"He wanted my husband's money—and a revolver," answered the trembling woman.

"I have a great mind to give him the contents of the revolver," said Luke, sternly.

John Fox was not a coward—on the contrary, he was a man of boldness and courage, but as he looked up at the stern face of the Quaker detective he quailed, almost for the first time in his life. He tried to rise, but the heavy foot of Luke Robbins was on his breast.

"Let me up!" he growled.

"You don't deserve to get up. You should lie there forever, for your cowardice in attacking a woman."

"I would rather it had been you!" said John Fox, bitterly.

"You are safe in attacking a woman," said the detective in scornful sarcasm.

The outlaw was stung by his assailant's scorn.

"I have attacked many better men than you," he replied, "and some have not lived to tell the tale."

"So you own up to being a murderer? I am ready to believe you. I have a great mind to shoot you where you lie," and Luke pointed his revolver at the prostrate outlaw.

"That would be the act of a coward," said John Fox, hastily, his cheek turning pale, for he felt that death might be close at hand.

"Not exactly that, for I have mastered you in a fair fight, but there is one thing that holds back my hand. Do you know what it is?"

"Well?"

"I should cheat the gallows of its due. Here, farmer!"

Ezekiel Mason, pale and trembling, was standing on the threshold.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Go and get another rope."

The farmer left the house, and going to an out-house, returned with a stout clothes line.

"Tie him again while I hold him," was Luke's command. "Tie him as securely as before—more so, if possible. How did you get loose?"

"Find out for yourself," said the outlaw sullenly.

"I mean to, and I don't intend that you shall escape the second time."

Meanwhile John Fox was execrating his folly in not escaping when he had the chance. If he had not waited for the revolver and money, he might by this time have been out of danger.

Yet he was not without hope. What he had done once he might do again. He still had the knife in his pocket. It was ready for use, and he meant to use it.

No doubt he would be taken back to the attic, and probably pass the night there. If Luke Robbins should be his companion, all the better. After cutting his bonds, the knife could be put to another use, and might end the life of the man who had inflicted such humiliation upon him.

He did not speak, but his eyes betrayed him. There was such a revengeful gleam in them that Luke read their meaning without trouble.

"If I am ever at the mercy of that ruffian," he thought, "I wouldn't give much for my chance of keeping a whole skin."

When the outlaw lay securely bound, Luke summoned the farmer.

"Watch him for five minutes, Mr. Mason," he said. "I am going to the attic to learn, if I can, how he got loose."

Ezekiel Mason looked uncomfortable, but did not object. He was half afraid of John Fox even in his helpless condition.

"Have you a revolver?"

"Yes."

"Then take it out, and if he makes an effort to escape, shoot him without a moment's hesitation."

It gratified the outlaw to see how much afraid of him the farmer was, even in his helpless condition. But he could not flatter himself that he had inspired any terror in Luke Robbins. Against his will he was compelled to pay tribute to the resolute courage of the Quaker detective. As he met the gaze of the farmer he smiled to himself sardonic ally.

"You've got the advantage of me," he said.

"I am bound and helpless, while you are free and are armed. Still you are afraid of me."

"Why should I be?" asked Mason, but his tone was not firm.

"Yes, why should you be? I'll tell you. If ever I have you where I am now, I'll give you fifteen minutes to say your prayers."

"Oh, what a terrible man!" said Mrs. Mason, with a shudder.

"You wouldn't kill him?" she ejaculated.

"Yes, I would. But there is one way of escape."

"What is that?"

"Loose these bonds and let me go before your Quaker friend comes down stairs, and your life will be safe, and your wife's."

Ezekiel Mason shook his head feebly.

"I don't dare to do it," he said.

"Do as you please, but the time will come when you will be sorry that you refused. What are you afraid of? You are armed, while I have no weapon."

"I am afraid of Luke."

"You needn't be. He would find fault with you, but that would be all."

Ezekiel Mason was weak, but not weak enough to yield to the persuasions of his prisoner. Besides, he knew that Luke would come down from the attic directly.

In fact he was already close at hand. He brought in his hand the cut fragments of the cord with which the outlaw had originally been bound.

"This tells the story," he said, holding up the rope so that the farmer and his wife could see it. "This rope has been cut. The man has a knife."

John Fox darted a malignant look at him, but said nothing.

"You are smart, John Fox," Luke went on, "smarter than I thought. It must have cost you considerable trouble to cut the rope. Where is your knife?"

John Fox did not reply.

Luke Robbins knelt down and thrust his hand unceremoniously into the outlaw's pocket.

He drew out the knife which had done Fox so much service.

"This will be safer with me than with you," he said.

"Would you rob me?" demanded the outlaw.

"Yes, of anything it is not proper for you to have."

To John Fox the disappointment was bitter. He was, if anything, more securely tied than before, and it would be quite impossible to loosen the rope or free himself without the help of the knife. His hope of getting loose during the night and killing Luke was at an end.

For the first time he felt hopeless, and once more he execrated his folly in not making good his escape as soon as he came down stairs.

"Did he say anything while I was up stairs?" asked Luke.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"He wanted me to set him free."

"Did he offer you money?"

"No, but he threatened that he would some time take my life."

"He is a terrible man!" said Mrs. Mason, shuddering. "I shall not feel safe to-night with him in the house."

"I don't propose to let him stay in the house all night."

The prisoner, the farmer and his wife looked at Luke inquiringly.

"I think, farmer," said Luke, "you'd better harness up, and we will take our friend here to the jail in Crampton."

"What, to-night?"

"Yes, the sooner he is safely disposed of the better at any rate, we will have shifted the responsibility to the authorities."

"Yes, it will be better," said Mrs. Mason.

The buggy was made ready, and the outlaw, very much against his will, was packed in the back part of it. Towards nightfall the warden of the prison at Crampton was startled by the arrival of the farmer and Luke, bringing with them the notorious outlaw whose name was in every mouth—John Fox. He hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad, for no prison yet had been secure enough to hold him any length of time.

"I will leave my name," said Luke, "and I shall hereafter claim the reward for his capture."



CHAPTER XIV.

ERNEST HAS AN ADVENTURE.

Luke Robbins remained at the farm-house over night and till the middle of the next day. At that hour the sum of money which Mason had withdrawn from the bank was transferred to the party for whom it was intended, and Luke's mission was at an end.

He received from the farmer the stipulated five dollars and started on his return to Emmonsville, Ezekiel Mason driving him the greater part of the way.

Luke arrived at the bank half an hour before it closed and reported his success, including the capture of John Fox. He was congratulated, but noticed that the officers of the bank looked grave.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the cashier. "At one o'clock yesterday we sent your young friend Ernest with a thousand dollars in United States bonds to the bank at Lee's Falls. He did not return last night, and we have received no tidings from him."

"What do you fear?" asked Luke, hurriedly.

"We fear that he may have been captured by some of the Fox gang, and be at present in confinement, or else—"

"What?"

"Killed or wounded," added the cashier.

"He could not have met John Fox, for I held him in custody."

"There was the other brother, James, who was at large."

"James is the tall brother?"

"Yes."

"Then," said Luke, "I shall have to hunt him, too. Will you grant me leave of absence?"

"Gladly. We want to recover the bonds, but we care still more for the safety of the boy."

Indeed, Ernest had become popular with the bank officials, as well as with the residents of Emmonsville. The cashier spoke truly when he said he cared more for the boy's safety than for the recovery of the bonds.

"Can you tell me anything that will help me in my expedition?" asked Luke. "Have you any idea where the Fox gang would be likely to carry Ernest?"

"It is generally supposed that the band have a secret rendezvous somewhere within a dozen miles, but no one has been able to discover where it is."

"And you think that Ernest would be carried there?"

"Yes, they would hardly bring themselves to kill a young boy. He would, of course, be easily overpowered by a grown man, so that there would be no excuse for murderous violence."

"This spoils all my pleasure at capturing John Fox," said Luke, ruefully. "I should be willing to have him go free if only I could get the boy back. How did the boy go?"

"He walked."

"But it was a long distance."

"Yes, about ten miles. We at first thought of providing him with a saddle-horse, but there was one objection."

"What was that?"

"He would have been more likely to be suspected of being out on some mission. But on foot he would not be apt to attract attention. A boy of sixteen is not very apt to be a custodian of money."

"True."

Leaving Luke Robbins to start on his search for Ernest, we will go back to the time when the boy messenger left the bank on the day previous.

The United States bonds were inclosed in an envelope and carried in an inner pocket, which had been expressly made by an Emmonsville tailor on his first connecting himself with the bank. The pocket was unusually deep, so as to accommodate a long parcel.

This was the most important commission on which Ernest had been employed, and he was pleased with the confidence reposed in him. He did not dread the long walk, for he was a strong and active boy. Besides, he was authorized to accept a ride if one should be offered him.

He would, of course, arrive at Lee's Falls after the bank was closed, but he was instructed to call at the residence of the cashier and leave the bonds.

Ernest had walked three miles when he met with an adventure.

