"So soon!" cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment before so bright.

"Yes, the sooner the better for the little one's sake," replied Mr. Scott, gravely.

"You've been mighty good to me—an' to Nan," said the boy, simply, and then he went away.

He walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose Nan and Little Brother out of his life even for a few weeks. His way led him across the Common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. It was surely Carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across the greensward to the street beyond. He did not notice Theo's approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of him.

"Hold on, Carrots—don't clear out. I want to tell you something," cried Theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve.

Carrots looked at him suspiciously. "D'know what yer got ter say ter me," he growled.

"Sit down here, an' I'll tell ye."

Theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment's hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to "cut and run" at a moment's notice.

"You look's if you were down on your luck," began Theo, with a glance at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other.

"'Course—I'm always down on my luck," responded Carrots, in a tone that implied, "what business is that of yours?"

"Sellin' papers now?"

"Yes, but a feller can't make a livin' out o' that. There's too many kids in the business, an' folks'll buy o' the kids ev'ry time, 'n' give us big fellers the go-by," Carrots said, in a gloomy tone.

"That's so. The little chaps always sell most," assented Theodore. "Why don't you get into some other business, Carrots?"

"Can't—'cause my money's all tied up in railroad stock," retorted Carrots, with bitter sarcasm.

"Carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on Jim Hunt the other day?" asked Theodore, suddenly.

Carrots grinned. "Hunt's a fool," he answered, "else he wouldn't 'a' give me a chance ter work him so slick."

"Well, I don't think you'll play it on him again. I think you were the fool, Carrots, for you know well enough you can't get such good stuff anywhere else for your money, an' now ye can't go to my stand."

"Got it 'thout money that time," chuckled Carrots, impudently, but still keeping a sharp eye on his companion.

Theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly, "What's the trouble with you, Carrots? Are you too lazy to work, or what?"

The boy's eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, "See here, Tode Bryan—what ye pokin' yer nose int' my business for, anyhow?"

"'Cause I can put you in the way of earnin' honest money if you're willin' to do honest work."

"What sort o' work?" Carrots inquired, suspiciously.

"I'll tell ye 'bout it when I'm sure you're ready to take hold of it, an' not before. See here, Carrots, I've seen you lately loafin' 'round with some o' the meanest fellers in this town, an' if you don't keep away from them you'll find yourself where some of 'em have been a'ready—behind the bars. I mean well by ye, an' if you make up your mind to be a man instead of a tramp an' a loafer, you can come to me, an' I'll give ye a start. Jim Hunt'll tell ye where to find me."

The night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already lighted, and seeing this, Theodore started up, adding, "It's later'n I thought. I must be off," and he hurried away, leaving Carrots looking after him in a much bewildered state of mind.

Theodore found Nan sitting by the window in the dark. She had rocked the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that seemed now so like a beautiful dream. She lighted her lamp when Theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. He did not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused and said, anxiously,

"You aren't sick, are you, Theo?"

"No," he replied, gravely, "an' Nan, I'm real glad you're goin' to such a nice place." But though he spoke earnestly, there was in his voice a ring of pain that Nan detected instantly, and guessed its cause.

"I'm going to miss you dreadfully, Theo," she said, quickly, "and I don't know what Little Brother will do without you. That's the one thing about it that I don't like—to think of you all alone here with no place to stay evenings."

"Mr. Scott says I can have a room where he lives—at Mrs. Rawson's," answered Theodore. "It's a fine room—bigger'n this, an' it's got checked straw carpet an' three windows."

"Oh, Theo, how glad I am!" cried the girl, delightedly. "That's just splendid. Don't you like it?" she added, as the boy still sat with serious eyes fixed on the floor.

"Like it? The room you mean? Oh yes, it's a grand room, but I don't think I'll go there," he answered, slowly.

The gladness died out of Nan's face. "Oh, Theo, why not?" she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone.

He answered again, slowly, "I think I shall stay here an' take this room o' yours 'stead o' my little one."

"This is ever so much better than yours, of course, an' if you do that you can keep my furniture, and I s'pose you'd be comfortable, but 'twould be lonesome all the same, and I shouldn't think you'd like it half so well as being with Mr. Scott."

"'Course I wouldn't like it half nor quarter so well, Nan, but this is what I've been thinkin'. You know there's a good many boys in these two houses that don't have no place to stay evenin's, 'cept the streets, an' I was thinkin' as I came home to-night, how fine 'twould be if there was a room where they could come an' read an' play games an' talk, kind of a boys' club room, don't ye know, like the one Mr. Scott was tellin' 'bout they're havin' in some places. I think he'll help me get some books an' papers an' games, an' maybe he'll come an' give us a talk sometimes. It would be grand for fellers like Jimmy Hunt that ain't bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets every evenin'."

"Theo, I think it's a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such a room for the girls. They need it even more than the boys do." Nan hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, "Theo, I'm proud of you."

Theodore's face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at her. "Proud—of me?" he gasped. "I'd like to know what for."

"Well, never mind what for, but I want to say, Theo, what I've thought ever so many times lately. When I first knew you, you were good to Little Brother and me, so good that I can never forget it, but you weren't"—

"I was meaner'n dirt," interposed the boy, sorrowfully.

"No, but you'd never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help you, and I used to hate to have you touch Little Brother, because I thought you were not good."

"I wasn't," put in Theodore, sadly.

"But since you came back from the bishop's you've been so different, and it seems to me you're always trying to help somebody now. Theo—if Little Brother lives, I hope he'll be like you."

Theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. "Like me. Little Brother like me," he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour mounting in his cheeks. Then he arose and walked over to the bed where the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the bedclothes. The soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist forehead, but the little face looked waxen white.

Theodore stood for a moment looking down at the baby, then suddenly he stooped and kissed the outstretched hand, and then without another word he went away.

Nan's eyes were full of tears as she looked after him.

"How he does love Little Brother," she thought. "He's going to miss him awfully."

Monday was a busy day for Mrs. Rawson. She had engaged a seamstress to finish off Nan's dresses, and having seen the woman settled to her work, she set off herself for the tenement house, a boy going with her to carry a small valise.

She found Nan busy baking bread. The place was very warm and the girl looked flushed and tired. Mrs. Hunt had carried the baby off to her cooler rooms.

"Nan, child, you've not taken up the cooking again?" exclaimed Mrs. Rawson.

"I had to do some—not very much," replied the girl, gently.

"But, my dear, I thought you understood that we didn't want you to do this any more."

Nan only smiled as she set the last loaf in the oven.

The lady went on, "Nan—we want you to go away to-morrow."

Nan looked up with startled eyes. "So soon!" she exclaimed as Theodore had done.

"Why should there be any delay about it? Every day that you stay here is so much actual loss to you and to the baby, too," added Mrs. Rawson.

With a bewildered air Nan dropped into a chair, saying, hesitatingly,

"But how can I get ready to go to-morrow?"

"Easily enough, if you let the cooking go. I was wondering as I came along what you would do with your furniture."

To Mrs. Rawson's eyes the few poor bits of furniture looked worthless enough, but she realised that it would seem quite otherwise to the girl who had bought them with her own hard earnings.

But now Nan looked up with shining eyes and in eager words told of Theodore's plan and the lady's face brightened as she listened.

"It's a fine plan," she replied, heartily, "and it means a deal for such a boy as Theodore to have thought of it."

"And when he might have gone to your house, too," added Nan, softly. "Mrs. Rawson, he'll be very lonely when Little Brother is gone."

"Yes, he'll miss you both sadly, but Nan, you mustn't worry about Theodore. Mr. Scott loves the boy and will look out for him, you may be sure of that. But now we must talk about your journey. I've brought the things that I thought you would need on the way, and I'd like you to try on this dress."

She lifted the pretty wool suit from the valise as she spoke, and Nan began to take off her faded calico. The colour rose in her face as she did so, for she hated to have Mrs. Rawson see her poor under garments, but the lady seemed not to notice, as she chatted away about the dress.

"Fits you beautifully. I was sure it would, for I had all the measurements. I don't believe you will need to carry many of the things you have, for there are plenty of the new ones," she said. "I put into this little valise everything that will be needed for the journey, and the other things can go with mine."

Nan looked up quickly, crying out joyfully, "Oh, Mrs. Rawson, are you going with us?"

"To be sure. Did you suppose I meant for you to travel alone with a sick baby? I'm going to stay a week."

