"You see the gig is going so fast they don't get hold much, and then they are not strong enough to tear it at once, but will wear it out rather fast if too much pressure is put upon it. Those gigs out there don't hurt it much, though, for they use old handles and the teasels are broken down a good deal."

"Where are they used first, if they are old?"

"Up stairs on the dry gigs."

"What! Is it gigged up there, too?"

"Oh, yes; on two different gigs. Haven't you seen the great square iron framed machines with two cylinders and two men tending them?"

"No, I think not. I don't believe I have been into that room yet."

"Well, the cloth is gigged there on the big machines the first thing after it leaves the fulling mills and washers."

"How long do they run it up there?"

"They run it quite a while in all the different processes it goes through. After it is gigged the first time then it is cropped."

"Cropped, you say?" exclaimed Fred, laughing. "Well, you have me again, for I am sure I don't know what that means."

"Why, it means sheared—cutting off the nap which the teasels dig up—only they don't call it 'sheared' the first two times."

"How many times is it sheared, I wonder!"

"'Bout four or five times, I think; twice on the cropper, and twice or three times on the finishing shears. As I said before, it is run on the big gig first and then is cropped. After this process is completed, it runs on another dry gig of the same shape as the wet ones, and is cropped again. Then it is placed on to the wet gigs where you saw it."

"I should think it would be all worn out if it is run so long against those sharp teasels, besides having the nap sheared off several times. How long do they keep it on the gigs?"

"It does get spoiled sometimes; I have seen plenty of pieces with the face of the cloth all gigged through. It tears the filling all out and leaves the warp. The cloth runs on each gig till a good nap is worked up."

"That would be a good many hours in all, I suppose, but I don't see the use of gigging it so much as to spoil the cloth. It won't wear very well, will it?"

"Yes, but they gig it so as to get an extra fine finish, and make it smooth and handsome. And then there are what they call the steam gigs. It is run on them, and besides this it is gigged several times on the back, both on dry and wet gigs."

"What! Is there still another kind of gig?" asked Fred, beginning to get incredulous.

"No, they are just the same as the ones you saw, only they run the cloth through them after it is steamed, so the boys call them the 'steam gigs.'"



XXIV.

"Are the steam gigs wet ones, too?" asked Fred.

"Yes, and they use the oldest handles of any, because this is the last time the cloth is gigged, and it won't stand much scraping. After it leaves these gigs it goes to the drier, and then goes back up stairs."

"When it goes back up there, I suppose it goes through a dozen or two more processes, does it not?"

"Well, it goes through quite a number. I believe it is sheared the first thing, and then it has to be brushed and sheared again."

"What kind of a thing is a shear, any way, such as is used for shearing the nap from cloth? I can't imagine how it works, though I have often wished to see it in operation."

"I don't believe I can tell you so you will understand it. You had better go up and see for yourself."

"You can give me an idea about it. I don't want to go up there now without showing some better reason than curiosity. Mr. Farrington might think it queer, and get an idea that I am neglecting my work, as he said Tim Short did."

"All right, then; I'll tell you the best I can. I used to think myself, when I heard father talking about the shears, that they must be something like mother's shears, only with great long blades; but I found I was mistaken. The shears up stairs are about seven feet long; you see they have to be as long as the cloth is wide. They have iron frames, and I guess are five feet high. There is a roller on the back side and another on the front. On the top and front of the machine is a steel plate which runs the whole length of the shear. This plate has a square edge, and the cloth passes over it from one roller to the other. It is drawn tight when it goes over the steel plate, and there is what I believe they call a cylinder that has sharp knives upon it. They call them knives, but they are like strips of sharp steel fastened on to the cylinder. They are 'bout half an inch high, and run the whole length of the cylinder in a spiral way, just the same as I would wind a string round this stick from bottom to top, if every time the string went round it was an inch from where it went round before.

"Well, you see—these strips of steel go round like that, only they are a good deal straighter and are 'bout two inches apart. They call these strips the knives and grind them just like any other shears. The way they do this is by running the cylinder the wrong way and holding a piece of stone against them. This gives them a sharp edge. This cylinder is let down so close to the steel plate that there isn't room for the cloth to pass between it and the cylinder without having the face or nap sheared off by the sharp knives of the cylinder that is going round like lightning. That's 'bout all there is to it. Do you get any idea how it works?"

"Oh, yes; I think I see how it is. As the cloth passes over the plate one way, the cylinder whirls the other and clips off the nap. I understand now why a knot in the back of the cloth would do so much harm. As it passes over the plate 'twould raise the cloth up so as to cut a hole in the face of it; but when you told me about it the other day I thought a little thing like that didn't amount to much."

"Yes, that's right," responded Carl, with a pleased look on finding his explanation had proved successful. "I have told you a little about nearly all the processes of finishing cloth. I may as well tell the rest. Oh, I forgot to tell you how the cloth is brushed. Well, it is done by machinery. The brush itself is a roller about six inches through, and the same length as the shear cylinder. The bristles are put into the roller all over it, so it is just like any brush, only round. The cloth runs on the brushing machine about the same as on the shear, and the brush that is let down on to the cloth revolves with an awful speed—so fast that it appears to be like a smooth piece of iron or wood. I tell you it takes the dust out and straightens out the nap in good shape."

"I should think it would," said Fred; and then added, in a humorous vein, "I would like to run my clothes through a machine like that; and I don't know but myself too, after working all day in this stifling dust. I wonder if it would clean our jackets? I rather think they would have to run through more than once to remove so many flocks."

"Oh! there is a brush up where the handles are brushed that is just the thing for our jackets. I have brushed mine there a good many times."

"Where the handles are brushed? Why, what is the object in brushing them?"

"The teasels fill all up with the nap that they dig out of the cloth, so they are only run a little while at a time before they are changed and clean ones put into the gigs. Then those that are taken off are brushed so that the nap almost all comes off and leaves the handles clean again. Didn't you notice that light stuff that we put into the wet grinder? Well, that is what comes off from the handles. It is made into flocks, pieces of teasels and all."

"Yes, I have seen it, and meant to ask you before where it came from. I suppose that is where the profit is made, in allowing as little to waste as possible. Well, go on with the finishing business."

"There isn't much more to be told about it. The cloth goes from the brush to presses where it is pressed with steam and by machinery of some kind that is awful powerful. The cloth is folded first into single width, and then it is folded the other way, so that it is about a yard square. A piece of stiff, smooth paper is placed between each fold. The cloth stays in the press quite a long time, and when it is taken out it is ready to be shipped to New York or wherever it is to go."

Fred expressed his gratitude to Carl for furnishing him so much information, and felt that, having gained considerable theoretical idea of finishing cloth, he could the more rapidly accumulate such knowledge as might be of valuable service to him.

Fred received a charming little note from Nellie, thanking him over and over again for the sweet flowers he had sent her. "Such a delightful surprise," she said, "and to think you should be so thoughtful of me and so very, very kind when you think I deserted you in your trouble. I cannot understand you under these circumstances, but I hope some time you will tell me your motive in returning good for evil, as I know you feel you have done."

The note made him rather happy at first, but as he studied it more carefully it somewhat chilled him.

"'Some time' she hopes I may tell her my motive, not very soon; the 'some time' sounds a good away off," he mused. "I wonder why this is! Perhaps she wants to wait and see if I am innocent of all that still seems against me before she will invite me to call, or even meet me."

This seemed so probable to him that he felt like punishing himself for having acted so impulsively.

In the mean time Matthew, among others, learned of Fred's sending the flowers, and heard that Nellie was much pleased at receiving them. This galled him severely, especially as she had refused to see him when he called. With all he had done to injure Fred, and with all of his efforts to please her, he feared that his rival was still more of a favorite with her than himself, though the former was now but a factory boy.

He felt exceedingly bitter and tempted to play even a bolder game than he had thus far done.

"But what can it be?" he said to himself. "I have already tried to waylay him, and failed. I got the bartender to drug him and make him drunk, thinking that would keep him down. But no! He was discharged on this account, and I thought he was disgraced, but still he was not put down. I even——" but here he shrank from repeating even to himself this terrible act, and buried his face in his hands in deep thought—defeated, dejected, and miserable.



XXV.

For a time everything at the factory ran well, and Fred turned off his work quite as satisfactorily as could have been expected, since he was a new hand and unaccustomed to the duties. He learned them readily, however, but not soon enough to escape the fault finding of Christopher Hanks, who seemed to delight in making it uncomfortable for the boys, as he was one of those disagreeable and contemptible men who take delight in tyrannizing over those below them in authority, especially if they are boys, and consequently not able to match them in strength and courage.

