"You do not think—after what I said?"

"Think? Nonsense. No, no. Lindon is too manly for that. Here, I am sure that you have a terrible headache, and you are worn out. Go to bed, and I'll sit up for the young rascal, and have a talk to him when he comes in."

"No, no!" exclaimed Mrs Lavington excitedly; "I do not like you to sit up for him. I will."

"Not you. Too tired out as it is. No, my dear, you shall go to bed, and I will sit up for him."

"Then let neither of us sit up."

"Afraid I shall scold him, eh?"

"I cannot help being afraid of something of the kind, dear."

"Very well, then we will both go, and let Jessie sit up."

The maid was rung for, and entered.

"We are going to bed, Jessie. Master Lindon has not returned yet. You will sit up until he comes in."

"Yes, sir."

The maid left the room, and brother and sister sat looking at each other.

"Did you speak, Josiah?" said Mrs Lavington.

"No; I was only thinking that I do not trust you and you don't trust me."

"What do you mean?" faltered the poor woman, who looked more agitated now.

"You were not going to bed, but to listen for Lindon's return, and were then going to watch whether I left my room to talk to him."

Mrs Lavington was silent.

"Guilty," said Uncle Josiah, smiling. "Come now, fair play. Will you go to your room and promise to stay there till breakfast time to-morrow morning, if I give you my word to do the same?"

"Yes," said the shrinking woman eagerly.

"That's agreed to, then. Good-night, Laura, my dear."

"Good-night, Josiah."

Ten minutes after all was still in the house, but matters did not turn out quite as Uncle Josiah intended. For before he was undressed, a bedroom door was opened very gently, and the creak it gave produced a low ejaculation of dismay.

Then there was five minutes' interval before a slight little figure stole gently downstairs and glided into the kitchen, where round red-faced Jessie was seated in a window, her chair being opposite to what looked like a lady's back, making the most careful bows from time to time, to which the lady made no response, for it was only Jessie's cloak hanging on a peg with her old bonnet just above.

The slight little figure stood in the kitchen doorway listening, and then Jessie seemed to be bowing her head to the fresh comer, who did take some notice of the courtesy, for, crossing the kitchen rapidly, there was a quick sharp whisper.

"Jessie, Jessie!"

No reply.

"Jessie, Jessie!"

"Two new and one stale," said the maid.

"Oh, how tiresome! Jessie, Jessie!"

"Slack baked."

"Jessie!" and this time there was a shake of the maid's shoulder, and she jumped up, looking startled.

"Lor, Miss Kitty, how you frightened me!"

"You were asleep."

"Sleep? Me, miss? That I'm sure I wasn't."

"You were, Jessie, and I heard father tell you to sit up till Cousin Lindon came home."

"Well, that's what I'm a-doin' of, miss, as plain as I can," said Jessie.

She spoke in an ill-used tone, for it had been a busy day consequent upon a certain amount of extra cleaning, but Kitty did not notice it.

"I shall stay till I hear my cousin's knock," she said; "and then run upstairs. I hope he will not be long."

"So do I, Miss Kitty," said the woman with a yawn. "What's made him so late? Is it because of the trouble at the yard?"

"Yes, Jessie; but you must not talk about it."

"But I heerd as Master Don took some money."

"He did not, Jessie!" cried Kitty indignantly. "There isn't a word of truth in it. My Cousin Lindon couldn't have done such a thing. It's all a mistake, and I want to see him come in, poor boy, and tell him that I don't believe it I'll whisper it to him just as he's going up to bed, and it will make him happy, for I know he thinks I have gone against him, and I only made believe that I did."

Snurrrg!

The sound was very gentle, and Kitty did not hear it, for she was looking intently toward the door in the belief that she had heard Don's footstep.

But it was only that of some passer on his way home, and Kitty went on,—

"You mustn't talk about it, Jessie, for it is a great trouble, and aunt is nearly heart-broken, and—"

Snurg-urg!

This time there was so loud and gurgling a sound that Kitty turned sharply upon the maid, who, after emitting a painful snore, made her young mistress the most polite of bows.

"Jessie! You're asleep."

Snurrg! And a bow.

"Oh, Jessie, you're asleep again. How can you be so tiresome?"

Snurrg! Gurgled Jessie again, and Kitty gave an impatient stamp of her little foot.

"How can any one sleep at a time like this?" she half sobbed. "It's too bad, that it is."

Jessie bowed to her politely, and her head went up and down as if it were fixed at the end of a very easy moving spring, but when Kitty reproached her the words had not the slightest effect, and a dull stupid stare was given, of so irritating a nature that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come.

Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls.

Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising.

Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed.

A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still.

Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt?

Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not.



CHAPTER NINE.

A SOCIAL THUNDERBOLT.

"Morning!" said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. "Why, Laura, you have not been to bed."

"Yes," she said sadly. "I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago."

"Glad of it," said her brother bluffly. "That's right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day."

Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there.

"Have—have you seen Don this morning?"

"No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?"

"Yes. Shall I send up for her?"

"No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too."

The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers.

"Shall I send up, Josiah?"

"No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever.

Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse.

Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,—

"Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly."

The maid left the room.

"You did not send a message to Don, Josiah."

"No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out."

Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers.

Then Jessie entered, looking startled.

"If you please, sir—"

"Well, if you please what?"

"Miss Kitty, sir."

"Yes?"

"She's not in her room."

"Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon."

The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously.

At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded.

"What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said.

"Come home, sir?"

"Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?"

"Please, sir, he didn't come home at all."

"What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall.

"Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night."

"And he has not been back?"

"No, sir."

"Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once."

"Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."

Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.

"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie.

"No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night."

"Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?"

"Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night."

"What?"

"Neither has Kitty been to hers."

Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast.

"Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?"

"No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment."

"Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!"

"Yes, sir."

"You did go to sleep, didn't you?"

"Ye-e-e-s, sir!"

"I thought as much, and,"—here tut-tut-tut—"that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?"

This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence.

"Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels.

They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see.

"Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie.

"Did you see Miss Kitty last night?"

"Ye-es, sir."

"Where?"

"She comed into the kitchen, sir."

"After we had gone to bed?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you said nothing just now?"

"No, sir, I didn't like to."

"That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!"

Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room.

"The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return."

"And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington.

"Here, stop! What are you going to do?"

"I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman.

Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself.

"I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things."

"The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely.

"Gone! Gone! My poor boy!"

"Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy."

"But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister.

"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words."

"You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly.

"I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back."

He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door.

"There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is."

Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange.

"Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?"

"Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry."

"If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard."

"Mrs Wimble?"

"Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?"

"Yes, I'll come—no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon."

At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband.

"Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son."

"No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night."

"Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?"

"Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night."

"What, for my nephew?"

"No, sir, for my Jem."

"Lindon—James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true."



CHAPTER TEN.

GONE!

"Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl—I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him."

"Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly.

"I don't know, sir."

"But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband."

"Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally.

"Then why did you scold him?"

"Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir."

"But you think he has run away?"

"Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and—and—he has gone."

"It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident."

"No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go—out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and—and—what shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting.

"Yes, sir, and—and I wish I was dead."

"Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?"

"No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away."

Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle.

"Please ask Master Don what my Jem said."

"Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously.

"What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together."

Uncle Josiah drew a long breath.

"That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone."

"It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back."

Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face.

"You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray—pray fetch them back."

Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look.

But the old man's face only grew more hard.

"I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot."

"But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah."

"Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?"

"No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt."

"Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him."

"Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back."

"Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now."

"What? Oh, brother, don't say that!"

"I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge."

"But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back."

"Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it."

"But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?"

"Go back home and wait."

"But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man."

"Go back home and wait."

"But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?"

"I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?"

There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door.

Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.

"Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah.

"If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you."

"Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?"

Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look.

"Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake."

"Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything—to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false."

"Yes, yes, and you will do so now—Josiah—brother."

"I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THINKING BETTER OF IT.

Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there.

The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then—

The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships.

Jem was the next to break the silence.

"Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?"

"Yes, Jem."

"So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally."

"And no Uncle Josiah, Jem."

"Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?"

"Glorious, Jem."

"Mean to go, Master Don?"

"What, and be a miserable coward? No."

"But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir."

"Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it."

"And you won't go, sir?"

"Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true."

"So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, 'Jem,' I says, 'don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, 'and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas' Don, I'm going to grin and bear it, and some day she'll come round and be as nice as she's nasty now."

"Yes, that's the way to look at it, Jem; but it's a miserable world, isn't it?"

"Well, I arn't seen much on it, Mas' Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! In half an hour I hadn't got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn't the most cheersome o' places when you're dull."

"No, Jem, it isn't. Of course you'll be at the court to-morrow?"

"I suppose so, Mas' Don. And I say they'd better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on 'em straight. Can you fight, Mas' Don?"

"I don't know, Jem. I never tried."

"I can. You don't know what a crack I could give a man. It's my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn't wish to be the man I hit if I did my best."

"You mean your worst, Jem."

"Course I do, Mas' Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I'd make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased."

"And what good would that do, Jem?"

"Not much to him, Mas' Don, because he'd be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don't feel now, and that's cheerful. Never mind, sir, it'll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you're crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you've been sitting here a bit you'll feel like a new man. Mind me smoking a pipe?"

"No, Jem; smoke away."

"Won't have one too, Mas' Don?"

"No, Jem; you know I can't smoke."

"Then here goes for mine," said Jem, taking a little dumpy clay pipe from one pocket and a canvas bag from another, in which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe.

Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself.

"That's your sort, Mas' Don," he said. "Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren't no worse?"

"No, Jem, I am no worse."

"Nothing like coming out when you're red hot, and cooling down. I'm cooled down, and so are you. Come along."

Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them.

"Got a light, mate?" he said.

"Light? Yes," said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear.

"Ay, to be sure," he said; "why don't you take a light from him?"

"Eh? Ah, to be sure," said the sailor. "I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light."

Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don.

"Come on, Jem," he whispered; "make haste."

"Ay? To be sure, my lad. There's nothing to mind though. Only sailors."

As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men.

Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem's face.

