The autumn passed, and colder weather set in. Out of doors was available only for the activities of life. As long as energy was burnt with some lavishness, all was well, but when the first enthusiasm had ebbed, Jack Frost began to nip shrewdly. Then the children went within doors. They divided their favours almost equally between the third stories of the Orde and English homes.

The Englishes' third story had never been finished. Bare walls, bare floors, fresh varnished wood-work and the steam radiators constituted the whole equipment.

This very openness of space, however, proved an irresistible attraction to the children. Gradually articles of their amusement became installed, until the latter end of that third story was an official "play room." Shelves—made by Johnny—held books and miscellaneous junk; toys of various sorts were scattered about; against the wall was screwed a noisy chest-weight, which nobody disturbed; near the window stood a scroll-saw worked by foot-power. Nobody bothered with that either, for the simple reason that all the saw blades were broken and the novelty had worn off. Bobby would have liked to experiment with it, but of course he did not feel like suggesting repairs.

But the Upper Rooms were full of echoes and noises when one clumped on the bare floor, and space with nothing to knock over when one scuffled, and the air was always cold enough so one could see his breath. Therefore the Upper Rooms were popular, but in a different manner and for different purposes than Bobby's warmed and furnished chamber.

Here the rougher, noisier romping took place, and here was finally brought to adjustment the smouldering rivalry between the two small boys.



XVI

THE THIRD STORY

Bobby's room was also in the third story and up among the gables. It slanted here, it slanted there, steeply or gradually according to the demands of the roof outside. There May, Johnny and Martin curled up on the western window seat; Bobby and Carter Irvine sat on the floor; Caroline drew up a straight-back chair. Then while the twilight lasted they "talked," in children's aimless fashion, about everything, anything or nothing.

By and by somebody yawned.

"My, it's getting dark. Light up, Johnny."

Then could be seen the prize attraction of the room—the deal table on which one could use ink, mucilage, scissors and other dangerous weapons. Here was screwed the toy printing press. Bobby, after a few further attempts to adopt the regulation fonts of type to its chase, had rather lost interest in it, but his new companions revived it. He showed them exactly how to get clear and good impressions, and in the explanation proved a most comfortable glow over finding something at last in which he was distinctly and indisputably superior. All had to have cards printed. Each bought his own and set up his own type; Bobby made adjustments, and then again each was privileged to make his own impressions.

Johnny English, however, was keenly alive to the commercial aspects of the case. One day he appeared in triumph bearing an order from Mr. Ellison's wholesale house. It read quite simply: "Use Star Stove Polish," a legend well within the possibilities of the little press.

"Got an order for a thousand of 'em!" cried Johnny triumphantly. "We're to print them and distribute them. We get four dollars for it!"

Four dollars was untold wealth, though, counting the distribution, Mr. Ellison's firm stood to gain on regular rates—provided it really cared thus to advertise Star Stove Polish. To active youngsters the wandering up one street and down another, leaving cards at every house, handing cards to every passer-by, was a huge lark. When the four dollars were paid, it seemed almost like getting a Christmas present out of season. Johnny's imagination was fired.

"There's lots of printing we might get," said he. "Look at all the envelopes my papa uses, and there's his letter-heads, and bill-heads—and lots else. But we can't do it on that thing! It takes different kinds of type."

Thereupon Bobby got out his catalogues and told them of the second-hand self-inker to be had for twenty-five dollars, Enthusiasm burned at fever heat for about three days, then the sickening realization that the total capital of Orde & English, Job Printers—including the four dollars—was just seven-thirty pricked that bright dream. The approach of Christmas inspired Johnny with a new idea. He and Bobby risked a half-dollar of the capital in cards embossed with holly wreaths. On these they printed "Merry Christmas, From —— to ——." These had an encouraging sale among immediate relatives.

But in spite of these gratifying commercial ventures, Bobby's disgust grew. It might make marks on paper; it might earn money, but it would not take full-sized type, it would not print more than two lines. By these same tokens it was not a printing press, but a toy; not the real thing, but an imitation, and Bobby was outgrowing imitations. Finally he made a definite statement of principle.

"I'm not going to use her any more," said he with decision, "I'm sick of the old thing."

"But I've just got an order for fifty cards from Mrs. Fowler!" expostulated Johnny.

"Then go on, do them," replied Bobby. "I won't."

He retired to the corner, leaving Johnny wrathful. There for the thousandth time he pored over the pages of the catalogue showing the beautiful 5x7 self-inking press.



XVII

"SLIDING DOWN HILL"

One morning Bobby awoke before daylight. It might have been the middle of the night except that, far down in the still house, he heard a muffled scrape and clank as Martin set the furnace in order for the day. Bobby knew six o'clock by these dull, distant, comfortable sounds. The air in the room was very frosty and Bobby's nose was as cold as a dog's; but underneath the warm double blanket and the eider-down quilted comforter Bobby had made himself a warm nest. In this he curled in a tight little ball. Not for worlds would he have stretched his legs down into shivery regions, and though he was not drowsy and did not care to sleep, not for worlds would he have left his lair before the radiator had warmed.

So he lay there waiting and watching where the window ought to be for the first signs of daylight. Bobby liked to amuse himself trying to define just when the window became visible. He never could. So this morning, some time, no time, Bobby saw a dull gray rectangle where darkness had been, and knew that day had arrived. Over in the corner the radiator was singing softly with the first steam. Slowly the reluctant daylight filtered in, showing in dim outline the familiar objects in the room.

Bobby was just dozing when an unexpected sound from outside brought him wide awake. He sat up in bed the better to hear. Far in the distance, but momently nearing, rang a faint jingle of bells. At the same moment there began a methodical scrape, scrape, scrape immediately outside the house.

Without a thought of the cold air of the room, nor the warm flannel dressing gown, nor the knit bedroom socks, Bobby leaped out and pattered to the window. This was covered thick with frost crystals, but Bobby breathed on them, and rubbed them with the heel of his palm, and so acquired a sight-hole.

"Snow!" he murmured ecstatically to himself.

The outer world was very still and bathed in a cold half-light. Over everything lay a thick covering of white. The lawn, the sidewalks, the street, the roofs of houses were hidden by it; the top of the fence was outlined with it; great mantles draped the post tops and the fans of the fir tree; every branch and twig of every tree bore its burden; Martin, wielding a very broad wooden shovel, was engaged in clearing a way to the front gate. Just as Bobby looked out, the milkman, his vehicle on runners and his team decorated with the strings of bells that had aroused the little boy, drove up, dropped his hitch-weight and with the milkman's peculiar rapid gait, trotted around to the back door. The breath of Martin and the milkman and his two horses ascended in the still air like steam. Bobby heard the loud shrieking of the snow as it was trodden, and knew that it must be very cold.

He dressed and went down stairs. Amanda, with her head tied in a duster, was putting things to rights. Bobby could find none of his snow clothes and Amanda was unable or unwilling to help him, so to his disappointment he could not join Martin. However, he opened the front door and peeked at the cold-looking thermometer.

"My," said he to Amanda, scurrying back to the new-lighted fire, "it's only four above!"

This information he proffered with an air of pride to each member of the family as he or she appeared. Bobby took a personal satisfaction in the coldness of the weather, as though he had ordered it himself.

In the meantime he watched Martin from the window. Shortly the municipal snow-plow passed, throwing the snow to right and left, its one horse plodding patiently along the sidewalk, its driver humped over, smoking his pipe. One of Bobby's ambitions used to be to drive the municipal snow-plow when he grew up.

After breakfast, in the customary sequence of events, came lessons. They naturally seemed interminable, and indeed, lasted much longer than usual, because Bobby was unable to give his whole mind to the task. At last they were over. Under Mrs. Orde's supervision Bobby donned (a) heavy knit, woollen leggings that drew on over his shoes and pinned to his trousers above the knee; (b) fleece-lined arctic overshoes; (c) a short, thick, cloth jacket; (d) a long knit tippet that went twice around his neck, crossed on his chest, again at the small of his back, passed around his waist, and tied in front; (e) a pair of red knit mittens; (f) a tasselled knit cap that pulled down over his ears. Thus equipped, snow- and cold-proof, he passed through the refrigerator-like storm porch, and stood on the front steps.

The sun was up and before him the facets of the snow sparkled like millions and millions of tiny diamonds. Across it the shadows of the trees lay blue. In Bobby's nostrils the crisp air nipped delightfully just short of pain.

What did Bobby do first? Waded, to be sure. He found the deepest drift, augmented somewhat by Martin's shovel, and wallowed laboriously and happily through it. Twice he was unable to extricate his foot in time to prevent a glorious tumble from which he arose covered from crown to toe with the powdery crystals. The temperature was so low that they did not melt, although just inside the tops of the arctics thin bands of snow packed tight. These Bobby occasionally removed with his forefinger.

Bobby waded happily. On either side the broad walk were tall mounds of the snow that Martin had shovelled aside. Bobby found these waist-deep. The lawn itself was only knee-deep, but it offered a beautiful smooth surface. Duke appeared about this time and frisked back and forth madly, his forefeet extended, his chest to the earth, his face illuminated with a joyous doggy grin. He would run directly at Bobby, as though to collide with him, swerve at the last moment and go tearing away in circles, his hind-legs tucked well under him. The smooth white surface of the lawn became sadly marred. Bobby was vexed at this and uttered fierce commands to which Duke paid not the slightest attention. The little boy made patterns in which he stepped conscientiously, pretending he could not "get off the track." Of course he tried to make snowballs, but tossed from him in disgust the feather-light result.

"No packing," said he.

About this time Martin reappeared, after his own breakfast, to finish cleaning the walks. Bobby begged the fire shovel and assisted.

When lunch time came Bobby entered the storm-porch and stood patiently while he was brushed off. The entrance to the warm air inside promptly turned the crystals still adhering to the interstices of the knit garments into glittering drops of water. Bobby made tiny little puddles where he disrobed—to his delight and Amanda's disgust. The damp clothes were hung to dry behind the kitchen stove, and Bobby sat down to a tremendous lunch.

