CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH TOM HAS A GOOD TIME, AND BOBBY MEETS WITH A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE

Bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. They then proceeded to Brunswick, where their success was equally flattering.

Thus far Tom had done very well, though Bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. He would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when Bobby checked him, he promised to do better.

At Brunswick Tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. This money seemed to burn in his pocket. He had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as Bobby did, careful to save every penny he could.

"Come, Bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride—what do you say?" proposed Tom, on the day he finished selling his books.

"I can't spare the time or the money," replied Bobby, decidedly.

"What is the use of having money if we can't spend it? It is a first rate day, and we should have a good time."

"I can't afford it. I have a great many books to sell."

"About a hundred; you can sell them fast enough."

"I don't spend my money foolishly."

"It wouldn't be foolishly. I have sold out, and I am bound to have a little fun now."

"You never will succeed if you do business in that way."

"Why not?"

"You will spend your money as fast as you get it."

"Pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. That is not much."

"Considerable, I should say. But if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. I make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if I don't begin, I shall never do it."

"I don't mean to spend all I get; only a little now and then," persisted Tom.

"Don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. Besides, when I have any money to spare, I mean to buy books with it for my library."

"Humbug! Your library!"

"Yes, my library; I mean to have a library one of these days."

"I don't want any library, and I mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, I shall go alone—that's all."

"You can do as you please, of course; but I advise you to keep your money. You will want it to buy another stock of books."

"I shall have enough for that. What do you say? will you go with me or not?"

"No, I will not."

"Enough said; then I shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me."

"Consider well before you go," pleaded Bobby, who had sense enough to see that Tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out.

He then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. What he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin.

"To-day I am going to send one hundred dollars to Mr. Bayard," continued Bobby; "for I am afraid to have so much money with me. I advise you to send your money to your employer."

"Humph! Catch me doing that! I am bound to have a good time, anyhow."

"At least, send the money you owe him."

"I'll bet I won't."

"Well, do as you please; I have said all I have to say."

"You are a fool, Bob!" exclaimed Tom, who had evidently used Bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him.

"Perhaps I am; but I know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. If you will go, I can't help it. I am sorry you are going astray."

"What do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said Tom, angrily.

This was Tom Spicer, the bully. It sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow Bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him.

"We had better part now," added our hero, sadly.

"I'm willing."

"I shall leave Brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. I hope no harm will befall you. Good by, Tom."

"Go it! I have heard your preaching about long enough, and I am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me."

Bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while Tom made his way towards a livery stable. The boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so Tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride.

Our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to Mr. Bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with Tom Spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. At the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter.

He felt sad about Tom. The runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. But if he meant to be wild again,—for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"—it was well that they should part.

By the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to Gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. His usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as Squire Lee had declared they would be. His pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from Demosthenes down to the present day.

Our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at Augusta. He had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to Mr. Bayard. It was Wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for Boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day.

He had heard nothing from Tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of Augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him—and this time it was indeed a misfortune.

"Hallo, Bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations.

"Ah, Tom, I didn't expect to see you again," replied Bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion.

"I suppose not; but here I am, as good as new. Have you sold out?"

"No, not quite."

"How many have you left?"

"About twenty; but I thought, Tom, you would have returned to Boston before this time."

"No;" and Tom did not seem to be in very good spirits.

"Where are you going now?"

"I don't know. I ought to have taken your advice, Bobby."

This was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion—as who does not when the erring confess their faults?

"I am sorry you did not."

"I got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to Brunswick," continued Tom, rather sheepishly.

"And spent all your money," added Bobby, who could readily understand the reason why Tom had put on his humility again.

"Not all."

"How much have you left?"

"Not much," replied he, evasively. "I don't know what I shall do. I am in a strange place, and have no friends."

Bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity.

"I will stick by you this time, Bob, come what will. I will do just as you say, now."

Our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. He did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made Tom so humble. He was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. He could not desert him now he was in difficulty.

"You shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to Boston together. Have you money enough left to pay your employer?"

Tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind.

"I don't know how it will be after I have paid my expenses to Boston," he replied, averting his face.

Bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as Tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season.

"Now, Tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and I will take those upon this side. You shall have the profits on all you sell."

"You are a first rate fellow, Bob; and I only wish I had done as you wanted me to do."

