A Blundering Boy

Preface		XI.
Chapter.		Page.
I.	The Story Opened	17
II.	Will’s Lucky Blunder	23
III.	Will’s Native Village	33
IV.	The Heroes of this History	39
V.	An Unpleasant Ride for Will	44
VI.	Steve’s Retaliation	54
VII.	The Young Moralist.—A Clever Scheme	66
VIII.	George Comes Out Ahead	75
IX.	“Three Wise Men Went to Sea in a Bowl.”	88
X.	The “Bowl” Comes to Grief	96
XI.	A Talented Lecturer	106
XII.	An Extraordinary Mad Dog	112
XIII.	The Six go to a Picnic	126
XIV.	Disaster Rather Than Fun	137
XV.	A Lesson in Ballooning	149
XVI.	Unheard-of Adventures with Balloons	156
XVII.	They Prepare to “Giantize”	163
XVIII.	The Cousins See More Than They Bargained for	169
XIX.	Within and Without the Demon’s Cave	178
XX.	A Glorious Triumph	186
XXI.	Uncle Dick Himself Again	197
XXII.	Uncle Dick Evolves His Story	204
XXIII.	The Sage’s Experiment	212
XXIV.	The Sage Unearths a Treasure	220
XXV.	The Bitten Boy Takes Revenge	229
XXVI.	Bob’s Downfall	240
XXVII.	They Propose to Turn the Tables	245
XXVIII.	The Tables Turned with a Vengeance	251
XXIX.	A Horrible Plot.—The Haunted House	260
XXX.	The Blunderer at Work Again	271
XXXI.	Will Mends His Ways	276
XXXII.	The Arch-Plotter Arrives	282
XXXIII.	“A Lesson in French”	287
XXXIV.	Henry Takes His Bearings.—A Stampede	298
XXXV.	Marmaduke Grasps the Situation	307
XXXVI.	To the Rescue!	319
XXXVII.	Marmaduke Struggles with Romance	325
XXXVIII.	The Startlers Themselves are Startled	335
XXXIX.	Repentant Plotters.—The Heroes Re-united	342
XL.	The Heroes Figure as Hunters	348
XLI.	How Will Lost His Deer	355
XLII.	What Curiosity Cost the Hunters	362
XLIII.	Things Begin to Get Interesting	370
XLIV.	Is the Mystery Solved?	377
XLV.	The Last Blunder.—A Last Conversation	382
XLVI.	The Story Closed	390

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Silly as this story may seem, there is a fixed purpose in writing it; and, like water in a goose-pond, it is deeper than it at first appears.

The intention chiefly is to be absurd; to cast ridicule on certain pedants and romancers; and to jeer at the ridiculous solemnity, mystery, and villainy, that hedge in works of fiction. Disgusted with tales which cause exceedingly good heroes and heroines to live a life of torture, only to find a haven of peace and security in the last line of the last chapter, the writer determined to go over the old ground in a different way. Now that the story is written, however, he has a horrible suspicion that in some measure he has totally failed in his design, and that more often than he cares to own, he has overshot the mark.

Having endeavored to make the intention tolerably clear, the reader may now be able to get more enjoyment from this tale.

The tale aims to attack so-called “vagaries,” as well as great and contemptible follies. It attacks the frailties of the school-boy with as much gusto as it attacks the foibles of the romancer. In fact, from first to last, in almost every chapter, the writer rushes gallantly to attack something. Not satisfied with attempting to ridicule other people’s tales, he often indirectly, but not the less insultingly, attacks this one, as the careful reader will doubtless observe. This was begun in jest, perhaps; but it soon became a fixed purpose, carried out in earnest. Even a boy can generally see the drift of our narrative; but it is often hard for the writer himself to see its true meaning—harder still to appreciate it. Nevertheless, there is a good deal to be seen in the story; and doubtless there are some who will see more in it than was designed to be put there.

Again, the story is not written to instruct studious and solemn boys, who mope about the house with grave biographies and heavy ancient histories in their hands, while without, the sun is shining bright, birds are warbling their extempore melodies in the fruit-trees, squirrels are frisking across the garden-walks, and all Nature is smiling. Such people are not boys; they are but figure-heads in creation, who, though they may, perhaps, find a place in so-called “literature,” will never find one in the history of nations. This story does not inform those who crave for knowledge, and yet more knowledge, that the elephant is a pachydermatous native of Asia and Africa, nor that the monkey is a quadrumanous animal, with prehensile tail, whose habitat is in tropical regions. Still, the attentive reader will, in all probability, gather from it that an ass brays, that a punt leaks, that a school-boy’s pets are mortal, and that gunpowder is liable to explode when fire is applied to it. It is not written as a guide and instructor to youth. Its heroes are deplorably depraved; they love to plot mischief. Yet a boy may possibly learn something from our work. He may learn that the boy who plays practical jokes on his school-fellows generally “gets the worst of it,” that he often suffers more than the intended victim. He may learn, also, that a boy’s wickedness brings its own punishment. (The writer takes great pains to correct the culprits—in fact, he never fails to do so after each offence.) Of course every boy has learned all this before; probably, in every book he ever read; but as it is a fundamental principle in romance to enforce this doctrine, it is here enforced.

Many a writer wishes to make assertions for which he does not always choose to be responsible. In such cases, he puts the assertion into the mouth of one of his characters, an “honorable gentleman” fathering it sometimes, a “consummate villain” at other times. In some instances we have followed this example.

The writer here modestly lays claim to a rare, an almost antiquated virtue: though he excels in Wegotism, he never calls himself an author! Yet if he were writing an elementary grammar, he might indulge in such expressions as “The author here begs to differ from Mr. Murray;” or, “The author’s list of adjectives may be increased by the teacher, ad libitum.” But this story is intended for youths of a reasoning age. In writing for juveniles of tender years, it is well to weigh carefully one’s expressions, and to use only choice and elegant expletives.

Understand, gentle reader, that man only is attacked in this story. Though the fair sex are occasionally and incidentally introduced, the writer has too much respect for them to go beyond the introduction, in this book. Even when Henry personates “Sauterelle” the motive is good. Understand all this, and read accordingly.

The moral of this story is intended to be good; but in a story of its light and fickle nature, the less said about a moral the better.

The writer has great affection for boys; he respects them, and loves to see them enjoy themselves, but he is not prepared to say that he fully understands them. A BOY is a credit to a neighborhood—till he hangs a battle-scarred cat to the chief citizen’s flag-staff, or destroys a mill-dam by tunnelling a hole through it, when, of course, he is a disgrace to the race. Though it is uncertain who is the hero of this story, Steve and Henry are the favorites. Steve is more or less a boy; but as the story advances the reader will perceive that he improves in both wit and wisdom. George is one of the boys who “love books;” but he tempered common sense with study, and never refused to join with his companions in their frolics or “expeditions.” With little or no benefit to himself, or, for that matter, to anybody else, George, like most studious youths of his age, read books entirely beyond his comprehension. In one hundred pages of scientific reading, he probably understood and retained one fact; the other facts were either misunderstood or forgotten, or might better have been. Years ago, when the writer used to wear out his pockets with bulky jack-knives, and quarrel with other youngsters about the sagacity of his own dog, he knew a boy who, like Jim, was subject to “the chills.” But the writer was probably too young at that time to have an insight into another’s character, and the only affinity between that boy and Jim is that both were a prey to “the chills.” It may be objected that it is strange that Charles should be able to work on the other boys’ feelings so well. Very true; so it is. Still, he could not have slain a robber-knight, nor outwitted an Indian scout. Henry is not one of the original heroes, but as he is necessary to the story he is introduced.

The writer, disgusted with books in which the heroes are treated with much respect, endeavours to heap every indignity upon these foolish boys. In a word, he has no apparent respect for any one, big or little, old or young, in this volume. To go still further, he has no respect for himself.

In the case of the blue-eyed heroine and each boy’s mother, however, there is an exception, and exceptions prove the rule.

As for Mr. Lawrence’s “mystery,” it does not amount to much, though it is intended, like everything else, to serve a purpose. Look at it as it appears, and in ten minutes a bill-sticker could hatch a better plot. Look at it as it appears, and it is idiotic, yet perfectly harmless; look at it in its figurative meaning, and, though it is not so good as was intended, it yet—but we are too discreet to say more on this head.

The writer respectfully observes that his maniac is not drawn from nature, but from romance. He never informed himself of the habits of those unfortunate people—never had the pleasure of even a slight acquaintance with them—but drew Uncle Dick’s history blindly from romance.

As for the villain’s confession, it is thrown in gratuitously, as ballast to the story, and to pacify the readers of heavy romance.

as many a writer’s confused plot bears witness. Having many objects in view in writing this story, the reader must make the best of it, if it sometimes seems disjointed. Still, if the astute reader thinks he detects a place where this history does not hang together, let him not be too much elated, for the writer believes he could point out several such places himself.

Of course, no boy will read this preface; it would, therefore, be a waste of time to address a discourse to boys in it. Reader, did you ever observe the manner in which a boy ignores the preface in his school-books? If not, you do not know how much scorn a boy’s face is capable of displaying.

Nevertheless, this preface may be of use to a boy. Suppose that an indulgent uncle should be jockeyed into buying a copy of this book for his little nephew. In such a case, would not this preface make an admirable “flier” for the little nephew’s dart? Certainly it would; and the next morning the little nephew’s mamma would find a picturesque dart, with this elaborate preface fluttering at the end, adorning a panel of the parlour door.

“Perhaps,” sneers the reader of mature years, “you think to have a fling at the almost antiquated custom of writing prefaces?”

Perhaps so, kind reader, and why not?

It seems natural for some writers to wish to display their wisdom: some make a show of hammering out tropes that no one can appreciate; others, in coining new compound words that won’t find a place in the dictionaries of the future; still others, in inserting such foreign words and phrases as may be found in the back of a school-boy’s pocket dictionary. (To do them justice, however, the latter geniuses, careful not to offend our noble English, considerately write such words and phrases in italics.) This writer, on the contrary, displays his foolishness by tackling things that he afterwards learns are out of his reach.

The writer seems most at home when attempting to poke fun at romance; yet he is tormented night and day, so much so that he has no peace, with romance. In fact, gentle reader, if any human being suffers more in that way than he, pity him with all your heart, for he must be a wretch indeed.

Cannot this be explained logically? Perhaps so; but it isn’t worth anybody’s while to do it.

Notwithstanding that our preface is so grandiloquent, the story opens, the reader will observe, very modestly. But if he should persevere a little way, he will find that the writer soon strikes out boldly.

Of course this preface was written after the story; but, let the reader be entreated, if he will excuse the Hibernicism, to read it first. If he does not, we are only too confident he will never read it. This is not prophecy, but intuition.