After lunch Bobby went out-doors again, but the novelty had worn off and his main thought was one of impatience for three o'clock to release his friends from school. The snow was not yet packed well enough to make the sleighing very good, but everybody in town was out. Cutters, their thills to one side so the driver could see past the horse; two-seated higher sleighs; the gorgeous plumed and luxurious conveyances of the elite—all these streamed by, packing the street every moment into a better and better surface.

And then, before Bobby had realized it could be so late, a first, faint, long-drawn and peculiar shout began far away; grew steadily in volume. Bobby ran out to the middle of the road.

This street began at the top of a low, long hill eight blocks above the Orde place and ended three blocks below. Coming toward him rapidly Bobby saw a long dark object from which the sound issued. In a moment, slowing every foot because of the level ground and the still heavy snow surface of the road-bed, it passed him. He saw a ten-foot pair of bobs laden with children seated astraddle the board. Each child held up the legs of the one behind. In front, the steersman, his feet braced against the cross-pieces, guided by means of ropes leading to the points of the leading sled. At the rear the "pusher off" half reclined, graceful and nonchalant. With the exception of the steersman, who was too busy, each had his mouth wide open and was expirating in one long-drawn continuous vowel-sound. This vowel-sound was originally the first part of the word "out." It had long since become conventionalized, but still served its purpose as a warning.

Slower and slower crept the bobs. The passengers ceased yelling and began to move their bodies back and forth in jerks, as does the coxwain of a racing shell. Even after the bobs had come to a complete standstill, they sat a moment on the off-chance of another inch of gain. Then all at once the compact missile disintegrated. The steersman made a mark in the snow at the side to show how far they had gone. Three seized the ropes and began to drag the bobs back toward the hill. The rest fell in, trudging behind.

But already from the group at the top, confused by distance, other swift black objects at spaced intervals had detached and came hurtling down. Some of them were bob-sleds; others hand-sleds carrying but a single passenger. Bobby stood by the gate post watching them. Each pair of bobs made its best on distance, trying for the record of the "farthest down." Although the temptation must have been great, nobody cheated by so much as the smallest push.

Bobby owned a sled on which he used to coast. It reposed now in the barn. He wanted very much to slide down hill, but he left the sled in its resting place. Why? Because already Bobby had grown into big boy's estate. He knew his sled would arouse derision and contempt. It had flat runners! And it curved far up in front! And it was built on a skeleton framework! What Bobby wanted, if he were to join the coasting world at all, was a long, low, solid, rakish-built affair with round "spring runners." Even "three-quarters" would not do for his present ideas.

By now the hill was alive. A steady succession of arrow-like flights was balanced by the slow upward crawlings, on either side, of dozens returning afoot. The mark set by the first bobs had been passed and passed again. New records became a matter of inches.

At last Bobby saw bearing down on him a magnificent bobs that had not before appeared. It was gliding evenly where others usually began to slow up. Its board was twelve feet long. Foot-rails obviated the necessity of holding legs. Its sleds were long and substantial and evidently built solely as bob-sleds and not, as most, to be detached and used for hand sleds as well. The eight occupants began to "jounce" when opposite the Orde place, and Bobby saw with admiration that this was a "spring bobs." That is to say: the board connecting the sleds was not of rigid pine, like the others, but of hickory which bent like a buck-board. When the occupants "jounced," the spring of this board naturally helped the bobs to keep going for some distance after it would ordinarily have come to a stand-still.

This scientific bobs easily excelled all previous records. Its steersman made a triumphant mark, a full half-block beyond the farthest. So lost in admiration of the vehicle had Bobby been that he had failed even to glance at its occupants. Now as they returned, dragging the bobs after them, he recognized in the steersman Carter Irvine, and in the others the rest of his intimate friends. At the same instant they recognized him and greeted him with a shout.

"Come on slide!" they called.

Bobby joyously laid hand on the steer-rope and began to help up the hill.

The centre of the street was entirely given over to the coasters darting down. On either side those ascending toiled, helped occasionally by the good-natured driver of a cutter or delivery sleigh. Then the steer-ropes were passed around a runner support of the cutter and held by the steersman who perched on the front of the bobs. Thus if the bobs upset, or the horse went too fast, he could detach the bobs from the cutter by the simple expedient of letting go the rope. All the others immediately piled on to get the benefit of the ride. Some preferred to stand atop the cutter's runners. It lent a pleasant sensation of a sort of supernatural gliding, this standing, upright and motionless, but nevertheless moving forward at a good rate of speed. Certain drivers refused, however, to allow these liberties, but scowled blackly when addressed by the usual cheerful "Give us a ride, Mister?" To catch surreptitious rides with them was considered a desirable feat. Certain daring youngsters stole up behind and crouched low against the runners. Occasionally they escaped detection, but generally tasted the sting of the whip-lash as it curled viciously backward. Then arose from the whole hill the derisive cry of "whip behind!"

At the top Bobby found a large crowd awaiting its turn. Some he knew, others were strangers to him. All classes were represented, rich and poor, rough and gentle. To one side the girls and smallest boys were sliding decorously a hundred feet or so down the deeper snow of the gutter. They sat facing forward on high framework sleds with flat runners, one foot on either side. Whenever the sled showed indications of speed, the feet were used as brakes. The little girls were dressed very warmly in leggings, arctics, flannel petticoats and heavy dresses, and wore tied close about their heads knit or fuzzy gray hoods that framed their red cheeks bewitchingly. Bobby had always coasted in this manner, but now he looked on them with a sort of pitying contempt.

The main group stood waiting. New-comers fell in behind so that some rough semblance of rotation was maintained. The bobs' crews settled themselves with the deftness of long practice. Then bending to his task the pusher at the rear dug his toes in, while the others hunched. With a creak the runners gave way their hold on the frozen snow; the bobs began slowly to move. As momentum and the downward curve of the hill exerted their influence, the pusher found his task easier and easier. His then the nice decision as to just how long to continue to push. To jump on too soon was a disgrace; to delay too long was a certainty of rolling over and over in the snow while your bobs went on without you. The artistic pusher came aboard gracefully, with a flying, forward leap, at the precise moment when the equilibrium of forces permitted him to alight as softly as a thistledown. The bobs shot away in a whirl of snow-dust.

Immediately stepped forth a tall, gawky youth clad in dull brown, faded garments, without mittens, without overshoes, his hands purple, but with a long, low, narrow sled as tall as himself. His left hand clasped the front, his right hand the back. The sled slanted across his body. A dozen swift steps he ran forward flung the sled headlong with a smack against the road and followed lightly to the little deck. There he crouched, reclining on his left forearm, his left thigh doubled under him, his head thrust forward, his right leg extended. A magnificent start! So perfect was his balance that the merest touch of his right toe to one side or the other sufficed for steering. In an instant he shot close to the bobs ahead.

"Out! out! out! out!" he cried in a sharp stacatto—very different from the general long-drawn out warning.

The bobs swerved and he darted by with lofty and oblivious superiority.

In the meantime another boy had stepped forward carrying his sled directly in front of him, a hand on either side. He, too, ran forward, but cast himself and sled with a mighty crash into the road. He disappeared lying flat on his stomach, his hands grasping each a projecting runner, his legs spread wide apart.

"Belly flop!" remarked the steersman of the next bobs, waiting. No great speed was possible by this antiquated method, so it was necessary to give the despised belly-flopper a good start.

Among those whose turns did not come soon was great rivalry in the matter of sled-runners. Flat bands were negligible and assigned to girls, quarter-rounds and half-rounds were somewhat but not much better, although several orthodox-shaped sleds were fitted with them. As between three-quarters and full-round spring runners, however, was room for argument, and endless and partisan discussion obtained. This was a matter of opinion. A question of comparison was the relative wear and brightness of the metals. This must be caused by use only. The employment of sandpaper would be to your small boy what—well, what dynamiting trout would be to your fly-fisherman.

The twilight and the frost were already descending. Soon the lamp-lighter with his torch and his little ladder came nimbly down the street. On the down trip Bobby found his mother waiting by the gate, a heavy shawl thrown over her head and shoulders. In the darkness, and after the cold, pale moon had climbed the heavens, the hill continued thronged. About eight o'clock many of the younger grown-ups arrived. But Bobby had to go to bed, and he fell asleep with snatches of conversation, the shriek of runners and the weird ululation of warning ringing in his ears.



XVIII

CHRISTMAS

Within a week of Christmas Bobby suddenly awoke to the fact that he must go shopping. He found that in ready money he possessed just one dollar and sixty-two cents; the rest he banked at interest with his father. With this amount he would have to purchase gifts for the four of his immediate household, Celia and Mr. Kincaid, of course. Besides them he would have liked to get something for Auntie Kate, and possibly Johnnie and Carter.

Down town, whither he was allowed to trudge one morning after lessons, he found bright and gay with the holiday spirit. Every shop window had its holly and red ribbon; and most proper glittering window displays appropriate to the season. In front of the grocery stores, stacked up against the edges of the sidewalks, were rows and rows of Christmas trees, their branches tied up primly, awaiting purchasers. The sidewalks were crowded with people, hurrying in and out of the shops, their lips smiling but their eyes preoccupied. Cutters, sleighs, delivery wagons on runners, dashed up and down the street to a continued merry jingling of bells. Slower farmers on sturdy sled runners crept back and forth. A jolly sun peeked down between the tall buildings. The air was crisp as frost-ice.

Bobby wandered down one side the street and back the other, enjoying hugely the varied scene, stopping to look with a child's sense of fascination into even the hat-store windows. He made his purchases circumspectly, and not all on the same day. Only after much hunting of five- and ten-cent departments, much investigation of relative merits, did he come to his decision. Then, his mind at rest, he retired to his own room where he did up extraordinarily clumsy packages with white string, and laid them away in the bottom of his bureau drawer.