"Well?" said that worthy, good-temperedly, "what d'yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? 'Cause I arn't him."

"I don't know so much about that," said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors.

Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker's jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn.

"Come away, Jem, quick!" whispered Don.

"Here, what's your hurry, my lads?" said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. "Come and have a glass of grog."

"No, thank ye," said Jem; "I've got to be home."

"So have we, mate," said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; "and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn't say no."

"I knew it, Jem," whispered Don excitedly. "Officer! Do you hear?"

"What are you whispering about, youngster?" said the man in the pea jacket. "You let him be."

"Good-night," said Jem shortly. "Come on, Mas' Don."

He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest.

"Where are you shovin' to, mate?" growled the man. "Arn't the road wide enough for you?"

"Quiet, my lad," said the officer sharply. "Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog."

"I don't want no grog," said Jem; "and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass."

"Yes, by-and-by," said the officer. "Now then, my lads, sharp."

A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses.

"Here, what are you doing of?" cried Jem sharply.

"Being civil," said one of the men with a laugh. "There, no nonsense. Come quiet."

He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back.

"Now, Mas' Don, run!" shouted Jem.

But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem's command had rushed off in retreat.

A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him.

"Mas' Don! Help, help!" roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,—

"No, no! Mas' Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can."

Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him.

"Here, give him something to keep him quiet," growled a voice.

"No, no; get hold of his hands; that's right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!" cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth.

"You cowards!" Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men.

"Show the light," said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don's face.

"Well, if the boy can fight like that," said the officer, "he shall."

"Let us go," cried Don. "Help! He—"

A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,—

"He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort."

Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,—"Mas' Don, are you there?"

The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,—"Yes; what do you want?"

"Oh, my poor lad!" groaned Jem. "Here, can you come to me and untie this?"

"Jem!"

"Yes."

"What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?"

"Don't ask everything at once, my lad, and I'll try to tell you."

"Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?"

"Yes, my lad," groaned Jem, "we're in a big cellar."

"Can't you find the candle?" said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. "There's a flint and steel on the ledge over the door."

"Is there, my lad? I didn't know it," muttered Jem. "Jem, are you there?"

"Yes, yes, my lad, I'm here."

"Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds."

"Oh, my poor dear lad!"

"Eh? What do you mean? You're playing tricks, Jem, and it's too bad. Get a light."

"My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas' Don," groaned Jem, "and we're pitched down here in a cellar."

"What?"

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don't mind for myself," groaned Jem, in his despair, "but what will she do?"

"Jem!"

"I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn't mean it, Mas' Don; I didn't mean it. What will my Sally do?"

"Jem, are you mad?" shouted Don. "This darkness—this cellar. It's all black, and I can't think; my head aches, and it's all strange. Don't play tricks. Try and open the door and let's go."

"What, don't you know what it all means, Mas' Don?" groaned Jem.

"No, I don't seem as if I could think. What does it mean?"

"Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang's got us, and unless we can let 'em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea."

"What?"

The light had come—the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington's brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand.

"Jem," he said. "Jem! Why don't you speak?"

There was no answer, for it was poor Jem's turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

PRISONERS.

"What's the matter?" cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness.

Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep.

As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse.

He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners.

"Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you."

He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly.

"All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you."

He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand.

"Been rather rough with this one, my lads."

"Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too."

"Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two."

Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily.

"Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage."

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried the bluff man.

"It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men."

"Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue."

"Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely.

"No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don.

The men laughed.

"You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished."

"Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm.

"You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once."

"Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, 'short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship Great Briton, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you."

"You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir."

"What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly."

"Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him."

Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard.

"Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king."

"You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light.

"Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out.

"Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!"

"How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?"

The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold.

"Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?"

"I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly.

"Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that."

He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem.

"You'll do," he said. "I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow."

He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked.

"The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!"

"Yes, Mas' Don."

"They won't let us go."

"No, Mas' Don, that they won't."

"I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this."

"I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance."

"But what are we to do?"

"I d'know, sir."

"We must let my uncle know at once."

"Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa."

"Don't be stupid. What's the good?"

"Not a bit, sir."

"But my uncle—my mother, what will they think?"

"I'll tell yer, sir."

"Yes?"

"They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates."

"Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?"

"I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away."

"Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open.

"Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly—"oh, how my head do ache!—and now you've got your chance."

"But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?"

"Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper."

"Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her."

"Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy."

"And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I—I did half think of going away."

"Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her."

"And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool—fool—fool!"

"What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!"

"Jem, we must escape."

"Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache."

"They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up."

"What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!"

"Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?"

"Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight."

"Can't you stand, Jem?"

"Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair."

"You'll be better soon."

"Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me."

"Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away."

"No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that."

"Then what shall we do?"

"Try to get out, sir, of course."

"Can you walk?"

"Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?"

"Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked."

"Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It is dark."

"This way, Jem. Your hand."

"All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back."

"That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall."

There was a rustling noise and then a rattle.

"Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle."

Flip!

"There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?"

"Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let's go all round the place, perhaps there's another way out."

"All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn't be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o' the night."

"Now I am touching the wall, Jem," said Don. "I'm going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?"

