"I hope I shall not disappoint you, Mr. Huet."

"Well, Robert, I will bid you good night and God bless you! We don't know what lies before us, but if you succeed, I will take care that your career shall be a fortunate one."

Robert walked slowly back to his humble home, almost wishing that the night were over and his journey actually begun.

There was but one way out of Cook's Harbor—that is, by land. A stage left the village every morning for Kaneville, six miles distant, a small station on a road which terminated many miles away in Boston.

The stage started at seven o'clock, so Robert was forced to get up betimes, take an early breakfast and walk up to the tavern.

Mr. Jones, the landlord, was standing on the piazza when Robert made his appearance.

He had no proprietary right in the stage line, but the driver generally stopped overnight at the tavern and the horses were kept in his stable, so that he had come to assume a certain air of proprietorship.

As Robert was climbing up to take a seat by the driver Mr. Jones, with a frown, called out:

"Look here, you young rascal, come right down!"

"Why am I to come down, Mr. Jones?" said Robert independently.

"Because I tell you to. We can't have any boys stealing rides."

"Is this stage yours?" asked Robert, surveying the landlord with provoking coolness.

"No matter whether it is or not," retorted Jones, red in the face. "I tell you to come down. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear."

"Then you'd better come down double quick or I'll give you a taste of a horsewhip."

"I advise you to mind your own business, Mr. Jones," said Robert hotly, "and not interfere with the passengers by this stage."

"You're not a passenger, you young beggar!"

"I am a passenger—and now you'd better stop talking."

"Have you got money to pay your fare?" asked the landlord, beginning to suspect he had made a fool of himself.

"When the driver calls for the fare it will be time enough to tell."

"Luke," said Mr. Jones to the driver, "you'd better take that boy's fare now. He wants to swindle you out of a ride."

"You may take it out of this," said Robert, tendering a five-dollar bill.

"I guess we'll let it stand till we get to Kaneville," said Luke, gathering up the reins.

Robert darted a glance of triumph at the discomfited and bewildered landlord, and his journey was begun.

The latter, on Luke's return, learned to his further surprise that Robert had gone to Boston. On reflection, he concluded that Mrs. Trafton must have some relatives in the city from whom they hoped to borrow enough money to raise the mortgage.

"But he won't succeed, and in four weeks I shall turn him and his aunt out of doors," Mr. Jones complacently reflected.



CHAPTER XXIII

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

When Robert arrived in Boston he was at first bewildered by the noise and bustle to which, in the quiet fishing village, he was quite unaccustomed. All that he knew about the city was the names of the principal streets.

It was not necessary, however, that he should go in any particular direction. He decided, therefore, to walk along, keeping a good lookout, and, when he saw a clothing store, to go in and provide a new outfit.

He was sensible that he was by no means dressed in city style. His clothes were coarse, and being cut and made by his aunt—who, though an excellent woman, was by no means an excellent tailor—looked countrified and outlandish.

The first hint Robert had of this was when two well-dressed boys, meeting him, simultaneously burst out laughing.

Robert was sensitive, but he was by no means bashful or timid. Accordingly he stepped up to the boys and demanded with kindling eyes:

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Oh, no, of course not," answered one of the boys, rolling his tongue in his cheek.

"Certainly not, my dear fellow," said the other, winking.

"I think you were," said Robert firmly. "Do you see anything to laugh at in me?"

"Well, to tell the truth," said the first boy, "we were wondering whether you import your clothes from Paris or London."

"Oh, that's it," said Robert good-humoredly, for he was aware that his clothes were of strange cut. "My clothes were made in the country and I don't think much of them myself. If you'd tell me where I can get some better ones I will buy a suit."

The boys were not bad-hearted and were won over by Robert's good humor.

"You're a good fellow," said the first speaker, "and I am sorry I was rude enough to laugh at you. There is a store where I think you can find what you want."

He pointed to a clothing store. In front of which was a good display of ready-made clothing.

"Thank you," said Robert.

He entered and the boys walked on.

If Robert had been better dressed he would have received immediate attention. As it was, he looked like a poor boy in want of work and not at all like a customer.

So, at all events, decided a dapper-looking clerk whose attention was drawn to the new arrival.

"Well, boy, what do you want?" he demanded roughly, approaching Robert.

"Civil treatment to begin with," answered Robert with spirit.

"If you've come for a place, we don't want any scarecrows here."

It appears that the firm had advertised for an errand boy that very morning, and it was naturally supposed that Robert was an applicant.

"Are you the owner of this shop?" asked Robert coolly.

"No," answered the clerk, lowering his tone a little.

"I thought so. I'll tell my business to somebody else."

"You'd better not put on airs!" said the clerk angrily.

"You are the one who is putting on airs," retorted Robert.

"What's the matter here?" asked a portly gentleman, walking up to the scene of the altercation.

"I was telling this boy that he would not do for the place," answered the clerk.

"I believe, Mr. Turner, that you are not commissioned to make a selection," said the gentleman.

And Turner retired, discomfited.

"So you want a place?" he said inquiringly to Robert.

"No, sir, I don't."

"Mr. Turner said you did."

"I never told him so."

"Here, Turner," said the gentleman. "Why did you tell me this boy wanted a place?"

"I supposed he did. He looked like it, sir."

"I don't want a place. I want to buy a suit of clothes," said Robert. "If that young man hadn't treated me so rudely, I should have asked him to show me some."

"Look here, Mr. Turner," said the gentleman sternly, "If you have no more sense than to insult our customers, we can dispense with your services. Mr. Conway, will you wait on this young man?"

Turner was mortified and slunk away, beginning to understand that it is not always safe to judge a man or boy by the clothes he wears.

Mr. Conway was more of a gentleman and civilly asked Robert to follow him.

"What kind of a suit would you like?" he added.

"A pretty good one," answered Robert.

He was shown several suits and finally selected one of gray mixed cloth of excellent quality.

"That is one of our most expensive suits," said Conway doubtfully.

"Will it wear well?"

"It will wear like iron."

"Then I will take it. How much will it cost?"

Conway named the price. Robert would have hesitated about paying so much, but that he was acting under instructions from the hermit.

"Shall we send it to you anywhere?" asked Mr. Conway, a little surprised at Robert's readiness to pay so high a price.

"No, I should like to put it on here."

"You can do so—that is, after paying for it."

Robert drew out a wallet and from his roll of bills took out sufficient to pay for the new suit.

Mr. Conway went to the cashier's desk. The two had a conversation together. Then the stout gentleman was called to the desk. Robert saw them open a copy of a morning paper and read a paragraph, looking at him after reading it. He wondered what it all meant.

Presently Conway came back and asked him to walk up to the desk.

Robert did so, wonderingly.

"You seem to have a good deal of money with you," commenced the stout gentleman.

"Yes, sir," answered Robert composedly.

"A great deal of money for a boy dressed as you are," continued the speaker pointedly.

Robert began to understand now, and he replied proudly:

"Do you generally ask your customers how much money they have?"

"No, but yours is a peculiar case."

"The money is mine—that is, I have a right to spend it. I am acting under orders from the gentleman who employs me."

"Who is that?"

"No one that you would know. He lives at Cook's Harbor. But I didn't come in here to answer questions. If you don't want to sell me a suit of clothes, I will go somewhere else."

"To be plain with you, my boy," said the stout gentleman, not unkindly, "we are afraid that you have no right to this money. The Herald of this morning gives an account of a boy who has run away from a town in New Hampshire with three hundred dollars belonging to a farmer. You appear to be the age mentioned."

"I never stole a dollar in my life," said Robert indignantly.

"It may be so, but I feel it a duty to put you in charge of the police, who will investigate the matter. James, call an officer."

Robert realized that he was in an unpleasant situation. It would be hard to prove that the money in his hands was really at his disposal.

Help came from an unexpected quarter.

A young man, fashionably dressed, had listened to the conversation of which Robert was the subject.

He came forward promptly, saying:

"There is no occasion to suspect this boy. He is all right."

"Do you know him?" asked the proprietor politely.

"Yes, I know him well. He is in the employ of a gentleman at Cook's Harbor, as he says. You can safely sell him the clothes."

The young man spoke so positively that all suspicion was removed.

"I am glad to learn that it is all right," said the clothing merchant. "My young friend, I am sorry to have suspected you. We shall be glad to sell you the suit, and to recompense you for the brief inconvenience we will take off two dollars from the price."

"Thank you, sir."

"It would not do for us to receive stolen money, hence our caution."

Robert did not bear malice, and he accepted the apology and dressed himself in the suit referred to, which very much changed his appearance for the better.

In fact, but for his hat and shoes, he looked like a city boy of a well-to-do family.

He felt fortunate in getting off so well, but he was puzzled to understand where he could have met the young man who professed to know him so well.

He left the store, but almost immediately was tapped on the shoulder by the young man in question.

"I got you off well, didn't I?" said the young man with a wink.

"I am much obliged to you, sir," said Robert.

"You don't seem to remember me," continued the young man, winking again.

"No, sir."

"Good reason why. I never saw you in my life before nor you me."

"But I thought you said you had met me at Cook's Harbor?" said Robert in surprise.

The young man laughed.

"Only way to get you off. You'd have been marched off by a policeman if I hadn't."

This seemed rather irregular to our hero. Still he knew that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and as the young man appeared to have acted from friendly motives he thanked him again.

"That's all very well," said the young man, "but, considering the scrape I've saved you from, I think you ought to give me at least twenty-five dollars."

"But the money isn't mine," said Robert, opening his eyes, for he could hardly have expected an application for money from a young man so fashionably dressed.

"Of course it isn't," said the young man, winking again. "It belongs to the man you took it from. I'm fairly entitled to a part. So just give me twenty-five and we'll call it square."