BRUCE W. MUNRO.

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William, baptized William, but always called Will, was a boy who had a habit of committing blunders—a habit which, as will be seen, occasionally led him into deep disgrace. When a mere boy, his blunders were of little consequence; but when older they assumed a more serious form. Most of them arose from want of care, as he did everything without considering what the end might be. Doubtless, he ought to have been reproved for this; but as he was only a boy, and as many of his blunders partook of the ludicrous, his parents laughed at him, but seldom took pains to correct him.

Will’s father owned a highly cultivated farm, near one of the great lakes, and was a man of means. He indulged freely in dignified language, in illustrated magazines and weeklies, in frequent pleasure trips by land and water, and in gilded agricultural machines, fragile and complicated, but quite as useful as ornamental.

Will’s mother was an amiable lady, who accompanied her husband on every alternate pleasure trip, and who, by the help of an able housekeeper and a fire-proof cook, spread a table that excited the admiration or envy of all who knew her, the housekeeper, or the cook.

Such were Will’s father and mother, who generally, as he was their only child, suffered him to have his own way, took notice of all his sayings and doings, and occasionally jotted them down in a disused diary. But he was not the kind of boy to be spoiled by such usage; on the contrary he was a very good boy.

He was an athletic little fellow, able to undergo great fatigue, and endowed with so much perseverance and hope that he would fish all day for trout, and return at dusk with nothing but a few expiring mud-pouts and two or three forlorn fish worms. He was known to all the villagers, respected by all his school fellows, and was involved in all their troubles. But his school fellows did not regard him as a hero; in their expeditions he was seldom chosen leader; in their “trials by jury” he was frequently a juryman—in time of need the entire jury—but only occasionally the judge.

Will attended school regularly and learned his lessons carefully, whether he understood them or not. His appetite for learning was keen, but his appetite for sport was insatiable; no boy, on being set loose from school, was more demonstrative than he.

When old enough to be out with his father, he followed him constantly. About the whole farm there was not a hole into which he had not fallen, not a stone of any size over which he had not stumbled, and no danger of any kind, from animals or machines, from which he had not narrowly escaped. He was often carried bruised, wet and tearful into the presence of his terrified mother, who vowed that he should never again leave her sight. But as soon as his wounds were dressed and his wet, muddy, and sometimes blood-stained garments were changed, he would slip away, to invite new dangers and contend with old ones. Even when sitting quiet in the house, learning his lessons, his ink-bottle would unaccountably pour its contents over his books, his papers, or on the carpet. Yet Will’s father declared that the boy was neither awkward nor stupid, but only “inconsiderate” and “headlong.” In proportion as he grew older, Mr. Lawrence hoped that he would grow wiser, and less “headlong.”

Having thus touched upon Will’s characteristics, it is now in order to begin at the beginning, when he was a small boy.

One day, when the boy had arrived at the age of seven years, a strolling and struggling newspaper genius was invited to spend the afternoon and evening at the farm-house. At the supper table this gentleman interested himself particularly in the boy, and the mother, pleased with this attention, began to enlarge upon her darling’s talents and cleverness, till, warming with maternal pride, she became quite eloquent.

“What do you suppose he did the other day?” she asked.

Will’s face suddenly became red. His mother did not notice this, but the newspaper genius did; and while he answered politely, he muttered to himself, “Hanged somebody’s cat, I should infer from his looks.”

“Why, he—” began the mother, when she was suddenly interrupted by Will’s saying, “Please don’t tell, mother!”

This remark, of course, drew the attention of all three to the boy, and they saw that he appeared ill at ease, and that his face was painfully flushed.

Mrs. Lawrence looked surprised. “Why, Will,” she said, “I’m sure its greatly to your credit.” Then turning to the guest: “Mr. Sargent, the other day he gave his papa the boundaries of every country and continent on the globe; and he did it all from memory, not looking once at a map!” Mr. Sargent was a polite man; he now expressed the liveliest astonishment.

“Oh!” burst from Will’s lips, followed by a sigh of relief, “Is that what you wanted to tell?”

“What did you suppose your mamma intended to tell me?” basely inquired the newspaper man, quickly recovering from his astonishment.

Will hesitated, but finally answered, “I thought it was about the fire-crackers.”

The guest’s curiosity was awakened. “What about the fire-crackers?” he inquired, so courteously that no one could take offence.

“Oh, he had a bad time with them; that’s all;” said Mrs. Lawrence, coming to the rescue.

But Will, who was plainly dissatisfied with his mother’s version of the affair, explained, with an effort that proved him to be a hero, “I had some fire-crackers, and they set the chip yard on fire, and nearly burnt up a cow in the cow-house!”

Having thus eased his conscience, he relapsed into silence. But it was evident that his nerves were quite unstrung; the visitor was therefore not taken wholly unawares when Will, in passing him the “preserves,” spilt them on his pants.

With a sigh of resignation the unfortunate took the mishap as a joke, and asked, as they rose from the table, if Will would bring out some of his toys.

“Get out the gun you made yourself,” Mr. Lawrence suggested.

The boy left the room but soon came in with a rude weapon—which boys would call a squirt-gun, but which Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, from ignorance or flattery, called a gun. But time is precious to some people; perhaps they called it a gun to save breath.

The errant newspaper man took up the squirt-gun, to examine it at his convenience, but lo! another mishap! The infernal machine, or whatever one may call it, had discharged a black and muddy fluid over his spotless shirt front.

Another involuntary “Oh!” broke from poor Will’s lips. “It must be the poison we had for the red currant bugs!” he groaned. “I thought I had squirted every drop out of the gun, but—”

“This is an extraordinary little gun, I’ve no doubt,” said the unhappy man, in a pet, “but I don’t wish to experiment with it at present. I should prefer to see some harmless toy, such as a wooden top or a horse-hair watch-chain. It is always dangerous for me to meddle with guns, anyway.”

For once, the newspaper man’s suavity had failed him.

But Mrs. Lawrence, in her heart, thought that a judgment had overtaken him for ferreting out Will’s secret.

The owner of the gun took it and gladly left the room. He did not return with his wooden tops, but climbed up on the roof of the stable, where he whiled away the rest of the evening with his new jack-knife and a piece of cedar. He did not cut his fingers very badly, however.

The distressed parents were placed in a very embarrassing situation, but the sufferer’s equanimity soon returned, and the conversation again flowed on smoothly.

When the visitor took leave, it is to be hoped that he took with him a due appreciation of Will’s talents and cleverness.

Next morning Mr. Lawrence called his son and addressed him thus: “My son, you are a very heedless boy. Reflect on the sad results of your heedlessness, and endeavor to use the faculty of reason before you act in any matter. Think of the annoyance you gave us last night! You ought never to interrupt your mother, for you may be sure that she would never tell a stranger anything to your discredit. Will you bear this in mind?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered the boy, trying to understand the meaning of the big words. “But,” anxiously, “will he be scolded and whipped, as Jim was when he got his clothes spoiled?”

“Are you speaking of the gentleman who passed the evening with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then don’t grieve about that, for his parents will not harm him,” Mr. Lawrence replied with a smile.

A short time after this occurrence, Will informed his father that a muskrat had built itself a home by a stream which ran through their farm.

“Should you like to catch it in a trap?” Mr. Lawrence asked.

The boy, of course, said yes. Immediately the fond father bought a strong little trap and presented it to the would-be trapper. The trap cost ninety cents; a wandering tin-peddler might perhaps be generous enough to give Will fifteen cents for the pelt of the muskrat. In that event everybody would be satisfied. But the home of the muskrat would be made desolate.

Mrs. Lawrence beheld this trap with horror, and not without reason, for, within the next two hours, Will contrived to imprison in it several of his fingers.

After repeated warnings from his parents, the young hero set out for the stream, trap in hand. Having successfully achieved the feat of setting it, he returned and gave his father the particulars.

“I fear that some more historical animal than a muskrat will come to an untimely end in that trap,” Mr. Lawrence said dolorously.

His words were prophetic.

In the morning, full of hope, Will hurried to the home of the muskrat. Beyond a doubt, the trap held an animal. But it was neither a musk nor any other kind of rat; it was a beautiful little greyhound, fast in the jaws of the trap, and stone dead.

Will’s tears flowed freely at this pitiable sight, and fear was added to his grief, when, in the greyhound, he recognized the constant companion of Senator Murdock.

“Poor little Pet! How often you have played with me!” the trapper said, in the interval of his sobs. “Oh, what shall I do, and what will Mr. Murdock say to me!”

Just as the boy spoke, the Senator was approaching in his search of the dog.

“Ah, my little man,” he said, as he drew near the sorrowing trapper, “can you tell me where to look for Pet? I’ve lost him this morning, and I thought you could help me to find him, if any one could. We live so near that you and Pet are always together. Why, what is the matter?” he asked, seeing that the boy was crying bitterly.

“Oh, sir!” was all Will could say.

But the Senator was now beside him, and, taking in the matter at a glance, he exclaimed angrily, “What is this I see? Have you, whom I always considered a moral little boy, have you entrapped my dog! I am amazed! Poor Pet! Poor little dog!”

“I didn’t mean to catch him,” Will pleaded, “and I am very sorry.”

“Well, I shall not blame you,” the Senator said slowly. “Your father ought not to let you set traps so recklessly, and I lay the blame upon him.”

“Don’t blame my father, for it is my own fault,” Will replied, ready, at all times, to defend his father. “I will never do it again, Mr. Murdock; indeed I won’t.”

“Hardly, seeing that the poor beast is dead. But help me to get it out of trap, and I shall take it home and bury it.”

Then the two, man and boy, legislator and trapper, fell to work, and soon liberated the dog from his prison.

If the Senator could have known what danger his white and dainty fingers were incurring, that is, how narrowly they escaped being pinched, he would have kept them away from that trap. In fact, considering the state of excitement into which any mishap threw Will, it is strange that they were not cruelly mangled. But they escaped without a scratch.

Mr. Lawrence was deeply grieved when he heard the ignominious fate of the Senator’s dog. Probably he felt that he himself was blamable.

But the affair was soon all but forgotten by Will, because, at his age, such misdemeanors are generally forgotten as soon as the offender repents of them and is pardoned by the sufferers.

This chapter, like all the others, is intended to serve a purpose; yet, lest the reader should fancy that we are writing for the entertainment of juveniles, we shall relate but two more incidents of Will’s childhood.

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Some two years after this incident, when Will’s parents announced one fair morning that he was to accompany them on a trip to the city, many miles distant, far from being in the mood to remember his father’s injunctions, he was in the humor to commit the most atrocious blunders.