On the borders of a small pond he caught sight of a small Indian boy playing. He was probably not more than three years of age. A stick he was playing with fell into the pond, and the little fellow reached over to recover it. In doing so he lost his balance and fell into the water; there was a scream and a splash, and Ernest no sooner saw the accident than he ran up, threw off his coat and vest lest he should wet the bonds, and plunged into the pond.

The young bank messenger was an expert swimmer, and in an instant had seized the child and placed him out of danger. The little Indian boy clung to him instinctively, feeling safe with his young protector.

"Where do you live, little boy?" asked Ernest.

"Out yonder," answered the child.

Ernest had not been quite sure whether he would be able to understand or speak English, but having been brought up among white people, he was as familiar with English as most white boys of his age.

Ernest looked in the direction pointed out by the boy. At the distance of a hundred rods he saw a rude log house, which seemed to contain but one room. Smoke was curling from a chimney projecting from the roof. Outside sat an Indian, about forty years of age, smoking a pipe.

He seemed busily thinking, having the grave face characteristic of the average Indian. He did not immediately notice the approach of his little son. But when they were near, the Indian boy uttered a cry, pronouncing some Indian word which possibly meant "father."

Then the red man looked up, and his grave face changed as he recognized his boy in the company of a young white stranger.

He rose hastily from his seat, and advanced quickly to meet the two who were approaching.

"What has happened?" he asked in clear and distinct English.

"Your little boy fell into the water," explained Ernest.

"And you saved him?"

"Yes," answered Ernest, modestly. "I saw him fall, and jumped in after him."

"Was the water deep?"

"About so deep," said Ernest, placing his hand about five feet from the ground.

"Then he would have been drowned if you had not been near?"

"Yes, if he could not swim."

"He is too young to swim. But you are wet," added the Indian, noticing for the first time the condition of Ernest's clothes.

"Yes, a little."

"Come in," said the Indian abruptly.

He led the way into the log cabin.

There was a stove in the centre of the room, and the air was so heated as to be uncomfortable. As he led the child in, a stout Indian woman came forward with a cry and took him in her arms. Her husband rapidly explained what had happened. She instantly stripped the clothes from the child, and put on a dry change.

"Now," said the Indian, turning to Ernest, "take off your wet clothes."

Though Ernest knew that it was wise to do so, he felt bashful about removing them in presence of the woman. But his Indian host brought from a nail, on which they hung, a pair of buckskin breeches of his own, and offered them to Ernest for his temporary use.

Ernest no longer hesitated, but made the substitution.

As the Indian was four or five inches taller than himself, the legs covered his feet. He laughed as he saw how they looked, and the Indian's serious face relaxed a little from the same cause.

"Now I will dry your clothes," he said.

He took a chair and, hanging the wet garments over the back, placed it very near the stove. Ernest hardly liked to lose so much time, but he knew that it would not be safe to wear the trousers in their soaked condition.

"You speak English very well," he said, turning to the Indian.

"Yes, I have spent much time with white people," was the answer.

"Do you support yourself by hunting?" went on Ernest.

"Yes, I am a hunter, but I go with rich white people from the cities, and with Englishmen, who want a guide."

"And do they pay you well?" asked Ernest, not quite sure whether he was not showing too much curiosity.

"Yes, they pay me well. I have some money in the bank."

Then Ernest remembered having seen the Indian one day at the bank. He was told at the time that his name was John Castro, and that he had several hundred dollars on deposit.



CHAPTER XV.

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

While Ernest's clothes were drying the Indian woman was bustling about the stove. The boy did not suspect her object till she placed on the table a plate of Indian cakes hot from the oven, and he was invited to partake.

It was the first time he had ever been a guest in an Indian family, and he hesitated, but saw that his refusal to partake might hurt the feelings of his new friends. He seated himself at the table and found the cakes really very good.

When his clothes were dry he rose to go.

"Won't you stay all night?" asked Castro.

"Thank you. I cannot spare the time. I must push on."

"Where are you going?" asked the Indian.

"To Lee's Falls."

"I will go with you a short distance."

So they set out together.

At length John Castro stopped.

"That is your way," he said. "I wish you a pleasant journey. I will not forget what you have done for my little son. If ever you are in trouble, send for John Castro."

"I thank you."

The Indian shook hands with him gravely, and turned back towards his cabin.

All this had taken time. Ernest had no watch with him, but he estimated that the adventure had cost him two hours. However, he had saved a boy's life.

Again, he had made a friend. The friend was an Indian, but Ernest was wise enough to consider that no friend, however humble, is to be despised.

It was clear that he would reach his destination late, and he began to wish that some carriage would overtake him in which he might ask for a ride.

But he walked two miles farther without encountering any team. At last, however, he heard the rumble of wheels, and turning round to see whether there was room in the vehicle, he saw that it was a buggy driven by a tall, thin man with dark hair, swarthy face, and a long, aquiline nose.

The driver eyed Ernest sharply and brought the buggy to a standstill.

"Where are you going, boy?" he asked.

"To Lee's Falls."

"Where have you come from?"

"From Emmonsville."

"It is a long walk."

"Yes. Do you think you could give me a lift?"

"Perhaps so. Jump in."

Ernest lost no time in availing himself of the invitation. He was footsore and weary, and it was with a sensation of relief that he seated himself beside the driver.

The latter, who had been going at good speed, pulled his horse down to a walk and showed indications of becoming sociable.

"Where were you going in Lee's Falls?" he asked.

Ernest felt that it would be imprudent to mention that his destination was the bank, so he answered guardedly, "I am going to see the town. I may stop over night."

"At the hotel?"

"Yes."

"It is not much of a place to see," said the driver, watching his companion curiously.

"It is larger than Emmonsville, isn't it?"

"Yes. How long have you been in Emmonsville?"

"Not long."

"Where do you live there?"

"At Mrs. Larkins'."

"Do you go to school?"

"No."

Ernest began to think that his companion was decidedly inquisitive, and something told him that he would do well to be on his guard. Why should he ask so many questions of a boy with whom he had no acquaintance?

Meanwhile the horse was travelling very slowly, and it seemed to Ernest that he would go over the road quite as fast if he had continued to walk. However, it was easier riding, and this was a consideration. He began to think it was his turn to ask questions.

"Are you going all the way to Lee's Falls?" he asked.

"I may go nearly there."

"I am very much obliged to you for giving me a lift. I was quite tired."

The driver smiled.

"Perhaps I have an object," he said.

Ernest looked an inquiry.

"The pleasure of your company," explained his companion, with a smile.

"Thank you," answered Ernest.

"Now I come to look at you, I think I have seen you before," continued the driver.

"Where?"

"In Emmonsville—at the bank."

Ernest became alarmed. There was a significance in his companion's tone which excited his alarm. But he did not dare show his feelings. He remained outwardly calm, though inwardly disturbed.

"Very probably," he said; "I have been there."

His companion laughed. He was playing with the boy as a cat plays with a captive mouse. Ernest began to consider whether he could not think of some pretext for getting out of the buggy.

Suddenly the buggy stopped.

"I will get out here," said Ernest, quickly.

"Not quite yet. I have not got through questioning you."

"I am in a hurry," said Ernest.

"You must wait till your hurry is over. Now tell me truly, are you not bound for the Lee's Falls bank?"

Ernest was startled.

"You see I know more about you than you suppose. You are the bank messenger."

It seemed useless to deny it. The important question now was, was his secret packet in danger?

"I have sometimes acted as bank messenger," he said warily.

"And you are acting in that capacity now. What are you taking to the Lee's Falls bank?"

Ernest turned pale. His worst fears were confirmed.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"Because I want to know."

"What business can it be of yours?" demanded Ernest, boldly.

"Don't be impudent, boy! Hand me the package of money."

"I have no package of money."

"Then you have bonds."

Ernest remained silent.

"I see that I have hit it. Now hand over the bonds, if you value your life."

He spoke sternly, and looked so fierce that the boy messenger became more and more alarmed. He saw that he must give up the package, but determined to hold out in his resistance as long as possible.

"The package is not mine, and I have no right to surrender it," he said.

"I'll take the responsibility, boy. You can't be blamed, for you can't help your self."

As he spoke, he passed his hand over Ernest's vest, which he saw projected more than was usual, and discovered the hiding-place of the important package.

Instantly he had torn open the vest and drawn out the envelope.

"I thought I should find it," he said in a tone of triumph.

Ernest felt very much dejected. It was a mortification to lose the first large sum with which he had been intrusted.

"Will you tell me who you are?" he asked abruptly.

"First, let me know who you think I am."

As the driver spoke he eyed Ernest sharply. "Is your name Fox?" asked the young messenger.

His companion laughed.

"I know Mr. Fox," he answered.

"You are either Fox or a member of his band."

"You seem to be a sharp boy; I won't tell you whether you are right or not."

"I suppose I may go now."

"Where do you want to go?"

Ernest hesitated. This was a question which he could not at once answer. To go on to Lee's Falls without the packet would do little good. Yet the bank officers there ought to know that the bonds intended for them had been stolen. Besides, he was too far from Emmonsville to return that night.

