"Why, she spoiled hers, showing us how to come through that sluice, didn't she?" said Henry Burns.

"Guess not," replied Harvey. "Spoiled long before that, I reckon. They're poor enough. Get somebody to buy the dress, and I'll pay for half, all right."

"I'm going to buy it now," said Henry Burns, coolly; "that is, if you've got any money. I've got five dollars."

Harvey produced his pocket-book and the necessary bills.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't do it for a hundred dollars. Go on; I'll watch you through the window."

In no wise daunted, Henry Burns, whose critical study of the model and the garment through the window had satisfied him that the figure was of Bess Thornton's size, boldly entered the store, calmly made the purchase, ignored the inquiry of the clerk if he was thinking of getting married, and returned with it to his companion.

"Say," exclaimed Harvey, "I don't wonder you learned to sail the Viking quick as you did. You've got the nerve."

"Now we've got to take it up there," said Henry Burns.

Harvey stopped short.

"Take that dress and give it to a girl?" he asked.

"No, we won't give it to her," replied his comrade. "She might not like to have us—and I wouldn't know what to say, would you?"

"Would I!" exclaimed Harvey.

"We'll just leave it and cut and run," explained Henry Burns. "Then she won't know who sent it, and she'll have to keep it. See?"

"It's most nine o'clock," remarked Harvey.

"I'm going," said Henry Burns.

"Oh, well, I'll stand by," said Harvey. "Let's be off, then. It's a good two miles and a half, nearer three."

Shortly after, one might have seen the two comrades trudging along the road leading out of Benton, in the direction of Ellison's mill.

They walked briskly, and in a little less than three quarters of an hour a light from a window on a hill-top warned them that they were approaching the farmhouse of Farmer Ellison. They turned in from the road that ran along the bank of the stream, and made their way through his field on the hillside, in the direction of the brook.

"Does Ellison keep any dog?" asked Harvey, once.

"I don't know, any more than you do," replied his companion. "Never saw any. We'll keep well down near the brook, though, so they can't see us from the house."

They passed through some clumps of small cedars and thin birches, stumbling now and then over cradle-knolls and pitching into little depressions. It was a clear night and starlit, but the shadows in the half darkness were confusing. A lamp gleamed in the kitchen window, above them, and they could see someone moving past the window from time to time.

"Ellison hasn't gone to bed," remarked Harvey.

"Well, what of it?" replied Henry Burns. "Not scared of him, are you?"

"No," answered Harvey. "But he's touchy about this brook. Ever since he caught Willie Dodd setting a net there one night he's been crazy for fear he'd lose some of these trout."

"I know what's the matter with you," said Henry Burns. "It's this dress. You wouldn't have anyone catch us with it for a million dollars."

"You bet I wouldn't," answered Harvey.

Harvey's nerves, usually the steadiest, were not proof against even a slight alarm; for when, a few moments later, his companion touched him lightly on an arm and motioned for him to be still, he waited, keyed up to a high point of excitement and ready for a dash across the fields.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Sh-h!" replied Henry Burns, clutching his bundle tight under one arm, and peering through the scattered alders, into which they had penetrated. "I heard a step."

They waited, anxiously.

It was Harvey's turn, however, to enjoy a laugh at the expense of his comrade, as the steps that the quick ear of Henry Burns had heard were continued, this time with an unmistakable crackling of undergrowth.

"There's your prowler, Henry," he said, laughing softly and slapping his friend between the shoulders. "She's got two horns, but I guess she won't hook, unless she sees through that box and gets a sight of that dress."

A look of relief overspread Henry Burns's face, as a Jersey cow stalked slowly through the brush and stood gazing inquiringly at the two boys. But, observing her for a moment, it did not escape Henry Burns that the animal suddenly gave a spring and turned and faced the other way, as though some noise behind had surprised her.

Henry Burns clutched his comrade and pointed back past the cow. Harvey's eyes followed where he pointed.

The figure of a man was plainly to be seen, stealing along in the shadows of the clumps of bushes.

They paused not another instant, but dashed forward, heedless now of the noise they made, thrusting branches aside and leaping from one knoll to another where the soil was boggy. At the same moment Farmer Ellison, brandishing a club, emerged into plain view and darted after them, crying out as he ran.

"Stop there!" he shouted. "I'll shoot yer if yer don't stop. I'll have no nets set in this stream. Just let me lay this club on your backs."

They only fled the faster.

"He won't shoot," gasped Henry Burns. "Make for the foot of the dam. We'll cross the brook."

As for Harvey, threats of a fire of infantry wouldn't have stopped him. He followed his slighter companion, who led the way, despite the incumbrance of the box he carried.

Through pasture and swamp the chase continued. The boys were fleeter of foot, but Farmer Ellison knew the ground. And once he skirted a boggy piece of land and nearly headed them off. They turned toward the brook, gained its shore and sped along to the foot of the dam. There the water, diminished by the obstruction, flowed from a little basin out on to shallower bottom, from which here and there a rock protruded.

Springing from one to another of these, slipping and splashing to their knees, aided here and there by a bit of half decayed log or drift-wood, they got across and scrambled up the opposite bank just as Farmer Ellison, out of breath, appeared on the nearer shore.

"You poachers!" he cried, "Ye've got away this time. But look out for the next. Remember, it's a shotgun full of rock salt and sore legs for yer if yer come again."

He seated himself by the foot of the dam, nursing a bruised shin, and watched them disappear through the fields.

"Scared 'em some, anyway, I reckon," he remarked. And was most assuredly correct in that. The two boys had not stopped in their flight, and were a mile above the crossing before Farmer Ellison turned himself homeward.

Safe from pursuit at last, Henry Burns threw himself down at the foot of a tree and laughed till he nearly choked for want of breath.

"How we did scoot," he said. "Did you see old Ellison slip once and go into the bog?"

"I didn't see anything," replied Harvey, "but a pair of legs in front of me, cutting it through the mud and brush. How's the dress?"

"Oh, it's all right," said Henry Burns. "Come out if you've got your wind. We'll leave it and get home."

They were at a point above Grannie Thornton's cottage, and they proceeded now cautiously, making a circuit to bring them to the brook some way above the house, pausing now and then to look and to listen. But no one disturbed them. Farmer Ellison had had enough of the chase and had gone home to nurse his shin.

They came down to the old house. It was dark, and all was still. Harvey waited on watch near the gate, while Henry Burns stole up to the door and laid the box down carefully against the front door. Then they sped away.

"Go back the way we came?" inquired Henry Burns, slyly.

"Not much," said Harvey. "Straight out to the main road. No more swamps for me."

They went out that way, then; took the main road, passed down by the old inn and the mill, and swung into a rapid stride for home. It was half past eleven o'clock when they turned into their beds.

Two days following this adventure, toward the latter part of the afternoon, Henry Burns was walking up the same road by the stream, in the direction of the camp, where he was to meet Tom Harris for a spin in the canoe. He had heard no footsteps near, and was therefore not a little surprised when a hand touched his arm and a laugh that was familiar sounded close by his side.

He turned quickly, and there was Bess Thornton.

"Hullo," she said, "I hoped I'd see somebody on the road. I'll walk along with you."

Henry Burns said "all right" in a tone that was not over-cordial; for, though not easily abashed, he was, to tell the truth, just a bit shy with girls, and wondered what Tom Harris would say if he saw him coming up the road with Bess.

Perhaps the girl's quick intuitiveness perceived this, for a mischievous light danced in her black eyes as she said, "I thought perhaps you'd like to have company. You would, wouldn't you?"

"Yes—oh, yes," responded Henry Burns. "Going home from school?"

"Yes," she answered. "But I didn't want to go this morning, a bit. Gran' made me, though."

"What's the matter?" asked Henry Burns.

"Well," said the girl, "I had to wear this new dress, you see. And when you wear a new dress they always say things, don't you know? Danny Davis hollered 'stuck up' once, but I punched him."

"Good for you," said Henry Burns, laughing. "I'd like to have seen you—that a new dress?"

"Course it is," she answered, with a touch of half-offended pride. "Can't you see it is?"

Henry Burns made a quick survey of the trim little figure, clad in the dress that had cost him and Harvey the hard scramble of the recent night. It was surprising what a difference the pretty suit made in the appearance of the girl. He made a mental note of the fact that it seemed just the right size for her, and that she certainly looked very nice in it. Its dark red set off the black of her glossy hair, and she wore a neat straw hat that went well with the dress. At least, it looked all right to Henry Burns.

"You don't look stuck up," he ventured. "You look first rate."

He felt the colour come into his cheeks as he said it. It was the first time in his life that he had ever complimented a girl. They were passing a dingy little store, with its windows filled with farming tools, odds and ends of household stuff and some fishing tackle, and he thought it a good chance to get away.

"Got an errand in here," he said. "Good-bye."

Some ten minutes later he emerged, looked sharply up the road and pursued his journey. He had gone scarcely a rod or two, however, when the girl's voice brought him to a halt, much taken aback. She was seated by the stream, close to the water.

"I thought you'd be along," she said. "I've been watching the pickerel. There's one sunning himself close to the top of water now, just by the lily pads. See me hit him."

She picked up a stone as she spoke, and threw it with surprising ease and accuracy. It struck the water about six inches from the dark object to which she had pointed. Henry Burns's chagrin at this second meeting was lost in admiration.

"Good shot!" he exclaimed. "How'd you know 'twas a pickerel?"

"Oh I catch 'em," she answered. "And once in a while I show one to Benny Ellison so he can shoot it. I don't like him much, though. He's mean and—fat."

Henry Burns chuckled.