"If you mean that I stole the money, you're quite mistaken," said Robert indignantly. "It belongs to my employer."

"Just what I thought," said the other.

"But I have a right to spend it. I am doing just as he told me to do."

"Come, young fellow, that won't go down! It's too thin!" said the young man, his countenance changing. "You don't take me in so easily. Just hand over twenty-five dollars or I'll hand you over to the police! There's one coming!"

Robert certainly did not care to have the threat executed, but he did not choose to yield.

"If you do," he said, "I'll tell him that you did it because I would not give you twenty-five dollars."

This did not strike his new acquaintance as desirable, since it would be, in effect, charging him with blackmail. Moreover, he could bring nothing tangible against our young hero. He changed his tone therefore.

"I don't want to harm you," he said, "but I deserve something for getting you out of a scrape. You might spare me five dollars."

"I got my suit two dollars cheaper through what you said," said Robert. "I'll give you that sum."

"Well, that will do," said the other, finding the country boy more unmanageable than he expected. "I ought to have more, but I will call it square on that."

Robert drew a two-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the stranger.

"That I can give," he said, "because it was part of the price of my suit."

"All right. Good morning!" said the young man, and, thrusting the bill into his vest pocket, he walked carelessly away.

Robert looked after him with a puzzled glance.

"I shouldn't think a young man dressed like that could be in want of money," he reflected. "I am afraid he told a lie on my account, but I thought at the time he had really seen me, even if I couldn't remember him."

Soon Robert came to a hat store, where he exchanged his battered old hat for one of fashionable shape, and a little later his cowhide shoes for a pair of neat calfskin. He surveyed himself now with natural satisfaction, for he was as well dressed as his friend Herbert Irving.

He had by this time reached Washington Street and had just passed Milk Street when he met George Randolph, who looked as consequential and conceited as ever.

"Good morning, George," said Robert.

George looked at him doubtfully.

How could he suppose that the boy before him, dressed as well as himself, was the poor fisher boy of Cook's Harbor?

"I don't seem to remember you," said George civilly.

Robert smiled.

"You met me at Cook's Harbor," he explained. "I am Robert Coverdale."

"What! not the young fisherman?" ejaculated George incredulously.

"The same."

"You haven't come into a fortune, have you? What brings you here?" demanded the city boy in great amazement.

"I am in the city on business. No, I haven't come into a fortune, but I am better off than I was. Can you recommend me a good hotel?"

"I don't know about the cheap hotels."

"I don't care for a cheap hotel. I want a good one."

More and more surprised, George said:

"You might go to Young's."

"I will go there. Thank you for telling me."

"I don't understand how a boy like you can afford to go to such a hotel as that," said George, looking very much puzzled.

"No, I suppose not," returned Robert, smiling.

"If you don't mind telling me——"

"I am sorry I can't, but my errand is a secret one.

"Did my uncle send you?"

"No, neither he nor Herbert knows of my coming. I didn't have time to see Herbert before I came away."

"Are you going to stay long in Boston?"

"No, I think not. I am going to New York or Albany."

"It seems queer to me."

"Very likely. Good-by! Thank you for directing me."

George had been remarkably civil, but in a boy like him that is easily explained. He was civil, not to Robert, but to his new suit and his new prosperity.

"It's the strangest thing I ever heard of," he muttered as he walked away. "Why, the young fisherman is dressed as well as I am!"



CHAPTER XXIV

ON LONG ISLAND SOUND

Had he possessed plenty of leisure, Robert would have been glad to remain in Boston long enough to see the principal objects of interest in the city and its vicinity, but he never for a moment forgot that his time was not his own.

He had entered the service of the hermit, and every day's delay was so much additional expense to his employer. True, Gilbert Huet was a rich man, as he had himself acknowledged, but Robert was conscientious, and felt that this would not justify him in gratifying himself at the expense of the man who had so trusted him.

Robert felt proud of this trust—this very unusual proof of confidence in a boy so young and inexperienced as he was—and he was ambitious to justify it. I am sure, therefore, that he would have had little satisfaction in postponing it out of regard to his own pleasure.

There were two ways of going to the West, which, it will be remembered, was his destination—by the way of Albany or New York City.

Finding that it would not matter much how he went, Robert decided upon the latter. It would enable him to see the great city of which he had heard so much, and who knows but, in this great metropolis, which swallows up so many, he might hear something of the lost boy?

He decided, therefore, to go at once to New York, and, after some inquiry, he fixed upon the Fall River route.

This includes railroad travel to Fall River, a distance of about fifty miles, where the traveler embarks on a great steamer and arrives in New York after a night on Long Island Sound.

Guided by an advertisement in the daily papers, Robert made his way to the Old State House, at the head of State Street, and, entering the office of the steamboat line, asked for a ticket.

"Will you take a stateroom also?" asked the clerk.

"Is that necessary?" asked Robert, who was unused to traveling.

"No, it's not necessary. Your ticket will entitle you to a comfortable berth, but in a stateroom you have greater privacy."

"What is a stateroom?" asked our hero.

The clerk was rather surprised by this question, but decided that Robert was not accustomed to traveling and answered politely enough:

"It is very much like a room in a hotel, only much smaller. There is a berth and a washstand, and you can lock yourself in. There is greater security against robbery, for you hold the key and no one can enter it without your knowledge."

As Robert carried considerable money belonging to Mr. Huet, he felt that he ought to take this precaution, if it were not too expensive.

"How much must I pay for a stateroom?" he asked.

"You can get a good one for a dollar."

"Then I will take one."

"Number fifty-six," said the clerk, handing him a card with the number penciled on it. "What's your name?"

"Robert Coverdale."

So Robert walked out of the office with his passage engaged.

This was on the morning after his arrival, and as the steamboat train did not start till afternoon, this afforded him a chance to spend several hours in seeing the city.

First he went to the Common and walked across it, surveying with interest the large and noble trees which add so much beauty to a park which, in size, is insignificant compared with the great parks of New York and Philadelphia, but appears older and more finished than either.

He rode in various directions in the cars and enjoyed the varied sights that passed under his notice.

At half-past four he paid his bill at the hotel and took a car which passed the depot from which the steamboat train for New York starts.

The train was an express, and in little more than an hour he boarded the beautiful Sound steamer.

He was astonished at its magnificence as he went upstairs to the main saloon. As he was looking about him in rather a bewildered way a colored man employed on the boat inquired:

"What are you looking for, young man?"

"Where shall I get a key to my stateroom?"

He was told, and, opening the door, he found himself in a comfortable little room with two berths.

"I can pass the night here very pleasantly," he thought. "There is some difference between sleeping here and on a sailboat."

Once, in company with his uncle, he had been compelled to pass the night on the ocean in a small sailboat used for fishing purposes.

Robert left his valise in the stateroom and went into the saloon.

A gong was heard, which he found was the announcement of supper. It was now past seven o'clock and he felt hungry. He accordingly followed the crowd downstairs and ate a hearty meal.

When he went upstairs again the band soon began to play and helped to while away the time. Some of the passengers read papers, others read books and magazines, while others from the outer decks watched the progress of the large boat as it swiftly coursed over the waves. In this last company was Robert.

Without being aware of it, our hero attracted the notice of one of his fellow passengers, a man possibly of thirty-five, tall and thin and dressed in black. Finally he accosted Robert.

"A fine evening!" he remarked.

"Yes, sir, very fine."

"You are going to New York, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you tarry there?"

"Not long. I am going to Ohio."

"You seem young to travel alone. Perhaps, however, you have company?"

"No, sir," Robert answered. "I am traveling alone."

There was a look of satisfaction on the man's face, which Robert did not see. Even if he had he would not have known how to interpret it.

"It is pleasant to go to New York by boat," said the stranger. "I prefer it to the cars; that is, when I can get a stateroom. Did you secure one?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are more fortunate than I. I found they had all been taken. I would not care so much if I were not suffering from fever and ague."

"I suppose you have a berth?" said Robert.

"Yes, but the berths are exposed to draughts and are not as desirable as staterooms."

Robert did not know that, so far from this being the case, the great fault of the ordinary berths was a lack of air.

"I suppose your stateroom contains two berths?" said the stranger.

"Yes, I believe so."

"I may be taking a liberty, but I have a proposal to make. If you will allow me to occupy one of them I will pay half the cost of your room. It would oblige me very much, but I would not ask if I were not sick."

Robert did not entirely like this proposal. He preferred to be alone. Still he was naturally obliging, and he hardly knew how to refuse this favor to a sick man.

"I see you hesitate," said the stranger. "Pray think no more of my request. I would not mind paying the entire cost of the room, if you will take me in. It cost you a dollar, did it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then," said the man, drawing a dollar bill from his pocketbook, "allow me to pay for it and share it with you."

"I ought not to be selfish," thought Robert. "I would rather be alone, but if this man is sick I think I will let him come in with me."

He so expressed himself, and the other thanked him warmly and pressed the dollar upon him.

"No," said Robert, "I can't take so much. You may pay for your share—fifty cents."

"You are very kind," murmured the other.

And, replacing the bill in his pocketbook, he took out a half dollar and tendered it to our hero.

Half an hour later both repaired to stateroom No. 56.

As they entered the room the stranger glanced at the two berths and said:

"It is only fair that you should occupy the best berth."

"Which is the best berth?" asked Robert.

"The lower one is generally so considered," said the other. "It is a little wider and it is less trouble to get into it. I will take the upper one."

"No," said Robert generously. "You are sick and ought to have the best. I am perfectly well, and I shan't mind climbing into the upper one."

"But it seems so selfish in me," protested the stranger, "to step into your stateroom and take the best accommodations."

