George got home in time for supper, but it was not till after supper that he mentioned to Herbert:

"I saw that young fisherman this afternoon."

"What young fisherman?"

"The one you played croquet with this morning."

"Oh, Bob Coverdale! Where did you see him?" asked Herbert with interest.

"On Egg Island."

"How came he there?" inquired Herbert, rather surprised.

"He went there in a boat with his uncle. I expect he's there now."

"Why should he stay over there so long?"

"It's a rich joke," said George, laughing. "It seems his uncle was mad with him and landed him there as a punishment. He's got to stay there all night."

"I don't see anything so very amusing in that," said Herbert, who was now thoroughly interested.

"He wanted me to take him off," proceeded George. "He was trying to build a raft. I told him he'd better keep at it."

If George had watched the countenance of his cousin he would have seen that Herbert was very angry, but he was so amused by the thought of Robert's perplexity that he did not notice.

"Do you mean to say that you refused to take him off?" demanded Herbert in a quick, stern tone that arrested George's attention.

"Of course I did! What claim had he on me?"

"And you deliberately left him there, when it would have been no trouble to give him a passage back?"

"Really, Herbert, I don't like your way of speaking. It was my boat—or, at least, I was paying for the use of it—and I didn't choose to take him as a passenger."

"George Randolph, do you want to know my opinion of you?" asked Herbert hotly.

"What do you mean?" stammered George.

"I mean this, that I am ashamed of you. You are the most contemptibly mean fellow I ever met, and I am heartily sorry there is any relationship between us."

"I consider that an insult!" exclaimed George, pale with anger.

"I am glad you do. I mean it as such. Just tell my mother I won't be back till late in the evening."

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to get a boat and row to Egg Island for Bob Coverdale," and Herbert dashed up the street in the direction of the beach.

"He must be crazy!" muttered George, looking after his cousin.

Herbert Irving reached the beach and sought out Ben Bence.

"Mr. Bence," he said, "I want to go to Egg Island. If you can spare the time, come with me and I'll pay you for your time."

"What are you going for, Master Herbert?"

Upon this Herbert explained the object of his trip.

"Now, will you go?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the fisherman heartily, "I'll go and won't charge you a cent for the boat or my time. Bob Coverdale's a favorite of mine, and I'm sorry his uncle treats him so badly."

Strong, sturdy strokes soon brought them to the island.

"Bob! Where are you. Bob?" called Herbert.

There was no answer. The island was so small that he would have been seen if he had been there.

"He must have got off," said Herbert. "George said he was building a raft."

"Then I mistrust something's happened to the poor boy," said Bence gravely. "He couldn't build a raft here that would hold together till he reached the mainland."

Herbert turned pale.

"I hope it isn't so bad as that," he said. "Let us row back as quick as we can!"



CHAPTER XII

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

As they were rowing back they scanned the sea in every direction, but nowhere did they discover any signs of Robert or his raft.

"Perhaps," suggested Herbert, breaking a long silence, "Bob is already at home."

He looked inquiringly in the face of his companion to see what he thought of the chances.

"Mayhap he is," said Ben Bence slowly, "but I mistrust he found it too rough for the raft."

"In that case——" said Herbert anxiously and stopped without answering the question.

"In that case the poor boy's at the bottom of the sea, it's likely."

"He could swim, Mr. Bence."

"Yes, but the tide would be too strong for him. Just about now there's a fearful undertow. I couldn't swim against it myself, let alone a boy."

"If anything has happened to him it's his uncle's fault," said Herbert.

"John Trafton will have to answer for it," said the fisherman sternly. "There ain't one of us that don't love Bob. He's a downright good boy, Bob Coverdale is, and a smart boy, too."

"If he's lost I will never have anything more to do with George Randolph. I will ask mother to pack him back to Boston to-morrow."

"George ain't a mite like you," said Ben Bence.

"I hope not," returned Herbert hastily. "He's one of the meanest boys I ever met. He might just as well have taken poor Bob off the island this afternoon, if he hadn't been so spiteful and ugly."

"It would serve him right to leave him there a while himself," suggested Bence.

"I agree with you."

There was another pause. Each was troubled by anxious thoughts about the missing boy.

When they reached the shore Herbert said:

"I'm going to Mr. Trafton's to see if Bob has got home."

"I'll go with you," said the fisherman briefly.

They reached the humble cabin of the Traftons and knocked at the door.

Mrs. Trafton opened it.

"Good evening, Mr. Bence," she said. "I believe this young gentleman is Master Herbert Irving? I have often heard Robert speak of him."

"Is Robert at home?" asked Herbert eagerly.

"No, he has been away all day," answered his aunt.

"Do you know where he is?" inquired Ben Bence soberly.

"Mr. Trafton wouldn't tell me. He said he had sent him away on some errand, but I don't see where he could have gone, to stay so long."

It was clear Mrs. Trafton knew nothing of the trick which had been played upon her nephew.

"Tell her, Mr. Bence," said Herbert, turning to his companion.

"Has anything happened to Robert?" asked Mrs. Trafton, turning pale.

They told her how her husband had conveyed Robert to Egg Island and then treacherously left him there, to get off as he might.

"Was there any difficulty between Bob and his uncle?" asked Ben Bence.

"Yes; the boy had a little money which had been given him and my husband ordered him to give it up to him. He'd have done it, if he hadn't wanted to spend it for me. He was always a considerate boy, and I don't know what I should have done without him. Mr. Bence, I know it's a good deal to ask, but I can't bear to think of Robert staying on the island all night. Would you mind rowing over and bringing him back?"

As yet Mrs. Trafton did not understand that any greater peril menaced her nephew.

"Mrs. Trafton, we have just been over to Egg Island," said the fisherman.

"And didn't you find him?"

"No; he was not there."

"But how could he get off?"

"He was seen this afternoon making a raft from the old timbers he found in the wreck. He must have put to sea on it."

"Then why is he not here?"

"The sea was rough, and——"

Mrs. Trafton, who had been standing, sank into a chair with a startled look.

"You don't think my boy is lost?"

"I hate to think so, Mrs. Trafton, but it may be."

From grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation.

"If the poor boy is drowned, I charge John Trafton with his death!" said the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually calm temperament.

"What's this about John Trafton?" demanded a rough voice.

It was John Trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of the cabin.

Ben Bence and Herbert shrank from him with natural aversion.

"So you're talking against me behind my back, are you?" asked Trafton, looking from one to the other with a scowl.

His wife rose to her feet and turned upon him a glance such as he had never met before.

"What have you done with Robert, John Trafton?" she demanded sternly.

"Oh! that's it, is it?" he said, laughing shortly. "I've served him as he deserved."

"What have you done with him?" she continued in a slow, measured voice.

"You needn't come any tragedy over me, old woman!" he answered with annoyance. "I left him on Egg Island to punish him for disobeying me!"

"I charge you with his murder!" she continued, confronting him with a courage quite new to her.

"Murder!" he repeated, starting. "Come, now, that's a little too strong! Leaving him on Egg Island isn't murdering him. You talk like a fool!"

"Trafton," said Ben Bence gravely, "there is reason to think that your nephew put off from the island on a raft, which he made himself, and that the raft went to pieces."

For the first time John Trafton's brown face lost its color.

"You don't mean to say Bob's drowned?" he ejaculated.

"There is reason to fear that he may be."

"I'll bet he's on the island now."

"We have just been there and he is not there."

At length Trafton began to see that the situation was a grave one, and he began to exculpate himself.

"If he was such a fool as to put to sea on a crazy raft it ain't my fault," he said. "I couldn't help it, could I?"

"If you hadn't left him there he would still be alive and well."

John Trafton pulled out his red cotton handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his forehead, on which the beads of perspiration were gathering.

"Of course I wouldn't have left him there if I'd known what he would do," he muttered.

"Did you mean to leave him there all night?" asked Bence.

"Yes, I meant it as a lesson to him," said the fisherman.

"A lesson to him? You are a fine man to give a lesson to him! You, who spend all your earnings for drink and leave me to starve! John Trafton, I charge you with the death of poor Robert!" exclaimed Mrs. Trafton with startling emphasis.

Perhaps nothing more contributed to overwhelm John Trafton than the wonderful change which had taken place in his usually gentle and submissive wife. He returned her accusing glance with a look of deprecation.

"Come now, Jane, be a little reasonable," he said. "You're very much mistaken. It was only in fun I left him. I thought it would be a good joke to leave him on the island all night. Say something for me, Ben—there's a good fellow."

But Ben Bence was not disposed to waste any sympathy on John Trafton. He was glad to see Trafton brought to judgment and felt like deepening his sense of guilt rather than lightening it.

"Your wife is right," he said gravely. "If poor Bob is dead, you are guilty of his death in the sight of God."

"But he isn't dead! It's all a false alarm. I'll get my boat and row over to the island myself. Very likely he had gone to sleep among the bushes and that prevented your seeing him."

There was a bare possibility of this, but Ben Bence had little faith in it.

"Go, if you like," he said. "If you find him, it will lift a great weight from your conscience."

John Trafton dashed to the shore, flung himself into his boat, and, with feverish haste, began to row toward the island. He bitterly repented now the act which had involved him in such grave responsibility.

He was perfectly sober, for his credit at the tavern was temporarily exhausted.

Of course those who remained behind in the cabin had no hope of Robert being found. They were forced to believe that the raft had gone to pieces and the poor boy, in his efforts to reach the shore, had been swept back into the ocean by the treacherous undertow and was now lying stiff and stark at the bottom of the sea.

"What shall I ever do without Robert?" said Mrs. Trafton, her defiant mood changing, at her husband's departure, to an outburst of grief. "He was all I had to live for."

"You have your husband," suggested Ben Bence doubtfully.

"My husband!" she repeated drearily. "You know how little company he is for me and how little he does to make me comfortable and happy. I will never forgive him for this day's work."

Ben Bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that Trafton did not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her bereavement, Mrs. Trafton would find no excuse for him.

Herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. He had a genuine attachment for Robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and appreciate, even if he was a fisherman's nephew.

He, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. He, too, had his object of resentment.

But for George Randolph, he reflected, Robert would now be alive and well, and he resolved to visit George with his severest reproaches.

While all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened.

The door of the cabin was closed by John Trafton as he went out.

Suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard as of a dog trying to excite attention.

"It must be my dog Dash," said Herbert. "I wonder how he found me out?"

He advanced to the door and opened it. Before him stood a dog, but it was not Dash. It was a large black dog, with an expression of intelligence almost human. He had in his mouth what appeared to be a scrap of writing paper. This he dropped on the ground when he saw that he had attracted Herbert's attention.

"What does this mean?" thought Herbert in great surprise, "and where does this dog come from?"

He stooped and picked up the paper, greatly to the dog's apparent satisfaction. It was folded in the middle and contained, written in pencil, the following message, which, not being directed to any one in particular, Herbert felt at liberty to read:

"Feel no anxiety about Robert Coverdale. He is safe!"

Herbert read the message, the dog uttered a quick bark of satisfaction, and, turning, ran down the cliff to the beach.

Herbert was so excited and delighted at the news of his friend's safety that he gave no further attention to the strange messenger, but hurried into the cabin.

"Mrs. Trafton—Mr. Bence!" he exclaimed, "Bob is safe!"

"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they asked quickly.

"Read this!" answered Herbert, giving Mrs. Trafton the scrap of paper.

"Who brought it?" she asked, bewildered.

"A dog."

Ben Bence quickly asked:

"What do you mean?"

"I know nothing more than that a large black dog came to the door with this in his mouth, which he dropped at my feet."

"That is very strange," said Bence.

He opened the door and looked out, but no dog was to be seen.

"Do you believe this? Can it be true?" asked Mrs. Trafton.

"I believe it is true, though I can't explain it," answered Ben. "Some dogs are wonderfully trained. I don't know whom this dog belongs to, but whoever it is he doubtless has Robert under his care. Let us be thankful that he has been saved."

"But why don't he come home?" asked Mrs. Trafton. "Where can he be?"

"He was probably rescued in an exhausted condition. Cheer up, Mrs. Trafton. You will no doubt see your boy to-morrow."

"I feel like giving three cheers, Mr. Bence," said Herbert.

"Then give 'em, boy, and I'll help you!" said old Ben.

The three cheers were given with a will, and Herbert went home, his heart much lighter than it had been ten minutes before.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CRUISE OF THE RAFT

It is time we carried the reader back to the time when Robert, after launching his rude raft, set out from the island of his captivity.

Notwithstanding his rather critical situation, he was in excellent spirits. The treasure which he had unearthed from the wreck very much elated him. It meant comfort and independence for a time at least, and in his new joy he was even ready to forgive his uncle for leaving him on the island and Randolph for not taking him off.

"I've heard of things turning out for the best," was the thought that passed through his mind, "but I never understood it so well before."

Robert possessed a large measure of courage and he had been used to the sea from the age of six, or as far back as he could remember, but when he had rounded the Island and paddled a few rods out to sea he began to feel serious.

There was a strong wind blowing, and this had roughened the sea and made it difficult for him to guide his extemporized raft in the direction he desired.

Had it been his uncle's fishing boat and had he but possessed a good pair of stout oars, he would have experienced no particular difficulty.

He would perhaps have found it rather hard pulling, but he was unusually strong for his age, and, in the end, he would have reached the shore. But with a frail raft, loosely put together, and only a board to row or paddle with, his progress was very slow.

He did make a little progress, however, but it was so little that, at the end of fifteen minutes, he seemed as far off from the little cabin on the cliff as ever.

"It's hard work," said Robert to himself. "I wish I had a boat. If it were smooth water, I could get along with a raft, but now——"

He stopped short, as the raft was lifted on the crest of a wave, and he nearly slid off into the water.

He looked back to the island and began to consider whether it would not be best, after all, to paddle back and trust to being taken off the next morning by some fisherman's boat.

No doubt that would have been the most sensible thing to do, but Robert was very reluctant to relinquish his project.

Had he not devoted several hours to constructing the raft he was trying to navigate and should he allow this time to be thrown away?

Again, the prospect of passing a night upon Egg Island was not very inviting. There was nothing to fear, of course, for the island was too small to be infested by wild animals or even snakes. He could no doubt sleep some, even if his bed were not very comfortable.

Robert looked back. By this time he was half a mile, at a rough guess, from Egg Island, and between his raft and the mainland there intervened probably two miles and a half of rough sea.

"If I can get within half a mile of shore," thought our young hero, "I won't care for the raft any longer. I will plunge into the waves and swim to the shore."

He looked toward the shore.

There, in plain view, was the humble cabin which he called home. Inside doubtless was his aunt, worrying perhaps about his absence.

"How delighted she will be when I tell her of the money I have found!" thought Robert joyfully. "Come, Bob, brace up now and push out boldly for home."

With his eyes fixed on the cabin, our young hero used his paddle with such energy that, in the course of half an hour or thereabouts, he was about a mile farther on his way.

He had gone half way, and though he was somewhat fatigued, he was strong and muscular, and the chances were that he would be able to hold out till he reached the boat landing.

But now a new danger threatened itself.

The assaults of the sea had strained heavily the raft, which he had not been able, for want of nails, to make strong and secure.

Robert's heart beat with quiet alarm as he realized that there was small chance of his frail craft holding together till he reached shore.

The danger was hardly realized before it came.

A strong wave wrenched apart the timbers, and Robert Coverdale found himself, without warning, spilled into the sea, a mile and a half from land.

Instinctively he struck out and began to swim, but the distance was great and he was impeded by his clothes.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, but only straight ahead, he swam with all the strength there was left to him, but he found himself weakening after a while and gave himself up for lost.



CHAPTER XIV

THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFF

The last thing that Robert could remember was the singing of the waters in his ears and a weight as of lead that bore him downward with a force which he felt unable to resist.

But at the critical moment, when the doors of death seemed to be swinging open to admit him, he was firmly seized by a slender, muscular arm, extended from a boat shaped somewhat like an Indian canoe and rowed by a tall, thin man with white hair and a long white beard.

In the dusk our hero had not seen the boat nor known that help was so near at hand. But the occupant of the boat had, from a distance, seen the going to pieces of the raft, and appreciated the peril of the brave swimmer, and paddled his boat energetically toward him just in time to rescue him when already insensible.

Pale and with closed eyes lay Robert in the bottom of the boat. The old man—for so he appeared—rather anxiously opened the boy's shirt and placed his hand over his heart. An expression of relief appeared on his face.

"He will do," he said sententiously and turned his attention to the boat.

Half a mile from the cliff on which stood the fisherman's cabin was another, rising to a greater height.

To this the stranger directed his boat. He fastened it and then, raising our hero in his arms, walked toward the cliff.

There was a cavity as wide as a door, but less in height, through which he passed, lowering his head as he entered. Inside the opening steadily widened and became higher. This cavity was about ten feet above the sandy beach and was reached by a ladder.

On he passed, guided amid the darkness by a light from a lantern hanging from the roof. The front portion of the cavern seemed like a hall, through which a narrow doorway led into a larger room, which was furnished like the interior of a house. Upon a walnut table stood a lamp, which the stranger lighted. He took the boy, already beginning to breathe more freely, and laid him on a lounge, covered with a buffalo skin, at the opposite side of the apartment. From a shelf he took a bottle and administered a cordial to Robert, who, though not yet sensible, mechanically swallowed it.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

The boy opened his eyes and looked about him in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he inquired.

"What can you remember?" asked the old man.

Robert shuddered.

"I was struggling in the water," he answered. "I thought I was drowning."

Then, gazing at the strange apartment and the majestic face of the venerable stranger, he said hesitatingly:

"Am I still living or was I drowned?"

He was not certain whether he had made the mysterious passage from this world to the next, so strange and unfamiliar seemed everything about him.

"You are still in life," answered the stranger, smiling gravely. "God has spared you, and a long life is yet before you if He wills."

"And you saved me?"

"Yes."

"How can I thank you? I owe you my life," said Robert gratefully.

"I am indebted to you for the opportunity once more to be of use to one of my race."

"I don't understand how you could have saved me. When I went down I could see no one near."

"On account of the dusk. I was not far away in my boat. I saw your peril and hastened to your assistance. Fortunately I was not too late. Do you know who it is that has saved you?"

"Yes," answered Robert.

"You have seen me before?"

"Yes, but not often."

"How do people call me?"

"They call you 'the hermit of the cliff.'"

"As well that as anything else," said the old man. "What more do they say of me?"

Robert seemed reluctant to tell, but there was something imperative in the old man's tone.

"Some say you are crazy," he answered.

"I am not surprised to hear it. The world is apt to say that of one who behaves differently from his fellows. But I must not talk too much of myself. How do you feel?"

"I feel weak," answered Robert.

"Doubtless. Swimming against such a current was a severe strain upon your strength. Let me feel your pulse."

He pressed his finger upon Robert's pulse and reported that the action was slow.

"It means exhaustion," he said. "You must sleep well, and to-morrow morning you will feel as well as usual."

"But I ought to go home," said Robert, trying to rise. "My aunt will feel anxious about me."

"Who is your aunt?"

"I am the nephew of John Trafton, who has a small house on the cliff."

"I know. He is a fisherman."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't disturb yourself. Word shall be sent to your aunt that you are safe. I will give you a sleeping draught, and tomorrow morning we will speak further."

Somehow Robert did not dream of resisting the will of his host. The old man had an air of command to which it seemed natural to submit. Moreover, he knew that to this mysterious stranger—the hermit of the cliff, as the fishermen called him—he was indebted for his life, and such a man must necessarily be his friend. Robert was, besides, in that condition of physical languor when, if he had felt disposed, he would have found it very difficult to make resistance to the will of another.

"First of all," said the old man, "you must take off your wet clothes. I will place them where they can dry, so that you may put them on in the morning."

