"You seem to understand yourself very well; but Mr. Waterford is very sharp."

"Perhaps I am; at any rate, he will not leave me on shore."

"Are you ready, Phil?" shouted the skipper, at the companion-way; and I began to think he was a little suspicious of my movements.

"All ready," I replied, and hastened on deck.

I pulled off my coat, and left it in the yacht, so that, in case I had to swim, I should be the less encumbered.

"Throw a bucket into the boat, so that you can wash out the tender," said the skipper.

"I don't know that I can haul the boat up that bank alone, after all," I added, looking at the shore.

"I don't think you can; my plan is the most sensible one. We will both go."

He jumped into the boat, and I followed him. Taking one of the oars, he paddled the tender to the shore, and we landed. Mr. Waterford was evidently a thorough strategist, for he went through all the forms of doing what he had proposed. We hauled the boat out of the water, removed everything movable, and then turned her over.

"Now, Phil, those swamp flowers grow about ten rods from here, on the bank of a little brook. Follow that path, and you will come to the place," said he, pointing into the swamp. "While you are getting them, I will wash out the boat. But don't be gone long, for I can't put the boat into the water without your help."

I thought he could put it into the water without my help, and that he would do it as soon as I was out of sight. I went into a clump of bushes near the spot where he stood, intending to watch his movements, for I wished to be entirely satisfied that he meditated treachery. I wished to be able to justify myself for any step I might be compelled to take.

I did not think Mr. Ben Waterford would have undertaken his present desperate scheme if he had not received some encouragement from Miss Collingsby. She confessed to me that she had listened to him once before, when he suggested an elopement; but she was now, as she began to reap the fruits of complaisance, convinced of her own imprudence. It was necessary for the bold schemer to get rid of me; and he was prepared to part company with me in the most summary manner. If he could do so, it was possible that he might win or drive his fair passenger into compliance with his proposition. She would be rich at some time in the future; but more than this, she was beautiful and accomplished. Her father would not consent to her union with such a character as Waterford. He could only win her by such a bold movement as that upon which he had already entered.

I had not been in the bushes three minutes before Mr. Ben Waterford suddenly changed his tactics. The boat seemed to be no longer unfit for the reception of a lady, and he shoved it down the bank into the water, as though he had suddenly been endowed with a new strength. Of course I expected him to do this; and before he could pick up the oars, I stepped out of my covert, and was prepared to leap into the boat with him; for, though the day was warm and pleasant, I had no fancy for swimming off to the Marian.

"Where are the flowers?" demanded he, with some wrath, which he could not wholly conceal, and apparently taken all aback by my sudden reappearance.

"I didn't find them," I replied, with a good-natured smile, for I was not a little pleased at the checkmate I had put upon my fellow-voyager.

"Did you look?"

"Not much."

"Why didn't you? We don't want to stay here all day," said he, unable to hide his chagrin.

"I am ready to go when you are."

"Why didn't you get the flowers?" growled he.

"To tell the whole truth, I was afraid you would forget that I was on shore, and go on board without me," I answered, laughing.

"You blockhead! What do you mean by that?"

"I'm compelled to believe you have a bad memory; and I fear you forgot to invite the rest of the ladies included in your programme. You might forget me, in the same manner, and this wouldn't be a good place to stay."

"You are growing impudent, Phil."

"No; only prudent."

"Come with me, you lunkhead, and I will show you where the flowers are," said he, rushing towards the path, as though he meant to obtain the flowers or die in the attempt.

"If you know where they are, you can get them alone," I added.

"I do know where they are. You seem to think I am playing a trick upon you; and I want to show you that I am not."

"I don't think you will be able to show me that if I go; so I may as well stay here."

"Come along!"

"I don't think you washed the boat out very nicely. You didn't have time to do it, and you didn't give me three minutes to find and pick the beautiful flowers."

"What is the matter with you, Phil? You seem to have changed your face all of a sudden. What ails you?"

"Nothing at all; never was in better health in my life, thank you."

"Why didn't you get the flowers, then, as you said you would?"

"I didn't say so; you said it. I should have got them, if I hadn't been afraid you would forget I was on shore, and go on board without me."

"What put that into your silly head?"

"You did."

"No, I didn't."

"I don't like to contradict a gentleman; but I had not gone three rods before you shoved the boat into the water, without troubling yourself to wash it out."

"What were you watching me for?" demanded he.

"Because I was afraid you would forget me, as I said."

"What do you mean? What makes you so suspicious?"

"Your conduct; nothing else."

"What have I done?"

"You tried to get rid of me, and intended to leave me here in this inhospitable swamp, away from any human habitation, and with nothing in sight but the railroad and the lake."

"What put such a notion as that into your head, Phil?"

"I have come to the conclusion that you think there is one too many for the present cruise in the Marian. I should not have come, if you had not been so kind as to invite me; and now I don't intend to be left in this swamp."

"Nobody thought of leaving you in the swamp."

"Then you are nobody—which it is not polite to say."

"Come, Phil, we have been good friends, and we won't quarrel now."

"I won't, if I can help it."

"Let us walk up to the place where the flowers grow," said he, leading the way.

I followed him; but I deemed it advisable to keep at a respectful distance from him. His only purpose was to get rid of me, and I did not believe that he would be very scrupulous about the means of doing so. I did not think he would attempt to murder me, or anything of that sort; but Miss Collingsby, and Miss Collingsby's expectations, were the prize for which he was playing. I followed him about twenty rods from the boat, but without seeing anything which looked like flowers. Indeed, I had landed here before; and I should as soon have thought of looking for flowers in the Desert of Sahara as in this region.

Mr. Ben Waterford seated himself on a little hummock, and looked as though he had something more to say. He did not seem to be in any hurry, though Miss Collingsby was alone on board of the yacht; and, as the Florina was also in the lagoon, I could afford to wait as long as he could; so I seated myself on another hummock near him.



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN WHICH PHIL PROTESTS WITH THE BOAT-HOOK, BUT IS PROTESTED.

"Phil, you are aware, I suppose, that I am engaged to Miss Collingsby," Mr. Ben Waterford began.

"I must acknowledge my own ignorance. I was not aware of it," I replied.

"It is so."

"Was that what made her scream while I was getting dinner?"

"Scream! She didn't scream!"

"I'm not deaf."

"She only uttered an exclamation."

"You said she was singing; but I always suppose something is the matter when ladies utter exclamations in just that way."

"You are saucy and impudent."

"Very likely it is impudent for me to see and hear what I ought not to see and hear."

"But haven't you any gumption?"

"Just now you accused me of having too much gumption. Somehow I don't think this is half so pleasant a party on the lake as you represented that it would be."

"Will you hear me?"

"Certainly I will; go on."

"I told you I was engaged to Miss Collingsby. One does not like to talk about these things, I know—but—"

"Then the less said the better," I interposed, laughing.

"You said you would hear me."

"I will; go on."

"I want you to understand, in the first place, that I am engaged to Miss Collingsby," he continued, with a pause, to note the effect upon me.

"You have said that three times; but I don't believe I shall be able to understand it if you say it three times more."

"Do you doubt my word?"

"I only say that my understanding is defective on that point."

"I think I ought to know."

"So ought Miss Collingsby; but she don't. I'm afraid she is as stupid as I am."

"Do you mean to say that she has denied it?"

"Not exactly. I don't know that I ever had anything to do with parties that were engaged; but I don't believe the lady screams, or utters exclamations, if you please, and then rushes into the cabin to get out of the way of the gentleman to whom she is engaged. As I said, I don't understand these things; but I don't believe that's the way they are done."

"You are a blockhead, Phil."

"I know it. My head is so hard you can't get any of that sort of nonsense into it."

"I see that you are disposed to quarrel with me."

"Not at all, Mr. Waterford," I protested. "If you consider this cruise a failure, I am willing to go on board of the yacht and return to Chicago."

"Do you know who owns that yacht?" said he, sternly.

"Of course I do. I wish I did, but I don't."

"I judged from your talk that you thought she belonged to you."

"That happiness is not mine. I wish it was. But her gentlemanly owner was kind enough to invite me to sail with him; and I don't intend to deprive him of the pleasure of my company until we return to Chicago. I think it would be mean to do so."

"I wish to remind you that I claim the right to choose my own company."

"To be sure; and you exercised it when you invited Miss Collingsby and myself to sail with you."

"But having changed my mind after your strange conduct, I may decline your company any longer."

"It would be very proper to decline it after we return to the city."

"I may find it necessary to refuse to take you on board again."

"You would not leave me in this desolate place?"

"If you don't behave yourself, I may."

"If you do, I shall protest."

"Protest!" sneered he.

"Perhaps I might even protest with the boat-hook," I added; "for such a step on your part would be an outrage."

"You are smart for a boy."

"I did not exactly force myself into your boat, though I was very glad to go in her, for I expected by this time to meet Mr. Whippleton."

"I wanted to tell you what my purpose was," said he, making another effort to approach the subject which he had tried to introduce before.

"I think I know what your purpose was."

"Do you, indeed?"

"I do, indeed."

"Perhaps you would be willing to state it."

"To save you the trouble of doing so in your roundabout way, I will. You intended to run away with Miss Collingsby. You deceived her, lied to her, and thus induced her to come on board of your yacht. You asked me only because she would not go alone with you."

"Did she tell you that?" demanded he, biting his lip, and trying to subdue his rising wrath.

"No matter what she told me; I am not blind. You told her you would join Mr. Whippleton's party, and that the two Miss Lords were on board of his boat. I saw her when she came in here, and he was alone."

"The ladies were in the cabin, I suppose."

"Mr. Whippleton is alone: he does not wish for any company to-day."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, evidently suspecting that I was wiser than I ought to be.

