Chapter VIII.



"A Man overboard!"

This was the startling cry that rang out from the multitude swarming forward on the ferry-boat D. S. Gregory, one wintry night, as she was approaching the dock at the foot of Courtlandt Street, on her trip from Jersey City.

For a few seconds confusion and excitement reigned supreme.

The boat was crowded with passengers, many of whom had passed out of the forward cabin doors, and were pushing toward the bow, eager to be the first to leap ashore, scarcely willing to wait till the lattice-like gates were drawn aside to allow them to pass.

Some were smoking, many were talking, and no one was dreaming of anything wrong, when the alarming cry resounded through the frosty air.

The captain heard it on the instant, as did the engineer; for the latter checked the swinging of the ponderous working-beam at the same second that he received the signal from the captain—a thing which never happens unless in some such emergency.

As the throbbing of the engine ceased and the boat glided smoothly along, there was such a general rush toward the bow that a dangerous dipping of the craft followed—a peril which no one beside the officials on the vessel observed.

"Who is he?"

"Did he jump over?"

"Did he fall?"

"Was he pushed?"

"Can he be saved?"

"Where is he?"

These and similar questions were on a hundred lips; and before any intelligible answer could be given, a woman gave utterance to the most heart-rending scream, and made such frantic attempts to spring into the water, that the intervention of several strong men was required to prevent her.

"It must be her husband."

But the expression was yet in the mouth of the speaker, when, falling limp and despairing into the sturdy arms of the unknown friends, she wailed,—

"Will no one save my child? Let me go to her; she is all that is left to me—oh, let me die with her!"

"It's a little girl that fell overboard," called out some one who had seen the accident. "There she is—hello!"

The last exclamation was caused by a second splash, as a dark body clave the air and dropped into the water within a few yards of where the dress of the little girl could be faintly discerned.

"Heavens, that is only a little boy!" called out an excited individual. "Are all the children to be drowned before our eyes?"

The general belief was that this lad, through some strange mischance, had also fallen into the river, a belief which was quickly dispelled by another boy, no doubt his playmate, calling out,—

"That's my chum, Tom, and you needn't be afraid of him; he can outswim a duck and a goose and a fish all together; he jumped over to save that little girl, seeing as all you big men was afraid—and you can just bet he'll do it too."

There was a tone of absolute certainty in these remarkable words which lifted a mountain from more than one heart, and instantly transferred all interest to the brave young lad who had sprung into the water to save a little girl that was a stranger to him.

A cold wintry night was closing in when this accident took place, and the lights from the shipping and the great city twinkled like myriads of stars.

Great black hulls lay still and motionless in the water, as if they were enormous ogres of the deep waiting for human prey to come into their vast maws; steam-tugs were puffing and darting here and there, in and out among the shipping, as though they were playing hide-and-seek with each other; another ferry-boat was just putting out from the dock on the New York side, the paddle-wheels crunching and grinding the chunks of ice, as if masticating its food.

In the chilly gloom of the evening, the crowds that swarmed to the gunwales and peered forward could see something floating in the water; and though no one could define exactly what it was with the aid of the sight alone, yet, by a general consent, it was accepted as the form of the little girl that had fallen overboard.

A second figure was seen working his way toward the nerveless and silent one.

The two were no more than fairly out of the path of the steamer, which was gliding so closely by them that any movement of the wheels would have endangered both.

Among those who forced their way to the side of the boat was the lad who gave utterance to the words before recorded. It was natural that he should be deeply interested when his dearest friend was risking his life to save another. As soon as the lad on the boat caught fair sight of the other, he shouted,—

"Hello, Tom! do you want any help?"

"Three chaars for the wee one!" called out an Irishman, boiling over with enthusiasm, "and if there's a spalpeen on boord that don't jine in, I'll crack the head of the same, or me name isn't Patsey McConough!"

But the deck-hands had not been idle spectators during the few minutes since the accident.

Prompt as they had been, the children were, however, so far off at the moment of tossing over the life-preservers and hurling out the ropes, that none reached the lad, who was too intent on saving the child to pay any attention to these little helps, which he did not need.

When the craft stood at a dead halt, the engineer caused a slight and only partial reverse movement of the wheels, so as to approach the couple.

"Yes, there he comes," shouted a tall fellow, leaning so far over the rail that he was in danger of falling, "and I'm blessed if he ain't got the girl!"

Such was the fact, as all perceived the next moment. The boy was supporting the little form with one hand, while he propelled himself with the other.

As soon as Tom came within reach, another lasso-like fling was made, the coil dropping so near the boy that he succeeded in grasping it with his free hand.

Whoever the little fellow was that was acting the role, he certainly was a genius in his way. His presence of mind was almost marvelous.

When the waves from the threshing-paddle so unexpectedly overwhelmed him, he had just time to draw a deep inspiration before he was environed by death. The most skillful swimmer in the world cannot sustain himself in sea-foam, or in the white caps of the breakers. The only safe course when thus caught is to hold your breath and wait for "solid water," where you can paddle your own canoe.

Almost any one thus entrapped would have let go the rope and been drowned, but the boy held on with the grip of death, and as soon as he could catch a mouthful of fresh air, shouted,—

"Pull up; I'm all right."

A dozen hands were outstretched to help, and the next minute the brave lad, still holding the senseless girl with one arm, was drawn up on deck, and received into the crowd, who almost pulled him apart in their frenzied congratulations.

It was found that the little girl was alive, and carrying her into the cabin where her mother had just recovered from her swoon, a medical gentleman announced that there was nothing to fear.

The wheels of the ferry-boat were again in motion, and the slip was reached, while a hundred men were demanding the name of the young hero, praising him, offering to make up a purse, hurrahing, and going wild over what was unquestionably a most praiseworthy deed.

In the midst of the excitement and rattling of chains, the crowd swarmed off the boat, and the lads were lost sight of.



Chapter IX.



Tom Gordon was not only brave, but he was modest; and he hurried away from the swarming crowd as soon as he was free of the ferry-boat, for he found it anything but pleasant to be looked upon and treated as a lion. Turning off into one of the intersecting streets, the two lads walked along in silence, when Tom said,—

"Do you know, Jim, I'm half-frozen?"

The rattling teeth emphasized the question.

"I should think you would be. Here's a place of some kind; let's go in and have something to eat, and you can warm yourself."

Jim led the way; and as he pushed open the green-baize doors, which worked on springs, he saw they had entered one of those nondescript shops, so numerous in certain parts of New York, where a person can obtain any kind of alcoholic drink, a cigar, a lunch, a "square meal," or a night's lodging, or all.

Jim recognized the resort, and he would have withdrawn but through sympathy for his shivering companion. The latter could scarcely stand from cold, his clothing was soaked, and, in the keen air, had congealed so that it rattled like tarpauling as he walked.

Just back from the door was a large stove, whose bulging, white-washed cylinder, gleamed red with heat.

Tom immediately stepped up to this and began to thaw himself out.

"Ah, that feels nice!" he laughed to his companion.

"Well, young man, what do you want in here?" asked the bartender, in a sharp, business-like style, bustling from behind the counter with the evident intention of "bouncing" the lads.

"I want to get dry and warm," was the reply of Tom, from whose clothing the steam was beginning to ascend.

"This ain't a shop to dry out boys. Why don't you go home?"

"We haven't any home."

"That's played; go where you stayed last night."

"That's near a hundred miles from here."

Two or three loungers laughed at the rather pert style in which Tom made his replies, though in truth the lad meant no disrespect. The bartender turned red in the face, and was angered at being taken up as he was.

"Hello, my wharf-rat, how did you get so wet?"

"In the water."

"He jumped off the ferry-boat to save a little girl," said Jim, seeing the storm brewing, and desirous of putting in a good word for his friend.

This declaration was received with a guffaw, not one of the hearers believing a word of it.

"Jumped off to get away from the Bobbies," sneered the bartender. "If you don't get out of here quicker'n lightning I'll hand you over to them."

"We can go out if you say so," said Tom, in the same good-natured manner; "but we came in to get our supper and stay all night."

"Have you got the stamps to pay for it?"

"If we hadn't we'd know better than to come in here."

"All right; my terms are a half a dollar apiece for supper and lodging."

"What is it with breakfast?"

"Seventy-five cents."

"We might as well pay you now."

And in his off-hand fashion Tom drew from his water-soaked pocket his portemonnaie, remarking to Jim that they would arrange it between themselves, and handed the exact change to the somewhat surprised bartender and clerk.

That made a difference; and the servant became as obsequious as if he had just recognized in his visitor a millionaire that had dropped in to spend a part of his fortune with him.

The boys were hungry, as may be supposed, and they fell to eating like a couple of famished wanderers. Only a mouthful or two was swallowed when Jim exclaimed,—

"Hello, Tom; where did you get that gold chain?"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Tom, looking up at his friend.

"I'll show you;" and, as Jim spoke, he reached over and unhooked a tiny gold chain from the upper button of his friend's coat, around which it was twined in a singular manner.

More than that, there was a locket attached to it.

"That's the strangest thing I ever heard tell of," said Tom, as he examined the chain and locket. "I never knew it was there till you spoke."

