap," continued dan, spreading out his feet, and settling his hat firmly on his head. "me and joe won't run the ferry, and neither will you get the chance to grow fat off good grub this winter, less'n you earn it yourself. didn't i tell you the very first word i said that old man warren had give the job to joe?" "not our joe!" exclaimed silas, who was fairly staggered by this unexpected piece of news. "yes, our joe--nobody else." "no, you didn't tell me that," replied his father. "then it's 'cause you want to do all the talking yourself, and won't let me say a word," retorted dan. "yes, that joe of our'n has got the job. he's going to have a nice house, with a carpet onto the floor, to live in, and the grub he'll have to eat will be just the same kind that old man warren has onto his table at home. just think of that, pap! you'll have to look around for some cheap boy to help you run the ferry from now till winter, 'cause i'm going up there to live with joe, and help him keep an eye on them birds." "dan!" shouted mr. morgan, pushing up his sleeves, and looking about the room as if he wanted to find some missile to throw at the boy's head--"dan, for two cents i'd--" the ferryman suddenly paused, for he found he was talking to the empty air. when he began pushing up his sleeves, dan jumped for the door, and now all that silas could see of him was one of his eyes, which looked at him through a crack about half an inch wide. he noticed, however, that dan held the hook in his hand, and that he was all ready to fasten the door on the outside in case his father showed a disposition to follow him. chapter iv. hobson's house. "and that ain't all i've got to tell you, neither," shouted dan. "the road commissioners has come up here with some surveyors and a jury, and they're going to build a bridge across the river so's to bust up the ferrying business." silas would have been glad to thrash the boy for bringing him so unwelcome news as this, and the only reason he did not attempt it was because he knew he could not catch him. he did not like the "ferrying business," for it was very confining, and, besides, there wasn't money enough in it to suit him; but still it enabled him to eke out his slender income, and the mere hint that the authorities were about to take away this source of revenue by building a bridge across the river at that point surprised and enraged him. "that's just the way the thing stands, pap," continued dan, who looked upon his sire's exhibition of bewilderment and anger as a highly edifying spectacle. "if you think i am trying to make a fool of you, look out the winder." silas looked, and a single glance was enough to satisfy him that there was something unusual going on outside the cabin. there were at least a score of men gathered about the flat, and among them silas saw the town commissioner of highways. he could easily pick out the surveyor and his party, for the former held a tripod in his hand, and a queer-looking brass instrument under his arm, while one of his men carried a chain and the rest had axes on their shoulders. a few steps away from this party, and apparently not in the least interested in what they were saying or doing, were mr. warren and joe morgan, who were talking earnestly about something. mr. warren was the richest man in the country for miles around. he owned the hotel and most of the cottages at the beach; but he was seldom seen there, because he said he could find more rest and recreation in the woods, with his dog and gun for companions, than he could at a fashionable watering-place. the cabin which the morgans occupied, rent free, belonged to him, and so did the ground on which it stood; and it was owing to his influence that silas had been permitted to establish his ferry. but still silas hated him, as he hated every one who was better off in the world than he was. a little distance farther away stood a solitary individual, who, if the expression of his countenance could be taken as an index to his feelings, was mad enough to do something desperate. he took the deepest interest in all that was going on before him, and indeed he had good reason for it. his livelihood depended upon what the commissioner and his jury of twelve disinterested freeholders might decide to do. a bridge at that particular place would ruin his occupation as effectually as it would break up the business of ferrying. "that's hobson," said silas, looking around for his hat. "i don't wonder that he's mad. what do they want to put a bridge across here for, anyway? ain't there a good ferry right in front of the door, and can't we take care of them that wants to go back and forth?" "we can, but we don't," answered dan. "when that horn toots, you never move till you get a good ready." "i know that," assented silas. "i ain't hired myself out for a slave yet, and them that expect me to jump the minute a man who has got more money than i have chooses to call on me, will find themselves fooled. i have always run this ferry to suit silas morgan, and nobody else." "that there is just the p'int," observed dan, sagely. "the way you run it may suit you, but it don't by no means suit the public. that's the reason they want a bridge here." "but there ain't no good road." "no, odds; they're going to build one out of the old log road, and make the distance from bellville to the beach shorter by five good long miles than it is now. they're going to tear t'other bridge down, and make all the travel come this way." "why, that will shut hobson out in the cold entirely," exclaimed the ferryman. "he'll have to quit keeping hotel." "that's just what old man warren and them fellers down to the beach wan't to do," said dan. "i heared 'em say so. he always keeps a crowd of loafers around him, hobson does, and there's so many shooting-matches going on in the grove behind his hotel, that it ain't safe for folks to drive past there with skittish horses. there's been five or six runaways along that road already." "that's only an excuse for shutting him up, dannie," said the ferryman, with a knowing wink at his hopeful son. "hobson keeps the halfway house, and it's natural for folks who are going to and from the beach to stop there to water their horses and get a bite of lunch. they spend money with hobson that they would otherwise spend at the beach, and that's why old man warren wants that hotel closed. it's about time for poor people to rise up and pertect themselves, seeing that the law won't do nothing for them. i don't wonder hobson looks mad." having found his hat, silas went out to exchange a few words of condolence with the man whose name he had just mentioned. he glanced at joe's face as he passed, and the pleased expression he saw there was very different from the malevolent scowl with which he was welcomed by the proprietor of the halfway house. the latter was quite as angry as he looked to be, and the first words he uttered as the ferryman came up were: "now what i want to know is this: are me and you obliged to stand here with our hands in our pockets, and see these rich men take the bread and butter out of the mouths of our families?" "they are going to do worse by me than they are by you," answered silas. "i can't start again if they break up my ferry, but you can." "how, i'd like to know?" growled hobson. "why, all the land around here belongs to old man warren. folks say that he's a mighty kind-hearted chap, though i never saw any signs of it in him, and you might buy or rent a piece of land, and build another and better hotel. you have the money to do it, for you have made many a dollar over your bar during the last two years." "that's just what's the matter," cried hobson, who became so angry when he thought of it that it was all he could do to restrain himself. "that's the reason old man warren wants to shut me up--because he knows that i am making a little money. he won't sell or rent me a foot of land, for i tried him as soon as i found out that a new road was coming through here." "that's worse than i thought for," said the ferryman, in a sympathizing tone which was more assumed than real. hobson's business interests were likely to suffer more severely than his own, and he was glad of it. "it is bad enough, i tell you," said the proprietor of the halfway house. "but you can say to your folks that it is going to be a dear piece of business for old man warren. if i don't damage him for more thousands than he does me for hundreds, it will not be because i don't try." "it looks mighty strange to me that he should go out of his way to be so scandalous mean to some, while he is so good to others," said silas, reflectively. "i don't pertend to understand it. here he is, robbing me of the onliest chance i had to make a living during the summer, and yet he's standing over there now, offering that joe of our'n a chance to make a hundred and twenty dollars." "what doing?" inquired hobson, who was paying more attention to the surveyor's movements than he was to silas. "you remember them english pa'tridges he brought over here to stock his woods, the same year he built that big hotel down to the beach, don't you?" asked silas, in reply. "i should say i did," answered hobson. "you shot the most of them, and i got the rest, all except the few that dan managed to catch with his snares and that little black dog of his'n. i wish i could see him cleaned out of everything as slick as he was cleaned out of them birds." "well, he's got a new supply of them, old man warren has--six hundred dollars' worth." hobson opened his eyes and began taking some interest in what the ferryman was saying to him. "i am powerful glad to hear it," said he. "if he won't let me keep hotel and support myself, he can just make up his mind that he's got to keep me in grub. i won't allow myself to go hungry while his covers are well stocked, i bet you. i'll earn a tolerable good living by shooting over his grounds this fall and winter." "but you will have more bother in doing it than you did last season," said silas, who then went on to repeat what dan had told him concerning the game-warden who was to live in mr. warren's woods, and devote his entire time and attention to keeping trespassers at a distance. this seemed a novel idea to hobson, who finally said: "if that's the case, we'll have to go somewhere else to do our shooting." "what for?" demanded the ferryman, who was not a little surprised. "do you think that that little joe of our'n could 'rest us if we didn't want him to?" "of course not; but he could report us, and the sheriff could arrest us," answered hobson. silas clenched both his fists and glared savagely at joe, who was just then holding an animated colloquy with his brother dan upon some point concerning which there was evidently a wide diversity of opinion. chapter v. what dan overheard. "if i thought that joe of our'n would be mean enough to carry tales on me and have me 'rested, i'd larrup him 'till his own mother wouldn't know him," declared silas, who grew so angry at the mere mention of such a thing, that he wanted to catch up a stick and fall upon the boy at once. "and make the biggest kind of a fool of yourself by doing of it," said hobson, calmly. "look a-here, silas, you want to keep away from old man warren's woods this winter." "with them six hundred dollars' worth of birds running around loose and no law to pertect 'em?" cried the ferryman. "i'll show you whether i will or not. i tell you i'll have the last one of them before the winter's over. it is true that i don't care for such trifling things as the ferry any more, 'cause i've got a plan in my head that'll--hum! but i want to get even with old man warren for breaking up my business, don't i?" "of course you do; and the best way to do it is to make him give something toward your support. joe ain't of age yet, and you can compel him to hand over every cent he earns." "that's so!" exclaimed the ferryman, who now began to see what his friend hobson was aiming at. "that joe of our'n makes right smart by acting as guide and pack-horse to the strangers who come here to shoot and fish; but i never thought to ask him for any of it. he always gives it to his mother." "why don't you make him give it to you, and then you can spend it as you please?" said hobson, hoping that the ferryman would act upon his advice, and so increase his wealth by the addition of joe's hard earnings that he could squander more at the bar of the halfway house than he was in the habit of doing. "the head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that comes into the house--that's my creed." "and a very good creed it is, too," replied silas, who told himself that he must be very stupid indeed not to have seen the matter in its true light long ago. "i'll turn over a new leaf this very day. joe shall give me every cent of them hundred and twenty dollars, and i'll have what i can make out of them birds besides." "there you go again," said hobson, in a tone of disgust. "you mustn't go to work the first thing and kill the goose that lays the golden egg. if you begin on the first day of september, when the pa'tridge season opens, and shoot all them birds, there won't be none left for joe to watch; and then old man warren will tell joe that he don't need him any longer. see the point?" "i'd be stone blind if i couldn't see it," answered silas, "and it makes me madder than i was before. don't you understand that old warren means to perfect them birds till they have increased to as many as a million, mebbe, and then he'll bring in a lot of his city friends and shoot 'em for fun--for fun, mind you--while poor folks like me and you, who need the money we could make out of 'em to buy grub and clothes--we'll be took up if we so much as set foot on t'other side his fences. dog-gone such doings! 'tain't right nor justice that it should be so, and i ain't going to stand it no longer. thank goodness, i won't have to! i've got a plan in my head that'll--hum!" hobson made no response. indeed, he did not seem to hear what silas said to him, for he was straining his ears to catch the conversation that was-carried on by mr. warren and the surveyor, who were now coming up the bank. he must have heard more than he wanted to, for, with an oath and a threat that made the ferryman's hair stand on end, hobson hurried toward the place where he had left his horse. he mounted and rode away. mr. warren and the surveying party left a few minutes later, followed by the commissioner and his jury; and silas turned about and walked slowly toward his cabin. he had not made many steps before he found himself confronted by his hopeful son dan. "well," said silas, cheerfully, "we won't have to pull that heavy flat across the river many more days, and the next time you go over you can take your gun with you and put a charge of shot into that horn, if you feel like it. hallo! what's the matter of you?" dan's clenched hands were held close by his side, his black eyes were flashing dangerously, and he stood before his father, looking the very picture of rage and excitement. "can't you speak, and tell me what's the matter of you?" demanded silas, who could not remember when he had seen dan in such a towering passion before. "i know it's mighty hard to give up the ferry just 'cause them rich folks down to the beach have took it into their heads that they don't want one here, but we can make enough out of them birds of old man warren's to--" dan interrupted his father with a gesture of impatience, and snapped his fingers in the air. "i don't care _that_ for the ferry," he sputtered. "i am glad to see it go, for it has brung me more backaches than dimes, i tell you." "well, then, what's the matter of you?" silas once more inquired. "you'd best make that tongue of your'n more lively, if you want me to listen to you, 'cause i ain't got no time to waste. i'm going in to talk to that joe of our'n about the job that old man warren offered to give him." these words had a most surprising effect upon dan. he bounded into the air like a rubber ball, knocked his heels together, and yelled loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "of all the mean fellers in the world that i ever see, that joe of our'n is the beatenest," said he, as soon as he could speak. "now, pap, wait till i tell you, and see if you don't say so yourself." the ferryman, recalling some words that dan let fall during their hurried interview in the cabin, told himself that he knew right where the trouble was; but he listened attentively to the story, which the angry boy related substantially as follows: while dan was taking his ease on the bank, and joe was hauling in the sweeps and making the flat secure, mr. warren came up, arriving on the ground five or ten minutes before the commissioner and the surveying party got there. he hitched his horse to the nearest tree, walked down the bank, and greeted joe with a hearty good-morning, paying no attention to dan, who was so highly enraged at this oversight or willful neglect on the part of the wealthy visitor, that he shook his fist at him as soon as he turned his back. he was not long in finding out what brought mr. warren there, for he distinctly overheard every word that passed between him and joe. as he listened, the expression of rage that had settled on his face gradually gave place to a look of surprise and delight; and finally dan became wonderfully good-natured, and showed it by rubbing his hands together, grinning broadly, and winking at the trees on the opposite bank of the river. "well, joseph," said mr. warren, cheerfully, "going to school next term?" "i am afraid i can't," replied joe, sadly. "i don't see how i can afford it. mother needs every cent i can give her. i must work every day, and shall be glad to cut some wood for you, if you will give me the chance." "then you can cut it by yourself, i bet you," muttered dan. "i won't help you; i'd rather hunt and trap." "i shall need a good supply of wood," said mr. warren, "but i thought of giving your father and dan a chance at that." "thank-ee for nothing," said dan, under his breath. "pap can take the job if he wants to, but i won't tech it. i am getting tired of doing such hard work, and am on the lookout for something easy." "i think i have better work for you, joe," continued the visitor; whereupon dan, who had thrown himself at full length on the bank, straightened up and began listening with more eagerness. "it is something that will take up every moment of your time during the day, and if you do your duty faithfully, you will find the work quite as hard and wearisome as chopping wood, and more confining; but you will have your evenings to yourself, and abundant opportunity to do as much reading and studying as you please. you know that one of our greatest men, martin van buren, laid the foundation of his knowledge by studying by the light of a pine-knot on the hearth after his day's work was over. but you will not have to do that. i will give you a warm, comfortable house to live in, supply your table from my own, lend you books from my library, and furnish you with a lamp to read and study by. if you lay up a little information on some useful subject every day, you will have quite a store on hand by the time winter is over." "what sort of a job is that, do you reckon?" said dan to himself. "it's a soft thing, so far as the perviding goes, but what's the work? that's the p'int." it must have been the very question joe was revolving in his mind, for when mr. warren ceased speaking, he asked: "what will you expect me to do in return for all this?" "i am coming to that," answered the visitor, moving a step or two nearer to joe, while dan leaned as far forward as he could, stretched out his long neck and placed one hand behind his ear, so that he might catch every word. "you know that i have about six thousand acres of woodland, which is so utterly worthless that no man, who had his senses about him, would take it as a gift if he had to clear and cultivate it. it isn't even good enough for pasture; but it was a tolerably fair shooting-ground until i was foolish enough to build that hotel down there at the beach. that brought in a crowd of city sportsmen, and between them and the resident market-shooters, the game, both large and small, has been pretty well cleaned out." "well, what of it," muttered dan. "if i know anything about such matters, them deer and birds and rabbits belonged to us poor folks as much as they did to you." "i like to shoot occasionally," mr. warren went on, "but the last time i went up there with a party of friends, we did not get enough to pay us for the tramp we took; so two years ago i went to considerable expense to restock those woods, and even offered to pay the market-shooters if they would let the birds alone until they had time to increase. but they wouldn't do it, and the consequence was that the english partridges and quails that cost me six dollars a pair were served up on somebody's dinner-table." "six dollars a pair!" whispered dan, who could hardly believe that he had heard aright. "pap didn't by no means get that much for them he shot. it's nice to be rich." "my experience with those birds," continued mr. warren, "proved to my satisfaction that they are hardy and able to endure our severe winters. so i determined to try it again, and day before yesterday i turned down a hundred pairs of english partridges and quails--six hundred dollars' worth." dan was almost ready to jump from the ground when he heard this, and it was all he could do to refrain from giving audible expression to his delight. chapter vi. the young game-warden. "whoop-pee!" was dan's mental exclamation. "i've struck a banana. me and pap i'll get rich the first thing you know. but what makes old man warren come here to tell us about it?" "i certainly hope you will be able to preserve them this time," said joe, who could not see what these expensive birds had to do with the comfortable home, the unlimited supply of books, and the good living, of which his visitor had spoken. "it would be a great pity to lose them after going to so much trouble and paying out so much money for them." "that's what i think, and it is what mr. hallet thinks, also. you know his wood-lot adjoins mine--there is no fence between them--and he has turned down the same number." the eavesdropper fairly gasped for breath when he heard this; but quickly recovering from his amazement, he raised his hands before his face, with all the fingers spread out, and began a little problem in arithmetic. "that makes--makes--le' me see! by moses it makes twelve--twelve hundred dollars' worth of birds. i'm going to sell that old muzzle-loader of mine the first good chance i get, and buy a breech-loader, and one of them j'inted fish-poles, and some of them fine hunting clothes, and--whoop-pee! i've struck two bananas; and i'll look as spick and span as the best of them city sportsmen by this time next year. but look a-here, a minute, dan," he added, to himself, confidentially, "don't you say a word to pap about them birds that's been turned loose on hallet's place. them's your'n, and you don't go halvers with no living person." "the difficulty in preserving them lies right here," said mr. warren. "our native birds are protected by law during certain months in the year, but the law doesn't say a word about imported game. if i catch a man shooting over my grounds in the close season, i can have him arrested and fined; but he could shoot these english birds before my face, and i could not help myself. we hope some day to induce the legislature to pass a law protecting imported as well as native game; but until we can do that, we must protect it ourselves to the best of our ability. we have men at work now posting our land, and hereafter any one who sets a foot over my fence or hallet's will be liable for trespass. "i reckon you'll have to catch him before you can prove anything agin him, won't you?" soliloquized dan. "but why don't he tell that joe of our'n what he wants of him?" "of course, mr. hallet and myself have enough to do without spending valuable time in watching these birds," added the visitor, "and so we have decided to employ game-wardens to do it for us. there will be two wardens, one for each place, and we shall pay them out of our own pockets. i have selected you because i believe you to be honest and faithful, and i know that you are ambitious to better your condition. i am always on the lookout for such boys, and when i find one i like to give him a helping hand." "then it's mighty strange that you never diskivered me," said dan, to himself. "if there's anybody in the world who wants awful bad to be something better'n the ragged vagabone he is, i am that feller. dog-gone such luck as i do have, any way! why didn't he offer that soft job to me, instead of giving it to that joe of our'n? i am older'n he is, and it would be the properest thing for me to have the first chance." "it is worth something to live up there in the woods alone for eight months--from the first of september to the last of april--but your surroundings will be as pleasant as they can be made under the circumstances. in the first place, there is a tight log-house, with a carpet on the floor, and a lean-to behind it to serve as a wood-shed. you know that the fierce winter winds drive the snow into pretty deep drifts up there in the mountains, and if you are as provident as i think you are, you will keep that shed full. you don't want to turn out of a stormy morning, when the mercury is below zero, to cut fire-wood, when you ought to be scattering grain around for the birds to eat. there is plenty of furniture in the cabin, and all the dishes you will be likely to need. i have spent a good many months in camp, first and last, and being posted, i don't think i have forgotten anything. your pay, which you can have as often as you want it, will be fifteen dollars a month," said mr. warren in conclusion. "that is as much as farm-hands command hereabout, and you will be much better off than a woodchopper, because you will be earning money all the while, no matter how bad the weather may be. what do you say?" dan listened with all his ears to catch his brother's reply, but, to his great surprise, joe did not make any reply. "what's the fool studying about, do you reckon?" was the inquiry which dan propounded to himself. "why don't he speak up and say he'll take it? if he does, me and pap will have easy times with them birds, 'cause of course joe wouldn't be mean enough to pester us. but if he don't take it, and old man warren gets somebody else for game-warden, then the case will be different, and me and pap will have to watch out." "you don't say anything, joe," continued mr. warren, seeing that the boy hesitated and hung his head. "if you must work during the coming winter instead of going to school, i don't think you can find any employment that will be more to your liking." "i know i couldn't, sir," replied joe, quickly; "but that isn't what i am thinking about. the fact is--you see--" the boy paused and looked down at the ground again. he knew that his own father was more to blame than any one else for the loss of the birds that had been "turned down" in mr. warren's wood-lot two years before, and it was not quite clear to joe how his wealthy visitor could have so much confidence in him. why should he wish to employ the son of the man who had robbed him, to keep trespassers off his grounds, and exercise supervision over the new supply of game he had just purchased? and there was another thing that came into his mind: silas morgan and dan were two of the most notorious poachers in the county, and joe knew that when the grouse season opened, they would be the very first to shoulder their guns, call their dogs to heel and start for mr. warren's woods. if he accepted the position offered him, it would be his duty to order them off. they wouldn't go, of course, and the next thing would be to report them to mr. warren, who, beyond a doubt, would have warrants issued for their arrest. that would be bad indeed, joe told himself; but would it cause him any more sorrow than he felt whenever he saw his mother setting out on one of those long fatiguing walks to the house of a neighbor, where she earned the pitiful sum of a dollar by doing a hard day's work at washing or scrubbing? the money he could give her every month would save her all that, and provide her with many things that were necessary to her comfort. when joe thought of his mother, his hesitation vanished. "i'll take it, mr. warren," said he, with an air of resolution, "and i am very grateful indeed to you for offering it to me. now, will you tell me when you want me to go up there, and just what you expect me to?" to dan's great disappointment and disgust, mr. warren took joe by the arm, and led him away out of earshot; but he heard him say something about shooting all the stray dogs that came into the woods, because they would do more damage among the few deer that were left, than so many wolves, and that was all he learned that day regarding joe's instructions. "luck has come my way at last!" exclaimed dan, who, for some reason or other seemed to be highly excited. "i can't hardly hold myself on the ground. i'll go down to old man hallet's this very minute, and tell him that if he's needing a game-warden, i'm the chap he's waiting for. then mebbe i won't have a nice little house all to myself, and good grub to grow fat on, as well as that joe of our'n. i won't do no shooting, 'cause that would make too much noise, and give me away to old man hallet; but i'll do a heap of trapping and snaring, i bet you. hallo! who's them fellers?" dan had just caught sight of a large party of men, who were coming along the road which led from the ferry to the beach. believing that they were about to cross the river, and that there was another hard pull in prospect with no money (for him) behind it, dan was about to take to his heels, when some words that came to his ears arrested his footsteps. the new-comers were the road commissioner and his party. they did not look toward dan at all, and neither did they take the least pains to conceal the object of their visit from him. "this is the place for the new bridge," said the surveyor. "it will cost the town a good deal less money to fix up the old log road in good shape, than it will to cut out and grade a new highway." "and when the bridge is up, we shall be well rid of two nuisances--hobson's grog-shop and morgan's ferry, neither of which ought to have been tolerated as long as they have been," remarked one of the twelve freeholders, who had been summoned by the commissioner to determine where the bridge and the new road should be located. "when the other bridge is demolished, and the lower road shut up, the travel will have to come this way." when dan heard this, he felt like throwing his hat into the air. he hated the tooting of that horn, which was kept hung up on the limb of a tree on the other side of the river, as he hated no other sound in the world; and he was glad to know that he would soon hear it for the last time. he did not make any demonstrations of delight, however, but stole silently away to carry the news to his father. joe's good fortune, and his own bright dreams of becoming mr. hallet's game-warden, at fifteen dollars a month, and the best kind of food thrown in, were uppermost in his mind, and they were the first things he intended to speak about when his father admitted him into the cabin; but he was so long in coming to the point that silas grew impatient, and did not give him an opportunity to mention his own affairs at all. "no matter; they'll keep," thought the boy, as the ferryman put on his hat and went out to talk to hobson. "now i wish old warren would hurry up and go about his business, so't i can find out what 'rangements he's made with that joe of our'n." dan had not long to wait. even while he was communing with himself in this way, mr. warren took his leave, first shaking joe warmly by the hand, and dan lost no time in stepping to his brother's side. chapter vii. brotherly love. "i don't wonder that you look like you was half tickled to death," was the way in which dan began the conversation with his brother. "did you ever dream that me and you would have such amazing good luck as has come to us this day? now, let me tell you, it bangs me completely. don't it you?" joe did not know how to reply to this. he had seldom seen dan in so high spirits, and he could not imagine what he was referring to when he spoke of the good luck that had fallen to both of them. "say--don't it bang you?" repeated dan. "ain't me and you going to live like the richest of them this winter?" "you and i?" said joe, with no suspicion of the truth in his mind. "that's what i remarked," exclaimed dan, who could hardly keep from dancing in the excess of his joy. "i tell you, joe," he added, confidentially, "if there's anything in life i take pleasure in, it's living in the woods during the winter, when you've got a tight roof to shelter you and plenty of firewood to burn, so't you don't have to go through the deep snow to cut it. that's what i call living, that is." "i don't see how you happen to know so much about it. you never tried it." "i know i never did; but didn't i tell you almost the very first word i said, that i'm going to try it this winter?" "oh!" said joe, who now thought he began to understand the matter. "are you going to be mr. hallet's game-warden?" "perzackly. you've hit centre the first time trying." "then i wonder why mr. warren did not say something to me about it." and there was still another thing that caused joe to wonder, although he made no reference to it. how did it come that mr. hallet, who knew how persistently dan broke the law in regard to snaring birds and hares, and shooting out of season--how did it come that he had selected this poacher to act as his game-warden? he might as well have hired a wolf to watch his sheep. "now wait till i tell you," said dan hastily. "the thing ain't quite settled yet, 'cause i ain't had no time to run down and see old man hallet; but--" "aha!" exclaimed joe. "there ain't no 'aha' about it," cried dan, who was angry in an instant. "wait till i tell you. i ain't been down to see old man hallet yet, but i'm going directly, and i'm going to say to him that if he wants somebody to keep an eye on them birds of his'n, i'm the man he's looking for. he'll be glad to take me, of course, 'cause if there's any one in the whole country who knows all about a game-warden's business, its me. but if he can't take me--if he has picked out another man before i get a chance to speak to him--me and you will go halvers on them hundred and twenty, won't we?" "no, we won't," replied joe, promptly. "what for, won't we?" demanded dan. "for a good many reasons. in the first place, mr. warren seems to think that he needs but one warden, and that i can do all the work myself." "well, you can't, and you shan't, neither," dan almost shouted. and in order to show his brother how very much in earnest he was about it, he struck up a war-dance, and called loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "and in the next place," continued joe, who had witnessed these ebullitions of rage often enough to know that they never ended in anything more serious than an unnecessary expenditure of breath and strength on dan's part--"in the next place, every cent i make this winter will go to mother, with the exception of the little i shall need to clothe myself." "i'll bet you a good hoss that it don't," roared dan, who was so angry that it was all he could do to keep from laying violent hands upon his brother. "now let me tell you what's the gospel truth, joe morgan: if you don't go pardners with me in this business, i'll bust up the whole thing. if i don't get half them hundred and twenty dollars, you shan't have a cent to bless yourself with. i've been kicked and slammed around till i am tired of it, and i ain't going to ask my consent to stand it no longer." "if you want money, go to work and earn it for yourself," said joe. "you can't have any of mine." "i'll show you whether i will or not. now, let me tell you: i'll make more out of them birds this winter than you will. you're awful smart, but you'll find that there are them in the world that are just as smart as you be." "i know what you mean by that," answered joe, who had fully made up his mind to see trouble with dan. "now let me tell _you_ something: if i catch you on mr. warren's grounds after i take charge of them, you will wish you had stayed away, mind that. i took this position because mother needs money, and having accepted it, i shall look out for my employer's interests the best i know how. but why do you go against me in this way? you ought to help me all you can." "then why don't you help me?" retorted dan. "you don't need it. you are able to help yourself, because you have no one else to look out for." "then i won't help you, neither. you want to keep a close watch over that shanty of your'n, or the first thing you know, you will come back to it some dark, cold night, almost froze to death, and it won't be there." joe walked off without making any reply, and dan stood shaking his fists at him until he disappeared. then he turned about to find himself face to face with his father, to whom he told his story, not forgetting to make a few artful additions, which he hoped would have the effect of making the ferryman as angry at joe as he was himself. a disinterested listener would have thought that joe was the meanest brother any fellow ever had, and that dan was deserving of better treatment at his hands. "now, i just want you to tell me what you think of that," said dan, as he brought his highly-seasoned narrative to a close. "he's a most scandalous stingy chap, that joe of our'n is. he wants to keep his good things all to himself. and--would you believe it, pap, if i didn't tell you?--he said he would as soon shoot your dog or mine as look at 'em, and that if we come fooling around where he was, he'd have us tooken up, sure pop." silas morgan's eyes flashed, and an angry scowl settled on his swarthy face. dan was succeeding famously in his efforts to arouse his father's ire against the unoffending joe--at least he thought so--and he hoped to increase it until it broke out into some violent demonstration. "them's his very words, pap," continued dan, with unblushing mendacity. "since he took up with that rich man awhile ago, he has outgrowed his clothes, and me and you ain't good enough for him. me and joe could have had just the nicest kind of times up there in the woods, and by doing a little extry work on the sly, we could have snared enough of old man warren's birds, and hal--um!" dan caught his breath just in time. he was about to say that he and joe could have snared enough of mr. warren's birds and hallet's to run the amount of their joint earnings up to two hundred dollars; but he suddenly remembered that his father was not yet aware that mr. hallet's covers had been freshly stocked, and that _that_ was a matter that was to be kept from his knowledge, so that dan could have the field to himself. but the ferryman was quick to catch some things, if he was dull in comprehending others, and dan had inadvertently given him an idea to ponder over at his leisure. "but then i don't care for such trifling things as birds any more," said silas to himself. "if hallet has been fooling away his money for more pa'tridges, dan can have the fun of shooting 'em, if he wants it; and while he is tramping around through the cold looking for 'em, i'll be snug and warm at home, living like a lord on the money i took out of that cave up there in the mountings. what was you saying, dannie?" "i said that me and joe could have made right smart by doing a little trapping on the quiet," answered dan. "but he wouldn't hear to my going up there to live with him. what's grub enough for one is grub enough for two, and i could have had piles of things that come from old man warren's table, and never cost you a red cent the whole winter. more than that, being on the ground all the while, it wouldn't be no trouble at all for me to knock over one of them deer now and then, and that would save you from buying so much bacon; but that mean joe of our'n he wouldn't hear to it, and now i'm going to knock all his 'rangements higher'n the moon." "what be you going to do, dannie?" silas asked, in a voice so calm and steady that the boy backed off a step or two and looked at him suspiciously. was his father about to side with joe? dan was really afraid of it, and his voice did not have that resolute ring in it when he answered: "i'm going to set some snares up there where joe won't never think of looking for them, and by the time christmas gets here i'll have every one of them english birds in the market and sold for cash." the ferryman thrust one hand deep into his pocket, and shook the other menacingly at dan. "look a-here, son," said he, in a tone which he never assumed unless he meant that his words should carry weight with them, "you just keep away from old man warren's woods, and let them english birds be. are you listening to your pap?" "what for?" dan almost gasped. "'cause why; that's what for," was the not very satisfactory answer. "you want to pay right smart heed to what i'm saying to you, 'cause if you don't, i'll wear a hickory out over your back, big as you think you be." "well, if this ain't a trifle the beatenest thing i ever heard of, i don't want a cent," began dan, who was utterly amazed. "do you want them--that rich feller to have all the fine shooting to himself?" "that ain't what i'm thinking about just now," replied the ferryman. "i want joe to earn them hundred and twenty dollars; see the p'int?" "not all of it?" exclaimed dan. "yes, every cent." "can't i make him go pardners with me?" "no, you can't. i want joe to have the handling of it all." "then you won't never see none of it; you can bet high on that." "yes, i reckon i'll see the whole of it. you and joe ain't twenty-one year old yet, and the law gives me the right to take every cent you make." for a moment dan stood speechless with rage and astonishment; but quickly recovering the use of his tongue, he squared himself for a fight, and demanded furiously: "and is that the reason you never give me a red for breaking my back with that ferry? whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" "if i had a good hickory in my hands, i reckon i could very soon make you willing to hold yourself on the ground," said his father, calmly. "whoop!" yelled dan, jumping into the air, and knocking his heels together. "this bangs me; don't it you? the men who was here just now said you was one nuisance, and hobson was another; and i am so glad that the business is clean busted up, that--" silas suddenly thrust out one of his long arms, but his fingers closed upon the empty air instead of upon dan's collar. the boy escaped his grasp by ducking his head like a flash, and then he straightened up and took to his heels. chapter viii. joe's plans in danger. silas morgan made no attempt at pursuit, for he had learned by experience that he could not hold his own with dan in a foot-race; but he knew how to bide his time. "never mind, son," he shouted. "i'll catch you to-night after you have gone to bed." "these threatening words arrested dan's headlong flight, and he stopped to shout back: "you just lay an ugly hand onto me, and it'll be worse for you and them setter dogs that you've got shut up in the wood-shed. i know well enough that nobody ever give 'em to you, and that that man with the long black whiskers who was here last year would be willing to give something handsome--" the ferryman couldn't stand it any longer, for the boy was getting too near the truth to suit him. he began looking about on the ground for something to throw at him; whereupon dan turned and took to his heels again, and quickly disappeared around the corner of the cabin. "i wish that black-whiskered man had them setter dogs, and that i was shet of them," muttered silas, as he walked slowly up the bank. "i did think that mebbe i could get a big reward for giving them back; but i don't care for such things now. the money that's hid in the cave is what i'm thinking of these times." the ferryman was left to his own devices for the rest of the day; for joe, highly elated over his unexpected fortune, had gone to meet his mother, so that he might tell her the good news without being overheard by any of the rest of the family, and dan was on his way to mr. hallet's to offer him his services as game-warden. but silas was glad to be alone at this particular time, for he had something mysterious and exciting to think about--a cave in the mountains that had an abundance of treasure in it. he had long looked forward to something of this sort, for he had often dreamed about it; and when he read in a torn newspaper, which came from the store wrapped around one of his wife's bundles, that some workmen, while digging for the foundations of a public building in a distant city, had come upon an earthen jar that was filled to the brim with american and mexican coins of ancient date--when he read this, silas took it as an omen that his bright dreams of acquiring wealth without labor were on the eve of being realized. the man's first care was to let out the dogs and unhitch the horse from the wood-rack, and his second to hunt up a shady spot on the bank and look for the letter which he had stowed away in his pocket. but it was not to be found. the ferryman's clothes, like all the other things that belonged to him, were sadly in need of repairs, and when he went to shut up the dogs, the letter had worked its way through his pocket, down the leg of his trowsers, and fallen to the ground in front of the wood-shed door, where it lay until dan came along and picked it up. meanwhile joe was strolling leisurely along the road in the direction from which he knew his mother would come, when her day's work was over. "she will be glad to learn that she has done her last washing and scrubbing for other folks," the boy kept saying to himself. "when winter comes, and the roads are blocked with drifts, she can sit down in front of a warm fire and stay there, instead of wading through the deep snow to earn a dollar. i am in a position to take care of her now, and i could do it easy enough if father and dan would only let me alone. they call me stingy because i will not share my hard earnings with them; but they never think of sharing with me, nor did i ever see one of them give mother anything. on the contrary, if they know that she's got a dime or two saved up for a rainy day, they never give her a minute's peace till they get it for themselves. now, is there any way i can work it so that mother can have everything she wants, and yet be able to say that she hasn't got a cent in the house?" while joe was revolving this problem in his mind, he heard a familiar bark behind him, and faced about to see his brother dan approaching on a dog-trot. he was followed by the only friend and companion he had in the world--a little black cur, which no self-respecting boy would have accepted as a gift. but mean and insignificant as he looked, bony was of great use to his master. he was the best coon, grouse and squirrel dog in the country for miles around, and it was by his aid that dan earned money to buy his clothes and ammunition. bony got more kicks than caresses in return for his services, but that did not seem to lessen his affection for dan. "i allowed that i knew where you was gone, and that i'd come up with you directly," said the latter, as soon as he arrived within speaking distance. "say, joe, have you thought over that little plan of mine?" joe replied that he had not. "then, why don't you think it over?" continued dan. "of course, i don't expect you to go pardners with me for nothing. i've got my consent to do all i can to help you. i'll even agree to cut the wood, cook the grub, keep the shanty in order, and do all the rest of the mean work, while you are taking your ease or looking after the birds. all you've got to do is to say the word, and me and you will have the finest kind of times this winter." but joe didn't say the word. in fact, he did not say anything, and, of course, his silence made dan angry again. the latter was bound to handle at least a portion of his brother's wages, and he did not care what course he took to accomplish his object. "you ain't forgot what i told you awhile back, i reckon, have you?" said dan, with suppressed fury. "no, i haven't forgotten it. i can recall everything you said to me." "then, why don't you pay some heed to it? do you want to see your business busted up? look a here, joe morgan: you say you are going to give all that there money to mam. if you do, i'll have some of it in spite of you. i'll tell mam that i want my share, and she'll hand it over without no words, 'cause she knows well enough that i'll turn the house out doors if she don't do as i say. she's heard me calling for somebody to hold me on the ground, and she don't like to see me that way, 'cause she knows i'm mad." "i know that you have worried a good deal of money out of mother, first and last," said joe, angrily, "but you needn't think you can frighten her into giving you any of mine, because she won't have any." "you stingy, good-for-nothing scamp! you're going back on your mam, are you?" shouted dan, who could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming. "i never thought that of you. you're going to have the softest kind of a job all winter, and make stacks and piles of money, and never give a cent of it to mam, be you?" "mother will have everything she wants, but still she will not touch a cent of my earnings," answered joe, calmly. "whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled dan, striking up his war dance. "then how'll mam get the things she wants?" "on a written order, and in no other way." "who'll give that there order?" "mr. warren, whom i shall ask to act as my banker. i've got to do something to keep you from bothering the life out of mother, and that is what i have decided upon." "whoop!" shouted dan again. "pap won't agree to no such bargain as that there, i bet you, and neither will i." "what has father got to say about my business?" "he's got a good deal to say about it, the first thing you know," answered dan, with a triumphant air. his only object in hastening on to overtake his brother was that he might torment him by calling his attention to a point of law that joe had never thought of before. "you ain't twenty-one year old yet, my fine feller, and pap's got the right to make you hand over every red cent you earn. he told me so; and he furder said that he was going to take the last dollar of them hundred and twenty that you are going to make this winter. so there, now. i told you that there was them in the world that's just as smart as you think you be, and me and pap are the fellers. he's a mighty hard old chap to get the better of, pap is, and so be i. you can't do it nohow you fix it." it looked that way, sure enough, thought joe, who was greatly surprised and bewildered. he knew very well that his father could take his earnings, if he were mean enough to do it, but, as we have said, the matter had never been brought home to him before. he had always given his money to his mother, and silas had never raised any objection to it. the reason was because he did not think of it, and besides, the amounts were too small to do him any good; they were not worth the rumpus which the ferryman knew would be raised about his ears if he interfered and tried to turn joe's earnings into his own pocket. but things were different now. the young game-warden's prospective wages amounted to a goodly sum in the aggregate, and silas was resolved to "turn over a new leaf," and assert his authority as head of the house. joe, on the other hand, was fully determined that his mother alone should profit by his winter's work, and as he was a resolute fellow, and as fearless as a boy could be, it was hard to tell how the matter was destined to end. but there was trouble in store for him; there could be no doubt about that. "what do you say now?" asked dan, who had little difficulty in reading the thoughts that were passing through his brother's mind, they showed so plainly on his face. "you're thinking of kicking agin me and pap, but i tell you that you'd best not do it. will you be sensible and go pardners, or have your business busted up?" "neither," answered joe, turning so fiercely upon his persecutor that the latter recoiled a step or two. "now, if you don't let me alone, i will go to mr. warren and see if he can find means to make you." "sho!" said dan, with a grin, "you don't mean it?" "yes, i do. it may surprise you to know that you have put yourself in danger of being locked up." "not much, i ain't," said dan, confidently. "i ain't done a single thing yet." "but you have made threats, and mr. warren could have you put under bonds." "he'd have lots of fun trying that," replied dan, who laughed loudly at the idea of such a thing. "why, man, i ain't got none." "of course you haven't, and you couldn't furnish them either, so you would have to go to jail." "great moses!" dan managed to ejaculate. there was no grin on his face now, nor even the sign of one. he was astonished as well as frightened. it had never occurred to him that his brother could invoke the law to protect him, but he saw it plainly enough now, and he knew by the way joe looked at him that he had been crowded just about as far as he intended to go. when the latter moved on down the road, dan made no attempt to stop him. he backed toward a log, sat down on it, and kept his eyes fastened upon joe until a bend in the road hid him from view. chapter ix. volunteers. "i don't know what answer to make you, boys. i have no desire to interfere with your pleasures, and i think you have always found me ready to listen to any reasonable proposition; but this latest scheme of yours looks to me to be a little--you know. i don't believe that bob's father will consent to it." "suppose you give your consent, and then we will see what we can do with bob's father. if we can say that you are willing, he'll come to terms without any coaxing." "i don't see what objection there can be to it. we can't get into mischief up there in the mountains, and we'll promise to study hard every spare minute we get. there!" "and be fully prepared to go on with our class when the spring term begins. now!" the first speaker was mr. hallet, who leaned back in his easy-chair and twirled his eye-glasses around his finger, while he looked at the two uneasy, mischief-loving boys who stood before him. tom hallet was his nephew and ward, and bob emerson was the son of an old school-friend who lived in bellville, ten miles away. bob, who was a fine, manly fellow, was a great favorite with both uncle and nephew, and had a standing invitation to spend all his vacations with them at their comfortable home among the summerdale hills. to quote from bob, mr. hallet's house was eminently a place for a tired school-boy to get away to. the fishing in the lake, and in the clear, dancing streams that emptied into it, was fine; young squirrels were always abundant after the first of august; and when september came, the law was "off" on grouse, wild turkeys and deer. hares and 'coons were plenty, and tom's little beagle knew right where to go to find them. better than all, according to the boys' way of thinking, mr. hallet was a jolly old bachelor, who thoroughly enjoyed life in a quiet way, and who meant that every one around him should do the same. taking all these things into consideration, it was little wonder that bob emerson looked forward to his yearly "outings" with the liveliest anticipations of pleasure. the summerdale hills, in days gone by, had been a hunter's paradise; but, sad to relate, their glory was fast passing away, like that of many another place which had once been noted for the abundance of its game and fish. mr. warren, to use his own language, had been foolish enough to build a hotel at the beach, and to connect it with bellville by a stage route. this brought an influx of strangers, some of whom called themselves sportsmen, who did more to depopulate the woods and streams than silas morgan, hobson, and a few others of that ilk, could have accomplished in a year's steady shooting and angling. their advent gave rise to a class of men who had never before been known in that region--to wit, guides. there were some good and honest ones among them, of course; but, as a rule, they were a shiftless, lawless class--men who lived from hand to mouth, and who looked upon game laws as so many infringements of their rights, which were to be defied and resisted in any way they could think of. up to the time the hotel was built, these men lived in utter ignorance of the fact that there were laws in force which prohibited hunting and fishing at certain seasons of the year; but one year the district game protector came up on the stage to look into things, and when he went back to bellville he took with him a guide and his employer, whom he had caught in the act of shooting deer, when the law said that they should not be molested. this unexpected interference with their bread and butter astonished and enraged the rest of the guides, who at once held an indignation meeting, and resolved that they would not submit to any such outrageous things as game laws, in the making of which their opinions and desires had not been consulted. they boldly declared that they would continue to hunt and fish whenever they felt like it, and any officer who came to the hills to stop them would be likely to get himself into business. a few of the residents, including mr. warren and mr. hallet, had tried hard to bring about a better state of things. they had gone to the expense of restocking their almost tenantless woods, and had been untiring in their efforts to have every poacher and law-breaker arrested and punished for his misdeeds; but all they had succeeded in doing thus far was to call down upon their heads the hearty maledictions of the whole ruffianly crew, who owed them a grudge and only awaited a favorable opportunity to pay it. this was the way things stood on the morning that tom hallet, accompanied by his friend bob, presented himself before his uncle, with the request that he would permit them to keep an eye on his english partridges and quails during the ensuing winter--in other words, that he would empower them to act as his game-wardens. mr. hallet was not at all surprised, for the boys had sprung so many "hare-brained schemes" on him, that he was ready for anything; but still he took a few minutes in which to consider the proposition before he made them any reply. "what in the world put that notion into your heads, anyway?" said mr. hallet, continuing the conversation which we have so unceremoniously interrupted. "is it simply an excuse to get out of school for the winter?" the boys indignantly denied that they had any idea of such a thing. they liked their school and everything connected with it; but they thought it would be fun to spend a few months in the woods. and since uncle hallet would have to employ somebody to act as game-warden, or run the risk of having all his costly birds killed by trespassers, why couldn't he employ them as well as any one else? "well, you two do think up the queerest ways for having fun that i even heard of," said mr. hallet. "i know something about camp-life, and you don't; and i tell you--" "why, uncle," exclaimed tom, "haven't we already spent a whole week in camp since bob came up here?" "a whole week!" repeated mr. hallet. "yes, and it tired you out, and you were glad enough to get home. i know that 'camping out' looks very well on paper, but i tell you that it is the hardest kind of work, even for a lazy person, to say nothing of a couple of uneasy youngsters, who can't keep still for five minutes at a time to save their lives. besides, how do i know that you wouldn't shoot some of my blue-headed birds, as morgan calls them?" "don't you suppose that we know a ruffed grouse from an english partridge or quail?" demanded tom. "we are not so liable to make mistakes in that regard as others might be. who is mr. warren going to hire for his warden?" "i believe he has gone up to morgan's to-day to speak to joe about it." "i don't know how that will work," said bob, reflectively. "joe is all right, but his father and brother are not, and i am afraid they will make trouble for him." "i thought of that, and so did warren," answered mr. hallet, "and it is a point that you two would do well to consider before you insist on going into the mountains this winter. i am told that hobson is furious over the opening of the new road, and that he and a few of his friends have threatened to burn the houses warren and i built up there in the woods, and to drive out anybody we may put there to act as game-wardens." when tom and bob heard this, they exchanged glances that were full of meaning. uncle hallet's words showed them that there was a prospect for excitement during the coming winter, and the knowledge of this fact made them all the more determined to carry their point. "oh, you needn't look at each other in that way," said mr. hallet, with a laugh. "i know what you are thinking about, and i have no notion of allowing you to do something to get these poachers and law-breakers down on you. however i am going to the village directly, and perhaps i'll drop in and see what bob's father thinks about it." "don't forget to tell him that we have your full and free consent," began tom. "but i haven't given it," interrupted mr. hallet, adjusting his eye-glasses across the bridge of his nose and reaching for his paper. "and that we shall go along with all our lessons just as fast as the boys in school will," chimed in bob. "i'll not forget it; but i shall be much surprised at your father if he believes it." uncle hallet resumed his reading, and the boys, taking this as a hint that he had said all he had to say on the subject, put on their hats and left the room. "it's all right, bob," said tom, gleefully. "i am sure of it," replied bob. "we've got uncle hallet on our side, and it will be no trouble for him to talk father over. now let's finish that letter to mr. morgan, and then go up and put it in his wood-pile." so saying, bob went up the stairs three at a jump, tom following close at his heels. chapter x. why the letter was written. when the boys reached the landing at the head of the stairs, they turned into tom's room, the door of which stood invitingly open. bob seated himself at a table and picked up a pen, while tom leaned over his shoulder and fastened his eyes upon the unfinished letter, to which reference was made at the close of the last chapter. "let's see--how far did we get?" said the latter. "i believe we were talking about a bank they were supposed to have robbed somewhere in california. well, say that they took a pile of money--seventy thousand dollars out of it. but i say, bob! that's awful bad printing. i don't know whether silas can make out to read it or not." "then let him get somebody to help him," answered bob. "i can't be expected to furnish him with the key, after going to so much trouble to write the letter." "but if he can't read it, what use will it be to him?" asked tom. "probably he's got friends who can spell it out for him, and i'm sure i don't care how much publicity he gives it. 'and there we took out seventy thousand dollars,'" said bob. "go on; what next? they went to canada after that, didn't they? there is where all the crooks go these days." "put it down, anyway. 'so we went to canady (be careful about the spelling) and staid there till the country got too hot for us.' that reads all right," said tom, throwing himself into the big rocking-chair, and wondering, like the minister in the "one-hoss shay," what the moses should come next. "don't forget to say something about the 'hant' who guards the treasure in the cave." "can't you wait till i come to the cave?" replied bob, who could not print the letter as fast as his friend could think up things to put into it. "i don't altogether approve of this ghost business, anyway. i am afraid it will scare the old fellow so badly that he will make no attempt to find the treasure that is concealed in the cave." "don't you worry about that," tom replied. "all we've got to do is to word the letter so that he will believe the money is really there, and he will go after it, even if he knew that he would have to face all the ghosts that ever haunted the summerdale hills; and their name is legion, if there is any faith to be put in the stories i have heard." "i say, tom," exclaimed bob, throwing down his pen and settling-back in his chair, "wouldn't it be a joke if some of those same ghosts should take it into their heads to visit us during the winter? it must be lonely up there in the mountains, when the roads are blocked with drifts, and all communication with the outside world is cut off, and wouldn't we feel funny if we should hear something go this way some dark and stormy night--b-r-r-r?" here bob uttered a hollow groan, drew his head down between his shoulders, and tried to shiver and look frightened. "no doubt it would; but we shan't hear anything go this way--b-r-r-r," replied tom, imitating bob's groan as nearly as he could. "now i think you had better go on with that letter, and i will draw the map that is to guide him in his search for the robbers' cave and plunder. we've wasted a good hour and a half already; and if we don't hurry up, we shan't be able to give him the letter to-day. let me think a moment! there's a deep gorge about a quarter of a mile from morgan's wood-pile, and i don't believe it has ever been explored. that would be a good place to put the cave, wouldn't it?" bob said he thought it would, and went on with his writing, while tom hunted up a piece of paper and began drawing the map. bob pronounced it perfect when his friend presented it for his inspection, and indeed it ought to have been. there was no one in the neighborhood who was better acquainted with the hills than silas morgan, and if the map had guided him to a place that really had no existence, except in tom's imagination, he would have known in a minute that somebody was trying to play a trick upon him. the letter was finished at last, to the entire satisfaction of both the boys, and the next thing was to put it where the man for whom it was intended would be sure to find it. do you ask what it was that suggested to them the idea of making the shiftless and ignorant ferryman the victim of one of their practical jokes? simply an accident, coupled with the want of something to do, and their innate propensity to get fun out of everything that came in their way. on the previous day they made it their business to stand guard over the english partridges and quails which uncle hallet had "turned down" in his wood-lot, and it so happened that they stopped to eat their lunch within a short distance of silas morgan's wood-pile, but out of sight of it. they heard the creaking of the ferryman's old wagon, as his aged and infirm beast pulled it laboriously up the steep mountain-side, and not long afterward the setters, which accompanied silas, wherever he went, spied out their resting-place. but the animals did not give tongue, as they would no doubt have done if the boys had been utter strangers to them. they thankfully ate the bits of cracker and broiled squirrel that were tossed to them, and then went back to wait for silas. "that man has no more right to those valuable dogs than i have," said bob. "they're worth a hundred dollars apiece, and no one ever gave a guide that much money in return for a single day's woodcock shooting. who is he talking to, i wonder?" "to no one," answered tom. "he likes to talk to a sensible man, and he likes to hear a sensible man talk; consequently, he has a good deal to say to silas morgan. that's the fellow he is talking to." and so it proved. the ferryman was engaged in an animated conversation with the ferryman, asking and answering the questions himself, and so fully was his mind occupied with other matters, that it never occurred to him that possibly his words might be falling upon ears for which they were not intended. tom and his companion had no desire to play the part of eavesdroppers. they were not at all interested in what silas was saying to himself--at least they thought so; but it turned out otherwise. having finished their lunch, they began making preparations to set out for home; but in the meantime silas reached the wood-pile, and, leaning heavily upon his wagon, he gave utterance to his thoughts in much the same words as those we used at the beginning of this story. "i just know that i wasn't born to do no such mean work as i've been called to do all my life," declared silas, stooping over, and throwing the perspiration from his forehead with his bent finger. "i can't get my consent to slave and toil in this way much longer, while there are folks all around me who never do a hand's turn. they can loaf around and take their ease from morning till night, while i--wait till i tell you. such things ain't right, and i won't stand it much longer. the other night i dreamed of that robber's cave, with piles of gold and greenbacks into it, and yesterday i read about the finding of that earthen crock that was plumb full of money; so't i know i shall be a rich man some day. 