It is just possible, however, that Christopher overestimated his own powers in this latter respect, or still more probable that he had a decidedly faulty conception of our young friend's muscular development, as may hereafter be shown.

Fred had the good sense, however, to keep from having any trouble with him on first going into the mill, as he was already under a cloud, and he knew that it would be for his advantage to submit for a time to what was anything but agreeable to one of his spirit. "A fuss with Hanks at this time," thought he, "might turn Mr. Farrington against me, and then I should have no strong friend left."

Fred looked upon Mr. Farrington as one who would do everything possible to help him advance and aid him in re-establishing his innocence. It may as well be said here that this latter consideration was more to him than anything else, for he felt most keenly the attitude of many of his former friends whenever he chanced to meet them. Moreover, he hoped to be promoted as soon as a vacancy should occur, provided he conducted himself so as to merit it.

For these several reasons Fred put up with the mean treatment of Hanks, that he might become well established before asserting his manliness and independence.

He did the heavy work that really belonged to Hanks, so that Carl might escape it. He did even more than had been done by either boy before he came, for the carrying of the cloth had been imposed upon him. Fred did not know this for some time, until Jack Hickey, the "Jolly Scourer," said to him one day:

"Me b'y, why do ye let that ould spalpane crowd ye so?"

"Why, what do you mean?" inquired young Worthington, who wanted to draw out his friend of the Emerald Isle.

"I mane about luggin' the cloth. Sure, an' no b'y but ye has ever done it."

"I thought it was a part of my work; he told me to do it the first morning I came in, and no one ever spoke to me about it before."

"Oh, by St. Patrick, he'd loaf on ye if he could—the old sour mouth."

This opened Fred's eyes still further, and when he saw Carl he said to him:

"Why didn't you tell me that it wasn't my work to lug the cloth down?"

"Because Mr. Hanks told me that he was going to make you do it, and threatened me if I told you; and I didn't want to do anything to displease him."

"Well, it is all right; I am glad you didn't do anything to make him treat you worse, but there may be a time ahead for a reckoning between him and me. I know of other tricks of his, and I'll make good use of my information when the time comes."

"I hope you won't have a fuss with him and leave the flockers. My work is so much easier now," replied Carl anxiously.

"Oh, no; I guess I won't leave them right away," returned Fred. "I am glad if you are getting along better than you did before I came."

"Oh, yes, I am; and my back isn't so lame now I don't lift any; but I don't seem to get strong. It seems as if I couldn't do the heavy work anymore if I tried."

"I am indeed sorry," said Fred sympathetically, "but I hope you don't get so tired as you did. If you do not, and think you are strong enough, I would like to have you come up to my house evenings and study with me. I think you spoke as if you would like a better education. I thought that night, after we were talking about it, that I would ask you to do this, and I have been waiting for you to get stronger; but you have looked so tired all the time that I kept putting off speaking about it till now."

As the little cripple thought of the previous kind acts of Fred, and listened to his new proposal to teach him, his eyes grew moist with gratitude, and a crystal drop stole down his thin, pale cheek. He said nothing for a moment or two, but that silent tear meant more to our young friend than words could have expressed. It seemed to him that at no time in his life had his own heart been so large and his sympathy for others so great.

Presently Carl replied:

"Oh, I should be so glad of such a chance, but I am afraid it would trouble you too much."

"No, that's nothing. It would do me good to review my studies, and, moreover, I should find a pleasure in feeling that I was really doing you a good turn."

"Then I will try it, and I hope I can hold out, for if I could only get an education I think I could find some lighter work to do that would be better for me. I don't feel very strong now, but I hope I can stand it. When shall I commence?"

"You may come any evening."

"You are at home every night, are you?"

"Yes, every evening except Sunday—then I go to church."

"I should think you would go out with the boys and have some fun."

"I can't do that and study too."

"Do you study now? I thought you were a good scholar."

"Yes; I have not missed an evening since I came into the mill."

"What are you studying?"

"I am studying mathematics and practising penmanship most of the time. They will be most useful to me if ever I get into business."

"I am afraid it would be too much trouble, then, for you to teach me."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I have plenty of books, too, that you can use, so you need not buy any," said Fred, wishing to encourage his friend as much as possible, though he well knew that his offer would be no little inconvenience to himself.

In the course of a few evenings Carl asked his uncle, after they had finished supper, if he could go over to Mr. Worthington's for a little while; and after receiving a favorable answer he went up stairs and put on another suit. It was the best the poor boy had, though the coat fitted him badly, owing to his deformity. All the garments, moreover, were made from inexpensive material, and had been in service so long that they showed much wear.

Those of my readers who know nothing of poverty, or even want, would doubtless consider a suit of this kind almost unfit for gunning or fishing; but as it was the only dress suit which Carl had, he kept it neat and clean. He put on a white collar, a well worn blue necktie, and thus attired was soon on his way to his friend's house.



XXVI.

Fred found, much to his surprise, that Carl was something of a scholar, as he could read well and write a very fair hand. He had thoroughly mastered an elementary arithmetic, learning all of the tables and rules so as to apply them readily and correctly.

"When did you learn so much about mathematics?" asked Fred. "You have had no teacher."

"Well, I got a little idea of it before going into the mill, enough so that I managed to work my way through the book after getting around again from my sickness. Since then I have been through the book so many times that I know it almost by heart."

"Why didn't you get a more advanced book, instead of spending so much time on this one?"

"That is just what I wanted, but couldn't buy one."

"Almost any one would have given or lent you one, the same as I am going to let you use my books. It is too bad that you have been kept back for the want of suitable books; but what you have been over you have learned so thoroughly that it is worth about as much to you as if you had been through several higher arithmetics, and knew none of them well. Have you ever studied geography?"

"No, I have not, and that is just the book I want to study most, for I would like to know something about the world. Have you a geography?"

"Yes, I have two that I am done using. It is an interesting study. I used to like to draw maps." And opening his desk—which, by the way, Fred had made himself—he took out a large number of well executed maps, and showed them to Carl, in whose eyes shone a gleam of admiration as he looked them over, and said, almost incredulously:

"You didn't make them, did you? And with a pen, too? Why! they look like boughten ones."

"Yes, I made them all with a pen and different kinds of ink; that shading is all pen work, too. It is easy enough after one gets the hang of it. The greatest trouble is to get just the right shape to the maps, and to have everything in the right proportion."

"I should think that would be hard enough, but these letters are what stick me. They are exactly like print."

"Oh, they are easy; I learned to print a long time ago. It is much easier than good penmanship, for it is slow, while writing is done much faster, so it takes a lot of practice to get the knack of it; but I like it and can do pretty good work now. Here are some of my cards and a little flourishing work, and this is what I am doing now"—showing Carl a set of books on which he had been at work in his bookkeeping.

Again the little cripple was greatly interested to see the handsome work before him—for handsome it was, as Fred, by dint of much practice, had become a superior penman.

"I never saw such good writing," said Carl; "only what our writing master used to do, when I went to school, and he didn't do any of these birds either. Where did you learn to do it?"

"I learned it right here. You or anybody could do it by practising enough."

"I wish I had known that before, then I could have practised when I had no books to study; but I thought nobody could learn to write much without a teacher."

"You were mistaken there; a good copy and plenty of the right sort of practice will make any one a good penman. But what would you like to study most? Tell me what you want to fit yourself for, then I will tell you what I think will do you the most good."

"I would like to get so I could keep books. There is a place in the finishing room where an account of the cloth and shipping is kept. It is easy work, and pays well. I thought, perhaps, if I could only do the work, I might some time get that job, or some good place outside of the mill."

"Yes, that would, perhaps, be the best thing for you; so I should think you had better practise penmanship, bookkeeping, and spelling. You know about enough of mathematics already for keeping ordinary accounts. The bookkeeping won't amount to very much to you in itself, but while you are at work at that you will be gaining in the other two, and will get used to the forms. You wanted to study geography, but you had better let that go till you get fitted for a better position; then you can take it up at leisure."

Fred now procured pen and paper for Carl, and set about instructing him in penmanship. The little cripple was so much pleased with his kind treatment that his gratitude was plainly expressed in his face, and he commenced his task with all a boy's enthusiasm. As he carefully copied the letters before him, his mind doubtless looked forward to the time when he would rise above his present position in life and approach nearer to the goal of his ambition.