"Only you speaking, my lad."

"Come along then."

"All right, Mas' Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it."

Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation.

"It's all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar."

"Mind how you go, sir. Steady."

"Yes, but make haste."

"There's a door," whispered Don. "Loose my hand."

He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression.

"It's no use, Jem. Let's try the other door."

"I don't believe there are no other door," said Jem. "That's the way out."

"No, no; the way out is on the other side."

"This here is t'other side," said Jem, "only we arn't over there now."

"I'm sure it can't be."

"And I'm sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn't more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can't find yourself again."

"But the door where the men went out is over there."

"Yah! That it arn't," cried Jem. "Don't throw your fisties about that how. That's my nose."

"I'm very sorry, Jem. I did not mean—"

"Course you didn't, but that's what I said. When you're in the dark you don't know where you are, nor where any one else is."

"Let's try down that other side, and I'll show you that you are wrong."

"Can't show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun' it?"

"No, not yet," said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started.

"No, not yet," grumbled Jem. "Nor more you won't if you go on for ever."

"I'm afraid you're right, Jem."

"I'm right, and I arn't afraid," said Jem; "leastwise, save that my head's going on aching for ever."

Don felt all round the cellar again, and then heaved a sigh.

"Yes; there's only one door, Jem. Could we break it down?"

"I could if I'd some of the cooper's tools," said Jem, quietly; "but you can't break strong doors with your fisties, and you can't get out of brick cellars with your teeth."

"Of course, we're underground."

"Ay! No doubt about that, Mas' Don."

"Let's knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message."

Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor.

"I like that, Mas' Don. 'Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall."

"Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem," said Don, angrily. "It's thicker than mine."

There was silence after this.

"He's sulky because of what I've said," thought Don.

"Oh, my poor head!" thought Jem. "How it do ache!"

Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back.

Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life.

A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief?

As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment.

"Oh! If I had only been a little wiser," thought Don, "how much happier I might have been."

Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem's injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,—

"Now where did I put them keys?"

"Jem!"

"Eh? All right, Sally. 'Tarn't daylight yet."

"Jem, my lad, don't you know where you are?"

"Don't I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas' Don?"

"Yes, Jem. How are you?"

"Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas' Don, and—"

"Hist! Here they come," cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. "Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?"

"No, Mas' Don, not now. My head's all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs."

"Oh!" ejaculated Don despairingly.

"But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door's open. That's how to get away."

Cling! clang!

Two bolts were shot back and a flood—or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood—of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor.

A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,—

"That's the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they'll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty's Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober."

Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man's words had swept all that away.

Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm.

"You are not going to keep us, sir?" he said quietly. "My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem—our man, has a young wife."

"No, no; can't listen to you, my lad," said the bluff man; "it's very hard, I know, but the king's ships must be manned—and boyed," he added with a laugh.

"But my mother?"

"Yes, I'm sorry for your mother, but you're too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap's young wife will have to wait till he comes back."

"But you will let me send a message to them at home?"

"To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don't give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long."

He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused.

"Not very nice for a lad like you," he said, not unkindly. "Here, bring these two out, my lads; we'll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along."

A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor.

"Where shall we put 'em, sir?" said a sailor.

"Top floor and make fast," said the bluff man.

"But you will let me send word home?" began Don.

"I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons," said the man sternly. "Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!—"

There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear.

The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next.

"There's a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads," said the bluff man. "There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp's the word."

They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head.

The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away.

"This is a happy sort o' life, Mas' Don," said Jem, breaking the silence. "What's to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!"

"I don't know, Jem," said Don despondently. "It's enough to make one wish one was dead."

"Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It's bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?"

"I don't know, Jem."

"Well, let's look. I want to lie down and have a sleep."

"Sleep? At a time like this!"

"Why not, sir? I'm half asleep now. Can't do anything better as I see."

"Jem," said Don passionately, "we're being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear."

"But we must bear it, sir. That's what you've got to do when you're punished. Don't take on, sir. P'r'aps, it won't seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about."

Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account.

"Justly punished," he kept muttering; "justly punished, and now it is too late—too late."

"Here y'are, Mas' Don," cried Jem; "lots of 'em, and I can't help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off."

Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks.

"There!" Jem cried at last; "that's about it. Now, Mas' Don, I've made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down."

"No, Jem, no; I'm not sleepy."

"Then I must," muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake.

Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them.

He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem's heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured.

"But then he has not so much on his mind as I have," thought Don. "Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HOW TO ESCAPE?

Rumble! Bump!

Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor.

What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks?

Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep.

Crash!

That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door.

As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair.

"Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?"

Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud flap, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange.

"What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I—where—was—to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!"

"Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons."

He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.

"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."

"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?"

"Do I know? Why, didn't I help?"

"Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea."

"Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?"

"That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away."

"That all?"

"Yes, that's all. Will you go?"

"Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?"

"Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat."

"Better. Keep you going, my lad."

"Will you take my message?"

"No, I won't."

"You shall have two guineas."

"Where are they?"

"My mother will gladly give them to you."

"Dessay she will."

"And you will go?"

"Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?"