With assistance Robert divested himself of his wet garments. As we know, he had little to take off. The stranger brought out a nightgown and then placed our hero in his own bed, wrapping him up in blankets.

"Now for the sleeping draught," he said.

From a bottle he poured out a few drops, which Robert swallowed. In less than three minutes he had closed his eyes and was in a profound slumber.

The old man regarded him with satisfaction as he lay breathing tranquilly upon the bed.

"He is young and strong. Nature has been kind to him and given him an excellent constitution. Sleep will repair the ill effects of exposure. I must remember my promise to the boy," he said.

Turning to the table, he drew from a drawer writing materials and wrote the brief message which, as we have already seen, was duly delivered, and then walked to the entrance of the cavern.

He placed a whistle to his lips, and in response to his summons a black dog came bounding to him from the recesses of the grotto and fawned upon him.

"Come with me, Carlo; I have work for you," he said.

The dog, as if he understood, followed his master out upon the beach.

They walked far enough to bring into clear distinctness the cabin on the cliff.

"Do you see that house. Carlo?" asked his master, directing the dog's attention with his outstretched finger.

Carlo answered by a short, quick bark, which apparently meant "yes."

"Carry this note there. Do you understand?"

The dog opened his mouth to receive the missive and trotted contentedly away.

The hermit turned and retraced his steps to the cavern. He stood beside the bed and saw, to his satisfaction, that Robert was still sleeping peacefully.

"It is strange," said he musingly, "that I should feel such an interest in this boy. I had forsworn all intercourse with my kind, save to provide myself with the necessaries of life. For two years I have lived here alone with my dog and I fancied that I felt no further interest in the affairs of my fellow men. Yet here is a poor boy thrown on my hands, and I feel positive pleasure in having him with me. Yet he is nothing to me. He belongs to a poor fisherman's family, and probably he is uneducated, and has no tastes in common with me. Yet he is an attractive boy. He has a well-shaped head and a bright eye. There must be a capacity for something better and higher. I will speak with him in the morning."

He opened a volume from his bookcase, to which reference has not as yet been made, and for two hours he seemed to be absorbed by it.

Closing it at length, he threw himself upon the couch on which Robert had at first been placed and finally fell asleep.



CHAPTER XV

THE HOME OF THE HERMIT

When Robert awoke the next morning he found himself alone. His strange host was absent, on some errand perhaps.

After a brief glance of bewilderment, Robert remembered where he was, and with the recovery of his strength, which had been repaired by sleep, he felt a natural curiosity about his host and his strange home.

So far as he knew, he was the first inhabitant of the village who had been admitted to a sight of its mystery.

For two years the hermit of the cliff had made his home there, but he had shunned all intercourse with his neighbors and had coldly repelled all advances and checked all curiosity by his persistent taciturnity. From time to time he went to the village for supplies, and when they were too bulky to admit of his carrying them, he had had them delivered on the beach in front of the entrance to his cave dwelling and at his leisure carried them in himself.

He always attracted attention, as with his tall, slender, majestic figure he moved through the village, or paced the beach, or impelled his frail boat. But speculation as to who he was or what had induced him to become a recluse had about ceased from the despair of obtaining any light upon these points.

No wonder then that Robert, admitted by chance to his dwelling, looked about him in curious wonder.

Cavern as it was, the room was fitted up with due regard to comfort and even luxury.

The bed on which our hero reposed was soft and inviting. The rough stone floor was not carpeted, but was spread with Turkish rugs. There was a bookcase, containing perhaps two hundred books; there was a table and writing desk, an easy-chair and a rocking-chair, and the necessarily dark interior was lighted by an astral lamp, diffusing a soft and pleasant light. On a shelf ticked a French clock and underneath it was a bureau provided with toilet necessaries.

No one in the village knew how these articles had been spirited into the cavern. No one of the villagers had assisted. Indeed, no one, except Robert, knew that the hermit was so well provided with comforts.

Our hero found his clothes on a chair at his bedside. They were drier and suitable for wearing.

"I may as well dress," thought Robert. "I won't go away till I've seen the hermit. I want to thank him again for taking such good care of me."

He did not have to wait long, however. He had scarcely completed his toilet when the hermit appeared.

"So, my young friend, you arc quite recovered from your bath?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is well."

"I think, sir, I had better go home now, for my aunt will be anxious about me."

"I sent a message to your aunt last evening. She knew before she went to bed that you were safe."

"Thank you, sir!"

"I am not apt to be curious, but I wish, before you leave me, to ask you a few questions. Sit down, if you please."

Robert seated himself. He felt that the hermit had a right to ask some questions of one whom he had saved.

"How came you so far out at sea on a frail raft? If you had been shipwrecked, that would explain it, but as you have not been to sea, I cannot understand it."

"I found myself on Egg Island, without any means of getting off. So I made a raft from the timbers of the wreck and launched it. I thought it would last long enough for me to reach land."

"It was a hazardous enterprise. But how came you on the island? Surely you did not swim there?"

"No, sir. My uncle carried me there in his boat. He refused to take me off unless I would give up some money which I wanted to spend for my aunt."

"Was the money yours?"

"Yes, sir. It was given me by a gentleman living at the hotel."

"Your uncle—John Trafton—is not a temperate man?"

"No, sir. He spends all the money he earns on drink, and my aunt and I have to live as we can."

"What a fool is man!" said the hermit musingly. "He alone of created beings allows himself to be controlled by his appetites, while professing to stand at the head of the universe!"

Robert felt that he was not expected to answer this speech and remained respectfully silent till his host resumed his questioning.

"And you," said the old man abruptly, "what do you do?"

"Sometimes I go out with my uncle's boat and catch fish for use at home. Sometimes I find jobs to do in the village which bring in a little money. I am always glad of that, for we can't buy groceries without money, and my uncle never gives us any. My aunt is very fond of tea, but once for three weeks she had to do without it."

"That was a pity. There are some who find great comfort in tea."

"It is so with Aunt Jane. She says it puts new life in her."

"Have you any money now?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you of my good luck!" said Robert eagerly. "Just before I left the wreck I dug up this," and he displayed the purse with the gold pieces in it. "It would have been a pity if I had been drowned with all this in my pocket."

"My poor boy, your young life would have outweighed a thousandfold the value of these paltry coins. Still I do not depreciate them, for they may be exchanged for comforts. But will not your uncle seek to take them from you?"

"He will not know that I have this money. I shall not tell him."

"It will be better."

For a brief time the hermit gazed at Robert in thoughtful silence and then said:

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, sir."

"Have you ever thought of life and its uses—I mean of the uses of your own life? Have you ever formed plans for the future?"

"No, sir. It did not seem of much use. I have had to consider how to get enough for my aunt and myself to live upon."

"So your uncle's burdens have been laid on your young shoulders? Have you no aspirations? Are you willing to follow in his steps and grow up a fisherman, like your neighbors?"

"No, sir. I should be very sorry if I thought I must always live here at Cook's Harbor and go out fishing. I should like to see something of the world, as I suppose you have."

"Yes, I have seen much of the world—too much for my happiness—or I would not have come to this quiet spot to end my days. But for a young and guileless boy, whose life is but beginning, the world has its charms. Do you care for books?"

"I have never looked into many, sir, but that is not my fault. I have half a dozen tattered books at home and I study in some of them every day. I have been nearly through the arithmetic and I know something of geography. Sometimes I get hold of a paper, but not often, for my uncle takes none and does not care for reading."

"Look among my books. See if there is any one you would like to read."

Robert had already cast wistful glances at the rows of books in the handsome bookcase.

He had never before seen so many books together, for Cook's Harbor was not noted for its literary men and book lovers. He gladly accepted the hermit's invitation.

His attention was quickly drawn to a set of the Waverley novels. He had often heard of them, and an extract which he had seen in his school reader from "Rob Roy" had given him a strong desire to read the story from which it was taken.

"I should like to borrow 'Rob Roy,'" he said.

"You may take it. When you have read it, you may, upon returning it, have another."

"Then I may call to see you, sir?"

"I shall be glad to have you do so. It is an invitation I never expected to give, but you have interested me, and I may be able to serve you at some time."

"Thank you, sir. If you should ever want any one to run errands for you, I hope you will call upon me. I should like to make some return for your great kindness."

"That is well thought of. You may come to me every Tuesday and Friday mornings, at nine o'clock, and carry my orders to the village. I do not care to go there, but have had no messenger I could trust. For this service I will pay you two dollars a week."

Robert was astonished at the mention of such liberal payment.

"But, sir, that is rather too much," he began.

"Let it be so," said the hermit. "I have money in plenty and it does not bring me happiness. In your hands it may do good."

"It will be a great help to me, sir."

"It is understood then. I will not detain you longer. Go home and gladden the heart of your aunt."

Robert left the cavern, more than ever puzzled by his brief acquaintance with the mysterious recluse.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FISHERMAN'S TEMPTATION

It is needless to say that Robert received a joyful welcome from his aunt. Her joy was increased when her nephew showed her the gold which he had found upon the island.

"You see, aunt," he said, "it wasn't such bad luck, after all, to be left on the island."

"God has so shaped events as to bring good out of evil," answered Mrs. Trafton, who was a religious woman and went regularly to church, though her husband never accompanied her. "But I am afraid your uncle will try to get the money away from you."

"I don't want him to know it, aunt."

"I shall not tell him, Robert, but he may find out."

"That is not all. I have got regular work to do which will bring me in two dollars a week."

Then Robert told his surprised aunt the story of his engagement by the hermit, who for two years had been the mystery of the village.

"It never rains but it pours, you see, aunt," he said cheerfully.

He wondered how his uncle would receive him and whether he would make a fresh demand for the small sum of money which had been the cause of the original trouble.

But John Trafton had been thoroughly alarmed by the consequences of his former act and he had, besides, such experience of Robert's firmness that he concluded it would not be worth while to carry the matter any further. He greeted Robert sullenly.