"He can't help that," he said.

"No, but he's always stuffing himself with candy and things," said the girl. "And he won't ever give you any. I like people that give away things once in a while, don't you?"

Henry Burns came the nearest to blushing that he ever had, as he answered that he guessed he did. There was something in the girl's voice and manner and in her beaming countenance, telling of her happiness in the possession of her new finery—though she had feared the ordeal of wearing it to school, perhaps because of the contrast it made to her usual garment—that he felt a queer feeling in his throat. But relief was at hand for him in his embarrassment, for the path that led down to the camp was in sight, and he bade her good-bye.

He struck off along the path, through the bushes and thin growth of woods; but had gone only a little way when the sound of voices, one sharp and angry, made him pause. He retraced his steps, hurrying as he recognized the voice of Bess Thornton, the tone of which indicated grief.

He emerged into the road in time to see the girl scramble out of a clump of brakes and burdock plants by the roadside, the tears standing in her eyes as she picked the burs from the latter out of the new dress. Just in front of her, noting her distress with satisfaction, stood Benny Ellison.

"That's what you get for being so proud," he said bluntly. "You needn't get so mad, though. I was only in fun."

The girl's eyes blazed, angrily; but it was not the Bess Thornton of every day that now faced the youth. Some of her fearlessness and dash seemed to have departed, with the taking off of the old dress.

"Let me past," she said, stepping forward; but the boy blocked her way.

"Let me look at the new dress," he demanded. "Where'd you get so much?"

He caught her by an arm, as she attempted to brush past him. Greatly to his surprise, however, he felt his hand cast off and, at the same time, he was nearly upset by a vigorous push. The youth who had done this, apparently not the least excited, stood facing him as he recovered himself.

"Let the girl alone," said Henry Burns. "Let her go past."

One could hardly have noted a trace of anger in his voice, but there was a warning in his eye that Benny Ellison might have heeded. The latter, however, was no longer in a mood to stop at any warning. His flabby face reddened and his fist clenched.

"You'll not stop me!" he cried, taking a step toward the girl. "I'll push both of you in there, if you don't get out."

"Just try it," said Henry Burns, quietly.

Benny Ellison, larger and heavier than the youth who thus dared him, hesitated only a moment. Then he rushed at Henry Burns and they clinched. The struggle seemed over before it had hardly begun, however, for the next moment Benny Ellison found himself lying on his back in the road, with Henry Burns firmly holding him there.

"Let me up!" he cried, squirming and kicking. "You don't dare let me up."

By way of answer, Henry Burns relinquished his hold and allowed his antagonist to regain his feet. Again Benny Ellison, wild with anger, made a rush for Henry Burns, aiming a blow at him as he came on. Dodging it, and without deigning to attempt to return it, Henry Burns closed with him once more, and they reeled together to and fro for a moment.

If Benny Ellison had but known it, he had met with one whom Tom Harris and Bob White, who prided themselves on their athletics, and even stalwart Jack Harvey, had often found to be their match in wrestling. Slight in build, but with well-knit muscles, Henry Burns was surprisingly strong. And, above all, he never lost his head.

The contest this time was a moment more prolonged; but again Benny Ellison felt his feet going from under him, and again he went down—but this time harder—to the ground. He lay for a moment, with the breath knocked out of him.

"Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to strike a blow.

Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a moment; then backed away.

"I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get square with you for this."

Henry Burns's eyes twinkled.

"Why not now?" he asked.

Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road.

Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her, suddenly clouded.

"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me."

Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."



CHAPTER XI

COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL

It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long, with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the purpose of being indestructible rather than for show.

Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly.

"Hello, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?"

The boy shook his head, disconsolately.

"What's the matter?"

"Can't," said the boy. "Father won't let me."

Tim looked at him pityingly.

"Won't let you come out the night before the Fourth!" he exclaimed. "Gee! I'd like to see anybody stop me. What's he 'fraid of?"

"He isn't afraid," replied the boy. "He's mad because they make so much noise he can't sleep. He says they haven't any right to fire off guns and things on the Fourth."

"Hm!" sniffed Tim. "Henry Burns says you have, and I guess he knows. He's read all about it. He says there was a man named Adams who was a president once, and he said everybody ought to make all the noise they could; get out and fire guns, and blow horns, and beat on pans and yell like everything, and build bonfires and fire off firecrackers."

"Did he?" said the boy. "And did he say anything about getting out the night before?"

"Well, I dunno about that," answered Tim Reardon; "but of course the patrioticker you are, why, the sooner you begin. It's the Fourth of July the minute the clock strikes twelve—and, cracky, won't we make a racket then? Henry Burns, he's got a cannon; and so's Jack Harvey and Tom Harris and Bob White, and the Warren fellers they've got three, and a lot of other fellers have got 'em. Just you wait till the clock strikes, and there'll be some fun."

"I wish I could come out," said the boy, earnestly.

"Too bad you can't. You miss all the fun," said Little Tim. "I'll bet George Washington was out the first of any of 'em on the Fourth of July, when he was a boy."

Tim's knowledge of history was not quite so ample as his patriotic ardour.

"Why don't you come, anyway?" he ventured. "Just tie a string around your big toe, and hang the string out the window, and I'll come around and wake you up. I'm going to wake George Baker that way. I don't go to bed at all the night before the Fourth."

The boy shook his head.

"No, I guess not," he replied. "But say," he added quickly, "come around in front of the house and make all the racket you can, will you? I'd like to hear it, if I can't get out."

"You bet we will," responded Tim, heartily. "Sammy Willis, his father won't let him come out, and we're going 'round there; and Joe Turner, his father won't let him come out, and we're going there, too. There's where we go to, most."

Tim did not explain whether this was from patriotic motives or otherwise. But the small boy looked pleased.

"Be sure and come around," he said.

"Oh, you'll hear from us, all right," replied Tim.

It was quite evident that something would be heard when, some hours later, about a quarter of an hour before midnight, a group of boys had gathered in the square in front of Willie Perkins's house. There was an array of small cannon ranged about that would have sent joy to the heart of a youthful Knox or Steuben. The boys were engaged in the act of loading these with blasting powder, purchased at a reduced price from the rock blasters in the valley below.

"Here you, don't put in so much powder, young fellow," cautioned Harvey to a smaller youth, who was about to pour a handful into a chunky firearm. "Don't you know that it's little powder and lots of wadding that makes her speak? I'll show you."

Harvey measured out a small handful of the coarse, black grains, poured them down the barrel, stuffed in some newspaper and rammed it home with a hickory stick. Then he stuffed in a handful of grass and some more newspaper, hammering on the ram-rod with a brick, regardless of any danger of premature explosion. The coarse powder was not "lively," however, and had always stood such handling. The process was continued until the cannon was stuffed to the muzzle. Then a few grains were dropped over the touch-hole, a long strip of paper laid over this, weighted down with a small pebble, and was ready for lighting.

"There," said Harvey, relinquishing the ram-rod to the youth, "that'll speak. If you fill 'em full of powder they don't make half the noise."

Simultaneously, Henry Burns, the Warren boys, Tom Harris, Bob White and a dozen other lads had been loading and priming their respective pieces; and presently they stood awaiting the striking of the town clocks.

Willie Perkins's father, who had been hard at work all the evening with a congenial party in his office, at a game of euchre, was just getting his first nap, having congratulated himself on retiring, that, if the neighbourhood's rest was disturbed, his son at least would not contribute toward it. Willie Perkins, having extended a cordial invitation to the boys to come around and visit his esteemed parent, was himself fast asleep.

Clang! The first town clock to take cognizance of the arrival of the glorious Fourth struck a lusty note, that rang out loudly on the clear night air. But there was no response from the eager gunners. It was not yet Fourth of July. It would have gone hard with the boy that had fired.

Clang and clang again. The twelfth call was still ringing in the iron throat of the old bell, high in its steeple, when Harvey shouted, "Now give it to her!"

There was a hasty scratching of matches. The strips of paper began to burn; slowly at first, while the boys scattered; then quickly, sputtering as the flame caught the first few grains of powder.

A moment later, it seemed to Willie Perkins's father as though he had been lifted completely out of his bed by some violent concussion, while a roar like the blast of battle shook the house. The glorious Fourth had begun in Benton.

Springing to his feet, Mr. Perkins uttered a denunciation of the day that would have made the signers of the Declaration of Independence turn in their graves, while he rushed to the window. Throwing it open, he peered out into the square. There was not a boy in sight. Retreat had already begun, ignominiously, from the field.

"If they come around again—" muttered Mr. Perkins. He did not finish the sentence, but went along a hallway and looked into his son's room. "Are you there, William?" he inquired sternly.

"Yes; can I get up now? Must be most morning."

"Get up!" replied the elder Perkins. "Just let me catch you getting up before daylight! If I had my way, there wouldn't be any firing guns or firecrackers on Fourth of July. It's barbarism—not patriotism.

"Willie," he added, "do you know any of those boys out there to-night?"

"How can I tell, if you won't let me go out?" whined Willie.

"I'd like to know who put it into people's heads to fire off guns on the Fourth," exclaimed Mr. Perkins. "He must have been a rowdy."

Willie Perkins made a mental note that he would look up President Adams next morning, for his father's benefit.

Mr. Perkins returned to his bed-room and closed his eyes once more. His was not a sweet and peaceful sleep, however. Benton was awakening to the Fourth in divers localities, and sounds from afar, of fish-horns and giant crackers, of bells and barking dogs, came in, in tumultuous confusion.

"Confound the Fourth of July!" muttered Mr. Perkins. "I didn't disturb people this way when I was a boy."