Three days before Christmas the tree was delivered. Martin and Mr. Orde installed it in the parlour. First they brought in a wash-tub, then from its resting place since last year, they hunted out its wooden cover with the hole in the top. Through the hole the butt of the tree was thrust; and there it was solid as a church! It was a very nice tree, and its topmost finger just brushed the ceiling.

Now Bobby had new occupation which kept him so busy that he had no more time for coasting. Grandma Orde gave him a spool of stout linen thread, a thimble, and a long needle with a big eye. Bobby, a pan of cranberries between his knees, threaded the pretty red spheres in long strings. He liked to pierce their flesh with the needle, and then to draw them down the long thread, like beads. The juice of them dyed the thread crimson, as indeed it also stained Bobby's finger and anything they happened subsequently to touch. As each long string was completed, Bobby went into the chilly parlour and reverently festooned it from branch to branch of the tree. It was astonishing what a festive air the red imparted to the sombre green. When finally the pan was emptied of cranberries, it was replenished with popcorn. Bobby unhooked the long-handled wire popper from its nail in the back entry and set to work over the open fire. It was great fun to hear the corn explode; and great fun to keep it shaking and turning until the wire cage was filled to its capacity with this indoor snow. Once Bobby neglected to fasten the top securely, and the first miniature explosion blew it open so that the popcorn deluged into the fire. When the last little cannon—for so Bobby always imagined them—had uttered its belated voice, Bobby knocked loose the fastening and poured the white, beautiful corn into the pan. Always were some kernels which had refused to expand. "Old Maids," Bobby called them.

This popcorn, too, was to be strung by needle and thread. It was a difficult task. The corn was apt to split, or to prove impervious to the needle. However, the strings were wonderful, like giant snowdrops shackled together to do honour to the spirit of Christmas. Bobby hung them also on the branches of the tree. His part of the celebration was finished.

Mrs. Orde believed that Christmas excitement should have a full day in which to expend itself; so Christmas eve offered nothing except a throbbing anticipation. One old custom, however, was observed as usual. After supper Mr. Orde seated himself in front of the fire.

"Get the book, Bobby," said he.

Bobby had the book all ready. It was a very thin wide book, printed entirely on linen, in bright colours, and was somewhat cracked and ragged, as though it had seen much service. Bobby presented this to his father and climbed on his knee. Mr. Orde opened the book and began to read that one verse of all verses replete to childhood with the very essence of this children's season:

"'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings all hung by the chimney with care In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there."

As the reading progressed, Bobby thrilled more and more at the cumulation of the interest. St. Nick's cry to his steeds:

"——Now Dolly, now Vixen! Now Feather! Now, Snowball! Now Dunder and Blitzen!"

brought his heart to his mouth with excitement that culminated in that final surge:

"To the top of the house, to the top of the wall, Now dash away! dash away! dash away, all!"

When the reading was finished he sank back with a happy sigh.

"Now story," said he, and became once more for this evening the little child of a year back.

He listened with satisfaction to his father's unvarying Christmas story of the Good Little Boy who went to bed and slept soundly and awoke to varied gorgeousness of gifts; and the Bad Little Boy who slipped out and "hooked" a ride on Santa Claus's very sleigh, and next morning, on seeing his stocking full congratulated himself that he had been unobserved; but on opening the stocking beheld a magic ruler that followed him everywhere he went and spanked him vigorously and continuously: "Even into the conservatory?" Bobby in his believing infancy used to ask. "Even into the conservatory," his father would solemnly reply.

After the story Bobby had to go to bed.

"And look out you don't open your eyes if you hear Santa Claus in the room," warned his mother. "Because if you do, he won't leave you any presents!"

Bobby kissed them all and trudged upstairs. He was too old to believe in Santa Claus. His attitude during the rest of the year was frank scepticism. Yet when Christmas eve came around, he found that he had retained just enough faith to be doubtful. It was manifestly impossible that such a person could exist; and yet there remained the faint chance. Nobody believes that horseshoes bring luck; and yet we all pick them up. Bobby resolved, as usual, to stay awake. Once in former years he had awakened in the dark hours. He had become conscious of a bright and unusual light in the street, and had hidden his head, fairly convinced that Santa was passing. Nobody told Bobby that the light was the lantern on a wagon making late deliveries. To-night he hung his stocking at the foot of his bed, resolved to see who filled it. The Tree was not to be unveiled until ten o'clock; and it was ridiculous to expect a small boy to wait until then without anything. Hence the stocking.

Bobby must have stayed awake an hour. The room gradually became cold. A dozen times his thoughts began to swell into queer ideas, and as many times he brought himself back to complete consciousness. Then quite distinctly he heard the sound of sleighbells, faint and far and continuous. Bobby's sleepy thoughts resolved about the old question. This might be Santa. Dared he look? As his faculties cleared, his common-sense resumed sway. He turned over in bed. Then he found that the faint far sound was not of sleighbells at all, but of the first steam singing to itself from the radiator; and that the window was gray; and in the dim light he could see a dark irregular, humpy stocking depending from the foot of his bed. He had slept. It was Christmas morning.

Bobby, broad awake with the shock of the discovery, crept hastily down, untied the bulging stocking and crawled back to his warm nest. It was yet too dark to see; but he cuddled it to him, and felt of it all over, and enjoyed the warmth of his bed in contrast to that momentary emergence into the outer cold.

Shortly the light strengthened, however, and the room turned warmer. Bobby reached for his dressing gown.

From the top of the stocking projected two fat, red and white striped candy canes with curved ends. These, of course, Bobby drew out carefully and laid aside. He knew by former experiences that one was flavoured with wintergreen, the other with peppermint. They were not to be sampled "between meals." Next came something hard and very cold. Bobby dragged forth a pair of skates. They were shining and beautiful, and when Bobby, with the knowledge of the expert, went hastily into details, he found them all heart could wish for. No effeminate straps about these! but toe-clamps to tighten with a key and a projecting heel lock to insert in a metal socket in the boot's heel. This was the piece de resistance of the stocking. Bobby felt perfunctorily along the outside to assure himself that the usual two oranges and the dollar in the toe were in place; then returned to gloat over his skates. He wanted to use them that very day; but realized the heel plates must be fitted to his boots first. After a few moments he stuffed the skates back into the stocking, put on his bedroom knit slippers, and stole shivering down the steep, creaking stairs. The door to his parents' room stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open cautiously and peered in. The blinds were drawn, and the room was very dim, so Bobby could make out only the dark shape of the great four-poster bed, and could not tell whether or not his father and mother still slept. For a long time he hesitated, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Then he ventured, only just above a whisper.

"Merry Christmas!" said he, a little breathlessly.

But instantly he was reassured. There came a stir of bed-clothes from the four-poster.

"Merry Christmas, dear!" answered Mrs. Orde.

"Merry Christmas! Caught us, you little rascal, didn't you?" came in his father's voice.

With a gurgle of delight, Bobby, clasping his stocking, ran and leaped at one bound into the soft coverlet. There he perched happily and told of his skates.

"Suppose you open the blinds and show them," suggested Mr. Orde.

Bobby did so. Mr. Orde examined the skates with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Seems to me Santa Claus has been pretty good to you," said he finally.

"Yes, sir," said Bobby. For the time being, under the glamour of the day, he wanted to believe in Santa Claus. Doubts had cold comfort, for they were shut entirely outside the doors of his mind.

But before long it was time to get up. Bobby pattered across the room and down the hall to the head of the stairs. Outside Grandma Orde's room he paused.

"Merry Christmas, grandma!" he called.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby!" replied Grandma Orde promptly.

"Merry Christmas, grandpa!" repeated Bobby.

"Grandpa isn't here," replied Grandma.

And on his way back to his own room Bobby found Grandpa; or rather Grandpa surprised him by springing on him suddenly from behind the corner with a shout of "Merry Christmas!" Grandpa had been waiting there for ten minutes, and was as pleased as a child at having caught Bobby.

The latter dressed and went hunting for other game. Mrs. Fox was an easy victim. Amanda he stalked most elaborately, ducking below the chairs and tables, exercising the utmost strategy to approach behind her broad back. Apparently his caution succeeded to admiration. Amanda went on peeling apples, quite oblivious. And then, just as he was about to spring upon her from the rear, she remarked, in an ordinary tone of voice and without moving her head:

"Merry Christmas, ye young imp! I know you're there!"

This was a disappointment; but Bobby bagged Martin by hiding in the storehouse; and Duke was too easy.

After breakfast came the inevitable delay during which Bobby sat and eyed the parlour doors. Mr. Orde slipped in and out of them several times. Martin, too, entered on some mysterious errand regarding the heating. Finally everything was pronounced in readiness. All the family but Bobby went into the parlour. Suddenly both doors were thrown back at once. Bobby stood face to face with the Tree.

It stood, glittering and glorious, set like a jewel in the velvet of the darkened room. Only the illumination of its own many little candles cast radiance on its decorations and the parcels hung from its branches and piled beneath, and dimly on the half-visible circle of the family sitting motionless as though part of a spectacle.

Bobby drew a deep breath and entered. What a changed tree from the one he had hung with cranberries and popcorn the day before! The cranberries and popcorn were still there; but in addition were glittering balls, and strings of silver, and coloured glass bells, and candy birds and angels with spun-glass wings, and clouds of gold and silver tinsel and cornucopias, and candy in bags of pink net, and dozens of lighted candles, and on the very top the great silver Star of Bethlehem.

Most of the gifts were wrapped in paper and tied with green and red ribbon. Two or three, however, were too large for this treatment, and stood exposed to view. Bobby could not help seeing a sled—a real sled—painted red. He declined, however, to see another larger article quite on the other side the tree. By a perversity of will he thrust it entirely out of his head, as though it did not exist, unwilling to spoil the effect of its final realization.

For a full minute Bobby stood in the centre of the stage, his sturdy legs spread apart, his hands clasped tight behind him, his eyes blinking at the splendour. Finally he sighed.

"My, that tree's just—just—scrumptious!" he breathed.

