Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a thought struck him.

"Maybe you're goin' my way," said he, turning to Paul; "if you are, you're welcome to a ride."

Paul was very glad to accept the invitation. He clambered into the cart, and took a seat behind the pedler, while Boney, who took his recent disappointment very good-naturedly, jogged on contentedly behind.

"How far are you goin'?" asked Paul's new acquaintance, as he whipped up his horse.

Paul felt a little embarrassed. If he had been acquainted with the names of any of the villages on the route he might easily have answered. As it was, only one name occurred to him.

"I think," said he, with some hesitation, "that I shall go to New York."

"New York!" repeated the pedler, with a whistle expressive of his astonishment.

"Well, you've a journey before you. Got any relations there?"

"No."

"No uncles, aunts, cousins, nor nothing?"

Paul shook his head.

"Then what makes you go? Haven't run away from your father and mother, hey?" asked the pedler, with a knowing look.

"I have no father nor mother," said Paul, sadly enough.

"Well, you had somebody to take care of you, I calculate. Where did you live?"

"If I tell you, you won't carry me back?" said Paul, anxiously.

"Not a bit of it. I've got too much business on hand for that."

Relieved by this assurance, Paul told his story, encouraged thereto by frequent questions from his companion, who seemed to take a lively interest in the adventures of his young companion.

"That's a capital trick you played on old Mudge," he said with a hearty laugh which almost made the tins rattle. "I don't blame you a bit for running away. I've got a story to tell you about Mrs. Mudge. She's a regular skinflint."



XI.

WAYSIDE GOSSIP.

This was the pedler's promised story about Mrs. Mudge.

"The last time I was round that way, I stopped, thinking maybe they might have some rags to dispose of for tin-ware. The old lady seemed glad to see me, and pretty soon she brought down a lot of white rags. I thought they seemed quite heavy for their bulk,—howsomever, I wasn't looking for any tricks, and I let it go. By-and-by, when I happened to be ransacking one of the bags, I came across half a dozen pounds or more of old iron tied up in a white cloth. That let the cat out of the bag. I knew why they were so heavy, then, I reckon I shan't call on Mrs. Mudge next time I go by."

"So you've run off," he continued, after a pause, "I like your spunk,—just what I should have done myself. But tell me how you managed to get off without the old chap's finding it out."

Paul related such of his adventures as he had not before told, his companion listening with marked approval.

"I wish I'd been there," he said. "I'd have given fifty cents, right out, to see how old Mudge looked, I calc'late he's pretty well tired with his wild-goose chase by this time."

It was now twelve o'clock, and both the travelers began to feel the pangs of hunger.

"It's about time to bait, I calc'late," remarked the pedler.

The unsophisticated reader is informed that the word "bait," in New England phraseology, is applied to taking lunch or dining.

At this point a green lane opened out of the public road, skirted on either side by a row of trees. Carpeted with green, it made a very pleasant dining-room. A red-and-white heifer browsing at a little distance looked up from her meal and surveyed the intruders with mild attention, but apparently satisfied that they contemplated no invasion of her rights, resumed her agreeable employment. Over an irregular stone wall our travelers looked into a thrifty apple-orchard laden with fruit. They halted beneath a spreading chestnut-tree which towered above its neighbors, and offered them a grateful shelter from the noonday sun.

From the box underneath the seat, the pedler took out a loaf of bread, a slice of butter, and a tin pail full of doughnuts. Paul, on his side, brought out his bread and gingerbread.

"I most generally carry round my own provisions," remarked the pedler, between two mouthfuls. "It's a good deal cheaper and more convenient, too. Help yourself to the doughnuts. I always calc'late to have some with me. I'd give more for 'em any day than for rich cake that ain't fit for anybody. My mother used to beat everybody in the neighborhood on making doughnuts. She made 'em so good that we never knew when to stop eating. You wouldn't hardly believe it, but, when I was a little shaver, I remember eating twenty-three doughnuts at one time. Pretty nigh killed me."

"I should think it might," said Paul, laughing.

"Mother got so scared that she vowed she wouldn't fry another for three months, but I guess she kinder lost the run of the almanac, for in less than a week she turned out about a bushel more."

All this time the pedler was engaged in practically refuting the saying, that a man cannot do two things at once. With a little assistance from Paul, the stock of doughnuts on which he had been lavishing encomiums, diminished rapidly. It was evident that his attachment to this homely article of diet was quite as strong as ever.

"Don't be afraid of them," said he, seeing that Paul desisted from his efforts, "I've got plenty more in the box."

Paul signified that his appetite was already appeased.

"Then we might as well be jogging on. Hey, Goliah," said he, addressing the horse, who with an air of great content, had been browsing while his master was engaged in a similar manner. "Queer name for a horse, isn't it? I wanted something out of the common way, so I asked mother for a name, and she gave me that. She's great on scripture names, mother is. She gave one to every one of her children. It didn't make much difference to her what they were as long as they were in the Bible. I believe she used to open the Bible at random, and take the first name she happened to come across. There are eight of us, and nary a decent name in the lot. My oldest brother's name is Abimelech. Then there's Pharaoh, and Ishmael, and Jonadab, for the boys, and Leah and Naomi, for the girls; but my name beats all. You couldn't guess it?"

Paul shook his head.

"I don't believe you could," said the pedler, shaking his head in comic indignation. "It's Jehoshaphat. Ain't that a respectable name for the son of Christian parents?"

Paul laughed.

"It wouldn't be so bad," continued the pedler, "if my other name was longer; but Jehoshaphat seems rather a long handle to put before Stubbs. I can't say I feel particularly proud of the name, though for use it'll do as well as any other. At any rate, it ain't quite so bad as the name mother pitched on for my youngest sister, who was lucky enough to die before she needed a name."

"What was it?" inquired Paul, really curious to know what name could be considered less desirable than Jehoshaphat.

"It was Jezebel," responded the pedler.

"Everybody told mother 'twould never do; but she was kind of superstitious about it, because that was the first name she came to in the Bible, and so she thought it was the Lord's will that that name should be given to the child."

As Mr. Stubbs finished his disquisition upon names, there came in sight a small house, dark and discolored with age and neglect. He pointed this out to Paul with his whip-handle.

"That," said he, "is where old Keziah Onthank lives. Ever heard of him?"

Paul had not.

"He's the oldest man in these parts," pursued his loquacious companion. "There's some folks that seem a dyin' all the time, and for all that manage to outlive half the young folks in the neighborhood. Old Keziah Onthank is a complete case in p'int. As long ago as when I was cutting my teeth he was so old that nobody know'd how old he was. He was so bowed over that he couldn't see himself in the looking-glass unless you put it on the floor, and I guess even then what he saw wouldn't pay him for his trouble. He was always ailin' some way or other. Now it was rheumatism, now the palsy, and then again the asthma. He had THAT awful.

"He lived in the same tumble-down old shanty we have just passed,—so poor that nobody'd take the gift of it. People said that he'd orter go to the poorhouse, so that when he was sick—which was pretty much all the time—he'd have somebody to take care of him. But he'd got kinder attached to the old place, seein' he was born there, and never lived anywhere else, and go he wouldn't.

"Everybody expected he was near his end, and nobody'd have been surprised to hear of his death at any minute. But it's strange how some folks are determined to live on, as I said before. So Keziah, though he looked so old when I was a boy that it didn't seem as if he could look any older, kept on livin,' and livin', and arter I got married to Betsy Sprague, he was livin' still.

"One day, I remember I was passin' by the old man's shanty, when I heard a dreadful groanin', and thinks I to myself, 'I shouldn't wonder if the old man was on his last legs.' So in I bolted. There he was, to be sure, a lyin', on the bed, all curled up into a heap, breathin' dreadful hard, and lookin' as white and pale as any ghost. I didn't know exactly what to do, so I went and got some water, but he motioned it away, and wouldn't drink it, but kept on groanin'.

"'He mustn't be left here to die without any assistance,' thinks I, so I ran off as fast I could to find the doctor.

"I found him eatin' dinner——

"Come quick," says I, "to old Keziah Onthank's. He's dyin', as sure as my name is Jehoshaphat."

"Well," said the doctor, "die or no die, I can't come till I've eaten my dinner."

"But he's dyin', doctor."

"Oh, nonsense. Talk of old Keziah Onthank's dyin'. He'll live longer than I shall."