'pears to me that day isn't so very far off, neither. if i should come up here some time and find a letter telling me where there was a robber's cave with stacks and piles of money in it, i shouldn't be at all astonished; would you?" "not in the least," whispered bob, giving his friend a prod in the ribs with his elbow; whereupon tom laid his finger by the side of his nose and winked first one eye and then the other, to show that he fully understood bob. "stranger things than that have happened," continued silas, in a voice that was plainly audible to the two boys behind the evergreens, "and i don't see why it can't happen to me as well as to anybody else. wouldn't that be a joyful day to me, though? i'd bust up that flat the very first thing i did, and tell the fellers that tooted the horn that i was done being servant for them or anybody else. no, i wouldn't do that, either," added silas, after reflecting a minute. "i'd give it to dan and joe to make a living with, and then i wouldn't have to spend any of my fortune on their grub and clothes." "what a stingy old hulks he is!" whispered bob, as the ferryman took a reluctant step toward the wood-pile. "i say, tom, don't you think there is a robber's cave about here somewhere? i should think there ought to be, with so many ghosts hanging around. it don't look to me as though they could be here for nothing." "that's what i think," replied tom, in the same cautious whisper. "i shouldn't wonder a bit if there was a freebooter's stronghold somewhere in these mountains." "with lots of money in it?" continued bob. "piles of it," said tom. "as much as there is in the treasury at washington." bob turned toward his friend with a look of indignant astonishment on his face. "and you knew it all the time, and never told silas about it!" he exclaimed. "can't you see how badly he wants it, and how confident he is that he is going to get it? you ought to have attended to it long ago." "you're very right," said tom, meekly. "now i will tell you what i'll do: if you will print a letter--it must be printed, you know, for silas can't read writing--telling how the money got into the cave in the first place, i'll draw a map that will aid him in finding it." bob said it was a bargain, and the two boys shook hands on it; after which they again turned their attention to the ferryman, who kept up his soliloquy while he was loading the wood on the wagon. the burden of it was that his lot in life was a very hard one, that he never worked except under protest, and that he firmly believed that the future had something better in store for him. tom and his companion went home, fully determined that if they lived to see the dawn of another day, silas should find the wished-for letter in his wood-pile. they took one night to "sleep on it," and make up their minds just what they wanted to say to him, and bright and early the next morning they went to work. by their united efforts they finally produced the letter which we laid before the reader in the third chapter; but they were a long time about it. every sentence and suggestion had to be weighed and discussed at length, and it was when tom remarked that he would like to see the upshot of the whole matter, that a bright idea suddenly occurred to bob. "we can stay up there to-morrow, and see what he will do when he finds the letter," observed the latter, "but we can't run to the top of the summerdale hills every day to watch him go after the money, can we? it's too far, and-- say, tom, let's ask uncle hallet to make us his game-wardens." "oh, let's!" exclaimed tom, who was always ready for anything that had a spice of novelty or adventure in it. "of course, we shall have to live up there in the woods, the same as mr. warren's man does." "to-be-sure. then we shall be right on the ground, and it will be but little trouble for us to keep track of morgan's movements. if he tries to find the cave, we may be on hand to give him a scare." "well, that's a black horse of another color," said tom, looking down at the floor, in a deep study. "silas morgan never goes into the woods without his double-barrel for company, and he is so sure a shot that i don't think it would be quite safe for the spectre of the cave to materialize while he is around." bob hadn't thought of that before, nor did he stop to think of it now, because it was a matter that could be settled at some future time. it was enough for him to know that tom was strongly in favor of the rest of his scheme, and the two posted off to find uncle hallet, and see what he thought about it. the result of the conference they held with him, so far as it was reached that day, we have already chronicled. we must now hasten on and tell what happened in and around the summerdale hills after silas found and lost the letter, and dan got hold it. chapter xi. the plot succeeds. tom's map having been duly examined and approved, and bob's letter read and commented upon, the latter folded them both up together and placed them in an envelope, which he sealed with a vigorous blow of his fist. "i suppose it ought to have a stamp on it, in order to make it look ship-shape," said he, "but i haven't got two cents to waste in addition to the time and exhausting mental effort i have spent upon the production of this interesting and important communication. i ought to put a hint of its contents upon the envelope, i should think." "by all means," answered tom. "print anything that occurs to you, so long as it will excite his curiosity and impel him to a further examination. how does this strike you: 'notis to the lucky person in to whose han's this dockyment may hapen to fall.' that sounds all right, doesn't it? well, put it down, and then add something about the 'hant' that watches over the cave." for a few minutes bob's pen moved rapidly, and at last he drew a long breath of relief and slammed the blotting-paper over what he had written. "it's done, i'm glad to say, and the next time we find it necessary to communicate with mr. morgan, or with any other gentleman who has not gone deep enough into the arcana of letters to be able to read good, honest writing, we'll hire a cheap boy to do the printing for us. now, what shall we take besides our lunch? i don't want to carry my breech-loader up to the top of the mountains for nothing. i know it weighs only seven and a quarter pounds, but i'll think it weighs a hundred before i get back." "if you will sling your pocket-rifle case over your shoulder, i'll take my little tackle-box, and then we shall be fully equipped," replied tom. "we'll be sure to get a young squirrel or two while we are going by the corn-field, and i know a stream in which there are still a few trout to be found." acting upon his friend's advice, bob put the letter into his pocket, and picked up the neat leather case in which his little rifle reposed, while tom seized his tackle-box and led the way to the kitchen. a few minutes later they left the house, with a substantial lunch stowed away in a fish-basket which tom carried under his arm, and bent their steps toward silas morgan's wood-pile, where they arrived after an hour's fatiguing walk up the mountain. the first thing in order was a reconnaissance in force, followed by a careful inspection of the ground, both of which satisfied them that they had reached the spot in ample time to carry out all the details of their scheme. the wheel-marks in the ground were not fresh, and neither were the footprints, and this proved that the ferryman had not yet been up after his daily load of wood. "he is later than usual," said bob. "i hope nothing has happened to keep him away, for i wouldn't miss being around when he gets the letter for anything. it will be as good as a circus." "there he comes now!" exclaimed tom, as a series of dismal wails arose from the valley below. "don't you hear the creaking of his wagon? shove the letter into the end of this stick, and then we'll dig out for the place where we ate lunch yesterday. we can hear and see everything from there." bob hastily complied with his friend's suggestion, inserting the letter into a crack in a protruding stick in so conspicuous a position that silas would be sure to see it, if he made any use whatever of his eyes, and then the two boys betook themselves to their hiding-place behind the evergreens. in due time the ferryman came in sight. he was clinging with both hands to the hind end of the wagon, and if he had let go his hold he would, beyond a doubt, have rolled clear back to the bottom of the hill, not being possessed of sufficient life and energy to stop himself. whenever the horse halted for a short rest, which he did as often as the idea occurred to him, silas raised no objections, but leaned heavily upon the wood-rack and rested, too, talking earnestly to himself all the while. he was so long in reaching the wood-pile that the boys became very impatient; but when he got there and found the letter, the fright and excitement he exhibited, and the extraordinary contortions he went through, amply repaid them for their long waiting. bob's prediction, that "it would be as good as a circus," was abundantly verified. they observed every move he made, and heard every word he said. they were especially delighted to see him climb the wood-pile, and reach over and take possession of the letter; and when he snatched up the knotted reins and fell upon the horse with his hickory, because the animal would not move in obedience to his whispered commands, bob caught tom around the neck with both arms, and the two rolled on the ground convulsed with merriment. when they recovered themselves sufficiently to get up and look through the evergreens again, they saw silas disappearing around the first turn in the road; but he was in sight long enough for them to take note of the fact that he was stepping out at a much livelier rate than they had seen him accomplish for many a day. when the trees hid him from view, tom and bob sat down on the ground and looked at each other. "well," said the former, wiping the tears from his eyes, "so far so good. now, what comes next?" "nothing more of this sort to-day; at least i hope not," answered bob. "i couldn't stand another such a laughing spell right away, unless i could give full vent to my feelings. i thought i should split when i heard silas say that he didn't know whether or not he could get his consent to touch that letter." silas being safely out of hearing by this time, there was no longer any reason why bob should restrain his risibilities, and he gave way to a hearty peal of laughter, in which tom joined with much gusto. "it was when he went through his antics on top of the wood-pile that i came the nearest losing control of myself," said the latter, as soon as he could speak. "i didn't suppose that there was so much ignorance and superstition in this whole country as that man has given us proof of this day." and neither did tom imagine that while he and bob were writing that letter, "just for the fun of the thing," they were setting in motion a series of events which were destined to create the greatest excitement far and near, and to come within a hair's-breadth of ending in something very like a tragedy. it was a long time before the boys had their laugh out. tom, who was an incomparable mimic, went through the whole performance again, for his own delectation as well as for bob's benefit, reaching for invisible letters, and climbing imaginary wood-piles, and so perfectly did he imitate the ferryman's actions, and even the tones of his voice, that bob at last jumped to his feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and hastened away, declaring that he could not stand it any longer. the first thing the two friends did, after they became sobered down so that they could do anything, was to retrace their steps to the corn-field, where they hoped to secure an acceptable addition to the lunch that was in tom's creel. nor were they disappointed; the game they sought was out in full force; bob's diminutive rifle spoke twice in quick succession, and two young squirrels, after being neatly dressed and wrapped in buttered tissue-paper, were placed in the basket with the lunch. then the boys went in quest of the trout stream of which tom had spoken. when bob got down to it, and saw what a place it was in, he did not wonder that there were still a few fish to be found in it. on the contrary, he wondered if there had ever been any taken out of it. he had never seen an angler, no matter how enthusiastic and long-winded he might be, who would willingly stumble through five miles of trackless woods, climb over as many miles of tangled wind-fall, and scramble down the almost perpendicular side of that deep gorge, for the sake of catching a few trout, and he did not hesitate to tell tom so. "wait till you see the beauty i am going to snatch out from under that log in less than a minute after i drop in my hook," said the latter, who carried his open knife in his hand, and was looking about among the bushes for a pole to take the place of the split bamboo he had left at home. "but you needn't grumble, young man. you may see the day when you will be willing to tramp farther than this to have the pleasure of depositing a single trout in your creel." "when things get as bad as that i won't go trout-fishing," said bob, in reply. "i'll take it out on black bass in the lake. besides, these trout are not at all high-toned. they don't know enough to take a fly, and there's no fun in fishing with any other bait." "we're not looking for fun now; we're after our dinner," answered tom, who, having found a pole to suit him, was kicking the bark off a decayed log in search of a grub to put on his hook. "would it inconvenience you to stir around and get a fire going? you might as well have your scales ready, too; there's a trout under that log that weighs about-- there he is!" sure enough, there he was. while tom was speaking he dropped his hook into the water, and before the white grub on it had sunk out of sight, it was seized by a monster trout, which turned and started for the bottom with it, only to find himself yanked unceremoniously out of his native element, and by a dexterous movement of his captor's wrist, landed at bob's feet on the opposite bank. "i haven't elbow-room for any display of science in handling fish," said tom, as his companion unhooked the prize and quieted his struggles by a blow on the head with the handle of his heavy knife. "main strength and awkwardness are what do the business in these tangled thickets. what do the scales say in regard to his weight?" "a pound and nine ounces," replied bob. "now suppose you hand over that pole and see if i can catch one to match him." tom, who was quite willing to comply, jumped across the brook and set to work to kindle a fire and get the dinner going, while bob took the rod and threaded his way through the thick bushes toward another promising hole which his friend told him of, farther up the stream. he was not gone more than twenty minutes, and when he came back he brought with him three trout, one of which was larger and heavier than tom's. bob could easily have taken more but did not do it, because he knew that he and tom could not dispose of them. he knew, too, that they would be a drug in the home market, uncle hallet having often declared that he had eaten so many trout since bob came to his house that it was all he could do to keep from jumping into every puddle of water he saw. the boys were adepts at forest cookery, and hungry enough to do full justice to their dinner. when the meal was over, the only dish they had to wash was the small tin basin in which their tea was made, the squirrels and trout having been broiled over the coals on three-pronged sticks cut from the neighboring bushes. after an hour's rest they put out the fire by drenching it with water, which they dipped from the brook with their drinking-cups. bob often paused in his work to look up at the high bank above, which was so steep that the top seemed to hang over the bed of the stream, and finally he declared that it would take so much of his breath and strength to get up there that he wouldn't have any left to carry him over the five miles of wind-fall that lay between the gorge and silas morgan's wood-pile. "well, then, we'll follow the brook," said tom. "it will take us to the lake, if we stick to it long enough, or we can turn out of the gorge when we reach the place where our robber's cave is supposed to be located. what kind of traveling we shall find i don't know, for i have never been down this gulf; but i do know that we shall have farther to walk than if we go back the way we came." bob at once declared his preference for the "water route," reminding his companion that the longest way around is often the shortest way home. he felt relieved after that, for he dreaded the almost impassable wind-fall over which his tireless friend had led him a few hours before; but whether or not it was worse than some things that happened as the result of his decision, and which he was destined to encounter before the winter was over remains to be seen. chapter xii. a mystery. the traveling in the gorge was quite as difficult as the two friends expected to find it. the bushes on each side were so thick that they could not walk on the bank, and the bed of the stream was covered with rocks and boulders, over which they slipped and stumbled at every step. now and then the way was obstructed by deep, dark pools which would have gladdened the eye of an angler, for it is in such places that the "sockdolagers" of the brook abide. but tom and his companion looked upon them as so many obstacles that were to be overcome with as little delay as possible. they floundered through them without stopping to see how deep they were, and before they had left their camp half a mile behind, their high rubber boots were full of water. the gorge was beginning to grow dark when tom, after taking a survey of the bank over his head, announced that they were just about opposite silas morgan's wood-pile, and that it was time for them to find a place to climb out. "i am overjoyed to hear it," said bob, seating himself on the nearest boulder. "but it's going to be hard work to get up there, the first thing you know, because we've got several pounds more weight to carry than we had when we started. this is worse than the windfall." while bob was resting, tom walked slowly down the gorge, hoping to find a spot where the bushes were not so thick, and the bank easy of ascent; but before he had gone a dozen yards, his footsteps were arrested by an occurrence that was as startling as it was unexpected. the thicket in front of him was suddenly and violently agitated, and an instant afterward there arose from it the most blood-curdling sound the boys had ever heard. an indian war-whoop could not compare with it--they were certain of that. it was not a shriek, a laugh or a groan, but it was a combination of all three; and it was so loud and penetrating that the echoes caught it up and repeated it, until the hideous sound seemed to fill the air all around them. tom came to a sudden standstill, and the face he turned toward his companion was as white as a sheet. bob was frightened, too, but he retained his wits and his power of action, and his first thought was to put a safe distance between himself and the thing, whatever it was, that could make a noise like that. without saying a word he arose from his seat, dived into the bushes and began scrambling up the bank. how he got to the top he never knew (he afterward affirmed that in some places the bank was as straight up and down as the side of a house), but he reached it in an incredibly short space of time, and turned about to find tom close at his heels. "what in the name of sense and tom walker was it?" panted bob, pulling out his handkerchief and mopping his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in great beads. "i give it up," gasped tom. "it must be something awful, if one may judge by the screeching it is able to do. i heard a couple of laughing hyenas give a solo and chorus in a menagerie once, and i thought i should never get the sound out of my ears; but that thing in the gulf can beat them out of sight. i'm going home now, but i'll come up here to-morrow with bugle and uncle hallet's winchester, and if i can make the dog drive him out of the bushes so that i can get a fair sight at him, i'll pump him so full of holes that he'll never make any more of that noise." tom at once drew a bee line for his uncle's house, and bob fell in behind him. when they reached the wood-pile, he proposed that they should sit down and rest and compare notes. he was still quite nervous and uneasy, while bob, who had had leisure to look at the matter in all its bearings, was as serene and unruffled as usual. "well, what do you think of it by this time?" inquired the latter. "i don't think anything about it," replied tom; "it is quite beyond me. but this much i know: that thing has got to be 'neutralized' before i will consent to come up here and live as uncle hallet's game-warden." "aha!" exclaimed bob, with a laugh, "didn't you assure me that we wouldn't hear anything go b-r-r-r?" "yes, and i'll stick to it; but there's something in these mountains that i don't want to hear screaming around our cabin this winter, now i tell you. what kind of a beast do you think it was, anyway? you heard a panther screech while you were hunting in michigan last winter. did he make a noise like that?" "no," answered bob; "it wasn't a beast, either." "what makes you say that?" "i have two very good reasons. in the first place, if there are any animals in these mountains that are more to be feared than the wolves, they have found hiding-places so secure that the hunters have not been able to discover them for ten years and better. in the next place, if that thing in the gulf is a beast of prey, he would not have given us notice of his presence. he would have waited till we came close to the bushes so that he could jump out and grab one of us." "that's so," said tom. "well, go on; what was it?" "you placed our robbers' cave down there, didn't you?" "oh, get out!" exclaimed tom; "i'm in no humor for nonsense. i was badly frightened, and i haven't got over it yet." "neither have i. i am in dead earnest. there's somebody down there in the gulf, and he took that way to let us know that he didn't want us to come any nearer to him." "it was silas morgan, for a million dollars!" exclaimed tom, who needed no more words to convince him that his friend's reasoning was correct. "it's perfectly clear to me now. he didn't waste any time in going after that money, did he?" "quite the contrary. he has been so very quick about it, that i'm inclined to believe it wasn't silas at all; but if it was he, why is he camping there?" "camping?" repeated tom. "yes. just before that horrid shriek came out of the bushes, i thought i could smell burning wood; but i didn't have time to call your attention to it." "perhaps the mountain is on fire somewhere." "oh, i guess not. if that was the case, we'd smell the smoke now, wouldn't we?" "that's so," said tom, again. "well, who's down there?" "i'm sure i don't know; but i am satisfied that it is some one who has reasons for keeping himself hidden from the world. now, what's to be done about it?" "i don't see that we are obliged to do anything, unless we want to make ourselves a laughing stock for the whole country," replied tom, who had had time to form some ideas of his own. "i couldn't be hired to tell uncle hallet of it, because he would ask, right away, 'why didn't you go ahead and find out what it was that frightened you? you are pretty fellows to talk about living up there alone in the woods this winter, are you not?' and he'd never leave off poking fun at us. no doubt there is a party of guests from the hotel down there, and one of them yelled at us just for the fun of seeing us scramble up the bank. i only wish they might stay there long enough to play the same game on silas morgan when he comes after the money that is hidden in the cave." the two friends spent half an hour or more in comparing notes after this fashion, but they did not succeed in wholly clearing up the mystery. they both agreed that it was a man, and not a savage beast of prey, that was hidden in the gulf; but who the man was, where he came from, and what he was doing there, were other and deeper questions, which probably never would be answered. "i'll tell you what's a fact, bob," said tom, as he arose from the ground and led the way down a well-beaten cow-path that ran toward his uncle's barn, "we are not the only fellows in the world who like to play tricks upon others, and i'll venture to say that there is some one in the gorge at this minute who is laughing at us as heartily as we laughed at silas morgan when he found the letter that we put in his wood-pile. the guests at the hotel come up here to have fun, and they don't care much how they get it." "perhaps you're right," replied bob, who nevertheless still held to the belief that there was some one in the gorge who was hiding there because he dared not show himself among his fellow-men. "but if i were sure of it, i should be very much ashamed of myself and you, too. however, i don't see how we are to get at the bottom of the matter, unless we go back and interview the party in the gulf; and i can't say that i am anxious to do that." there was still another point on which the boys fully agreed, and that was that they would not say a word to uncle hallet about it; but the latter heard of it, all the same, and it turned out that tom was wide of the mark when he insisted that some one had played a joke upon himself and his companion. the boys reached home just at supper-time, and found that uncle hallet had returned from bellville with good news for them. he had seen bob's father, and the latter, after declaring that it was one of the wildest things he had ever heard of, and wondering what foolish notion those two boys would get into their heads next, finally decided that since tom had made up his mind to live in the woods during the winter, bob might stay and keep him company. "he desired me to tell you that he shall expect to hear a good account of you, both as student and game-warden," said uncle hallet, shaking his finger at bob. "if you don't keep up with your class, or if you neglect your business and allow some pot-hunter to kill off all my english birds, so that there won't be any left for your father to shoot when i invite him up here, he will be sorry that he didn't keep you in school. what's the matter with you two anyway?" suddenly demanded uncle hallet, who had a faint suspicion that the boys were not as highly elated as they ought to have been. "this morning you were fairly carried away with this new idea of yours, and now you don't seem to say anything. have you thought better of it already?" the boys hastened to assure uncle hallet that they had not--that they were just as eager to assume the duties of game-wardens as they had ever been, and that that was the last night they expected to pass under his roof for eight long months. it was all true, too; but each of them made a mental reservation. if the man in the gulf was a fugitive from justice, as bob thought he was, he might prove to be a very unpleasant fellow to have around, and until he had been "neutralized," as tom expressed it, they could not hope to enjoy themselves. they did not want to enter upon their duties feeling that there was a portion of mr. hallet's preserves from which they were shut off by the presence of one who had no business there. "he suspects something," whispered tom, as he and his friend arose from the supper-table and made their way to their rooms. "now i'll just tell you what's a fact. i am going wherever i please in my uncle's woods, and any one who tries to turn me back will get himself into trouble." "i am with you," was bob's reply. "if that howling dervish has settled down there for the winter, how shall we get rid of him?" tom couldn't answer that question, so he said that perhaps they had better sleep on it, and that was what they decided to do. chapter xiii. dan is scared. when mr. warren's newly-appointed game-warden turned away from dan and went on down the road to meet his mother, he left behind him one of the maddest boys that had ever been seen in that part of the country. in spite of all he had said to the contrary, dan had no intention of asking mr. hallet to employ him to watch his birds and keep trespassers out of his wood-lot, for he knew very well that if he proffered such a request he would be met by a prompt and emphatic refusal. mr. hallet was too well acquainted with his poaching propensities to give his imported game into his keeping, and dan was painfully aware of the fact. what he wanted more than anything else was that his brother should accept him as a partner, so that he could handle half the earnings, while joe did all the work and shouldered all the responsibility; that was the plain english of it. but joe was resolved to paddle his own canoe, and more than that, he had threatened to call upon a powerful friend to make dan behave himself, if he didn't see fit to do it of his own free will. "i've got be mighty sly about what i do," thought dan, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the ground, after kicking bony out of his way. "don't it beat you when you think of the luck that comes to some fellers, while others, who are just as good as they be, and who work just as hard, can't make things go right no way they can fix it? i tell you it bangs me. i ought to have help to drive that joe of our'n out of them woods, for, to tell you what's the gospel truth, i don't quite like the idee of facing him alone. i can't fight agin him and pap, with old man warren throwed in." while dan was talking to himself in this way, he stretched his leg out before him and drew from his pocket the letter he had found in front of the door of the wood-shed. he little dreamed what an astounding revelation it contained. he had not the slightest idea where it came from, and neither could he have told why he picked it up. he proceeded to examine it now, simply because he had nothing else to occupy his mind, except his many and bitter disappointments, and he had already expressed himself very feelingly in regard to them. with great deliberation dan spread the letter upon his knee, and, with a caution which had become habitual to him, looked up and down the road to make sure that there was no one in sight. then he addressed himself to the task of reading the "notis" that was scrawled upon the envelope; but no sooner had he, with infinite difficulty, spelled out all the words in it, than the letter fell from his nerveless fingers, and dan jumped to his feet and whooped and yelled like a wild indian. "now don't it bang you what mean luck some fellers do have? here's a--" dan checked himself very suddenly when he became aware that he was shouting out these words with all the power of his lungs. filled with apprehension he looked up and down the road again, but as there was no one in sight, he resumed his seat and went on with his soliloquy; but this time he spoke in a much lower tone of voice. "there's a fortune up there in the mounting, as much as two or three hundred dollars mebbe, but i dassent go after it on account of the hant that's up there," said dan, to himself. "i've heared 'em say that them hants cuts up powerful bad when anybody comes fooling around where they be, and it ain't no use to think of driving them away, 'cause bullets will go through 'em as slick as you please and never hurt 'em at all. how come this dockyment in front of the wood-shed, do you reckon?" dan was greatly confused and excited, and it was a long time before he could control himself sufficiently to pick up the envelope, take out the inclosure and read it through to the end--or, to be more exact, nearly to the end; for, as we shall presently see, dan never had a chance to read the whole of it. he kept up a running fire of comments as he went along, and to have heard him, one would suppose that he had long been looking for something of this sort. that was hardly to be wondered at, for he had often heard his father indulge in the most extravagant speculations concerning the future, and dan certainly had as good a right to waste his time in that way as silas had. but when he came to read about the "hant" which bothered the writer so persistently that he was obliged to jump into the lake in order to get rid of him, dan could stand it no longer. he got upon his feet, at the same time returning the letter to the envelope and making a blind shove with it at his pocket, and drew a bee-line for home. he was so badly frightened that he could not run, and he was afraid to look behind him. he glided over the ground with long, noiseless footsteps, his lank body bent nearly half double, and his wild-looking eyes roving from thicket to thicket on each side of the road in front of him. presently the climax came. a squirrel, detecting his approach, sought to escape observation by jumping from one tree to another, and he made a great commotion among the light branches as he did so. the noise was too much for dan's overtaxed nerves. "it's the hant, as sure as i'm a foot high," said he, in a frightened whisper. "he can't pester t'other feller any more, 'cause he's gone and drownded himself in the lake; but he's going to foller whoever has got the letter telling where the fortune is, and that's me. i wonder could i out-run him?" dan thought this a good idea, and he lost not a moment in acting upon it. he was noted far and near for his lightness of foot, but no one in the summerdale hills had ever seen him run as he ran that day. he hardly seemed to touch the ground; and the farther he went the faster he went, because his increasing fear lent him wings. he was so hopelessly stampeded that if the road had been crowded with teams or people he would not have seen one of them. he did not slacken his pace until he reached the wood-shed, and then he came to an abrupt halt and looked behind him. there was no one in the road over which he had passed in his headlong flight, and the woods were silent. "well, i done it, didn't i?" exclaimed dan, drawing a long breath of relief, and thrusting his hand into the pocket in which he thought he had put the letter. "it ain't no use for anything that gets around on two legs to think of follering me when i turn on the steam. now, then, where's that there--" "that there what? and who's been a-follering of you?" demanded a familiar voice, almost at his elbow. dan was frightened again. he looked up, and there stood his father, who had been keeping up a persistent but of course fruitless search for the letter ever since dan went away. one glance at his angry face was a revelation to the boy. he knew now that silas had lost the letter where he found it. dan would have been glad to take it out and hand it over to him--he didn't want anything more to do with it after the experience he had already had with the "hant"--but he found, to his unbounded amazement and alarm, that he could not do it. he had dropped the letter somewhere along the road. "who's been a-follering of you? and what have you lost?" repeated silas, who began to have a faint idea that he understood the situation. "there was a hant follering of me," replied dan, as soon as he could speak. "he was coming for me, 'cause i could hear him slamming through the bushes; but i can run faster'n him, else i wouldn't be here now." "you can't bamboozle your pap with no tale about a hant, for i don't believe in such things," declared silas, but his face told a different story. he looked fully as wild as dan did, and he was almost as badly frightened. "why don't you come to the p'int, and tell me that you have lost the letter that was left in my wood-pile last winter, and which i never seen till this morning? if you will tell me the truth about it, i will tell you something that will make your eyes stick out as big as your fist." "and won't you larrup me for losing of it?" asked dan, who saw very plainly that it was useless for him to deny that he had once had the letter in his possession. "no, i won't do nothing to you; honor bright. did you read what was into it?" "not all of it. i didn't have time, on account of that hant, who rattled the bushes behind me. when i heared that, i just shoved the letter into my pocket and skipped out," replied dan, who could not for the life of him tell a thing just as it happened. "but it bangs me where that letter is now, 'cause i ain't got it." dan expected that his father would go into an awful rage when he heard this, and held himself in readiness to take to his heels at the very first sign of a hostile demonstration; consequently he was very much surprised to hear silas say, without the least show of anger: "it don't much matter, 'cause i had a chance to read all that was into the letter, and take a good look at the map that come with it. i know right where to look for that robbers' cave, but i shan't go down that there rope, i bet you, for i don't want to dump myself into the presence of that hant before i have a look at him. we'll go in at the mouth of the gulf, and work our way up till we come to the hiding-place of the money." "we?" echoed dan. "yes, me and you." "not much we won't," declared dan, throwing all the emphasis he could into his words. "what for?" demanded silas. "'cause why. it's enough for me, to hear hants a chasing of me. i ain't got no call to go where they be, so't i can see 'em. i wouldn't go up to that there cave if i knowed there was a thousand dollars into it." "a thousand dollars!" repeated silas. "didn't you read in the letter about the grip-sack with a false bottom to it?" "i don't reckon i did," answered dan, after thinking a moment. "the hant scared me away before i got that far." "well, there's a grip-sack there," continued silas, "and there's twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold into it. i was calkerlating all along that me and you would go snucks on it. now, will you hand over that letter, so't i can take another look at the map and make sure that i know where the cave is?" "twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred more dollars in gold!" gasped dan, who could hardly believe his ears. "pap, i would give you the letter in a minute, but it's the gospel truth that i ain't got it." and to prove his words, dan turned all his pockets inside out, to show that they were empty. "then i reckon we'll have to go back along the road and look for it," said silas, desperately. "that's a power of money, more'n i ever thought to have in my family, and sposen somebody should come along and find that there letter, and go up to the cave and steal it away from us? just think of that, dannie!" dan did think of it, and it was the only thing that kept him from beating a hasty retreat when his father spoke of going back to look for the letter. chapter xiv. the "hant." "now, let me tell you what's a fact," said dan, after he had taken a few minutes in which to consider his father's proposition. "i don't reckon it will be any use for us to go back and try to find that there letter. i'll bet anything that the hant has found it and carried it miles away before this time." "dannie, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed silas, impatiently, "don't you know that hants can't tote nothing away, 'cause they're sperits? all they can do is to jump up in front of a feller and frighten him; but they can't do no harm to you. we'll take our guns along, and if he's fool enough to show himself we'll pepper him good fashion." "and never hurt him at all," said dan. "he'll be just as sassy with his hide full of bird-shot as he was before. now, pap, you wait and see if i ain't right." silas did not pay much attention to these words of warning, but they were afterward recalled to his mind in a manner that was most unexpected and startling. what he was thinking of just now was the letter. he was very anxious to find it, for he was afraid that it might fall into the hands of some one who would use it to his injury. when he turned about and led the way into the cabin, dan followed him with reluctant steps. "you needn't be no ways skeery about going up the road in broad daylight," said silas, encouragingly. "it ain't likely that that there hant will go away from the cave and roam around the country, scaring folks, for the fun of the thing. he ain't out there in the woods, and you never heard him." "i did, for a fact," protested dan. "i don't believe it, all the same," answered silas, as he took down his heavy double-barrel and measured the loads in it with the ramrod. "he's come back to the cave to watch them five hundred pounds of money, and see that nobody don't carry 'em away; and he'll never leave there." "then how are we going to get that fortune?" inquired dan. "we'll just walk right in and take it without saying a word to him," said silas boldly. "i've heard my father tell that them hants can't harm you if you ain't afraid of 'em." "well, i'll tell you one thing, and that ain't two," said dan, as he shouldered his gun and followed his father from the cabin. "i ain't a going to run no risk. i'll help you find the cave, but i won't go into it, i bet you. i don't want to hear something screeching at me through the dark, and see great eyes of fire--" "don't dannie!" exclaimed silas, shivering all over, as if some one had drawn an icicle along his back. "well, that's the way them hants do, ain't it?" asked the boy. "i'd as soon be knocked in the head with a club as to have something scare me to death. come on, if you're coming. i ain't going ahead, and that's all there is about it." the two brave fellows were by this time fairly in the road, and silas was prudently slackening his pace, to allow dan to get in advance of him. the latter's description of the greeting that would be extended to them by the guardian spectre, when they went into the cave after the money that was supposed to be concealed there, had taken all his courage away from him, and, if there was any danger ahead, silas did not want to be the first to meet it. dan, who was quick to notice this, also slackened his own pace, and the two walked slower and slower, until they came to a dead stop. "i see what you're up to, old man," said dan, shaking his clenched hand at his sire, "and you might as well know, first as last, that you can't play no such trick onto me. i'll stick close to you, and face the music as long as you do; but you shan't shove me in front of you not one inch." it was no use for silas to protest that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind, for the case was too clear against him; so he pushed ahead again, and dan, true to his promise, kept close at his side. they walked on for a quarter of a mile or more, holding their guns in readiness for instant use, and never saying a word to each other, and at last the deep silence that brooded over the surrounding woods became too much for the ferryman's nerves. he broke it by saying, in a suppressed whisper: "you read far enough in that letter to know that there's five hundred pounds of money into that there cave, didn't you? that's as much as me and you both can pack away on our backs in one trip, and it beats me how that feller could have toted it so far. now where be we going to hide it? that's what's been a bothering of me. can't you think up some good--laws a massy! what's the matter of you?" exclaimed silas; for dan suddenly seized his father's arm with a grip that made him wonder. they were just going around the first turn in the road. instead of replying to his father's question in words, dan raised his hand and pointed silently toward the bushes a short distance away. silas looked, and was just in time to catch a glimpse of something which got out of the range of his vision so quickly that he could not tell what it was. he turned to dan for an explanation. "it's the hant," whispered the latter. "i know it is, for didn't he go into them evergreens without making the least stir among the branches?" silas couldn't say whether he did or not, and neither did he stop to argue the matter. forgetting that he had brought his double-barrel with him on purpose to "pepper" the ghost, in case he saw fit to make himself visible, silas faced about and took to his heels; but before he had taken half a dozen steps, dan flew past him as if he had been standing still. his father made a desperate effort to catch him as he went by, but dan sprang out of his reach and bounded onward with increased speed, never stopping to take breath or to look behind him, until he found himself safe in the cabin. when his father stepped across the threshold, a few minutes later, dan made all haste to close and lock the door. "you're a purty son, you be, to run off and leave your poor old pap to face the danger alone," said the ferryman, sinking into the nearest chair and fairly gasping for breath. "i won't give you none of my fortune when i get it, just to pay you for that mean piece of business." "i don't care," answered dan, doggedly. "you run first, and i wasn't going to stay behind with that thing there in the bushes. i reckon you're willing to believe now that he was a chasing of me a while ago, ain't you? i tell you, pap, he follers the letter, and he'll never leave off pestering the man that's got it. i'm glad it's lost." "so be i," said silas, who had not thought of this before. "he bothered his pardner, who was the only one who knew that there was a fortune in the cave, and his pardner had to jump into the lake to get shet of him. it stands to reason, then, that he'll show himself to every one who finds out about that money. i 'most wish that that letter hadn't been put in my wood-pile, 'cause i can't rest easy while that hant is loafing about here." "now i'll tell you this for a fact," added dan. "you'd best let the whole thing drop right where it is. the hant will be sure to foller the money wherever it goes, and as often as you step out to your hiding-place to get a dollar or two, you will find him there waiting for you." "dannie," said silas, slowly, "i'll bet you have hit centre the first time trying. but it 'pears to me that if he wanted to keep the secret of that cave hid from everybody, he ought by rights to have scared me away when he saw me taking the letter out of my wood-pile." "you can't never get the money, and that's all there is about it," said dan, confidently. "yes, we can!" exclaimed silas, jumping up to put his gun back in its place. "i've just thought of something, and i want you to tell me if you don't think it about the cutest trick that was ever played on a hant or anything else. he'll stay around where that letter is till some one finds it, won't he?" dan thought it very likely. "then he'll go with the feller, to keep track of the letter, won't he?" dan was sure he would. "and if it ain't found right away, he'll hang around so's to keep an eye on it and see where it goes to. don't you think he will?" dan replied that he did. "well, now, that's what i am going to work on," continued silas, gleefully. "the hant is out of the cave now--we're sure of that, for we both seen him when he went into them bushes--and we must work things so's to keep him out." "you keep saying 'we' all the time," interrupted dan, "and i tell you, once for all, that i ain't going to have nothing to do with it. you can have all the money, for i won't go nigh the cave." "i don't ask you to," silas hastened to assure him. "that's the trick i was telling you about. all i want you to do is to walk up and down the road to-morrow--it's getting too late to do anything to-day--and make the hant believe that you're looking for the letter you lost." "well, i won't do it," said dan, promptly. "that'll keep him away from the cave," continued the ferryman, paying no attention to the interruption, "and while he is watching you, i'll slip up and gobble that fortune without asking any other help from you. and i'll give you half, the minute i get my hands on to it--the very minute." "well, i won't do it," said dan, again. "why don't you stay and watch the hant, and let me go after the money?" this proposition almost took the ferryman's breath away. he wouldn't have agreed to it if the robber's treasure had been twice twelve thousand dollars. "why, you don't know where the cave is," he managed to articulate. "no more do you," retorted dan. "yes, i do, 'cause i looked at the map. i can go right to it on the darkest of nights." "here comes mam and that joe of our'n, and so you'd best hush up," said dan, in a hurried whisper. "i ain't a going to play 'hi-spy' all alone with that there hant, and that's all there is about it. but i do hate to give up my good clothes, and breech-loader and j'inted fish-pole," he added, after thinking a moment, "and mebbe i'll go with you up to the cave to-morrow, and make him keep his distance while you go in and bring out the money. who knows but what the smell of powder and the whistle of shot about his ears will scare him so't he will go away and never come back?" silas caught the idea at once, and felt greatly encouraged by it; but before he could say anything the door, which dan had unlocked while he was talking, was thrown open, and mrs. morgan and joe came in. the latter looked cheerful and happy, but it was plain that his mother was worried and anxious. she knew that there would be trouble in that house in just one month from that day. chapter xv. joe's new home. the ferryman and his family always arose at an early hour, and it was probably more from force of habit than for any other reason, for joe and his mother were the only ones who did any work. the former kindled the fire and laid the table, while dan and his father loafed around and watched them. but on the morning following the events we have recorded in the last chapter, these two worthies had something to talk about, so they went out and sat under a tree on the bank of the river, and far enough away from the cabin to escape all danger of being overheard. joe and his mother, however, did not bother their heads about them, for they had their own affairs to talk over. joe was to enter upon his duties as game-warden that very day. of course he was impatient to see his new home, and to get his hands upon some of those books that mr. warren had promised to lend him; but, above all, he was anxious to earn something for his mother. she needed a good long rest, and joe was rejoiced to know that he would soon be in a position to give it to her. a night's refreshing sleep had an astonishing effect upon dan and his father. they did not talk or act much like the frightened man and boy we saw running along the road a few hours before. they were as brave as lions. twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold were well worth working for, and they repeatedly assured each other that they were willing to face any danger in order to obtain them for their own. but there was one thing that dan held to in spite of all the appeals and arguments that his father could bring to bear upon him, and that was, that the hant must be met and overcome, or outwitted, as circumstances might seem to require, by their united forces. he wasn't going philandering away in one direction, while his father went on a wild-goose chase in another, because that wasn't the way to fight ghosts. "then we'll stick together," said silas, at length. "we'll hang around the house till that joe of our'n goes away, and then we'll fire off our guns and load 'em up with heavier charges of shot, so't we'll be ready for anything that comes along." "i did want powerful bad to live up there in the woods this winter with that joe," said dan, with something like a sigh of regret. "what he's going to get he's sure of, but we ain't. i am going into this thing to win, i tell you," he added, sticking out his lips and calling a very reckless and determined look to his face. "i ain't a-going to let no little brother of mine beat me. when i get started for that there money, i'm going to have it before i turn back." "that's the way to talk," said silas, approvingly. "joe's going to give all he earns to mam, but i ain't," continued dan. "i am going to spend all my six thousand dollars for myself. i'm going to have good clothes, and a breech-loading bird gun, and a j'inted fishing-pole, and by this time next summer i'll be so much of a gentleman that the folks who come here to hunt and fish will be glad to hire me for a guide, 'cause they won't know that i am dan morgan at all. they'll take me for somebody else." "course they will!" exclaimed silas, bringing his heavy hand down upon dan's shoulder with such force that the boy shook all over. "just bear that in mind, son, when we find the cave. i'm 'most certain that the hant won't show himself to us, for he'll be down the road somewhere, looking for the letter you lost yesterday; but if he does come out, you just say, 'six thousand dollars' to yourself, and walk right into him with the bird-shot that's in your gun." "and what'll you be doing?" queried dan. "oh, i'll be there, and i'll shoot, too," replied silas; and a stranger would have thought that he was a man who never got frightened at anything. just then joe came to the door of the cabin and shouted, "breakfast!" and that put a stop to the conversation. there was little said while they were seated at the table, for they were all busy with their own thoughts. silas and dan wished from the bottom of their hearts that the day was over, and that the robbers' treasure was safely stowed away in a hiding-place of their own selection. wouldn't they make good use of some of it before many hours had passed away? "that joe of our'n feels mighty peart this morning," thought dan, glancing at his brother's radiant face. "he thinks he's smart because he is going to earn a hundred and twenty dollars; but what would he think of himself if he knew that i am going to have six thousand dollars before night comes? now i'll tell you what's a fact," added dan, who was firmly resolved that he would not come home empty-handed. "when we get that money i'll make pap count out my share at once, and then i'll take care to see that he don't know where i hide it. he'll bear a heap of watching, pap will." "i wonder what has come over dan all on a sudden?" said joe, to himself. "i don't know when i have seen him look so pleasant before. he's got an idea of some kind in his head, and if i am not constantly on my guard i shall hear from him to my sorrow i wonder if there's another boy in the world who has a brother as mean as dan is?" the latter, who was impatient to begin the serious business of the day and get through with it, and have it off his mind, did not eat a very hearty breakfast. he simply took the sharp edge off his appetite, and then pushed back his chair and arose from the table. silas groaned inwardly, for now the ordeal was coming. he would have been glad to put it off a little longer, but he knew that if he did he would be accused of cowardice. everything depended upon keeping up dan's courage. if the boy saw the least sign of faltering, the whole matter, so far as he was concerned in it, would end then and there. he would refuse to take a step toward the cave, and no amount of money would have tempted silas to go there alone. so he got upon his feet, took down his gun and game-bag, and followed dan out of the cabin. joe looked through the window without leaving his chair, and saw that they were striking a straight course for mr. warren's wood-lot. "now just watch them," said he, bitterly. "they're going to begin the slaughter of those english birds before i have time to get up there and order them away. i don't see why they can't lend me a helping hand, instead of trying by every means in their power to get me into trouble. but i told dan yesterday, that if i caught him in mr. warren's woods i would report him, and he will find that i meant every word of it. i shall not try to shield them any more than i would if they were utter strangers to me. good-by, mother; i must be off; i am sorry to see you look so downhearted and sorrowful when you ought to be smiling and happy, but i will do everything i can to bring about a different state of affairs. you'll get the money i earn, in spite of all that father and dan can do to prevent it; you may depend upon that." "it isn't the money i care for, joe," said mrs. morgan between her sobs. "i know it," replied joe, hastily. "you want father and dan to behave themselves, and let me alone. so do i; and if they won't do it, i'll make them." joe caught up the small bundle of clothing that had been made ready for him while he was setting the table, shouldered his long, single-barreled gun, kissed his mother good-by, and hurried away. he did not follow directly after his father and dan, but took a short cut through the woods, and, at the end of an hour, had his first look at the snug little cabin that was to be his home during the winter--that is, if his brother or some other desperate poacher did not get mad at him and burn it down. mr. warren's double team stood in front of the open door, and that gentleman and one of his hired men were busy transferring baskets and armfuls of things from the wagon to the interior of the cabin. "well, joe, you're on hand bright and early," was the way in which mr. warren greeted his young game-warden, "and you are in light marching order, too," he added, glancing at the boy's bundle, and wondering at the size of it. "mr. hallet had to take one of his teams to move tom and bob up to their house." "tom and bob?" repeated joe. "yes. oh, you didn't know that hallet had hired them for wardens, did you? well, he has; so you will have good neighbors, almost within reach of you." "why, what in the world possessed them--" "what possesses them to do a thousand and one things that nobody else would ever think of," exclaimed, mr. warren, who knew what joe was going to say. "it looks to me like a foolish notion, and i'll venture to say, that they will be glad enough to go home and stay there, after they have stood one snow-storm up here in the mountains. they came well prepared, though. they had two trunks, and they were full to the top. but i like your way the best. when you go into the woods, go light, even if you know that you are going to spend the most of your time in a permanent camp. come in, and see if we have forgotten anything." joe followed mr. warren into the cabin, and listened attentively while he described the contents of the different bundles and baskets that were scattered about the floor. "your carpet is in there--it was made to fit, so you will not have any trouble with it--and in one of those baskets you will find a hammer and tacks to put it down with. i have brought a few books and papers, which will keep you busy until you can come down and make a selection from my library to suit yourself. this is your cot, and i guess the bedding is in there. that's a side of bacon, and here are your dishes and a supply of provisions. when you get out, come down to my house and ask for more." as mr. warren spoke, he opened the door of a small safe that stood in one corner near the fire-place, and showed joe an array of well-filled shelves. among other things, there were a number of paper-bags, which gave promise of better meals than the boy was accustomed to sit down to at home. "that door leads into your wood-shed, which i would advise you to fill up with the least possible delay," continued mr. warren, "and there's the axe to do it with. hallet has given his nephew and that chum of his permission to shoot all the grouse and squirrels they can eat, and i will extend the same privilege to you; but you mustn't make a mistake and knock over one of my english partridges for your dinner. of course, you know enough to shoot wolves, foxes, minks, and such varmints, without being told, and if you see a half-starved hound in these woods, hunting deer on his own hook, put a bullet into him without a moment's delay." "you mean a charge of buck-shot," said joe. "no, i mean a bullet; and there's the rifle, right there," replied the gentleman, pointing to a marlin repeater, which stood in the corner opposite the safe. mr. warren continued to talk in this way, while the hired man was unloading the wagon, and when the last bundle had been carried into the cabin, he bade his game-warden good-by, and drove off leaving him to his reflections. chapter xvi. joe's "first official act." joe morgan stood in front of the cabin, watching his employer as long as he remained in sight, and then he went in and picked up the rifle. "my first official act is going to be one that i would rather leave for some one else to perform," said he, to himself. "i must hunt up father and dan, and tell them to make themselves scarce about here. i could be as happy and contented as i want to be during the next eight months, if they would only let me alone. with a business i like, to keep me occupied while daylight lasts, plenty of books and papers to help me pass the evening hours pleasantly, and a fair prospect of earning money enough to make mother comfortable during the coming winter--what more could a boy ask for? if father and dan get into serious trouble by trying to upset my arrangements, they must not blame me for it." while joe communed with himself in this way, he filled the magazine with cartridges, which he took from a box he found on the table, and went out, locking the door behind him. but where should he go? that was the question. mr. warren's wood-lot covered a good deal of ground, and the birds he was employed to protect might be at the farthest end of it. if that was the case, silas and dan with the aid of the three dogs they had brought with them, could easily find some of the flocks, and create great havoc among them with their heavy guns, before joe could put a stop to their murderous work. "when snow comes i shall not have any of this trouble," soliloquized the young game-warden. "i shall feed the birds near the cabin twice each day, and that will get them in the habit of staying around so that i can keep an eye on them; and i shall know in a minute if there are any pot-hunters about, for i can see their tracks." for an hour joe worked hard and faithfully to find the two hunters, who as he believed, had come up there to kill off mr. warren's imported game, but he could neither see nor hear anything of them. finally he told himself that he did not think his father and dan had come to those woods, because the birds he put up did not act as though they had been frightened before. if they had been shot at, joe would have heard the report of the gun. "i'd give something to know what it was that took those two off in such haste this morning," thought he. "they're up to some mischief or other, or else the face that dan brought to the table belied him. well, it's none of my business what they do, so long as they let my birds alone. hallo, here! i'm afraid that i am going to have more to do than i thought for. go back where you came from!" as joe said this he bent over quickly, caught up a stick, raised it threateningly in the air, whereupon a brace of pointers, which had just emerged from a thicket a short distance away, turned and beat a hasty retreat, giving tongue vociferously as they went. a moment later, suppressed exclamations of surprise arose from a couple of men who were following the dogs, and who forthwith set themselves to work to find out what it was that had sent the pointers back to them in such a hurry. joe heard them making their way through the bushes in his direction, but he did not say anything until he became aware that the invisible hunters were stalking him with the same caution they would have exhibited if he had been some dangerous beast of prey. fearing that in their excitement one or the other of them might send a charge of bird-shot at his head without taking the trouble to ascertain who or what he was, joe called out: "go easy, there! there's nothing around here for you to shoot at." the reply that came to his ears was the heaviest kind of an oath, and the man who uttered it came through the thicket with such energy that one would have thought he meant to do something desperate as soon as he reached the other side of it. when he came into view, joe recognized him as a guide who had more than once been arrested and fined for hounding deer and shooting game during the close season. "what air you doing here, joe morgan?" he demanded, in savage tones. "you thought to steal them p'inters, i reckon, didn't you? get out o' this, and be quick a doing of it, too!" "get out yourself," answered the game-warden. "i've more right here than you have, and i'm going to stay; but if you know when you are well off, you will lose no time in putting yourself on the other side of mr. warren's fence. this land is posted, and you are liable for trespass." the guide was both angry and astonished; but before he could make a suitable rejoinder to what he regarded as joe's insolence, the bushes parted again, and the second hunter came out. he was the guide's employer; joe saw that at a glance. "what's the trouble here?" were the first words he uttered. "it's a pretty state of affairs, i do think," answered the guide. "here's this joe morgan, who takes it upon himself to say that we shan't stay in these woods." "why not, i'd like to know?" brierly--that was the guide's name--turned toward joe, and intimated that, if he could, he had better explain the situation. "i am mr. warren's game-warden," said the boy, taking the hint. "i have been put here to watch his birds, and warn off all trespassers. this land is posted, and you must know it. there's a notice on that tree over there," he added, indicating the exact spot with his finger. "i can see it from here; and when you saw it, you ought to have turned back." "how is this, brierly?" exclaimed the guide's employer. "i paid you handsomely for a good day's shooting, and you assured me that you knew right where i could get it, without interference from any one." "and you shall get it in these very woods, mr. brown," was the guide's reply. "you told me that you didn't care how much them english birds cost, or how bad old man warren wanted to keep 'em for his own shooting, you would just as soon have them as any other game; and seeing that there ain't no law to pertect 'em, what's to hender you from getting 'em? send out the p'inters and come on. this fool of a boy ain't got no power to make an arrest, and i'll slap him over if he gives us a word of sass." "i know that i have no authority to take you into custody, but i can report you to one who has, and i'll do it before you are two hours older, if you don't get out of these woods at once," said joe, resolutely. "you will, eh?" brierly almost shouted. "then why don't you report _them_ fellers?" when the guide began speaking, it was with the intention of abusing joe roundly for his interference with their day's sport, but just then there came an unexpected interruption. it was a regular fusilade--four shots, which were fired as rapidly as the men who handled the guns could draw the triggers. joe's heart sank within him. his father and dan were slaughtering mr. warren's blue-headed birds at an alarming rate in a distant part of the wood-lot, and he was not there to stop them. the guide must have been able to read the thoughts that were in joe's mind, for he repeated, with a ring of triumph in his tones: "why don't you report them fellers, and have them arrested?" "four shots," said mr. brown, admiringly. "they got in their work pretty lively, didn't they? i have heard that these english partridges and quails are the nicest birds in the world to shoot, and i'd give twenty dollars if we could get a chance to empty four barrels at them in that fashion. i wonder if they are good shots, and how many birds they got." when mr. brown said that he had given brierly a handsome sum of money to lead him to a place where he could have a good day's shooting among mr. warren's imported game, he had given joe a pretty good insight into his character; but now, the boy was quite disgusted with him. could it be expected that ignorant fellows like brierly would yield willing obedience to the laws, when intelligent men deliberately violated them because they wanted to brag over the size of the bags they had made? "they are good shots, mr. brown," said brierly, with a grin. "i could tell the noise them guns make among a million, and i know the names of the man and boy who were behind them when they were fired. they were silas and dan morgan--this chap's father and brother." "well, he's a pretty specimen for a game-warden, i must say!" exclaimed mr. brown. "no doubt he wants to keep all the fine shooting for his own family. i don't believe a word he has said to us, and i think we can go on with our sport without wasting any more time with him." "i don't care whether you believe me or not," answered joe, the hot blood mantling his face as he spoke. "if you shoot over these grounds, you will find out before night that i have told you nothing but the truth." "look a-here, joe," said brierly, shaking his fist in the boy's face. "it was your father and dan who fired them guns a bit ago, wasn't it?" "i don't know--i have no proof of it, and neither have you." "you do know it," replied the guide. "i've got all the proof i want that it was them, 'cause i know them guns of their'n when i hear 'em go off. now let me tell you what's a fact, joe morgan. if you say a word to anybody about seeing me and mr. brown up here, i'll report silas and dan for trespass and shooting out of season; and if i do, they'll have to go to jail, and salt won't save 'em. there ain't nary one of 'em worth five cents a piece, and where be they going to get the money to pay their fines? answer me that. now, will you hold your tongue, or not?" "no, i won't," answered joe, without the least hesitation. "if i can find any evidence against them, i will report them myself as quick as i will report you if you don't get off these grounds." "i hardly think you will," replied mr. brown, with something like a sneer. "it ain't no ways likely, for it don't stand to reason that he would be willing to say the words that would put some of his own kin into the lock-up," assented brierly. "but i'll do the work for him as soon as we go home, and what's more, i'll report him, too, for--for--" "neglect of duty," prompted mr. brown. "perzactly. them's the words i was trying to think of. then, old man warren, he'll say to him that he ain't got no use for such a trifling game-warden as he is--that is, if he _is_ one, which i don't believe. now, joe, will you hold your jaw?" joe replied very decidedly that he would not. he knew what his duty was better than they could tell him, and brierly might as well hold his own jaw, and stop making threats, because he couldn't scare him into saying anything else. "i don't want to get into any trouble with the officers, for it is absolutely necessary that i should start for home bright and early to-morrow morning," said mr. brown, who could not help admiring joe's courage, although he would have been glad to see his guide thrash him soundly for his obstinacy. "it is very provoking to have this boy show up just in time to spoil all our fun. let's go over to hallet's woods, and see if we can scare up another so-called game-warden." "well, you can," said joe, who wanted to laugh when he saw the look of surprise that settled on the guide's face. "you'll scare up two over there, and, brierly, one of them is a chap that you will not care to fool with. when you find him, it will be very easy for you to ascertain whether or not i have told you the truth; that is, if you care enough about it to ask him a few questions." "who is he?" asked brierly. "tom hallet," answered joe; and, without waiting to listen to the expressions of anger and disgust that came from the lips of the guide, he shouldered his rifle and hurried off. "i wonder what they will conclude to do about it?" thought joe, as he threaded his way through the thick woods in the direction from which the poachers' guns sounded. "brierly agreed to give his employer a good day's sport, and now that he can't keep his promise, will he hand back the money that mr. brown paid him? i don't think he will." he didn't either, and joe afterward learned how he got out of it. chapter xvii. who fired the four shots? it is hardly necessary to assure the reader that the young game-warden's heart was not in the task he had set himself. he believed that his father and dan had come upon a bevy of mr. warren's imported birds and fired both barrels of their guns into it; and, as they were both good wing-shots, it was not probable that very many of the birds had escaped unhurt. joe's business was to intercept them if he could, and to report them, regardless of consequences, if he found anything except squirrels in their game-bags. "but i don't expect to find the least evidence against them," said joe, to himself, "and there's where they are going to take advantage of me. what is to hinder them from doing as much shooting as they please at one end of the wood-lot, while i am skirmishing around the other end? they know well enough that the sound of their guns will draw my attention, and as soon as they have killed the birds they'll gather them up and dig out before i can stop them. it seems as though every business has its drawbacks." and the longer joe lived the firmer grew this opinion. half an hour's rapid walking took the young game-warden past his father's wood-pile, which now stood a good chance of staying where it was until it mingled with the mold beneath it, and down a little declivity to the brink of the gorge in which tom hallet had located the robbers' cave. although he made constant use of his eyes and ears, he could not see or hear anything of the poachers, and neither were there any suspicious sounds behind him to indicate that mr. brown and his guide had kept on to mr. hallet's woods "to scare up another so-called game-warden." "this is the way it is going to be all winter," said joe, to himself. "anybody who feels like it can slip in here, shoot all the birds he wants and slip out again before i can get a sight at him. there's brierly, now; and that's his employer, looking out from behind that big tree on the right. they have followed me to see what i would do if i found father and dan shooting mr. warren's birds." while joe was walking along the brink of the gorge, wondering if it would pay to scramble down one side of it and up the other, when he was sure that he couldn't catch the poachers if he did, he suddenly became aware that he was an object of interest to a couple of persons who were so anxious to avoid discovery that they kept themselves concealed--all except their heads, and them they concealed, too, when they saw that joe was looking in their direction. but joe was wide of the mark when he declared that they were mr. brown and his guide, who were watching his movements in the hope of finding some grounds for complaint against him. the concealed parties were watching him, it is true, but for a different purpose, and instead of seeing any reason for finding fault with him, they told each other that mr. warren's game-warden was wide awake, and that the fellow who shot any birds on those grounds would have to be lively in getting away with them, or joe would catch him sure. when they saw the latter looking at them, they moved out from behind their respective trees, and stood forth in full view. they were tom hallet and his friend bob emerson. "look here!" shouted joe, who little dreamed what it was that brought the two boys on his grounds, and so far from their own quarters. "these woods are posted, and you can't get out of them too quick." "you don't say so!" replied tom. "come up here and talk to us. you've had visitors already, haven't you? who fired those four shots a while ago, and what did they shoot at?" joe slowly mounted to the top of the hill, and shook hands with tom and bob, before he made any reply to these questions. then he said: "i have had visits from two parties. one of them i saw, and the other i didn't see, and they were the fellows who did the shooting. they are on the other side of the gulf, most likely, and when i saw you dodging behind trees, i was trying to make up my mind whether or not i ought to cross over and hunt them out." "what's the use of going to all that trouble?" exclaimed tom. "i don't believe they got any birds; but if they did, they made all haste to pick them up and run with them. you say you saw the other party. who were they? did they have any birds?" joe answered the last question first. "i took particular pains to see that their game-bags were empty," said he. "the guide was brierly, and he called his employer mr. brown. he's no sportsman, whoever he is; he's a butcher," added joe, who then went on to give the particulars of the interview, and to rejoice in the fact that mr. brown was several dollars out of pocket, having been confiding enough to pay brierly in advance for the day's sport he thought he was going to have among the imported game that had just been "turned down" in mr. warren's woods and hallet's. "hallet's!" exclaimed tom. "did they have the impudence to go over there after you left them." "mr. brown suggested it, but i didn't see them go anywhere," was joe's reply. "i warned them that they would find two game-wardens there instead of one, adding that if they wanted to know whether i had told the truth regarding myself they had better question you." "let's go back and see what they are up to," suggested bob. "i say, joe," he added suddenly, but not without a certain hesitation and constraint of manner that was too plain to escape the young game-warden's attention, "while you were walking along the gulf, you didn't--er--you didn't see anything at all suspicious, did you?" "i didn't see anything but trees and bushes." "and you didn't hear anything either, i suppose?" continued bob. "not a sound. why do you ask?" "oh--er--the idea just occurred to me, that's all." "do you think that the men who fired those guns are hiding in the gulf?" exclaimed joe. "perhaps i had better go down there and see." this proposition called forth so emphatic a protest from both the boys, that joe did not know what to make of it. they declared with one voice that such an idea had never occurred to them--that the poachers were safe out of harm's way long ago, and, besides, it would be putting himself to altogether too much trouble. he'd find it awful hard work to make his way through the thick bushes and briars that covered the steep sides of that gorge, and long before he reached the bottom, he would wish he had let the job out. they knew all about it, for they had tried it. with this piece of advice the boys bade joe good-by, and hastened away in search of brierly and his employer. "do you think joe suspects anything?" asked tom, as soon as mr. warren's game-warden had been left out of hearing. "i thought he looked at us as if he had a vague idea that we had other reasons than those we gave for telling him to keep out of the gulf." "that's my opinion," answered bob; and his companion took note of the fact that his voice trembled when he spoke. "i hold to my belief that those guns were fired by silas morgan and some one he has taken into his confidence. but of this i am certain: silas went after that money this morning, and shot at the man who ran us out of the gulf yesterday." "you still think it was a man, and not a wild beast that yelled at us?" said tom. "i know it as well as if i had been at his side when he did it," replied bob, positively. "and, tom, if silas and his friend have shot somebody-- great scott! if i ever take a hand in any more jokes of that sort, i hope i shall be shot myself." "seems to me, that tom and bob don't take any too much interest in their business," thought the young game-warden, as he started down the mountain toward his cabin. "the gorge runs through mr. hallet's wood-lot, and if those boys are going to confine their scouting to the covers on the lower side of it, i don't see how they are going to protect the birds. well, it shan't stop me. as soon as i get around to it, i am going to cut a path down one side and up the other, and after that i shall cross over every day to take a look at things." joe was hungry when he reached his cabin, and then he found that there was one thing that had been forgotten--a clock. he had already laid out a regular routine of work--setting aside certain things that were to be done at certain hours of the day or evening; but how was he going to follow it without the aid of a timepiece? a few minutes reflection showed him a way out of his quandary. among the other relics of better days that were to be found in his father's cabin was an old-fashioned bull's-eye watch which had not seen the light of day for many a long year. joe wasn't sure that it would run, but it wouldn't cost him anything more than a two-hours' walk to find out, and he decided that he would go down and ask his mother for it as soon as he had eaten his dinner. "i can't set my house to rights to-day anyhow," thought he, "because i have wasted too much time in looking for father and dan; but i'll have it all in order to-morrow, unless some other law-breakers call me up the mountain, and the day after that, i'll begin on my routine, and stick to it as long as i am here." if you had been there, reader, to take a look around joe's cabin, you would have told yourself that there was another and still more important thing that had been forgotten--a cooking-stove. but joe didn't miss it, for never in his life had he seen a meal prepared over a stove. he would not have known how to use one if he had had it; but give him a bed of coals in a fire-place, or on the mountain-side, and he could get up as good a dinner as any hungry boy would care to have set before him. he had everything in the way of pots, pans and kettles that he could possibly find use for, but on this particular day he did not call many of them into service--nothing, in fact, but the pot in which he made his tea, and the frying-pan in which he cooked two generous slices of bacon. he found potatoes in one of the baskets and a huge loaf of bread in another, and with the aid of these he made a very good dinner. then he shouldered his rifle (knowing the thieving propensities of the majority of the poachers who infested the mountains, he could not think of leaving so valuable a piece of property behind him), locked the door and set out for home. chapter xviii. dan's secret. although the young game-warden stepped out lively enough, his heart was as heavy as lead. he was sure that his father and dan had come back from the mountain with a goodly number of mr. warren's valuable birds, which had fallen to their murderous double-barrels, and that they would take pains to keep out of his sight when they saw him approaching the cabin; consequently he was much surprised to find them sitting on the bank of the river, widely separated from each other, and to notice that they did not show the least desire to avoid him. when he stepped across the threshold of his humble home, he was still more surprised to see that his mother appeared very nervous and anxious, and that there was an expression on her pale face that he had never seen there before. "what's the matter?" queried joe. "what's happened?" "i am sure i don't know," answered mrs. morgan, in a faltering voice. "but it must be something terrible. have you seen your father and daniel since they left the house this morning?" "not until this very minute; but i tried to find them, for i heard them shoot, and knew they were after my birds. how many did they bring home with them? this is not a pleasant thing for me to do, mother, but they will get into trouble just as sure--" "i don't think they shot any birds," mrs. morgan interposed. "if they did, they have concealed them somewhere. but they must have done something, for i never saw them act so before." "act how?" inquired joe. "why, as if they were frightened out of their wits. when i looked out of the window and saw them coming, they were running at the top of their speed; and the minute they got into the house, they closed the door and fastened it, and began trying to load their guns. but their hands trembled so violently that they spilled the powder all over the floor; and then they sat down and swayed back and forth in their chairs as if they did not have strength enough to hold themselves still. there was not a particle of color in their faces, and they acted for all the world as if they had taken leave of their senses." "what ailed them?" asked joe, who was profoundly astonished. "i don't know. i couldn't get them to say a word. whenever i spoke to them they stared at me as if they didn't know what i meant, then shook their heads and went on rocking themselves in their chairs. when they could muster up courage enough to unlock the door and go out, i heard your father say that he had hauled his last load of wood down from the mountain." "well, that beats me," said joe, who did not know what else to say. "but there's one comfort, mother; i shall have two pot-hunters less to watch during the winter." "why, joseph, you are not going back there?" exclaimed mrs. morgan, who trembled visibly at the bare thought of the unknown perils to which he might be exposed. "of course i am going back," replied joe, quickly. "why shouldn't i? there's where i am going to earn the money to keep you from paddling off through the deep snow this winter." "oh, joe, let the money go and stay at home with me," said his mother, pleadingly. "i shall be so uneasy every minute you are away. if anything should happen to you--" "now what in the world is going to happen to me," asked the young game-warden, who told himself that silas and dan must have behaved in a most extraordinary manner to frighten and excite his mother in this way. "what is there up there in the hills that's going to hurt me?" "that i can't tell. i do wish i knew just what happened to your father and dan. the reality couldn't be any worse than this uncertainty and suspense." "i wonder if i couldn't induce dan to give me a hint of it," said joe, standing his rifle up in one corner of the room. "i believe it will pay to have a shy at him. he can't keep a secret for any length of time to save his life; and if i work it right, i think i can worm this one out of him." so saying, joe stepped to the door to take a look at the motionless figures on the river bank. there was only one of them there now. silas had disappeared and dan was left alone. joe thought that nothing could have suited him better. dan might be inclined to be reticent with his father sitting in plain sight of him; but now there was nothing to restrain him, and he could talk as freely as he pleased. walking leisurely along, as if he had no particular object in view, joe went down to the bank and seated himself a short distance away from his brother, who sat with his elbows resting on his knees and both hands supporting his head. he never moved when he heard the sound of joe's footsteps, and neither did he utter a sound; so joe began the conversation himself, and with no little anxiety, it must be confessed, as to the result. dan was an awkward boy to manage, and if joe had entered at once upon the subject that was uppermost in his mind, his brother would have shut himself up like a clam. "well, old fellow," said joe, cheerily, "why didn't you come around and see my new home? i tell you, i've got things nice there; or, rather, i'm going to, as soon as i have time to straighten up a bit. you were up there, because i heard you shoot--you and father. i didn't expect to see you back so soon." dan slowly raised a very pale face from his hands, and gazed at his brother with a pair of wild-looking eyes. he did not look like himself at all. after staring hard at his brother for full half a minute, and running his eyes up and down the bank to make sure that there was no one else in sight, he said, in hollow tones: "and i didn't look to see you back again so soon, either. i didn't never expect to set eyes on to you no more." "you didn't?" exclaimed joe. "why not?" "did he show himself to you, too?" asked dan, in reply. "you don't look like you'd seen him." "seen who? i met some men up there on the mountain, if that is what you mean." "it wan't no man, joey," said dan shaking his head solemnly--"it wan't no man. it was something wusser." "why, dan, i don't know what you mean," said joe. and then he checked himself. his brother was in a fair way to reveal something to him, and he did not want to lose the chance of hearing it by exhibiting too much impatience. "how many birds did you get?" "didn't get none," answered dan. "didn't see nary one. they are as safe from me and pap, from this time on, as though they wasn't there." "then what did you shoot at?" dan looked behind him, and allowed his eyes to roam up and down the bank, before he replied. "i'm 'most afraid to tell you," said he, in a scarcely audible voice. "joey," he added, straightening up, and giving emphasis to his words by pounding his knee with his fist--"joey, i wouldn't live up there in old man warren's shanty two days--no, nor half of one day--for all the money there is in--" dan was about to say, "for all the money there is in that robbers' cave," but he caught himself in time, and finished the sentence by adding, "for all there is in ameriky." "i can't, for the life of me, make out what you are trying to get at," said joe, rising from the ground and turning his face toward the cabin, "and neither can i waste any more time with you. i came down after father's watch, and as soon as i get it i must hurry back. i don't want the dark to catch me--" "i should say not!" gasped dan, shivering all over. "say, joe," he continued, reaching up and taking his brother by the hand, "don't go up there no more. go and tell old man warren that he'll have to get somebody else to be his game-warden." joe was more amazed than ever. dan was in sober earnest, there could be no doubt about that, and he could not imagine what he had seen to scare him so badly. "don't go back," pleaded dan. "the hant is in the gulf now, but as soon as it gets dark it will come out--that's the way they all do--and come up to your shanty; and when you see it walking around there, all in white, like me and pap seen it, i tell you--say, joey, you won't go back, will you?" "dan, i am surprised at you, and heartily ashamed as well," said joe, who was more than half inclined to be angry at his brother. "you've heard some foolish story or other, and it's frightened you out of a year's growth. there's no such thing as a 'hant.'" "i tell you there is, too," dan protested. "i seen it with my own two eyes, and so did pap. if he was here he'd tell you the same thing, pervided he told you anything at all. we heard it yelling at us, too, and such yelling! oh, laws a massy! i don't never want to listen to the like again," cried dan, covering his ears with both hands, and rocking himself from side to side, as if he were in the greatest bodily distress. joe now thought it time to hurry matters a little. he was really anxious to hear his brother's story. "i should like to know just what you and father saw and heard this morning," said he; "but i can't waste any more precious moments with you. you know my time is not my own any longer. it belongs to mr. warren." "do you mean to say that you're going back?" "yes. i am going to start this very minute." these words seemed to arouse dan from his lethargy. "set down, joey," said he, at the same time casting apprehensive glances on all sides of him. "come clost to me, so't that hant can't tech me, and i'll tell you everything." "will you be quick about it?" "just as quick and fast as i know how, honor bright," replied dan. "and will you promise, sure as you live and breathe, that you won't lisp a word of it to nobody? 