"I will go to Lee's Falls," he said.

"Not at present; I have other views for you." As he spoke the robber turned his horse to the right. Wholly ignorant as to where he was to be carried, Ernest sank back in his seat and resigned himself as well as he could to the situation.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE OUTLAW'S HOME,

Where he was to be carried or what was to be his fate Ernest could not conjecture, nor did he speculate much. It was enough for him to know that he was in the power of one of the notorious outlaws.

There was considerable difference between his appearance and that of the man at his side. He was silent and depressed, while James Fox, for it was he, seemed in excellent spirits. He turned to the boy with the remark, "You don't say much."

"No, for it would be no good."

"Brace up, boy! There is no occasion to look as if you were going to a funeral."

"Give me back the bonds and I will look lively enough."

"Come now, don't be foolish. These bonds don't belong to you."

"They were given into my care."

"Very well! You took as good care of them as you could."

"I shall be held responsible for them."

"No, you won't. I shall send your employers a letter, letting them know that you did the best you could to keep them out of my hands. But perhaps they never heard of me," and he laughed.

"If your name is Fox, they have heard of you."

"There is no need to beat about the bush. My name is Fox—James Fox."

"What made you take up such a business, Mr. Fox?" asked Ernest, gravely.

"Well, I like that! You, a kid, undertake to lecture me."

"You were once a kid yourself."

The outlaw's face grew grave suddenly, and his tone became thoughtful.

"Yes, I was a kid once. At sixteen—is that your age?"

"Yes."

"Well, at sixteen I was as innocent as you. I had a good mother then. If she had lived, perhaps I would have turned out different. Why, it seems a great joke, doesn't it? I attended Sunday-school till I was fifteen."

"You haven't forgotten it, then?"

"No, nor the lessons I learned there. But it is of no use to recall those days. Are you afraid that you will come to harm?"

Ernest looked intently in the brigand's face.

"No," he said, after a pause. "I think you won't do me any more harm. But you can do me a great favor."

"What is that—return you the bonds?"

"I would ask that if I thought you would do it, but I don't expect it. I should like to have you release me and let me go home."

"I can't do that, for I want you to visit me. You may not think it, but I always like young people. It will be quite a pleasure to me to have you for a visitor."

"Thank you, but I am afraid that I shall become an unwilling guest."

"Besides, it will be a pleasure to my little boy to meet you. He does not often meet other boys."

"Have you a son?" asked Ernest in surprise.

The outlaw's face softened.

"Yes," he answered. "He is a sweet little boy, as I can say, even if he is my son. His name is Frank. Would you like to see his picture?"

"Yes," answered Ernest with interest.

James Fox drew from an inner pocket a small card photograph of a young boy with a very winning face. Ernest was attracted, for, unlike many boys of his age, he liked younger children. He looked at the picture long and earnestly.

"It is a sweet face," he said at last. "Isn't it?" asked the proud father.

"Is his mother living?"

"No."

"Was there no difficulty in getting it taken?"

"I suppose you mean on account of my profession. Well, there might be around here, but this was taken in Minneapolis—about a year ago. It was one of the few visits that Frank has made with me."

"Are you going to bring him up to your business?"

"Take care, boy," said the outlaw, frowning. "Don't be impertinent."

"I don't mean to be. Do you think the question an improper one?"

"Well, perhaps I have no right to think so. Somehow the business, though it seems all right for me, I couldn't think of for my boy. No, I shall soon place him at school where no one will know that he is related to the celebrated outlaw. I want him brought up to lead an honest life."

"I am glad you do. I respect you for that."

"My lad, you seem to be one of the right sort. As you will see my son, I want you to promise me that you won't say a word about the business I am engaged in."

"I will make that promise. Then the boy doesn't know?"

"No; he has no suspicion. He is too young to think much about that. Perhaps if he had associated with other boys much he would have found out."

While this conversation was going on they had entered a wood, and the road became wilder and rougher. Indeed, it was hardly a road, but rather a lane, narrow and grass-grown.

Ernest began to wonder in what sort of a home his companion lived. His evident affection for his son gave Ernest a different feeling towards him. It was plain that he had a softer side to his nature, bandit though he was.

Ernest had never read the story of Jekyll and Hyde, but he felt instinctively that the man beside him had a double nature. On the road he was an outlaw, with corresponding traits, a rough and unscrupulous man, but at home, and in the presence of his son, as Ernest judged, he was a warm-hearted and affectionate father.

In truth, the young bank messenger looked forward with interest to a meeting with the boy who was so dear to the heart of a man whom the world generally supposed to be a stranger to the softer emotions.

At length they reached a rocky hillside. Here the outlaw pulled up his horse and jumped from the buggy. Ernest looked at him in a questioning way.

"You can get out," he said. "We have arrived."

Ernest alighted and looked about him. He naturally expected to see a dwelling of some kind, but there was none in sight. If it was at a distance, why should they not have driven to it?

James Fox looked at him with a smile, enjoying his perplexity.

From his pocket he drew a handkerchief.

"Come here, my boy," he said.

Ernest did not quite understand what he proposed to do, but he felt better acquainted with the outlaw now, and he knew that there was no cause for apprehension. He accordingly approached without question.

James Fox bandaged his eyes so that he could see nothing. Then he took him by the hand and led him forward.

Ernest could not tell what was being done, but he found himself walking on a rocky path, hand in hand with his guide. How long he walked he could not tell. It might have been two hundred feet. Then his guide stopped, and of course he stopped, too.

Next the handkerchief was removed, and he found himself in what seemed a rocky cavern. At any rate it was a large room, of irregular shape, but the stone floor had been made smooth, and was covered by a soft carpet. It was furnished like a sitting-room in a private house. There were comfortable chairs, including a rocking-chair, and a capacious arm-chair. On one side of the room was an inviting-looking couch.

Of course there would have been perfect darkness but for artificial light. On a table was a large student's lamp, and in a niche in the wall was another. Besides this, there was a lantern hanging from the roof of the chamber, but this was not lighted.

Ernest looked about him with curiosity and surprise. It was something new to him, and recalled a story he had once read, in which a cave-dwelling was described.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the outlaw, smiling.

"It is wonderful," said Ernest.

"You did not know where I was bringing you?"

"No. It is a cave, is it not?"

"Well, it looks like it."

"There are other rooms, are there not?"

"Yes, but this is my private apartment; my parlor, you may call it. This is my sleeping-room."

He drew aside the hangings on the further side and revealed an inner chamber, of less size.

On a bed Ernest's attention was drawn to the figure of a sleeping boy evidently the original of the picture which the outlaw had shown him.

"That is your son?" asked Ernest.

"Yes, that is Frank."

The outlaw's stern countenance softened as he regarded the sleeping boy.

Suddenly the boy stirred; he opened his eyes, and when he recognized his father a glad smile lighted up his innocent face.

"Papa!" he said, and James Fox bent over and kissed him.



CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE ROBBER'S CAVE.

After kissing his father the young boy looked inquisitively at Ernest.

"Who is that boy, papa?" he asked.

"I have brought him here to stay with you. Shall you like to have his company?"

"Yes, papa. You know it is very lonely while you are away. What is his name?"

The outlaw looked at Ernest significantly. He took the hint and answered, "My name is Ernest Ray."

"How old are you, Ernest?" went on the boy.

"Sixteen."

"I am only ten."

"Are you ready to get up, Frank?" asked his father.

"Yes," answered the young boy briskly. "I got sleepy because I was alone. Where did papa find you, Ernest?"

"Oh, I met him outside, and he took me to ride."

James Fox looked approval of this answer.

"I am glad you came with him. You seem like a nice boy, Ernest."

"So do you, Frank."

By this time Frank had slid from the bed and put his hand in Ernest's.

"Come here," he said, "and I will show you my books."

Led by his small companion, Ernest went up to a bookcase which he had not before observed in the main room. About thirty books stood on the shelves.

"Where did you get your books?" he asked.

"Papa bought them for me in Minneapolis. Were you ever in Minneapolis?"

"No."

"It is a nice place. Sometimes I think I would like to live there instead of here."

"You are not getting tired of home, are you, Frank?" asked his father, half reproach fully.

"No, papa, but it is lonely here sometimes. Am I to live here always?"

"No, Frank. Some time I will send you to school. But you won't see me every day then."

"Then I don't want to go."

The outlaw stooped over and kissed the boy.

"Now, Frank, I have something to do, so you may amuse yourself with Ernest."

"Can you play dominos?" asked Frank.

"Yes; have you a set?"

"Yes."

The boy opened a drawer in a bureau and drew out a box of dominos. He poured them out on the table and they began to play the ordinary game. When they tired of that, Ernest taught him a new one.

After they grew tired of playing, Ernest read aloud to the boy from one of his favorite books.

They were sitting together in the arm-chair, when James Fox, who had left the room, returned. He smiled approvingly at the picture. He was pleased to think that he had found a companion whom his boy liked.

"What have you been doing, Frank?" he asked.