"I recollect I thought the doctor very unfeelin' to talk so of a fellow creetur, just stepping into eternity, as a body may say. However, it's no use drivin' a horse that's made up his mind he won't go, so although I did think the doctor dreadful deliberate about eatin' his dinner (he always would take half an hour for it), I didn't dare to say a word for fear he wouldn't come at all. You see the doctor was dreadful independent, and was bent on havin' his own way, pretty much, though for that matter I think it's the case with most folks. However, to come back to my story, I didn't feel particularly comfortable while I was waitin' his motions.

"After a long while the doctor got ready. I was in such a hurry that I actilly pulled him along, he walked so slow; but he only laughed, and I couldn't help thinkin' that doctorin' had a hardinin' effect on the heart. I was determined if ever I fell sick I wouldn't send for him.

"At last we got there. I went in all of a tremble, and crept to the bed, thinkin' I should see his dead body. But he wasn't there at all. I felt a little bothered you'd better believe."

"Well," said the doctor, turning to me with a smile, "what do you think now?"

"I don't know what to think," said I.

"Then I'll help you," said he.

"So sayin', he took me to the winder, and what do you think I see? As sure as I'm alive, there was the old man in the back yard, a squattin' down and pickin' up chips."

"And is he still living?"

"Yes, or he was when I come along last. The doctor's been dead these ten years. He told me old Keziah would outlive him, but I didn't believe him. I shouldn't be surprised if he lived forever."

Paul listened with amused interest to this and other stories with which his companion beguiled the way. They served to divert his mind from the realities of his condition, and the uncertainty which hung over his worldly prospects.



XII.

ON THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY.

"If you're in no great hurry to go to New York," said the pedler, "I should like to have you stay with me for a day or two. I live about twenty-five miles from here, straight ahead, so it will be on your way. I always manage to get home by Saturday night if it is any way possible. It doesn't seem comfortable to be away Sunday. As to-day is Friday, I shall get there to-morrow. So you can lie over a day and rest yourself."

Paul felt grateful for this unexpected invitation. It lifted quite a load from his mind, since, as the day declined, certain anxious thoughts as to where he should find shelter, had obtruded themselves. Even now, the same trouble would be experienced on Monday night, but it is the characteristic of youth to pay little regard to anticipated difficulties as long as the present is provided for.

It must not be supposed that the pedler neglected his business on account of his companion. On the road he had been traveling the houses were few and far between. He had, therefore, but few calls to make. Paul remarked, however, that when he did call he seldom failed to sell something.

"Yes," said Mr. Stubbs, on being interrogated, "I make it a p'int to sell something, if it's no more than a tin dipper. I find some hard cases sometimes, and sometimes I have to give it up altogether. I can't quite come up to a friend of mine, Daniel Watson, who used to be in the same line of business. I never knew him to stop at a place without selling something. He had a good deal of judgment, Daniel had, and knew just when to use 'soft sodder,' and when not to. On the road that he traveled there lived a widow woman, who had the reputation of being as ugly, cross-grained a critter as ever lived. People used to say that it was enough to turn milk sour for her even to look at it. Well, it so happened that Daniel had never called there. One night he was boasting that he never called at a house without driving a bargain, when one of the company asked him, with a laugh, if he had ever sold the widow anything.

"Why, no," said Daniel, "I never called there; but I've no doubt I could."

"What'll you bet of it?"

"I'm not a betting man," said Daniel, "but I feel so sure of it that I don't mind risking five dollars."

"Agreed."

"The next morning Daniel drove leisurely up to the widow's door and knocked. She had a great aversion to pedlers, and declared they were cheats, every one of them. She was busy sweeping when Daniel knocked. She came to the door in a dreadful hurry, hoping it might be an old widower in the neighborhood that she was trying to catch. When she saw how much she was mistaken she looked as black as a thundercloud.

"Want any tin ware to-day, ma'am?" inquired Daniel, noways discomposed.

"No, sir," snapped she.

"Got all kinds,—warranted the best in the market. Couldn't I sell you something?"

"Not a single thing," said she, preparing to shut the door; but Daniel, knowing all would then be lost, stepped in before she could shut it quite to, and began to name over some of the articles he had in his wagon.

"You may talk till doomsday," said the widow, as mad as could be, "and it won't do a particle of good. Now, you've got your answer, and you'd better leave the house before you are driven out."

"Brooms, brushes, lamps——"

"Here the widow, who had been trying to keep in her anger, couldn't hold out any longer. She seized the broom she had been sweeping with, and brought it down with a tremendous whack upon Daniel's back. You can imagine how hard it was, when I tell you that the force of the blow snapped the broom in the middle. You might have thought Daniel would resent it, but he didn't appear to notice it, though it must have hurt him awful. He picked up the pieces, and handing them, with a polite bow, to the widow, said, 'Now, ma'am, I'm sure you need a new broom. I've got some capital ones out in the cart.'"

"The widow seemed kind of overpowered by his coolness. She hardly knew what to say or what to think. However, she had broken her old broom, that was certain, and must have a new one; so when Daniel ran out and brought in a bundle of them, she picked out one and paid for it without saying a word; only, when Daniel asked if he might have the pleasure of calling again, she looked a little queer, and told him that if he considered it a pleasure, she had no objection."

"And did he call again?"

"Yes, whenever he went that way. The widow was always very polite to him after that, and, though she had a mortal dislike to pedlers in general, she was always ready to trade with him. Daniel used to say that he gained his bet and the widow's custom at ONE BLOW."

They were now descending a little hill at the foot of which stood a country tavern. Here Mr. Stubbs declared his intention of spending the night. He drove into the barn, the large door of which stood invitingly open, and unharnessed his horse, taking especial care to rub him down and set before him an ample supply of provender.

"I always take care of Goliah myself," said he. "He's a good friend to me, and it's no more than right that I should take good care of him. Now, we'll go into the house, and see what we can get for supper."

He was surprised to see that Paul hung back, and seemed disinclined to follow.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Stubbs, in surprise. "Why don't you come?"

"Because," said Paul, looking embarrassed, "I've got no money."

"Well, I have," said Mr. Stubbs, "and that will answer just as well, so come along, and don't be bashful. I'm about as hungry as a bear, and I guess you are too."

Before many minutes, Paul sat down to a more bountiful repast than he had partaken of for many a day. There were warm biscuits and fresh butter, such as might please the palate of an epicure, while at the other end of the table was a plate of cake, flanked on one side by an apple-pie, on the other by one of pumpkin, with its rich golden hue, such as is to be found in its perfection, only in New England. It will scarcely be doubted that our hungry travellers did full justice to the fare set before them.

When they had finished, they went into the public room, where were engaged some of the village worthies, intent on discussing the news and the political questions of the day. It was a time of considerable political excitement, and this naturally supplied the topic of conversation. In this the pedler joined, for his frequent travel on this route had made him familiarly acquainted with many of those present.

Paul sat in a corner, trying to feel interested in the conversation; but the day had been a long one, and he had undergone an unusual amount of fatigue. Gradually, his drowsiness increased. The many voices fell upon his ears like a lullaby, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

Early next morning they were up and on their way. It was the second morning since Paul's departure. Already a sense of freedom gave his spirits unwonted elasticity, and encouraged him to hope for the best. Had his knowledge of the future been greater, his confidence might have been less. But would he have been any happier?

So many miles separated him from his late home, that he supposed himself quite safe from detection. A slight circumstance warned him that he must still be watchful and cautious.

As they were jogging easily along, they heard the noise of wheels at a little distance. Paul looked up. To his great alarms he recognized in the driver of the approaching vehicle, one of the selectmen of Wrenville.

"What's the matter?" asked his companion, noticing his sudden look of apprehension.

Paul quickly communicated the ground of his alarm.

"And you are afraid he will want to carry you back, are you?"

"Yes."

"Not a bit of it. We'll circumvent the old fellow, unless he's sharper than I think he is. You've only got to do as I tell you."

To this Paul quickly agreed.

The selectman was already within a hundred rods. He had not yet apparently noticed the pedler's cart, so that this was in our hero's favor. Mr. Stubbs had already arranged his plan of operations.

"This is what you are to do, Paul," said he, quickly. "Cock your hat on the side of your head, considerably forward, so that he can't see much of your face. Then here's a cigar to stick in your mouth. You can make believe that you are smoking. If you are the sort of boy I reckon you are, he'll never think it's you."

Paul instantly adopted this suggestion.

Slipping his hat to one side in the jaunty manner characteristic of young America, he began to puff very gravely at a cigar the pedler handed him, frequently taking it from his mouth, as he had seen older persons do, to knock away the ashes. Nothwithstanding his alarm, his love of fun made him enjoy this little stratagem, in which he bore his part successfully.