He was full of eagerness to be off, and his beaming face bespoke his joy. At his tender age, all the help he could give was of little moment; but yet, in his eagerness to get ready for the journey, he threw the household into such confusion that he and his harassed parents barely reached the platform in time for the train.

The day was fair, and the prospect from the car window delightful. The scent of new mown hay (it was the month of June) rendered the trip as pleasant as an eastern ruler’s dream. (The deeds of eastern rulers, however, should not always be provocative of pleasant dreams.)

It was morally impossible for Will to sit still in his seat. For once the good little boy was regardless of his parents’ wishes; and in spite of mamma’s entreaties and papa’s commands, he persisted in thrusting his head out of the window.

How fortunate it is that wrong doing inevitably leads to punishment! On this occasion, however, the boy’s punishment was so long delayed that the sanguinary sword of justice seemed to be rusted fast in its sheath. But that sword was drawn at last.

After riding for ten minutes with his head far out of the car, with an involuntary “oh” he abruptly drew it in, but—hatless.

The boy’s gestures of excitement and his parents’ evident vexation attracted every one’s attention. Truly, the parents suffered equally with the child. It is always thus.

“I’d put my present for Henry in it, and now it’s gone!” groaned Will, unmindful of the fact that every one in the car could hear him.

“It serves you right, little boy,” observed a pious but melancholy looking old lady, who occupied an adjacent seat. “Now you’ll have to ride bareheaded,” she muttered. “That’s what comes from disobeying your parents!”

“For shame!” whispered a humane, but characteristically lank, Down-easterner to this meddlesome dame. “Just you let the poor little fellow alone.”

Then, noticing Will’s sad condition, he began to search his pockets. Will saw this and guessed what was coming, for he had often remarked that that movement on the part of those interested in him was usually followed by the bestowal of sweetmeats or other good gifts.

It may here be boldly stated that our hero was not above eating candy, which he divined was what was coming.

Will was not mistaken in this instance, for his humane friend soon approached him and put something round and hard into his hand, saying, “Don’t fret, little man; here’s a bull’s-eye for you.”

Quietly as this kind action was done, it did not escape the old lady’s sharp eyes, and she thus gave vent to her indignation: “O dear, what are we coming to! Here’s a man rewarding, actually rewarding, a boy for being wicked!”

However, neither Will nor his parents overheard her virtuous comments. Will was wholly engrossed with his bull’s-eye, which was about the size of a ten-year-old boy’s marble. Though originally white and striped with red bands, it was now more or less discoloured and very sticky.

Will slipped the bull’s-eye into his mouth, but immediately spat it out.

“All covered with dirt and sweat, and as hard as an iron button,” he muttered. “It was kind of the man to give it to me, but I can’t eat it.”

But what should he do with it? Clearly, the floor would be the best place for it; and so, while his father’s attention was engaged with a cartoon, and his mother’s with a wayside chapel, he stooped and laid it softly on the floor, unseen and unheard.

Then he chuckled, admiring his great sagacity, not knowing that an ordinary bull’s-eye may be dropped in almost any part of a railway carriage in motion without arresting attention.

Would that a novelist who regularly “anticipates” were here! How he might expatiate! Beginning thus, he might go on exhausting ink-bottles and filling pages at pleasure:—

“Ah! little could Will dream, little could any one present dream, what destiny had in store for that bull’s-eye! How different was its fate from that which the benevolent gentleman supposed it would be!”

But it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate.

The kind hearted Yankee left the car soon after giving Will the bull’s-eye, so that he was not a witness of what was to happen.

The rejected bull’s-eye, set in motion by the car, gradually made its way into the middle of the passage between the two rows of seats, here it stopped. If noticed by any person, it was not coveted, but was suffered to lie there in peace.

Yes, there it lay; its locomotion arrested; its wanderings brought to a close.

But hist! who enters?

It is the “Student of Human Nature.”

A gaunt yet spiritual-looking man opens the door, and slowly and pompously, he marches towards the other end of the car.

His air, his gait, his costume, even to his boots, his cane—all were peculiar.

His object in life was to rove hither and thither, studying that grand theme, Human Nature. Although above conversing with his fellow creatures, excepting when obliged to do so, his delight was to find some quiet spot from which he might form opinions of them without being disturbed. Whether he makes this employment “pay” by writing treatises on the subject, is a question which only he himself can answer. What he pretends to comprehend may be, and doubtless is, a noble science; but in his hands it is only a mockery.

Only two or three persons in the railway carriage knew the man or his employment, but his demeanor could not fail strongly to impress the looker-on.

His intention, on this occasion, was to take a seat in some dark corner, from which he might observe the occupants of the car. With stately tread he approached that bull’s-eye, placed his foot on it in such a way that it rolled, and with a crash the student fell headlong, with anything but “studied grace.”

He was on his feet again before assistance could be offered—this, however, was not remarkable, as nearly every one present was convulsed by laughter—and, after glancing malignantly at the cause of his fall, he scowled horribly on two or three of the loudest laughers, and then tore his handkerchief out of his pocket. Too late! A flow of blood was streaming fast from his nose, which organ had apparently been bruised in his fall.

A boy with the “nosebleed” is an object alike of laughter and pity; but a man with a bleeding nostril! Certainly his situation is ignominious. And the situation of the student on this occasion was more than ordinarily ludicrous.

How blind and wilful, how paradoxical men are! What a favorable opportunity now offered for observing the various emotions depicted on the faces of those people! Some were expressing their feelings by their rapidly-working features; others by their waggish gesticulations; still others by half suppressed interjections. While some looked merely amused, others looked awe-struck: only two persons seemed sympathetic. The more solemn passengers looked on with dignified serenity; but a smile of savage delight, indicative of innate depravity or blasted hopes and bitterness of heart, played over the wan faces of certain jaded and woebegone book agents. A few paid no attention whatever, while a great many made praiseworthy endeavors to keep their facial muscles from twitching.

But the Student of Human Nature left this vast mine unexplored, and hurried out of the car, hiding his bleeding nose in his handkerchief.

The now notable bull’s-eye was still in sight, and it was plain to all that it had caused the mishap. The old lady looked at it intently, and was heard to mutter that she knew no good would come from rewarding the boy for his wickedness.

A tender-hearted person is severely punished when his own wrong-doing subjects another to pain or annoyance. Now Will was tender-hearted: he lay nestled in a corner of his seat, almost hidden from the occupants of the car, doing penance by heaving dolorous sighs and shedding a few remorseful tears.

His father and mother seemed ill at ease. Presently the former stooped over him with awful solemnity, and whispered, “Oh, Will! why did you drop that on the floor, when you could just as well have thrown it out of the window! Your blunders are sufficiently bad when they affect yourself alone; but they are lamentable when their results are disastrous to others. You are old enough now to behave like a little gentleman; promise me that you will be a good boy.”

On the instant Will ceased both to heave sighs and to shed tears, and he earnestly promised to do better for the future.

In his way, Mr. Lawrence was a philosopher. He knew that any boy on being addressed in such terms and forgiven, instantly dries his tears, breaks into smiles, and promises to do great things. He reflected on this, and spoke as he did because he did not wish his son’s eyes to be red and swollen with crying when he should reach his destination.

Soon after the train slowed into the station at which they were to alight. The good old lady softened so far as to bid the bareheaded boy good-bye as he stumbled out of the car. The first thing to be done was to buy him a hat, since his parents had not been so provident as to take along an extra one. This was managed by leaving him and his father at the depot, while Mrs. Lawrence went to the nearest hat store. The good soul also bought some sugar-plums to replace the present which Will had lost.

As soon as the novelty of Will’s new hat had worn off, so far, at least, as to allow it to remain quietly on his head, he and his mother went to spend the rest of the day at the house of a relative, while Mr. Lawrence made his way to a law office.

About nightfall the three returned to the depot, took passage by the cars, and were soon on their way homeward.

It was still early in the evening, but the family party did not expect to reach home till past midnight.

Will was thinking—not of his latest blunders, but of some second-hand presents that he had received from his cousin, Henry. Mr. Lawrence, who was accustomed to travel, seemed inclined to fall asleep—in fact, they had not proceeded far on their way when a gentle snoring evinced that he was indeed asleep. Will fancied that his mother also seemed tired and drowsy, and he hastily concluded that his parents would have to depend upon him to be awakened when the train reached their station.

This thought kept the boy on the alert, and he took pride in the confidence thus placed in him. To him, however, the time passed much more slowly than when going to the city in the morning. This was only to be expected. Then, the sun was shining bright, the car was full of people, and his parents were wide-awake and in a humor to talk to him; now, it was night,—calm and starlit, but night,—the three were almost entirely alone in the car, and his parents were tired, sleepy, and silent.

Nevertheless, much as he wished to keep awake, he at last fell into a doze, from which he was aroused by the train’s coming to a stop and the brakesman’s shouting out the name of a station. The name seemed familiar, and Will, rubbing his eyes and yawning, at once began to reason, aloud: “Our station! I must wake pa and ma, or the train will go on.”

Both were awakened without delay.

“What! is this our station already?” Mr. Lawrence asked, with some surprise. “You must be mistaken, Will—or have I really been asleep?”

“Yes, sir, you have been asleep: and this is our station.”

“Then there’s no time to be lost, I suppose;” and Mr. Lawrence snatched up his valise and started towards the door, followed by his wife and son.

“I almost wish we had stayed at Aunt Eleanor’s,” he muttered, as he helped them off the train. “But I must attend to that business in the morning; and, fortunately, our house is not far from the depot.”

They stepped out on the platform and the train was off on the instant. Mr. Lawrence went into the ticket-office, to speak to the night operator, and, to his consternation, found that instead of being his own village, he was at another, full twenty miles away.

His first act was to rush outside and make a vain attempt to signal the engineer to stop the train. Too late! It had already left the station, and was moving faster and faster.

That hope blasted, the unhappy man did not know what course to take, and he strode up and down the platform like a mad man; while his wife and son stood meekly by, the one filled with deep displeasure, the other with agonizing grief and despair.

Presently Mr. Lawrence halted before the boy, with these words: “Oh, Will! How could you have made such a blunder? I fail to trace a striking resemblance between the name of this place and that of our own. You, who know so much about geography, you to be so grossly ignorant respecting your own county! In an hour from this time we should have been at home.—Never mind, Will,” he added in softer tones. “Come, don’t cry; I suppose you, too, were asleep.”

“Yes, I must have been asleep,” Will acknowledged.

The writer does not entertain much respect for Mr. Lawrence, because he was a man who alternately checked and indulged his son. But, on the whole, he was a discreet and affectionate parent—at all events, Will loved and honored him.