"I? No. I know nothing about the sea."

"You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs."

"You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily.

"Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched."

"Flogged?"

"That's it."

"For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?"

"For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won't hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me."

"Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?" came from below.

"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the sailor.

"Wasn't that the man who had us shut up here?" cried Don.

"To be sure: Bosun Jones," said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend.

"You'll take my message?"

"Nay, not I," said the man, shaking his head. "There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads."

Bang!

The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare.

"Mornin', Mas' Don," he said. "Rum game, arn't it?"

"Do you think he'll take my message, Jem?"

"Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o' that."

"Will they take us aboard ship?"

"Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle's yard 'll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o' one o' the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day."

"Jem, we must escape them."

"All right, Mas' Don, sir. 'Arter breakfast."

"Breakfast? Who is to eat breakfast?"

"I am, sir. Feels as if it would do me good."

"But we must escape, Jem—escape."

"Yes, sir; that's right," said Jem, taking off the cup, and sniffing at the jug. "Coffee, sir. Got pretty well knocked about last night, and I'm as sore this morning as if they'd been rolling casks all over me. But a man must eat."

"Eat then, and drink then, for goodness' sake," cried Don impatiently.

"Thankye, sir," said Jem; and he poured out a cup of steaming coffee, sipped it, sipped again, took three or four mouthfuls of bread and butter, and then drained the cup.

"Mas' Don!" he cried, "it's lovely. Do have a cup. Make you see clear."

As he spoke he refilled the mug and handed it to Don, who took it mechanically, and placed it to his lips, one drop suggesting another till he had finished the cup.

"Now a bit o' bread and butter, Mas' Don?"

Don shook his head, but took the top piece, and began mechanically to eat, while Jem partook of another cup, there being a liberal allowance of some three pints.

"That's the way, sir. Wonderful what a difference breakfuss makes in a man. Eat away, sir; and if they don't look out we'll give them press-gang."

"Yes, but how, Jem? How?"

"Lots o' ways, sir. We'll get away, for one thing, or fasten that there trap-door down; and then they'll be the prisoners, not us. 'Nother cup, sir? Go on with the bread and butter. I say, sir, do I look lively?"

"Lively?"

"I mean much knocked about? My face feels as if the skin was too tight, and as if I couldn't get on my hat."

"It does not matter, Jem," said Don, quietly. "You have no hat."

"More I haven't. I remember feeling it come off, and it wasn't half wore out. Have some more coffee, Mas' Don. 'Tarnt so good as my Sally makes. I'd forgot all about her just then. Wonder whether she's eating her breakfast?"

Don sighed and went on eating. He was horribly low-spirited, but his youthful appetite once started, he felt the need of food, and kept on in silence, passing and receiving the cup till all was gone.

"That job's done," said Jem, placing the jug on the plate, and the cup in the mouth of the jug. "Now then, I'm ready, Mas' Don. You said escape, didn't you, sir?"

"Yes. What shall we do?"

"Well, we can't go down that way, sir, because the trap-door's bolted."

"There is the window, Jem."

"Skylights, you mean, sir," said Jem, looking up at the sloping panes in the roof. "Well, let's have a look. Will you get a-top o' my shoulders, or shall I get a-top o' yourn?"

"I couldn't bear you, Jem."

"Then up you gets, my lad, like the tumblers do at the fair."

It seemed easy enough to get up and stand on the sturdy fellow's shoulders, but upon putting it to the test, Don found it very hard, and after a couple of failures he gave up, and they stood together looking up at the sloping window, which was far beyond their reach.

"Dessay it's fastened, so that we couldn't open it," said Jem.

"The fox said the grapes were sour when he could not get at them, Jem."

"That's true, Mas' Don. Well, how are we to get up?"

They looked round the loft, but, with the exception of the old sacking lying at one end, the place was bare.

"Here, come to the end, Jem, and let me have another try," said Don.

"Right, sir; come on," cried Jem; and going right to the end of the loft, he bent his body a little and leaned his hands against the wall.

This simplified matters.

"Stand fast, Jem," cried Don, and taking a spring, he landed upon his companion's broad back, leap-frog fashion, but only to jump off again.

"What's the matter, Mas' Don?"

"Only going to take off my shoes."

"Ah, 'twill be better. I didn't grumble before, but you did hurt, sir."

Don slipped off his shoes, uttered a word or two of warning, and once more mounted on Jem's back. It was easy then to get into a kneeling, and then to a standing, position, the wall being at hand to steady him.

"That's your sort, Mas' Don. Now hold fast, and step up on to my shoulders as I rise myself up; that's the way," he continued, slowly straightening himself, and placing his hands behind Don's legs, as he stood up, steadily, facing the wall.

"What next, Jem?"

"Next, sir? Why, I'm going to walk slowly back under the window, for you to try and open it, and look out and see where we are. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Hold tight, sir."

"But there's nothing to hold by, Jem, when you move away."

"Then you must stand fast, sir, and I'll balance you like. I can do it."

Don drew a long breath, and felt no faith, for as soon as Jem moved steadily from the wall, his ability in balancing was not great.