The interest that had held the circle of elders silent and motionless, like a mechanical setting for the tree, broke in a laugh. Mr. Orde arose.

"Well, let's see what we have," said he.

He advanced and picked up a package.

"'For Grandma Orde from her loving daughter,'" he read the inscription. "Here you are, grandma. First blood!"

Rapidly the distribution went forward. Cries of delight, of surprise and of thanks, the rustle of many wrapping papers filled the air. Around each member of the family these papers, tossed carelessly aside in the impatience of the moment, accumulated knee-deep. The servants, very clean and proper in their Sunday best, stood in a constrained group near the door, holding their gifts, still wrapped, awkwardly in their hands.

Bobby for a few moments was kept very busy acting as messenger. By custom his was the hand to deliver to the servants their packages. Then grown-up excitement lulled, and he had time to gloat over his own formidable pile.

The sled he at once turned over. Glory! Its runners were of the round-spring variety—the very best. They were dull blue and unpolished as yet, of course; but that fact was merely an incentive to much coasting. Another knife filled his heart with joy! for naturally the birthday knife was broken-bladed by now. A large square package proved to contain a model steam engine with a brass boiler and what looked like a lead cylinder; its furnace was a small alcohol lamp. Seven or eight books of varying interest, another pair of knit socks from Auntie Kate, a half-dozen big glass marbles, a box of tin soldiers completed the miscellaneous list. A fat, round, soft package, when opened, disclosed a set of boxing-gloves.

"Now you and Johnny can have it out," observed Mr. Orde.

Another square package held two volumes from Mr. Kincaid. They were thick volumes with pleasant smelling red leather covers on which were stamped in gold the name and the figure of a man in very old-fashioned garments aiming a very old-fashioned fowling-piece at something outside of and higher than the book. "Frank Forrester's Sporting Scenes and Characters: The Warwick Woodlands" spelled Bobby. He lingered a moment or so over the fat red volumes.

Each of the servants contributed to Bobby's array; for they liked Bobby and his frank manly ways. Martin gave a red silk handkerchief whose borders showed a row of horses' heads looking out of mammoth horseshoes. Amanda presented him with a pink china cup-and-saucer on which were scattered bright green flowers. Mrs. Fox's offering was, characteristically, a net-work bag for carrying school books.

The Christmas tree was stripped of everything but its decorations. Even some of the candles had burned dangerously low and had been extinguished. The servants had slipped away.

"Here, youngster," admonished Mr. Orde, "aren't you going to get all your presents? You haven't looked behind the tree yet."

And then at last Bobby permitted himself to see that of which he had been aware all the time; but which, by an effort of the will he had made temporarily as unreal to himself as St Paul's in London. Behind the tree, furnished, repainted, wonderful, to be reverenced, stood high and haughty the self-inking, double roller, 5 x 7 printing press!

"What do you say to that?" cried Mr. Orde.

But Bobby had nothing to say to that. He was too overwhelmed. He approached and pulled down the long lever. Immediately, as the platen closed, the two rollers rose smoothly across the form and over the round ink-plate, which at the same time made a quarter-revolution. At the nice adjustment and correlation of these forces Bobby gave a cry of admiration.

"Look in the drawers," advised his father.

The little boy pulled open one after another the shallow drawers in the stand to which the press was fastened. Some were filled with leads and quoins and blocks. Some were regular type-cases, plenished with glittering new fonts all distributed. One contained a small composing stone, a cleaning brush, a composing stick, a pair of narrow-pointed pliers, a mallet and planer. Everything was complete.

"Don't you think Auntie Kate was pretty good to a little boy I know?" asked Mrs. Orde.

"Did Auntie Kate give me all this?" asked Bobby.

"She certainly did," replied his mother.

Now the family, bearing each his presents, moved into the sitting room to give Mrs. Fox and Martin a chance to clean up the debris. Bobby arranged his things on the sofa. Suddenly there came to him the uneasy feeling of having reached the end. He had mounted above the first joy and surprise and anticipation. It was all comprehended; nothing more was to follow. Novelty had evaporated, like the volatile essence it is; and Bobby had not as yet entered the fuller enjoyment of use. He could not calm to the point of doing more than glance restlessly through the books; he had not recovered sufficiently from his morning excitement to settle down making his engine go, or to trying his press, or to playing with any of his new toys. There descended upon him that peculiar and temporary sense of emptiness, which, being revealed by youngsters and misunderstood by elders, often brings down on its victim the unjust accusation of ingratitude.

Luckily Bobby was not long left to his own devices. A wild whoop from outside summoned him to the window; and what he saw therefrom caused him to jump as quickly as he could into his out-door garments.

By the horse-block stood a very black and very chubby pony. It wore a beautiful brass-mounted harness, atop its head perched a wonderful red and white pompon, to it was hitched a low, one-seated sleigh on the Russian pattern, with high grilled dash, and two impressive red and white horse-hair plumes. In this rig-in-miniature sat Johnny English, a broad grin on his face.

"Look what I got for Christmas!" he cried to Bobby. "Jump in and have a ride!"

Bobby jumped in, and they drove away. The pony trotted very busily with more appearance of speed than actual swiftness. The little sleigh, being low to the ground, emphasized this illusion; so that the two small boys had all the exhilaration of tearing along at a racing gait.

"This is great!" cried Bobby. "What else did you get?"

"Yes, and there's a two-wheeled cart for summer," said Johnny; "and when you slide the seat forward a little and let down the back, it makes another seat. I'll show you when we go back."

Shortly they decided to do this. Johnny attempted to turn in his tracks, as he had seen cutters do on the Avenue. But here the snow was not packed flat, as it is on the thoroughfare, so that when the twisting was applied one runner promptly left earth, and the whole sleigh canted dangerously. A moment later, however, in response to the frantic counterbalancing of two frightened small boys and the sensible coming to a halt of the fuzzy pony, it sank back to solidity.

"Gee!" breathed Johnny, wide-eyed, "That was a close squeak!"

They turned more cautiously, and in a wide circle, and jingled away toward home. It might be mentioned that the bells were not strung as a belt to encircle the pony, but were attached below to the underside of the thills in such a manner as to contribute chimes.

"What's his name?" asked Bobby, referring to the pony.

"He hasn't any. I got to name him."

"I knew a very nice horse once. His name was Bucephalus," remarked Bobby tentatively.

"I tell you!" cried Johnny, who had not been listening. "I'll name him Bobby, after you!"

"Oh!" cried that young man. "Will you?" He gazed at the pony with new respect.

"It'll mix things up a little, though, won't it?" reflected Johnny. "I tell you. We'll call him Bobby Junior. How's that?"

"That's fine!" agreed Bobby gravely.

In the dead cold air of the Englishes' barn, which was situated in an alley-way, the block above their house, Bobby and Johnny examined the cart, admired its glossy newness, and, under the coachman's instructions, experimented with the sliding seat. They took a peek through the folding door into the stable where stood the haughty horses. These, still chewing, slightly turned their heads and rolled their fine eyes back at the intruders, then, with a high-headed indifference, returned to their hay. After this the boys scuttled into the small, overheated "office" with its smell of leather and tobacco and harness soap; with its coloured prints of horses, and its shining harness behind the glass doors; with its cushioned wooden armchairs, its sawdust box and its round hot stove with the soap-stones heating atop. Here they toasted through and through; then clumped stiffly down to the Englishes' house, where Johnny exhibited his other presents. They were varied, numerous and expensive. Bobby's Christmas was as dear to him as ever; but it no longer filled the sky. Another and higher mountain had lifted itself beyond his ranges. The eagerness to exhibit triumphantly to Johnny which, up to this moment, he had with difficulty restrained, was suddenly dashed. It hardly seemed worth while.

"Come over and see my things," he suggested without much enthusiasm.

"It's dinner time now, Bobby," objected Mrs. English, who had just come in. "After dinner."

"All right; after dinner, then," agreed Bobby. "Bring Caroline," he added as an after-thought.

That demure damsel had also her array of presents, of which she seemed very proud, but which did not interest Bobby in the slightest. They seemed to be silver-handled scissors, and pincushions, and embroidered handkerchief-holders and similar rubbish.

But when Johnny—without Caroline—appeared shortly after the elaborate Christmas dinner the production of which constituted Grandma Orde's chief delight in the day, Bobby's enthusiasm returned. Johnny went wild over the printing press. Experience with the toy press had given him a basis of comparison.

"My!" he ejaculated at last, "I believe I'd rather have this than Bobby Junior!

"Now," continued Johnny, "we can get all sorts of orders. I'll ask papa about envelopes and letter-heads this evening."



XIX

THE BOXING MATCH

Early after breakfast next morning appeared Johnny.

"I asked Papa about envelopes. He says he won't give us an order until he sees samples of the type and the work, but he says if we can do it as well as the regular printer, he doesn't mind giving us an order for a thousand. Here's one."

The boys ascended at once to Bobby's room. Investigation of the fonts showed that the firm possessed the proper type. Bobby set up the matter in the composing stick—and promptly pied it when he attempted to move it to the chase. He had forgotten to put a lead in first, so there was nothing to bind the top line. Redistribution and rectification of the error were in order. It took a good half-hour to get the type properly arranged in the chase. When single letters did not drop through from the middle, the ends of the lines fell away, and then, try as they would, the boys were unable to lock the stickful in the chase. Either it would not bind, or it warped out or in so that even without trial it could be seen that a clear impression was manifestly impossible. These and other mechanical difficulties occupied them until noon. Johnny was wild-eyed and nervous.

"Why, we haven't even started to print!" he cried, "We'll never get a job done at this rate! I don't believe the old press is any good, anyhow!"

"Yes, it is," insisted Bobby doggedly. "We'll get it yet."

He hardly finished his lunch, so eager was he to be back at the problem. Johnny did not come until after two o'clock, and then stood his hands in his pockets, surveying his absorbed partner with some disgust.

"Well," said he, "is the old thing working yet?"

Bobby looked up absorbedly.