“I say,” Mr. Lawrence cried to a man with a lantern, “I say, when will the next train going west be due?”

“Next train for you, sir? In just three hours,” was the cheering answer.

“Then my business is ruined!” groaned the unhappy man.

However, this fretfulness at length wore away, and the three resigned themselves to wait, as patiently as might be, for the arrival of the next train. Mrs. Lawrence went into the waiting room, while Mr. Lawrence and Will spent most of the time out on the platform, gazing at the stars and the signals along the railway-track.

After Mr. Lawrence had talked himself hoarse about the signs of the zodiac, the perfection of signals used on the railways, and the stupendous power of steam, he determined to improve the remaining time by reasoning with his son on the sin of carelessness. Will—whose ears were ringing with such terms as spherical bodies, solar immensity, eternal revolutions, average momentum, preternatural velocity, lunar cycles, semaphorical warnings, and planetary systems—sighed on this change in the conversation, for he loved sonorous phraseology, but listened humbly. After a long lecture, in which he touched upon various matters not pertinent to his subject, Mr. Lawrence made a dark allusion to his “ruined business,” and then wound up with these words:

“Will, if you continue in your present course, I am afraid your end will be as terrible as your uncle Dick’s.”

“What became of Uncle Dick, pa?” eagerly inquired the boy, thinking that the subject would again be changed.

Poor boy! he felt his guilt, but he winced under his father’s polysyllabic reprimands.

“Listen, Will,” said Mr. Lawrence, “and I will give you a short account of your uncle. Uncle Dick, my brother, was an eccentric man; good-natured, but credulous, and always making blunders. In that particular, he was not unlike you; but his blunders were far more serious in their results than yours. Early in life he made a large fortune by lucky speculations. One day he drew all his money from the banks and collected all that he could from his debtors—for what purpose I never knew; for, no sooner did he get his wealth into his own hands, than both he and it vanished, and nothing has since been seen or heard of either. Some suppose that he was robbed and murdered in the approved way; others, that he left the country, to return unawares at some future time; while a few unprincipled barbarians maintain that he has lost his mind. I, myself, think that by some great blunder, or unlucky speculation, he lost all his wealth, and prefers to stay away till he can return worth as much as, or more than, he was before. Poor Dick! his fate is wrapped in awful mystery.”

Mr. Lawrence considered himself an apt story-teller, and delighted in his own narratives. But Will, to whom this story was new and almost unintelligible, strove to discern even the faintest resemblance between Uncle Dick’s doings and his own.

“I do not often speak of my poor brother,” Mr. Lawrence said sadly, “but I think of him and dream of him, always. But, Will, I know you are good and sincere in your heart of heart; this misfortune was only a blunder; and so let us think no more of the matter.”

Gentle reader, observe that the mournful story of Will’s uncle is told on the thirty-first page. Observe this carefully, as in the future you may wish to read it again.

At that instant, news that nearly made Will a hero was flashed along the wires.

Voices, loud and eager, were heard in the office. Mr. Lawrence went in to make inquiries, and learned that an accident had happened to the train from which he had been so abruptly hurried by his son.

The car in which they had been riding had broken loose, been hurled down an embankment, and wrecked. Only two or three men were in the car at the time, and they, being awake, had sprung nimbly and saved themselves, though almost by a miracle. A few persons in another car were jolted and disconcerted, but no one was hurt. The train was thrown into disorder, and part of the track torn up; so that the railway would not be passable for a few hours.

It was evident to Mr. Lawrence that, had he been in the car with his wife and child at the time of the accident, they must have suffered a cruel death, or else have escaped horribly mangled. Suppose that they had not been asleep, he would still have met with great difficulty in saving them before the doomed car went to destruction.

They owed their preservation then, first, to Divine Providence; secondly, to Will’s blunder.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence were not slow to acknowledge this, and the boy perceived that, at last, his worth was appreciated.

In process of time the night wore away; the road was repaired; and father, mother, and son, pursuing their journey, reached home early in the morning.

Mr. Lawrence’s business was not “ruined,” after all; for the man whom he wished to see was also detained by the accident, but finally made his appearance; and the business, which was really of importance, was soon concluded.

The three slept peacefully and soundly afterwards, for the occurrences of the last twenty-four hours had exhausted them.

From that time forward Mr. Lawrence generally passed by Will’s blunders without rebuke; for he had determined not to reprove the boy again, unless it should be a vital necessity.

In this way it chanced that Will’s childish blunder happened for the best, after all.

Whereas these two chapters are merely expletive,—that is, are as useful as the word it in the following verse:

it would be better to say no more about this blunder of Will’s, but commence the story proper.

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Another period in Will’s life has come. He is no longer a little boy, but an agile, robust, crop-headed youngster of fourteen. He has by no means outgrown the errors of his childhood: on the contrary, they stick to him more closely than ever; and to speak of Will without referring to them is—well, is merely a matter of courtesy. His parents have given up all hope of his ever ceasing to make blunders—in fact, they have come to expect nothing but blunders from him. They are no longer surprised at whatever he does, or at whatever happens to him; they would be more surprised to see him live without making blunders than at whatever might befall; and remembering how fortunate was his blunder on the train a few years before, they no longer find fault with him.

It would be foolish, however, to detail all the minor adventures through which he passed—foolish and tiresome to the reader. Still, it must not be taken for granted that all Will’s troubles rose from blunders, as many of them rose from such mishaps as might happen to any boy.

In order to make the incidents related in this story perfectly intelligible, it will be necessary to give a rambling description of the neighborhood in which they took place.

Mr. Lawrence’s farm was a short distance out of a busy and flourishing village, built on one of the great lakes of America. His home, as well as a few cottages belonging to him, was within the limits of this village. His farm was highly cultivated and full stocked, and a railway ran through it and then on through the village. To these natural advantages add that Mr. Lawrence was an intelligent man and practical farmer, knowing how to improve his opportunities, and it will be seen that he was well situated.

As for the village itself, it contained the ordinary number of inhabitants and hotels. Here lived “the most skilful dentist in the state;” but so modest was he that what was formerly a barrister’s office (this will define the size of the apartment) served him admirably for a “dentistry;” while an upper room in the same building, “artistically fitted up,” served him for a “photographic gallery.” Here lived “the most expert ball-player out of New York.” But his business was not to play ball;—rather, he did not follow it as a profession;—he kept a “Yankee notions store,” with a hanging aquarium in the window, and brewed soda-water and ice-cream. In this gentleman’s “salon” many a rustic indulged with his first dish of ice cream, eating it at the rate of two exceedingly small spoonfuls a minute. His actions and the expression of his countenance declared that it was monotonous, cold, and doubtful enjoyment; but the village papers, the expert ball-player, and public opinion, told him that it is an extraordinary delicacy, and he tried hard to believe so. The rustic would sometimes bring along his sweetheart. Then he ate his ice cream still more slowly; but probably it tasted better. Two newspapers (so-called) were printed here, and the villagers could tell you that each one had been the pecuniary ruin of six or seven editors. These ex-editors still lived in the neighborhood,—some as bookkeepers, others as insurance agents,—a warning to all right-minded men to soar higher (or lower) than the editorship of a village newspaper. But no one heeded the warning, and no sooner did an editor become insolvent or entangled in a libel suit than somebody else was ready to “assume the arduous duty of conducting the publication.” So long as the new editor had means, excelled in bombast and calumny, was sound in his political creed and could make vigorous attacks on his “contemporary,” who supported the doctrines of the other party, all went well for a time; but sooner or later the end came and then one more ex-editor was thrown upon the people of the village.

The principal buildings were the bank, the churches, the town-hall, the livery stable, the fulling-mill, the chair-factory, the fork-factory, the Columbia foundry, the hotels, and several private residences. The village had also its harbor, where vessels plying their trade on the lakes might worry through the roughest gale that the most talented writer of nautical romances ever conjured up.

But there was nothing remarkable respecting either its site, its size, the regularity or magnificence of its buildings, its commercial importance, or its antiquity. Further, it was not known to history.

A very large stream, or small river, flowed through the village, emptying into the lake. (To be still more accurate: the people of this particular village customarily called it “the river;” while the base and envious inhabitants of the neighboring villages—through which flowed no such stream—took special pains to call it “a creek.”) Several mills of different kinds bordered this river, adding to the credit and vigor of the place. About three miles up from its mouth there was a large and natural waterfall, a favorite resort of the villagers and country people. The current above these falls was not very swift, but it would be perilous indeed to be swept over them. Shrubs, and at intervals, trees; gay little boat-houses, where the ground sloped gradually to the water’s edge; in the background commodious, ornamental, and pretentious dwelling houses, habitations, or villas;—such dotted the right bank of the river above the falls, presenting a fine appearance from the left bank.

This stream affording good fishing, sportsmen often came to it from a distance. But they generally lost more in cuticle, clothing, and valuables, than they gained in fish, sport, or glory; and it was remarked that they never returned after the third time.

There were many considerations why the water below the falls was not the principal play-ground of the juveniles. Being within the village, swimming was out of the question; on account of sundry sunken logs and other obstructions, they could not paddle about secure and tranquil on the crazy old rafts and scows; and lastly, almost the whole stretch of water below the falls lay open to the mothers’ watchful eyes, and the boys did not feel inclined to jeopard their lives within sight of those mothers. To some fastidious youths the water, perhaps, was too dirty, or “roily.”

Above the falls, however, all was different. On the upper part of the river no one ever molested the youngsters, unless they did something atrocious; here they might swim and paddle up and down the river as much as they pleased; for, in general, the banks were high, and bushes, rank grass and reeds and other screens intervened, shutting them off from outsiders.

The river was wide and deep at the falls, but above them it grew narrow and shallow little by little. Five miles up it was a mere brook. Throughout this long stretch the water was so clear that the most fastidious did not hesitate even to drink it; and there were secluded places that as swimming-places could not be equalled. At the falls the water was so deep as easily to float over any log or brush-wood that might come into the river from its banks, its source, or other streams.

One particular spot—a clump of evergreens, where forget-me-nots sprang up in all their beauty, and where Nature was seen at her best—was held sacred to lovers. But there were many parts of the river to which the boys stoutly maintained their claim and of which no one was so hard-hearted as to dispossess them. And oh! crowning joy! there was an island in the river!

At this the reader may think that we are trifling with his feelings; imposing on his credulity;—he may even refuse to believe in the existence of so extraordinary a river. Never mind. But if the reader wishes to enjoy these pages he will refuse to listen to the dictates of reason, and look on this story as an orthodox romance.

In winter there was another attraction, that of skating, the danger of which was a continual source of uneasiness to parents whose youth, agility, and frolicsomeness had long before given place to gray hairs, clumsiness, and sober-mindedness.