"So you are back?" he said gruffly.

"Yes," answered the boy.

"Who took you off?"

"I put off on a raft and should have been drowned but for the hermit. He saved me."

"You deserved to be drowned for putting off on a raft."

"Did you think I was going to stay on the island?" asked Robert with spirit. "If I had been drowned it would have been your fault."

"None of your impudence, boy!" said John Trafton.

And then he dropped the subject without referring to the money.

During the day Robert called on Herbert Irving to thank him for his interest in his behalf.

George was in the yard, but his valise was in his hand and he seemed on the point of departure. He scowled at Robert, but didn't speak.

"I'm glad to see you back, Bob," said Herbert warmly. "What an old rascal your uncle is! Now tell me all about how you escaped."

While Robert was telling the story the stage drove up and George got on board.

"Good-by, George!" said Herbert.

George did not deign a reply and rode sullenly away.

"He doesn't find that the climate of Cook's Harbor suits him," said Herbert significantly.

"He doesn't seem very happy about going," said Robert. "I didn't expect he would notice me, but he did not bid you good-by."

"The fact is George and I have had a flare-up," said Herbert. "I was disgusted with his heartlessness in refusing to take you from Egg Island, and I told him so pretty plainly. He accused me of insulting him and threatened to lay a complaint before my mother. I requested him to do so. Considerably to his surprise, she took my part and reproved him for his selfish and disagreeable pride. This was too much for the young gentleman, and he gave notice that he should return to the city. No one attempted to keep him, and he has felt compelled to carry out his threat, a good deal to his disappointment."

"I am sorry you are losing your visitor on my account, Herbert."

"You needn't. Though he is my cousin, I am glad to have him go."

"But you will feel lonely."

"Not if you come to see me every day, Bob."

"If we didn't live in a poor cabin, I would ask you to visit me."

"Never mind about how you live; I will come. It isn't the house I shall come to see, but you. Some time when you are going out fishing I wish you would take me along."

"With all my heart, if you will come."

To Herbert alone Robert confided his discovery of the purse of gold.

It was about a week before Robert had occasion to use any of his gold. By that time he had spent the balance of the money given him by Mr. Lawrence Tudor and was forced to fall back upon his gold, having as yet received nothing from the hermit, who knew that he was not in immediate want of money.

Abner Sands was standing behind the counter in his grocery when Robert entered.

"What can I do for ye, Robert?" asked the trader.

"You may give me two pounds of tea and six pounds of flour."

"I s'pose ye've got the money," said Sands cautiously.

"Of course I have."

"You're doin' well now, Robert, I take it?" said the trader.

"Better than I used to," answered Robert.

He did not choose to make a confidant of Mr. Sands, who was a man of great curiosity and an inveterate gossip.

When the goods were done up in separate parcels Robert took out the two-dollar-and-a-half gold piece and passed it to the grocer.

"Why, I declare, it's gold!" exclaimed Mr. Sands wonderingly.

"Yes, it is gold."

"Of all things, I didn't expect to get gold from you, Robert Coverdale. I reckon you've found a gold mine!"

"Perhaps I have," said Robert, smiling.

As he put his hand in his pocket another gold piece dropped to the floor and he picked it up hastily, provoked at his carelessness, not, however, before the astonished trader had seen it.

He was sorely puzzled to know how a poor boy like Robert could have so much money in his possession and put one or two questions, which our hero evaded.

"The tea and flour came to a dollar and a quarter," said the shrewd trader, "and that leaves a dollar and a quarter to come to you."

He tendered Robert a one-dollar bill and twenty-five cents.

After Robert went home Mr. Sands searched his brain in trying to guess where he could have obtained his gold, but the more he thought the darker and more mysterious it seemed. While in this state of perplexity John Trafton entered the store.

He had seen Robert going out with two large parcels, and he came in to learn what he could about them.

"How d'ye do, Sands?" he said. "Has Bob been in here?"

"Yes."

"Did he buy anything?"

"Two pounds of tea and half a dozen pounds of flour. Seems to have considerable money."

"Does he?" inquired Trafton eagerly.

"I thought you knew. Why, he paid me in gold!"

"In gold?" ejaculated Trafton.

"To be sure! He give me a two-and-a-half gold piece, and that wasn't all. He dropped a ten-dollar gold piece by accident, but picked it right up."

"You don't mean it?" said the fisherman, astounded.

"Yes, I do. But I s'posed you knew all about it."

"I only know what you've told me. The fact is that boy hasn't a spark of gratitude. It seems he's rolling in wealth and leaves me to get along as I can."

"Nephews ain't generally expected to provide for their uncles," said Abner Sands dryly.

But John Trafton did not hear him. As he left the store an idea entered his mind. He knew that Robert had found a friend in the hermit, and he decided that the gold came from him.

If that was the case, the hermit must be rich. Who knows but he might have thousands of dollars in the cave? The fisherman's eyes sparkled with greed and he was assailed by a powerful temptation. His credit at the tavern was about exhausted. What a pity he could not get some of the gold, which appeared to do its possessor so little good!



CHAPTER XVII

JOHN TRAFTON'S NEW PLAN

With the new but unlawful purpose which he had begun to entertain John Trafton resolved to find out all he could about the hermit, and he rightly judged that Robert could give him more information than anybody else.

He decided to go home early and question his nephew cautiously. If he could find out something about the hermit's habits and peculiarities it would help him in his plan, for there was no beating about the bush now.

He acknowledged to himself that he meant to enter the cave, and if he could only find the gold, which he was persuaded the occupant owned in large quantities, to enrich himself at his expense.

His imagination was dazzled at the prospect. All his life he had been working for a bare living. Probably, in his most prosperous year, not over three hundred dollars in money had come into his hands as the recompense of his toil.

Probably there are few people who do not, at some time, indulge in dreams of sudden wealth. This time had come to John Trafton, and, unfortunately, the temptation which came with it was so powerful as to confuse his notions of right and wrong and almost to persuade him that there was nothing very much out of the way in robbing the recluse of his hoards.

"It don't do him any good," argued the fisherman, "while it would make me comfortable for life. If I had ten thousand dollars, or even five, I'd go away from here and live like a gentleman. My wife should be rigged out from top to toe, and we'd jest settle down and take things easy."

John Trafton was not very strict in his principles, and his conscience did not trouble him much. Even if it had, the dazzling picture which his fancy painted of an easy and luxurious future would probably have carried the day.

It was only eight o'clock in the evening when the fisherman lifted the latch of the outer door and entered the cabin.

His wife and Robert looked up in surprise, for it was about two hours earlier than he generally made his appearance.

Another surprise—his gait and general appearance showed that he was quite sober. This was gratifying, even if it was the result of his credit being exhausted.

During the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern.

John Trafton sat down before the fire.

His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages of Scott's "Rob Roy."

A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and, rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to lead to the questions he wanted to ask.

"What book have you got there, Bob?" he inquired.

"It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle."

"Never heard of him. Does he live in Boston?" asked Trafton.

"No, he was a Scotchman."

"Some Scotchmen are pretty smart, I've heard tell."

"Scott was a wonderful genius," said Robert, glowing with enthusiasm.

"I dare say he was," said the fisherman placidly. "Where did you get the book?"

"I borrowed it of the hermit."

This was the name which Robert used, for even now he had no knowledge of his mysterious friend's name.

"Has he got many books?"

"A whole bookcase full."

"He must be a rich man," suggested John Trafton with apparent carelessness.

"I think he is," said Robert, wondering a little at his uncle's newborn interest in his new acquaintance, but suspecting nothing of his design in asking the question.

"It stands to reason he must be," continued the fisherman. "He doesn't do anything for a living."

"No."

"Then, of course, he's got enough to live on."

"Besides, all his furniture is very nice," cried Robert, falling into the trap. "He seems not to mind money and talks as if he was always used to it."

"I s'pose he pays you for running of errands for him," said Trafton.

"Yes," answered Robert reluctantly, for he feared that his uncle would ask to have the money transferred to him. But the next words of Trafton reassured him.

"That's all right," he said. "You can spend the money as you please. I don't ask you for any of it."

"Thank you, uncle," said Robert warmly.

Mrs. Trafton regarded her husband in surprise. He was appearing in a character new to her. What could his sudden unselfishness mean?

"I only asked because I didn't want you to work for nothing, Bob," said his uncle, not wishing it to appear that he had any other motive, as his plan must, of course, be kept secret from all.

"I wouldn't mind working for nothing, uncle. It would be small pay for his saving my life," Robert said with perfect sincerity.

"He wouldn't want you to do it—a rich man like him," returned the fisherman complacently. "It's the only money he has to spend, except what he pays for victuals. I'm glad you've fallen in with him. You might as well get the benefit of his money as anybody."

"Uncle seems to think I only think of money," Robert said to himself with some annoyance. "I begin to like the hermit. He is very kind to me."

He did not give utterance to this thought, rightly deeming that it would not be expedient, but suffered his uncle to think as he might.

"Does the hermit always stay at home in the evening?" asked the fisherman after a pause.

"Sometimes he goes out in his boat late at night and rows about half the night. I suppose he gets tired of being alone or else can't sleep."

John Trafton nodded with an expression of satisfaction.

This would suit his plans exactly. If he could only enter the cave in one of these absences, he would find everything easy and might accomplish his purpose without running any risk.

It was clear to him now that the gold of which the trader spoke was given to his nephew by the hermit. He was justified in thinking so, as there was no other conceivable way in which Robert could have obtained it. He coveted the ten-dollar gold piece, but he was playing for a higher stake and could afford to let that go for the present at least.

The fisherman lit his pipe and smoked thoughtfully.

His wife was not partial to the odor of strong tobacco, but tobacco, she reflected, was much to be preferred to drink, and if her husband could be beguiled from the use of the latter by his pipe then she would gladly endure it.

John Trafton smoked about ten minutes in silence and then rose from his chair.

"I guess I'll go out on the beach and have my smoke there," he said as he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the cabin.