"You must have got it from that girl in the water, when you helped her out."

"That's so! Wait here till I come back!" and with this exclamation the lad sprang up and darted outdoors.

He was gone but a short time, when he returned.

"I've been down to the ferry-house to see whether I could find the woman and give her back her jewelry; but nobody there knows anything about her, and I'll have to keep it till I learn who she is."

On looking at the locket the boys agreed that it was the likeness of the girl that had so narrowly escaped drowning. They admired it a long time, after which Tom carefully put it away, and they finished their supper.

The supper finished, the boys sat in the hot room until Tom's clothing was fully dried, during which process the two were urged to drink fully a score of times, Tom being assured by several that the only way to escape a dangerous cold was to swallow a good supply of gin.

Like sensible lads they steadfastly refused, as they had never tasted spirituous liquors, and never intended to.

Finally, at a late hour, they retired to their humble room, where they were speedily asleep.

On the morrow it was agreed that they would make this place their headquarters, while they looked up something to do. They could separate and spend the day in the search, and return to their lodging-house after dark, both having fixed the location in their minds, and there being little excuse for losing their way, even in such a vast city.

Breakfast was eaten early, and the friends separated, not expecting to see each other till dusk again. Both were in high spirits, for in the clear sunshine of the winter's morning the world looked bright and radiant to them. The hurry and rush of Broadway, the crowds constantly surging forward, each one seemingly intent on his own business, the constant roll and rumble of trade,—all so different from the more sedate city they had left behind.

All these were so new and novel to the lads, threading their way through the great metropolis, that they forgot their real business for a time, and feasted their eyes and ears for hours.

Finally, they roused themselves and went to work. The experience of the two, for a time at least, was very similar. Tom first stopped in a dry-goods house, and asked whether they could give him anything to do. A short "No" was the reply, and the proprietor instantly turned his back upon him. Then he tried a drug-store, where he was treated in the same manner. In a hat and cap store, the rotund clerk tried to chaff him, but he didn't make much of a success of it. In answer to his question, the clerk replied that he didn't need a boy just then, but when he did he would send his carriage around to the Metropolitan for him.

When Tom timidly introduced his errand to an old gentleman in spectacles, as he sat at his desk in a large shipping-office, the old fellow exclaimed in an awed voice,—

"Great Heavens, no! I don't want to hire any boy."

And so it went, hour after hour, until the future, which had looked so beautiful in the morning, gradually became overcast with clouds, and the poor lad was forced to stop and rest from sheer weariness.

He kept it up bravely till night, when he started on his return to his lodgings. He found on inquiry that he was several miles distant, his wanderings having covered more ground than he supposed. He had made over thirty applications, and in no instance had he received one grain of encouragement. In more than one case he had been insulted and ordered from the store, followed by the intimation that he was some runaway or thief.

No wonder that Tom felt discouraged and depressed in spirits as he rode homeward in the street-car. He was so wearied that he dropped down in one corner, where he soon fell asleep, not waking until he had gone fully two miles beyond the point where he should have left the vehicle. This sleep so mixed him up that it was nearly ten o'clock when he reached his hotel, as we may call it.

He was hopeful that Jim would have a better story to tell; but to his amazement, he found that his friend, despite the lateness of the hour, had not yet come back. A shiver of alarm passed over Tom, for he was certain that some dreadful evil had befallen him.

Most likely he had been waylaid and killed in some of the hundred different ways which the police reports show are adopted by the assassins of New York in disposing of their victims.



Chapter X.



Tom's anxiety for his comrade drove all thought of sleep from his eyes for the time; and he sat long in the hot, smoky air of the room down-stairs, in the hope that Jim would come.

It seemed to the watcher that there was an unusually large number of visitors in the house that evening. There was a great deal of drinking and carousing going on, and many of the men gathered there, he was sure, belonged to the lowest grades of society.

A half-dozen foreign nations were represented, and one had but to listen to the talk for a short while to learn that among them were many whom one might well fear to meet on a lonely road at night.

Tom might have felt some dread but for the fact that, rather strangely, these men showed little disposition to engage in any brawl, and no one seemed to notice him.

Late in the evening a couple of policemen came in and waited a while around the stove. They only spoke to the bartender, who treated them with the greatest consideration; but they scrutinized the lad with a curious look, which caused him to wonder whether they held any suspicion of wrong-doing on his part. They said nothing to him, however, and shortly after went out.

Tom's great alarm for Jim drove nearly every other thought from his mind. Late as it was, he would have started out to search for him, could he have formed the least idea of the course to take; but, besides being a stranger in the city, he knew that a single man or a hundred might spend weeks in hunting for one in the metropolis, without the least probability of finding him.

It was near midnight when he concluded to make his way to the room, hoping that Jim would show up before morning.

The sounds of revelry below, mingled with shouts and the stamping of feet, together with the feverish condition of the lad, kept him awake another hour; but at last he fell into a light, uneasy sleep, haunted by all sorts of grotesque, awful visions.

Suddenly he awoke; in the dim light of his little room Tom saw the figure of a man standing by the bed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" whispered the terrified lad, struggling to rise to a sitting position.

"Mebbe ye doesn't know me, but I'm Patsey McConough, and it was mesilf that saw ye shtrike out so boldly last night and save the gal that had fallen overboard, and St. Patrick himself couldn't have done it any better than did yersilf."

"What do you mean by coming into my room this way?" asked Tom, whose fear greatly subsided under the words of the Irishman.

"I come up-stairs to wake ye, for I'm afeard ye are going to have trouble onless ye look mighty sharp."

"What do you mean?"

Patsey carefully closed and bolted the door behind him, and sat down on the edge of the bed, speaking in a low, guarded voice.

"There's a big crowd down-stairs, and Tim's grog is getting to their heads, and they're riddy for any sort of a job. There are a couple of Italian cut-throats, and though I can't understand much of their lingo, yet I cotched enough of the same to make me sartin they mean to rob ye."

"But would they dare try it in the house here?"

"Whisht now, there isn't anything they wouldn't thry, if they thought there was a chance of making a ha'pence at it. They've murdered men afore to-night, and they would just as lief slip up here and cut your wizen as they would ate a piece of macaroni. Whisht now, and I'll give ye the partic'lars and inshtruct ye what to do. It wouldn't be safe for ye to git up and go out, for they'll folly ye and garrote ye afore ye could raich a safe place. I would stay here and watch with ye, but that I've overstayed me time alriddy, and I'll catch thunder whin I git back home, 'cause I can't make the boss belave the raison why I staid. Here's a pistol," added the Irishman, shoving a five-shooter into the hand of the astonished lad, "and ivery barrel is loaded, and it niver misses fire, as the victims can tell ye as have been hit by the same. Do ye take this, bolt yer door, and if anybody comes poking in the room after I'm gone, just bore a hole through him, and then ax him if he ain't ashamed of himself to steal into a private apartment in that shtyle. Take me word for it, he won't come agin."

"I should think not," said Tom, who was dressing himself. "But I don't like the idea of shooting a man."

"Nor do I, but it's loikely to be a chice between shooting him or him shooting ye, and ye are at liberty to decide."

And with a few parting words of caution the Irishman took his departure, first pausing long enough to advise Tom to change his quarters if he was spared until the morrow, and suggesting that the wisest thing he could do was to get out of New York as speedily as he knew how.

As may well be imagined, Tom Gordon was not likely to fall asleep again that night, so, having fully dressed himself, he sat down on the edge of the bed to wait and watch.

A small transom over his door admitted enough light to discern objects with sufficient distinctness in the room, and he carefully shoved the bolt in place, feeling he was prepared for any emergency.

Even with such an exciting subject to occupy his thoughts, he could not fail to wonder and fear for his missing friend. He prayed Heaven to watch over the boy's footsteps and to prevent his wandering into any danger, while the feeling that the poor fellow was already beyond all human help weighed down the heart of Tom like a mountain of lead.

This suspense did not continue long when the watchful lad heard some one ascending the stairs—an action which might mean nothing or a great deal.

The room occupied by the boy was along a narrow hall, perhaps fifty feet in length, the apartment being half that distance from the head of the stairs.

It seemed to Tom that there was an attempt to smother the sound made by the feet, which plainly belonged to two people, though the effort was far from being a success.

"They may be going to their own room, after all"—

The heart of the lad gave a great bound, for at that instant the footsteps paused directly in front of his own door, and he could hear the men muttering to each other in low tones.

"They're looking for me," was the conclusion of the boy, who grasped his pistol more rigidly, and rose to the standing posture.

"If they want me, all they've got to do is to take me."

What was the amazement of the youth to see at this moment, while his eyes were fixed upon the door, the iron bolt slowly move back, without, so far as he could see, the least human agency.

This was a house, indeed, in which such characters were given every facility they could wish to ply their unholy vocation.

Immediately after the fastening went back, the latch was lifted, and the door swung noiselessly inward.

As it did so, a head, covered only with a mass of shock hair, which hung down like pieces of tarred rope, and with the lower part of the face veiled by a black, stringy beard, was thrust far enough within to show the shoulders. Directly behind appeared another face, placed on a shorter body, but none the less repellant in expression, and the two were forcing their way into the room, when they paused.