"Can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied Bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house.

Tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "The Wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. Bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. How glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy Annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the State of Maine! Wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful Kennebec!

Poor Bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him.

As he walked along, thinking of Riverdale and its loved ones, Tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book.

"Here, Bob, is a ten dollar bill. I believe I have sold ten books for you," said Tom, after they had walked some distance. "You had better keep the money now; and while I think of it, you had better take what I have left of my former sales;" and Tom handed him another ten dollar bill.

Bobby noticed that Tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank.

"Then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill.

"About that;" and Tom glanced uneasily behind him.

"What is the matter with you, Tom?" asked Bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment.

"Nothing, Bob; let us walk a little faster. We had better turn up this street," continued Tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated.

Bobby began to fear that Tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. Tom perceived them at the same moment.

"Run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn.

Bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him.

"Grab him," said one of them, "and I will catch the other."

The man collared Bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which Tom had sold his last book.

"What do you mean by this?" asked Bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected.

"We have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold.

No sooner was the grasp of the man removed, than Bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. But his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. To make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop.

In a few moments the other man returned, dragging Tom in triumph after him. By this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store.

Bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could.

"I should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly.

The crowd laughed in derision.

"This is the chap that stole the wallet, I will be bound," said one, pointing to Tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate.

"He is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper.

"I haven't stole any wallet," protested Bobby, who now understood the whole affair.

The names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. They were searched, and upon Tom was found the lost wallet, and upon Bobby two ten dollar bills, which the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. The evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail.

Poor Bobby! the inmate of a prison!

The law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the State Reform School. Bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. He had been the companion of Tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. Tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune.

At the end of three days they reached the town in which the Reform School is located, and were duly committed for their long term.

Poor Bobby!



CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH BOBBY TAKES FRENCH LEAVE, AND CAMPS IN THE WOODS

The intelligence of Bobby's misfortune reached Mr. Bayard, in Boston, by means of the newspapers. To the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the State of Maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." The reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. It was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. It was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. The paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers.

The writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. No doubt he believed Bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. But, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article.

Mr. Bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. He understood the case at a glance. Tom Spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. He was sure that Bobby had had no part in stealing the money. One so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. It was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense.

He was very much disturbed. This intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. He was confident that Bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of Tom Spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. He was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation.

Squire Lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. He immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect Bobby's liberation. The squire was even more confident than Mr. Bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. They agreed to proceed immediately to the State of Maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. The bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in Maine as in Massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in Boston to the governor and other official persons in Maine.

We will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the Reform School, where Bobby and Tom were confined. The latter took the matter very coolly. He seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing Bobby the companion of his captivity. He even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. He was satisfied.

"You know I didn't steal the money, or have anything to do with it," said Bobby.

"Some of it was found upon you, though," sneered Tom, maliciously.

"You know how it came there, if no one else does."

"Of course I do; but I like your company too well to get rid of you so easy."

"The Lord is with the innocent," replied Bobby; "and something tells me that I shall not stay in this place a great while."

"Going to run away?" asked Tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look.

"I know I am innocent of any crime; and I know that the Lord will not let me stay here a great while."

"What do you mean to do, Bob?"

Bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in Tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. He had a purpose in view. His innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. He prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. He felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. He was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity.

Knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. He had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. But now his clothes would be changed. He thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall.

It so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. After his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. He was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. No officer was with them, and Bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions.

"Not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply.

"I should think the fellows would clear out."

"Not so easy a matter. There is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway."

"They must catch him first."

"No fellow ever got away yet. They always caught him before he got ten miles from the place."

This was an important suggestion to Bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. Like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design.

In his conversation with the boys, he obtained the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. He perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake.

A short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. Beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun.

He carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity which would aid him in his flight. The boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. They seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel.

Bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. He was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm.

One afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. This was a disagreeable announcement; for Bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. But about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity.

"Now or never!" said Bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "Now's my time."

As he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. After he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. His heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. Annie Lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief.

He had been four days an inmate of the Reform School, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. He had not for a moment despaired of getting away.

He reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. The night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. A certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it.

He walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. Leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. There was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. He could not understand it. He had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before.

He walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the State Reform School. He had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it.

Bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again.

"Now or never!" muttered he. "It will never do to give it up so."