"Not if I am willing," responded Robert cheerfully. "So it is all settled."

"How kind you are!" murmured the invalid. "Though we have met so recently, I cannot help feeling toward you as if you were my younger brother."

Robert thanked him, but could hardly reciprocate the feeling. In truth, he had taken no fancy to the man whom he had accepted as roommate and was only influenced by compassion for his reported sickness.

They undressed and retired to their berths. As the stranger was about to step into his he said:

"It is only fair to tell you my name. I am called Mortimer Fairfax and I am a partner in a business firm in Baltimore. Are you in business?"

"Not exactly," answered Robert, "though I am traveling on business just now."

"I believe you didn't mention your name," said Fairfax.

"My name is Robert Coverdale."

"An excellent name. I know a family in Philadelphia by that name. Are you sleepy?"

"A little."

"Then suppose we go to sleep?"

"All right. Goodnight!"

Then there was silence in the stateroom.

It was not long before Robert's eyes closed. He had gone about considerable during the day and was naturally fatigued. Generally he had no difficulty in sleeping soundly, but to-night proved an exception. He tossed about in his narrow berth and he was troubled with disagreeable dreams. Sometimes it happens that such dreams visit us to warn us of impending danger.

Robert finally dreamed that a pickpocket had drawn his pocketbook from his pocket and was running away with it, and he awoke with a sudden start, his face bathed in perspiration.

It was midnight. The band had ceased playing for two hours and all who had staterooms had retired to them. Only here and there in the main saloon a passenger lay asleep in an armchair.

There was a scanty light, which entered the stateroom through a small window, and by this light Robert, half rising in bed, saw a sight that startled him.

Mr. Mortimer Fairfax, his roommate, was out of his berth. He had taken down Robert's trousers from the nail on which he had hung them and was in the act of pulling out his wallet, which he had imprudently left in it.

This sight fully aroused the lad, and he prepared for action.

Fairfax was half bent over, and Robert, who was deeply incensed, threw himself from the upper berth, landing on the back of his roommate, who was borne to the floor, releasing the garment with a startled cry.

"What did you do that for?" he asked nervously.

"What business had you with my pocketbook, you thief?" demanded Robert sternly.

Mortimer Fairfax, who had supposed Robert to be fast asleep, saw that he was in a scrape, but he was a man fertile in expedients, and he instantly decided upon his course.

"What do you mean?" he inquired in a tone of innocent bewilderment.

"What do I mean?" retorted our hero. "I want to know what business you had with my pocketbook in your hand?"

"You don't mean to say that I was meddling with your pocketbook?" said Fairfax with an air of surprise.

"That is exactly what I do say, Mr. Fairfax. If I hadn't waked up just as I did, you would have had all my money, and I should have been penniless. That is the sort of fever and ague that troubles you, I suppose."

"My young friend," said Fairfax, "I am shocked at what you tell me. I do not blame you for accusing me. If I were in your place and you in mine, I should no doubt act in the same way. Yet I am entirely innocent, I can assure you."

"It don't look much like it," Robert said, rather astonished at the man's effrontery. "When I find you examining my pockets and taking out my pocketbook, it looks very much as if you were trying to rob me."

"True, it does. I admit it all. But if you knew me, you would see how groundless, nay, how absurd such suspicions are. Why, I am a rich man. I am worth fifty thousand dollars."

"Then why did you try to rob me?"

"I did not. It was only in appearance. Did you ever hear of a somnambulist?"

"No."

"It is one who gets up in his sleep and is entirely unconscious of what he does. From early youth—from the days of my innocent boyhood—I have been a victim of this unfortunate malady."

"Do you often steal in your sleep?" inquired Robert sarcastically.

"Not often, but I have done it before. Once, when a boy, I got up and took a purse from the pocket of my uncle, who occupied the same room with me."

"What did your uncle say?" Robert asked with some curiosity.

"He was angry till my mother assured him that I was a somnambulist and not responsible for what I did at such a time. Then we had a good laugh, over it."

"Do you mean to say, Mr. Fairfax, that when you had your hand in my pocket just now you were asleep?"

"Sound asleep. I had no idea that I was out of my berth."

"You seemed to wake up pretty quick afterward!"

"To be sure I did! I rather think you would wake up, too, if I should jump upon your back from the top berth! But I forgive you—don't apologize, I beg. I should have been misled, as you were, if our situations had been changed."

Certainly Mr. Mortimer Fairfax was cool.

In his limited acquaintance with the world Robert had never dreamed of the existence of such a character, but he was gifted with shrewd common sense, and he did not for an instant believe the story which the other palmed off upon him.

"Mr. Fairfax," he said, "shall I tell you what I think of your story?"

"Yes, if you please."

"I don't believe it."

"What!" exclaimed Fairfax sadly. "Is it possible you believe that I would rob you, my kind benefactor?"

"I don't pretend to be your benefactor, but I haven't a doubt about it."

"My dear young friend," said Fairfax, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, "you grieve me deeply—indeed you do! I had thought you would understand me better. You do not consider that I am a rich man and can have no object in depriving you of your little store of money. Let us go to bed and forget this unpleasant little circumstance."

"No, Mr. Fairfax, you cannot stay here any longer. I insist upon your dressing yourself and leaving the stateroom!"

"But, my young friend. It is the middle of the night!"

"I can't help it!" said Robert resolutely.

"And, in my delicate health, it would be dangerous."

"I don't believe you are in delicate health, but I can't help it if you are. You must go!"

"You forget," said Fairfax in a different tone, "that half of the stateroom is mine. I have paid for it."

"Then I will return the money. Here it is."

"I prefer to remain here."

"If you don't go," said Robert energetically, "I will call for help and report that you tried to rob me!"

"You will repent this unkind treatment," said Fairfax sullenly, but he proceeded to dress nevertheless, and in a few minutes he left the stateroom.

Robert locked the door after him and then, returning to bed, he said with a sigh of relief:

"Now I can sleep without fear. I am sure that fellow is a rascal, and I am glad to be rid of him."



CHAPTER XXV

A BAGGAGE SMASHER'S REVENGE

When Robert awoke in the morning it was eight o'clock and the steamer lay quietly at its pier. Almost all the passengers had landed and he was nearly alone on the great steamer.

Of course Mortimer Fairfax had gone with the rest; in fact, Fairfax was one of the first to land. He had passed the remainder of the night in the saloon, anxious, as long as he remained on board, lest Robert should denounce him for his attempted theft.

Robert was a stranger in New York. He was instantly impressed by what he could see of the great city from the deck of the steamer. He took his valise In his hand and walked across the gangplank upon the pier. At the entrance he was accosted by a hackman.

"Carriage, sir?"

"No," answered Robert.

"I will carry you cheap."

"What do you call cheap?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Astor House."

This hotel had been suggested by the hermit.

"All right! Jump in!" and the hackman was about to take Robert's valise.

"Wait a moment," said the lad firmly. "I haven't agreed to ride. What do you charge?"

"Two dollars."

"Two dollars! How far is it?"

"About five miles!" answered the hackman with unblushing falsehood.

"Is there no stage that goes to that part of the city?"

"No; your only way is to take a carriage."

Though Robert had never before been in New York, he felt convinced that this was untrue and said quietly:

"Then I will walk."

"It is too far, young man. Nobody walks up there."

"Then I'll be the first one to try it!" said Robert coolly.

"Wait a minute, youngster! I'll take you for a dollar and a half."

Robert did not answer, but crossed the street.

"Carry your bag, sir?" said a boy of about his own age, who seemed to be waiting for a job.

"Do you know the way to the Astor House?" asked Robert.

"I ought to."

"How far is it?"

"Half a mile."

"That hack driver told me it was five miles."

The boy grinned.

"He thought you were green," he said. "Say, boss, shall I carry that v'lise?"

"How much do you charge?"

"I'll take it to Broadway for a quarter."

"All right. I'll pay it."

"I see," thought Robert, "I shall have to look out or I shall be cheated. It seems to cost a good deal of money to travel."

As Robert walked along he asked various questions of his young partner as to the buildings which they passed. On reaching Broadway he said:

"I don't care about riding. If you will walk along with me and carry the valise I will pay you a quarter more."

"All right. Only pay me the first quarter now," said the boy cautiously.

"Just as you like. Are you afraid I won't pay you."

"I dunno. I was served that way once."

"How was it?"

"I was carryin' a bag—a thunderin' big bag it was, too—for a man to this very hotel. I'd carried it about a mile; when we got there he took it and was goin' in without payin' me.

"'Look here, boss,' I says, 'you haven't paid me.'

"'Yes, I did,' he says. 'I paid you when you took the bag.'

"Then I knew he was a beat, and I made a fuss, I tell you, and follered him into the hotel.

"'What's the matter?' asked one of the hotel men, comin' forrard.

"'This boy wants me to pay him twice,' he says.

"Of course, the hotel people took up for the man and kicked me out of the hotel. I didn't blame them so much, for who'd think of a gentleman cheatin' a poor boy?"

"That was pretty hard on you," said Robert in a tone of sympathy. "He must have been a mean man."

"Mean? I guess he was. But I got even with him, and I didn't wait long neither."

"How was that?"

"I got an egg and I laid for him. Toward night he come out, all dressed up like as if he was goin' to the theayter. I follered him, and when I got a good chance I just hove it at him. I hit him just in his bosom, and the egg was spattered over his face and clothes. He gave a yell and then I dodged round the corner. Oh, it was rich to see how he looked! I guess he'd better have paid me."

Robert could not help laughing, and did not find it in his heart to blame the boy who had chosen this summary way to redress his grievances.

"I hope," he said, "you haven't got any eggs with you now."