"That's lovely!" exclaimed the girl, with a sigh of relief. "I did dread to go among entire strangers alone."

"Mrs. Hyde won't be a stranger two minutes after you meet her. You couldn't help loving her if you should try. Now then, let me see. You are to be ready at half past nine to-morrow. The train goes at 10:15. I'll stop here for you. Now, child, don't work any more to-day. Just rest so that you can enjoy the journey. Oh, there's one thing I came near forgetting—shoes. Those will have to be fitted. Can you come with me now and get them?"

"Yes, if Mrs. Hunt can see to my baking," Nan replied.

Mrs. Hunt was very ready to do so, and Nan and her new friend were soon in a car on their way to the shoe store.

When she returned to her room alone, the girl took out the pretty serviceable garments from the valise and examined them all with mingled pain and pleasure. It was a delight to her to have once more such clothing as other girls wore, but to receive them from strangers, even such kind strangers as Mrs. Rawson and the girls, hurt Nan more than a little. But she did not feel quite the same about the dainty garments for her little brother. Over those her eyes shone with satisfaction. She could not resist the desire to see how he would look in them, and when he was dressed she carried him in for Mrs. Hunt to admire, and the two praised and petted the little fellow to their hearts' content.

Theodore had looked forward to a quiet evening with Nan and the baby—that last evening that they were to spend together for so long—but it proved to be anything but a quiet one. It had leaked out that Nan was going away, and all through the evening the women and girls in the house were coming to say "good-bye." Nan had not expected this, for she had never had much to do with any of them, and it touched her deeply when in their rough fashion they wished her a pleasant summer and hoped that the baby would come back well and strong.

Theodore sat silent in a corner through all these leave-takings, and some of the women, as they went back to their own rooms, spoke of the loneliness the boy would feel without the baby that they all knew he loved so dearly.

When the last caller had departed, Theodore stood up and held out a little purse to Nan.

"Ain't much in it, but I want ye to use it for anything he wants," the boy said, with a gesture toward the child.

Nan hesitated. She would not have taken it for herself, but she knew that it would hurt Theo sadly, if she refused his gift, so she took it, saying, "You've been so good to him always, Theo. I shan't let him forget you ever."

"No—don't," muttered the boy, and unable to trust himself to say more, he turned away in silence, and went to his own room. The little purse he had given Nan contained five dollars.

"The dear boy! How good he is to us," Nan murmured, as she put the bill back into it, "but I hope I shall not need to use this."

Theodore ran in the next morning for a hasty good-bye before he went out to his work. He had waited purposely until the last moment, so that his leave-taking might be a brief one, and he said so little, and said that little so coldly that a stranger might have thought him careless and indifferent, but Nan knew better. Now that the time of departure was so close at hand, she shrank nervously from it and almost wished she had refused to go, but still she dressed Little Brother and herself in good season, and was all ready when at nine thirty, promptly, Mrs. Rawson appeared. The lady gave a satisfied glance at the two, and then insisted upon carrying the baby downstairs herself, while one of the Hunt children followed with Nan's valise. A cab was waiting at the door, and cabs being rarities in that locality, a crowd of curious children stood gaping at it, and waiting to see Nan and the baby depart in it.

"It is going to be a warm day. I shall be glad when we are fairly off," Mrs. Rawson said, with an anxious glance at the baby's face, as the cab rattled over the rough stones.

As the little party entered the station, there was a flutter of light raiment and bright ribbons, and Nan found herself fairly surrounded by the eleven King's Daughters. They took possession of the baby, who brightened up wonderfully at the sight of them, and they seized the valise and Mrs. Rawson's handbag, and they trooped altogether through the great station to the waiting train, and instead of saying, "Can't go through yet, ladies—not till the train's made up," the gatekeeper smiled in genial fashion into their bright faces and promptly unlocked the gate for them. That was because one of them was the daughter of a railroad official, but Nan didn't know that.

The train was not all ready, but two of the parlor cars were there, and into one of these the girls climbed, and then they found the seats belonging to Mrs. Rawson and Nan, and put the extra wraps up in the rack for them and pushed up the window, and did everything else that they could think of for the comfort of the travellers.

Then one of them pinned a great bunch of deliciously fragrant violets to Nan's dress, and another fastened a tiny silver cross above the violets, as she whispered,

"We've made you a member of our circle, Nan, dear, and this is our badge."

And then Nan noticed that every one of the girls wore the tiny, silver cross somewhere about her dress. She wondered what it meant and determined to ask Mrs. Rawson later, but she could not talk much just then—she was too happy with all those dear girls about her, chattering to her and counting her in with themselves.

At last there was a rumble and a jar, and people began to fill up the seats in the car and one of the girls looked at her watch and exclaimed,

"We must say 'good-bye' girls, or we shall be carried off."

"Wouldn't it be fun if we could all go too, and stay for the week with Mrs. Rawson?" cried another.

"Yes, indeed. If it weren't for school we might have done it."

"Now remember, Nan, we're all going to write to you because you belong to our circle," whispered another, and then, some with a kiss, and some with a warm handshake, they said, "good-bye," and hastened out of the car and stood on the platform outside the car windows, calling out more farewells and last words, and waving hands and handkerchiefs, until the train drew out of the station.

Then Nan settled back in her comfortable seat with a happy light in her dark eyes.

"I didn't suppose there were any such girls in all the world, Mrs. Rawson," she said; "girls who would be so dearly kind to a stranger like me."

"They certainly are dear girls. I think myself that there are not many like them," Mrs. Rawson answered. "Some of them have been in my Sunday-school class ever since they were nine years old."

"Perhaps that accounts for it," Nan answered, shyly, with one of her quick, bright smiles. Then she turned to look out of the window and her face changed, for there on a fence, close beside the track, stood Theodore, eagerly scanning the windows as the train went by. Nan snatched up Little Brother and held him to the window, and a smile broke over the boy's face as he waved his hat in response. Then the train gathered speed and flew on, and the boy went slowly back to his work.

It was nearly sunset when the station where the travellers were to stop, was reached. Nan's heart began to beat fast and she glanced around somewhat anxiously as she stepped on to the platform, but the next moment she found herself looking into Mrs. Hyde's face, and from that instant all her fears and anxieties vanished.

Mrs. Hyde had no children of her own, but the very spirit of motherliness seemed to look out of her eyes, and she took the two strangers into her heart at sight. The baby, wearied with the long journey had been fretting for the last hour, but no sooner did he find himself in Mrs. Hyde's arms, than he settled down comfortably and went to sleep and slept soundly through the three mile drive from the station.

Mrs. Hyde did not say much to Nan during the drive, only by an occasional word or smile, showing her that she was not forgotten, while the two ladies talked together, but at last she laid her firm, strong hand lightly on the girl's fingers, saying,

"Look, dear—you are almost home."

And Nan looked with happy eyes at a big, rambling, white house, shaded by tall elms, and with wide piazzas on three sides. An old-fashioned flower garden, with high box-bordered beds was at the back, and broad, rolling acres, spread out on every side but one, where there was a grove of grand old trees.

The late afternoon sunlight was throwing long, level beams across the green lawn, touching everything with a golden light as they drove up to the side door, and Nan said to herself,

"I don't see how anybody could help being well and happy here."



XIV. THEODORE GIVES CARROTS A CHANCE

Theodore dreaded to go home that night. After his work was done he went to a restaurant for supper and then strolled on to the Common. It was cool and pleasant there under the wide-spreading trees, and he sat down on one of the benches and wondered what Nan was doing then and how Little Brother had borne the long hours of travel.

When it was quite dark he went slowly homeward. Mrs. Hunt's door stood open and he stopped to get the key which Nan was to leave there for him. Jimmy sprang up and brought it to him, and Mrs. Hunt gave him a kind word or two and asked him to come in and sit awhile, but he said he was tired, and taking the key, he crossed the hall and unlocked Nan's door. As he closed it behind him he gave a little start, for he saw something move over by the window. The next instant he realised that it was only Nan's chair which had rocked a little from the jar of the closing door. The room was unlighted except for the faint glimmer near the open windows.

As Theo sat down in the rocking-chair, a wave of loneliness and homesickness swept over him. Nan and Little Brother had made all the home feeling he had ever known, and never before had he felt so absolutely alone and friendless as he did to-night.