As the proprietors of the land along the river were generous-hearted men, the river was free to all people, and was an actual paradise for boys and picnickers.

Although further remarks might be made about this river, it is not necessary to make them here. It is sufficient to add that as the reader proceeds, he will observe how admirably this river is adapted to the exigencies of the story.

This was the state of affairs in Will’s boyhood. But, alas! all has changed since that time. A foreign aristocrat has bought up all the land along the river, which he has fenced in, stocked with fish and beautified—perhaps, disfigured—with sundry little wharfs, capes, bays, stretches of “pebbly beach,” and floating islands. In conspicuous places notices may be seen, beginning with “No Trespassing” and winding up with the amount of the fine imposed on all persons “caught lurking within the limits.” Consequently, the urchins of to-day, despoiled of this haunt, have to content themselves with damaging the notices and slinging stones at the swans that sail gracefully up and down the river.

There were also smaller streams in the neighborhood, one being in Mr. Lawrence’s farm.

To the left of the village stood an extensive grove, swarming with squirrels, birds, insects, and, of course, mosquitoes. In this grove the heroes of this story whiled away many a happy hour; and when not on the river they might generally be found here.

The lake also was a favorite resort, and on its broad surface they sailed or rowed hither and thither; always getting wet, often narrowly escaping death. Sometimes their joyous hearts were elated with a ride on a tug; but when hard pressed they made almost anything serve them for a boat. As naturally as a duck takes to water, Will and his associates took to making little ships, which excited the admiration of all beholders—sometimes on account of their beauty, but generally on account of their liability to float stern foremost, with the masts at an angle of twenty degrees.

Then there was the school-house,—a fanciful, yet imposing edifice, the grained and polished jambs of whose mullioned windows had suffered from the ravages rather of jack-knives than of time,—built in a retired quarter of the village, and to the boys’ entire satisfaction, quite close to the river.

If Will wished to go to the wharf he could walk thither in less than half-an-hour; to the depot in ten minutes; to the school,—well, in from twenty to forty minutes. To Mrs. Lawrence’s delight, it was nearly two miles from their house to the falls. She had not the heart to forbid Will’s going thither, but she fondly hoped that the distance would not permit him to go very often; for, according to her view of the matter, water and danger are synonymous.

But what are two miles to a boy, when a waterfall, a limpid and gleaming river, boats, crazy rafts, plenty of fish, and other boys, are the attractions? In fact, the time was never known, not even to that venerable personage, “the oldest inhabitant,” in which a boy might not be seen about those falls.

It is not strange that the youth of this village were happy, when Nature had done so much for them.

---

Having given this slight and imperfect description of Will’s native place, his school-fellows must now be introduced.

The boy whom he liked best was Charles Growler; a youth of his own age, but possessed with greater abilities, and a universal favorite in the village. Charles was nimble, strong, and good-natured; ready for any adventure or exploit, and the very soul of drollery. No matter what might happen he never lost his temper, his presence of mind, or his keen humor. He was a very brave boy, rushing headlong into every kind of danger. In fact, the boys admitted that they had never known him to be afraid.

He and Will entered school at the same time and had kept together in all their studies. There was no jealousy or rivalry between them, nothing but a quiet and laudable competition, which stimulated each one to do his best. When one could assist the other he did so willingly and gladly. No boy ever had a more sincere friend than Will in Charles or Charles in Will. And yet this boy Charles was nicknamed “Buffoon.” Not, however, on account of clownishness or monkey tricks, but simply on account of his love of fun.

George Andrews was another boy of the village, associated with Will and Charles. He was a good boy, smart and shrewd, but too much disposed to display his abilities and his knowledge. In his tender childhood he had overheard a weak-headed fellow drawl out, “Yes, George will make an excellent scholard; I guess he’s a good scholard a’ready.” This so filled the young hero with self-conceit that he really believed that he, a mere boy, was indeed a scholar! Firm in this belief, he never let slip an opportunity in which he might avail himself of his superior knowledge; and having read a great deal in all sorts of books,—particularly in certain musty and ponderous volumes that treated of everything under the sun—he was able to have his say, it made no difference what subject was being discussed. But, alas! he was just as apt to be wrong as to be right; and worse still, his information, like the Dutchman’s wit, generally came too late to be duly appreciated. He was a few months older than Will and Charles, and outstripped them both in his studies. The boys always rejoiced to have him accompany them—partly because of his actual cleverness, partly because of his immoderate self-conceit, as it was very amusing to hear him hold forth on a subject of which he really was totally ignorant. Not at all to his disinclination this boy was dubbed “the Sage.”

Marmaduke Baldwin Alphonso Fitz-Williams was a youth, the grandeur of whose name drove abashed Johns and Thomases almost to phrensy. But the name befitted the boy, for even at his tender age his mind was occupied with strange thoughts. He delighted in the romantic; indeed, he had lived in an atmosphere of romance from his baptism. This heavy cloud of romance obscured the boy’s ideas, and sometimes caused him to speak and act more like a hero of fiction than was seemly. When alone he would slide his hand into his bosom over his heart, whenever the weight of romance and mystery was more than ordinarily oppressive, and if his heart beat fast he was satisfied with himself.

The boy who detects the conception of a nocturnal robbery or murder in a stranger’s eye, simply because he [the cautious stranger] slips his hand stealthily into his “pistol pocket,”—in this case the breast pocket—to assure himself that his watch is still there, is a remarkably shrewd member of the human race, whose genius and acuteness should be diligently fostered. And such a boy was Marmaduke. But it was neither fear nor idiocy that caused him to think thus; it was only an extravagant imagination.

Marmaduke and George resembled each other in many particulars: each one was prompt to arrive at startling conclusions; each one believed himself equal to any emergency; but George was far more practical than Marmaduke. Each of these boys took pleasure in learning, and each one manifested a puerile eagerness to let people see how well informed he was. For instance, they flattered themselves that they were accomplished grammarians, and when any reference was made to grammar both looked very knowing, as much as to say that they apprehended what was meant.

Marmaduke had a strong will of his own, but, by manœuvring artfully, Charles could generally make him look at things from his point of view. The boys took advantage of his love for the marvellous to play mean tricks on him; but when he found that they were making game of him, he flew into a passion, and made himself ridiculous.

Poor boy! Though he is called Marmaduke in this book, his poetic names were too long for everybody except his parents; and while his teachers called him Mark, the school-boys called him “Marmalade,” or “Dreamer,” or something else quite as appropriate and scurrilous. Some envious little Smiths and Greens did not scruple to call him “Fitty.”

Next on the list is Stephen Goodfellow, one of the most important characters in the tale. He was a fun-loving fellow, fertile in devices, an adept at repartee, and too light-hearted to be serious for more than five consecutive minutes. In a word, he was the most nimble, sprightly, ingenious and good-natured boy in the village. At the same time he was the most reckless of all boys, taking pride in rushing blindly into danger. Indeed, he affected a stoical contempt for every kind of danger; jumped backwards off empty schooners with his eyes shut; made friends with the most unamiable and untractable bull-dogs in the place; lowered himself into deep, dismal, and unsafe old wells to wake the echoes with his bellowing voice, and busied himself about the punching and shearing machine, the steam engine, and the circular saws in the Columbia foundry. He knew every sailor of all the vessels that put into the harbor; knew every engineer and brakeman on all the trains that passed through the village; knew the name and disposition of every respectable dog within the corporation; knew just where to look for the best raspberries and the most desirable fish-worms; but he didn’t know an adversative conjunction from an iambic pentameter.

To be acquainted with this boy was to like him. By Will and Charles he was actually beloved, and there was a mutual and lasting affection between him and all our heroes. He was always ready to lend them his counsel and assistance when agitating their dark schemes, and when any waggish trick was in view, or when anything ludicrous was going on, his approval and support were the first consideration. Some of the urchins tried to equal Stephen’s feats of dexterity and to ape his sallies and whimsicalness; but it could not be done, and they only exposed themselves to his derision and made themselves more envious and unhappy than before. Stephen was familiarly known as “Stunner;” which, being offensively vulgar, we, out of respect for the reader’s feelings, have transposed into Steve.

If this were the history of a sailor-boy, Steve would assuredly be the hero; and we should eulogize him so unweariedly and enthusiastically that the heroes of romance, goaded to frenzy by the praise thus lavished on him, would commission their ghosts to haunt us. But Steve has nothing to do with sailor-boys; and as we do not wish to incur the displeasure of such heroes,—much less the displeasure of their ghosts,—or to compel anybody to fall in love with him, it will be the wisest course to leave it for impartial readers to praise him or to condemn him, to love him or to detest him, as their judgment may determine.

George and Marmaduke, to the best of their ability, cultivated the science of grammar; Stephen cultivated the art of dismembering grammars, and of blazoning their fly-leaves with hideous designs of frolicsome sea-serpents; wrecked schooners; what seemed to be superb pagan temples suffering from the effects of an earthquake; crazy old jades painfully drawing along glittering circus vans, with coatless little boys—some took them for monkeys, but probably they were circus prodigies—sitting in the roof and driving; and all sorts of monstrosities. We say grammars: Stephen’s designs were to be found chiefly in them. But he was no niggard of his illustrations; for, to his noble nature, it mattered little whether the book which he illuminated belonged—so long as it was old and dilapidated—to himself or to somebody else.

Last and least was James Horner. He was an infamous coward—in fact, so infamous that although fifteen years old, even a sudden and loud sound would unstring his nerves and twitch his facial muscles. As a natural consequence, he very often heard sudden and loud sounds—in fact, he heard all sorts of hideous and unaccountable sounds. But the boy was by no means an entire fool; and he made greater progress at school than might be expected. It is a lamentable fact—which, however, must be chronicled—that his playfellows studied to excite his fears, and played off some of their most farcical, sly, and atrocious tricks on him. Will and Charles had too much self-respect and sound moral principle to snub the boy; but Steve seemed to take a savage delight in snubbing him and in turning him into ridicule. But, though many a sportive trick was played on him, his confidence in mankind was still so great that he was very easily deceived, it made no difference how often he was mocked. In this confidence the others might well have copied after him. On the other hand, his disposition was unamiable, and under undue provocation he was a dangerous boy, who could harbour revenge. Nevertheless, he hardly ever ventured to interfere with the boys’ schemes, but blindly and humbly followed wherever they might lead. Why our heroes tolerated his company can be explained on only two grounds: first, because they liked to play tricks on him; secondly, because this history requires such a character. When not called Jim, this abused lad was branded “Timor,” which shows how notorious he was for cowardice. But in process of time this classical gem became corrupted by the ignorant into “Tim.”