"Why, ain't you goin' to pay me?"

"Oh, yes, I mean to pay you. I wouldn't cheat a poor boy. I'm a poor boy myself."

His guide looked at him in surprise.

"You a poor boy, with them clo'es?" he repeated. "If you was a poor boy you wouldn't pay me for carryin' your baggage."

"But would carry it myself?"

"Yes."

"So I would, but I wanted somebody to guide me to the hotel. I am traveling for a gentleman that pays the bills."

"Oh, cricky! ain't that jolly? Wouldn't he like me to travel for him?"

"I guess not," said Robert, laughing.

"If he should, just give a feller a chance."

"I might, if I knew your name and where you live."

"I left my cardcase at home on the planner, along with my jewelry, but my name's Michael Burke. The boys call me Mike. I live at the Newsboys' Lodge, when I'm at home."

"All right, Mike; I'll remember."

The remainder of the walk was enlivened by conversation of a similar kind. Though Mike was not much of a scholar, he was well informed on local matters, and it was upon such points that Robert wished to be posted.

When they reached the hotel Mike uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Say, do you see that man in the doorway?" he asked eagerly.

"What of him?"

"He's the very man that cheated me out of my pay—the man I hit wid an egg. Here he is again."

Robert surveyed the man with curious interest. He was a man of middle age, well dressed, but with a hard, stern look upon his face. He was by no means one likely to attract strangers.

"How do you know it is the same one?" asked Robert in a low voice.

"He's got the same look. I'd remember him if it was a dozen years, but it's only six months."

"But you might be mistaken."

"I'll show you whether I am. Come along."

When they entered the vestibule of the hotel Mike paused a moment and, in hearing of the stranger, said:

"Last night, as I was walkin' along, I seed a man hit wid a rotten egg. He looked mad enough to kill the one that throwed it."

The stranger wheeled round and regarded Mike intently.

"Boy," said he, "I think I've seen you before."

"Maybe you have," answered Mike coolly. "Lots of people has seen me."

"Did you ever carry a valise for me?"

"Maybe I did. I've carried lots of 'em."

"I think you once brought a valise for me to this very hotel."

"How much did you pay me for doin' it? Maybe I could tell by that."

"I don't know. I presume I paid you liberally."

"Then I guess it was some other boy," said Mike, grinning.

The gentleman looked puzzled, but just then a young man came up and spoke to him, addressing him as "Mr. Waldo."

Robert started at the sound of this name. He remembered that this was the name of his employer's cousin, who was suspected of abducting the boy of whom he was in search.

Bidding good-by to his young guide, he registered his name and then turned over the pages back. In the list of arrivals for the day before he came upon this entry:

"Charles Waldo, Sullivan, Ohio."

"It's the very man!" he said to himself in excitement.



CHAPTER XXVI

TWO IMPORTANT DISCOVERIES

Charles Waldo was the name of the hermit's cousin, who was suspected of kidnapping the boy who stood between him and the property. It was to find this very man that Robert was sent out by Gilbert Huet.

Robert felt that he was fortunate in so soon running across this man and decided that as long as Mr. Waldo remained in the hotel it was his policy to remain also.

He did not see how he was to find out anything about the missing boy, but resolved to watch and wait in the hope of obtaining a clew. He did not wish to attract Mr. Waldo's suspicions, but took care to keep him in view.

The next morning he observed Mr. Waldo in the reading room at the rear of the hotel talking with another person—rather a pretentious-looking man, with black whiskers and a jaunty air.

At the news stand he bought a copy of a morning paper and took a seat sufficiently near to hear what was said.

Though Waldo and his companion spoke in low tones, neither was apprehensive of being heard, as it was hardly to be presumed that any one within hearing distance would feel an interest in what they had to say.

"As I was saying"—this was the first sentence which Robert heard from Mr. Waldo—"it is entirely uncertain when I shall derive any advantage from my cousin's estate. During his life he holds it."

"How is his health?"

"I suppose he is well. In fact, I don't know but he is likely to live as long as I do. There can't be more than five years' difference in our ages."

"That is a discouraging outlook."

"I should say so! But there is one chance for me during his life."

"What is that?"

"He may be declared insane. In that case the management of the estate would naturally be transferred to me as the direct heir."

"But is there any ground for assumption that he is insane?"

"Yes. Ever since his son's death he has acted in an eccentric way—made a hermit of himself and withdrawn from society. You know grief brooded over often terminates in insanity. Then there was his wife's terrible death, which had a strange effect upon him.

"I did not understand that the boy died."

"Well, he disappeared. He is undoubtedly dead."

"It is his being out of the way that makes you the heir, is it not?"

"Of course," answered Waldo.

"Then all I can say is that it was mighty fortunate for you," said his companion dryly.

"It hasn't done me any good yet and may not. These hermits are likely to live long. Their habits are regular and they are not tempted to violate the laws of health. I tell you, Mr. Thompson, it's a tantalizing thing to be so near a large fortune and yet kept out of it."

"I suppose you pray for your cousin's death, then?"

"Not so bad as that, but, as he don't enjoy the property, it is a pity I can't."

"How much does the estate amount to probably?" asked the other with interest.

"Well, it can't be less than two hundred thousand dollars."

"Whew! That's a great fortune!"

"So it is. If I get it, or when I get it, I won't mind doing as you ask me, and setting you up in a snug business."

"You could do it now, Mr. Waldo. You are a rich man," said Thompson.

"You are mistaken. I may have a competence, but nothing more."

"You've got a fine farm."

"That don't support me. Farming doesn't pay."

"And money in stock and bonds."

"Enough to make up the deficiency in my income. I assure you I don't lay up a cent. I can't do it."

"May I ask what is your errand in New York?"

"I want to speak to you about that. I want to find my cousin."

"Don't his bankers know where he is?"

"If they do, they won't tell. I suppose they are acting under orders from him?"

"Suppose you find him?"

"Then," said Charles Waldo significantly, "I shall raise the question of his sanity. It won't be a difficult matter to prove him insane. It only needs a certificate from a couple of doctors. I think I can find two parties who will oblige me."

"I say, Waldo, you're a cool, calculating fellow!" Thompson was about to use another word, but checked himself. "I wouldn't like to stand in your way."

"Nonsense! I only want to do what is right."

"And it very conveniently happens that you consider right what is to your interest. I say, have you any idea how the boy came to disappear?"

"Of course not! How should I?" answered Waldo uneasily.

"I don't know, but as he stood in your way, I thought——"

"You think too much," said Waldo.

"Oh, I don't mean to censure you. I suppose if I had been in your place I might have been tempted."

"I know nothing about the boy's disappearance," said Waldo hastily; "but let us drop that. I sent for you because I saw that you could serve me."

"Go on; if there's money in it, I am your man."

"I shall pay you, of course; that is, I will pay you fairly. We will speak of that hereafter."

"What do you want me to do? Is there anybody you want to disappear?"

"Hush! You go too far, sir. I want to find out the whereabouts of Gilbert Huet. It is important for me to know where he is."

"Can you give me a clew?"

"If I could I should not need to employ you. Come up to my room and I will communicate further with you."

The two left the reading room and Robert was left to digest the important information he had received.

"What a rascal that man is!" he reflected. "After stealing Mr. Huet's boy, he wants to put him in a madhouse. I must let him know, so that he may be on his guard. I don't believe they will think of looking for him at Cook's Harbor."

By a curious coincidence the room assigned to Robert was next to that occupied by Mr. Waldo, and when the boy was about entering it, some hours later, he saw the gentleman going in just ahead of him.

As the latter placed one hand upon the door he drew his handkerchief from his coat pocket, and in so doing brought out a letter, which fell upon the floor, without his seeing it.

Passing into his room, he slammed the door, leaving the missive lying in the hall.

"It is a mean thing," laughed Robert as he stooped down and picked it up, "to examine a letter not intended for me, but he is such a scamp that I'll do it in this case, hoping to learn something that will help me find this poor boy."

And so, without any compunctions, Robert took the letter—which had been opened—into his room and read, with feelings which may possibly be imagined, the following letter:

"DEAR SIR: I feel oblidged to rite to you about the boy I took from you. You told me he would work enough to pay for his keep, and did not want to pay me anything for my trubble. Now, Mr. Waldo, you are mistaken. The boy ain't tuff nor strong, and I can't got more'n half as much work out of him as I ought. He don't eat much, I kno, but the fact is I need a good strong boy, and I shall have to git another, and have two to feed, if things go on so.

"You told me I might be strict and harsh with him, and I am. He says he has the headache about half the time, but I don't pay no attenshun to that. If I did, I wouldn't git any work done. One day he fainted away in the feald, but it's my opinyun he brought it on a-purpose by not eatin' much breakfast.

"I tell you, Mr. Waldo, it is very aggravatin' to have such a shifless boy. Now, what I want to ask you is, if you can't allow me a dollar, or a dollar and a half a week to make it square. I'm willin' to take care of the boy, but I don't want to lose money by it. I kno you give him his clo'es, but that don't cost you much. He ain't had a suit for a year, and he needs one bad.

"I'm sure you will see the thing the way I do, if you are a reasonable man, as I have no reason to doubt you are; and so I remain yours to command, NATHAN BADGER.

"To MR. CHARLES WALDO."

Robert could hardly express his excitement and indignation when he was reading this letter. He felt sure that this poor boy, who was so cruelly treated, was the unfortunate son of his friend, the hermit, who ought to be enjoying the comforts of a luxurious home. As it was, he was the victim of a cruel and unscrupulous relative, influenced by the most mercenary motives.

"I will be his friend," Robert resolved, "and if I can I will restore him to his father."