"You're not going back to the tavern, John?" said his wife in alarm.

"No, I've quit the tavern for to-night. I'll just go out on the beach and have my smoke there. I won't be gone very long."

When Trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the direction of the hermit's cave.

Of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of the entrance or its surroundings.

It was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a considerable distance. Trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of the cliff containing the cave. There was the rude ladder leading to the entrance. It was short. It could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box or chest of gold, in whose existence Trafton had a thorough belief, could be found. But caution must be used. Possibly the hermit might be at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour. Besides, the cave was dark and he had no light.

"When I come I will bring matches and a candle," thought the fisherman. "I can't find the gold unless I can see my way. What a fool this hermit must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live handsomely in the city! But I don't find fault with him for that. It's so much the better for me."

He turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw the hermit's slender skiff approaching. The old man was plainly visible, with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the oars.

"He mustn't see me," muttered the fisherman. "I had better go home."



CHAPTER XVIII

A DESPERATE CONFLICT

About eight o'clock the next evening John Trafton sat in the barroom at the tavern enjoying himself in the manner characteristic of the place.

All day long his mind had been dwelling upon the plan which he had so recently formed, and he felt a feverish desire to carry it out.

"One bold stroke," he said to himself, "and I am a made man. No more hard work for me. I will live like a gentleman."

It was rather a strange idea the fisherman had—that he could live like a gentleman on the proceeds of a burglary—but there are many who, like him, consider that nothing is needed but money to make a gentleman.

That very night John Trafton decided to make the attempt, if circumstances seemed favorable. He shrank from it as the time approached and felt that he needed some artificial courage. For this reason he visited the tavern and patronized the bar more liberally than usual.

Trafton had prudently resolved to keep his design entirely secret and not to drop even a hint calculated to throw suspicion upon him after the event.

But there is an old proverb that when the wine is in the wit is out, and, though the fisherman indulged in whisky rather than wine, the saying will apply just as well to the one as to the other.

Among the company present in the barroom was one man who had been in the village a day or two, but was a stranger to all present.

He was a short, powerfully made man, roughly dressed, with a low brow and quick, furtive eyes that had a look of suspicion in them.

He had naturally found his way to the tavern bar and proved himself a liberal patron of the establishment. Therefore the landlord—though he did not fancy the looks of his new guest—treated him with politeness.

Somehow the conversation on that particular evening drifted to the probable wealth of city people who made their homes at Cook's Harbor during the summer. It was afterward remembered that the roughly dressed stranger had introduced the subject in a casual way.

"It's my opinion," said Ben Barton, "that Mr. Irving is our richest man."

"What makes you think so, Ben?" asked the landlord.

"The way he lives partly. He's got everything that money can buy. Besides, I heard his boy say that his father's watch cost him five hundred dollars. Now, it stands to reason that a man don't wear a watch like that unless he's got the money to back it."

"There's something in that," the landlord admitted.

The stranger seemed interested.

"Does this Irving stay down here himself?" he asked.

"No, he only comes down Saturday to stay over Sunday."

"Does he have much silver in the house?"

"I don't know. Why?" inquired Ben Barton, turning a surprised look upon the stranger.

"Because a real, tiptop rich man generally has plenty of plate," answered the man after a pause.

"I guess he doesn't keep it down here," said Barton. "It's likely he's got plenty in the city."

The stranger shrugged his shoulders.

"Does his wife wear diamonds?" he asked.

"Not down here. There wouldn't be any occasion."

"Does he get his groceries here or in the city?"

"He sends them down here by express."

The stranger seemed to lose all interest in the Irving family.

Two or three summer residents were mentioned who were supposed to be rich, but it did not appear that any of them kept valuables at their summer homes.

John Trafton had not taken any part in the conversation hitherto, and if he had been prudent he would have continued to remain silent, but a man excited by drink is not likely to be discreet.

He broke silence when there came a lull in the discussion.

"There's one man you haven't mentioned," he said, "who keeps more money on hand than Mr. Irving or any one else you have spoken of."

"A man in the village here?" asked the landlord.

"He means you, Mr. Jones," said Ben Barton jocosely. "Ain't we all of us bringing you money every day? You ought to have a pile by this time."

"So I might if all that were owing me would pay up," retorted the landlord.

As Ben was one of his debtors, this was felt to be a fair hit, and there was a laugh at his expense.

"P'r'aps Trafton means himself," suggested Ben by way of diversion.

"I wish I did," said the fisherman. "Well, I may be rich some time; stranger things have happened."

"I can't think of any stranger thing than that," said Ben.

And the laugh now was at Trafton's expense, but he didn't seem to mind it.

By this time the general curiosity was aroused.

"Who is this rich man you're talkin' about, Trafton?" asked Sam Cummings.

"The hermit of the cliff," answered the fisherman.

There was a general rustle of surprise.

"What reason have you for saying that?" asked Mr. Jones, the landlord.

By this time, however, John Trafton began to suspects that he had been imprudent and he answered with a mysterious shake of the head:

"I've no call to tell you that, but I've got my reasons."

"Can't you tell us, John?" asked Ben Barton.

"I might, but I won't; but I stand by what I've said."

"Doesn't your boy do errands for the hermit?" asked the landlord.

"Suppose he does?"

"And he goes into the hermit's cave?"

"Perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn't."

"I know he does, for I was on the beach a day or two ago and I see him a-climbin' the ladder and goin' in," said Ben Barton.

"You'll have to ask him about that," said the fisherman.

"Whereabouts is his cave?" asked the stranger, who had listened intently to what had been said.

One of the party described its location fully.

"Then I've seen it," said the other. "I was walking on the beach this morning and I wondered what the ladder was for."

He asked various questions about the hermit and his mode of life, which excited no wonder, as the curiosity about the hermit was shared by all.

John Trafton allowed himself to say one thing more that increased this feeling.

"I won't tell all I know," he said, "but I can tell you this hermit lives like a prince. He's got handsomer furniture than there is in any house in Cook's Harbor."

No one had told the fisherman this, but he knew the statement would make a sensation and chose to embellish what he had heard from Robert.

"That's a strange idea to furnish a cave that way," said the stranger.

"It may be strange, but it's true."

"Do you think he keeps a good deal of money by him?" asked the stranger with evident interest.

John Trafton nodded significantly.

The conversation now drifted into other channels. The stranger ordered another glass of whisky and went out.

"Where is that man staying?" asked Cummings.

"Not here," answered the landlord. "I don't like his looks and don't care where he stays as long as he don't ask for a room here."

"You don't mind selling him drink, landlord?"

"Not as long as he's got money to pay. That's a different matter."

A few minutes later John Trafton left the tavern.

He had drunk considerable, but not enough to make him incapable of action. The drink excited him and nerved him for the task he had in view, for upon this very evening he had decided to force an entrance into the hermit's mysterious residence, and he hoped to be well paid for his visit.

He had to pass his own cabin on the way. He glanced toward it and saw a light shining through the window, but he took care to keep far enough away so that he might not be seen.

Half a mile farther and he stood opposite the cavern. There was the ladder making access to the cave easy. He looked for the hermit's boat, which was usually kept fastened near the entrance to the cave, and to his joy he saw that it was missing.

"The old man must be out in his boat," he said to himself. "All the better for me! If I am quick, I may get through before he gets back."

With a confident step he ascended the ladder and entered what might be called the vestibule of the cave.

He halted there to light the candle he had brought with him. He was bending over, striking the match against his foot, when he was attacked from behind and almost stunned by a very heavy blow.

He recovered himself sufficiently to grasp his assailant, and in an instant the two were grappling in fierce conflict.

"I never thought the old man was so strong," passed through the fisherman's mind as he found himself compelled to use his utmost strength against his opponent.



CHAPTER XIX

A TRAGEDY ON THE BEACH

It is hardly necessary to say that the man with whom the fisherman was engaged in deadly conflict was not the hermit. It was the stranger who, in the tavern, had manifested so much curiosity on the subject of the rich residents of Cook's Harbor.

He was a desperado from New York, who, being too well known to the police of that city, had found it expedient to seek a new field, where he would not excite suspicion.

He had arrived at the cave only a few minutes before the fisherman and had already explored the inner room in search of the large sum of money which Trafton had given him to understand the hermit kept on hand.

He had no candle, but he found a lamp and lighted it.

He was in the midst of his search when he heard the entrance of the fisherman. He concluded, very naturally, that it was the hermit, and he prepared himself for an attack.

He instantly extinguished the lamp and stole out into the vestibule. It was his first thought to glide by the supposed hermit and escape, but this would cut him off from securing the booty of which he was in quest.

He resolved upon a bolder course. He grappled with the newcomer, confident of easily overcoming a feeble old man, but, to his disagreeable surprise, he encountered a vigorous resistance far beyond what he anticipated.

Neither of the two uttered a word, but silently the fierce conflict continued.

"I must be weak if I cannot handle an old man," thought the professional burglar, and he increased his efforts.

"If he masters me and finds out who I am, I am lost!" thought John Trafton; and he, too, put forth his utmost strength.

The fisherman had the disadvantage in one respect. He was wholly unarmed and his opponent had a knife.

When he found that Trafton—who was of muscular build—was likely to gain the advantage, with a muttered oath he drew his knife and plunged it into his opponent's breast.

They were struggling just on the verge of the precipice, and Trafton, when he felt the blow, tottered and fell, his antagonist with him.

"The old fool's dead, and I must fly," thought the burglar.

With hasty step he fled along the sands till he came to a point where he could easily scale the cliff. Reaching the top, he walked quickly away from Cook's Harbor.

Half an hour later the hermit beached his boat, fastened it and proceeded to his quarters. He was plunged in thought and observed nothing till he stumbled against the fisherman's body.

"Some drunken fellow probably," he said to himself.

He lit a match, and, bending over, was horror-stricken to see the fixed features and the blood upon the garments of the unfortunate fisherman.

"There has been murder here! Who can it be?" he exclaimed.

He lit another match and took a closer look.