'cause why, i'm afeared that if you do, he'll show himself to me again, and i don't want to see him no more." "i shall make no promises whatever," answered joe, who saw very plainly that he could say what he pleased, since dan would not permit him to depart until he had eased his mind by confiding to him everything there was in it. "if there is any dangerous thing up there in the gulf, i am going to hunt him or it out the very first thing i do." "joey, don't you try that," exclaimed dan, who really seemed to be distressed on his brother's account. "you can't hurt a hant. me and pap fired four charges of no. shot into him, and we never so much as made him wink. he kept on yelling at us just the same, and now and then he would make a lunge for'ard, as if he was coming right at us." "go on with your story," said joe, whose patience was all exhausted; "i am listening." thus adjured, dan settled himself into a comfortable position, and began his narrative. chapter xix. dan tells his story. having fully determined to get rid of his tremendous secret at once and forever, dan went deeply into all the details, and did not omit a single thing that had the least bearing upon his story. he could not give a very connected account of the finding of the letter, for that was a matter that silas had touched upon very lightly. the letter was found in the wood-pile, because his father said so, and that was all that dan knew about it. he had read the document very carefully after it came into his possession, and some portions of it were so firmly fixed in his memory that he repeated them word for word. then the muscles around the corners of joe's mouth began to twitch, and when dan told, in a frightened whisper, how the man who pushed his "partner" into the gorge had been obliged to jump into the lake in order to free himself from the presence of the "hant," which followed him day and night--when joe heard about that, he couldn't stand it any longer. he threw himself flat upon the ground, and laughed so loudly that he awoke the echoes far and near. dan, who had not looked for anything like this, was not only overwhelmed with astonishment, but he was fighting mad in an instant. "whoop!" he yelled, jumping up and knocking his heels together. "hold me on the ground, somebody, or i'll larrup this joe of our'n till i put a little more sense into him nor he's got now. what you laughing at, you big fool?" "sit down and behave yourself," replied joe, who was not at all alarmed by these hostile demonstrations. "let me ask you a few questions, and then we'll find out who is the biggest fool, you or i." "no, i won't," said dan, shortly, "'cause why i know that already." "all right," replied joe; "then i'll get the watch and go back to my work." "but you haven't heared all of my story yet," exclaimed dan. "wait till i tell you, and i'll bet that you won't never go back there no more." "there are a few things about the story that i don't quite understand," began joe. "no more do i," interrupted dan. "but if you will answer a question or two i have in mind, i think we can get at the bottom of the matter." "you needn't ask 'em, cause you'll laugh at me again." "no, i won't," protested joe; and he kept his promise, although he sometimes found it hard to do so. "the first question is this: did the letter that father took from his wood-pile look faded and soiled, as if it had been rained and snowed on?" "not a bit of it, that i could see. it was as spick and span as you please." "that's one point gained," said joe. "did the writer say anything about cutting a hole through the ice, so that he could jump into the lake to get away from the 'hant'?" "nary word." "did you find the rope that led down to the cave, when you went up there this morning?" "we didn't look for it. we went up the beach till we struck the brook that comes out of the gulf, and we follered that till--till--" "you found the cave?" suggested joe. "till we come purty nigh to where the cave is," corrected dan. "we didn't see the cave, 'cause we run against something that wouldn't let us go no furder." "what was it?" "the hant i was telling you about." "what did it look like? now go on with your story, and i won't say a word till you get through. what did you see up there in the gulf that frightened you so badly?" these words drove away dan's anger, and called up all his old fears again; but he sat down and resumed his narrative. it related to a few things which the reader ought to know in order to understand what happened afterward; but dan told it in such a rambling way, and made so many impossible statements, which he insisted should be received as absolute facts, that joe found it hard to follow him, and we will not attempt it. his narrative, stripped of all the monstrous exaggerations that his excitement and terror led him to put into it, ran about in this way: when silas and dan shouldered their guns that morning and set out to find the robbers' cave, and the treasure that they firmly believed was concealed in it, they told each other that no matter what happened they would not come back until they had accomplished their object. the former, as we know, was not as eager to brave the terrors of the gorge as he pretended to be, but dan was thoroughly in earnest, and he built so many gorgeous air-castles, and talked in such glowing language about the fine things they could have for their own as soon as the money was found, that finally silas became worked up to the highest pitch of excitement and impatience, and showed it by striding ahead at such a rate that dan had to exert himself to keep pace with him. "you needn't be in such a hurry, pap," said dan, when he found that he was growing short of breath. "it'll keep till we get there, 'cause there ain't nobody else that knows about it, seeing that you got the first grab at the letter." "i know it," was the ferryman's reply, "but i'm powerful oneasy to get a hold of that grip-sack that's got the false bottom into it. we don't care if they do put a bridge down there to our house and bust up the ferrying business, do we, dannie? and anybody that wants that old scow for their own can have it, can't they?" "i don't care what becomes of it, or where it goes to," said dan, spitefully. "it ain't a going to bring me no more backaches, i bet you." "course not," assented silas. "you'll be a gentleman directly, and then you can buy a nice boat, if you want it." "i don't care so much for boats as i do for breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles," observed dan. "them's the things that make a feller look nobby when summer comes. say, pap, what be we follering the beach for? the rope that leads to the cave is way up there in the hills." "look a-here, dannie," said silas, stopping short, and bestowing a very knowing wink upon the boy at his side. "we ain't nobody's fools, if we be poor and ragged. as i told you yesterday, we don't want to slide down that there rope, 'cause why, it'll dump us right down in front of that hant, and he'll bounce us before we can get our guns ready. see the p'int? if we go up the gorge, easy like, and keep our eyes open all the time, we shall see him as soon as he sees us. understand? but i don't reckon he's up here. i'm a thinking that he's down the road somewhere, watching for the feller that finds that letter." "i hope he is," said dan, "for then we won't have no trouble in getting hold of the money. looks powerful dark and lonesome in there; it does for a fact." they had now reached the brook, and were standing in full view of the mouth of the gorge. it did, indeed, look dark and lonely in there; so much so, in fact, that if dan had shown the least sign of fear, silas would have faced about at once, and made the best of his way back to the cabin, leaving the treasure to stay where it was until the mildew and rust had eaten it up. "them thick bushes shuts out all the light of the sun, don't they?" said silas. "and it's so ridiculous crooked, that we might run right on to the hant in going around some sharp bend, and never see him till we was clost to him. the brook is plumb full of rocks and such, and the cave must be as much as five miles away, i reckon--mebbe more. it'll be hard work to go up there after that money." "but it would be harder to get it by chopping wood for it," said dan; "so here goes, hant or no hant." "you're the most amazing gritty feller i ever seen," declared silas, who was really astonished at the boy's hardihood. "you go on ahead, for you ain't as old as i be, and your eyes are sharper, and i'll stick clost to your heels." for a wonder, dan did not object to this arrangement. "i know well enough that pap's afeard," said he to himself; "but that don't scare me none. if we have to run to save ourselves from the grip of that hant, the hindermost feller is the one who will be in the place of danger, and that'll be pap. with two or three jumps i can put myself so far ahead of him, that he won't never see me again till i get ready to stop and wait for him to come up." with these thoughts to comfort and encourage him, dan did not hesitate to lead the way into the gulf. the traveling was bad enough at the start, and the farther they went into the gorge, the worse it became. a dozen times or more, in going the first quarter of a mile, were they obliged to climb over or crawl under immense logs which had fallen into the stream from the bluffs above; and when these obstructions had been left behind, foaming cascades, some of them forty feet in height, and which they surmounted by scaling the steep face of the cliffs, took their places. it was a bad location for a surprise and a retreat, in which the hant would have every advantage of them. beyond a doubt, he could skip from one boulder to another, and plunge headlong over all the falls that came in his way with perfect immunity. but how would it be with them? dan asked himself. it was a wonder that he did not get disheartened, and declare that he would not go any farther. silas hoped he would, for he was growing weary, and, in spite of all he could do to prevent it, the disagreeable thought would now and then force itself upon him, that perhaps there wasn't any money up there, after all, and that they were destined to return as empty-handed as they came. dan also had some misgivings, but he would not allow them a place in his mind. the belief that there was a fortune of six thousand dollars almost within his grasp, had taken full possession of him; and even if he had not been sure of it, his pride would not permit him to say the first discouraging word. he was determined that it should come from his father, so that if their expedition failed he could blame him for it. he pressed steadily and patiently onward, without saying a word, and his father followed silently at his heels. they were now between four and five miles from the lake, and the cliffs on each side were so high, and the bushes and trees that covered them from base to summit were so thick, that twilight always reigned at the bottom of the gorge, let the sun shine never so brightly. on a cloudy day it must have been as dark as a pocket down there. silas couldn't think of anything that would have induced him to stay alone in that gloomy place for five minutes. "say, pap," whispered dan, so suddenly, that his father started and almost dropped his gun, "how long before we'll be abreast of that wood-pile of our'n?" silas raised his head long enough to look about him and take a glance at the cliffs above, and then the blood all fled from his face, leaving it as pale as death itself. "laws a massy, danny," he managed to articulate, "we're abreast of it now." there was something so unnatural in the tones of his father's voice, and in the face he turned on him, that dan felt the cold chills creeping over him, and it was all he could do to refrain from crying out with terror. chapter xx. a run for home. "yes, sir," repeated silas, after he had taken another brief look at his surroundings, to make sure that there was no mistake about it; "we're abreast of our wood-pile at this blessed minute, 'cause why--you see that leaning hickory up there on the top of the bluff? well, i shot a squirrel off'n there about three weeks ago, and that there tree is only a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile. i wish you wouldn't look so scared-like, dannie. the best part of this mean job is over now, and we ain't seen nothing to be afeard of yet. look around, and see if you can find anything of that rope. if you can, there's the cave. go ahead, dannie, and when you feel yourself getting trembly all over, just say, 'breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles,' and that'll put pluck into you." silas rattled on in this way simply to gain time, and dan knew it; but before he could make any reply, the performance of the previous day, which had proved so trying to tom hallet's nerves and bob emerson's, was repeated for their benefit, followed by a new and startling variation. first, a dismal howl arose on the air, and the echoes took it up and threw it from one cliff to the other, until it seemed to the terrified dan that every tree and hush within the range of his vision concealed some awful thing that was howling at him with all its might. gradually the sound grew into a scream; and at the same moment there arose above the bushes, not more than thirty yards in advance of him, a grotesque figure, clad all in white. its head was concealed by something that looked like a night-cap; but its face was visible, and it was as white as chalk--all except the places where its eyes, nose and mouth were, or ought to have been, and they were as black as ink. it held its arms stiffly by its sides, and when the scream was at its loudest, it made a sudden dart forward as if it were on the point of jumping over the bushes, to take vengeance upon the daring fortune-hunters. "oh, my soul!" groaned silas; and his legs refusing to support him any longer, he sat down among the rocks and covered his eyes with his hand. but dan was made of sterner stuff. for a moment or two he stared at the figure with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, and then his gun came quickly to his shoulder, and two loads of shot went straight for the ghost's head. this aroused his father, who was not a second behind him; but the four charges had no more effect upon the spectre than so many blank cartridges. when the smoke cleared away, there he stood, and his actions seemed to indicate that he was about to assume the offensive. he began growing before their eyes; and when he had risen in the air until his height overtopped that of the tallest man they had ever seen, dan, who did not care to wait until he had lengthened himself all out, uttered a yell that was almost as loud and unearthly as those that came from the direction of the cave, and turned and took to his heels. he quickly gave his father the place of danger--the rear--and when silas, lumbering along behind, and stumbling over rocks and barking his shins at almost every step, reached the first bend in the stream, dan was nowhere in sight. knowing that it would be of no earthly use to call to him to come back, silas took one quick glance behind him to make sure that the spectre was not coming in pursuit, and then darted into the bushes which fringed the base of the cliff, and climbed slowly and laboriously to the top. he was a long time in reaching it, for his terror seemed to have robbed him of all his strength and agility, while it had just the opposite effect upon dan, whom he found at last; sitting on a log near the wood-pile. "well, we know now for certain that the money's there, don't we?" said silas, as soon as he could speak. "yes; and we know that the hant's there too," replied dan. "if i'd known that he was such a looking feller as that, you can bet your bottom dollar that i wouldn't have gone nigh him. he didn't have them white clothes on yesterday. you needn't set down, thinking that i'm going to wait for you, 'cause i'm going straight home." tired and weak as he was, silas was obliged to go, too, for he hadn't the courage to stay there alone until he was rested. he wasn't very steady on his legs, and by no means as sure-footed as he usually was; but he managed to keep along with dan, who, as fast as his wind came back to him, increased his pace, first to a slow trot, then to a fast trot, and finally to a dead run, every fresh burst of speed calling forth a corresponding exertion on the part of his father, who, struggling gamely to keep up, was so nearly exhausted by the violence of his efforts that he was often on the point of falling in his tracks. [illustration: a run for home] this was the way they were moving when mrs. morgan discovered them approaching the house. she was greatly astonished when she saw the nervous haste with which they closed and locked the door, and witnessed their frantic but unsuccessful attempts to recharge their guns, and she was frightened when she caught a glimpse of their faces; but with all her questioning, she could not get a word out of them. they stared stupidly at her, as they rocked about in their chairs, but did not seem to possess the power of speech. "our tongues were stiffer'n a couple of boards, and we couldn't nary one of us open our heads," was the way in which dan wound up his story. "at first i thought the hant had put some kind of a spell or 'nother on to us; but it went away after a while, and now we can both talk as well as we ever could. i reckon you won't go back, will you, joey?" to dan's utter amazement, the young game-warden replied with the greatest promptness: "of course i shall go back. what would mr. warren think of me if i should throw up my situation before i had fairly entered upon its duties? i haven't seen anything to get frightened at." "but i have," exclaimed dan. "i don't doubt it in the least," answered joe, who had a theory of his own regarding the strange things that had happened in the gorge. "if i don't bother the 'hant' i don't see why he should take the trouble to climb out of his cave to bother me. i don't want the treasure he is guarding. i never expect to get a dollar that i don't work for; and, dan, if you and father would make up your minds to the same thing, and quit your foolish wishing and go to work in dead earnest, you would be better off six months from now. i wouldn't go near those woods again if i were in your place." "you're right i won't," said dan, earnestly. "i want my new gun and fish-pole awful bad, and i do despise to have to give 'em up; but i'll wait till that there hant dies or goes away, before i try that gulf again, i bet you. be you going back to your shanty now?" joe said he was. "well, mebbe it's best so," continued dan, reflectively. "you have got to earn all the money that comes into the family this winter, ain't you?" "i suppose i shall earn all i get," said joe, who saw very plainly what his brother was driving at, "and i know that you and father will earn every red cent you get." "it sorter bothers me to see how we are going to do it," replied dan. "don't it you?" "not at all. earn it as you did last winter--cut wood." "why, that would take us up there clost to the gulf," cried dan, looking up in amazement. "and didn't i just tell you that i wasn't going there no more?" "now, dan, that's only an excuse on your part. you know very well that mr. warren and mr. hallet are not the only ones who will want cord-wood this winter. i don't blame you for keeping away from the gorge; but you can find plenty to do elsewhere, if you are not too lazy to look for it. well, good-by." "what a teetotally mean, stingy feller, that joe of our'n is!" soliloquized dan, gazing after his brother, who was walking toward the cabin with a light and springy step. "he ain't a going to go halvers with me and pap, is he? i wish in my soul that the hant would run him outen the mounting this very night." the young game-warden carried a very bright and smiling face into his mother's presence, and mrs. morgan felt immensely relieved the moment she looked at it. instead of locking the door, as dan and his father always did whenever they wished to hold a secret interview with each other, joe sat down on the threshold so that he could talk to his mother and keep watch of dan at the same time. the latter was inclined to be "snooping," and it would be just like him, joe thought, to slip up and crouch under the open window, so that he could hear every word he uttered. dan had an idea of doing that very thing; but he straightway abandoned it when he looked up and saw his brother sitting at ease in the open door. "now, mother," said the latter, cheerfully, "throw your fears to the winds. i've got at the bottom of the whole matter, and know there's nothing to be afraid of." then he went on to repeat the story to which he had just listened, but he did not take up so much time with the narration as dan did, because he used fewer words. "dan was so badly frightened that he didn't know whether he stood on his head or his heels," said joe, in conclusion. "but it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and this is the best thing that could have happened for me. i told you this morning that if father and dan didn't behave and let my birds alone, i would find means to make them, but i guess the ghost has taken that most unpleasant job off my hands, and i should really like to thank him for it." "then you think there is some one hidden in the gulf?" said mrs. morgan. "i am sure of it; and the reason that father and dan did not do any damage with their four charges of bird-shot was, because they sent them into a dummy. if they had held a little lower, and fired into the bushes, there might have been another story to tell." "have you any idea who the man is?" "not the slightest; but--but--well i don't care who he is, or why he is hiding there, if he will only make it his business to drive away every market-shooter who goes into those woods." it had been right on the point of joe's tongue to say that he would know all about the mysterious party who was hiding in the gorges before he came home again; but he didn't say it. his mother was smiling now, and he did not want to bring the old expression of fear and anxiety back to her face. he was none the less determined, however, to sift the matter to the bottom. "i will see tom and bob to-morrow," he went on. "by the way, you didn't know that they are mr. hallet's game-wardens, did you? neither did i, until this morning. i couldn't have better fellows for company, could i? you see, mother, the place where all these things happened is on the dividing line that runs between mr. warren's woods and mr. hallet's, and as the ghost will help tom and bob quite as much as he will me, i want to know what they think about letting him stay there." there was another reason why joe was anxious to have an interview with mr. hallet's game-wardens, but he did not think it best to say anything to his mother about it. chapter xxi. a treacherous guide. having told his story, and set all his mother's fears at rest, joe thought it time to speak of his own affairs, and asked for his father's watch; whereupon, that ancient relic and heirloom was duly fished out of a dark corner in one of the bureau drawers, set in motion, and handed over to him, after being regulated by the not altogether reliable clock that ticked loudly on the mantel. the young game-warden went away from home with a very light heart beating under his patched jacket. by some fortunate combination of circumstances, which he did not pretend to understand, he had been relieved of a heavy responsibility. the two market-shooters of whom he stood the most in fear had been most effectually disposed of, for a while at least. it would be a long time, joe told himself, before his father and dan could muster up courage enough to come into the woods of which he had charge. if silas was afraid to draw the wood which was to keep him warm during the winter, it was not at all probable that he would be reckless enough to hunt through mr. warren's covers. when joe reached his cabin, there was barely enough daylight left to aid him in his search for the lamp which he knew was stowed away somewhere among the things that were scattered over the floor. while he was groping about in the gloom, he wondered how much money it would take to induce dan or his father to come up there and stay alone in that cabin all night. it would not have been at all strange, in view of the harrowing story to which he had listened a few hours before, if his own nerves had been a trifle "trembly;" but they were not. the sighing of the evening breeze through the thick branches of the evergreens that surrounded the cabin on three sides, and the mournful song of a distant whip-poor-will, were sounds that some people do not like to hear, because they make one feel lonely; but they were company for joe, and he delighted in listening to them. he found the lamp after a protracted search, filled it outside the door just as the last ray of daylight gave way to the increasing darkness, and when he touched a match to the wick and put on the chimney, his surroundings began to assume a more cheerful aspect. it was the work of but a few moments to start a blaze in the fireplace, and while he was waiting for it to gather headway, so that he could pile on the hard wood which was to furnish the coals for the broiling of his bacon, he busied himself in setting things to rights. he didn't bother with the carpet--that would have to wait until to-morrow; but he put up his cot, laid the mattress upon it, and was about to spread the bed-clothes over that, when he heard the snapping of twigs and heavy, lumbering footfalls outside the door, and looked up to see a white, scared face pressed close against one of the window-panes. joe was startled, and during the instant of time that he stood motionless by his cot, he felt the hot blood rushing to his heart, and knew that his own face must be as white as the one at the window. his first emotion was one of fear, but it speedily gave place to anger and excitement. he wondered if the man who was hiding in the gorge labored under the delusion that he could drive him away with the same ease that he had driven off dan and silas. "this thing might as well be settled now as a week from now," thought joe. "i am here on legitimate business, and i'll ride rough-shod over anybody who attempts to interfere with me." with one bound, joe sprang clear across the cabin, and when he turned about he held his cocked rifle in his hands. he was ready to shoot, too. but the man at the window had seen the movement, and lost no time in drawing his head out of sight. "hold on there!" said a frightened voice. instead of "holding on," joe jumped for the door, jerked it open, and in an instant more the muzzle of his heavy weapon was covering a crouching figure under the window. "speak quick," said he. "who are you?" "mr. brown! mr. brown!" came the answer, in tones that joe recognized at once. "what are you pointing that gun at me for? i'm lost, and want help to find my way out of the woods." "then why didn't you come to the door and say so like a man, instead of trying to scare me by looking in at the window? you ought to know that you put yourself in danger by doing that." "i didn't mean to frighten you," replied mr. brown. and joe could easily believe it. his visitor had risen to an upright position by this time, and joe saw at a glance that he was too badly frightened himself to think of playing tricks upon others. "why did you not answer my calls for help?" demanded mr. brown, who, now that he was safe, seemed to grow indignant when he remembered how near he had come to spending the night alone on the mountain, with no cheering camp-fire to illumine the darkness. "because i didn't hear any calls for help," answered joe, shortly. "well, i did call, and called again, until i was too hoarse to speak above a whisper," said mr. brown, walking into the cabin, and placing a camp-chair in front of the fire. just then the pointers came into view and went in also, stretching themselves out on the hearth with long-drawn sighs of relief, and the three took up about all the spare room there was in the game-warden's little domicile. "i don't know who has the most impudence, the man or his dogs," thought joe, as he closed and fastened the door. "they have come here to run things, judging by the way they shut me off from the fire." "this is glorious," continued mr. brown, depositing his double-barrel in the chimney-corner, and spreading his benumbed hands out in front of the genial blaze. "the air begins to get cold up here on the mountain just as soon as the sun sinks out of sight, and i am chilled through. now, how am i to get to the beach? that's the question." "you will have to answer it for yourself, for i can't," joe replied. "you had a guide the last time i saw you." these innocent words seemed to irritate the man to whom they were addressed, for he turned upon joe almost fiercely. "yes, i did have one," said he. "but where is he now?" "i don't know," answered joe. and he might have added that he did not care. "you heard me remind him that i had given him a handsome sum of money to put me in the way of a good day's shooting, did you not? i knew him to be perfectly familiar with these woods, and i supposed he could do it. of course, i was aware that i couldn't take home a bag of grouse; but i knew there was no law protecting the english birds that have just been turned down in these covers, and i looked for jolly good sport, and for twenty-five or thirty brace of birds to distribute among my friends." "don't you think it was kind of mr. warren to pay six dollars a pair for those birds, just to give you the fun of shooting them?" asked joe. "you ought to thank him for it." mr. brown stared hard at the bold speaker, shrugged his shoulders, and turned around on his camp-chair to bring the heat of the fire to bear upon the back of his shooting-jacket. "well," said he, slowly, "if any man is foolish enough to squander his money in that way, i don't know that it is any business of mine, or yours, either; and neither do i consider it my duty to refrain from shooting birds that are not protected by law, as often as my dogs flush them. now, let me go on with my story." "but first suppose that you send the dogs under the table, and move back out of my way, so that i can cook supper," suggested joe. but mr. brown and his four-footed companions were very comfortable there in front of the fire, and not until joe, losing all patience, jerked the door wide open and caught up a broom, could any of them muster up energy sufficient to move out of his way. then the pointers, which were really well trained and obedient, were easily induced to get under the table, while mr. brown retreated into the chimney-corner. "now i am ready to listen," said joe, after he had piled an armful of hard wood upon the fire. "where is your guide, and why didn't he show you the way to the beach?" "he is at home, i suppose," said mr. brown, growing spiteful again. "when i learned that these birds were protected, and that brierly, instead of giving me a day's shooting had rendered both himself and me liable to trespass, i told him that he had better hand back the twenty-five dollars i had given him--" "twenty-five dollars for a single day's shooting!" exclaimed joe. "that is what i paid him," said mr. brown. "but do you imagine that he gave it back, even when he knew that he could not fulfil his promise? no, sir! he got out of it by leading me away off into the woods and losing me there. i had a fearful time working my way out, and it was only by the merest accident that i blundered within sight of the light that streamed from your window." "good for brierly!" was joe's mental comment. "i wish he would serve every law-breaking pot-hunter who takes him for a guide in the same way." then, aloud, he asked, "did it frighten you to think that you had a fair prospect of lying out all night?" "it was by no means a pleasant reflection, but that wasn't what frightened me. i ran across a couple of men up there," said mr. brown, giving his head a backward jerk. "their stealthy actions seemed to indicate that they were abroad for no good purpose, and i was not sorry to see the last of them." "did they say anything to you?" asked joe. "not a word. they made all haste to lose themselves among the thickets, and so did i. it was the prospect of passing the night alone on the mountain while there were prowlers around that tested my nerves, and i was glad indeed to come within sight of your light." this piece of news was not at all quieting to the feelings of the young game-warden. it aroused in his mind the suspicion that there was more than one man hiding in the gorge, and that they made a business of roaming around after dark to see what they could find that was worth picking up. if this suspicion was correct, mr. warren's woods might prove a very unpleasant place for him to live for eight long months, joe told himself. he could not remain on guard duty at the cabin all the time, for the work he came there to do would take him to the remotest nooks and corners of the wood-lot; and how easy it would be for those men to slip up during his absence and carry away everything he possessed! "if they are outlaws, and i really believe they are," thought joe, as he poked up the fire, which had by this time almost burned itself down to a glowing bed of coals, "they ought to be hunted out of that gorge without loss of time. i will find tom and bob the first thing in the morning, and ask them what they think of it." chapter xxii. mr. brown takes his departure. "how far is it to the beach?" inquired mr. brown, who had got pretty well thawed out by this time. "eight long miles," replied joe, "and the most of the way lies through the thickest woods that are to be found among these hills. i can't direct you so that you could keep a straight course, and indeed i don't think i could keep it myself on a dark night like this. you had better give up the idea of going there to-night, and stay here until morning." "you seem to have but one bed," said mr. brown, doubtfully. "well, you may take that, and i'll look out for myself." most men would have expressed their regrets that circumstances compelled them to trespass upon the young game-warden's hospitality; but mr. brown wasn't that sort. he had a cheerful fire to sit by, a clean, if not luxurious bed to sleep in, a substantial meal in prospect, and what more could a belated hunter ask for? if his presence put joe to any inconvenience, why, that was no concern of his. the supper that joe served up to his uninvited guest was plain but well cooked, and no sooner had it been disposed of than mr. brown threw himself upon the cot, boots and all, and speedily went off into the land of dreams. joe spent the evening in looking over the books and papers with which mr. warren had provided him, and when his watch told him that it was ten o'clock, he lay down before the fire, with his coat for a pillow, and went to sleep. the first gray streaks of dawn that came in through the uncurtained window awoke him, but his guest still slumbered heavily, and joe did not disturb him until he had made the coffee and slapjacks, and fried the bacon and eggs. mr. brown did not take the trouble to respond to the boy's hearty good-morning, but seated himself at the table, after performing a hasty toilet, and attacked the savory viands without ceremony. when he had eaten rather more than his share of them, his tongue became loosened, and he asked if it were possible for him to reach the beach in time to take the stage for bellville. joe said it was, provided he did not waste too much time in making a start, and then he began railing at brierly for the mean trick he had served him. "i wish i could prosecute him and compel him to give up my money," said he, "but i don't see that i can make out a case against him. more than that, i can't wait to go through a law-suit, and neither do i want to give mr. warren a chance at me. he might take a notion to have a hand in the business." "very likely he would," said joe, dryly. "you knew well enough that these grounds are posted, and you ought to have cleared out when you saw the first notice." "you will guide me to the beach, of course?" said mr. brown, who did not appear anxious to discuss this point. "i will put you on the road, but i can't promise to go all the way with you," was joe's reply. "i am paid to stay here." mr. brown was not quite satisfied with this arrangement--he was very much afraid that he might get lost again--but he was obliged to put up with it. an hour later, joe stood by his father's wood-pile, taking a last look at his departing guest, who was hurrying down the dim wagon-road toward the valley below. all he had received in return for his services was a slight farewell bow. "i have seen a good many sportsmen first and last," thought the young game-warden, as he shouldered his rifle and retraced his steps down the mountain, "but mr. brown beats me. if he ever spends another night in my house, he will take off his boots before he goes to bed, and pay me in advance for his meals and lodging." remembering the prowlers of whom mr. brown had spoken, joe went straight back to his cabin, took a good look around to make sure that everything there was just as he had left it, and then started off in search of tom and bob. he found them setting their house in order. a note of warning from tom's little beagle brought them both to the door, where they remained until joe came up. they were somewhat surprised at his actions. instead of replying to their greetings, he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked quizzically at them. "halloa! what has come over you all of a sudden?" exclaimed bob. still joe did not speak. he shut his left eye, and looked at bob through the half-closed lids of the other. "what do you mean by that pantomime?" chimed in tom. by way of reply, joe shut his right eye and looked at tom with the left; whereupon all the boys broke out into a hearty laugh. "say," said joe at length, "i wish you would tell me just how much you know about the ghost that has taken up his abode down there in the gorge." "what ghost?" asked bob, staring hard at his friend tom, and trying to look surprised. "down where in what gorge?" inquired tom, returning bob's stare with interest. "of course you don't know anything about it," said joe, with a look which said that they knew _all_ about it; "but if you are as ignorant as you pretend to be, why were you so anxious to keep me out of the gorge yesterday?" "why--er--you see, we didn't want you to walk yourself to death for nothing," said tom, wondering if joe had anything better than mere suspicion to back him. "we knew there were a couple of fellows down there, for we heard them shoot, and we advised you to keep out of the gorge because we were satisfied that you couldn't catch them, and that it would be a waste of breath and strength for you to make the attempt." "was that the only reason you had for giving me that advice?" asked joe, with a smile. "you might as well confess that there was something down there you did not want me to see. there were two fellows in the gorge yesterday, but they were not hunting birds. they were after the twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold that you said were hidden there." "we never said so!" exclaimed both the boys, in a breath. "but the letter you wrote said so," insisted joe. "and what do you think those trespassers did while they were there?" he continued, with great impressiveness. "they sent four charges of shot into the head of that ghost, which wasn't a ghost at all, if you only knew it." "great moses!" ejaculated bob, who was really surprised now, as well as alarmed. the way in which joe spoke was calculated to excite the gravest suspicions in his mind and tom's. "did--did they hit him?" tom managed to ask. "i should say they did!" answered joe, solemnly. "they could not miss him very well, seeing that he was only thirty yards away from the muzzles of their guns." "was--was it a man?" tom ventured to ask. "animals don't generally have 'hants,' do they?" asked joe, in reply. "there was a man there, and he howled and screamed--" "oh, great scott!" groaned tom, while bob rubbed his hands together, and gazed down the mountain, as if he were meditating instant flight. "and he kept it up after he received those four charges of shot in his head, and--" these words had a magical effect upon tom and bob, who were really afraid that their practical joke had resulted in a terrible tragedy. they looked at joe so steadily that the latter could control himself no longer. he sat down on a convenient log, threw back his head, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "you shot closer to the mark than you thought for when you made that letter say there was something in the gorge," said joe, at last. "there's a man down there--two of them, according to my way of thinking." "well," said bob, who was immensely relieved by this sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, "we knew it. we went into the gorge day before yesterday, to catch a trout for dinner, and when we came home we followed the stream, thinking it would be easier than to climb up the bluff. that was the way we found it out. when we came to the place where we had located our robbers' cave our ears were saluted by such sounds as we never listened to before, but we didn't see anything." "what sort of an object was it that dan shot at?" asked tom, who was glad to see that joe was not inclined to be angry over the trick that had been played upon his father and brother. "was it a dummy?" "if it had been anything else i might have had a different story to tell you," was joe's reply. "there are at least two outlaws in hiding there, and they have taken that way to make inquisitive hunters keep at a distance." "what makes you think there are two of them?" "because mr. brown ran against two prowlers in the woods last night." "who is mr. brown?" joe replied that he was one of the men he had been obliged to order out of mr. warren's woods on the previous day, and then he went on to tell of the visit he had had from him the night before, and how frightened he was when he saw the man's face at the window. when he described how brierly had managed to evade his employer's demand for the return of the twenty-five dollars that had been paid him, tom and bob laughed heartily, and declared that brierly had served him just right. joe did not neglect to tell how mr. brown had abused his hospitality, and his account of it aroused the ire of the two listeners, who declared that if that man ever got lost in their woods, he need not trouble himself to hunt up their cabin, for they would not take him in. "what kind of a looking thing was that dummy?" inquired bob, coming back to the matter in which he was interested more than he was in mr. brown and his fortunes. joe was obliged to confess that he could not answer that question, because dan's description of the thing that he and his father shot at, surpassed all belief. whether it was the appearance of the ghost itself, or the fact that the four loads of shot that had been fired at it had had no perceptible effect upon it, or the terrifying shrieks that awoke the echoes of the gorge--whether it was one or all of these that had frightened silas into saying that he would not haul any more wood down from the mountain, joe could not tell; but he thought those men ought to be made to give an account of themselves. if they had not violated the law in some way, why did they take so much pains to keep out of sight? "we were at first inclined to believe that some of the mischief-loving guests at the beach had a hand in it," observed tom. "when a lot of city people turn themselves loose in the country, they will go for anything that has fun in it, no matter what it is." "you mean that that was _your_ explanation of it," corrected bob. "i thought when the thing happened, that it was an outlaw who yelled at us until we were glad to get out of hearing of him, and i think so now." "so do i," said joe. "and i shall hold fast to that opinion until we go down there and get at the bottom of the mystery. i am ready to start at once. what do you say?" chapter xxiii. exploring the cave. ever since the mysterious inhabitant of the gorge had driven them from his presence by his unearthly howling, there had been a tacit understanding between tom and bob that some day, after they had time to get a good ready, they would return and drive him out of his hiding-place; or, if they failed in that, find out who he was, and what brought him there. it was the hope of being able to carry out one or the other of these ideas that had prompted them, on the previous day, to seize their guns and run for the gorge when they heard those four shots fired there. when they found joe, and learned that he was more than half inclined to go in search of the poachers, who, he thought, were pursuing their nefarious work on the other side of the gulf, they endeavored to dissuade him, because they were afraid he might encounter something he would not care to see. but it turned out that joe knew more about the matter than they did, and furthermore that he wouldn't rest easy until he knew _all_ about it. tom was the first to speak. "i wonder if a stranger thing than this ever happened?" said he. "we wrote a letter and put it into your father's wood-pile, just for the fun of the thing--" "and by that means unearthed a brace of thieves, or something worse," said joe. "you needn't look at me in that way. i don't bear you the least ill-will for what you did. on the contrary i thank you for it, and if i were sure that those parties in the gorge would let us alone this winter, i should be strongly in favor of letting them alone, too; for, as long as they stay there, we are safe from two of the worst game-law breakers in the country." "but the mystery of that gulf is known to but few," said tom. "it will be known to more by this time next week," answered joe. "dan will tell it to every man and boy he meets, and in that way it will become noised abroad. but here's the difficulty: they won't let us alone. i have not the slightest doubt that they frightened mr. brown last night. if you could have seen the face he put against my window, you wouldn't doubt it either; and that seems to prove that, although they keep closely hidden during the day, they go out on foraging expeditions as soon as darkness comes to conceal their movements. if that is the case, what is there to hinder them from robbing our cabins at any time? you have the advantage of me, for one of you can stay here on guard while the other is attending to business; but when you see joe morgan, you see all there is of my party, and i can't be in two places at the same time. that's why i am so anxious to have those fellows out of there." "i understood you to say that you got your information from dan," observed bob. "what did he say? did he tell you everything that happened in the gulf?" "yes, and more, too," said joe, with a laugh. "i went home yesterday after a time-piece, and dan concluded to take me into his confidence." "well, tell us the story, just as he told it to you, so that we may know." "oh, i couldn't begin to do that, and besides, you wouldn't believe me if i did!" exclaimed joe. "then tell it in your own way, so that we may know just what we shall have to face, if we decide to go down there," said tom. "wait until i get something for us to sit down on, and then we'll take it easy." tom went into the cabin, reappearing almost immediately with three camp-chairs in his hands. when each boy had appropriated one, joe began his story, making no effort to follow dan's narration, but telling it in such a way that his auditors saw through it as plainly as he did himself. indeed, the whole thing was so very transparent that tom and bob marveled at dan's stupidity. "it seems to me that a child ought to have seen through it without half trying," said joe, in conclusion. "but simple as the trick was, it is going to end in something besides fun; mind that, both of you." "then they wouldn't use the rope, because they were afraid that they would dump themselves down in front of the 'hant' before they could get a chance to shoot him," said bob. "well, they saved time by not looking for it, because it wasn't there. i never thought of the rope after i spoke about it in the letter. well, tom, what do you say? i am ready to face the spectre of the cave if you are." "talk enough," was tom's reply. and to show that he was in earnest about it, he picked up his camp-chair and went into the cabin. when he came out again, he carried his double-barrel in his hands and his cartridge belt was buckled about his waist. no one could have accused these three boys of cowardice if they had decided that they would not go near the gorge at all. it was plain that the men who were in hiding there--they were satisfied now that there were at least two of them--were fugitives from justice, and such characters ought to be left to the care of the officers of the law. it is true that their presence in the gorge was a continual menace to the peace and comfort of the young game-wardens. they seemed to say, by their actions, "we are here to stay, and you can't get us out." the boys took the events of the last two days as a challenge to them to come on and see what they could make by it, and the promptness with which joe morgan proposed the expedition, and the nervous eagerness exhibited by tom and bob in preparing to take part in it, indicated that they meant to do something before they came back. "there's one thing about it," said bob, after he had armed himself, and closed and locked the door, "we are not to be turned from our purpose by a dozen dummy ghosts, and neither will those horrid yells have the same effect upon us that they did the first time we heard them. if dan had fired into the bushes, instead of aiming at the 'hant's' head--" "i hope you don't intend to do that!" cried joe, in alarm. "if you do, you will get into trouble as sure as the world. beyond a doubt, there was a man behind the bushes." "of course there was," assented bob. "but you need not worry about me. i shall not allow my excitement to lead me into anything reckless." tom hallet, who was leading the way, took a short cut through the woods, and his route did not take him and his companions within a mile of joe morgan's cabin. if they had gone there, instead of holding a straight course for the gorge, they might have been in time to see something surprising. they did not know that the enemy was operating in the rear while they were marching upon his stronghold, but they found it out afterward. they moved along as silently as so many indians, and when they reached the gorge, spread themselves out along the brink, looking for a place that gave promise of an easy descent to the bottom. before they had made many steps, joe uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and with a motion of his hand, called his companions to his side. "this is the spot we are looking for," said he, in a suppressed whisper. "push the bushes aside and you will see it." tom did so, and, sure enough, there was a clearly-defined path, which seemed to run straight down to the brook below. it looked more like an archway than anything else to which we can compare it, for the tops of the bushes were entwined above it, and they were so dense and matted that they shut out every ray of the sun. "now what's to be done?" whispered bob. "no doubt the path leads straight down to their hiding-place, and i am free to confess that i don't want to come upon them before i know it." joe's reply was characteristic of the boy. he did not say a word, but worked his way through the bushes, and moved down the path with slow and cautious footsteps. "that looks like business," whispered bob, who lost not a moment in following his daring leader, tom and bugle being equally prompt to bring up the rear. in this order they moved at a snail's pace toward the bottom of the gorge, stopping every few feet to listen, and all the while holding themselves in readiness to fight or run, as circumstances might seem to require, and to their great surprise they came to the foot of the path without encountering the least opposition, or hearing any alarming sound. the deep silence that brooded over the gorge aroused their suspicions at once. what if the enemy had heard their approach, in spite of all the pains they had taken to keep them in ignorance of it, and prepared an ambush for them? joe thought of that, and the instant he found himself in the gorge, he moved promptly to one side, so that his companions could form in line of battle on his left--a manoeuvre which they executed at double quick time. "great scott! there's our cave," whispered tom, who was so nearly overcome with amazement that he could scarcely speak plainly. "and there's the ghost," chimed in joe, pointing to a scarecrow in white raiment that lay prone on the rocks under a dense thicket. "just take a look at its head! those four loads of shot tore it almost to pieces." but tom and bob did not stop to look at the ghost, for they were too busy taking notes of their surroundings while awaiting an onset from the owners of the camp. for it was a camp in which they found themselves, and everything in and about it seemed to indicate that it had been occupied for some length of time--two or three weeks at least. tom's cave proved, upon closer inspection, to be something else--a rude but very comfortable shelter, in the building of which nature's handiwork had been improved upon by the ingenuity of man. the slanting roof, which for ten feet or more from the entrance was quite high enough to permit a tall man to stand upright, was the bottom of a huge rock, firmly embedded in the face of the overhanging bluff. the walls of the cabin, or whatever you choose to call it, were made of evergreens, which had been piled against the rock, top downward, to shed the rain; and that one little thing showed to the experienced eyes of the boys that the men who lived there were old campers. in front of the wide, open entrance were the smouldering remains of a camp-fire, over which a hasty breakfast had been cooked and eaten. the boys were sure that the meal had been a hurried one, because the dishes were left unwashed; and that is a disagreeable duty that no old-time "outer" ever neglects, unless circumstances compel him to do so. when the fire was in full blast, and the flames were roaring and crackling and the sparks ascending toward the clouds, it was probable that the interior of the cabin was bright and cheerful; but now it looked dark and forbidding, thought the boys, as they stretched their necks, twisted their bodies at all sorts of angles, and strained their eyes in the vain effort to see through the gloom that seemed to have settled over the other end of it. it was a fine place for an ambuscade, but if the enemy had concealed themselves there, why did they not come out? now was the time for them to make their presence known and felt. all this while tom hallet's little beagle, upon which the boys had been depending to warn them of the proximity of any danger that their less acute senses might not enable them to detect, had been acting in a most unusual manner. he was generally foremost in every expedition in which his master took part, but in this one he was quite contented to remain in the rear. he went into the camp boldly enough, but after he had taken one look at its surroundings, and caught a single sniff of the tainted air, he stuck up the bristles on the back of his neck, dropped his tail between his legs, and ran behind his master for protection. "i really believe they are in there. 'st--boy! go in and hunt them out! sick 'em!" whispered tom, pointing to the cabin. but bugle was in no hurry to go. he was usually prompt to obey the slightest motion of his master's hand; but now he refused to budge an inch--except toward the rear. he ran to the foot of the path and stood there, saying as plainly as a dog could that he would go back to the top of the bluff before he would advance a step nearer to the cabin. the boys closely watched all his movements, and told themselves, privately, that perhaps they had done a foolhardy thing in coming down there. chapter xxiv. robbers. "you're a coward!" exclaimed tom, shaking his fist at the frightened beagle, and forgetting in his anger that this was the first time the animal had ever refused to yield ready obedience to his slightest wish. "i'll trade you off for the meanest yellow cur in bellville, and hire a cheap boy to steal the cur. come back here and see what there is in the cabin, i tell you!" "don't scold him," interposed joe. "i don't much like the idea of venturing in there myself, but here goes." as he spoke he drew back the hammer of his rifle, and, with steady, unfaltering steps, walked into the cabin, little dreaming of the astounding things that were to grow out of this simple act. tom and bob promptly moved up to support him, but the sequel proved that it wasn't necessary, for there was no one in the cabin to oppose them. when joe announced this fact, which he did as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, so that he could see what there was in front of him, tom wanted to know where the robbers were, but that was a point on which his companions could not enlighten him. "they have gone off on a plundering expedition, of course," continued tom, "and there's no telling when they will be back. we don't want to let them catch us here." "and neither do we want to leave until we have found out something about them," answered joe. "come in here, one of you. i have discovered a lot of plunder of some sort, and if we give it an overhauling we may be able to find out who it belongs to, and what brought them here. the other had better stay outside and keep watch." tom volunteered to stand guard, and so bob went into the cabin. it was large enough to accommodate half a dozen men, he found when he got into it, but the "shake downs," which were spread upon the floor at the farther end of it, indicated that probably not more than two or three persons were accustomed to seek shelter there. bob had not been gone more than a minute when he called out to his friend at the entrance: "say, tom, here's our grip-sack." tom was amused as well as surprised. he and bob had made that letter up all out of their own heads, and with not the slightest suspicion in their minds that there was anything to be found in that particular gorge, except, perhaps, a solitary grouse or two, which had hidden there to get out of the way of the shooters who made their headquarters at the beach, and yet they had located a concealed habitation, and described at least one of the things that were to be found in it. it was a little short of wonderful, and again tom asked himself if such a thing had ever happened before. "has it got a false bottom in it?" he inquired. "don't know," answered bob. "here it comes. examine it yourself, if you can open it, and let us know what you find in it." the valise was locked when it left bob's hand and went sailing toward the entrance, but the force with which it struck the rocks burst it open, giving tom a view of its contents. while he was taking a look at them, joe and bob were giving the cabin a most thorough overhauling, tearing the beds to pieces, and peering into every dark corner they could discover, and at every turn they found something to strengthen them in the belief that they had stumbled upon a den of thieves, sure enough. in the way of provender, they found a whole ham, a bushel of potatoes, and an armful of corn; and joe declared that the last two must have been stolen the night before, because the dirt was not dry on the potatoes, and the husks on the ears of corn were perfectly fresh. "mr. hallet's fields furnished those things, and i should not wonder if the ham came from his smoke-house," said joe. "but what could have been their object in stealing these sheets and pillow-cases? campers don't generally care to have such things around, because they can't be kept clean." "don't you think they used them to dress up their ghost?" inquired bob. "that dummy out there under the bushes has got a sheet on." "so it has," replied joe. "i'd give something to know what it was that suggested to them the idea of scaring folks away with that thing. they must know that everybody can't be frightened by white scare-crows. what is it? found a false bottom in that grip-sack?" "or the twelve thousand dollars in bills, and three hundred in gold?" chimed in bob. these questions were addressed to tom hallet, who just then called attention to himself by uttering an exclamation indicative of the profoundest amazement. by way of reply he shook a handful of greenbacks at them, and then dropped it to pick up a large roll of postage stamps. by the time they got out to him he had exchanged the stamps for two elegant gold watches. "this grip-sack is full to the brim of valuables, money, and securities," said tom, in a scarcely audible whisper, "and i--stop your noise!" he added, turning fiercely upon bugle, who just then uttered a sound that was between a whine and a bark, and came running from the foot of the path where he had laid himself down to wait until the boys were ready to leave the camp. "shut your mouth, you coward!" the beagle crowded close to his master's side, in spite of the efforts the angry boy made to push him away, looked toward the path, and whined and growled, and exhibited other signs of terror and excitement. with a warning gesture to his companions, joe moved farther away from the cabin, and stood in a listening attitude. in a second more, he turned about, jumped back to the valise and began throwing the things into it in the greatest haste. [illustration: treasure trove] "hurry up, all of us!" said he in a thrilling whisper. "the men are coming down the path. i don't know whether or not they have seen anything to arouse their suspicions, but they are moving very cautiously, and talking in low tones. there you are," he added, when all the things that tom had taken out of the valise had been crowded promiscuously into it again. "grab it up and run with it before bugle gives tongue to let them know that we are here. bob and i will cover your retreat." tom lost not a moment in acting upon this suggestion. in less time than it takes to tell it, they had all disappeared in the bushes. tom made good time toward the first bend in the brook, hoping to get out of sight before the men had opportunity to discover that their camp had been disturbed during their absence, and he accomplished his object. as soon as he passed the first bend, and left the camp out of sight, tom turned into the bushes and scrambled up the bluff, his watchful guard following close behind him. knowing full well that the robbers were thoroughly armed, and that it would be an easy matter for them to bushwack them during their retreat, the boys did not relax their vigilance in the slightest degree when they reached the top of the cliff, and neither did they neglect to cover their flight by making use of every tree, rock and bush that came in their way. the experience they had gained in stalking the wild game of the hills stood them in good stead now, and so stealthy were they in their movements that the dry leaves that covered the ground scarcely rustled beneath their tread. tom held a straight course for joe's cabin, which was the nearest haven of refuge, but no sooner did he get a glimpse of it than he came to a sudden halt, and motioned to joe to hasten to his side. "what's the matter?" asked joe. "there are no enemies in front of us, i hope." "did you forget to close and lock your door when you left home this morning?" inquired tom. "of course i didn't. i took particular pains to-- now can anybody tell me what that means? the door is standing wide open, as sure as i live." "has mr. warren got two keys to that lock?" queried bob. "not that i know of," answered joe. "then that open door means this," continued bob: "while we were prowling about the robbers' camp, they, or some of their kind, seized the opportunity to come here and see what you--" joe waited to hear no more. without giving his friends a hint of his intentions, he ran toward the cabin at the top of his speed, hoping to corner somebody there, and cover him with his rifle so that he could not escape. but in this he was disappointed. it was plain that some one had been there while he was gone, for the window was open, as well as the door, and the cabin was in the greatest confusion. it had been ransacked as thoroughly as joe and his companions had ransacked the robbers' camp. knowing that he could not do the matter justice in english, the young game-warden leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and said nothing. "who did it? anything missing? this is a pretty state of affairs, i must say!" were a few of the exclamations to which tom and bob gave utterance, as they crowded into the cabin and took a hurried survey of things. had it not been for dan's encounter with the ghost on the previous day, joe would have thought at once that his brother was the guilty party; but he did not suspect him now, because he knew that dan would not dare to come up there alone to take revenge upon him for his refusal to admit him to a full partnership in his business. silas was afraid to come up there, too; and even if he were not, it wasn't likely that he would do anything of this kind, because he wanted joe to stay there and earn the hundred and twenty dollars, so that he could take it away from him. "if the blame doesn't rest with hobson or some of that clique, it rests with the men to whom that grip-sack belongs," said joe, confidently. "i don't know whether they have stolen any of my things or not. i must look them over first." tom offering to assist him in his work, bob volunteered to stand guard over them, adding: "it begins to look to me as though this thing of playing game-warden has its drawbacks, as well as going to school. tom and i thought we were going to have the finest kind of times up here this winter, growing fat on grouse and squirrels, and enjoying the freedom of camp-life; but i have my doubts. we came here only yesterday morning, and just look at the fuss we have had already. what is it, joe?" "do you see my shotgun anywhere, either of you?" asked joe in reply. "i am afraid it is gone. yes, sir, it has been stolen," he added, after he had looked in every place where so large an article could find concealment. "i wish they might have left me that; but they didn't, and with it they took my game-bag, powder-flask and shot-pouch. i know that the whole outfit isn't worth any great sum; but i worked hard for it, and somehow i don't like to lose it." "i should say not," exclaimed tom, who would hardly have exhibited greater anger if his fine double-barrel had been carried off by the thieves. "look here, fellows," he added, suddenly, "that grip-sack was found on mr. warren's grounds, and i suppose we ought to hand it over to him, hadn't we? well, then, shall we tell him about the ghost, or shall we skip that?" bob and joe didn't know how to answer this question. they hadn't thought of it before. chapter xxv. what the grip-sack contained. "and look here, fellows," said tom, again, "if we forget to tell about the ghost, how shall we account for the extraordinary interest we have taken in the parties who live in the gorge? answer me that, if you can." "the manly way is the best way," observed joe. tom and bob knew that as well as joe did. they were quite willing to tell mr. warren, when they gave the valise into his keeping, that the events of the day (all except the robbery of joe's cabin, of course) had been brought about by their fondness for practical joking, but they could not make up their minds to do it, because they did not know how joe would feel about it. if silas and dan were their father and brother, they wouldn't care to have every one in the country for miles around know what fools they had made of themselves over the letter which the former found in his wood-pile. "it isn't my fault that father and dan believed the story that letter told them," continued the young game-warden, "and i don't see that i am under any obligation to keep their secret from my employer. i shall not ask him to keep it still, although i shall expect him to do so; but if the robbers are captured, as i hope they will be, the whole thing will come to light just as soon as the lawyers get hold of it." "have you any idea where the things in this grip-sack came from?" said bob, looking in at the door. "have you heard of a heavy robbery being committed in these parts lately? seen any account of it in the papers, tom?" "no," replied the latter. "you have kept me so busy since you came up here that i haven't had a chance to look at a newspaper." "neither have i," said joe, with a smile; "not because i have been too busy, but for the reason that we can't afford to take one. i have no show whatever to keep posted in matters that happen outside the summerdale hills." "well, if you don't keep posted this winter, it will be your own fault," said tom, banging the table with a package of illustrated papers which he had picked up from the floor. "bob and i look to uncle hallet to keep us supplied with reading matter, and you are welcome to anything he gives us." "thank you," said joe. "i have the promise of all the books i want from mr. warren's library, and i should judge by the looks of that package that he intends to provide me with papers, also. have you seen anything in the shape of grub, tom?" "nary thing," was the answer. "have much of a supply?" "enough to last a week, i should think." "it isn't here now," said tom, looking around. "it has gone off to keep company with the shot-gun, most likely." "i am afraid it has, and that i shall be obliged to pack up a fresh supply on my back." "coming up here again to-night?" asked tom. "of course i am," exclaimed joe, who seemed surprised at the question. "i belong here, don't i? are you not coming back?" "certainly. but there are two of us, and only one of you; and, besides, you have no watch-dog to warn you of--oh, you needn't laugh! i know that bugle acted the part of a coward to-day, but he is a good watch-dog for all that. he will be sure to awaken us if any one comes prowling around our cabin, and that is all we ask of him. there sir, your cot is all right again." "it's a wonder to me that they didn't steal my blankets," said joe. "but, after all, they've got a pretty good supply, and probably they don't want any more to carry about the country with them, when they find themselves obliged to break up housekeeping in the gulf, and strike for new quarters. now, i think we might as well go on to mr. warren's. i haven't missed anything yet except my provisions and shooting rig." bob caught up the valise, joe fastened the door by replacing the staple that had been pulled out of it, and the three boys struck through the evergreens toward the cow-path before spoken of, which ran from silas morgan's wood-pile to mr. warren's barn. they were still much excited, and showed it plainly in their actions and speech. although they had no reason to believe that the robbers were anywhere near them, they did not forget to stop and listen now and then, and look along the path behind; and if a squirrel jumped from one tree to another, or the wind caused a sudden rustling among the neighboring bushes, they were prompt to drop their guns into the hollow of their arms and face in the direction from which the sound came. "i declare i am as nervous as any old woman," said bob, at length. "i act and feel as if i had been frightened half out of my wits, and yet i haven't seen a single thing." "but you heard the robbers coming down the path, didn't you? and you know that they would be only too glad to have revenge on the parties who took their ill-gotten gains away from them," said joe. "now that i think of it, what right had we to touch this grip-sack?" "we took it 'on general principles,' as the policemen say when they arrest a person against whom they have no evidence, but who they think is getting ready to do something he ought not," was bob's answer. "if those men came honestly by the things that are in that valise, we are liable to get ourselves into a pretty pickle for laying hands on it; but i'll bet you anything you please that they'll not come down to mr. warren's house after their property. 