They seemed to conclude that it would be best to consider the matter further before rushing in there.

Instead of seeing a boy sound asleep in bed, waiting for them to rob him of all his earthly possessions, they found themselves confronted by a wide-awake lad, with his revolver pointed straight at their villainous heads.

"Why don't you come in?" asked Tom, never lowering his weapon.

"Put him down!" said the foremost of the villains, in broken English, hoping to frighten the lad.

"I don't feel like doing it just now," was the reply, while the arm remained as fixed as a bar of iron.

Tom did not intend to shoot unless they advanced upon him; but, not being accustomed to the weapon, he was unaware that a very slight pressure was enough to discharge it. Unconsciously he exerted that slight pressure, and, while the miscreants were glaring in the door, the pistol was fired.

What was more, the bullet struck one of the Italians, who, with a howl of pain, wheeled about and hurried down-stairs, followed by his terror-stricken companion.

Tom was half-frightened out of his wits, and made up his mind that the best thing he could do was to get out of the place without any further delay.

The only way to escape was to go down the stairs, the same as his assailants had done.

It was not a pleasant duty; but, remembering what the Irishman had told him, and filled with an uncontrollable aversion against staying any longer, he hurried out, pausing only long enough to catch up his small bundle of clothing.

In the smoky, hot room down-stairs, the scene was nearly the same as when he left it a couple of hours before to go to bed. The two Italians were invisible, and the little affray up-stairs seemed to have attracted no attention at all. The bartender was too much occupied to notice the lad, who made his way outside into the clear, frosty air, where he inhaled a few deep draughts to give him new life and courage.

He knew not which way to turn, but he was confident he could find some safe lodging-place without going far, and he moved along the street, where there were plenty of pedestrians abroad, even though the hour was so late.

He was quite near the river, and determined not to be caught in such a trap again. He walked slowly, scrutinizing as well as he could the exterior of each building in sight, where the wayfarer and traveler was invited to step within and secure food and lodging.

In this manner he passed several houses, and was on the point of turning into one which seemed to have an inviting look, when his attention was arrested by a lad who was running toward him from the rear.

He was panting and laboring along as though about exhausted.

As he reached the wondering Tom, who stopped and turned aside to let him pass, the stranger paused and said,—

"Say, sonny, just hold that watch, will you, till I come back?"

And before the boy fairly understood the question, the other shoved a gold watch and chain into his hands, then darted into an alleyway and disappeared.

He had scarcely done so when two swift footed policemen came dashing along, as if in pursuit.

"Here he is!" exclaimed one, catching hold of Tom's arm, and dealing him a stunning blow on the head with his locust.

"That's the little imp," added the other, the two guardians of the law pouncing upon the lad as if he were a Hercules, who meant to turn upon and rend them.

"I haven't done anything," remonstrated Tom, feeling that some fearful mistake had been made.

"Shut up, you little thief!" yelled the policeman, whacking him on the head again with his club. "Ah, here is the watch on him! We've been looking for you, my boy, for a month, and we've got you at last."



Chapter XI.



When Tom Gordon comprehended that the two policemen had arrested him on the charge of stealing a gold watch, he understood the trick played upon him by the lad who had handed him the timepiece and then, darted into the alley.

Instead of throwing the property away, as a thief generally does under such circumstances, the young scamp preferred to get a stranger into difficulty.

"I didn't take the watch; that boy handed it"—

"Shet up!" broke in the burly officer.

"But let me finish what I want"—

"Shet up! Heavens and earth! have I got to kill you before you stop that clack of yours?"

The lad saw that the only way to save his crown was to keep quiet, and he did so, trusting that in some way or other the truth would become known, the guilty punished, and the innocent allowed to go free.

One policeman grasped his right and the other his left arm, and they held on like grim death as they marched off toward the station-house.

Turning the next corner, they entered a still lower part of the city, where the darkest crimes of humanity are perpetrated.

Within ten feet of where Tom was walking, he saw under the gas-lamp a poor wretch on the pavement, with two others pounding him.

"Murder! murder!" groaned the victim, with fast-failing strength, vainly struggling to free himself from his assassins.

Tom paused, expecting the policemen, or at least one of them, would rush in and save the man.

On the contrary, they strode along as if they were unconscious of the crime going on right before their eyes.

"They'll kill him," said the horrified boy, "why don't you stop"—

"Shet up!" and down came the club again.

Just then the second policeman added in a severe tone,—

"Young man, we know you; we understand the trick you are trying to play on us; you want us to let go of you and rush in there, and then you'll skip; we're too old birds to be caught with such chaff; we are convinced that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and so, understand, sir, we'll hold on to you!"

But at this juncture, fortunately for the under man, a champion appeared in the person of an Irishman, who with one blow knocked the largest of the assailants so violently backward that he turned a complete reverse somersault, and then lay still several minutes to try and understand things.

The other assailant was using his boot-heel on the prostrate man at that moment, when the Hibernian gave him a couple of blows in lightning-like succession. They landed upon the face of the coward with a sensation about the same as if a well-shod mule had planted his two hind feet there.

He, too, collapsed on the instant, and for a considerable time lost all interest in worldly affairs.

It is hard work to kill a drunken man; and, despite the terrible beating the victim had suffered, he was scarcely relieved of his foes when he staggered to his feet.

"I'm obleeged to ye, young man, for assisting me, as ye did"—

"Dry up!" broke in the impatient Hibernian.

"Talk of being obleeged to me, 'cause I interfared. What did ye let them git ye down fur? That's what I want to know. Git out wid yees!"

And the disgusted champion turned the other fellow about and expressed his opinion of him by delivering a kick, which landed him several feet away.

"That was kind in yees," said the recipient, looking back with the droll humor of the Irish people. "They did their hammering in front, while I resave yees in the rear, and I fale as though they was about equal."

"What's this? what's this?" demanded one of the policemen in a brisk, business-like tone, swinging his locust, and looking sharply about him, as if in quest of some desperado upon whom to vent his wrath.

"It looks as if there was some trouble here."

"It's all done with now," replied the man that had finished it, and then, recognizing the officer, he extended his hand.

"How are ye, Billy?"

"Hello, Pat, is that you?"

"So it is, me, Patsey McConough, that happened down this way on the lookout for a wee boy, when I saw two men beating one, and I jist restored the aquilibrium, as ye may say. But what have ye there?" asked Patsey, peering through the gloom at the figure of a boy in the grip of the other policeman.

"A chap that we jerked for picking pockets; we've been shadowing him for a long time."

The Irishman seemed to suspect the identity of the boy, and, going forward, he took him by the hand, and asked him how it all came about.

Tom told the story as it is known to the reader, when Patsey turned to the policeman.

"There's some mistake here, Billy; that boy never took that watch—I'll bet my life on that. I know him, and the story he tells is the true one, and no mistake."

It didn't take the policeman long to agree with Patsey, and a satisfactory arrangement was made, by which the faithful guardian kept the gold timepiece, and the boy was allowed to go free.

"I didn't feel aisy," said Patsey, as he walked off in company with his young friend, "when I left ye in that place, and I hadn't been gone long whin I made up me mind to go back and fix it, whither the boss was mad or no. Whin I arrived the throuble was over, and ye had started out. I had to guess which way ye wint, but I seemed to hit it, and I was able to do ye a little hilp."

"That you did, indeed," replied the grateful boy. "I would have gone to jail but for you."

"Ye same to be a wide-awake boy, and ye kape yer sinses about ye at all times. Ye are looking for a place to stay?"

"Yes."

"There isn't much of the night left, but I'll find ye what ye want."

A couple of blocks farther, Patsey conducted him into just the house the boy would have picked out for himself, had he been given a week in which to hunt.

Patsey accompanied Tom to his room, where he gave him some earnest advice.

"This is a moighty avil village, is New York, and ye had better get out of the same while ye have the money to do it. It isn't a good thing for a lad to carry a pistol, but I wish ye to kaap the one I lint ye as long as ye are in danger, which is loikely to be all yer life."

"My money is nearly all gone," replied Tom, "and unless I get at something pretty soon, I shall have to beg. I would go out of the city to-morrow if I only had Jim."

"Perhaps it is as well that ye wait where ye are for a few days for him, spinding yer laisure in looking for a job. I'm a coochman in the employ of an old rapscallion of a lawyer, who's stingy enough to pick the sugar out of the teeth of the flies he cotches in his sugar-bowl. I darsn't bring ye there, but if the worst comes and ye haven't anything to ate, I'll fix it some way."

The plan was that Tom should stay in this house, visiting the other morning and evening in quest of information of Jim, while the sunlight would be spent in hunting for work.

It would be useless to dwell on the particulars of the several days which followed. Morning and night Tom went over to the other saloon and inquired after his missing friend. Each time the bartender replied he had not seen him, and it was his belief that the boy had "skipped the town," as he expressed it. The little bundle containing all of Jim's possessions was given to Tom, who took it away with him, leaving word where his friend could find him.