"She's going to in just a second—you wait," he muttered.

A moment later he lifted the locked form in triumph. It held together and it was flat. Immediately Johnny's nearly extinct enthusiasm flamed up.

"Stick her in!" he cried. "Come on, we can show Papa a sample to-night. How many an hour do you suppose we can print on her, Bobby?"

"I don't know," replied Bobby.

They inserted the form, slipped a blank envelope in the corner and were ready for the first trial.

"It won't be even on the paper," said Bobby, "but we can fix that later."

He pulled down and back the long lever and the two heads bumped together over the result. One side of the legend was very heavy and black and clear, but the other was almost invisible.

"Oh, snakes!" cried Johnny in disappointment.

"Oh, that's all right," reasoned Bobby out of his experience with the toy press. "All it needs is paper underneath."

But paper underneath proved inadequate. It was impossible with paper to establish the nice gradation necessary to equalize the pressure. And then, also, too much paper made too deep an impression.

At the failure of this tried expedient even Bobby's patience ran short for the time being.

"Come on over to my house," suggested Johnny crossly. "The crowd's coming. I got boxing gloves for Christmas too, but I bet they're no good either. I bet they rip first thing."

Sore at heart and in glum silence the two marched around the corner to the Englishes'.

Here already in the cold third story were Grace Jones and Martin Drake, skipping about in a game of hop-scotch to keep warm. Shortly May and Carter arrived together and Caroline ascended from her own room where she had been sewing. At sight of the boxing gloves May and Morton set up a shout.

"Nope," vetoed Johnny, "Bobby and I are going to try them first!"

The youngsters were at first a little awkward with the unusual-sized fists, but soon forgot a detail as trivial as that. Neither knew the first principles of hitting. Round-arm blows with the head lowered were first choice, of which a good ninety per cent. went wild. The other ten naturally had little force, but there was a great deal of action. In this game Bobby stood no disadvantage with Johnny. After the first few seconds, finding himself, to his surprise, still unhurt, he sailed in with some confidence. Accidently Johnny ran square against his extended fist. It jarred Johnny considerably, and made that youth exceedingly eager to get even. Shortly he succeeded. The pair warmed up. Affairs began to get serious. In a brisk though wild rally they clinched, and in a moment were rolling over and over on the floor, pummelling vigorously.

But immediately Carter jerked them apart.

"Here, that's no way to box. Keep your feet. Here, May, give us a little help."

They pulled the contestants to their feet. Johnny and Bobby were very mussed up and dusty. Johnny's nose was bleeding slightly; Bobby's eye was a trifle swelled. The instant their captors released them, they went at it again, hammer and tongs. They were certainly not angry as enemies are angry, but as certainly for the time being, in the sense that each was grimly resolved on victory, they had ceased to be friends.

How long the combat might have lasted it would be impossible to say. Bobby had never before used his fists, while the aggressive Johnny, at public school, was the hero of many fights. But as long as Carter insisted on no rough-and-tumble this fact gave the elder boy little advantage. The damage that two light-weights can inflict on each other with round-arm blows is inconsiderable, and Bobby was of the sort that punishment merely renders obstinate. Probably sheer lack of breath would in time have called the battle a draw, but all at once Bobby had an idea. So illuminating and sudden was it that for an instant he forgot what he was doing. Johnny closed on him like a tiger beating him with both fists as hard as he could hit. Even then Bobby's thought was not of defence but of explanation.

"Hold on! hold on! quit!" he kept on crying in expostulation. "Wait a minute! I got it!"

It is doubtful if Johnny heard him. Before Carter and May could stop him he had inflicted more damage than the rest of the fight had produced. Bobby's nose too was bleeding, and a huge red bump was swelling on his forehead when finally he was freed.

However, he was not even aware of those trifles.

"Don't you know those two screws—" he began eagerly to Johnny.

But that young gentleman, panting, was not yet emerged from the red haze of combat.

"I licked!" he cried. "Didn't I lick? He quit! He hollered 'nuff, didn't he? I licked the stuffing out of him!"

"O shut up!" said May contemptuously; "or I'll lick the stuffing out of you."

Bobby, practically oblivious to the meaning of this exchange, had stripped off his gloves and had advanced, eager to finish his explanation.

"Johnny, I just thought!" said he. "You remember those two thumb screws under the platen? I bet you if you turn those, they'll regulate the pressure. Let's go over and try it!"

Johnny looked at Bobby uncertainly. He drew a deep breath, then his round, cheerful grin broke over his face.

"I guess I didn't lick you after all, old socks," said he. "I don't know what you're talking about. Go on try your old press. I'm sick of her."

Bobby washed his bruised face and went home. Sure enough, the thumb screws did regulate the pressure. Within a half-hour he was back at the Englishes'. The boxing gloves were still in commission. Morton was dancing around and around May, slapping her with his open glove first on one side the face, then on the other. The girl, in spite of her strength, agility and superior age was as awkward as are most girls at hitting with their fists. She made short angry rushes at the dodging Morton who slipped easily in and out of her guard. He was getting even for a long tyranny. Finally May stopped short and stamped her foot with vexation. Her face was very red and she actually had tears in her eyes.

"Oh!" she cried. "You wait 'till I get hold of you, you miserable little thing!"

At that the boxing ended. Bobby drew Johnny one side. "Look there!" said he with pardonable pride. "Show that to your papa. I bet he can't tell it from the regular printers. Look out; it's wet yet."

Johnny gazed with awe on the perfect production. The next instant all his dead enthusiasm leaped to life.

"I bet we can print the whole thousand in one morning!" he cried gleefully, "And then there's the letter-heads, and bill-heads and May's cards—and perhaps your father and Carter's will give us jobs—and—"

They clattered down the stairs to the tune of Johnny's business expansions.



XX

THE PARTNERS

The thousand envelopes were printed and delivered. Mr. English expressed himself as entirely satisfied, and allowed the new firm to experiment on bill heads. Mr. Orde promised an order of more envelopes when these were finished.

Johnny's commercial instincts were thoroughly aroused. He saw visions of wealth beyond the dreams of wood-box-filling or street-sprinkling with the garden hose in summer. In that community even Johnny English had to earn his own pocket money. Bobby, too, entered into the game with enthusiasm—for over a week. Then he grew tired of the mechanical repetition of that which he had acquired so painfully. It no longer interested him to set the type, to lock the form, to ink and clean the ink plates. He had carried these things to their last refinement of skill. As for the actual printing—the endless insetting of paper, pulling down on the lever, removing the paper—this he could no longer stand for more than half an hour at a time. Then a deep lethargy seized his every faculty. His mind sank to stupor. Time no longer possessed dimensions, but blew into a vast Present which was never going to cease. If he kept at it a half-hour after this condition manifested itself he emerged from the ordeal as tired and sleepy as though he had undergone hard physical labour. It was more than mere boredom; it was a revolt of the soul.

At first his loyalty to the firm and his sense of duty drove him on. Then gradually he relinquished the printing to Johnny. That young man could cheerfully have stuck to the press twelve hours a day, if he had been permitted. Each printed bit of paper laid aside on the growing pile to his left represented just that much more pocket money.

So, strangely enough, the relative position of the two boys toward the work in hand was reversed. At first, when the mechanical difficulties seemed insurmountable, Bobby's perseverance had been inexhaustible, while Johnny was a dozen times inclined to let the whole problem go smash. Now, when the task of feeding into the press the thousand necessary to fill orders seemed endless, Johnny's patience rose more than adequate to the occasion, while Bobby's spirit shrank at the mere size of it.

Finally matters adjusted themselves so that Bobby saw to the alignment, the perfection of the impression, all the rest of getting ready; then Johnny took hold.

But one day Bobby, walking glumly over to the composing stone, suggested something new.

"Let's start a newspaper," said he.

The clang of the press came to an abrupt stop.

"Let's start a newspaper," he repeated. "We've got enough pica to print one page at a time."

Rashly Johnny agreed. All went well until it came time to print the sheet. Eighteen subscribers were secured at five cents a copy. Johnny and Bobby wrote the entire number between them. Bobby set it up, happily. Johnny, also happily, turned out certain letter-heads at the press. Then came time to print. And at that moment trouble began.

The first copy was legible but smudgy. Bobby was not satisfied and attempted improvement, most of which, so far from improving, gave cause for fresh defects. Johnny was standing about impatiently.

"Come on," said he at last, "that's good enough. They can read it, all right, and those few letters don't matter. Let it go at that."

But Bobby shook his head and carried the form back to the composing stone.

Four days he worked over the first page of the Weekly Eagle. Johnny expostulated, stormed, pleaded with tears in his eyes.

"Let's let the whole thing slide," he begged. "All we get out of it anyway is less'n a dollar and think of all the time we're wasting. That job for Mr. Fowler isn't all done, and Smith's Meat Market is going to order some bill-heads."

But Bobby was obstinate. Finally Johnny, in disgust, left him to his own devices.

The world for Bobby contained but one thing. His recollections of that time are of a flaring gas jet and the smell of printer's ink. He won finally and duly delivered the eighteen copies—letter-perfect. Probably five hundred other and imperfect examples of the Weekly Eagle found their way into the furnace.

Johnny plucked up heart and returned, only to find that the printing press question was dead as far as Bobby was concerned.

"I'm sick of printing," was all Bobby would say, and no argument as to unexploited wealth could move him. The subject had not only lost interest, but mere casual thought of its details brought on a faint repetition of the mental lethargy. The sight of the press and its varied appurtenances threw his mind into the defensive blank coma which rendered him incapable of the simplest intellectual effort. This was something as outside Bobby's control as the beating of his heart. He did not understand it, nor attempt to analyze it.

"I'm sick of it," said he; just as after the labour of building a fort in Monrovia, he had with the same remark deserted his companions on the threshold of its enjoyment.

Bobby thought he exercised a choice when he turned from printing, just as he chose whether to walk on the right or on the left side of the street. In reality it would have been impossible for him to re-enter his interest, his enthusiasm; impossible even for him to have accomplished the mechanical labour of the trade save at an utterly disproportionate expense of nervous energy.