The next morning Carl did not put in an appearance at the regular hour. Time went by and still he did not come. This left Christopher Hanks' force one hand short, and obliged him to do a good amount of work himself to enable him and Fred to keep all the machines running.

He was quite out of sorts this morning, and Carl's absence, together with the extra work, made him irritable, cross, and overbearing. Fred endured this disagreeable mood for a while, but at last it grew intolerable to him, so when Hanks ordered him in an insolent tone to bring down more cloth he refused point blank.

Hanks fell into a rage and acted as if he would like to smash things generally, and Fred in particular, but he very sensibly kept a good distance from the latter, who had little regard for such a scraggy, ill tempered individual.

"So you refuse to do yer work?" demanded Hanks excitedly.

"No, sir, I do not," replied Fred firmly.

"Then will you bring them bundles down?"

"No, sir."

"That's your work," said Hanks, cooling down at Fred's determined tone and manner.

"That is not my work, though you have imposed it upon me since I have been here."

"I'm boss of this here job, and what I tell yer to do is fur yer to 'tend to. Ef yer don't mind me I'll have yer discharged," said Hanks, trying to intimidate our young friend.

"I would like to see you have me discharged for not doing your work," said Fred defiantly. "I have found out all about this business, and just what I am supposed to do."

Hanks saw that he was foiled, that Fred had the advantage of him, and that he had better let the matter drop as easily as possible, or he might find himself in trouble if Fred should take it to Mr. Farrington. It suddenly occurred to him that he was needed up in the other room, and he withdrew hastily. As he turned to go he noted the evident pleasure pictured on Jack Hickey's face at his own discomfiture and Fred's triumph.

"Good, me b'y!" said the jolly Irishman to our young friend. "I told ye not to stand the old spalpane's thricks."

"I don't mean to any longer," replied Fred.

"Ye has a dale of sparit, for sure. I knowed it all the time, but bedad and I thought it wad never start."

"Now it has started I'll keep it up so far as Hanks is concerned," replied our hero, as he took a basket under his arm and started for a supply of flocks.

Hanks managed to avoid him the remainder of the forenoon. No further crash therefore occurred between them during that time. That the scraggy old man was thoroughly angry there was no doubt—angry at Fred's triumph over him, and most angry at poor little Carl for remaining away, and as Hanks believed, for telling what he had forbidden him to disclose to Fred.

About three o'clock in the afternoon Carl came in, pale and sick, but much better than in the morning, when despite all his efforts he could not summon strength enough to go to his work. Fred was in the drying room at the time, and Hanks was up after a roll of cloth. He had just brought down two, and was struggling to get an exceedingly large roll upon his shoulder. This he succeeded in doing after one or two failures, that caused the hands standing near to laugh at him, and make irritating remarks, as is their custom on such occasions.

All this had its maddening effect upon him, and it so happened that one of the employees had just taken up the stairs a bucket filled with soft soap, and had accidentally spilled some on the three top stairs. Hanks now came along with the roll of cloth, twice his own size, upon his shoulder—an awkward load to handle—and started to descend. He slipped on the first step, and in trying to regain his footing tripped himself, and tumbled, bumped, and rolled all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

The cloth kept along with him. At one time he was on the top of the roll, and at another it seemed to have the better of him. At any rate they stuck by each other, and landed well out on the floor side by side.

Jack Hickey indulged in a characteristic shout. All the employees in the room gathered around and laughed in a manner that must have been very tantalizing to one in Hanks' plight.

Just then Fred came in and joined the crowd. The old man saw him, and fire almost flashed from his eyes. His two front teeth, that so annoyed our hero by hanging loose and waving back and forth, now seemed to shake as if worked by an electric motor.

He picked himself up, white with rage, and parting company with his roll of cloth, rushed into his corner beneath the stairs beside the flockers.

The first object that caught his eye was Carl. Hanks rushed at him like a madman, and catching him around the throat, pushed him roughly against a hard iron frame and demanded to know why he dared to disobey his orders in telling what he had been forbidden to mention.

The little cripple cried out with fear and pain, injured as he was by Hanks' revengeful act. Fred had now made his way to the flockers, and the half stifled cry was the first intimation he had had of Carl's presence. He rushed at once to his assistance, and grappled with the boy's assailant.

A fierce struggle now ensued. Hanks' blood was up. He was almost like a wild man, and his strength was nearly doubled. At first our young friend was hardly a match for the maddened man. They rolled and tumbled, first one seeming to gain the supremacy and then the other.

The old man struggled desperately to win the contest. He struck Fred a telling blow on the nose that made the blood flow copiously and added horror to the scene. But this did not weaken our hero's courage. It rather strengthened his determination and purpose. The fire flashed from his eyes; all the force of his well trained physique was at his command, and with a powerful effort he hurled his antagonist to the floor and fell upon him.

Still the struggle went on, but soon Hanks' strength began to fail him, and when he felt himself overpowered by Fred's superior skill and strength he begged for mercy.

But he did not need to do this, as Fred would certainly much sooner have been severely punished himself than have struck his antagonist while down, however much contempt he might feel for him.

Jack Hickey and a few others now gathered around and interfered in the interest of peace. They saw that Fred had won the fight and was master of the situation. Each contestant was covered with blood, and presented a pitiable sight.

Just then Mr. Farrington happened to be passing through the room on his round of inspection, and attracted by those gathered at the flockers he hurried there also, to learn the cause of the excitement.



XXVII.

The overseer was amazed—could hardly believe his own eyes, when he saw the strange spectacle before him.

"What does this mean?" he asked sharply.

"I have been assaulted—brutally assaulted," whined Hanks.

"And you assaulted him?" he said sternly, turning to Fred.

"I have done nothing without good cause," replied Fred.

"See, he don't deny it," put in Hanks.

"No, I don't deny it, if defending a little cripple against your abuse and cruel treatment is an assault," answered our hero in a way that carried conviction to the overseer.

"Abuse and cruel treatment!" repeated Mr. Farrington.

"Yes; here is Carl. He can tell the story," replied our young friend.

"Why, my boy, are you sick? What makes you look so pale?" asked Mr. Farrington, with feeling, as Carl stepped toward him, hardly able to stand.

"I do feel a little faint," he said, catching hold of Fred's hand for support.

"Have you been injured by that man?" asked the kind hearted overseer, pointing with scorn at Hanks.

"Oh, I don't know why he did it. I didn't disobey him," replied the little cripple, with tears in his eyes.

The tone of his voice, his tears, and whole manner touched Mr. Farrington deeply.

"What did he do to you?" he asked.

Carl told the story in substance as I have already given it.

"I regret seriously that anything of this kind should have happened," said Mr. Farrington to our hero, "but I admire the spirit and bravery you have shown in defending this poor boy;" and turning to Hanks he gave him a withering rebuke, and discharged him on the spot. "Come to my desk," continued the indignant overseer, "and get a bill of your time, and never show your head in my department again."

Hanks saw that further argument would be of no use to him. He consequently gathered up his effects with as much celerity as possible, and after washing the blood stains from his face and hands, and casting upon Fred a parting glance of hatred and revenge, he left the room amid the jeers and taunts of all the workmen.

Fred found himself the hero of the hour. The news spread through the mill with almost incredible rapidity. His defense of the poor cripple touched the hearts of the operatives.

Carl's uncle told the story of Fred's kindness to his nephew, as well as his offer to teach him. Everybody in the mill talked the matter over, and perhaps magnified to some extent Fred's bravery and noble hearted conduct.

A little incident often turns the tide of popular opinion. This act turned it most effectually in Fred's favor, and he was now lionized by all the factory people.

The report was not long in finding its way throughout the village. Our young friend's name was in the mouth of almost every one. He was discussed and rediscussed as one only can be in a small village, where little happens of general interest to form a theme of conversation. With few exceptions, the verdict of popular opinion was flattering to him. The manner of almost every one changed toward him as if by magic.

Those people who had but a few days before cast suspicious, knowing glances at him, as if to say, "I know your record," were now most cordial and painstaking to try and impress him with a sense of their friendship and their admiration for his bravery and manly conduct.

Fred now thought that he could see his way back to his old position among his friends, and the hope made him happy.

He wondered what Nellie thought of him now, and whether his act that had won the praise of so many had placed him in a better light before her eyes. How much he wanted to see her and receive her praise! A single word from her would have been more highly prized than the most flattering compliments of twenty others.

Shortly after Mr. Farrington returned to his desk from the scene at the flockers, Jacob Simmons entered the factory and approached him.

"Can you give me a job?" said he meekly. "I have finished my fall work, and would like to get in here during the cold weather."

"Yes, I want a man at once."

"I'm your man, then," returned Jacob hopefully.

"Can you commence work now? I have just discharged a man, and must put some one in his place, or the work will fall behind."

"Sho! How fortunate!"

"Fortunate for you, you mean?"

"That's it; that's it exactly."

"But you have not answered my question. Can you commence work at once?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you may have the position."

Jacob looked happy.

"You may come with me," continued Mr. Farrington, as he led the way through the long hall and down the stairs to the flockers. "I have a bright boy who will teach you the duties of the position."

"That will help out, but I shan't be long in learning," replied Jacob.

They had now reached the flockers.

"Here is your assistant," said Mr. Farrington, as Fred came up from behind one of the machines. "I presume you know each other well."

Jacob took a step back involuntarily, and the color seemed to leave his face, as if terrified at our hero's sudden and unexpected appearance before him.

"Why, don't you know him?" asked the overseer, observing Mr. Simmons hesitate.

"Oh, I see now, it is Fred Worthington," replied Jacob, regaining his self possession.

"Yes, and you will find him a valuable assistant. Fred, I wish you to teach Mr. Simmons the duties of his position. I will come down again before the closing hour," he continued, as he turned to go up stairs, "and see how you get along with the work."



XXVIII.

Little Carl was fairly prostrated by the shock received from Hanks' abusive treatment.

Mr. Farrington, noticing this, very kindly sent for his carriage, and had him taken to his uncle's house. After learning from Fred something of the boy's circumstances, and more fully of Hanks' cruelty to him, he dispatched a messenger to Dr. Dutton, requesting him to call and examine Carl, and administer such treatment as the case required.

The doctor found him very nervous, and so weak that he seemed almost exhausted. His aunt explained that he had been growing weaker for some time past, and that his extra exertion the previous night in going to Fred's house and studying was too much for him. The physician gave him a mild sedative to quiet his nerves, and then left him for the night.

The next day he called again, and found the boy feverish and complaining that his back was sensitive and painful.

"I am afraid he will have a fever," said Dr. Dutton to Mr. Farrington, when he called later in the day to learn of the boy's condition.

"I hope not, doctor," returned the latter; "but give him your best treatment. I have a great deal of sympathy for him now I know the sad story of his life."

"I shall certainly give him careful attention," answered the doctor, "but he has little strength to build on. Has his work been hard?"

"Not since Fred Worthington has been in the mill with him. Fred, I am informed, did much of the boy's work to help him along."

"I have heard a good deal of praise bestowed upon Fred for defending the little fellow from abuse," remarked the doctor.

"And it is justly due him, too. He is a brave and manly fellow—is Fred."

"I am glad to hear you speak well of him; but I thought he was a ruined boy, and guilty of several damaging charges."

"They are all groundless, I believe," replied Mr. Farrington earnestly; "and I am surprised to find that you fall in with the general opinion without inquiring as to his guilt or innocence."

"There isn't a chance for much doubt about that drunken affair, as he came to my house thoroughly intoxicated, and I took care of him for a time and then carried him home. Did you know of that?"

"Yes; I knew of it some time ago; but do you know how he came to go to your house? That's the point to get at!"

"No, I do not. It has been a mystery to me ever since, but I never felt like asking him about it."

"You would, perhaps, be surprised to know who was the means of getting him drunk, and that the same fellow led him in that state to your door, purposely to disgrace him."

"You astonish me, Mr. Farrington. But tell me about it; perhaps I have judged the boy hastily. Who was the culprit?"

"I will tell you, with the understanding that you shall not repeat it, for it's Fred's wish that it shall not become known until the young scoundrel shows his own guilt by telling it."

"I promise to say nothing to any one."

"The culprit was Matthew De Vere."

"Who? Matthew De Vere! Impossible!"

"No, not impossible at all. Indeed, I haven't the slightest doubt of it. I have the story straight, and know from Dave all the circumstances that led to the result."

It is not strange that the doctor was surprised and annoyed at this unexpected revelation, and it had more than ordinary significance to him, also, for this reason: he was fully aware of Matthew's decided preference for the society of his daughter Nellie. Of course, it was but a boyish fancy at most; but what might not grow out of it? Did he not, in fact, during his own school-days, form an attachment for one who afterwards became his wife?

In view of this, was it not rather a source of secret satisfaction to look ahead to the possibility of his daughter's future? Matthew's father was the most wealthy man in town, and president of the bank in which the doctor held a large amount of stock. Matthew would probably succeed his father in a few years, and would not only be very rich, but would be connected with a very desirable business—that of banking.

Dr. Dutton, like almost every other man, would have been proud to have his daughter become the wife of a wealthy and promising young man, and, so far as he knew, Matthew bade fair to become such. To be sure, people said he was a little wild, but that would wear away.

"He, of course, like many other boys, had to sow a few wild oats," said the doctor to himself, when he had been thinking of the subject, "but he will come out all right."

Herein the doctor erred in his judgment, for the sowing of "wild oats," so called, is never safe; and it has been the dangerous license granted to thousands and thousands of boys which has caused their ruin.

Whatever a boy practises becomes after a time a habit; and the rooting up of such a habit is a matter that requires no little attention and force of will. The average person finds himself unable to grapple successfully with what has at last become a second nature, thus proving beyond peradventure that it is never safe to tamper with anything that is evil.

I would not wish to give the impression that Dr. Dutton knew how corrupt Matthew was. He simply overlooked the boy's evil tendency; but when he came to listen to Mr. Farrington's story, which went into the details and related in full all that occurred in the barroom, and then described the contemptibly mean trick of enticing Fred to his house with the promise of entering with him, it put quite another face on the matter. Moreover, it raised Fred to a height in the doctor's estimation which contrasted strongly with the depth to which Matthew sank.



XXIX.

Jacob Simmons had received his first lesson at his new employment. Fred's ready way of imparting instruction did much to facilitate his progress. After the cloth had been placed on the machine and everything fixed for a long run, Fred left him to watch it and keep it in its proper place, while he went up to the other room to give attention to that portion of the business.

Once alone he had a chance to think, unhindered by the presence of any one.

"What does it all mean?" he said to himself. "Mr. Simmons actually turned pale when he saw me—seemed stunned for a minute. Yes, he even stepped back as if he were afraid of me. There must be some cause for this," he meditated, "and I do wonder what it is."

The idea clung to him. The more he thought upon it and studied the man, the more he became impressed that something was wrong—that Mr. Simmons for some reason dreaded meeting him. What this cause could be was the question to be solved.

Not many days after Jacob commenced work in the factory, Fred made a discovery that at once aroused his suspicions and turned his thoughts in quite another direction, for previously he had believed that Jacob's aversion to him was due to some personal matter; but now he had a clue that led to a different belief, and one that might clear up a great mystery which had not long since thrown its shadow over himself.

"Do you know Mr. Simmons yet?" asked Fred of Jack Hickey.

"Well, I spakes to him now an' thin. But why do ye ask, me b'y?"

"I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure an' I will do that inny time for ye."

"Thank you, Jack. I want you to borrow Mr. Simmons' knife and manage to keep it till I can see it, but don't breathe a word of this to him or anyone."

Jack promised secrecy, and went about making friends with Mr. Simmons. In due time he secured the knife, and when Jacob was out of the room, called Fred to him and handed him the desired article.

Our hero's face lighted up triumphantly as he took it and examined it closely.

"The very one," he exclaimed. "I knew it the minute I saw it in his hands," referring to Mr. Simmons.

"Is ye crazy?" asked Jack. "By St. Patrick, ye act as if ye had found an ould friend."

"Yes—or—I mean it is just the knife I want," answered Fred, coloring and trying to show less concern. "I wish you would buy it for me. I will pay whatever he asks, but don't let him know I want it."

"And what fer, me b'y, do ye want it so much?"

"I cannot tell you just yet."

"And why not?"

"You shall know all about it after a while, but I must say nothing now."

"Some myshtery about it, I'd sthake my reputashen."

"Well, I surely cannot prevent your guessing about it, Jack. But don't fail to obtain it for me."

"Sure and ye shall have it if he will take a dacent price for it."

"Don't stand on the price," said Fred, whose anxiety to procure it was most manifest.

Jack was impressed by Fred's manner that the knife was wanted for some important evidence, and he argued that something must be wrong or Fred would go to Mr. Simmons himself and buy the knife if he wanted it simply for pocket use.