Dull, leaden despair filled his heart; and, as he paid his board-bill each evening, he saw with feelings which can scarcely be pictured, the steady decrease of his pile, until it was close to the vanishing point.

Five days had passed since he entered the new hotel, during which not a word was heard of Jim, nor had he seen anything of his friend Patsey McConough.

It seemed to the boy that he had tramped New York from one end to the other in his search for work, and in not a single instance had he received the slightest encouragement. Two vocations, it may be said, were open to him from the beginning; they were to sell newspapers or to black shoes. To one of Tom's education and former life, it was the most bitter humiliation to contemplate adopting either of these employments. But the night came when he felt he must do it or beg.

He naturally preferred the newspaper line to that of polishing shoes, and he resolve to make his venture early the following morning.

Tom was unusually strong and active for one of his years, and he expected to have trouble from the envy of the other boys.

When he purchased his fifty Heralds, long before daylight, there seemed to be an army of newsboys ahead of him, and he was looked upon and muttered about in the most threatening manner.

He had scarcely reached the sidewalk when he was set upon by a couple of vigorous gamins, with the evident intent of discouraging him in the new business.

The others gathered around to see the fun.

They saw it.

The fiery urchins, though both were as large as, and no doubt older than, Tom, were literally "nowhere" in the fight.

He conquered them in less than a minute without receiving a scratch, and then, turning to the crowd, remarked that if there was any one or two or a dozen there that wanted to tackle him, all they had to do was to come forward. No one came, and Tom sauntered off to sell his newspapers.

It was exceedingly distasteful; but he was spurred on by necessity, and he went at it with the impetuosity of a veteran.

His success was below his expectations.

There seems to be a right way of doing everything, no matter how insignificant, which can only be learned by practice. Despite his natural quickness, Tom failed in more than one respect.

He hadn't the right change in several instances, and the men wouldn't wait while he darted into a store for it, but bought of some other boy who thrust himself forward. No matter where he turned, it seemed to the young hero that some more wide-awake newsboy was ahead of him, leaving only the aftermath for him to gather.

He boarded several of the crowded street-cars, and was kicked off one of them because he accidentally trod on a gouty old gentleman's toes, he being the president of the road.

However, all this, and much more indeed, is the sad accompaniment of the poor little gamins who fight each other in their strife as to who shall have the preference in leaving the morning sheet smoking hot at our doors while we are wrapped in slumber.

After carefully balancing accounts that evening, Tom found he was exactly seven cents ahead.

On the next day he fell nine cents behind, but on the third there was exciting war news, and he not only rushed off his usual supply, and the same number repeated, but he obtained in many instances fancy prices, and cleared several dollars.

This was encouraging, but the day was marked by the greatest mortification of his life.

He had rushed in his impetuous manner into a streetcar, when some one called his name, and he turned about and saw Sam Harper and his sister, both of whom had been his classmates at the Briggsville school, and Tom was accustomed to look upon Nellie as a little above ordinary mortals.

Sam shook hands with Tom, and made some jocose remark about his new business; but Nellie sneered, and looked out the car window.

A high-spirited lad who has experienced anything like this needs not to be told that it cuts like a two-edged sword.



Chapter XII.



For two weeks Tom Gordon prosecuted his vocation as a newsboy in the city of New York, by which time he had gained enough experience to earn his daily bread, but nothing beyond that. Such being the case, he felt that he was not making a success of his calling, as there was no reserve fund upon which to draw for clothing or other necessities.

The greater portion of a month wore by, during which he never gained the slightest knowledge of the fate of Jim Travers.

Tom went to the morgue, and applied to the police, and, in fact, used every means at his command to learn something. He occasionally encountered his friend Patsey, who rendered all the assistance he could, but it availed nothing.

When the fortnight was up, Tom received an unexpected offer, that the Irishman, through some acquaintance, secured for him. It was the opportunity to sell newspapers and periodicals on the Hudson River Railroad. He was to leave New York in the morning, "working the train" on the way up to Albany, and come down again in the afternoon.

This was such a big advance on what he had been doing, that he joyfully accepted the offer, even though he held not the slightest intention of following it as a continuous occupation. It would do very well until he could obtain something more suitable.

The lad found at the end of the first week that he was much better off than he anticipated. The privilege was conceded to him of charging double the price for the papers which was asked on the streets or at the news-stands, and his percentage of profits was very large.

Tom held his position for a couple of months to the satisfaction of his employer, and he had accumulated quite a sum, which was deposited in a savings-bank that wasn't likely to "suspend" for the benefit of the officers.

Spring had opened, the Hudson was clear of ice, and his business became quite agreeable.

It happened that he encountered, on several occasions, some of his former friends of Briggsville, who could not conceal their surprise at seeing him engaged in selling newspapers.

Tom could not always keep back the flush that stole over his handsome face at such times. But he began to believe there was a nobility in honest labor like his, of which he had no right to feel ashamed.

There were any number of young fellows who envied him his position, and who were ready to use all sorts of artifices to have him "bounced." Slanderous reports were carried to his employers, who took measures to investigate them, reaching the conclusion that Tom was without a superior in the way of integrity, politeness, and faithfulness.

The tiny gold chain and locket obtained from the drowning girl in so singular a manner, he preserved with a religious devotion. It was deposited in the savings-bank, beyond all danger of loss, and he would have starved to death before consenting to part with it.

The sweet face within the locket was as vividly fixed in his memory as if the original were a sister of his, and he never passed through the train without looking around, in the hope of seeing the little girl herself.

The only sister which Tom had ever had died in infancy, and there was something which linked the memory of the two in the tenderest and most sacred manner.

There were true modesty and manhood in the noble fellow, when he overheard a visitor in his employer's office relate the incident of the rescue, without suspecting that the hero stood before him, and never dropped the slightest intimation that he knew anything about it.

One bright spring morning Tom was passing through the smoking-car, when a young man, very flashily dressed, whistled to him, and asked for a copy of a sporting paper.

Tom had but a single copy left. This he tossed over into the lap of the applicant in that careless, off-hand style which characterizes the veteran newsboy.

The purchaser passed over a quarter in coin, and as Tom pulled out a handful of silver from his pocket, from which to select the change, the flashy young man said,—

"Never mind, sonny; I'll make you a present of that."

"But you have given me five times the price of the paper," said Tom, thinking there was an error.

"That's all right. When I see a fellow of your style I like to encourage him."

Tom thanked him and passed on.

The incident would not be worth recording but for the fact that it was repeated the next day, when the same young man bought a Herald, and compelled the lad to accept a bright silver quarter in payment, without allowing him to give any change.

Six times on successive days was this done, and then the liberal purchaser disappeared from the train.

Aside from the repetition of his favors, it was rather curious that on each occasion he should have placed a silver quarter in the palm of Tom.

Each coin was of the same date as that year, and was so bright and shiny that Tom believed they must have come directly from the mint. They looked so handsome, indeed, that he determined to keep them as pocket-pieces, instead of giving them out in change.

There is nothing like actual experience to sharpen a fellow's wits; and, on the first day the munificent stranger vanished, a dim suspicion entered the head of Tom that some mischief was brewing.

That night in New York he examined the coins more minutely than heretofore. Half an hour later he walked down to the wharf and threw them into the river.

The whole six were counterfeit. It wasn't safe for any one to carry such property about him.

Tom was strongly convinced, further, that a job was being "put up" on him, and he was mightily relieved when thoroughly rid of them.

That same evening one of his employers sent for him, and told him that he had received reliable information that he, Thomas Gordon, was working off counterfeit money on the road.

The boy denied it, of course, but he did not choose to tell all he knew, for he saw that his own situation was a dangerous one; but he demanded that the proof should be produced.

There was an officer present, who thereupon searched the lad for the "queer," but he acknowledged there wasn't a penny on him which was not sound.

Tom was kept at the office while another officer went to his lodging-house and ransacked his room. The result was nil. This rather stumped the detective, who was acting on the charge of some one else, and he started off, remarking that the business wasn't done yet, and the best thing the boy could do was to confess.

"I must first have something to confess," replied Tom, who was excusable for some honest indignation.

"Where is the man who said I was in that business?"

"You'll meet him in the court-room," was the significant reply of the detective.

"That's just where I'd like to meet him, and you too, but you're afraid to try it."

"Come, come, young man, you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll jug you as it is. I've enough against you."

"Why don't you do it, then?" was Tom's defiant question; "I've learned enough during the last few minutes to understand my rights, and if you think I don't, now's the time to test it."

The officer went out muttering all sorts of things; and Tom, turning to his employer, his breast heaving with indignation, said,—

"They have been plotting against me ever since I've been on the road. They went with all kinds of stories to you, and now they've been trying to make it appear that I am in the counterfeit business."

"But there must have been something tangible, or that detective would not have come here with the charge."

"There was something;" and thereupon Tom told the story of the six shining quarters.

His employer was angered, for he saw through it all; and from the description of the donor, he recognized a worthless scamp who had been discharged for stealing some time before Tom went on the route. The detective was sent for, and the case laid before him. That night Mr. Dick Horton, who made the charge, was arrested, and in his rooms were found such proofs against him as a counterfeiter that, a few months later, he went to Sing Sing for ten years.