But perhaps Mr. Perkins forgot.

There came by, shortly, a party of intensely patriotic youth from the mill settlement under the hill. Their particular brand of patriotism manifested itself in beating with small bars of iron on a large circular saw, suspended on a stick thrust through the hole in its centre and borne triumphantly between two youths. The reverberation, the deafening clangour of this, cannot possibly be described, or appreciated by one that has never heard it. Suffice it to say, that the fish-horns, even the cannon, were insignificant by comparison.

Mr. Perkins groaned and half arose. But the party went along past, without offering to stop—perhaps because they had received no invitation from Willie. Moreover, it seemed as though half the town was astir by this time and giving vent to its enthusiasm. Benton had a remarkable way of getting boyish on the morning of the Fourth, which the elder Perkins could not understand.

When, however, an hour later, another shock of cannon shook his chamber, followed immediately by what sounded to him like a derisive blast of fish-horns, there was no more irresolution left in him. Hastily arising and throwing a coat over his shoulders, and dashing a hat over his eyes—the first one that came to hand, and which happened to be a tall beaver—Mr. Perkins, barefoot and in his night-clothes, a not imposing guardian of the peace, sped down the front stairs and out into the street.

A cry of alarm, the rumble of cannon dragged by ropes over the shoulders of a squad of youths in full flight, and the exclamations of the indignant Mr. Perkins, marked the occasion.

Fear lent its wings to the pursued; wrath served to lighten the bare heels of Mr. Perkins. He was gaining, when one of the youth, cumbered in flight by his artillery piece, let go the string. The cannon remaining in the path of Mr. Perkins, he stumbled over it, and it hurt his toe. He paused and picked up the cannon, but relinquished it to grasp his toe, which demanded all his attention. He decided, then and there, that the pursuit, which had extended about three blocks, was useless, and abandoned it. Limping slightly, he started homeward.

Somewhat like the British retreat from Concord and Lexington, was the return of Mr. Perkins to his home. A piece of burning punk lay in the road, and presently he stepped on that. The fleeing forces had doubled on their tracks, also, and a fire-cracker exploded near him. Then a torpedo. And there was no enemy in sight to take revenge on. Mr. Perkins hastened his steps and was soon, himself, in full retreat.

Then, when presently he was conscious of the raising of curtains in near-by windows, and felt the eyes of several of his neighbours directed toward his weird costume, Mr. Perkins no longed walked. He ran. As he closed the door behind him and tramped wearily up the stairs, the voice of his son greeted him.

"Say, pa, is it time to get up now?"

Mr. Perkins's reply was most decidedly unpatriotic.

The hours went by, and a rapid fire of small artillery ran throughout Benton and along its whole frontier line. Even the bells in the steeples, no longer solemn, clanged forth their defiance to authority—which was the only thing that slumbered in the town on this occasion.

But Benton had other observances for its boisterous display of spirits, the origin of which no one seemed to know, but which were participated in each year by the new generation of youths, with careful observance of tradition.

There were the "Horribles," for example, not to have ridden in which at some time of one's life was to have left one page blank. The procession of "Horribles," otherwise known as "Ragamuffins," usually started at about six in the morning, marching through the streets until nine;—by which time the endurance of a youth who had been out all night usually came to an end.

Now, as the hour of three was passed, certain eager and impatient aspirants for first place in the line began to make their appearance on horseback in the streets of Benton, clattering about on steeds that had never before known a saddle; weird figures, masked uncouthly in pasteboard representations of Indians, animals and what-not, and clad in every sort of costume, from rags to ancient uniforms—a noisy, tatterdemalion band, blowing horns and discharging firearms.

There was Tim Reardon, mounted on an aged truck horse, that drooped its head and ambled with half-closed eyes, as though it might at any moment fall off to sleep again. Sticking like a monkey to its bare back was Tim, his face hidden behind a monstrous mask, his head surmounted by a battered silk hat, extracted from a convenient refuse heap; a fish-horn slung about his neck by a string.

There was Henry Burns, with face blackened and a huge wooden tomahawk at his belt; he, likewise, astride, on one of Mr. Harris's work horses. A more mettlesome steed upheld Jack Harvey, but not at all willingly, since it had an uncertain way of backing without warning into fences and trees, to the detriment of its rider's shins. The firing of a huge horse-pistol by Harvey seemed to aggravate rather than soothe the animal's feelings.

The Warren brothers had contrived a sort of float, consisting of an express wagon, gorgeously covered with coloured cloths, even interwoven in the spokes of the wheels, and wound around the body of the horse that drew it. A wash-boiler, its legitimate usefulness long over, set up in the wagon, was beaten on by Arthur and Joe Warren, while their elder brother drove.

Tom Harris, Bob White and a scattering of other grotesque horsemen came along presently.

"Where'll we go?" queried Harvey, as the squadron paused to rest after a preliminary round of some of the streets.

"Past Perkins's house again," suggested young Joe Warren.

"No, we've been by there twice already," answered Henry Burns. "He won't like Fourth of July if we give him too much of it."

Young Joe grinned behind his mask.

"I'll tell you," he said, excitedly. "We've got time to do it, too, before the parade begins—Witham's! Bet he's sound asleep—what do you say?"

"Come on," cried Henry Burns. "Will you go, fellows?"

A whoop of delight gave acquiescence. The procession clattered out of Benton and started up the valley road by the stream.

They went along noisily at first, beating their battered tinware, setting off giant firecrackers, blowing horns and whooping lustily. Farmers along the road opened a sleepy eye as they passed, remembered it was the morning of the Fourth, and turned over for another nap. Pickerel in the stream dived their noses into the soft mud at the lowest depths. Night-hawks, high above, swooped after their prey and added their weird noise to the din. Yellow-hammers and thrushes, rudely roused, darted from their nests and took flight silently into the thicker screen of the woods.

But, as the riders neared the Ellison dam, and heard the first sound of the falling water, they subsided, planning to take the neighbourhood, and particularly the occupants of the Half Way House, above, by surprise. Thus silently going along, they were aware of a light wagon, drawn by a lively stepping horse, turning from the road that led up to the Ellison farm and coming on toward them.

"Hello!" exclaimed George Warren; "it's Doctor Wells. Something's up. Wonder what's the matter."

Doctor Wells, coming up to the leaders, reined in his horse and regarded the procession with a mingled expression of good humour and anxiety.

"Pretty early to start the Fourth, isn't it?" he asked. "What's that you say? Going to wake up Colonel Witham—and Ellison?"

His face assumed a serious expression.

"Wake Jim Ellison," he repeated, as though he was speaking more to himself than to them. "I wish you could. 'Twould stop lots of trouble, I'm thinking. No man can wake poor Jim Ellison. He's dead. Went off quick not a half hour ago. Got a shock, and that was the end of him. You'll have to turn back, boys."

Quietly and soberly, the procession turned about and headed for Benton. The parade that morning was minus a good part of its expected members.

One week later, Lawyer James Estes of Benton, carrying some transcripts of legal papers under his arm, walked up the driveway to the Ellison farm and knocked at the front door. A woman, sad-eyed and anxious, opened to his knock and ushered him into the front parlour.

"I'm afraid I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Ellison," he said, in response to her look of inquiry. "I'm sorry to say it looks as though your husband's affairs were much involved at the time of his death. I find those deeds were given to Colonel Witham. They're on record, and I suppose Witham has the original papers, duly signed. We'll know all about it as soon as he returns. He went out of town, you say, the day Mr. Ellison died?"

"Yes," she replied; "never came near us, nor sent us word of sympathy. I'm afraid he didn't want to see us. I never wanted James to have business dealings with him. Does the mill go, too?"

"I'm afraid it does," answered Lawyer Estes. "Why, didn't you know about it? Your name is signed, too, you know, else the deeds are not good."

"Oh, yes, I suppose I did sign them, if they're on record," said Mrs. Ellison. "I was always signing papers for James. He said everything would be all right. I didn't know anything about the business—dear, dear—I thought the boys would have the mill when James was too old to work it. It's good property, if it does look shabby."

"Well, we'll make the best of it and do all we can," said Lawyer Estes. "Perhaps Witham can straighten it out when he returns. If he can't, there seems to be no doubt that the mill and some of the farm belong to him. We've hunted everywhere about your home and about the mill, and there are no papers that save us. We must wait for Colonel Witham."

It was a little more than two weeks before Colonel Witham did return to his hotel. Had he gotten out of the way, thus hurriedly, to see what turn James Ellison's affairs might take? Had he hopes that the deeds he knew of might by some chance not be found? Was his absence carefully timed, to allow of whatever search was bound to be made to be done and gotten over with, ere he should presume to lay claim to the property? It would not do to declare himself owner, should the chance arise, and then have the deeds that he had given back secretly to Ellison turn up. It were safer surely to remain away and see what would happen.

At all events, when on a certain day the droning of the mill told that its wheels had resumed their interrupted grinding, there might have been seen, within, the burly form of Colonel Witham, moving about as one with authority. Short, curt were his answers. There was little to be made out of him by Lawyer Estes or anyone else. What was his business was his—and nobody else's. There were the deeds, duly signed. If anyone had a better claim to the property, let him show it. As for the Ellison boys—and all other boys—they could keep away, unless they had corn to be ground. The mill was no place for them.

And yet, as the days went by, one might have fancied, if he had observed, that all was not easy in the mind of the new owner of the mill. They might have noted in his manner a continual restlessness; a wandering about the mill from room to room; prying into odd corners here and there; pounding upon the beams and partitions; poking under stair-ways; rummaging into long unused chutes and bins; for ever hunting, anxious-eyed; as though the mill had an evil and troublous influence over his spirits.