"He has been reading to me, papa. He reads nicely, and I liked it very much."

"I am sorry to interrupt you, but are not you young people hungry?"

"I think I could eat something," answered Ernest.

"Frank, you may bring him into the dining-room."

The drapery was lifted, and they passed into a room as large as the one they were in. On a table in the centre a substantial meal, consisting principally of roast beef, was set forth. An old colored woman—intensely black and slightly deformed—hovered near, evidently the cook.

"Juba," said the outlaw, "this is a new boarder. His name is Ernest,"

"Glad to see you, Massa Ernest," rejoined the old woman, nodding her turban. "Sit down here next to Massa Frank."

It seemed very strange to Ernest to reflect that he was the guest of one of the famous outlaws of whom he had heard so much. He was half inclined to doubt whether it was real. If he had been alone he would have pinched himself to see whether he was awake or dreaming. Here he was, in the bowels of the earth, on intimate terms with an outlaw and his family. How long was he to stay in the cavern? That was a question impossible to answer. Meanwhile he was hungry, and the dinner was well cooked.

In spite of his being a prisoner and the loss of the packet, Ernest was almost ashamed of himself for the appetite which he manifested. But it seemed to give pleasure to Juba, who regarded it as a compliment to her cookery.

"Where is Uncle John, papa?" asked Frank, suddenly.

Ernest remembered that one of the Fox brothers was named John, and he awaited the answer with interest.

James Fox seemed busily thinking, and Frank had to repeat the question.

"Your Uncle John?" repeated the outlaw. "He went away on business."

"What kind of business, papa?"

It was a natural question, but it startled James Fox. He saw that as his son became older it might not be easy to evade embarrassing questions.

"You seem curious, Frank," he answered after a pause. "You wouldn't understand if I were to tell you."

"Will you teach me your business some day, papa?"

It was on the tip of the outlaw's tongue to say, "Heaven forbid!" but he only answered, "Wait till you are older, Frank. Then we will talk about it."

At length they rose from the table.

They went back to the main room, and Ernest read a little more to the young boy. But Frank's eyes grew heavy, and he finally dropped off to sleep.

"Shall I lay him on the bed, Mr. Fox?" asked Ernest.

"No, I will do so."

He took the boy tenderly in his arms.

"If I had known he would fall asleep I would have undressed him," he said.

After placing the boy on the bed he resumed his seat in the arm-chair and began to smoke. Finally, he looked over at Ernest.

"Do you like my little boy?" he asked abruptly.

"He is a dear little fellow," answered Ernest.

"So he is," said the father in a soft voice. "You have no prejudice against him because he is my son?"

"No," answered Ernest. "Whatever you are, he is not responsible."

"True, but all might not take that view of it. I don't know why I should speak so confidentially to you, lad, but if I ever regret my line of life it is when I look at him. I wouldn't like to have his future marred by his association with me. I wouldn't like people to turn from him because he was an outlaw's son."

"I hope you will forgive my boldness," said Ernest, "but don't you think you will ever change your mode of life?"

"It is too late; I am too well known. Yet who knows?" he said, after a pause. "Nothing is impossible."

At nine o'clock Juba entered the room.

"Has John returned?" asked the outlaw.

"No, massa."

A shade of anxiety overspread the outlaw's face.

"He should have been here before this," he said. Then, looking at Ernest, he said, "I am going out a while. Lie down on the bed with Frank, and if he wakes up undress him."

"Yes, sir."

An hour later Frank and Ernest were sleeping peacefully side by side.

When Ernest awoke the next morning Frank was still asleep on the bed beside him. In the large room adjoining, James Fox lay on the lounge. He had given his bed to Ernest. He had not himself undressed, but had thrown himself on the couch in his ordinary clothes.

Breakfast was ready by the time they were, and the three sat down together.

"Where is Uncle John, papa?" asked Frank.

"He has not returned, Frank," said James Fox, soberly.

"What made him stay away all night?"

"Probably it was business," answered the outlaw, but Ernest noticed that he looked disturbed.

In truth he had been out till two o'clock seeking for his brother, who he feared had got into trouble. We know that he was in the prison at Crampton, whither he had been conveyed by Luke Robbins and Ezekiel Mason. Of course it was in the mind of James Fox that his brother might have been arrested, since this was a risk which he daily incurred.

Just as breakfast was over there was a new arrival. It was a tall, stalwart fellow, whom James Fox addressed as Hugh.

"Do you bring any news, Hugh?" asked the outlaw eagerly.

"Yes," answered Hugh Humphries.

"Is it about John?"

Hugh glanced significantly at the two boys. Ernest he saw for the first time.

James Fox understood and followed Hugh out of the room.

"Well," he said inquiringly, when they were out of hearing.

"Mr. John is in trouble," answered Hugh, briefly.

"Go on," said James Fox. "Do you know where he is?"

"In Crampton jail."

"Go on. Give me the particulars."

"He was carried there by two persons."

"Who were they?"

"One I think was a farmer who lives in Claremont. The other seemed to be a Quaker."

"I don't remember any Quaker in this neighborhood. He must be a stranger hereabouts."

"I think I have seen him before."

"Where?"

"At the Emmonsville bank. I was passing there one day in disguise, and chancing to look in, I saw this man sitting on a bench near the paying teller's desk."

"Ah!" said James Fox, thoughtfully. "He may be a detective."

"That is what I thought."

"That is bad news, but the jail at Crampton is not very strong. I have been confined there myself and made my escape. However, John will need assistance from the outside."

"I see you have a new boy," said Hugh, curiously. "When did you pick him up?"

"Yesterday, a few miles from here. He is a bank messenger."

"From what bank?"

"The Emmonsville bank."

"Then he may know something of this Quaker detective."

"Well suggested. I will question him."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE OUTLAW AND HIS BAND.

When James Fox returned to the apartment where the boys were still seated at the table he said, "Ernest, I should like to speak to you a minute."

Ernest followed him out of the room.

"Is there any person connected with the bank at Emmonsville who wears the dress of a Quaker?" began the outlaw.

Ernest hesitated a moment.

"Speak out, boy!" said Fox. "I must and will know."

"Yes, sir."

"Is he a detective?"

"He may act as such."

"Is he under pay at the bank?"

"I think he is."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"No."

"Was he at the bank when you left it yesterday afternoon?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know where he was?"

"I saw him ride away with a farmer."

John Fox and Hugh exchanged glances. Their suspicions were confirmed.

"Is he in any trouble?" asked Ernest, becoming a questioner in his turn.

"No. For aught I know he may be at the bank."

Ernest looked relieved, and for two reasons. He was glad that Luke was not in trouble. Then he knew that when his disappearance was discovered, Luke would leave no stone unturned to rescue him. It was a comfort to think that he had a powerful friend outside.

"That will do," said the outlaw. "You may return to Frank."

"How long are you going to keep me here?" asked Ernest, anxiously.

"Are you already tired of remaining with us?"

There was something in the outlaw's tone that savored of kindness. Ernest felt that in some way he had ingratiated himself with him.

"I would like my freedom. I am not used to confinement," he said.

"Very natural. I cannot let you go just yet, but I will not allow you to be harmed. Do not be alarmed."

"I am not," answered Ernest.

"Why not? You know my reputation."

"Yes, but thus far you have been kind to me."

"True. I like you, for you are kind to my boy, and I see that he enjoys your company. Listen! I shall be away all day, probably. Do what you can to amuse Frank."

"I will. I should be very lonely without him."

"That is a good boy, Hugh," said John Fox, as Ernest left them. "I should like to keep him with us."

"Why don't you, then?"

"I am afraid he would be unhappy."

"I never knew you to take such a liking to a boy before."

"I never have. Indeed, I have seldom met any. All my dealings have been with men. But, Hugh, we must lose no time. We must try to rescue John, if possible. It is no more than he would do for me, if our cases were reversed."

"Very well, captain. I am ready to follow wherever you lead."

"I know that, Hugh. You have always been faithful to my brother and myself."

"I always will be, captain," said Hugh, with a look of loyal devotion.

"I know it. I am sure that we have no better friend than Hugh Humphries."

"You only do me justice, captain. Will you forgive me if I say something?"

"Say what you please, Hugh."

"What you have said of me is just, but I don't think you can say it of all in the band."

"Is there any one whom you suspect? If so, it is your duty to tell me."

"I don't take much stock in Peter Longman."

"I am afraid you are suspicious, Hugh."

"Not without cause. I have noticed some things about him that I don't like. I think he is quite capable of turning against you."

"I have never remarked anything of the sort, but I know you would not speak without cause. Tell me what you want me to do."

"Only to be on your guard. Don't trust Peter as you trust me."

"I never have. And now have you any suggestions to make?"

"You might visit this farmer who helped the Quaker arrest your brother."

"It may be a good plan. Who is the farmer?"

"His name is Ezekiel Mason."

"I know where he lives. He is the last man I should suppose would be capable of such mischief."

"He could have done nothing without the Quaker's help."