He looked for the date of the letter and found it. It had been written in the town of Dexter, in Ohio. Where this town was Robert did not know, but he could find out.

"I won't wait for Mr. Waldo," he said to himself. "I know all I need to. I will start for Ohio to-morrow."

As for the letter, he resolved to keep it, as it might turn out to be important evidence in case of need.

He could not understand how Mr. Waldo could be careless enough to mislay so important a document, but this did not concern him. It was his business to profit by it.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE BOUND BOY

The town of Dexter was almost entirely agricultural. Its population was small and scattered. There were no large shops or manufactories to draw people to the place. Many of the farmers were well to do, carrying on agricultural operations on a considerable scale.

Among the smaller farmers was Nathan Badger. He was fond of money, but knew no better way to get it than to live meanly, drive hard bargains and spend as little as possible. In this way, though not a very good farmer, he was able to lay by a couple of hundred dollars a year, which he put away in the County Savings Bank.

Mrs. Badger was a fitting wife for such a man. She was about as mean as he was, with scarcely any of the traits that make women attractive. She had one, however—an indulgent love of her only child, Andrew Jackson Badger, who was about as disagreeable a cub as can well be imagined. Yet I am not sure that Andrew was wholly responsible for his ugliness, as most of his bad traits came to him by inheritance from the admirable pair whom he called father and mother.

Andrew Jackson Badger was by no means a youthful Apollo. To speak more plainly, he was no beauty. A tow head and freckled face often belong to a prepossessing boy of popular manners, but in Andrew's case they were joined to insignificant features, small ferret eyes, a retreating chin and thin lips, set off by a repulsive expression.

There was another member of the family—a bound boy—the same one referred to in Mr. Nathan Badger's letter. This boy was, five years previous, placed in Mr. Badger's charge by Charles Waldo.

I do not want my young readers to remain under any uncertainty as to this boy, and I state at once that he was the abducted son of Gilbert Huet, the hermit of Cook's Harbor, and the rightful heir to a large estate.

At the time of our introduction to Bill Benton—for this is the name by which he was known—he had a hoe in his hand and he was about starting for the field to hoe potatoes.

He was a slender boy, with delicate features and a face which indicated a sensitive temperament. His hair was dark brown, his features were refined, his eyes were blue and he looked like a boy of affectionate temperament, who would feel injustice and harshness keenly. This was indeed the case. He lacked the strong, sturdy character, the energy and self-reliance which made Robert Coverdale successful. Robert was not a boy to submit to injustice or wrong. He was not easily intimidated and could resist imposition with all his might. But Bill—to call him by the name given him by Mr. Waldo—was of a more gentle, yielding disposition, and so he was doomed to suffer.

He was certainly unfortunately situated. Mr. Badger required him to work beyond his strength and seldom, or never, gave him a kind word. The same may be said of Mrs. Badger. It was perhaps fortunate for him that he had a small appetite, for in the Badger household he would have been unable to gratify the hearty appetite of an average boy.

The table was very mean and the only one who lived well was Andrew Jackson, whom his mother petted and indulged. There was always something extra on the table for Andrew, which it was well understood that no one else in the family was to eat.

Mr. Badger did not interfere with his wife's petting. If he had a soft place in his heart, it was for Andrew, who seemed to his partial parents a remarkably smart and interesting boy.

To Bill Benton he was a cruel tyrant. He delighted in making the life of his father's bound boy intolerable, and succeeded only too well. He was stronger than Bill, and, backed by the authority of his father and mother, he dared do anything, while Bill knew that it was useless to resist. Still, gentle as he was, sometimes his spirit rose and made a feeble resistance.

"Where are you going, Bill?" asked Andrew as the bound boy started off after breakfast.

"I am going to hoe potatoes, Andrew."

"No, you're not; I want you to go and dig some worms for bait. I am going a-fishing."

"But your father told me to go to the field at once."

"I can't help that. He didn't know I wanted you."

"He will scold me if I don't go to work."

"That is my business. I tell you to go and dig some worms."

Poor Bill! He knew very well that if Andrew got him into a scrape, he would not help him out, but leave his father to suppose that Bill disobeyed of his own accord—if necessary, stoutly asserting it, for Andrew was by no means a boy of truth.

"I would rather not go, Andrew," said Bill uneasily.

"Then take that!"

And Andrew brutally struck him with a whip he had in his hand.

The bound boy flushed at this indignity. Gentle as he was, he resented a blow.

"Don't you do that again, Andrew!" he said. "I won't stand it!"

"You won't stand it?" repeated Andrew tauntingly. "What will you do about it, I'd like to know?"

"You have no right to hit me, and I won't submit to it," said Bill with a spirit which quite astonished the young tyrant.

He laughed scornfully and repeated the blow, but with more emphasis.

Even the most gentle and long-suffering turn sometimes, and this was the case now.

The bound boy lifted the hoe and with the handle struck Andrew so forcibly that he dropped upon the ground, bellowing like a calf.

Like most bullies he was cowardly, and the unexpected resistance and the pain of the blow quite overcame his fortitude, and he cried like a baby.

It must be confessed that the bound boy was frightened by what he had done. Too well he knew that he would suffer for his temerity. Besides, his compassion was aroused for Andrew, whom he thought to be worse hurt than he was.

He threw down the hoe and kneeled by the prostrate boy.

"Oh, Andrew, I hope I didn't hurt you!" he cried. "I ought not to have struck you."

"You'll catch it when father comes home!" screamed Andrew furiously. "You almost killed me!"

"Oh, Andrew, I'm so sorry. I hope you'll forgive me."

By this time Mrs. Badger had come to the door, and Andrew, catching a glimpse of her, gave a yell as if in extreme anguish.

His mother came flying out of the house.

"What's the matter, my darling?" she cried in alarm.

"Bill knocked me down with a hoe, and I think I'm going to die!" answered Andrew with a fresh burst of anguish.

Mrs. Badger was almost paralyzed with astonishment and wrath. She could hardly believe her ears. What! Her Andrew assaulted by a beggarly bound boy!

"Bill knocked you down with a hoe?" she repeated. "You don't mean it?"

"Yes, I do. Ask him if he didn't."

"Bill Benton," said Mrs. Badger in an awful voice, "did you strike Andrew with a hoe?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I'm sorry for it, but he struck me with a whip first."

"No doubt he had a good reason for doing it. And so you tried to murder him, you young ruffian?"

"No, I didn't, Mrs. Badger. He had no right to whip me, and I defended myself. But I'm sorry——"

Andrew set up another howl, though he no longer felt any pain, and his mother's wrath increased.

"You'll end your life on the gallows, you young brute!" she exclaimed, glaring wrathfully at the poor boy. "Some night you'll try to murder us all in our beds. The only place for you is in jail! When Mr. Badger comes home, I will report the case to him. Now, go to work."

Poor Bill was glad to get away from the infuriated woman.

Andrew was taken into the house and fed on preserves and sweetmeats by his doting mother, while the poor bound boy was toiling in the hot sun, dreading the return of his stern master.

Nathan Badger was not far away. He had driven to the village in the buggy, not that he had any particular business there, but at present there was no farm work of a pressing nature except what the bound boy could do, and Mr. Badger did not love work for its own sake.

In spite of his parsimony, he generally indulged himself in a glass of bitters, of which he was very fond, whenever he went to the village. His parsimony stood him in good stead in one respect, at least, for it prevented his becoming a drunkard.

I have said that Mr. Badger had no particular business at the village, but this is not strictly true. He had business at the post office.

Some time since he had written to Mr. Waldo, asking for a money allowance for the care of Bill Benton. He knew very well that he was not entitled to it. He was at no expense for the boy's clothes, and certainly Bill richly earned the very frugal fare, of which he partook sparingly, and the privilege of a hard bed in the attic. But it had struck him as possible that Mr. Waldo, not knowing the falsehood of his representations, would comply with his request.

"If I can get a dollar or a dollar 'n' a half for the boy's keep," Mr. Badger soliloquized, "I can make a good thing out'n him. A dollar a week will come to fifty-two dollars a year, and I can't put a cent into the savings bank. A dollar 'n' a half will come to—lemme see—to seventy-eight dollars a year! That, in five years, would be three hundred and ninety dollars, without counting the interest."

Mr. Badger's eyes glistened and his heart was elated as he took in the magnificent idea. But, alas! he was counting chickens that were not likely to be hatched.

When sufficient time had elapsed for an answer to be due, he went to the post office every day, but there had been unusual delay. At last an answer had been received that very morning.

Mr. Badger tore open the envelope in eager haste, but there was no remittance, as he had fondly hoped. The contents of the letter also threw cold water on his aspiring hopes, as may be seen from the following transcript of it:

"MR. NATHAN BADGER: Your letter is received asking me to pay you a weekly sum for the boy whom I bound out to you some years ago. I can hardly express the surprise I felt at this application. You certainly cannot forget that I furnish the boy's clothes, and that all you are required to do is to provide him board and lodging in return for his work. This is certainly a very good bargain for you. I need not say that the work of a boy of fifteen or sixteen years will amply repay you for his board, especially if, as I infer from your letter, he is a small eater. Generally farmers are willing to provide clothes also, and I think I am dealing very liberally with you in exempting you from this additional expense.

"You seem to forget one thing more: For three years, on account of the boy's being young, and so unable to work much, I allowed you fifty dollars a year, though I could readily have found another man to take him without this allowance. Under the circumstances I consider it very extraordinary that you should apply to me at this late day for an extra allowance. I am not made of money, and whatever I do for this boy is out of pure benevolence, for he has no claim upon me; but I assure you that I will not be imposed upon, therefore I say 'no' most emphatically.