The selectman eyed him intently. Paul began to tremble from fear of discovery, but his apprehensions were speedily dissipated by a remark of the new-comer, "My boy, you are forming a very bad habit."

Paul did not dare to answer lest his voice should betray him. To his relief, the pedler spoke——

"Just what I tell him, sir, but I suppose he thinks he must do as his father does."

By this time the vehicles had passed each other, and the immediate peril was over.

"Now, Paul," said his companion, laughing, "I'll trouble you for that cigar, if you have done with it. The old gentleman's advice was good. If I'd never learned to smoke, I wouldn't begin now."

Our hero was glad to take the cigar from his mouth. The brief time he had held it was sufficient to make him slightly dizzy.



XIII.

PAUL REACHES THE CITY.

Towards evening they drew up before a small house with a neat yard in front.

"I guess we'll get out here," said Mr. Stubbs. "There's a gentleman lives here that I feel pretty well acquainted with. Shouldn't wonder if he'd let us stop over Sunday. Whoa, Goliah, glad to get home, hey?" as the horse pricked up his ears and showed manifest signs of satisfaction.

"Now, youngster, follow me, and I guess I can promise you some supper, if Mrs. Stubbs hasn't forgotten her old tricks."

They passed through the entry into the kitchen, where Mrs. Stubbs was discovered before the fire toasting slices of bread.

"Lor, Jehoshaphat," said she, "I didn't expect you so soon," and she looked inquiringly at his companion.

"A young friend who is going to stay with us till Monday," explained the pedler. "His name is Paul Prescott."

"I'm glad to see you, Paul," said Mrs. Stubbs with a friendly smile. "You must be tired if you've been traveling far. Take a seat. Here's a rocking-chair for you."

This friendly greeting made Paul feel quite at home. Having no children, the pedler and his wife exerted themselves to make the time pass pleasantly to their young acquaintance. Paul could not help contrasting them with Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, not very much to the advantage of the latter. On Sunday he went to church with them, and the peculiar circumstances in which he was placed, made him listen to the sermon with unusual attention. It was an exposition of the text, "My help cometh from the Lord," and Paul could not help feeling that it was particularly applicable to his own case. It encouraged him to hope, that, however uncertain his prospects appeared, God would help him if he put his trust in Him.

On Monday morning Paul resumed his journey, with an ample stock of provisions supplied by Mrs. Stubbs, in the list of which doughnuts occupied a prominent place; this being at the particular suggestion of Mr. Stubbs.

Forty or fifty miles remained to be traversed before his destination would be reached. The road was not a difficult one to find, and he made it out without much questioning. The first night, he sought permission to sleep in a barn.

He met with a decided refusal.

He was about to turn away in disappointment, when he was called back.

"You are a little too fast, youngster. I said I wouldn't let you sleep in my barn, and I won't; but I've got a spare bed in the house, and if you choose you shall occupy it."

Under the guise of roughness, this man had a kind heart. He inquired into the particulars of Paul's story, and at the conclusion terrified him by saying that he had been very foolish and ought to be sent back. Nevertheless, when Paul took leave of him the next morning, he did not go away empty-handed.

"If you must be so foolish as to set up for yourself, take this," said the farmer, placing half a dollar in his hand. "You may reach the city after the banks are closed for the day, you know," he added, jocularly.

But it was in the morning that Paul came in sight of the city. He climbed up into a high tree, which, having the benefit of an elevated situation, afforded him an extensive prospect. Before him lay the great city of which he had so often heard, teeming with life and activity.

Half in eager anticipation, half in awe and wonder at its vastness, our young pilgrim stood upon the threshold of this great Babel.

Everything looked new and strange. It had never entered Paul's mind, that there could be so many houses in the whole State as now rose up before him. He got into Broadway, and walked on and on thinking that the street must end somewhere. But the farther he walked the thicker the houses seemed crowded together. Every few rods, too, he came to a cross street, which seemed quite as densely peopled as the one on which he was walking. One part of the city was the same as another to Paul, since he was equally a stranger to all. He wandered listlessly along, whither fancy led. His mind was constantly excited by the new and strange objects which met him at every step.

As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy of about his own age, stopped and inquired confidentially, "when did you come from the country?"

"This morning," said Paul, wondering how a stranger should know that he was a country boy.

"Could you tell me what is the price of potatoes up your way?" asked the other boy, with perfect gravity.

"I don't know," said Paul, innocently.

"I'm sorry for that," said the other, "as I have got to buy some for my wife and family."

Paul stared in surprise for a moment, and then realizing that he was being made game of, began to grow angry.

"You'd better go home to your wife and family," he said with spirit, "or you may get hurt."

"Bully for you, country!" answered the other with a laugh. "You're not as green as you look."

"Thank you," said Paul, "I wish I could say as much for you."

Tired with walking, Paul at length sat down in a doorway, and watched with interest the hurrying crowds that passed before him. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances; merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms; business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or Jersey City,—all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers, and were now crying them at the top of their voices,—and very discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone, homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming night.

"Yet," thought he with something of hopefulness, "there must be something for me to do as well as the rest."

Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending his hand, said, "why, Tom, how came you here?"

"My name isn't Tom," said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this address.

"Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker."

To this succeeded a few inquiries, which Paul unsuspiciously answered.

"Do you like oysters?" inquired the new-comer, after a while.

"Very much."

"Because I know of a tip top place to get some, just round the corner. Wouldn't you like some?"

Paul thanked his new acquaintance, and said he would.

Without more ado, his companion ushered him into a basement room near by. He led the way into a curtained recess, and both boys took seats one on each side of a small table.

"Just pull the bell, will you, and tell the waiter we'll have two stews."

Paul did so.

"I suppose," continued the other, "the governor wouldn't like it much if he knew where I was."

"The governor!" repeated Paul. "Why, it isn't against the laws, is it?"

"No," laughed the other. "I mean my father. How jolly queer you are!" He meant to say green, but had a purpose in not offending Paul.

"Are you the Governor's son?" asked Paul in amazement.

"To be sure," carelessly replied the other.

Paul's wonder had been excited many times in the course of the day, but this was more surprising than anything which had yet befallen him. That he should have the luck to fall in with the son of the Governor, on his first arrival in the city, and that the latter should prove so affable and condescending, was indeed surprising. Paul inwardly determined to mention it in his first letter to Aunt Lucy. He could imagine her astonishment.

While he was busy with these thoughts, his companion had finished his oysters.

"Most through?" he inquired nonchalantly.

"I've got to step out a minute; wait till I come back."

Paul unsuspectingly assented.

He heard his companion say a word to the barkeeper, and then go out.

He waited patiently for fifteen minutes and he did not return; another quarter of an hour, and he was still absent. Thinking he might have been unexpectedly detained, he rose to go, but was called back by the barkeeper.

"Hallo, youngster! are you going off without paying?"

"For what?" inquired Paul, in surprise.

"For the oysters, of course. You don't suppose I give 'em away, do you?"

"I thought," hesitated Paul, "that the one who was with me paid,—the Governor's son," he added, conscious of a certain pride in his intimacy with one so nearly related to the chief magistrate of the Commonwealth.

"The Governor's son," laughed the barkeeper. "Why the Governor lives a hundred miles off and more. That wasn't the Governor's son any more than I am."

"He called his father governor," said Paul, beginning to be afraid that he had made some ridiculous blunder.

"Well, I wouldn't advise you to trust him again, even if he's the President's son. He only got you in here to pay for his oysters. He told me when he went out that you would pay for them."

"And didn't he say he was coming back?" asked Paul, quite dumbfounded.

"He said you hadn't quite finished, but would pay for both when you came out. It's two shillings."

Paul rather ruefully took out the half dollar which constituted his entire stock of money, and tendered it to the barkeeper who returned him the change.

So Paul went out into the streets, with his confidence in human nature somewhat lessened.

Here, then, is our hero with twenty-five cents in his pocket, and his fortune to make.



XIV.

A STRANGE BED-CHAMBER.

Although Paul could not help being vexed at having been so cleverly taken in by his late companion, he felt the better for having eaten the oysters. Carefully depositing his only remaining coin in his pocket, he resumed his wanderings. It is said that a hearty meal is a good promoter of cheerfulness. It was so in Paul's case, and although he had as yet had no idea where he should find shelter for the night he did not allow that consideration to trouble him.

So the day passed, and the evening came on. Paul's appetite returned to him once more. He invested one-half of his money at an old woman's stall for cakes and apples, and then he ate leisurely while leaning against the iron railing which encircles the park.