"Stand firm, sir. I've got you," he said.

"Am I too heavy, Jem?"

"Heavy? No, sir; I could carry two on you. Stand fast; 'tarn't far. Stand fast. That's your sort. Stand—oh!"

Everything depended upon him, and poor Jem did his best; but after three or four steps Don felt that he was going, and to save himself from a fall he tried to jump lightly down.

This would have been easy enough had not Jem been so earnest. He, too, felt that it was all wrong, and to save his companion, he tightened his hold of the calves of Don's legs as the lad stood erect on his shoulders.

The consequence was that he gave Don sufficient check as he leaped to throw him off his balance; and in his effort to save him, Jem lost his own, and both came down with a crash and sat up and rubbed and looked at each other.

"Arn't hurt, are you, Mas' Don?"

"Not hurt?" grumbled Don. "I am hurt horribly."

"I'm very sorry, sir; so am I. But I arn't broke nowhere! Are you?"

"Broken? No!" said Don rising. "There, let's try again."

"To be sure, sir. Come, I like that."

"Look here, Jem. When you straighten up, let me steady myself with my hands on the sloping ceiling there; now try."

The former process was gone through, after listening to find all silent below; and Don stood erect once more, supporting himself by the wall.

"Now edge round gently, Jem. That's right."

Jem obeyed, and by progressing very slowly, they got to within about ten feet of the window, which Don saw that he could reach easily, when the balance was lost once more.

"Don't hold, Jem!" cried Don; and he leaped backwards, to come down all right this time.

By no means discouraged, they went back to the end; and this time, by progressing more slowly, the window was reached, and, to their great delight, Don found that it was fastened inside, opening outwards by means of a couple of hinges at the highest end, and provided with a ratchet, to keep it open to any distance required.

"Can you bear me if I try to open it, Jem?"

"Can I? Ah!"

Jem was a true bearer, standing as fast as a small elephant as Don opened the window, and then supporting himself by a beam which ran across the opening, thrust out his head and surveyed the exterior.

He was not long in making out their position—in the top floor of a warehouse, the roof sloping, so that escape along it was impossible, while facing him was the blank wall of a higher building, evidently on the other side of a narrow alley. Don looked to right, but there was no means of making their position known so as to ask for help. To the left he was no better off, and seeing that the place had been well chosen as a temporary lock-up for the impressed men, Don prepared to descend.

"Better shut the window fust, Mas' Don."

The suggestion was taken, and then Don leaped down and faced his fellow-prisoner, repeating the information he had roughly communicated before.

"Faces a alley, eh?" said Jem. "Can't we go along the roof."

"I don't believe a cat could go in safety, Jem."

"Well, we aren't cats, Mas' Don, are we? Faces a alley, eh? Wasn't there no windows opposit'?"

"Nothing but a blank wall."

"Well, it's all right, Mas' Don. We'd better set to work. Only wants a rope with one end fastened in here, and then we could slide down."

"Yes," said Don gloomily; "the window is unfastened, and the way clear, but where's the rope?"

"There," said Jem, and he pointed to the end of the loft.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WORKING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

"There. Those sacks?"

"That's it, Mas' Don. I've got my knife. You got yourn?"

"Yes."

"Then here goes, then, to unravel them sacks till we've got enough to make a rope. This loft's a capital place to twist him. It's all right, sir, only help me work away, and to-night we'll be safe home."

"To-night, Jem? Not before?"

"Why, we sha'n't have the rope ready; and if we had, it would be no use to try by daylight. No, sir; we must wait till it's dark, and work away. If we hear any one coming we can hide the rope under the other sacks; so come on."

They seated themselves at the end of the loft, and worked away rapidly unravelling the sacking and rolling the yarn up into balls, each of which was hidden as soon as it became of any size.

As the hours went on, and they were not interrupted, the dread increased that they might be summoned to descend as prisoners before they had completed their work; but Jem's rough common sense soon suggested that this was not likely to be the case.

"Not afore night, Mas' Don," he said. "They won't take us aboard in the day. We're smuggled goods, we are; and if they don't mind, we shall be too many for them. 'Nother hour, and I shall begin to twist up our rope."

About midday the same sailor came up and brought them some bread and meat.

"That's right, my lads," he said. "You're taking it sensible, and that's the best way. If we've any luck to-night, you'll go aboard afore morning. There, I mustn't stop."

He hurried down, closing and fastening the trap, and Jem pointed to the food.

"Eat away, Mas' Don, and work same time. Strikes me we sha'n't go aboard afore close upon daylight, for they've got us all shut up here snug, so as no one shall know, and they don't dare take us away while people can see. Strikes me they won't get all the men aboard this time, eh, Mas' Don?"

"Not if we can prevent it," said Don, with his hand upon the rough piece of sacking which covered his share of the work. "Think it's safe to begin again?"

"Ay! Go on. Little at a time, my lad, and be ready to hide it as soon as you hears a step."

In spite of their trouble, they ate with a fair appetite, sharpened perhaps by the hope of escape, and the knowledge that they must not be faint and weak at the last moment.