"As I live, it is Trafton, Robert's uncle!" he cried. "What mystery is here? How did the unhappy man come to his death?"

He was not long left to wonder alone, for Robert, as was not unusual with him, had been taking an evening stroll on the beach, and, seeing his employer, came up to speak to him.

"Good evening, sir," he said, as yet innocent of the sad knowledge which was soon to be his. "Is anything the matter?"

"Robert," said the hermit solemnly, "prepare yourself for a terrible surprise. A man has been killed and that man is——"

"My uncle!" exclaimed our hero in dismay.

"Yes, it is he!"

"How did it happen, sir?" asked Robert, a frightful suspicion entering his mind.

"I know no better than you, my boy. I have just arrived from an evening trip on the water. I was about to enter my quarters when I stumbled over your uncle's body."

"What could have brought him here?"

"I cannot tell, nor can I conjecture who killed him."

"It can't be he," thought Robert, dismissing his fleeting suspicion. "What shall I do, sir?" he asked, unprepared, with his boyish inexperience, to decide what to do under such terrible circumstances.

"Go and summon some of your neighbors to carry the poor man to his home. Meanwhile break the news to your aunt as you best can," said the hermit in a tone of quiet decision.

"But should I not call the doctor?"

"It will be of no avail. Your uncle is past the help of any physician. Go, and I will stay here till you return."

The startling news which Robert brought to the fishermen served to bring men, women and children to the spot where John Trafton lay, ghastly with blood.

Well known as he was, the sight startled and agitated them, and, in their ignorance of the real murderer, suspicion fastened upon the hermit, who, tall and dignified, with his white hair falling upon his shoulders, stood among them like a being from another world.

Trafton's habits were well known, but the manner of his death enlisted public sympathy.

"Poor John!" said Tom Scott. "I've known him, man and boy, for a'most fifty years, and I never thought to see him lying like this."

"And what will you do with his murderer?" asked his wife in a shrill voice.

Mrs. Scott was somewhat of a virago, but she voiced the popular thought, and all looked to Scott for an expression of feeling.

"He ought to be strung up when he's found," said Scott.

"You won't have to look far for him, I'm thinkin'," said Mrs. Scott.

"What do you mean, wife?" asked Scott, who was not of a suspicious turn.

"There he stands!" said the virago, pointing with her extended finger to the hermit.

As this was a thought which had come to others, hostile eyes looked upon the hermit, and two or three moved forward as if to seize him.

The old man regarded the fishermen with surprise and said with dignity:

"My friends, what manner of man do you think I am that you suspect me of such a deed?"

"There's no one could have done it but you," said a young man doggedly. "Here lies Trafton at the foot of your ladder, with no one near him but you. You was found with him. It's a clear case."

"To be sure!" exclaimed two or three of the women. "Didn't Robert find you here, standin' by the dead body of his uncle?"

The hermit turned to our hero, who stood a little in the background, and said quietly:

"Robert, do you think I killed your uncle?"

"I am sure you didn't," said Robert, manfully meeting the angry glances which were now cast upon him.

"I am glad to have one friend here," said the hermit—"one who judges me better than the rest of my neighbors."

"He doesn't know anything about you and he's only a boy!" said Mrs. Scott, thrusting herself forward with arms akimbo. "I allus said there was something wrong about you or you wouldn't hide yourself away from the sight of men in a cave. Like as not you've committed murder before!"

"My good woman," said the hermit with a sad smile, "I am sorry you have so poor an opinion of me."

"Don't you call me good woman!" said Mrs. Scott, provoked. "I'm no more a good woman than yourself! I tell you, friends and neighbors, you'll do wrong if you let this man go. We may all be murdered in our beds!"

She was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Trafton, who had not been apprised of the tragedy from considerations for her feelings, but hearing the stir and excitement, had followed her neighbors to the spot and just ascertain what had happened.

"Where is my husband?" she cried.

All made way for her, feeling that hers was the foremost place, and she stood with startled gaze before her dead husband. Ill as he had provided for her and unworthy of her affections as he had proved, at that moment she forgot all but that the husband of her youth lay before her, bereft of life, and she kneeled, sobbing, at his side.

The hermit took off his hat and stood reverently by her side.

"Oh, John!" she sobbed, "I never thought it would come to this! Who could have had the heart to kill you?"

"That's the man! He murdered him!" said Mrs. Scott harshly, pointing to the hermit.

The widow lifted her eyes to the man of whom she had heard so much from Robert with a glance of incredulity.

He was too proud to defend himself from the coarse accusation and returned her look with a glance of sympathy and compassion.

"I never can believe that!" said the widow in utter incredulity. "He has been kind to my boy. He never would lift his hand against my husband!"

The hermit looked deeply gratified.

"Mrs. Trafton," he said, "you are right. I had no cause to harm your husband, nor would I have killed him for Robert's sake, whatever wrong he might have done me. But, in truth, I know of no reason why I should seek to injure him."

"If you are an innocent man," persisted Mrs. Scott, "tell us who you are and what brought you here."

"Yes, tell us who you are!" echoed two others who had always felt curious about the hermit.

"I do not choose to declare myself now," said the hermit gravely. "The time may come when I shall do so, but not now."

"That's because you're a thief or murderer!" exclaimed Mrs. Scott, exasperated.

"Wife, you're goin' too far!" said her husband.

"Mind your own business, Tom Scott!" retorted his wife in a tone with which he was only too familiar. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself tryin' to screen the murderer of your next-door neighbor."

"I am doing nothing of the kind. There's no proof that the hermit of the cliff murdered John Trafton."

"You must be a fool if you can't see it," said Mrs. Scott.

Robert Coverdale was shocked to hear his friend so abused and he said boldly:

"Mrs. Scott, I don't know who murdered my poor uncle, but I know the hermit did not. He has been a good friend to me, and he is no murderer."

"Go home and go to bed, boy!" said Mrs. Scott violently. "You take that man's part against your poor uncle."

Robert was provoked and answered with energy:

"I would sooner suspect you than him. I never heard the hermit say a word against my uncle, while only yesterday you called him a drunken vagabond."

This so turned the tables on Mrs. Scott that she was unable to return to the attack.

"Well, if I ever!" she ejaculated. "Tom Scott, are you goin' to see your wife sassed by a boy?"

"It seems to me, wife, that the boy is in the right in this instance," answered Tom, who had a sense of justice.

"So you turn against your lawful wife, do you?" exclaimed Mrs. Scott violently. "I'll come up with you yet. See if I don't."

Tom Scott shrugged his shoulders with resignation.

"I've no doubt you will," he answered with a half smile.

"My friends," said the hermit with calm dignity, "as it appears that some of you suspect me of this dastardly deed, I am quite willing to submit to any restraint you may desire till the groundlessness of the charge appears. You may leave a guard here in the cave or I will accompany you to any of your own houses. I certainly have no desire to escape while such suspicions are entertained."

Robert indignantly protested against such a step, but the hermit stayed his words.

"Robert," he said, "it is better. It will do me no harm, and, under the circumstances, while the matter is involved in mystery, I admit that it is perfectly justifiable and proper. My friends, I am in your hands. What will you do with me?"

Mrs. Scott expressed her opinion that he should be strung up immediately, but no one seconded her.

It was decided that two of the fishermen should remain at the cave that night to prevent any attempt at escape on the part of the hermit.

The body of the murdered fisherman was carried to his own cabin and properly cared for till the coroner, who must be brought from a neighboring town, should make his appearance.



CHAPTER XX

MR. JONES MAKES A CALL

When morning dawned a new face was put upon the matter. Steps were discovered leading from the scene of the murder along the beach and up the cliff. There were also discovered signs of a struggle in the cave, and it became clear that there had been a conflict and that one of the two concerned had escaped.

Of course it could not have been the hermit, for he was now in custody. Moreover, a fisherman who had been out in his boat in the evening remembered meeting the hermit rowing at about the time the murder must have been committed.

These discoveries cleared the hermit, but the question arose:

"Who was this other man?" There was no difficulty in solving this question. There were plenty who remembered the stranger who had spent a part of the previous evening in the barroom of the tavern, and his evident curiosity as to the wealth of the hermit was also remembered.

The real state of the case was now pretty well understood. This stranger had suddenly resolved to rob the hermit and had secretly found his way to the cavern.

But how did he happen to find the fisherman there and what was the object of the latter?

Then it was remembered that Trafton also had seemed much interested in the supposed hoards of the hermit, and, when his own want of money was considered, it was suspected that he, too, went on an errand similar to the burglar.

But he was dead, and his neighbors, who knew that he must have yielded to the force of a sudden and new temptation, did not care to speculate upon his object.

They were disposed to spare their old neighbor and charitably drop a veil over his attempted crime, which had brought upon him such fearful retribution.

Of course the hermit was released from custody, and there was not a person in the village who did not acquit him of all wrong except Mrs. Scott, who could not forgive him for proving her suspicions groundless.

"You may say what you will," she said perversely, "I know the man's a burglar, or a murderer, or something else bad."

"He couldn't have murdered John Trafton, for we traced the murderer's steps on the beach. There is no doubt it was that stranger we saw in the barroom."

So said her husband.

"I don't care whether he murdered John Trafton or not," said Mrs. Scott. "I'm sure he's murdered somebody, and I'm ready to take my Bible oath of it."

"What makes you so prejudiced against the poor man? He hasn't done you any harm, Mrs. Scott."

"I don't like the airs he puts on. He looks at you jest as if you were dust beneath his feet. What right has he to look down upon honest people, I want to know?"

But Mrs. Scott did not succeed in creating a prejudice against the hermit, whose courageous and dignified bearing had impressed all who observed his manner in this trying crisis.

When the funeral was over the hermit called in the evening upon the widow of John Trafton. It was the first he had ever made upon any of his neighbors and it excited surprise.

Robert brought forward the rocking-chair and invited the visitor cordially to sit down.

"Mrs. Trafton," said the hermit, "I want to thank you and Robert for the confidence you showed in me at a time when all others suspected me of a terrible deed. You were the ones most affected, yet you acquitted me in your hearts."