He began to watch with interest the movements of those about him. Already the lamplighter had started on his accustomed round, and with ladder in hand was making his way from one lamp-post to another. Paul quite marvelled at the celerity with which the lamps were lighted, never before having witnessed the use of gas. He was so much interested in the process that he sauntered along behind the lamplighter for some time. At length his eye fell upon a group common enough in our cities, but new to him.

An Italian, short and dark-featured, with a velvet cap, was grinding out music from a hand-organ, while a woman with a complexion equally dark, and black sorrowful-looking eyes, accompanied her husband on the tambourine. They were playing a lively tune as Paul came up, but quickly glided into "Home, Sweet Home."

Paul listened with pleased, yet sad interest, for him "home" was only a sad remembrance.

He wandered on, pausing now and then to look into one of the brilliantly illuminated shop windows, or catching a glimpse through the open doors of the gay scene within, and as one after another of these lively scenes passed before him, he began to think that all the strange and wonderful things in the world must be collected in these rich stores.

Next, he came to a place of public amusement. Crowds were entering constantly, and Paul, from curiosity, entered too. He passed on to a little wicket, when a man stopped him.

"Where's your ticket?" he asked.

"I haven't got any," said Paul.

"Then what business have you here?" said the man, roughly.

"Isn't this a meeting-house?" asked Paul.

This remark seemed to amuse two boys who were standing by. Looking up with some indignation, Paul recognized in one of them the boy who had cheated him out of the oysters.

"Look here," said Paul, "what made you go off and leave me to pay for the oysters this morning?"

"Which of us do you mean?" inquired the 'governor's son,' carelessly.

"I mean you."

"Really, I don't understand your meaning. Perhaps you mistake me for somebody else."

"What?" said Paul, in great astonishment. "Don't you remember me, and how you told me you were the Governor's son?"

Both boys laughed.

"You must be mistaken. I haven't the honor of being related to the distinguished gentleman you name."

The speaker made a mocking bow to Paul.

"I know that," said Paul, with spirit, "but you said you were, for all that."

"It must have been some other good-looking boy, that you are mistaking me for. What are you going to do about it? I hope, by the way, that the oysters agreed with you."

"Yes, they did," said Paul, "for I came honestly by them."

"He's got you there, Gerald," said the other boy.

Paul made his way out of the theater. As his funds were reduced to twelve cents, he could not have purchased a ticket if he had desired it.

Still he moved on.

Soon he came to another building, which was in like manner lighted up, but not so brilliantly as the theater. This time, from the appearance of the building, and from the tall steeple,—so tall that his eye could scarcely reach the tapering spire,—he knew that it must be a church. There was not such a crowd gathered about the door as at the place he had just left, but he saw a few persons entering, and he joined them. The interior of the church was far more gorgeous than the plain village meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend with his mother. He gazed about him with a feeling of awe, and sank quietly into a back pew. As it was a week-day evening, and nothing of unusual interest was anticipated, there were but few present, here and there one, scattered through the capacious edifice.

By-and-by the organist commenced playing, and a flood of music, grander and more solemn than he had ever heard, filled the whole edifice. He listened with rapt attention and suspended breath till the last note died away, and then sank back upon the richly cushioned seat with a feeling of enjoyment.

In the services which followed he was not so much interested. The officiating clergyman delivered a long homily in a dull unimpassioned manner, which failed to awaken his interest. Already disposed to be drowsy, it acted upon him like a gentle soporific. He tried to pay attention as he had always been used to do, but owing to his occupying a back seat, and the low voice of the preacher, but few words reached him, and those for the most part were above his comprehension.

Gradually the feeling of fatigue—for he had been walking the streets all day—became so powerful that his struggles to keep awake became harder and harder. In vain he sat erect, resolved not to yield. The moment afterwards his head inclined to one side; the lights began to swim before his eyes; the voice of the preacher subsided into a low and undistinguishable hum. Paul's head sank upon the cushion, his bundle, which had been his constant companion during the day, fell softly to the floor, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile the sermon came to a close, and another hymn was sung, but even the music was insufficient to wake our hero now. So the benediction was pronounced, and the people opened the doors of their pews and left the church.

Last of all the sexton walked up and down the aisles, closing such of the pew doors as were open. Then he shut off the gas, and after looking around to see that nothing was forgotten, went out, apparently satisfied, and locked the outer door behind him.

Paul, meanwhile, wholly unconscious of his situation, slept on as tranquilly as if there were nothing unusual in the circumstances in which he was placed. Through the stained windows the softened light fell upon his tranquil countenance, on which a smile played, as if his dreams were pleasant. What would Aunt Lucy have thought if she could have seen her young friend at this moment?



XV.

A TURN OF FORTUNE.

Notwithstanding his singular bedchamber, Paul had a refreshing night's sleep from which he did not awake till the sun had fairly risen, and its rays colored by the medium through which they were reflected, streamed in at the windows and rested in many fantastic lines on the richly carved pulpit and luxurious pews.

Paul sprang to his feet and looked around him in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he exclaimed in astonishment.

In the momentary confusion of ideas which is apt to follow a sudden awakening, he could not remember where he was, or how he chanced to be there. But in a moment memory came to his aid, and he recalled the events of the preceding day, and saw that he must have been locked up in the church.

"How am I going to get out?" Paul asked himself in dismay.

This was the important question just now. He remembered that the village meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend was rarely opened except on Sundays. What if this should be the case here? It was Thursday morning, and three days must elapse before his release. This would never do. He must seek some earlier mode of deliverance.

He went first to the windows, but found them so secured that it was impossible for him to get them open. He tried the doors, but found, as he had anticipated, that they were fast. His last resource failing, he was at liberty to follow the dictates of his curiosity.

Finding a small door partly open, he peeped within, and found a flight of steep stairs rising before him. They wound round and round, and seemed almost interminable. At length, after he had become almost weary of ascending, he came to a small window, out of which he looked. At his feet lay the numberless roofs of the city, while not far away his eye rested on thousands of masts. The river sparkled in the sun, and Paul, in spite of his concern, could not help enjoying the scene. The sound of horses and carriages moving along the great thoroughfare below came confusedly to his ears. He leaned forward to look down, but the distance was so much greater than he had thought, that he drew back in alarm.

"What shall I do?" Paul asked himself, rather frightened. "I wonder if I can stand going without food for three days? I suppose nobody would hear me if I should scream as loud as I could."

Paul shouted, but there was so much noise in the streets that nobody probably heard him.

He descended the staircase, and once more found himself in the body of the church. He went up into the pulpit, but there seemed no hope of escape in that direction. There was a door leading out on one side, but this only led to a little room into which the minister retired before service.

It seemed rather odd to Paul to find himself the sole occupant of so large a building. He began to wonder whether it would not have been better for him to stay in the poorhouse, than come to New York to die of starvation.

Just at this moment Paul heard a key rattle in the outer door. Filled with new hope, he ran down the pulpit stairs and out into the porch, just in time to see the entrance of the sexton.

The sexton started in surprise as his eye fell upon Paul standing before him, with his bundle under his arm.

"Where did you come from, and how came you here?" he asked with some suspicion.

"I came in last night, and fell asleep."

"So you passed the night here?"

"Yes, sir."

"What made you come in at all?" inquired the sexton, who knew enough of boys to be curious upon this point.

"I didn't know where else to go," said Paul.

"Where do you live?"

Paul answered with perfect truth, "I don't live anywhere."

"What! Have you no home?" asked the sexton in surprise.

Paul shook his head.

"Where should you have slept if you hadn't come in here?"

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"And I suppose you don't know where you shall sleep to-night?"

Paul signified that he did not.

"I knew there were plenty of such cases," said the sexton, meditatively; "but I never seemed to realize it before."

"How long have you been in New York?" was his next inquiry.

"Not very long," said Paul. "I only got here yesterday."

"Then you don't know anybody in the city?"

"No."

"Why did you come here, then?"

"Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I thought I might find something to do here."

"But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?"

"I don't know," said Paul, slowly. "I haven't thought much about that."

"Well, my lad," said the sexton, not unkindly, "I can't say your prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on such an undertaking. I—I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look like a bad one," he added, half to himself.

"I hope not, sir," said Paul.

"I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you."

Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.

"What is your name?" inquired the sexton.

"Paul Prescott."

"That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?"

"Only twelve cents."

"Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor."

"But I can work," said Paul, spiritedly. "I ought to be able to earn my living."

"Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help themselves."

When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man, with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain air of benevolence which softened their expression.

As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the conclusion he said, "Must tell Hester."

At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the word.

"Sit here a moment," said the sexton, pointing to a chair, "I'll go and speak to Hester."

Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress," which lay on the table.