Bobby did not know this; of course, Johnny was not capable of such analysis. The only human being who might have understood and worked in correction of the tendency, read the affair amiss. Mrs. Orde was only too glad to get Bobby into the open air again, and saw in his abandonment of this feverish enthusiasm only cause for rejoicing.

So Bobby threw his friend into despair by declining to go on with a flourishing business. "Bime by," said he. "I'm sick of it, now." As a matter of fact he never touched the printing press again. His parents deplored the useless waste of a large amount of money and drew the usual conclusion that it is foolish to buy children expensive things. No doubt from that standpoint the affair was deplorable; yet there is this to be noted, that Bobby's enthusiasm blew out only after he had thought all around the subject, back front, bottom and sides. He knew that printing press theoretically and practically and all it could do. As long as it withheld the smallest secret Bobby clung to it, his soul at white heat. But the repetition and again the repetition of what he had learned thoroughly struck cold his every higher faculty. He shrugged it all from him, and turned with unabated freshness his inquiring child's eyes to what new the world had to offer him.



XXI

WINTER

After the collapse of the printing business Bobby and Johnny turned to Bobby Junior and the little sleigh. They drove often, far into the country. It was the dead of winter. The country was wide and still and white. Against the prevailing note of the snow the patches of woods showed almost black. The landscape looked strangely flattened out, and bereft of life. Nevertheless that impression was false, for the little sleigh climbed and dipped over many hills and hollows; and the boys were continually seeing living things and their indications. Tracks of small animals embroidered the snow. Strange tame birds hopped here and there or rose and swept down wind with plaintive pipings that, in spite of their lack of fear, lent them a spirit of wildness akin to the aloof savaging of winter winds in bared trees. Bobby and Johnny recognized the snow buntings, tossing in compact big companies like flakes in a whirlwind, the unsoiled white effect of their plumage shaming the snow. Besides these were little red-polls, dressed warmly in magenta and brown for the winter, hopping and clinging among the seed-weeds exposed by the breezes; and hardy, impudent, harsh-voiced blue-jays, cloaking much villany and cunning under wondrous suits of clothes; and trim, neat cedar wax-wings, perching on elevated twigs, always apparently at leisure; in the woods, whole bands of chickadees and nuthatches, cruising it cheerfully, calling to each other in their varied notes, tiny atoms defying all the cold and famine Old Winter could bring. Once they were vastly excited to catch sight of a hoary, wide-winged monster sweeping like a ghost close to the snow. They surmised it might be a Great Snow Owl, like the stuffed one in the English library, but they never knew. And again, in some trees alongside the road, they came upon a large flock of stocky-built birds, a little smaller than robins, so tame that the boys drove beneath them and could see their thick bills, and the marvellous clarity of the sunset yellow of their heads, shading to twilight down their backs, to black night on their wings, barred by a strip of clear white moonlight. They agreed that these were most unusual-looking creatures. How unusual any naturalist would have been glad to tell them; for these were that great and prized rarity, the Evening Grosbeak. So, too, in the pine woods they were showered by bits of cones, and looked aloft to make out a distant little bird busily engaged in tearing the cones to pieces. They laughed at his industry, but would have been immensely interested could they have examined at close hand the Crossbill's beak and its singular adaption to just this task. And of course they remarked the stately deliberate-looking prints of the grouse; and the herded tramping of the quail. The winter was populous enough, in spite of its rigour. Some of its many creatures the boys knew; many more they did not; but you may be sure they saw all that did not exercise the closest circumspection.

For miles about, the little sleigh explored the country: main-road, worn smooth by countless farmer-sleighs; by-roads, through which the pony had to wallow belly-deep, making a new track. Not the mere pleasure of driving lured them out—that amounted to little after the week of novelty—but something of the spirit of exploration was in it. Duke always accompanied them, plunging powerfully through the deepest drifts, exulting in the snow, rolling in it, frisking in it in all directions, racing down the road and back, glad to be alive and warm this freezing weather. One day in a patch of woods he came to an abrupt halt. The boys, watching, saw his eye fixed, his upper lip snarl back the least in the world, his tail stiffen except at its quivering tip, his whole body lengthen and half-crouch and turn rigid. And as the sleigh wallowed near him, suddenly, with an immense scattering of snow and a startling roar, an old cock-partridge burst from beneath the surface of the snow and hurtled away through the frozen trees.

Some days when the wind blew keen and sharp as knives across the broad reaches, it was almost impossible for the boys to keep warm. The heated soap-stone wrapped up at their feet, the warm buffalo robes under and over them, their thick overcoats and fur caps alike proved inadequate. Then one took his turn at driving, while the other crouched entirely covered beneath the robes. The wind drove the hard, sparse flakes from the low leaden sky like so many needles against the driver's face, filling his eyes with tears, causing his skin to glow and smart. Even in this was a certain joy and adventure. But again the sun would shine, the bells jingle louder in the clarified air. Probably, however, the boys liked best of all the warm, still snowstorms, when all the world was muffled in the shoes of silence; when nature held her finger on hushed lips; when deliberately, without haste the great white flakes zigzagged down from the soft gray above, obscuring and softening the landscape, rendering dear and mysterious the commonest things. Then sounds came, subdued as in a sanctuary, and people approaching showed portentous as through a mist, and the boys, looking upward, caught big wet flakes on their lashes as they tried in vain to determine the point at which the snowflakes became visible. There existed no such point. The snowflakes did not approach as other things approach, beginning small with distance, and becoming larger as they neared. They flashed into sight full-grown. It was as though they had fallen wrapped in invisibility until the great Magician had uttered the word. That was Bobby's secret thought, which he told nobody. Often he imagined he could hear the word repeated all about him, presto! presto! presto! presto! like the distant hushed falling of waters. And as the charm was said, he, looking skyward, could see the big soft flakes flash into view out of nothing.



XXII

THE MURDER

So successful did the friendship between the two boys turn out to be that next autumn Johnny English was invited to visit the Ordes at Monrovia. He accepted very promptly, and, as the distance was short, brought with him the cart and pony. The country around Monrovia was very interesting to them. Riverland, marshland, swampland, shore and meadow, all offered themselves in the most diversified forms. The sandy roads wound over the hills, down the ravines, along the corduroys and float-bridges. Life was varied. The boys, armed with their Flobert rifle, wandered far afield.

They did not get very much, it is true, but they popped away steadily, and did a grand amount of sneaking and looking. And they managed first and last to see a great deal. In the snipe marshes they knew when the first flight dropped in—and murdered a killdeer as he stood. Out in the sloughs they marked the earnest red-heads from the north—and accomplished two mud-hens, a ruddy duck, and a dozen blackbirds. In the uplands they knew almost to a feather how many partridge each thicket had bred; to a covey where the quail used; and once in a great while, by strategy on their own side and foolishness on the part of the quarry, they caught one sitting and brought it down. What is quite as much to the point, they felt the season as it changed. The gradual transformation from the green of summer to the brown and lilac of late autumn, the low swinging of the sun, the mellowing of the days, the broad-hung curtain of sweet smoke-breeze, the hushing of the vital forces of the world in anticipation of winter—all these passed near them and, passing, touched their eyes. They were too busy to notice such things consciously, however. The influence sank deep and became part of the permanent background against which their lives were to be thrown.

At first some doubt was expressed as to the wisdom of that Flobert rifle. To turn two small boys loose with a deadly weapon seemed to Mrs. Orde a rather strong temptation of Providence. Mr. Kincaid spoke for them. In the end it was decided, though with many misgivings and more admonitions.

"Keep the muzzle pointed up; never get excited; never shoot at anything unless you know what it is," was Mr. Kincaid's summing up.

These three precepts were so constantly impressed that to the boys their practice ended by becoming second nature.

"It's not only dangerous to do these things," said Mr. Kincaid, "but it's a sure sign of a greenhorn. A man ought to be deadly ashamed to confess himself such an all-round dub."

Toward the end of the fall, and nearing Thanksgiving, the boys drove Bobby Junior out the old east road. After a time they turned off into a by-way deep with sand. It ended. They hitched the placid Bobby Junior to the top rail of a "snake-fence" climbed it, and headed toward a scrub-oak and popple thicket thrown like a blanket over the long slope of a hill. They walked cautiously, for by experience they had learned that at the very edge, and in the lea of an old burned log, it was possible a fine big cock-partridge might be sunning himself. The popples, shining silvery, were almost bare of leaves, but the scrub oaks clung tenaciously to a crackling umber-brown foliage. It was now near the close of the afternoon. The game bag was empty. Both boys trod on eggs, scrutinizing every inch of the ground before them.

"It's too late for 'em," whispered Bobby in discouragement. "There's not enough sun. They've gone in to feed."

But Johnnie seized his arm.

"There," he breathed, "See him! He's sitting in that little scrub oak—just to the left of the stub."

Bobby peered along his friend's arm. After a moment he made out a mottled spot of brown.

"I see him," said he, cocking his rifle. "It's his breast. I wish I could get at his head."

"He'll be gone in a minute!" warned Johnny.

It was Bobby's turn to shoot. He raised his weapon, aimed carefully, and pressed the trigger.

Immediately the thicket broke into a tremendous commotion. A scurrying of leaves, a brief exclamation of pain, a brown cap whirling through the air—and both boys turned and ran, ran as hard as they could up the hill until sheer lack of breath brought them to the ground. They stared at each other with frightened eyes from faces chalky white.

"We've killed somebody!" gasped Johnny.

They clung to each other trembling with the horror of it, utterly unable to gather their faculties. This was just what so often both had been cautioned against—the shooting without seeing clearly the object of aim. To the shock of a catastrophe they had to add the sinking remorse over warnings disobeyed.

"What are we going to do?" chattered Johnny at last.

"We got to go down and see——"

"I daresn't" confessed Johnny miserably.

"Do you suppose he's dead?"