Tag seemed to share the feeling too. He went sniffing about the room, evidently searching for the two who were gone, and finally, with a long breath like a sigh, he dropped down beside the rocking-chair and rubbed his head against his master's hand with a low, troubled whine. Theodore patted the rough head as he said,

"Pretty lonesome, ain't it, old fellow?" and Tag rapped the floor with his tail and whined again.

For a long time the boy sat there gravely thinking. At last, with a sigh, he said to himself, "Might's well go to bed. Don't feel like doin' anything to-night."

He was used to undressing in the dark and he did not light the lamp, but as he was about to get into bed his hand touched something smooth and stiff that was lying on the pillow.

"It's a letter," he exclaimed, wonderingly, and he hastened to light the lamp.

"Oh!" he cried, breathlessly, as he saw the bold, firm handwriting. "It's from the bishop."

His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining and his fingers fairly shaking with excitement as he held the letter carefully in his hands, reading and rereading the address.

"THEODORE BRYAN, Care of MRS. MARTIN."

He thought how many times he had sat beside the bishop's desk and watched the pen travelling so rapidly across the paper. Theodore would have known that writing anywhere.

For a long time he did not open the letter. It was happiness enough to know that it was there in his hands, the first letter he had ever received. And to think that the bishop should have written it—to him, Theodore Bryan! It was a pity that the bishop could not have seen the boy's face as he stood looking with glowing eyes at the envelope.

At last he opened it and began to read the letter. It was a long one, and as the boy read on and on, his breath came quicker and his eyes grew dim, and when he had finished it his cheeks were wet, but he did not know it. He was not thinking of himself. There were many who would have given much for a letter from the bishop, but surely none could have appreciated one more than did the lonely boy who stood there that night in the dimly-lighted room poring over those closely written pages. Again and again he read the whole letter, and many times he read over one passage until the words were written in letters of light on his heart. When at last he went to bed it was to lie awake for hours with the letter held tightly in his hand, while he repeated to himself those words that he was to remember as long as he lived.

"Mrs. Martin writes me that you are anxious to be assured of my forgiveness. My dear boy, if you have ever wronged me I forgive you as freely and fully as I hope for forgiveness myself; but, Theodore, had you wronged me ever so deeply, it would all be blotted out by the joy it gives me to know that you are a soldier of the Cross. I know that you will be a faithful soldier—loyal even unto death—and may the great Captain whom we both serve, have you ever in His holy keeping."

Over and over the boy repeated these words as he lay sleepless, but full of deep happiness and peace. "Whom we both serve." The wise and holy bishop and he, a poor ignorant street boy, were soldiers now under the one great Captain. Faithful and loyal even unto death? Ah yes, Theodore pledged himself anew to such service in the watches of that night.

Nevertheless, the letter had brought to the boy a fresh disappointment, for it informed him that the bishop had been ill ever since he left the city, and that it had been decided that he should remain away until October.

"Five months longer before I can see him," Theodore thought sorrowfully, yet he could not grieve as he had done before. It almost seemed as if he could feel the bishop's hand actually resting upon his head, and see the kind eyes looking down into his. The boy had not been so happy since he left the bishop's house as he was on this night when he had expected to be so lonely and miserable.

"Oh if Nan only knew, how glad she would be," he thought more than once.

He slept at last with the letter clutched tightly in his hand, and his fingers had not loosed their hold when he awoke the next morning, nor had the joy died out of his heart. His thoughts were very busy as he dressed, and suddenly he stopped short, with one shoe on and the other in his hand.

"That's it!" he cried aloud. "That's what the bishop meant that Sunday! 'Ye are not your own. Ye are bought with a price.' The great Captain's bought me for one of His soldiers, an' I've got to do what He says. I never knew before just what that meant, but I do now." Then he added, softly, "But I want to do what He says, anyhow."

Going forth in this spirit to his work, Theodore could hardly fail to find something to do for his Captain.

Mrs. Hunt had decided to take up the work that Nan had been doing, and to furnish supplies for the stand. She had the big basket all ready when Theodore came from his room, and he and Jimmy set off with it for the stand where both the boys now took their breakfasts.

Theodore was unusually quiet and thoughtful, and there was something in his face that silenced Jimmy's lively tongue that morning. The two boys had just gotten their stand ready for business, when Theodore exclaimed, eagerly,

"There he is now!" and darted off.

Jimmy looked after him in wonder that turned to indignation, as he saw Theo lay a detaining hand on the ragged jacket of Carrots, who was slouching aimlessly along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, and, after a little talk with him, bring him back to the stand.

"Well now, I like that!" muttered Jimmy under his breath. He glowered darkly at Carrots as Theo drew him up to the stand, but Theodore looked into Jimmy's face with a strange light in his eyes, as he filled a plate for Carrots and poured him out a cup of coffee.

"Sh'ld think you'd better wait till he'd paid for what he jagged here that last time," Jimmy muttered, with a scowling glance at the culprit.

Carrots, overhearing the remark, grinned, and then winked impudently at Jimmy, while he disposed with all speed of the contents of the plate that Theodore had set before him. Once or twice he cast a puzzled glance at the latter as if trying to discover some hidden motive.

"Had 'nough?" Theo questioned, when plate and cup were empty.

"'Spect I might get outside of one or two o' them doughnuts," Carrots answered, with another wink at Jimmy's clouded face.

When the doughnuts also had disappeared, Theo said, "Come along a bit with me, Carrots," and the two walked off together, leaving Jimmy for the first time savagely angry with his friend Theodore.

Carrots slouched along at Theo's side, with his narrow eyes roving suspiciously from side to side in search of a possible policeman, into whose hands he suspected that his companion might be scheming to deliver him. He could not conceive the possibility of anybody's failing to avenge a wrong if he had the chance.

"Carrots," began Theodore, "where do you sleep?"

"Can't catch me that way," thought Carrots to himself, as he answered carelessly, "Oh anywheres 't I happen ter find myself when I'm sleepy."

"No reg'lar place—no home?" questioned Theo.

"Nope."

"Well, I've paid rent up to the end of the month for the room I've been sleepin' in, an' I shan't use it any more. You can sleep there for nothin' for the next week if you like."

Carrots stopped short and gazed at his companion with his tongue in his cheek.

"Think I'm a fool?" he asked, shortly.

"I do' know whether ye are or not. 'Seems to me you will be 'f ye say 'no' to my offer," and Theo looked straight into the shifty eyes of his companion.

That straightforward look puzzled Carrots. It was more convincing than any words. He studied Theo's face for a moment, then he burst out, "What's your game, anyhow, Tode Bryan?"

"Carrots," exclaimed Theo, earnestly, "there's no game at all about it. I've got the room, an' I don't need it, 'cause I've taken another one. You're welcome to use this till the month's up. Now, what d'ye say? Will ye take it or leave it?"

"I'll—take—it," rejoined Carrots, slowly.

"All right." Theo gave him the number, adding, "Come to my room anytime 'fore ten for the key."

Then he hurried on, leaving Carrots in a maze of wonder, doubt and indecision, for he could not yet believe that Theo meant honestly by him.

As for Theo, he whistled cheerily as he hastened on, for he felt that he had been doing a bit of his Captain's business. He was not in the least deceived. He knew that Carrots was a "bad lot," as he expressed it, but he said to himself, "I was a bad lot, too, not so very long ago, an' I'll see if I can't do something for Carrots while I'm a-huntin' for that Jack Finney."

Jimmy Hunt was on the lookout for Theodore that evening, and pounced upon him the moment he appeared. Jimmy's face was still clouded, and he made no response to his friend's cheery greeting. "I say, Theo," he began, "I'd like to know what you meant by it, anyhow."

"What's the trouble, Jimmy? What do you mean?"

"What d'you mean by luggin' that thievin', sarcy Carrots over t' the stand this mornin' an' stuffin' him with grub, an' never askin' him for a red cent?" Jimmy spoke in a deeply aggrieved tone.

"You won't lose anything by it, Jim. That comes out o' my share of the profits," Theo answered, quickly.

"'Tain't that," responded Jimmy, hastily. "I wouldn't 'a' minded if it had been any other feller but him. Say, Theo, what did make ye do it anyhow? Think ye might tell me that."

Theodore looked down into the face lifted to his, half curiously, half impatiently. "Jimmy," he said, gravely, "wouldn't you be glad if somebody would lend a hand to Dick and help him make a man of himself?"