In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.

"Home so soon?" said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.

"Yes, Hester, and I have brought company with me," said the sexton.

"Company!" repeated his wife. "Who is it?"

"It is a poor boy, who was accidentally locked up in the church last night."

"And he had to stay there all night?"

"Yes; but perhaps it was lucky for him, for he had no other place to sleep, and not money enough to pay for one."

"Poor child!" said Hester, compassionately. "Is it not terrible to think that any human creature should be without the comforts of a home which even our tabby possesses. It ought to make you thankful that you are so well cared for, Tab."

The cat opened her eyes and winked drowsily at her mistress.

"So you brought the poor boy home, Hugh?"

"Yes, Hester,—I thought we ought not to begrudge a meal to one less favored by fortune than ourselves. You know we should consider ourselves the almoners of God's bounties."

"Surely, Hugh."

"I knew you would feel so, Hester. And suppose we have the chicken for dinner that I sent in the morning. I begin to have a famous appetite. I think I should enjoy it."

Hester knew perfectly well that it was for Paul's sake, and not for his own, that her husband spoke. But she so far entered into his feelings, that she determined to expend her utmost skill as cook upon the dinner, that Paul might have at least one good meal.

"Now I will bring the boy in," said he. "I am obliged to go to work, but you will find some way to entertain him, I dare say."

"If you will come out (this he said to Paul), I will introduce you to a new friend."

Paul was kindly welcomed by the sexton's wife, who questioned him in a sympathizing tone about his enforced stay in the church. To all her questions Paul answered in a modest yet manly fashion, so as to produce a decidedly favorable impression upon his entertainer.

Our hero was a handsome boy. Just at present he was somewhat thin, not having entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness and poor fare while a member of Mr. Mudge's family; but he was well made, and bade fair to become a stout boy. His manner was free and unembarrassed, and he carried a letter of recommendation in his face. It must be admitted, however that there were two points in which his appearance might have been improved. Both his hands and face had suffered from the dust of travel. His clothes, too, were full of dust.

A single glance told Hester all this, and she resolved to remedy it.

She quietly got some water and a towel, and requested Paul to pull off his jacket, which she dusted while he was performing his ablutions. Then, with the help of a comb to arrange his disordered hair, he seemed quite like a new boy, and felt quite refreshed by the operation.

"Really, it improves him very much," said Hester to herself.

She couldn't help recalling a boy of her own,—the only child she ever had,—who had been accidentally drowned when about the age of Paul.

"If he had only lived," she thought, "how different might have been our lives."

A thought came into her mind, and she looked earnestly at Paul.

"I—yes I will speak to Hugh about it," she said, speaking aloud, unconsciously.

"Did you speak to me?" asked Paul.

"No,—I was thinking of something."

She observed that Paul was looking rather wistfully at a loaf of bread on the table.

"Don't you feel hungry?" she asked, kindly.

"I dare say you have had no breakfast."

"I have eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon."

"Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!" said the good woman, as she bustled about to get a plate of butter and a knife.

She must have been convinced of it by the rapid manner in which the slices of bread and butter disappeared.

At one o'clock the sexton came home. Dinner was laid, and Paul partook of it with an appetite little affected by his lunch of the morning. As he rose from the table, he took his cap, and saying, "Good-by, I thank you very much for your kindness!" he was about to depart.

"Where are you going?" asked the sexton, in surprise.

"I don't know," answered Paul.

"Stop a minute. Hester, I want to speak to you."

They went into the sitting-room together.

"This boy, Hester," he commenced with hesitation.

"Well, Hugh?"

"He has no home."

"It is a hard lot."

"Do you think we should be the worse off if we offered to share our home with him?"

"It is like your kind heart, Hugh. Let us go and tell him."

"We have been talking of you, Paul," said the sexton. "We have thought, Hester and myself, that as you had no home and we no child, we should all be the gainers by your staying with us. Do you consent?"

"Consent!" echoed Paul in joyful surprise. "How can I ever repay your kindness?"

"If you are the boy we take you for, we shall feel abundantly repaid. Hester, we can give Paul the little bedroom where—where John used to sleep."

His voice faltered a little, for John was the name of his boy, who had been drowned.



XVI.

YOUNG STUPID.

Paul found the sexton's dwelling very different from his last home, if the Poorhouse under the charge of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge deserved such a name. His present home was an humble one, but he was provided with every needful comfort, and the atmosphere of kindness which surrounded him, gave him a feeling of peace and happiness which he had not enjoyed for a long time.

Paul supposed that he would be at once set to work, and even then would have accounted himself fortunate in possessing such a home.

But Mr. Cameron had other views for him.

"Are you fond of studying?" asked the sexton, as they were all three gathered in the little sitting room, an evening or two after Paul first came.

"Very much!" replied our hero.

"And would you like to go to school?"

"What, here in New York?"

"Yes."

"Oh, very much indeed."

"I am glad to hear you say so, my lad. There is nothing like a good education. If I had a son of my own, I would rather leave him that than money, for while the last may be lost, the first never can be. And though you are not my son, Paul, Providence has in a manner conducted you to me, and I feel responsible for your future. So you shall go to school next Monday morning, and I hope you will do yourself much credit there."

"Thank you very much," said Paul. "I feel very grateful, but——"

"You surely are not going to object?" said the sexton.

"No, but——"

"Well, Paul, go on," seeing that the boy hesitated.

"Why," said our hero, with a sense of delicacy which did him credit, "If I go to school, I shall not be able to earn my board, and shall be living at your expense, though I have no claim upon you."

"Oh, is that all?" said the sexton cheerfully, "I was afraid that it was something more serious. As to that, I am not rich, and never expect to be. But what little expense you will be will not ruin me. Besides, when you are grown up and doing well, you can repay me, if I ever need it."

"That I will," said Paul.

"Mind, if I ever need it,—not otherwise. There, now, it's a bargain on that condition. You haven't any other objection," seeing that Paul still hesitated.

"No, or at least I should like to ask your advice," said Paul. "Just before my father died, he told me of a debt of five hundred dollars which he had not been able to pay. I saw that it troubled him, and I promised to pay it whenever I was able. I don't know but I ought to go to work so as to keep my promise."

"No," said the sexton after a moment's reflection, "the best course will be to go to school, at present. Knowledge is power, and a good education will help you to make money by and by. I approve your resolution, my lad, and if you keep it resolutely in mind I have no doubt you will accomplish your object. But the quickest road to success is through the schoolroom. At present you are not able to earn much. Two or three years hence will be time enough."

Paul's face brightened as the sexton said this. He instinctively felt that Mr. Cameron was right. He had never forgotten his father's dying injunction, and this was one reason that impelled him to run away from the Almshouse, because he felt that while he remained he never would be in a situation to carry out his father's wishes. Now his duty was reconciled with his pleasure, and he gratefully accepted the sexton's suggestions.

The next Monday morning, in accordance with the arrangement which had just been agreed upon, Paul repaired to school. He was at once placed in a class, and lessons were assigned him.

At first his progress was not rapid. While living in Wrenville he had an opportunity only of attending a country school, kept less than six months in the year, and then not affording advantages to be compared with those of a city school. During his father's sickness, besides, he had been kept from school altogether. Of course all this lost time could not be made up in a moment. Therefore it was that Paul lagged behind his class.

There are generally some in every school, who are disposed to take unfair advantage of their schoolmates, or to ridicule those whom they consider inferior to themselves.

There was one such in Paul's class. His name was George Dawkins.

He was rather a showy boy, and learned easily. He might have stood a class above where he was, if he had not been lazy, and depended too much on his natural talent. As it was, he maintained the foremost rank in his class.

"Better be the first man in a village than the second man in Rome," he used to say; and as his present position not only gave him the pre-eminence which he desired, but cost him very little exertion to maintain, he was quite well satisfied with it.

This boy stood first in his class, while Paul entered at the foot.

He laughed unmercifully at the frequent mistakes of our hero, and jeeringly dubbed him, "Young Stupid."

"Do you know what Dawkins calls you?" asked one of the boys.

"No. What does he call me?" asked Paul, seriously.

"He calls you 'Young Stupid.'"

Paul's face flushed painfully. Ridicule was as painful to him as it is to most boys, and he felt the insult deeply.

"I'd fight him if I were you," was the volunteered advice of his informant.

"No," said Paul. "That wouldn't mend the matter. Besides, I don't know but he has some reason for thinking so."

"Don't call yourself stupid, do you?"

"No, but I am not as far advanced as most boys of my age. That isn't my fault, though. I never had a chance to go to school much. If I had been to school all my life, as Dawkins has, it would be time to find out whether I am stupid or not."