And now and then, pausing in the midst of his searching, the new owner might have been heard to exclaim, "Well, if I can't find them, nobody else can. That's sure."

But Colonel Witham did not discontinue his searching. And the mill gave up no secrets.



CHAPTER XII

THE GOLDEN COIN

Mill stream, coming down from afar up the country, on its way to Samoset river and bay, flowed in many moods. Now it glided deep and smooth, almost imperceptibly, along steep banks that went up wooded to the sky line. Again it hurled itself recklessly down rocky inclines, frothing and foaming and fighting its way by sheer force through barriers of reefs. Now it went swiftly and pleasantly over sand shallows, rippling and seeming almost to sing a tune as it ran; again it turned back on its course in little eddies, backing its waters into shaded, still pools, where the pickerel loved to hide.

They were lazy fellows, the pickerel. One might, if he were a lucky and persevering fisherman, take a trout in the swift waters of the brook; but for the pickerel, theirs was not the joy of such exertion. In the dark, silent places along Mill stream, where never a ripple disturbed their seclusion, you might see one, now and then, lying motionless in the shadow of an overhanging branch, at the surface of the water, as though asleep.

They were not eager to bite then, in the warmth of the day. You might troll by the edges of the lily pads for half an hour, and the pickerel that made his haunt there would scarce wink a sleepy eye, or flicker a fin. At morn and evening they were ready for you; and a quick, sudden whirl in the glassy, black water often gave invitation then to cast a line.

In the early hours of a July morning, a little way up from Ellison's dam, a youth stood up to his middle among the lily pads, wielding a long, jointed bamboo pole, and trolling a spoon-hook past the outer fringe of the flat, green leaves. He was whistling, softly—an indication that he was happy. He was sunburned, freckle-faced, hatless, coatless. He wore only a thin and faded cotton blouse, the sleeves of it rolled up, and a pair of trousers, rolled up above his knees—for convenience rather than to protect them, for he had waded in, waist deep.

Tied about him was a piece of tarred rope, from which there dangled the luckless victims of his skill, three pickerel. That they were freshly caught was evidenced by their flopping vigorously now and then, as the boy entered the deeper water, and opening their big, savage looking mouths as though they would like to swallow their captor.

A splash out yonder, just beside the clump of arrow-shaped pickerel weed! Tim Reardon's heart beat joyfully, as he turned and saw the ripples receding from the spot where the fish had jumped. He swung his long rod, dropped the troll skilfully near the blue blossoms that adorned the clump of weed, and drew it temptingly past. The spoon revolved rapidly, gleaming with alternate red and silver, the bright feathers that clothed the gang of hooks at the end trailing after.

Another splash, and a harder one. Tim Reardon "struck" and the fish was fast. Now it lashed the water furiously, fighting for its life. But it was not a big fish, and Tim Reardon lifted it clear of the water so that it swung in where he could clutch it with eager hands. Grasping it just back of the gills, he disengaged the hook cautiously, avoiding the sharp rows of teeth that lined the long jaws. He slung the pickerel on the line, and whistled gleefully.

It was a royal day for fishing; with just a thin shading of clouds to shield the water from the glare of sun; the water still and smooth; the shadows very black in the shady places.

It is safe to say, no one in all Benton knew the old stream like Tim Reardon. He fished it day after day from morn till evening, before and after school hours, and now in the vacation at all times. Tom Harris and Bob White knew it as canoeists; but Tim Reardon, following the ins and outs of its shores for miles above the Ellison dam, knew every little turn and twist in its shore.

He knew the places where the pickerel hid; where the water was swift, or shallow, or choked with weeds, and where to leave the shore and make a detour through the grain fields past these places. There were deep pools where the pickerel seldom rose to the troll, but asked to have their dinner sent down to them in the form of a fresh shiner; and Tim Reardon knew these pools, and when to remove the troll and put on his sinker and live bait.

He could have told you every inch of the country between Ellison's dam and the falls four miles above; where you would find buckwheat fields; where the corn patches were; where apple orchards bordered them; where the groves of beech-trees were, with the red squirrel colonies in the stumps near-by; and where the best place was to pause for noon luncheon, in the shade of some pines, where there was a spring bubbling up cool on the hottest days, in which you could set a bottle of coffee and have it icy cold in a half-hour.

There were big hemlocks along the way, in the rotted parts of which the yellow-hammers built their nests and laid their white eggs; hard trees to climb, with their huge trunks. He knew the time to scale the tall pines where the crows built, to find the scrawny young birds, with wide-open mouths and skinny bodies, that looked like birds visited by famine. He knew where the red columbines blossomed on the face of some tall cliffs, where the stream flowed through a rocky gorge; and how to crawl painfully down a zigzag course from the top to gather these, at the risk of falling seventy feet to the rocks below.

There were a thousand and one delights of the old stream that were a joy to his heart—though one would not have expected to find sentiment lodged in the breast of Little Tim. As for the boy, he only knew that it was all very dear to him, and that the whole valley of the stream was a source of perpetual happiness.

He waded ashore now and went on, his pole over his shoulder, whistling, filled with an enjoyment that he could not for the world have described; but which was born amid the singing of the stream, the droning of bees, the noises of birds and insects, in a lazy murmur that filled all the quiet valley.

It was rare fun following the winding of that stream; among little hills, by the edges of meadows and through groves of mingled cedars and birches. Now and then he would rest and watch its noiseless flowing, past some spot where the branches hung close over the water; where the stream flowed so smoothly and quietly that the shadows asleep on its surface were never disturbed.

The noon hour came, and Little Tim seated himself for his luncheon on a knoll carpeted with thick, tufted grass. A kingfisher, disturbed by his arrival, went rattling on his way upstream. And as the boy drew from his dingy blouse a scrap of brown paper, enclosing a bit of bread and cheese, and laid it down beside him, the stream seemed to be dancing just before him at the tune he whistled; a swinging, whirling dance from shore to shore; a butterfly dance, through a setting of buttercups and daisies; with here and there a shaft of sunlight thrown upon it, where the thin clouds parted.

Afternoon came, and the shadows of the low hills were thrown far across the stream. Here and there a splash denoted that the fish were waking from their midday torpor and were ready for prey. Little Tim resumed his rod, and slowly retraced his steps along the shore in the direction of Ellison dam and Benton.

It was about four o'clock as he neared a point in the stream a half-mile above the dam, where the water flowed very quietly past the edge of some thick alders. There were pickerel in that water. Tim knew the place of old; and he drew near softly, to make a cast. The bright troll fell with a tinkle on the still surface, and he drew it temptingly past the thicket.

A quick whirl—and how the line did tauten and the rod bend! The whole tip of it went under water. He had struck a big fish. He brought him to the surface with some effort; but the fish was not to be easily subdued. A sudden dart and he was away again, diving deep and straining the rod to its utmost.

Seeing he had a fish of unusual size, the boy played him carefully; let him have the line and tire himself for a moment, then reeled in as the line slackened.

"He's a four pounder; giminy, how he fights!" exclaimed Little Tim. And he gave a sudden yell of triumph as he saw that the fish was firmly hooked, with the troll far down its distended jaws.

Then his impatience got the better of him, and he gave a great lift on the rod, with the line reeled up short. Just at that moment too, it seemed the fish had tired; for, as Tim strained, the big pickerel came out of water as with a leap. The stout rod straightened with a jerk that yanked the fish out, sent it flying through the air and lodged it away up in the top of some thick alders that bordered the shore. There, the line tangling, it hung suspended, twisting and doubling in vain effort to free itself.

Little Tim laughed joyfully.

"Got to shin for that fellow," he said, stepping ashore and eying the prize that dangled above his head.

But, as he stooped to lay down his pole, the discharge of a shotgun close at hand made him jump with astonishment. Still more amazed was he to see the dangling fish fall between the alder branches to the ground. Then, before he had recovered from his astonishment, a youth dashed forward and seized it.

The youth was Benny Ellison.

Little Tim's blood was up.

"Think you're smart, don't you," he cried, "shooting my fish. Here, gimme that. What do you think you're doing?"

But Benny Ellison, holding the big pickerel away from Tim, showed no intention of giving it up.

"Who told you it was your fish?" he replied, sneeringly. "I shot it. It's mine."

"Give me back that fish!" repeated Little Tim. "I'll tell Harvey on you. You'll get another ducking."

He seized Benny Ellison by an arm, but the other, bigger and stronger, pushed him back roughly.

"Go on," he said, and added, while a grin overspread his fat face, "That's no fish, anyway. Whoever heard of catching fish in trees? That's a bird, Timmy, and I shot it. See its tail-feathers?"

He swung the fish and gave Little Tim a slap over the head with the tail of it, that brought the tears to Tim's eyes.

"Go on, tell Harvey," he said. "This bird's mine."

Dangling the pickerel by the gills, and shouldering his gun, he pushed on upstream through the alders, leaving Little Tim angry and smarting.

"I'll get even with you, Benny Ellison," called Tim; but the other only laughed and went on.

Tim slowly unjointed his rod, tied the pieces together in a compact bundle, gathered up his string of remaining fish and started homeward. When he had gone on about a quarter of a mile, however, he suddenly paused and stood for a moment, considering something. Then he looked about him, stepped into a little thicket where he hid his pole and fish carefully from sight, then retraced his steps upstream.