"One other thing. You say the boy doesn't work as much as he ought to. I can only say this is no business of mine. You have full authority over him, and you can make him work. I don't believe in pampering boys and indulging them in laziness. I recommend you to be strict with William—to let him understand that you are not to be trifled with. Such would be my course. Yours, etc.,

"CHARLES WALDO."

Nathan Badger was deeply disappointed. He had made up his mind that Mr. Waldo would allow him at least a dollar a week and had complacently calculated how much this would enable him to lay aside. Now this dream was over.

Of course he could have given up the boy, for he was not formally bound to him. But this he did not care to do. The fact was that Bill earned his board twice over, and Mr. Badger knew it, though he would not have admitted it. It was for his interest to keep him.

He went home deeply disappointed and angry and disposed to vent his spite on the poor victim of his tyranny, even had there been no plausible excuse for doing so.

When he reached home he was met by Mrs. Badger with a frowning brow. "Well, Mr. Badger, there's been a pretty scene since you went away."

"What do you mean, Cornelia?"

"Bill has nearly killed Andrew Jackson."

"Are you crazy, wife?"

"No, I am in earnest. The young rascal attacked poor Andrew with a hoe and nearly killed him."

"Then he must be crazy!" ejaculated Mr. Badger. "Where is Andrew? I want his account of it. If it is as you say, the boy shall suffer."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE VICTIM OF TYRANNY

Andrew Jackson made his appearance with a piece of brown paper over an imaginary bruise on his head and eye and the carefully assumed expression of a suffering victim.

"What is this I hear?" asked his father. "Have you had a difficulty with Bill?"

"Yes," answered Andrew in the tone of a martyr. "He knocked me down with a hoe, and if mother had not come out just as she did I think he would have killed me."

"What made him attack you?" asked Mr. Badger, exceedingly surprised.

"I asked him if he would dig some fish-worms for me."

"Couldn't you dig some yourself?"

"I s'pose I could, but he knew better than I where to find them."

"What next?"

"He said he wouldn't. I told him that I would tell you about his impertinence. Then he hit me with the hoe as hard as he could."

"Was that all that passed?"

"Yes."

"I don't quite understand it. You are surely stronger than Bill. How did it happen that you allowed him to strike you?"

"He had a hoe and I hadn't anything," answered Andrew meekly. "He was so furious that he wouldn't have made anything of killing me."

"I always thought he was rather mild and milk-and-watery," said Nathan Badger thoughtfully.

"You wouldn't have thought so if you'd seen him, Mr. Badger," said his wife, drawing upon her imagination. "He looked like a young fiend. Dear Andrew is right. The boy is positively dangerous! I don't know but we shall be murdered in our beds some night if we let him go on this way."

Mr. Badger shrugged his shoulders, for he was not quite a fool, and answered dryly:

"That thought won't keep me awake. He isn't that kind of a boy."

"Oh, well, Mr. Badger, if you are going to take his part against your own flesh and blood, I've got no more to say."

"Who's taking his part?" retorted Mr. Badger sharply. "I'm not going to uphold him in attacking Andrew, but I'm rather surprised at his mustering spunk enough to do it. As for his doing us any harm, that's all nonsense."

"You may change your mind when it's too late, Mr. Badger."

"Are you afraid of him?" asked her husband contemptuously as he regarded the tall, muscular figure of his wife, who probably would have been a match for himself in physical strength.

"I can defend myself if I am awake," said Mrs. Badger. "But what's to hinder his attacking me when I'm asleep?"

"You can fasten your door if you are afraid. But that isn't my trouble with him. There's something more serious, Mrs. B."

"What is it? What's he been doin'?"

"It isn't he. It's Charles Waldo. I'm free to say that Mr. Waldo is the meanest man I ever had dealings with. You know I wrote to him to see if he wouldn't allow me something extra toward the boy's keep."

"Yes."

"Well, read that letter. Or, stay, I'll read it to you."

Mr. Badger took the letter from his pocket and read it aloud to his wife and son. Mrs. Badger was as much disappointed as her husband, for she was quite as fond of money as he.

"What are you goin' to do?" she asked.

"I can't do anything," answered Mr. Badger in deep disgust.

"Will you keep the boy?"

"Of course I will. Between ourselves, he more than earns his victuals; but, all the same, Mr. Waldo is perfectly able to allow us a little profit."

"You must make him work harder," suggested Mrs. Badger.

"I mean to. Now, we will settle about this little affair. Where is Bill?"

"Out in the field, digging potatoes," said Andrew glibly.

"Go and call him."

"All right, sir."

And the boy prepared to obey the command with uncommon alacrity.

Poor Bill, nervous and unhappy, had been hard at work in the potato field through the long forenoon, meditating bitterly on his sad position. So far as he knew, there was no one that loved him, no one that cared for him. He was a friendless boy. From Mr. and Mrs. Badger and Andrew he never received a kind nor encouraging word, but, instead, taunts and reproaches, and the heart of the poor boy, hungering for kindness, found none.

"Will it always be so?" he asked himself. "If Andrew would only be kind to me I would do anything for him, but he seems to hate me, and so does Mrs. Badger. Mr. Badger isn't quite so bad, but he only cares for the work I do."

The poor boy sighed heavily as he leaned for a moment upon his hoe. "He was roused by a sharp voice.

"Shirking your work, are you?" said Andrew. "I've caught you this time. What'll my father say to that?"

"I have been working hard, Andrew," said Bill. "I can show you what I have done this forenoon."

"That's too thin. You're lazy, and that's all about it. Well, my father's got home, and now you're going to catch it. Maybe you'll knock him down with a hoe," said Andrew tauntingly.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Andrew, as I told you; but you shouldn't have struck me with a whip."

"I had a perfect right to do it. I'm your master."

"No, you're not!" returned Bill with spirit.

"We'll see whether I am or not. Come right up to the house."

"Who says so?"

"My father told me to call you."

"Very well, I will come," and the bound boy shouldered his hoe and followed Andrew wearily to the farmhouse yard, where Mr. and Mrs. Badger were standing.

One look at the stern faces of the pair satisfied Bill that trouble awaited him. He knew very well that he could not hope for justice and that one word from Andrew in the mind of his parents would outweigh all he could say.

"Here comes the young ruffian!" said Mrs. Badger as soon as he came within hearing distance. "Here comes the wicked boy who tried to kill my poor Andrew."

"That is not true, Mrs. Badger," said Bill earnestly. "I was only defending myself."

"You hear, Mr. Badger. He as much as tells me I lie! Do you hear that?" demanded the incensed woman.

"Bill Benton," said Mr. Badger sternly, "I hear you have made a savage and brutal attack on Andrew Jackson. Now, what have you to say for yourself, sir?"

"He struck me twice with a whip, Mr. Badger, and I got mad. I didn't mean to hurt him."

"You might have killed him!" broke in Mrs. Badger.

"No, I wouldn't, ma'am."

"Contradicting me again! If there was ever a boy looked like a young fiend, you did when I came out to save my boy from your brutal temper. Oh, you'll swing on the gallows some day, sir! I'm sure of that."

To an unprejudiced observer all this would have been very ridiculous. The delicate, refined-looking boy, whose face showed unmistakable gentleness and mildness, almost carried to an extreme, was about the last boy to whom such words could suitably have been addressed.

"Andrew Jackson, did you strike Bill with a whip?" asked Mr. Badger, turning to his son.

"No, I didn't," answered Andrew without a blush.

"How can you tell such a lie?" said Bill indignantly.

"Mr. Badger, will you allow this young ruffian to accuse your own son of falsehood?" cried the mother.

"Did you have a whip in your hand, Andrew?" asked his father.

Andrew hesitated a moment, but finally thought it best to say he did.

"Did you strike Bill with it?"

"No."

"You see how candid the poor boy is," said his mother. "He tells you that he had a whip in his hand, though many boys would have denied it. But my Andrew was always truthful."

Even Andrew felt a little embarrassed at this undeserved tribute to a virtue in which he knew that he was very deficient.

"Bill Benton," said Mr. Badger sternly, "it appears that you have not only made an atrocious assault on my son, but lied deliberately about it. You shall have neither dinner nor supper, and tonight I will give you a flogging. Now, go back to your work!"

"Ho, ho! You'll hit me again, will you?" said Andrew triumphantly as the poor boy slowly retraced his way to the field.

As the bound boy walked wearily back to the field he felt that he had little to live for. Hard work—too hard for his slender strength—accompanied by poor fare and cruel treatment, constituted his only prospect. But there seemed no alternative. He must keep on working and suffering—so far he could foresee.

He worked an hour and then he began to feel faint. He had eaten but little breakfast and he needed a fresh supply of food to restore his strength. How he could hold out till evening he could not tell. Already his head began to ache and he felt weary and listless.

He was left to work alone, for Mr. Badger usually indulged himself in the luxury of an after-dinner nap, lasting till at least three o'clock.

As he was plodding along suddenly he heard his name called in a cheery voice:

"Hello, Bill!"

Looking up, he saw Dick Schmidt, the son of a neighbor, a good-natured boy, whom he looked upon as almost his only friend.

"Hello, Dick!" he responded.

"You're looking pale. Bill," said his friend. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel very well, Dick."

"You ought not to be at work. Have you had dinner?"

"I am not to have any."

"Why not?" asked Dick, opening his eyes. "I knew old Badger was mean, but I didn't think he was mean enough for that!"

"It's a punishment," Bill explained.

"What for?"

"For hitting Andrew Jackson with a hoe and knocking him down."

"Did you do that, Bill?" exclaimed Dick in great delight, for he disliked Mr. Badger's petted heir. "I didn't think it was in you! Shake hands, old fellow, and tell me all about it."