"Then you ain't going to do anything about it?"

"Yes, I am."

"You said you wasn't going to fight him."

"That wouldn't do any good. But I'm going to study up and see if I can't get ahead of him. Don't you think that will be the best way of showing him that he is mistaken?"

"Yes, capital, but——"

"But you think I can't do it, I suppose," said Paul.

"You know he is at the head of the class, and you are at the foot."

"I know that," said Paul, resolutely. "But wait awhile and see."

In some way George Dawkins learned that Paul had expressed the determination to dispute his place. It occasioned him considerable amusement.

"Halloa, Young Stupid," he called out, at recess.

Paul did not answer.

"Why don't you answer when you are spoken to?" he asked angrily.

"When you call me by my right name," said Paul, quietly, "I will answer, and not before."

"You're mighty independent," sneered Dawkins. "I don't know but I may have to teach you manners."

"You had better wait till you are qualified," said Paul, coolly.

Dawkins approached our hero menacingly, but Paul did not look in the least alarmed, and he concluded to attack him with words only.

"I understand you have set yourself up as my rival!" he said, mockingly.

"Not just yet," said Paul, "but in time I expect to be."

"So you expect my place," said Dawkins, glancing about him.

"We'll talk about that three months hence," said Paul.

"Don't hurt yourself studying," sneered Dawkins, scornfully.

To this Paul did not deign a reply, but the same day he rose one in his class.

Our hero had a large stock of energy and determination. When he had once set his mind upon a thing, he kept steadily at work till he accomplished it. This is the great secret of success. It sometimes happens that a man who has done nothing will at once accomplish a brilliant success by one spasmodic effort, but such cases are extremely rare.

"Slow and sure wins the race," is an old proverb that has a great deal of truth in it.

Paul worked industriously.

The kind sexton and his wife, who noticed his assiduity, strove to dissuade him from working so steadily.

"You are working too hard, Paul," they said.

"Do I look pale?" asked Paul, pointing with a smile to his red cheeks.

"No, but you will before long."

"When I am, I will study less. But you know, Uncle Hugh," so the sexton instructed him to call him, "I want to make the most of my present advantages. Besides, there's a particular boy who thinks I am stupid. I want to convince him that he is mistaken."

"You are a little ambitious, then, Paul?"

"Yes, but it isn't that alone. I know the value of knowledge, and I want to secure as much as I can."

"That is an excellent motive, Paul."

"Then you won't make me study less?"

"Not unless I see you are getting sick."

Paul took good care of this. He knew how to play as well as to study, and his laugh on the playground was as merry as any. His cheerful, obliging disposition made him a favorite with his companions. Only George Dawkins held out; he had, for some reason, imbibed a dislike for Paul.

Paul's industry was not without effect. He gradually gained position in his class.

"Take care, Dawkins," said one of his companions—the same one who had before spoken to Paul—"Paul Prescott will be disputing your place with you. He has come up seventeen places in a month."

"Much good it'll do him," said Dawkins, contemptuously.

"For all that, you will have to be careful; I can tell you that."

"I'm not in the least afraid. I'm a little too firm in my position to be ousted by Young Stupid."

"Just wait and see."

Dawkins really entertained no apprehension. He had unbounded confidence in himself, and felt a sense of power in the rapidity with which he could master a lesson. He therefore did not study much, and though he could not but see that Paul was rapidly advancing, he rejected with scorn the idea that Young Stupid could displace him.

This, however, was the object at which Paul was aiming. He had not forgotten the nickname which Dawkins had given him, and this was the revenge which he sought,—a strictly honorable one.

At length the day of his triumph came. At the end of the month the master read off the class-list, and, much to his disgust, George Dawkins found himself playing second fiddle to Young Stupid.



XVII.

BEN'S PRACTICAL JOKE.

Mrs. Mudge was in the back room, bending over a tub. It was washing-day, and she was particularly busy. She was a driving, bustling woman, and, whatever might be her faults of temper, she was at least industrious and energetic. Had Mr. Mudge been equally so, they would have been better off in a worldly point of view. But her husband was constitutionally lazy, and was never disposed to do more than was needful.

Mrs. Mudge was in a bad humor that morning. One of the cows had got into the garden through a gap in the fence, and made sad havoc among the cabbages. Now if Mrs. Mudge had a weakness, it was for cabbages. She was excessively fond of them, and had persuaded her husband to set out a large number of plants from which she expected a large crop. They were planted in one corner of the garden, adjoining a piece of land, which, since mowing, had been used for pasturing the cows. There was a weak place in the fence separating the two inclosures, and this Mrs. Mudge had requested her husband to attend to. He readily promised this, and Mrs. Mudge supposed it done, until that same morning, her sharp eyes had detected old Brindle munching the treasured cabbages with a provoking air of enjoyment. The angry lady seized a broom, and repaired quickly to the scene of devastation. Brindle scented the danger from afar, and beat a disorderly retreat, trampling down the cabbages which she had hitherto spared. Leaping over the broken fence, she had just cleared the gap as the broom-handle, missing her, came forcibly down upon the rail, and was snapped in sunder by the blow.

Here was a new vexation. Brindle had not only escaped scot-free, but the broom, a new one, bought only the week before, was broken.

"It's a plaguy shame," said Mrs. Mudge, angrily. "There's my best broom broken; cost forty-two cents only last week."

She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation. This yielded her little consolation.

"At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow," she exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair. "I wish I'd a hit her. If I'd broken my broom over her back I wouldn't a cared so much. And it's all Mudge's fault. He's the most shiftless man I ever see. I'll give him a dressing down, see if I don't."

Mrs. Mudge's eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a dressing down she intended for her husband.

Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made his appearance. He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm that awaited him.

"I'm glad you've come," said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.

"What's amiss, now?" inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.

"What's amiss?" blazed Mrs. Mudge. "I'll let you know. Do you see this?"

She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.

"Broken your broom, have you? You must have been careless."

"Careless, was I?" demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically. "Yes, of course, it's always I that am in fault."

"You haven't broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?" asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet's infirmity of temper, thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.

"If I had broken it over anybody's back it would have been yours," said the lady.

"Mine! what have I been doing?"

"It's what you haven't done," said Mrs. Mudge. "You're about the laziest and most shiftless man I ever came across."

"Come, what does all this mean?" demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a little angry in his turn.

"I'll let you know. Just look out of that window, will you?"

"Well," said Mr. Mudge, innocently, "I don't see anything in particular."

"You don't!" said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm. "Then you'd better put on your glasses. If you'd been here quarter of an hour ago, you'd have seen Brindle among the cabbages."

"Did she do any harm?" asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.

"There's scarcely a cabbage left," returned Mrs. Mudge, purposely exaggerating the mischief done.

"If you had mended that fence, as I told you to do, time and again, it wouldn't have happened."

"You didn't tell me but once," said Mr. Mudge, trying to get up a feeble defence.

"Once should have been enough, and more than enough. You expect me to slave myself to death in the house, and see to all your work besides. If I'd known what a lazy, shiftless man you were, at the time I married you, I'd have cut off my right hand first."

By this time Mr. Mudge had become angry.

"If you hadn't married me, you'd a died an old maid," he retorted.

This was too much for Mrs. Mudge to bear. She snatched the larger half of the broom, and fetched it down with considerable emphasis upon the back of her liege lord, who, perceiving that her temper was up, retreated hastily from the kitchen; as he got into the yard he descried Brindle, whose appetite had been whetted by her previous raid, re-entering the garden through the gap.

It was an unfortunate attempt on the part of Brindle. Mr. Mudge, angry with his wife, and smarting with the blow from the broomstick, determined to avenge himself upon the original cause of all the trouble. Revenge suggested craft. He seized a hoe, and crept stealthily to the cabbage-plot. Brindle, whose back was turned, did not perceive his approach, until she felt a shower of blows upon her back. Confused at the unexpected attack she darted wildly away, forgetting the gap in the fence, and raced at random over beds of vegetables, uprooting beets, parsnips, and turnips, while Mr. Mudge, mad with rage, followed close in her tracks, hitting her with the hoe whenever he got a chance.

Brindle galloped through the yard, and out at the open gate. Thence she ran up the road at the top of her speed, with Mr. Mudge still pursuing her.

It may be mentioned here that Mr. Mudge was compelled to chase the terrified cow over two miles before he succeeded with the help of a neighbor in capturing her. All this took time. Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge at home was subjected to yet another trial of her temper.