These five were the school-fellows and associates of Will, and generally the six might be found together. It was only natural that they should quarrel sometimes; but, for the most part, they were at peace with themselves and all other boys. They were all full of mischievousness, but taking everything into consideration, were as free from sin as boys can be.

There is another youth that figures in this tale—Will’s cousin Henry. He is perhaps the most distinguished hero. However, it is not yet time for him; and as it is dogmatically and impolitically observed a few pages back that it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate, he must not yet be introduced.

---

One bright morning Will mounted a frisky little pony which had been reared on the farm, and had always been considered Will’s own—not till Mr. Lawrence might see fit to sell it, but for all time. The pony was young and unaccustomed to a rider; but Will and his father thought it would be prudent to ride it on the road.

In this belief, however, they were mistaken, for the horse no sooner found himself on the open road than he set forward on a wild gallop. At first this was very pleasant, and Will enjoyed it heartily; but when he attempted to check the animal’s speed a little, he became aware that it was past his control.

“Whoa, Go It! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Will screamed beseechingly.

This only incited Go It to greater efforts, and he redoubled his speed; while Will collected his wits, stopped shouting at the refractory animal, and exerted all his strength and dexterity to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. The mettlesome horse was soon galloping at a furious rate; and the luckless rider seeing no one to whom he could appeal for help, gave himself up as lost, and endeavored to prepare for the worst.

Very soon he drew near a company of little ragged orphan boys, squatting in the imperfect shade of a rail fence that boarded the road, gingerly sticking pins into their ears and assiduously polishing their war-worn jack-knives in the soil. These heroic little ones involuntarily dropped their instruments of torture and diversion, and beheld horseman and horse with ecstatic admiration and delight. Then they collected themselves and cheered—cheered so lustily that the horse snorted with fright, wheeled to the left, and vaulted over the fence at a single bound—a feat which called forth a roar of acclamation from the delighted juveniles.

“Can’t he jump!” chuckled the sharpest one.

“Jump?” echoed another. “Guess he can; beats a circus horse all hollow!”

“I wish he’d jump again,” sighed the smallest one.

“Ah,” exclaims the punctilious penman of romances which have lofty and sonorous titles, becoming solemnity, inflated and funereal style, and blood-freezing adventures—which, alas! too often end in smoke, or at most, in a marriage that any fool could have foreseen—“Ah, how can this paltry scribbler, this ‘we,’ discourse with this shameless levity, when his hero is face to face with death!”

Instead of evading the penman’s intended question, the following significant and sapient comments are offered for his leisurely consideration:

It is sheer nonsense for a writer to work himself up into a state of mad excitement about the “imminent dangers” that continually dog the foot-steps of his persecuted heroes. So long as the hero is of the surviving kind, he will survive every “imminent danger,” no matter how thick and fast such dangers may crowd upon him. No assassin was ever hired that could kill him for any great length of time; no vessel ever foundered that could effectively swallow him up; no bullet was ever run that could be prevailed on to extinguish the spark of his life.

After making such comments, for the reader’s peace of mind we deliberately affirm that every man, woman, and child figuring in this tale, is equally imperishable. Having made this candid remark, the reader cannot impute it to us if he spend a sleepless night while perusing this tale.

But it would be wiser to drop idle declamation for the present, and return to Will and his frisky pony.

When the horse so nimbly cleared the fence, Will’s feet were torn out of the stirrup, and he was thrown violently off the animal’s back. As he lay sprawling on the ground, he looked as little like a hero as can be imagined. As may be supposed, however, when he struggled to his feet he was as sound as ever. On casting a glance around him, he found himself in a field of ripe grain, through which the riderless pony was rushing madly.

Perhaps a good romancer, regardless of reason and effect, would have made the boy “heroically” stick to his horse through thick and thin. But a more careful romancer, like a good physician, would have an eye to the boy’s system and feelings, and not suffer him to be tortured any longer.

Will carefully rubbed the dirt off his clothes with the palm of his trembling right hand, while his eyes darted fierce glances at the gaping and grinning juveniles outside of the fence, and despairing glances at his horse within the field. This nice operation consumed three minutes, and might have consumed many more; but a man who was at hand flew to the rescue.

A blustering old harvester, the man who worked the field, saw the forlorn young cavalier standing dejectedly by the fence, and the frolicsome pony plunging through the ripe grain, and straightway fumed with awful indignation. His first proceeding was to catch and stop the pony, after which he turned his attention to Will. Will advanced a step or so to meet the puffing farmer and the quaking horse, and was about to mumble his thanks, when the farmer snappishly cut him short, crying hoarsely:

“You miserable scamp! How dare you jump into my fields like this? See, will you, what damage your beast has done!”

“But, sir,” said Will, “it is not my fault at all; it is an accident. The pony ran away with me, as you yourself can see.”

“Accident? What have I to do with your accidents? Don’t you know better than to ride runaway horses? Don’t you——”

“Course he don’t; don’t know beans;” yelled one of the little gamins, encouraged by the farmer’s bullying words to speak his mind. Or perhaps he thought to win favor with the farmer by reviling the hapless horseman.

“Course,” chimed in the one who lost and found the most jack-knives. “Course, what business did he want to git on to a runaway horse for anyway?”

“I wish I had a horse, too,” whined the most “ingenuous” one.

“Guess he ain’t—”

“Stop that!” thundered the farmer. “Stop that, and get away from this!”

The little coves snatched up their jack-knives, but did not stop to look for their pins, and darted off without a word. They ran a few yards and then squatted in the shade of another fence corner.

The incensed farmer, also, meekly followed by Will leading the horse, moved farther up the border of the field.

When they halted, Will a second time said it was all an accident.

“Accident or not, I’ll put the law on your track, I will you awful sneak! See here, how old are you!”

“I shall be fifteen in September,” said Will, with boyish eagerness to appear as old as possible.

“I didn’t ask how old you would be in the future, nor how young you were in the past,” snapped the furrow-faced chuff.

Will always kept a careful account of his age, and consequently was able to answer promptly: “My age, then, is fourteen years, ten months, and seven days.”

“Very good,” said the farmer. “Well, I am only calculating,” he added slowly and coolly, “whether you are old enough to be sent to jail.”

Doubtless, the hard-hearted wretch expected to see Will blanch at this implied threat. But, if so, he was wofully disappointed, Will having his own motives for maintaining his equanimity.

“You shall be punished, that is certain,” continued the farmer. “Come along, now; don’t stand there like a stationary scarecrow; come along.”

Even as the violent old fellow spoke, he made a movement to seize Will by the coat-collar. But this was more than human nature could bear; and with a nimbleness that defied capture, Will sprang back, stood his ground within nine feet of his persecutor, and began boldly:

“If you mean for me to leave this field, sir, I am quite willing to do it; but it is not necessary for you to be so rough with me. Because my horse jumped over the fence and trampled the grain a little, you needn’t treat me like a convict. You yourself have trampled nearly as much as my horse; and the whole put together doesn’t amount to much.”

“Stop there!” cried the farmer. “I was obliged to tramp the grain to catch your horse. I didn’t wait for you to do it,” insultingly.

“Yes, sir,” Will said humbly, “my head was bumped pretty hard. My father will settle your account, but if you would like to put me into prison, don’t let my youth interfere with that.”

Meanwhile, Will was leading his pony towards a gate in the fence, which he reached as he finished speaking.

The farmer, who followed close behind, said sharply, “You are a pretty fellow to use such language as all this to me; and it is only a waste of breath for you to speak at all. According to you, it was great bravery to jump my fences and rush through my oats; but the law will think otherwise, and as certainly as I live, you shall be clapped into prison, or else pay whatever sum I may choose to fine you. I swear it.”

“That is only what I can expect,” Will said resignedly.

“Oh, you think I am not in earnest, perhaps, but you will soon find that I mean exactly what I say. What’s your name?” he asked, abruptly and uneasily, as if struck with a sudden suspicion.

“William Lawrence.”

The questioner was literally stupified. A look of dismay overspread his grim visage, and he stared helplessly at Will, as if the boy had been metamorphosed into a devouring monster.

For a full minute the jurist was mute, and when he did speak, meekness had entirely taken the place of bravado. “You’ll excuse my little jest, won’t you, Mr. Lawrence? It is a shabby trick to joke so seriously, I know; but it was only an idle joke, and doesn’t signify anything. I was some vexed to see the horse racing through the grain, but only for an instant. How thankful we ought to be that you escaped unhurt! To be sure, it was rather venturesome for me to rush forward and stop the furious horse,” he said, guilefully, “but that is nothing compared with your gallantry in keeping your seat so heroically. In fact, Mr. Lawrence, I may say, without flattery, that you are a real hero, and that this agile little pony of yours is the most spirited that I ever saw. Indeed, he’s worth his weight in gold! Why, he vaulted over this fence like—like—like a bird!”

In spite of himself, Will, nearly laughed at this labored simile. But he was a strange boy, and enjoyed the faculty of suppressing his laughter till he pleased to discharge it. Then he would laugh so uproariously that whoever chanced to overhear him took him for a merry lunatic.

But there were other considerations why Will did not laugh at the suppliant joker. In his turn he was astonished, astonished at the reckless indifference with which the man could lie. But he was not to be cajoled so easily; boy though he was, such oratory made no impression on him, and he continued unmoved, even when deferentially addressed as “Mr. Lawrence.”

Seeing that Will made no reply, the depraved wretch pursued in the following strain: “I should like you not to mention this joke of mine, for already I have the name of being an incorrigible practical joker. Besides,” subtilely, “you would not like the boys to taunt you about this runaway.”

“Oh, I think I saw several boys looking at me as I flew along,” Will, replied carelessly, “and before this they must know all about the runaway. Very likely the little boys that moved up towards the village have spread the news, and perhaps they have told the beginning of your joke,” artlessly. “At any rate, I must tell my father of this capital joke, Mr. Jackson, for he likes nothing better than a good joke.”

The farmer now began to suspect that Will was nearly as shrewd as he himself; and seeing how useless it was to palm off his threats as a little joke, he abruptly took a different course, and said, with marked and significant emphasis, “See here, Mr. Lawrence, I do not wish to frighten you; but promise not to mention this, and I will let the matter drop.”

Will believed that he, also, could use emphasis, and said, with what he meant to be great significance: “You have not frightened me, Mr. Jackson, because I knew you as soon as you came up to me. It isn’t worth while for me to promise anything, for there is my father climbing the fence up near the little boys, and they’re speaking to him. This way, pa,” the poor boy shouted, with exultant and heartfelt thankfulness.

Mr. Jackson looked hopelessly in the direction pointed out by Will, and muttered doggedly, “Baffled by a boy! He didn’t believe in that kind of a joke, eh! Yes, that’s where I overshot the mark.”

How it was that Mr. Lawrence so seasonably hove in sight will be explained further on. The writer, in common with all staunch romancers, bears a rooted and virulent hatred to villains, and wishes to dismiss this one as soon as possible, though he (this villain) is to appear again in the next chapter.

Mr. Jackson blanched when Will gave his name, but now he grew black, and seemed to be overwhelmed with consternation. He felt too cowardly even to run away.

Mr. Lawrence soon joined them, and his first question was, “Will, are you hurt?”

“Only a very little, pa,” said Will.

“How thankful I am for that!” Mr. Lawrence exclaimed fervently. “You must have had a narrow escape, however.”

“A very narrow escape,” Mr. Jackson echoed tremulously.

Mr. Lawrence, assured of his son’s safety, now directed his attention to the farmer. “Well, Mr. Jackson,” he said suddenly, “what seems to be the matter?”

This blunt question so unsettled the practical joker’s mind that he faltered, and at last said, with much emotion: “Matter, Mr. Lawrence?—Why, it, it was—you see—I mean, he came,—that is, the horse—the horse—the horse, the horse, the horse, the horse——”

Seeing that the embarrassed man was likely to continue repeating these two words till delirium set in, or till his tongue whizzed equal to the fly-wheel of a powerful steam-engine, Will cut him short by saying, with pardonable spite: “Pa, he’s trying to tell you that he wants pay for the damage that Go It did.”

To many persons this might have been unintelligible, but not so to Mr. Lawrence. Gathering a hint from the little boys’ gibberish, at a single glance he had taken in all that had happened, and knowing the violence of Jackson’s temper, he could guess at what had passed between him and Will.

“Let us have a settlement, Mr. Jackson,” he said.

The farmer seemed to have lost his wits; he could not carry it high, as he had done with Will. Mistaking the tone in which Mr. Lawrence spoke, and impelled by a guilty conscience, he dropped on his knees and said pleadingly, “Oh, don’t turn us all out; don’t turn us all out! Don’t sue me; I’ll—I’ll pay all the rent!”

Further comment is needless; the reader will now readily understand why Mr. Jackson’s roughness gave place to humbleness and wheedling when he heard Will’s name, and why he so dreaded an interview with Mr. Lawrence.

The latter gentleman spoke kindly to the supplicant. “Come, come, Jackson,” he said, “don’t behave like that. In this free country you shouldn’t play the spaniel to any man. I promise that I will not bring an action yet; I will grant you one more chance. But come to the house to-morrow, and we can talk over the matter at leisure. Don’t explain; I see just what has happened to my headlong boy: but so long as he is not hurt, I am satisfied. As you hardly know him, I can, from your looks and his, figure the scene you have had. Now, I don’t like him to be abused by—but no; never mind that; it can be pocketed. As for the actual damage done, I think you will admit that ten dollars will settle your claims, and I am going to pay it to you.”

Mr. Jackson gathered himself up, looking crestfallen and foolish, and was so penetrated with gratitude that he refused the money, till forced to receive it. According to Mr. Lawrence’s notions the man would now be induced to make strenuous exertions to pay all that he owed.

Father, son, and pony, now started for home. Having made their way out of the gate into the road, Will found the forlorn little gamins, hungering for even a glimpse of the frolicsome leaper, still lingering in their second position. Poor little fellows, they had not ventured even to climb the fence. They knew Mr. Jackson—and Mr. Jackson knew them. They cast reverent glances at Go It, but they beheld Will as one might behold a traveller returned in safety from a voyage to the planets.

“I’ll bet he ketched it!” muttered a light-legged member of the group, with a chuckle that disclosed he spoke from bitter experience. “Won’t the rest of ’em wish they’d seen this show!”

The horse Mr. Lawrence had ridden was tied near these urchins. Both mounted him, and then, leading the runaway and headstrong horse, the picturesque cavalcade set off.

“Pa,” said Will, “I’m sorry this happened, and that you had to pay out that money.”

“No, Will: say nothing about that. I blame myself for letting you mount the half-broken nag; I should have had more prudence. But tell me how it all was, and just what Jackson said to you.”

Will did so; and in the recital he waxed so eloquent that the rogue was set forth in his true colors, and appeared so frightful a monster that Will himself shivered with horror.

Mr. Lawrence groaned, but, with great presence of mind, said instantly: “Don’t shake so, Will, or you will lose your balance. Oh, if I had known this sooner, I should have done differently! But it is too late now to punish the unprincipled wretch.”

The reader, perhaps, is curious to know how it was that Mr. Lawrence arrived so opportunely. When too late to call him back, he saw that Will was utterly unable to manage the pony. Not stopping to answer any questions, he hastened to the stable, threw himself on the fastest horse, and gave chase. Will, of course, was far in advance, but Mr. Lawrence easily ran him down, and found him in Jackson’s field, as related.

Mr. Jackson made his appearance at the time appointed; and although he brought only a part of the rent due, his deportment was so humble and respectful; his promises were so fair and encouraging; and his apologies were so ingenious, yet in reality so hollow and ridiculous, that Mr. Lawrence’s indignation was softened; and the wretch was heard and dismissed with a mock and stiff politeness that galled him.

Mr. Lawrence was very forbearing with such of his tenants as were hard pressed; but this man’s threats to Will had provoked him extremely, and now, as he brooded over his wrongs, he determined, as soon as the change could be effected, to lease the farm to a more honorable man.

When a romancer reaches the colophon of his book, he is the most virtuous of men, the most impartial of judges, parcelling out reward and judgment with superhuman justice. Now, according to the laws of romance, Mr. Jackson, in cutting that field of oats, ought to be thrown from his reaping machine, and so cruelly mangled that his most implacable foe would melt into tears of anguish.

But, alas! it cannot be, as unkind fate compels us to bring him once more before the reader.

---

The news of this, Will’s latest exploit, spread among the village boys, and reached Steve’s ears. This worthy felt sorry for Will—so sorry that a bright idea struck him.

“Here’s a fine chance to show Will how much I think of him!” he mused radiantly. “Yes, I’ll get a whole gang of us boys together, and we’ll swoop down on the old villain, and we’ll do it! Oh! what roaring fun it will be! I guess it’ll teach the old loon to leave honest boys alone!”

Steve began to work with a will, and soon mustered a squad of idle and saucy little wretches, who sported Guy Fawkes’ head-pieces, and were not overstocked with either virtue or clothing. Nevertheless, their apparel had at least one merit—it could be slipped on or stripped off in a trice.

Moonlight would be too bright for his dark schemes, and he waited impatiently for a starlight night. Three days passed with unheard of slowness. Then Steve convoked a council of his satellites; and after having enjoined a promise of secrecy, he laid bare his plot in all its details, and asked if they would stand by him.

“Guess we will!” they chorused, mad with delight; and Steve needed no further assurance of their co-operation and fidelity.

About seven o’clock this worthy young avenger set out, his “gang” at his heels, and one of the heroes who had seen Will taken over Jackson’s fence bringing up the rear. This warlike company had no drums, but their fast-beating hearts served instead; and they marched intrepidly onward, measuring three miles an hour. Some were burdened with sundry stout cords, ropes and straps; others were sweating under armfuls of pine and cedar boughs, which Steve had gathered that afternoon; one lank stripling was poising a couple of wooden levers on his grimy palms; Stephen himself was freighted with a clumsy engine, which he fondly imagined was a piece of wondrous mechanism—in fact, one of the six mechanical powers.

Having left the village, they struck out for a pasturage about a mile and a half to the right. Captain Stephen directed his forces to march in single file. In vain: they were but raw levies, and in spite of all his discipline, would persist in straggling or in huddling together. But in good time they drew up at the seat of war, with every regiment intact, and eager to engage the enemy.

As the atrocities they practiced there are unworthy of the most abandoned renegate, it would be more seemly to lay aside martial idioms,—particularly, as we do not wish to commit ourself,—and speak of them as Steve’s minions.

They peered warily—perhaps, quakingly—to the right and left, but not seeing any bugbears, human or otherwise, they boldly and jauntily flung themselves over the fence of the pasture field.

Steve advanced a few steps, then halted, laid his burden gently on the ground, and whistled a sigh of relief. His followers threw down their burdens; and, after having ejected a great deal of spittle—purposely on their hands, accidently on the ground,—they raised a grating “ye-oh-heave ’er,” that reminded the “mournful whip-poor-will” of a rooster’s first crow. Now they were ready to go to work.

In front of them was an old well; disused, perfectly dry, and partly filled with rubbish. The top was covered with two layers of bulky and heavy planks, so that the well was safe. Notwithstanding the number of workers, it was no easy task to remove these planks; but the avenger and his “gang” griped their handspikes, and toiled, groaned, and puffed with a will.

What is toil to a boy when mischief is on foot? In play there are no difficulties that a boy cannot surmount. Ah! if he would only do his duty as willingly and efficiently as he builds a dam, how much happier he and others would be!

As soon as the planks were removed, the boughs were dropped one by one, so evenly that they formed a soft couch, only twenty feet from the mouth of the well.

Then Steve took up the engine he had constructed, and set it up over the well. This engine was neither more nor less than a thick and roundish bar of tough wood, with each end playing in the apex of a rude and frail scalene triangle. To impart strength and dignity to this contrivance, the triangles were connected at their base by a long and stout fork-handle; but whether this fork-handle served to keep the triangles apart or to hold them together, Steve did not know. A triangle was placed on each side of the wells mouth, over which the bar and fork-handle directly passed. Steve pinned his triangles fast to the ground, but finding them still unsteady, he had them propped with the planks. Then he announced that it was ready for use. The bar revolved, it is true; but somewhat reluctantly, and, alas! it wobbled!

We have said that Steve considered his contrivance one of the six mechanical powers. Let us examine it further and see if he was right. It might have been intended for the wheel and axle; but, if so, it lacked the wheel. Or perhaps it was the pulley, with an extremely elongated wheelless axle, the triangles taking the place of the block.

“Now, boys,” said the deviser of this novel engine, “see what comes from knowing science! I learnt how to make this from George’s Philosophy. It tells you all about powerful mechanics—no, mechanics powerful—no,—well, I guess it’s all one in meaning. Now let us go to work.”

With a Zulu holloa they rushed towards a couple of donkeys that were grazing peaceably in the inclosure.

It will not require a particularly long-headed reader to guess that these boys were trespassing on Mr. Jackson’s domains, or that the avenger sought to retaliate on him by means of the innocent donkeys.