"I am afraid it was wicked, Dick, but I couldn't help it. I must have hurt him, for he screamed very loud."

"Better and better! I know how he treats you, Bill, and I tell you it'll do him good—the young tyrant! But you haven't told me about it."

Bill told the story, to which Dick listened with earnest attention. He expressed hearty approval of Bill's course and declared that he would have done the same.

"So you are in disgrace," he said. "Never mind. Bill. It'll all come out right. It is worth something to have punished that young bully. But what's the matter, Bill? What makes you so pale?"

"I think it's going without my dinner. The hard work makes me hungry."

"Just wait a minute. I'll be back in a jiffy!"

Dick was off like a shot. When he returned he brought with him two slices of bread and butter, a slice of cold meat and two apples.

"Eat 'em, Bill," he said. "They'll make you feel better."

"Oh, Dick! I didn't want to trouble you so much."

"It was no trouble, old fellow."

"What will your mother say to your taking all this?"

"She'll be glad of it. She isn't so mean as Mrs. Badger. I say, Bill, you must come over and take supper with us some time. There's plenty to eat at our house."

"I should like to, Dick, if Mr. Badger would let me."

"Don't talk any more till you have eaten what I brought you."

Bill obeyed his friend's directions, and, to Dick's great satisfaction, ate all that had been brought him with evident appetite.

"I feel a good deal better," he said as he took the hoe once more and set to work. "I feel strong now."

"It's lucky I came along. I say. Bill, is that your only punishment?"

A shadow came over Bill's face.

"I am to be flogged this evening," he said. "Mr. Badger told me so, and he always keeps his word."

Dick set his teeth and clinched his fists.

"I'd like to flog old Badger," he said energetically. "Are you going to stand it?"

"I can't help it, Dick."

"I'd help it!" said his friend, nodding emphatically.

Bill shook his head despondently.

The whipping seemed to him inevitable, and there seemed to be no way of avoiding it.

"What time do you expect he will whip you—the old brute?" asked Dick.

"He waits till nine o'clock, just after I have gone to bed."

"Then will you follow my advice?"

"What is it?"

Dick whispered in Bill's ear the plan he had in view. There was no need to whisper, but he did it to show that the communication was confidential.

This was the plan:

Bill was to go to bed as usual, but in about fifteen minutes he was to get out of the window, slide along the roof of the L and descend to the ground, when Dick was to meet him, escort him to his house and allow him to share his room for the night.

"Then," said he, "when the old man comes up to tackle you he'll have to pound the bed and get his satisfaction out of that. Won't that be a splendid joke?"

Bill smiled faintly. It seemed to him a daring defiance of Mr. Badger, but, after all, he wouldn't fare any worse than he was sure of doing, and he finally acquiesced, though with serious doubts as to the propriety of the plan.

"Don't say a word to let 'em know what you're going to do. Bill—mind that!"

"No, I won't."

"You'll be sure to find me waiting for you outside the house, just at the back of the barn. I'll give you some supper when you reach the house."

When the bound boy came from work in the evening he met stern, cold looks from Mr. and Mrs. Badger, but Andrew Jackson wore a look of triumphant malice. He was gloating over the punishment in reserve for the boy whom he so groundlessly hated.

"Ain't you hungry?" he said tauntingly.

Bill looked at him, but did not answer.

"Oh, you needn't answer. I know you are," said the young tyrant. "You didn't like it very much, going without your dinner. You ain't going to have any supper, either. If you're very hungry, though, and will go down on your knees and beg my pardon, I'll get you something to eat. What do you say?"

"I won't do what you say," said Bill slowly. "I don't care enough for supper to do that."

"You don't?" exclaimed Andrew angrily. "So you're stubborn, are you? Anyhow, you can't say I haven't given you a chance."

"You're very kind!" said the bound boy sarcastically, in spite of his gentleness.

"Of course I am," blustered Andrew Jackson. "Most boys wouldn't be, after the way you treated me."

"You want the satisfaction of having me beg your pardon," said Bill, looking full in the face of the petty despot.

"Yes, I do; and I mean to have it."

"You can, upon one condition."

"What's that?" asked Andrew Jackson, his curiosity overcoming his indignation.

"If you'll beg my pardon for striking me with your whip, I'll beg yours for hitting you with the hoe."

Andrew fairly gasped for breath at this daring proposal, and he looked for a moment as if he were in danger of having a stroke of apoplexy.

"You saucy beggar!" he ejaculated. "How dare you talk to me in that impertinent way? I'll tell father to give you the worst flogging ever you had to-night—see if I don't!"

And the boy left to report Bill's new insolence to his mother.

Bill crept up to bed a little earlier than usual. He knew that Mr. Badger would not ascend to his humble room to administer the threatened punishment till nine o'clock or later.

Through a refinement of cruelty that humane gentleman chose to let his intended victim lie in an anxious anticipation of the flogging, thus making it assume greater terror.

In fact, he probably would not return from the village till nine o'clock or later, and this was an additional reason why he put it off.

His absence made it easier for Bill to carry out the plan which had been formed for him by his trusty friend, Dick Schmidt, and escape from the house.

He accomplished his escape unnoticed about half-past eight o'clock.

Dick was waiting for him behind the barn. He had been a little afraid that Bill would repent the promise he had made and back out. When he saw him he welcomed him gladly.

"I was afraid you wouldn't dare to come, Bill," he said.

"I shan't be any worse off," said the bound boy. "Mr. Badger was going to give me a flogging, anyway, and he can't do any more than that as it is."

"What an old brute he is!" exclaimed Dick.

"He isn't as bad as his wife or Andrew Jackson."

"That's so! Andrew is a mean boy. I'm glad you hit him."

"I am sorry, Dick."

"Don't you think he deserved it?"

"Yes, but I don't like to be the one to do it."

"I wouldn't mind it," said Dick, "but he's precious careful not to get into any muss with me."

"You're not bound to Mr. Badger."

"If I were, he wouldn't dare to order me round. Catch him bulldozing me!"

"You're more plucky than I am, Dick."

"You're too good-natured, Bill—that's what's the matter with you."

"I hate fighting, Dick."

"What did Andrew say to you when you came home from work?"

"He wanted me to go down on my knees and beg his pardon for hitting him."

"Why didn't you knock him down?" said Dick quickly.

"I told him I'd do it——"

"What!" exclaimed Dick Schmidt in the deepest disgust.

"If he'd beg my pardon first for striking me with a whip."

"That's better. I thought you wouldn't be so much of a coward as to beg his pardon."

"He didn't accept the offer," said Bill, smiling.

"No, I suppose not. Was he mad?"

"He looked as if he was. He called me a saucy beggar and threatened to tell his father."

"I've no doubt he will. He's just mean enough to do that. I say. Bill, it's a pity you don't work for my father."

"I wish I did, Dick, but perhaps you'd boss me, too."

"Not much danger. We'd be like brothers."

While this conversation was going on the two boys were walking across the fields to Mr. Schmidt's farm. The distance was not great, and by this time they were at the back door.

As they went in Bill's eyes glistened as he saw a nice supper laid on the kitchen table, waiting for him, for Dick had told his mother of the guest he expected. He decided to say nothing of the circumstances that led to the invitation. He might safely have done so, however, for Mrs. Schmidt was a good, motherly woman, who pitied the boy and understood very well that his position in Mr. Badger's family must be a very disagreeable one.

"I am glad to see you, William," she said. "Sit right down and eat supper. I've got a hot cup of tea for you."

"I'll sit down, too, mother. I only ate a little supper, for I wanted to keep Bill company."

Presently the boys went to bed and had a social chat before going to sleep.

"I wish," said Dick, "I could be where I could look on when old Badger goes up to your room and finds the bird flown."

If Dick could have been there, he would have witnessed an extraordinary scene.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE BATTLE IN THE ATTIC

About ten minutes after Bill Benton left his little chamber an ill-looking man, whose garb and general appearance made it clear that he was a tramp, came strolling across the fields. He had made some inquiries about the farmers in the neighborhood, and his attention was drawn to Nathan Badger as a man who was likely to keep money in the house.

Some tramps are honest men, the victims of misfortune, not of vice, but Tom Tapley belonged to a less creditable class. He had served two terms in a State penitentiary without deriving any particular moral benefit from his retired life therein. His ideas on the subject of honesty were decidedly loose, and none who knew him well would have trusted him with the value of a dollar.

Such was the man who approached the Badger homestead.

Now it happened that Mrs. Badger and Andrew Jackson had gone to make a call. Both intended to be back by nine o'clock, as neither wished to lose the gratification of being near by when Bill Benton received his flogging. As for Mr. Badger, he was at the village as usual in the evening.

Thus it will be seen that as Bill also had left the house, no one was left in charge.

Tom Tapley made a careful examination of the house from the outside, and his experienced eyes discovered that it was unprotected.

"Here's luck!" he said to himself. "Now what's to prevent my explorin' this here shanty and makin' off with any valuables I come across?"

Two objections, however, occurred to the enterprising tramp: First, it was not likely at that time in the evening that he would be left alone long enough to gather in his booty, and, secondly, the absent occupants of the house might have money and articles of value on their persons which at present it would be impossible to secure.

The front door was not locked. Mr. Tapley opened it, and, finding the coast clear, went upstairs. Continuing his explorations, he made his way to the little attic chamber usually occupied by the bound boy.

"Nobody sleeps here, I expect, though the bed is rumpled," he said to himself. "There's two boys, I've heard, but it's likely they sleep together downstairs. I guess I'll slip into bed and get a little rest till it's time to attend to business."

The tramp, with a sigh of enjoyment, for he had not lately slept in a bed, lay down on Bill's hard couch. It was not long before drowsiness overcame him and he fell asleep.