It has already been mentioned that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor. In virtue of his office, he was expected to exercise a general supervision over the Almshouse and its management. It was his custom to call about once a month to look after matters, and ascertain whether any official action or interference was needed.

Ben saw his father take his gold-headed cane from behind the door, and start down the road. He understood his destination, and instantly the plan of a stupendous practical joke dawned upon him.

"It'll be jolly fun," he said to himself, his eyes dancing with fun. "I'll try it, anyway."

He took his way across the fields, so as to reach the Almshouse before his father. He then commenced his plan of operations.

Mrs. Mudge had returned to her tub, and was washing away with bitter energy, thinking over her grievances in the matter of Mr. Mudge, when a knock was heard at the front door.

Taking her hands from the tub, she wiped them on her apron.

"I wish folks wouldn't come on washing day!" she said in a tone of vexation.

She went to the door and opened it.

There was nobody there.

"I thought somebody knocked," thought she, a little mystified. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

She went back to her tub, and had no sooner got her hands in the suds than another knock was heard, this time on the back door.

"I declare!" said she, in increased vexation, "There's another knock. I shan't get through my washing to-day."

Again Mrs. Mudge wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the door.

There was nobody there.

I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had knocked both times, and instantly dodged round the corner of the house.

"It's some plaguy boy," said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger. "Oh, if I could only get hold of him!"

"Don't you wish you could?" chuckled Ben to himself, as he caught a sly glimpse of the indignant woman.

Meanwhile, Squire Newcome had walked along in his usual slow and dignified manner, until he had reached the front door of the Poorhouse, and knocked.

"It's that plaguy boy again," said Mrs. Mudge, furiously. "I won't go this time, but if he knocks again, I'll fix him."

She took a dipper of hot suds from the tub in which she had been washing, and crept carefully into the entry, taking up a station close to the front door.

"I wonder if Mrs. Mudge heard me knock," thought Squire Newcome. "I should think she might. I believe I will knock again."

This time he knocked with his cane.

Rat-tat-tat sounded on the door.

The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished Squire, accompanied with, "Take that, you young scamp!"

"Wh—what does all this mean?" gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.

"I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome," said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. "I didn't mean it."

"What did you mean, then?" demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. "I think you addressed me,—ahem!—as a scamp."

"Oh, I didn't mean you," said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with perplexity.

"Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You've no idea how I've been tried this morning."

"I trust," said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, "you will be able to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem—extraordinary proceeding."

While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the aggrieved Squire, the "young scamp," who had caused all the mischief, made his escape through the fields.

"Oh, wasn't it bully!" he exclaimed. "I believe I shall die of laughing. I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a scrape, now, I'm thinking."

Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.

"I'd give five dollars to see it all over again," he said to himself. "I never had such splendid fun in my life."

Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.

"I guess I'd better make tracks," said Ben to himself, "it won't do for the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat."

He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.



XVIII.

MORE ABOUT BEN.

"Benjamin," said Squire Newcome, two days after the occurrence mentioned in the last chapter, "what made the dog howl so this morning? Was you a doing anything to him?"

"I gave him his breakfast," said Ben, innocently. "Perhaps he was hungry, and howling for that."

"I do not refer to that," said the Squire. "He howled as if in pain or terror. I repeat; was you a doing anything to him?"

Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and looked out of the window.

"I desire a categorical answer," said Squire Newcome.

"Don't know what categorical means," said Ben, assuming a perplexed look.

"I desire you to answer me IMMEGIATELY," explained the Squire. "What was you a doing to Watch?"

"I was tying a tin-kettle to his tail," said Ben, a little reluctantly.

"And what was you a doing that for?" pursued the Squire.

"I wanted to see how he would look," said Ben, glancing demurely at his father, out of the corner of his eye.

"Did it ever occur to you that it must be disagreeable to Watch to have such an appendage to his tail?" queried the Squire.

"I don't know," said Ben.

"How should you like to have a tin pail suspended to your—ahem! your coat tail?"

"I haven't got any coat tail," said Ben, "I wear jackets. But I think I am old enough to wear coats. Can't I have one made, father?"

"Ahem!" said the Squire, blowing his nose, "we will speak of that at some future period."

"Fred Newell wears a coat, and he isn't any older than I am," persisted Ben, who was desirous of interrupting his father's inquiries.

"I apprehend that we are wandering from the question," said the Squire. "Would you like to be treated as you treated Watch?"

"No," said Ben, slowly, "I don't know as I should."

"Then take care not to repeat your conduct of this morning," said his father. "Stay a moment," as Ben was about to leave the room hastily. "I desire that you should go to the post-office and inquire for letters."

"Yes, sir."

Ben left the room and sauntered out in the direction of the post-office.

A chaise, driven by a stranger, stopped as it came up with him.

The driver looked towards Ben, and inquired, "Boy, is this the way to Sparta?"

Ben, who was walking leisurely along the path, whistling as he went, never turned his head.

"Are you deaf, boy?" said the driver, impatiently. "I want to know if this is the road to Sparta?"

Ben turned round.

"Fine morning, sir," he said politely.

"I know that well enough without your telling me. Will you tell me whether this is the road to Sparta?"

Ben put his hand to his ear, and seemed to listen attentively. Then he slowly shook his head, and said, "Would you be kind enough to speak a little louder, sir?"

"The boy is deaf, after all," said the driver to himself. "IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?"

"Yes, sir, this is Wrenville," said Ben, politely.

"Plague take it! he don't hear me yet. IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?"

"Just a little louder, if you please," said Ben, keeping his hand to his ear, and appearing anxious to hear.

"Deaf as a post!" muttered the driver. "I couldn't scream any louder, if I should try. Go along."

"Poor man! I hope he hasn't injured his voice," thought Ben, his eyes dancing with fun. "By gracious!" he continued a moment later, bursting into a laugh, "if he isn't going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He's as deaf as I pretended to be."

The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta.

"What did you say?" said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. "I'm rather hard of hearing."

The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice.

The old man shook his head.

"I guess you'd better ask that boy," he said, pointing to Ben, who by this time had nearly come up with the chaise.

"I have had enough of him," said the traveller, disgusted. "I believe you're all deaf in this town. I'll get out of it as soon as possible."

He whipped up his horse, somewhat to the old man's surprise, and drove rapidly away.

I desire my young readers to understand that I am describing Ben as he was, and not as he ought to be. There is no doubt that he carried his love of fun too far. We will hope that as he grows older, he will grow wiser.

Ben pursued the remainder of his way to the Post-office without any further adventure.

Entering a small building appropriated to this purpose, he inquired for letters.

"There's nothing for your father to-day," said the post-master.

"Perhaps there's something for me,—Benjamin Newcome, Esq.," said Ben.

"Let me see," said the post-master, putting on his spectacles; "yes, I believe there is. Post-marked at New York, too. I didn't know you had any correspondents there."

"It's probably from the Mayor of New York," said Ben, in a tone of comical importance, "asking my advice about laying out Central Park."

"Probably it is," said the postmaster. "It's a pretty thick letter,—looks like an official document."

By this time, Ben, who was really surprised by the reception of the letter, had opened it. It proved to be from our hero, Paul Prescott, and inclosed one for Aunt Lucy.

"Mr. Crosby," said Ben, suddenly, addressing the postmaster, "you remember about Paul Prescott's running away from the Poorhouse?"

"Yes, I didn't blame the poor boy a bit. I never liked Mudge, and they say his wife is worse than he."

"Well, suppose the town should find out where he is, could they get him back again?"

"Bless you! no. They ain't so fond of supporting paupers. If he's able to earn his own living, they won't want to interfere with him."

"Well, this letter is from him," said Ben. "He's found a pleasant family in New York, who have adopted him."

"I'm glad of it," said Mr. Crosby, heartily. "I always liked him. He was a fine fellow."

"That's just what I think. I'll read his letter to you, if you would like to hear it."

"I should, very much. Come in behind here, and sit down."

Ben went inside the office, and sitting down on a stool, read Paul's letter. As our reader may be interested in the contents, we will take the liberty of looking over Ben's shoulder while he reads.

New York, Oct. 10, 18—.

DEAR BEN:—

I have been intending to write to you before, knowing the kind interest which you take in me. I got safely to New York a few days after I left Wrenville. I didn't have so hard a time as I expected, having fallen in with a pedler, who was very kind to me, with whom I rode thirty or forty miles. I wish I had time to tell all the adventures I met with on the way, but I must wait till I see you.