He went on through the alders and brush, till presently he heard the report of the gun. Guided by the sound, he continued on for a little way, then shinned into the branches of a tall cedar, heavily wooded, and from there got a view upstream. Several rods away, he could see the alders move, thrust aside by Benny Ellison. Little Tim seated himself amid the branches, safely hidden, and waited.

Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, and then the snapping of underbrush told of the approach of Benny Ellison, on his return. That his shot had told was evidenced by another pickerel which he carried, hung by the gills on the crotch of an alder branch, together with the big fellow that Little Tim had caught. Tim's eyes snapped as he saw the fish.

Benny Ellison, chuckling to himself, passed the tree where Tim crouched, high above him. Almost within the shadow of it, he stopped and laughed heartily, as he glanced down at the big pickerel.

"It's a bird," he cried. "Shot it in a tree—what luck!"

Not until he had gone some distance did Little Tim emerge from hiding, scramble to the ground and follow. Dodging from tree to tree, and pausing frequently, he saw Benny Ellison finally seat himself on a log beside the stream. Tim waited. Then a smile of satisfaction crossed his freckled face as Benny Ellison began stripping off his clothes for a swim.

Little Tim, crouching low, almost crawling, crept closer.

Benny Ellison stood on a bank by the edge of a deep pool, a favourite swimming-place, where he and his cousins, and Little Tim, too, had had many a swim. The water was inviting, with the sultriness of the afternoon. Tim's heart beat high as he saw Benny Ellison plunge headforemost into the pool.

Then Tim's hopes were realized. Benny Ellison, a good swimmer, struck out into midstream toward a reef that protruded a few feet above water.

Crawling on hands and knees, Tim quickly gained the shelter of the log where the other had thrown his clothes, with the fish dropped just alongside. Tim made sure of his fish, first. He pulled it hastily from the stick, leaving the one that Benny Ellison had shot, afterwards, unmolested for the moment.

Then he dragged Benny Ellison's cotton shirt down behind the log. Seizing the sleeves, he proceeded to tie the thin garment into hard knots. It was the old schoolboy trick. He had had it played on him many a time in swimming—and done the same by others; but he had never entered into the prank with half the zest as now. He tugged at the knots and drew them hard.

"That shirt's a bird," he said softly, eying the shapeless bundle, with a grin. Then he served the trousers and the "galluses" the same way; likewise Benny Ellison's socks. Finally, having it all dona to suit him, he stood erect upon the log and called out to the swimmer.

"Say, Benny," he cried, "here's your bird." And, stooping and picking up Benny Ellison's pickerel, he hurled the dead fish far out into the stream. The fish struck the water with a splash, as Benny Ellison, turning in dismay and wrath, started back with vigorous strokes.

"There's another bird on the log for you, Benny," called Tim. Then, picking up his own fish, he scampered. Benny Ellison's slower steps could not have equalled the pace set by those bare feet, had he been ashore. By the time he was on land again, Little Tim, his pole and string of fish regained, was half-way to the Ellison dam.

A voice stopped him as he was emerging on to the main road, just below Witham's Half Way House. He turned and saw Bess Thornton.

"Hello, Tim," she called, "what's the matter? Anybody after you? My, but I guess you've been running fast."

Tim Reardon, wiping his face with his sleeves, told her what had happened. The girl danced with glee, while her bright eyes sparkled.

"Oh, goody!" she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I just like to have seen that fat old Benny Ellison try to catch you. My, but you always have the luck, don't you? That's a grand string of fish."

Tim Reardon, unstringing two of the pickerel from the rope, transferred them to a twig of alder that he cut from a near by bush, and handed them to her.

"I've got more'n I want," he said.

"Thanks," said the girl, and added, "Say, Tim, I'll tell you something. I saw four trout in the brook this morning, and one of them was that long."

She measured with her hands, held a little more than a foot apart.

"Where was it—about a mile above your house?" queried Tim.

The girl nodded.

"In the pool where the big tree's fallen across," she said.

"I guess he's the big one I've tried to get, a lot of times," said Tim. "But I haven't seen him lately. I thought he'd gone down into Ellison's pool. I'd like to see him."

He was a fisherman by nature, was Little Tim, and the very mention of the big trout made his eyes twinkle.

"Come on up," said Bess Thornton.

Tim hesitated. "It's most too late," he replied. "I'll be late to supper now, if I don't run."

"Oh, never mind," she urged. "I'll show you just where I saw him. I just as lieve you'd catch him."

The invitation was too much for Tim, and he started off across the fields with Bess Thornton.

"That fish'll never bite," he said, as they went along; "I've tried him with worms and grasshoppers and wasps and crickets, and that fly made of feathers that Jack gave me. He knows a whole lot, that old trout. Guess he's a school-teacher, he knows so much."

"I'm going to catch him, anyway, if you don't," said the girl. "I know what I'm going to do."

"What's that?" asked Tim, in a tone that indicated he had no great faith in her success.

"I'm going to bait up two hooks with a whole lot of worms, and I'm not going to put 'em into the pool till after it gets dark," replied Bess Thornton. "And I'm going to let 'em stay there all night. He's such a sly old thing you can't get near the bank without he knows it. Then when it gets morning, and he's hungry, perhaps he'll see all those worms and just go and catch himself."

"Yes, and get away again long before you get back," said Tim Reardon. "He'll just take and tangle that line all up around the rocks and sticks at the bottom, and break it."

"I'm going to try, anyway," she insisted. They turned in at the path leading to the girl's home presently, and she went in with the pickerel.

"I'll dig some bait for you while you're gone," called Tim.

"I can do it," she said.

"Oh, you're all dressed up," said Tim, who had noted her unusual appearance, clad as she was in her new bright sailor-suit.

"Going to change it," she said, "Had to put it on to go to Benton in."

She went into the house, and Tim Reardon, seizing a spade that he found leaning against the shed, made his way to a corner of the house, where an old water-spout came down, from the gutter that caught the rain on the roof. He was turning up the soil there when the girl reappeared.

"Oh, that isn't the place to dig," she said. "I never dig for worms there."

"Well, here's the place to find 'em," asserted Tim. "I'm getting some. You always find angleworms where the ground's moist. They like it, because the rain comes down off the roof here. There you are, grab that fat fellow."

The girl made a grab at a bit of the soft earth, where a worm was wriggling back into its hole.

"Ugh! he got away," she said, opening her hand and letting the dirt drop through her fingers. The next moment she uttered a little cry of surprise.

"I've got something, though," she exclaimed. "Look, Tim, it's money—it's a coin. Where do you suppose it came from? Perhaps it's good yet. If I can spend it, I'll go halves."

The boy took the piece of money from her fingers. It was dull and tarnished; a little larger in size than a ten cent piece, but it was not silver.

Tim Reardon looked at it intently and rubbed its sides on his trousers leg.

"Say, Bess," he said earnestly, "do you know what I think—I guess it's gold. Yes, I do. 'Tisn't American money, though. It's got a queer head on it, see, a man with some sort of a thing on his head like a wreath. Oh, my, but that's too bad. Look, Bess, there's a hole been bored in it. P'raps you can't spend it."

Near the edge, there was, in truth, a tiny depression, nearly obscured by dirt and corrosion, which seemed to indicate that the coin had at some time been pierced, as though it might have been worn by someone as an ornament.

"Let's scrub it," said the girl. "Perhaps it'll brighten up, so we can see it better."

They went in with it to the kitchen sink, where Bess Thornton, getting a basin of warm water and soap, proceeded to polish the coin with a small brush. It soon brightened sufficiently to reveal the unmistakable gleam of gold, and was a foreign coin of some sort, possibly of Austrian coinage; but the letters which it had borne, and the figures, had been worn much away; and one side was worn quite smooth, so as to give no clew to what had been stamped there.

"Well, I can wear it, if I can't spend it," said Bess Thornton. "There's the hole to hang it by. Isn't it pretty?"

"Isn't what pretty?" said a voice, suddenly interrupting them. Old Granny Thornton was peering over the girl's shoulder. "What are you two doing? What have you got there?"

"See, gran'," replied the girl. "Look what we found. It's money, gran', and it's gold."

The old woman took the coin in her thin fingers and held it up close to her eyes. Then she started and her hand shook tremulously. A pallor overspread her face. She sank back into a chair, staring at the coin, which she clutched tight as though it had some strange fascination that held her gaze.

"Where did you get that?" she cried hoarsely. "Where was it?"

"We dug it up just now, gran', out in the yard. Why, what's the matter? Can't I keep it? What makes you act so queer, gran'?"

The old woman hesitated for a moment and seemed lost for a reply. Then she said, hurriedly:

"No, girl—no, not now. You shall have it some day. You can't have it yet. It isn't time. You wore it once when you were little—but it was lost. Oh, how I've hunted for it! You'll get it again. I'll keep it safe, this time."

She was strangely agitated and spoke in broken tones. Then, to their surprise, she arose and hurried from the room, waving the girl back and bidding her go and play. They heard her go stumbling up the stairs to the floor above.

"Mean old thing!" exclaimed Bess. "Well, I don't care. Let her keep it. I'll find where she hides it, see if I don't. Come on, let's go out doors."

Granny Thornton, peering out an attic window at the boy and girl, going up along the brook, turned and felt along a dusty beam until her fingers rested on a key. With this she unlocked a drawer of an old bureau, that stood in a dark, out-of-the-way corner. There were some odds and ends of clothing there, and some boxes and papers. From out the stuff, she drew, with trembling fingers, a small gold chain, such as children wear. Fumbling over this, she unclasped a tiny clasp and affixed the golden coin. Then, holding it up to her eyes, she gazed at it long and earnestly; replaced it in the drawer, locked this, hid the key again and stole down the stairs.