For a time succeeding this incident Tom was left undisturbed in the pursuit of his business, the occurrence becoming pretty generally known and causing much sympathy for him.

It was about a month subsequent that Tom missed his afternoon train down the river, and took another, which left later, not reaching New York till late at night.



As there was nothing for him to do, the train being in the hands of another newsboy, he sat down in the smoking-car, which was only moderately filled. Directly in front was a man who, he judged from his dress, was a Texan drover, or some returning Californian He was leaning back in the corner of his seat, with his mouth open and his eyes shut, in a way to suggest that he was asleep.

Seated next him was an individual who looked very much like the Italian who had shoved his head into the door of Tom's room some months before. This foreigner was watching the Californian—if such he was—as a cat watches a mouse.

"I believe he means to rob him," was Tom's conclusion, who, without being suspected by the scoundrel, was taking mental notes of the whole proceeding.

The supposition was confirmed within five minutes, when the Italian, leaning over toward the other, in an apparently careless manner, began cautiously inserting his hand into his watch-pocket.

The instant Tom saw this, he bent forward and shook the Californian's shoulder so vigorously that he started up, and demanded in a gruff voice what was the matter. The Italian, of course, had withdrawn his hand like a flash, and was leaning the other way, with his eyes half-closed, like one sinking into a doze.

"I saw that man there," said Tom, pointing to the Italian, "with his hand in your pocket, about to steal your watch, and I thought I'd best let you know."

"Is that so?" demanded the stranger, a giant in stature, as he laid his immense hand on the shoulder of the other, who started up as if just aroused from sleep, and protested in broken English that he was not aware of being seated with the gentleman at all.

His vehement declarations seemed to raise a doubt in the mind of the Californian, who began an examination of his pockets. He found everything right, and so declared.

"He was just beginning operations," said Tom in explanation, "when I woke you."

"Bein' as he ain't took nothin', I won't knock the head off him," said the Californian, as he announced himself to be; "but he ain't any business to look so much like a sneaking dog, so I'll punch him on general principles."

Whereupon he gave the fellow such a resounding cuff that he flopped out of the seat, and, scrambling to his feet, hurried out of the car.

The Californian thanked Tom, and then resumed his nap.

In half an hour Tom found the tobacco-smoke so oppressive that he rose to go into the next car. On the platform stood the discomfited Italian, who seemed to be waiting for revenge.

"You lie of me," he muttered, before Tom suspected his danger. "I show you."

With a quick push he gave the lad a violent shove, thrusting him entirely off the platform and out upon the ground, fortunately clear of the rushing wheels.



Chapter XIII.



The speed with which the train was running at the time Tom Gordon was pushed off was such that he was thrown forward with great violence upon the hard earth, where he lay senseless, with his leg broken and a number of severe bruises about his body.

The only one who saw his fall was the miscreant that caused it; and it is not necessary to say he made no alarm, and the train went whirling on to its destination.

Tom's employers knew nothing of the accident; and putting on a temporary substitute, they were constrained to believe, after several days' silence, that he had left their service, some two or three boys coming forward to declare that they had heard Tom say that such was his intention, as he had received a good offer on the Erie road. The substitute was given to understand that his situation was permanent, and the ill-used Tom was thus thrown out of his situation.

After lying an hour or so on the ground he came to, and finding he was in a sad plight, he set up a series of yells, which soon brought assistance in the shape of a passing farmer, who lifted him into his wagon, carted him home, and played the good Samaritan.

A physician was summoned, the broken limb set, and the patient was told that all he had to do was to do nothing but lie still and get strong. The farmer agreed that he should stay there, especially as the patient gave him to understand that he would pay him for the service.

Here we leave Thomas Gordon for the time in good hands, while we turn our attention to his friend, James Travers, who has been waiting too long for notice.

The reader will recall that the morning succeeding the rescue of the little girl from the river the two boys started out to hunt up something to do in New York. The experience of both was quite similar through the greater portion of the day, and we have dwelt fully upon what befell Tom.

Jim, with no better success, and fully as discouraged, set out on his return, as the cold, wintry night was closing in, and he reached the long, open street along the river without any incident worth notice; but while walking wearily along, and when not far from his lodging-place, he was accosted by a well-dressed man, who placed his hand on his shoulder and said, in a pleasant voice,—

"I think you are looking for something to do, my son?"

"Yes, sir," was Jim's reply, his heart bounding with renewed hope at the prospect of employment.

"Are you willing to do anything?"

"Anything that's honest and right."

"I wouldn't ask you to do what was not right," added the stranger, as if he was hurt at the idea.

"What is it you want me to do?"

"How would you like to work on a vessel?"

"I was never on a ship in my life," said Jim, frightened at the thought of the perils of the sea.

"That don't make any difference: you wouldn't have to serve as a sailor, but as a sort of a cabin-boy; and not exactly that, either. I am the owner of the boat, and want a clerk—a boy who can write letters, keep my accounts, and make himself generally useful. I like your looks, and you impress me as a boy of education."

"I think I could do all you ask; but where does your vessel sail?"

"Oh, she ain't a foreign ship, only a small schooner, engaged in the coasting-trade down along the Jersey shore, sometimes going as far as the capes, and occasionally making a trip up the Hudson. As navigation has closed on the river, we sha'n't go up there before Spring."

"I think I would like the job," said Jim, who felt as if the vision shown by Aladdin's lamp was opening before him. "What pay will you give if I suit you?"

"I am willing to pay well for the boy. It will be twenty dollars a week and found"—-

"What!" exclaimed the astounded Jim, "did you say twenty dollars a week?"

"That's just what I said. I'm one of those who are willing to pay well for what they want."

"I'll take the situation; when do you want me to go?"

"As soon as possible—what do you say for to-morrow?"

"That will suit, as I have nothing in the world to do; I only want to run down to the hotel and tell Tom."

"Who's Tom?"

"He's the boy that came with me from home; he'll be mightily pleased when he hears the news."

"Suppose you walk down with me, and take a look at the boat; it isn't far off."

As Jim could see no reason for refusing, and as he hadn't the slightest thought of wrong, he replied that he would be glad to accept the invitation; and the two started off toward the wharves.

The well-dressed gentleman, who gave his name as Mr. Hornblower, kept up a running chat of the most interesting nature to Jim, who was sure he was one of the finest persons he ever met. The walk was considerably longer than Jim expected, and the man acted as if he had lost his way. He finally recovered himself, and, pausing where a number of all kinds of boats were gathered, he said that his schooner, the Simoon, lay on the outside, and was to be reached by passing over the decks of several other boats.

These lay so close, that there was no difficulty or danger in traveling over them, and they soon reached the deck of a trim-looking schooner, which was as silent and apparently as deserted as the tomb. Reaching the cabin, a light was seen shining through the crevices, and Mr. Hornblower drew the small door aside, and invited his young companion to descend.

Jim did so, and found himself in an ordinary-looking cabin, quite well furnished, and supplied with a couple of hammocks.

A small stove was burning, and the temperature was exceedingly pleasant after the bleak air outside, where the raw wind blew strongly up the bay.

"I wouldn't want a better place than this to stay," said the delighted lad, taking a seat on a camp-stool.

"Then I'll let you stay a while."

These strange words were uttered by the man who stood outside the door, looking in at the lad with an odd smile on his countenance.

"What do you mean?" asked Jim, filled with a terrible fear.

"I mean just this: I want you to stay on the boat for the present. If you keep quiet and do what is told you, you won't be hurt; but if you go to howling and kicking up a rumpus, you'll be knocked in the head and pitched overboard."

"But tell me why you have brought me here?" asked Jim, swallowing the lump in his throat, and looking pleadingly up to the cruel stranger. "What do you want of me?"

"We want a big thing of you, as you'll learn before long; but you mustn't ask too many questions, nor try to get away, nor refuse to do what is told you. If you do, your clock will be wound up in short order; but remember what I've told you, and you'll be released after a while, without any harm to you. I will now bid you good-night."

With this the man shut and fastened the door of the cabin, using a padlock to do so.

The lad heard his footsteps as he walked rapidly over the deck, leaping upon those adjoining, and quickly passing up the wharf.

"Well, this beats everything," remarked Jim with a great sigh, sitting down again on the camp-stool.

As he sat thus in deep thought, it seemed to him, more than once, as if it was all a hideous dream, and he pinched himself to make sure it was not.

What it all meant was more than he could figure out, or even guess. The only possible solution he could hit upon was that this Hornblower, as he called himself, was in need of a cabin-boy, or perhaps a sailor, and he took this rather summary way of securing one, without the preliminary of obtaining the consent of the party most concerned.

Whoever Mr. Hornblower might be, it looked as if he had made elaborate preparations for the game played with such success.

"Poor Tom will be worried to death when he finds nothing of me," was the natural fear of Jim, while turning over in his mind the extraordinary situation in which he was placed. Despite the warning uttered by his captor before leaving, the boy stole up the steps and stealthily tried the door. It was fastened too securely for him to force it.