"Just for a moment I suspected you when I saw you standing by the dead body of my uncle," said Robert, "but it was only for a moment."

"I respect you for your fearless candor, my boy. You were justified in your momentary suspicion."

"I am ashamed of it. You had been such a kind friend."

"It was only natural. And now, my friends, what are your plans? How will you be able to maintain yourselves?"

"I don't think it will make much difference," began Robert hesitatingly.

"My husband did very little for our support," said Mrs. Trafton. "Not more, certainly, than his own food amounted to. You know, sir, I think Robert must have told you the unfortunate habits of my poor husband. He was enslaved by drink, and he spent nearly all he earned in the barroom."

"Yes, I knew what your husband's habits were," said the hermit gently. "It is a great pity he could not have lived to change them."

"I am afraid he never would," said the widow.

"They had grown upon him from year to year, and he seemed to get weaker and weaker in purpose."

"I had a brother who was equally unfortunate," said the hermit. "There are few families who are wholly free from the evils of intemperance. But have you formed any plans?"

"I suppose we can get along as we have," answered Mrs. Trafton. "With what you kindly pay Robert, and what he can pick up elsewhere, and the sewing I do, I think we can get along."

"Do you own this cottage?" inquired the hermit.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you will have no rent to pay."

"No, I don't know how we could do that."

The hermit looked thoughtful.

"I will see you again," he said as he rose to go.

On the whole, Mrs. Trafton and Robert were likely to get along as well as before John Trafton's death. Robert could use his uncle's boat for fishing, selling what they did not require, while regularly every week two dollars came in from the hermit.

It was a great source of relief that no rent must be paid. The fisherman's cabin and lot originally cost about five hundred dollars and the household furniture was of little value. The taxes were small and could easily be met. So there seemed nothing to prevent their living on in the same way as before.

Some time Robert hoped and expected to leave Cook's Harbor. He was a smart, enterprising, ambitious boy, and he felt that he would like a more stirring life in a larger place.

He was not ashamed of the fisherman's business, but he felt qualified for something better. It did not escape his notice that most of his neighbors were illiterate men, who had scarcely a thought beyond the success of their fishing trips, and he had already entered so far into the domain of study and books as to feel the charm of another world—the great world of knowledge—which lay spread out before him and beckoned him onward. But he was not impatient.

"My duty at present," he reflected, "Is to stay in Cook's Harbor and take care of my aunt. I am young and strong, and I don't mean that she shall want for any comforts which I can get for her."

He soon learned, however, that there was one great mistake in his calculations.

Robert was sitting by the door reading, after his return from a fishing trip, about a week after his uncle's funeral, when he heard the steps of some one approaching.

Looking up, he saw advancing toward their humble residence the stout, ponderous figure of Nahum Jones, the landlord of the village inn.

It was not often that Mr. Jones found his way to the beach. Usually he kept close to the tavern, unless he rode to some neighboring town. Therefore Robert was surprised to see him.

Nahum Jones nodded slightly, and, taking off his straw hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Here, you, Bob," he said, "Is your aunt at home?"

"Yes, sir!" answered Robert, but not cordially, for he felt that Mr. Jones had been no friend of his uncle.

"Well, tell her I've come to have a talk with her, do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," answered the boy coolly.

He rose from his chair and entered the house.

"Aunt Jane," he said, "here is Mr. Jones come to see you."

"What? The tavern keeper?" asked his aunt in great surprise.

"Yes, aunt."

"What can that man want of me?"

The question was answered, not by Robert but by Nahum Jones himself.

"I want to have a little talk with you, ma'am," said the burly landlord, entering without an invitation and seating himself unceremoniously.

"I will listen to what you have to say, Mr. Jones," said the widow, "but I will not pretend that I am glad to see you. You were an enemy to my poor husband."

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Trafton. Did he ever tell you that I was his enemy?"

"No, but it was you who sold him liquor and took the money which he should have spent on his own family."

"All nonsense, ma'am. You women are the most unreasonable creatures. I didn't ask him to drink."

"You tempted him to do it."

"I deny it!" said the landlord warmly. "I couldn't refuse to sell him what he asked for, could I? You must be a fool to talk so!" said the landlord roughly.

"I'll trouble you to speak respectfully to my aunt, Mr. Jones," said Robert with flashing eyes.

"Mind your own business, you young rascal!" said Nahum Jones, whose temper was not of the best.

"I mean to," retorted Robert. "My business is to protect my aunt from being insulted."

"Wait till you're a little bigger, boy," said Jones with a sneer.

Robert involuntarily doubled up his fist and answered:

"I mean to protect her now."

"Mrs. Trafton," said Nahum Jones, highly irritated, "you'd better silence that young cub or I may kick him out of doors!"

"You appear to forget that you are not in your own house, Nahum Jones," said the widow with dignity. "My nephew has acted perfectly right and only spoke as he should."

"So you sustain him in his impudence, do you?" snarled Jones, showing his teeth.

"If that is all you have come to say to me, Mr. Jones, you may as well go."

"By George, ma'am, you are mighty independent!"

"I am not dependent on the man who ruined my poor husband."

"No, but you're dependent on me!" exclaimed the landlord, pounding the floor forcibly with his cane.

"Will you explain yourself, sir?"

"I will," said Mr. Jones emphatically. "You talk about my not being in my own house, but it's just possible you are mistaken."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Trafton, startled.

"I mean this, that I hold a mortgage on this house for two hundred dollars, and that's as much as it will fetch at auction. What do you say to that?"

Robert looked and felt as much troubled as his aunt. On his young shoulders fell this new burden, and he was at an utter loss what could be done.

"I thought I'd shut you up, you young cub!" said the landlord, glancing maliciously at Robert.

"You haven't shut me up!" retorted Robert with spirit.

"What have you got to say, hey?"

"That you ought to be ashamed to take all my uncle's earnings and then steal his home. That's what I've got to say!"

"I've a great mind to give you a caning," said Mr. Jones in a rage.

"You'd better not!" said Robert.

He was as tall as the landlord, and though not as strong, considerably more active, and he did not feel in the least frightened.

Nahum Jones was of a choleric disposition, and his face was purple with rage, but he hadn't yet said all he intended.

"I give you warning, Mrs. Trafton," he said, shaking his cane at our hero, "that I'm going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the street. You've got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. I came here thinking I'd be easy with you, but I don't mean to stand your insulting talk. I'll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you don't do it, out you go, bag and baggage. Perhaps when you're in the poorhouse you may be sorry you didn't treat me better."

"Oh, Robert, what shall we do?" asked the poor woman, her courage failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord's prediction might be fulfilled.

"Don't be alarmed, Aunt Jane; I'll take care of you," said Robert more cheerfully than he felt.

"Oh, you will, will you?" sneered Mr. Jones. "Anybody'd think to hear you that you were worth a pile of money. If your aunt depends on you to keep her out of the poorhouse, I would not give much for her chance."

"You won't have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there," said Robert defiantly.

"You needn't expect my wife to give you any more sewing," said Mr. Jones, scowling at the widow.

"I don't think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn't been paid for the last work she did," said Robert.

"What do you mean by that? I credited your uncle with twenty-five cents on his score."

"Without my aunt's consent."

Mr. Jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked violently to and fro—so violently that the chair, whose rockers were short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled ignominiously on the floor.

"Here's you hat, Mr. Jones," said Robert, smiling in spite of himself as he picked it up and restored it to the mortified visitor.

"You'll hear from me!" roared the landlord furiously, aiming a blow at Robert and leaving the room precipitately. "You'll repent this day, see if you don't!"

After he had left the room Robert and his aunt looked at each other gravely. They had made an enemy out of a man who could turn them out of doors.

The future looked far from bright.



CHAPTER XXI

THE HERMIT'S SECRET

Mr. Jones, in his anger at Robert, regretted that he must wait four weeks before he could turn him and his aunt out of the house. It would be a great satisfaction to him to see the boy without a roof to shelter him, reduced to becoming a tramp or to take refuge in the poorhouse.

"By George, I'll humble the young beggar's pride!" exclaimed Mr. Jones as he hastened homeward from his unsatisfactory interview.

It must be admitted that Robert had not been exactly respectful, but, on the other hand, it is quite certain that the landlord had been rude and rough in manner and speech.

Why, then, did not Mr. Jones foreclose the mortgage instantly and gratify his resentment? Because in the instrument there was a proviso requiring a notice of four weeks.

However, he felt that it would make little difference.

"They can't raise the money in four weeks," he reflected. "There's nobody round here who will lend them the money, and they don't know anybody anywhere else."

So, on the whole, he was satisfied. Four weeks would soon pass, and then his thirst for revenge would be sated.

"What makes you so sober, my boy?" asked the hermit when Robert made his regular call upon him the next day.

"I feel anxious," answered the boy.

"But why need you? You told me your uncle did very little for the family. I think you will be able to take care of your aunt. If not, I will help you more."

"Thank you, sir; you are very kind. But we thought when you called the other day that we owned the house and would have no rent to pay."

"Were you mistaken about this?" asked the hermit quickly.

"It seems so. Mr. Jones, the tavern keeper, has a mortgage on the property and threatens to foreclose in four weeks unless the money is paid. Of course, we can't pay him, and I suppose we shall be turned out."

"How large is this mortgage?"

"Two hundred dollars."

"That is not a very great sum."

"It is very large to us. You know how poor we are."

"But have you no friend who will lend you the money?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the hermit with a peculiar smile, which inspired new hope in Robert. Then, without waiting for a reply, the man continued:

"If you are willing, I will pay this mortgage when the time comes, and I will be your creditor instead of Mr. Jones."

"How can I thank you?" exclaimed Robert joyfully. "My aunt will be delighted."

"Tell her then, but no one else. It will give Mr. Jones a surprise."

"It won't be a pleasant one. He was very rude and impolite and said he hoped to see us in the poorhouse."