For an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. Then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. Leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water.

The sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired he did not feel able to walk any more. He deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. He needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet.

Bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. His comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. After finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the Great Guardian above, he lay down to rest. The owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest.

He could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. He thought of a thousand things, but he could not think himself to sleep, as he was wont to do. At last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept.



CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH BOBBY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE, AND GOES TO SEA WITH SAM RAY

Nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens.

Bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. For a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. He felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. Rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. He was Bobby Bright—but Bobby Bright in trouble. He was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed.

It did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. His first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. He could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. Leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. It was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. His only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it.

Following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. He had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. If any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured.

This was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. He had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began to feel faint for the want of food. On the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance.

His heart beat with apprehension. Perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. At any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the Reform School, and who had probably heard of his escape. As it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. How he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious gingerbread he carried in his cart! Hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. He had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. The wagon was close at hand.

"Now or never," thought he; but this time it was not now. The risk was too great. If he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while.

"Now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him.

He waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. The danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. He was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. But then a new difficulty presented itself. There was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. He was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. What should he do? It was a trying moment. If he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. If he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him.

He chose the latter course. The instinct of his being was to do everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision.

"Good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man.

"Good morning. Where are you travelling?"

This was a hard question. He did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie.

"Down here a piece," he replied.

"Travelled far to-day?"

"Not far. Good morning, sir;" and Bobby resumed his walk.

"I say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot.

"I can hardly tell you," replied Bobby, summoning courage for the occasion.

"Well, I suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile.

Bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the Reform School. That smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. But the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it.

"I am in a hurry, so I shall have to leave you."

"Not just yet, young man. Perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly.

There was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace.

"Excuse me, sir, but I can't stop to talk now."

"In a hurry? Well, I dare say you are. I suppose there is no doubt but you are Master Robert Bright."

"Not the least, sir; I haven't denied it yet, and I am not ashamed of my name," replied Bobby, with a good deal of spirit.

"That's honest; I like that."

"'Honesty is the best policy,'" added Bobby.

"That's cool for a rogue, anyhow. You ought to thought of that afore."

"I did."

"And stole the money?"

"I didn't. I never stole a penny in my life."

"Come, I like that."

"It is the truth."

"But they won't believe it over to the Reform School," laughed the man.

"They will one of these days, perhaps."

"You are a smart youngster; but I don't know as I can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from."

"Yes, you can," replied Bobby, promptly.

"Can I?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"By letting me go."

"Eh; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the Kennebec dries up."

"Cash on the nail," replied Bobby. "You look like a man with a heart in your bosom,"—Bobby stole this passage from "The Wayfarer."

"I reckon I have. The time hasn't come yet when Sam Ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. But to help a thief off——"

"We will argue that matter," interposed Bobby. "I can prove to you beyond a doubt that I am innocent of the crime charged upon me."

"You don't look like a bad boy, I must say."

"But, Mr. Ray, I'm hungry; I haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon."

"Thunder! You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam Ray. "I never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards."

Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. Our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature.

"Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story," said Bobby.

"I don't know as it's any use. Now you have eat my bread and butter, I don't feel like being mean to you. If anybody else wants to carry you back, they may; I won't."

"But you shall hear me;" and Bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale."

When he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes.

"By thunder! It's the Reform School wagon!" exclaimed he. "This way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed.

The carriage stopped at the house; but Sam evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent—for it was he—proceeded on his search.

"Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks.

"O, you will find Sam Ray all right," said he, warmly pressing Bobby's proffered hand. "I ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so."

"You are an angel!"

"Not exactly," laughed Sam.

Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. Sam Ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom Spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake.

"Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn you are a good fellow; and I mean to help you off. So just come along with me. I make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. You see, I have got a good boat down the creek, and I shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go."

"May Heaven reward you!" cried Bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness.

"O, I don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man—and I am dead sure you will be a great man—just think now and then of Sam Ray, and it's all right."

"I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live."

Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and Bobby the box of provisions which Mrs. Ray had put up, and they left the house. At the bridge they got into a little skiff, and Sam took the oars. After they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, Bobby felt secure from further molestation.

Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner.

"Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle Sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said Sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner.

"You have been very kind to me."

"All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard."

Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and Sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings.

In a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." Bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft.

"Now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked Sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean.

"I don't know," replied Bobby. "I want to get back to Boston."

"Perhaps I can put you aboard of some coaster bound there."

"That will do nicely."

"I will head towards Boston, and if I don't overhaul anything, I will take you there myself."

"Is this boat big enough to go so far?"

"She'll stand anything short of a West India hurricane. You ain't afeard, are you?"

"O, no; I like it."

The big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. Bobby had unlimited confidence in Sam Ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." There was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys.

They ate their dinners from the provision box; Sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. Bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend. They were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on.

"Now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night."

"I am not sleepy; but there is one thing I will do;" and Bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills.

"Put them up, sonny," said Sam.

"I want to make you a present of ten dollars."

"You can't do it."

"Nay, but to please me."

"No, sir!"

"Well, then, let me send it to your good wife."

"You can't do that, nuther," replied Sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him.

"You must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and I insist upon making it up to you."

"You can't do it."

"I shall feel bad if you don't take it. You see I have twenty dollars here, and I would like to give you the whole of it."

"Not a cent, sonny. I ain't a heathen. That schooner ahead is bound for Boston, I reckon."

"I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray."

"Just my sentiment. I hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that I took a fancy to, and I hate to let you go."

"We shall meet again."

"I hope so."

"Please to take this money."

"No;" and Sam shook his head so resolutely that Bobby gave up the point.

As Sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to Boston. Her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend.

"Good by, Mr. Ray," said Bobby, as the schooner filled away. "Take this to remember me by."

It was his jackknife; but Sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it.

Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness.



CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH THE CLOUDS BLOW OVER, AND BOBBY IS HIMSELF AGAIN

Fortunately for Bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. He was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor he made himself useful to the best of his ability. Though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with Sam Ray that the schooner arrived off Boston Light. The captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel.

"Thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said Bobby.

"None at all. We must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do."

"I should be very glad to get up this morning."

"You shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat.

"I will pay my passage now, if you please."

"That is paid."

"Paid?"

"I should say you had worked your passage. You have done very well, and I shall not charge you anything."

"I expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think I have done enough to pay it, why I have nothing to say, only that I am very much obliged to you."

"You ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one."

"I like the sea, though I never saw it till a few weeks since. But I suppose my mother would not let me go to sea."

"I suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water."

By this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. Bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in Boston.

With a beating heart he made his way up into Washington Street. He felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. He could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in Riverdale. How his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! No; she never could have thought that. She knew he would not steal, if no one else did. And Annie Lee—would she ever smile upon him again? Would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? He could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. Would not Mr. Bayard frown upon him? Would not even Ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her?

Bobby had thought of all these things before—on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on board the schooner. But now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him.

"I am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need I fear? My good Father in heaven will not let me be wronged."

Yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of Mr. Bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. He could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him.

"Now or never," said he, as he turned round.

"I will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it."

Mustering all his courage, he entered the store. Mr. Timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him.

"Hallo, Bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit.

"Good morning, Mr. Bigelow," replied Bobby with as much boldness as he could command.

"I didn't know as I should ever see you again. You have been gone a long while."

"Longer than usual," answered Bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "Is Mr. Bayard in?"

"He is—in his office."

Bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. Mr. Bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. With his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. He almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. Suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point.

"Mr. Bayard," said he, in faltering tones.

"Bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame.

Grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, Bobby would have thought it hurt him. He did not think so now.

"My poor Bobby! I am delighted to see you!" continued Mr. Bayard.

Bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. The unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him.

"Don't cry, Bobby; I know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "It was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now."

But Bobby could not help crying, and the more Mr. Bayard attempted to console him, the more he wept.

"I am innocent, Mr. Bayard," he sobbed.

"I know you are, Bobby; and all the world knows you are."

"I am ruined now; I shall never dare to hold my head up again."

"Nonsense, Bobby; you will hold your head the higher. You have behaved like a hero."

"I ran away from the State Reform School, sir. I was innocent, and I would rather have died than stayed there."

"I know all about it, my young friend. Now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over."

Bobby blew and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by Mr. Bayard's side. The bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero.

"Do you see this, Bobby? It is your free and unconditional pardon."

"Sir! Why——"

"It will all end well, you may depend."