CHAPTER XIII

A SAILING ADVENTURE

John Ellison, a youth of about fifteen, but of a sturdy build and manner that might lead one to suppose him older, stood by the gateway of the Ellison farm, looking down across the fields towards the mill. It was busy grinding and, as its monotonous tones came up to him, the boy shook his head sadly. An expression as of anger overspread his manly young face, and his cheeks flushed.

"It's wrong," he exclaimed, speaking his thoughts aloud; "I'll bet there's some trick about it. Father always said we should run the mill some day. It makes me mad to see old Witham sneaking about, afraid to look any of us in the face; but I suppose there's no help for it."

He went up the driveway to the house, got an axe from the woodshed and began splitting some pieces of sawed oak and hickory from a great pile in the yard. It was a relief to his pent-up feelings, and he drove the axe home with powerful blows. He was a strong, handsome youth, with face and arms healthily bronzed with work in the open air. He laid a big junk of the oak across the chopping-block, swung the axe, and cleft the stick with a single blow that sent the halves flying in either direction.

"That was a good stroke—a corker," exclaimed a youth who had entered the yard and come up quietly behind him. John Ellison turned quickly.

"Hello, Henry," he said. "Where'd you come from?"

"Just had a swim," replied Henry Burns. "I see where you get all that muscle, now. That's good as canoeing, I guess."

"Well," responded John Ellison, looking rather serious, "I reckon I'll do more of it from now on than canoeing; though I've done my share of work all along. I'm running the farm now—that is, what we've got left. Witham's got a good part of it. I suppose you know, don't you?"

Henry Burns nodded. "It's a shame," he said. "But perhaps it'll come out right in the end."

"I don't see how," said John Ellison. "Witham's got the mill, and the big wood lot where we used to cut most of the wood we sold every fall, and the great meadow up opposite old Granny Thornton's, with the hayfield in it. We've got enough left close by here to keep us from starving, all right; but it isn't what it ought to be. We've had to sell half the cows, because we can't feed them."

Henry Burns whistled. "It's tough," he said, and added, doubtfully, "How about that week up at the pond? Can you go?"

John Ellison looked downcast. "I'd forgotten all about that," he said. "We did plan for a week at Old Whitecap, didn't we? I'm afraid it's all up for me, though. There's haying to be done, a lot of wood to be cut, and chores. I guess you'll have to count me out. I might let Jim go for a couple of days, though," he added, speaking as though he were a dozen years older than his brother, instead of only one.

"No, you're the one that was going," responded Henry Burns; "you could go if the work were done, couldn't you?"

"Perhaps," replied John Ellison; "but there's enough there to take us more than a fortnight. Benny don't count for much; he's too lazy."

"Well, we'll get the work done, all right," said Henry Burns; "and then we'll take you with us."

John Ellison laughed. "You city fellows wouldn't like farm work, much, I guess," he said.

He hardly took Henry Burns seriously, especially as the latter spoke but little more about the project; but, the next day, looking up from his work, at the sound of wagon wheels, he saw a cart coming up the hill, laden with baggage and a party of boys. Tom Harris was driving, and beside him on the seat were Bob White and Henry Burns. In the body of the cart were Jack Harvey and Tim Reardon. These two were seated amidst a pile of camp stuff.

"Well, we're here," said Henry Burns, laughing, as the boys piled out of the cart. "Hope you've got something for us all to do. You'll find us green, but we won't shirk."

John Ellison stared at them in amazement. "You better go on out to the pond," he said. "I don't want to keep you fellows. Perhaps Jim and I can get out for a couple of days before you come in. Besides, you want to look out for Benny," he added, winking at Henry Burns. "He says he's going to thrash you some day."

"Oh, I'm all right," laughed Henry Burns. "I've got Jack here to help me out now. What'll we do, John? Come on, we're losing time."

"Well, if you really want to," replied John Ellison, somewhat reluctantly, "two of you can go down in the haying field and help Jim; and there's this wood's got to be split, and the corn and potatoes to be hoed." He pointed, as he spoke, to two great fields of the latter. "We'll set Tim catching potato bugs," he added, smiling.

"I'll catch 'em," responded Tim, heartily. "I wonder what kind of bait they'd make for trout."

They divided up then, Tom and Bob, equipped with pitchforks, starting off for the haying field; Henry Burns and Tim following John Ellison into the garden; while Harvey, his waist stripped to a faded sleeveless jersey, attacked the woodpile with a strength and energy that made up for his lack of familiarity with the work.

He was busily engaged when Mrs. Ellison looked out at the kitchen door.

"Why," she said, in surprise, "I didn't know we had a new hand. Oh, I see, you're one of the boys' friends."

Harvey explained.

"Well, I call that good of you," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison, her pleasant, motherly face beaming. "Let the boys go after it's done? Why, of course. They can both go. Benny will help me through the week, all right, won't you, Benny?"

The youth thus addressed, who had just put in an appearance, his gun over his shoulder, assented, though not with much heartiness. He scowled at Harvey, and made no offer to be friendly.

"I suppose you want to go on the pond, too," said Mrs. Ellison, sympathetically.

Benny Ellison glanced sullenly at Harvey. "Not with those city chaps," he replied.

The "city chaps," sneeringly referred to by Benny Ellison, proved themselves good workmen, however. Unused to farm labour, as they were, their muscles were, however, far from being soft and easily tired. Tom and Bob, who excelled at athletics, surprised Jim Ellison with the amount of hay they could stack up into cocks, or, again, the amount they could spread and scatter; and they were tireless in following him through all the broad field. Henry Burns and Little Tim were of the wiry sort that never seemed to weary; while Harvey made the pile of split wood grow in a way that made Mrs. Ellison's eyes stick out.

Then, at noon, when the big farm dinner-bell rang, there was a great table spread for them in the long dining-room, fairly creaking with an array of good things to eat; with plenty of rich milk and doughnuts and home-made gingerbread to finish up with. Little Tim's thin face seemed to be almost bulging when he had done; and he ate his sixth doughnut in gallant style.

He was nearly wild with delight, too, late that afternoon, when he got permission to fish the famous Ellison trout pool; and he came back in time for supper with a fine string of the fish, brilliantly spotted fellows, which Mrs. Ellison fried to a crisp for the crew of boy farmers when their day's work was over.

There came a little knock at the door when they were eating supper, and Bess Thornton, come for a pitcher of milk, looked in at the group of merry youngsters.

"My, what fun!" she exclaimed, and speaking half to herself added, "I wish I lived here too. Gran' said—"

"What's that? Why, I wish you did live here," exclaimed Mrs. Ellison, stepping back with the pitcher in her hands at the girl's words, and looking into her bright, eager face with eyes that suddenly moistened. "I wish you did," she repeated. "Why don't you ever come in, when you come for the milk? Come in now and have some supper with the boys?"

But the girl started back, almost timidly.

"Oh, I can't," she said, "I didn't think what I was saying. Gran' says never to stay—to hurry back. She doesn't like to have me come for the milk, but she can't come, herself."

And, true to her instructions, she departed promptly, when she had received the pitcher, well filled—almost double what the money she had brought would usually buy.

"She's a queer little sprite," was Mrs. Ellison's comment, as she watched her go down the path; "but there's something fine and brave about her. Who wouldn't be queer, living all alone with old Granny Thornton?"

The two weeks' farming that John Ellison had reckoned on was through with in five days, thanks to the energy of the volunteer crew. They enjoyed it, too; the work in the bright fields; the jolly meals at the Ellison table; the nights in the big hay-barn, with blankets spread in the mow; the evening's swim in the stream just before supper.

And, on the sixth day, John and James Ellison went away on the wagon, with clear consciences and light hearts, and with Mrs. Ellison waving a farewell to them from the door of the shed. It was cramped quarters for them all in the wagon, with the camping equipment, jolting along the country roads; and they walked most of the hills. But the journey was a jubilant one, and they welcomed the first gleaming of Whitecap pond with whoops of delight.

Whitecap pond seemed to return the welcome, too; for it twinkled all over in the light of an afternoon sun, as they set up the two tents that were to house them; and it sent in its light ripples dancing merrily almost to the very door of the tents; a splash now and then in the still waters told them of fishing delights to come. The white, fine sand of its shores was soft as carpet to their feet, as they ran races along the shore, and took a swim by moonlight before they turned in for the night's rest.

They liked the wildness of the loon's weird hullo, coming in at the open flaps of the tents from afar; and the clumsy fluttering and flapping of great beetles against the canvas, attracted by the lantern light that shone through. The cawing of crows just above their heads awoke them early next morning.

They were out for perch and bass before the sun was high, and were in luck, for the fish were plenty; and the perch chowder that Bob, who was an old and experienced camper, made for the noon meal was a wonderful achievement, and reminded them of old times in Samoset Bay.

But there was one drawback—at least, for Henry Burns and Harvey, who were hankering for the grip of a tiller and the thrill of a boat under sail. There wasn't a sailboat to be hired on the pond. There were not many, and they were all engaged. Coombs, who owned the slip and the boats, said he hadn't done such a business in years. He could only let them have two rowboats. Yet they came into the use of one, two days later, through an adventure.

It was early in the afternoon, and Henry Burns and Harvey and Little Tim stood on the float at Coombs's landing, looking at a sailboat that lay at its berth alongside. It was not exactly a handsome craft; with too great length for its beam, and its lines drawn out so fine astern that it bade fair to be somewhat cranky. It had no cabin, and there was seating room for a large party—a design calculated more for profit than safety.