The meal was finished, and all remaining silent, they worked on unravelling the sacking, and rolling up the yarn, Don thinking of home, and Jem whistling softly a doleful air.

"If we don't get away, Mas' Don," he said, after a pause, "and they take us aboard ship and make sailors of us—"

"Don't talk like that, Jem! We must—we will get away."

"Oh, yes, it's all very well to talk, Mas' Don, but it's as well to be prepared for the worst. Like as not we sha'n't get away, and then we shall go aboard, be made sailors, and have to fight the French."

"I shall not believe that, Jem, till it takes place."

"I shall, my lad, and I hope when I'm far away as your mother, as is a reg'lar angel, will do what's right by my Sally, as is a married woman, but only a silly girl after all, as says and does things without thinking what they mean. I was horrid stupid to take so much notice of all she said, and all through that I'm here."

"Haven't we got enough ready, Jem?" said Don, impatiently, for his companion's words troubled him. They seemed to fit his own case.

"Yes, I should think that will do now, sir, so let's begin and twist up a rope. We sha'n't want it very thick."

"But we shall want it very strong, Jem."

"Here goes, then, to make it," said Jem, taking the balls of yarn, knotting the ends together, and then taking a large piece of sack and placing it beside him.

"To cover up the stuff if we hear any one coming, my lad. Now then, you pay out, and I'll twist. Mustn't get the yarn tangled."

Don set to work earnestly, and watched his companion, who cleverly twisted away at the gathered-up yarn, and then rolled his work up into a ball.

The work was clumsy, but effective, and in a short time he had laid up a few yards of a very respectable line, which seemed quite capable of bearing them singly.

Foot by foot the line lengthened, and the balls of yarn grew less, when just in the middle of their task Don made a dash at Jem, and threw down the yarn.

"Here, what yer doing? You'll get everything in a tangle, sir."

"Hush! Some one coming."

"I can't hear him."

"There is, I tell you. Listen!"

Jem held his head on one side like a magpie, and then shook it.

"Nobody," he said; but hardly had he said the words than he dabbed the rope under him, and seized upon the yarn, threw some of the old sacks upon it, and then laid his hand on Don's shoulder, just as the trap-door was raised softly a few inches, and a pair of eyes appeared at the broad crack.

Then the trap made a creaking noise, and a strange sailor came up, to find Jem seated on the floor tailor-fashion, and Don lying upon his face, with his arms crossed beneath his forehead, and some of the old sacking beneath him.

The man came up slowly, and laid the trap back in a careful way, as if to avoid making a noise, and then, after a furtive look at Jem, who gave him a sturdy stare in return, he stood leaning over the opening and listening.

Footsteps were heard directly after, and a familiar voice gave some order. Directly after the bluff-looking man with whom they had had so much dealing stepped up into the loft.

"Well, my lads," he said, "how are the sore places?"

Jem did not answer.

"Sulky, eh? Ah, you'll soon get over that. Now, my boy, let's have a look at you."

He gave Don a clap on the shoulder, and the lad started up as if from sleep, and stared at the fresh comer.

"Won't do," said the bluff man, laughing. "Men don't wake up from sleep like that. Ah! Of course: now you are turning red in the face. Didn't want to speak to me, eh? Well, you are all right, I see."

Don did not attempt to rise from where he half sat, half lay, and the man gave a sharp look round, letting his eyes rest; for a few moments upon the window, and then turning them curiously upon the old sacking.

To Don's horror he approached and picked up a piece close to that which served for a couch.

"How came all this here?" he said sharply.

"Old stuff, sir. Been used for the bales o' 'bacco, I s'pose," said the furtive-looking man.

"Humph. And so you have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look."

The perspiration stood on Don's forehead.

"Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!"

He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below.

"Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door.

"Wants Mr Jones," came up.

"Luff wants you, sir," said the man.

"Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man."

He nodded and crossed to the trap.

"Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.—Can't expect a bosun to break his neck."

He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing.

"Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight.

"Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a flap, and shut him, as it were, in a box.

"Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine."

"Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens."

"I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand.

"Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered.

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?"

Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it.

"One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening.

"Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door.

It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot.

"They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and let's get the rope done."

They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road—one peck and two looks out for danger.

Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight.

He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod.

Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing— it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain.

In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark.

"Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?"

"Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done."

"But the rope must be long enough now."

"Think so, sir?"

"Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way."

"What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two."

"Hist! Quick!"

They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners.

"Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?"

"Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on."

"Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem.

"Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate."

Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful labour over the rope thrown away! And he cast a despairing look at Jem.

"Never mind, my lad," whispered the latter. "More chances than one."

"Now then! No whispering. Come along!" shouted the sinister-looking man, fiercely. "Come on down. Bring 'em along."

Don cast another despairing look at Jem, and then marched slowly toward the opening in the floor.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.

Just as the prisoners reached the trap-door a voice came from below.

"Hold hard there, my lads. Bosun Jones has been down to the others, and he says these here may stop where they are."

"What for?"

"Oh, one o' the four chaps we brought in last night's half wild, and been running amuck. Come on down."

"Yah!" growled the sinister sailor, scowling at Jem, as if there were some old enmity between them.