"Very well, we will take the farm on the way. Still I don't know that we shall learn anything beyond what we already know."

Before leaving the cave they disguised themselves as farm workmen. In this dress they approached the farm-house, but there was something that diverted them from their original purpose and led them to keep their distance.

Sitting on the portico was a tall man dressed as a Quaker.

"That's the man!" Said Hugh, quickly. "That's the man who drove up to the jail last evening with your brother."

James Fox looked at him closely.

"It is best to let sleeping dogs lie," he said. "We will push on to the jail."



CHAPTER XIX.

A DAY IN THE CAVE.

Meanwhile Ernest was left in the cave with Frank. He had been brought in blindfolded, and was therefore ignorant as to the entrance or exit. He thought he might, without arousing the boy's suspicion, seek information from him on these points.

"Are there many rooms here, Frank?" he asked.

"Oh, a good many," answered the boy.

"Have you been in many?"

"I have been around with papa."

"I should like to go round," said Ernest. "Suppose we take a little walk."

"I'll go with you. I should be afraid to go alone."

"Does Juba ever go out?"

"Yes; she sometimes goes out to get things."

"Do you know where she goes?"

"No."

"Then you never went with her."

"I went once, but papa does not like to have me go out."

"Let us go about a little."

The boy was quite ready to accept any suggestion from Ernest. So he took his hand and they went from the main room farther into the cavern.

Ernest found that only the portion near the entrance had been furnished. Beyond, there was a large amount of empty space. Here and there a small light revealed trunks and boxes, arranged without regard to regularity. These, Ernest conjectured, contained stolen articles which had accumulated during the years in which the dreaded outlaws had been a power and a menace in the neighborhood.

It occurred to him that he would like to open some of these boxes, but the companionship of the boy prevented.

He ventured to ask, however, "What is in those boxes, Frank?"

"I don't know. Something of papa's and Uncle John's."

As they kept on they reached parts of the cavern which were quite empty. The Fox brothers were in the position of householders who occupied a house too large for their needs.

By and by the lamps ceased, and the portion farther on looked dark and gloomy.

"I am afraid to go any farther, Ernest," said the boy.

"Why, Frank? What are you afraid of?"

"There may be wild animals there."

"But how could they live there?"

"I don't know, but papa told me there were some."

Ernest understood why the boy had been told this. It was to prevent his going too far. But it made Ernest all the more eager to continue his explorations.

"Even if there were any wild animals I would protect you, Frank. I would not let them hurt you."

"But we may not find our way back. It is so dark," said the child with a shudder.

"I won't go farther. But, see, it seems to be lighter."

It was at a point fifty feet farther on.

Through a rift in the roof a gleam of light entered the cavern.

Ernest was anxious to trace this, for, as he judged, it came from some outlet, through which he might possibly obtain deliverance.

"Stay where you are," he said. "I will just go forward, and see what I can."

"Don't stay long," entreated Frank, nervously.

"No, I won't."

Ernest was just as well pleased to go forward alone, for if there was really, as he supposed, an outlet, it was as well that Frank should not have his attention drawn to it lest he should speak of it to his father, and so reveal the fact of their explorations. This might excite the suspicion of James Fox and put a stop to their further walks.

Continuing on alone, Ernest then saw, perhaps fifteen feet above him, an opening some three feet in diameter, through which he could obtain a glimpse of the clear sky far above.

It made his heart beat with exultation and longing. There was freedom, if he could only manage somehow to lift himself up to the outlet and make his way through it.

"What is it, Ernest?" asked Frank. "Come back. I am afraid."

"Oh, it is nothing," answered Ernest, with studied indifference. "It isn't anything you would care to see."

The little boy accepted this assurance, for he did not feel the interest that excited Ernest.

"Let us go back," he said, as he resumed his clasp of Ernest's hand.

"Yes, we will go back. Have you ever been as far as this before?"

"No."

"Then we had better not say anything about it. Your papa might not like it."

"All right, Ernest. Will you read to me when you go back?"

"Yes, Frank."

Ernest was glad to comply with the little boy's request, as he thought he might in this way put the thoughts of their exploration out of his mind.

They were fortunate enough to get back without exciting the attention of Juba, who was busy in the kitchen.

Her work, however, was soon over, and she brought her sewing into the room where the two boys were seated. The garment on which she was engaged seemed to be a dress of rough cloth.

"Well, Massa Frank, what am you doing?"

"Ernest is reading to me. Why don't you ever read to me, Juba?"

"O lor', chile, you know I can't read."

"But why can't you read? You're old enough."

"Yes, honey, I'm old enough, but I never had no chance to learn."

"Why didn't you?" persisted Frank. "Didn't you go to school when you was little?"

"No, chile, never went to school. They didn't have no schools where I was raised."

"Where was that?"

"In ole Virginny."

"Were you a slave, Juba?" asked Ernest, getting interested.

"Yes, massa, I was a slave."

"And how did you get here?"

"It was all along of the war. Ole massa, he went to the war and got killed. Then young massa went, and he got killed, too. Then one day there came an officer—one of Abe Linkum's officers—and he told us we were free and might go where we pleased. That was a drefful time."

"Why was it dreadful? Weren't you glad to be free?" asked Ernest.

"No, honey, we didn't know where to go, nor what to do. We'd allus had some one to look after us and take care of us, but now there wasn't anybody."

"Were you married, Juba?"

"Yes, but I don't know whether my ole man is livin' or not. He was sold down in Georgie, to a cousin of ole massa."

"Then he may be living yet?"

"Yes, honey."

"How old are you, Juba?" asked Frank.

"I don't know, chile. I's powerful old. Specs I's a hundred."

Ernest smiled.

"No, Juba," he said, "you are not nearly a hundred. You may be sixty."

"All right, massa, you know best."

"Juba, did you ever hear about Uncle Tom?"

"Yes, chile, I knew Uncle Tom," was the unexpected reply. "He was raised on Mr. Jackson's place, next to ours."

Ernest asked some questions about this Uncle Tom, but learned, as he expected, that it was quite a different person from the negro immortalized by Mrs. Stowe.

In looking over Frank's books Ernest found an old copy of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and taking it down, he read some portions, particularly those relating to Topsy.

Both Frank and Juba were very much entertained.

"Did you know Topsy, Juba?" asked Frank.

"No, chile, never knowed Topsy. She must have been a no account young nigga. If she'd lived on our plantation she'd have got flogged for her impudence."

"How did you come here, Juba?" asked Frank.

"One of them officers took me to Chicago. I lived out with a lady, but when she died, after a good many years, I went to a 'telligence office, and there I met your papa. He brought me out here. I didn't at first like livin' down under the ground, but I don't mind it now. Massa Fox treats me well, and I ain't no wish to change."

This was the substance of what Juba had to communicate. The rest of the day passed quietly. At nightfall James Fox came home looking very sober. But he came alone. His brother was not with him.



CHAPTER XX.

ERNEST EXPLORES THE CAVE.

James Fox had very little to say during the evening. He was evidently preoccupied and anxious. He paid scant attention to the boys, but left them to their own devices.

Frank knew so little of his father's business, or occupation, that he could conceive of no cause for worriment. When his advances met with little response he asked, "Have you got a headache, papa?"

"No—yes, child. My head troubles me some. Be as quiet as you can."

"Will it disturb you if I play checkers with Ernest, papa?"

"No, I should like to have you amuse your self," answered the outlaw.

He directed the boys to go to bed early. As before, they slept together, and he threw him self on the lounge without taking off his clothes.

Ernest slept well. When he woke up at eight o'clock he saw that Frank was still sleeping, but his host was already up.

Juba came into the room.

"Get up, children," she said. "Breakfast is ready."

"Where is papa?" asked Frank.

"He took breakfast an hour ago, honey."

"What made him get up so early?"

"'Portant business called him away, he said."

"Where's Uncle John?"

"He hasn't been home."

"Has he got 'portant business, too?"

"'Specs he has, honey."

"It doesn't seem nice to take breakfast without papa," said the little boy.

"You may consider me your papa, Frank," observed Ernest.

"But you're not big enough to be a papa."

"At any rate, I am not old enough."

When breakfast was over there was the long day before them to be filled up in some way.

"Don't you ever wish to go out of the cave, Frank?" asked Ernest.

"Where?" asked the little boy.

"Into the bright sunshine, out on the green grass, and under the trees."

"Yes; I think I should like it," answered Frank, thoughtfully. "But papa does not want me to go. I don't know why. Do many little boys live in caves like me?"

"No; I don't think so."

"Can they walk about in the sunshine, and play?"

"I always did."

"Do you like it better than living here?"

"Yes."

"Then what made you come here?"

This was an embarrassing question, and Ernest felt that he must be careful in answering. "Your papa wanted me to make you a visit," he replied after a pause.

"And I am glad you came. It isn't so lonely for me. Before, I had only Juba."

"Wouldn't she play with you?" asked Ernest with a smile.

Frank laughed merrily.

"Juba is too old to play. I hope you will stay with me a good while."