'cause why, they haven't a shadow of a right to it." when the boys came within sight of the barn, they left the cow-path, crawled through a pair of bars, and turned into the wide carriage-way that ran around the house and past the front door. their vigorous pull at the bell brought out mr. warren himself. "what are you doing here?" he asked, trying to look surprised and to bring a frown to his jolly, good-natured face. "is this what you young gentlemen are paid for--to run about the country, while the market-shooters slip up to those wood-lots and shoot all the birds?" "if market-shooters were the only things we had to look out for, we'd have a fine time this winter," replied bob, as the gentleman shook hands with him. "do you see this grip-sack? well, there's a tale hanging to it." mr. warren said he couldn't see any, and asked the boys to come in. "that's because the tale is in our heads," replied bob, seating himself in the chair that was pointed out to him. "will you be kind enough to dump the things out of this valise and tell us what you think of them. "what's in it?" inquired mr. warren, who looked puzzled. bob, by way of response, waved his hand toward tom, who said, in answer to the gentleman's inquiring glance: "i didn't have time to make a very thorough examination of its contents, for the robbers didn't stay away long enough; but--" "the robbers!" exclaimed mr. warren. "yes; the men who are camping in the gorge. but i can't make you understand it, unless i go at it right," said tom, who then went on to tell his story, to which mr. warren listened with the closest attention. when tom ceased speaking, he said: "and so you knew that there was something in the gorge before you took possession of your cabin, did you? well, your uncle hallet suspected it." "i don't know what right he had to suspect anything," said tom. "we never told him of our experience in the gorge." "i know you didn't, and the reason was because you were afraid he would laugh at you. but he knew very well that you were keeping something from him. when the idea of playing game-wardens first took hold of you, you were very enthusiastic over it; but when you returned from your trip down the gorge, and learned that mr. emerson had given bob permission to stay in the woods with you during the winter, you didn't dance about and go into ecstasies, as you ought to have done. that's why your uncle suspects something; but, i declare, he didn't look for anything like this," exclaimed mr. warren, gazing in surprise at the contents of the valise, which he had turned out upon the carpet. "you have done a good piece of detective work, for these things were stolen, beyond a doubt, and if they came from the place i think they did, you are entitled to a reward of ten thousand dollars." "great scott!" exclaimed tom and bob, while joe morgan fairly gasped for breath, and his mind suddenly became so confused that he could not calculate how much his share of that reward would amount to. but he had a dim idea that it would be something over three thousand dollars; and wouldn't that place his mother above want for a good many years to come? the young game-warden never once thought of himself, until his father's scowling visage and dan's arose before his mental vision, and then he wondered what tactics they would resort to, and what new system of persecution they would adopt, in order to squeeze the last cent of those three thousand dollars out of him. while he was thinking about it, he sat down on the floor beside tom and bob, who were kneeling in front of mr. warren. when the latter laid one of the watches aside, with the remark that it was a valuable timepiece, and no doubt the rightful owner would be glad to get it back, bob picked it up and opened it. an inscription on the inside of the back part of the case caught his eye, and he read it aloud as follows: "geo. y. seely, esq. with the regards of his grateful friend, joel burnett." "what's that?" cried mr. warren. "read that again, please." bob complied, and then handed over the watch, so that joe's employer could read it for himself. "i know both those men," said the latter, at length. "i went to school with them in the old academy at bellville, and so did your father and uncle," nodding at tom and bob. "seely helped burnett out of a tight place, when his business was about to go to ruin, and burnett gave him this watch to show his gratitude." "then those things must have some from hammondsport," exclaimed tom. "say, bob, don't you remember reading an account of the disappearance of a lot of securities from the county treasurer's office in hammondsport, on the same night that several burglaries were committed there?" "i believe i do," replied bob, after thinking a moment. "if my memory serves me, the treasurer himself was suspected of having a hand in it--that is, in the loss of the bonds; but they couldn't prove anything against him." "of course, they couldn't," said mr. warren, indignantly. "the missing papers are right here. i never did believe in his guilt, for i have known him for years, and i never saw the least thing wrong with him. he is under a cloud now, but it will break away as soon as your exploit becomes known through the country. you have rendered him a most important service, if you did but know it." "i am glad that we have been of some use in the world," said bob. "well, that was what you were put here for, wasn't it? how much do you think these things are worth?" said mr. warren, as he put the various packages back into the valise. the boys couldn't tell; but they remembered now that the thieves had taken a good deal of property out of hammondsport on the night of their raid, and tom and bob thought that perhaps they had secured as much as forty or fifty thousand dollars' worth. "you boys don't know much," replied mr. warren. "that valise, just as it stands, couldn't be bought for a cent less than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the bonds and securities are worth a pile of money, i tell you; and there must be two or three thousands in greenbacks in there, to say nothing of the watches. boys, you have done something to be proud of; and it's a lucky thing for tom and bob that they did not try to find out where the howls that frightened them came from. the robbers were at home then, and if they had not succeeded in driving you away, they would have shot you down without ceremony." "then we had a perfect right to take that grip-sack, didn't we, mr. warren?" said joe, whose mind was not quite easy on that score. "i should say you had," replied mr. warren, with a laugh. "you have made yourselves wealthy, too, for you are fairly entitled to the reward." "well, what are we going to do about arresting those thieves?" said tom. when all the packages had been put back into the valise, he and his two companions had got upon their feet and shouldered their guns, supposing, of course, that mr. warren would bestir himself as if he meant to do something; but, instead of that, he settled back into his chair and put his hands into his pockets. chapter xxvi. mr. hallet hears the news. "what are you going to do about it?" repeated tom, who was impatient to begin operations at once. "the robbers have by this time discovered that their ill-gotten gains have slipped through their fingers, and of course they are not going to stay there in the gulf till the sheriff comes and gobbles them up. while we are idling here, they may be taking themselves safe off." "they may, and then again they may not," said mr. warren. "if they are at all acquainted with these hills--and if they are not, i don't see why they came here in the first place--they must know that there's not another spot in the whole country, of the same size, that affords so many excellent hiding-places. but we'll talk about them by-and-by. joe is the fellow i am thinking about just now." the young game-warden looked his surprise, but did not speak. "yes," continued mr. warren, "somehow i don't like to think about the visit they made to his cabin while you boys were in the gorge. did they take any of your things, tom?" that was the first time it had ever occurred to tom and his friend that the robbers might have given their own house an overhauling, and that possibly joe morgan was not the only one who had suffered at their hands. they looked blankly at each other, and at last bob managed to say that they had not been near their cabin since they left it in joe's company, early in the morning. "then perhaps it would be worth while for you to go up there and look into things," said mr. warren, "while i go down and talk to hallet. it is possible that we shall decide to take this valise to hammondsport before i come back. i am sure i don't want to keep it in the house over night, for if those robbers should by any means get on the track of it, they wouldn't be at all backward about coming here after it." "i don't see how they could get on the track of it," joe remarked. "did it ever occur to you that they might have followed you at a distance when you came down from the mountain?" inquired mr. warren. yes, the boys had thought of that, and it had kept them on nettles. but they were never off their guard, held their guns ready for instant use, and faced about whenever they head the slightest sound. if the men were on their trail, why did they not rush up and grab the valise? "because they did not care to face the bullets and bird-shot that were in those guns--that's the reason," answered mr. warren. "they will not do anything openly; i am not at all afraid of that. but i _am_ afraid that they will be full of life and action when night comes. perhaps, after all, you boys had better bring your things down and stay at home, until the sheriff has had opportunity to take those fellows into custody. joe, i give you an order to that effect." "i don't much like the idea of deserting my post on account of imaginary dangers," replied joe. "that's the idea; neither do i!" exclaimed tom. "it's my opinion that your uncle hallet will be quite positive on that point," said mr. warren, who laughed heartily when he saw the expression of disappointment and disgust that overspread the faces of the young game-wardens. "if he is, i'll kick, i bet you!" declared tom. "and much good will that do you. now, tom, be a good boy, and do a little errand for me. go out to the barn and tell fred to hitch the blacks to the canopy top. then we'll all ride down to uncle hallet's and see what he thinks of this morning's work." depositing his double barrel in one corner of the hall, tom hastened out to comply with this request, and mr. warren addressed himself to bob and joe. "this beats anything i ever heard of," said he. "who would have imagined that your love of mischief was destined to bring rogues to justice, clear an honest man's reputation, and make you rich into the bargain? joseph, i am sorry you lost your gun; but you shall not go hungry because they carried off your provisions." "the gun wasn't worth much," was joe's reply, "and perhaps i haven't lost it yet. i shall live in hopes of having it returned to me when those men are arrested. do you really think i had better stop at home?" "of nights? yes, i do." "i am not at all afraid," began joe. "i haven't so much as hinted that you were," interrupted his employer, "but i can't see the use of your putting yourself in the way of danger for nothing. if there was any real need that you should stay up there, the case would be different. my object, and hallet's, in building those cabins, was to provide comfortable quarters for our wardens, so that they would not have to wade through the deep snow in going to and from their work. if you will spend the day in walking around the woods and looking out for market-shooters, it is all i shall ask of you, until those robbers have been shut up. even after that you may have trouble, for you have got brierly down on you." "i don't see why brierly should be down on him," said bob. "by turning him back, joe helped him get twenty-five dollars for nothing." "i am well enough acquainted with him to know that he will never forgive joe for threatening to report him," said mr. warren. "the first good chance he gets, he will be even with him for that." while they were talking in this way, tom hallet came bounding up the steps, and a few minutes later the canopy top was driven up to the door. the boys got in, in obedience to a sign from mr. warren; but one of them, at least would have objected, if he had thought that he could gain anything by it. that one was joe morgan, who scarcely knew whether he stood on his head or his feet. mr. warren's confident assertions regarding the value of the property which he and his two friends had found in the robbers' hiding place had turned him completely upside down--at least, that was what he told himself. his share of the ten thousand dollars, if he ever got it (and his employer did not seem to have any misgivings on that point), would make a great change in his circumstances. it would put it in his power to obtain the schooling he wanted, and give his mother the good long rest of which everybody, except silas and dan, could see that she stood so much in need. "but won't they be hopping mad when they hear of it?" joe asked himself, over and over again. "and what would they have done with the things that are in that valise, if they had found them? the money they could have spent, of course; but they would not dare wear the watches and jewelry, and the papers they would have destroyed, and with them their only chance of putting in a claim for the reward. as things have turned out, mother will receive the most benefit from this morning's work, unless it be the county treasurer, who was unjustly accused of crookedness. he can thank bob and tom for that, and if i ever see him, i shall take pains to tell him so. if they had not played that joke on father and dan, he might have remained under a cloud all his life." the young game-warden was so fully occupied with these thoughts that he did not know what was going on around him, until bob emerson seized him by the arm and shook him out of his reverie. "isn't that so?" he demanded. "certainly; it's all true," replied joe. "it was a nice place, wasn't it?" continued bob. "splendid," said joe, who had no idea what particular place bob was referring to. but the latter did not notice his abstraction. he and tom were telling mr. warren what a nice camp the robbers had made for themselves under the bluff, and dilating upon the amount of work they must have done in making so good a path through those dense thickets. "in front of the cabin--that's the way we always speak of it, for it wasn't really a cave, you know--there was a cleared half-circle that was fully as large as your parlor," said bob. "in this circle we saw a few battered cooking utensils, the smoking ashes of a camp-fire, and the ghost that frightened dan morgan so badly that he dared not carry the secret to bed with him. i said from the first that it was a man and not an animal that yelled at us when tom and i came down that gorge day before yesterday, and i finally succeeded in making tom think so, too; but he insisted that it wasn't an outlaw, but some one who took it into his head to play a trick on us, just for the fun of seeing us run. not until joe told us his story, and gave us his ideas regarding matters and things, did we know just what we would have to face if we went into that gorge." "you say the ghost seemed to grow in height while dan looked at it," observed mr. warren. "did dan's fears make him say that, or was it a part of the trick?" "of course i am not positive on that point," was bob's reply, "but i think it was a part of the trick. i gave but one hasty glance at the dummy, but i took note of the fact that it was rigged on a very long pole, and it would have been easy for the man who was managing it to raise it higher and higher above the bushes, if he wanted to do it. i also noticed that the face was made of a stuffed pillow-case, which had been blackened with a piece of coal to show where the eyes, nose and mouth ought to be." "what do you think suggested to them the idea of making use of a dummy to frighten folks away from their hiding-place?" "i don't know, unless it was the success that attended their efforts to keep tom and me from going there," answered bob. but the sequel proved that, although he had guessed pretty closely on some things, he had shot wide of the mark when he guessed at this one. "as good luck would have it, you went into the gorge while the robbers were absent on a plundering expedition," said mr. warren. "but suppose you had found them at home, and ready to receive you--what then?" "but we didn't, you see!" exclaimed tom, triumphantly. "we had the camp all to ourselves." "i must say that you are a reckless lot," declared mr. warren, "and it would be serving you just right if uncle hallet should order you to be ready to start for school when the next term begins." bob looked blank, but tom hastened to quiet his fears by saying: "he will never think of such a thing. he is a firm friend of mr. shippen," (that was the name of the county official who was suspected of making way with the bonds and other valuable documents that had been placed in his hands for safe keeping), "and when uncle hallet knows that we can clear him, he will be so delighted that he won't think of scolding us. there he is now. he has been out to get some flowers for his library table." mr. hallet was surprised to see his neighbor drive into his yard with the three game-wardens, who ought to have been far away on the mountain attending to business, and almost overwhelmed with amazement when he heard the story they told him while seated on the porch. when mr. warren showed him the recovered securities, at the same time remarking that their mutual friend shippen would be cleared of all suspicion the moment those papers were produced in hammondsport, uncle hallet went into the hall after his hat and duster, declaring that it was a matter of the gravest importance, and must be attended to at once. then he added something that gave his nephew the opportunity to "kick." "i am going over to the county-seat with mr. warren, and you two boys had better stay here until i return," was what he said. "now, just look here--" began tom. "i know all about it," interrupted his uncle, turning his head on one side and waving his hands up and down in the air, "and i am in too great a hurry to listen to any argument. joe morgan has seen one white face looking at him through his window, and if you stay up there to-night you will see two; but they will be white with anger, and not with fear. you have got yourselves in a box by your prying and meddling," added uncle hallet, who was delighted with the exploit the boys had performed and proud of their pluck, "and i want you to keep away from those hills after dark, i tell you." "well," said tom, with a long-drawn sigh, "i suppose i shall have to submit." "i think i would, if i were in your place," said mr. warren. and as he spoke he brought so comical a look to his face that every one on the porch broke out in a hearty laugh. chapter xxvii. joe's plans. when they had had their laugh out, mr. warren said to uncle hallet: "don't you think it would be a good plan for the boys to bring their outfit to a place of safety until the sheriff has had time to go up there and take care of those robbers? if they take it into their heads to burn the cabins, we don't want them to burn everything there is in them." "of course not," assented mr. hallet. "tom, tell hawley to hitch up and move you down at once--you and joe. mind, now, i want him to go with you." "we don't need him," protested tom. "we can take care of ourselves." uncle hallet did not think it necessary to discuss this point. he had given his orders, and he knew that they would be strictly obeyed. he stepped into mr. warren's wagon, and the latter drove out of the yard, leaving the boys to themselves. "he didn't say that we couldn't go back again as soon as the robbers have been caught, did he?" observed bob, whose fears on that score were now set at rest. "it's going to be a bother to walk up there and back every day, when we might just as well remain in our cabins, but it seems that we've got to do it." tom replied that it certainly looked that way; adding, that it would be of no use for them to "kick," because he knew by the expression that was on uncle hallet's face when he laid down the law to them, that he meant every word he said. they went out to the barn, and found hawley, the hostler, gardener, and man-of-all-work, who could hardly believe the story they told him while he was hitching up; and it needed the sight of mr. warren's blacks, stepping out for hammondsport at their best pace, and an examination of the broken fastenings of joe's cabin, to convince him that the boys had not dreamed it all, and that there had really been something going on up there on the mountain. "i wouldn't sleep in one of these shanties as long as those robbers are at liberty for twice fifteen dollars a month, and i think uncle hallet did just right in telling you to keep away from here after dark," said hawley. and he was in such haste to get the things into his wagon and start for home, that the boys were surprised, and wondered if he would be of any use to them if they got into any trouble. "there," said tom, at length; "joe's cabin is as empty as it was two days ago. now, let us go over to our own domicile, and see how things look there. we can move faster than you can, hawley, so we will go on ahead." "well, i guess you'd better not," was the man's reply. "i judged from what you said that it was your uncle's wish that i should keep an eye on you. and how am i going to do it if you don't stay with me?" "we are in a great hurry to find out whether or not our house was robbed at the same time that joe's was," replied bob, "and we can look out for ourselves. come on boys!" "he acts as if he were afraid to be left alone," whispered joe morgan. "and i believe he is," answered bob. "events may prove that we are in more danger up here than we think for." bob didn't know how close he shot to the mark when he uttered these careless words, but he found it out afterwards. paying no heed to hawley's remonstrances, the boys hastened on in advance of him, and in due time came within sight of tom's cabin. nothing there had been disturbed. if the robbers knew of its existence, they probably did not think it safe to go there, because it was so far from their hiding-place. "we don't want those things to go," said tom, when hawley drove up and jumped out of his wagon. "we've kept out grub enough for our dinner." "ain't you going back with me?" inquired the man. "what's the use? we would have to come up here again, and we don't care to prance up and down this mountain any more times than we are obliged to. it is understood that we are to stay here during the day. if we didn't, these wood-lots would be black with shooters in less than twenty-four hours." "well, i wouldn't stay, day or night," said hawley. "them birds ain't worth the danger that you fellows put yourselves in every minute you spend here." hawley's anxiety to get through with his work and start for home, was so apparent, that it is a wonder the young game-wardens did not grow frightened and decide to go back with him; but they didn't think of it. they helped him load his wagon, and saw him depart without any misgivings. "now, what arrangements shall we make about dinner?" said bob, as soon as hawley was out of sight. "i say, let's eat it at once, and be done with it; then we will save ourselves the trouble of packing it around through the woods for an hour and a half." the boys were all hungry, and knowing by experience that a loaded haversack or game-bag is an awkward thing to carry through bushes, they agreed to bob's proposition, and set to work immediately. by their united efforts a substantial meal was quickly made ready and as quickly disposed of, and then they bade one another good-by and separated. "joe's got good pluck, i must say," exclaimed tom hallet, turning about to take a last look at mr. warren's warden, who was just disappearing in the gloom of the woods. "i don't think i should be afraid to be left here alone, but i am very well satisfied to have you with me." and joe morgan would have been better satisfied if he, too, had had a companion to talk to, instead of being obliged to roam about by himself. but he was working for money, of which his mother stood in need, and he did his duty, although (candor compels us to say it) he gave the gorge a wide berth. the startling events of the morning and the many warnings he had received were of too recent occurrence to be forgotten, and he didn't care if he never saw that gorge again; still, he would have gone even there if he had seen or heard the least thing to indicate that poachers were at work in that vicinity. he kept a sharp eye on his watch, and when the clumsy-looking hands told him that he had just time enough left to get home before dark, he bent his steps toward the wood-pile, which he always took as his point of departure, carrying a light heart in his breast, and the happy consciousness that he had left nothing undone. "on the contrary, it's the best day's work i ever did," said joe, to himself. "three thousand three hundred dollars, and a little more for my share of the reward! wh-e-w! i do wish i could think of some way to keep it from father's knowledge and dan's; but they are bound to hear of it, and make me all the trouble they can concerning it, and i don't know but i might as well face the music to-night as any other time." the future looked as bright to the young game-warden as it did to silas morgan the first time we saw him moving down that road. but there was this difference between the two: joe had something tangible upon which to build his hopes, while his father had nothing but the letter he held in his hand. his mother was the first to greet him when he reached home; indeed, she was the only one of the family there was in sight. she was surprised and startled to see him, but she saw at a glance that there was no cause for alarm. "where's father and dan?" inquired joe, taking the precaution to open the door, which had been closed behind him. he did not want either of the two worthies whose names he had just mentioned to slip up and hear what he had to say to his mother. "i don't know where they are now," was mrs. morgan's answer. "daniel has been sitting there on the bank almost ever since you went away; but your father, would you believe it, joe?--he has been down to the beach to give up the setters that he has had in his keeping so long." "good enough!" exclaimed joe, who was delighted to hear it. "i have been afraid that those dogs would get him into trouble sooner or later, and they would, too, if he had held fast to them much longer. did he find the owner?" "no; but he gave them to the landlord, to be kept until they were called for. i don't know what sort of a story he told regarding them, but he seemed to feel better when he came back." "have you any idea what induced him to take that step?" "i think it was the fright he had." "good enough!" said joe, again. "those hants--for there are two of them--are the best friends we ever had. now, don't say a word, for i want to tell you something before anybody comes to interrupt me. i repeat, they are good friends of ours. they have led father into making restitution of property that he never ought to have had in his hands, and they have been the means of--" before he told what the hants had been the means of doing, joe stepped to the door and looked out. it was pitch dark now, but the light that streamed from the door of the cabin was bright enough to show him that there was no eavesdropper in sight. why didn't he think to go around the corner and look behind the chimney? "they have made us rich, mother," continued joe, stepping to mrs. morgan's side, and speaking in low but distinct tones. "i made three thousand three hundred dollars this morning by doing less than two hours' work. hold on till i get through. i know you are astonished, and so am i; but it's all true. sit down, for i've a long story to tell." the young game-warden, who stood in constant fear of interruption, talked rapidly, but he went into all the details, and, by the time he got through, his mother knew as much about it as he did himself; but she said she was afraid it was too good to be true. "no, it isn't," exclaimed joe. "when tom told our story to mr. hallet's hired man, he declared that we had been asleep and dreamed it all. but it isn't reasonable to suppose that we could all dream the same thing, is it? when other folks begin talking about it, you will find that it is true, every word of it. i wish there was some one here to hold me on the ground," cried joe, jumping from his chair and swinging his arms around his head. "mother, your hard days are all over, and i can go to school, can't i? i am going to study hard this winter, and whenever i get stumped, i'll ask tom and bob to help me out." having worked off a little of his surplus enthusiasm, joe sat down again and talked coolly and sensibly with his mother regarding his prospects for the future. so deeply interested did he become in what he was saying, that he did not hear the very slight rustling behind the cabin that was occasioned by his brother dan, who withdrew his ear from the crack between the boards against which it had been closely pressed, and stole off into the darkness. but dan was there and heard it all; and he pounded his head with both his fists as he walked away. chapter xxviii. capture of bob emerson. although the young game-warden did not see them, silas morgan and his hopeful son dan were both sitting on the river bank, in plain view of the cabin, when he came home. they were both surprised to see him, and dan gave it as his private opinion that one night alone in the woods had effectually taken away all joe's desire to act as mr. warren's game protector during the winter. "and i'm just glad of it," said dan, spitefully. "i hope in my soul that that hant came and looked in at his winder, and howled and screeched at him like he did at us." "well, i hope he didn't," answered silas. "if joe is drove away from there, i don't know what we will do for grub and such when winter comes. i ain't a going up to old man warren's wood-lot to work, i bet you!" "neither be i," said dan. "then where's the money to come from? we can't live without money, you know." "well, joe ain't going to give you none of his'n, 'cause he told me so. he's going to give every cent of it to mam, and you and me can go hungry for all he cares." "no, i don't reckon we'll go hungry. i know when pay-day comes as well as he does; and when i know that he's got the month's wages in his pocket, can't i easy steal it outen your mam's possession after he hands it over to her? didn't think of that, did you?" "well, you won't never steal any money outen mam's pocket, nuther," replied dan. "whenever she wants anything from the store, joe he'll give her an order on old man warren, and mam won't tech none of his earnings. he told me so. you're mighty sharp, pap, but that joe of our'n is one ahead of you this time." dan looked to see his father go into a fearful rage when he said this, but silas did not do anything of the sort. he sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands supporting his head, gazing off into the darkness toward the opposite side of the river. "what do you reckon that stingy joe of our'n has come back here to tell mam?" continued dan. silas was obliged to confess that he didn't know, and followed it up with the suggestion that it might be a good plan for him to creep up and find out. "creep up yourself, if you want to know wusser'n i do," was dan's reply. "can't you see that the door is wide open?" "what of it?" said silas. "can't you creep up behind the chimbly! there's a crack there atween the boards that you've often listened at, 'cause i've seen you. who knows but joe may be telling her something about the money that's in the cave?" dan said it was not likely that joe knew anything about the cave, beyond what he himself had told him; but still his father's words aroused his curiosity, and awakened within him a desire to learn what joe had to say to his mother. he waited a moment or two to bring his courage up to the sticking point, and then threw himself upon his hands and knees and crept away from his father's sight. he was gone about twenty minutes, and when he returned, he acted so much like a crazy boy that silas was really afraid of him. "what's the matter of you?" he demanded, in an angry whisper. "did joe say anything so't you could hear it?" "you're right he did," dan managed to say, at last. "oh, pap, we'll never in this world have another chance like that. we had the best kind of a show to get rich, and we let it slip through our fingers, fools that we was." silas fairly gasped for breath. he stared fixedly at dan, who sat on the bank, rocking himself from side to side; but he was too amazed to speak. "the money was there all the time," dan went on, "and that joe of our'n he went and got it, dog-gone the luck!" "and all along of your telling him about it, you idiot," snarled silas. "if you had kept your mouth shet, that joe of our'n wouldn't never have known that the money was there. i have the best notion in the world to--" "now, can't you wait until i tell you?" exclaimed dan, whose senses came back to him very speedily when he saw that his father was pushing up his sleeves. "it wasn't all along of my telling him, nuther, that joe found out about the cave. tom and bob told him, for they were the ones that writ the letter you took outen your wood-pile." the ferryman's astonishment quickly got the better of his rage, and he listened in a dreamy sort of way to the story that dan had to tell him; but when the latter reached the end of it, and silas found out that he had really been within a few yards of a valise whose contents could not be purchased for less than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that the white thing that frightened him was not a ghost, after all, but a dummy, managed by a man who might have been disabled by a single charge from his double-barrel--when silas heard this, he was ready to boil over again. the fact that a third of the handsome reward that had been offered for the recovery of the stolen bonds would come into his family did not serve as a balm for his wounded feelings. he wanted the money himself; and the reflection that after coming so near to securing it, he had allowed himself to be frightened away by-- "oh, my soul!" groaned silas, jumping to his feet, and striding up and down the bank, with both hands tightly clenched in his hair. "here's me and you, as poor as job's turkey, while that joe of our'n has got more'n twice as much as he oughter have. he's rich, and after this he won't do nothing but loaf around and spend his money, while me and you-- now, wait till i tell you! did you ever hear of such amazing mean luck before? toot away!" he cried, shaking both his fists at the opposite bank. "i wouldn't go over after you if i knew i'd get five dollars for it. what's five dollars alongside the ten thousand we might have had if we hadn't been such fools? oh, dannie, why didn't we shoot a little lower?" while silas was talking, the blast of a horn sounded from the other side of the river. it was a notice to the ferryman that there was some one over there who wanted to cross the stream, but silas was in no humor to respond to it. again and again the signal was given, and finally a hail came through the darkness. "hallo, there!" shouted a familiar voice. "is joe morgan at home?" "no, he ain't!" growled dan in reply. "yes, he is!" shouted the owner of that name, who had come out to assist in taking the flat across the river. "is that you, tom hallet?" "yes. have you seen anything of bob?" "not since dinner," was joe's answer. "what's the matter with him?" "we hope there isn't anything the matter with him," shouted tom; "but we begin to think-- say, joe, come over, and bring a lantern. i have something to show you." "i don't know how he's going to get over, unless he is able to manage the flat all by himself," said dan, in an undertone. "i won't help him, i bet you." silas was about to say the same, but his curiosity, of which he had considerably more than two men's share, got the better of him. "what do you reckon he wants to show you?" said he, addressing himself to joe; "and what's become of bob?" "i am sure i can't tell," answered joe. "but if you will help me to take the flat over, we will find out all about it. i am sure you will hear something worth listening to if you will lend a hand." "all right; i'm there," said silas, jumping up with alacrity. "but i ain't," said dan, doggedly. "who said anything to you?" demanded his father, almost fiercely. "set where you are if you feel like it. me and joe can get along without none of your help; and furder'n that," he added, in a lower tone, as joe ran to the house to bring a candle and some matches--there being no such thing as a lantern in the ferryman's humble abode--"me and joe will go snucks on his share of the reward, and you shan't see a cent of it. so there, now!" these words were sufficient to infuse a good deal of life and energy into dan. he believed that his father would yet contrive some way to swindle joe out of every dollar that came into his possession, and if he (dan) hoped to get any of it for his own, he must be very careful how he went contrary to his father's wishes. when joe came back with the candle, silas and dan were standing in the flat, all ready to shove off. the young game-warden could not remember when he had carried so heavy a heart across the river as he did on this particular evening. he did not say anything, for he knew that his father and dan could not understand his feelings, but his brain was exceedingly busy. bob emerson had disappeared in some unaccountable way. he knew that much, and somehow joe could not help connecting this circumstance with some words the missing boy had let fall the last time he was in his company. "we may be in more danger while we are up here than we think for," and, "this thing is going to end in something besides fun." these words, which bob had uttered without giving much heed to what he was saying, now seemed to joe to be prophetic of disaster. of course, this reflection made him uneasy, and he exerted himself to get the heavy flat over to the other side with as little delay as possible. so did dan, for a wonder, and the result was, that they made a much quicker passage than they usually did. when the flat came within sight of the bank, silas, who was at the steering-oar, leaned forward and informed joe, in a whisper, that tom was not alone--that his uncle hallet, old man warren, and both their hired men were with him, as well as two strangers whom he didn't remember to have seen before. but a moment later, he added, in tones of excitement: "yes, i have seen 'em, too. they're the sheriff and one of his deputies. well, they can't do nothing to me. ain't it a lucky thing for me, joey, that i give up them setter dogs to-day?" "i am glad you did," replied joe, "but i shall always be sorry that you ever had anything to do with them in the first place." with a few long sweeps of his steering-oar, silas brought the flat broadside to the bank, and joe morgan sprang out. tom hallet was the first one to speak to him. "did i understand you to say that you have not seen bob since we ate dinner together?" said he in a trembling voice. "that is just what i said," answered joe, whose worst fears were now fully confirmed. "you and he went off together, and i haven't seen him since. where is he?" "i wish i knew," replied tom. "we felt sorry for you, when we saw you going away alone; but you got back safe and sound, while we didn't. you see-- where's your lantern?" joe replied that he had brought a candle, and proceeded to light it. then bob handed him a slip of paper on which were written the following fateful words: "if you will bring back the property you stole from us, and put it where you found it, we will give up our prisoner. if you don't, or if you attempt to play tricks upon us, you will never see him again." this portion of the note was written in a strange hand, but under it was a postscript which tom declared had been penned by nobody but bob emerson. it ran thus: "they've got me, tom, and that's all there is about it. for goodness sake, bring back that valise! and be quick about it, for they threaten to do all sorts of dreadful things to me, if their demands are not complied with in less than twenty-four hours." joe handed back the piece of paper, and looked at tom without speaking. chapter xxix. the hunt for the robbers. "bob was right when he declared that this thing was destined to end in something besides fun, wasn't he?" observed tom, giving utterance to the very thoughts that were passing through joe morgan's mind. "but i don't believe he ever dreamed that anything like this was going to happen." "do you think the robbers have got hold of him?" faltered joe, who knew that tom expected him to say something. "i know it?" was the answer. "where were you when they captured him?" "i don't know. the way it happened was this: after you left us we decided to make the entire round of uncle's wood-lot, and as we couldn't do it if we stayed together, we separated, and that was the last i saw of bob emerson. before parting we agreed to meet at the cabin at six o'clock, sharp. i was there at the minute, but bob wasn't, and while i was waiting for him, i happened to see this notice, which was fastened to the door of the shanty with a wooden pin. that's all there is of it." "why don't you go down to the gorge?" "we went there the first thing, and we've been everywhere else that we could think of," replied tom. "they left their camp in a great hurry; but where they went is a mystery. but we will have them before many hours have passed away," added tom, confidently. "these officers have come up from hammondsport on purpose to arrest them, and they are not going back without them. we are taking them down to the beach now, to raise a "hue and cry" among the guides there, and by daylight to-morrow morning the mountains will be full of men. there is an additional reward offered for the arrest of the thieves, you know, and it is big enough to stimulate everybody to extra exertion." while tom and joe were talking in this way, the rest of the party had gathered about silas, whom they were trying to induce to join in the general hunt that was to be made on the following day. dan, being left to himself, listened with one ear to what tom was saying to his brother, and with the other tried to keep track of the conversation that was going on in his father's neighborhood. when he heard tom say that a reward had been offered for the apprehension of the robbers, as well as for the recovery of the property they had stolen, he stepped closer to him, and whispered: "do you know how much it is?" "five thousand dollars for both of them, or half of it for one," answered tom. "now, dan, there's a chance for you to make yourself rich." "but that there hant--" began dan. "is no hant at all," replied tom. "why, man alive, there are no such things, and i thought everybody knew it. i took a good look at this one while we were up there to-night, and found that it was nothing but a long pole with a stuffed pillow-case on one end of it for a head, and a short cross-piece for the shoulders. the man who managed it and made it act as if it were about to spring at you was behind the bushes out of sight. he and his companion did the yelling, and you never hurt either one of them, although your four charges of shot tore the pillow-case all to pieces." "yes," replied dan, "pap 'lowed that we'd oughter fired into the bresh." "exactly. if you had showed a little more pluck, you and your father might have had ten thousand dollars to divide between you. as it turned out, joe is entitled to only a third of it, but he'll get that, sure." "dog-gone such luck!" exclaimed dan, in a tone of deep disgust. "well, it was a windfall to your family, anyway," observed tom, "and you can add more to it to-morrow, if you're smart." "and what will poor bob be doing while we are hunting for him?" inquired joe. "he seems to be frightened, for he wants you to give up the valise, and be quick about it." "oh, nonsense!" exclaimed tom; "you don't know bob emerson as well as i do. he wrote that postscript, of course, and so would you if you had been in his place. but bob would be the maddest boy you ever saw if we should pay the least attention to it." at this moment uncle hallet and mr. warren turned toward the place where the boys were standing, the former saying, with some impatience in his tones: "well, silas, if you are afraid to come you can stay at home; but i would have a little more pluck if i were in your place. you'll come, won't you, joe, and help us hunt down those villains who have kidnapped bob emerson?" "indeed i will," answered joe, promptly. "i knew that would be your reply," continued mr. hallet. "now, if you will bring the flat to the bank and drop the apron, we'll get our team aboard and go on to the beach." the ferryman and his boys went to work with a will, and when the flat reached the other side of the river, the passengers got into their wagon and drove toward the beach, after telling silas that they would go home by way of the bridge, and he need not stay up to ferry them back; while joe hurried off to tell his mother what he had learned during his short interview with tom hallet. "it's the greatest outrage i ever heard of," said he, indignantly; "but they needn't think they are going to make anything by it. don't i wish i might be lucky enough to gobble at least one of those robbers!" "oh, joseph, i don't know whether i want you to go up there or not," said his mother, growing frightened again. "i must!" replied joe, decidedly. "i have promised to be at tom's cabin to-morrow morning at daylight, and that settles it. i wonder if father and dan will go?" that was the very question that silas and his worthy son were propounding to each other as they sat side by side on the river's bank. the terrible fright they had sustained on the day they went after the money was still fresh in their minds; but then, there was the reward, which was a sure thing this time, provided they could be fortunate enough to capture the robbers. they were both willing, and even eager, to join in the "hue-and-cry" that was to be raised against the thieves, provided they could do it in their own way; and the plans they were revolving in their minds, but of which they did not speak, were the same in every particular. for example, dan wanted his father to stay at home, and after he got into the mountains, he wanted nobody but joe for company. the latter had showed himself to be bold as well as lucky, and if they two should happen to catch one of the robbers, dan would not feel that he was under the slightest obligation to share the reward with his brother, because joe had more than three thousand dollars of his own already. but if his father went with him, he would lay claim to half the money, and he would be likely to get it, too, for he had the right to take every cent dan made. this was the way dan looked at the matter; and it was the very way his father looked at it. the result was, that although they spent an hour or more in looking it over, they went to bed without deciding whether they would go or not. nevertheless, they had well-defined plans in their heads, and each one resolved that he would carry them out regardless of the wishes of the other. silas, in order to throw dan off his guard, began operations by saying to his wife, the moment he entered the cabin: "i ain't a-going to jine in the rumpus the sheriff kicks up after them fellers to-morrow. it's mighty comical to me how easy some people can talk to you about putting yourself in the way of getting a charge of bird-shot sent into you, while they keep outen range themselves. i ain't got no call to resk my life a finding of bob emerson, and i shan't do it to please nobody." dan was secretly delighted to see his father work himself into a rage over the supposition that somebody would be pleased to see him go in the way of danger. "if he will only stick to that, i'm all right," said he, to himself. "pap sleeps sounder'n a dozen men oughter, and if joe don't call him in the morning, you can bet your bottom dollar _i_ won't." knowing his failing in this particular, silas made the mental resolution that he would not go to sleep at all. the young game-warden, who was one of those lucky fellows who can wake at any hour they please, could be relied on to make an early start, and silas told himself that he would lie perfectly still and wide awake until breakfast was ready, when he would jump up, eat his full share of the bacon and potatoes, and set out for the mountain when joe did. but even while he was thinking about it, he went off into a deep slumber. he did not awake when joe got up, and neither did the rattling of the dishes nor the savory odors of the bacon and coffee arouse him to a consciousness of what was going on in the cabin. having heard him say that he did not intend to join the sheriff's posse, mrs. morgan and joe did not think it worth while to disturb him, and dan would not do anything to interfere with his own plans, which thus far were working as smoothly as he could have desired. "but i've got a sneaking idee that there'll be trouble in this here house when pap does wake up, and finds me and joe gone," thought dan. "no matter. i won't be here to listen to his r'aring and pitching, so he can go on all he wants to. and if me and joe should catch one of them robbers--whoop-pee! then i'll have the reward all to myself; 'cause i ain't a going to put myself in the way of getting shot at, and then go snucks with a feller that's got more'n three thousand dollars a'ready. i'll see him furder first." the hours dragged along all too slowly for the tired, patient woman who sat in the open door with her sewing in her lap, and her tear-dimmed eyes fastened upon the hills among which the only member of the family who cared for her, or who tried in any way to smooth her pathway and make her burdens easier to bear, might at that very moment be rushing to his destruction. she wished he might have stayed at home and let some one else go in his place; but joe was loyal to his friend, and mrs. morgan had not tried to turn him from his purpose. she wished, too, that the weary day was over, so that the young game-warden could come back and say something comforting to her. just then somebody did say something, but the voice belonged to one who was not often guilty of saying or doing anything to comfort her. "na-r-r-r!" came from a distant corner of the cabin, and silas morgan threw off the blankets and started up in bed, to find that it was broad daylight, that breakfast had been cooked and eaten, and that the boy he had hoped to outwit was gone. he saw it all at a glance, but he wanted an explanation. "where be they?" he demanded. "they have been gone almost three hours," was the meek response. "and you let 'em go without saying a word to me?" roared the angry and disappointed man. "why, father, you told me last night that you didn't intend to go," said his wife. "and you didn't have any better sense than to believe it!" shouted silas. "did they go off together? well, old woman, you have cooked your goose this time--you have for a fact. i wanted to go with joe myself, and leave dan to home, 'cause he ain't no account when there's any shooting and such going on. he's too much of a coward to stand fire, dan is. i had kind o' made it up in my mind that me and joe would captur' one, and mebbe both, of them bugglars, and i kalkerlated to give you the most of my share of the money; but now you won't get none, and it serves you just right for letting me sleep when you oughter called me up. but i'll tell you one thing for a fact--the three thousand that joe has made already, and the hundred and twenty he's going to earn this winter, is mine; likewise all the reward him and dan get to-day, if they get any." so saying, silas shouldered his double-barrel and left the cabin, paying no sort of attention to his wife's entreaties that before he set out for the mountain he would take a cup of coffee and a bite of the breakfast she had kept warm for him. chapter xxx. brierly's squad captures a robber. when morgan arose from his "shake-down" on the morning of this particular day, he was promptly joined by his brother dan, whose actions told him as plainly as words that he had reasons of his own for not wishing to disturb his father's slumbers. dan was generally the last one of the family to bestir himself in the morning, and even after he got upon his feet, it took him a good while to wake up; but it was not so in this instance. his senses came to him the moment he opened his eyes, and, for a wonder, he brought in the wood, and lent a hand at setting the table. he moved about the room with noiseless footsteps, spoke in scarcely audible whispers, and cast frequent and anxious glances toward his father's couch. "well, sir, we done it, didn't we?" said he, when breakfast had been eaten and he and joe were hurrying along the road toward the place of meeting. "did what?" inquired his brother. "got away without waking pap up," said dan, who was in high glee. "i knew he said last night that he didn't mean to go, but i wasn't such a fool as to believe it. he wanted to go with you; and then do you know what would have happened if you and him had captured one of them bugglars? well, sir, he would have laid claim to the whole of the reward, and never give you a cent of it. i'm onto his little games. and he's going to make you hand over them three thousand dollars you made yesterday. he's a mighty mean, stingy feller, pap is, and you want to watch out for him." dan talked to keep up his courage, which began to ooze out of the ends of his fingers when he found himself drawing near to the gorge; but joe was so deeply engrossed with his own thoughts that he did not hear a dozen words of it. the young game-warden was not building air-castles. he was by no means as confident as dan appeared to be, that it would be his luck to assist in the capture of one of the robbers, and, if the truth must be told, he hoped that that dangerous duty would fall to somebody else. he had more money now than he had ever expected to possess, and his brains were busy with plans for keeping it out of his father's reach. while he was turning them over in his mind, they came within sight of his cabin. dan insisted on seeing the inside of it, so joe pulled out the loosened staple, and threw open the door. "ain't you mighty glad that you wasn't here when them robbers come up and stole your grub and things?" said he, after he had taken a look around. "say, joey, you'll keep old man warren's rifle, to take the place of the scatter-gun you lost, won't you?" "of course not," was joe's indignant reply. "why, dan, this rifle is worth forty or fifty dollars!" "so much the better," answered dan, who evidently thought that a fair exchange with mr. warren could not by any means be looked upon in the light of a robbery. "you lost your gun while you was working for him, and through no fault of your'n, and i say he'd oughter give you another. them's my sentiments." "well, they are not mine," said joe, closing the door, and replacing the staple. "i wouldn't have the face to look at a man again if i should ever mention the matter to him." dan did not know how to combat these sentiments, which were so widely at variance with his own, and as there was no longer any necessity that he should talk to keep his courage up, seeing that there was a large number of officers and guides almost within the sound of their voices, he said nothing. a quarter of an hour's walk brought them to tom's cabin, where they found a score or more of men, who were leaning on their rifles, or lounging around on the ground in various attitudes. these, they afterward learned, comprised but a small portion of the crowd that had assembled there that morning in obedience to the summons of the sheriff and his deputy, the others having gone off in squads of four men each to begin the search. mr. warren told joe that tom hallet was so impatient to be doing something for his friend, that he had left with the first squad that went out. he said, also, that a good many more men had gone, or were going, out from bellville and hammondsport; so the capture of the robbers was a foregone conclusion. "by dividing into small parties we shall be able to give all the ravines and every piece of woods in the country, for miles around, a thorough overhauling before night," added mr. warren, "and we thought that four men were enough for each squad. they won't care to have the reward divided among too many, you know. i am going with the sheriff, and shall be glad to have you make one of our party." "and i shall be glad to do it," replied joe. as mr. warren walked away to speak to the officer, dan pulled his brother's coat-sleeve, and whispered: "he didn't say that he'd be glad to have me make one of his party, did he? well, i'm going, all the same. say, joey, if our squad gobbles both them bugglars, how much'll that be for each of us?" "twelve hundred and fifty dollars," was the reply. "well, now, sposen our squad catches one of 'em, and some other squad away off somewheres else catches t'other one--how much will that be for each feller?" "a little over three hundred dollars." "is that all?" said dan. and, to have heard him speak, you would have thought that he was in the habit of carrying a good deal more money than that loose in his pockets every day. "and you've got more'n three thousand dollars a coming to you! dog-gone such luck as i do have, any way!" it was probable that dan had more to say on this point. he usually had a good deal to say whenever he fell to talking about his bad luck; but just then mr. warren beckoned to joe, who promptly stepped forward to join his squad, dan keeping close to his heels. "i wish i could think up some plan to get even with old man warren for the way he's acting," thought dan, who was indignant because the gentleman did not show him a little more respect. "i don't reckon he wants me along, but i don't care whether he does or not. i'm here to stay, no odds if there is five men instead of four in the party, and if we catch them bugglars i'll make 'em hand over my share. that'll be--lemme see." after an infinite deal of trouble and much hard thinking, dan arrived at the conclusion that his share of the reward, if any were earned by that squad, would be just one-fifth of five thousand dollars. but joe would come in for a share, also, and then he would have four thousand dollars, while dan would have but one. did anybody ever hear of such luck? joe was ahead, and dan didn't see any way to catch up with him. the sheriff's squad walked far and hunted faithfully all that day. there was no thicket too dense for them to penetrate, and no gorge so dark and gloomy that they were afraid to go down into it; but they saw nothing of the robbers, and neither did they happen to come upon either of the other searching parties. they stopped for lunch on the banks of a trout brook, and the sheriff was filling his pipe for a smoke, when all on a sudden he struck a listening attitude, at the same time enjoining silence upon his companions by a motion of his hand. "that's two," said he, in a low voice. "now wait. that's three. now wait a little longer, and perhaps we shall hear some gratifying news." the others held their breath to listen, and presently, faint and far off, and rendered somewhat indistinct by intervening hills, and by the echoes that mixed themselves up with the sound, they heard three reports of heavily-loaded shotguns. "hurrah for law and order," cried the sheriff. "our work is half done, and some lucky squad will have twenty-five hundred dollars to divide among its members." "we don't get none of it, do we?" whispered dan to his brother. "did we have any hand in making the capture?" asked joe, in reply. "of course, we don't." "dog-gone such luck!" murmured the disappointed dan. "one of the outlaws has come to grief," continued the sheriff, "and that proves that they must have separated. i should much like to know what they did with their prisoner. it seems to me, from where i stand, that they were guilty of an act of folly when they gobbled bob. they ought to have known that by doing a thing of that kind, they would get every able-bodied man in the country after them." the officer and his squad were so anxious to have a hand in completing the work so well begun, that they did not remain long in camp, although they might have passed the rest of the day there for all the good they did. every now and then they stopped to listen, but they never heard any signals to indicate that the other robber had been apprehended. that, however, was no sign that such signals had not been given; for the summerdale hills covered a good deal of territory, and the searching parties were so widely scattered that it would have taken a field-piece to signal to all of them. finally, the sheriff announced, with a good deal of reluctance, that it was time to go home; and it was with equal reluctance that the members of his squad turned their steps towards tom hallet's cabin. it was almost dark when they came in sight of it, but still there was light enough for joe morgan to see that the cabin had been visited during their absence, and that there was a communication of some sort awaiting them. it was fastened to the door, and joe ran ahead of the squad and took it down. then he found that it was not intended for any one in particular, but had been left for the information of everybody who had taken part in the search. "shall i read it, mr. warren?" asked joe, when his employer came up. "it is in tom hallet's own hand." "let us hear it at once," replied mr. warren. and joe read as follows: "good and bad news.