The boat was in evident poor condition, lacking paint, and its rigging frayed, a not uncommon condition with boats to let in small waters of this sort. Somewhat crude lettering on the stern spelled the name, Flyaway.

"Looks as though she might fly away with somebody, all right, if he didn't look out," remarked Harvey, grinning at his companions. "Wish we had her, though, for a week. We'd take a chance, eh, Henry?"

Henry Burns nodded. "Let's see 'em start off in her," he said.

They waited about, and presently there appeared on the landing the present claimant of the Flyaway. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, florid face, loud of voice, a free and easy manner, and he was dressed for the occasion in yachting clothes of unmistakable newness. He eyed the Flyaway with an assumption of nautical wisdom and experience.

"That's a good-looking boat, Captain Coombs," he said, in tones that could be heard far away. "She's all right; just what I want. I like a boat with plenty of room for the ladies to be comfortable."

"Well, I reckon she's the best boat on Whitecap pond," responded the man, while his small eyes twinkled shrewdly. "Just humour her a bit, and I reckon she'll go where anything of her size will. She's seen some rough times on this pond."

The appearance of the Flyaway seemed to bear out this statement.

"Sure you can handle her all right, are you, Mr. Bangs?" added Captain Coombs, eying his customer with a quick, sidelong glance.

"Well, I reckon," was the bluff reply.

Captain Coombs, possibly not all assured, gave an inquiring look toward a man who was busy cleaning a rowboat close by, and who seemed to be an interested party of some sort, probably a partner. The man drew his right eye down in an unmistakable wink, and glanced up at the sky. Then he nodded, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, as though he might have said, "There's no wind; we'll take a chance."

There was, indeed, scarcely a breath of wind blowing, and there was no present prospect of any.

Mr. Bangs's party began now to arrive: a somewhat fleshy, and withal nervous and agitated lady, who proved to be Mrs. Bangs; two young girls, an angular lady carrying a fat pug dog in her arms, and a small boy.

"Aha, we're all here," cried Mr. Bangs, joyfully. "Let's get aboard and be off. Splendid day for a sail, eh, Captain Coombs?"

"Couldn't be better," replied Coombs, dryly. "Are those oars in her, Dan?"

"Why, you don't suppose I'm going to row her, do you?" laughed Mr. Bangs.

"We sometimes has to, when we doesn't want to," said Coombs laconically. "No fun staying out all night if the wind dies out."

"Oh, yes, of course," responded Mr. Bangs. "Get aboard, ladies."

"I don't believe you know how to sail a boat, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying her husband doubtfully. "Are you sure you do?"

"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Bangs. "Don't be getting nervous, now. Don't you know I was elected commodore of the Green Pond Fishing Club only two weeks ago?"

Mr. Bangs refrained from communicating the fact that the principal occupation of the members of the Green Pond Fishing Club was the mixing of certain refreshing liquids in tall glasses, and sipping them on the verandah of a clubhouse.

The party therefore embarked. Mrs. Bangs was not wholly at ease, however.

"Supposing there isn't any wind by and by, Augustus, and you have to row. Why don't you take somebody along, to help? We've got lots to eat."

This idea, at least, seemed to strike Mr. Bangs favourably. He glanced to where Henry Burns and his companions stood.

"Hello," he called, "want to go out for a sail? Got room enough. Take you along."

The three boys stepped toward the boat.

"Not scared of the water, are you?" queried Mr. Bangs.

"Not unless it gets rough," replied Henry Burns, with a sly wink at Harvey.

The three jumped aboard, and Coombs, with something like a grin at his partner, shoved the boat's head off. He had got the jib and mainsail up, and they caught what little breeze there was stirring. The Flyaway drew away from the landing. To Bangs's embarrassment, however, the boom suddenly swung inboard, swiped across the stern, causing him to duck hastily, and almost knocking the bonnet off the lady with the pug dog. Mr. Bangs had jibed the boat, greatly to his surprise. But no harm had been done, as the wind was light.

Mr. Bangs laughed loudly. "Meant to tell you that was coming," he said. "She'll sail better this way. Ever been on the water before, boys?"

Harvey nodded. "A little," he said.

"Well, the more you are used to it, the better you'll like it," said Mr. Bangs. "Don't mind if she tips a little, if we get any wind. She sails that way. Funny that jib flutters so. Better haul in on that rope there and—and trim it."

Henry Burns, soberly following orders, did as requested. But it was noticeable that the trimming did not seem to accomplish the result desired by Mr. Bangs. In fact, as the Flyaway was going dead before the wind, it was quite apparent that no amount of trimming would make the jib draw.

"It keeps on fluttering just the same, Augustus," said Mrs. Bangs, eying the offending sail suspiciously. "Hadn't you better tie it some way?"

"Of course not," responded Mr. Bangs, loftily. "They will act that way sometimes. Isn't that so, my lads?"

"Oh yes," replied Henry Burns. "I've seen 'em do it, haven't you, Jack?"

But Harvey was looking the other way.

They went slowly up the pond, with Mr. Bangs holding the tiller and watching the sail critically. He was in buoyant spirits, and entertained them with stories of the thrilling adventures of the Green Pond Fishing Club, in which he seemed to have figured prominently.

The wind freshened a little and the Flyaway drew ahead somewhat faster. There was just the suspicion of a ripple along the sides, and it was pleasant sailing. Two miles up the pond they dropped the sail and anchored; got out the fish lines and tried for bass. After which, Mr. Bangs, a generous host, opened up a huge hamper and spread out a luncheon that made Little Tim's mouth water.

"Nothing like sailing to give one an appetite," exclaimed Mr. Bangs, heartily. "Pitch in, boys. There's plenty of grub. I believe in having enough to eat, I do."

He was so busily and pleasantly engaged in eating that he paid no heed to the aspect of the sky. Nor, indeed, was there anything of very serious import in its changes. But Henry Burns, alert as ever, saw certain signs of wind in some light banks of cloud that began to gather in the western sky, in the direction of Coombs's landing.

"We won't have to row home," he said presently, addressing the skipper of the Flyaway, who was absorbed in the enjoyment of a huge slice of meat pie.

"Eh, what's that?" he inquired. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to have some wind," replied Henry Burns.

"Well, that's what we want, for sailing," laughed Mr. Bangs. "You aren't anxious to row, are you?"

"Not particularly," replied Henry Burns. "We won't have to, anyway. It's going to blow some. We'll take some spray in over the bows beating back—"

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Bangs. "Augustus, do you hear? Let's start right away. We don't want to get wet."

"Ho!" sniffed Mr. Bangs. But just then a quick gust of wind swept over them, such as comes without warning in pond waters, bordered by hills. Mr. Bangs seemed to take the hint it conveyed. "Guess we'd better start," he said.

The boys sprang to the halyards; the sails were hoisted and the anchor got aboard. With Mr. Bangs at the tiller, the Flyaway started on the beat of two miles down the pond. The wind continued to freshen, coming now and then in flaws, as the light clouds overspread the sky.

Henry Burns, noting the style of Mr. Bangs's yachtsmanship, and observing the freshening of the wind, and the fact that the craft was not being worked to windward anywhere near what it would go, slipped astern beside Mr. Bangs.

"Like to have me tend that sheet for you?" he asked, carelessly.

Mr. Bangs waved him back. "Don't touch that, my lad," he cried. "You might upset us in a minute. Never let a boy fool with a sheet—hello!"

A sharper and heavier flaw caught the big mainsail with full force; and then, as Mr. Bangs in his excitement threw the tiller over and headed the yacht farther off the wind, instead of up into it, the Flyaway heeled dangerously, taking water over the side and causing the pug dog, which got a drenching, to howl dolorously. Mrs. Bangs gave a slight scream.

"Oh, it's all right. Don't be alarmed," said Mr. Bangs, assuringly. He failed to notice that prompt action on the part of Henry Burns, who had started the sheet at the critical moment, had saved them from a spill; and seemed to think that somehow he had righted things himself. However, as he observed that youth calmly trimming the sail again, despite his admonition to let the sheet alone, he seemed to have undergone a change of heart.

"That's right," he said, in a tone of not quite so much confidence, "you just run that thing, while I do the steering."

It began to get rough now, and the Flyaway did not seem to justify it's owner's praise. It threw the water heavily—partly by reason of its clumsy build and partly because Mr. Bangs did not meet the waves with the tiller. One might have observed, moreover, that Mr. Bangs wore an anxious expression, and his hand shook slightly as he pressed the tiller.

A moment more, and he seemed almost dazed as the tiller was snatched from his grasp by Henry Burns, who put the Flyaway hard up into the wind, just in time to meet a squall that threw the lee rail under again. The craft stood still, almost, with the sail shivering. Then Henry Burns eased her off gently, getting her under headway again. Mr. Bangs was deathly pale. The spray had dashed aboard freely and drenched him.

"We've got to reef, and be quick about it," said Henry Burns, addressing the shivering skipper. "What do you say? It's your boat."

"What's that—eh, do you think so?" stammered Mr. Bangs. "Reef her? Yes, that'll stop her tipping, won't it? Oh my! can you do it?"

His knees were wabbling, and he allowed himself to be pushed aside, sinking down, pale and trembling on the seat.

"Here, you take her, Jack," said Henry Burns. "Tim and I'll reef her. We can do it quick."

He relinquished the tiller to Harvey, who threw the boat up into the wind, while Henry Burns and Tim seized the halyards and lowered the sail sufficiently to take in a double reef. Henry Burns had the tack tied down in a jiffy; whereupon Harvey drew the sail aft, hauled out on the pendant and passed a lashing. Henry Burns and Little Tim had the reef points tied in no time. Before Mr. Bangs's wondering eyes the sail was hoisted, the topping lift set up, and the boat got under way again before he had had hardly time to think what had happened.