His curiosity was aroused, and his ingenuity was taxed to know how to get the knife without arousing Jacob's suspicion if there really was any secret attached to it.

He reasoned that possession was a strong point in his favor. He had it now, and finally decided to keep it if he could once get it home. He thought he could easily make some excuse to gain time. He had taken a great liking to Fred, and was willing to strain a point of propriety to serve him, and as there was a mystery surrounding the knife he felt impelled by his own curiosity to hold fast to it for the present.

As good luck would have it Jacob did not miss the knife before the closing hour that night. This enabled Jack to take it home with him, where he put it under lock and key.

The next day he apologized to Mr. Simmons for leaving it at home, spoke of its being a superior knife, and finally touched upon the subject of buying it.

After much parleying he succeeded in effecting a trade, but had to pay down a handsome price. Jacob evidently felt some apprehension about letting it go, but four dollars looked so large to him that he could not let the offer pass unaccepted, especially as he thought he was getting the best of the bargain.

Jack informed Fred of his success. The latter was much pleased, and after thanking him for the favor, said:

"Now, Jack, I want you to examine the knife carefully before handing it to me. I want to be able to prove how it came into my possession. You may be called upon to testify that you bought it from Mr. Simmons, so you must be able to identify it positively."



XXX.

Dr. Dutton was a wealthy man and often loaned money to his neighbors on security. Jacob Simmons had recently built an extension to his house. This cost more money than he expected, as is usually the case, so he found himself cramped for funds.

He had not been in the factory long enough to draw any salary, and being forced to raise the money, he now came to Dr. Dutton to try and get it from him.

"What security can you give?" asked the doctor.

"I can give you my note," replied Mr. Simmons.

"With a mortgage?" suggested the doctor.

"No, I don't want to give a mortgage, but I have a certificate for two hundred dollars' worth of stock in the Central Valley Railroad;" taking a lot of papers from his pocket book.

"Let me see it."

"It is among some of these papers," Simmons replied, sorting them in his lap. "Ah, here it is."

"Yes, this will do," said the doctor, after examining it closely. "Nellie, hand me my note book," he added, turning to his daughter.

She quickly placed the book in her father's hand, and he filled out a note for Mr. Simmons to sign. When this had been done the money was paid over, and Jacob left the house, feeling quite elated at his success in raising the loan so easily.

Little did he think of the position in which he had placed himself through his careless handling of his papers, and of the trouble that would follow, not only to himself, but to others whom he had promised to shield.

Soon after he had gone, and the doctor had passed into another room, Nellie raised her eyes from the book she was reading and noticed a small piece of paper upon the floor near the chair where Mr. Simmons had sat.

She picked it up, and glancing at it hastily, saw it contained Fred Worthington's name.

She could not refrain from reading it through, and as she read she shuddered with fear at the thought of what might have been.

She hastened to her father and mother with the paper for them to read.

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed the doctor, although he now knew something of Matthew De Vere's character. "Where did you get this?"

"I found it on the floor near where Mr. Simmons sat," replied Nellie.

"He must have accidentally dropped it."

"Yes, but isn't it awful?"

"It is, indeed; but there seems little doubt of its being genuine, as here are the names signed to it. Is this Matthew's writing?"

"Yes, I think so. It looks exactly like it," replied Nellie.

"It was a bold act of villainy, and his father should know it," continued the doctor thoughtfully.

"I can't think Matthew is so bad as that shows," said Mrs. Dutton.

"Do you know the cause of their quarrel, Nellie?" asked her father.

She hesitated. The question was especially embarrassing to her.

"I think Matthew has some grudge against Fred," she replied, evading a direct answer.

"I should think he must have, and for what, I wonder?"

"Fred could tell you all about it, I think, if you would have him call this evening," said Nellie artfully, both to save further questioning and to have a pretext for inviting him to call. "He may know something about this paper."

"I think that would be the best plan," said Mrs. Dutton.

"Perhaps it would," answered her husband.

"I will write him a note, then, asking him to call this evening," ventured Nellie.

Her father nodded assent. This gave her a thrill of pleasure. At last she could invite Fred to call and could surprise him with the facts she had in her possession.

During the afternoon Fred received a neatly written note from Nellie, simply asking him to call that evening. It was so brief, and so entirely unexpected, he was puzzled to know what it meant. At any rate, he was delighted at the thought of seeing his friend once more, and in her own home, too—let her object be what it would.

He concluded, after much speculation, that it must be favorable, for he could not possibly imagine why she should want him to call if it were otherwise.

They had hardly met since the night of the party, when they parted company at her home after a most enjoyable evening. Then each felt more than an ordinary regard for the friendship of the other, and doubtless little imagined that it would be so suddenly broken in upon by the suspicious circumstances that speedily surrounded Fred. This, together with De Vere's efforts to establish himself in Nellie's good opinion, had separated them.

Among all the trials and misfortunes that had come upon him, Fred found this change in Nellie's manner touched him in a way that nothing else had done. Why this should be so, he was at a loss to know, for he had looked upon her simply as a friend.

And with Nellie, his absence for weeks, when she had seen him almost daily from childhood up, made her lonely. She wondered why she thought so often of him, and why she should have felt a sense of jealousy when he said Grace was a better friend to him than she, and again when she called and told with such evident pleasure of Fred's triumph at the trial.

There also were the beautiful flowers he had sent, from which she selected a delicate white rose, which she had worn upon her breast till it withered, and then had pressed it in a book and put it carefully away where it would be preserved.

All these thoughts occurred to her while she was sick at heart—all these, and many more, regarding Fred's kindness and agreeable manners. She thought of the party, of their delightful walk home after it was over, of the attention he had shown her and of the complimentary remark that she "had given him the pleasantest evening of his life."

Then she wondered why she should think of these things, "for he is nothing to me," she tried to persuade herself; but the thoughts seemed too deeply impressed upon her mind to be driven away, and clinging as they did they made their influence felt.

Yes, she admitted to herself that Fred's society was much more agreeable to her than that of any of the other boys—but why? Well, she began to suspect the cause, and if you had been her trusted friend, the one to whom she told her secrets—if she ever did so foolish a thing—she might have said in confidence that—well, never mind what she would have said, for being yet but a girl of sixteen she could only have called him a friend.

"Good evening, Fred. I am very glad to see you," said Nellie, as she opened the door and he stepped in.

"I am glad to hear you say so, and I am sure this is an unexpected pleasure to me," replied Fred, taking her proffered hand, which he retained longer than perhaps was really necessary.

"I hope, then, you will not find the call a stupid one."

"Oh, I have no fear of that."

"You must not be too sure, Fred, for father has just been summoned to attend a patient, and mother has a caller, so you will have to put up with my entertainment for a while," replied Nellie, showing him into the library.

"That will be most agreeable to me," returned Fred, taking a seat not far from his hostess.

"I shall try and not offend you, for you are such a stranger."

"Yes, it seems an age since I have seen you, Nellie," replied our young friend in a way that convinced her he meant every word he said.

"Has it, really?"

"It has, indeed."

"I was afraid you had almost forgotten me."

"Oh, no; I could not do that easily."

"Well, Fred, I am sure the time could not have seemed longer to you than it has to me," replied Nellie, after a pause, and dropping her eyes as she realized the expression she had thrown into the remark.

Fred's heart beat quicker.

"Have you really missed me?" he asked, feeling happier than he had for weeks.

"If you doubt what I say, how can I convince you?"

"No, no, I don't doubt you now, Nellie."

"Why do you say now? Have you ever doubted my word?"

"No, I did not mean that."

"I hope you will explain, so I shall not feel uncomfortable."

Fred hesitated, hardly knowing how to reply.

"Nellie, it seems like the old days to meet you again," he finally answered, "and I shrink from thinking of the past weeks when I could hardly help doubting nearly every one's friendship."

"I am so sorry for you, and I hope you will forgive me for not being more friendly," replied Nellie tenderly.

"I forgive you cheerfully, though I did feel hurt at the time."

"I saw that only too plainly by your letter, which brought me to my senses; but it was unkind in me to do as I did."

"No, not exactly unkind, as nearly every one supposed me guilty."

"But I ought not to have been so hasty, for there are always two sides to a question, and I did not wait to hear yours."

"You have not heard it yet, and still you overlook the charge made against me."

"Of course I do."

"But it has never been explained away."

"Oh, that was not what troubled me, but—well, nothing ought to have troubled me," answered Nellie, slightly confused.

"The intoxication she means," thought Fred, and the color rose to his face.

Nellie observed this, and was sorry she had said what she did.

"As I wrote you, I could have explained it fully to you. I know what you mean."

"I did not intend to refer to that unfortunate affair," said Nellie, with sympathy.

"It pains me to think of it, but I shall be glad to have you understand it."

"It was a great surprise to me, Fred, and being right here seemed awful, but since receiving your letter I have suspected Matthew De Vere might have had something to do with it."

"Have you thought so?"

"Yes; was I right?"

"Yes, Nellie, you were; but I did wrong in following him."

"Will you not tell me all about it?"

Fred went over the matter of his intoxication, and explained everything truthfully, while Nellie listened with interest and astonishment.



XXXI.

Fred's story was a surprising revelation to Nellie Dutton, who now, for the first time, saw Matthew De Vere's conduct in its true light.

"How could he be so mean?" she exclaimed.

"It was his revenge," replied Fred.

"Why did you not speak of his treachery?"

"I thought it best not to till I could get proof of it, for if I had he would have denied it."

"He ought to have been punished."

"He will be in time, I think."

"I hope so; but that will not make up for all you have suffered. So he was the means of your losing your position in the store?"

"Yes."

"I will never speak to him again!" said Nellie indignantly. "He is too mean."

"I felt sure the time would come when you would say so," replied Fred.

The color came to Nellie's face.

"Yes?" she answered, after a pause.

Fred saw that she was slightly embarrassed, and knew she was thinking of the somewhat sarcastic letter he had sent her.

"Nellie, I hope you will forget my letter," he said.

"I should be glad to, if I could."

"I am sorry I sent it."

"I am sorry you had cause to send it."

"I was hasty; but it is past now. I hope you will not let it trouble you."

"If I will forget the letter, will you forget what caused you to send it?"

"I shall be only too glad to do so."

"Truly?"

"Here is my hand on it."

"Shall we now be as good friends as ever?" asked Nellie, as she withdrew her hand.

"I sincerely hope so, and—even better," he added hesitatingly.

Nellie's eyes dropped, and a sweet blush stole over her face.

"We were very good friends before, I thought," she answered.

"So we were, but—but—well, I shall prize your friendship more highly since learning how much I missed it."

Nellie now brought her fan into requisition.

"And you will never write me any more sarcastic letters?"

"No."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Dutton.

"Ah! good evening, Fred. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I hope Nellie has entertained you well."

Fred arose, blushed, and took the doctor's hand. Why he blushed he didn't know, but he could feel his cheeks burn.

"Oh, yes, I have been well entertained, thank you, but I didn't realize that I was waiting for you."

"Why, didn't Nellie tell you?"

"No, sir."

"I forgot to say you wanted to see him, we were so busy talking," put in Nellie.

"Oh, that's it; well, all right. But, Fred, I have been hearing good reports of you," the doctor continued.

"I am glad to know that, and I hope I merit them," replied Fred modestly.

"I think there is no doubt of it."

"It is refreshing to hear you say so after knowing all the bad reports that have been circulated against me during the last few weeks."

"Never mind, my boy; you have stood the fire nobly, and are surely winning the fight."

Fred's heart leaped with joy at these reassuring words from the doctor.

"Do you think so?" he said, at length.

"There is very little doubt of it, and I think I have a surprise for you," taking from his pocket the paper Nellie had found and placing it in Fred's hands.

Our young hero quickly ran his eye over it, and was amazed at its contents. It read thus:

MAPLETON, November 17th, 187—.

Matthew De Vere and me was waitin' near the old Booker barn to club Fred Worthington. Matthew hired me to help him. We both had a club. 'Twas 'bout twelve o'clock in the night I gess. Matthew sed he was goin' to get square with Fred. Matthew told me to strike him on the leg, and he sed he would do the efecktive work and fix him so he wouldn't interfear with him any more. When you come along we darted on you thinking you was Fred. I hit you a hard clip on the leg. Matthew was reddy to strike you on the head, but saw his mistake and stopped jest in time and ran away.

(Signed) TIM SHORT.

The above statement is true.

MATTHEW DE VERE.

"Have you ever seen this paper before?" asked the doctor.

"No, sir, never."

"Knew nothing of it?"

"No, sir."

"You little realized, then, how near you came to being waylaid and——" but the doctor didn't finish the sentence.

"I never had the slightest suspicion of it."

"It was a bold plot."

"And a wicked one," added Mrs. Dutton, who had now joined the group in the library.

"But what kept you out so late that night?" asked the doctor.

Fred examined the date of Mr. Simmons' paper.

"It was the night of Grace Bernard's party."

"Yes, so it was—I remember the date now; but in going from Mr. Bernard's to your home you could not pass the old Booker barn."

Fred's face grew suddenly red. The temperature of the room seemed to him suffocatingly warm. He stood on one foot, embarrassed, trying to think how to explain.

His color very strangely seemed to be reflected upon Nellie's cheeks. Just then she appeared to be much interested in the evening paper, and held it much nearer to her eyes than was her custom.

"You shouldn't ask so many questions," said Mrs. Dutton to her husband, smiling at the young folks' embarrassment.

"Ah, ha! I see now. Jealousy, was it?"

"It looks like it," answered Fred comically, whereupon the doctor and his wife laughed heartily, and, the ice being broken, Nellie and Fred joined in the merriment, though it was at their own expense.

"Well," said the doctor seriously, "this paper records a very grave matter. The boys should be punished."

"Why, I wonder, didn't Mr. Simmons have them punished?" asked Nellie.

"The case looks suspicious," answered her father.

"He has never reported it, or we should have heard of it," said Mrs. Dutton.

Fred rested his head on his hand in deep thought.

"He must have had some object in getting this paper," he at length answered. "It looks to me as though he had been bribed—been paid to keep the matter a secret."

"That seems very probable," answered the doctor.

"Would Matthew's father have paid Mr. Simmons anything for such a purpose?"

"No, indeed. He would be the last man imaginable to allow himself to be fleeced in such a way."

"I thought so; but now, supposing our theory of the bribing is the correct one, how and where could the boys have got the money to pay him?"

"They couldn't have got it at home."

"Do you feel sure of that?"

"I am almost certain."

"Mr. Simmons could have brought a strong pressure to bear upon them."

"However strong, Mr. De Vere would never have paid one cent. But he would have punished Matthew unmercifully."

"You have never known of his being punished?"

"No."

"Would any one outside of the family probably have known it?"

"I think so."

A theory concerning this matter had suggested itself to Fred, and he was working it out like a young logician.

"Suppose," he continued, "Mr. Simmons should have forced the boys to do something toward paying him, and Matthew dare not speak to his father and mother about it, what would have been the result?"

"I can hardly imagine," returned the doctor.

"I think they would have got it from some other source by some other means," said Nellie.

Fred's face brightened. This was the answer that seemed natural to him, and he was pleased that Nellie should be the one to give it.

"That is my idea," he replied.

"Why, Fred, you talk exactly like a lawyer," remarked Mrs. Dutton.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he laughed, "but this paper has strengthened a suspicion that I have had for a little time—strengthened it so much that I feel almost convinced I am right since hearing what the doctor says about this matter."



XXXII.

"What is your theory, Fred?" asked Dr. Dutton, with interest.

"I think I may as well take you all into my confidence," answered our hero.

"And why not?" replied the doctor.

"Of course you will, Fred," said Nellie.

"Yes, I think you can help me in working up the case."

"We will surely do all we can," said Dr. Dutton. "But what is the nature of your suspicion?"

"It is so grave a matter I hate to breathe it to any one till I have further proof, therefore I must ask you all to keep it strictly confidential."

"It shall be treated as such," replied Dr. Dutton.

"I think it probable," said Fred, "that John Rexford's store was robbed and burned, and it is not altogether impossible that it was done to raise this money for Mr. Simmons."

"Oh, that can't be so," returned the doctor, amazed at the thought.

"There are reasons that lead me to think so."

"And Matthew might have done it to try and injure you," put in Nellie, as she thought how far De Vere had carried his malice.

"That might be so," replied Fred, "but I reason from the belief that Matthew was forced to raise the money."

"Is that the only point on which you found your theory?" asked Dr. Dutton.

"No, sir. I thought something was wrong when Jacob Simmons first met me in the mill. He seemed fairly startled on seeing me. I decided then to keep my eyes open. In a few days I saw him use a peculiar knife—called a mechanic's pocket knife—which is in itself quite a kit of tools. I managed to have Jack Hickey borrow it so I could examine it. The minute I had it in my hands I recognized it as the very one that was in Mr. Rexford's show case when I left his store. It was an expensive knife, and I don't believe Simmons ever bought it.

"That is a good piece of evidence, surely," replied the doctor, "but can you get the knife when you need it?"

"I have bought it," and he explained his method of obtaining it. "Moreover," continued Fred, "I remember when I was tried for burning Mr. Rexford's store, Matthew and Tim were both present. They sat together and showed a very keen interest in the trial, and when it went in my favor, their disappointment was plainly to be seen."

"Did it occur to you then that they possibly had anything to do with burning the store?"

"No, but knowing what I do now, it seems to me probable. This paper furnishes just the evidence I was waiting for."

"I admire your bold reasoning, Fred," said the physician.

"His theory seems plausible," added Mrs. Dutton, "though I can't believe Matthew would think of doing such an act."

Fred felt much pleased at the good impression he was evidently making upon Nellie's parents.

"I may be entirely wrong," he replied, "but I have sufficient confidence in the idea to feel warranted in testing the matter."

"I would advise you to do so," said the doctor.

Presently Fred arose to go, and after receiving a cordial invitation from the doctor and his wife to call often, and a cheerful good night from Nellie, he withdrew, happy over the warm welcome given him, and full of enthusiasm in his purpose to bring the guilty parties to justice.

He first went home and got the knife in question, and then made his way straight to Mr. Rexford's room, where he found him alone.

"Good evening, Mr. Rexford," said Fred heartily.

"Good evening," returned the merchant, wondering what the boy's object could be in calling.

This was the first time they had met alone to speak since the trouble at the store when Fred was discharged.

"I suppose you have learned nothing new relative to the cause of your store's burning," remarked our hero.

"No, nothing."

"You were not very generous with your old clerk to have him arrested, charged with such an act."

The merchant winced.

"I think I have a chance now to do you a favor in return for your generosity," continued Fred.

This sarcasm cut deeply, but there was something about the boy's manner that kept the merchant from answering angrily.

"What is it?" he at length asked.

"I have a clue that would perhaps lead to the arrest of the parties who plundered and burned your store."

Rexford's interest was now fully aroused.

"Have you?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, and I have sufficient evidence, I think, to warrant you in making an arrest."

"Is it possible?"

"Yes, there is no doubt of it."

Fred now took the knife from his pocket and passed it to his former employer.

The merchant recognized it instantly by its peculiar handle. He said, in answer to Fred's questions, that the knife had not been sold, and that it must have been taken from his show case the night of the fire. He remembered showing it that evening to a customer, and distinctly recollected putting it back into the show case.

This, then, constituted a strong piece of evidence to show that the store was robbed.

Fred then explained how the knife came into his possession.

"You have worked up the case skilfully," said Mr. Rexford.

"I hope I have made no mistakes," answered Fred.

"You have shown care and ingenuity, and have succeeded in getting very strong evidence. This is better than Sheriff Coombs has done."

"I have other evidence also in my possession that makes this much stronger," replied our hero, and he showed Mr. Rexford the paper that Nellie Dutton had found, and gave him his theory of the robbery.

"I agree with you fully. It looks very reasonable," said the merchant, whose enthusiasm was well aroused. "I can hardly wait till morning before taking action in the matter."



XXXIII.

Mr. Rexford was very grateful to our young friend for the trouble he had taken in working up this case.

"It hardly seems possible, Fred, that you should do so much for me, after being treated as you were by me," he said warmly.

"I hope I have been able to do you a favor," returned Fred sincerely; "and besides, it may prove of service to me."

"You have, indeed, done me a favor. And is this the way you seek revenge?"

"I think it is the best sort of revenge."

"I believe you, Fred; but very few ever practise it."

"It is more satisfactory in the end, and moreover is right."

"Very true, but it is hard to act upon such a theory. Suppose Simmons is guilty, should I forgive him and do him a kindness?"

"That would be quite a different case. His act would be crime, and should, therefore, be punished. You could feel sorry for him, though, that he had acted so unwisely."

"Yes, I think you are right," answered the merchant mechanically, while his mind seemed to be struggling with another problem.

"Fred, I have wronged you cruelly," he continued, "and your generous spirit has touched me as nothing else has since I was a boy like yourself. I discharged you, practically accusing you of dishonesty, but now I know you were innocent. Your reputation was so injured that you could get no position in a store, and were obliged to seek employment in the factory. Then I had you arrested, charged with the grave offense of burning my store. Can you forgive me, Fred, for having wronged you so?"

"I can and will do so cheerfully," answered our hero, "for I believe you acted from your honest belief at the time."

"Yes, I did, but I should have had more charity, and more consideration for your welfare."

"It was a hard blow to me, I assure you. But tell me, have you found the missing money?" asked Fred eagerly.

"Yes. It was not lost; and the amount—eighteen dollars—was right. The error was in making change. It was my own mistake. An eccentric old fellow, a farmer up in Martintown, had the money—the very same twenty dollar bill. He said he gave me a five dollar bill and I handed back the twenty dollar bill in change."

"Farmers usually count their change very carefully."

"Yes, and it seems he counted this after he got home. He said he put the bill by itself in his wallet to keep until he had occasion to come this way again."

"When did you learn about it?"

"Two or three weeks ago."

"And you have known it all this time and said nothing about it?"

"Yes, Fred. Almost every day I have decided to send for you and explain all as I am doing now, but I dreaded meeting you and kept putting it off from day to day. I felt so guilty over my treatment of you, and so humiliated when I found the error was my own, that I had not the courage to tell you about it. Yet I knew all the time that I was adding more and more to the wrong I had done you."

"I can imagine how you feel about it," said Fred, "and your apology makes it all right. If the old farmer had returned the money earlier, much of this trouble might have been saved. He ought to have written you about it at any rate. It was fortunate he was an honest man; otherwise we should never have solved the mystery, and the stain would have clung to me always."

"Yes, Fred, I am afraid it would. But all suspicion is removed from you now. This shows of what vital importance honesty, even in small matters, may prove to an individual."

"I can realize that now, as it applies so forcibly to my own case."

"I hope to make amends for some of the great wrong I have done you," said Mr. Rexford, whose heart seemed to show a tender side which it had not appeared hitherto to possess. "My store will be rebuilt within a few weeks, and you shall have your old position as clerk again, if you wish."

"You are very kind, Mr. Rexford. I am glad to know that I may work for you again. If I come I will let you know in time."

"The position is due you, and I never had a clerk who did his work so well. I hope you will decide to come with me," said the merchant, as Fred rose to go.



XXXIV.

Early the following morning Mr. Rexford called upon his lawyer, Mr. Ham. In due time the papers were made out and placed in the hands of Sheriff Coombs, who promptly made his way to the factory with all his official bearing and arrested Jacob Simmons on the charge of robbing and burning John Rexford's store.

Mr. Farrington was prepared for this move, as Fred had informed him that it would take place during the forenoon, and had also told him everything he had done, and what he proposed doing.

He was especially glad to learn that the missing money had been returned. His own theory was that some error had been made, but other events had followed so fast one upon the other that he had recently made little effort to solve the mystery.

That it should now be cleared up so satisfactorily, with all blame removed from Fred, was gratifying to him in the extreme, for he was a true and sincere friend of our young hero.

Mr. Simmons' surprise at seeing officer Coombs on such an errand can hardly be imagined. Of course he had to give himself up and go with the sheriff—a prisoner charged with a grave offense.

A hearing in his case was arranged for the following day to come before Judge Plummer.

Mr. Simmons gave bonds for his appearance at the trial, and devoted the rest of the day to preparing his defense with his lawyer. Wondering why he had been arrested, and going over in his own mind every possible cause that could lead to it, he thought of the statement which Tim and Matthew had signed about the assault. He took his pocketbook from his coat, and looked among his papers for it.

It was not there. He was alarmed to find it missing. He asked his wife about it, but she knew nothing of it.

"I must have lost it somewhere," he admitted to himself with a shudder. "Fool that I was for doing wrong. I believe it has led to my arrest, but why I cannot understand."

When Matthew learned that Jacob Simmons had commenced work on the flockers with Fred he was alarmed. He talked the matter over with Tim. Both felt uneasy and unhappy, but they could see no way to help the case, so left it to fate, which speedily did its work.

Revenge to Matthew was a sad failure—had almost ruined him. Every effort he had made had recoiled upon him so unexpectedly and persistently that now he was beset on all sides with danger of exposure and punishment.

Fred—his rival—had stood up manfully under fire without flinching. He had won at every point and was now fast regaining his old position.

"His friendship, too, with Nellie Dutton is re-established, and I can do no more to prevent it," sighed Matthew regretfully. "I met her this morning and she would not speak to me, but she entertained Fred all last evening."

While thus meditating, the report that Jacob Simmons had been arrested for burning Mr. Rexford's store reached Matthew. He hurried home and to his room, and there threw himself upon his bed and wept bitterly. Disappointment, disgrace, and humiliation all crowded upon him, and the inevitable step that he must take stared him cruelly in the face.

His heart beat with bitter anguish as he thought of all this—of his good home, of his father's pride in him and of his mother's love, of his sister's tender affection—thought of all those near and dear to him—and shuddered as he realized the disappointment and sorrow that was to fall heavily upon them from his own wicked acts.

He buried his face in his pillow and sobbed till it seemed that his heart would break.

"Oh, if I could only undo the past!" he cried. But he had gone too far.

His pride and haughty spirit were completely crushed, and when he finally arose from his bed he was humbled indeed.

The following morning all Mapleton was excited by the report that Matthew De Vere could not be found.

He had not been seen by any one since the previous afternoon. Just where he was last seen was a mystery. One said he saw him coming from the pine grove with Tim Short about dusk; others tried to convince themselves and their friends that they had met him in this place or that, while a vague report stated that he was last seen by the river bank passing hurriedly from view in the darkness.

This was a sensational rumor. Was he drowned? Had he committed suicide? If so, why? Every one discussed the case—speculated upon it. None thought exactly alike, and each labored to persuade the other that his theory was the correct one.

Matthew's parents and sister were heartbroken. They knew nothing of his whereabouts, save that they believed he was safe, for they found a note in his room saying simply that he was forced to leave town immediately; that he could not then explain why, and that they would soon know all. He begged them not to worry about him, and humbly asked their forgiveness.

When Mr. Rexford heard that Matthew De Vere was missing, he immediately had Tim Short arrested, charged with robbing and burning his store.

Sheriff Coombs served the papers upon Tim, who had not as yet learned the news about Matthew.

When the sheriff spoke to him he was too badly frightened to reply.

"I shall have to take you with me," said the officer; "no way out of it now. The law ain't tender hearted with fellers that rob and burn. Besides, that De Vere boy has run away."

Tim staggered and fell to the ground. He had fainted dead away. When he regained consciousness his first words were:

"And now Matthew De Vere has run away and left me when he was the cause of it all." Great tears rolled down his cheeks and he sobbed bitterly.

Even the sheriff's heart was touched, and his official bearing relaxed as the boy's mother, almost prostrate with grief, implored him to let Tim go.

"Your son practically acknowledges his guilt," said the sheriff. "In any case, I should be compelled as an officer to arrest him, since the papers were placed in my hands. Still I think if he were to turn State's evidence—that is, to tell of his own free will all the facts connected with the affair—the court would probably deal more leniently with him."

Tim brightened up considerably at this remark, which seemed to hold out a means of escape.

"I will tell the court all I know—everything from first to last," said he as he marched off with the sheriff.

The case excited so much interest that the court room was filled to overflowing. Among those present was Matthew's father, who wished to know the facts about his son's connection with the robbery. Dr. Dutton, Mr. Farrington, and Fred Worthington were also present. Yes, another was there—little Carl, pale and thin from his sickness, but alive with interest in what he expected to be Fred's great triumph.

When the court was ready for the trial, Mr. Ham, on the part of the prosecution, called Tim Short as the first witness, much to the surprise of Jacob Simmons and his lawyer.

"Do you know anything about John Rexford's store being robbed and burned?" asked Mr. Ham of Tim.

"I do," said the latter.

"Tell us all you know about it."

Tim hesitated a moment, hardly knowing how to commence the confession of such a serious crime.

"Did you have any direct connection with it?" asked attorney Ham, by way of assisting the boy.

"Yes, sir," answered Tim.

"What did you do?"

"I helped rob the store, and then we set fire to it."

"Who was with you?"

"Matthew De Vere was with me."

"Who else?"

"No one."

"Did Jacob Simmons have anything to do with the robbery?"

"No, not exactly."

"What do you mean by 'not exactly'?"

"I mean he wasn't there and didn't do it, but if it hadn't been for him we shouldn't have thought of robbing Mr. Rexford's store or had any trouble."

"Then he planned the robbery for you?"

"No."

"What was his connection with it, then?"

"He threatened to have us arrested if we didn't pay him three hundred dollars."

Tim here explained why Simmons demanded the money—told how Matthew came to the saloon for him, how they lay in wait for Fred, and the mistake they made in supposing Jacob Simmons to be the latter.

"And he demanded this three hundred dollars as a reward for secrecy?" asked the judge.

"Yes, sir," replied Tim.

Jacob Simmons' face was scarlet. Every one looked at him contemptuously, while he had to endure the cutting glances without a shield.

Right here Mr. Ham read the paper that Nellie Dutton had found, as evidence to substantiate Tim's statement.

"Why did Matthew De Vere wish to waylay Fred Worthington?" asked Judge Plummer thoughtfully, as if to get at the bottom of the facts.

"He said he wanted to get square with him."

"Is that all?"

"That and to teach him not to interfere with him."

"How had Fred interfered with him?"

"I don't know that, but I am sure Matthew did everything he could to injure him."

"Did he do more than attempt to waylay him?"

"Yes, he played friendship with Fred and got the bartender to drug him, and that was what made him drunk that time when everybody talked about him."

Now every one looked at Fred, but these were congratulatory glances, with a bit of hero worship about them.

Mr. Farrington and Dr. Dutton, who sat near Fred, leaned over and congratulated him with a warm grasp of the hand.

Every cloud that had hovered over our young friend was now swept away—every mystery was at last explained, and he stood triumphant over all opponents, the hero of the village—much stronger and far more popular than if he had never been under fire. He was tried and not found wanting in the qualities that go to make a strong man with a noble character.

In answer to further questions of the judge, Tim stated that they knew of no legitimate way to raise the money, as Matthew did not dare speak to his father about it; that they were forced to do something, believing Jacob Simmons would have them arrested if they failed to produce the amount demanded.

He further stated that Matthew and he were driven almost crazy by these repeated demands from Simmons, and committed the robbery without realizing what they were doing.

They burned the store, he said, to cover their theft. All the money found he claimed was given to Mr. Simmons, together with some articles that would not excite suspicion. Among the latter was the knife Fred discovered in Jacob's possession, and which led to the detection of the guilty parties.

"Did you give Jacob Simmons all the goods you took from the store?" asked the judge.

"No, sir. We were afraid he would suspect us, so we gave him only a few things besides the money," answered Tim. "We hid the other things in the pine grove."

"Are they there yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you didn't make up the full three hundred dollars for Jacob Simmons?"

"No; but Matthew promised to pay him the balance, so he agreed to do nothing further."

It could not be shown that Jacob Simmons had directly incited the boys to commit the robbery, though he was unquestionably the cause of it. Neither could it be proved that he had knowingly received stolen goods.

The narrative of the legal proceedings would be entirely out of the design of this story. I will therefore state merely the final results.

In view of the fact that Tim Short confessed his guilt, and that he was the tool of Matthew De Vere, he was saved from going to prison, and was sent instead to serve three years in the State reform school, where he was compelled to learn a trade, and to conform to a rigid disciplinary system.

Jacob Simmons was found guilty of blackmail, and was sentenced to one year at hard labor in the State prison, in addition to a fine of three hundred dollars.

But where was Matthew De Vere all this time?

Among those who congratulated Fred, none did so with more sincerity than did Nellie Dutton, and the flattering remarks made about him by the entire village were very gratifying to her.

As she and Fred talked over the trying events of the preceding months, she remarked that she had learned to esteem him more highly than ever.

"To hear you say that, Nellie," said he gratefully, "more than repays me for all I have suffered from Matthew De Vere's malice."

"I am glad, then, that we are such good friends," said Nellie thoughtfully.

"Yes, even better than in the old days, are we not?" said Fred, almost affectionately.

"We know each other better, I think," answered Nellie. Then she went to the piano, and, playing her own accompaniment, she sang with unusual effect one of Fred's favorite songs.