"Miss Collingsby is alone on board of the Marian. I am afraid she will be uneasy if you remain here any longer. If you are engaged to her, she must be very anxious about you."

"Don't be ugly and disagreeable, Phil. You are a good fellow. No one knows it better than I do. Now let us fix this thing up."

"I'm too thick to understand you."

"You are a good fellow, and I know you will help me out of this scrape," he continued, suddenly looking cheerful and pleasant, as though the whole difficulty had been solved.

"If you will do the right thing, I will help you out of it."

"I knew you would. You understand the matter. I do love Miss Collingsby, and she will tell you herself that she is not indifferent to me. She consented some time ago to elope with me, in my boat. We can run over to Lansing, St. Joseph, or some other town on the east side of the lake, be married, and return a happy couple. Since we are both agreed on this step, you are not hard-hearted enough to step between us. Her mother is willing, but her father, you know, is a stiff and unreasonable man. It will be all right with him when we return."

"Has Miss Collingsby consented to this step?" I asked.

"She consented to it once before, and if the way is open she will not object. Of course girls are coy about these things."

"I have been told they are," I replied, indifferently.

"Now you will help me out, Phil—won't you?"

"I will," I added, rising from my seat.

"That's a good fellow; and you shall never want for a friend. By the way, a smart book-keeper, like yourself, ought to have double the salary you are receiving now: and I will see that you have a better place as soon as we return. Whippleton says you are worth a thousand dollars a year."

"Thank you."

"And I will make it my whole business to see that you have such a situation. Now I think of it, our bank wants a book-keeper, and will pay twelve hundred a year. I can almost promise you the place."

"You are very kind, and I am much obliged to you."

"I will make it all right within three days after we come back. We can run over to St. Joseph, as the wind is now, before night. Then the knot can be tied, and we shall be back to-morrow night, or the next day; or, if you don't wish to be absent from your business so long, all you have to do is to wait here till Whippleton comes down in the Florina, and go on board of her. He will take you right back to Chicago before dark. What do you think of my plan?" he asked, nervously.

"The plan is good enough, but it won't work."

"What's the reason it won't?"

"Well, I object, for one reason."

"You object! Permit me to say, it is none of your business."

"Isn't it? Well, I thought it was, after your elaborate argument to convince me. Miss Collingsby objects also."

"No, she does not. Don't I tell you that she consented to elope with me?"

"I know you do; but I don't believe it—to be as frank as the occasion requires."

"Do you doubt my word?"

"We won't quarrel about anybody's word. If Miss Collingsby will tell me herself that she consents to your plan, I will stay on shore here, or go to St. Joseph with you, just as you desire."

"Of course she is not going to talk with you about such a matter. Girls are timid. You said you would help me out of this scrape, Phil."

"And so I will, with the greatest pleasure."

"What do you mean, then, by saying that you object?"

"I want to help you out of the scrape, and not into it. That's what I mean. Let us return to Chicago, and that will get you out of the scrape."

"Do you think I am to be made a fool of by a boy like you?" said he, rising and stepping towards me.

"I hope not; I assure you I have no such wicked intention."

"You have said enough, Phil."

"That's just my opinion; and I would like to amend it by adding that you also have said enough."

"Whether you help me or not, I want you to understand that I intend to carry out my plan."

"Not if I can help it. I want to be understood, too."

"The Marian belongs to me, and I can dispense with your company."

"Send Miss Collingsby on shore, and you may do so. I claim to be her protector, and I intend to stand by her to the end."

"Protector! You blockhead!" sneered he. "Pray, who made you her protector?"

"She did, for one; and I happen to be a relative of hers, which is an additional reason why I should not permit any one to mislead her."

"How long have you been a relative?"

"Ever since I was born, of course."

"Of course you are lying."

"I am not recognized as a relative; but no matter for that. I feel just as much interest in her as though she was my own sister."

"I am going on board of the boat now," said Mr. Waterford, gathering himself up.

"So am I."

"No, you are not—on board of my boat. There comes the Florina," he added, pointing to Mr. Whippleton's yacht, which was coming down the lagoon before the wind. "You had better hail her."

"I shall not. My present business is to take care of Miss Collingsby. When she is safe, I have business with Mr. Whippleton."

"I tell you once for all, that you shall not put your foot on board the Marian again."

Mr. Waterford walked towards the place where we had landed, and I followed him closely enough to prevent him from stealing a march upon me. As the matter now stood, he would attempt to prevent me from getting into the boat. I intended to insist, and a battle seemed to be imminent. The Florina stood over towards the opposite side of the creek, apparently for the purpose of giving the Marian a wider berth. I could see that Mr. Whippleton was alone in the standing-room, and I was confident that, if he had any ladies on board, they would not stay in the cabin.

Mr. Ben Waterford stepped into the tender, after he had pushed it down the bank so that it would float. I picked up the boat-hook, which lay on the ground, because I thought it was not a proper place to leave it. With this implement in my hand, I stepped lightly into the boat.

"I told you not to come on board of my boat," said Mr. Waterford, angrily.

"I know you did. I am sorry to intrude, but I must. If you will land Miss Collingsby, I will relieve you of my company."

"I will not land Miss Collingsby. Now get out of this boat!" he added, taking up one of the oars.

"You must excuse me."

"I'll excuse you," cried he, rushing upon me with the oar.



I defended myself with the boat-hook, and being the cooler of the two, I did so with tolerable success. He struck and thrust furiously with his weapon, till he was out of breath; and I was also, besides having had two or three hard raps on the head and arms with his weapon. A desperate lunge knocked me over backwards, and I fell over the bow of the boat upon the beach. I felt that I was defeated, and that I had promised Miss Collingsby more than I had thus far been able to perform. With this advantage over me, Mr. Waterford pushed me back with the oar, and then endeavored to shove off the tender.

My catastrophe seemed to have defeated all my good intentions; and as I went over, I heard Miss Collingsby utter a shrill scream, as though she were the sufferer, instead of myself, as, indeed, she was likely to be.



CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH PHIL PROFITS BY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND WEIGHS ANCHOR IN THE MARIAN.

More than once in my eventful career I have realized that neither success nor defeat is what it appears to be. While Mr. Ben Waterford was congratulating himself upon the victory he had apparently achieved, and I was mourning over the defeat involved in my catastrophe, neither of us had foreseen the end. Miss Collingsby appeared to be the greatest sufferer; and the scream with which she announced my defeat was only the echo of my own feelings. As the battle was really her own, rather than mine, of course my misfortune was the greater catastrophe to her.

I lay upon my back on the ground, just as I had tumbled over the bow of the tender. But I did not lie there any great length of time—perhaps not the hundredth part of a second. But there are times when one can think of a great deal in the hundredth part of a second; and I am sure my thoughts were very busy during that infinitesimal period. My reflections were not selfish, and it did not occur to me that Mr. Whippleton was escaping from me and from the wrath to come—only that my fair cousin would be at the mercy of my conqueror.

This was the pungent regret of the moment; and it seemed to me that I ought not to stay conquered. I had left my coat on board of the yacht in order to be able to swim if occasion should require; and I voted unanimously that the occasion did require that I should take a muddy bath in the service of the young lady. My first care was to get up. In doing so, I felt the painter of the boat under me. It seemed to have been left there when the tender was pushed into the water to suggest my next step. It did suggest it, and I hastened to profit by the advantage.

As I began to get up, Mr. Ben Waterford began to push off the boat; and I had just time to seize the rope before it was dragged into the water. I picked it up, and promptly checked the operations of the angry skipper. I checked them rather suddenly. Mr. Waterford was at the stern of the boat; and as he raised his oar to give it another push, I gathered up all my strength, and made a desperate twitch at the rope.

As every one knows who has had anything to do with them, boats are wretchedly unsteady to a person in a standing position. Even an old sailor may find it impossible to maintain his perpendicularity when the boat is unexpectedly moved. Philosophically, the inertia of the man should be gradually overcome, and suddenly overcoming the inertia of the boat, as practice and the formula have both demonstrated, does not overcome that of the man. If he be not prepared for the change from rest to motion, he is in very great danger of being thrown down, and if near the water, of being thrown into it.



The body of Mr. Ben Waterford was not proof against the law of nature. It followed the rule deduced by practical men from the phenomena of every-day experience, and the formula laid down by those learned in physics. When I twitched the rope, I suddenly and violently overcame the inertia of the tender. Though without any malice on my part, the inertia of Mr. Ben Waterford was not overcome at the same time. His tendency was to remain at rest, and the consequence was, that I pulled the boat out from under him. Furthermore, as there was water where the boat had been when I pulled, because two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, the body of Mr. Waterford went into the water—the muddy, dirty water of the lagoon—stirred up by the oar with which he had pushed off the tender.

Divested of the language of science, the fact was, that Mr. Ben Waterford had tumbled over backward into the creek. In substance, he had repeated the experiment at the stern of the boat which I had tried at the bow, only he had fallen into the water, and I had fallen upon the land. In spite of preferences for the water, I must acknowledge that the land is a pleasanter element to fall upon than the water, especially if the water is dirty, for a gentleman instinctively abhors filth.

I protest that I had not intended to pitch Mr. Ben Waterford into the lagoon. Although I was familiar with the law of physics applicable to his case, I could not foresee what measure of resistance he would offer to the action of the formula, or what degree of caution he would use. Without any premeditation on my part,—for I solemnly declare that I only intended to prevent him from pushing off the tender,—it was an accomplished fact that Mr. Ben Waterford was floundering in the muddy water of the lagoon, while the tender was absolutely in my possession.