In the meantime the three absent members of the family came home. First Mrs. Badger and Andrew Jackson returned from their visit.

"Your father isn't home yet, Andrew," said his mother.

"I hope he will come soon, for I'm sleepy," said Andrew.

"Then you had better go to bed, my darling."

"No, I won't. I ain't goin' to lose seein' Bill's flogging. I hope father'll lay it on well."

"No doubt the boy deserves it."

"What do you think he had the impudence to say to me, mother?" asked Andrew.

"I shall not be surprised at any impudence from the young reprobate."

"He wanted me to beg his pardon for strikin' him with a whip, as he said I did."

"Well, I never did!" ejaculated Mrs. Badger. "To think of my boy apologizing to a low, hired boy like him!"

"Oh, he's gettin' awful airy, ma! Shouldn't wonder if he thought he was my equal!"

"There's nothing but a flogging will subdue such a boy as that. I ain't unmerciful, and if the boy showed a proper humility I wouldn't mind doin' all I could for him and overlookin' his faults, but when he insults my Andrew, I can't excuse him. But there's one thing I can't understand: He didn't use to be so bold."

"I know what has changed him, ma."

"What is it, Andrew?"

"It's that Dick Schmidt. Dick treats him as if he was his equal, and that makes him put on airs."

"Then Dick lowers himself—though, to be sure, I don't hold him to be equal to you! The Badgers are a better family than the Schmidts, and so are the Coneys, which was my name before I was married."

"I wonder whether Bill's asleep?" said Andrew.

"You might go to the foot of the stairs and listen," said his mother.

Andrew followed his mother's advice, and, opening the door at the foot of the attic stairs, was astonished to hear the deep breathing which issued from Bill's chamber.

"Ma," he said, "Bill is snoring like a house afire."

"Reckless boy! Does he make so light of the flogging which your father has promised him?"

"I don't know. He's gettin' awful sassy lately. I do wish father would come home."

"I think I hear him now," said Mrs. Badger, listening intently.

Her ears did not deceive her.

Soon the steps of the master of the house, as he considered himself, were heard upon the doorstep, and Mr. Nathan Badger entered.

"I'm glad you've come, pa. Are you goin' to flog Bill now?"

"Yes, my son. Get me a stout stick from the woodshed."

Andrew Jackson obeyed with alacrity.

Armed with the stick, Mr. Badger crept upstairs, rather astonished by his bound boy's noisy breathing, and, entering the darkened chamber, brought the stick down smartly on the astonished sleeper.

In about two minutes Mrs. Badger and Andrew, standing at the foot of the stairs, were astonished by the noise of a terrible conflict in the little attic chamber, as if two men were wrestling.

There was the sound of a heavy body flung on the floor, and the voice of Mr. Badger was heard shouting:

"Help! help! murder!"

"The young villain's killing your father!" exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Badger. "Go up and help him!"

"I don't dare to," said Andrew, pale as a sheet.

"Then I will!" said his mother, and she hurried upstairs, only to be met by her husband, who was literally tumbled downstairs by the occupant of the attic chamber.

Husband and wife fell together in a heap, and Andrew Jackson uttered a yell of dismay.

In all the confidence of assured victory, Mr. Nathan Badger, seeing the dim outline of a figure upon the bed, had brought down his stick upon it with emphasis.

"I'll l'arn you!" he muttered in audible accents.

It was a rude awakening for Tom Tapley, the tramp, who was sleeping as peacefully as a child.

The first blow aroused him, but left him in a state of bewilderment, so that he merely shrank from the descending stick without any particular idea of what had happened to him.

"Didn't feel it, did yer?" exclaimed Mr. Badger. "Well, I'll see if I can't make yer feel it!" and he brought down the stick for the second time with considerably increased vigor.

By this time Tom Tapley was awake. By this time also he thoroughly understood the situation or thought he did. He had been found out, and the farmer had undertaken to give him a lesson.

"That depends on whether you're stronger than I am," thought Tom, and he sprang from the bed and threw himself upon the astonished farmer.

Nathan Badger was almost paralyzed by the thought that Bill Benton, his hired boy, was absolutely daring enough to resist his lawful master. He was even more astounded by Bill's extraordinary strength. Why, as the boy grappled with him, he actually felt powerless. He was crushed to the floor, and, with the boy's knee upon his breast, struggled in vain to get up. It was so dark that he had not yet discovered that his antagonist was a man and not a boy.

Nathan Badger had heard that insane persons are endowed with extraordinary strength, and it flashed upon him that the boy had become suddenly insane.

The horror of being in conflict with a crazy boy so impressed him that he cried for help.

Then it was that Tom Tapley, gathering all his strength, lifted up the prostrate farmer and pitched him downstairs just as Mrs. Badger was mounting them, so that she and her husband fell in a breathless heap on the lower stairs, to the indescribable dismay of Andrew Jackson.

Mrs. Badger was the first to pick herself up.

"What does all this mean, Mr. Badger?" she asked.

"That's what I'd like to know," said Mr. Badger ruefully.

"You don't mean to say you ain't a match for a boy?" she demanded sarcastically.

"Perhaps you'd like to try him yourself?" said her husband.

"This is very absurd, Mr. Badger. You know very well he's weak for a boy of sixteen, and he hasn't had anything to eat since morning."

"If you think he's weak, you'd better tackle him," retorted Nathan. "I tell you, wife, he's got the strength of a man and a strong man, too."

"I don't understand it. Tell me exactly what happened."

"Well, you saw me go upstairs with the stick Andrew Jackson gave me," said Mr. Badger, assuming a sitting position. "I saw the boy lyin' on the bed, snoring and I up with my stick and brought it down pretty hard. He quivered a little, but that was all. So I thought I'd try it again. He jumped out of bed and sprang on me like a tiger, grinding his teeth, but not saying a word. I tell you, wife, he seemed as strong as a horse. I couldn't get up, and he sat and pounded me."

"The idea of being pounded by a small boy!" ejaculated Mrs. Badger.

"Just what I'd have said a quarter of an hour ago!"

"It seems impossible!"

"Perhaps it does, but it's so."

"He never acted so before."

"No, and he never hit Andrew Jackson before, but yesterday he did it. I tell you what, wife, I believe the boy's gone crazy."

"Crazy!" ejaculated Mrs. Badger and Andrew in a breath.

"Just so! When folks are crazy they're a good deal stronger than it's nateral for them to be, and that's the way with Bill Benton."

"But what could possibly make him crazy?" demanded Mrs. Badger incredulously.

"It may be the want of vittles. I don't know as we'd orter have kept him without his dinner and supper."

"I don't believe a bit in such rubbish," said Mrs. Badger, whose courage had come back with the absolute silence in the attic chamber. "I believe you're a coward, Nathan Badger. I'll go upstairs myself and see if I can't succeed better than you did."

"You'd better not, wife."

"Oh, don't go, ma!" said Andrew Jackson, pale with terror.

"I'm going!" said the intrepid woman. "It shan't be said of me that I'm afraid of a little bound boy who's as weak as a rat."

"You'll find out how weak he is," said Mr. Badger. "I warn you not to go."

"I'm goin', all the same," said Mrs. Badger. "You'll see how I'll tame him down. Give me the stick."

"Then go if you're so plaguy obstinate," said her husband, and it must be confessed that he rather hoped his wife, who had ventured to ridicule him, might herself meet with a reception that would make her change her tune somewhat.

Mrs. Badger, stick in hand, marched up to the door of the attic and called out boldly:

"Open the door, you young villain!"

"How does she know I'm young?" thought Tom Tapley, who was on guard in the room. "Well, now, if she wasn't such an old woman I should feel flattered. I guess I'll have to scare her a little. It wouldn't be polite to tumble her downstairs as I did her husband."

"Have you gone crazy?" demanded Mrs. Badger behind the door.

"Not that I know of," muttered the tramp.

"Perhaps you think you can manage me as well as Mr. Badger?" she continued.

"I should smile if I couldn't," commented Tom Tapley. "That woman must think she's extra strong to be a match for me!"

"I'm coming in to whip you till you cry for mercy!"

"Really, she's a pretty spunky old woman!" thought the tramp. "If I can't hold my own against her, I'll sell myself for old rags!"

Mrs. Badger pushed open the door, saw dimly the outline of the tramp and struck at it with the stick.

But alas! the stick was wrenched from her hand, a pistol, loaded only with powder, was discharged, and the intrepid lady, in a panic, flew out of the room and downstairs, tumbling into her husband's arms.

Nathan Badger was delighted at his wife's discomfiture. She couldn't taunt him any longer.

"I told you so!" he chuckled. "How do you like tacklin' him yourself, my dear? Wouldn't you like to try it again? Ho! ho!"

"Mr. Badger, you're a fool!" exclaimed his wife sharply.

"It strikes me you're a little in that way yourself, Mrs. Badger. Did you give him a floggin'? Ho, ho! you were in a great hurry to come away!"

"Mr. Badger, he fired at me with a pistol. I tell you he's a dangerous boy to have in the house."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Badger, you can manage him just as easy!"

"Shut up, Mr. Badger! How did I know he had a pistol? I tell you it's a serious thing! Before morning, you, and Andrew Jackson, and me may be dead corpses!"

At this awful statement Andrew Jackson burst into a terrified howl.

"I'll tell you what we'd better do, Mr. Badger. We'll go into our room and lock ourselves in."

"Let me come in, too," said Andrew. "He'll kill me! He hates me!"

"Yes, my darling, you may come, too!" said his mother.

So the valiant three locked themselves up in a chamber and listened nervously.

But Tom Tapley was already out of the house. He made his escape over the roof, fearing that the neighborhood would be roused and his safety endangered.