It was surprising to see how easily the craft went along under competent management. The spray flew some and the water came aboard, wetting the party to the skin and causing alarm; but there was little danger. The Flyaway no longer took the brunt of the waves, but headed into them a little, keeping good headway on. What was better, she was making time, going to windward and approaching the landing.

Mr. Bangs gradually regained his colour, and took courage.

"Guess you've sailed some before," he said, with a sickly smile. "You go at it like old hands."

"We've got a boat of our own," replied Harvey. "She's down in Samoset bay. We got a big price for her for the summer, so we let her."

Mr. Bangs looked a bit sheepish.

"I'm glad you came along," he said; and added with a glance at Mrs. Bangs, and in a lower tone, "I haven't sailed very much, to tell the truth. We do—er—mostly rowing in the Green Pond Fishing Club."

They came up to the landing in sailor fashion, and the party stepped out.

"Glad to see yer back," remarked Coombs. "Got just a bit worried about you. You came in nicely, though."

Mr. Bangs smiled good-naturedly.

"Well," he said, "the fact is, I've got a crew. They are old sailors. You ought to have seen them reef her quicker'n scat. They're going along with me after this, for the rest of their stay—and their friends, too. My wife says she's got enough sailing."

"I should say I had," said Mrs. Bangs.



CHAPTER XIV

THE FORTUNE-TELLER

Mr. Bangs proved to be a genial companion in the days that followed. Nothing suited him better than to fill up the Flyaway with the crew of campers and go sailing on the pond. No longer seeking to support a fallen dignity as skipper, he was pleased to receive instruction from Henry Burns and Harvey, and even occasionally from Little Tim, in the art of sailing.

They showed him how to sail the craft nicely to windward, without the sail shaking; how to run off the wind, with no danger of jibing her; how to reef with safety, and how to watch the water for signs of squalls. He, in turn, told them good stories of the Fishing Club; and, as he really did know how to fish, he returned their instruction with lessons in this art.

It was certainly a pretty piece of sport, when Mr. Bangs would take his light, split-bamboo fly-rod and send fifty feet of line, straightening out its turns through the air, and dropping a tiny fly on the water as easily as though it had fallen there in actual flight. Even Harvey, and Tom and Bob, who had done some little fly fishing, found Mr. Bangs an expert who could teach them more than they had ever dreamed, of its possibilities. Little Tim, who had threshed brook waters with an alder stick, using a ragged fly, was an apt pupil, when Mr. Bangs entrusted to him his fine rod, and showed him how to make a real cast.

"There, you're catching it, now," exclaimed Mr. Bangs to Tim, one morning, as they floated on the still surface of the pond, about a half mile above the camps. "Don't let your arm go too far back on that back cast. Don't use your shoulder. You're not chopping wood. Just use the wrist on the forward stroke, when you get the line moving forward."

Tim, enthusiastic, tried again and again, striving to remember all points at once, and now and then making a fair cast.

It was only practice work; but, somehow or other, a big black bass failed to understand that, and suddenly Tim's quick eye saw the water in a whirl about his fly. He struck, and the fish was fast.

"Well, by Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bangs. "One never knows what's going to happen when he's fishing. I didn't think they'd take the fly here at this time of year. Let him have the line now, when he rushes. That's it. Now hold him a little."

The light fly-rod was bending nearly double. Intermittently, the reel would sing as the fish made a dash for freedom and the line ran out.

"Look out now; he's turned. Reel in," shouted Mr. Bangs, more excited even than Little Tim. He wouldn't have had that fish get away for anything. "Here he comes to the top," he continued. "Reel in on him. Hold him. There, he's going to jump. Hold him. Don't let him shake the hook out."

The black bass, a strong active fish, made a leap out of water, shook his jaws as though he would tear the hook loose, then shot downward again.

"Give him a little on the rod when he hits the water," cried Mr. Bangs. "That's right. Keep him working now. Don't give him any slack."

Little Tim, alternately reeling in and lifting on the road, and letting the fish have the line in his angry-rushes, was playing him well. Mr. Bangs applauded. Gradually the struggles of the big bass grew weaker. His rushes, still sharp and fierce, were soon over. By and by he turned on his side.

"Careful now," cautioned Mr. Bangs. "Many a good bass is lost in the landing. Draw him in easy."

Little Tim followed instructions, and Mr. Bangs deftly slid the landing net under the prize. He dipped the bass into the boat, took out a small pair of pocket-scales and weighed him.

"It's a five-pounder!" he exclaimed. "You've beat the record on Whitecap this year. Well, fisherman's luck is a great thing. You're a born lucky fisherman."

"Now," he added, "we'll just row down to your camp and I'll cook a chowder that'll make your eyes stick out, and have it all ready when the boys return. Save them getting a breakfast."

They went back along shore to the empty camp, deserted by the boys, who were out for early morning fishing.

"What do you say?" inquired Mr. Bangs, "Think they'll care if I go ahead and cook up a chowder? Guess I can do it all right. Oh, I've seen 'em made, a thousand times, up at the Fishing Club."

"They'll be glad of it," said Little Tim. "Go ahead."

Mr. Bangs, rummaging through the campers' stores, proceeded to construct his chowder; while Tim busied himself about the camp, after building a fire.

Mr. Bangs, stirring the mess in a big iron kettle suspended above the blaze, waved a welcome to the boys, as they came in.

"Thought you'd like to have breakfast all ready," he cried. "The Flyaway's waiting for us all to get through."

They thanked him warmly.

"Oh, I'm having as much fun as you are out of it," he responded. "Get your plates and I'll fill 'em up."

He ladled out a heaping plate of the chowder for each, and they seated themselves on two great logs. Henry Burns tasted his mess first, and then he stopped, looked slyly at his comrades and didn't eat any more. Harvey got a mouthful, and he gave an exclamation of surprise. Little Tim swallowed some, and said "Oh, giminy!" Tom and Bob and the Ellison brothers were each satisfied with one taste. They waited, expectantly, for Mr. Bangs to get his.

Mr. Bangs, helping himself liberally, started in hungrily. Then he stopped and looked around. They were watching him, interestedly. Mr. Bangs made a wry face and rinsed his mouth out with a big swallow of water.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "If it isn't sweet. Sweet chowder! Oh dear, isn't it awful? What did it?"

Henry Burns, looking about him, pointed to a tell-tale tin can which, emptied of its contents, lay beside the fire.

Mr. Bangs had made his chowder of condensed milk, sweet and sticky.

"I say," he exclaimed, "just throw that stuff away and we'll go up to the landing for breakfast. I thought milk was milk. I never thought about it's being sweetened."

They liked Mr. Bangs, in spite of his mistakes; and he wasn't abashed for long, when he had pretended to be able to do something that he didn't know how to do, and had been found out. He had a hearty way of laughing about it, as though it were the best joke in all the world—and there was one thing he could really do; he could cast a fly, and they admired his skill in that. And when it came time for them to leave, and bid him good-bye, they were heartily sorry to take leave of him, and hoped they should meet him again.

But Mr. Bangs was not to be gotten free from abruptly. There was bottled soda and there were stale peanuts over at the landing, where Coombs kept a small hotel a little way up from the shore; and Mr. Bangs insisted that they should go over and have a treat at his expense.

"You don't have to start till four o'clock," he urged. "You've got plenty of time." And they needed no great amount of persuasion.

"Funny old place Coombs keeps," he remarked, as they walked from the camps over to the landing. "All sorts of queer people drop in there over night. Last night, there were some show people in some of the rooms next to mine—they're going to leave to-morrow, for the fair up at Newbury—and they kept me awake half the night, with their racket.

"They've got a fortune-teller among them, too," he continued. "Say, she's a shrewd one. Of course, she's one of the fakers, but she's downright smart—told me a lot of things about myself that were true. Suppose she looked me over sharp. Say, I tell you what I'll do; I'll get her to tell your fortunes. How'd you like to have your fortunes told? I'll pay."

As matter of fact, they were not so enthusiastic over it as was Mr. Bangs; but they didn't like to say so, since he seemed to take it for granted that they did. So, after they had had the soda and peanuts, Mr. Bangs ushered them, one by one, into a room, where the fortune-teller awaited them.

Perhaps she flattered most of them over-much; perhaps she even hinted at certain bright-eyed, yellow-haired young misses, whom some of them might fancy, but were not of an age to admit it. At all events, as they came forth, one by one, they made a great mystery of what she had said to them. Little Tim didn't take kindly to the idea at all, in fact; and, when it came his turn, Henry Burns and Harvey had to take him and shove him into the room.

He was inclined to be a bit abashed when he found himself in the presence of a tall, dark, thin-faced woman, whose keen, black eyes seemed to pierce him through and through. In fact, those shrewd, quick eyes were about all anyone might need, to discover a good deal about Little Tim, whose small but wiry figure, tanned face, bare feet and dress indicated much of his condition in life.

"Come over here and sit down," said the woman, as Tim stood, eying her somewhat doubtfully. The boy complied.

"So you want your fortune told, do you?" she asked.

"I dunno as I care much about it," answered Tim, bluntly.

The woman smiled a little. "No?" she said. "Let's see your hand."

Tim extended a grimy fist across the table, the lines of which were so obscured with the soil of Coombs's landing that it might have puzzled more than a wizard to read them. But the woman, her keen eyes twinkling, remarked quickly, "That's a fisherman's hand. You're the best fisherman on the pond."