I could not quarrel with fate, destiny, good fortune, or whatever it was that had turned the tide in my favor at the very moment of defeat; and I made haste to profit by the circumstances as I found them. I ran along the bank of the creek, dragging the boat after me; and by the time the unhappy skipper had elevated his head above the surface of the foul pool, now rendered doubly foul by his own movements upon the soft bottom, I had the tender a couple of rods from him. He was in no danger of drowning; for while I should say that he was sunk half way up to his knees in the mud, the tiny wavelets rippled against the gold vest chain to which his watch was attached. In other words, the water was not quite up to his armpits. I do not know whether Mr. Waterford was able to swim or not: I never saw him swim, and he did not swim on this momentous occasion. He simply stood up in the water, rubbing the muddy fluid out of his eyes. He had not yet sufficiently recovered from the shock of his fall, and the muddy blindness which surrounded him, to realize the nature of the situation.

At a safe distance from his convulsive clutch, I jumped into the tender, and paddled rapidly to the yacht. I gave Mr. Waterford a wide berth, and left him trying to obtain a better vision of the surroundings. I leaped upon the deck of the Marian, and fastened the painter of the tender at the taffrail. Miss Collingsby spoke to me, but I heeded not what she said, and sprang forward as fast as I could move my steps. I hauled up the anchor, but without waiting to wash off the mud, or stow the cable, I hastened to the helm. Letting out the sheet, I "wore ship," and in half a minute the Marian was standing out of the lagoon.

"Stop! What are you about!" shouted Mr. Ben Waterford, who was paddling through the mud towards the shore.

I made no reply to him, for I had nothing to say. Between running away from him and permitting him to run away with Miss Collingsby, I was compelled to choose the less of the two evils. My mission was to save the young lady, and I intended to do so. I had made a faithful use of the opportunity presented to me; and after attempting to leave me in that desolate place, I thought it was not unreasonable for Mr. Waterford to "try it on" himself, even if the yacht did belong to him. I was not disposed to weigh all the nice questions which the situation presented. It was clearly my duty to assist Miss Collingsby, and I was disposed to do it without consulting the comfort and convenience of Mr. Waterford, who meditated the mischief against her.

The defeated skipper continued to shout at me in the most furious manner, threatening me with all the terrors of the law and his own wrath. I was willing to refer the whole subject to Mr. Collingsby after we returned to Chicago; and I regarded him as an all-sufficient defender against both the law and the wrath of Mr. Waterford. I saw him make his way to the shore, shake the mud and water from his garments, and then hasten to a point of land which projected out into the lake at the mouth of the creek. But he might as well have hastened towards the other end of the lake, for long before he could reach it, I had passed the point, and was out in the open lake.

I was out of hailing distance of the unhappy skipper when he reached the point, though I could still see his violent gestures. Miss Collingsby sat in the standing-room, watching her late persecutor with anxious interest. Perhaps she feared he might, by some foul mischance, undo what I had done; that he might annihilate the waste of waters before him, and step between her and me. I had no such fears. There were no boats or vessels near us, and I was satisfied that Mr. Waterford would be obliged to walk several miles to a station on the railroad which passed through the swamp and over the lagoon.

I was so well satisfied with the good fortune that grew out of my catastrophe, that I soon neglected to think of Mr. Ben Waterford. I left him to enjoy his own reflections; and I hoped one of them would be, that villany could not long prosper even in this world. I wished that he might recall, if he had ever heard of it, the Scotch poet's proverb, that

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain For promised joy."

This bit of romance was not likely to end in a marriage, thanks to the returning or awaked sense of Miss Collingsby.

I ceased to think of my discomfited skipper, and turned my thoughts to Mr. Charles Whippleton, to whom I devoted my whole attention. The Florina had passed out of the creek in the midst of the encounter between Waterford and myself; and the junior partner of our firm must have seen me when I was pitched over the bow of the tender. Whether he had been able to see the issue of the battle or not, I did not know, for his yacht passed beyond the point before it was terminated. The Florina was headed to the eastward, and I judged that she was about a mile ahead of me when I tripped the anchor of the Marian. I intended to chase him even into the adjoining lakes, if he led me so far. I meant to recover Mrs. Whippleton's treasure, if it took me all summer, and used up all the money I had in the world.

Marian Collingsby looked very sad and anxious. Her chest heaved with emotion as she realized how serious was the movement upon which we had entered. I was confident that, if she ever reached the shelter of her father's roof, she would never be imprudent again; that she would have more regard for her father's solid judgment than for her own fanciful preferences.

"You don't know how frightened I was, Philip," said she, when I took my place at the helm.

"I don't wonder. I was frightened myself; but it was more for you than for me," I replied, as I let out the main sheet.

"But what a terrible fight you had with him!" exclaimed she, with something like a shudder.

"O, that was nothing!" I replied, laughing, in order to encourage her.

"Nothing! Why, he struck at you with the oar!"

"And I struck at him with the boat-hook. I have been in a worse fight than that."

"You have!"

"Yes; I have been where the bullets flew thick and fast."

"You!"

"I was in a battle with the Indians; and I once had the happiness to rescue a young lady from the savages; so I think this is a very mild kind of fighting."

"What a hero you have been!"

"Not much of a hero; but I don't like to see anything go wrong with a young lady. I never saw a young lady till I was twelve years old, and I find myself very kindly disposed towards all of them—strange as it may seem."

Miss Collingsby tried to smile, but she did not feel able to do so.



CHAPTER XX.

IN WHICH PHIL SAILS THE MARIAN ACROSS LAKE MICHIGAN.

"Where are you going now, Philip?" asked Miss Collingsby.

"I am obliged to chase Mr. Whippleton. I told you what he had been doing. He has swindled your father out of a large sum of money, and he has also robbed me of a valuable package, which was put in my care for safe keeping. I must catch him if I follow him all night."

"You are very faithful to my father's interests. I didn't think Mr. Whippleton was such a bad man."

"Your father did not think so, either," I continued; and I explained to her in full the financial operations of the junior partner.

"Do you expect to catch him, Philip?"

"I mean to do so."

"What can you do with him? He is a man, and you are but a boy—excuse me, a young man."

"I don't object to being called a boy, for I am one; but I think I am a match for Mr. Whippleton, physically."

"I think you are, after your battle with Mr. Waterford, who is larger than Mr. Whippleton. But what am I to do?"

"I don't know. I must not lose sight of the Florina."

"I don't want to stay all night in this boat," said she, timidly.

"If I run over to the city and land you, I may as well give up all thought of ever seeing Mr. Whippleton again," I replied, annoyed at the situation.

"My mother will be very anxious about me."

"I know she will; but what can I do?"

"I really don't know."

"If Mr. Whippleton leads me any where near a railroad station, I will see that you are put in the way of returning to your home. I am sure if your father was here, he would insist upon my chasing the villain. If he escapes me, your father will lose a large sum of money—not less than forty thousand dollars, and perhaps more."

"How terrible! You must do as you think best, Philip, without regard to me. I don't like to stay in this boat all night."

"It isn't a bad place to stay," I replied, glancing down into the handsome and comfortable cabin.

"Perhaps not; but I had rather be at home. My father and mother will both worry about me."

"They will ascertain before night where you are; and perhaps Mr. Waterford will return to the city and inform them that you are safe."

"He will not be likely to say anything about me."

"Your father sent me to follow Mr. Whippleton, and I am now literally obeying his orders."

I saw that my fair companion was uneasy in a direction she did not care to explain; and I am sure I respected her all the more for the delicacy of feeling she exhibited. If she and her mother objected to her being alone in the yacht with Mr. Waterford, they might also object to me. I deemed it necessary to say and do all I could to assure her of her own safety.

"Can you steer a boat, Miss Collingsby?" I asked.

"I have steered this boat," she replied.

"Would you like to take the tiller for a while?"

"I can't steer unless some one tells me which way to go."

"You can follow the Florina—can you not?"

"Why do you ask, Philip?"

"I wish to secure the anchor, and put the cook-room and cabin in order. If it should come on to blow, all our dishes would be smashed."

"I will try to steer."

I gave her the helm, and told her to keep the foremast in range with the Florina. The tiller was long, so that it was not very hard to steer, though we were going before the wind. I soon found that she understood the business very well. I told her how to keep the boat steady, and in a short time she was able to do it to her own and to my satisfaction. I had on some good clothes, and I did not care to injure them at the dirty work of cleaning and stowing the anchor. I went below and drew on a pair of old overalls I found in the cook-room, which I had used while getting dinner. In the cabin I took a coat and an old hat, belonging to the owner of the Marian, from a locker, and these completed my outfit. Thus rigged I went on deck again.

"Dear me! How you startled me!" exclaimed Marian, as I stepped into the standing-room.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I thought it was Mr. Waterford. You looked just like him when you came up those stairs. You have on the clothes he wore the last time I sailed with him."

"He is larger than I am."

"I know he is; but that hat and coat made you look just like him when you were coming up. No matter; I know you are not Mr. Waterford, and I am thankful you are not."

"So am I. If I were Mr. Waterford, I would sell out, and be somebody else the first thing I did," I replied, as I went forward.

I washed off the anchor, and the end of the cable, and stowed them in their proper places. I cleaned off the deck, and was only satisfied when I had everything neat enough to take dinner upon. I was sure the fair helms-lady could steer better now that this mud and confusion were removed, for they lay in her line of vision as she sighted the Florina. I then went below, cleared off the table, washed the dishes, and put them in the lockers, swept out the cabin and cook-room, and put everything in good order. The interior of the yacht was a model of comfort and elegance, and it was unpleasant to see anything out of place there.

As it was probable that Miss Collingsby would be compelled to sleep on board, I satisfied myself that everything in and about the berths was in good order. I took a pair of rifles from one of them, where Mr. Waterford kept them for his hunting trips, and set them up near the companion-way. While I was about it, I explored the cabin in order to ascertain its resources. I found almost everything there which could make the voyagers on the lake happy and comfortable. There was plenty of whiskey and wine, as well as other liquors, which could possibly make the owner happy; but they had no allurements to me.