"I don't believe you will ever go there, Robert," said the hermit, looking earnestly at the strong, energetic face of the boy before him.

"No, sir, I don't believe we will. But you are doing a great deal for us, sir. How can I ever repay you? If there was anything I could do for you I should be glad."

"Perhaps you can," said the hermit in a musing tone.

"Let me know what it is, sir, and I'll be glad to do it."

"Have you ever wondered," asked the hermit abruptly, "why I have left the haunts of men and retired to this out-of-the-way spot?"

"Yes, sir. I have thought of that often."

"Your curiosity is natural. I am not a poor man—in fact I should be called rich. Poverty and pecuniary troubles, therefore, have nothing to do with my strange act—as the world considers it. In my life there have been two tragedies. I was married, at the age of thirty, to a very beautiful young lady, whom I tenderly loved. I made my home in a city of considerable size and lived as my means warranted. One evening, as my wife stood before the open grate, dressed for a party, her dress caught fire, and before help could arrive she was fatally injured. Of course the blow was a terrible one. But I had a child—a boy of five—on whom my affections centered. A year later he mysteriously disappeared, and from that day I have never heard a word of him. When search proved unavailing, I became moody and a settled melancholy took possession of me. I could not endure the sight of other parents happy in the possession of children, and I doomed myself to a solitary life, wandering here and there till, two years since, I chanced to find this cave and made my home here."

"How old would your son be now?" asked Robert with interest.

"About your own age—perhaps a little older. It was this and a fancied resemblance which attracted me toward you."

"Had you any suspicion that your son was stolen?" asked Robert.

"Yes. In particular I suspected a cousin who would be my probable heir in case my boy died. But I could never prove anything, and the man expressed so much sympathy that I was ashamed to avow any suspicions. But Charles Waldo was a covetous man, insatiable in his greed of money and absolutely cold and unsympathetic, though his manner was plausible. He hoped that this second blow would kill me, but he has been disappointed."

"If the boy is living, perhaps he knows where he is," said Robert.

"If he abducted him—yes. He would not kill him, for he is too cautious a man and has too great fear of the law."

"Where is Mr. Waldo now living?"

"In Ohio. He has a large farm and a moderate amount of money invested—some twenty thousand dollars perhaps—so that he is able to live at ease. He was disappointed because I would not give him the charge of my property, but with the lingering suspicion in my mind I could not make up my mind to do it. He also sought a loan of ten thousand dollars, which I refused."

"How then does he expect to be your heir?" asked Robert.

"Two-thirds of my property is entailed and must be left to him if my boy is dead."

"If he really stole your son, he must be a wicked man," said Robert with boyish indignation at the thought.

"Yes, for he has wrecked two lives—mine and my boy's."

"Have you no hope of ever again seeing your son?"

"Only a slight one. I have thought of a plan in which I need your help."

"If I can help you, sir," said Robert heartily, "I will do so gladly."

"I do not doubt it, Robert," said the hermit kindly. "I will explain my meaning. If Charles Waldo knows anything of my lost boy, he must, from time to time, hold communication with him, and if he is watched he may some day reveal his hiding place."

"Why do you not go out to where he lives and watch him?"

"It would do no good. It would only put him on his guard. I intend this office for you."

"For me?" exclaimed Robert in amazement.

"Yes, you are young, but you have natural ability, and shrewdness. At any rate, you are the only one I have to send. It is a desperate chance, but I shall feel better satisfied when I have tried it."

"I will follow your instructions whenever you wish," said Robert, his heart beating at the prospect of seeing something of that world of which he had seen so little and heard so much.

"My instructions will be few. I must trust much to your shrewdness. You will need to visit the town where my cousin lives to observe his habits and any unusual visitors he may have—in fact, try to arrive at the knowledge of the secret, if there is one, connected with my boy's disappearance."

"What was your son's name?"

"Julian Huet. My own name is Gilbert Huet, but this information is for your ear alone."

"I will not mention it, sir."

"You need not feel anxious about leaving your aunt. I will see that her wants are provided for during your absence."

"Thank you, sir."

"And the mortgage shall be paid when it comes due."

"I wish I could be here to see Mr. Jones disappointed."

"You can hardly be back so soon. It may take you six months. The task is one that will require time. By the way, I do not wish you to mention to your aunt the nature of your errand. Merely tell her that you are traveling on business for me."

"Very well, sir. How soon do you wish me to start?"

"At the beginning of next week."

"I am afraid, sir, I have no clothes that are fit to wear," said Robert with hesitation.

"You will provide yourself in Boston with a suitable outfit. You will be supplied with an ample sum of money, and I will instruct my bankers to honor any drafts you may make."

"You will be spending a great deal of money for me, Mr. Huet."

"I am rich, and living as I have each year this made me richer. I will not grudge ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars if you find my boy or bring me a clew which will lead to his discovery."

Robert was dazzled. It was evident that the hermit must be very rich. He walked home in high spirits. He was on the eve of an exciting journey and he enjoyed the prospect.



CHAPTER XXII

TWO PERSONS ARE SURPRISED

"Aunt," said Robert, his face aglow with excitement, "I am going to make a journey. I hope you won't feel lonely while I am away."

"A journey!" exclaimed Mrs. Trafton in astonishment.

"Yes, I am going away on business for the hermit."

"Where are you going?"

"To Boston first."

"To Boston? Land's sake! How can a boy like you find your way round in such a great city as Boston?"

"A boy of my age ought to be able to take care of himself."

"Why, child, you'll lose your way! There's ever so many streets and roads. I went to Boston once, and I got so puzzled I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels. If there was some older person going with you, now——"

"Aunt, don't make a baby of me. I guess I can get along as well as anybody."

"Well, you can try it. When will you be back?"

"When I get my business done."

"You won't be gone over two days, I calculate."

"I may be gone two months or more."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed the astonished woman, staring at Robert as if she thought his mind was wandering. "What sort of business is it that's going to take so long?"

"The hermit wants it kept secret, Aunt Jane."

"But how am I going to get along without you?" asked his aunt in dismay. "I can't go out fishing, and the money I earn by sewing is almost nothing."

Robert smiled, for he knew he could allay his aunt's fears.

"The hermit will pay you five dollars a week while I am gone, and here is the first week's pay," he said, drawing from his pocket a bill.

"Well, I must say your friend the hermit is a gentleman. Five dollars a week is more than I can spend."

"Then save a part of it if you like, aunt."

"But what shall I do, Robert, if Mr. Jones comes upon me to pay the mortgage when you arc gone?" said his aunt, with new alarm.

"The hermit has agreed to pay off the mortgage and take one himself for the same amount."

"He is very kind, Robert. Don't you think that I ought to call and thank him?"

"What! Call at the cave?"

"Yes!"

"No, aunt," said Robert hastily. "He would not like to have you. You can wait till you see him. But mind you don't tell anybody—least of all, Mr. Jones—that you will be able to pay the mortgage. As he is so mean, we want to give him a surprise."

"Just as you say, Robert. I am glad we'll be able to disappoint him, for he is certainly a very mean man. Now, when do you want to start for Boston?"

"To-morrow."

"But how am I going to get ready your shirts and socks so soon?"

"I shall not take any of them."

"Robert Coverdale, you must be crazy. You can't wear one shirt for two months if you're going so long."

"I don't expect to, aunt," said the boy, smiling. "I am going to buy a whole outfit of new things when I get to Boston. The hermit wants me to."

"He must be awful rich!" said the good woman, whose ideas on the subject of wealth were limited.

"All the better for us, Aunt Jane, as he is willing to spend some of his money for us."

Mrs. Trafton was considerably excited by the prospect of Robert's journey, and, notwithstanding what he had said, occupied herself in washing his clothes and making a small bundle for him to carry, but Robert declined taking them, with a smile.

"You see, aunt, my clothes wouldn't be good enough to wear in Boston," he said. "Just keep them till I get back. Perhaps I may need them then."

"I'll lay 'em away carefully, Robert. When you get a little larger I guess you'll be able to wear some of your uncle's clothes. His best suit might be made over for you. He hadn't had it but six years, and there's a good deal of wear in it yet. I might cut it over myself when you're gone."

"Better wait till I come back, aunt," said Robert hastily.

He knew the suit very well. It was snuff-colored and by no means a good fit, even for his uncle, while under his aunt's unpracticed hands it would probably look considerably worse when made over for him.

It must be confessed that Robert's ideas were expanding and he was rapidly growing more fastidious. He instinctively felt that he was about to turn a new leaf in his book of life and to enter on new scenes, in which he was to play a less obscure part than had been his hitherto in the little village of Cook's Harbor.

But no such change had come to his aunt. She still regarded Robert as the same boy that he always had been—born to the humble career of a fisherman—and she examined her husband's best suit with much complacency, mentally resolving that, in spite of Robert's objection, she would devote her leisure time to making it over for him.

"He can wear it for best for a year or two," she thought, "and then put it on every day. I am sure it will look well on him."

In the evening Robert went to the cave to have a farewell interview with the hermit—or Gilbert Huet, to give him the name which was properly his.

"You may write to me about once a week if you have anything to say, Robert," said the hermit.

"How shall I direct you, sir? Shall I use your name?"

"How am I known in the village?"

"They call you 'the hermit of the cliff.'"

"Then direct your letters to 'The Hermit of the Cliff.' They are not likely to go astray."

Mr. Huet gave Robert his instructions and finally produced a roll of banknotes.

"You will find two hundred dollars in this roll, Robert," he said. "You can buy a wallet to keep it in when you reach Boston."

"Two hundred dollars!" exclaimed the boy in amazement.

"You won't find it so large a sum as you suppose when you are required to pay traveling expenses. You need not try to be over-economical. I prefer that you should stop at good hotels and put on a good appearance. But I warn you to keep your mouth shut and tell your business to no one. I depend upon your discretion not to fall into the hands of knaves or adventurers. I know that I am putting unusual confidence in a boy of your limited experience, but I have no one else to trust, and I feel that you may be relied upon."