Ernest could not echo this wish, so he answered evasively,

"I can't tell yet how long I shall stay. But the time will come when you will leave the cave and live like other little boys in a house."

"Did papa tell you that?"

"He told me that he should send you to school before long."

"What is a school like?" asked the little boy anxiously.

Few boys of ten would have been obliged to put this question, but Frank had been secluded from the world ever since he was a baby.

"There will be a good many boys, some older, some younger, than yourself. You will study lessons together, and play together."

"I think that will be nice."

"Yes; I am sure you will enjoy it."

"Did you ever go to school?"

"Oh, yes; I went to school for some years. I wish I could go again."

"Perhaps you will go to school with me."

"I can't tell," answered Ernest, vaguely. "Perhaps Juba will go to school with you."

Frank laughed.

"She would look funny going to school," he said.

"What's dat you sayin' 'bout Juba, Massa Ernest?" asked the old woman, entering the room.

"I told Frank you might go to school with him."

"Maybe I'd go and take care of him, honey."

"But you wouldn't want to study."

"I wouldn't study nohow. I's a poor, ignorant nigger. Never shall know nuffin', I expect."

"Don't you think you could learn to read, Juba?"

"No, I couldn't. It takes white folks to read."

"No, Juba; when I went to school there was a colored boy in my class, and he was one of the smartest scholars we had."

"And was he a nigger?" asked Juba, interested.

"We didn't call him that, but he was a colored boy. If he could learn to read, I am sure you could."

"It's no use, chile. I'm too old now."

Much as he liked Frank, it was irksome to Ernest to remain all day in the cave. It was imprisonment under pleasant circumstances, but still imprisonment.

They got through the forenoon somehow, taking dinner at twelve o'clock.

About two o'clock Frank complained of being sleepy.

"You won't mind if I go to sleep for an hour, Ernest?" he said.

"Oh, no," answered Ernest. "I can read, you know."

Since his exploration of the day before, Ernest had been longing to visit once more the same portion of the cave. But he wanted to go alone. He had a hope that through the aperture in the roof he might effect his escape. It would not do to have Frank with him, as this would interfere with his plan. Now the longed-for opportunity was almost at hand.

He took a volume from the book-shelf, and sitting down beside the bed began to read. But his mind was not on the book, though at another time he would have enjoyed it. He watched Frank, and in less than fifteen minutes had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep.

Then he left the room, Juba being occupied in the kitchen. He secured his hat, as he would need it in case he effected his escape.

As he passed through that apartment in the cave where there were trunks and boxes, it occurred to him to open one of them. He was rather surprised that it should be unlocked, but so it was.

It was filled with a miscellaneous assortment of articles, but on top, to his surprise and joy, he recognized the envelope containing the bonds that had been taken from him.

If he left the cave he would want these, and therefore he had no hesitation in taking them. He put them in the inside pocket of his vest, and kept on his way.

In a short time he reached the spot lighted by the aperture in the roof.

The opening was quite large enough for him to get through, but the difficulty was that it was fully fifteen feet above the floor of the cave. Ernest was something of a gymnast, but it was out of his power to reach the opening through which alone he could obtain deliverance.

He looked about him to see if there were any articles which he could pile upon one an other so as to attain the aperture. But the cave was quite empty of articles of any description, nor could he find any that he could move in the portions which he had already traversed.

It was certainly very aggravating to be so near freedom, and yet unable to obtain it. There just above him he could see the blue sky and the cheerful sunshine, while he was a prisoner in a dark cavern.

Was there no way of reaching the opening? he asked himself.

If he had to give up hope, he would feel obliged to return the envelope to the box from which he had taken it. Were its loss discovered, he would of course be searched, and kept in stricter seclusion than before.

In the room used by the outlaw as a sitting-room—the apartment he had just left—he might be able to find what he needed. But he could not remove anything without being detected, and should he return there he would possibly find Frank awake, which would spoil all.

It looked as if he would have to give up the chance that had come to him. In thoughtful mood he walked slowly back. All at once an idea struck him. In the room where the trunks and boxes were stored he had seen a long, stout rope. Could he do anything with it?

Looking up at the aperture, he noticed a jagged projection on one side.

"If I could attach the rope to that," he reflected, "I could draw myself up hand over hand till I reached the top, and then it would go hard if I didn't get out."

With new hope in his heart, he retraced his steps rapidly till he reached the store-room.

He knew just where to look for the rope. He examined it carefully, and found it very stout and strong.

He took it back with him. Then making a loop at one end, he stood under the opening and threw it up as he would a lasso. He had to try a dozen times before he contrived to circle the projection with the loop.

Then pulling it taut, he began to climb hand over hand, as he had many a time done in sport. Now his deliverance depended upon it.

Slowly, foot by foot, he approached the opening, not knowing whether, even if he reached it, he would be able to draw himself through the hole.



CHAPTER XXI.

OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE.

Arrived at the opening, Ernest found that there was a trap-door which was ordinarily closed, but through some misadventure had been left open. It was, however, a serious problem to draw himself up so as to profit by what he had already done.

Twice he failed, and nearly lost his grip on the rope. Then he caught hold of the projection from which the rope depended, and by a supreme effort he succeeded, helping himself by means of the trap-door, in emerging from his subterranean prison.

Stretching himself, he took a deep breath, and realized joyfully not only that he was free, but that he had recovered the valuable bonds of which he had been placed in charge.

He began to look around him, and tried to conjecture in what direction he must go to reach Lee's Falls. He was quite at a loss, as he had been carried into the cave blindfolded. But help seemed to be at hand. He saw at a little distance, rapidly approaching him, a man of middle height, whom he concluded to be a resident of some place in the vicinity.

"Can you tell me in what direction I must go to reach Lee's Falls?" he asked.

The stranger paused and examined him sharply.

"So you want to go to Lee's Falls?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Emmonsville."

"Direct?"

"No."

"I saw you just now coming out of some opening in the earth."

This alarmed Ernest. He felt that he might be called upon to explain where he had been.

"Who is this man?" he asked himself. "Is he one who is likely to be in the confidence of the outlaws? If so, I have only got out of one scrape to fall into another."

He studied the face of the man with whom he was speaking, and to his dismay noted a resemblance to James Fox, who had captured him. He began to suspect that this was his brother.

Whether it was or not, Ernest deemed it politic to say as little as possible of his experiences, and of what he knew about the cave and its occupants.

"Yes," he answered quietly; "there seems to be a cave underneath. I found the trap door open, and went down, but I regretted it, for I found it difficult to get out again."

His new acquaintance eyed him scrutinizingly, as if to see whether he knew more than he was willing to reveal.

"So there is a cave underneath?" he said inquiringly.

"Yes."

"Have you any idea what it is used for?"

"I don't think it is used at all. The room below seems empty."

The man regarded him fixedly.

"When did you leave Emmonsville?" he asked abruptly.

"Yesterday," answered Ernest in some confusion.

"How does it happen that you have got no farther on your way to Lee's Falls?"

"I stopped at the cabin of an Indian," answered Ernest, making the only explanation he could think of.

The man smiled.

"Young man," he said, "didn't you pass last night in this cave?"

Ernest saw that there was no further chance for subterfuge.

"Yes," he answered.

"I thought so."

"You were captured?" the other went on.

"Yes."

"Have you any suspicion by whom this cave is occupied?"

"I presume by the Fox brothers."

"Correct. I am one of them."

"I began to think so."

"How were you able to escape?"

"I was left with the little boy. He fell asleep, and then I began to explore."

"Where is my brother?"

"He went out quite early, I presume in search of you. You are John Fox, are you not?"

"Exactly. I suppose my brother heard that I was in trouble."

"Yes."

"By the way, the Quaker detective through whom I got into difficulty you doubtless know?"

"I do."

"I was put into jail at Crampton, but I managed to effect my escape. Are you connected in any way with the Emmonsville bank?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"As bank messenger."

"Did my brother take anything from you?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"No; bonds."

"You are a sensible boy. You answer my questions freely. You are a smart boy, too. It isn't every lad of your age who would have managed to effect an escape from the cave. Do you remember the entrance?"

"No; I was carried into it blindfolded."

"I thought my brother would be prudent. So you couldn't find it again?"

"No; I don't think so."

"Still, I cannot run any risk. You will have to come with me."

"Where do you want to carry me?" asked Ernest, much disturbed.

"I will carry you back to the cave."

"Let me go free. I will promise not to reveal anything that I have discovered."

The outlaw shook his head.

"I am sorry, boy, but that is a request I cannot grant. You were made prisoner by my brother, and I owe it to him to prevent your escape."

It was intolerable to Ernest to think of having his captivity renewed. He determined that he would at least make an effort for free dom.

Accordingly he did not hesitate, but started to run, hoping that in this way he might save himself. He had always the reputation among his boy companions as a sprinter, and resolved to see whether this was a lost art with him.

"So that's your game, is it?" exclaimed the outlaw. "It will go hard with me if I don't catch you. Stop, or it will be the worse for you!"

But Ernest had no intention of giving up so soon. He only exerted himself the more.