--robber no. was captured by brierly's squad at half-past twelve. bob emerson is with me now, and none the worse for his adventure. that's the good news. "nothing has been seen or heard of robber no. , who doubtless fled deeper into the hills than any of our searching parties had time to go. the bellville and hammondsport squads say they will try him again to-morrow. that's the bad news." "and it isn't so very bad, either," said the sheriff. "if he gets lost, as i hope he will, we'll have him to-morrow, sure; but if he works his way out of the hills, we shall have to call upon the telegraph to help us. so brierly has made himself wealthy by this day's work. i should think that he could afford to let your blue-headed birds alone, now, mr. warren." "did any living person ever hear of such luck?" muttered dan. "everybody is getting wealthy, 'cepting me." the squad broke up here, mr. warren and two companions turning into the cow-path that led down the mountain by the shortest route, and joe and dan striking for home, where a most astonishing discovery awaited them. chapter xxxi. silas in luck at last. dan morgan did not have as much to say on the way home as he did while he and his brother were passing over that same road in the morning. another one of his air-castles had fallen about his ears, and a portion of the money he had hoped to earn would go into brierly's pocket. one of the robbers had been captured, but the other had taken himself safely off, and that was the end of all his dreams. did anybody ever hear of such luck? it made him very angry to see how light-hearted joe seemed to be. "i reckon you're glad 'cause i ain't got a cent to bless myself with, ain't you?" said he, savagely. "then, what do you keep up such a whistling for? you can afford to be happy, when you know that you can have a pile of money by asking for it; but i ain't a going to be treated this here way no longer." the young game-warden did not pay the least attention to his brother's ravings, because he had something of more importance to think about--his future. he was sadly in need of such training as he could get at the bellville academy, and he had sense enough to know it; and the point he was trying to decide was: should he ask his employer to release him from his contract, so that he could go to school during the winter? or would it be better to make sure of the hundred and twenty dollars he could earn during the next eight months, and look to tom and bob to help him along with his studies? while he was thinking about it, the cabin hove in sight, and at the same time an exclamation from dan called him back to earth again. joe looked up, and saw his father sitting motionless on a chair in front of the cabin. his double-barrel lay upon the ground within easy reach of him, his elbows were resting upon his knees, and his chin was upheld by the palms of his hands. he appeared to be gazing steadily at some object that was hidden from joe's view by the corner of the house. "how do you reckon he feels over the trick we played on him this morning?" said dan, with a grin. "he thinks he's a sharp one, pap does, but he ain't got no business along of me." "if there was any trick played upon him, you did it, and not i," answered joe. "father hasn't worked half as hard as we have, and yet he is just as well--what in the name of wonder is that?" while joe was speaking, he and dan moved around the corner of the house, and then the object at which silas was looking so fixedly was disclosed to view. it was a man who was sitting on a bench beside the door, and who was so closely wrapped up in a clothes-line that he could scarcely stir one of his fingers. [illustration: silas and the bank robber] hearing the sound of their footsteps, the man, whoever he was, slowly turned his head toward the corner of the cabin, whereupon silas shouted out, in a savage voice: "none of that there, i tell you! you can't get away, 'cause you're worth a power of money to me, and i'm bound to hold fast to you till--human natur'!" yelled silas, jumping to his feet, with both barrels of his gun cocked. "oh, it's you, is it? i kinder thought it was t'other robber coming to turn his pardner loose." silas was so completely wrapped up in his own affairs that the boys got close to him before he was aware of their presence, and it is the greatest wonder in the world that he did not shoot one of them in his excitement. he was really alarmed; but when he had taken a good look at the newcomers, in order to make sure of their identity, he laid his gun across the chair, pushed up his sleeves, and shook both his fists at dan. "so you thought you would fool your poor old pap this morning, did you, you little snipe?" he shouted. "well, you see what you made by it, don't you?" "i never tried to make a fool of you," stammered dan, who had a faint idea that he understood the situation. "i never in this wide world!" "hush your noise when i tell you i know better," yelled silas; and one would have thought, by the way he acted and looked, that he was very angry, instead of very much delighted, at the way things had turned out. "here you have been and tramped all over them mountings, and never got a cent for it, while i have made a clean twenty-five hundred dollars, if i counted it up right on my fingers; and i reckon i did, 'cause your mam put in a figger to help me now and then." "why, how did it happen?" exclaimed joe, who, up to this moment, had not been able to do anything but stand still and look astonished. he knew that his father had captured one of the robbers without help from any one, and that was more than fifty other men had been able to do, with all their weary tramping. "the way it happened was just this," said silas, who could not stand in one place for a single moment. "hold on there!" he added, turning fiercely upon his prisoner, who just then moved uneasily upon the bench, as if he were trying to find a softer spot to sit on. "i've got my eyes onto you, and you might as--" "why, father, he can't get away," joe interposed. "you've got him tied up too tight. why don't you let out that rope a little?" "'cause he's worth a pile of money--that's why!" exclaimed silas; "and i won't let the rope out not one inch, nuther. you, joe, keep away from there." "i really wish you would undo some of this rope," said the prisoner, who, like byron's corsair, seemed to be a mild-mannered man. "i have been tied up ever since two o'clock, and am numb all over. i couldn't run a step if i should try." "don't you believe a word of that!" exclaimed silas. "come away from there and let that rope be, i tell you." "say, father," said joe, suddenly, "what are you going to do with your captive? do you intend to sit up and watch him all night long?" "i was just a studying about that when you come up and scared me," replied silas, dropping the butt of his gun to the ground, and leaning heavily upon the muzzle. he never could stand alone for any length of time; he always wanted something to support him. "what do you think i had better do about it? i don't much like to keep him here, 'cause--why just look a here, joey," added silas, moving up to the door, and pointing to some object inside the cabin. "see them tools i took away from him?" the boys stepped to their father's side, and saw lying upon the table, where silas had placed it, a belt containing a brace of heavy revolvers and a murderous-looking knife. "now, them's dangerous," continued silas, "and if this feller's pardner should happen along--" "but he won't happen along," interrupted dan. "brierly's squad gobbled him." the ferryman looked surprised, then disgusted, and finally he turned an inquiring glance upon joe, who said that dan told the truth. "you don't like it, do you?" said the latter to himself. "it sorter hurts you to know that there is them in the world that are just as lucky and smart as you be, don't it? yes, that's what's the matter with pap. he don't want no one else to be as well off as he is." and when dan said that, he hit the nail fairly on the head. "the other robber is not in a condition to attempt a rescue," said joe; "but, all the same, i don't think you ought to keep this man here all night. the sheriff is now at mr. warren's house, and it is your duty to hand the prisoner over to him at once. be careful how you point those guns this way." this last remark was called forth by an action on the part of silas and dan that made joe feel the least bit uncomfortable. while the latter was talking, his hands were busy with the rope; and when the prisoner arose from the bench and stamped his feet to set the blood in circulation again, his excited and watchful guards at once covered his head and joe's with the muzzles of their guns. "turn those weapons the other way," repeated joe, angrily. "you don't think this man is foolish enough to try to run off while his hands are tied, do you? now, father, how did you happen to catch him?" "it was just as easy as falling off a log," replied silas, resuming his seat and resting his double-barrel across his knees. "when you and dan went away this morning, i just naturally shouldered my gun, walked up the road to the foot of the mounting, and set down on a log to wait for game to come a running past me, just the same as if i was watching for deer, you know." this was all true; but there was one thing he did that he forgot to mention. the only "game" silas expected to see was dan morgan, when he returned from the mountain at night, and the ferryman was prepared to give him a warm reception. before he devoted himself to the task of holding down that log by the roadside, he took the trouble to cut a long hickory switch, and to place it beside the log, out of sight. he meant to give dan such a thrashing that he would never play any more tricks upon him. "well, about one o'clock, or a little after, while i was a setting there and waiting for the game to come along, i heared a noise in the brush, and, all on a sudden, out popped this feller. he was running like he'd been sent for, and that's why i suspicioned him. of course i didn't know him from adam, but i asked him would he stop a bit. and he 'lowed he would, when he seed my gun looking him square in the eye. i brung him home, and your mam she passed out the clothes-line, and i tied him up." "where is mother now?" asked joe. "gone off after more sewing, i reckon," replied silas, in a tone which seemed to say that it was a matter that was not worth talking about. "she helped me figger up what i would get for catching him, and then she dug out. i'm worth almost as much as you be now, joey, and that there mean dan, who wouldn't stay by and help me, he ain't got a cent. now, don't you wish you hadn't played that trick on me this morning." "never mind that," interposed joe, who did not care to stand by and listen to an angry altercation which might end in a fight or a foot-race between his father and dan. "if we are going to deliver this man to the sheriff to-night, we had better be moving." "do you reckon the sheriff will hand over the twenty-five hundred when i give up the prisoner?" inquired silas, as the party walked down the bank toward the flat. "of course he won't." "what for won't he?" "because he hasn't got it with him. perhaps it was never put into his hands at all. i haven't received my share yet." "then i reckon i'd best hold fast to him till i'm sure of my money," said silas, reflectively. "i guess i won't take him down to old man warren's to-night." "i guess you will, unless you want to get into trouble with the law," said joe, decidedly. "if you don't give him up of your own free will, the sheriff will take him away from you." silas protested that he couldn't see any sense in such a law as that, but he lent his aid in pushing off the flat. dan, who was almost too angry to breathe, had more than half a mind to stay at home; but his curiosity to hear and see all that was said and done when the prisoner was turned over to the officers of the law impelled him to think better of it. when the flat was shoved off, he jumped in and picked up one of the oars. chapter xxxii. bob emerson's story. we have said that tom hallet was so anxious to help his unlucky friend bob in some way that he joined the very first squad that went out in search of him. the man who had the name of being the leader of it was the sheriff's deputy; but the two stalwart young farmers who belonged to his party were longer of limb than he was, and they pushed ahead at such a rate that the deputy speedily fell to the rear, and stayed there during most of the day. "me and cyrus have come out to win that there reward," said one of the young men, when tom remonstrated with them for leaving the officer so far behind, "and we can't do it by loafing along like that sheriff does. we've got a mortgage to pay off on the farm, and we don't know any easier way to raise the money for it than to capture one of them rogues." but this sanguine young fellow was not the only one who was destined to have his trouble for his pains; and what made his disappointment and his brother's harder to bear, was the reflection that if they had left tom's cabin half an hour earlier than they did, they might have succeeded in earning a portion of the money of which they stood so much in need. they were not more than a quarter of a mile away, when brierly's signal guns announced that one of the robbers had been captured. they ran forward at the top of their speed, hoping to reach the scene of action before the arrest was fairly consummated, but in this they were also disappointed. when they came in sight of the successful party, they found the robber securely bound, and brierly wearing the belt that contained his weapons. "too late, boys!" exclaimed the guide, who was highly elated over his good fortune. "you can't lay claim to any of our money, if that's what brung you up here in such haste." "we don't care for the money," panted tom. "where's bob?" "that's so," said brierly, who had not bestowed a single thought upon the prisoner during the whole forenoon. "where is he? say, feller, what have you done with him?" "i have not seen him for two hours," replied the prisoner. "as soon as we found out that the hills were full of men, we set him at liberty, and i suppose he made the best of his way home. we didn't want to keep him with us, for fear that he would set up a yelp to show where we were hiding." just then the deputy, who had been sitting on a log to recover his breath, managed to inquire: "what have you done with your partners?" "there were only two of us, and the other man has gone off that way," answered the captive, nodding his head toward an indefinite point of the compass. tom hallet had no further interest in the hunt. he stood by and watched the officer as he unbound the prisoner and substituted a pair of handcuffs for the rope with which his arms had been confined, and when brierly's party started off with their captive, tom fell in behind them. he went as straight to his cabin as he could go, and there he found bob emerson, who was rummaging around in the hope of finding something to eat. "i haven't had a bite of anything since last night, and you'd better believe that i am hungry," said bob, after he and tom had greeted each other as though they had been separated for years. "but i am not a bit of a hero. i haven't had an adventure worth the telling." "there's nothing in there," said tom, seeing that his friend was casting longing eyes toward his game-bag. "i didn't take much of a lunch with me, and i was hungry enough to eat it all. can you stand it till we get home?" "i'll have to," replied bob. "by-the-way, did you ever see that before?" as he spoke, he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a soiled and crumpled letter, which looked as though it might have been through the war. it was the same precious document that he and tom had left in silas morgan's wood-pile. "one of the robbers gave it to me last night," continued bob, in reply to his companion's inquiring look. "you will remember that dan morgan lost the letter within a few feet of the log on which he sat when he read it, and that when he and silas went back to find it, they were frightened away by something that dodged into the bushes, before they could get a sight at it, and which they took to be a ghost. well, it wasn't a ghost at all, but one of the thieves, who had been to the beach after supplies. he found the letter and read it. of course he was greatly alarmed, and so was his companion; for they couldn't help believing that some one had got wind of their hiding-place. they could hardly believe me, when i told them that you and i made that letter up out of the whole cloth, and that we never dreamed there was any one living in the gorge." "but we did know it," said tom. "of course we did, after they frightened us, but not before. they spoke about that, too. we took them completely by surprise the day we came down the gorge. we were close upon their camp before they knew it, and for a minute or two they didn't know what to do. then one of them conceived the idea of making that hideous noise, and when the other saw how well it worked, he joined in with him." "but didn't they know that we would be back sooner or later to look into the matter?" asked tom. "of course they did, and that was another thing that frightened them. they saw very plainly that their hiding-place was broken up, and were making preparations to leave it when silas and dan put in their appearance. the robbers saw and heard them long before they got to the camp, and the one who found the letter recognized them at once. it was at his suggestion that that ghost was rigged up." "but they must have known that they could not scare everybody with that dummy," observed tom. "to be sure they did, and they were in a great hurry to get away from there; but they needed provisions, and by stopping to get them they fell into trouble. they took joe morgan's house for a woodchopper's cabin and while we were robbing them, they were foraging on joe. i tell you, tom, it's a lucky thing for us that we got out of that gorge when we did. they were mad enough to shoot us on sight." "i don't wonder at it," replied tom. "it would make most anybody mad to lose a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in money and securities, no matter how he came by them. where did they catch you? did they treat you well?" "they treated me well enough," was bob's reply, "but i believe that if they had not stood in fear of immediate capture i should have a different story to tell, if, indeed, i were able to tell any. i told you nothing but the truth in the postscript i added to their note." "i knew they made you write it, and that you did not express your honest sentiments when you told us to be in a hurry about giving back that valise." "i was sure you would understand it; but what could a fellow do with a cocked revolver flourished before his eyes by a man who was in just the right humor to use it on him?" "he would do as he is told, of course," answered tom. "but do you suppose they thought they could get that valise back by threatening you?" "i don't know what they thought, for they acted as if they were crazy. they caught me in less than half an hour after i left you, and it was through my own fault. i ran on to them before i knew it, and do you imagine i thought 'robbers' once? as true as you live i didn't. i took them for poachers, and told them, very politely, that these grounds were posted and they couldn't be allowed to shoot there, when all on a sudden it popped into my head what i was doing. they saw the start i gave, and in a second more they had me covered. if i could have got away without letting them see that i suspected them, they wouldn't have said a word to me." "well, they covered you with their revolvers; then what?" "beyond a doubt, they made a prisoner of me before they thought what they were doing, and when they came to look at it they found that they had got an elephant on their hands. then they would have been glad to get rid of me; but they did not see just how they could do it with safety to themselves, so they made up their minds to use me." "at first they thought they would wait and see if anything would come of the notice they left on the door of the cabin, and then they thought they wouldn't--that they would hunt up another hiding-place as soon as possible; so they ordered me to take them where nobody would ever think of looking for them. and i could do nothing but obey." "were you acting as their guide when they released you?" bob replied that he was. "why didn't you veer around a bit, and lead them toward the railroad?" "if i had i shouldn't be here now," answered bob, significantly. "they warned me to be careful about that, and they were so well acquainted with the hills that i was afraid to attempt any tricks. we camped over on dungeon brook last night, and set out again at an early hour this morning, but before we had been in motion an hour, we found ourselves cut off from the upper end of the hills, and that was the time they made up their minds to let me go. they didn't say so, but still i had an idea that they didn't want me around for fear i would make too much noise to suit them." "i know they were afraid of it," said tom. "the robber that brierly's squad captured said so." "is one of them taken?" exclaimed bob, who hadn't heard of it before. "that's good news. where's the other?" "don't know. they separated after they let you go, and brierly captured one of them. perhaps we shall hear something about the other one now," added tom, directing his companion's attention to a large party of men who were at that moment discovered approaching the cabin. "we went out in squads of four, and there are a dozen men in that crowd." "but i don't see any prisoner among them," said bob. "they have all got guns on their shoulders, and that proves that they have not seen anything of robber number two." as the party came nearer, the boys saw that it was made up of citizens of bellville and hammondsport, who had abandoned the search for the day, and were now on their way home. they were surprised to see bob emerson there, safe and sound, and forthwith desired a full history of the letter which had been the means of bringing about so remarkable a series of events. bob protested that he was too hungry to talk, but when he saw the generous supply of bread and meat which one of the men drew from his haversack, he sat down on a log in front of the cabin and told his story. his auditors declared that the way things had turned out was little short of wonderful, adding, as they arose to go, that they were coming out again, bright and early the next morning, to resume the search for robber number two. they were not going to remain idle at home, they said, as long as there were twenty-five hundred dollars running around loose in the woods. when the bread and meat were all gone, and the boys were once more alone, tom wrote the notice which joe morgan found pinned to the door of the cabin, and then he and bob set out for uncle hallet's. chapter xxxiii. turning over a new leaf. although silas morgan had received the most convincing proof that he had nothing more to fear from the "hant" which had so long occupied all his waking thoughts and disturbed his dreams at night, he would not have taken one step toward mr. warren's house before morning, had he not been urged on by the hope that the sheriff would be ready to pay over his money as soon as the robber was given up to him. the desire to handle the reward to which he was entitled was stronger than his fear of the dark. "and what shall i do with them twenty-five hundred after i get 'em, joey?" said he. "that's what's a bothering of me now." and it was the very thing that was bothering joe, also. his father had always been in the habit of spending his money as fast as he got it, and the boy fully expected to see this large sum slip through his fingers without doing the least good to him or anybody else. "i'll tell you what i _wouldn't_ do with it," said joe, after a little hesitation. "i wouldn't give hobson any of it." "you're right i won't!" exclaimed silas. "he's got more'n his share already. what be you going to do with yours, when you get it?" "i think now that i shall put it in the bank at hammondsport," answered joe. "it will be safe there, and if i am careful of it, it will last me until i get through going to school. you don't want to go to school, but you might go into business and increase your capital." "that's it--that's it, joey!" exclaimed silas, who grew enthusiastic at once. "i never thought of that. but what sort of business? it must be something easy, 'cause i've worked hard enough already." "mr. warren says that there is no easy way of making a living," began joe; but his father interrupted him with an exclamation of impatience. "what does old man warren know about it?" he demanded. "he never had to do a hand's turn in his life." "but he don't know what it is to be idle, and he is busy at something every day," said joe. "i'll tell you what i have often thought i would do if i had a little money, and i may do it yet, if you don't decide to go into it. the new road that is coming through here is bound to bring a good many people to the beach, sooner or later. as the trout are nearly all gone, the guests will have to devote their attention to the bass in the lake, and consequently there will be a big demand for boats." "so there will!" exclaimed silas, who saw at once what joe was trying to get at. "that's the business i've been looking for, joey, and it's an easy one, too. of course, i can let all my boats at so much an hour, and i won't have nothing to do but sit on the beach and take in my money." "and what'll i be doing?" inquired dan, who had not spoken before. "you!" cried silas, who seemed to have forgotten that dan was one of the party. "you will keep on chopping cord wood, to pay you for the mean trick you played on me this morning. you see what you made by it, don't you? i reckon you wish you'd stayed by me now, don't you? how much will them boats cost me, joey?" "i should think that ten or a dozen skiffs would be enough to begin with," answered joe, "and they will cost you between three and four hundred dollars; but you would have enough left to rent a piece of ground of mr. warren and put up a snug little house on it." "then i'll be a gentlemen like the rest of 'em, won't i?" exclaimed silas, gleefully. "no, you won't," said dan, to himself. "that bridge ain't been built yet, and i don't reckon hobson means to have it there. he is going to bust it up some way or 'nother, and i'm just the man to help him, if he'll pay me for it. everybody is getting rich 'cepting me, and i ain't going to be treated this way no longer!" silas was so completely carried away by joe's plan for making money without work that he could think of nothing else. he forgot how determined and vindictive dan was, and how easy it would be for him to place a multitude of obstacles in his way, but joe didn't. the latter knew well enough that dan intended to make trouble if he were left out in the cold, but what could be done for so lazy and unreliable a fellow as he was? that was the question. while joe was turning it over in his mind, he led the way through mr. warren's gate and up to the porch, where he found his employer sitting in company with the sheriff and both uncle hallet's game wardens. the deputy was in an upper room, keeping guard over the other prisoner. of course, tom and bob, who were greatly surprised as well as delighted to see joe and his party, wanted to know just how the capture of robber number two had been brought about, and while joe was telling the story, the sheriff marched the captive into the house and turned him over to his deputy. then he came back and sat down; but he did not put his hand into his pocket and pull out the reward as silas hoped he would. "this has been a good day's work all around," said tom, who was in high spirits. "the next time there is any detective work to be done in this county, bob and i will volunteer to do it. we can catch more criminals by sitting still and writing letters than the officers can by bringing all their skill into play." the sheriff laughed, and said that was the way the thing looked from where he sat. "the fun is all over now," continued tom, "and to-morrow we will go to work in earnest. you will be on hand, of course?" joe replied that he would. "by-the-way," chimed in bob, "did this robber of yours have a gun of any description in his hands when he was captured?" "no." "then, joe, you and i are just that much out of pocket. the guns are gone up." "what has become of them?" "they are out in the hills somewhere," answered bob. "when the robbers made up their minds that they had better let me go, one of them had my gun and the other had yours; but the robber brierly captured says that the weapon impeded his flight, and so he threw it away. whereabouts he was in the hills when he got rid of it he can't tell. no doubt your gun was thrown away also, and the chances are not one in a thousand that we shall ever find them again." while this conversation was going on, silas morgan, who stood at the foot of the steps that led to the porch, kept pulling joe by the coat-sleeve, and whispering to him: "never mind the guns. tell the sheriff that i'm powerful anxious to see the color of them twenty-five hundred." joe paid no sort of attention to him, and finally silas became so very much in earnest in his endeavors to attract the boy's notice, that the officer saw it; and when there was a little pause in the conversation, he said carelessly: "oh, about the reward, silas--" "that's the idee," replied the ferryman, who thought sure that he was going to get it now. "that's what i'm here for. you have got the burglars in your own hands now, and i don't reckon you would mind passing it over, would you?" "i?" exclaimed the sheriff. "i haven't got it. i have never had a cent of it in my possession." "then who's going to give it to me?" demanded silas, who wondered if the officer was going to cheat him out of his money. "well, you see, silas," said the sheriff, "the reward is conditioned upon the arrest and conviction of the burglars. they have been arrested, and their conviction is only a matter of time; but you can't get your money until they are sentenced." "and how long will that be?" "the court will sit again in about six weeks. as some of the money was offered by the county, and the rest by the men who lost the jewelry and things that were found in that valise, you will get your reward from different parties, unless they hand it over to me to be paid to you in a lump." "that's the way i want it," said silas, who was very much disappointed. "i'm going into business." "what sort of business?" inquired mr. warren. "i am going to keep a boat-house down to the beach." "well now, silas, that's the most sensible thing i have heard from you in a long time," said mr. warren. "i'll rent you a piece of ground big enough for a garden, and you can set yourself up in business in good shape, build a nice house, and have money left in the bank. if you manage the thing rightly, you and dan ought to make a good living of it." "who said anything about dan?" exclaimed silas. "i did. of course, you can't ignore him, because you are wealthy. he wants a chance to earn an honest living, and he needs it, too. he's a strong boy, a first-rate hand with a boat, knows all the best fishing-grounds on the lake, and would be just the fellow to send out with a party who wanted a guide and boatman. you can easily afford to pay him a dollar a day for such work as that." "well, i won't do it," said silas, promptly. "he's a lazy, good-for-nothing scamp, dan is, and i won't take him into business along with me." "but you will hire him, and give him a chance to quit breaking the game-law, and make an honest living," said the sheriff. "by-the-way, silas, i guess you had better bring up those setters, and save me the trouble of going after them." "what setters?" exclaimed silas, who acted as if he were on the point of taking to his heels. "i ain't got none. i took 'em down to the hotel and give 'em up." "i am glad to hear it, because it will save me some trouble," replied the officer, "i have had my eyes on those dogs ever since you got hold of them, and i should have been after them long ago, if i had known where to find the owner. don't do that again, silas. honesty is the best policy, every day in the week." "if you will leave your business in my hands i will attend to it for you, and you will not have to go to hammondsport at all," continued mr. warren. and joe was glad to hear him say it, because it showed him that the gentleman did not intend that his father should squander all his money, if he could help it. "it is too late in the season for you to do anything with your boats this year, but i will give you and dan a steady job at chopping wood, and if you take care of the money you earn, instead of spending it at hobson's bar, you can live well during the winter. if the reward is not paid over to you by the time spring opens, i will advance you enough to start you in business and build your house. then i think you had better give dan a chance." "so do i," whispered tom to his friend bob. "dan has lived by his wits long enough, and if silas doesn't begin to take some interest in him, the sheriff will have a word or two to say about those setters. i can see plainly enough that he intends to hold that affair over silas as a whip to make him behave himself." "do you think silas will ever have the reward paid him in a lump?" asked bob. "no, i don't, because he doesn't know enough to take care of so much money. joe can get his any time he wants it, for mr. warren knows that he will make every cent of it count." then, aloud, tom said: "well, bob, seeing that we've got to get up in the morning, we had better be going home. come over bright and early, joe, and we will take your things back to your cabin." "and i will send up another supply of provisions," said mr. warren. joe thanked his employer, bade him good-night, and led the way out of the yard. for a time he and his party walked along in silence, and then silas, who began to have a vague idea that he had been imposed upon in some way, broke out fiercely: "what did old man warren mean by saying that if i didn't get all my money by the time spring comes, he would advance enough to set me up in business?" silas almost shouted. "looks to me like he'd 'p'inted himself my guardeen, and that he means to keep a tight grip on them twenty-five hundred, so't i can't spend it to suit myself. that's what i think he means to do, dog-gone the luck!" joe thought so, too, and he was glad of it. if that was mr. warren's intention, joe's mother would be likely to reap some benefit from the reward; otherwise, she would not. chapter xxxiv. the transformation. silas morgan was one of the proudest men that the sun ever shone upon, and he would have been supremely happy if it had not been for two things, over which he could exercise no control. one was that mr. warren and the sheriff intended to keep a sharp eye on him, and see that he did not squander any of the money he had earned by capturing the robber. the other was that dan claimed recognition, and was determined to have it, too, in spite of the mean trick he had played upon his father. when silas arose the next morning the first thought that came into his mind was that he was a rich man. it excited him to such a degree that he could not eat any breakfast. he managed to drink a single cup of coffee, and then shouldered his gun and set out for hobson's, to exhibit himself to the loafers who made the half-way house their headquarters, while joe hastened off to mr. hallet's to assist tom and bob. dan was left to pass the time as he pleased, and it suited him to sun himself on the bank of the river and bemoan his hard luck. the first man silas saw as he drew near to hobson's place of business was brierly, who dropped some hints that set him to thinking. after congratulating silas on his good fortune, he inquired what use he intended to make of the reward when he got it. "i ain't just made up my mind yet," was silas morgan's guarded reply. "i don't reckon i'm going to get it right away, 'cause old man warren he's went and 'p'inted himself to be my guardeen, and i say that ain't right. i ketched that there bugglar without no help from anybody. the reward belongs to me, and i had oughter have it!" to his utter astonishment brierly promptly answered: "no, you hadn't. you don't know how to take care of so much money, more'n i do, and it's the properest thing that somebody should look out for it. i tell you, silas, i ain't the man i was when that joe of your'n ordered me out of old man's warren's wood lot. do you know what i did the minute i got home yesterday? well, i went down to the hotel and give the landlord the twenty-five dollars that i had cheated mr. brown out of. the landlord knows where he lives, and will send it to him." "joe tells me that mr. brown was a mighty scared man after you lost him in the woods," observed silas. "it was a mighty mean trick," declared brierly; "but the fact of it was i was hard up for money, and didn't care much how i got it. i think different now. i've got a chance to be something better'n the lazy, ragged vagabone i have always been, and i am going to keep it. i am, for a fact! i have been waiting for it, and now that i have got it, i intend to make the most of it. i think i shall let the heft of my money stay where it is this winter, and get my grub and clothes by chopping wood for old man warren. you want to look out for hobson. he's got an eye on them dollars of your'n. he tried to shove lots of things onto me this morning, but i wouldn't take 'em." silas morgan never expected to hear such counsel as this from brierly, who, like himself, had always been in the habit of squandering his slim earnings as fast as he could get hold of them, and it excited a serious train of reflections in his mind. being on his guard, hobson's blandishments had no effect upon him. "you're the luckiest man i ever heard of!" exclaimed the proprietor of the half-way house, coming out from behind his counter and greeting silas with great cordiality. "warren's hired man told the stage driver all about it, and he told us. want anything in my line this morning?" "there's plenty of things i want," replied silas; "but i ain't got a cent of money." "no matter for that. your credit is good." "and what's more, i don't reckon i can get any of that reward under six weeks," continued silas. "the court don't sit till then, you know, and i won't see the color of them dollars till the bugglars gets their sentence." "but joe's pay-day will come sooner than that," suggested hobson. "well, now, look here," said silas, slowly. "don't you think it would be mighty mean for a man who is worth twenty-five hundred dollars to take the money his little boy makes by living up there alone in the woods? i do. and i've about made up my mind that i won't do it." "didn't you tell me that you thought the head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that came into the house?" demanded hobson, who was really astonished to hear such sentiments as these come from silas morgan. "i did think so once, but i don't now," was the reply. "and furder'n that, i don't reckon i'll get my money all in a lump, like i thought i was going to, 'cause old man warren he's gone and made himself my guardeen; and if i run in debt now, i'll have to give you an order on him for the money. of course he would want to see the bill, and mebbe he'd take particular notice of the items that's into it." "do you mean to let him boss you around in that way?" exclaimed hobson. "i thought you had more pluck than that. you are old enough to be your own master, if you are ever going to be." "well," said silas, again, "there's one thing that i ain't master of, and i know it. that's money. whenever i get a dollar bill in my hands, it burns me so't i have to drop it somewheres. i reckon i won't touch that reward this winter." hobson was so angry and disgusted that he could not say a word in reply. he went around behind his counter, and when silas turned to go out, he informed him, in a savage tone of voice, that there was a little difference of a dollar and a half between them, and he would be glad to have him settle up then and there. "didn't i tell you when i first come in that i ain't got a cent to bless myself with?" reminded silas. "but me and dan are going to work for old man warren this very afternoon, and i'll be around next saturday, sure pop." "i'll bear that in mind," said hobson. "if you are not on hand, i shall ride down to your house to see what is the matter." "that's always the way with them kind of fellows," said brierly, in a low tone. "as long as you've got plenty of money, and spend it free with them, you're a first-rate chap; but the very minute you turn over a new leaf, and try to be honest and sober, they ain't got no use for you. i'm done with 'em." silas walked home in a brown study. the first thing he did after he crossed the threshold of his humble abode was to put his gun in its place over the door, and the second, to take an axe and whetstone out of the chimney corner. with these in his hand, he went out on the bank where dan was still sunning himself. "it's a long time since you seen this here little tool, ain't it?" said silas, cheerfully; but there was something in the tone of his voice that made the boy tremble. "looks kinder like it used to last winter, don't it? now, sharpen it up so't you can drive it clear in to the eye every clip, and after dinner me and you will toddle down to old man warren's, and ask him where he wants us to cut that wood; won't we, dannie?" "no, we won't," shouted dan. "won't, eh?" said his father, calmly. "well, them that don't work can't eat, and a boy that won't help himself when he's got a chance, can't get no dollar a day out of me when i go into that boat business. he won't be worth it, and mr. warren will think so too, when he hears of it. i reckon the best thing you can do is to put that there axe in shape and be ready to go with your pap after dinner." when he had taken time to think about it, dan came to the same conclusion. it cost him a struggle to do it, but when his father shouldered his axe and set out for mr. warren's house, dan went with him. the gentleman was glad to hear that silas did not intend to remain idle simply because he had twenty-five hundred dollars in prospect, gave him some good advice, and told him where to go to cut the wood. the road they followed to get to it took them close by the cabin of the young game-warden, whom they found busily engaged in setting things to rights. of course, it made dan angry to see his brother surrounded by so many comforts, and in a position to make his money so easily, but there was no help for it. his father was on joe's side now; dan could see that easily enough, and an attempt on his part to annoy the young game-warden in any way would bring upon him certain and speedy punishment. after that, things went smoothly with joe morgan. during that fall and winter mr. warren's imported game was never interfered with, and the reason was because all the worst poachers in the country, including brierly and his gang, as well as joe's own father, had given up the precarious business of market-shooting. more than that, when silas paid his bill at hobson's, which he did, according to promise, he gave the loungers about the halfway house to understand that he had taken joe under his protection, and that any one who troubled either him or mr. warren's blue-headed birds, might expect to answer to him for it. as silas morgan's prowess in battle was well known to every body for miles around, the market-shooters took him at his word, and kept away from mr. warren's wood-lot. the savage, half-starved dogs in the settlement which had become so fond of hunting deer that they sometimes chased them on their own responsibility, were either chained up or given away, and the only hounds that gave tongue among the summerdale hills during the winter were those which, like tom hallet's beagle, were trained to hunt foxes and coons. while the pleasant weather continued, the young game-wardens searched the woods thoroughly, in the hope of finding the guns that the robbers had thrown away during their flight, but their efforts were unrewarded, and finally the snows of winter came and covered them up. one day, just before christmas, mr. warren's hired man came up, bringing, among other things, a few magazines and papers, a supply of provisions for joe's use, some grain for the birds, and a long, shallow box which he placed carefully upon the table. "mr. warren says that you will want to go home on christmas, and there's a little something for your folks to eat," said he, handing joe a nice fat turkey, all dressed and ready for the oven. "in that box you will find a present from st. nick. look at it, and see if you ain't glad you lost your rusty old single-barrel." "i know what it is," replied joe. "is it mine to keep, or to use while i am acting as game-warden?" "it is yours to keep. it is intended to replace the one the robbers stole from you." the sight that met the boy's gaze when he unlocked the box made his eyes open wide with wonder and delight. inside, was a breech-loader, with pistol-grip and all the necessary loading tools. of course, it was a fine weapon. mr. warren never did things by halves. it was the first christmas present joe had ever received. contrary to mrs. morgan's expectations, there was not the least trouble in the house over the young game-warden's money. she had enough and to spare, and so had silas and dan. the former worked faithfully, because his ambition had been aroused, and dan toiled steadily by his side, because he knew if he didn't, he would lose the dollar a day he was looking forward to. he got it, too. the robbers were duly convicted and sentenced, and, when spring came, silas had his twenty-five hundred dollars intact; or, to speak more correctly, somebody had it for him. silas did not know just where it was, whether in mr. warren's hands or the sheriff's, and indeed he did not care. all the bills he made in buying his boat, building his new house and fencing the piece of ground that mr. warren leased to him, were promptly met by that gentleman, and silas highly elated at the prospect of having a paying business of his own, worked to such good purpose that when the guests began to arrive he was ready to serve them. for the first time in his life, dan morgan looked as "spick and span as anybody" in his blue uniform, with a wide collar and sailor necktie, all bought with his own money, too; and he often walked up and down in front of the hotel to show himself to the people who were sitting on the veranda. he proved to be a good boatman, and easily earned the dollar a day his father paid him for his services. joe held to his resolution, and entered the bellville academy when the spring term opened. he is there now; and he often says that he likes his school duties much better than those he was called on to perform while he was acting as mr. warren's game-warden. the end. boys of the fort _or, a young captain's pluck_ flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill author of "the young bandmaster," "when santiago fell," "a sailor boy with dewey," "off for hawaii," etc. grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, , by the mershon company [illustration: defending the fort.] preface. "boys of the fort" is a complete story in itself, but forms the fifth volume of a line of works issued under the general title of "flag of freedom series." in penning this tale i had it in mind to acquaint my young readers with the ins and outs of military life at one of our western forts of to-day, showing what both officers and privates are called upon to do, and what troubles the indians and the bad men of that locality are still in the habit of making. the field is one about which little has been written, although abounding in interest, and one which is worthy the attention of all who have the proper development of our country at heart. to some, certain scenes in this book may appear overdrawn, yet such is far from being the case. in this wild territory there are those who have lived all their lives beyond the pale of civilization, men who grow up dwarfed and crooked in mind, and who resent every effort made to better their condition. the young captain is a fine specimen of the wide-awake american army officer, yet he is no more brave and dashing than are thousands of others, officers and privates, who serve under our flag of freedom. he is trained to do his duty, and he simply does it, regardless of possible consequences. once more i take this opportunity to thank my young friends for the kindness with which they have received my former stories, and i earnestly hope this present tale merits equal commendation. captain ralph bonehill. _july , ._ contents. i. bound for the fort ii. caves in the mountain iii. an important conversation iv. lost in the forest v. the big black bear vi. darry makes a discovery vii. at hank leeson's cabin viii. the stealing of the horses ix. arrival at the fort x. the result of a swim xi. something about drilling xii. deer hunting xiii. a fish and a snake xiv. over the mountain top xv. the result of a hurricane xvi. captain moore's adventure xvii. three prisoners xviii. benson puts some men in a hole xix. escaping in the darkness xx. something about white ox xxi. a trick of the enemy xxii. in the hands of the enemy xxiii. a panther in camp xxiv. the skirmish in the brush xxv. a lucky meeting xxvi. the enemies within the fort xxvii. signals and what followed xxviii. the demands of the enemy xxix. opening of the battle xxx. signals in the dark xxxi. burning of the stockade xxxii. relief at last--conclusion list of illustrations defending the fort. "now darry's rifle spoke up, and the bear was hit again" "at last he put the guns in their hands and let them march with the pieces." "he leaped between them and caught their rifles." boys of the fort. chapter i. bound for the fort. "how many miles have we still to ride, benson?" "about fifty, joe. but the last half is pretty much uphill, lad." "can we make the fort by to-morrow night?" "well, we can try," answered the old scout, who sat astride of a coal-black horse and rode slightly in advance of his two youthful companions. "it will depend somewhat on what the weather does." "why, do you think it is going to rain?" put in darry germain. "i'm sure it looks clear enough." "aint no telling what the weather will do in this valley," answered sam benson. "it may stay clear for a week, but to me the signs don't exactly p'int that way," and he shook his head gravely. "a little rain wouldn't hurt," said joe moore. "a couple of miles back the road was fearfully dusty." "the trouble is, when it rains out here it rains," answered the old scout. "the clouds come a-tumbling over yonder mountains, and inside of half an hour you'd fancy the water was going to drown out everything." "then if it rains we'll have to put up somewhere," said darry germain. "aint no cabin on this trail short of hank leeson's place, twenty miles this side of the fort. if we can get that far i reckon we can make the fort." "then where will we stop to-night?" asked darry with interest. "at the star hotel--if the sky is clear," said sam benson, with a laugh at what he considered his little joke. "you mean in the open, under the stars!" cried the boy; and, as the old scout nodded, he went on: "that will be nice. i've been wanting to camp out in regular trapper style ever since we left riverton." "so have i," put in joe moore. "but i don't know as i care to camp out and get soaked." "if it rains we'll find some kind of shelter," answered benson. "but come, let us make the most of the daylight while it lasts," and he urged his steed forward, and the two boys did the same. the three were pursuing their way along a gap in the rocky mountains, where the so-called valley was broken up by tiny water-courses, walls of rock, and dense patches of forest and underbrush. it was midsummer, and the hot air was filled with the scent of green growing things. deep in the forest the song-birds sang gayly and the wild animals had full play to come and go as they pleased, for to get at them in those vast fastnesses was next to impossible. the party of three had left the town of riverton four days before. they were bound for fort carson,--so named after kit carson, the celebrated scout and indian fighter,--and sam benson carried messages of importance to colonel fairfield, the commandant at the fort. joe moore and darry germain were cousins, and both were boys of sixteen, well built and well trained in outdoor athletic sports. joe came from chicago and darry from st. louis, and each had graduated from his local high school but a few weeks before. it was while darry was spending a brief vacation with his cousin joe that a plan for visiting the fort was formed. joe's older brother, william, was a west point graduate and a captain at the fort, and he wrote on stating that he had received permission to have joe visit him, and darry could come too if he desired. colonel fairfield was an old friend of both families, and promised to treat the lads well should they make the trip. "hurrah! just the thing!" joe had cried. "of course you'll go, darry. we couldn't have a grander outing." "i'll go if father and mother will let me," had been darry's answer, and he had at once written home concerning the affair. two weeks later the boys were off, the parents of each cautioning them to be careful, and wishing them the best of luck. the journey westward as far as the mining-town of riverton had occurred without special incident. they had been told to hire a guide at this point, and while looking for a man had fallen in with sam benson. benson knew captain william moore well, and he at once promised to take the boys along with him and do the best he could by them. "you'll want good hosses," benson had said, and had aided them in selecting their animals and in getting together the necessary outfit. the start was made one fine morning in august, and all three of the party were in the best of spirits. the four days in the mountains had opened the eyes of both lads. the traveling had been rather hard, yet they had enjoyed every minute of the journey. they had stopped once to do some fishing, and benson had brought down a small mountain deer. at night they had put up at the cabins of hunters and trappers, and before retiring had listened to thrilling tales of adventures with wild beasts and with the indians. but now joe was anxious to get to the fort and see his brother, from whom he had been separated for nearly two years. darry was also anxious to reach the outpost, to meet not only his cousin william, but likewise colonel fairfield, who was an old friend not easily forgotten. once at the fort the two boys felt that a vacation full of fun and pleasure would follow. never once did they dream of the perils which awaited them in that wild region, which was not as civilized as it was to become a handful of years later. "it seems to me it is growing hotter," remarked darry, after riding a quarter of a mile in silence. "it is growing hotter," answered the old scout. "and that makes me more certain than ever that a storm's at hand." "we'll have to take what comes," said joe. "but i did hope we'd reach the fort by to-morrow." on they went, around a bend of the trail and over some rough rocks, where the horses had to step with care, for fear of slipping into a gully on the left. then they reached a patch of timber and plunged beneath the low-drooping trees. here it was both dark and cool, and darry breathed a long sigh of relief. "how delicious!" he murmured. "it's almost like going into a cave. benson, there must be lots of caves in these mountains," he went on reflectively. "there are," answered the old scout. "i've been in a score or more." "i should like to explore a big cave," came from joe. "it would be a novelty to me." "you may get the chance, lad," said benson; "and get it soon." "what do you mean? are we going to ride by a cave?" "there are a dozen or more ahead, and we may have to seek one of 'em for shelter. do you hear that?" benson threw back his head to listen, and the two boys did likewise. from a great distance came the rumble of thunder, echoing and re-echoing throughout the mountains. to the westward the sun was hidden by a dense mass of black clouds which grew more ominous each instant. "the storm is coming, sure enough," muttered joe. "what do you propose?" "we'll ride on a bit, lad. it won't hit us right away. come!" the horses were urged forward at an increased speed, and soon they passed the patch of timber and came out to where a thick fringe of brush skirted a long, high cliff. the sky was now dark on every side, and the wind was rising with a dull, humming sound. "we'll catch it in a few minutes!" cried benson; and hardly had he spoken when the big drops came splashing down, hitting the broad leaves in the underbrush with resounding smacks. the old scout continued to lead, and presently he turned to the left, where the cliff parted. here was an opening, lined on either side with rocks and dirt, and a short distance further was the entrance to a cave of unknown depths. "we'll stop here," said the old scout, leaping to the ground, followed by the boys. "this aint the best place in the world, but it's better than the open, in such a blow as is coming." he was right about the blow--already the wind was rising, and hardly had the three led their horses into the cave, the entrance to which was over a dozen feet high, when there came a crashing through the timber left behind, which sent many a frail limb and sapling to the ground and carried the leaves and twigs in all directions. "i'm glad we didn't stay in the woods!" cried darry. "we'd be in danger of falling trees." "and lightning too," added joe. "oh, my! look at that!" he continued, as a blinding flash lit up the heavens. "that must have struck somewhere." "we'll go back a little," said old benson. "the lightning is just as bad here as it is in the woods. wait till i get a torch." pine was plentiful in that locality, and soon he had a knot which was full of pitch and which burned well when a match was applied to it. with the torch in hand, he led the way further into the cave, and the boys followed with their animals. chapter ii. caves in the mountain. the two boys had expected to find the large cave damp and unwholesome, and they were surprised when they learned how dry the flooring and the sides were, and how pure the air was. there was no breeze in the place, but a gentle draught kept the air stirring. of course the atmosphere was much cooler than it had been outside. hardly had the travelers gained the center of the first chamber of the cave, when the storm outside burst in all its fury. the lightning and thunder were almost incessant, and the rain came down in broad sheets which completely obliterated the landscape. "it's little short of a flood," said darry, after having gone to the mouth of the cave to investigate. "the water is already two or three inches deep on the trail." "well, such a downpour can't last long," returned joe. "it's only a shower, or a cloud-burst." "no, it's a regular rain, and it's good for all night," answered the old scout. "all night!" "yes, lad, and we'll be lucky if it don't last through the morning, too. it don't rain very often out here, you see, but when it does it tries to make up for lost time." "then we'll have to camp right here, won't we?" "to be sure. even if it did let up, you wouldn't want to camp in the wet timber." "then we might as well start up a fire," came from darry, in something of a disappointed tone. "i was hoping we'd be able to camp under the stars just once before we got to the fort." "perhaps you'll get a chance to go out after you're at the fort," said the old scout, by way of comfort. "yes, we'll start a fire, if we can find any dry wood." the horses were tied up between some rocks, and then the three searched around. at the entrance to the cave was a mass of brush and tree limbs which previous storms had sent in that direction, and from this they gathered enough for a good-sized fire. it did not take long for the brush to blaze up, sending the sparks to the roof of the cave and throwing fantastic shadows all about them. "i declare, the fire makes the cave look quite home-like!" was joe's comment, as he threw himself down on a flat rock with his blanket under him. "staying here won't be so humdrum as i anticipated." "i'm going to explore the cave, now i am here," returned darry. "who knows but what i might locate a gold mine!" "you be careful of where you go," cautioned old benson. "these caves are full of pitfalls, and now you two boys are with me i don't want anything to happen to you. if something did happen, neither captain moore nor colonel fairfield would forgive me." "to be sure we'll be careful, benson," answered darry. "there'd be no fun in getting hurt--even if we did locate a gold mine." "you won't find any gold mine here. this ground was prospected years ago--before even the fort was located. i came out here once myself, with a miner named hooker brown. hooker was dead certain there was gold here, but although we stayed here about two weeks nosing around we never got even a smell of the yellow metal." "well, we'll have a look around, anyway," said joe. "but we must get good torches first." pine knots were procured and lit; and, with another caution from the scout to be careful, they set off, leaving benson to care for the horses and prepare such an evening meal as their stores afforded. luckily the scout had brought down half a dozen good-sized birds, and these he now prepared to broil in true hunter style. the front chamber of the cave was somewhat semi-circular, and behind this were several other irregular apartments, running down to a passageway which wound in and out between jagged rocks almost impossible to climb or explore in any manner. at a distance could be heard the trickling of water, but where this came from, or where it went to, nobody in the cave could imagine. the boys advanced from one opening to another with care, one with his torch held high, that they might see ahead, and the other with the light close to the ground, to warn them of a possible pitfall. "a regiment of soldiers could quarter in here," observed darry, as they pushed on. "what a defense it would make!" "an enemy could fire right into the entrance. and, besides, supposing the enemy started to smoke you out? i can smell the smoke from the camp-fire away back here." at last the two boys reached the passageway back of the rear chamber, and here came to a halt. the dropping water could be plainly heard, and joe flashed his torch in several directions in the hope of catching sight of the stream. "i'm going to climb the rocks," he said, after a pause. "perhaps there is another opening behind them." "remember what benson said, and be careful," cautioned his cousin. "there is no use in taking a risk for nothing." "yes, i'll be careful," answered joe, and crawled forward with care. darry held his torch as high up as possible, to light the way. the youth had advanced a distance of fifty feet when he came to a turn in the passageway. here the side walls were not over two yards apart, while the roof could be touched with ease. thinking the walking better at this point, joe struck out once more. the flare from his torch showed him something of a chamber ahead, and the water sounded closer than ever. but hardly had the lad taken a dozen steps when the smooth rock upon which he was advancing tilted up, sending him headlong. as he went down the torch was knocked from his hand. then he slid forward into the darkness. "help!" he managed to cry. "help!" "what's up?" came from darry, but the words were drowned out in the crashing of one stone against another. in the meantime joe had fallen, he knew not whither. he landed on some soft ground, turned over and slid along, and then took a second drop. a stone fell beside him and pinned his jacket to the ground. for the moment the lad was too dazed and bewildered to do anything but try to get back his breath. then, as it gradually dawned upon him that he was not hurt in the least, he endeavored to arise. "fast!" he muttered, and tore his jacket away from under the rock. then he turned about, trying to locate his torch. but that was missing, and all was dark around him. "i'm in a pickle now," he thought. "i wish i had taken old benson's advice and remained around the camp-fire. but who would have imagined that big rock would play a fellow such a trick? how in the world am i to get back again?" from a great distance he could hear darry shouting to him. he tried to answer his cousin, but whether or not his voice was heard he could not tell. with his hands before him, he moved around, and scarcely had he taken a dozen steps when he slid down a rocky incline. here there was water; and he shivered, thinking he might be dropping into an underground stream from which there would be no escape. but when a pool was gained it proved to be but several inches deep. as joe stood in the pool there came a sudden rumble of thunder to his ears. he listened, and by the sounds became convinced that an opening into the outer air could not be a great way off. then came an unexpected flash of reflected light on the rocks by his side. "hurrah, that light came from outside!" he cried. "i'm not buried alive, after all. but i may be a good way from daylight yet." he had some matches in his box, and lighting one of these he discovered a passageway below him, running off to his left. further on he picked up a bit of dry wood and lit this. it made rather a poor torch, but proved better than nothing. "now to get out, and then to find my way back to where i left old benson," was his mental resolve. with extreme caution he stole forward to where the lightning revealed a distant opening. he did not leave one foothold until he was sure of the next, for he had no desire to experiment with another moving rock. the thunder now reached his ears plainly, and the lightning at times made the front of the cave as bright as day. "it's quite another place," was his thought. "that dangerous passage connects the two." suddenly, as joe was advancing, he heard a clatter of horses' hoofs, and into the cave ahead rode three rough-looking men, all armed with rifles and pistols and each carrying small saddle-bags across his steed. at first joe thought to call out to the newcomers, but he checked himself, for their appearance was decidedly against them. "i'll try to find out something about them first," he muttered. "perhaps they belong to that gang of bad men benson was telling us about yesterday." and then, as the three came to a halt in the center of the outer cave and dismounted, he crept closer, in the shadow of some sharp rocks, to overhear what they might have to say. chapter iii. an important conversation. "who ever saw such a downpour before?" growled one of the three men, as he switched the water from his soft felt hat. "i'm wet to the skin." "i'm no better off," replied one of the others. "i think we were fools to leave macklin's place, gilroy." "just what i think, fetter," said the third man. "we could have waited as well as not." "yes, we could have waited, potts," answered matt gilroy; "but, to tell the truth, i don't want to trust macklin too far. he might play us foul." "he wouldn't dare to do that," returned gus fetter. "why not--if he thought he would get a reward?" came from nat potts, the youngest of the trio. "one thing is certain, macklin is crazy to make money." "i know a thing or two of macklin's past--that's why," went on gus fetter. "if he got us into trouble i wouldn't keep silent about him, and he knows it." "macklin is slippery, no two ways about it," said matt gilroy, as he took off his jacket and wrung the water out. "i am not inclined to trust him, and that is all there is to it." "did he ever belong to the old gang?" questioned nat potts. "some say he did, and some say he didn't." "he was a hanger-on, that's all," came from matt gilroy. "he was always afraid to take the chances of being shot, but was on hand when the spoils were divided. they used him as a messenger and a spy, but i don't believe he ever really helped to hold up a coach." "humph, then it's a wonder the old crowd had anything to do with him!" "oh, they had to have messengers and spies, and they never gave macklin more than was coming to him, you can bet on that! i understand that when the riverton coach was held up six years ago, and the gang got twenty-two thousand dollars, they gave macklin five hundred, and he was glad to get that." "that was a big haul!" cried nat potts enthusiastically. "i wish i had been in it." "the gang was followed for two days--by the soldiers under colonel fairfield," went on matt gilroy, as he threw himself on the rocks, leaving his companions to start up a fire. "they had a hot time of it over to bear pass, i can tell you. two men were shot, and one of them, dan hickey, my old chum, died from his wounds. they say colonel fairfield himself fired the shot that took poor hickey in the head, and if that's so--well, i've got an account to square with the colonel, that's all." "you can square that after we've had our little interview with the quartermaster," returned gus fetter with a hard laugh. "that's right--we'll be sure to have the soldiers after us," put in nat potts. "they'll be doubly mad when they learn that the hold-up resulted in the emptying of the box with their wages." "it will be a good haul if it goes through, boys. the quartermaster will be carrying not less than twelve thousand dollars of the government's money besides his other stuff," returned matt gilroy. here the conversation came to a temporary end, for nat potts had produced a black flask, from which each of the men took a deep draught. then potts and fetter started in to build a roaring fire at which all might dry their clothing, leaving gilroy, the leader of the crowd, to do as he pleased. joe had listened to the talk with mingled interest and horror. it did not take him long to realize the truth--that these men were thoroughly bad, and that they had been mixed up in road robberies of the past and were contemplating another robbery some time in the future. "they mean to rob the quartermaster of the fort, when he is bringing in the soldiers' wages from rockspur," he thought. "and that leader is going to shoot down the colonel if he can. who would imagine men could be so bad! and that leader seems to be educated, too!" joe would have been very much surprised had he known the truth, which was that matt gilroy, often called the shadow, was a college-bred man, having passed through one of the leading institutes of learning of the pacific coast. but, following this college career, gilroy had forged checks and committed a burglary, in company with an old chum named hickey, and then the two had left sacramento "between two days." hickey had immediately joined the "knights of the road" and been shot down, as previously mentioned. gilroy had drifted first to the mississippi and then to denver, and had not gone into the mountains until later. now he was at the head of a desperate gang, numbering ten or a dozen, who had already committed several "hold-ups" of importance. soon the fire was burning brightly, and the three men took off part of their wearing apparel, that the articles might dry. they had brought some food with them, and as they sat eating and drinking they continued to discuss their plans. nat potts, who was not over nineteen or twenty, was evidently something of a new member, and asked many questions regarding the organization, and as he took in what was told him, so did joe, listening with "all ears," as the saying goes. "they must be as bad a crowd as can be found anywhere," thought the youth. "i wonder what they would do with me, if they found out i had been listening to their talk? perhaps they'd kill me on the spot." and he gave a shiver. the thunder and lightning had gradually abated, but with the coming of night the rain continued as steadily as ever. fortunately for the desperadoes, however, the rocks sloped away from the entrance to the cave, so that no water came inside, while the fire made everybody quite comfortable. hardly knowing what to do, joe continued behind the rocks, taking care to remain in the shadow. more than once he was afraid one or another of the men would start to investigate the surroundings and that he would be discovered. "i wish they would go to sleep," he said to himself. "then i might get a chance to slip past them and their horses." with great impatience he watched the men finish up their supper, get out their pipes, and fall to smoking. in the meantime the horses had been led to the opposite side of the cave and fastened to the rocks. as joe waited for a chance to get away he wondered what darry and old benson were doing. more than likely they were looking for him. but were they in that other cave, at the narrow passageway, or did the old scout know of this second cave and the secret entrance to it? "if benson leads the way around to here there may be trouble," he mused. "it would be better if i could get out and head him off. but if i do get out, how shall i turn to find the trail we were pursuing? in this darkness a fellow couldn't see his hand before his face." at last fetter threw himself down on a blanket to rest, leaving gilroy and potts still conversing earnestly by the fire. the two desperadoes talked in a low tone, so that joe now caught but little of what was said. the backs of both men were turned toward the side of the cave where joe was in hiding; and, plucking up courage, the youth started forward on tiptoe, bent upon getting out of the cave before the men should make some move which would expose him. step by step he advanced, until he reached a point where he was within a dozen feet of gilroy and almost as close to potts. he hardly dared to breathe, and his heart thumped madly beneath his jacket. but the men continued to smoke and talk, unconscious of his proximity. at the entrance to the cave the rocks were somewhat rough and the mist had made them slippery. joe was crawling forward rapidly, when one foot slipped, and he pitched headlong, making considerable noise. "what was that?" cried matt gilroy, and leaped to his feet. he had been gazing into the fire, and for the moment could make out little in the darkness. "i don't know," returned nat potts. "something moving around out there, i think." and the younger man reached for his pistol, which still remained in his belt. as rapidly as he could joe sprang to his feet. a good bit of his wind had been knocked out of him, but he felt that he must not delay, and he ran for the outer air gasping for breath. "hi! stop!" roared matt gilroy, catching sight of him at last. "stop, i tell you!" "a boy!" ejaculated nat potts. "he must have been hiding in here!" "if he was he overheard too much," growled gilroy. "come, we must catch him by all means," and he ran after joe, with potts following. chapter iv. lost in the forest. "i must get away from them!" this was the one thought which surged through joe moore's brain as he dashed from the cave in the mountain. he felt that if he was captured it would go hard with him. did the desperadoes learn that he had overheard their conversation, they might make his very life pay the forfeit. forward he pitched, into the rain and the inky darkness, not knowing in what direction and just then caring but little. his one idea was to put distance between himself and his pursuers. "stop!" he heard the men call, and heard the clicking of a pistol hammer. then he reached some brushwood, and, crouching low, continued to move on. no shot came, for the reason that the desperadoes could not locate him with certainty. at length joe reached a clump of trees. had he not had his hands before him he might have run into them head first. he glided around them, and then continued onward, down a slope leading into a broad belt of timber. still with his hands before him, he advanced through the undergrowth and between the stately trees for a distance of several hundred feet. he was now exhausted with running and with fighting the entangling vines, and had to halt to catch his breath. as he came to a stop he listened attentively, to learn if the men were following, but the downpour of rain drowned out every other sound. soaked to the skin, hatless, and still short of breath, he went on once more, feeling that he was not yet far enough from the cave for safety. he tried to steer a course in the direction of the cave where he had left darry and the old scout, but whether he was successful or not he could not tell. a hundred yards further and joe came to another slope, covered with prairie grass. down this he rolled in the darkness, to bring up in more brush below. then he climbed out of the hollow at the opposite side, and, reaching a large fallen tree, sat down to rest and think over his situation. the tree lay partly under one with wide-spreading branches, so the boy was somewhat sheltered from the storm. it must be confessed that joe's heart sank within him as he reviewed the situation. where he was he could not tell, nor could he form any definite plan for rejoining his cousin and old benson. more than this, he was afraid that the desperadoes might come up at any minute and pounce upon him. but as the minutes slipped by, and he neither saw nor heard anything of those in pursuit, he grew easier. evidently they had given up the chase. "i hope they have," was what he thought. "i never want to get so close to them again. they are a hard crowd, if ever there was one. if i can get to the fort and tell colonel fairfield of what i've heard, i'll be doing a good thing." an hour went by slowly, and then joe looked around to find some means of making himself comfortable for the balance of the night, knowing it would be useless to pursue his course through the forest in the darkness. "this is camping out with a vengeance!" he muttered grimly. "darry ought to be along; i guess he'd soon get enough of it. i'll be lucky if i don't fall in with some savage animal." the thought of wild beasts gave him another shiver, and he concluded to climb into a nearby tree, which was low-drooping and had a spot where several branches made a sort of platform. he was soon up in a comparatively dry place, and here he fell asleep, being too tired to hold his eyes open longer. when joe awoke the storm had cleared away and the sun was struggling through the scattering clouds. the forest still dripped with the rain, and with this dripping were mingled the songs of the birds and the hum of insects. stiff from the wet, he climbed slowly to the ground and looked around. on every side were the tall trees and the dense undergrowth, shutting off the distant view of everything but a towering mountain to the westward. this was the mountain he and the others had been ascending when the storm had overtaken them. "i suppose i may as well head in that direction," he mused. "if i can strike the trail that will be something. but i'll have to keep my eyes open, or i may fall into the hands of that gilroy gang." he was hungry, but there were no means at hand with which to satisfy the cravings of his stomach, and so he had to move forward without eating. getting into the forest had been difficult, but getting out was even more of a task. the underbrush at certain points was positively impassable, and he had to make long detours, which took time and tired him greatly. at noon he was still in the forest, and the mountain seemed as far off as ever. "i am lost, that is all there is to it!" he burst out with a groan. "i am lost, and perhaps i'll never get out!" the sun shone down directly on his head, and even though still wet he was glad enough to seek the shelter the stately trees afforded. here and there he saw some berries of various hues, but they were strange to him, and he did not dare touch them for fear of being poisoned. toward the middle of the afternoon he reached a tiny brook, flowing between the rocks, and here he again rested. he reached the conclusion that the brook came down from the mountain side and by following it up he must sooner or later run across the lost trail. "i'll follow it, anyway," he told himself, and, hungry and footsore, set out along the water-course. here the walking was somewhat better, for he had no brushwood and vines to tear aside. the brook was clear, and he often saw trout and other fish darting hither and thither. this gave him an idea, and, picking some berries he had seen, he dropped them in. at once some of the fish darted forward and swallowed the berries. "hurrah, a good bait!" he cried, and quickly made himself a line out of threads from his clothing. to this he attached a pin bent into shape with infinite care. then he baited with the berries, and dropped the line in over a rock near a cottonwood. hardly had his bait touched the water when a good-sized fish seized it, and in a twinkling he had his catch landed. his heart gave a bound, for here was the material for at least one square meal. "i'll cook it right away," he told himself, after feeling to see if he had any matches. his hunger was beginning to make him desperate, and he did not much care even if the desperadoes did see his camp-fire. with some trouble he got together a few sticks of wood and some moss which the sunshine had dried out, and soon he had a respectable blaze between two rocks. with his jackknife he cleaned the fish as best he could, and then broiled it on a green twig. when done the meat was slightly burnt on one side and underdone on the other, but to the half-famished lad nothing had ever tasted sweeter, and he continued to eat until the whole fish was gone. "now i feel like myself," he muttered, after washing down the repast with a drink from the brook. "on a pinch that meal ought to last me until to-morrow noon, and surely i ought to find my way back to the others by that time." with renewed energy he continued his tramp along the brook, often wading in the water when the brushwood on either side was extra thick. he kept his eyes and ears on the alert, but no human being came into sight, and presently a great feeling of loneliness swept over him. "i'm alone," he whispered to himself. "alone! i must say i don't like it much," and he hurried on faster than ever. the sun was shining over the distant mountain when he reached a bend in the brook and came out upon a rocky trail which crossed the water-course at a right angle. as he looked at the trail he was tempted to shout with joy. "the place we crossed yesterday morning!" he exclaimed. "there is the very spot where we got a drink and watered