As he sat down again in the chair, he heard feet on the deck, and he concluded that his master had come back to see whether all was right.

But the fellow did not touch the cabin-door; and a minute later the lad noticed that two men were moving about, then the sounds showed that the sail was being hoisted. He could distinguish their words as they exchanged directions, and it was not long before the rippling water told that the schooner was under way.

"Like enough they have started for China or the Cape of Good Hope, and I won't see Tom again for years."

He sat still in the cabin, which was lit by a lamp suspended overhead, and which soon became so warm from the stove and confined air, that he did what he could to cool off the interior.

He had just finished this when he felt a draught of cold air, and looking up, saw an ugly face peering down on him from the cabin door.

"Hello, you're down there, are you?" called out the man; "how do you like it?"

"It's getting rather warm," answered Jim, hoping to make the best of a bad business.

"If you find it too hot, come on deck and air yourself."

The lad accepted the invitation, and hastily ascended the few steps, his chief object being to learn where he was.

Looking about in the gloom, he observed a ship under full sail on the right, and a little farther off one on the left. In the former direction he thought he discerned a faint dark line close to the water, which he supposed showed where the shore lay.

"Then we are putting out to sea," was his conclusion, while he shivered in the keen wind which swept over the deck.

The schooner had her mainsail and foresail up, both bellying far outward under the impulse of the wind, while the hull keeled far over to the right in response, and the foaming water at the bow told that she was making her way at high speed toward her destination, wherever that might be.

As well as Jim could make out in the gloom, neither of the two men who were managing the vessel was Hornblower.

"Where are we bound?" asked the prisoner, turning upon the one who invited him to come out of the cabin.

"To the moon," was the unsatisfactory response.

Jim said no more, for he was afraid he might offend the fellow by pressing his inquiries.

"I guess you'd better go below and sleep, for the likes of you ain't of any use here."

The boy did as advised.

He saw no preparations for eating, but he was so wearied and anxious that he felt little appetite; and, throwing himself in one of the hammocks, he committed himself to the care of Heaven, and was soon asleep.

He never opened his eyes till roused by the smell of burning meat, and looking up, saw one of the men cooking in the cabin, instead of on deck, as it seemed to the lad ought to have been the case.

He now took a good survey of the countenances of the men. They did not look particularly wicked, though both were hard and forbidding.

They paid scarcely any attention to the boy, but gave him to understand that he was at liberty to eat if he wished.

Jim did so, and as soon as the meal was finished strolled on deck.

From the direction of the morning sun he saw they were sailing southward, and the long stretch of land on the right he concluded must be the Jersey coast.



Chapter XIV.



Such a bleak and piercing wind swept across the deck of the Simoon that Jim Travers was glad to spend most of his time in the cabin, where a warm fire was always going.

The first day out the boy succeeded in picking up a few scraps of knowledge, which served rather to deepen than to clear up the mystery of his abduction.

The schooner was a good sailer, and was well furnished with coal, wood, water, and provisions, as if she were intended for a long voyage. There was no real cargo, as he could see; and the two men who managed the craft did not drop a word which could give any clew as to their destination.

It can scarcely be said that they treated the boy well or ill. Their conduct was more of the character of indifference, since they paid not the least attention to him, further than to notify him to keep out of their way.

This indifference might be considered kindness, inasmuch as it relieved the boy from attempting work which would have proven of a perilous nature. This also relieved him in a great measure of the fear which made existence a burden during the first twenty-four hours.

On the third morning out from New York, Jim made the discovery that the rising sun was on his right, from which it was certain he was sailing toward the north. Other evidence led him to conclude, from his knowledge of geography, that they had entered Delaware Bay, and were approaching Philadelphia.

"It's a queer way of getting back home again," was the reflection of the boy when convinced of the fact.

However, the Simoon did not propose to visit the Quaker City just then, and she came to anchor in a broad part of the bay, fully a half-mile from shore.

It was late in the afternoon that this stop was made; and just as night was closing in, a small boat containing two persons was discerned rowing out from land. When they were nigh enough to board the schooner, Jim saw that one was Mr. Hornblower, and the other was a herculean negro, who was swaying the oars with the ease of a professional.

As both came on deck, the white man signified to the lad that he was to follow him into the cabin, where the door was shut, and they sat down facing each other.

"I might as well own that I deceived you when I pretended I wanted to hire a clerk," began Hornblower, "but I had good reason for doing so; that reason I can't give for the present. Now," and here Mr. Hornblower took a pencil and note-book from his pocket, "I want to know your full name and exact age."

These were truthfully given and carefully written down.

"Now I want to know all about your parents, their age, your father's business, and various other matters which I shall ask you."

Jim had no reason to decline any information he was able to give, and he furnished all his captor desired to know.

When the examination was finished, the note-book was closed, and Mr. Hornblower asked, in the most friendly of tones,—

"Have they used you well?"

"They have," was the truthful reply.

"Do you know why?"

"I suppose because you instructed them to do so."

"It's not that, but because you behaved yourself; you haven't made any trouble."

"I don't intend to do that, for there's nothing to gain by it. I haven't any work to do, and may as well stay here as anywhere else."

"Remember what I told you; so long as you keep quiet you are safe, but only on those conditions."

As the man rose to go, Jim plucked up enough courage to ask,—

"Will you be kind enough to let me know where we are going, and why it is you make a prisoner of me?"

"Since you have behaved so well I suppose I might as well do so."

Hornblower opened his mouth to impart the information, when he changed his mind and shook his head.

"It is scarcely best at present; good-evening."

As there seemed to be no objection to following him on deck, Jim did so, much disappointed that he did not secure the information which was almost his.

Hornblower stepped down into a boat and rowed off toward shore, leaving the huge negro behind. It had become so dark that the boat, with its single occupant, speedily faded from view in the night, though the sound of the regularly swaying oars came back distinctly across the water until shore was reached.

Jim was glad that the African, whom he heard addressed as Sam, was left behind. He saw he was a good-natured fellow, and he believed he would be able to gain something from him.

After supper was eaten, the schooner hoisted anchor and moved several miles up the river, when it again lay to for the night.

Jim Travers went to bed again as much mystified as ever over the explanation of his imprisonment on board the boat. Aside from this inscrutable ignorance there was nothing very unpleasant, and he would have been willing to make quite a lengthy stay, whether he received any wages or not.

During the bitter cold weather, any one situated as he was might be thankful if he could secure lodging for the winter.

"They needn't be so afraid of my running away," he often said to himself, "for I would not be so foolish as to do that when I don't know where to go. All that I wish is that they would give me the chance to send a letter to Tom and let him know where I am. The poor fellow must be greatly worried over me."

He ventured to ask whether he would be permitted to send a letter ashore, but the refusal was given in such an angry manner that he regretted making it.

Several days now followed, during which the schooner beat up and down Delaware Bay without making a landing.

One night the vessel was caught in such a terrific blow that she came within a hair of being driven on the Jersey shore. The two men, however, were fine sailors, and assisted by the negro Sam, who was also an expert, they safely rode through the gale.

In the course of a week they approached the wharves at Philadelphia, where they were boarded by the proper officers. The latter seemed to find everything all right on board the schooner, and departed, apparently without noticing the boy standing near, who watched their motions with great interest.

The Simoon lay at the wharf all night, which was unusually mild for that season of the year.

The cabin door was open and the negro was on duty, while one of the men was asleep in the hammock over Jim's head.

The second sailor had gone up-town somewhere, and there was no telling when he would return.

The lad was nearly asleep, when he heard footsteps on deck; and in the dim light from the lamp he observed the missing sailor coming down the steps, followed closely by Hornblower. When they were fairly within they shut the door, and the seaman turned up the wick of the lamp overhead.

A fancy struck Jim at this moment that he would pretend he was unconscious, though he had little hope of gaining anything by it.

As soon as the light filled the apartment, Hornblower looked over at the two forms stretched out in the hammocks, and asked in a whisper,—

"Are they asleep?"

The sailor leaned over each in turn, and carefully surveyed the features and listened to the breathing.

"Yes; they don't know any more than a couple of logs."

"I wouldn't have the boy overhear us for the world."

"There ain't any danger of that."

Thus believing, the two men talked business straight along.

"It won't do to stay here any longer," said Hornblower.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous; you was such a fool yesterday as to allow the boy on deck when the officer was there, and he couldn't help noticing him."

"But they didn't speak to each other, and if the officer had suspected anything he would have showed it."

"Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't; you must know that the boy's photograph has been scattered over the country, and he is likely to be recognized by any countryman."

"How are you making out with the negotiations?"

"It all looks well enough, if you don't spoil it by your tomfoolery. I should not have been surprised to find you had allowed him to go ashore to look around a little. You must leave here to-morrow morning. You ought to start to-night."

"I can do so if you wish it," said the sailor, rather sulkily.

"It might draw suspicion to you. No, you can wait till daylight, and then be off."

"It shall be done."