The contest was not so unequal as might have been supposed. Ernest was tall of his age, and the outlaw was rather below the average height. So there was in reality only about an inch difference in their height.

On the other hand John Fox had, as might be supposed, more strength and endurance. He was not over weight, and therefore not scant of breath. Ernest got the start, and this was an advantage. One ran about as fast as the other, so it settled down into a contest of endurance. Whoever could hold out the longest would win.

The outlaw, however, was irritated at the unexpected difficulty of his undertaking. He had thought that Ernest would surrender at discretion.

"I wish I had my revolver," he muttered.

Had the outlaw been aware that Ernest had in his possession the packet of bonds which had impelled his brother to make him a captive, his zeal would have been increased. This, however, he did not suspect. He knew, of course, that the bonds would be taken from him, and he could conceive of no chance of the boy's recovering them.

They flew over the ground, maintaining the same relative distance. But there was an unexpected contingency that worked to the disadvantage of Ernest.

Directly in his path was a projecting root, which in his haste escaped his notice. He tripped over it, and as a natural consequence he measured his length on the ground.

The outlaw's face lighted up with exultation. Now the issue was no longer doubtful. At last he had the boy in his power.

Before Ernest could recover himself and rise to his feet, John Fox was upon him.

He flung himself on the prostrate boy, and clutched him in a firm grasp.

"Now I have you," he said. "You were a fool to run. You might have known that you could not escape."

"I came near it, though," gasped Ernest, quite out of breath. "Let me up."

"Will you promise to go with me without giving me any more trouble?"

"I will make no promises," said Ernest, stoutly.

"Then it will be the worse for you," said the outlaw vindictively.

What he proposed to do must remain unknown, for as he spoke a hand was thrust into his neckcloth, and he was jerked violently to his feet.



CHAPTER XXII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Bewildered and angry, John Fox looked to see who was his assailant. He found himself confronted by a tall, muscular Indian, whom Ernest also recognized as the man whose child he had saved from a watery grave.

"What do you mean by this outrage?" demanded the outlaw angrily.

"Why are you hurting him?" said the Indian, pointing to Ernest.

"Because I choose to. What have you got to say about it?"

"Me stop you," said the Indian calmly.

"I have a great mind to shoot you."

This was an empty threat, for his weapon had been taken by the Quaker detective.

The only answer made by the Indian was to produce a revolver, which he pointed at the breast of the outlaw.

"Two play at that game," he answered.

John Fox shrank back, for it takes a man of nerve to face a revolver. He began to remonstrate.

"What interest have you in that boy?" he asked.

"He save my little boy from drowning," answered the Indian. "Will you go, or shall me shoot?"

There was but one answer to make to this question. John Fox turned about, and walked quietly away without a word.

Ernest grasped the Indian's hand gratefully.

"I can't thank you enough," he said. "You have perhaps saved my life."

"You saved my little boy."

"Do you know that man?"

"No."

"It was John Fox, one of the Fox brothers, the famous outlaws."

"Humph! I have heard of him. How did he catch you?"

Ernest told the story. He also told of the commission he had from the Emmonsville bank.

"I am going to ask you a favor," he asked.

"What is it?"

"I want you to go with me to the bank at Lee's Falls. I have a package of bonds to carry there, and I don't think it safe to go alone. I will see that you are paid for your time and trouble."

"I will go."

Under the guidance of his Indian friend, Ernest reached Lee's Falls. The bank was closed, but the cashier was still in the bank building, having been detained after hours. Seeing him through the window, Ernest knocked and obtained admission.

"The bank is closed, young man," said the bank officer.

"I know it, but I have a package of bonds from the bank in Emmonsville. I hope you will take them from me, for I don't want the responsibility of them any longer."

"Oh, you are the young messenger. We had advice that you would be here yesterday."

"So I should have been, but for my capture by one of the Fox brothers."

"And how did you escape?" asked the wondering cashier.

"Please take the bonds, and I will tell you. I spent two nights in the outlaws' cave. This afternoon I managed to get away."

"But were not the bonds taken from you?"

"Yes, but I recovered them."

Ernest, without waiting for further questions, told the story as briefly as possible.

"So, after all," he concluded, "I should have been taken again but for my friend here," laying his hand upon the Indian's shoulder.

"I told him you would pay him for his trouble in accompanying me."

"So I will," said the cashier, and he took a five-dollar bill and tendered it to the Indian.

The latter objected to taking it, alleging that Ernest had saved his boy's life, but the cashier overruled his objections, and he accepted it.

They were going out of the bank when the familiar figure of Luke Robbins came up the street. His face was overspread by an expression of anxiety, and he seemed troubled. He had searched everywhere for Ernest, and thus far had failed to find him.

When he saw the boy emerging from the bank his face changed at once.

"So you are safe, Ernest? I thought I had lost you," he exclaimed. "Did you see anything of the outlaws?"

"I should say that I did. I was captured by James Fox, and confined two nights in the underground haunt of the robbers. When I escaped this afternoon I fell into the clutches of the other brother."

"What! John Fox?"

"Yes."

"This cannot be, Ernest. I lodged him myself in Crampton jail."

"All I can tell you is that he is at liberty now. He must have escaped."

"Then I am afraid I shan't receive the reward offered for his capture."

"You ought to get it. You delivered him over to the authorities. If they could not keep him, that was their lookout."

"You ought to be right, lad. I hope you are. Who is this man?"

"My Indian friend, who proved to be a friend in need. It was he who saved me from John Fox."

"I am proud to know you," said Luke, grasping the hand of the red warrior. "If you have helped Ernest, you are my friend."

"He save my little boy; I will always be his friend."

"You have saved my boy, my Indian friend, and you will always be my friend," returned Luke.

"Well, Luke, what shall we do? I have done my errand and delivered the bonds. I suppose I ought to go back to Emmonsville."

"We will go back. I have found you, and have no more to do here."

"Shall we walk?"

"No, it is too far. There is a stable a little way from here; I will hire a conveyance, and our Indian friend will perhaps be willing to drive us over."

The Indian expressed his willingness, and the three were soon on their way through the woods. They met with no adventure, nor did they fear any, for it would have required a brave man to attack two such stalwart persons as the Indian and the Quaker detective.

Leaving them for the present, we will go back to the cave from which Ernest had made so unceremonious a departure.

Frank slept for two hours, but at length opened his eyes, expecting to see Ernest sitting at his bedside.

He looked in vain. There was no one in the room. This did not surprise him much, however. He thought Ernest might have gone into the next apartment.

"Ernest!" he cried, but his call received no response.

The little boy got out of bed and looked about, but his search was vain.

So he went into the kitchen, where he found Juba engaged in some domestic work.

"Juba," he said, "where is Ernest."

"I don't know, chile. Isn't he in the big room?"

"No, Juba. I went to sleep, and when I woke up he was gone."

"Lor', chile, he round somewhere. You look round, and maybe you find him."

But Frank was doomed to disappointment. He sat down ready to cry. He felt very lonely. He had not realized how much he enjoyed Ernest's company.

"I don't know where he can have gone, Juba. Do you think he's gone and left me?"

"I can't tell, chile. Wait till your papa comes home. He will find him."

Frank had to wait an hour and a half before his father's return. All this time he was buoyed up by the hope that Ernest would come back. He was continually watching the portal to see if the runaway would not come, but in vain.

James Fox entered the room with grave face and heavy step. He had not heard of his brother's escape, and thought him still an inmate of Crampton jail.

He looked about for his young captive.

"Where is Ernest, Frank?" he asked.

"I don't know, papa. I miss him ever so much," said the little boy tearfully.

"But he must be somewhere about. When did you miss him?"

"He went away when I was asleep."

The outlaw's suspicions were aroused.

"I will look for him," he said.

But Ernest was in none of the rooms, nor could Juba give any account of him.

"Did you walk with him into the interior of the cave, Frank?" he asked.

"Yes, papa."

"Ha, that explains it. Go with me, and tell me just where you went."

The little boy led the way through the vacant apartments till he reached the one through which the light came from above.

The rope was still hanging from the projection, and this explained Ernest's escape. James Fox went up and examined it.

"He must have got out this way," said the outlaw.

"Won't he come back, papa?" said Frank, sadly.

"Yes," said his father, resolutely. "I will bring him back."



CHAPTER XXIII.

GIVEN IN TRUST.

"Well, lad, have you had enough of Emmonsville?"

The speaker was Luke Robbins, and the time was two days after the series of exciting incidents recorded in the last few chapters.

"Why do you ask, Luke?" replied Ernest. "Are you tired of it?"

"Yes, lad, I want to move on. There is nothing more for us here."

"But what about the reward you are entitled to for the capture of John Fox?"

"The cashier thinks I will only receive a part of it, as Fox has escaped and is now at large."

"That is unlucky. You will have to wait until the matter is decided, won't you?"

"No. He has offered me an advance of a hundred dollars, and is authorized to collect whatever prize-money may be awarded to me. You have some money left?"

"Yes, about seventy-five dollars."

"Then we both have enough to start on. I propose to go to California by cars, getting there as soon as possible. When we reach there we will see what we can do to increase our pile."

"I like that plan. When shall we go?"

"It is now Thursday. We will start on Monday."

Before they departed there was some sensational news. Peter Longman, one of the Fox band, taking offence at some slight put upon him by James Fox, went to the authorities and revealed the existence and location of the cave, with other information of a like nature. The result was that a strong police force was sent to surprise and capture the notorious outlaws. The visit was made at night, and under guidance of Peter himself. Wholly unsuspicious of treachery, the outlaws were captured in their beds, and the valuable articles contained in trunks and boxes in the store-room were confiscated.

James Fox was reclining on the sofa when the officers entered.

"Is your name Fox?" asked the leader of the invading party.

"Yes," answered the outlaw, proudly.

"Then you are my prisoner."

"Who has betrayed me?" demanded Fox, quickly.

There was no answer, but just behind the invading party the outlaw caught sight of Peter Longman, apparently trying to screen himself from observation.

"I need not ask," he said. "There is the treacherous hound. He shall not live to profit by his baseness."

Before any one could interfere, James Fox leveled his revolver at Longman, and a sharp scream showed that his aim was true. His treacherous follower fell to the ground mortally wounded.

James Fox looked at him disdainfully, then threw the revolver upon the floor of the cave, and held out his hands. "Now bind me if you will," he said; "I am your captive."

Little Frank was a terrified witness of this scene.

"What are they doing to you, papa?" he asked. "They are bad men."

In spite of his fortitude the outlaw showed traces of emotion. "That is my little son," he said to the lieutenant commanding. "Don't let him suffer for the sins of his father."

"He shall be taken care of. Do not be anxious about him."

"There is an old colored woman here—Juba," went on the outlaw. "The boy is used to her. If possible, let them be together."

Under a strong guard the famous robbers were carried to jail, and the cave which had been for years their meeting-place was dismantled and was never again used for a criminal resort.

When Ernest read the story his feelings were mixed. He rejoiced that the outlaws were taken, but he felt a sympathy for little Frank, and understood what a shock it must be to the father and son to be separated, and to have their home so suddenly and violently broken up.

He learned where Frank was, and called upon him. He had been taken to his own home by the police commander, and it was there that Ernest found him.

When he entered the room where Frank sat disconsolately at the window, the little fellow uttered a cry of joy.

"Is it you, Ernest?" he said, running forward. "I thought I should never see you again."

Ernest stooped over and kissed the little boy.

"You see I am here," he said.

"What made you go away? Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"I will tell you some time, Frank. I hope you are feeling well."

"Why did those bad men take papa away?"

"I do not think you would understand. Where is Juba?"

"She is now in the kitchen. I will call her."

Juba came in, and seemed pleased to see Ernest.

"I have got a letter for you, honey," she said, fumbling in her pocket.

She brought out a yellow envelope. It was directed to Ernest.

The contents ran thus:

Now that misfortune has come upon me, my chief thought is for my boy. Whatever befalls me, I want him cared for. You are scarcely more than a stranger to me, but when you were in the cave you seemed to love Frank. Poor boy, he will stand in need of some friend who loves him. So far as you can, will you be his friend and guardian? He has some property—a few thousand dollars—which you will hold in trust for him. It is not stolen property. It was left him by his mother.

Call upon Mr. Samuel Hardy, a lawyer in Lee's Falls, and he will make over to you the custody of the money, and look upon you as the authorized guardian of Frank. You know my wish that he should be sent to a good school and properly educated. Will you carry out my wishes in that respect? I do not wish to tie you down, but wherever you may go, keep up an active interest in my boy, and from time to time write to him.

I do not know what my fate may be. I am not a coward, and shall not complain or beg for mercy.

When you speak of me to Frank in after years, always paint me at my best, and let him understand that at least I loved him.

JAMES FOX.

P.S. Should Frank die before maturity, I desire that his property should go to you.

Ernest read the foregoing with mingled feelings. He knew that the writer was an outlaw, deeply stained with crime; but this letter showed him at his best. Paternal love softened the harsh outlines of his character, and spoke of a nature that might have made him a blessing instead of a curse to his kind.

Ernest lost no time in communicating with Mr. Hardy.

The lawyer read the letter in some surprise.

"Mr. Fox seems to have appointed a young guardian for his son," he remarked.

"Yes, sir; but he appeared to have no choice. It would have been better had he appointed you."

"No; I do not care to assume that responsibility. I am ready to assist you, however."

"I will depend upon you, then, for I shall start for California as soon as possible. Can you recommend a satisfactory boarding-school?"

"I have a son at school in Lincoln. The school is under the charge of a clergyman, who is an efficient teacher, yet is popular with his pupils."

"Can you arrange to enter Frank at his school?"

"I will do so, if you authorize me."

"I don't think we can do any better. Were you aware that Mr. Fox was the notorious outlaw?" asked Ernest, after a pause.

"I did not know, but latterly I have suspected it. You may be surprised that under the circumstances I should have consented to serve him. But I felt that I might be of assistance to the boy, and that my refusal would occasion him embarrassment. Your letter is satisfactory, as showing that the fortune of your ward is not made up of ill-gotten gains. Were it otherwise, he would hardly be allowed to keep it. Does Frank know his father's character and reputation?"

"I don't think so."

"It had best be kept from him. I will see that it does not become known at school. It would wound the boy to be twitted with it by his schoolmates."

Thanks to Mr. Hardy, Ernest found that the new charge imposed upon him would not materially interfere with his plans. A week later than he had originally intended he and Luke Robbins left Emmonsville by a Western-bound train.

As they rushed rapidly over the prairies, Luke Robbins turned to his young companion and said, "Our journey thus far has been adventurous. I wonder what lies before us?"

"We won't trouble ourselves on that score, Luke. I feel hopeful."

"So do I; and yet we have less than two hundred dollars between us."

"That's true."

"Still, I have captured an outlaw, and you, at the age of sixteen, are the guardian of an outlaw's son."

"I don't think we shall meet with anything stranger than that."

Two days later, in a newspaper bought at an important station, there was an article that deeply interested both travellers. It related to the Fox brothers, recounting their daring attempt to escape from the jail where they were confined. John Fox got away, but James was shot dead by one of the prison guards.

So Frank was an orphan, and Ernest felt that his responsibility was increased.



CHAPTER XXIV.

STEPHEN RAY AND HIS SON.

Leaving Ernest and Luke Robbins on their way to California, our attention is called to other characters who must play a part in the drama of the boy from Oak Forks.

A few miles from Elmira, upon an eminence from which there was a fine view of the surrounding country, stood the handsome country mansion of Stephen Ray, already referred to as the cousin of Ernest's father. It passed into his possession by inheritance from poor Ernest's grandfather, the will under which the bequest was made cutting off his son for no worse a crime than marrying a girl thoroughly respectable but of humble birth.

Stephen Ray, since he came into possession of his uncle's estate, had improved it considerably. He had torn down the old stable and built an imposing new one. The plain carriage which had satisfied his uncle had been succeeded by an elegant coach, and the sober but rather slow horse by a pair of spirited steeds.

Mr. Ray had become pompous, and by his manner made it clear that he considered him self a man of great consequence. He was a local magistrate, and had for years endeavored to obtain a nomination for Congress.

Had he been of popular manners he would probably have succeeded, but he was not a favorite among the poorer classes, and their vote must be considered.

There is an old saying, "Like father, like son," and Clarence, now turned sixteen, the only child of the country magnate, was like his father in all objectionable qualities. He was quite as much impressed with ideas of his own consequence.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Ray sat on the piazza, the day being unusually warm, reading a newspaper. In the street, near by, his son Clarence was moving swiftly on a new bicycle which his father had just purchased for him.

"Out of the way, there!" he called out, as a shabbily-dressed stranger with a weary step plodded along the pathway.

Whether because he was hard of hearing or because his mind was preoccupied, the stranger did not heed the warning, and Clarence, who might easily have avoided the collision, ran into him recklessly. Had the bicycle been moving at a greater rate of speed, he might have been seriously hurt. As it was, he was nearly thrown down.

But he rallied, and seizing the offending rider with no gentle grasp, dragged him from the wheel and shook him vigorously.

"Let me alone, you tramp!" exclaimed Clarence, furiously.

But the stranger did not release his hold.

"Not till you apologize for running into me," he answered sternly.

"Apologize to a man like you!" ejaculated Clarence, struggling furiously for his freedom. "What do you take me for?"

"For an impudent young rascal," was the reply.

"Let me alone, I tell you!"

"Will you apologize?"

"There is no need of an apology. You got in my way."

"You have no business on the sidewalk with your bicycle. It is meant for foot-passengers."

"Do you know who I am?" demanded Clarence, haughtily.

"No, I don't, nor do I care."

"I am Clarence Ray, son of Squire Stephen Ray. He is a magistrate, and he can send you to jail."

These words of Clarence had the effect he desired. The stranger released him and eyed him with close scrutiny.