the horses. now i ought not to have such a hard time finding the cave." he got down and examined the trail closely, hoping to discover some hoofmarks. but the heavy rain had washed everything clean. nevertheless, he felt certain that he was right, and hurried along as fast as his tired limbs permitted. leaving the brook, the trail wound in and out along a series of rocks and then through some heavy brushwood and along the edge of a jagged cliff. the cliff was overgrown with heavy vines, which hung down and brushed joe's head as he passed. "i can't be more than three or four miles from the cave," thought the boy. "and if i hurry----" he stopped short, and then gave a cry of terror, and with good reason. he had seen the vines ahead suddenly part, and now there came to view the shaggy head of a black bear. as soon as the beast caught sight of the boy he leaped to the trail and advanced upon him. chapter v. the big black bear. joe had never before met a black bear in the open air, but he had seen several in menageries and studied them at a safe distance, and he realized that he was in a perilous position. the bear looked both untamed and fierce and as if nothing would suit him better than to hug the lad to death and eat him up afterward. joe did not stand upon the order of his going, but went instantly, running as fast as his tired limbs would permit. after him came the bear, and it was astonishing what good time the beast could make considering his size and his general appearance of clumsiness. looking over his shoulder, the lad soon saw that the beast was slowly but surely lessening the distance between them. "shoo!" he yelled, and waved his arm threateningly, but the bear did not mind in the least. he trotted on until less than two rods separated boy and beast. then joe reached some underbrush and rocks, with a low-hanging tree in their midst, and without stopping to think twice he climbed into the tree and to one of the upper branches. hardly had he reached what he thought might prove a temporary place of safety when he realized his mistake. the bear came up the tree after him,--slowly, it is true; but still up,--and this caused joe's hair to fairly stand upon end. "i'm a gone one now!" he groaned, and then espied another tree growing not far away. a limb could just be reached, and as the bear almost gained the boy's foot joe swung himself from the first tree into the second. as the lad gained a safe spot on the tree limb, the bear, coming to a halt on the branch opposite, set up a growl of rage and disappointment. for a minute he surveyed the situation, then came out on the branch slowly, testing it inch by inch. as it bent down he retreated, letting out a second growl, louder than the other. joe was wondering if he could drop to the ground and escape in that manner, when he saw the bear descend and come quickly toward the tree he was on. he watched the beast closely, and waited until it was close to him. then he made a leap back into the tree from which he had originally come. again the bear came out as far as possible on a limb, and again he let out a growl of rage and disappointment. in one way the situation was comical, and joe might have laughed had he not felt so serious. "we can keep this up a long time, i reckon," thought the boy. "and as long as you don't try to leap after me i'll be safe." finding he could not reach the boy by coming up one tree or the other, the black bear descended slowly to the ground. then he walked around both trees several times, and at last came to a halt between the two. here he sank down, as if to rest, but nevertheless kept one eye open and fixed upon joe. "he's going on guard! he means to keep me treed!" muttered the boy, and again his heart sank. he remembered a story he had once read, in which a bear had starved a man to death and eaten him afterward. would mr. bruin do so in this case? he wished he had a pistol, or a hunting-knife, or even a fair-sized stone. but he had nothing except a thin club, which he had cut for himself with his jackknife. this he kept in hand, and also kept the knife open and where he could get at it readily if needed. half an hour went by,--a time that to joe seemed a whole day,--and still the black bear remained between the two trees, dozing with one eye and watching with the other. the sight of the beast taking it so easy was maddening under the circumstances, and at last the youth cut another club and hurled it down on top of the bear. at once the beast flew up with a roar, and, standing on his hind legs, snapped his teeth at joe. then he flew up the tree once more, faster than ever before. as the bear came up, joe went higher than before, having seen another friendly limb over his head. he was sorely tempted to reach for the beast with his club, but thought best not to run too much of a risk. as before, the youth swung to the next tree, and again the bear gave a growl and went down. then, being near the top of the tree, the lad took a good look around. in a moment a sight caught his eye which caused his heart to jump with delight. there on the trail were darry and old benson, riding along slowly. "hi! hi! this way!" he shouted, with all the strength of his lungs. "this way, darry! this way, benson!" he saw his cousin and the guide bring their steeds to a halt and gaze around in wonder. to them the voice appeared to come out of the very air itself. "it's joe's voice!" exclaimed darry. "but i must say i don't see him." both gazed around, and at last the scout caught sight of the boy's handkerchief fluttering among the tree branches. "there he is!" he exclaimed. "but what's he doing up there?" "this way!" went on joe, and as they turned in the direction, he added, "look out for the bear!" "a bear!" came from darry. "he must be treed!" "i reckon you've struck it," muttered benson, and hastily unslung his rifle, at which darry did the same. "follow me, but be on your guard," went on the old scout. he advanced with caution, his horse lifting his ears sharply as the neighborhood of the trees was gained. presently the animal came to a sudden halt. at the same moment benson caught sight of the bear. "so that's where ye are!" muttered the old scout. the bear raised himself on his hind legs and let out a growl at the newcomers. hardly had the sound arose upon the air when benson's rifle cracked, and a bullet hit the beast in the breast. down went the animal on all fours, but did not tumble further. instead, he made a swift bound for the scout's horse. crack! it was now darry's rifle that spoke up, and the bear was hit again, this time in the right front knee. he dropped, but quickly arose, shaking the wounded leg in the air and uttering a tremendous roar of pain and rage. [illustration: "now darry's rifle spoke up, and the bear was hit again"] neither horse would now stand still, and both danced around so lively that each rider had all he could do to keep his saddle. but even while his steed pranced in this fashion, old benson managed to draw his pistol, and two additional shots rang out, both hitting the bear in the side. the roars of the beast were now incessant, and the horses threatened to bolt in spite of all the riders could do to stop them. "come!" cried the old scout, and turned from the scene. thinking he meant to go off to reload, darry followed. but when at a safe distance benson sprang to the ground and tied his horse to a tree. "i'd rather finish him afoot," explained the old hunter, and slipped another cartridge into his rifle. "you can stay here if you wish." "not much!" murmured darry, and came down also. in a minute he was following the old scout. when they came up a second time they found the bear crawling around, roaring in a lower tone. evidently he was more than half exhausted. "another good shot will finish him," sang out joe, from a bottom limb of the tree. "why don't you give it to him in the ear?" "i will," answered the old scout, and circled around, watching his opportunity. at length it came--the rifle cracked sharply, and bruin fell on his side, to rise no more. "hurrah! that's a big haul!" cried darry, much delighted. "i was wishing we'd get a bear some time while we were out here." "it's lucky the bear didn't get joe," remarked benson. "they generally come up a tree after their victim." "i jumped from one tree to the other," answered the youth. "but i had quite an exciting time, i can assure you." "how in the world did you get here?" questioned darry, as joe leaped to the ground. "did you get through to another cave? benson thought that might be the case." "that was the case, darry. and i've had a wonderful adventure, too," added joe earnestly. then he told his story, to which the others listened with close attention. when he came to mention gilroy, fetter, and potts, old benson uttered a low whistle. "so that gang has turned up again, eh?" muttered the old scout. "this will be news to colonel fairfield. i reckon he'll be glad to be put on guard. if the quartermaster was held up it would prove a big loss." "is it true that colonel fairfield killed this gilroy's chum?" "perhaps he did. the colonel was in that mix-up, and after it was over dan hickey was found dead in the bushes. but it was a fair fight, and the desperadoes knew what to expect when they went in for it." "when does the quartermaster expect to come through with the money?" "i don't know, joe. like as not it will be soon. and that being the case, we had better not lose time here, but get to the fort just as soon as we can," concluded the old scout. chapter vi. darry makes a discovery. as pressed as they were for time, darry and joe begged that the bearskin be saved, and did all they could toward helping the old scout skin the beast. with the pelt they took along about twenty pounds of the juiciest steaks. "it's a pity to leave the rest to the wolves!" sighed joe. "but it can't be helped. what a feast they will have!" "i'm going to sling the beast into a tree," replied old benson. "that may help save it until somebody else comes this way. the soldiers from the fort use the trail yonder, you know." soon they were on the way to where benson and darry had left joe's horse. as joe was tired from his night's adventure, his cousin and the old scout took turns in carrying him behind them. even then his eyes would occasionally close. "we can't make the fort to-night, that's certain," said the old scout. "not if we pushed on hard?" asked darry. "joe can't push on as fast as that, darry. he'll want to rest as soon as sundown comes." "perhaps i can get a nap at noon, while you two get dinner ready," suggested joe. "i wonder if we'll meet those rascals anywhere on the road? i hope not, for they'd be certain to recognize me." "we'll keep an eye open for 'em," responded benson dryly. "and see to it that your shooting-irons are ready for use." "why--do you think they'd attack us?" asked darry quickly. "they might--if they thought we were carrying anything of value. to such desperadoes all are fish that swim near their net." "it's a pity the government can't stamp such a gang out, benson." "the government has stamped out lots of 'em, lad. why, ten years ago none of these trails was safe. nearly every horseman and stage-coach was held up. to-day you don't hear of a hold-up once in six months." "is this gilroy a very bad man?" "he is--in a way. he's a well-educated fellow, so i've been told, and not as brutal as some. but he's committed some robberies that have no equal in the history of these parts. once he painted himself as an indian and went to the agency, and there collected a lot of money which was coming to the redskins, the agent taking him for chief snowbird of the modocs. the trick wasn't discovered until three days later, when the real snowbird turned up. even then it wasn't known who did the trick." "and how was gilroy found out?" "a fellow named downes, who belonged to the gang, was captured, and he gave the secret away. but it cost downes his life, for he got away from the soldiers, and while he was in the mountains some of his gang shot and killed him." at this story both joe and darry shuddered. "what a lawless set!" muttered joe. "one could hardly believe it unless he saw it with his own eyes." "in a rough country the men are bound to be more or less rough, lad. look at california, for instance. to-day it's as quiet and orderly as massachusetts or illinois. but in the days of ' it wasn't that way. many a miner was held up for his gold dust, and many a miner's secret of a rich find was stolen from him and the miner himself murdered." "and how long do you think it will take to make this territory perfectly safe?" "there aint no telling about that, but probably when you are as old as i am now you'll be able to travel anywhere without fear of being stopped. the railroads are a-coming in, towns are building up, and one of these days the desperadoes and stage-coach robbers will all be a thing of the past--and a good job done." the third horse had been found, and now joe was riding in his own saddle. the rain of the night before had made the trail dustless, and the air was as pure and sweet as one could wish. by noon they calculated that they had covered ten miles of the worst portion of the distance to the fort. the ride had been a strain to joe, and when old benson called a halt he was glad enough to slip to the ground and throw himself in the shade of a tree to rest. darry and the old scout lit a fire, and soon had a nice steak preparing for dinner. "he's asleep," said darry, a little later, pointing to joe. "poor fellow! supposing we let him rest for a couple of hours? i haven't the heart to wake him up." "all right," answered benson. the pair ate their dinner without arousing joe, and after it was over the scout sat down near at hand to smoke his stumpy brier-root pipe, filling it with cut-plug which was as black as coal, and puffing away with keen satisfaction. darry was more restless, and having put away the things used in preparing the meal he began an inspection of the neighborhood. "be careful," said old benson, as the youth moved around. "don't get into trouble, as joe did." "i'll keep my eyes open," replied darry. opposite the trail was a tall spur of rocks with something of a series of natural steps leading to the top. up these steps went the youth. some of the climbing was difficult, but this he did not mind. when the top was gained a magnificent panorama was spread out before him. to one side were the tall mountains, hidden in a bluish mist, to the other the vast forests and plains. northward was the continuation of the gap they were traveling, and southward was a series of foothills, with here and there a stream or waterfall glinting brightly in the sunshine. "how grand!" he murmured. "what a vast country this is! thousands upon thousands of people could live here, and nobody be crowded. this would make splendid pasture for cows and sheep, and yet there isn't a single animal in sight." beyond the rocky spur was a similar elevation, and presently darry crossed to this. here there was a lone pine with several low branches, and he drew himself up and climbed to the top. he could now see much further than formerly, and his view took in a portion of the trail passed several hours before, as it wound, serpent-like, between the foothills. "hullo!" he cried, as he caught sight of something moving on the trail. "three people on horseback. can they be the desperadoes joe met?" he watched the riders with interest, and at last felt certain they were three men fully armed and wearing slouch hats and light-colored coats. this description tallied with that given by his cousin, and he hastened down to acquaint old benson with the news. "must be the gang," said the scout. "are they moving this way?" "yes." "then we had better move on." joe was awakened, and leaped to his feet, looking rather bewildered. "i--i thought i'd take a little nap," he stammered. "i suppose i've slept a good while, haven't i?" "about an hour and a half," answered his cousin. "here's your dinner," and he passed it over. "we've got to move on. those rascals are behind us." "behind us!" "don't get scared," put in old benson. "they are a good distance back. darry discovered 'em from yonder p'int. eat what you want, and then it will be time enough to start." the repast was quickly disposed of by joe, and soon they were in the saddle once more. the long nap had refreshed the lad greatly, and he said he would now be able to ride as far as anybody. on they went, the trail growing more difficult as the top of the mountain was gained. here there was a stiff breeze that at times was positively cold, and both boys were glad enough to button their jackets tightly around them. if all went well benson calculated that they could reach hank leeson's place with ease before dark. this was the cabin of an old hunter and trapper who was known from one end of the territory to the other. as mentioned at the beginning of this tale, leeson's place was twenty miles from the fort. "i could ride right through," said the old scout. "but you boys couldn't do it. if you tried it, you'd be so sore and stiff the next day you couldn't stand up." chapter vii. at hank leeson's cabin. at first the boys were inclined to think that the old scout was mistaken--that they could ride as far as anybody. but when, shortly after sunset, they came within sight of hank leeson's place both were glad to think that they would have to ride no more for the present. "i'm sore already," whispered darry to his cousin. "so am i--but i didn't want benson to know it," was the low answer. "that last mile of the trail was awfully rough." hank leeson had seen them coming, and stood at the doorway of his cabin, rifle in hand. he was a tall, thin man, with black eyes that were exceedingly sharp and shrewd. when he recognized sam benson he dropped his firearm into a corner and ran to meet the scout. "downright glad ter see ye!" he said, shaking hands. "sam, yer a sight fer sore eyes, thet's wot!" "and i'm glad to see you, hank," responded benson, just as warmly. "how have things been with you?" "putty slow, to tell the truth." leeson looked at the boys. "two tenderfoots along, i see." "yes. this is joe moore, brother to the captain up at the fort, and this is darry germain, his cousin. boys, this is hank leeson, the best trapper and all-around shot in these parts." "oh, come, don't be a-praisin' me so much!" cried leeson, as he took the boys' hands in a grip that made them wince. "as fer shootin', ye kin do thet yerself as good as anybody, sam." he looked the boys over. "glad to know ye, lads. i know captain moore downright well, and he's a good soldier." "i've got news, hank," put in the old scout. "joe fell in with matt gilroy's gang down near buckwater run." "what!" roared the old trapper. "do you mean to tell me thet measly crowd is around here ag'in?" "three of 'em are--gilroy, fetter, and a young fellow named potts. i think potts comes from denver." "i know him. his father was ike potts, the card-sharp. thet blood is about as bad as any in the gang. what are they up to?" "they are laying a trap for the quartermaster when he comes through with the soldiers' money. joe heard part of their talk by accident. do you know when the quartermaster is expected?" "i do not. ye see, ever since old cap'n bissile was held up the army officers keep mum about the movements of the cash-box. i reckon they have orders from washington to do it." "i want to warn colonel fairfield as soon as i can," went on the old scout. "yes, he ought to be warned." "can you lend me a fresh hoss?" "i can." "then i'll be off as soon as i've had a bit of supper. the boys can stay with you all night, can't they?" "they can, an' welcome," replied hank leeson. "you are going to leave us?" queried joe. "don't see any other way to do, lad. the sooner i get the news to the fort the better. i'll come back in the morning after you--or send your brother or somebody else." "we can ride it alone, can't we?" questioned darry. "i wouldn't try it, if i were you. the trail is a rough one, and there are several forks where you might go astray." "better stay with me, lads," put in leeson. "i'll treat ye well, never fear," and he smiled broadly. "thank you," returned joe. "i was only thinking i'd like to see my brother soon, that's all." "a few hours more or less won't make much difference," said darry. he had looked around the trapper's cabin, and was interested. "let us wait." and so it was arranged. it did not take long to get a bit of supper, and in less than half an hour sam benson was off, astride of a powerful steed which had been hank leeson's pride for years. "jest tell him to go to the fort," said leeson, "and he'll carry ye thar with his eyes shet," and he gave a parting salute to the old scout. the cabin was a primitive affair of rough logs, with the chinks filled with dried clay. it contained two rooms, each about twelve feet square. back of the cabin was a lean-to where leeson kept his horses, two in number. there was room for more animals, so the beasts ridden by our friends were easily accommodated. night had fallen by the time the horses had been rubbed down and fed and the boys had finished their evening repast, and it was dark when they gathered around the doorstep to rest. hank leeson sat on a chopping-block, cleaning his rifle and smoking at the same time, and as the three rested joe told of his adventure in the cave, and darry took up the tale of the bear. "you had a lucky escape, lad," said the trapper. "a lucky escape, an' no error. like as not them desperadoes would have killed ye, had they caught ye." "i've been thinking--do you imagine they'll come here to-night?" asked darry. hank leeson shook his head. "don't allow as they will. about a year ago i gave thet fetter fair warnin' if he showed his face about my cabin i'd plug him full o' holes, an' i sent gilroy the same message. they know me, an' know i won't stand any nonsense. they'll be likely to give me a wide berth. they know i aint got much worth stealin'." "then we ought to be safe until the soldiers get the news." "reckon you will be, lad," answered the trapper. he was very much of a quaint character, and for two hours the boys sat up, listening to his tales of encounters with wild animals, desperadoes, and indians. "i've had my own little fun with b'ars," he said. "got in a tree onct, and a b'ar kept me there fer a whole day. i had wounded him in the leg, and in running over a brook i dropped my gun." "how did you get away?" asked darry. "i didn't know what to do fust. the b'ar had me foul, and kept right at the bottom of the tree all the time. with his wounded leg he couldn't come up, and i didn't dare to go down, and there we was--a-lookin' at each other, he a-growlin' and i a-sayin' all kind o' unpleasant things about him." "didn't you have a pistol?" "no, all i had with me at the time was a powder-horn, a matchbox, and my pocket-knife. what to do i didn't know, and i was a-thinkin' i'd be starved out, when a thought struck me to blow him up with powder." "blow him up!" cried both boys. "thet's wot, lads--blow him up. i had a handkerchief, ye see, an' into this i dumped 'bout half my powder, an' into the powder i put three matches, with the ends pointing out. then i tied powder an' matches into a hard lump and watched my chance. there was a flat rock near the roots of the tree, and putty soon mr. b'ar squatted on this rock. then i let drive fer the rock, an' the powder an' matches landed good an' hard, i can tell ye." "and exploded?" put in joe eagerly. "yes, exploded with a noise ye could hear 'most a mile, i calkerlate. the powder flashed straight up into thet ba'r's face, blindin' him and tearing his jaw half off, and the way he ran to save himself was a caution. as soon as he was gone i dropped down and ran for my gun. then i made after the b'ar and caught him between the rocks and finished him." this was the last story told that night, and soon after the tale was concluded leeson showed the boys into the inner room of the cabin, where there was something of a rough bed with a straw mattress. "make yerselves ter hum," he said. "it aint no hotel, but it's the best i've got to offer ye." "but we don't want to turn you out," said darry. "i'll make myself comfortable near the door," answered leeson. "i want to sleep with one eye open--in case those rascals should take a notion to come this way." the boys were glad enough to rest indoors again and take off the clothing they had worn during the storm. "camping out is well enough," declared joe; "but i don't want too much of it." "oh, we've seen the worst side of it," returned darry. "i expect lots of good times when we get to the fort." "oh, so do i, for the matter of that." after turning in it did not take long for the cousins to get to sleep, and a little while later hank leeson also threw himself down to rest. but the old trapper remained close to the doorstep, and slept with his rifle near at hand. an hour went by, and the darkness and silence continued. there was no moon, and only a few stars were visible. at a distance a few night birds were calling, and occasionally the howl of some lonely wolf could be heard, but that was all. at last from out of the darkness of the trail came three men on foot. they were matt gilroy and his companions. they had tethered their horses in the bushes some distance away. they stole toward the cabin like so many grim and silent shadows. chapter viii. the stealing of the horses. "go slow, men," came softly from gilroy. "you know what kind of a man leeson is." "reckon i do know," came in a growl from fetter. "and i've got an account to settle with him, too." "i'm pretty certain the boy is here," went on the leader. "but we must make sure if the others are here too, or if they have ridden off to the fort. if they have gone to the fort----" "hist!" came in warning from potts. "you're talking too much. i've heard that this leeson sleeps with his ears wide open." "he does," grumbled fetter; and then the three desperadoes relapsed into silence. they were advancing upon the cabin from the rear, and each held a ready pistol in his hand, while his rifle was slung over his back. they had seen the boys and benson head for the trapper's home while it was still light and they were on a high cliff; but darkness had closed in on the scene, and they had come up to the spot in ignorance of what had followed. tiptoeing their way they reached the lean-to where the horses had been stabled, and with caution gilroy went inside. by feeling the animals he soon learned that three had been in use but a few hours before, while the fourth was cool and comfortable. "their horses are here," he announced. "and a fourth is here, too." "that's leeson's," answered fetter. "but i thought he had two or three." "might as well take them while we have the chance," murmured potts. "four nags will bring some money over at highwater. we can get gingo to sell 'em." "let them out," answered gilroy. "without horses they'll have their hands full trying to follow us." it was no easy task to untie the horses in a place that was pitch-dark, and it took some time to get even the horses belonging to our friends released. as fetter and potts took the animals out, gilroy worked to untie the sturdy mare belonging to hank leeson. this was a pet animal, and not used to strangers. as gilroy caught hold of the halter she gave a neigh of suspicion. "hush!" murmured the desperado, and ran his hand down the mare's nose. but this made her skittish, and she stamped sharply half a dozen times. "what's up thar?" came in hank leeson's voice, and the trapper was wide awake on the instant. "whoa, nancy, whoa!" "hang the luck!" muttered gilroy, and ran outside after fetter and potts. "he must have been on the watch." "we must get out!" responded fetter. "he's a sure-shot, remember. nothing but the darkness can save us." "i'm going!" came from potts, and he leaped on the back of one of the horses--that which joe had been riding. "i'm with you," said fetter, and mounted old benson's steed. "come, matt, and be quick about it." by this time hank leeson was running around the corner of the cabin, gun in hand. his call had aroused joe and darry, and they were pulling on their clothing with all speed. "something is wrong!" exclaimed joe. "it must be those desperadoes," responded his cousin. the boys were not yet dressed, when they heard a clatter of hoofs and a shot, followed by another. then they came out, rifles in hand, to find leeson reloading near the stable. "those desperadoes have been here!" exclaimed the old trapper. "they ran off with your hosses, consarn 'em!" "went off with the horses?" repeated darry. "did you shoot at them?" "i did, but the light's against me, and i don't reckon as how i hit anything." hank leeson meditated for a moment. "i've half a mind ter do it--yes, i have!" he muttered. "do what?" asked joe. "go after 'em on my mare. would you be afraid to stay here alone if i went?" "no; go ahead!" cried both boys. "we'll keep watch while you are away," continued joe. "if you can get the horses back it will be a great favor," said darry. "the three are worth over five hundred dollars." without further words, hank leeson dashed into the stable, untied his mare and mounted her. rifle over shoulder and pistol in hand, he dashed away on the back trail, whence the desperadoes had disappeared. soon he was swallowed up in the darkness, although they heard the hoofbeats of nancy for several minutes after. "this is the worst yet," was joe's comment, when they were alone. "those fellows are as daring as they are rascally. i never dreamed they would come up in that fashion. i wonder what they would have done if leeson hadn't woke up?" "perhaps we would all have been murdered," answered his cousin with a shudder. "what shall we do, now we are dressed?" "that depends upon how long leeson remains away. i move we remain on guard--one at the front of the cabin and the other at the rear. if we keep our eyes peeled they can't come very close, even though it is dark." "all right, joe. keep your rifle handy." "don't fear about that, darry." they were soon on guard, the one on the doorstep and the other near the lean-to, on a stump. thus an hour dragged by. to both it was an unusually long while. "i don't see a thing," said darry, coming to where his cousin rested. "nor i, and i'm getting sleepy. i hardly think leeson will be back until morning." "just what i was thinking. let us take turns at watching. the one on duty can walk around the cabin now and then, and that will give each of us some sleep." this was agreed upon, and they tossed up to see who should go on guard first. it fell to darry's lot, and joe, hardly able to keep his eyes open, quickly retired, without undressing. darry's vigil was certainly a lonely one, doubly so because it was new to him. as he tramped slowly around the cabin, he could not help but contrast this situation with the one he was used to at home. "i don't know as i'd like to be a night policeman or a night-watchman," he reasoned. "they must be awfully tiresome jobs. and the city isn't near as lonely as this, either, even in the middle of the night." he drew a long breath and looked at his watch. "gracious, only three-quarters of an hour gone, and i've got an hour and a quarter still to serve! how awfully slow it is! if leeson----what's that?" he broke off short and came to a halt, with his rifle in his hands and his gaze fixed on some brushwood a hundred feet to the rear of the stable. he had seen some dark object moving, but whether it was man or beast he could not tell. "it was something, i'm sure of that," he told himself, after the object had disappeared from view. "if it was a man he must have been crawling on hands and knees." he wondered if he had better awaken joe, but hesitated, knowing how sleepy his cousin was. perhaps the object would go away--if it was a wild beast. keeping his eyes on the spot, darry waited what seemed to him a long time, but which was really but a few minutes. then slowly the bushes parted and the object came forth, with eyes that gleamed fitfully even in that darkness. "a mountain wolf!" muttered the boy. "well, i'm glad it isn't one of those desperadoes." taking up a stone he hurled it at the wolf, at the same time shouting to the beast to go away. at once the wolf turned tail and disappeared whence it had come. "did you call?" came sleepily from joe. "there's a wolf in the bushes back of the cabin," returned darry. "does he want to attack you?" "i don't know. i just threw a stone at him, and he's slunk out of sight." by this time joe was also outside, and the two cousins waited for the reappearance of the wolf. but the animal was cowardly, and did not show himself again, and presently joe returned to bed. the remainder of the night passed without anything unusual happening. chapter ix. arrival at the fort. the morning found the two boys still alone. the sun was well up over the eastern prairie before both were dressed, for they had taken turns at guarding, as agreed, and each had consequently lost half his regular sleeping time. "well, what's to do now?" questioned darry, while they were stirring around getting breakfast. "i don't know of anything to do but to wait here until we hear from benson and hank leeson," answered his cousin. breakfast was soon disposed of, and then they sat down to wait, still keeping their firearms close to hand, in case of unexpected attack. the meeting with the desperadoes had opened the boys' eyes, and they did not intend to be caught "napping" no matter what else happened. shortly before ten o'clock joe espied three horsemen coming down the trail which led to the fort. both watched the approaching riders with interest, and presently saw that they were soldiers. one wore the uniform of a lieutenant, and the others were privates. "you are from the fort?" cried joe, running forward to meet them. "yes," was the answer from the lieutenant. "which of you is joseph moore?" "i am." "i am glad to know you, moore. your brother, the captain, and i are great friends. i am lieutenant richard carrol." "oh, i've heard of you," answered joe, smiling. "will has often mentioned his chum, dick carrol, in his letters. this is my cousin, darry germain. did old benson reach the fort last night?" "he did," answered lieutenant carrol, as he shook hands with both boys. "and your brother and a detachment of company a have gone out to look for matt gilroy and his gang. benson went with them, and i was asked to come down here and escort you to the fort." "if my brother wants to round up gilroy's gang he should have come here," said joe. "the rascals were here last night and stole our three horses." "is it possible! and where is hank leeson?" "he went after them on his horse, the only one they didn't get. we are looking for his return at any moment. we promised to watch the cabin until he got back." "i see." the lieutenant turned to the privates. "men, you may dismount and tie up the horses for the present. we won't be going back just yet." lieutenant carrol leaped to the ground, and one of the privates took charge of his steed. the young officer was a handsome fellow, with a smiling face, and both joe and darry took to him at once. "yes, captain moore and i are great friends," he said. "you see, we went through west point together, and we have been more or less together ever since. he has often told me about you two fellows, so i feel as if i've known you for a long while." he looked at joe. "you must have had quite an adventure with those desperadoes at the cave." "i did have," answered joe. "i hope my brother and the others round them up. do you know if they came anywhere near here?" "no, they struck off on another trail--the one the quartermaster is expected to use. you see, he is to come in to-morrow with that money." "to-morrow! then they'll have time to warn him." "that depends upon circumstances. the quartermaster is an odd sort of a fellow, and sometimes changes his mind about routes. he may come in the way we expect, and he may take some entirely different trail." "we can't say when leeson will be back," put in darry. "but it seems to me it is our duty to stay here until he returns; don't you think so, joe?" "i do, darry. but he will probably be back before long." it was only a few minutes later when one of the privates came forward with the information that a man was coming through the underbrush skirting the timber. it was hank leeson, and he held his mare to a walk, for nancy was all but exhausted. "mornin', lieutenant!" he called out, as he drew closer and saluted. "come for them boys, i reckon." "i did, leeson. they tell me you've been after the gang. what luck?" hank leeson shook his head dubiously. "reckon i didn't have any luck, lieutenant. got one shot, but if i hit it didn't count much. they had the best o' me in the timber, and they got away, not only with the hosses belonging to the boys an' benson, but likewise with their own, which they had tethered in a hollow not far away." "then our horses are gone!" cried darry, his face falling. "thet's it, lad. i'm sorry, but i did my best." "oh, i don't blame you, leeson. but--but if we haven't any horses, how are we to get to the fort?" "we'll take turns at carrying you," replied lieutenant carrol. hank leeson was as worn out as his mare, and while one of the soldiers cared for nancy the old trapper sank down on his doorstep and told his story. he had followed the desperadoes up hill and down for fifteen miles, and gotten one shot at fetter, which, he believed, had struck the rascal in the arm. but the party had turned on the trail while passing through a wide patch of timberland, and on coming out at the other side he had been unable to locate them again. then, as it was almost morning, he had thought best to return to his cabin, to ascertain how the boys were faring. "which road were they near when you saw them last?" asked lieutenant carrol. "over at hunkwater's rock," answered leeson. "moving toward the knob." "humph! then i am afraid captain moore won't round them up very quickly." "my brother didn't go near that trail?" questioned joe. "no, he's on a trail three miles further north. still, the desperadoes may turn north." "that's so," said leeson. as there was nothing to keep them at the cabin, the boys were now anxious to move on to the fort, and a short while later lieutenant carrol set off. one private carried joe and the other darry; and, as the horses were powerful beasts, good progress was made. "hurrah! the fort!" cried joe, as he caught sight of a large flag waving in the distance. he was right; and soon they could see the tall stockade quite plainly. it was three hundred feet long by two hundred feet wide, and surrounded by a ditch twelve feet deep. inside of the stockade were the fort proper and a dozen other buildings, including the officers' quarters, the men's quarters, the messroom, hospital, and the gymnasium, and also a good-sized stable. "why, it's a regular town in itself!" murmured darry, when they got inside. "that's right, a town of exactly two hundred and seventy-five people," answered the lieutenant. "and of that number two hundred and sixty are soldiers belonging to three companies, three are officers' wives, two are indian scouts, and the rest are cooks and other helpers." colonel fairfield, a tall, dignified old officer, had been told of their approach, and now came from the officers' quarters to meet them. "i am glad to see you, boys," he said, as he shook hands warmly. "if the story benson told is true you have had quite a few adventures in reaching here. i am sorry your brother is not here to meet you, joseph; but he was anxious to go after the gilroy gang, and i let him have his way." "you haven't heard about all of our adventures, colonel," said darry, and told of the stolen horses. "worse and worse!" returned the colonel, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "that proves that the gang--or what is left of it--is as desperate as ever. those fellows will never give up until they are either arrested or shot down." "i hope my brother doesn't get into trouble with them," said joe anxiously. "well, a soldier has to take some risks, my boy. but captain moore is as shrewd as he is brave, so you need not fear for his safety. come right in; mrs. fairfield will be glad to see you. she wants to hear from all the folks at home." the boys followed the old officer into the quarters, and here received an equally warm greeting from mrs. fairfield, whom they had met in chicago. dinner was soon served, and while the lads were satisfying the inner man they had to tell their whole story over again, and also tell all the news from home. "while you are here, boys, you must make yourselves perfectly at ease," said the colonel. "i know your fathers will expect me to be a father to you. as for captain moore, i will allow him to be with you as much as military discipline permits." chapter x. the result of a swim. to the boys, who had never visited a military quarters before, the fort proved of great interest, and they were glad, after the meal was over, to have lieutenant carrol take them around. this occupied some time, and when they had finished it was time for the evening parade. this was quite an affair, and the two lads joined the ladies of the place to witness it. everybody turned out, in uniform as clean as possible, on inspection. the drums rolled, the fifers struck up a lively air, and the three companies, headed by a major, marched around the stockade several times and then to the parade-ground in front of the gates. here the command went through the manual of arms and through a number of fancy evolutions. "it's splendid!" murmured joe. "everything moves like clockwork." "it makes me almost wish to be a soldier," answered darry. "but if a fellow had this day in and day out i am afraid he would grow tired of it." "you are right, darry," said mrs. fairfield. "the colonel has to think up a great number of things whereby to interest his men. they get up all sorts of contests, and concerts and theatricals, and go hunting when they can get the chance--anything to keep them from growing too dull." "have they had any real military duty to do lately?" asked joe. "not for over a year. then the modoc indians got up a sun-dance, and they had to march over to kedahmina and stop it. two indians were killed and one soldier was badly wounded. since that time the indians have been quiet." "but the indians may rise again." "probably they will--one is never sure of them. as one old general has said, 'the only safe indian is the dead indian.'" the boys were assigned to a small room next to that occupied by captain moore and lieutenant carrol. the apartment was neatly furnished with iron cots, an iron washstand, and a small wardrobe for extra clothing. fortunately the extra clothing they had carried had not been stolen, so they were not as bad off as they would otherwise have been. joe was anxious to hear from his brother will, but had to be patient. yet he was not greatly worried, for he was almost certain that the soldiers would fail to fall in with the desperadoes, each having taken a different trail. the day following their arrival the boys fell in with several soldiers who were going fishing up a mountain stream not far away, having obtained special leave of absence for that purpose. the soldiers, who were named biggs, ferry, and lambert, were glad enough to have the boys for company. "we'll show you some good sport," said lambert, who proved to be something of a leader. "no better fish in these parts than those you can catch in rocky pass river." the boys had no fishing-tackle, but lieutenant carrol fitted them out, and soon the party was on the way. the soldiers were to be gone but four hours, and so struck out at a gait that taxed joe and darry to the utmost to keep up with them. "it's the air does it," explained biggs, when darry spoke about the speed. "after you've been out here a while you'll eat like a horse and feel like walking ten miles every morning before breakfast. i tell you, the air is wonderful." "it certainly is bracing," answered darry. "i noticed that as soon as we began to climb the foothills." a walk of half an hour brought them to rocky pass river, and they journeyed along the bank until they came to a favorite fishing-hole. "here we are," said lambert. "now for the first fish!" "ten cents to whoever catches it!" cried joe, and placed a shining dime on a nearby tree stump. at this the three soldiers laughed. "that dime is mine," declared ferry, who was the first to throw in. "perhaps," answered biggs. "but i reckon i've got just as good a chance now." "here i come," put in lambert, and threw over his friends' heads. hardly had his bait gone down than he felt a tug and whipped in a little fish not over six inches long. "mine!" he cried. "it isn't worth ten cents!" cried biggs and ferry; nevertheless lambert pocketed the coin, amid a general laughing. the boys now went to a spot a little above where the soldiers were fishing, and set to work on their own lines. just as ferry announced a fine haul, they threw in, and soon everybody in the party was busy, bringing in several kinds of fish, big and little, including some fine trout of a variety the boys had not before seen. inside of an hour everybody had all the fish he wanted, and then the soldiers said they were going to take a swim. the boys were willing, and soon the whole crowd were in the water, calling out and laughing and having a good time generally. "don't go too far down the stream," cautioned lambert. "the falls are below, and you might get caught in the rapids." "all right, we'll surely remember," answered joe. "i'll race you across the river and back," said darry, a little later. "done!" cried joe. "to what point?" "to that willow hanging down near the big rock." so it was agreed, and in a minute both boys were off. they were good swimmers, and the race interested the soldiers, so that they gave up sporting around to watch the result. at this point the stream widened out to nearly two hundred feet, so the race was not a particularly short one. the water ran quite swiftly, and they soon found they had to swim partly up stream to prevent being carried below the willow. darry made the mark first, and, touching the willow, started on the return. joe was close behind, and now it became a neck-and-neck race between them. "go it, boys!" shouted lambert. "do your best!" "i bet on joe," said ferry. "i bet on darry," added biggs. hardly had the wager been made when joe shot ahead. slowly but surely he drew away from his cousin. while the sport was going on nobody had noticed a large tree that was drifting rapidly down the middle of the river. now, however, lambert saw the danger. "look out!" he cried wildly. "look out! a tree is coming down upon you!" joe heard the cry, and looking up the stream managed to get out of the way of the big piece of driftwood. but darry was not so fortunate, and in a twinkling the youth was struck and carried out of sight. this accident came so quickly that for the moment nobody knew what to do. "darry! darry!" cried joe. "where are you?" "he went under!" shouted lambert. "the tree branches struck him on the head." "he'll be drowned!" gasped biggs. "what shall we do?" by this time the tree had drifted past the point where the soldiers were stationed. joe had now struck bottom with his feet, and at once went ashore. "we must do something!" he panted. "we can't let darry be drowned!" "he must be caught under the branches," said lambert. "as the tree hit him it turned partly over. perhaps----there is his foot!" he pointed to the tree--and there, sure enough, was darry's left foot, kicking wildly above the surface of the river. then the boy's head came up, but only for a moment. "save me!" he spluttered, and immediately disappeared. "this is awful!" groaned joe. "can't we throw a fishing-line over the tree and haul it ashore?" "a good idea!" answered lambert. "we'll take two lines." he caught up the fishing-tackle, and lines in hand ran along the river bank until he was below the tree. the others followed, and helped him to get the lines into shape. then a quick cast was made, but the lines fell short. "too bad!" came from joe. "quick, try once more!" "the tree is turning over again!" shouted biggs, and he was right. as some other branches came into view, they beheld darry, caught in a crotch and held there as if in a vise. another cast was made, and then a third, but all in vain. then the tree, with its helpless victim, moved forward more rapidly than ever, in the direction of the roaring falls, which were but a short distance off. chapter xi. something about drilling. "darry is lost! nothing can save him now!" such was the agonizing thought which rushed through joe's brain as he watched the progress of the drifting tree as it moved swiftly toward the falls of rocky pass river. he knew the falls to be over thirty feet high. at the bottom was a boiling pool which sent up a continual shower of spray. nobody entering that pool could survive. darry, too, realized his peril, and continued to call for help. had he been able to loosen himself he would have leaped into the water, but he was weak and helpless, and his voice could scarcely be heard above the rushing of the rapids. joe and the three soldiers continued to run along the river bank, over rough rocks that cut their feet and through bushes which scratched them in scores of places. at last they came out on a point directly above the falls. the tree still spun on, and joe closed his eyes to shut out the sight of what was to follow. suddenly lambert let out a shout: "the tree is caught! it has stopped moving!" again joe looked, and he saw that what the soldier said was true. the under branches of the drifting tree had hit some sharp rocks below the river's surface, and one branch had wedged itself fast. this catching of the driftwood bent down the limb that held darry, and soon they saw that the imperiled boy was free from the grip which had held him. but what to do next the lad did not know. to swim to the shore was out of the question. "i--i can't make it," he told himself, as he panted for breath. he was so exhausted that he felt very much like fainting away. but he knew he must keep his senses, or all would be over with him. "darry! darry! are you much hurt?" called out joe. "not much, but i--i can't--swim--ashore!" was the gasped out answer. "i'll try the fishing lines again," said lambert, and prepared them once more. a first cast did not reach darry, but a second did, and he caught the sinkers to the lines with a good deal of satisfaction. "will they hold?" questioned joe. "i hope so," answered lambert. "anyway, it's the best we can do." letting the lines run out as far as possible, the soldiers and joe moved up the bank of the stream to where there was a series of rocks projecting into the water a distance of several yards. "now brace me, and i will haul in," said lambert. then he called to darry to help them by swimming as well as he was able, with the lines caught around him, under the arms. "all right, i'm ready!" cried the boy, and dropped into the stream, taking care to steer clear of the tree. lambert hauled in slowly but steadily. the line straightened out and became taut, and looked as if it might snap at any instant. joe's heart came up into his throat, and he breathed a silent prayer that his cousin might be saved. "here he comes!" muttered lambert at length, and they could see that darry's feet at last rested on the sandy bottom of the river. they continued to haul in, and soon he was safe. when on shore he pitched himself on the grass, completely exhausted. "oh, how glad i am!" cried joe, as he knelt beside his cousin. "i was almost certain you'd be drowned!" "it was a narrow escape!" answered dairy, when he could speak. "when the tree first struck me i was almost stunned, and when i realized what had happened i found myself fast and hardly able to budge. just look there!" and he showed a deep scratch on one side of his body and a heavy red mark on the other. "but never mind," he went on. "i am thankful my life was spared!" it was a sober-minded party that dressed and journeyed back to the fort, joe carrying both his own fish and those his cousin had caught. "i am afraid that will end fishing and swimming for a while," said biggs. "the soldiers never go near the falls, for they all know the danger, but colonel fairfield is too strict to run any chances." "don't say anything about the adventure on the tree," said darry. "will you keep mum?" "i will, and so will you, won't you, joe?" "yes." so it was arranged that nothing should be said, that the soldiers' little recreation might not be interfered with, for both boys saw that they had little pleasure at the best. "a fine haul for you boys!" said lieutenant carrol, as he surveyed the catch. "i must go myself and try my luck. i haven't been fishing this summer." "it's a splendid place for bites," said joe. "i know it. but you have to be careful up there. there's a nasty fall in the river. if you went over that you'd never come out alive." "yes, we saw the fall," answered darry, and gave a shudder in spite of himself. again at sunset there was a parade, similar to that of the day before. after it was over the boys procured guns and had lambert put them through their "paces," as he called it. "first we'll drill a bit without guns," said the old soldier, for lambert had seen sixteen years of service. "toe this line, heads up, chest out, and little fingers on the seams of your trousers. that's all right. now then, eyes right! when i say that turn your eyes to the right, but don't move your faces. now, eyes front! that's good. eyes left! eyes front! that's first-rate." "but we're not moving," said darry. "now we'll move. watch me. right face! do you see how it's done? balance on the heel, this way, and swing around. now then, right face!" the two boys came around like well-trained old soldiers. "good, boys, good. now then, front face! good. left face! that's not so well. front face! now here's another, about face!" so the drilling went on, until the boys could move as lambert wished them to. then they began to march and to wheel right and left. at last he put the guns in their hands and let them march with the pieces, and then showed them the manual of arms. [illustration: "at last he put the guns in their hands and let them march with the pieces."] "you'll learn in no time," said the old soldier, when his off time came to an end. "you've crowded a dozen lessons into one." "and i feel it," said darry. "i'm going in to rest." and he went, followed by joe. all told, the boys had enjoyed the drill very much. joe was somewhat worried when bedtime came and still nothing had been heard of his brother. yet colonel fairfield told him not to mind the prolonged absence. "but should not your quartermaster be here?" asked the boy. "he may come in to-morrow morning," answered the colonel. the next day dawned cloudy, and by noon a steady rain was falling. the boys hardly knew what to do, and, after watching a drill and some performances in the gymnasium, went back to the living quarters. they had hardly entered when there came a shout from the guard at the stockade. "captain moore is coming, with the quartermaster!" was the cry. "hurrah, it's will!" shouted joe, and ran out despite the rain to welcome his brother. soon the soldiers came up, mud-stained and tired. they embraced half of company a, and in their midst was the quartermaster of the regiment, with two attendants. each of these three carried heavy saddle-bags, filled with government money for the soldiers, for payday was now due. "joe!" cried captain moore, as he dismounted and caught his brother by the hand. "i am glad to see you safe and sound." "and i am glad to see you," answered joe. "i will be with you soon--i must first report to colonel fairfield," went on the young officer, and lost no time in seeking the commandant. his story was soon told, and it speedily spread to all parts of the fort. along with his men and old benson he had looked in vain for the gilroy gang for a whole day. then he had come upon them just as they were preparing for an attack upon the quartermaster and his escort. the gang had numbered eight, and in the fight which had followed two of the crowd had been wounded, although all had made their escape by swimming their steeds over a dangerous mountain torrent. of the soldiers three had been wounded, one man quite seriously. the young captain had received a bullet through his hat. "it was matt gilroy himself who fired that shot," said captain moore. "and i won't forget it when next we meet." old benson had been in the thickest of the fight from beginning to end, and it was he who had wounded one of the desperadoes while the fellow was in the act of carrying off one of the money-bags. the rascals had fought hard over that money-bag, but in the end had been compelled to drop everything and ride to save their lives. as soon as captain moore had made his report, another detachment was sent out, to follow the desperadoes, if they could be found. this detachment was fifty strong and under the leadership of lieutenant carrol. the lieutenant was a man who had met numerous desperadoes in his time, and it was felt that he could do the work much better than the average soldier. chapter xii. deer hunting. with his brother at hand, joe felt much more at home than formerly, and the captain's presence also made a difference to his cousin. old benson remained at the fort for the time being, and did what he could to please the boys. he took an especial interest in their shooting, and would often set up a target on the prairie for them to practice on. "you'll do first-rate in a little while," he said. "and as lambert says you take to drilling, it won't be long afore you're both out-and-out soldiers." "i don't know as i care to be a regular soldier," answered darry. "i wouldn't mind it for a while, but to enlist for five years--why, that's another thing." "lambert has enlisted four times. when his time is out he'll be in service twenty years." "and yet he is only a private," put in joe. "he is content, and doesn't want to go any higher. he likes the life, and he told me not long ago that he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he was out of uncle sam's employ." one day after another passed, until the boys had been at the fort a little over a week. they now knew the drills and the "time-card" as well as anybody, and often practiced on the apparatus in the gymnasium. "it's not so bad, after you once get used to it," said joe. "the men are a good deal of company for each other." "it's odd to see so many men and so few women," returned darry. "some of the men don't want any women around, so i've been told. they are like some of the old-time miners who used to move out of camp as soon as a dress-skirt showed itself." one day captain moore and old benson got permission to go off on a hunt, and took the boys along. all of the party were mounted, and each carried a saddle-bag with part of the necessary camping outfit. "if it's possible to do so, i'll show you some big game," announced the old scout. "although i'll allow big game is mighty scarce, even in these parts." "have the hunters shot down everything?" asked joe. "a good bit, lad. you see, many used to come out here just to shoot for the sake of killing. i've known a party of six men to kill twenty or thirty buffalo and then leave the carcasses to the wolves. that was a shame." "so it was!" cried darry. "one or two buffalo would have been enough." "some hunters never know when to stop," put in captain moore. "they shoot as long as anything shows itself. if it wasn't for that these hills would be filled with buffalo, deer, bears, and all other kind of game." the morning was clear and cool, and everybody in the party was in the best of spirits. the course was down into a broad valley, in the middle of which flowed the rocky pass river, and then up a series of hills leading to tom long mountain--a favorite resort in this territory for sportsmen. "do you think we'll see or hear anything of those desperadoes?" asked joe of his brother, as they rode along side by side. "it's not likely," answered the young captain. "as soon as they learn that the soldiers are after them they'll take to their heels in double-quick order. they haven't any taste for meeting our regulars." "it's queer that this matt gilroy should go in for this sort of life--if he is as well educated as you say." "some men don't like anything better, joe--they wouldn't earn their living honestly if they could. it's queer that this is so, but it's a fact. those men have no regular homes, although many often talk of settling down. generally they die with their boots on, as the saying goes." by noon the party had covered fifteen miles and were well into the hills. they came to a rest beside a fine spring which flowed from a split in the rocks. near at hand was some dense brushwood, and old benson rightfully guessed that it would not be difficult to beat up some birds. "you can now try your luck at aiming," he said to the boys, and led the way into the dense growth. soon a flock of birds arose directly before them, and both darry and joe took a quick shot, bringing down seven of the quarry. then the scout fired, and five other birds dropped. "pretty good for a starter!" cried old benson, as they stalked around picking up the game. "that target practice has made you both pretty steady. just a round dozen, all told. that's a-plenty for dinner, i reckon." captain moore was also pleased when told of what his brother and his cousin had accomplished. "you'll make great hunters in time," he said. "the main thing is to keep your nerve when big game confronts you. you know you have the best of a bird or squirrel, or anything like that. but when it comes to a buffalo, or a bear----" "i know all about bears," interrupted joe, and at this there was a general laugh. "if i ever meet another bear i want to be well prepared for him," he continued. "generally a wild animal won't fight," went on the young captain. "but when one is cornered he is apt to get very ugly; eh, benson?" "right you are, captain. i was once cornered by a buffalo, and had all i could do to save myself." the old scout calculated that they would strike some game that afternoon, and he was not mistaken. about two o'clock they sighted several deer far up the hillside. "fine, plump animals," said benson. "if we get a couple of them we can be well satisfied." it was decided that they should move around in a semicircle, so as to get to leeward of the herd. "if we don't do that, the deer will scent us and be off in no time," explained captain moore. their horses were tethered in the brush, near some trees, and the party of four started out on foot. the way was rough, but the boys did not mind this. their sole thought was upon the deer, and each resolved to bring down one of the game, no matter at what cost. it was no light task to reach a spot from which to shoot. they had to cross several depressions on the hillside, and here the undergrowth was so heavy that progress at times seemed impossible. once darry went into a hole up to his waist, and came out with several rents in his coat, where the thorns had clung to him. "oh!" he muttered. "oh!" "are you hurt?" questioned joe quickly. "not much, but i reckon i'm a good deal scratched up," answered darry, with a wry face. at last they gained a point well to leeward of the quarry, and benson brought the party to a halt. "we'll creep in as far as we can," he said. "but keep your guns ready for use, and as soon as one fires the others had best fire too, for the deer won't wait after one shot. which will you take, captain?" "i'll take the one near the big rock," answered captain moore. "joe, you had better take the one on the knoll." "i will." "i'll take the one rubbing his side with his prong," put in darry. "and i'll take the one coming through the brush," finished old benson. "now then, forward. make no noise, and be sure your gun doesn't go off and hit somebody else instead of the deer." rifles in hand, they crept through the underbrush and down toward the glade in which the deer were feeding. the animals did not become suspicious until they were less than a hundred yards away. then, of a sudden, the leader threw up his head and began to sniff the air. "now fire," said benson in a low tone. at once the four rifles came up, and each hunter took steady aim. darry and joe fired at the same instant, and the young captain and benson discharged their pieces immediately after. the aim of the two older hunters was true, and two deer fell dead after going less than six steps. but the other game was only wounded, joe's deer in the side and darry's in the flank, and they bounded away up the hillside. "missed!" groaned joe, and slipped another cartridge into his firearm. darry did the same, and both fired a second time. then, seeing how badly the deer were wounded, they ran after the animals. the course of the deer was straight for the timber down the mountain-side, and through the brush crashed quarry and boys until another hundred yards were covered. then, coming to a rocky cliff, and being unable to leap to the top, the deer came to a halt. "do you see 'em?" panted darry, almost out of breath with running. "yes--there they are!" returned joe. "see?" "i do. they can't get up the rocks. joe, we've got 'em after all. we must shoot----gracious!" the boy broke off short, and with good reason. the deer had spotted them, and now without warning turned and ran straight for both, as if to gore them to death! chapter xiii. a fish and a snake. "look out, darry, or he'll kill you!" "look out for yourself, joe!" these cries were followed by two shots, as both the young hunters discharged their weapons. but in their haste the aim of each was poor, and the bullets flew wide of the mark. then the maddened deer came closer, and both boys took to their heels, running as they had never run before. "hi! what's up?" came in old benson's voice. "the deer are after us!" yelled joe. "shoot 'em quick!" hardly had the lad spoken when he felt one of the deer close behind him. he leaped to one side, and the animal charged past with great vigor, considering how badly he was wounded. but that charge was his last, for benson's rifle spoke up, and the animal fell lifeless where he stood. in the meantime darry was having his hands full with the second deer. the youth had been unable to reload, and now he found himself in a thicket, with the deer fairly on top of him. he caught his firearm by the barrel and hit the animal a resounding blow on the head. this made the deer stagger back and pause. "help! help!" yelled the boy. "somebody shoot this beast!" "i'm coming!" came in captain moore's voice. "where are you?" "here, in the bush! quick, or he'll stick me to death!" the deer was now charging with lowered head. he was in a fearful rage. as he came on there was a sharp report, and the young captain burst into view, his rifle barrel still smoking. then the deer gave one last leap into the air, and came down upon darry. the fall knocked the boy senseless. while captain moore was removing the weight from darry's body, the old scout came up, followed by joe. "hullo, he got it, did he?" said benson. "is he badly hurt?" "i hope not," answered the young captain. "you see, the deer didn't touch him until i fired. then he leaped up and knocked my cousin down." "hope there aint any bones broken." the deer was removed, and benson went off to get some water. when he came back captain moore and joe were rubbing darry's wrists. the water was dashed into the unconscious youth's face, and soon he gave a gasp and opened his eyes. "the deer?" were his first words. "you are safe," said the captain reassuringly. "the deer is dead." "oh!" darry uttered a sigh of relief. "i was thinking he was goring me to pieces." "you had a narrow escape," put in old benson. "if it hadn't been for the captain he would have mauled you for certain. didn't you hear me yell to be careful?" "i thought it would be an easy matter to bring him down, after he was wounded," said darry, still gasping for breath. "any bones broken?" questioned captain moore. "i--i guess not." darry gave a sigh and sat up. "how did joe make out?" "i am all right," answered that individual. "benson did the trick for me though. benson, i owe you a good deal." "and i owe you a good deal," said darry, turning to his cousin. "i'm glad i came up, darry," answered the young captain. "after this both you and joe must be more careful. if either of you had been killed i would never have forgiven myself for bringing you out on the hunt." "i want to give you both a bit of advice, and i want you to remember it too," came from the old scout. "never get too close to big game until you are certain of what you are doing, and be extry careful of big game that is wounded and cornered. even a sneaking fox will turn on you if he sees there is no other way out of his difficulty." "i'll remember that," answered both joe and darry, and they did remember, and thus was one peril of big-game hunting abolished. darry felt too weak for the time being to do much, so joe led him back to where they had left the horses, while captain moore and old benson took upon themselves the task of bringing in the four deer. each was a beautiful prize, and the quartet made an imposing sight when hung up on a couple of tree branches. "the colonel will like this haul," said the young captain. "it will mean prime venison for some days to come. benson, i wish we could get some of it back to the fort without delay--so we can put it on ice and keep it nice." "i'll take 'em all to the fort to-night, if you say so," answered the scout. "i can take one on my horse, and load the other three on one of the other animals." "then do that, and while at the fort ask the colonel if he will give me permission to remain out until saturday. tell him we think we can bring in something for all hands to enjoy." "i'll do it," said the old scout. soon the deer were packed on the horses, old benson having first cut some steaks from the smallest of the game, to leave behind. "take good care of yourselves while i am gone," he said on departing. "and you, joe and darry, mind what i told you about getting cornered." then he was off, and a turn in the mountain trail soon hid him from view. "a fine old fellow," was joe's comment, when benson was gone. "he is that," answered the young captain. "i liked him from the first time i saw him, and i have never had cause to regret it. he is a good hunter, an excellent scout, and has done us many a good turn." "what shall we do while he is absent?" questioned darry. "oh, we can try our hand at small game and we can fish!" answered the young captain. "as it is, i reckon both of you would just as lief take it easy until morning." "i would. that deer on me has made me feel sore all over." they were soon in camp again, and while the boys rested captain moore stirred around and showed them how the soldiers prepared their meals. he cooked the steaks to a turn, and boiled a pot of coffee, and these, with some crackers they had brought along, made a most excellent meal. being in no hurry, they took their time over the repast, and it was dark long before they finished. "it's going to be a fine night, so we can sleep under the trees without fear," said the young captain. "don't you think some wild animals will attack us?" "not if we keep our camp-fire burning." the boys brought in plenty of brush and some heavier wood, and arranged it so that it would burn for a long while, doing this by forming the stuff into something of a circle. then the horses were looked after, and each retired, with his blanket rolled around him to keep off the mountain dew, which was already showing itself. when the boys awoke the sun was shining brightly into their faces. for a moment each stared at the other. "gracious, i never slept so soundly in my life!" cried joe. "i couldn't have done better in a bed at home." "nor i," returned his cousin. "i can tell you, sleeping in the open air when it doesn't rain is all right." but when darry got up on his feet he changed his tune. the fall of the day previous, combined with the night air, had made him woefully stiff, and it was a good half-hour before he became limbered up. they found captain moore already stirring, and the kettle over the fire was boiling merrily. the captain himself was trying his luck at a brook not a great distance off. "i saw some fish in here some weeks ago," he explained. "i thought i might get a couple for breakfast. but you lads will have to wait until i strike luck." "i'm willing to wait," said joe. "there is nothing to do, is there, until benson gets back?" "nothing that i know of, unless you want to fish or go after some small game. i want to hear what he has to say. if the colonel won't let me stay out, i'll have to return to the fort to-night." it did not take long for captain moore to land several good-sized specimens of the finny tribe, and these the boys took turns at preparing for eating, while the captain continued to fish. the balance of the morning was passed at the brook, and, strange to say, the captain and joe were both quite successful, while darry hardly got a bite. "i'm going to try my luck further up the stream," announced the boy. "i believe we are all fishing too closely together." "that doesn't seem to hurt my luck," said joe. darry was soon climbing the rocks leading up the brook. the way was rough, but he was growing used to this life in the open air and he enjoyed even the hardship, if such it can be called. "that ought to make a good fishing-hole," he said to himself, as he reached a point where several big rocks hung over the water's edge. "it's dark down there, and that's what some fish like." he prepared his bait with care, and then dropped his line into the hole. almost immediately he felt a nibble, and, giving a jerk, found he had caught something that was both large and powerful. "gracious, it must be a whopper!" he muttered, as the fish darted hither and thither. then he braced back on the rock, to play the game, for bringing in the catch at once seemed out of the question. the pole bent greatly, and he was afraid it would snap on him. he could not stand on the slippery rock very well, and so stepped behind it, on a number of loose stones. hardly had he done so when he heard a strange hissing. looking down, he saw a snake glide from under the rock. in a moment more the angry reptile faced him. chapter xiv. over the mountain top. darry was much alarmed, and with good reason. never before had he faced such a snake, and the reptile looked ready to spring upon him at any instant. what to do the boy did not know, yet instinctively he leaped back to the top of the rock. then the fish gave a jerk which almost took him from his feet. "joe! will!" he shouted. "come this way! i'm in a pickle!" "what's the matter?" shouted captain moore, and soon he and his brother were coming forward as quickly as they could. in the meantime darry was having his hands full, for the big fish was bound to get away. at the bottom of the rock lay the snake, with head raised and mouth wide open. its eyes shone like diamonds. "a snake! kill it!" shrieked darry. "a snake?" echoed joe. "where?" "at the bottom of this big rock. oh, my, he's going to come up!" "i see him," put in captain moore. as he spoke the snake made a leap for the top of the rock. as the reptile went up, darry went down, and ran along the brook's edge, still with his fishing-pole in his hand. catching up a sharp stone, captain moore flung it at the snake, hitting the reptile in the tail. at once the thing whirled around, and now forgetting darry it turned on its assailant. "he's coming for you!" ejaculated joe. "run, will, or you'll be bitten sure!" "i'm not running