"They'll probably put us in jail."

"Come on," said Bobby at last.

They arose, very giddy and uncertain on their feet. For the first time they forced themselves to look at the copse lying below them.

"Oh!" breathed Johnny, "Look!"

Below them on the farther edge of the copse, and over a quarter of a mile away, they saw Mr. Kincaid. He was bareheaded. Curly was with him. The man was trying to send the water spaniel into the copse. Curly pretended that he wanted to play, and did not in the least understand what it was all about. He capered joyously around Mr. Kincaid's outstretched arm; he pressed his chest to the earth and uttered short barks; he chased madly around in circles, but he did not enter the copse, which was plainly his master's desire. Finally Mr. Kincaid gave it up and departed over the brow of the next hill.

And while this little by-play was going on two small boys above him felt the warmth of life flowing back into their frozen souls. The blood returned to their lips, their thumping hearts calmed, all the blessed joy and sunshine and freedom of the world flooded in a return tide of blessed relief.

"Gee," said Johnny, "I'm never going hunting again! Never any more! Never!"

"You bet I'm going to be careful after this," said Bobby. "My, but I'm glad!"

"I wonder why he didn't pick up his cap?" wondered Johnny.

"Perhaps he had it in his hand."

The boys drove home ringing the changes on a thousand new resolutions of caution.

"It's a good lesson to us," said Bobby by way of reminiscent philosophy often heard before.

They put Bobby Junior into the barn, cleaned the Flobert, changed their hunting clothes, and answered with alacrity the summons to the dining room. After they were well started with the meal, Mr. Orde came in and sat down. He nodded abstractedly, and had little to say. The boys were too far down in remorse to care to bring up any of the subjects near their hearts. Finally Mrs. Orde remarked this general depression.

"I must say you're a cheerful lot of men folks," said she. "What is it? Business?" She smiled at the boys in raillery at the idea. But she could not cheer them up. As soon as the meal was over Mr. Orde dismissed the boys.

"Run along now," said he briefly; "I want to talk."

They climbed the stairs to Bobby's room, and sat down glumly on the floor. Reaction was strong, and they had both fallen into aimless doldrums of spirit. Suddenly Bobby sat up straight at attention.

The Orde house was provided with old-fashioned hot-air registers. When the registers happened all to be open, they constituted most excellent speaking-tubes. Thus, without intention of deliberate eavesdropping, Bobby and his friend became aware of the following conversation.

"What's the matter, Jack? Anything wrong at the office or on the River?"

Mr. Orde sighed deeply.

"Oh, no. Everything's snug as a bug in a rug, sweetheart," said he. "But I'm bothered a lot. A dreadful thing happened to-day. You know that popple thicket out at Pritchard's place?"

Both boys froze into horrified attention.

"Yes."

"Well, just before dusk Pritchard was found dead near the east end of it."

"Why, how did that happen?" cried Mrs. Ode.

The boys stole a look at each other.

"He had been murdered."

"Murdered!" cried Mrs. Orde sharply.

"Oh!" moaned Bobby in a smothered voice.

"Yes. He was found with a knife wound in his throat."

"How terrible!" said Mrs. Orde.

"But that isn't what worries me. Pritchard is no irreparable loss."

"Jack!" cried Mrs. Orde.

"He isn't," insisted Orde stoutly. "But Kincaid was seen by several competent witnesses coming out from that thicket, and as far as anybody has been able to find out he is the only human being who was out there to-day. They have him under arrest."

"I never heard of anything so ridiculous!" cried Mrs. Orde indignantly.

"There has been bad blood between them," said Orde; "and everybody knows it. That's the trouble. Pritchard, as usual, has off and on done an awful lot of talking."

"You don't for a moment believe——"

"Certainly not. Arthur Kincaid never would harm a fly in anger. And I rely absolutely on his word."

"You've seen him?"

"Of course. He acknowledges he was out at Pritchard's, but denies all knowledge of the affair. That's the trouble. He offers no explanation of the facts, and the facts are—queer."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, this; the men who saw Kincaid coming out of the thicket say he was bareheaded. When Pritchard's body was found, Kincaid's cap was discovered about fifty feet distant."

"What does he say to that?"

"His story is so ridiculous that I wouldn't blame anybody who did not know Kincaid for not believing it. He says he was playing with his dog Curly, when Curly grabbed the cap and made off with it. The dog came back without the cap, and Kincaid could not find it. That's all he says, except that he was not in the thicket at all, and certainly not within a quarter-mile of the scene of the murder."

"That might be so."

"Of course it's so, if Arthur Kincaid says it is," insisted Orde, "but what do you think of this? The cap had a 22-calibre bullet hole through the crown; and Pritchard was armed with a 22-calibre rifle."

"What does Mr. Kincaid say to it?"

"That's just the trouble," cried Orde in despairing tones. "If he'd plead self-defence any jury in Michigan would acquit him without leaving the box. But when we asked him how that bullet hole got in that cap, he simply says that he doesn't know; it wasn't there when he lost the cap! Could anything be more absurd!"

Bobby reached out and softly closed the register.

He turned to grip Johnny fiercely by the arm. His eyes blazed.

"Mr. Kincaid is my friend," he hissed. "Understand that? He's my best friend. If you ever say anything about this afternoon——"

"Let go!" cried Johnny struggling. "You hurt! You needn't get mad about it. He's my friend, too. I ain't going to say anything." Bobby released his arm. "He must have done it, though," concluded Johnny.

"Of course he did it. I'd have done it. Pritchard was an old beast. You ought to have been along with me when he ordered us off his land."

"Mr. Kincaid says he was never up at that end."

"There's his cap, with the hole I shot in it," Bobby pointed out. "It was right where Pritchard was when I shot at it."

Johnny nodded.

"If we let that get out, they'll have us in as witnesses."

"We mustn't," said Johnny.

Following this policy the boys for the next month carried about an air of secrecy and an irresponsibility of action very irritating to everybody. They forgot errands, they did absent-minded, destructive things, they were much given to long consultations behind the woodshed. When they were permitted to visit Mr. Kincaid at the jail, they tried mysteriously to convey assurance of absolute secrecy, but succeeded only in appearing stupid, frivolous and unsympathetic. Nevertheless their concern was very real. Bobby in especial brooded over the affair to the exclusion of all other interests. The Flobert rifle was laid away, the printing press gathered dust. Over and over he visualized the scene, until he could shut his eyes and reproduce its every detail—the hillside with its scattered, half-burned old logs, the popple thicket shining white, the scrub oaks with red rustling leaves, the patch of brown that looked exactly like a partridge; and then the whirl of the cap in the air as the bullet struck, and the horrible sinking feeling before he turned to flee. A dozen small things he had not noticed consciously at the time, now stood out clear. He remembered that the supposed partridge had stood out against the sky; that the ground broke gently up just beyond the black log. "Mr. Kincaid must have been standing on a stump," he thought. He recalled now his own exact position, and figured the course of the bullet. "It must have gone in just at the tip top," he figured. "That's the only way it could have done without hurting his head. Otherwise, it would have scalped him." Over and over he turned the facts until gradually he evolved an exact picture of what had occurred—here was the victim, here the murderer. Inquiry disclosed the spot where Pritchard's body had been found. It was up-hill from the spot Bobby had shot the cap—and about ten feet away. "He must just have done it," he said with a shudder.

"Why?" demanded Johnny to whom he confided these reasonings. "Maybe it was before."

"No," argued Bobby. "Because then when I shot the cap off, if Pritchard had been alive, we'd have heard from him."

"Maybe Mr. Kincaid killed him to keep him from chasing us," suggested Johnny.

Bobby considered this romantic suggestion but shook his head.

"No," said he, "there wasn't time for Mr. Kincaid to kill him and then walk down to the other end of the thicket. He must have run when I shot."

"Do you think they'll convict Mr. Kincaid?"

"Papa says he doesn't think so," said Bobby. "He says nobody can prove Mr. Kincaid was at the place."

"We could."

"We're going to shut up!" said Bobby sharply.



XXIII

THE TRIAL

General opinion did not, however, share Mr. Orde's optimism. The circumstantial evidence was very strong. Interest in the trial was such that people came from far out in the country to attend it. Every day of the preliminaries the court-room was filled with silent spectators. The boys, eluding the vigilance of the women and utterly disregarding specific commands, found themselves unable to get beyond the outer corridor. Here they hung around for some time in the vain hope of hearing something. The heavy breathing and jostling of the crowd about them was their only reward. Finally they gave it up and wandered out into the grounds.

It was by now nearly December of a remarkably open year. Although Indian summer had long since gone, and although the low black clouds and heavy gales of late autumn had given repeated warnings, winter had somehow failed to arrive. There was as yet no snow; and the sun, turned silver in place of the harvest gold, sometimes, as now, dispersed considerable warmth. In consequence of the mildness without and the crowd within, the windows of the court-room had been lowered at the top. The boys could almost catch the words of whoever was speaking.

"Come on, let's shin up that tree," suggested Johnny.

Immediately they acted on the inspiration. The highest limbs capable of bearing weight were still some three feet below the window-sills. Still, the boys could hear plainly what was going on, and could see into the room on an upward slant.

Evidently the legal processes had been fulfilled, and the first witness was giving his testimony.

"I was working in my field, throwing out manure, when I saw the prisoner come out of the popple thicket on Pritchard's place."

"How far were you from the thicket?"

"My field is right across the county road."

"At what point did the prisoner emerge from the thicket as respects the spot where the body was found?"

"He came out right opposite, a good quarter-mile, I should say."

"Anything unusual in the prisoner's appearance or actions?"

"He didn't have no hat. I noticed that."

After a few more questions the witness was excused. In an instant he appeared in the boys' line of vision and sat down.

Another witness was sworn, and deposed that he had been driving along the county road, and had also seen Mr. Kincaid emerge from the thicket without a hat. This witness likewise, on being excused, crossed the room and took his seat near the window.