Jimmy flushed. He was ashamed of his brother and mortified by Dick's evil reputation.

"'Course," he answered, shortly, dropping his eyes.

"Well, Jimmy, I'd help Dick if I could, an' there's another feller I've been huntin' for ever so long. 'Seem's if I can't find him anywheres, an' so till I do find him, I'm a-goin' to try to pull Carrots up 'stead of him."

"Pull Carrots up!" echoed Jimmy, scornfully. "Tode, you must be soft if you expect to make anything out o' such a bad lot as Carrots."

"There's a good spot in most chaps, I b'lieve, Jimmy, an' I guess there's one in Carrots, if I can only find it. Anyhow, I'm a-goin' to try for a while."

"Huh!" growled Jimmy. He said no more, but after this he watched Theo and Carrots closely, and did a deal of earnest thinking on the subject.

Carrots slept in Theodore's room for the next week—slipping softly up and down the stairs, with furtive, suspicious glances into every dark corner in the halls at night, and departing in the same fashion before Theo was up in the morning. He uttered no word of gratitude, but Theo knew better than to expect anything of that sort.

One night when he came in, Theodore sat with his door wide open, and called out pleasantly,

"Come in a minute, Carrots."

The boy paused on the threshold until he had satisfied himself that there was no one else in the room, then he sidled in and dropped heavily on a chair.

"Wal', what's wanted?" he inquired, gruffly.

"Like to earn a little extra money to-morrow?" Theodore began.

"That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On the kind o' work."

"Well, I should think you'd be ready for any kind of work," Theodore remarked, with a quick glance at the ragged garments of the other.

Carrots grinned, carelessly. "Oh I ain't a swell like you," he replied, casting, what he meant for a scornful look at the other boy's clean outing shirt and decent suit. Theodore had reached the point now where he had at least one clean shirt a week.

He ignored the remark and went on, "There's plenty of fellers that would be glad of this job, but I want to give you the first chance at it. Jimmy Hunt's goin' on an excursion to-morrow, an' can't run the stand. You can run it if you want to."

Carrots gazed at him with mouth and eyes wide open.

"Me?" he exclaimed, incredulously. "You mean't you'll let me run it—alone—'thout you bossin' the job?"

Theo nodded.

Carrots' mouth slowly stretched into a grin of mingled satisfaction and derision, as he exclaimed, "All right. I'm your man!"

"Then be ready to go with me at half past six," replied Theo. Then he added, "Look here—what's your real name? Tain't Carrots I know. If you'll tell me what 'tis I'll call you by it."

"Do' want none o' yer callin'! Carrots's good 'nough for me, an' if I'm suited, other folks needn't ter interfere," growled the boy, with renewed suspicion.

"No need to get huffy 'bout it," rejoined Theodore. "It put me up a peg when folks begun to call me Theodore 'stead of Tode or Toady, an' so I thought you'd feel the same way. 'Course, if you like to be Carrots, nobody cares."

"Humph!" grunted Carrots, and departed without further discussion of the matter.

He was waiting in the hall when Theodore opened his door the next morning and assisted handily enough about carrying the big basket and arranging the stand. He did not, however, believe that Theo meant to leave him actually in charge, until he found himself established behind the neat counter with fifty cents in nickels and pennies in his pocket, to make change.

"Wal', I'm blest!" he exclaimed, and then he grinned and chuckled and slapped his sides with glee, while Theodore went off, thinking to himself,

"It's a risk, but I had to give him his chance."

Many times during that morning he thought of Carrots and wondered how he was getting on. It was a hot day and an unusually tiresome one for Theodore, and it was later than usual when he returned to his room. Before he had closed the door Jimmy Hunt ran across the hall calling out,

"Say, Theo, where's the baskets an' things?"

Theodore's heart sank, but he answered quietly, "Haven't they been brought back?"

"No. Who'd you get to run the stand, Theo?"

"Carrots."

"Theodore Bryan—you didn't!" exclaimed Jimmy, in such a tragic tone, that Theo almost laughed outright. His amusement was the last straw to Jimmy. He burst into a storm of scornful blame in the midst of which Theo quietly stepped into his room and shut the door, leaving Jimmy to fume and storm as much as he chose. That brought the boy to himself. He began to cool down and to remember, that after all, the stand belonged to Theodore, and he had a right to do as he pleased with it. So after standing in the hall, kicking at the banisters for a while, to relieve his feelings, Jimmy knocked at the closed door and in response to Theo's "come in," he went in, in a somewhat calmer state of mind.

"What you goin' to do in the mornin', Theo?" he began, in a subdued tone.

"Have you been to the stand, Jim?"

"Yes, an' that scamp after he'd sold all the stuff went to work an' auctioned off the dishes an' coffee-urn an' everything. Just skinned the place out slick," Jimmy burst out, indignantly. "I went 'round to see where the baskets was, an' some fellers told me all about it. They said 'twas a red-headed chap done it, but I couldn't b'lieve you'd be green 'nough to trust that Carrots. Say, Theo, did you re'ely think he'd do the square thing, by you?"

"Not much. I hoped he would an' I had to give him a chance, Jimmy?"

"Why'd you have to?" asked Jimmy, curiously.

"Where would I be now if somebody hadn't given me a chance, Jimmy?"

"Oh, you—you ain't Carrots. You're another sort."

"Yes, I'm another sort now, but I was bad as Carrots before I met Nan an' Little Brother," answered Theo, earnestly. Then he added, "Don't you worry 'bout the stand. I'll go out presently an' buy what's wanted."

"An' ain't ye going to do nothin' ter that Carrots for this, neither?" inquired Jimmy, anxiously.

"No, nothing. But, Jimmy, don't fret yourself about him. If he keeps on as he's been doin', he'll soon find himself locked up."

"'N' he'd oughter be too," muttered Jimmy, as he went away, leaving Theodore to think over the failure of his attempt. He was not much surprised, though he had not expected quite such a clean sweep on Carrots' part, and the loss was not heavy enough to embarrass him at all. At Mr. Scott's suggestion, Theo had begun to deposit his extra earnings in a savings bank and he had enough on hand to easily replace the dishes and utensils lost, but he was disappointed and disheartened. It seemed so useless to try to help one who would not try to help himself. And yet he could not be quite discouraged since he always remembered what he himself had once been.

He went out and bought what was needed and when he came back he found Mr. Scott just turning away from his door. He hastened to unlock it and the gentleman turned back, saying,

"I'm glad you came before I had got away, Theodore, for I want to talk over that boys' club plan with you."

"I thought you'd forgot all about it," replied the boy, his face brightening.

He had spoken to his teacher about this plan, and Mr. Scott had answered, "Yes, something of the sort may be done, but if I were in your place I wouldn't be in a hurry about it," and so the matter had been left.

Now Mr. Scott looked thoughtfully about the room, saying, "You must find this far more comfortable than the room you had before. Don't you sleep better here, Theo?"

"Oh, yes, I don't feel so tired in the morning."

"No, because you have the windows here and can have better air; but, Theo, do you realise how it would be if you should use this for a club-room? Some of the boys would be here every evening, and you'd have to have lights burning, and by the time you were ready to go to bed, the room would be very hot and stuffy—full of bad air. Besides you would have to be here all the time. You couldn't trust such boys in your room alone."

Theodore thought of Carrots, and his face was grave and disturbed as he answered, slowly, "'Spect you're right, Mr. Scott, but I do hate to give up the plan."

"Perhaps we won't give it up, only change it a little. Have you ever been in the large front room, upstairs?"

Theodore shook his head, with a look of surprise, that his teacher should know anything about the rooms upstairs.

Mr. Scott added, "Well then, suppose you come up with me now, and take a look at it. I have the key."

Wondering much, the boy followed his teacher up the stairs to a large room with two windows on each side.

"How would this do for your clubroom, Theodore?" Mr. Scott inquired.

"This? Oh, this would be fine—but Mr. Scott, it would cost a pile for this."

"Rather more than for yours, of course, but now this is the way of it, Theodore. I liked your plan about the club, but I didn't like the idea of your giving up your own room to it, so I spoke to several gentlemen of my acquaintance about the matter, and they all wanted to have a hand in it. So they each gave me a sum of money, and then I interviewed your landlord and rented this room. He is going to have it whitewashed, and then we shall have the floor thoroughly scrubbed and outside blinds put on these sunny windows. Then we shall put in some tables and chairs and some plain pine shelves for the books and papers that we are going to collect from our friends, and if you like, some of us will give the boys a talk on current events once a week or so."