When I got to the city, I was astonished to find how large it was. The first day I got pretty tired wandering about, and strayed into a church in the evening, not knowing where else to go. I was so tired I fell asleep there, and didn't wake up till morning. When I found myself locked up in a great church, I was frightened, I can tell you. It was only Thursday morning, and I was afraid I should have to stay there till Sunday. If I had, I am afraid I should have starved to death. But, fortunately for me, the sexton came in the morning, and let me out. That wasn't all. He very kindly took me home with him, and then told me I might live with him and go to school. I like him very much, and his wife too. I call them Uncle Hugh and Aunt Hester. When you write to me, you must direct to the care of Mr. Hugh Cameron, 10 R—— Street. Then it will be sure to reach me.

I am going to one of the city schools. At first, I was a good deal troubled because I was so far behind boys of my age. You know I hadn't been to school for a long time before I left Wrenville, on account of father's sickness. But I studied pretty hard, and now I stand very well. I sometimes think, Ben, that you don't care quite so much about study as you ought to. I wish you would come to feel the importance of it. You must excuse me saying this, as we have always been such good friends.

I sometimes think of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, and wonder whether they miss me much. I am sure Mr. Mudge misses me, for now he is obliged to get up early and milk, unless he has found another boy to do it. If he has, I pity the boy. Write me what they said about my going away.

I inclose a letter for Aunt Lucy Lee, which I should like to have you give her with your own hands. Don't trust it to Mrs. Mudge, for she doesn't like Aunt Lucy, and I don't think she would give it to her.

Write soon, Ben, and I will answer without delay, Your affectionate friend, PAUL PRESCOTT.

"That's a very good letter," said Mr. Crosby; "I am glad Paul is doing so well. I should like to see him."

"So should I," said Ben; "he was a prime fellow,—twice as good as I am. That's true, what he said about my not liking study. I guess I'll try to do better."

"You'll make a smart boy if you only try," said the postmaster, with whom Ben was rather a favorite, in spite of his mischievous propensities.

"Thank you," said Ben, laughing, "that's what my friend, the mayor of New York, often writes me. But honestly, I know I can do a good deal better than I am doing now. I don't know but I shall turn over a new leaf. I suppose I like fun a little too well. Such jolly sport as I had coming to the office this morning."

Ben related the story of the traveller who inquired the way to Sparta, much to the amusement of the postmaster, who, in his enjoyment of the joke, forgot to tell Ben that his conduct was hardly justifiable.

"Now," said Ben, "as soon as I have been home, I must go and see my particular friend, Mrs. Mudge. I'm a great favorite of hers," he added, with a sly wink.



XIX.

MRS. MUDGE'S DISCOMFITURE.

Ben knocked at the door of the Poorhouse. In due time Mrs. Mudge appeared. She was a little alarmed on seeing Ben, not knowing how Squire Newcome might be affected by the reception she had given him on his last visit. Accordingly she received him with unusual politeness.

"How do you do, Master Newcome?" she inquired.

"As well as could be expected," said Ben, hesitatingly.

"Why, is there anything the matter with you?" inquired Mrs. Mudge, her curiosity excited by his manner of speaking.

"No one can tell what I suffer from rheumatism," said Ben, sadly.

This was very true, since not even Ben himself could have told.

"You are very young to be troubled in that way," said Mrs. Mudge, "and how is your respected father, to-day?" she inquired, with some anxiety.

"I was just going to ask you, Mrs. Mudge," said Ben, "whether anything happened to disturb him when he called here day before yesterday?"

"Why," said Mrs. Mudge, turning a little pale, "Nothing of any consequence,—that is, not much. What makes you ask?"

"I thought it might be so from his manner," said Ben, enjoying Mrs. Mudge's evident alarm.

"There was a little accident," said Mrs. Mudge, reluctantly. "Some mischievous boy had been knocking and running away; so, when your father knocked, I thought it might be he, and—and I believe I threw some water on him. But I hope he has forgiven it, as it wasn't intentional. I should like to get hold of that boy," said Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully, "I should like to shake him up."

"Have you any idea who it was?" asked Ben, gravely.

"No," said Mrs. Mudge, "I haven't, but I shall try to find out. Whoever it is, he's a scamp."

"Very complimentary old lady," thought Ben. He said in a sober tone, which would have imposed upon any one, "There are a good many mischievous boys around here."

Mrs. Mudge grimly assented.

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Mudge," asked Ben, suddenly, "have you ever heard anything of Paul Prescott since he left you?"

"No," snapped Mrs. Mudge, her countenance growing dark, "I haven't. But I can tell pretty well where he is."

"Where?"

"In the penitentiary. At any rate, if he isn't, he ought to be. But what was you wanting?"

"I want to see Mrs. Lee."

"Aunt Lucy Lee?"

"Yes. I've got a letter for her."

"If you'll give me the letter I'll carry it to her."

"Thank you," said Ben, "but I would like to see her."

"Never mind," thought Mrs. Mudge, "I'll get hold of it yet. I shouldn't wonder at all if it was from that rascal, Paul."

Poor Paul! It was fortunate that he had some better friends than Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, otherwise he would have been pretty poorly off.

Aunt Lucy came to the door. Ben placed the letter in her hands.

"Is it from Paul?" she asked, hopefully.

"Yes," said Ben.

She opened it eagerly. "Is he well?" she asked.

"Yes, well and happy," said Ben, who treated the old lady, for whom he had much respect, very differently from Mrs. Mudge.

"I'm truly thankful for that," said Aunt Lucy; "I've laid awake more than one night thinking of him."

"So has Mrs. Mudge, I'm thinking," said Ben, slyly.

Aunt Lucy laughed.

"There isn't much love lost between them," said Aunt Lucy, smiling. "He was very badly treated here, poor boy."

"Was he, though?" repeated Mrs. Mudge? who had been listening at the keyhole, but not in an audible voice. "Perhaps he will be again, if I get him back. I thought that letter was from Paul. I must get hold of it some time to-day."

"I believe I must go," said Ben. "If you answer the letter, I will put it into the office for you. I shall be passing here to-morrow."

"You are very kind," said Aunt Lucy. "I am very much obliged to you for bringing me this letter to-day. You can't tell how happy it makes me. I have been so afraid the dear boy might be suffering."

"It's no trouble at all," said Ben.

"She's a pretty good woman," thought he, as he left the house. "I wouldn't play a trick on her for a good deal. But that Mrs. Mudge is a hard case. I wonder what she would have said if she had known that I was the 'scamp' that troubled her so much Monday. If I had such a mother as that, by jingo, I'd run away to sea."

Mrs. Mudge was bent upon reading Aunt Lucy's letter. Knowing it to be from Paul, she had a strong curiosity to know what had become of him. If she could only get him back! Her heart bounded with delight as she thought of the annoyances to which, in that case, she could subject him. It would be a double triumph over him and Aunt Lucy, against whom she felt that mean spite with which a superior nature is often regarded by one of a lower order.

After some reflection, Mrs. Mudge concluded that Aunt Lucy would probably leave the letter in the little chest which was appropriated to her use, and which was kept in the room where she slept. The key of this chest had been lost, and although Aunt Lucy had repeatedly requested that a new one should be obtained, Mrs. Mudge had seen fit to pay no attention to her request, as it would interfere with purposes of her own, the character of which may easily be guessed.

As she suspected, Paul's letter had been deposited in this chest.

Accordingly, the same afternoon, she left her work in the kitchen in order to institute a search for it. As a prudent precaution, however, she just opened the door of the common room, to make sure that Aunt Lucy was at work therein.

She made her way upstairs, and entering the room in which the old lady lodged, together with two others, she at once went to the chest and opened it.

She began to rummage round among the old lady's scanty treasures, and at length, much to her joy, happened upon the letter, laid carefully away in one corner of the chest. She knew it was the one she sought, from the recent postmark, and the address, which was in the unformed handwriting of a boy. To make absolutely certain, she drew the letter from the envelope and looked at the signature.

She was right, as she saw at a glance. It was from Paul.

"Now I'll see what the little rascal has to say for himself," she muttered, "I hope he's in distress; oh, how I'd like to get hold of him."

Mrs. Mudge began eagerly to read the letter, not dreaming of interruption. But she was destined to be disappointed. To account for this we must explain that, shortly after Mrs. Mudge looked into the common room, Aunt Lucy was reminded of something essential, which she had left upstairs. She accordingly laid down her work upon the chair in which she had been sitting, and went up to her chamber.

Mrs. Mudge was too much preoccupied to hear the advancing steps.

As the old lady entered the chamber, what was her mingled indignation and dismay at seeing Mrs. Mudge on her knees before her chest, with the precious letter, whose arrival had gladdened her so much, in her hands.