"I say, don't," said Jem mockingly. "You'll spoil your good looks. Say, does he always look as handsome as that?"

The man doubled his fist, and made a sharp blow at Jem, and seemed surprised at the result; for Jem dodged, and retorted, planting his fist in the fellow's chest, and sending him staggering back.

The man's eyes blazed as he recovered himself, and rushed at Jem like a bull-dog.

Obeying his first impulse, Don, who had never struck a blow in anger since he left school, forgot fair play for the moment, and doubled his fists to help Jem.

"No, no, Mas' Don; I can tackle him," cried Jem; "and I feel as if I should like to now."

But there was to be no encounter, for a couple of the other sailors seized their messmate, and forced him to the trap-door, growling and threatening all manner of evil to the sturdy little prisoner, who was standing on his defence.

"No, no, mate," said the biggest and strongest of the party; "it's like hitting a man as is down. Come on."

There was another struggle, but the brute was half thrust to the ladder, and directly after the trap was closed again, and the bolt shot.

"Well, I never felt so much like fighting before—leastwise not since I thrashed old Mike behind the barrel stack in the yard," said Jem, resuming his coat, which he had thrown off.

"Did you fight Mike in the yard one day?" said Don wonderingly. "Why, Jem, I remember; that's when you had such a dreadful black eye."

"That's right, my lad."

"And pretended you fell down the ladder out of floor number six."

"That's right again, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning.

"Then that was a lie?"

"Well, I don't know 'bout it's being a lie, my lad. P'r'aps you might call it a kind of a sort of a fib."

"Fib? It was an untruth."

"Well, but don't you see, it would have looked so bad to say, 'I got that eye a-fighting?' and it was only a little while 'fore I was married. What would my Sally ha' said if she know'd I fought our Mike?"

"Why, of course; I remember now, Mike was ill in bed for a week at the same time."

"That's so, Mas' Don," said Jem, chuckling; "and he was werry ill. You see, he come to the yard to work, after you'd begged him on, and he was drunk as a fiddler—not as ever I see a fiddler that way. And then, i'stead o' doing his work, he was nasty, and began cussing. He cussed everything, from the barrow and truck right up to your uncle, whose money he took, and then he began cussing o' you, Mas' Don; and I told him he ought to be ashamed of hisself for cussing the young gent as got him work; and no sooner had I said that than I found myself sitting in a puddle, with my nose bleeding."

"Well?" said Don, who was deeply interested.

"Well, Mas' Don, that's all."

"No, it isn't, Jem; you say you fought Mike."

"Well, I s'pose I did, Mas' Don."

"'Suppose you did'?"

"Yes; I only recklect feeling wild because my clean shirt and necktie was all in a mess. I don't recklect any more—only washing my sore knuckles at the pump, and holding a half hun'erd weight up again my eye."

"But Mike stopped away from work for a week."

"Yes, Mas' Don. He got hisself a good deal hurt somehow."

"You mean you hurt him?"

"Dunno, Mas' Don. S'pose I did, but I don't 'member nothing about it. And now look here, sir; seems to me that in half-hour's time it'll be quite dark enough to start; and if I'd got five guineas, I'd give 'em for five big screws, and the use of a gimlet and driver."

"What for?"

"To fasten down that there trap."

"It would be no good, Jem; because if they found the trap fast, they'd be on the watch for us outside."

"Dessay you're right, sir. Well, what do you say? Shall we begin now, or wait?"

Don looked up at the fast darkening skylight, and then, after a moment's hesitation,—

"Let's begin now, Jem. It will take some time."

"That's right, Mas' Don; so here goes, and good luck to us. It means home, and your mother, and my Sally; or going to fight the French."

"And we don't want to be obliged to fight without we like, Jem."

"That's true," said Jem; and going quickly to the trap, he laid his ear to the crack and listened.

"All right, my lad. Have it out," he said; and the sacks were cast aside, and the rope withdrawn. "Will it bear us, Jem?"

"I'm going to try first, and if it'll bear me it'll bear you."

"But you can't get up there."

"No, but you can, my lad; and when you're there you can fasten the rope to that cross-bar, and then I can soon be with you. Ready?"

"Wait till I've got off my shoes."

"That's right; stick 'em in your pockets, my lad. Now then, ready?"

Don signified his readiness. Jem laid him a back up at the end wall. Don mounted, and then jumped down again.

"What's the matter?"

"I haven't got the rope."

"My: what a head I have!" cried Jem, as Don tightly knotted the rope about his waist; and then, mounting on his companion's back once more, was borne very slowly, steadying himself by the sloping roof, till the window was reached.

"Hold fast, Jem."

"Right it is, my lad."

There was a clicking of the iron fastening, the window was thrust up higher and higher, till it was to the full extent of the ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight.

"Can't you open it more?" said Jem.

"No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up."

"Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go."

Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion.

"All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!"

Bang! crash! jingle!

"Oh, Mas' Don!"

"I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten."

For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below.

There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound.

"Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper.

"I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly.

They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine.

"Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don."

"Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?"

"I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?"

"No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam.