"Do you really want me to tell you?"

"Yes; I am not expecting anything complimentary, and may as well know the worst."

Dave Farrington hesitated a moment, unwilling to repeat the unkind words of Fred's former schoolmates.

"The worst came from De Vere," he said at length.

Fred's face colored.

"I expected this," he replied; "but what did he say?"

"When I got to the school house for the afternoon session, De Vere was there, and knowing that I always stood up for you, he cried out in a sneering way:

"'Well, Farrington, what have you to say for your friend Worthington now? I suppose, of course, you know what he has done, and that John Rexford discharged him last night?'

"I said, 'Yes, I know about his discharge, but I don't know that he has done anything to deserve it.'

"'He stole some money from the drawer,' he returned.

"'How do you know that?' I asked.

"'Why, everybody says so! I always said that you would get enough of him,' he replied.

"'That is no proof, and, besides, I want you to know I haven't enough of him yet,' said I. 'I have not been friends with him for the same reason that you were, nor do I propose to leave him under such circumstances.' I guess that must have hit him pretty hard, for he colored up as red as could be and acted mad."

Fred found it difficult to restrain his anger as he saw the bitter enmity of De Vere, and realized his gratification over his own misfortune—a misfortune of which Matthew was the cause. But he finally asked what the other scholars had to say about him.

"Well, they all talked about the matter, and most of them seemed to think that you were guilty, though Grace Bernard said she heard her father say that there might have been some mistake about the bill, and that she didn't believe you stole it, for you were always one of the best boys in school."

"That's better than I expected," replied Fred, with a brighter look. "But is that all?" he asked, with some anxiety.

Dave noticed this, and suspecting his meaning, hesitated. "I guess it is about all," he answered.

Fred seemed disappointed at not getting the answer he sought. Seeing he was not likely to get at what interested him most—Miss Nellie's opinion—he asked openly if she were not there, and what she said.

"I don't remember exactly what she said," replied Dave, "but she seemed to side with Matthew. You know they are pretty intimate now; he seems to have better success there than when you went to school. I tell you what it is, Fred, if you hadn't got tipsy, he wouldn't have had much show, but that's what killed you. The girls all said more about that than they did about this."

Fred had his answer now, and it was anything but welcome intelligence to him. There is no denying that he cared more for Nellie's good opinion than for what all the rest of the school thought of him.

"She has condemned me at once," he said to himself bitterly, "while Grace Bernard has proved my friend; and she has not only condemned me without reason, but has taken up with my enemy—with that scoundrel De Vere, who has been the cause of all my trouble."



XIII.

Fred was keenly affected by the spirit Nellie had shown concerning him. That she had no faith in him, and cared nothing for his downfall, seemed evident, while the thought that she had gone over to De Vere and joined with him in his utterances galled our hero sorely.

Then, too, the fact that Matthew and Nellie had been so much together during the last few weeks stirred Fred's jealousy and indignation, as will be seen in the following letter, which he wrote and mailed that evening:

MAPLETON, Nov. 26.

MISS NELLIE DUTTON:—I understand that there is a report circulating in the school that I am guilty of dishonesty, and that you seem quite ready to accept it. I am not surprised that gossips should tell such a story, but I did not expect you to be one of the first to put faith in it and condemn me. You have known me intimately since we were little children, and, I am sure, you have no true reason for believing this wicked slander. Grace Bernard stood by me, I hear, while you did not. I suppose you are no longer my friend, since you find so much pleasure in the society of such a fellow as Matthew De Vere, who is, as you know, my enemy. You probably got your idea of my conduct from him, as I understand he was very much elated over my misfortune. This matter will all be shown up in time, and when it is I shall have the satisfaction of seeing you regret your present intimacy with one who has no honor. Perhaps you may then be sorry for the treatment you are now showing me. Since that wretched night when I was led to your house by a certain person you have turned against me and avoided me. Had you not done so, I could have explained to you in confidence what I have preferred to keep secret. But since you judge me so hastily, and seem so happy in the presence of De Vere, I will not trouble you with my side of the story. FRED WORTHINGTON.

During the day Mr. Farrington gave a great deal of careful thought to the mystery that now enveloped his young friend, and in the morning he called upon Mr. Rexford, to see if he could learn anything that would be to Fred's advantage. After chatting awhile with the merchant, he said, as if he were entirely ignorant of what had taken place:

"Where is Fred?"

"He is not here."

"Out delivering goods?"

"No; he is through here. I discharged him."

"Discharged him!" returned Mr. Farrington, with seeming surprise.

"Yes; I don't want him any longer."

"I thought he was an excellent clerk."

"Yes, he was, in some respects; but I suspected him of dishonesty, and so let him go."

In the conversation that followed, the trader confirmed the statements of Fred in every particular. It was a good bit of tact on the part of Mr. Farrington to draw Rexford out as he did, for not only did it prove that Fred had told the truth, but the merchant's manner gave him some ideas which he thought would prove valuable in solving the money mystery.

When Fred called at the mill to see Mr. Farrington at the time appointed, the latter greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, my boy; I see you are on time," looking at his handsome gold watch.

"Yes, I believe so; I always try to keep my appointments."

"That is in your favor."

"Thank you, Mr. Farrington. I hope it is. But have you seen Mr. Rexford?"

"Yes, I just came from there."

"Did you learn anything new?" asked Fred, with breathless interest.

"No; not exactly new."

"I suppose you went over the matter with Mr. Rexford?"

"Yes, he told the story practically as you gave it, but during our conversation I gathered a few points that may be of service to us."

"What is your theory, Mr. Farrington?"

"As it is little more than a suspicion at best, I think it would be wiser to keep it to myself at present."

"But if I knew it couldn't I help you?"

"No, I think not, and it might even make matters worse. The only way to work up this affair is to do it quietly. If others find out what is going on, perhaps we shall never be able to locate the money. Besides, it wouldn't do for it to get out that I am working up your case."

"But I would say nothing about it," put in Fred, whose curiosity and interest were both excited as he thought that perhaps Mr. Farrington had the secret that would free him from suspicion and prove his honesty.

"I don't doubt that in the least; but for good reasons of my own I will say nothing of my theory until I test it thoroughly, though it may take a long time. If it should prove to be the true solution of the mystery, I will then tell you all about it."

Fred colored a little at this, for he had grown somewhat sensitive now, and said earnestly:

"I hope, Mr. Farrington, you too don't suspect me. It almost seems——"

"Oh, no, my boy," interrupted his good friend, "don't worry about that. My suspicions run in a totally different direction."

"I am very glad to hear you say so, for I didn't know but Mr. Rexford had convinced you that I took the bill."

"No, indeed; I believe you are innocent, and I shall do all I can to aid you."

"You are very kind to me, and I thank you sincerely."

"I am glad to help you, Fred. It is my duty to do all the good I can."

"And you are always helping some one," replied Fred gratefully. "Now that I can do nothing to clear up this mystery, I would like to get to work. Can you give me anything to do?" he continued.

"Yes; I have arranged a place for you temporarily down stairs on the 'flockers.' You said yesterday that you would like factory work better than nothing. This is about the meanest job in the whole mill, but it is the only thing that I can possibly give you."

"All right; I guess I can stand it for a while," returned Fred.

"Then you may try it and see how you get along. I will advance you as soon as there is a vacancy—if I find that you deserve it," he added, with a significant smile.

"Very well, sir; I shall try to satisfy you. When shall I commence?"

"You may come in tomorrow morning at the regular hour—six o'clock. I will discharge Tim Short tonight."

"Oh, you are not going to send him away simply to give me a place, are you?" inquired Fred, with evident regret.

"No; I should never discharge one for such a cause, even if I wanted the place for my own brother. I have been looking around for several days, trying to find a boy, as I had made up my mind to get rid of Tim, who isn't faithful in his work."

"I am sorry to have him discharged; I would rather go without work myself than to feel I have his place. His parents will be obliged to support him, and they are very poor."

"I like to hear you talk that way, for it shows that you have a kind heart. I, too, am sorry for them, but it will not do to let sympathy interfere with the proper management of business. Such a course would not be just to my employers, for I am convinced that Tim causes more mischief than a little, every day."

"Then if you are bound to discharge him any way, there would be nothing wrong in my taking the place, would there?"

"Certainly not. Some one else will have it if you don't."

Mr. Farrington's assurance that there would be nothing dishonorable in the proposed course seemed to satisfy Fred's compunctions to some extent; still, as he entered the mill the next morning at the call of the shrill whistle, long before daylight, he could not help feeling a little guilty. He also felt that he was entering upon a new career, and one that seemed anything but pleasing. An utter change had taken place in his life. He was now only a common factory hand, and was about to begin work as such.

The "flockers" were located under the stairs, down in the basement of the mill, in a dark and dingy corner. When Fred arrived there, he saw standing beside one of the machines a medium sized man with small gray eyes, that were shaded with immense bushy brows nearly an inch in length. His features were dull and expressionless, and over the lower portion of his wrinkled face a scraggy, mud colored beard seemed struggling for existence. His clothing appeared to indicate a penurious, grasping nature.

A single look at this uncouth specimen was sufficient to make our young friend shudder at the thought of being under his control; however, he walked straight up to him, and said:

"Is this Mr. Hanks?"

"That's my name—Christopher Hanks. Be you the new boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's yer name?"

"My name is Fred Worthington."

"Fred Worthington, d'ye say?"

"Yes, sir."

"I s'pose yer father's the cobbler?"

"He has a shoe shop, sir."

"Be you the chap I heerd them men speakin' of as stole some money?" said Hanks, with a fiendish grin, which revealed two upper front teeth that seemed long because they alone guarded that portion of his mouth. They had been in use so many years, or had been so poorly treated, that they were loose, and rattled together.

"Perhaps they referred to me, sir," retorted Fred with dignity, "but they had no right to accuse me of stealing."

"Yis, yis; that's how such allers talks. But I guess thar ain't nothin' here fer yer to git yer hands on to, 'ceptin' work—I'll see't yer ain't sufferin' fer that."

"Very well, sir; I came here to work."

"I s'pose ye're perty strong, ain't yer?"

"I'm strong enough for a boy."

"Glad yer are, fer yer can do the liftin' work an' help Carl there. He ain't good for much, any way. Tim Short used ter shirk on him 'ceptin' when I knowed it, an'—— Hey! here she goes!" (as the machinery suddenly started). "Set this 'ere flocker again, Carl, and then show this feller how to run t'other. I'll start up the grinder, an' go up to the drier."

Accordingly Christopher Hanks departed, while Fred put on a gingham frock which his mother had made him as a working blouse, and, at the hands of Carl, received his first lesson.



XIV.

A "flocker" is a large, clumsy looking wooden machine, four or five feet in length, and just wide enough to take on the cloth, which at that mill was all made double width. It consists chiefly of heavy rollers, so arranged that the cloth passes between them. There is a deep pit at the bottom of the machine, which will hold several bushels of "flocks," in addition to the bulk of a large web of cloth, from forty to fifty yards in length.

"Your name is Carl, I believe," said Fred, by way of introducing himself.

"Yes, Carl; that's it."

"My name is Fred Worthington. I think we shall get along together."

"I hope so," returned Carl sincerely, and continued: "The first thing to do is to put the cloth into the machine and set it running."

Then, showing how to do this, he added:

"Now we start it up by switching this belt so" (moving the belt from the loose to the stationary pulley).

"What's the object in running cloth through here?" inquired Fred; for though he had always lived in Mapleton, yet in truth his knowledge of a woolen factory was very limited, and in this respect he did not differ much from the majority of the villagers.

"It is to make it weigh more, and to give it a body, so it can be finished," replied the boy, while he turned a basketful of flocks upon the revolving rollers between which the beaver cloth was now swiftly passing.

"But why do you call that stuff 'flocks'?" inquired Fred. "It looks like the fine dust that we find at the end of our pants and coats, where it settles down against the hems."

"Well, that's just what it is."

"I thought everybody called that shoddy."

"I know they do, and I used to do so myself before I came here."

"But what are the 'flocks' that we have here made of?"

"Old rags."

"I thought shoddy was made from old rags."

"They are both made from them. The best ones are put into shoddy, and the odds and ends into flocks."

"Well, if this stuff is flocks, how is shoddy made, and what does it look like?"

"It is something like wool. The rags are fed into a 'picker' up in the 'pick room,' and come out all torn apart."

"What is it used for then?"

"It is mixed with a little coarse wool, and carded into rope yarn, the same as wool, ready to be spun."

"The idea of weaving shoddy into cloth is new to me. It can't make very good cloth."

"Well, they only use it for the back of the cloth. Here, look at this piece! See; it is white on one side and brown on the other. The white side is the face, and is made from good wool. You see we are beating these flocks in on the back side."

"Yes, I see you are; and now as you've told me about shoddy, I'd like to know about flocks, for that's what I have got to handle, I suppose."

"I guess you'll know all you want to about them before you've been here long. I'm 'bout dead from being in this dust so much. It fills a feller all up. See how thick it is now, and you're drawing it in with every breath."

By this time the other machine was ready for action, and Carl, finding that they were short of flocks, gave Fred a basket, took another himself, and both boys started for a fresh supply. They went up stairs, passed through the "gig room," and across a long hall which opened into a little room by itself, where the rag grinders were humming away. This was their destination. Carl filled one of the baskets with flocks and the other with ground rags; then turning to Fred, said:

"You wanted to know about flocks and how they are made. This is the first machine they go through. You see that pile of rags and odds and ends. When they have been run through here, they will come out cut up fine, like those I just put in your basket. Now we will go back, and I will show you the next process they go through."

Each of the boys now shouldered his basket and returned down the stairs. There Carl turned his flocks upon the cloth that was rapidly being filled, and then emptied the contents of the other basket into a tub or tank, which was about five feet wide by fifteen long. It was full of thick, muddy looking water, which was rapidly going round the tank.

It struck Fred as a curious proceeding when he saw the fine cut rags thrown into that place; it looked to him very much like throwing them away, and he was about to ask an explanation when Carl satisfied his curiosity by saying:

"This is the wet grinder. We put the rags in here, and run them in water about three hours until they are ground up as fine as can be, and look just like porridge."

"What do you do with the porridge?"

"Do you see these little bags at this end of the tank? We bail it out into them, and after the water strains out a little, we tie them up and load them on one of these cars and run them out to the 'extractor.'"

"What kind of a thing is an extractor?"

"It is something that shakes the water out. It has a big basket inside that goes around like lightning."

"I'd like to see it; where is it?"

"Come into this next room; here it is."

On entering the room Fred's eyes fairly stuck out with amazement. He had already seen more queer machines that morning than he had ever imagined had been made, but here was something that surpassed them all. It consisted of a large cast iron cylinder, about six feet in diameter and four feet high. Inside was a wire basket, which nearly filled up the vacant space. This rested on a pivot, and from the top of it extended upward a short shaft, the end of which was connected with a small pulley.

The tender of the machine had just put in two whole pieces of double width beaver cloth dripping wet from the washers, and was now starting up the machine slowly.

Pretty soon it commenced to whirl around rather rapidly, then the speed increased as the power was let on, until a buzz was heard, which quickly gave way to a singing, hissing sound; now followed a spark, then another and another in quick succession, and the whole rim of the extractor seemed a perfect blaze.

Fred thought it was going to pieces, and jumped backward for safety; but by the time he got where he supposed himself out of danger the tender had shifted the belt to the loose pulley, and by applying the brake had stopped the whirl of the basket.

Carl laughed at Fred's timidity, and said:

"What were you frightened about? The extractor 'most always does that way, only it was a little worse this time, because it probably wasn't loaded even. That's why the fire flew so. Just see how it took the water out of the cloth. That's the way it does to the flocks."

Fred felt the cloth, and, knowing that two minutes before it was sopping wet, now found it was only a little damp. The boys returned to the flockers and straightened out the cloth and got it running even; then Carl took a car load of the extracted flocks up to the drier, where they were spread thinly upon it.

The drier is simply a frame upon which is nailed a large surface of wire sieving, directly under which are coils of hot steam pipes. On this drier the flocks become baked dry, and are about as hard as dry mud.

"It seems to me that these rags have to go through different machines enough before they get ready for use. I wonder what the next step is?" said Fred.

"Only one more machine—the one where you saw me fill my basket with flocks. I suppose you noticed that it had a big hopper on top? Well, we just turn these dry lumps right in here, and let them grind out as fast as they will."

"Then I've been the rounds of our work, have I?" asked Fred.

"Yes, unless Mr. Hanks makes you lug the cloth down."

"Am I supposed to obey him?"

"Yes, he's your boss; and you will be lucky if you have no trouble with him."

"I shall try to have no trouble, even if he is as disagreeable as he looks; but I will not be crowded too much."

"I wouldn't if I was strong like you," returned Carl sadly.

"I thought Mr. Farrington had charge of this room," said Fred, after a pause.

"He does; though I believe he had a lot of trouble to keep these flockers a-going; it is such bad, dirty work that no one would stay on them. So he made a trade with Mr. Hanks, and let him the job of making the flocks and putting them into the cloth, and agreed to furnish him two boys. I don't know how much pay he gets out of it, but Jack Hickey, that's scouring the wool there in the other corner, says he is making money out of us every day; besides, he shirks the work upon us, and we have it almost all to do."

"Hanks—Christopher Hanks," said Fred to himself, with a curious drawl through his nose; "not a pleasant sounding name."



XV.

Though Matthew De Vere was much gratified at Fred's misfortunes, and especially pleased at his own renewed friendship with Nellie Dutton, he was nevertheless far from happy. Time was going by rapidly—almost flying—and no money had been raised to meet his promise to Jacob Simmons. The three hundred dollars was constantly in his mind. Where and how could it be raised?

The problem tormented him day and night, and he could see no solution to it. He did not dare to speak to his father about the money, for the latter would then find out everything, and would be sure to punish him severely. Matthew did not look upon such an outcome with any degree of favor. He considered himself a young man, and did not propose to be treated with the rod.

On the other hand, there stared him in the face Jacob Simmons' threat of exposure and arrest. The situation was desperate. The money must be got, whether or no, and yet how could it be procured?

If he failed in raising it, the boy he hated would be vindicated, while he would be shown up and disgraced before all the village. Nellie would have nothing more to do with him—would not so much as look at him—and she would, he reasoned, again become friendly with Fred, and then he would have no power to break it off as he had recently done. She would be lost to him, and his rival would reign in his stead.

"No, no! This shall not be!" he said angrily, and spurned the thought from him; but it as quickly returned. He tried to forget it, but could not. The pressure from Jacob Simmons forced it back upon his mind, and it remained there and tormented him till he was almost mad.

In this condition of mind he went to school next day, hoping that a pleasant greeting and a few smiles from Nellie would dissipate the vision that had so haunted him. Perhaps they would have done so, but he had not the pleasure of testing so desirable a remedy.

Nellie came late—after school had commenced.

"It is just my luck that she should be late to-day," he thought, "when she is always so punctual."

He often looked toward her seat, but could not catch her eye. She seemed unusually busy with her books.

Matthew did not know what to make of it. He looked at his watch—a handsome gold one that his father had given him as a birthday present. It wanted only fifteen minutes of recess time.

"I will see her then," thought Matthew.

The bell rang, and the scholars left their seats and passed out into the anteroom—all save those who wished to remain and study.

Matthew grew anxious as Nellie did not come out with the other girls. Recess was half gone. He made an excuse to go to his seat on the pretense of getting something, but really to try and speak to Nellie. She was with the teacher, however, who was assisting her to work a difficult example.

Matthew returned to the anteroom angry. He could not bear the disappointment gracefully.

"She avoids me for some cause," he said to himself, and then wondered what it could be. "Last night," he reflected, "we were the best of friends. Can it be possible that Simmons has already told the secret? He threatened yesterday that he would unless I made a payment."

The thought made him wretched. He was unfit for study, and wanted to get out to learn if any such report had actually been circulated.

On the reassembling of school he obtained a dismissal for the day on the plea of feeling ill. He was ill—very ill at ease in his mind, beset as it was with fears, and troubled over the sudden change in Nellie's manner toward him.

On his way from school he met Tim Short. He was glad to see him, and yet shuddered for fear he would say it was all up with them.

"What brings you here at this time?" finally asked Matthew.

"I was going up to school to see you."

"What has happened that you want to see me?" queried Matthew, dreading the answer.

"I have been discharged."

"Is that all?" drawing a long breath of relief.

"Isn't that enough?" asked Tim indignantly.

"It might be worse; but what were you discharged for?"

"Discharged to give Fred Worthington my place, I suppose," answered Tim, with evident ill feeling toward Fred.

"Is it possible? And has he your place?"

"Yes, he went to work this morning."

"I think you have as much cause now as I have to be down on him."

"Yes, and more too," returned Tim savagely.

"On his account we got into this trouble with Simmons, and are liable to be exposed any day," said Matthew.

Tim turned pale. "I thought you promised to fix that," he replied.

"So I did, but I have not been able to raise the money. Now, something has got to be done at once. Let us go up to the pines and decide what it shall be."

Tim assented, and the two boys soon found themselves quite alone in the thick pine grove just outside of the village.

Now the change Nellie Dutton showed toward Matthew was not caused, as he supposed, by any disclosure from Jacob Simmons, but by the letter she had received from Fred in the morning before going to school.

It made a deep impression upon her. She was impulsive, like nearly all girls of her age, and did not stop to reason much about Fred's case, especially since Matthew urged his opinions upon her with such assurance. Her intimacy with Matthew was not from any great regard that she had for him, but because her nature seemed to demand some favorite, and when her friendship with Fred ceased, for reasons with which the reader is already familiar, she accepted Matthew's attentions with a little more than ordinary courtesy.

Now she saw she had judged Fred hastily, and the statement in his letter, that she had not proved as good a friend as Grace Bernard, touched her as nothing else had ever done. She admitted the truth of his assertion, and felt truly sorry that she had not been more loyal to him.

"I shall regret my present intimacy with one who has no honor," she mused. "He must have meant Matthew, and I wonder if he referred to him in saying, 'when I was led to your house on that wretched night by a certain person.'" This thought once having taken shape grew upon her.

Nellie studied over Fred's letter, reading it again and again. "You know he is my enemy." She did not notice this before, but now it recalls the night of the party. "Yes, Fred, I do know it," she said to herself almost audibly, "but I had almost forgotten the spite he showed you."

This thought placed Matthew under suspicion, and went far toward helping Fred's cause, though he was now so thoroughly under a cloud.

Nellie found herself repeating over this sentence: "Grace Bernard stood by me while you did not." She could hardly drive it from her thoughts, but why it clung so to her she did not suspect. That evening she wrote an answer to Fred's letter, and sealed it ready to mail in the morning.

The night was cloudy and dark. A cold November wind from the northeast swept over the little village—so icy and damp that none cared to venture out.

There was no trade for the merchants, and they closed their stores early and hurried shivering to their homes. By ten o'clock not a light was anywhere to be seen.

All had retired, and nearly all had entered into happy dreamland when they were suddenly awakened by the shrill cry of "Fire! fire! fire!"

Soon the words were taken up by others and yet others till every person in the village was aroused and startled by the sound.



XVI.

A fire in a country village is a great event. There is but one other attraction that approaches it in importance, and that is the annual circus.

Both bring out the entire village, but the fire draws the better of the two. It is a free show, while the circus is not, and here it has an immense advantage over the latter—an advantage that can hardly be overcome by the clowns and menagerie. It gives the men, the boys too, a chance to be brave—to do daring deeds and a large number of foolish ones. Then there is the mystery of how it caught, and whether it was the work of an incendiary or not. Why, a good sized fire in a village will often serve for months as a theme for discussion when other subjects are scarce.

This particular fire was the largest Mapleton had ever known. Every one had hurriedly dressed, and rushed down the street to see John Rexford's store burn. Women and children insufficiently wrapped for the chilly air of this cold November night stood there watching the angry flames as they shot high in the air, fed by barrels of oil and lard. It was a grand sight to witness, as the blackness of the night made the flames doubly brilliant.

Nothing could be done to save the store, and the men directed their efforts to keeping the flames from spreading. In this they did a good work. John Rexford did not arrive at the scene until the building was a sheet of flame and the roof had fallen in. The sight almost crazed him. He flew at the door as if to enter amid the burning goods and secure certain valuables, but the fierce flames drove him back. He reluctantly yielded, and in his helplessness seemed the picture of despair as he saw before him his store—his idol—a mass of blazing timbers and half burned goods.

He was now without a store, even as Fred was without a clerkship, and could perhaps realize to some extent how the latter felt at being suddenly thrown out of his chosen vocation.

Fred was there too. He stood a little back from the front of the crowd, and at one side, intently watching the progress of the flames, and seemingly wrapped in thought. Finally he turned his head, and a little to the right of him saw Nellie and her mother. Nellie was looking directly at him, evidently studying his face. When his eyes met hers and she found that she was discovered, a blush, plainly visible by the light of the flames, covered her pretty face.

Fred felt his heart beat faster. He longed to speak with her and learn her thoughts, and yet he did not dare approach her. The peculiar look she gave him, and that vivid blush—what did it mean? He could not make up his mind upon these points, and yet there was a fascination in studying them, for he sometimes persuaded himself that they meant one thing, and then again perhaps its very opposite.

Presently she and her mother returned home, and Fred saw no more of them.

The fire was now under control. All danger of its spreading was passed, and the crowd returned to their several homes well nigh chilled through. A few men remained to watch the fire as it died away, and to see that no sparks were carried to other buildings by the strong east wind.

Among those who remained was John Rexford. He was pale and haggard, and shivered, while the cold wind seemed to penetrate his very bones, yet he clung to the spot as if he would pluck the mystery—the cause of the fire—from the burning mass before him. Finally he approached Mr. Coombs, the sheriff, and said:

"Who was the first to discover this fire?"

"I was," replied the sheriff proudly, with a feeling that he must be looked upon as something of a hero.

"Did you see it from your house?"

"No; I saw it just as I turned the corner, coming toward the stable."

"Coming which way?" asked the merchant, trying to learn something that might give him a clew to work upon.

"Coming from the Falls, of course, where I had been attending court."

"What time was that?"

"Nigh on to eleven o'clock."

"And you saw no one here?"

"No."

"Nor any one on the street?"

"Not a soul stirring, except Jim, the stable boy."

"Where was he?"

"Sound asleep."

"He couldn't have been stirring very much then," said the merchant, with a show of disgust.

"Well, I mean he was the only one about, and I had to wake him up."

"And you raised the alarm?"

"I should think I did."

"Then you didn't come directly here?"

"Yes, I did, but I yelled fire pretty lively all the same, and started the stable boy up the street to wake everybody up."

"Where was the fire burning then?"

"On the back end of the store. A blaze was just starting up through the roof."

"It was on the back end, you say?"

"Yes; and just as I got here the back windows burst out, and the way the flames rolled up was a caution."

"Was there no fire in the front store then?"

"No, there didn't seem to be when I first got here, but after I went round to the rear end to see how it was there, and came back, the flames had come through, and everything was ablaze. I tell you what, I never saw anything burn like it."

"It must have started in the back store, then," said Mr. Rexford thoughtfully.

"No doubt of it," returned officer Coombs.

"This is important evidence," said the merchant, after a pause.

The sheriff brightened up at this, and his eyes snapped with delight. Here was a case for official service.

"To be sure it is, sir," he replied.

"There is some mystery about this."

"'Pears to me so."

"We had no stove in the back store."

"I know it—that's so, Mr. Rexford. It looks bad."

"And I closed up the store myself tonight, and went into the back room, as usual, to see that everything was all right."

"I dare say it was. You are a careful man."

"Yes, it was all right. I'm certain of that."

"Good evidence, too. Capital evidence, Mr. Rexford," said the officer, rubbing his hands together with evident delight.

"You are sure there was no fire in the front room when you first got here?"

"I am positive there was none."

"I may want your testimony."

"I hope so, sir, for crime should be punished."

"I hope it will, in this case, at least," said the merchant; "for I believe this store has been fired, and perhaps robbed."

"Shouldn't wonder if it had been robbed—more than likely it was, now I think of it."

"But as everything is burned up, it will be almost impossible to find this out, as I can't really miss anything."

"There will be a chance for some pretty sharp detective work, I should say."

"You are good at that, I believe," said the merchant.

"Well, I fancy they can't fool me much, if I do say it."

"Then I want you to go to work on this case."

"I will commence at once, Mr. Rexford. The guilty party can't escape me when I give my whole mind to it."

"I hope you will put your whole mind on it, then."

"I shall indeed, sir. I will go home now and form my theory. I have the facts to work on. Early in the morning I will see you, and we will compare notes and get ready for business—active business, I assure you."



XVII.

After being out during the night at the fire, and consequently having had his rest broken, Fred found it rather irksome to spring out of bed at five o'clock, get his breakfast, and be ready to respond to the factory whistle on a wintry morning.

He had now got sufficient knowledge of his work, and found very little difficulty in performing it. Whenever he wanted any instruction or help, Carl seemed ready and glad to aid him, so the two boys soon became friends.

"How long have you been on these flockers, Carl?" asked Fred the morning after the fire.

"Only two months."

"Where did you work before that? I don't remember ever having seen you till yesterday morning, and I don't know what your last name is now. I heard Mr. Hanks call you Carl, so I suppose that is your given name?"

"Yes, my name is Carl Heimann; I have been in here ever since I came to Mapleton."

"Where did you come from?"

"My father and mother came from Germany when I was a small boy, and they lived in Rhode Island; but they both got sick and died, so I came here to live with my uncle."

"What is your uncle's name?" Fred went on to inquire.

"His name is Frank Baumgarten."

"Oh, I've seen him plenty of times. I used to take goods to his house from the store. It seems queer that I never saw you."

"I don't go out any nights, for I get tired out by working in here eleven hours and a half every day, I can tell you," said Carl.

"Yes, I should think you would; you don't look very strong."

"Well, I guess I can get along better now that you are here; but Tim Short used to shirk and crowd me. If Mr. Hanks would do his part of the work it wouldn't be so hard; but he won't do it, and is cross and finds fault if we don't hurry things up."

When Fred's eyes first fell upon the pale, sad face of Carl, and he noticed his dwarfed and disfigured form, he had a feeling of pity for him. There was that about his manner which at once interested him. The boy's features were good, and yet they had that sharp, shrunken appearance which may be said to be characteristic of the majority of those afflicted with spinal trouble. He was a little humpback, who, from his size, would be taken for a lad of not more than thirteen, though he was then seventeen, one year older than Fred, as the latter afterward learned.

The interest our hero felt in Carl had gradually increased as he noticed how intelligent he appeared, and when he said that he had no father nor mother, and told how he had been treated, Fred's sympathy was touched, and he said to himself, almost unconsciously, "I'm glad I'm here, for now I can do the heavy work, and will protect him from the abuse of this man Hanks!" Then he said to the boy (for he seemed but such beside his own sturdy form), "Yes, I think you will get along better now, for I am strong and well, and will do all the heavy work for you."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" replied Carl, with a sense of gratitude which showed itself in his bright eyes, "for it hurts my back every time I lift one of the heavy bags of wet flocks, and almost makes me think I will have to give up the job. Then I think my uncle can't support me, and so I keep on."

"You shall not lift any more of them while I am here. I would rather do that, any way, than stay here in the dust."

"How long will you be here?" asked the little humpback, anxious lest the brighter prospect might last but a short time.

"I don't know. I don't want to stay in the factory any longer than I am obliged to; but that may be forever," replied Fred, with a clouded brow, as his mind reverted to the cause that brought him down to such work.

"I don't see why you need to stay in here. You have been clerk in a store, and have a good education, I suppose. If I only had an education——"

"Haven't you ever been to school?"

"I went to school a little in the old country, and three terms in Rhode Island; then I went into the factory. My father was sick, and couldn't work. After I had been in there about a year, my coat caught one day in the shafting and wound me round it so they had to shut down the water wheel to get me off. Everybody thought I was dead. That's what hurt my back and made it grow the way it is now."

"How long ago was that?" inquired Fred sympathetically.

"It was six years ago that I got hurt, but I did not get out of bed for almost two years afterward."

"Does your back trouble you now?"

"Yes, it aches all the time; but I've got rather used to it. Only when I do a lot of lifting here, it bothers me so I can't sleep."

"That's too bad. I'm sorry for you, and, as I said, will do all the heavy work. Then you didn't go to school any after you got out again?"

"No; I went back into the mill and stayed until my mother died; then I came here."

"Did you say your father was dead?"

"Yes; he died while I was sick."

"Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"No; I have no one but my uncle."

"I suppose he is kind to you?"

"Yes, he is; but Aunt Gretchen don't seem to like me very well, she has so many children of her own."

"I should think you would board somewhere else, then."

"My uncle wants me to stay with him. If I boarded at the factory boarding house my wages wouldn't more than pay my board, and I shouldn't have anything left to buy my clothes with. If I should leave him and then get sick he wouldn't take care of me, and I should have to go to the poorhouse. I have always dreaded that since the city helped us when we were all sick."

"Well, you will soon be strong enough, I hope, to get another job, where there is more pay."

This conversation was now interrupted by the appearance of Hanks, who said to Fred:

"Come along up stairs with me, Worthington; I want yer ter help me lug some cloth down. I'll show yer where ter find it; then yer kin git it yerself erlone. Yer look stout 'nuff ter handle it 's well as me."

Each shouldered a web of cloth which made a bundle about two feet through and six feet long—rather a heavy burden for a boy; still, Fred handled it easily and quickly, deposited it by the flockers, and turned to his superior for further orders.

"Take out them pieces next; they have run long enough. Carl will help you about doing it; then you may go up and bring down two more pieces."

With these orders he vanished, and the boys went to their work.

"How long do these have to be run?" asked Fred of the little humpback.

"About three hours. If they stayed in longer than that they would get too heavy."

"This light stuff don't make them so very much heavier, does it?"

"Oh, yes; we can beat in flocks enough to double the weight of the cloth."

"Is that so?" exclaimed the new hand incredulously; and then added, after a moment's thought, "But I should think they would all tumble out."

"I suppose they would if the cloth wasn't fulled as soon as we get through with it; but that sort of sets them in."

"Where do they full it?"

"Out in the fulling mills, near the extractor. Didn't you see those long wooden things with the covers turned back, and the cloth going up through them so fast?"

"Yes, I saw them, but didn't know what they were. I don't see how going through those fulls the cloth."

"It's the stuff they put in—fuller's earth and soap; they pile the soft soap in by the dishful, and it makes a great lather. I s'pose the fuller's earth is what does the most of the work. After the cloth comes out of the fulling mills it's 'bout twice as thick as when it goes in, and feels all stiff and heavy. It's no more like what it is now than nothing."

"What's the next process it goes through?"

"It goes into the washers next, and is washed as clean as can be."

"How did you learn so much about finishing cloth? You have been here but a little while."

"My father worked in a mill, and I have heard him talk about it. Then I have been in a factory enough myself to know pretty nearly everything that is done."

"Do we take the cloth direct from the weave room? It doesn't look as though anything had been done to it when it reaches us."

"It is 'burled' first; then we get it."

"'Burled'? What do you mean by that?"

"Why, the knots are all cut off. You see the weavers have to tie their warp on the back side when it breaks, and that is what makes the knots."

"I don't see what harm those little things would do, as you say they are on the back of the cloth."

"They are the worst things there are, for if one of them gets in by accident it is sure to make a hole through the cloth when it runs through the shears."

Thus, with work and talk, the day flew by almost before Fred was aware of it. In fact, the hours seemed shorter to him than any he had passed for weeks. Now there was something new to occupy his attention, and work enough to keep his hands busy. The many curious machines before him, of which Carl had told him a little, interested him much—so much, indeed, that even at the end of the first day he felt no small desire to know more of them.



XVIII.

In the evening, after Fred's second day in the factory, as he sat with his parents in their pleasant home, and the thought of Carl and of his sad deformity and still sadder story recurred to him, he could not help contrasting the circumstances of the little humpback with his own.

Two mornings before, as he entered the mill, he had felt that his burden was almost greater than he could bear. He was disgraced and thrown out of his position, and was about entering upon a cheerless life, where there was but little opportunity for advancement.

But now, as he reflected upon his surroundings, he saw that he was much better off than many others. He had both father and mother, who loved and cared for him, who provided for him a cheerful home, and who would at any time sacrifice their own pleasures and comforts for his. Moreover, he was well and strong, and had the advantage of attending school, while Carl had been obliged to go into the mill at a little more than ten years of age, in order to earn something toward the support of his mother and invalid father. It was while thus employed that he met with the terrible accident that so deformed him and blighted his young life.

"No wonder he looks so sad," said Fred to himself. "Perhaps he may be as ambitious to make a success in the world as I am, and yet he is thrown into the factory, and is probably glad of even such a place, and maybe he works hard at times when he is really unable to do anything. Poor boy! I don't see what prospects he can see ahead to cheer him on. He has neither friends, education, nor health, and with so small a chance as there is in the factory for advancement, I should think he might as well give up first as last; but as he has no home, I suppose he must earn a living somehow or starve. If he only had friends to take care of him, it would not be so hard on him; but I don't see how he can be very happy with a woman like his aunt, who is always spluttering about somebody or something."

Fred secretly determined to do all he could to help the little cripple, and made up his mind that Hanks should not abuse him in the future if he could help it. Then calling to mind Carl's remark that morning, which showed so clearly his desire for a better education, he felt he could aid him, and decided to do so.

"Any new evidence?" asked Sheriff Coombs, as he met Mr. Rexford early in the morning at the scene of the fire.

"No, nothing except what we discussed last night."

"That is good as far as it goes."

"Well, it goes far enough to convince me," replied the merchant tartly.

"To be sure, sir, but we must convince the court. A mere suspicion, sir, is not good in law."

"You said last night you were the first one here, and that the fire started in the back store."

"So I did, but I can't say what caused the fire."

"It shows that it did not catch from the stove."

"That is so, and it leads us to suspect the store was set on fire—in fact, that is my belief. We stand agreed on this point; but the court must have evidence or we can't make out a case."

"Then we must search for evidence," said the merchant.

"My official duty, sir, is to bring the wrongdoer to justice, and I assure you I take a special interest in this case. I shall do my best work on it; but, by the way, there will be some slight expense connected with it."

"I don't understand you," replied the merchant nervously, for he caught the word "expense."

"Nothing of any consequence, to be sure, but of course you know a detective can't work without means."

"How much will it cost me?" asked the merchant, after a pause.

"I will make it light—for you almost nothing," answered the sheriff, who began to fear he would lose the opportunity to perform official service.

"Very well, then, you may go ahead; but I warn you not to come back on me with a heavy charge for this business."

"Your wishes shall be heeded, sir. I will commence now. By the way, do you suspect any one in particular?"

"Yes, I have one or two reasons for believing I know who did it."

"Good! That will give us an idea to work on; but first let me look around and see what I can discover for evidence."

On the rear side of the back room was a window. A few feet from this window part of a load of sawdust lay upon the ground. Here the sheriff found several footprints.

"How long has this sawdust been here?" he called out to Mr. Rexford.

"It was put there several days ago," he replied.

"I wish you would look here. I have made an important discovery."

The merchant quickly approached the spot.

"Do you see those footprints? When do you think they were made?"

"Last night about dark I shoveled up several basketfuls and carried them into the stable. These tracks must have been made since then."

"Do you feel sure of this?"

"I do, and I notice the prints point exactly to where the back window was."

"That is a good point, sir; but do you notice that whoever made that track must have had a small foot?"

"Yes, I see it is small, and that goes to strengthen my suspicions."

"It measures ten inches long and three wide," said the sheriff, applying his rule to the footprint.

In about an hour from this time Sheriff Coombs entered the woolen factory, and a minute or two later went to the flockers.

"Do you want to see me?" asked Fred, as he saw the officer fasten his eyes on him.

"Yes; I have a warrant for your arrest."

"For my arrest!" exclaimed Fred in amazement. "What for?"

"On complaint of John Rexford, for setting fire to his store," replied the sheriff, in a pompous manner.



XIX.

Fred stared at the sheriff in blank amazement at the terrible charge now brought against him.

"I am charged with setting fire to John Rexford's store?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"And you say Mr. Rexford makes the charge?" demanded Fred, in great excitement.

"Yes, he makes the charge," replied the officer, in a manner that was extremely irritating to our young hero.

"I don't know what it means," answered Fred.

"You know the store was burned, I suppose?" said the sheriff sarcastically.

"I do, sir; but what has that to do with me?"

"The question is one that must be answered by the court. My duty is to see that you appear there for trial."

"When will the trial be?" asked Fred, pale and depressed.

"At two o'clock this afternoon you must appear before Justice Plummer."

"Can I remain at work till then?"

"No; you must go with me."

"Is it necessary for me to go to the lockup?" asked Fred, shrinking with natural repugnance from such a place.

"It is, unless you can furnish surety for your appearance at the trial."

"If I promise to be there, isn't that enough?"

"I should not be doing my official duty to let you off on your promise," answered the sheriff.

"I would rather stay with you until two o'clock than go to the lockup."

"My time is worth too much to waste. I have a great deal of official business to attend to," said the officer; and after a pause, he added, "But if you were to give me five dollars, cash down, I think I could fix it for you."

"I haven't so much money with me, but I promise to pay it to you."

"I should prefer the cash."

Fred went to Mr. Farrington, accompanied by the sheriff, to try and borrow money enough to make up the five dollars, and to ask advice. His kind employer took him to one side and spoke low, so that the officer could not hear him. After getting the facts of the arrest, and asking a few questions, which were answered satisfactorily, Mr. Farrington turned to the sheriff and said:

"I am surprised, Mr. Coombs, that you should try to scare this boy into paying you five dollars, with the threat of taking him to the lockup. I had a better opinion of you than this," he added emphatically.

Officer Coombs hung his head and colored. He lost the official bearing with which he had so impressed our young friend.

"I am responsible for his appearance at the trial," he at last answered, in defense of his position.

"Very well; that is no reason why you should take advantage of an innocent boy who knows nothing of the law. I will go surety for him, and will be present at the trial. If you want me to give a bond for his appearance I will do so."

"It would be right to have the bond, but I will not ask it from you. I have faith in you, you see," said the sheriff, trying to win back his good opinion by a bit of flattery.

Mr. Farrington shrugged his shoulders. Turning to Fred, he told him to go to his work, and promised that at the appointed time he would accompany him to the trial.

Of course Fred had to tell his parents at noon what had happened. They were alarmed at first at so grave a charge, but became calm, as they felt sure they could prove Fred was at home on the night of the fire.

"I think the tide will turn now, Fred," said his father. "You have had more than your share of ill luck, but I am proud of you, that you stand up under fire like a man."

"I hope it has turned, father, and I am glad of your approval. This charge, though, seems to be one of malice."

"It does seem so; but we can tell at the trial whether it is or not."

Justice Plummer was a middle aged man, with a kind, intellectual face. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully. When our hero entered he greeted him in a kindly way.

"I am sorry to see you here, Fred," he began, "and I hope no evidence of guilt will be found against you. Though I feel a friendly interest in you, it is my duty, as you know, to decide the case impartially."

"I know it is, judge," replied Fred, "and I think the evidence will prove my innocence."

John Rexford now came in with his lawyer, Mr. Clarence Ham, a young man noted for his eloquence.

Mr. Rexford was sworn as a witness, and deposed that he had strong grounds for believing his store was burned by an incendiary, and that he had reasons for suspecting Fred Worthington to be the guilty party, though he admitted that he had little or no real proof to sustain this belief.

He gave his evidence upon the facts that led him to think the store was maliciously burned. Sheriff Coombs added his testimony upon this point. These facts, having been already given, need not be repeated.

"This testimony gives no absolute proof that the store was burned by an incendiary," said the judge.

"But I submit that the circumstances—the facts, if you please—lead to that conclusion," put in attorney Ham.

"To be sure, they give rise to a strong suspicion that it was, but unless we get further testimony to this end, the court cannot hold the prisoner for trial."

Mr. Rexford now gave his evidence, showing why he suspected Fred of being the guilty party.

This being simply a hearing before a justice, Mr. Farrington was allowed to serve Fred in place of a lawyer.

"You say," said Mr. Farrington, addressing the witness, "you thought at the time you discharged Fred Worthington from your employ that some sort of revenge would follow. Will you kindly state why you thought so?"

"His manner indicated it."

"In what way, please?"

"He was very saucy and impudent."

"In what manner was he impudent?"

"He threatened me."

"Simply because you informed him you wouldn't need his services longer?"

"Well, yes, that is about it," answered the witness hesitatingly.

"The court would like to know the exact facts," said Judge Plummer.

"I shall endeavor to give them," answered the witness.

"Then please state in what way he threatened you," said Mr. Farrington.

"It was in his manner. I had to conciliate him to save trouble. I was absolutely afraid of him."

"In what way did you conciliate him?"

"By modifying my statement."

"What was your statement?"

"It was something about his taking money from my drawer."

"You charged him, then, with stealing?"

"Not exactly."

"This was the point, however, that you modified?"

"Yes."

"Did that satisfy him?"

"Well, yes, it seemed to," admitted the witness reluctantly.

"Then, Mr. Rexford, your testimony shows that Fred Worthington did not complain at being discharged, but at a statement which you had no right to make. I judge he simply acted as any proud spirited boy would have done."

John Rexford grew fidgety.

"Was there any other cause for his being impudent?"

"No."

"No question of settlement, I suppose?"

"Nothing worth speaking of," answered the witness, growing very nervous.

"As it may have some bearing upon this case, you will please state what it was."

Mr. Farrington had a whispered consultation with Fred at this juncture, which made the merchant very ill at ease, and caused him to testify more fully upon the point than he otherwise would have done.

"I at first thought I would keep the amount due him to make up my loss; but his manner was so hostile that I feared he would injure me in some way, so I gave him the money."

"Did he threaten you with personal violence?"

"No."

"He made no threat at all, then?"

"As I said, after thinking the matter over, I thought it would be policy to pay him," answered the witness, trying to evade the point.

"But you have not answered the question. Did he, or did he not, make any sort of a threat which caused you to change your mind?" demanded Mr. Farrington.

"Well, yes, in a certain sense."

"In what sense?"

"He threatened to make false statements about my business."

"Would these statements have injured you?"

"They might have, for a time."

"You are sure the statements he threatened to make were false, with no foundation of truth," asked Mr. Farrington.

The witness hesitated. He saw Fred looking him square in the eye, and he shrank from answering, for he realized that the truth would probably be brought out by his former clerk.

"Yes, sir, I am sure they were false," he finally answered, while inwardly anathematizing himself at being caught in such a trap. He felt that Fred was getting the better of the case, and that, too, by his own testimony.

"In your testimony, Mr. Rexford, you said Fred Worthington impressed you at the time of his discharge with the idea that he would do you some subsequent harm. Was that impression founded upon his attitude of self defense?" asked Judge Plummer, in his slow, thoughtful way.

"No, sir, not that."

"Will you state, then, what caused you to form such an opinion?"

"Of course I could not tell his thoughts, but the deep study he seemed to be in convinced me that he was revolving in his mind some plot to be revenged on me for discharging him."

"This cannot be considered evidence," replied the judge. "His thoughts might have run upon an entirely different subject."



XX.

The testimony so far had very little weight, and really told against the merchant more than it did against our young friend.

The track in the sawdust, however, which was measured, and which was found to be the same size as Fred's shoe and of the same general shape, was very good evidence, and being testified to by both Mr. Rexford and the sheriff, went far toward bringing our hero under suspicion of having committed the crime.

The merchant's lawyer grew eloquent over this point, but his spread eagle style failed to impress the quiet, thoughtful judge to any great extent.

The testimony for the prosecution now being all in, Fred was put upon the stand, and testified that he was at home the night of the fire, had been at home all the evening, and was in bed when the cry of fire was sounded.

"How long had you been in bed?" asked attorney Ham.

"About two hours, I think," answered Fred.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I can't say it was exactly two hours, but I know it was not far from nine o'clock when I retired, and it was about eleven when the alarm of fire awoke me."

"Were you asleep when the alarm was started?"

"I was."

"I have no more questions at present to ask the witness," said the lawyer to the judge.

"I have one I would like to ask the witness," said Mr. Farrington, and then addressing Fred, he said:

"John Rexford testified that you threatened to make false statements about his business if he kept the money due you. Is this true?"

"I object to this question," said attorney Ham, who had learned the merchant's great desire to avoid further testimony upon this point. "It has no bearing upon this case."

"It does have a bearing upon the case, and I have a special reason for wanting an answer to my question," replied Mr. Farrington.

"The witness may answer," said the judge.

"Your honor," put in Ham, "I protest against bringing in the private business of my client, which has no relation to this case."

"This case is entirely one of circumstantial evidence," replied the judge, "and it is important that we get at the facts regarding the boy's character. The witness will answer the question."

"No, sir, it is not true."

"Did you make no threat whatever?"

"When he said he would keep my money, I told him it was a mean trick, but not much meaner than I had seen him play upon his customers."

"What reply did he make?"

"He asked me if I meant to insinuate that he cheated his customers."

"And you replied?"

"I said I did."

"What followed?"

"He threatened to have me arrested."

"And what did you say to that?"

"I replied that I would like to have him do so, for I could then tell some things about his methods that would make a stir in the village."

"This, then, is the threat you made?"

"Yes, if you call it a threat," answered Fred.

"Mr. Rexford's testimony does not agree with yours upon this point," said the judge. "Was there no statement about any special subject which Mr. Rexford considered false?"

"There was a reference to one or two matters," replied our young hero evasively.

The merchant now looked pale and wretched. His crooked business methods were about to be made known, and such a disclosure, coming right upon the loss of his store, was crushing to him.

"You will please state one of them," said the judge.

"I would prefer not to," said Fred.

"Why do you hesitate?" asked his honor.

"Because I do not wish to reveal matters about my employer's business that should be considered confidential."

"It is honorable in you to be so considerate of your former employer, and especially as he is now trying to establish a case against you. As you are only a boy, I consider it but right that I should advise you to show, if you can, that you did not threaten to make a false statement regarding his business. Such proof would aid your case and show well for your character."

Fred hesitated, thinking what he ought to do. Mr. Rexford took advantage of the pause, and asked if he would be allowed to speak a word upon this point before it was carried further. As no objection was raised by the defense, he said:

"I must acknowledge an error in my testimony regarding Fred's threat of a false statement. I was so wrought up over the matter that I hardly understood the exact language, but now I have heard his testimony it all comes back to me. His statement is essentially true."

This was an unexpected turn for matters to take. It was, however, less surprising to Fred than to the judge, and to those drawn by curiosity to the trial. The reason for Mr. Rexford's retraction was very evident, and caused many a significant glance, and here and there an exchange of opinions upon the matter in an undertone.

Though humiliating, it was nevertheless a fortunate move for the merchant, and he was lucky to get out of his own trap so well.

Fred was looked upon at first by the villagers present as being without doubt guilty, but now they began to have some admiration for him; and as the tide turned in his favor it set against the merchant, till at length our young friend was the more popular of the two.

Fred's father and mother both corroborated his testimony upon the point of his being at home all the evening on the night of the fire, and stated that he retired to bed at about nine o'clock.

They were questioned by lawyer Ham as to whether Fred could have left the house and returned, unknown to them, between the hours of nine and eleven o'clock, when the fire was probably set.

Their testimony upon this point evidently satisfied Judge Plummer that Fred was innocent of the charge John Rexford had brought against him, for after carefully going over the testimony on both sides, he said:

"I find nothing in the evidence that would tend to place suspicion upon Fred Worthington, who is charged with maliciously burning John Rexford's store. The testimony for the prosecution has no real weight, while that for the defense is strong, indisputable evidence, that removes all doubt as to the boy's whereabouts during the two hours when the fire must have been set, if it was set at all. I therefore discharge the accused, as no evidence has been offered that would justify me in holding him;" and then turning to our hero with a friendly smile, he added: "Fred, you can go. It is clear that you are innocent of the charge made against you."

"I thank you sincerely," said Fred, with an expression of true gratitude.

"Before you go, Fred, I wish to congratulate you upon the way you have acquitted yourself during this trial," said Judge Plummer, taking him by the hand. "Placed under fire as you have been, but few boys would have displayed the manhood you have shown."

Our young friend was profoundly moved at these kind, reassuring words, coming as they did from one who had the power to hold him for a grave crime.

Fred's parents were very happy at the outcome of the trial, and at Judge Plummer's complimentary remarks to their son, their only child. But scarcely less gratified than they was Mr. Farrington. He not only felt pride in triumphing over the somewhat wordy lawyer Ham, but genuine satisfaction and pleasure that Fred should be cleared of all suspicion in this case.

John Rexford was defeated, dissatisfied, miserable. He had injured himself and helped his discharged clerk, who he still thought had something to do with the destruction of his store. He now quickly withdrew from the place of the trial before any one could approach him to intensify his misery by questions upon the various points of evidence.



XXI.

Matthew De Vere and Tim Short had compromised matters with Jacob Simmons so that all immediate danger was passed. They were comparatively easy on this point, as a little more time had been granted them in which to pay the balance promised him; yet they did not feel entirely secure.

Fred's arrest on the charge of burning the store meant more to each of them than a mere gratification at seeing him humbled and perhaps punished. If they had been sure he would be convicted of the crime, doubtless they would have been happy indeed. The case meant so much to them that they attended the trial; and their discomfiture at the result—at seeing Fred vindicated and honorably discharged—was more than will be imagined.

They left the place of trial together, and had a long private discussion, which seemed not entirely satisfactory.

"Meet me in the pines tomorrow noon, Tim," said De Vere as he left him, wearing a worried look—almost one of fear.

Aside from these troubles, Matthew was far from happy. He had tried to learn the cause of Nellie's manner toward him the last time he saw her at school. He could not understand what had brought about the change in her.

He had not seen her for nearly a week, for she was at home sick. She took a severe cold on the night of the fire by exposure to the damp, chilly air, and had not been able to come out since. Matthew called at the doctor's to offer her his sympathy, but she would not see him. He learned from his sister, who had called every day that Nellie was up and around the house, and from this fact he argued that she shunned him.

Fred really expected no reply to his letter to Nellie, and yet he hoped almost against hope, as it seemed to him, that she might acknowledge its receipt in some way. If only a word, and that one of criticism, he felt that it would be much more welcome than nothing.

Little did he realize how near he came to receiving the coveted letter, for it was actually written, and was one that would have given him great pleasure.

Nellie wrote the letter in the evening before the fire, and intended mailing it the next morning; but when morning came she found herself too ill to leave the house.

Two days passed; then came the report of Fred's arrest. The news made her cheeks burn. She condemned herself for having written the letter, and while the shock was fresh upon her she destroyed it. And as it lay in the waste basket, torn into little pieces, she looked at it and felt almost sorry she had been so hasty; even wished, though she hardly dared acknowledge it to herself, that he had the letter, guilty or not.

She took his note from her pocket and read it again; then buried her face in her hands in deep thought.

She was interrupted by Grace Bernard, who ran in to spend a little time with her.

"Oh, isn't it good news?" she exclaimed, in her animated, girlish way.

"Isn't what good news?" asked Nellie curiously.

"Why, the result of the trial. Haven't you heard of it?"

"Has he been acquitted?" asked Nellie eagerly.

"Yes."

"No, I had not heard of the result," she replied, blushing as she realized the interest she had shown. "I only learned of the trial a few minutes ago."

"I am so glad he was proved innocent. I think it was shameful to bring such a charge against him," returned Grace.

"He has been unfortunate," replied Nellie, refraining from an expression of her own feelings.

"Yes, he has; but I do not believe any of the charges against him. Father said that Mr. Rexford was confused and embarrassed at the trial. It all came out about Fred's discharge and the missing money."

"Was it favorable to Fred?"

"Yes. Mr. Rexford had to retract his own testimony, and acknowledge that Fred was right."

"Did they learn anything about the missing money?"

"No; but father said there was no proof that Fred took it, and no good reason for thinking so. You know I told you when the report first started that I did not believe it."

"Yes, I know you did," replied Nellie, dropping her eyes, and thinking of the reference to the fact in Fred's letter to her.

"Dave told me a few days ago," continued Grace, "that Fred thought nearly all of his friends had turned against him, and that he felt terribly hurt about it. I know I have not turned against him, and I shall write and tell him so; then he will know he has one friend at least."

"He already knows it," said Nellie, in a slightly bitter tone.

"Why, how can that be, and what leads you to think so?" asked Grace, with surprise.

"I mean—probably he knows it. Dave might have told him," replied Nellie, with evident embarrassment at the fact she had unintentionally disclosed, and her inability to explain how she came by this information without making reference to Fred's letter to her.

Grace looked puzzled, and after a pause said:

"Yes, possibly he knows it, but I wish to be sure of it; and as I have no opportunity of seeing him now he is at work in the factory, I will write the letter and mail it to him. It can do no harm."

When Nellie had been left alone she could not resist referring once more to that part of Fred's letter that spoke of Grace's friendship. This, and the fact that she was intending to write him a friendly, encouraging letter, troubled Nellie. She was very glad that he had been found innocent, and that he had merited the praise of the judge, and yet she felt depressed that another should feel so happy over it. If only she had learned the news from some other source, or if Grace had shown some indifference, she would have been delighted.

Why this should trouble her she hardly knew, but that it did she was certain. She wondered if Grace would say anything about her in the letter she would write to Fred. "I am afraid she will," Nellie said to herself. "I wish I had shown more sympathy for him, and I wanted to so much. But why should she be so happy over his triumph? The idea of her writing to him to tell him of her friendship!"

These thoughts annoyed Nellie, and she felt—yes, we may as well confess it—a little jealous of her friend Grace.



XXII.

The next morning, as Fred was busy at his work, Carl came in from the post office, whither he had gone for the mail for several of the employees, and handed him two letters. On looking at them Fred was surprised to find both postmarked "Mapleton."

He tore one of them open nervously, hoping it might be the long looked for and much coveted answer to his own letter to Nellie Dutton. He looked at the signature—"Grace Bernard."

"What can this mean?" The thought shot through his mind, and then he proceeded to find out in a very sensible way, by reading the letter.

It was simply a friendly letter, that showed a refreshing sympathy for his misfortunes, and expressed a belief that he would in time triumph over all opposition.

The writer assured him of her belief in his innocence, and congratulated him upon his perfect vindication at the trial. She spoke of Nellie's sickness, and added that it would not be long before he would be more highly appreciated by his friends than ever.

This brief letter touched Fred deeply and brought tears of joy to his eyes. He felt so happy that he hesitated before opening the other letter, fearing it might cast a cloud over the sunshine this little note had brought him.