Bobby was amazed. His pardon? But it would not restore his former good name. He felt that he was branded as a felon. It was not mercy, but justice, that he wanted.

"Truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued Mr. Bayard; "and this document restores your reputation."

"I can hardly believe that."

"Can't you? Hear my story then. When I read in one of the Maine papers the account of your misfortune, I felt that you had been grossly wronged. You were coupled with that Tom Spicer, who is the most consummate little villain I ever saw, and I understood your situation. Ah, Bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow."

"I left him at Brunswick because he began to behave badly; but he joined me again at Augusta. He had spent nearly all his money, and did not know what to do. I pitied him, and meant to do something to help him out of the scrape."

"Generous as ever! I have heard all about this before."

"Indeed; who told you?"

"Tom Spicer himself."

"Tom?" asked Bobby, completely mystified.

"Yes, Tom; you see, when I heard about your trouble, Squire Lee and myself——"

"Squire Lee? Does he know about it?"

"He does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of you than ever before. He and I immediately went down to Augusta to inquire into the matter. We called upon the governor of the state, who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you."

"Of me!" exclaimed Bobby, startled to think he had sold a book to a governor.

"Yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he was the chief magistrate of the state. At any rate, he was very much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. Well, we followed your route to Brunswick, where we ascertained how Tom had conducted. In a week he established a very bad reputation there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. The squire testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your devotion to your mother. In short, we procured your pardon, and hastened with it to the State Reform School.

"On our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening. Every effort was made to retake you, but without success. Ah, Bobby, you managed that well."

"They didn't look in the right place," replied Bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel happy again.

"By the permission of the superintendent, Squire Lee and myself examined Tom Spicer. He is a great rascal. Perhaps he thought we would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing about it. He gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in the crime. We wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before a justice of the peace. You shall read it by and by."

"May Heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!" exclaimed Bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "I did not deserve so much from you, Mr. Bayard."

"Yes, you did, and a thousand times more. I was very sorry you had left the institution, and I waited in the vicinity till they said there was no probability that you would be captured. The most extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a person to be found who had seen or heard of you. I was very much alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any information concerning you."

"I am sorry you had so much trouble. I wish I had known you were there."

"How did you get off?"

Bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and Mr. Bayard pronounced his skill worthy of his genius.

"Sam Ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the bookseller, when he had finished.

"I shall remember him; and only that I shall be afraid to go into the State of Maine after what has happened, I should pay him a visit one of these days."

"There you are wrong. Those who know your story would sooner think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing anything to injure your feelings. Those who have suffered unjustly are always lionized."

"But no one will know my story, only that I was sent to prison for stealing."

"There you are mistaken again. We put articles in all the principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing your innocence beyond a peradventure. Go to Augusta now, Bobby, and you will be a lion."

"I am sure I had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily as this."

"Innocence shall triumph, my young friend."

"What does mother say?" asked Bobby, his countenance growing sad.

"I do not know. We returned from Maine only yesterday; but Squire Lee will satisfy her. All that can worry her, as it has worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of your escape."

"I will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. I will take the noon train home."

"A word about business before you go. I discharged Timmins about a week ago, and I have kept his place for you."

"By gracious!" exclaimed Bobby, thrown completely out of his propriety by this announcement.

"I think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to travel about the country. I was talking with Ellen about it, and she says it shall be so. Timmins's salary was five hundred dollars a year, and you shall have the same."

"Five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated Bobby, amazed at the vastness of the sum.

"Very well for a boy of thirteen, Bobby."

"I was fourteen last Sunday, sir."

"I would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it, and you shall have it."

Probably Mr. Bayard's gratitude had something to do with this munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and energy far beyond his years. He further informed Bobby that he should have a room at his house, and that Ellen was delighted with the arrangement he proposed.

The gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the midst of his rejoicing he remembered that his own integrity had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. He had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns.

He was happy—very happy. What made him so? Not his dawning prosperity; not the favor of Mr. Bayard; not the handsome salary he was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross if he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness. He had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. He had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to principle made a heaven within his heart.

It was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new situation on the following week. After settling with Mr. Bayard, he found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was perfectly satisfactory.