"We have managed to throw everybody off the scent pretty well. They seem to have all sorts of theories except the right one. It has got into the newspapers, of course. Some think the boy has been taken to England, others that he is in the South, and others have sworn that he has been seen in company with a man and woman in Canada; but no one imagines as yet that he is on board the schooner Simoon, in the Delaware."

"How have you made out in your correspondence with the guardians?"

"They have agreed to give me ten thousand dollars if I restore the boy to them, and I have concluded to take it; but you understand, Bob, that it's a mighty delicate matter to handle."

"I rather think it is," growled Bob in reply; "for if they manage to handle us, we'll fetch up in State prison as sure as we live."

"We'd be glad to get there away from the mob," said Hornblower; "for, the way people feel over this business, they would act like a lot of famished lions toward us."

"If they agree to give what you ask, why don't you turn over the chap to them and have done with the whole business? I'm getting tired of dodging about in this fashion, never knowing when they're going to drop down on us, and feeling as if the prison-door was open just ahead. It's got to be wound up pretty soon, or I'll step out and let you finish it yourself."

"Have patience," said Hornblower in a conciliatory voice; "it will all come right, for we've the game in our own hands."

"Why the delay, then?"

"There's fear of the police; they mixed in, and they're bound to scoop us if they can, and cheat us out of the money."

"There's been a big reward offered by the guardians themselves?"

"Yes. The officers have that as well as the glory of victory to urge them on, and they won't let a chance slip."

"Have you put it to the guardians strong?"

"You'd better believe I have. I told them that at the first attempt they made to play us false, the boy would be sent home to them in a coffin. They understand that."

"Then, why don't they play square?"

"They would if it wasn't for the detectives. But with the help of the parents I think we can pull through all straight."

"In how long a time?"

"Two or three weeks. In the meantime go on south, and I'll keep track of you and let you know what to do."

With these parting directions the conversation ended. Mr. Hornblower produced a flask of whisky, the two drank each other's health, and the visitor departed.

Shortly after Bob, the sailor, turned in for the night.



Chapter XV.



Jim Travers, as he lay in his hammock, overheard every word which the two men had said, and considerable more to the same effect.

Unusually bright and mentally strong as he was, he comprehended it all, and read the scheme as if in a printed book.

Hornblower, seeing him making his way along the wharf in New York, had formed the plan of abducting him, and then securing a large reward from the parents or guardian for his return. Accordingly he stole and placed him in charge of his gang on the schooner, and then began negotiations with the guardians for his return.

Here a strange combination of circumstances came about.

One of the most pathetic facts that came to light regarding the abduction of Charley Ross, was the great number of other children that have been found who had been lost for months and years.

There can be no doubt that a regularly organized system of child-stealing prevails in this country, and there are at this hour hundreds of mothers and fathers separated from their beloved offspring through the deviltry of these kidnappers.

Hornblower must have supposed, from the appearance of Jim Travers, that he was the son of well-to-do parents, who would "come down" handsomely for his return. The extraordinary part of the business was, that, on the morning succeeding Jim's abduction, there appeared in the papers an account of the disappearance of a boy from Philadelphia, with the promise of a liberal reward for any information that would lead to his return. This account did not correspond entirely with the circumstances under which Jim was taken, but the main facts were such that Hornblower was satisfied he had the right lad in his keeping.

When Hornblower questioned Jim so closely in the cabin and took down his replies, he had not a particle of doubt that the boy was telling him a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end. Toward the close of the examination, however, it began to dawn on the abductor that possibly he had made an error. Be that as it might, he was none the less convinced that he had a bonanza in his hands, and one which could be made to serve him as well as the original himself.

His captive corresponded so closely to the one advertised that he could be made to pass muster as such, and the reward secured. This, it would seem, was almost an impossible task, but Hornblower was confident of success.

This explanation will serve to show why he took the precautions which had excited the impatience of his confederate, Bob.

Jim Travers did not know all this, but he easily understood from the conversation of the two conspirators that he had been stolen for the sake of making money out of his return.

"What a great mistake they have made," he thought; "there isn't any one in the wide world that would give three cents to have me returned."

He concluded to stay quietly on board the schooner and let matters take their course, as it did not occur to him that any personal danger might arise from future complications. Could he have dreamed of what was coming, he would have jumped overboard and risked drowning in his attempt to reach land.

Jim had learned enough from the conversation in the cabin to keep him awake until midnight. It was near morning when he dropped off into slumber, which was not broken until the forenoon of the succeeding day was half gone.

When he went on deck, he saw that the schooner was far below the city, and standing straight toward the ocean. The weather was again cold, so he kept within the cabin most of the time.

That night the negro Sam complained of feeling unwell, and threw his massive form into his hammock, in the hope of becoming better after a short rest. His sickness was not of a serious nature; but when such a big man falls ill there is a great deal of it, and the African instantly formed the belief that he was going to die, certain sure.

He groaned, and cried, until Jim himself became frightened, and went on deck to ask the others to look after him. They replied that there was nothing the matter with Sam, and that he would soon come around all right.

Jim did his best to relieve the negro, giving him the few simple remedies at hand, in the hope that he would drop off to sleep. Sure enough, in the course of half an hour Sam did fall asleep, and when he awoke, an hour later, was well; and, fully appreciating Jim's kind attentions, said to him, leaning on his enormous elbow in the hammock,—

"Tell you what, sonny, yous been mighty kind to me, and I'll remember you, dat's what I'll do."

"You would have done the same for me, Sam."

"S'pose I would; but dar ain't many dat would hab done it for me, and I won't forget you. But wasn't I 'bout de sickest coon dat you eber seen?"

"You seemed to feel very bad," replied Jim.

"Feel bad? you'd better beleib I did! Do you know what de matter wid me?"

"No."

"I had de Norf American cholera; dat's worse dan de African. I also had the pneumonia, and de bronchitis, and de measles, and de small-pox, and the cholly-wampus—all at the same time. Do you wonder dat I groaned?"

"I shouldn't think you could groan at all, if you had so many diseases as that."

"Dar's war my toughness and wrastling powers show themselves. I just wrastled and wrastled, and I frowed 'em all."

Sam swung his huge legs out of the hammock, took a seat near Jim, and, reaching out, he gently closed his immense fist around the little white hand of the boy. Then leaning forward until his black face, as broad as the moon, was almost against Jim's, he whispered,—

"Yous been mighty kind to me, sonny, and, as I obsarved befor', I ain't de one to forget it. Now, don't you disremember what I toles you. You tink it's all nice and pleasant here on de boat, and so it am jis' now, but dar's breakers ahead! Dat boss ob mine am one ob de biggest debbils dat am runnin' loose. Ef I should tell yous all dat I know 'bout him, your hair would rose up and stick frough de roof wid horror. Can you swim, sonny?"

"I am a good swimmer."

"Berry well; I'm mighty glad to hear dat; it's likely dat you'll hab to swim for your life one ob dese days. Don't roll your eyes so—I don't mean dat we's going to be wracked. But what I want to say am dat you must keep mum, and don't let on dat you don't know nuffin. Don't act as though you and me was much friends when de rest am 'bout, but you know dat I'm jis' de best one dat you'll eber find."

"I understand all that," said Jim, who saw that the plan was only a simple precaution against drawing suspicion to them; "but I had no thought that any one would want to hurt me."

"Yous young, and don't understand dem tings like us better eddycated gem'man. Old Hornblower am trying to sell you; and if he can't do it, and tinks dat de ossifers am coming down on him, why he'll jis' chuck you oberboard and dar'll be de end ob it. You see, yous a purty big boy to steal, and if he lets you go, he'll be likely to hear from you again."

Jim thanked his new friend from the bottom of his heart, and asked him what was the best thing to do.

"Run away!" was the emphatic reply.

"But I don't get any chance when they're close to shore. I am watched all the while, and they are so far off at other times that I hardly dare try it."

"I'll tell yous what to do; jis' wait till I lets you know dat de time am come."

Jim agreed to this, and the African shortly after went on deck, while the boy turned in for the night.

From this time forth the captive lost his reckoning altogether, and could form no definite idea of the part of the world in which they were cruising. He supposed they were somewhere along the Virginia or North Carolina coast. At intervals of a day or two they ran in within sight of some town, and the sailor known as Bob went ashore in the boat.

On these occasions there could be no doubt that he met Hornblower, and that the schooner was playing her part in a drama which was likely to end in a tragedy.

Fortified by the presence of such a friend as the negro Sam, Jim determined to write a note to Tom, telling him what had happened, and promising to return to him as soon as possible.

He had no trouble securing paper and the occasion; and when finished, he intrusted the missive to Sam, with the strictest injunctions to drop it into the office at the first town where he landed.

The negro did his best, and a week later, when he went ashore, he inquired for the post-office, which he found after much trouble and delay. But he had lost the letter, and truth compelled him to report the sad fact to his young friend.

After that Jim did not run the risk of a second attempt.

"Providence will bring me out all right some day," was his conclusion; "and then Tom and I will talk it all over."

The schooner coasted up and down for weeks and months, until spring.

During this period she had spent days in ports where Jim could not gain the chance to find out the name of the town even.

Sam's ignorance was so dense that even if he heard the place called out, he could not remember it ten minutes.