"What's current events?" interposed Theo, quickly.

"You'll soon find out. Now then, Theo, we must have somebody to take charge of this room. Can you do it?"

"Yes, indeed."

"You know that means that you must be here every evening in the week, from half past seven to ten o'clock. You'll want to be away sometimes, Theodore."

"Yes, I s'pose I will, but I'm ready to stay here all the same until night school begins again."

"Very well, then we'll let it be so, and we'll try to have the room ready for our opening in a week or two—as soon as we have enough books and papers to begin with." Mr. Scott locked the door as he spoke, and the two went downstairs.

Theodore's face was full of satisfaction over the promised reading-room, but it clouded a little as his teacher said,

"You mustn't be disappointed, Theodore, if very few boys spend their evenings in this room for a while. Most of the boys in this neighbourhood are so used to loafing about the streets, that they like that best, especially in hot weather, and, of course, few of them care much for reading. They will have to be educated up to it."

"S'pose that's so," replied the boy, thoughtfully, "but they'll like it next winter when it's cold an' stormy outside," he added.

"Yes," assented the gentleman, adding, as he turned to depart, "Theo, Mrs. Rawson will be home to-morrow. Don't you want to come and take supper with us, and hear what she has to say about Nan, and the little one?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, sir," cried Theodore, with a happy smile.

"All right, then, we shall expect you," and with a pleasant "Good-night," Mr. Scott went away.

Theodore rather dreaded the supper with Mrs. Rawson, but he forgot to be shy or ill at ease when she began to tell him about the delightful old farmhouse, and the happy times that Nan and the baby were having there. She told him everything she could think of that would be of interest to him, and he listened to it all with an eager face, and a glad heart. If Little Brother must be far away from him, Theodore was happy in the assurance that the child was in such a beautiful place, and that already he had begun to grow stronger and brighter.



XV. A STRIKE

"No cars a-runnin'! What's up?" exclaimed Jimmy, the next morning, as he and Theodore passed down Tremont street.

"There's a strike on. Didn't you hear 'bout it yesterday?" replied Theo.

"No. My! But there'll be a time if all the cars stop."

"A pretty bad time—'specially for the folks that live outside the city," Theodore answered, soberly.

When, after taking his breakfast at the stand, he went back through Tremont street, groups of men and boys were standing about in every corner, and everywhere the strike was the one topic of conversation. There were groups of motormen and conductors here and there, some looking grave and anxious, and some careless and indifferent.

As the morning advanced the throngs in the streets increased. Belated business men hurried along, and clerks and saleswomen with flushed faces and anxious eyes, tried impatiently to force their way through the crowds to get to their places of business.

Theodore noticed the large number of rough-looking men and boys on the streets, and that most of them seemed full of suppressed excitement. Now and then as he passed some of these, he caught a low-spoken threat, or an exultant prophecy of lively times to come. It all made him vaguely uneasy, and he had to force himself to go about his work instead of lingering outside to see what would happen.

In one office, while he was busy over the brasses, three gentlemen were discussing the situation, and the boy, as he rubbed and polished, listened intently to what was said.

"What do the fellows want? What's their grievance, anyhow?" inquired one man, impatiently, as he flicked the ashes from his cigar.

"Shorter hours and better pay," replied a second.

"Of course. That's what strikers always want," put in a third. "They seem to think they're the only ones to be considered."

"Well, I must confess that I rather sympathise with the men this time," said the second speaker. "I hold that they ought to have shorter hours."

"There are plenty that will be glad enough to take their places, though."

"I suppose so, but all the same I maintain that these companies that are amply able to treat their men better, ought to do so. I believe in fair play. It pays best in the end to say nothing of the right and wrong of it."

"Think the company will give in?" questioned one.

"Guess not. I hear that the superintendent has telegraphed to New York and Chicago for men."

"There'll be trouble if they come!" exclaimed the first speaker.

"I believe," said another man, joining the group, "I believe that Sanders is responsible for all this trouble—or the most of it, anyhow. He's a disagreeable, overbearing fellow who—even when he grants a favor, which is seldom enough—does it in a mean, exasperating fashion that takes all the pleasure out of it. I had some dealings with him once, and I never want anything more to do with him. If he'd been half-way decent to the men there would never have been any strike, in my opinion."

Sanders was the superintendent of the road where the trouble was.

"You're right about Sanders," said another. "I always have wondered how he could keep his position. These strikes though, never seem to me to do any real good to the cause of the strikers, and a great many of the men realise that too, but these walking delegate fellows get 'round 'em and persuade 'em that a strike is going to end all their troubles—and so it goes. I saw that little sneak—Tom Steel—buttonholing the motormen, and cramming them with his lies, as I came along just now. There's always mischief where Tom Steel is."

By this time Theodore had finished his work, and he left the office, his head full of strikes, superintendents, and walking delegates, and wherever he went that day, the strike was the only subject discussed.

He stopped work earlier than usual, finding himself infected with the prevailing unrest and excitement. He found the sidewalks of the principal business streets thronged with men, women and boys, all pressing in one direction.

"Come along, Tode!" cried a shrill voice at his elbow, and he turned to find Jimmy Hunt, his round face all alight with anticipation of exciting episodes to follow. Jimmy began talking rapidly.

"They've been smashin' cars, Tode, an' haulin' off the motormen an' conductors that want to keep on workin'. There's three cars all smashed up near the sheds, an' the strikers say they'll wreck every one that's run out to-day."

"It's a shame!" declared Theo, indignantly; yet boy-like, if there was to be a mob fight, he wanted to be on hand and see it all, and he took care not to let Jimmy get far ahead of him.

As they went on, the crowd continually increased until it became so dense that the boys had to worm their way through it inch by inch. They pressed on, however, and when further progress was impossible, they found standing room on the very front close to the car-track.

It had been a noisy, blustering crowd as it surged along the street, but now that it had come to a standstill, a sudden breathless silence fell upon it, and all eyes turned in one direction, gazing eagerly, intently up the track. Suddenly, a low, hoarse cry broke from a hundred throats.

"It's comin'! It's comin'!" and far up the street a car appeared.

The faces of the men grew more hard and determined. Those of the women became pale and terrified. The two boys peered eagerly forward, their hearts beating quickly, with dread mingled with a sort of wild excitement.

"Look, Theo—Look!" whispered Jimmy, pointing to some men who were hastily digging up cobble-stones from the street. "There's Carrots, too," he added.

"Wonder who that little chap is—the one that seems to have so much to say to the car men," Theo replied, thoughtfully.

"That's Tom Steel. You've heard of him, hain't ye?" A man at Theo's elbow was speaking. "He's responsible for this strike, I think, an' I hope he'll get his pay for it too," he added, grimly.

Theodore glanced up into the grave face of the speaker and recognised him as a motorman. Evidently, he was more bitter against the strikers than against the company.

The car was now close at hand, and all at once as with a single impulse, there was a surging forward, and the crowd closed in blocking the track with a solid mass of human beings. The motorman set his teeth hard, and rang the gong loudly, insistently. The conductor hastened through the car and stood beside him. The only passenger was a policeman, who stood on the rear platform calmly gazing at the sea of angry, excited faces on either side.

"This car's got to stop!" shouted a big, brawny fellow, springing onto the step and giving the motorman a threatening glance.

"This car ain't a-goin' to stop!" retorted the motorman, grimly, as he released the brake.

"We'll see about that," and with the words the big fellow seized the man's arms and wrenched his hand off the lever.

The conductor sprang to the assistance of his comrade while the policeman ran forward and pushed the man roughly off the car.

In the same instant, Theo saw Carrots snatch a box from a bootblack near him and with a wild yell of defiance, hurl it through one of the car windows. The shrill, taunting cry of the boy, mingled with the crash of the breaking glass, and the sight of the policeman's upraised club, aroused the mob to sudden fury. At once there arose a wild hubbub of shouts, yells and cries, followed by a shower of cobble-stones, and a fierce rush upon the three men on the car, and in two minutes the car was a shattered wreck; the motorman and conductor were being hustled through the crowd with threats and warnings, while the policeman's club had been wrenched from his grasp. He drew his pistol, but with a howl of fury it was knocked from his hand, and the next moment he lay senseless upon the ground, felled by a savage blow from his own club.