By the noon train he departed for Riverdale, and in two hours more he was folded to his mother's heart. Mrs. Bright wept for joy now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's misfortune. It took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, and she was almost beside herself when Bobby told her about his new situation.

After tea he hastened over to Squire Lee's; and my young readers can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter. For the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east; and Annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever read. Perhaps it was because Bobby was the hero. It was nearly ten o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire made him promise to come over the next day.



CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH BOBBY STEPS OFF THE STAGE, AND THE AUTHOR MUST FINISH "NOW OR NEVER"

The few days which Bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. His plans for the future, too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams. I have before hinted that Bobby was addicted to castle building, and I should pity the man or boy who was not—who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "As a man thinketh, so is he," the Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it. What a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain. Even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. It fires his brain, it nerves his arm. It stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress. We must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. What Napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of Europe trembled before him. What Howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity.

Bobby dreamed great things. That bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before Mrs. Bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot.

"Now or never," replied Bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "This is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if I can make it so."

Then he had to dream about his business in Boston and I am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard, living in an elegant house in Chestnut Street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them. A great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine—they are the mainspring of action. Some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." It will never come to them. They are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success.

Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor. He spent a liberal share of his time at Squire Lee's, where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's house. Annie read Moore's Poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself.

In connection with Tom Spicer's continued absence, which had to be explained, Bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the consequence was, that he became a lion in Riverdale. The minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of hearing his story; but Bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. He had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was anything but pleasant to him.

On Monday morning he took the early train for Boston, and assumed the duties of his situation in Mr. Bayard's store. But as I have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, I cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. He applied himself with all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. Early in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post. Mr. Bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the instruction he required. His intelligence and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of him.

By the advice of Mr. Bayard, he attended an evening school for six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. He took Dr. Franklin for his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man.

Every Saturday night he went home to Riverdale to spend the Sabbath with his mother. The little black house no longer existed, for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. His mother, after a couple of years, at Bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six hundred dollars. His kind employer boarded him for nothing (much against Bobby's will, I must say), so that every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses.

* * * * *

Eight years have passed by since Bobby—we beg his pardon, he is now Mr. Robert Bright—entered the store of Mr. Bayard. He has passed from the boy to the man. Over the street door a new sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,—

BAYARD & BRIGHT, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS.

The senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. Mr. Bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though everything is directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city. His integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. The man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his friends, and true to his God.

Mrs. Bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in herself and happy in her children. Bobby—we mean Mr. Bright—has hardly missed going to Riverdale on a Saturday night since he left home, eight years before. He has the same partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when he comes home.

Of course Squire Lee and Annie were always glad to see him when he came to Riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in Riverdale that our hero did not go home on Sunday evening when the clock struck nine. But as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go with us to Mr. Bayard's house in Chestnut Street.

What! Annie Lee here?

No; but as you are here, allow me to introduce Mrs. Robert Bright.

They were married a few months before, and Mr. Bayard insisted that the happy couple should make their home at his house.

But where is Ellen Bayard?

O, she is Mrs. Bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large book establishment in New York.

Bobby's dream had been realized, and he was the happiest man in the world—at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. He had been successful in business; his wife—the friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had woven—had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises.

He had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success—not his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. These were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success.

He had made himself a man,—this was his real success,—a true, a Christian man. He had lived a noble life. He had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation—principle. It is the rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move.

Robert Bright is happy because he is good. Tom Spicer, now in the state prison, is unhappy,—not because he is in the state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of his soul. He has fed the good that was within him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. He is a body only; the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. He loves no one, and no one loves him.

During the past summer, Mr. Bright and his lady took a journey "down east." Annie insisted upon visiting the State Reform School; and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on that eventful night. Afterwards they called upon Sam Ray, who had been "dead sure that Bobby would one day be a great man." He was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced himself.

They spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his departure, Mr. Bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate manner that he could not help accepting it.

Squire Lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy as when Annie and her husband come to Riverdale to spend the Sabbath. He is fully of the opinion that Mr. Bright is the greatest man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he should be elected President of the United States one of these days.

The little merchant is a great merchant now. But more than this, he is a good man. He has formed his character, and he will probably die as he has lived.

Reader, if you have any good work to do, do it now; for with you it may be "NOW OR NEVER."



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The story of Dewey's victory in Manila Bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form—not as those in command witnessed the contest, but as it appeared to a real, live American youth who was in the navy at the time. Many adventures in Manila and in the interior follow, giving true-to-life scenes from this remote portion of the globe. A book that should be in every boy's library.

OFF FOR HAWAII; or, The Mystery of a Great Volcano

Here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. Several boys start on a tour of the Hawaiian Islands. They have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of Kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. Their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest.

PRESS OPINIONS OF CAPTAIN BONEHILL'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

"Captain Bonehill's stories will always be popular with our boys, for the reason that they are thoroughly up-to-date and true to life. As a writer of outdoor tales he has no rival."—Bright Days.

"The story is by Captain Ralph Bonehill, and that is all that need be said about it, for all of our readers know that the captain is one of America's best story-tellers, so far as stories for young people go."—Young People of America.

"The story is excellently told, and will please any intelligent boy into whose hands it may fall."—Charleston (S. C.) News.

"We understand that Captain Bonehill will soon be turning from sporting stories to tales of the war. This field is one in which he should feel thoroughly at home. We are certain that the boys will look eagerly for the Bonehill war tales."—Weekly Messenger.

THE MERSHON COMPANY

156 Fifth Avenue, New York Rahway, N. J.



Mrs. L. T. Meade's FAMOUS BOOKS FOR GIRLS

There are few more favorite authors with American girls than Mrs. L. T. Meade, whose copyright works can only be had from us. Essentially a writer for the home, with the loftiest aims and purest sentiments, Mrs. Meade's books possess the merit of utility as well as the means of amusement. They are girls' books—written for girls, and fitted for every home.

Here will be found no maudlin nonsense as to the affections. There are no counts in disguise nor castles in Spain. It is pure and wholesome literature of a high order with a lofty ideal.

The volumes are all copyright, excellently printed with clear, open type, uniformly bound in best cloth, with ink and gold stamp. 12mo, price $1.00.

THE FOLLOWING ARE THE TITLES

The Children of Wilton Chase Bashful Fifteen Betty: A Schoolgirl

Four on an Island Girls New and Old Out of the Fashion

The Palace Beautiful Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl Red Rose and Tiger Lily

A Ring of Rubies A Sweet Girl Graduate A World of Girls

Good Luck A Girl in Ten Thousand A Young Mutineer

Wild Kitty The Children's Pilgrimage The Girls of St. Wode's

THE MERSHON COMPANY

56 Fifth Ave., New York Rahway, N. J.



Edward S. Ellis POPULAR BOYS' BOOKS 12mo, Cloth

Purely American in scene, plot, motives, and characters, the copyright works of Edward S. Ellis have been deservedly popular with the youth of America. In a community where every native-born boy can aspire to the highest offices, such a book as Ellis' "From the Throttle to the President's Chair," detailing the progress of the sturdy son of the people from locomotive engigineer to the presidency of a great railroad, must always be popular. The youth of the land which boasts of a Vanderbilt will ever desire such books, and naturally will desire stories of their native land before wandering over foreign climes.

The volumes of this series are all copyright, printed from large, new type, on good paper, and are handsomely bound in cloth, stamped with appropriate designs. Price $1.00.

THE FOLLOWING COMPRISE THE TITLES

Down the Mississippi From the Throttle to the President's Chair Up the Tapajos Tad; or, "Getting Even" with Him Lost in Samoa Lost in the Wilds Red Plume A Waif of the Mountains

THE MERSHON COMPANY

156 Fifth Ave., New York Rahway, N. J.



THE FAMOUS ANDREW LANG FAIRY BOOKS

The Blue, Red, Green, and Yellow Fairy Books

Never were there more popular books of Fairy Tales than these famous collections made by Andrew Lang. At his able hands the romantic literature of the world has been laid under contribution. The folk-lore of Ireland, the romance of the Rhine, and the wild legends of the west coast of Scotland, with all the glamour and mystery of the Scottish border, have contributed to this famous series of fairy tales.

Here are the tales that have delighted generations of children, some culled from old English versions of the eighteenth century, some modernized from quaint chap-books, and all handsomely and modernly illustrated. With the aid of a scholar such as Mr. Lang, the entire world has contributed to this famous series. There is material here for years of delight for children.