"And Nellie has been sick," he said to himself thoughtfully. "Perhaps this letter may be from her. I will open it and see."

It ran like this:

MAPLETON.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—Your letter, so unexpected, was a surprise to me, but I am very glad you sent it, otherwise we might not have understood each other as well as I now hope we may. It grieves me that you should feel so offended at my seeming lack of friendship. Perhaps the time may come when you will think differently. Had I received your letter two weeks ago, or had you then told me what you say you would have explained in confidence, you would probably have no cause now to complain of me.

Your letter, in some respects, is a puzzle to me. It has almost made me suspicious of a certain party, but I must wait and see what time will tell, then perhaps we shall find it agreeable to talk over the matter and be as friendly as ever. You may feel sure I was very glad of your success at the trial, and I hope, oh so much, that you will triumph over all your misfortunes. I should have answered your letter more promptly, but I have been, and still am, kept at home by a bad cold which I took the night of the fire.

With best wishes, sincerely your friend, NELLIE DUTTON.

Instead of throwing a shadow over our young friend's horizon, this letter swept away, for a time, the few remaining clouds, and made the sunshine so bright and cheering that he was happy indeed. He had been cast down so long by bitter misfortunes, that these expressions of friendship, and especially those of Miss Nellie, seemed to liberate his fettered spirits, and make them bound high with joy.

His work seemed nothing to him. The flockers lost their dusty, dingy appearance. The heavy rolls of cloth were but playthings in his hands. There was no friction, no irritation. Everything moved with the grace and charm of a well modeled yacht with swelling sails upon a rippling sea.

"She wishes so much that I may triumph over all my misfortunes," he said to himself, "and I can see now she almost suspects De Vere. I know she means him. I have been a fool to misjudge her so—and she is at home sick, poor girl!"

Here a sudden impulse seized him, and in a few moments he was at John Fielding's hot house and ordered a dollar's worth of choice cut flowers. He handed the florist the money and directed him to send them to Nellie Dutton with his card.

The old florist was startled—could hardly believe his own senses. Such an order to be received from a boy was unprecedented—nothing of the kind had ever been known in the village, and that Fred Worthington, now a factory boy, should be the one to lead off in this very commendable fashion—a fashion that is only really practised in the larger towns—seemed too much to realize.

Fred saw this plainly in the queer little old man's face, and he blushed deeply as he thought what he had done.

Whether the florist hoped to encourage this sort of trade by liberal dealing I cannot say, but that he sent some very choice flowers, and a large quantity for the money, is certain. It would be difficult to imagine a more surprised or delighted person than Nellie Dutton was when she opened the box and took from it the sweet smelling flowers, and a neatly written card bearing the name—"Fred Worthington."

If she was a little jealous of her friend Grace on the previous day, she now had no occasion to feel so. Her letter had brought a response that she little expected—a response, however, that made her quite as happy as Fred.

If she had, up to this time, held serious doubts as to his innocence, they were now dispelled. A little act will many times go far toward changing one's opinion, and there are few arguments more forcible with girls, and even ladies of mature age, than are choice flowers. This act of Fred, though seemingly absurd for a boy in his position, was a master stroke in his favor, for it not only won Nellie's friendship fully back, but it also created a very favorable impression upon her mother, who was scarcely less pleased with the flowers than Nellie herself.



XXIII.

When Fred had first entered the mill his attention was arrested by Jack Hickey—a witty, good natured Irishman. He was a quaint character, full of fun and humor. His employment was washing and scouring wool and shoddy—not a very genteel labor, for it was wet and dirty work, as well as tiresome. However, Jack received for such service $1.75 per day, and this made him happier than a $10,000 salary makes many a bank president.

Hickey was called by the boys the "Jolly Scourer"—not a bad appellation for him either. His tub and rinser were near the flockers. Fred could see and hear him while at his own work, and this furnished our young friend much amusement; for whenever Jack had pitched the wool about in the strong suds and was waiting for the action of steam upon it, he usually filled in the time by singing bits of original rhyme and by clog dancing.

His rhymes were as queer as himself, while his dancing was equally peculiar. He had been persistent in the practice of the latter art, no doubt; in fact, there was decided evidence of this, for in spite of the clumsy cowhides that he wore, his right foot showed much careful training. It was full of music and always on time. It could tap the floor with the ease and skill with which a practised drummer beats the resonant diaphragm. Moreover, it seemed to know all the steps of a professional dancer, while his left foot was a thorough clod, so far as this art went.

It always seemed to go just contrary to the other, and gave the appearance of attempting something more difficult than it was capable of performing. Indeed, this was almost the invariable result, as its accomplishments in this line were so exceedingly few; besides, it was always out of time, was clumsy and awkward, and was such a foot as is familiarly described among boys as "belonging to the church."

"It is very queer why there is such a difference in the action of that man's feet," remarked Fred to himself, with a suppressed titter; "but I think, after all, the clumsy one is the most natural, and does just about as I should expect a foot to do when incased in such an amount of leather and belonging to such a man as Jack. What I don't understand is, how the other one ever became so gamy."

Fred wondered if Jack was doing all that practice simply for his own pleasure, or if he was trying to fit himself for an engagement with some minstrel troupe. If for the latter purpose, there was some object in it; but if simply for fun, Fred could not see where it came in when he considered the immense amount of effort it must have taken to wield with such dexterity those great boots, whose legs reached far above the dancer's knee, and the soles of which were nearly an inch in thickness and contained a generous supply of iron slugs.

When Fred first witnessed Jack's comical performances, they amused him hugely, and he thought he had never before seen anything half so funny; even the annual circus, with its train of animals, and dancers, and tumblers and clowns, could not equal it. The "Jolly Scourer" was extremely comical and clownish, evidently without trying to be so, while the circus clown's effort at comical acts and sayings detracts from the amusing effect of the acts themselves.

Jack was thoroughly original, and his originality in music, which accompanied these performances, added much to them; for, contrary to the custom of many small boys when practising clog dancing, instead of whistling Jack furnished his music by singing, in a rich brogue, bits of improvised rhyme that he seemed to compose for the occasion. Many of them were very funny, and possessed the originality and wit characteristic of his nationality, which added much to the whole performance.

Fred soon made the acquaintance of the "Jolly Scourer," and had many good laughs at his jokes, which often lightened the monotony of routine work. He moreover did our young hero many acts of kindness, and in a certain matter proved of great service to him.

Time passed by with Fred in his factory life not altogether unpleasantly, and as he saw no chance of getting into a store again very soon, he concluded that the best thing for him to do was to gain every point possible relative to woolen manufacture, and especially to the finishing department, in which he had commenced his mill career.

Consequently he bent his energies to this purpose. Whatever was to be learned by observation and by questioning he was fast finding out. When he first ventured out into the wet gig room, he saw there numerous machines, the working of which was a curiosity which he wished to have explained; and after carefully examining them he hastened back to the little humpback, where he felt confident he could get the desired information. Said he:

"Carl, what are those great tall machines in the second room beyond us, that have the large cylinders?"

"They are gigs—wet gigs."

"And what are they for?"

"They are to raise a nap on the cloth."

"How do they do that?"

"Well, that cylinder is covered with handles. You know what handles are, I s'pose?"

"I know something about some kind of handles, but I guess not of this kind."

"They are long iron frames about seven feet long, half an inch thick, and just wide enough to take in two teasels, one on top of the other so as to make two rows of them the whole length of the handle."

"And this iron frame filled with teasels is called a 'handle'?"

"Yes."

"But what are teasels?"

"They are the burrs of a plant something like a thistle. They are about the size of a small egg, only not quite so large around, and they do not taper so much, though one end is a little larger than the other. They have sharp points, sort of like hooks, which all turn down toward the stem, so you can run your hand over them one way and the points won't hurt; but if you pull your hand back they dig right to the flesh."

"Oh, I know now, I saw a lot of them up stairs the other day and wondered for what they were used here. Seems to me they are queer things to use on cloth. Wouldn't something like a card with iron tacks be better, and last longer?"

"No, I guess not. Probably anything like that would tear the cloth, and I believe all of the mills use teasels. You see they would use what is best."

"Yes, I suppose so," added Fred thoughtfully; "but tell me about the gig and how they use this little prickly thing."

"Well, as I said, these frames filled with teasels are called handles, and as the gig cylinders are covered all over with handles, it makes kind of a solid bed of teasels. The cylinder whirls one way, and the cloth, which is drawn close against it, goes the other."

"I should think the sharp points would dig into the cloth, and tear it the same as wire points would."