The taste of conflict, the sight of blood, had roused to a fierce flame the smouldering spirit of lawlessness and insurrection in the mob. A savage rage seemed to have taken possession of the men as, with frantic haste and mad delight, they tore up cobble-stones and built a huge barricade across the track. When it was completed, Carrots darted up on top of it and waved a red handkerchief above his head. A hoarse roar of approval broke from the mob, but Steel sternly ordered the boy down and hissed in his ear,

"You fool! You might have spoiled everything by that! Don't ye show that again till I give the signal—d'ye hear?"

Carrots nodded with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, that made Theo shiver.

"Come on, now. We've done enough for once," Steel added, and keeping his hand on the arm of the boy the two disappeared in the throng that was slowly melting away.

Then, with a long breath, Jimmy turned to Theodore.

"My!" he exclaimed, in a tone of shuddering satisfaction. "It's awful, ain't it, Theo! S'pose he's dead?" He gazed with half fearful interest toward the policeman who had been clubbed and about whom a group had gathered.

"Looks like it. There comes some more p'lice. They'll take care of him. Come on, Jimmy, le's go home."

"Oh, no, Theo, don't go home, yet. Le's go an' see what's goin' on over there," and Jimmy turned into a cross street through which the greater portion of the crowd was pressing.

"There's something the matter over at the depot," said Theodore, as he followed, half willingly and half reluctantly, in Jimmy's eager footsteps.

About the depot there was usually a constant stream of cars coming and going, but to-day the streets looked bare and deserted.

When the boys reached the square only two cars were in sight and these two were approaching, one behind the other, on the same track. As they drew near, they were seen to contain each six or eight policemen, fully armed and with stern, resolute faces. The mob again howled and hooted at the motormen and conductors, and showered them with dirt and small stones, but made no attempt to stop the cars.

No cars were run after dark that evening, and the next day they were run only at intervals of an hour and each one carried a heavily armed guard. The strikers and their lawless sympathisers continued to throng the streets and to threaten all car-men who remained on duty. Now and then a car window was broken or an obstruction placed on the tracks, but there was no serious outbreak, and it was rumoured that a compromise between the company and the strikers was under consideration and that the trouble would soon be at an end.

So a week slipped away. One morning Theodore was on his way from one office to another when he heard the sound of drum and fife and saw a body of the strikers marching up Washington street. Every boy within sight or hearing at once turned in after the procession, and Theodore followed with the rest.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning and the streets were full of shoppers, many of them ladies who had been afraid to venture out during the past week.

As if they had risen out of the ground, scores of rough-looking men and street boys began to push and jostle the shoppers on the narrow sidewalks until many of the frightened women took refuge in the stores, and the shopkeepers, fearful of what might follow, began hastily putting up their shutters and making ready to close their stores, if necessary. These signs of apprehension gave great delight to the rougher element in the streets, and they yelled and hooted uproariously at the cautious shopkeepers, but they did not stop. Steadily, swiftly they followed that body of men marching with dark, determined faces to the sound of the fife and the drum.

"Where are they going?" Theo asked of a man at his side and the reply was,

"To the car-house, I reckon. They're ripe for mischief now."

"What's stirred 'em up again—anything new?" the boy questioned.

"Many of the strikers have been discharged and new men brought on—five hundred of them—from New York and Chicago. I'm afraid we haven't seen the worst of the troubles yet."

"Look! Look!" cried a boy, close beside Theodore, and the latter looking ahead, saw a squad of mounted officers coming through a cross street. Without stopping to parley they charged into the marching strikers and dispersed them, silencing the fife and drum, and when the furious mob of followers and sympathisers yelled threats and defiance at the officers, the latter charged into the mob riding up to the pavement and forcing the people back into the stores and dwellings behind them.

This was as fuel to the fire of anger and insurrection. Deep and dire threats passed from lip to lip, and evil purpose hardened into grim determination as the mob slowly surged in the direction of the car-house, after the officers had passed on. The throng was far more quiet now, and far more dangerous. Again and again, Theodore caught glimpses of Tom Steel's insignificant face, and like a long, dark shadow, Carrots followed ever at his heels.

No cars were running now, but the boy heard low-spoken references to new men and "scabs," and "the will of the people," as, almost without effort of his own, he was borne onward with the throng.

At a little distance from the car-house the strikers again drew together and stood mostly in gloomy silence, their eyes ever turning toward the closed doors of the great building before them. The vast crowd waited, too, in a silence that seemed to throb and pulse with intense and bitter feeling. The strikers had stopped in the middle of the street, and around them on every side, except toward the car-house, the crowd pressed and surged like a vast human sea. There were not many women in the number gathered there, and the few who were there were of the lowest sort, but men and boys—largely tramps, roughs and street boys—were there in countless numbers, mingled with not a few of the better class.

Slowly the minutes passed, until an hour had gone by, and it began to be whispered about that the company dared not run any cars. Still the men waited, and the crowd waited too. But at last some grew weary of inaction, and when Steel proposed that they spend the time barricading the tracks, his suggestion met with a quick response.

From a neighbouring street the men brought Belgian blocks and piled them on the track. They pulled down tree boxes and broke off branches of trees, and when an ice wagon came along they took possession of the huge blocks of ice and capped their barricade with these.

Suddenly the doors of the car-house were thrown open, and a car rolled slowly out.

There was an instant of breathless silence, followed by a roar like that of a thousand savage beasts, as the strikers saw that new men were running the car, and that it carried half a score of policemen, armed to the teeth.

As it approached the barricade some of the officers sprang off and began to throw down the obstructions, the others standing ready to fire upon the mob if necessary. The crowd showered bitter words and taunts upon the officers, but did not venture to molest them. The motorman stood with his hand on the lever, ready to start the car the moment the track should be clear. Carrots, with a pack of street Arabs at his heels, jeered at the new motorman, climbing up on the car and taunting him, until, at last, his patience was exhausted, and he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked one of the boys off the car. The boy fell heavily to the ground, and instantly the shrill voice of Carrots was uplifted, crying frantically,

"He's killed Billy Green! He's killed Billy Green! Pitch in to him, boys! Pitch into him!"

Billy Green was already picking himself up, with no worse injury than a cut in his cheek, but the mob took up the cry, and,

"Pitch into him! Pitch into him! Kill him! Kill him!" was shouted by hundreds of savage voices as the crowd pressed about the car. They tried to drag the motorman off, in spite of the guards, they smashed the car windows, they tore out the cushions, they beat the policemen, and wrenched their clubs out of their hands. Finally several of the officers drew their pistols and fired into the air.

At this the crowd fell back for a second, and the turmoil of shouts and cries that had been deafening a moment before, died away in sudden silence—a threatening, dangerous silence as of a wild beast about to spring.

Into this instant of silence broke a new cry from the outskirts of the crowd.

"It's the mayor. Make way for the mayor!"

"No, it's the bishop. Make way for the bishop! Stand back! Stand back!"

At this cry, Theodore turned like a flash and gazed in the direction in which all eyes were turning. There was no mistake. The bishop was surely one of the occupants of a carriage that was slowly forcing its way through the throng.

With his heart beating with a wild joy; his eyes glowing; the colour coming and going in his cheeks, Theodore stood still until the carriage stopped. Then sliding through the smallest spaces, darting between feet, this way and that, the boy managed somehow to reach the side of the carriage, where he stood with his hand on one of the wheels, his eager, burning gaze fastened on the face he loved so well. Instinctively he pulled off his cap, but he made no attempt to attract the attention of the bishop. He uttered no word or sound. He only stood with all his loving heart in his eyes, and looked.

The bishop's expression was very grave, as he gazed over that vast sea of faces. He turned to speak to the gentleman who sat beside him, and as he did so, his eyes fell on Theodore's eloquent upturned countenance. A quick, bright smile flashed across his face, and reaching down, he laid his hand for a moment gently upon the boy's bared head.

Before he could speak the silence was again broken by a cry from many lips—a cry of warning now, rather than a threat, though again the words were,

"Stop the car! Stop the car! The bishop! The bishop!"

The bishop's carriage had come to a standstill directly across the track, the crowd being here so dense that it was impossible for the driver to go even a yard farther.