from a snake," answered the young officer, and in a trice he whipped out his pistol. as the snake came on he let drive. his aim was true, and the snake dropped with its head half severed from its body. "good for you!" said joe, and now he picked up a stone as large as his hand. this he dropped directly on the quivering head, and thus ended the battle, although the body of the snake continued to wriggle for a long while afterward. with white face and set teeth, darry continued to play his catch and he was still at it when joe and his brother came rushing up. "did the snake bite you?" questioned the young captain. "why didn't you pull in?" "i've got something big on," answered darry. "i didn't want to miss it." "well, i never!" gasped captain moore. "and you didn't let go even with that snake at your heels? well, you like a fish better than i do, i can tell you that." again the pole bent and threatened to break, but darry knew what he was doing, and promptly let the fish have more line. then he wound in, and as the fish unexpectedly came close to shore he gave a sudden strong, steady sweep, and up came the prize on the rocks, flapping and flopping violently. "my, what a whopper!" cried joe. "he must weigh at least seven or eight pounds!" "he felt as if he weighed about forty when he was in the water," returned darry, a little crest-fallen that the catch was not larger. "that's the biggest fish i've ever seen taken out of this stream," said the young captain. "you can be proud of it, darry. but to hold on when that snake was behind you----" he shook his head. "oh, i knew you'd come up and take care of that, cousin will." "but i might have been too late." "was it a poisonous one?" "some claim they are poisonous, but the surgeon up at the fort says not. still i wouldn't want to risk a bite." "perhaps there are more around," suggested joe. "no, the peculiarity of this variety of snakes is that they always travel alone. if they meet they fight until one or the other is dead." "did you ever see such a fight, will?" "i did, when i first came to these parts. i was riding over a rocky trail when my horse suddenly stopped, nearly throwing me. on looking ahead to find out what had frightened my animal, i discovered two of these snakes. they were facing each other, with mouths wide open and fangs showing. each was so interested in the other that neither noticed me or the horse. they faced each other for fully a minute, and during that time began to hiss louder and louder. suddenly they sprang at each other, and one snake was stung in the eye. he curled himself around the other snake's neck, and in an instant both were in a tight ball. they rolled around and around among the rocks. once in a while a head would show itself, and then there would be more hissing. after ten minutes the ball fell gradually apart, and then one snake crawled slowly away, more dead than alive. the other snake proved to be dead, with both eyes torn from its head." "didn't you kill the other snake?" asked darry. "i did. that's the first and only battle i ever saw between snakes, and it was terrible while it lasted, i can tell you that." fishing over, they went into camp, and here rested until old benson came back. "the colonel was tickled to death to receive so much deer meat," said the old scout. "and he says you can stay until saturday night if you wish. his lady said she had been wanting some venison for several weeks." captain moore felt glad to think he could be out four days more. "we'll have a grand time now," he said. "benson, we can go right over yonder mountain, can't we?" "to be sure," answered the scout. "is the hunting good over there?" asked joe. "yes, lad. there used to be some buffalo there." "good! let us get a buffalo by all means!" cried darry. "you go slow about tackling a buffalo, especially a bull," said the young captain. "if we do sight a buffalo you let benson manage the whole affair." it was not long before the party were off once more, up a trail which led directly to the mountain top. here traveling was difficult, and both riders and horses were glad to rest at frequent intervals. when the top was gained the sun was just sinking in the far west. the sight on every side was a glorious one, and as the captain had a small field-glass with him, they could see for miles. "there is the fort," said joe, after looking through the glass. "i can see the flag quite plainly." in the west were more mountains, and between these the valley for which they were bound. timber and underbrush were dense in spots, while at other points the mountain sides were covered with bold, blackish rocks, with here and there luxuriant moss of several hues. springs and brooks were numerous, so there was no danger of a water famine. "i can make out some game over yonder," said darry, when he had the glass adjusted to his sight. "what is it?" "i can't see very plainly." "hand over the glass," said old benson, and took a careful look. but the setting sun now cast a deep shadow between the mountains, and he was unable to tell what it was. "mountain deer, most likely," he said. "we'll find out to-morrow--if the good weather holds out." "do you think we'll have a storm?" asked joe quickly. "we'll have something; don't you think so, captain?" "i think we'll have more wind than rain," returned captain moore. "if we have a high wind, will it be safe right on the mountain top?" questioned joe. "we won't stay here," said old benson. "i know of a much better camping-place. come, while it is still a little light." and they set off once more. the place the old scout had in mind was close beside a cliff. the wall of rocks was twice as high as their heads, and on either side was a growth of heavy timber. there was a spring at hand and a grassy patch which promised them an easy bed, providing it did not rain. "if it storms we can seek the shelter of the cliff," said old benson. "it won't be as comfortable as a house or cabin, but it will be a good deal better than being right in the open." the boys were glad enough to rest after the wearisome ride over the top of the mountain, and hungry for the meal the old scout took upon himself to prepare. when the fire was lit it burned up lively, blowing the sparks in several directions. as soon as he finished cooking the meal benson put out the blaze. "too much wind," he said, in reply to a question from joe. "i don't want to set the whole mountain side on fire." benson was right about the wind, which was now sweeping strongly through the tops of the tall trees. presently it came lower, and shook up the brushwood. the night birds began to fly around, uttering their shrill cries. the old scout listened to the birds with some concern. "it's going to be a big blow," he said to darry. "you are sure?" "yes. the birds are afraid of it. see how they flutter around? that's a sure sign." "birds must know a good deal, benson." "they do, lad--a heap sight more than folks gives 'em credit for. we could learn a good deal from them, if we'd only set our minds to it." they took their time about eating, having nothing else to do. then benson cared for the horses, putting them in the shelter of the brush, but away from the big trees. at last it began to blow in earnest, and presently they heard a tree limb here and there snap with a loud report. then the wind became so furious they were glad enough to huddle under the cliff for shelter. "it's coming now!" shouted old benson suddenly. "hold fast to your hats, boys, or you'll never see them again. and sit down on the traps!" and in a moment more the fury of the wind storm was upon them. chapter xv. the result of a hurricane. both joe and darry had witnessed many a blow, but nothing to compare to that which now swept through the valley and up the mountain side. the velocity of the wind was simply terrific, and it was well that old benson had cautioned them to hold on to their hats and sit on their traps, otherwise all would have been blown away to parts unknown. "say, but this is fierce!" gasped darry, after several minutes had passed. "it's a regular hurricane," said captain moore. "i've been out in them before. fortunately they do not last over a quarter or half an hour. down on the prairies of kansas they would call it a cyclone. here, however, it can't get the sweep that it can on the level." "hark! what is that?" put in joe, as a tremendous crashing reached their ears. "that's a tree in the forest going down," answered old benson. "there goes another," said darry, as more crashing was heard. "i am glad we didn't go into the timber. it's more dangerous than lightning." "so it is!" shouted benson. it was with difficulty that he made himself heard. "here comes the worse of it!" he added. a strange humming now filled the air, followed by twigs and flying branches. overhead it was unusually dark, and they could scarcely see one another. joe and darry kept close together and clasped hands. captain moore was on one side of them and old benson on the other. as the wind struck the cliff it sent a shower of loose stones in all directions. then it tore through the undergrowth where the horses were tethered. next it seemed to hit the trees fronting the cliff. one tall monarch of the forest was twisted completely from its roots and began to topple. "see, the tree is coming on top of us!" shrieked joe. his words were drowned out in the fury of the wind and the crashing of the tree. the next moment the monarch of the forest came down on the cliff with a bang, cracking the stone in several places. the bottom limbs caught those under the cliff and pinned them fast. to both boys it seemed as if the end of the world had come. they rolled over, one on top of the other, and for several seconds lay dazed. then they tried to get up, but found themselves unable to do so. "get off of my chest!" gasped joe, who was underneath. "i can't--i'm pinned down!" panted darry. "boys, are you safe?" came from old benson, who was also caught. "i--i guess so!" answered joe. "but it's a tight squeeze." then the youth called out to his brother, but no answer came back. "will must be hurt!" he exclaimed, his heart rising in his throat. "will! will! where are you?" he continued. still there was no answer, or if so the fury of the wind drowned it out completely. the boys tried their best to move, but could only budge a few inches. in five minutes the fury of the blow spent itself and the last of the wind sent the fallen tree rolling along the cliff a distance of several rods. this released joe and darry, and they arose to their feet dazed and bewildered and scarcely knowing what to do next. it was now raining and darker than ever. "benson!" called out joe, "where is my brother?" "the captain must still be under the tree," replied the old scout. "he was next to you when the tree came down, wasn't he?" "he was, but i believe the wind carried his hat off, and he made a dive for it. that's the last i saw of him." staggering to his feet, joe looked around, trying to pierce the darkness. darry followed him, and old benson also got up. the scout had received a nasty cut on the shoulder, from which the blood was flowing. in a few minutes joe found his brother. the captain lay on the rocks unconscious, a big lump on his forehead, where the largest of the tree's branches had struck him. kneeling at his brother's side, the boy made a hasty examination. "he's alive!" he said. "but he must have been struck a terrible crack." there was little to do excepting to bathe the unconscious officer's head, and this was done. in the meantime darry assisted old benson at binding up the wounded shoulder. "take the tree off!" such were the first words captain moore uttered when he returned to consciousness. it was some time before he could sit up. "you are all right, will--the tree is not on you," said joe soothingly. "but it came down right on top of me." "yes, it came down on all of us." "anybody killed?" "no. benson has a cut on the shoulder, and you were knocked out. feel the lump on your head." the young captain did so. "phew! but that's a regular goose-egg, isn't it?" he muttered. "i suppose i can be thankful that i am alive." "we can all be thankful for that, will." "it was the greatest blow i ever experienced--in more ways than one," said the captain. "i see it is raining. we had better go back to the cliff for protection." "don't do it!" cried old benson, from out of the darkness. "the tree struck the cliff a heavy blow, and we don't want that down on our heads next." "no, let us give the cliff a wide berth," said darry. "i'd rather remain right out in the open and get soaked than take any more risks." "the rain won't amount to much," said benson. "it never does after such a hurricane." the scout was right, and in less than half an hour after it had begun the downpour was over and the stars were struggling forth in the sky. without delay a camp-fire was lit, and the blaze did much toward making them comfortable. it was found that benson's wound was by far the worst, yet the old scout said it would not interfere with his outing. "i've had lots of 'em in my time," was the way he expressed himself. "lots, and i aint dead yet. 'pears to me i'm about as tough as a pine-knot." it was found that the horses had not suffered in the least from the storm, although they had been much frightened. soon they calmed down, and by midnight all was as quiet as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. but captain moore and old benson carried the marks of the adventure for many days after. on the following morning no one felt much in the humor for hunting, and half a day was lost in "bumming around," as joe expressed it. this gave all a good rest and put the horses in fine fettle, and when they started out after the midday meal all were once again in high spirits. that night found them on the edge of what old benson called the buffalo ground, a broad valley where the grass was thick and of a peculiar richness. on the way they had shot a number of birds and also a few small animals, but nothing of importance. once some deer had been sighted, but the game was too far off to be pursued. as they expected to remain at this point until ready to return home, the old scout proceeded to put up a shelter of brush, which, when completed, was almost as comfortable as a cabin. on the bottom were strewn pine boughs, which gave the shelter a peculiar odor. "best thing in the world for colds and weak lungs, that smell," said benson. "i've never known it to fail." the boys declared that the odor made them sleep "like logs." "it's queer we haven't seen any indians," remarked darry. "i thought these mountains were full of them." "they were full, before the fort was established," answered benson. "but the kind that are in this neighborhood don't like white men very much, and they only come around the fort when it's necessary. but we may meet some after buffalo. an injun will do a heap to get a critter like that." the old scout said it would be useless to go out in a body to look for buffalo, and so it was arranged that he should first go over the ground alone, leaving the captain and the two boys to look for smaller game. this settled, benson soon set off, and a little later captain moore, joe, and darry took their way along some bushes skirting a small water-course. they went on foot, leaving their horses tethered near the shelter. "i will go up one side of the stream, and you can go up the other," said the captain. "by doing that we'll be sure to stir up anything within a hundred yards of the water." the boys agreed, and soon each member of the party was hard at work, on the hunt for any small game the vicinity might afford. it was not long before they gained a spot where the underbrush along the brook was thick. here the stream divided into two branches, and, without knowing it, the captain and the boys became gradually more and more separated, the brush and small trees hiding each from the other. "i don't see much," said joe, after half a mile had been covered. "those little birds aren't worth wasting powder and shot on." "it looks to me as if somebody had gone over this ground," returned darry. "see here, aren't those fresh footprints?" "i believe they are. and see, here are the prints of several horses' hoofs. benson didn't come this way, did he?" "i don't think he did." "then there must be other hunters not far off." they continued on their way, coming to a halt where the branch of the brook entered a small, rocky canyon. "no use of going further," said joe. "let us retrace our steps." "where can your brother be? i haven't heard him for some time." joe set up a yell, and both listened attentively. no answer came back. then both called in concert. still the silence continued. "it's mighty queer," was joe's comment "let us go back. perhaps he's in trouble." chapter xvi. captain moore's adventure. in the meanwhile, never dreaming of the danger at hand, captain moore pursued his way up the other branch of the water-course. here the underbrush was even more dense than where the boys were, and consequently he did not think it strange that he heard nothing of his brother and his cousin. the fact that he stirred up no game nettled him, and he pushed on, determined to bring down something before he went back. suddenly he espied something moving in the patch of wood ahead of him. rifle in hand, he moved cautiously in the direction. as he did this, a man glided out from the bushes to his right and followed him as silently as a shadow. the man was gus fetter. the desperado was fully armed, and his face was black with hatred of the young army officer. as the wood was gained, captain moore paused to locate the object he had seen. but before he could do this, he was caught from behind and his rifle was wrenched from his grasp. "fetter!" he ejaculated, as he caught sight of the desperado. "up with your hands, captain moore!" growled the rascal savagely. "up, i say! i've got the drop on you!" fetter had thrown the captain's rifle to the ground, and now stood upon it. in his hands he held his own weapon, and the muzzle was aimed at the young officer's head. realizing that discretion was the better part of valor, captain moore threw up his hands promptly, at which the desperado grinned wickedly. "where did you come from, fetter?" demanded the captain. "from not far away, captain." "what do you mean by treating a united states army officer in this fashion?" "i've got a score to settle with you, captain. don't forget that." "are the rest of the gang around?" "they are." following his last words, gus fetter gave a long, clear whistle, followed by two shorter ones. at once an answer came back from the woods, and in a few seconds matt gilroy appeared. "hullo, so you've got him," sang out the leader of the desperadoes. "a good haul. how are you, captain moore? delighted to see me, i suppose." "not at all glad to meet you--considering the circumstances," answered the young officer, trying to keep cool, although he realized that he was in a dangerous situation. "well, you're honest about it, anyway," said gilroy with a brutal laugh. "have you been following our party?" "you had better not ask too many questions, captain." by this time potts and two other men were coming up. one of the latter carried his left arm in a sling. captain moore's recognized him as a fellow who had been wounded in the raid on the quartermaster's party. the desperadoes consulted among themselves for a few minutes, and then captain moore was ordered to march on. "to where?" he asked. "you'll see when you get there," answered fetter. "now move, or, by the boots, i shoot you down where you stand!" seeing it would be worse than useless to resist, the young officer did as ordered, and the whole party moved away from the water-course and took to a trail leading back to the side of the mountain. presently they came upon a number of horses, and here they mounted. there were two steeds without riders, and captain moore was ordered to the back of one of these. all rode off in a bunch, the prisoner being kept in the center of the party. he had been searched and his pistol taken from him, also his pocket-knife, field-glass, and his money and jewelry. in less than quarter of an hour a split in the mountain side was gained. to the rear was something of a cave, the entrance overgrown with brush and vines. at the mouth of the cave the party came to a halt, and were met by several other desperadoes. "now you can get down," said gilroy. "fetter, i guess we had better bind his hands behind him." "you are going to bind me?" queried captain moore. "and why not? you are such a nice chap, captain, we don't want to part with you just yet." "why are you going to keep me a prisoner?" "well, don't forget that we hold you responsible for that little mix-up when we were after the quartermaster's money-bags." "i only did my duty, gilroy." "perhaps; but if it hadn't been for you and your men our gang would have been about twenty thousand dollars richer than we are to-day." "and i wouldn't have this lame arm," growled the fellow who had been wounded. "as i said before, i only did my duty," repeated the captain calmly. "even if i hadn't arrived, don't you suppose the quartermaster would have done all he could to defend himself?" "certainly; but his party numbered only three. however, we won't talk now. we have other things to do. get into that cave. and don't try to escape, or it will be the worse for you." with a downcast heart the young officer entered the cave, which was an old rendezvous of the desperadoes. inside were a rude table and a couple of benches, and he threw himself down on one of the latter. one of the gang, potts, put himself on guard outside, rifle in hand. the others separated into two parties, and went off again. "can they be going after joe and darry, or after benson?" was the question the captain asked himself. he waited until the hoofbeats outside had entirely ceased, then called to potts. "where are they going?" he asked. "that's captain gilroy's business," was the answer. "oh, so you call gilroy captain now?" "we do." "how many men is he captain of?" "about thirty, if you're anxious to know." "thirty! there are not that number of desperadoes within three hundred miles of this place." "all right, if you know better than i do." "has the captain gone off for the rest of my party?" "perhaps he has." "it won't do him any good to make them prisoners." "i reckon he knows his own business best, captain moore." "and what will you get out of this affair, potts?" "me? i'll get my share when we make another haul." "do you expect to make another haul soon?" "as i said afore, better ask the captain. we're organized into a regular company now, and all the privates like me have to do is to obey orders. you know how it is in the regular army." "a company of desperadoes," mused captain moore. "that's something we haven't had out here in years." potts would talk no more after this, but sat down on a rock to smoke his pipe and continue his guard duty. the young captain had had his hands bound tightly behind him, and, try his best, he found himself unable to either break or slip his bonds. he was anxious concerning himself, but he was even more upset concerning his brother and his cousin. "if they kick up a fuss, more than likely gilroy and the others will shoot them down!" he groaned. "it's too bad! i thought we would have a splendid time hunting, and here we are, falling into all sorts of difficulties." as impatient as he was, he could do nothing but stalk around the cave. the place was five yards wide by over a hundred feet long. to the rear was a rude fireplace, the smoke drifting through some wide cracks overhead. a small fire was burning, and he kicked a fresh log on the blaze, which soon gave him more light. then he sat down again. as he rested, his eyes roamed around the rocky apartment, and presently fell upon a sheet of paper lying under the table. curious to know what it might contain, he bent down backwards, and by an effort secured the paper and placed it upon the table. then, by the flickering flames, he tried to make out the writing it contained. the letter--for such the sheet proved to be--was a communication which had been sent to matt gilroy by a writer who signed himself mose. it ran as follows: "the plan will work perfectly, and all we must do is to wait until the money is at the fort. i am sure the soldiers will leave as requested, and the defense will amount to little or nothing. will see to it that colonel fairfield is drugged, and will treat captain moore and the other officers the same way, if i can get the chance." chapter xvii. three prisoners. it did not take joe and darry long to retrace their steps at the water-course. they continued to call to the young captain, and once joe shot off his rifle as a signal, but, as we know, no answer came back. "i can't understand this at all," said joe, when they halted near the shelter. "i didn't hear him do any firing, did you?" "not a shot," answered darry. "he must have gone away from the brook instead of along the bank." the two boys hung around the shelter for some time, and then decided to follow up the trail left by the young officer. this was easy for part of the distance, but soon the footprints became so indistinct that they came to another halt. "stumped!" muttered joe. "we might as well go back to the shelter and wait till he returns. one thing is certain, he hasn't found any game, or we would have heard the firing." tired by their long tramp the boys sat down in the shelter, thinking that captain moore would return at any moment. thus an hour was passed. it was now noon, and joe and darry set to work to prepare dinner for themselves. the repast was just finished when joe let out a cry of alarm. "matt gilroy!" he was right. the captain of the desperadoes had appeared, followed by several others. the boys were taken completely off their guard. darry made a clutch for his rifle, but on the instant gilroy had him covered. "leave the gun alone!" cried the rascal. "leave it alone, or it will be the worse for you." "what do you want?" questioned joe. "we want you to behave yourselves," answered fetter, who was in the crowd. "you played us a nice trick that time you escaped from the cave," growled gilroy, eying joe darkly. "do you blame me for wanting to get away?" "hardly. but i'll warrant you won't get away again." "then you consider me your prisoner?" "i do." "oh, joe, do you think they met will----" began darry, and then stopped short. "yes, your brother is waiting to meet you," said fetter, addressing joe. "then he is also a prisoner?" "yes." joe's heart sank within him. "if old benson was only here!" he muttered. still guarding the boys, the desperadoes took their guns and also a pistol the young captain had loaned his brother. "now get on your horses," commanded gilroy. "and mind, if you try to play us foul both of you will get shot." "are you going to take us to captain moore?" asked darry. "perhaps." the desperadoes would answer no more questions, and in a few minutes the whole party was off for the cave. both darry and joe wished to leave behind some sort of message which benson might pick up, but they were watched so closely they could do nothing. when the cave was gained the boys were told to go inside and keep quiet. "joe! and you too, darry!" cried captain moore. "i was afraid of this." "no wonder we couldn't find you!" said joe, and told of the hunt he and his cousin had made. "these rascals are up to some deep game," whispered the young captain. "i just picked up a message which gilroy must have dropped," and he told what the sheet contained. "if i were you i'd burn the paper," said darry. "then he won't know you have seen it." "no, i would like to keep the sheet----to show to colonel fairfield if i can manage to get away." "who wrote the message?" "i have no idea. there used to be a half-breed around here whom the soldiers called mose, but i thought he was dead. he was thick with the modoc indians." "then if he was the writer that would show that the indians are going to help the desperadoes, wouldn't it?" asked joe. before his brother could answer, matt gilroy stalked into the cave. "i told you not to talk," he growled, as he cast his eye on the table and then around the rocky floor. "you can't get away, so it won't do you any good to plot against me and my men." he was evidently looking for the sheet of paper, for presently he lit a torch and went over the whole cave carefully. "see anything of a bit of paper around here?" he asked presently. "what kind of a paper?" questioned darry. "something with writing on it." "i haven't seen anything." "what was the writing about, gilroy?" asked captain moore. "that's my business. then you haven't seen the paper? all right," and the desperado stalked from the cave again. "that was a close shave," whispered the young captain. "and it proves that the paper is valuable and that he is worried about it." slowly the balance of the day wore along, and at nightfall one of the men brought them a scanty supply of food. they ate sparingly, fearing the food might be drugged, but no evil effects followed the meal. at the mouth of the cave sat two of the desperadoes on guard, each with his rifle across his knees. "a dash into the darkness might save us," suggested darry, but the captain shook his head. "no, those fellows are too good shots," he said. "we will have to remain as we are until something turns up in our favor." our friends wondered if the desperadoes would remain about the cave all night. the other party which had gone off when gilroy went for joe and darry had not yet returned, and the leader of the gang seemed to grow anxious concerning them. "something has happened to them," he said to fetter. "perhaps we had better send somebody off on the trail to find out what's up." so it was agreed, and fetter was the man chosen for the mission. as may have been surmised by some of my readers, the other party had gone off to watch for old benson and make him a prisoner. the crowd numbered three, and were desperadoes well acquainted with that territory. the old scout had spent several hours in a vain endeavor to locate some buffalo, when, on resting in the crotch of a tree, he saw the desperadoes approaching. the rascals were tired out with their search for the scout, and came to a halt directly under the tree. "it's a fool errand," old benson heard one of the men say. "matt gilroy ought to have been satisfied with corraling captain moore and those boys." "the captain wants to make a grand round-up," answered another of the men. "he told me that if we missed benson the scout might make trouble." benson listened to this conversation with intense interest, and soon learned the truth--that captain moore was already a prisoner, and that another party had gone off to bring in joe and darry. "this is a nice state of affairs," he thought. "these rascals mean mischief. i wish i could get the drop on them. i'd soon teach them a thing or two." he watched the men as a cat watches mice, and, when the party of three moved on, stole after them like an indian on the warpath. the desperadoes skirted the brushwood, but did not go out on the grassy slope of the valley, fearing that the old scout might be near by in hiding and see them. they were a shiftless lot, and soon came to another halt, under some small trees. here they threw themselves on the ground, and while two of them smoked their pipes the third indulged in a nap. not a great distance off was a spring of pure cold water, and presently one of the men got up and walked over to this to get a drink. "my chance for number one!" muttered old benson, and crawled after the desperado. as the man turned the corner of a number of rocks, he came up behind, clapped his hands over the fellow's mouth, and bore him to the earth. chapter xviii. benson puts some men in a hole. the man whom old benson had attacked was taken completely by surprise, and he went to the ground easily. but, once down, he struggled fiercely to release himself, and at the same time did his best to cry out for assistance. "silence!" commanded the scout in a whisper. "if you yell, it will go hard with you." the desperado now saw who had attacked him, and his face changed color. but he continued to struggle, and was on the point of breaking away when the old scout hit him a heavy blow on the ear, which bowled him over and rendered him partly unconscious. "hi! did you call?" came from the other man who had been smoking. old benson looked at the man before him, and saw that the fellow would be unable to do anything for several minutes to come. "yes," he answered, in a rough voice. "here's something funny to look at. come quick." at once the second man leaped up, and without stopping to pick up his rifle came to the spring. old benson quickly stepped behind a bush, out of sight. "hullo, riley, what's the trouble?" cried the second man when he beheld his prostrate companion. he bent over riley, and while he was making an examination old benson came behind him and threw him as he had thrown the first desperado. but the second man was "game," and the struggle lasted for several minutes. at one time it looked as if the old scout would get the worst of the encounter, but in the end he triumphed and the rascal was disarmed. all the time the struggle was going on benson had been afraid the third man would rouse up, especially as the second called several times for help. but the rascal had now fallen into a heavy sleep, and heard nothing. what to do with the two desperadoes before him the old scout did not know, until he suddenly thought of a big cave-like hole he had discovered that very morning, while hunting for buffalo tracks. the hole was fifteen to twenty feet in diameter and twice as deep, and once at the bottom he felt certain the desperadoes would have considerable trouble in getting to the top. "come with me," he said to the second fellow. "and no monkey shines, if you know when you are well off." "wot yer goin' to do wid me?" growled the desperado. "you'll see. your blood is so hot it needs cooling off," answered the old scout. he forced the man along, and soon the big hole was reached. much against his will, the rascal was forced to drop to the bottom. "now, if you try to climb up i'll shoot you," said benson, and ran back swiftly to where the second rascal was just getting out of his unconscious state. before the other desperado could realize what was coming he, too, was down in the big hole. old benson made certain that each of the men was relieved of all his weapons. "now, i'm going to keep watch on you," he said, as a warning. "be careful of what you try to do." "don't leave us here!" pleaded riley. "a buffalo or a bear might fall in on us." "you've got to take your chances on that," answered benson. the next movement of the old scout was to go back to where the third man was sleeping. it was an easy matter to secure all the weapons belonging to this fellow. then benson procured a rope from their outfit, and bound his feet together and then his hands. during the latter operation the rascal awoke. "wot yer doin'?" he demanded sleepily, and then, seeing the old scout, stared in open-mouthed astonishment. "let go o' me! wot did yer tie me up fer?" "you keep quiet," said benson, with a broad smile over the trick he had played. "whar's riley an' nason?" "not far off." "did they go ter sleep too?" "you can ask them when you see them, anderson." "so you know me, do yer?" "i do, and i haven't forgotten that affair at mountain meadow," went on old benson, referring to a shooting in which anderson had been the guilty party. at these words the desperado winced. "well, now ye have got me fast, wot yer goin' to do with me?" he questioned. "i'm going to ask you a few questions, anderson, and i want you to answer me straight, too. if i learn you've given it to me crooked, i'll fix you for it, remember that." "wot do yer want to know?" "where are gilroy and the rest of your crowd stopping?" "wot do yer want to know that fur?" "answer the question--and tell me the truth," and old benson looked sternly at his prisoner. "at a cave near bald top," returned anderson sulkily. "but i don't know how long they were goin' ter stay there." "where were they going to take captain moore?" this question came as a surprise to the desperado. "wot do yer know about dat?" he cried. "answer the question." "goin' ter take him to dat same cave, first." "and then?" "dey was bound fer lone creek, up to where old cimber onct had a claim." "you are telling me the truth? remember, if you put me on the wrong trail----" "it's the truth, benson. but, say, don't be rough on me. i aint such a bad egg. dat shootin'----" "i know all about you, anderson. now come with me." reaching down, the old scout untied the rascal's feet, that he might walk, and then forced anderson to journey to the big hole. here they found the other two desperadoes sitting at the bottom, growling over their luck and speculating upon what old benson intended to do next. "if you leave us here we'll die of hunger and thirst," said one. "no, you won't," answered the old scout. "you've got your hands to work with, and if you aint lazy you can dig your way to the top inside of twenty-four hours." "and our hosses?" "i'll take care of them, riley. if you want 'em again you can get 'em by applying at the fort." "at the fort!" "exactly, and in the meantime we'll keep them in exchange for the animals matt gilroy stole, when i and my friends were stopping at hank leeson's cabin." with the desperadoes safe for the time being at the bottom of the hole, old benson set off without delay for the cave near bald top mountain, as it was called for years by rocky mountain pioneers. he rode his own horse, leading the others by his lariat, which he always carried with him. he fully realized that there was danger ahead, and that if he wanted to assist his friends he must move with caution. he knew that captain moore had been made a prisoner, but whether or not joe and darry had been captured also was still a question. coming in sight of the spot where the cave was located, he dismounted and tied all the horses in the woods at the foot of a slope. then he crawled forward until he was within a hundred feet of the entrance to the cave. he was just in time to see fetter depart on his mission. the desperado passed within fifty yards of where the horses were stationed, and for several minutes benson was fearful that the animals would be discovered. but fetter was looking in another direction, and so saw nothing of the steeds. as darkness had come on, the desperadoes had lit a camp-fire near the entrance to the cave. two men still remained on guard. the others took it easy, and did very much as they pleased. all waited for riley and the others to return with fetter, bringing in old benson as a prisoner. as the scout heard the talk about himself he chuckled grimly and grasped his rifle tighter than ever. "reckon you'd be surprised to know i was so close," he muttered. "well, if it comes to a mix-up, i'll try to hold up my end, just you see if i don't!" chapter xix. escaping in the darkness. it was after midnight when the camp settled down to rest. fetter had not returned, and matt gilroy was much worried in consequence. yet he was tired out, having lost a good portion of the night previous in traveling, and he lay down with the others. the guards at the entrance to the cave had been changed. those now there were two young men, recruits to the desperadoes' organization. inside of the cave captain moore, joe, and darry, having untied each other's bonds, held a long consultation, the upshot of which was that they intended to escape if the deed could be accomplished. "there is no use in telling you that we will run a big risk," said the captain. "but as for myself, these rascals are plotting against colonel fairfield and the soldiers at the fort, and i feel it my duty to do my best toward getting away and warning my commander." "whatever you do, will, i will back you up, so far as i am able," was his brother's answer. "and i will back you up, too," came from darry. "but we must be cautious, for these desperadoes will not hesitate to shoot, and shoot to kill." and the boy shivered in spite of himself, for no matter how brave a person may be he seldom cares to run the risk of losing his life. the prisoners had been ordered to keep to the back of the cave, but after all but the guards had retired captain moore made bold enough to walk carefully to the mouth of the place. "hi, you want to keep back there," growled one of the guards, promptly raising his rifle. "don't be hard on us," pleaded the captain. "let me get a little fresh air. it's vile in the back of the cave." "orders were to keep you out of sight," growled the second guard. "all right, i'll go back as soon as i've cleaned out my lungs." while the captain was speaking he was peering around sharply, trying to locate the other desperadoes and ascertain what the chances of escape really were. as he gazed first to one side and then the other, he caught sight of a hand waving in the air. a second later he made out the head and shoulders of old benson, as the scout rose to his feet behind some brushwood. the thought that the scout was at hand to assist them cheered the young officer wonderfully, and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction. "are you going back soon?" growled one of the guards. "yes," answered the captain. "but i say," he went on, "why can't we come to terms?" "don't want to make any terms with you," growled the other guard. "it might be better for you to do so." "we know our own business best, captain. you just go back as you was ordered to do. if you don't----" "i don't feel safe in the cave, men, to tell the truth. what is that pounding overhead?" "pounding overhead?" "yes." "don't know of any pounding. do you, ike?" "nary a bit," replied the other guard. by this time joe and darry were just behind the young officer. "watch out," whispered captain moore. "old benson is outside, in the bushes on the left." "good for him!" whispered joe joyfully. "what are you talking about?" demanded one of the guards. "i want to know about that pounding overhead," said captain moore. "i don't want the roof to cave in on us." he spoke so decidedly that both of the guards were deceived. "nobody is up there," said one of the two. "it must be some wild animal." "can't one of you go up and look?" asked the young officer. "you want the chance to get away," was the suspicious answer. "how can we get away, when we are unarmed and you have that rifle," went on the captain, speaking loudly, for old benson's benefit. "it won't take you a minute to look." the men, however, refused to budge. "we'll stay right here," said one, and the other nodded affirmatively. in the meantime old benson had crawled closer, until he was directly behind the pair. now of a sudden he leaped between them, and as quick as a flash caught their rifles and twisted the weapons from their grasp. [illustration: "he leaped between them and caught their rifles."] as the old scout did this, the young captain also leaped in, followed by joe and darry. the guards struggled, but with four against them could do little or nothing. one, however, had a powerful pair of lungs, and before he could be stopped, set up a loud cry of alarm. "come with me!" cried old benson. "be quick, or it will be too late!" he led the way to the wood where the horses were tethered, and the captain, joe, and darry came close behind him. hardly had they gotten away from the guards when the whole camp was in alarm. "what's the trouble?" demanded matt gilroy, leaping to his feet and catching up his rifle. "the prisoners have escaped!" answered one of the guards. "we were attacked by some men from behind. there they go!" "stop!" roared the leader of the desperadoes, and raised his rifle. but before he could take aim our friends were behind the shelter of the trees. it took but a few seconds to loosen the horses, and as the captain and the two boys had long since relieved themselves of their bonds they were soon in the saddle and following the old scout, who seemed to know the way perfectly, despite the darkness. "it was lucky you came up, benson!" cried joe, as they dashed along. "wait, we are not yet out of this trouble," answered benson. "hark! they are following!" he was right. gilroy and several of his men had rushed to their horses, and were now coming along the forest trail at a good rate of speed. but their horses were no better than the animals our friends rode, so the desperadoes did not succeed in cutting down the distance between the two parties, and at last gave up the chase. "it has been a most stirring adventure from start to finish," said captain moore after each had told his story. "and it brings to an end this outing. i must now get to the fort without delay." "and i am perfectly willing to go along," said darry. "there is no fun in hunting in a country where the desperadoes are so thick." "this will open colonel fairfield's eyes," went on the young officer. "i shouldn't be surprised if he organized another expedition against gilroy's gang and didn't let up on them until they were all either in prison or shot down." "it's what they deserve," came from old benson. "i'll go on such a hunt with pleasure." our friends continued in the saddle all night and until ten o'clock the next morning. then, tired and hot, they went into camp by a cooling stream. here they went fishing, and soon caught enough fish for dinner, after which they took a nap lasting several hours. "and now for the fort!" cried captain moore; "and the sooner we get there the better." the nap had done the boys a world of good, and as they rode along their spirits rose so high that darry proposed a race. joe was willing, and away they went, along the well-defined trail, before either the young officer or the old scout could stop them. "they are full of life," said joe's brother. "let them go. we'll make the fort to-night, even if they do tire the horses a bit." "it's all right if they don't get into trouble," answered benson. on and on went the two lads, down something of a slope and then along a level stretch. the bushes grew thick upon both sides, and here and there were numerous wild flowers. at last they reached a glade rich with green grass. joe was slightly ahead when he came to a sudden halt. "back, darry!" he cried. "get back behind the bushes." "what's up?" queried his cousin, as he brought his steed to a standstill. "buffaloes!" "buffaloes! where?" "right around the cliff on our right. see, they are coming this way! here's luck." joe was right; they had come most unexpectedly upon a herd of seven buffaloes. the shaggy beasts were all large and powerful-looking. they were not in the least alarmed, and came toward the boys at a slow but steady walk. chapter xx. something about white ox. "what shall we do, joe; wait until your brother and old benson come up?" asked darry, as they surveyed the approaching animals. "i suppose we ought to wait," answered joe. "but if they take alarm, they'll be off in double-quick order, i am afraid." each of the boys brought around his rifle, which had been picked up on leaving the desperadoes' rendezvous, and saw that it was ready for use. "if we could only signal to the others!" suggested darry impatiently. "one of us might go back," began joe, when he gave a sudden start. "they see us! see, they are turning away!" he cried. hardly had he spoken when darry fired, aiming at the largest of the buffaloes. joe followed, with a second shot, aimed at the same beast. both bullets reached their mark, and the animal was hit in the breast and in the right foreleg. "we hit him!" ejaculated darry. "let us fire at him again!" and he started to reload with all speed. when struck the buffalo uttered a bellow of pain and went down on his knees. but he quickly arose, and now came straight for the boys, his head down, as if to gore them to death. crack! it was darry's rifle which spoke up, and the buffalo staggered, hit on the head, a glancing blow, however, which did little damage. by this time joe had reloaded, but he did not fire at once, hoping to get a closer shot at the beast. in the meantime the others of the herd had disappeared completely. soon the buffalo was less than fifty yards off, and not daring to wait longer joe took steady aim and let drive. his rifle-barrel had been pointed at one of those gleaming, bloodshot eyes, and the bullet sped true, entering the brain of the beast. with a roar and a grunt the buffalo went down, tearing up a great patch of grass in his fall. "hi! what's all the shooting about?" the cry came from benson, as he rode down the trail at a breakneck speed, rifle ready for use. "a buffalo!" cried darry. "a buffalo? look out for yourselves." "yes, take care," came from captain moore, who was behind the old scout. "we've fixed him," said joe, not without a good deal of pardonable pride. "fixed him?" old benson looked out upon the glade. "by the great jehosophat!" he roared. "gone and shot a buffalo all by your lone selves! or maybe he was dead when you got here?" he added suspiciously. "you wouldn't think he was dead, if you could have seen him come toward us," said darry. "but who shot him? i heard four shots." "and every one of 'em went into the buffalo," answered joe. "two for darry and two for myself." "but joe finished him, with a shot in the eye," said darry quickly. "but darry hit him in the leg, and that lamed him," said joe, just as quickly. "i guess honors are even." "certainly remarkable shooting," was captain moore's comment. "old hunters couldn't do better, could they, benson?" "not much better, captain. i never would have dreamed of it, boys. and to think i couldn't get a smell of 'em when i was out looking 'em up," benson said, shaking his head dubiously. "this buffalo wasn't alone," said darry. "the others went in that direction. you might follow them up." "it wouldn't be any use now, lad. they are gone, and that's the end of it." "we mustn't lose too much time," put in the young captain. "i must make the fort to-night, no matter what comes." "but, will, we can't leave this magnificent buffalo behind," pleaded his brother. "darry and i will want the skin, and we'll want to mount the head and horns, eh, darry?" "to be sure." "how long will it take to skin the beast, benson?" "an hour and over, if i want to make a good job of it," was the slow reply. "it's too nice a hide to ruin by quick cutting." "supposing i ride ahead then, and you follow with the boys as soon as you are ready?" this was agreed to, and in a minute the young officer was off once more, urging his horse forward at the animal's best speed. "now i can take my time," declared old benson. "sorry i aint got my hunting-knife." "where is it?" "it was lost in the shuffle with those desperadoes i put in the hole." the old scout chuckled. "my! my! how they must love me for putting 'em down there!" "they'll have it in for you when they get out," remarked darry. "oh, i'm not afraid, lad." the buffalo had fallen into something of a heap, and it took their combined efforts to turn the huge carcass over. then old benson got out his clasp-knife, sharpened the blade upon the leather of his boot, and set to work, the boys assisting him as much as possible, which was not much, since the process was entirely new to them. "that will be a load," said joe, when they had the skin and a part of the head free. "how much do they weigh, benson?" "close on to a hundred pounds." "and how shall we carry that load?" "we'll tie it up into something of a long bundle and take turns at toting it behind our saddles. of course we won't be able to move along as fast as before, but that won't be necessary, now the captain has gone ahead to break the news." the trail now led toward the river where darry had almost lost his life by being hit with the drifting tree. the path was uncertain in spots, and they had to be careful for fear of getting into some boggy hole. "what a splendid place for a ranch home!" suggested darry. "benson, i am surprised that there are so few cabins in this neighborhood." "there used to be quite a number through here, lad; but the modoc and other indians burnt them all down. i suppose new settlers will come in, now the indians are behaving themselves." "but are they behaving themselves?" questioned joe. "they are doing a good deal better than formerly, joe. there is only one old chief in this neighborhood who seems to want to cause trouble." "and who is that?" "white ox. he is some sort of a relative to sitting bull, so i've been told, and he won't give in that the white man is master of the situation. he has tried to get his warriors to rise against us several times, but so far he hasn't accomplished much." "where is white ox now?" "over behind yonder mountain to the north. he is chief of a band that numbers between a hundred and a hundred and fifty people. he himself is one of the best indian shots in the west." "it's a pity they can't become citizens as well as other folks," remarked darry. "that's the whole trouble, lad. the united states didn't treat them right in the first place, and we are bound to suffer in consequence. but in the end the injun will be wiped out completely." as night came on, countless stars shone in the sky, making the trail fairly light. old benson rode in advance, with darry next and joe bringing up the rear. presently the old hunter drew rein, and motioned the others to do the same. "somebody ahead," he said in a low voice. "four or five men on hossback. if i aint mistaken they're injuns, too." "indians!" exclaimed joe. "do they come this way often?" "no, lad. fact is, they haven't any right over here, so close to the fort. it's against colonel fairfield's rules." "then what can they be doing here?" "that's for us to find out." old benson led the way to a side trail, and then into the shelter of a number of trees. he quickly passed the pelt over to darry. "both of you stay here until i get back," he said. "i'm going to find out what those redskins are up to." "you won't be gone long, will you?" asked joe. "don't expect to be gone over an hour at the most. if i aint back in two hours, make up your mind something has happened. then you'll have to get back to the fort the best way you can," concluded the old scout. a moment later the darkness of the night hid him from their view, and they were left alone in the bit of timberland. chapter xxi. a trick of the enemy. "i must say i don't fancy this much," observed joe, after the sounds of benson's departure had lost themselves in the distance. "nor do i like it, joe," came from darry, with a long-drawn sigh. "but i guess we'll have to make the best of it." "with what was on that message my brother found in the cave, and what benson said about this indian chief, it looks as if the folks at the fort might have trouble in the near future." "that's true, too. i hope will got through in safety." dismounting, the two boys sat down under the trees to wait in the darkness. the horses were glad enough of the rest, and fell to cropping the short grass which showed itself in spots in the vicinity. thus half an hour passed. the silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional note of a night bird or the dismal croaking of a frog in some hollow and the answering squeak of a lizard. "somebody is coming!" cried joe at last, and both of the boys stood on the defensive, rifles in hand. the party came closer and closer, and at last they made out the form of the old scout. he was riding at the top of his speed. "quick! follow me!" he exclaimed, as he dashed up. "there is not a moment to lose!" the boys needed no second bidding, and in a trice they were in the saddle once more and riding after old benson, who now took to another trail leading somewhat to the south of that formerly pursued. "you saw the indians?" questioned joe, as they dashed on. "i did. white ox is ahead, with sixty or seventy of his best warriors. from what i could learn he and lieutenant carrol have had a fight, and half a dozen of the soldiers were either killed or wounded. now white ox is marching for the fort." "to attack it?" "i can't say about that, but i think he is going to hide in the vicinity, to wait for the coming of the desperadoes." "and what of my brother?" questioned joe anxiously. "did he get through all right?" "nothing was said about the captain, lad. i suppose he got through." it was hard to talk while riding at such a rate of speed, and soon the conversation came to an end. the horses now showed plain evidence of their long journey, but each rider kept his steed at his best. it was after two o'clock in the morning when the fort came into view, dark and silent in the midst of the plain surrounding it. benson now rode in advance. "halt!" came the sudden command, while the scout was still a hundred yards from the stockade. the command was loud and clear, but the speaker was invisible. "it's all right, friend," answered the old scout. "it's me, sam benson. let me in, quick, i've news for the colonel." "all right, benson," was the answer. "but who is that behind you?" "joe moore and darry germain. is the colonel sleeping?" "the colonel is very sick." "sick?" "yes." "what's the trouble?" "the surgeon can't make out exactly. he's in a sort of stupor, and they can't rouse him." by this time the stockade gate was open, and all three of our friends lost no time in entering the yard. then the gate was closed and barred again. "has captain moore returned?" asked joe, as soon as he could get the guard's attention. "i haven't seen him." "how long have you been on duty?" "came on about an hour ago." "has lieutenant carrol come in?" came from benson. "not that i know of; reckon not," answered the guard. "worse and worse!" groaned the old scout. "who is in command here?" "captain lee. but he's about half sick, too." "it's a trick of the enemy!" cried darry. "a trick?" queried the guard with interest. "yes, a trick," put in joe. "benson, hadn't they better sound the alarm?" "yes, and i'll interview captain lee." no more was said, and, while the sentinel called the corporal of the guard, the old scout hurried off to find the captain in command. with him went joe and darry. joe's heart was like a lump of lead, for he was much concerned over the non-appearance of his brother. had the captain met the indians and been killed or taken prisoner? captain lee was in a sound sleep, but quickly roused up when told that an important message awaited him. he met the party in one of the living rooms of the fort. his head was tied up in a wet towel, and his eyes showed that he was suffering. "this is certainly a deep-laid plot," he said, when all had told their story. "the desperadoes and indians intend to combine in an attack on the fort. mose is undoubtedly that wily old half-breed who is still alive and who is very thick with white ox. but i didn't know he could write." "but what about this money at the fort?" asked joe. "the money is here, in a chest that is hidden away. it amounts to forty thousand dollars in gold, and is the property of the nevell mining company. it was left for safe-keeping until mr. nevell could have it transported to denver. you see, nevell is a brother-in-law to colonel fairfield." "the colonel must be drugged," said benson. "that's the reason he acts so queerly." "i suppose so, and that is what has affected me, i presume," answered captain lee. "last night my head ached as if it would split open. we must tell the surgeon of this. perhaps he can then do something to relieve colonel fairfield." the captain lost no time in issuing the necessary orders, and in a few minutes the whole place was in alarm and the soldiers were on the watch for the first appearance of the indians. "my poor husband drugged!" cried mrs. fairfield, when she heard the news. "what villains those indians and desperadoes are! doctor, can you do nothing?" "i think i can, madam," answered the surgeon. "much depends upon what drugs were administered and how much the colonel has taken. rest assured i will do my best for him." upon examination it was found that out of all the officers at the fort only four were fit for duty, all the others being sick, either through being drugged or otherwise. of the privates not more than sixty-five were in a condition to fight should an attack come. "and the worst of it is, the men won't know what to eat or drink after this," said captain lee to benson. "who can tell what has been drugged? perhaps it's in the very bread we eat and the water we drink." strict orders were given to the men to touch nothing until the surgeon had passed upon it. then the doctor got out his medicines to counteract the drugs, and set to work to bring the colonel and the other sufferers out of their stupor. hour after hour went slowly by, and still captain moore did not return. what had become of his brother, joe could not imagine. he feared the worst, and when morning came it was all he could do to keep back the tears. "don't take it so to heart, joe," said darry sympathetically. "it may be all right." "but he said he was going to ride straight here--you heard him, darry." "so i did, but he may have seen the indians or met lieutenant carrol, and that might have changed his plans. anyway, i wouldn't worry too much just yet." with the coming of daylight captain lee brought out his long-distance glass and swept the surroundings of the fort with extreme care. "some camp-fires are burning to the northward," he announced. "any injuns?" questioned old benson laconically. he had been told to come along to the top of the fort for consultation. "nobody in sight, benson." "humph! well, i don't calculate they are far off." "nor i, from what you and the boys told me. how long will it take those desperadoes to reach here?" "they ought to arrive this morning, if they are not with the injuns already." "all told, we have about seventy officers and men available for duty," went on the captain thoughtfully. "what is worse, they must know how greatly our garrison is reduced, since they have had that skunk of a mose do the drugging for them." "the injuns number over sixty, and if there are thirty desperadoes, that will give them a force of almost a hundred, or twice as many as we have, captain. but then, we hold the fort. they can't come anywhere near us without being cut down--if we set out to do it." "of course. but white ox may send off for more indians--when he hears how small the available garrison is." "does he know much of affairs here?" "i am afraid he does. there were two indians here yesterday, to lodge a complaint against a miner who had stolen a horse from them. i think, now, that the complaint was a blind, and the indians were here merely to size up the situation," concluded captain lee. chapter xxii. in the hands of the enemy. little dreaming of all the adventures in store for him, captain moore left the scene of the buffalo shooting and rode forth swiftly in the direction of fort carson. he felt that he carried news of great importance and the sooner he gained the fort the better. should anything happen to colonel fairfield the command of the post would fall upon himself, as next in rank. as he dashed along the trail, over hill and valley, he reviewed the situation with care, and the more he thought of it, the more worried did he become. "something is going to happen--i can feel it in the air," he muttered. the thought had scarcely crossed his mind when something did happen, but not exactly what he anticipated. a shadow fell across his path, and as he drew rein he found himself confronted by several indians. "white officer, stop!" cried the leader of the red men sternly. "hullo! what do you want?" demanded the captain. the meeting was a complete surprise. "want to have a talk." "who are you?" "me red wolf, belong to white ox tribe," returned the indian with a scowl. "and what are you doing out here at this time of night, red wolf?" "indians on a big hunt. see buffalo yesterday." "yes, i saw one of the buffaloes myself." captain moore paused, not knowing how to go on. "you are pretty close to the fort." "red wolf and warriors get on the wrong trail," was the slow reply. "but want to talk now. come along." as the indian concluded he caught the captain's steed by the bridle. "let go the horse." "want to talk to white officer." "you haven't any right to touch my horse." hardly had the words been spoken when two indians rushed up behind the captain and dragged him to the ground. the fellows were large and powerful, and they disarmed him before he could even fire a shot. without further ado captain moore was forced to march along, between two of the red men, while a third led his horse. a route around the rocks was taken, and presently they came to a dense bit of timberland. in the midst of this was a clearing, and here was the camp of some ten or a dozen indians. the indians at hand were a guard over several white soldiers, and to his intense surprise the young captain recognized some of lieutenant carrol's men. "what are you doing here?" he asked. "had a mix-up and came off second best----" began one of the soldiers, when an indian guard clapped a dirty hand over his mouth and ordered him to be silent, under penalty of death. then the captain was taken to another part of the glade, and here he was made a close prisoner by being bound, hands and feet, to the trunk of a blasted tree. red wolf wished to know what the captain had been doing away from the fort. "i've been on a hunting expedition." "alone?" "no." "where are the others?" "safe, by this time. what do you intend to do with me, red wolf?" "white ox shall decide that," grunted the red man. "then he is on this hunt, too?" "he is." "when will he be here?" "soon." "don't you know that i am an army officer, and that you are laying up a good deal of trouble for yourself by making me a prisoner?" "the white man has not treated the indians right." "this is no way to redress wrongs, red wolf. why don't you go to colonel fairfield and make a complaint? he will send the story to the great father at washington." "the great father will not listen. we have sent many complaints--as the white captain knows." "he will listen--if the complaint is a just one. the trouble is, the indians will not obey colonel fairfield's orders." "and why should they obey the white man? is not white ox their chief?" "that is true. but the land is now the white man's, and the indians must obey the great father at washington, or in the end it will go hard with them." "not so!" cried red wolf savagely. "in the end the white man will be driven eastward, where he belongs. no one shall rule in these mountains but the red man. white ox and the other great chiefs have spoken." "what! you are going on the warpath?" "the hatchet may be dug up, if the white man will not listen to the red man." "i know what the trouble is, red wolf. matt gilroy and that scoundrelly half-breed, mose, have set you up to this. they have filled your ears with false stories about our cruelty and about much money at the fort." by the look on the indian's face the young officer saw that he had struck the truth, at least in part. but the red man would talk no more, fearing he had already said too much, and he stalked off, warning a guard to be careful and not let the captain escape. when left to himself, captain moore's reflections were very bitter. "if the redskins are out in force they'll probably fall in with benson and the boys," he told himself. "and if they do there will surely be trouble. benson won't allow them to take him alive, and that will mean a good deal of shooting all around." he listened attentively for shots in the distance, but none came, and this caused him to be more perplexed than ever. just before daybreak several additional indians came in, and the young officer and the soldiers were told to march. their feet were unfastened, but their hands were not, and they were forced to move with the red men on all sides of them, and each of the enemy fully armed and ready to shoot them down at the first show of resistance or escape. from one of the privates captain moore learned that lieutenant carrol and the other soldiers had escaped, but what had become of them nobody knew. the little body of whites and indians marched over a mountain trail for fully four hours. the step was a lively one, and when the party came to a halt even the soldiers used to a hard march were tired out. "those redskins can walk the legs off of anything i know of," was the way one old soldier expressed himself. "they are like some of these wiry mustangs who don't know the meaning of rest." "this region is strange to me, peck. do you recognize it?" "i do, captain moore. yonder is henebeck fall, and this trail leads to silver gulch." "then we are about six miles from nowhere in particular." "you've struck it, captain. why they brought us to such a forsaken spot is more than i can guess--unless they are going to shoot us down like dogs and leave us for the wolves to feed on. the wolves are thick around here, so leeson told me." "i don't believe they'll shoot us down. they are not desperate enough yet. but they may do it, if they attack the fort and lose heavily. that will open their eyes, and make them as mad as hornets." a little later silver gulch, a wide opening in the rocks of the mountain, was gained, and here the soldiers were again made fast to several trees. then the indians prepared their midday meal. they took their time about eating, and did not offer the white men anything until they had finished. "they don't intend to treat us any too good," was peck's comment. "captain, can't we fix it to get away?" "i intend to escape if i can manage it," returned the young officer. "but we must be careful, for they are fully armed, and they watch us like so many foxes." slowly the afternoon wore away, and with the coming of night it grew darker than usual, as though a storm was brewing. "a storm ought to help us," said the captain. some of the indians had departed, so that now the guard consisted of but four warriors. these red men walked around each prisoner, seeing to it that all the bonds were tight. as the men passed peck the old soldier watched his chance, and, unknown to the red men, caught a hunting-knife from the belt of one of the number. this knife was concealed up his sleeve, and then the soldier waited for his chance to use the blade, which was as sharp as a razor. the indians decided that two of their number should sleep, while the other two remained on guard. soon those to retire turned in, while the others sat down to smoke their pipes. this was peck's opportunity, and with a slash of the hunting-knife he released his hands. a moment later the lariat around his ankles was likewise severed. watching his chance, peck passed the knife to captain moore, and then went back to his position by the tree as if still fastened. thus the knife was passed from soldier to soldier until all were liberated. all told, the party numbered six, and nobody was armed, excepting peck, to whom the hunting-knife had been returned. motioning to the others to keep quiet, captain moore picked up a stick of wood lying near and threw it in some bushes a distance away. this made considerable noise, and instantly the two guards gazed in the direction. "a wolf, perhaps," said one of the indians, in his native tongue, and walked over to the bushes. his companion started to follow, when captain moore leaped upon him and bore him to the earth. chapter xxiii. a panther in camp. as captain moore fell upon one of the indians, peck the private stole after the guard who had walked toward the bushes. the other soldiers jumped to where the remaining indians were sleeping, to gain possession of the firearms. the indian the captain had tackled was a young but powerful brave, and he put up a hard fight to release himself. but he had been taken unawares, and after he was on the ground the captain saw to it that he did not get up. in the meantime the indian near the bushes turned just in time to see peck raise the hunting-knife. crack! went the red man's rifle, and the bullet clipped the soldier's ear. the shot was so close that to the day of his death peck carried in his face some traces of the burnt powder. the shot was the last the indian ever fired, for in the midst of the smoke peck hurled himself at the warrior, and a second later down came the hunting-knife, piercing the red man's back and entering his right lung. the stroke was a fatal one, and before the fighting in the glade came to an end the indian had breathed his last. when the sleeping indians awoke they could not for the moment realize what was going on. in his bewilderment one leaped up and rushed at a soldier, who promptly laid him low by a heavy blow from a rifle stock, which almost cracked the warrior's skull. seeing this, the other brave became frightened and ran for the bushes. "don't let him escape!" cried captain moore, who was still holding his man down. at once two of the soldiers ran after the fleeing indian, and presently two rifle shots rang out, followed by a scream from the red man. "he's done for," said one of the soldiers, after the smoke had cleared away. "he has gone to his happy hunting-ground." after this turn of affairs it did not take the soldiers long to make prisoners of the two indians who remained alive. these fellows were in truth much frightened, but tried their best to suppress their feelings. from one of the indians, captain moore learned that more indians were expected early the next morning. "that's all right," said he. "they will come in time to release you and save you from starvation." "going to tie 'em up, captain?" asked peck. "yes. there is nothing else to do." "better shoot 'em." "i can't shoot them in cold blood, peck. that would not be human." "the wretches don't deserve to live, captain. the indians and those desperadoes are plotting to wipe out everybody left at the fort." "i know that. still, i cannot bring myself to take their lives--and we can't stop to take them along as prisoners. the sooner we get back to the fort the better." "if we can get back," put in another soldier. "i don't believe the fort is surrounded just yet," returned the young officer. "but if it is?" "then, perhaps, it will be better for us to be out than in." "you wouldn't desert the crowd at the fort, would you?" "you know me better than that, gorman. we might be able to ride to the next fort and obtain re-enforcements." "that's so, captain! i didn't think of that." leaving the dead indians in the bushes and the others tied to the trees, the captain and his companions now lost no time in striking out for the fort. fortunately, peck was well acquainted with every foot of the territory to be covered, and he led the way by a route which was fairly easy and as direct as could be expected, considering the wild region to be covered. as he hurried along, the young captain's thoughts were busy. where were joe, darry, and benson, and how were things going at the fort? "the indians are not so much to be blamed as the desperadoes," he said. "they have some wrongs, although they are more fancied than real. but the desperadoes ought all to be either shot down or placed under arrest." "right you are," returned gorman. "this district will never prosper until the desperadoes are cleaned out." it was not long before the party began to grow hungry, and they had to halt for an hour, to prepare some birds which one of the number had brought down with a gun. all the time they were eating, one of the soldiers remained on guard, for they were fearful a band of indians might come up unawares to surprise them. but not a red man or desperado showed himself. nightfall found them still sixteen miles from the fort, and unable to walk further. "we will camp out where we are," said captain moore. "it is useless to think of covering the distance in the dark. besides, we might fall into some trap." a storm had been threatening, but now the clouds passed and the night proved clear and pleasant. it was decided that two men should remain on guard at a time, each taking a turn of three hours. the young captain slept from nine o'clock until three in the morning. then he awoke with the feeling that further sleep was out of the question. getting up, he walked to a nearby brook, intending to wash up and obtain a needed drink. while captain moore was in the vicinity of the brook something stirring in the bushes attracted his attention. "carwell, did you see that?" he asked, of the guard who was nearest to him. "see what, captain?" "that thing in yonder bushes." "i see nothing, sir." "something is moving there. come here and look." the private did as commanded, and both gazed steadily into the bushes. "by jove!" exclaimed the young officer at length, "do you see what it is now, carwell?" "i do not, captain." "it's a panther, unless i am greatly mistaken." "where?" "lying on the fallen tree, behind that tall bush," and captain moore pointed with his hand. as he did this the panther arose suddenly, then crouched down as if to make a leap at them. "shoot!" ordered the captain, and as quickly as the private could raise his rifle he fired. but his aim was poor, and the bullet flew a foot over the panther's head. "missed, hang the luck!" muttered carwell. scarcely had the words left his lips, when the panther made a fierce leap and landed directly at the feet of the astonished pair. the beast was evidently very hungry, or it would not have attacked human beings in this semi-light of the early dawn. full of fear, carwell staggered back, with his smoking rifle still in his hand. the panther growled and switched its tail from side to side. the rifle shot had filled it with wonder, and it did not know what to do next. "be careful--he is going to take another leap!" cried the young captain. he was right; the panther was now preparing for another spring. before carwell could get out of the way, the beast came on, pinning the private to the earth. as carwell went down the whole camp roused up, and the second guard came up on the double quick. "what's up, captain?" he sang out. "shoot the panther!" answered the young officer. "quick, or you'll be too late. don't hit carwell." crack! the rifle spoke up, and the beast was hit fairly and squarely in the side. at this it let out a blood-curdling scream of pain. it had caught carwell by the arm, but now it released its hold. "a panther!" roared one of the old soldiers. "and a big one. git your guns, boys! he aint no beast to fool with, i can tell you that!" those who had guns ran for them. but in the meantime the panther turned around, as if to retreat. then, of a sudden, it seemed to catch sight of captain moore, and with a snarl of rage it threw itself upon the young officer, and both went over with a loud splash into the brook. chapter xxiv. the skirmish in the brush. up to the time the panther had turned upon him, the young officer had thought but little of his own safety, being concerned chiefly about carwell, who was flat on his back, and who looked as if he as going to be chewed up by this wild, lean, and hungry beast of the forest. but now captain moore found himself attacked, and as he went over into the brook he realized that he was in the most perilous position he had yet encountered. facing indians and desperadoes was nothing compared to facing this beast, that seemed bent upon his destruction. the spot where the young officer struck the brook was five or six feet deep, and as the panther came down on top of him he went straight to the bottom. the beast was also submerged, but not for long. panthers, although they can swim, do not like the water, and this one lost no time in coming to the surface to get air. then it let out another scream of pain, while the bullet wound in its side dyed the brook red. as the panther came up the young captain tried to do the same. but the first thing he encountered was the beast's fierce claws, and he received a deep and painful scratch in his left shoulder. then he went down again, and tried to come up further down the stream. but unfortunately the panther moved in the same direction. in the meantime the other soldiers came up to the edge of the brook. they realized their captain's peril, and as soon as the panther showed itself two of them blazed away, one hitting the beast in the back and the other landing a bullet in the panther's neck. the fury of the animal was now intense, and whirling around it lashed the water of the brook into a perfect foam. then it leaped for the opposite shore, and made a break for the underbrush. before anybody could fire again it was gone. when captain moore regained the surface of the brook willing hands helped him out. "hurt?" questioned peck anxiously. "a little--on the shoulder," was the answer, with a gasp. "where is the beast?" "got away in yonder bushes, sir. that's a nasty dig. you had better let me bind it up." "carwell, how are you?" "the beast nipped me in the arm," answered the private, trying to suppress a groan. "by george, but he was an ugly one!" "that's right," put in another soldier. "you can be thankful you wasn't chewed up." a brief search revealed the fact that the panther had left the vicinity, and then the others set to work to bind up the wounds the captain and carwell had sustained. "we had better move on now," said the young officer, when the hurts had been attended to. "if there are indians or desperadoes around they must certainly have heard those shots, and they will be wondering what they mean." they marched on in the gloom, and did not halt until the sun was showing itself over the hills to the eastward. they had now gained a rise of ground from which with a field-glass the fort might have been seen. but the young captain's glass was gone--confiscated, as already told, by those who had first attacked him. "we will draw closer with caution," said the young officer. "we don't want to walk into any trap." less than a mile was covered, when peck, who had been sent out in advance, came back and called for silence. "some indians are ahead," he said. "how many of them?" questioned captain moore. "not less than a dozen or fifteen, captain. i counted eleven, and heard some talking that i couldn't see." "where are they?" "down behind where the brook flows over those sawtooth rocks. we were out there fishing last summer." "i know the spot you mean. what are the redskins doing?" "nothing in particular. i overheard one say to another that he expected white ox along before sundown." "they must be an advance guard of the tribe, then," returned the young officer thoughtfully. "did any of them see you?" "i don't think they did." but in this peck was mistaken, for scarcely had the soldiers started to walk around the spot where the indians were encamped, when a savage war-whoop rang out, followed by half a dozen shots. the first round was a deadly one, killing two of the men and wounding peck in the side. a bullet likewise grazed captain moore's shoulder. "to cover!" shouted the young officer, as soon as he could speak. "the indians are on us!" he had a gun in his hand, and as he gave the command he leveled it at the leader of the party, he who had killed one of the soldiers. captain moore's aim was true, and the indian fell lifeless over the very body of the man he had slain. by this time the other indians were coming up, and all the soldiers could do was to take to the nearest cover, as the captain had ordered. the warwhoops continued, and shots were fired from several directions. scarcely knowing whether he was hit or not, captain moore dashed into the midst of some brushwood, and not far away from him came peck. the latter had broken his rifle over the head of one of the red men, and now advanced with the hunting-knife which was still in his possession. the young captain held a rifle, but just now had no time in which to reload the weapon. "they are after us hot-like!" cried peck, after several hundred feet had been covered. the private's breath came short and sharp, and now for the first captain moore saw how he was suffering. "you are wounded, peck." "that's right, captain." "you can't run any more." "i've got to run," muttered peck, between his set teeth. "they'll be on--oh!