This point established, the prosecution called upon the man who had found the body. He stated that he was in the employ of the deceased; had gone out afoot to look up a strayed cow, had come across the body late in the afternoon. Pritchard had been killed by a knife thrust in the throat. He lay on his back. He had carried a 22-calibre rifle with which he was accustomed to shoot hawks and crows. The rifle had been discharged. In looking about for evidence witness had found a cap lying by a stump ten feet or so down hill. He identified the cap. He also took a seat where Bobby and Johnny could see him—a short thickset man with a swarthy complexion and very oily long black hair.

A witness was called who identified positively the cap as belonging to Mr. Kincaid.

At this point the prosecution rested. A moment later Bobby heard again the measured, calm tones of his friend, called in his own defence.

"I know nothing about it," said Mr. Kincaid after the usual preliminaries, "I was nowhere near the scene of the murder. What the first witness had to say as to personal antagonism between Pritchard and myself was quite true: he had ordered me off his land, and very offensively. We had some words at that time."

"When was that?" asked the attorney.

"Some months back. Therefore I took especial pains to keep off his land, and was at the lower edge of the thicket a good quarter-mile from the place his body was found."

"You did not enter the thicket?"

"Only a few feet, after the dog took my cap."

"How about the cap?"

"My retriever, Curly, was playing with me. I was teasing him by waving the cap before him. He managed to get hold of it and ran with it into the thicket. In a moment or so he came back without it. I could not find it, nor could I induce him to retrieve it."

"When was this?"

"About two o'clock."

"Two witnesses have sworn they saw you come out of the thicket shortly before sun-down."

"That was on my way home. I tried again to get Curly to hunt up the cap."

"How do you account for the cap's being found at the upper edge of the thicket?"

"I cannot account for it."

"Could the dog have carried it that far in the time before he returned?"

"I do not think so—I am certain not."

"How do you account for the holes?"

"They might have been the marks of Curley's teeth," said Mr. Kincaid doubtfully.

"Look at them,"

A pause ensued.

"They certainly do not look like teeth marks," acknowledged Mr. Kincaid.

At this moment the heavy bell in the engine-house tower boomed out the first strokes of noon. The boys nearly lost their holds from the surprise of it. By the time they had recovered, court had been declared adjourned, and the crowds were pouring forth from the opened double doors.



XXIV

THE TRIAL (CONTINUED)

By remarkable promptitude and the exercise of the marvellous properties ascribed impartially to the worm, the eel, and the snake, Bobby and Johnny succeeded in gaining a place in the court-room for the afternoon session. It was not a very good place. Breast-high in front of them was a rail. Behind them pressed a suffocating crowd. On the other side of the rail were many benches on which was seated another crowd. This second multitude concealed utterly whatever occupied the floor of the court-room. Only when one or another of the actors in the proceedings arose to his feet could the boys make out a head and shoulders. They could see the massive walnut desk and the judge, however; and the lower flat tables at which sat the recording officials. And on the blank white wall ticked solemnly a big round clock. The second-hand moved forward by a series of swift jerks, but watch as he would Bobby could see no perceptible motion of the other two hands. In the monotony of some of the proceedings this bland clock fascinated him.

Likewise the living wall before him caught and held his half-suffocated interest—the slope of their shoulders, the material of their coats, the shape of their heads, the cut of their hair. One by one he passed them in review. Two seats ahead sat a thickset man with very long, oily black hair. He turned his head. Bobby recognized the man who had found Pritchard's body. He nudged Johnny, calling attention to the fact.

The prosecuting attorney was on his feet making a speech. It was interesting enough at first, but after a time Bobby's attention wandered. The prosecuting attorney was a young man, ambitious, and ego was certainly a large proportion of his cosmos. Bobby listened to him while he spoke of the obvious motive for the deed; but when he began again, and in detail, to go over the evidence already adduced, Bobby ceased to listen. Only the monotonous cadences of the voice went on and on. The clock tick-tocked. People breathed. It reminded him of church.

A little stir brought him back from final drowsiness. A man in the row ahead of him wanted to get out. The disturber carried an overcoat over his left arm, and it amused Bobby vastly to see the stiff collar of that overcoat rumple the back hair of those who sat in the second row. As he watched, it caught the long oily locks of the witness for the prosecution. With a fierce exclamation the man turned, scowling at the other's whispered excuse. When he had again faced the front, he had rearranged his disturbed locks.

After this slight interruption, Bobby again relapsed into day-dreaming. He fell once more to visualizing the scene of that day. Gradually the court-room faded away. He saw the hillside, the burnt logs on the bare ground, the popples silvery in the sun, the sky blue above the hill. The patch of brown by the rustling scrub oak glimmered before his eyes. He saw again the exact angle it lay above him. For the hundredth time he looked over the sights of the rifle, fair against that spot of brown. "I must have over-shot a foot," he sighed, "or it would have taken him square."

And then as he stared over the sights, his finger on the trigger, the imaginary scene faded, the familiar court-room came out of the mists to take its place. Slowly the brown spot at which he aimed dissolved, a man's head took its place; the oily-haired witness for the prosecution happened now to occupy exactly the position relative to Bobby's attitude as had Mr. Kincaid's cap the day of the murder. And through the slightly disarranged long hair, and exactly in line with the imaginary rifle sights Bobby could just make out a dull red furrow running along the scalp. At this instant, as though uneasy at a scrutiny instinctively felt, the man reached back to smooth his locks. The scar at once disappeared.



XXV

THE HOLE IN THE CAP

For perhaps ten seconds Bobby sat absolutely motionless while a new thought was born. Then, oblivious of surroundings or of the exasperated objections of those near him, he clambered over the rail and wriggled his way to the open aisle. Several tried to seize him, but he managed in some manner to elude them all. Once in the open he darted forward toward the astonished officials. His freckled face was very red, his stubby hair towsled, his gray eyes earnest. The sheriff rose from his seat as though to stop him.

"I want to see that cap!" cried Bobby to the blur in general. He caught sight of it, ran to seize it, looked at it closely, and threw it down with a little cry of triumph. The bullet holes were not both at the top: one perforation was high up; but the other, on the left hand side, was situated low, near the edge. Bobby knew that the man who had worn that cap must have been hit.

The judge's gavel was in the air, the sheriff on his feet, a hundred mouths open to expostulate against this interruption of a grave occasion.

"Mr. Kincaid did not do it!" cried Bobby aloud.

The clamour broke out. The sheriff seized Bobby by the arm.

"Here," he growled at him, "you little brat! What do you mean, raising a row like this?"

Bobby struggled. He had a great deal to say. All was confusion. Half the room seemed to be on its feet. Bobby saw his father making way toward him through the crowd. Only the clock and the white-haired judge beneath it seemed to have retained their customary poise. The clock tick-tocked deliberately, and its second-hand went forward in swift jerks; the judge sat quiet, motionless, his chin on his fists, his eyes looking steadily from under their bushy white brows.

"Just a moment," said the judge, finally, "Sheriff, bring that boy here."

Bobby found himself facing the great walnut desk. Behind him the room had fallen silent save for an irregular breathing sound.

"Who are you?" asked the judge.

"Bobby Orde."

"Why do you say the prisoner—Mr. Kincaid—did not commit the deed?"

Bobby started in a confused way to tell about the cap. The judge raised his hand.

"Were you present at this crime?" he asked shrewdly.

"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.

The judge lowered his voice so that only Bobby could hear.

"Do you know who murdered Mr. Pritchard?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bobby in the same tone, "I do."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know his name. He's sitting——"

"I thought so," interrupted the judge. "Mr. Sheriff," he called sharply. That official approached. "Close all doors," said the judge to him quietly, "and see that no one leaves this room. Mr. Attorney, your witness here is ready to be sworn."

Bobby went through the preliminaries without a clear understanding of them; or, indeed, a definite later recollection. He was deadly in earnest. The crowd did not exist for him. Not the faintest trace of embarrassment confused his utterance, but he got very little forward under the prosecuting attorney's questioning—the matter was too definite in his own mind to permit of his following another's method of getting at it. Finally the judge interposed.

"It's not strictly in my province," said he, "but we are all anxious for the truth. I hope the prosecuting attorney may see the advisability of allowing the boy to tell his own story in his own way. Afterward he will, of course, have full opportunity for cross-questions."

This being agreed to, Bobby went ahead.

"Mr. Kincaid lost his cap, just as he said, and Curly carried it into the woods and dropped it. Another man came along and picked it up and put it on. Then he walked through the thicket and came up with Mr. Pritchard. He knew where Mr. Pritchard was because Mr. Pritchard had just shot his little rifle at a hawk or something. He stabbed Mr. Pritchard, and then walked down hill and climbed up on a stump to look around. He was facing down hill. He saw Mr. Kincaid and Curly way below. Just then his cap was knocked off by another bullet."

"What other bullet?" interposed the prosecution sharply.

"That was just an accident," said Bobby confusedly, "it happened to hit. It wasn't shot at him at all."

"You mean a spent ball from somewhere else? Who shot it? Where did it come from?"

"I'll 'splain that in a minute. Then he ran as fast as he could——"

That was as far as Bobby got for the moment. A slight confusion at one of the doors interrupted him. Almost immediately it died, but before Bobby could resume, the sheriff elbowed his way forward.

"Laughton—you know, that second witness, the fellow who worked for Pritchard—tried to get out. I have him in charge."

"Hold him," said the judge. The sheriff elbowed his way back down the aisle.

"How do you know all this?" began the prosecuting attorney.

"If Mr. Kincaid wore the cap, why isn't his head hurt?" demanded Bobby.

"If the shot was fired by Pritchard, when lying on the ground," explained the attorney, "it would not have scraped."

"But it wasn't," persisted Bobby. "It was fired from down hill, and about thirty feet away. That would hit the man, wouldn't it?" he appealed.

"Certainly."

"Well, is Mr. Kincaid hurt?"

"This, your honour," said the attorney with some impatience, "is beside the mark——"

He was interrupted by a cry from Bobby.