Several times Hornblower had appeared on board the vessel; but he held no communication with Jim, nor could the latter gain any additional knowledge of how he was progressing with his negotiations.

In the presence of others there was always a coolness between Sam and the boy, and it was impossible that either of the sailors should have suspected the strong friendship that bound the two together.

The fact that the vessel was working her way northward again made Jim uneasy; for it convinced him that a crisis was at hand, and his fate was likely to be determined one way or the other very soon.

Sam was of the same belief, as he took occasion to say when the chance offered. Adding that he would keep his eyes and ears open.

On a beautiful day in spring the Simoon entered New York Bay, and Jim resolved to seize the first opportunity to escape. The sight of the great city filled him with such longings to see his old friend Tom, that he could scarcely conceal his impatience from the others.

A grievous disappointment awaited him.

So strict a surveillance was kept over him, that no artifice was sufficient to secure the coveted chance.

That night Hornblower was on board, and a long and angry conference took place forward between him and Bob.

Jim would have given the world could he have learned what it was; but neither he nor Sam was allowed to catch a single expression.

The next morning the Simoon left the wharf and started up the Hudson. Mr. Hornblower had decided to effect a "change of venue."



Chapter XVI.



But for the dark fear which impended over him, James Travers would have looked upon his sail up the Hudson on that spring morning as one of the most delightful experiences of his life.

The sky was clear as Italy's; the air was balmy, and the steamers and shipping on the broad stream, as well as the roar of the train thundering along shore, formed an element in the romantic scenery which has well given the name of the Rhine of America to that noble river.

But the boy had little heart for all these. He was speculating upon the probabilities of the near future.

It was during the afternoon, while gliding up the river, that they passed so close to a downward-bound steamer that the features of the passengers on deck were plainly seen.

Jim was leaning idly on the gunwale, looking at them, when he observed a lady, with a child seated beside her, the mother pointing out to the child the varied beauties of the scene as they moved swiftly by. He straightened up on the instant, as if he had received an electric shock; for the conviction came like a flash that he had seen the face of that child before.

But where? He might as well have asked himself what there was in such a sweet, angelic countenance to affect him so strangely.

Ah! he had it. That was the girl that Tom had rescued from the icy water the winter before.

Going in opposite directions, and with such speed, the steamer and schooner were soon far apart, and the straining gaze of the lad was unable to tell where the mother and child were seated.

The two had not even looked at him, and he could only sigh that the glimpse was such a passing one.

"I wonder whether Tom has ever seen them since. He would be a great deal more delighted than I."

The Simoon sailed steadily upward till the day wore by, by which time she was a good many miles above the metropolis.

It was no more than fairly dark when Sam managed to whisper in the ear of the boy,—

"You mus' leab de boat to-night!"

These were alarming words, though the lad could not understand how harm to him was to benefit any one, unless it was that Hornblower and his confederates were afraid of the consequences of discovery, and prefered to act on the principle that dead boys can tell no tales.

The night was pleasant, with a faint moon, and the Simoon dropped anchor within a few hundred yards of shore.

The distance was one that Jim could swim with ease. All he asked was the opportunity.

The two sailors seemed to suspect some scheme of escape was in the boy's head, or else they must have noticed the chance was a very tempting one.

"Why should they think I want to run away," Jim asked himself, "when I've had a hundred chances before to-day?"

Why it was they were more than usually careful it was hard to understand; but that such was the fact could not be overlooked.

It might be they were watching for the arrival of some one else, or, knowing that something important was on hand for that night, they were on the alert.

Poor Sam was in a state of great agitation, and made an awkward attempt to assist his young friend.

He offered to act as watch through the night, but the offer was declined.

They intended to keep the decks themselves.

"Dar's mischief a-brewin'," he whispered, "and yous had better git out ob dis unarthly place jist as quick as de good Lord will let you."

Which was precisely what Jim meant to do, as soon as Providence would open the way.

As the only chance was by a bold stroke, and as there was no telling the precise moment when the danger would burst upon him, Jim Travers did not wait long.

Creeping softly up the short stairs, Jim raised his head barely enough to see where the crew were.

The two sailors were standing aft, talking together in low tones. Probably they were discussing at that very moment the best plan of disposing of the boy, who had become a dangerous encumbrance to them and their employer.

It was more than likely that Hornblower had failed in his attempt to secure a ransom for the child, who was not the one for whom the other parties were negotiating.

The age of the captive was such that his liberty would prove fatal to his abductors.

Sam, the burly negro, was leaning against the mainmast, probably torturing his thick skull as to the best means of helping his young friend, whom he loved so well.

Jim saw enough, and, creeping out of the cabin, he crawled down over the rudder, upon which he rested a few seconds, while he made ready for his venture. He could see the dark bank, and he wished that the moon would hide itself behind a thick cloud, the better to give him a chance. But the sky was clear, and it might be fatal to wait any longer.

With a muttered prayer to Heaven not to desert him in his peril, he let himself down in the river, and struck out for the shore. He proceeded with all the care and stillness of which he was capable; but he had taken no more than half a dozen strokes, when he was seen by both the sailors.

"Hello! what's that?" asked Bob, running to the stern of the vessel, and peering over in the gloom.

"I guess it am a whale," suggested Sam, anxious to befriend the lad.

"A whale!" repeated the man with an oath, "it's that kid. Hello, there! Stop, or I'll shoot you!"

And he pointed his revolver at the head of Jim, who, instead of heeding the command, sank beneath the surface, swimming as far as he could before coming up. When he reappeared he was a dozen yards from the schooner.

The very moment he came up the villain discharged two shots from his pistol directly at his head.

"Look out, or dey'll hit yous!" called Sam, unable to repress his solicitude for the boy.

Could the miscreant finish the lad when swimming, it would be as good a way as any to dispose of him.

It looked as if he had succeeded, for Jim uttered a groan, and sank out of sight.

But it was only a trick intended to deceive the sailor.

The latter observed the head as it reappeared, still nearer shore, and he fired again, two shots, as before. The other sailor, fearful of a miss, was hastily lowering a boat.

He worked so expeditiously that the craft dropped into the water the next minute. Both sprang into the boat, and began rowing with might and main in pursuit of the fugitive.

Poor Sam could only stay on deck, in a torment of fear, while he prayed the good Lord to protect the boy.

When the little boat left the side of the larger one, Jim Travers had improved the precious moments to the utmost.

He had already passed over the greater part of the intervening distance, and never in all his life did he swim as now. And there was need of it, for the pursuers were determined he should not escape them.

Providentially, none of the bullets had struck him, though one or two had passed very near.

Jim cast a terrified glance over his shoulder, and saw the boat coming with great speed toward him.

There was no escape by diving, for there was too much light from the moon.

He must reach land far enough in advance to give him an opportunity to flee or hide himself.

A second after, Jim dropped his feet, and they touched bottom. Straightening up, he found the water reached only to his waist; and, with all the strength of which he was master, he fought his way to dry land, and hurried up the bank.

The pursuers were close behind him, and both fired, the boat being so near that the impetus already given by the oars carried it hard against the shore.

It was the best spot possible for the fugitive to land, being covered with wood and undergrowth, extending almost to the verge of the river itself.

Directly into this Jim plunged and ran with the speed of a frightened deer, until he had gone a few rods, when he darted to one side, ran a little farther, and dropped flat on his face. For a moment, while he lay listening, he heard nothing but the thumping of his own heart, which he feared would betray him.

In the silence he wondered what had become of his pursuers.

Had they given up the chase, believing the fugitive was gone beyond recovery?

Jim had no more than asked himself the question when he heard them moving through the undergrowth, a great deal closer than was agreeable. Worse still, they were approaching him, and discussing the question while doing so.

"He didn't run far," said one, whose voice the lad recognized as belonging to Bob.

"No; he must be hiding somewhere close by; we've each a charge left, and we'll keep it ready to fire when he shows himself."

"Yes, he must be somewhere around here, and we'll scare him up before long," was the assuring expression.

It looked very much as if they would keep their word, and Jim was sure he would have to move his quarters to escape discovery. This was a matter of exceeding difficulty, for the wretches were listening for some such noise, which would betray their victim.

They seemed to be pursuing the hunt in a scientific manner, by walking back and forth over a certain area, gradually verging to the right, which was where Jim was crouching.

The boy succeeded in creeping a dozen feet, perhaps, without drawing attention to himself, when he was brought to a standstill by coming squarely against a fence, whose rails were too close together to allow his body to pass through.

Jim was in an agony of fear, for the two were steadily drawing near him.

When he was in despair there came the flutter of a bird in precisely the opposite direction, and the suspicion of the sailors immediately turned thitherward.

This was Jim's golden opportunity, and he was over the obstruction in a twinkling. But the fates seemed against him. Just as he left the top rail, it broke with a loud crash; and, feeling that everything now depended on his fleetness, he made his legs do their duty. Once over the fence, the fugitive found he was in the broad, open highway, along which he darted like a lad whose life was at stake.

As there was a light gleaming only a short way ahead, his enemies must have seen that it was hardly a safe thing to pursue their evil intent any farther.