--on us in another minute." "give me your arm--i'll help you along." the private held out his hand, then gave a pitch, and, before the young officer could catch him, sank on the grass insensible. captain moore's heart leaped into his throat, for he had known peck for years, and the two were very friendly. he listened, and heard a distant shot. evidently the indians were not yet coming in that direction. they would first hunt down the others, providing they were not already slain. bending down, the young officer took peck in his strong arms and threw the private over his shoulder. the weight was considerable, and made him stagger. "i've got to carry him, somehow!" he muttered. "heaven give me strength to do it!" the brushwood was thick ahead, but there was a sort of trail, made by wild animals, and he pursued this until he came to a brook. then to keep the indians from following them, should they come in that direction, he followed the brook for a hundred yards or more. at last he reached a point where the banks of the brook were rocky, and here he came out, and crawled over the rocks. not far off was an opening between two large bowlders, and here he sank down, too exhausted to take another step. it was half an hour before peck came to his senses. in the meantime the captain had obtained some water, washed the private's wound and bound it up in bandages torn from his shirt. the loss of blood had made peck light-headed. "keep them off!" he murmured. "keep them off! they want to bore a hole in my side. keep them off!" "be quiet, peck, you are safe," answered the young captain soothingly. "you've been wounded, that's the trouble," but the private continued to rave for some time, when he relaxed into a stupor. with strained ears captain moore waited for the appearance of friends or enemies, but nobody came up the brook. once he heard two shots far to the northward, but whether fired by the soldiers or the indians he could not tell. "i'm afraid it's been a regular slaughter," he mused sadly. "and our getting away was a miracle," and this surmise proved correct, for, as was afterward proven, all the others of the party were slain within an hour after the surprise occurred. chapter xxv. a lucky meeting. "captain, where am i?" "in the woods with me, peck." "what has happened?" "don't you remember? the indians surprised us, and you were shot in the side." the brow of the wounded soldier contracted for a moment, and then he drew a long and painful breath. "ah, yes, i remember now. are we alone?" "yes." "and what of the others, captain?" "i am afraid they have either been shot down or taken prisoners. poor carwell and leeds i know are dead." "it was a nasty surprise, wasn't it? i was sure they hadn't seen me." "those indians are sly, peck. they never let on until they are fully ready. we can be thankful that we escaped." "how long have we been here?" "the best part of the day. i carried you along the brook and to here, and i haven't dared to go any further. those indians can't be far off." "it was good of you to do that for me, captain," said the private gratefully. "i know you would have done as much for me, peck. what i am worried about is what we are to do next." "perhaps you had better wait till dark, and then sneak to the fort." "how do you feel?" "weak, captain, weak as a rag." "i shan't leave you, peck." "but you ought to try to save yourself." "we can both try to do that, when you are stronger." slowly the day wore along until night was once more on the pair. peck had tried to stand up, but the effort had proved a dismal failure. "it's no use," he murmured. "i reckon i'm a fit subject for the hospital," and he gave a sickly grin. the night was one captain moore never forgot. he was hungry, but there was nothing at hand with which to satisfy the cravings of the inner man. peck's mind began to ramble again, and once he struggled violently, thinking he was fighting with an indian, who was trying to tear out his side. with the coming of dawn the young officer felt that matters were growing desperate and that he must do something. he determined to go on a short exploring tour, leaving the soldier where he lay. "i'll be back inside of half an hour," he said. "make yourself as comfortable as possible while i am gone." "don't desert me!" groaned peck. "promise to come back, captain--promise!" he pleaded, and the young officer promised. on the opposite side of the brook was a series of rocks leading to the top of rather a high hill, and captain moore had an idea that from this eminence he could obtain a faint view of the fort and its surroundings. half of the rocks were passed when he came to a sudden halt. a low groan ahead had reached his ears. as he stopped and listened the groan was repeated. "that sounds familiar," he thought. "i've heard that before. but where?" at last he made up his mind that the sounds came from some wild animal that was wounded, and plucking up courage he moved forward again, but with his rifle before him, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. "the panther--and dying!" the young officer was right. there on a shelf of rocks lay the wounded beast, its breath coming short and heavy, and its eyes letting out a glassy stare that caused the captain to shiver in spite of himself. at the sight of a human being the panther tried to rise. but the effort was too much for it, and it sank down, groaning with pain, in a pool of blood which had formed. at first captain moore thought to finish by putting a bullet through its head, but then he remembered that ammunition was scarce and lowered his rifle. "he'll be dead by the time i get back," he thought, and continued on his way up the mountain side. at last the top was gained, and he looked around eagerly. at first only the plain far below met his view, but presently he made out a spot which he knew must be the fort. but all was in a blue haze, and no details could be distinguished. having spent quarter of an hour on the mountain top he picked his way back to where he had left the panther. the creature had now breathed its last, and lay stiffened out on the rocky ledge. "i must have something to eat, and so must peck," he said to himself. "panther steaks may be tough, but they will be better than nothing. i'll go back for the hunting-knife and cut off as much meat as we'll be likely to need for a couple of days." when he reached peck's side he found the soldier sleeping quietly, and did not disturb him. going back, he cut off a generous slice of the panther meat, leaving the rest to the wild beasts. the captain hated to build a fire, fearing it would attract the attention of the enemy, but he did not wish to eat the meat raw, and presently, having no matches, shot his gun into the midst of some dry leaves. by this means he soon had a blaze, which he fed with the driest wood he could find, thus avoiding a great cloud of smoke. over the blaze he cooked the steak, which was soon done to a turn. when peck awoke he felt stronger, and readily partook of the meal brought to him, washing down the meat with some water from the brook. "what do you calculate to do now, captain?" he asked. "from the top of yonder hill i can see the fort in the distance," answered the young officer. "but how to get to it is a question. it would be a hard enough journey as it is, without having to be on guard against indians and desperadoes." "better leave me here, and go it alone." "no, i shan't desert you, peck. we'll see the thing through together." "but the indians might come down on us." "we've got to run that risk. the question is, can you walk at all?" for reply peck got up on his feet. at first he swayed around a little, but presently steadied himself. "i'm good for a little distance, captain, but i don't reckon to go into any walking match just yet." "then we'll go ahead. as soon as you feel played out, don't hesitate to say so." captain moore carried the rifle, hunting-knife, and what was left of the meat, and also insisted upon having the private lean on his arm. in this fashion two miles were covered by noon, when they came to a rest under the shade of a big tree. peck was pale, and showed plainly that the exertion had done him no good. "hardest walking i ever did," he admitted, as he stretched himself at full length. it was his will-power alone that had kept him up. "well, we are gaining," said captain moore cheerfully. "three miles more will see us through." "if the enemy don't gobble us in the meantime." "the indians are nowhere in sight." "they won't be showing themselves if they can help it. they spring on us----hark!" peck broke off short, and both listened. "somebody is coming this way!" whispered the young officer. "come, we must get out of sight!" he took the wounded soldier by the hand, and with all speed the pair crept into some brushwood behind the big tree. in the meantime the foot-steps of the unknown party came closer. as the man came into view, captain moore let out a shout which was full of joy. "hank leeson! how glad i am to see you!" the old hunter started around and drew up his gun. then the weapon dropped, and he ran forward. "captain moore!" he ejaculated. "hang me ef i aint glad to set eyes on ye! who is that with you?" "private peck of company b. we've had a fight with the indians, and a number of the soldiers were killed." "the injuns are on the warpath, along with the desperadoes under matt gilroy," returned leeson. "i got the word from sam benson early this mornin'." "and where was benson?" "out among the hills, a-lookin' fer you." "and what of my brother, and my cousin? have you heard anything of them?" "they are safe at the fort." "thank heaven for that!" "i see ye'er both of ye wounded," went on leeson, as he came closer. "my wound is not much. but peck's is bad. i hardly knew how i was going to get him to the fort. are the indians or desperadoes around?" "they are, captain--but whar is jest now the conundrum. captain lee--he's in command now--thinks there's a big plot on foot ter wipe out the fort." "he is right. but colonel fairfield--what of him? did they drug him?" "they did, captain. but it's queer you know of all this." "then joe didn't tell you i was with him at the cave?" "i didn't have time to hear the whole story. benson was coming out, and i came with him. now, as you're found, i reckon i had better go back with you," went on hank leeson. "by all means, for we'll have to take turns in supporting peck." a few minutes later the march for the fort was taken up. it was a tedious journey, and there were times when the young captain felt as if it would never come to an end. but at last they came within sight of the stockade and the big flag floating so proudly to the breeze, and then several came rushing out to meet them, and their hard-ships, for the time being, came to an end. chapter xxvi. the enemies within the fort. "oh, i'm so glad to see you again, will!" was the greeting which joe gave his brother. "we were almost certain either the indians or desperadoes had fallen upon you and killed you." "well, we did have some hot work," answered the young captain modestly. "are you all right?" "i am." "and you, darry?" "i'm first-class," answered the cousin. "but i can tell you, will, there is trouble ahead." "i know that, darry. i must see colonel fairfield at once." "he is very ill. the surgeon can do hardly anything for him. he says he has not the right drugs to reach such a dose as the colonel has swallowed." "that's too bad." by this time captain lee was at hand, and the two officers exchanged reports. nothing had been heard concerning lieutenant carrol. the command of the fort now fell upon captain moore. as soon as possible the young commander went in to see his superior. he found colonel fairfield very weak and in no condition to talk upon military matters. he took the young captain's hand, and said feebly: "you must do your best, captain, do your best. defend the place to the last." "i will, colonel fairfield," answered the young officer. "and i trust you recover soon." that day and the next passed without incident of a special nature. sick and wounded were cared for by the surgeon, and a detachment went out, accompanied by sam benson and hank leeson, to look for any of the soldiers who had been attacked by the indians or desperadoes and who might still be alive. when this party returned they brought in the bodies of two soldiers that had fallen. "the indians are gathering in force," said old benson, who had been right among them in the darkness. "there are now over a hundred and twenty of them." "and what of the desperadoes?" asked captain moore. "the desperadoes number twenty-six," answered hank leeson. "i counted noses myself. matt gilroy is a reg'lar captain over 'em an' has 'em drilled like a company o' sharpshooters--an' i reckon thet's wot they are, consarn 'em!" "then the enemy, all told, numbers about a hundred and fifty," mused the young captain. "how many men here fit for duty to-day, captain?" came from the old scout. "not over forty, including the cooks and stable help, benson. all the others are on the sick list--and some of them are pretty bad." "perhaps the crowd outside are a-waitin' till ye all git sick," suggested leeson with a scowl. "'taint fair fightin', is it? they ought all to be hung!" "i must do my best," said captain moore gravely. "i can do no more." as the day wore along and two additional soldiers were taken sick, he decided to send a messenger to fort prescott, a hundred and sixty miles away, for assistance. hank leeson knew every foot of the territory, and was chosen for the mission. benson was more than willing to go, but captain moore told him to remain where he was. "if the enemy attack us you'll have to be our right-hand man, benson," he said. then he added: "i want to talk to you after leeson is gone." since coming to the fort captain moore had been watching two old soldiers very closely. these soldiers were named moses bicker and jack drossdell. their reputations were not of the best, and the black marks against them were numerous. some time before, the young captain had heard that bicker came of a family of colorado desperadoes and that he had joined the army during a spasm of reformation. the actions of the pair did not suit captain moore in the least, and that night he took it upon himself to watch them more closely than ever. in the darkness he saw bicker make his way to the stable, and to that spot, a little later, drossdell followed. "something is in the wind, and i'm going to find out what it is," he mused, and watching his opportunity he passed into the stable unobserved. at first he could hear nothing but the movements of the horses, but presently came a low murmur from one corner of the loft. cautiously the young officer climbed the ladder and stepped into the hay. here he could hear the conversation between bicker and drossdell quite plainly. "they never suspected the butter," he heard bicker say. "it tastes a little strong, but they would rather have it that way than have none, and the same way with the condensed milk." "when shall we give the signal to the boys?" came from drossdell. "not yet. there will be more of them sick by to-morrow night," replied bicker. more of the same sort of talk followed, until the young captain became fully convinced that bicker and drossdell were in league with the desperadoes, and that they had been using some drugs in the butter, milk, and other articles consumed at the fort, in order to make the soldiers sick. as soon as he realized the importance of his discovery captain moore went below. a corporal's guard was called out and sent over to the stable, and when bicker and drossdell came below they were placed under arrest. "what's this for?" demanded bicker, putting on a bold front. drossdell had nothing to say, and trembled so he could scarcely stand. "you know well enough, bicker," answered captain moore sternly. "no, i don't. i haven't done anything wrong, captain." "march them to the guardhouse," was all the young commander said, and the two were promptly marched away. as may be surmised, the moment the evildoers were alone each accused the other of having done something to bring on exposure. captain moore knew his men well, and presently he sent for drossdell and interviewed the soldier in private. "i am sorry to see you in such trouble as this, drossdell," he said. "i thought you were a better soldier." "i haven't done anything, captain." "it is useless for you to deny it. do you know what my men would do to you and bicker if they learned the truth? they would rebel and hang you on the spot--and you would deserve it, too." "oh, captain, for the love of heaven, don't put us in the hands of the boys!" pleaded drossdell, turning a ghostly white. "you and bicker plotted to get us all sick and then let the indians and gilroy's gang in on us." "i--i----" "it is useless for you to deny it, for i heard your talk myself, and saw a letter written by bicker to gilroy." "bicker formed the plans!" cried drossdell, breaking down completely. "he--he forced me to help him." "forced you?" "yes, captain, forced me. i stood out a long while, but he--he----well, i might as well make a clean breast of it, sir. he had me in his power, on account of something i did in denver years ago. he said he would expose me if i didn't help him." "this is the strict truth?" "yes, captain, and i will swear to it if you want me to," answered the prisoner. "you were going to signal the gang when all was in readiness for an attack," went on captain moore. "bicker was going to do that." "what was the signal to be?" "three white handkerchiefs stuck on the ends of a cross made of sticks six feet long. he was going to show these at ten in the morning or four in the afternoon, from the southwest corner of the stockade, behind the mess hall." "and what was the signal to be if you wanted the enemy to hold off for a while?" "a red shirt if he wanted them to hold off for one day and a red and a blue shirt if they were to hold off for two days." "you are certain about these signals? remember, if you are telling a lie it will all come back on your own head." "i am telling the strict truth," answered drossdell. chapter xxvii. signals and what followed. the interview over, captain moore lost no time in summoning hank leeson. "you must depart for fort prescott without delay," he said. "i'm ready now, captain," replied the old hunter. "you must ride night and day till you get there." "i'll do thet too." "i have received important news. at the longest our enemies will hold off two days. i will try to make them hold off a day longer if i can. that will give you three days. i will write a letter to major hardie at once." this was early in the morning, and inside of half an hour the letter was written and the old hunter was off, on the back of the freshest and most enduring horse the fort possessed. he went fully armed, for he knew that he carried his life in his hands. as soon as leeson had gone the young captain summoned the surgeon and told that individual about the drugged butter and condensed milk. dr. nestor was incredulous, but on an examination said that all were drugged. a cat that had drunk of the diluted condensed milk was found in a stupor from which she could not be aroused. "it's awful," said the surgeon. a trustworthy cook was called in, and all the butter and condensed milk which were open, or which showed signs of having been tampered with, were thrown away. this put the soldiers on short rations so far as these commodities went, but nobody complained. some suspected bicker and drossdell, and there was talk of a demand on the captain to have the traitors shot, but it came to nothing. "what does this mean?" asked joe, when he caught his brother in a quiet spot. in a few words the young captain explained. "you and darry must say nothing," he concluded. "we will have our hands full as it is. the indians are in this, but the drugging was not done by mose the half-breed." "when will you signal to the enemy?" asked darry. "this afternoon at four. that will give us at least two whole days--and a lot may happen in that time." "if only the surgeon can bring some of the men out of their stupor," remarked joe. "he hopes to do so--now he knows more about the drugs used against them." "if you hadn't caught bicker and drossdell what do you suppose would have happened?" questioned darry. "more than likely every one of us would have been sick," answered the young captain with a shudder. "then the indians and the desperadoes could have walked in here without a struggle." "even if help does not come, you'll fight them, won't you, will?" "to be sure--to the bitter end." "by the way, are you certain the ammunition hasn't been tampered with?" came from joe. "i was thinking of that and was going to have an examination made when you stopped me," said captain moore, and hurried on. an examination showed that some of the powder on the place had been hidden. drossdell said this was under the barn flooring, and his words proved true. promptly at four o'clock captain moore appeared at the southwest corner of the stockade with a red shirt in one hand and a blue shirt in the other. fortunately he was built like bicker, and donning a private's hat and coat made him look a good deal like that individual from a distance. slowly he waved the coats to and fro for five minutes. then an answering signal came back from some brushwood on the top of a distant hill--the answer being similar to the signal itself, showing the message was seen and understood. it is likely that the indians and desperadoes were much chagrined to think that they would have to hold off for two days, but if so they made no sign. the next day proved unusually warm. there was nothing for the boys to do in the fort, and they wandered around from place to place. at drill but thirty-eight soldiers presented themselves, all the others being on the sick list. "i must say i don't feel very well myself," remarked darry. "i can hardly keep my eyes open." "gracious! don't say that you're going to get sick too!" cried joe. "i won't get sick if i can help it," replied darry. "but i feel awfully queer." joe did what he could for his cousin. but, with the limited means at hand, this was not much, and by sundown darry was flat on his back, although the attack he sustained was not as severe as that of many around him. "i feel as if i was in something of a dream," he told joe. "that drug must have opium in it." "it's something like opium--i heard the surgeon say so," answered his cousin. at night a strict watch was kept, and twice old benson went out to reconnoiter. "the indians and desperadoes have surrounded us on all sides," he announced. "but it don't look as if they meant to attack us just yet." with the coming of morning it began to rain, but this cleared away by noon, and then the sun boiled down as fiercely as ever. the sunny spots within the stockade were suffocating, and the boys were glad enough to stay within the cool walls of the stone fort. as far as he was able captain moore had prepared the place to resist an attack. a weak spot in the stockade was strengthened and the cannon of the fort were put in the best possible condition. the soldiers were told where to go in case of a sudden alarm, and were cautioned not to waste any ammunition, for the supply was limited. thanks to the surgeon's efforts colonel fairfield was now somewhat better. yet he was too weak by far to get up or to manage affairs, so the command still remained in captain moore's hands. even captain lee was now down, and it was a question whether he would live or die. "you must do your best, captain moore," said the colonel feebly. "i know i can trust you. you are brave, and your training has been a judicious one." early that night there came a sudden alarm, followed by two rifle shots in quick succession. at once there was a commotion, and everybody sprang to his post. "the indians and desperadoes must be coming!" cried joe, and ran for the rifle with which he had been armed. the cause of the alarm, however, was not from without, but from within. bicker had forced his way out of the guardhouse, and at the risk of breaking his neck had climbed to the roof of the barn and leaped over the stockade into the ditch outside. a guard had seen the leap and had fired on the man, hitting him, it was thought, in the shoulder. then a second guard had discharged his weapon, but by this time the fleeing prisoner had been swallowed up in the gathering darkness. "he must not get away!" cried the young captain. "if he does, they will attack us at once. after him, benson, and you, too, forshew and donaldson. i will follow with some horses!" without delay the old scout climbed the stockade and scrambled over the ditch. the others ran around to the gate, and soon several additional soldiers followed. on second thought captain moore sent the horses out by a lieutenant, thinking it best that he remain where he was, that being primarily his post of duty. "can we go?" asked joe. "no, joe, stay where you are," said his brother. "if that rascal gets to his friends there will be work enough here, never fear." the pursuit of bicker lasted for over an hour, and brought on a smart skirmish between the men from the fort and the desperadoes, in which one person on each side was slightly wounded. but the rascal managed to gain the enemy's camp in safety, and then those from the fort came back as fast as possible to report. "now the deception is up," said captain moore, with a serious look. "i wouldn't be surprised to see them attack us before morning." "right you are, captain," replied old benson, "and my opinion is, that the desperadoes and indians will fight hard, when once they get going," he concluded. chapter xxviii. the demands of the enemy. it was an hour later, when the excitement had cooled down a little, that captain moore sent for benson again. wondering what was to follow, the old scout hurried to the room in which the young commander was transacting his business. "i want a little talk with you in private, benson," said the young officer. "yes, captain." "i know you've been wondering why i didn't send you to fort prescott instead of sending hank leeson." "you had a right to do as you pleased, captain." "the truth of the matter is, benson, i wanted you here. you brought joe and darry to the fort, and those two boys need looking after. we are going to have a fight, sooner or later. we may win, and if we do, all right. but if we don't----" "you want me to stand by the boys to the last?" put in the old scout quickly. "i do, benson; and, no matter what comes, i want you to promise to do your level best to save them, and see them safe back to the east. if the worst comes i am willing to die fighting, but joe must get out of it somehow. if he doesn't it will break my mother's heart. and you must do as well by darry, for he is an only child." the eyes of the old scout and the young captain met. then benson put out his hand, which captain moore quickly grasped. "i understand, captain. i'll do my best, and if those lads don't get away it will be because sam benson aint alive to take 'em." "as you are not a soldier you have a right to leave the fort as quickly as you please," went on the young captain. "therefore, if you see the tide of battle turning against us, don't wait, but get the boys away as speedily and as secretly as you can." "i will, captain; but yourself----" "never mind me. get the boys to a place of safety, and i know our family and darry's family will reward you well." "i won't want any reward. i took to the lads from the start, and i'll stand by 'em through thick and thin," said old benson. there was but little sleeping done in the fort that night. the majority of the soldiers slept on their arms, expecting an alarm at any moment. yet it did not come, and the sun rose on a scene of perfect peace and quiet. but at eight o'clock a sentinel announced a horseman approaching, bearing a white flag. "so they want to talk, eh?" said the young captain. "all right, anything to gain time." the flag of truce was promptly answered, and as the horseman came closer many recognized matt gilroy. the young captain went out himself to meet the leader of the desperadoes. "good-morning, captain moore," began the desperado, with a regular military salute. "what brings you?" demanded the captain abruptly. "well, i thought we had best come to terms--that's what brought me." "terms about what, gilroy?" "terms about surrendering the fort and all of its contents." "surrendering? to whom?" "you know well enough, captain moore. it will be only a waste of time to beat about the bush. our crowd and the indians now number over three hundred, and we are bound to get possession of the fort and all that is in it." "do you speak for the indians as well as for yourself?" "i do." "so far as i know the indians are not on the warpath, gilroy. i must have a talk with one of their chiefs before i do anything." "you know they are on the warpath. didn't you have a mix-up with them?" "there are always some indians who are ugly and willing to make trouble." "well, all the indians are standing in with us on this deal," went on gilroy, his face darkening. "and you have got to surrender or take the consequences." "what will the consequences be?" "if you won't surrender we'll attack the fort immediately. we know just how weak you are, and let me tell you that we have a dozen or more dynamite bombs on hand with which we can blow the fort sky-high if we wish." "what good will it do you to capture the fort?" "we know all about the money that is stored here, and we want every dollar of it." "and if we surrender?" "if you surrender you will be allowed to march from the place unmolested, taking all of your sick with you, or leaving them here, in care of a doctor, if you prefer. if you know where your head is level you will surrender," went on the desperado earnestly. "but if i am compelled to surrender, don't you know that our army will be after you, gilroy?" "never mind, we'll take care of that part of it," was the answer, with a sickly grin. "then you agree to surrender?" "i can't do it until i have spoken with one of the leading indian chiefs." at this the desperado's face fell. "will white ox do?" he asked, after an awkward pause. "yes." "all right; i'll bring him along in about half an hour." this ended the interview, and turning his horse matt gilroy rode off and captain moore walked back to the fort. "a little time gained, at least," was the young officer's comment. it was fully an hour before gilroy reappeared, accompanied by white ox and an under-chief known as little wildcat. "want to talk," grunted white ox, coming to a halt at a safe distance. "have you dug up the hatchet, white ox?" demanded the captain. "if not, let us smoke the pipe of peace together." "the pipe of peace is broken," answered the old indian. "the white man is not the red man's friend. he makes promises only to break them. the indian must fight for what is his own." "do you consider this fort your own?" "the land is the red man's--the white man has stolen it from him. the white man must go and leave the red man to his own." "if you want the white man to go why don't you drive gilroy and his gang away too?" "they have promised to leave--after they have had their share of what is here." "oh, so that's the bargain!" "you see how matters stand, captain moore," broke in the leader of the desperadoes. "if you know when you are well off, you'll submit as gracefully as possible." "if we leave will you promise to let all go in peace," went on the young captain to the indian chief, "you will not molest the women or any of the young people?" "yes, all the women and young people can go," said white ox, but the look in his face was not one to be trusted. "and if we refuse when do you expect to attack us?" "at once." the reply came from matt gilroy, and white ox nodded in the affirmative. "i must consult colonel fairfield first," said the captain slowly, wondering how he was to gain more time. "i thought you were in command," remarked gilroy. "i was--but the colonel is getting better. meet me here in another hour, and i will give you his reply and my own." this did not suit gilroy and white ox, but the captain was firm, and at last they went off, promising to be back exactly at the end of the hour. "and then it must be surrender or fight," said the leader of the desperadoes sharply. "no more dilly-dallying." it must be confessed that captain moore returned to the fort in a thoughtful mood. he had an awful responsibility upon his shoulders. he called several of the other officers in consultation. "for myself, i believe in fighting," he said. "but we must consider those who are sick and must consider the women." "the colonel's wife wishes us to fight to the end," replied another officer. "she is not willing to trust white ox or any of the other redskins." "i don't believe in surrendering," put in another. "let us see if we can't hold off until we hear from leeson and fort prescott." and so it was arranged. chapter xxix. opening of the battle. promptly on the minute gilroy and white ox appeared again, with the white flag of truce flying between them. this time captain moore took with him one of his lieutenants, bacon by name. the interview was shorter than the captain had anticipated. "well, is it surrender or not?" asked matt gilroy. "we must have more time," answered captain moore. "cannot you wait until to-morrow morning?" "not another minute," was the angry reply. "is it surrender or not? answer yes or no." "we will not surrender--at least not yet," came from the young captain firmly. "then your time is up, and we shall attack at once," returned the leader of the desperadoes. "am i not right, white ox?" "you have spoken truly," came from the indian chief. "soon the blood of the white soldiers will flow freely." without another word white ox galloped away, and matt gilroy went after him. "we are up against a battle now!" exclaimed lieutenant bacon. "i have done my best to delay the contest--i can do no more," said captain moore. when he returned inside of the stockade he was immediately surrounded. "boys, we must fight," he said in a loud, clear voice. "they will wait no longer. but re-enforcements must be on the way by this time. can i depend upon your standing by me?" "yes! yes!" was the cry. "we know how to do our duty to uncle sam and the flag!" "let the desperadoes and the indians come on! we'll give them as hot a reception as they ever got!" while the soldiers were taking their way to the several defenses of the fort there was the beating of indian drums at a distance, followed by the blowing of a bugle in the camp of the desperadoes. soon the beating and blowing came from half a dozen directions. "they are gathering, sure enough!" exclaimed joe. "i wonder how long it will be before they fire the first shot?" "they'll not be rash--be sure of that," answered darry. "they must know that the fort is a strong place." a little later one of the guards announced that bodies of indians were marching from the south of the fort to the westward. here there was a fringe of trees at a distance of not over a hundred yards from the stockade. colonel fairfield had often thought to have the belt of timberland cut down, but had never put the plan into execution. "they mean to get as close as possible before they expose themselves," said the captain. "dilberry, have the four-pounder trained on that spot." "i will, captain moore," said the head gunner, and saluted. quarter of an hour went by, and the drumming and bugle calling had ceased. suddenly a shout went up from behind the belt of timberland, and a small cannon spoke up, sending a shell into the ditch outside the stockade. "hullo, they have a cannon after all," thought captain moore. he called dilberry to him. "can you get the range of that piece?" he asked. "i can try, sir." "then do it, and if you can disable the piece so much the better." at once the head gunner ran off and sighted one of the cannon of the fort with care. a few seconds later the cannon spoke up with a report that rang in the boys' ears for long after. the ball sped straight into the timberland and cut down a heavy sapling growing beside the piece the enemy were reloading. one desperado was killed instantly and another badly injured. "a fair shot!" said the young captain. "try it again," but before dilberry could do so the cannon was withdrawn from sight. after this came another lull, as if desperadoes and indians were considering what to do next. "it's a wonder they don't make a rush," said joe, "if they have so many in their command." "nobody cares to risk an advance in the open, joe," said old benson. "more than likely they won't try to do much until dark." again the indian drums were rolling, coupled with shrill warwhoops. then, with a wild yelling and a brandishing of rifles, about a hundred and fifty red men burst from cover and ran toward the stockade. "they are coming!" was the cry. "stand firm, men, don't waste your ammunition!" captain moore cried. he turned to the gunner. "let them have it, dilberry!" bang! the cannon boomed out again, and the shot tore through the advancing horde of indians, laying four of them low. then came a volley from the red men, followed by the discharge of the piece in the hands of the desperadoes. the splinters flew in several directions around the stockade and one soldier was seriously wounded. the cannon ball grazed the flagstaff, and presently it was seen to totter. "look out!" roared old benson to joe, and as he spoke down came the stars and stripes on the heads of joe and darry, and a section of the flagstaff with it. "the flag is down!" a score of voices took up the cry, and a yell of triumph came from the indians and desperadoes. "it's not going to remain down!" cried old benson, and began to climb what remained of the pole. he carried the halyard with him, and soon, with the aid of the two boys, he had the glorious stars and stripes once more in position. in the meantime the soldiers under captain moore were busy. the indians were now at the ditch, and one had advanced as far as the stockade itself. they were yelling like demons, and now the desperadoes began to show themselves, confident that the fort would soon be taken. "they haven't got a corporal's guard to defend it!" cried matt gilroy. "nearly everyone of those inside is sick. come on!" the noise was now deafening, for soldiers and indians were discharging their weapons as rapidly as possible. the red men had brought with them a long board, to which cross-pieces were nailed. this board was now set slantingly against the stockade, and a dozen warriors rushed upon it. "down with them!" shouted captain moore. "heave the plank off!" a dozen soldiers started to do his bidding. the first that showed himself was shot down, and the second shared a similar fate. but others were more successful, and into the ditch went the board with a loud splash, carrying the indians with it. the soldiers set up a shout of triumph, and as the red men fell back those who could gain a point of vantage fired on the enemy. by this movement three indians were left in the ditch dead and several others were wounded. a desperado was also brought down. those that were uninjured lost no time in seeking cover; and thus the first advance on the fort came to an end. all told, the attack had lasted nearly an hour, and when it was over it was found that everybody was hot, dry, and dusty. but, fortunately, water was to be had in plenty, and a drink refreshed all. the dead and wounded were carried away, and the latter were made as comfortable as the limited means of the fort afforded. "they won't come back in a hurry," said the young captain. "the indians have had their eyes opened." "how soon can those re-enforcements come, will?" asked joe. "i don't think they can get here before to-morrow noon, if as soon. they'll have a long journey before them, and a body of several hundred soldiers can't travel as fast as a single person." "of course they'll be cavalry," put in darry. "i hope so--if the cavalry was at fort prescott when leeson got there." colonel fairfield was much disturbed by the shooting, and he insisted upon sitting up and hearing the particulars. "good!" he murmured. "keep them off another twenty-four hours and we shall be saved," and then he went off in another stupor. all was now as quiet as if not an enemy was within a mile of the fort. but the soldiers remained on guard, and this vigilance was increased as the sun went down in the west. "this night will tell the tale," was old benson's comment. "boys, it's do or die, and don't you forget it!" whether or not the old scout was right we shall soon see. chapter xxx. signals in the dark. "joe, i've got a scheme to outwit the desperadoes and indians, and i've a good mind to propose it to will." it was darry who spoke, as he and joe were eating an early supper that night, in one corner of the messroom. "if the scheme is good for anything let will have it by all means," answered his cousin. "heaven knows we need all the help we can get!" "my scheme is this," went on darry. "those indians and the desperadoes must know something of our sending off for re-enforcements. now why can't will send out old benson and a few others, to steal off for several miles and light camp-fires, blow bugles, and all that, to make the enemy think the re-enforcements are close at hand?" joe clapped his hands. "that's a grand scheme!" he cried. "let's speak to will about it at once." the supper was soon finished, and they sought out the young captain, who was dividing up his force for guard duty during the night. "i was thinking of such a scheme myself," he said, when he had heard them. "and old benson suggested it, too. perhaps i'll do it." "if old benson goes can't i go with him?" asked joe quickly. "and let me go too," put in darry. "you won't miss us as much as you would miss two of your regulars." at this the young captain grew grave. "old benson said he would like to take you along. perhaps it would be best, too." he paused. "you see, they may fall on the fort to-night and wipe us out completely." "oh, will, do you really believe that?" "they will certainly attack us, and the men fit for duty number but thirty-four. thirty-four against several hundred is not much of a force, even in a fort." the matter was talked over for half an hour, and old benson was called in for consultation. in the end it was decided that the old scout should head a party consisting of two regulars and the two boys, who were to carry a drum and a bugle and a good supply of matches for bonfires. "if you can pass them without being seen, head straight for conner's hill," said captain moore. "blow the bugle there, and beat the drum, and then move over to decker's falls and light your first camp-fire. after that you'll have to do what you think is best." "i understand, captain," answered the old scout. "and trust me to fool 'em nicely, if the trick can be done at all." "it is not going to be an extra-dark night," went on the young officer. "so you will have your own troubles in getting away from the fort without being seen." "i know a route," answered old benson. "trust me for it." but just then he would say no more. the men to go along were named cass and bernstein. cass was a good drummer and bugler, and bernstein was noted for his good sight and the accuracy of his aim. all of the party went fully armed, and took with them rations for two days. "good-by, joe," said the captain affectionately, and he took his brother by the hand. "i hope you pull through in safety." "and i hope you do too, will," answered joe, and his lip quivered as he spoke. perhaps this would be the last time he would see his brother alive. never before had the situation appeared so serious as now. darry also received an affectionate farewell. in absolute silence old benson led his little party to a far corner of the stockade, where there was a small gate, fastened with a strong log bar. this gate was opened just far enough for them to slip through, and then closed again. their mission had begun. there was no telling how it would end. slipping into the ditch, the old scout told the others to lie low, while he and bernstein surveyed the situation. it was silent, and from overhead only a few stars twinkled down upon them. old benson presently pointed with his bony hand. "clear that way, aint it?" he whispered. "looks so," answered bernstein, after a searching look lasting several minutes. "i wouldn't go too close to that patch of underbrush, though." the party began crawling along the ditch, until they came to a little gully which the last heavy rains had formed. here they progressed on hands and knees until they reached some low brushwood. then old benson, still crouching close to the ground, set off on a lope, and the others came after him in indian file. if they had been discovered, neither indians nor desperadoes gave any sign, and inside of ten minutes the fort was left out of sight, and they were standing in a hollow fringed with berry bushes. the boys were somewhat out of breath, and old benson gave them a short spell in which to get back their wind. "we were right, they are none of 'em in this vicinity," said the old scout. "getting away was easier than i expected." "it was no easy matter with the drum," came from cass. "i came pretty close to falling and smashing it once." the course now led up a small hill and then across a valley to another hill, a distance of nearly three miles. the trail was by no means straight and the walking was bad, and joe and darry had all they could do to keep up with the others. at the last minute captain moore had given the boys half a dozen rockets, and explained how the fireworks were to be set off. everything they could do to puzzle the enemy was to be done. at last they gained the top of conner's hill--so called because major conner fell there while battling with some stage-robbers early in the seventies. bringing around his bugle, cass blew a long blast and then a regular military call, which echoed and re-echoed throughout the mountains. this was followed by a long roll on the drum, and then another call on the bugle. after this all waited impatiently, gazing in the direction of the fort, which was, of course, hidden in the darkness. "there they go!" cried joe, and as he spoke two rockets flared up, dying out almost instantly. the boys had planted two of the fireworks given them, and now these were touched off and went hissing skyward, leaving a trail of sparks behind. two minutes later a single rocket went up from the fort. "that's the last," observed old benson. "i'll wager that will set the indians and the desperadoes to thinking," said cass. "they'll think some more when they see a camp-fire over decker's falls," put in bernstein. "they'll imagine that they are being surrounded." "don't be too sure," came from the old scout. "white ox is no fool. he has been through too much fighting. if we can only make him hold off a bit that's as much as we can expect. you can bet he'll have spies up here in less than an hour from now." the march was now for decker's falls, a distance three miles to the westward. again they advanced in indian file, bernstein now leading and old benson bringing up the rear. a mile had been covered, when the regular in front called a halt. "a small camp is ahead," he said. "there, through the trees." without delay old benson went forward to investigate. he found three desperadoes talking earnestly among themselves, while warming some coffee over a small fire. listening to their talk he learned that they had been out on the trails leading to fort prescott, and had come in with the news that no re-enforcements for fort carson were within forty miles of the latter place. "gilroy and white ox will be glad to hear our news," said one of the crowd. "they've been afraid all along colonel fairfield had sent out for aid." not stopping to hear anything further, old benson crawled back to the place where he had left the others. "we must capture those men, dead or alive," he said. "if they carry their news to the enemy there will be another attack on the fort within an hour." leaving the drum, bugle, and remaining rockets in a safe place, our friends advanced until all could see the three desperadoes quite plainly. one of the fellows was unknown to joe, but the others were gus fetter and nat potts. the desperadoes had placed their rifles against a tree, and old benson motioned to the boys to secure the weapons. as joe grabbed up two of the firearms and darry the third, the desperadoes leaped to their feet in alarm. "hands up!" sang out old benson. "hands up, or you are all dead men!" the scout's rifle was raised, and so were the weapons of cass and bernstein, and the desperadoes found themselves at a disadvantage. yet fetter was game, and he quickly reached for a pistol hanging in his belt. but the movement, quick as it was, was not quick enough for bernstein, and as the regular's rifle rang out fetter fell headlong across the camp-fire. "do you surrender?" asked old benson. "yes," came from potts, sulkily, and his companion said the same. in the meantime fetter had rolled from the camp-fire and was breathing his last at potts' feet. the sight was a thrilling one, and caused joe and darry to shudder. "can't i do something for that poor wretch?" asked joe, of benson, but before the old scout could answer fetter breathed his last. in a few minutes more potts was made a close prisoner. while he was being tied up, the third man made a quick leap into the woods. "after him!" cried benson, and cass and bernstein did as commanded. soon the desperado and the two regulars were out of sight and hearing. chapter xxxi. burning of the stockade. "what will you do with him?" asked joe of benson, as he pointed to nat potts. "don't be hard on me," pleaded potts. "i meant you no harm." "you ought to be hung," grunted the old scout. "you aint fit to live and you know it, potts. you could make an honest living if you wanted to, but you would rather cheat and steal." "it was matt gilroy who got me into this," answered potts. "he----" "don't put it off on to somebody else, potts!" cried the old scout wrathfully. "if you aint got backbone enough to be honest, it's your own fault." "will you let me go, if i promise to leave this territory?" asked potts eagerly. "no, sirree!" was benson's answer. "you shall suffer the full extent of the law, and don't you forget it!" while waiting for the return of cass and bernstein, the old scout searched potts and the dead body of fetter, taking away all their weapons and some papers which potts carried. these papers showed how deep-laid was the plot which the desperadoes had formed to gain possession of the money stored at fort carson, and how they had duped the indians under white ox and other chiefs to assist them. at last cass and bernstein came back, all out of breath with running. "did he get away?" questioned benson quickly. "he did and he didn't," answered cass. "he ran up cedar cliff, and seeing we were after him he tried to jump to the other side of the canyon. but he missed his footing in the dark, and went down, and that's the last we seen or heard of him." "and that's the last anybody will see or hear of him," answered the old scout. "that canyon is three hundred feet deep, and nothing but sharp rocks, sides and bottom. he's done for." the march onward was now resumed, the old scout forcing potts to walk between himself and the boys, with his hands tied tightly behind him. "if you make any noise it will cost you your life," said benson to the prisoner, and thereupon potts became perfectly mute. to tell the truth the desperado was thoroughly downcast, and his face was filled with despair. they calculated that it was two o'clock in the morning when the heights above decker's falls was gained, a wild spot, from which old benson had often viewed the fort, miles below, in the valley. the driest possible brush was gathered, and on this were heaped several good-sized limbs, that the fire might burn an hour or two. quarter of a mile away another similar fire was kindled, and at this spot the boys set off all but one of their remaining rockets. "there is the answer from the fort!" said joe, as two rockets flared up in the dim distance. "anyway, will knows we have gotten this far." "but he doesn't know of the adventure we have had on the way," said darry. as soon as the fires were well under way old benson began to lead the way down the mountain side toward a stretch of timber running within half a mile of the fort. while they were in the midst of the forest a distant firing broke upon their ears. "is that from the fort?" asked joe quickly. "reckon it is, lad," replied the old scout. "then our signals haven't done any good." "perhaps they have. but it may be that others have been out spying, and they have brought in the same report that potts and his crowd were carrying." as they advanced the firing died away for half an hour, but then it was renewed with vigor. coming to another hilltop, they could see the flashes, of fire as the rifles and cannon were discharged. the indians and desperadoes had approached fort carson in the darkness, hoping to catch those inside napping. but the regulars had opened the firing, and two indians were killed at the very outset. the red men had brought forward a large quantity of brush, and at the risk of their lives they heaped this against the wooden stockade. when joe and the others who were with him gained the plains surrounding the stronghold they saw that the brush was burning at a lively rate. "they are firing the fort!" cried darry. "heaven have mercy on those inside!" "i see nothing of indians or desperadoes," said joe. "where have they gone, benson?" "reckon they didn't like those last signals," answered the old scout. from a distance they watched the burning of the brush with interest. here and there they saw the stockade take fire, and then saw a blaze on the stable within the fort yard. "the fire has reached inside!" groaned joe. "the place is doomed!" "come on! there is no use of our staying here longer!" cried benson, and led the way across the plain, now lit up by the conflagration beyond. he forced potts with him. suddenly several shots rang out, and joe felt a bullet graze his hand. then he saw cass pitch forward on his face, and heard potts give a yell of mortal agony. "poor cass, he's a goner!" muttered bernstein. "and the desperado is dead, too." no more was said, for all felt they must run as never before, if they would save themselves. soon the gully was reached, and they dropped to shelter. but no more shots followed, and in a few minutes more they were close to the burning stockade. "friends!" shouted benson, to a guard. "don't shoot! come out here and put out the fire!" "is that you?" came from captain moore, in the semi-darkness. "are joe and darry safe?" "yes," came from the boys. there was no time to say more, for already the soldiers were forming a bucket brigade, carrying water with which to put out the flames. some had long poles with hooks, and with these they dragged a large part of the burning brush into the ditch. all this while some of the regulars remained on guard, and occasionally a shot rang out, answered by another from a great distance. "they have surely withdrawn," said the young captain. "benson, the trick worked after all." "that's right, captain. but it won't work many hours, you can depend upon that." "if it only makes them hold off until morning i shall be satisfied," concluded captain moore. by the exertion of the soldiers the fire was kept from communicating with any of the buildings but the stable, and of this structure only a corner of the roof suffered. but the stockade was greatly damaged, and by the time the last spark was out it was seen that it had sustained three openings each eight to twelve feet long. "we'll have to repair these," said captain moore; and, tired though the workers were, he made them haul fresh timbers from the woodpile and also tear up part of the barn floor, that the stockade might present a whole front to the enemy once more. the fighting had greatly agitated the women in the fort, and nobody had slept for two nights. yet even now, with the fire out and silence brooding everywhere, nobody thought of going to bed. all felt that this was but the lull before the greater storm. if only the relief would come! such was the thought of everyone but drossdell, who still remained in the guardhouse, heavily chained, hands and feet. drossdell was deeply downcast, and with good reason. at last came the welcome signs of dawn in the east, and then a few of the soldiers, who could stand the strain no longer, threw themselves down to sleep. the others, pale and haggard, sat around in little groups wondering what was going to happen next. to each was served extra-strong coffee and the best rations the fort afforded. "it cannot last much longer," said captain moore, trying to cheer them up. "relief must come sooner or later." he had now but a pitiful twenty-eight men left, including old benson and joe and darry. twenty-eight! what could such a number do against the attack of two or three hundred desperadoes and indians? the situation was certainly one to make the stoutest heart quail. "it was too bad you came out here on a vacation," said the captain sadly, to his brother and his cousin. "perhaps you'll never see home again." "oh, will, do you really think it's so bad?" came from darry. "it is hard to tell what i think, darry. i know we are in a mighty tight box." "let us hope for the best," said joe. "leeson must be doing something." "if he wasn't caught and shot down, joe." "that is true," and now joe gave a long sigh that meant a good deal. "there is but one thing in our favor now, this daylight. but if no relief reaches us by sundown----" the captain did not finish, but shook his head. a moment later one of the guards called down that he could see some indians to the northwest of the fort. a glass was brought into play, and by this a party of seventy-five red men could be made out marching directly for the fort. behind the red men came a dozen or fifteen whites. hardly had this discovery been made when another body of indians and whites were seen marching upon the fort from the south. "we are to suffer a double attack now!" was captain moore's comment. "heaven help us and bring us through it in safety!" chapter xxxii. relief at last--conclusion. the attack did not come until half an hour later, and during the time of waiting the nerves of the boys were strained to the utmost. the seriousness of the situation was depicted upon the faces of all the soldiers, who felt that the coming contest must decide whether or not the fort was to stand. the firing began on the part of the indians and desperadoes, who advanced upon the stronghold from four points of the compass at once. the enemy had learned the folly of massing their force, and indians and whites came on in a wide open skirmish line. the soldiers within the stockade fired upon the advancing foe as best they could. yet by the time red men and desperadoes were within reach of the stockade only three of the foe had fallen. as before, some of the indians carried a board with strips nailed across it for steps, and the desperadoes had a similar contrivance. the two boards were placed at opposite ends of the stockade, and, while some of the enemy began to mount them, others came rushing on with a tree trunk, which they used as a battering-ram against the stockade gate. the noise was now terrific, as rifle and cannon shot sounded out, mingled with the warwhoops of the indians and the groans and shrieks of the wounded and dying. as for joe and darry, the first shock over, each felt as if he was in a dream--as if this terrible sight presented to their gaze could not be true. they shot off their rifles mechanically, yet when it was all over joe remembered how he had sent one redskin tumbling back into the ditch, and darry could tell of a desperado who had dropped his gun because of a shot through the shoulder. "fight to the last, men!" shouted captain moore, as he discharged his pistol at the leader of the desperadoes. gilroy had hit him in the forearm, but the young officer's aim was still more true, and matt gilroy went down never to rise again. in the meanwhile old benson was having a terrific hand-to-hand encounter with white ox. each had fired a shot at the other, and now they closed in, the indian chief with his hunting-knife and the old scout with his clubbed rifle. the struggle was as short as it was thrilling. benson made a pass which the indian chief dodged. then white ox plunged his knife toward the old scout's heart, but a quick turn made it catch in benson's hunting-shirt. down came the rifle butt a second time, and the blow, catching white ox on the neck, forced him to his knees. even then he struck at benson's legs, but the old scout leaped over his head. then down came the rifle butt once more, and the indian chief gave a groan which was his last. fully sixty indians and a score of desperadoes were now within the stockade, and it looked as if all was lost to our friends. a part of the regulars were fighting at the entrance to the stable, but the majority were gathered around captain moore at the entrance to the officers' quarters. behind these were the ladies of the fort and the officers who were sick. "perhaps we had better surrender," said colonel fairfield, when told by his wife of the condition of affairs. "if we don't----" he could not finish. "kill the white soldiers!" was the cry from the indians. "white ox has fallen! they must all die! spare nobody!" captain moore was now fighting as never before. beside him stood old benson, and not far away were joe and darry. each of the number was wounded, and hardly any of the regulars were better off. ammunition was running low. still the horrible din continued, and the dust and smoke were blinding. but now, hark, what was that? from a distance sounded out a bugle call. then came a shot, followed by another, and then a regular volley. captain moore started, and his eyes lit with pleasure. "the relief!" he shouted. "the relief from fort prescott! boys, we are saved!" "hurrah, the relief!" was the shout which made the fort ring from end to end. "the relief! we are saved!" "give it to the reds and to the desperadoes!" came from old benson. "teach 'em the lesson so they won't forget it! don't let a skunk of 'em escape!" nearer and nearer came the shots from without, and a bugle continued to blow calls to a detachment still further away. then up to the fort rode a troop of dashing cavalry from fort prescott, hank leeson beside them, and every horse covered with foam. crack! crack! crack! spoke up the firearms of the newcomers, and indians and desperadoes fell in all directions. "we must retreat!" shouted one of the desperadoes. "the game is up!" "retreat! retreat!" came from the others; and the red men took up the cry. soon the enemy were pouring from the fort grounds even more rapidly than they had entered. there was only a pitiful handful that could follow them, the young captain, benson, and nine regulars. but there was no need for even that number, for the blood of the cavalry was up and every desperado and red man received one or more shots the instant he appeared. soon the enemy were flying in all directions. but the cavalry went after them, and in the end all but four desperadoes and thirty-six indians were killed, the others being forced to surrender. it was rather a silent party that gathered in and around the fort that night. victory had come to our friends, but the cost had been a heavy one, and the hospital ward of the fort was filled to over-flowing. hank leeson came in for many a warm hand-shake, and was made to tell his story over and over again. "it was a close shave," said the old hunter. "twice i got in a close box with the redskins an' i had to shoot one of 'em down afore i could git away. thet's wot kept me so long. i'm glad we wasn't an hour later, fer then mebbe we'd 'a' been too late." all of the principal desperadoes were dead and the same can be said of the indians. among the slain was found the body of bicker, and, if the truth must be told, nobody mourned his loss. "he is responsible for a great deal of this suffering," said captain moore. "had he lived it is likely he would have been court-martialed and shot." both of the boys had been slightly wounded, yet each felt happy when the fighting was over and they were assured that from henceforth they would be safe to come and go as they pleased. "it was like a regular campaign," said darry. "joe, we have become soldiers after all!" "that's so, darry," replied joe. "we can call ourselves, after this, the boys of the fort!" * * * * * a few words more, and we will bring this story of fort life in the great northwest to a close. two weeks after the events just narrated joe and darry returned to their homes. here they were received with open arms by their parents, who had heard all manner of ugly reports and who half expected to see them coming back wounded and crippled for life. but the lads soon proved that they were not so bad off as that, and inside of a few months both were as well as ever. at the fort an active campaign was started under captain moore and the commander of the cavalry, and this resulted in the rounding up of six more desperadoes and thirty indians. lieutenant carrol and four regulars were found as prisoners of the indians and were released. the desperadoes were turned over to the civil courts, and were dealt with severely, two being hung and the others being imprisoned for years. drossdell was court-martialed, and after a long trial was sentenced to imprisonment in a military prison for ten years. he served six years, after which he was released. to his credit be it said, he turned over a new leaf, and from the west went to cuba, where he fought with the cubans against spanish rule. he was with the cubans at the fall of santiago and died a few weeks later of tropical fever. as soon as the proper medicines could be obtained and administered, those who had been drugged at the fort began to recover, and inside of two weeks colonel fairfield, captain lee, and our other friends were around once more, although rather weak. the mining company whose money had been saved was exceedingly thankful to captain moore and the others for what had been done, and when, several years later, the young captain left the regular army, this company offered him a lucrative position, which he accepted and which he fills to this day. old benson and hank leeson still continue to roam the great northwest, and are happy. occasionally they receive a visit from joe and darry, and are never more satisfied than when they have the two young men with them on a hunting and fishing tour. "takes me back to years ago," says old benson. "years ago, when you were both green as grass." "well, we are not so green now," replies joe, with a quiet smile. "through bitter experience we have learned a thing or two." "now it is over i am glad i didn't miss it," puts in darry. "we got a genuine taste of soldier life, didn't we?" "that's so," adds joe. "we were really and truly the boys of the fort." the end. by the same author with custer in the black hills; or, a young scout among the indians. boys of the fort; or, a young captain's pluck. the young bandmaster; or, concert stage and battlefield. when santiago fell; or, the war adventures of two chums. a sailor boy with dewey; or, afloat in the philippines. off for hawaii; or, the mystery of a great volcano. none