Having finished my examination, I went on deck, and relieved Marian at the helm, though she declared that she was not tired. I thought it best for her to save her strength, for I did not know what she might be called upon to endure before we returned to Chicago.

"I have put the cabin in order for you, Miss Collingsby," said I, as I seated myself.

"For me? I am very grateful to you, but I don't think I shall have any use for it."

"We may have to sail all night."

"If we do, I will stay here with you. I could not sleep in such a place as that."

"I think it is a very nice place."

"So do I; and under other circumstances I should be very happy there. Do you suppose Julia or Florina Lord is with Mr. Whippleton?"

"I am satisfied that neither of them is with him."

"Mr. Waterford said they were; but that was a part of his deception."

"He does not scruple to lie."

"If Julia were only here, I should be satisfied," added she, looking out upon the lake.

"I am sorry she is not; but you may be satisfied as it is. You shall have the cabin all to yourself."

"I'm not afraid of anything," said she, with some confusion on her pretty face.

"You ought not to be afraid of your own cousin."

"My own what?" asked she, with a smile.

"Of your own cousin."

"Where is he?"

"I am he."

"You, Philip," laughed she.

"Perhaps you think I am joking; but I am not."

"You really don't mean to say that you are my cousin."

"I do really mean to say it, and I know it is true."

"How can that be?"

"It so happens that my mother and your father are brother and sister; and I believe the relationship of cousin is usually established in some such way."

"Doubtless you are quite right, Mr. Philip; but my father has but one sister, and she does not happen to have any children. Therefore I cannot possibly have any such cousin as you mention," said she, smiling at what she deemed her overwhelming argument; and perhaps she thought I was getting up a conspiracy against her.

"Your conclusion would be entirely just if the premises were correct. Your father's sister had one child."

"Had, but has not now. Her little son was lost on the Missouri River."

"Supposed to be lost, but not lost," I replied, warmly. "I am that son."

"Do you really mean so, Philip?" she inquired, looking at me earnestly, as if to fathom the trick I was playing upon her.

"I do most certainly."

"What is your other name?"

"Farringford."

"That was certainly the name of my aunt's husband; but it is impossible to believe so strange a story."

"I am afraid your father and your grandfather would refuse to believe what I say. Now, while we are chasing Mr. Whippleton, I will tell you the whole story."

I did tell it, and I had an attentive auditor; but when I had finished it, I was taken aback by her declaring that I had been reading dime novels, and had stolen the plot of one of them. But she said it so prettily and so good-naturedly, that I forgave her on the instant, though she did not sue for pardon.

"But I have heard that your father—" she began.

"Was a drunkard and a spendthrift," I added, completing the sentence for her. "He was, but is not now. He is a sober, honest, prudent, and Christian man."

"I am glad to hear that, for I was forbidden years ago even to mention his name," added Marian. "I don't think my father or grandfather will believe this story."

"They will have to believe it, if evidence will convince them," I replied, stoutly.

"But what does my aunt say?"

"My mother has not yet heard the story. My father wrote to my grandfather several times, but he took no notice of the letters."

"Aunt Louise has been in Europe several years."

"I have never seen my mother since I was a child; I do not remember her. Do you know where she is?"

"She was in Italy last winter; but I don't know where she is now."

"Will you ascertain for me?" I asked, with more interest than I cared to manifest.

"I will."

"I have her portrait in St. Louis. It was in a locket attached to a coral chain which I wore when I was saved from the river. I will show it to you some time."

"If it is really her portrait, I shall believe the story, whether anybody else does or not."

"My father says it is her portrait, and he ought to know. He is sure I am the lost son."

"You are so honest and brave, Philip, that I can't help believing you. I hope you are my cousin, at any rate, for I shall be proud of the relationship."

"Thank you, Marian—may I call you so?"

"Certainly you may, if you are my cousin."

"You are very kind."

"Indeed, you have already placed me under a debt of obligation to you which I can never repay."

"I am more glad to serve you than you can be to be served. Steady!"

"What's the matter?"

"The Florina has hauled her wind," I replied, watching the chase.

"What does that mean?"

"She has turned her head more to the north."

I hauled in the main sheet, and stood after the other yacht. It was sundown now, and we were within two or three miles of the Michigan shore. Half an hour later the Florina ran in at the mouth of a river. When we reached the opening, we found she had anchored half a mile up the stream. I did not deem it prudent to follow her, and I dropped the Marian's anchor at once.



CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH PHIL ANSWERS SOME INQUIRIES ABOUT THE FAWN, AND OTHER MATTERS.

I hauled down the jib, and left the mainsail standing when I anchored the Marian at the mouth of the river, for I did not know what Mr. Whippleton intended to do, and his movements were to govern mine. Though the mouth of the river was rather narrow, it opened, like the creek where we had anchored at noon, into a broad lagoon. There were hundreds of just such small lakes near the large one, in some cases with a narrow outlet, and in others with none at all. Among the effects of Mr. Ben Waterford which I found in the cabin, were several large maps, and one of these was the most interesting study I could find as I watched the Florina.

I saw from this map that there was no large town near the lagoon, and no means of reaching a railroad. I concluded, therefore, that Mr. Whippleton did not intend to abandon his yacht at this point. I was ready to make any movement as soon as he showed his purpose, and he could not take the Florina out of the lagoon without passing very near the Marian. He had anchored at a considerable distance from the shore, but he had a tender.

"What are you going to do here, Philip?" asked Marian, after I had studied the map to my satisfaction.

"I am going to see what Mr. Whippleton does. He knows that I am on his track, I suppose."

"If he has as much money as you say, he will be likely to run away."

"Not to-night; he will not like the idea of tramping through the woods in the dark."

"There! he's hauling in his small boat," added Marian, pointing to the yacht.

"So he is," I replied, pulling in the tender of the Marian.

"What will you do?"

"If he attempts to land, I shall follow him. I don't intend to lose sight of him. I haven't come so far to be balked now."

"What shall I do?" asked my fair cousin, with an anxious look.

"You will be perfectly safe here."

"What, alone?"

"I shall be sorry to leave you; but I must follow Mr. Whippleton, for your father's sake as well as my own."

"I will go with you then. I should not dare to stay here alone."

"But I don't believe Mr. Whippleton intends to leave the yacht. If he had meant to do so, he would have run into St. Joseph's River, instead of this lagoon, where there seems to be no good landing-place. We will wait and see what he is about."

"There are two of them," said Marian.

"So I perceive. I was not aware before that he had any one with him."

I observed the movements of the two persons on board of the Florina for some time. One of them jumped into the tender, at last, and shoved off.

"He's coming this way," said Marian.

"I see he is; it don't look like Mr. Whippleton," I replied, closely scrutinizing the person in the small boat. "I think you had better stay in the cabin, Marian."

"Why?"

"If it should be Mr. Whippleton, there may be some trouble."

"What trouble?"

"The moment he sees me he will understand my business with him; and to be entirely candid with you, I am afraid I shall have a worse battle with him than I had with Mr. Waterford."

"Why, you will not fight!"

"I must have your father's money, and the property he stole from me."

"I hope you won't quarrel," she added, anxiously.

"Not if I can help it. Mr. Whippleton is a fugitive from justice, and I don't mean to let him escape me."

"I am afraid of him. If he gets rid of you, he will go back and find Mr. Waterford."

"Well, don't worry any more yet. That is not Mr. Whippleton in the boat. I am sorry it is not he," I continued, satisfied, as the boat approached, that it was not the fugitive.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because, if this other person, whoever he is, come on board, and find that Mr. Waterford is not here, and that I am here, he will try to escape."

"Of course he knows that you are here."

"I am afraid he does; but I hope not. He had passed the point at the mouth of the creek when the battle was finished on the other side of the lake. I can't tell whether he saw the result or not."

"That's a black man in the boat," said Marian.

"Then he has engaged a cook."

I knew that Mr. Whippleton sometimes employed a colored man, who had been a sailor and a cook on the lake, to help him work the yacht when I could not go with him; but I had never seen him, and did not think it probable that he knew me. I went into the cabin, and brought out one of Mr. Waterford's rifles; but as I did not intend to kill anybody, I did not take the precaution to load it.

"What are you going to do with that, Philip?" asked Marian, as I returned to the standing-room, with the rifle in my hand.

"I may have occasion to use it; but it is not loaded."

"Don't shoot any one, Philip—pray don't."

"I shall not be likely to do so while the rifle is not loaded."

"But you may do something you don't intend to do."

"I certainly don't intend to fire a rifle that isn't loaded; and I shall not shoot any one."

I had not yet decided what to do, though a desperate scheme was flitting through my mind. If Mr. Whippleton slept in the cabin of the Florina that night, it would be possible to board the yacht by stealth in the darkness, fall upon him, and bind him hand and foot. The plan looked practicable to me, and though I had not yet arranged the details of it in my mind, or considered its difficulties, I was disposed to undertake it. I did not care, therefore, to have the negro return to the Florina with the intelligence that I was in possession of the Marian. I intended, therefore, to make him sleep on board of our boat.

Before I had fully determined in what manner I should detain the cook on board of the Marian, the boat came alongside. I turned my head away from the man, so that her need not discover that I was not Mr. Waterford before he came on board. I opened a conversation with Miss Collingsby, and appeared to take no notice of the arrival. The negro was evidently one of the lazy kind, for he did not offer to come on board.



"How do you do, Mr. Waterford?" said the cook, as he brought his boat under the quarter of the yacht.

"How do you do?" I replied, in a gruff tone.