Each volume is profusely illustrated, printed on velvet-finished paper, bound in cloth, with a very attractive stamp in ink and gold. Small 12mo, price 75 cents.

These books should be read in the following order: 1, The Blue Fairy Book; 2, The Red Fairy Book; 3, The Green Fairy Book; 4, The Yellow Fairy Book.

The Blue Fairy Book The Red Fairy Book The Green Fairy Book The Yellow Fairy Book

THE MERSHON COMPANY

156 Fifth Ave., New York Rahway, N. J.



"Masterpieces of the World's Literature"

THE PREMIUM LIBRARY

Is extensively used by schools and colleges for supplementary reading. It is issued in attractive 16mo shape, paper covers, printed from clear, readable type, on good paper. Many of the volumes are illustrated. They are published at the low price of TEN CENTS each, or 12 books for one dollar. Postage paid. Special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities.

1. Abbe Constantin. Ludovic Halevy. 2. AEsop's Fables. 3. Black Beauty. Anna Sewell. 4. Bracebridge Hall. Irving. 5. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Byron. 6. Coming Race. Bulwer. 7. Cranford. Mrs. Gaskell. 8. Crown of Wild Olive. Ruskin. 9. Discourses of Epictetus. 10. Dreams. Olive Schreiner. 11. Dream Life. Ik Marvel. 12. Drummond's Addresses. 13. Emerson's Earlier Essays. 14. Ethics of the Dust. Ruskin. 15. Frankenstein. Mrs. Shelley. 16. Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mrs. Stowe. 17. Lady of the Lake. Scott. 18. Lalla Rookh. Thomas Moore. 19. Lamb's Essays of Elia. 20. Lamb's Last Essays of Elia. 21. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, I. 22. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, II. 23. Lays of Ancient Rome. Macaulay. 24. Lays of Scottish Cavaliers. 25. Light of Asia. Sir E. Arnold. 26. Longfellow's Poems. 27. Lowell's Poems. 28. Mornings in Florence. Ruskin. 29. One of the Profession. M. White, Jr. 30. Paul and Virginia. B. St. Pierre. 31. Pleasures of Life. Sir J. Lubbock. 32. Poe's Poems. 33. Princess. Tennyson. 34. Queen of the Air. Ruskin. 35. Rab and His Friends. Dr. J. Brown. 36. Rasselas. Johnson. 37. Reveries of a Bachelor. Ik Marvel. 38. Representative Men. Emerson. 39. Sartor Resartus. Carlyle. 40. Scarlet Letter. Hawthorne. 41. Sesame and Lilies. Ruskin. 42. Ships that Pass in the Night. Beatrice Harraden. 43. St. Mark's Rest. Ruskin. 44. Thoughts from Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. 45. Tillyloss Scandal. J. M. Barrie. 46. Twice-Told Tales, I. Hawthorne. 47. Twice-Told Tales, II. Hawthorne. 48. In Memoriam. Tennyson. 49. Vicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith. 50. Whittier's Poems. 51. Autocrat of Breakfast Table. Holmes. 52. Heroes and Hero Worship. Carlyle. 53. Mosses from an Old Manse, I. Hawthorne. 54. Mosses from an Old Manse, II. Hawthorne. 55. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. 56. Song of Hiawatha. Longfellow. 57. Evangeline, and Poems. Longfellow. 58. Sketch Book. Irving. 59. Stickit Minister. S. R. Crockett. 60. House of the Seven Gables. Hawthorne. 61. Poetical Works of Robt. Browning. 62. Paradise Lost. Milton. 63. Hamlet. Shakespeare. 64. Julius Caesar. Shakespeare. 65. Book of Golden Deeds. Yonge. 66. Child's History of England. Dickens. 67. Confessions of an Opium Eater. De Quincey. 68. Ten Nights in a Barroom. Arthur. 69. Treasure Island. Stevenson. 70. Tanglewood Tales. Hawthorne.

All of the above titles can also be supplied in our famous STANDARD SERIES, handsomely bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an artistic design, at FIFTEEN CENTS per volume, postage paid. Special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities.

THE MERSHON COMPANY

156 Fifth Ave., New York Rahway, N. J.



[Transcriber's note: The spelling of "engigineer" in the advertising pages has been retained.]

THE END