The policemen had cleared the barricade from the track, and then sprung hastily on the car again. Evidently they had not noticed the dangerous position of the carriage, and now the motorman started the car forward. The man was a stranger in the city. He knew nothing about the bishop—cared nothing about him. He was there to run that car, and he meant to do it or die in the attempt, so when the crowd shouted,

"The bishop! The bishop!" he yelled in reply,

"Get out of the way then if you don't want him hurt. This car's a-going through, bishop or no bishop!"

The car was already in motion. The crowd pushed and struggled and tried to fall back and let the carriage pass over the track, but it was impossible, so closely were the people packed together there.



On the car came, while for an instant the crowd waited with tense breath for what should follow.

"Loyal unto death." The words rang through Theodore's brain, as in that instant he sprang swiftly forward and flung himself across the track directly in front of the slowly moving car. A cry of horror broke from the throng and a score of hands were stretched forth to draw the boy from his dangerous position, but he clung to the fender and would not be removed.

"Stop the car!" he pleaded. "Oh stop the car or the bishop will be killed!"

Never a thought of his own danger had the boy,—for he would have given his young life freely and joyfully for his bishop, but the sacrifice was not needed. The police, now seeing the danger, forced the furious motorman to stop the car until the crowd had had time to fall back and the carriage had safely crossed the track. Then the car passed on followed by threatening glances and menacing words from the angry throng.

But now the bishop arose in the carriage, and as he stood in the majesty of his great height with the light of a pure heart and a holy life illumining his face—once again a hush fell upon that vast gathering, and when the rich voice rolled out upon the still air, uttering its message of heavenly love, and strong, sweet counsels of peace and justice, the hearts of the people were melted within them. Hard, brutal men and rude street boys listened, feeling a strange power that they could not understand, thrilling their souls, and compelling them, in spite of their own wills, to follow the counsels of this servant of God.

No other man in that great city was honoured and loved by rich and poor alike, as was the bishop. To no other would such a crowd in such a mood have hearkened, but they stood in silence and listened breathlessly as if they feared to lose a single word. They listened as if they knew that never again would such a message come to them from those lips. Stern, bitter faces softened, and hard eyes dimmed with tears as the burning, melting words fell on the listening ears. Women wept, and men forgot their hatreds and their grievances. Only here and there an evil face grew more evil as the bishop's words worked upon the hearts and consciences of that vast throng.

Tom Steel dropped his mask of careless indifference, as he tried to stem the tide by whispering sneers and taunts to one and another, but they would have none of his counsels now, and after a while he slunk away with a black scowl on his face and evil words on his lips, and still beside him slouched the gaunt, ragged figure with its crown of rough red hair; and no one bade them stay; no one listened to their wicked whispers, for the bishop's words were filling every ear and every heart.

At last, the bishop stretched forth his hands and pronounced a tender blessing upon them all, and then he drove slowly away, and when he was gone rough men looked into each other's faces, half wondering, half ashamed, as they moved away. They had no desire now for rioting and lawlessness—for deeds of blood and violence. The Spirit of God had touched their hearts. The atmosphere in which the bishop lived and moved and had his being had for the time enveloped even these. No wonder then, that it had wrought such a transformation in the heart and life of one little street boy.

That same night two hundred of the city clergymen united in an appeal to the company to submit the troubles to arbitration, and to this both the company and the strikers agreed. The result was that although all that the men asked was not granted, yet their hours were shortened, and an increase of pay promised at the beginning of the year.



XVI. CALLED TO GO UP HIGHER

As for Theodore—when the bishop's carriage had driven away he went home in a state of joyous expectation. He thought how he would go, on the morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two would have together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so often longed to tell him. He knew well how interested the bishop would be in all that he—Theodore—was trying to do for the Great Captain, and he longed to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and so experienced.

On his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs and a neat necktie.

"'Cause I want to look as well's I can when he sees me," he said to himself.

All that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the next day. He realty could not wait any longer, but he found it hard to decide what would be the best hour for him to go. He knew that the bishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almost sure to have guests with him. In the afternoon, too, he seldom had a leisure moment. Indeed he never had any leisure moments, but Theodore decided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelve and one o'clock.

All night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the house and once he awoke in great distress, imagining that Brown had sternly refused him admittance.

He could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else to share his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in the two houses, he carried some little gift. It was his thank-offering, though he did not know it. Small gifts they were, all—a flower to one, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extra loaf to a hard-working mother—little things all, but given in the name of the Great Captain though His Name was not once mentioned.

So, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went once more through the streets toward the bishop's house.

Theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyes was honest and true. He was able now to possess two suits and he wore his best one with the clean linen and the new tie. Many a mother might have been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son.

The remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over Theodore as he rang the bell at the bishop's door, but Brown did not refuse him admittance. On the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the door as he said, in a low tone, "Come to Mrs. Martin's room," and once again Theodore followed him across the wide hall.

Mrs. Martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell upon the boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when she said,

"He talked about you last evening, Theodore, and told us what you did for him. You've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heart sank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixed entreatingly on the housekeeper's face. His throat felt dry and stiff, and he dared not trust himself to speak. Mrs. Martin too, sat down and wiped her eyes as she went on,

"He ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikers yesterday. He wasn't well enough, and I told the gentlemen so when they came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said he would go. He came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in the night."

Theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his trembling lips. The housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered as if he had spoken.

"It's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live."

At these words, Theodore's head went down on the table and he sat as if stunned. His trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. Eight months before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width of the continent separated him from his friend. Now, what a joy it would have been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well in California.

At last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice,

"How long?"

Mrs. Martin understood. She answered, sadly, "A few days—possibly only a few hours. He lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. I think," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "I think you can see him for a moment if you would like to."

Theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "Come then," and led the way to an upper room.

The boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imagined that a boy could have.

The sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. Theodore stood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and so changed even in the few hours since last he saw it. He longed to press his lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, but he did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room in silence.

Mrs. Martin followed him down the stairs. At the door he stopped and looked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away without a word. He knew that never again should he see his friend alive, and he did not. Before the next night, the bishop had been called to go up higher.

When the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was a request that no flowers be sent. Theodore did not notice this item, and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of the roses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and Mrs. Martin herself placed them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laid upon Theodore's head. All the gold of the earth, had it been offered to the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of that last look and touch.

On the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held was crowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast as that to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but what a difference was there in look and manner between the two great gatherings! Here, every face was softened, every heart tender with grief. They called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lost one who loved them—one who was indeed their friend.

But not one, whether within or without the church, not one grieved more deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than did the lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of the great organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-draped coffin was borne out to its burial. The boy stood there until the last of the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forward and, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery.

When all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if there was a great blank in his life—a blank that could never be filled; that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that evening Mr. Scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's sore heart. His teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be "the bishop's shadow." To Theodore, his small ministries to the forlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing when he recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the days went on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life.

Mr. Scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became more unselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who needed his help. It was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed to help seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was Carrots.

Four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike had been arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. Of this number were Tom Steel, and Carrots, whose red banner had more than once caught the eye of the police.

Jimmy Hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that Carrots had got his deserts at last, but Theodore was troubled and disheartened over the matter. He went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff and surly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes of Carrots followed him wistfully. He did not go again to the prison but, though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys of fourteen, yet, during those two years of Carrots' imprisonment, never a month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter from Theodore. He never replied to any of these letters, but as Theodore expected no replies, that made no difference.



XVII. FINAL GLIMPSES

As the evenings lengthened, the club grew in favour among the boys of the neighbourhood, and often Mr. Scott wondered to see how Theodore succeeded in maintaining good order and in keeping up the interest of the boys, without setting them against him. He was full of ingenious ideas for interesting them in something helpful, and, as he expressed it, "lifting 'em up a peg." He grew to be exceedingly popular in the neighbourhood that winter, but he never discovered the fact. He was too busy thinking of and for others, to think much about himself.

After a while he gave up all interest in his stand to Jimmy Hunt and devoted himself wholly to his brass-polishing business. It outgrew his own time and strength before the New Year, and then he hired boys to work for him, and he spent his time superintending their work and extending his list of employers. He paid the boys as liberally as he could, but he would tolerate no loafing or careless work, so that at first he had some trouble in getting satisfactory assistants, but once secured, they seldom left his employ. The time came when he had a long list of such employees, and when a large part of the brass work in the city was under his care—but this was later.