"Gorrificious! Don't you know old Peter?" exclaimed the cook, apparently wounded at my want of recognition of him.

"How are you, old Peter?" I added, coughing violently to disguise my voice.

"Gorrificious, Mr. Waterford! I reckon you've got a bad cold. I've got a letter for you from Mr. Whippleton," continued the cook.

"Take it—will you, Marian?" I added, still coughing. "I don't want him to see me;" and I retreated into the cabin.

"Thank you miss," said Peter, as he delivered the letter. "I'm right down sorry Mr. Waterford has got such a terrible cough—on his wedding day, too, miss. Gorrificious, Miss Collingsby! Mr. Waterford is a lucky gentleman; but he desarves you. He's a fine gentleman—liberal to old Peter and all the boys."

Marian made no reply to this speech, though, when she appeared in the cabin, her cheeks and forehead were crimson with confusion.

"Did you hear what old Peter said," she asked.

"I did; and it is plain enough that Mr. Whippleton is in the secret, and has even told it to his cook."

"If I ever get home again, I shall not disobey my father. To think that the wretch told Mr. Whippleton all about it beforehand."

"I supposed he had," I replied, as I opened the letter.

"What does he say, Philip?" asked Marian, curiously.

"'Dear Ben'—that's the way he begins. 'How is the fawn?'"

"The fawn?"

"Probably meaning Miss Collingsby," I replied. "'I was afraid Phil would give you some trouble when I saw you had him on board. But you fixed him handsomely. I saw him tip over the bow of the boat. If you hadn't got rid of him, I should have gone ashore and helped you. I'm glad it's all right. Why didn't you run up the river farther, and anchor near the Florina? I thought I wouldn't call upon you till I knew how the fawn was. If she is agreeable, we will run to St. Joseph in the morning, and have your business done before noon.'"

"The brute!" exclaimed Marian, indignantly. "This has cured me of all the romance I ever had. I used to think my father was very harsh; but now I know he was right. He knew this man better than I did."

The familiarity and coarseness of the epistle were very offensive to her, and she could hardly restrain her indignation.

"'P.S.' I continued, reading from the letter. 'In my hurry I forgot the most important part of my stores. Please send me a couple of bottles of whiskey, and let me know all about the fawn.'"

That was all; and Mr. Whippleton wanted but two things—whiskey and information in regard to the fawn. I intended to furnish him with both, as the representative of Mr. Ben Waterford. I found a sheet of paper in the cabin, and I proceeded to describe the condition of the "fawn."

"Dear Charley," I began; and I had heard Mr. Waterford apply this familiar name to our junior partner: "The fawn is very uneasy, and does not like the idea of staying over night in this lagoon. I don't think it is safe for you to remain here. Phil said the officers were on your track, that Collingsby was after you with a sharp stick. Phil must have spoken to the fawn, for she is very suspicious. I shall have to leave in order to quiet her. I am all alone, and can't cook, or do anything, while sailing. I am in a fix. I want Peter badly. Can't you let me have him? I need him more than you do. Why can't you leave the Florina here, and come on board of the Marian? I send you four bottles of whiskey.

"P.S. I got a rap on the right hand in the fight, and can't write much."

I wrote this with a pencil, and in a style which would pass for anybody's handwriting who had been wounded in a fight. I folded it up, and having placed the four bottles of whiskey in a basket, I asked Marian to deliver them to the cook, while I continued to cough vigorously. I stood at the companion-way while my fair companion did the errand.

"Gorrificious, Miss Collingsby!" exclaimed the negro. "Whiskey's plenty as water, but none of it for old Peter."

"Take this letter to Mr. Whippleton," added Marian.

"Yes, miss. Old Peter'll do that. Can you told me if the letter says how many bottles of whiskey they is in the basket?"

"It says four."

"Marian," I called to her. "Here is one for Peter."

I gave her the extra bottle, and she presented it to the cook, who was more grateful for the gift than he would have been for its value in cash. I am willing to acknowledge that it was against my principles to give liquor to any one; but the probability was, that I should have a battle with the master, who would perhaps be aided by the man; and I regarded the whiskey as an ally of mine, as long as they, and not I, drank it. As soon as Peter had departed, my cough improved, and I ventured on deck again. I was sure that what I had written would make a breeze, when Mr. Whippleton read it, and I tried to prepare myself for whatever might happen.



CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH PHIL IS BEWILDERED, AND THE MARIAN SAILS FOR CHICAGO.

"What next, Philip?" asked Marian, when I had seated myself in the standing-room.

"That boat will return next with Mr. Whippleton," I replied, picking up the rifle which I had left upon the cushion.

"I hope there will be no violence," she added, anxiously.

"I hope not; but what shall I do? Shall I let him rob your father of half the capital of the firm? Shall I let him rob his mother of nearly all she has in the world? If I don't strike when I have an opportunity, everything will be lost."

"What do you mean by his mother?"

"The package which Mr. Whippleton took from the safe was placed in my charge by his mother, to keep it from falling into his hands. She was very sick, and may not live many days. Your father had no idea what a villain his partner was."

"I am sure he had not; but can't you manage it without any violence?"

"If I can, I will. I have no taste for a fight; but I have still less for letting Mr. Whippleton run away with his ill-gotten gains. I should be ashamed of myself if I did. Besides, your father accuses me of concealing the villany of his partner, and even of being a participator in it. He would have good reason to think so if I let him slip through my fingers now. No, I will not do it. I will follow him to the end of the earth, and if he don't give up his plunder there will be a fight, though I may get my own head smashed in the scrape."

Marian said no more about peace on such terms, and I watched the boat with interest, as it came up under the counter of the Florina. I did not see Mr. Whippleton read the letter I had written; but I have no doubt that he did read it, for in a few moments more he embarked in the tender with Peter.

"There they come, just as you said!" exclaimed Marian, apparently in despair.

"I knew that letter would bring him, for I informed him that the officers of justice were on his track. I have no doubt that the police have telegraphed to all the cities within a thousand miles of Chicago by this time. If anything would wake up the rascal, the news I sent him would have that effect. Besides, I invited him to take passage in the Marian."

"You did!"

"Yes, for I want him where I can put my hand upon him."

"But he can put his hand upon you, and then I shall be alone. What will become of me?"

"You need not be at all alarmed. He will not injure or insult you."

"What do you mean to do, Philip? Can't I help you?"

"I intend to make a prisoner of him, if possible. I don't think you can help me do such a job. I am going into the cabin now, for I don't wish him to see me until he is fairly on board."

"What shall I do?"

"Stay here, if you please. He will go below immediately."

The tender was rapidly approaching the yacht, and I went into the cabin, where I had another attack of coughing as soon as I heard Mr. Whippleton step upon the deck.

"Good evening, Miss Collingsby," said he, as he saw our fair passenger. "I hope you are very well. Where is your friend?"

"What friend?" she asked, in such a tone that I was afraid she would excite his suspicions before he came into the cabin.

"Why, Mr. Waterford, of course. Since you are to become his wife to-morrow morning, he ought to be the dearest friend on earth to you. But as he is not on deck, he must be in the cabin."

I heard his step on the ladder, and I confess that I felt no little anxiety for the issue. I sat upon one of the lockers, still wearing the skipper's coat and hat. It was rather dark in the cabin, and I was not surprised that he did not recognize me at first.

"What's all this, Ben?" said he, in hurried speech. "Every dollar counts now, and I can't afford to lose a thousand by leaving my boat here. I was to deliver her to the purchaser to-morrow at St. Joseph. What do you mean about officers? Collingsby hasn't the remotest suspicion that anything is wrong."

"Yes, he has," I replied, coughing and choking, so that I could not have identified my own voice.

"What has happened?" he demanded, in obvious alarm.

"He knows everything," I barked, with my handkerchief over my mouth. "He has telegraphed to St. Joseph and fifty other places before this time to have you arrested."

"Arrested!"

I heard the long breath he drew in his terror.

"We must be off at once."

"What's the matter with you? What makes you cough so?"

"A cold."

"What will you do with the fawn, Ben?"

"She is not agreed to anything," I replied, as I struck a match, for I thought it was time to have a little more light on the subject.

I had waited till he was in a comfortable position on the locker opposite me, with the table between us. I lighted the lamp, which was suspended from the ceiling of the cabin. My cough was suddenly and miraculously cured.

"What are you going to do, Ben?"

"That will depend upon what you do," I replied, in my natural voice.

"Who are you?"

"Your obedient servant," I answered, throwing off the hat I had worn, which concealed my face in part.

"Phil!" gasped he, starting back with astonishment.

"Assistant book-keeper, &c.," I replied.

"What are you doing here?"

"Attending to the affairs of the firm which I have the honor to serve. I am here on their business, though I have a little of mine to attend to at the same time."

"Where is Mr. Waterford?" demanded he; and I saw by the light of the lamp that he was as pale as when I had startled him with my balance sheet in the counting-room.

"I left him over at the mouth of that creek on the other side of the lake."

"You left him there? Do you mean to say that you have stolen his yacht?"

"No, sir; I don't mean to say so, and I don't think it is quite fair for you to say so, since I intend to restore her to Mr. Waterford, or to his legal representative, on claim, and sufficient evidence of ownership."

"Who wrote the letter which Peter brought me?"

"I did; but, as I told you in the letter, my hand was injured in the fight, and I couldn't do justice to my own style of penmanship."

"It was a forgery then."

"I signed no name to it, but left you to draw your own inferences."

"It is just as much a forgery as though you had signed it."

"But not half so much a forgery as receipting a lumber bill of the Michigan Pine Company. I hope the whiskey reached you in good order and condition."

"None of your impudence, Phil. This isn't the way to treat one who has used you as well as I have."

"For all the kindness you have bestowed upon me, I am very grateful; and I am only sorry you were not worthy of the confidence I felt in your integrity."

"We need not quarrel, Phil," said he, after a short pause. "We have always been good friends; let us be so still. I saw a scuffle between you and Mr. Waterford over at the creek."

"And you thought I had the worst of it."

"I saw him pitch you out of the boat."

"If you had staid a moment longer in sight, you would have seen me pitch him out afterwards."

I defined and explained my position, and justified it as well as I was able. Miss Collingsby had appealed to me for help, and in rendering it, under the circumstances, I did not feel disposed to let the ownership of the yacht defeat my good intentions to save her from the wiles of a villain.

"Do you call Ben Waterford a villain?" he demanded.

"The dictionary does not afford me any better word to express my opinion of him. I wish he was the only one I knew."

"Do you refer to me?"

I explained myself more fully on this point, and the junior partner of our house mildly expressed his rage. I suppose his stinging conscience did not permit him to do so in a more determined manner. I told him that Mr. Collingsby was in possession of all the facts relating to his defalcations, both of the money and the notes of the firm. He bit his lip in silence for a few moments, as if arranging his mental forces for an assault upon me.

"Phil, you have made another stupid blunder," said he. "As I have told you plainly before, you are insufferably conceited. You think you know enough for two men, when you know just half enough for one. That's what's the matter. You have made a pretty kettle of fish."

"I think you made it yourself."

"Don't be impudent. We must return to Chicago at once."

"That's one of my sentiments exactly," I replied. "Shall we weigh anchor now?"

"Yes, if you like, though there is no wind. I told you Mr. Collingsby didn't know anything about the business, and would be alarmed at your ridiculous statements."

"He knows all about the business now, and, as you say, he is a great deal alarmed."

"I assure you, Phil, upon my honor, that everything about the business is all right. You have made another blunder."

"I wish I had."

"You have."

"You drew the balance at the bank, and discounted over thirty thousand dollars' worth of notes."

"I did; and as a member of the firm, I had a perfect right to do so. I had a chance to make fifty thousand on one lot of lumber. I was not to be prevented from doing so by a whim of my partner. He prefers generally to furnish money, rather than put our business paper on the market. I gave him the opportunity to do so. He refused, and I raised the money as I could. This is simply a question between Mr. Collingsby and me. When he wishes to dissolve, I'm ready."

"May I ask what you are doing over here, with such a heavy transaction on your hands?"

"On my way to buy the lumber. I have the money in my bag," said he, holding up the article.

"Do you happen to have a package in your bag with my name upon it, taken from the safe?"

"I have; and I happen to have also an order from my mother for you to deliver it to me."

"Indeed."

"Here it is," he added, handing me a crumpled paper.

It certainly was an order, setting forth that all differences between Mrs. Whippleton and her son had been settled, and requiring me to give him the papers.

"When I was ready to go, I could not find you; so I took the papers; but you have the order now, and I hope you are satisfied on that point."

I was not exactly satisfied; but I felt that Mr. Whippleton was arguing me down, if he was not convincing me.

"How about those invoices?" I continued. "The agent of the Michigan Pine Company says he sold you no such lumber."

"If he will tell me so to my face, I should like to have him do it. I will give him an opportunity to-morrow."

Mr. Whippleton was indignant. He talked honest, and I could not gainsay him. I was almost inclined to believe that I was a fool, and had made a blunder; but as he was willing to go to Chicago, I was satisfied to leave the adjustment of the whole matter to Mr. Collingsby. We went on deck, and as there was a little breeze, we tripped the anchor, and stood up the lagoon. I was bewildered; but my heaviest catastrophe was yet to come.



CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH PHIL, IN THE MARIAN, GETS THE WEATHER-GAGE OF THE FLORINA.

There was scarcely a breath of wind when we weighed anchor. Mr. Whippleton insisted upon running up to the Florina, in order to leave his tender, and to obtain certain articles he had left on board. The breeze entirely failed before we had made half the distance, and we were obliged to anchor again to prevent being drifted ashore. Mr. Whippleton and old Peter took both the tenders, and visited the Florina, leaving Marian and myself alone again.

"I am so thankful that you had no quarrel," said she, as we sat together in the standing-room, watching the receding boats.

"So am I, Marian."

"And it seems that you were mistaken in regard to his accounts."

"I don't think I was," I replied, rather warmly. "I am perplexed and bothered; but I don't see how I can be mistaken."

"Mr. Whippleton would not be willing to return to Chicago, if he had been such a villain as you say."

"I don't think he would. That is really all the evidence I have that he has not been stealing his partner's money. I don't understand it; but if he will return to Chicago, that is all I desire. I prefer that he should settle the matter with your father."

"But he knew all about Mr. Waterford's plans," added she, turning away from me, though the gloom of the evening hid her blushes.

"Yes; he said he did. He told me that, if Mr. Waterford loved you, and you loved Mr. Waterford, he could see no reason why you should not be happy together, in spite of the prejudices of your father."

"I never consented to elope with Mr. Waterford. It is true that I listened to his proposal, several weeks ago; but I did not agree to it. He did not renew it when I asked for time to think of it. I don't love him now; I can't say that I ever did, though I was rather pleased with him. After this, I'm sure I shall always think more of a gentleman's character than of his looks and manners."

"I think the character is of vastly more importance," I replied, judging from observation rather than experience.

"Do you think Mr. Whippleton will come back, Philip?"

"Come back? Yes," I replied, rather startled by the question.

"He may take one of those boats, go on shore, and make his way across the state to the east."

"Then you think it is possible that I was not mistaken in regard to the accounts of Mr. Whippleton?"

"Of course it is possible. It just occurred to me that he might have taken this method of getting rid of you."

"You are right, Marian. I ought to have gone with them, for they have taken both boats, and there isn't a breath of wind."

"I don't mean that it is so, only that it might be."

"Now I think of it, he said in his letter that he had sold the Florina, and was to deliver her in St. Joseph to-morrow. If he had not intended to have cleared out, he would not have sold her. I am afraid I have made another blunder."

I was vexed at my own want of precaution. Mr. Whippleton had taken both tenders, and it seemed to me now that he had done so in order to prevent me from following him. He intended to leave his own with his yacht, and to return in that belonging to the Marian. I do not even now know that Miss Collingsby had not suggested his real purpose, for while I was vexing myself about the blunder I had made, the waters were rippled by a gentle breeze. I sprang forward and hauled up the anchor with a celerity that was worthy of the occasion. The mainsail was still up, and taking the helm, I ran the yacht up the lagoon. I could just see the outline of the Florina in the gloom, and a few puffs of wind carried us up to her.

There was a light in the cabin of the Florina, and both the tenders were alongside. Mr. Whippleton had not gone yet, whatever he intended to do, and I breathed freely again.

"Gorrificious!" shouted Peter from the deck of the Florina. "Where you goin' now?"

"Stand by to catch a line," I replied.

"All ready; heave the line," added the cook.

In a moment we were fast to the other yacht, and I firmly determined not to lose sight of Mr. Whippleton again, under any circumstances. We had hardly made fast before the wind died out again. It was only a puff which had come to my aid, as it were providentially, and had enabled me to gain my point. I had noticed, when Mr. Whippleton left the Florina, that he took with him the leather bag, which contained his money and valuable papers; but I had thought nothing of the circumstance at the time, for it seemed to me quite natural that he should be very careful of an article of so much value. If that providential puff of air had not enabled me to throw the Marian alongside his yacht, I am satisfied, in the light of subsequent events, that he would have made an attempt to elude me. He could have gone on shore in the tender, lived in the woods, or at the cabin of some settler, for a week or more, until I was tired of waiting for him, and then taken to his yacht, and escaped by the way of Canada.

"What are you doing up here, Phil?" shouted the subject of all my anxious solicitude, as he came out of the cabin of the Florina.

"We had a little breeze, and I came up to save you the trouble of rowing," I replied.

"You have a talent for making blunders, Phil," growled he, in a tone which did much to confirm my suspicions.

"Not a bad blunder, since I am safe here," I replied.

"You might have run her aground, and we should have had to leave her here all summer. Don't you know any better than to run about in the night where you are not acquainted? Is that the way you use other people's boats?"

"The Marian is still afloat, and safe. Do you want any help?"

"No; no such help as you can give. You can't do anything without making a blunder. I should like to knock the conceit out of you."

The more blunders he charged upon me, and the more savage he was, the better assured I became that I had hit the nail on the head. As we were playing at cross-purposes, it was evident that all my direct thrusts would be regarded as blunders by him. What suited him could not possibly suit me, under the present circumstances. I did not know what he was doing on board of the Florina, and I did not care, so long as I knew where he was. He went into the cabin after he had expressed his mind to me, and I did not see him again for over an hour.

"You must be tired, Marian," I said to my fair companion, as I heard her gape.

"I am tired, Philip."

"Why not lie down, then? I will watch over you, and see that no harm comes to you while you sleep."

"Thank you, Philip; you are very kind. I am afraid I could not sleep if I did lie down."

"You can at least rest yourself. You shall have the cabin all to yourself. We may not leave this lagoon before morning."

"Where will the rest of you sleep, if I take the cabin all to myself?"

"I shall sleep on deck. These cushions are as good a bed as I want."

"And Mr. Whippleton?"

"If we stay here, he will sleep on board of his own yacht. If not, he will probably stay at the helm."

"I am very tired, for it seems to me that I never endured so much in one day in my life before," she replied, rising, and going into the cabin.