Nan and Little Brother did not come back to the city in the fall. Mr. Scott had never intended that they should if he could prevent it.

Long before the summer was over, Nan had taken a daughter's place in Mrs. Hyde's childless home and Little Brother had become the cherished pet of the household. So warm and deep was the love given to them both that even Nan's sensitive pride could not object to remaining there where she knew that she could give as much as she received in love and service, and with a glad and grateful heart she abandoned all thought of returning to the city, and knew that she had at last found a real home.

But she did not forget her older friend, Theodore, and she told her new friends so much about him that they desired to see and know him also. So it came about that one of her letters to him contained a cordial invitation from Mrs. Hyde for him to spend Thanksgiving week at her home.

Mr. Scott gladly agreed to attend to the club-room and to keep an eye on the polishing business as far as he could, so Theodore accepted the invitation and began to look forward with delight to seeing Little Brother and Nan again.

He could hardly realise that it was he himself—poor Theodore Bryan—who, one bright November morning, sat in the swift-flying car and looked out on the autumn landscape on his way to spend Thanksgiving as Mrs. Hyde's guest, and to see again the two whom he loved to call his "folks."



As the train drew near the station at which he was to stop, Theo wondered who would meet him. He hoped Nan would. Indeed, he felt sure that she would, for, of course, Mrs. Hyde would not know him any more than he would know her.

So, as the cars ran along by the platform, he gazed eagerly out of the car window, and he felt a little chill of disappointment because Nan was nowhere in sight. There was a comfortable carriage in waiting for somebody. He thought that it might be Mrs. Hyde's—but no, that could not be, either, for a big, rosy-cheeked laddie, with mischievous blue eyes, sat on the seat, flourishing a whip in true boyish fashion. That didn't look much like heavy-eyed, white-lipped Little Brother, and there was not a girl anywhere in sight, except a tall, handsome one in a beautiful grey suit, trimmed with fur. This girl stood near the carriage and seemed to be watching for some one.

"I do wish Nan had come to meet me," Theo thought, as he stepped off the train, and then the tall girl in the grey suit was looking eagerly into his face, with both hands outstretched, crying,

"Oh, Theo! How glad I am to see you!" and he was seated in the carriage with that rosy-cheeked, merry-faced little laddie, between him and Nan, before he fairly realised that this was Little Brother, grown well and strong, as even Nan had not dared hope he would do in so few months.

And he had not forgotten his old friend either—Little Brother had not,—or, if he had, he renewed the friendship very speedily, and during Theo's stay the two were as inseparable as of old.

It was a happy week for Nan, for she could see how Theodore had been growing in the best ways during the months of their separation, and she was not a bit disappointed in him, but proud to have her new friends know him. And, as for the boy, it was a glimpse into a new life for him—that week in a lovely Christian home. He made up his mind that, sometime, he would have just such a home of his own, and he went back to the city well content to leave these two in such tender hands and amid such delightful surroundings.

Through all the winter that followed, Theodore was busy and happy. When the night-school began, he coaxed Mr. Hunt to take charge of the clubroom, for Theodore wanted to learn and fit himself for better work by and by, and with such a purpose he made rapid progress in his studies.

But, busy as he was, he still found time for his Saturday evening work for the florist, that he might continue his Sunday flower mission, for he knew that those few blossoms were all of brightness and beauty that ever entered into some of those shut-in, poverty-pinched lives about him.

Then, at Christmas time, Mr. Scott and Mrs. Rawson and the King's Daughters Circle helped him prepare a Christmas tree in the clubroom; a tree that bore a gift for every child and woman in the two houses. The children almost went wild over that, the first Christmas tree that many of them had ever seen; and then the eleven girls in their pretty winter dresses served all the company with cake and cream.

Theodore was too happy and busy to eat his share, but that was all right, for Teddy Hunt had no trouble at all in disposing of two portions.

When the last candle had ceased to glimmer among the green branches, and the last bit of cake and spoonful of cream had disappeared, the company slowly and lingeringly departed, already looking forward to just such another Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days later. Then with many a "Merry Christmas" to Theodore, the girls and Mrs. Rawson took their departure, and Mr. Scott followed them, only stopping a moment, to say,

"We left your Christmas gift in your room, my boy. I hope you will like it."

Wondering what his gift might be, the boy put out the lights and locked the clubroom door and hurried down to his room, remembering then that his teacher had asked for his key earlier in the evening.

The key was in the door now, and there was a light in the room. Theodore pushed open the door and then stopped short with a cry of delighted surprise, for he never would have recognised this as the bare little room he had left.

A neat rug covered the floor, fresh shades hung at the windows; a white iron bedstead with fluffy mattress and fresh white bedding stood where the old bedstead had been, and in place of the pine table and chairs were a neat oak bureau, and a washstand with toilet set and towels, three good, comfortable chairs and a desk that made Theo's eyes shine with delight. But best of all was a picture that hung on the wall facing the door—a picture of the bishop with that tender look in the eyes that the boy remembered so well.

On a card, slipped in the corner of the frame, was written,

"From Nan and Little Brother," and Theodore, as he looked and looked, felt that there was nothing left for him to desire.

He was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at the picture, when there was a knock at the door and as he opened it in flocked the eleven girls with Mrs. Rawson and Mr. Scott behind them.

"Do you like it, Theodore?"

"We couldn't go home till we saw you here," they exclaimed, and laughed and chattered joyously when they saw that the boy was too pleased and delighted for any words, and then they went away with their own hearts full of the joy of giving, to write a circular letter to Nan telling her all about it.

After this the winter passed quietly to Theodore. He was well and strong, and he was busy day and evening, and he was as happy a boy as could be found in all that city.

And the weeks and months slipped away until two years had gone by, and it was time for Carrots to be released.

Theodore ascertained the day and hour when he would leave the penitentiary and met him at the very gate with a warm and friendly greeting, and took him at once to his own room.

He searched the pale face of the boy, wondering whether there really was in it a change for the better, or not. It seemed to him less sullen and more thoughtful than it had been two years before, but he was not sure. Certainly, Carrots was very quiet. It seemed almost as if he had forgotten how to talk. He looked about Theo's neat, comfortable room, evidently noting the changes there, but he made no comment.

Theodore had set out a table with a good supper for the two, and Carrots ate as if he enjoyed the food. When the meal was ended, he leaned back in his chair, and as he looked straight into Theodore's eyes, said slowly,

"What made ye do it, Tode?"

"Do what—bring you here to supper?"

"Yes, an' write all them letters to me, an'—an' everything?"

"Why, Carrots, it's this way. I served another fellow an' awful mean trick once, and I've been trying mighty hard to find him, and make it up to him, but I haven't found him yet, and so I've tried to do a little for you instead of him—don't you see?"

Carrots nodded, and Theo fancied that he looked a little disappointed.

"Then 'twasn't really me you wanted to help?" he said, gravely.

"Yes, 'twas, too," answered Theo, quickly. "I'd have done what I could for you, anyhow, Carrots, but I do wish I could find him," he added, sorrowfully.

"What's his name?" inquired Carrots.

"Jack Finney."

"What?" exclaimed the boy, staring at Theodore as if he could not believe his ears.

"Jack Finney," repeated Theo, wonderingly.

"Well, I never! Tode—I'm Jack Finney."

"You?" cried Theodore, starting up excitedly. "You Mrs. Russell's Jack Finney?"

The boy nodded again. "I guess so. I was in her class in the mission school."

Theo's face was all alight as he exclaimed, "Oh, Carrots—no, Jack, I'll never call you Carrots again—Jack, I'm too glad for anything! And now look here, Jack Finney, you've got to be the right kind of a chap from this on. I won't let you go wrong. I can't let you go wrong, Jack. It—it seems as if it'll be all my fault if you do."

And Jack, looking again straight into Theodore's eyes, answered slowly, "I guess I've had 'bout enough o' crooked doin's. If you'll stand by me, I'll make a try on the other line, anyhow."

"I'll stand by you every time, Jack," cried Theodore, earnestly.

And he did, through months of alternate hope and discouragement, for Jack did not find the upward road an easy one. There were the bad habits of years always pulling him down, and there were old companions in evil ever ready to coax him back to their company, and more than once they succeeded for a while; but Theodore would not give him up, and in the end, the boy had his reward, for Jack Finney became his fellow-soldier under the Great Captain, and his faithful helper in his loving ministry among Christ's little ones.