I went with her, and secured the door which led into the cook-room, and showed her how to fasten the slide at the companion-way. I drew the blue curtains over the deck lights, and it seemed to me that maiden never had a more inviting chamber than the little cabin of the Marian. I bade her good night, and helped her close the door. Resuming my seat on the cushions of the standing-room, I thanked God that he had preserved her from the wiles of the villain; and I hoped she did not herself forget to acknowledge the goodness of Him who always watches over the innocent.

There was no wind, and no sign of any. The sky was cloudless, and there was not a ripple on the lagoon, not a rustle in the forest that bordered it. I had brought up a blanket and an old coat from the cabin to serve me as bed-clothes; and stretching myself on the cushions, I soon went to sleep. I did not believe that Mr. Whippleton could leave in the boat without my knowledge, for at such times I always slept with one eye open. If a breeze came, it would shake the mainsail and rattle the sheet-blocks near my head, and wake me. I had been up half of the preceding night with Mrs. Whippleton, and I was very tired myself. I could not foresee what would happen within the next few days, and I deemed it prudent to economize my strength.

So far as the wind was concerned, my calculation was correct. It did shake the mainsail, and rattle the sheet-blocks, and I was aroused from my slumbers. I raised myself upon my bed, to assure myself that the Florina was still near me. That was the very thing, however, of which I could not assure myself. In fact she was not near me. I sprang to my feet, and felt that I had made a blunder, but such a one as Mr. Whippleton would not charge upon me. The Marian was adrift, and the breeze was carrying her farther up the lagoon, where she might get aground. My first care was to secure her from any such accident, which would indeed have been a catastrophe to me. All I had to do was to put the helm down, and bring the yacht up into the wind, which came only in light puffs. It was from the westward, and I had just slant enough to enable me to lay a course towards the lake.

As soon as I got her head to the breeze, I hoisted the jib. Seating myself at the helm, I studied the course, and kept a sharp lookout ahead for the Florina. I was satisfied that the first breath of wind had waked me, and that the other yacht could not be far from me. In a few moments I was assured of the correctness of my calculation, for I discovered the Florina behind a point of land. She had come thus far without hoisting her jib, and had not been able to lay very close to the wind. Mr. Whippleton knew the navigation of the lagoon, and had run his yacht where I should not have dared to go. Probably he had not hoisted his jib before, lest the noise of it should wake me; but I saw it go up almost as soon as I caught sight of her.

I do not like to accuse other people of making blunders, but I was sure that Mr. Whippleton had made one in not standing directly out of the lagoon; but doubtless he expected to have his own time for the operation. As it was, I had the weather-gage of him. He had run over to leeward so far, with a projecting point of land between him and the mouth of the creek, that I should be off the headland before he could reach it.

I rubbed my hands with delight when I realized the situation, and saw that I could not help cutting him out. The neglect on his part to hoist the jib had lost him the battle, while my jib had won it for me. The slant of the wind would enable me to go clear of the point, off which I had first anchored the Marian, while Mr. Whippleton would be obliged to make two tacks in order to weather it. But he had the wind freer than I, for he had evidently run off to leeward for the sole purpose of setting his jib without disturbing me.

As I was approaching the point of land, the Florina came within hailing distance of me.

"Marian, ahoy! Where are you going, Phil?" shouted Mr. Whippleton, wrathfully.

"After you."

"Another blunder, you blockhead! Come about, and take me on board."

I was willing to comply with this request, for it seemed reasonable to me. Both boats were heaved to, and Mr. Whippleton put off in one of the tenders.



CHAPTER XXIV.

IN WHICH PHIL GOES TO SLEEP, AND HIS SEVEREST CATASTROPHE COMES.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Mr. Whippleton, angrily, as he came alongside of the Marian in the tender.

"I was only looking to see where you were going. I was afraid you might forget that I was here, and go off without me."

"You are a fool! You make more blunders in the same time than any other fellow that ever I saw," he added, interlarding his elegant discourse with coarse and horrid oaths. "Why didn't you stay where you were till I came back?"

"I was not quite sure that you would come back."

"You were not? Who set you to dog all my movements?"

"I set myself to do it; and I intend to carry out my plan. I thought you were going to Chicago with me."

"I am, if you don't ground that boat, or wreck her, before I get ready. You go blundering about a place you know nothing at all about, as though you considered the safety of that boat of no consequence."

"I consider your safety as of a great deal more consequence," I answered, with becoming frankness. "If you are going to Chicago with me, what are you doing in that corner of the lagoon?"

"You are the stupidest blockhead I ever saw, for one who knows how to keep a set of books. Are you simpleton enough to suppose I would leave the Florina opposite the mouth of the river, where she would drag her anchor in the first blow that came?" growled Mr. Whippleton, with increased vehemence and anger. "I was going to moor her behind this headland, where she will be safe till I can come after her."

"You were very careful not to wake me, when you got up your anchor."

"What do you suppose I cared whether I waked you or not, you blunderhead. Now stand by here till we have moored the Florina. Let go your anchor."

"I can keep her where she is as long as there is a breeze. Moor your boat, and I am all ready for Chicago."

Mr. Whippleton pulled back to his yacht, and sailed her a short distance inside of the point, where I heard the splash of the anchor. His explanation of his movement was reasonable enough, and if I had been disposed to be satisfied with anything he said or did which involved his absence in the body from me, I might have been contented with it. The more determined he was in charging me with blunders, the better I was satisfied that my course was right; and I preferred to let the future rather than the present justify my conduct.

"What's the matter, Philip?" asked Marian, opening the slide of the cabin.

"Nothing; it is all right now."

"But I heard some hard words just now," she persisted.

"Mr. Whippleton thinks I have made another blunder—that's all."

I told her what had occurred, and that, as there was a little breeze, we should probably start for Chicago in a short time. I advised her to return to her berth, and not be disturbed by anything she heard. She acknowledged that she had slept very well till the noise awoke her, and she was willing to repeat the experiment. She retired, closed and fastened the slide behind her. In about half an hour Mr. Whippleton and Peter came on board.

"Gorrificious!" exclaimed the cook. "Are you going to sea without us, and carry off all the whiskey?"

I thought, from the movements of the negro, he was carrying off considerable of it; and the fumes of Mr. Whippleton's breath indicated that he had not entirely neglected the bottle. But it did not have a happy effect upon him, as it sometimes does, for he was decidedly ugly. I believe that liquor intensifies whatever emotions may prevail in the mind of the toper while under its influence. Joy is more joyous, grief is more grievous, under its sway; and a man who is ugly when sober is ten times worse when drunk. A man who has an ugly fit is the uglier for the rum he has drunk.

Mr. Whippleton had an ugly fit upon him when he came on board of the Marian. He was probably disappointed and vexed at my conduct, and having drank several glasses of whiskey, he was really so ugly as to make himself very uncomfortable. He filled away the yacht, and, taking the helm, began to rate me over again for my blunders. As we were, to the best of my knowledge and belief, bound to Chicago, I did not care much what he said, and I was willing he should waste his venom in any way he pleased.

The breeze was very light and fitful. We ran out of the lagoon into the open lake, after a while; but there was hardly wind enough there to fill the sails. It was still dull sailing, and I was very sleepy and stupid in spite of the abuse with which Mr. Whippleton regaled me. He had brought his whiskey bottles back with him, and several times he imbibed from one of them. Peter went forward with his bottle, and stretched himself on the forecastle.

The helmsman yawned, and I yawned. The Marian, close-hauled, was not making two knots an hour. We were headed about north-west, which was not nearly so close to the wind as the boat could lay.

"We shall not get to Chicago in twenty-four hours at this rate," said Mr. Whippleton, when he had wasted all his vituperative rhetoric upon me.

"Not in forty-eight, if you don't keep her a little closer to the wind," I replied.

"Do you sail this boat, or do I?" he demanded.

"Well, sir, you and that whiskey bottle appear to be doing it just now; and between you both you are not doing it very well."

"None of your impudence! Perhaps you are conceited enough to think you could do it better."

"I confess that I am."

"You will mind your own business, Phil."

"I haven't any to mind."

"Go to sleep then!"

"What time is it, sir?"

"About half past twelve."

"I will take my turn at the helm, if you like."

"I won't trust you at the helm. You make too many blunders."

"Then I will take a nap myself."

"That will be the only sensible thing you have done to-night."

I thought it would be sensible, at any rate, and as there was not much comfort in talking to a man as waspish as he was, I concluded to take his advice. I stretched myself on the cushions, on the lee side, out of the helmsman's way, covered myself with the blanket, and was soon asleep. Perhaps I am conceited: I will not say that I am not; but in the light of subsequent events, I must say it was the only blunder I made that night—going to sleep.

I was tired enough to sleep soundly, and as the yacht was bound to Chicago, I had nothing more to worry me; so I did sleep soundly. If nothing had occurred to disturb me, doubtless I should have made up my six hours before morning. Unfortunately something did occur to disturb me—something sudden and violent.

A heavy hand was laid upon me, and I awoke.

I tried to gain my feet, but a desperate clutch was upon my throat. Mr. Whippleton was bending over me; his right hand was choking me, while his left grasped a rope. I tried to scream, but the hard hand choked me. I realized that I was in the power of my enemy, and I made a desperate struggle to free myself from his grasp. I thought I was succeeding, when a crushing blow fell upon my head; my brain sparkled as with a shower of stars. I remember no more of the affray.

The first sensation that I experienced was a deadly sickness and faintness. My senses slowly came back to me, and I found myself lying upon the cushions of the standing-room, with Marian Collingsby leaning over me, bathing my brow. My head seemed to be bursting with pain and fulness. I tried to raise my hand to ascertain the extent of my injuries; but I found that my wrists were tied together behind me.



"O, Philip! Philip!" cried Marian, as I opened my eyes and realized my situation.

I raised my head and looked around me. Peter was at the helm, and the yacht was bounding along at a lively rate over the waves. On the cushion opposite me lay Mr. Whippleton, enveloped in blankets, and apparently asleep.

"How do you feel, Philip?" asked Marian, who was in as much distress as I was.

"My head aches terribly," I replied, faintly; and a kind of deadly sickness came over me again.

She bathed my head again with spirits, and the act revived me.

"This is terrible," said she, trembling with emotion.

"Don't be alarmed, Marian; I shall be better soon," I replied, trying to change my position, for I was lying on one of my arms, and was very uncomfortable.

"Won't you untie him, Peter?" said my fair attendant, appealing to the black helmsman.

"Gorrificious! I'd like to do it first rate; but I dassent," he answered, glancing at the form of Mr. Whippleton, who was snoring heavily under the influence of the frequent drams he had taken.

"Then I will," she added, resolutely.

"Don't do it, miss. Mr. Whippleton is uncommon ugly."

"I don't care how ugly he is. I am not afraid of him now. Where is your knife, Philip?"

"In my vest pocket," I replied, encouraged by a hope that the resolute girl might set me free.

"Mustn't do it, miss. Skipper told me to look out for the young gentleman. You mustn't do anything to make Mr. Whippleton angry with you; he'll treat you bad if you do. He was uncommon ugly this mornin', and kicked me three times in the ribs to wake me, and then cussed me like I wan't no account."

I suspected that Peter had been sleeping off the fumes of whiskey when this ungentle treatment was bestowed upon him. Marian put her hand into my vest pocket and took out my knife. She opened it, and was about to find the rope that bound me, when the helmsman again interfered.

"Can't let you do it. Very sorry, but I can't. It would cost me all the rest of the ribs in my body, and three on 'em's broke now."

"Will you let this young man be abused in this manner, you wretch?" exclaimed Marian, whose gentle nature seemed to have assumed a new phase.

"I can't help it, miss; 'tain't my fault. Mr. Whippleton's very ugly this mornin'."

"You are a brute and a coward!" said she, reaching over me to the cords that bound my wrists.

"Gorrificious!" shouted the negro. "You mustn't do that."

Mr. Whippleton suddenly sprang to his feet, awakened by the cry of Peter. Rushing forward, he seized the arm of Marian, and dragged her away from me. As the negro had intimated, he certainly was uncommon ugly. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was savage.

"Let him alone," said he. "Let no one meddle with him."

"Mr. Whippleton, are you going to let him lie there in pain, with his hands tied behind him?"

"That's just what I am going to do," said he, taking a bottle of whiskey from under the seat, and pouring a quantity down his throat.

Perhaps he was afraid that his courage would fail him, if he were not again fortified by the fiend which had doubtless inspired the evil deed he had done to me.

"I can believe anything of you now, Mr. Whippleton," added Marian, courageously.

"Believe anything you please, Miss Collingsby. You will have all you want to do to think of yourself, without troubling your head about Phil. I have taught him to mind his own business, and I am going to repeat the lesson upon you. Go into the cabin!"

"Won't you release Philip—at least, untie his wrists?"

"No, I won't. Go into the cabin, and stay there. I don't mean to have you on deck."

He moved towards her, and she was compelled to retire to the cabin in order to escape further violence. I felt that I was alone then. My worst, and it seemed to me then my last, catastrophe had come. I regretted my blunder in going to sleep, and the future was dark and uncertain.



CHAPTER XXV.

IN WHICH PHIL SUFFERS MUCH PAIN, AND MARIAN IS VERY RESOLUTE.

After my catastrophe, the course of the yacht had been altered, and I found that she was now headed to the northward. As I raised my head to change my painful position, I saw the east coast of the lake, not half a mile distant. The breeze was very gentle, and it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and the ripple of the clear waters was musical; but I was not in a condition to enjoy the glories of the scene.

I was suffering with a severe pain in the head; but the defeat I had sustained troubled me much more. I wondered, now it was too late, that I had been so stupid as to go to sleep. I felt that I was as great a blockhead as my persecutor had accused me of being, and I forgave him for calling me one. I could not foresee the end of the adventure, or the disastrous results of my mistake. Mr. Whippleton had doubtless been fully alarmed by my statements in regard to his arrest. If he had really sold his yacht, he did not deem it prudent to visit St. Joseph in order to deliver it to the purchaser. He would not find it safe to land at any of the towns on the lake, and I was satisfied that he would make for some obscure port in Canada. He was a shrewd man, and would not incur any needless risk.

As nearly as I could calculate the distance, he would have to run four or five hundred miles to reach any point in Canada. The prospect was not pleasing: I was fond of sailing, but not under the present circumstances. The distance to be accomplished in such a boat would require three days with a favorable wind; and it might take ten. I did not believe Mr. Whippleton would be disposed to run at night, for the whiskey, which he now used without restraint, could be more safely enjoyed in port.

I hoped for some favorable circumstance which would turn the tide in my favor. This was all I could do, for, with my hands securely tied behind me, I was powerless. The skipper had renewed his devotions to the bottle as soon as he waked, and it was possible that the liquor might win the victory for me.

"Go and get us some breakfast, Peter," said Mr. Whippleton, after he had taken a second dram, as he took the helm from the cook.

"Yes, sir," replied Peter, as he went forward.

"I hope you are satisfied now, Phil," added Mr. Whippleton, turning to me with something like a chuckle, as though he had done a great thing.

"I am satisfied on one point," I replied.

"What's that?"

"That I was not mistaken in regard to your dealings with the firm."

"We won't discuss that question now," said he, with a sneer. "I have used you well; I have done everything for you; I have given you all the salary you asked, and given you a chance to get ahead."

"You have given me a chance to get a broken head," I replied, as he paused to think what other good thing he had done for me.

"That's your own fault. After all I had done for you, I have my reward in your ingratitude."

"Did you expect me to help you swindle the firm?" I demanded, indignantly.

"You are not in condition just now to use hard words, and I advise you to clap a stopper on that tongue of yours."

"If I say anything, I shall speak my mind. I know you now perfectly. Last night I thought I might be mistaken about some things. Now I know that you have swindled your partner, and I am not surprised to find that you can handle a bludgeon as well as a pen."

"Better be civil, Phil," said he, biting his lip.

"I have nothing more to say. If you murder me, I shall feel that I have tried to do my duty."

"I don't intend to murder you."

"I have no doubt you will if the occasion seems to require it. I shall trust in God, and leave the crime with him."

He said no more then. When breakfast was ready, Peter relieved him at the helm, and he went below. I heard him talking to Marian, and she answered him with spirit. Though I could not distinguish her words, I was sure that she was protesting against his cruelty to me. In about half an hour he returned to the helm again, and my fair cousin followed him, either with or without his permission.

"How do you feel, Phil?" she asked, taking her place by my side again, and bathing my head with spirits, as before.

"I think my head feels a little better."

"Do you rest easily now?"

"Not very; I have to lie upon my hands or one of my arms."

"Mr. Whippleton, if you are not a brute, you will untie his hands," she continued, appealing to the skipper.

"Then I am a brute," he answered, with a coarse grin.

"Why should you compel him to suffer pain?"

"I hope it will make him change his tone. He is as saucy and as impudent as though he were the victor and I the vanquished."

"He will not be impudent again, if you will unloose him," added Marian, in a gentle, pleading tone.

"Will he promise it?"

"You will—won't you, Philip?"

"I will promise not to say anything to him," I replied.

"He is willing to promise," continued she.

"Then I won't let him loose. He is an obstinate mule, and ready to kick the one who does him a favor. Though I have been his best friend in Chicago, he volunteers to hunt me down like a wild beast. He has his reward."

"But what are you going to do with him?" inquired Marian.

"I intend to shoot him," replied Mr. Whippleton, as he took a draught from his bottle, and then produced a revolver, with which he toyed as though it had been a pet plaything. "I am prepared for the worst, and I shall never be safe while he is above the sod."

"Would you be a murderer?" asked Marian, with horror.

"Phil says I would, and I may be obliged to verify his words."

"I did not think you were such a monster!" exclaimed my fair companion, with a shudder.

"I did not think so myself; but Phil keeps goading me on, and I don't know what I may become. If he had minded his own business, and not troubled himself about mine, he would have been safe in Chicago to-day."

"But you don't mean to kill him?"

"That will depend upon himself—and you."

"Upon me?"

"Yes, upon you, in part."

"What shall I do?"

"Sit down, Miss Collingsby, and make yourself comfortable," he continued, with a smile, as though he were rather pleased with his own reflections.

"I will say anything I can to my father, and I will induce my mother to speak for you," said she, seating herself near my head.

"I know your father better than you do, Miss Collingsby. He would be ashamed of himself to be influenced by you, or by your mother. I won't trust him till I have a hold upon him. I don't ask for any pleading in my behalf, because I know it would do no good."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"I had a rather brilliant thought just now," said he, chuckling, and looking very silly, partly from the effects of the whiskey he had drank, and partly from the nature of his own thoughts.

He paused, as though he was not quite ready to express the brilliant thought. He turned over the pistol in his hand, and glanced foolishly at Miss Collingsby.

"What can I do?" asked Marian, evidently disgusted with his manner.

"I want some security for your father's good behavior," he replied.

"I will plead with him."

"It will do no good."

"What would you have me do?"

"I think I heard you say you would not marry my friend Ben Waterford, under any circumstances."

"I certainly would not," answered Marian.

"Exactly so; I don't wish to do anything to interfere with Ben's plans, for he is a good fellow. We started from Chicago with the intention of having a wedding, and I think we ought to carry out the programme," laughed the skipper. "You are a very pretty girl, Miss Collingsby. As the son-in-law of your father, I think I could make a favorable settlement with him. I am only twenty-seven."