Steve endeavored to ward off the stings of conscience by telling himself that he was avenging Will; while in reality he was indulging his love of fun and mischief. His warty and freckle-faced followers were actuated by the same motive.

They surrounded the donkey nearest them, resolved to take it prisoner. After a violent conflict and four or five barked and bruised shins,—for the beast was agile, as well as headstrong, and resented this nocturnal abduction,—the seizure was effected, and Stephen adroitly slipped on a halter. While some tugged at this halter, others pushed warily and perhaps bootlessly; still others noisily threatened; one entreated; but, in compliance with their leaders instructions, none belabored. The school-boy avenger did not wish the poor animal to suffer “more than was necessary!”

In a short time the donkey was brought close to the abandoned well. Then the cords, straps, and ropes were picked up, and so securely bound on the poor animal that it was utterly helpless, and at the mercy of Steve’s youthful desperadoes. This was a hazardous attempt, considering all things; but again, what does a properly organized boy care for danger, when bent on mischief?

Stephen, weltering in sweat and already smarting from blisters and bruises, then called a halt and addressed his “accomplices” in the following approved strain: “Well, boys, we’ve nearly done it! Oh! won’t Mr. Jackson be mad when he finds his donkey in the well! Won’t he dance and holler! I know it’s a scurvy trick; but then he is so scurvy a man, it serves him just right. I guess he won’t know what to say to himself when he sees the ass here! At any rate, it will take him all the forenoon to get him out!”

Gentle reader, please to observe how rich that harangue is in notes of exclamation, and ask yourself if they were not invented as a safety-valve for the emotions of overjoyed schoolboys and bloody-minded or weak-headed romancers.

While speaking, Steve had run his hands into the pockets of his most serviceable garment. He now drew his hands out of those pockets and took up a strong rope, one end of which he made fast to the donkey, and the other end he passed over the bar of his engine. Then, the rest helping him, the donkey was slowly and carefully lowered into the well. Poor beast, how foully it was degraded!

Then those wicked boys laughed—laughed till the tears came.

All but Steve. He could not laugh. The core of an apple that he had eaten seven years before rose in his throat and choked him—him! the most uproarious and unconscionable laugher in the village!

But the truth is, Stephen was beginning to relent. Now that the deed was actually done, he saw his trick in a different light and conjured up all sorts of horrors. What if a frightful thunderstorm should come on during the night, and the donkey should be struck by lightning? What if the sides of the well should cave in and fossilize it? Or, what if Jackson should discover the guilty ones and transport him, as “ringleader,” to Botany Bay?

These and many other disquieting thoughts rose in the boys mind. He bitterly repented of his folly, and no longer considered himself a hero. He pitied the donkey with all his heart; and if he had not shrunk from provoking the derision of his uncivil and hard-hearted minions, he would have drawn it out of the well and turned it loose.

Thus we get an insight into Stephen’s nature. His love of fun often ran away with his better judgment; but as soon as the mischief was done, he suffered, more than any one believed, from the agony of remorse.

But he roused himself and said, “Now, who will slide down on the rope and set the donkey free? Of course we mus’n’t go away and leave the poor beast tied fast; for it might get sick and die if it couldn’t move. You agreed to do it, Pat Murphy.”

“I reckon we want our ropes and things back again, anyway,” growled a practical strap owner.

“Certainly,” Stephen assented, with a faint smile. “Well, Pat?”

“Shure an’ I’m willin’ to stick to my bargain; only make haste, for mebby the old feller ’ll be after prowlin’ around to look to his beasts.”

This was enough to disquiet every member of the “gang.” One excitable boy, a famous seer of ghosts, instantly beheld a myriad of Jacksons, hobgoblins, and banshees, hovering dangerously near. In his terror he uttered a cry of deprecation—which so dismayed little Pat, who was then in the act of descending, that he lost his hold on the rope and had a fall of several feet. But the soft boughs and the ass so broke his fall that he received no hurt.

Honest Pat’s mind must have been disturbed by a presentiment; for, just at this conjuncture, Mr. Jackson, who was taking a by-path to the village, entered the field from another direction. Being still at a distance, he could not make out the boys clearly, but he could hear their voices. Now, this Mr. Jackson was not famed for his discretion; and instead of creeping upon them slyly, he hallooed at them from the place where he stood.

Then, for the first time, the boys caught sight of him, and a panic, which soon became a stampede, ensued. Setting up a dismal shriek of consternation, the whole “gang” dashed to the fence, squeezed through it, and ingloriously fled.

Little Pat heard the hurly-burly, and, clutching the rope, attempted to scramble out of his narrow quarters. But, alas! no one was holding the upper end of this rope, and it had not been made fast; consequently, it rattled down into the well, leaving Pat a prisoner. Poor little Pat! Believing he was deserted, he gave way to despair, yelled like a fish peddler, and frisked about like an untutored dancer, now on the boughs, now on the donkey, beating time to his piteous yet horrible screams for mercy. This loosened the strap round the donkey’s snout; and an horrisonous bray of righteous indignation smote upon the night air, lending variety to a scene already sufficiently ludicrous. But one bray was not enough to relieve the donkey’s pent-up emotion, and between its bellowing groans Pat might be heard vociferating shrilly, “Tain’t me! I ain’t done nothin’! I never did! It’s him! It’s Steve! It’s Ste-e-e-ve!”

A swarm of outraged hornets could not have hastened the flight of Steve’s redoubtable desperadoes more than the united exertions of Pat and the donkey. They flew towards the village as if hounded by demons, and were speedily out of sight and earshot.

But where was Stephen! On the impulse of the moment he also took to his heels; but when he reached the fence his native courage and honor returned. He stopped, sighed profoundly, and nervously broke a splinter off a loose rail. He did not know whether this splinter would be of any service to him, but he mechanically carried it in his hand as he slunk back to the well. There he sank down in a heap, and awaited Mr. Jackson’s coming with much perturbation. However, he retained sufficient presence of mind to pluck a tawdry feather out of his hat band, and then set the hat fairly on his head. Wretched trickster! he did not consider how dusk it was, or that Mr. Jackson would probably be more concerned about the donkey than about a rattle-pated schoolboy’s headgear.

Now, if ever, he should have indulged in laughter, for the scene was risible in the extreme. Ah! if he had been an innocent bystander, he would have overnoised even Pat and the donkey. Alas! he felt his guilt, and was more inclined to cry than to laugh.

“Oh,” he groaned, “why did I mix myself with such a pack of nasty little cowards? I knew all the time that I had no business to meddle with that ass. Ass?—why, I’ve made an ass of myself! Where will it all end, and what will Mr. Jackson say to me or do with me?—Well,” with a sigh of relief, “there’s one good thing: the ass will be let loose again!”

Stephen’s gloomy surmises were cut short by Jackson himself. “What does all this mean, you scoundrel?” he roared. “What are you doing here? Where are those boys? have they all gone and left you?”

At that instant another hideous bray, followed by a moan of mortal terror, reverberated in the well, and the new-comer turned and looked in. A boisterous laugh burst from his lips when he discerned the occupants of the well. “Oh! this is rich!” he exclaimed, so jubilantly that Stephen was stupified with amazement.

Encouraged by Mr. Jackson’s merriment, timorous Pat began with redoubled energy. “It’s him! I hain’t done nothin’; so don’t tetch me, Mr. Jackson, for I ain’t had nothin’ to do with it. Lemme go, please!”

Turning to Stephen, Jackson again demanded an explanation. Stephen did not give a “succinct account of the whole proceeding;” but Jackson gathered from his faltering confession that a trick lay at the bottom of the affair.

“Yes, I understand it all,” Jackson replied; “but I don’t see your motive. Well, little boy, I might put you to considerable inconvenience; but it’s so capital a joke—so deep, so surprising, so silly—that I will let you off. The grudge I owe Lawrence is paid now; paid in full.”

This last expression was probably not intended for Steve’s ears; but he overheard it, and asked, with a start, “What about Mr. Lawrence, sir?”

“‘Lawrence,’ eh? Nothing about him; except that he must settle with you. That’s one reason why I’m letting you off. Yes, just take your bill and your story to him; for its his place to deal with you.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Steve made answer, becoming more and more perplexed.

“I see that we don’t understand each other very well. I don’t know why you put his donkey into this well; and you don’t know—well, what? You seem puzzled about something; but when I refer the matter to Mr. Lawrence, I think you’ll find that he will understand it well enough to send for a magistrate. Then come a lawsuit and all sorts of good things.”

When a youthful offender or an ignorant person was the object of his resentment, this man loved to enlarge on the terrors of the law; but when he himself was the culprit, he shrank from the bare mention of the word.

“His donkey, did you say?” Steve said, utterly confounded. “Oh! please to tell me what you mean!”

“I mean what I’m talking about. You know, of course, the donkey in that well belongs to Mr. Lawrence; you know, of course, he pastures both donkeys in this field, which is leased to me. He will show you that you can’t make a plaything of his donkeys, and to-morrow you will be wanted. If this maltreated beast belonged to me, I would have ample satisfaction!” savagely.

“I see your mates have left you,” he continued. “Well, I hope you will enjoy yourself here with the donkeys. I should like to stop and see the sport; but I can’t, I must go on. You had better haul the donkey out—if you can. Of course, I’ve no time to help you; and it’s no concern of mine, anyway; so, good night! Hurrah! your rope is out of your reach! This is an interesting case indeed! Well, you and your little friend there can amuse yourselves by endeavoring to adjust matters. You won’t be entirely alone; for the quadrupeds grazing in this field will occasionally come and gape at you. The moon will soon be up; appeal to it!”

Then, with a mocking bow, he turned on his heel and made off, leaving Stephen alone with his troubles.

And this was the retaliation which Steve had planned so craftily! How wretchedly his scheme had failed! Instead of imprisoning Jackson’s donkey, he had imprisoned that of his friend Mr. Lawrence. Truly, here was a case that called for many interjections—for more, in fact, than hapless Steve could muster.

And he had been detected in the very act. What would be the consequences? Would those dark threats of Jackson’s be put into execution? What penalties might the law inflict on him? What did the Law say about feloniously dumping another man’s donkey into a disused well, anyway? Alas! Steve did not know.

But, oh! comforting thought! Jackson plainly did not suspect anybody of playing a trick on him. And it was well for Stephen that it was so, as a suspicion of the truth would have stirred up the waspish old blusterer’s fury.

“O dear!” groaned Steve, “I wish I was at home! I wish I hadn’t done it! I wish—O dear! Well, I will never have anything more to do with those mean sneaks. Why couldn’t they have stuck by me? Now they’ll go and spread it all over, and what will people think of me? What will become of me? Well, I shall be laughed at for a month, that’s very certain.”

This doleful soliloquy manifests that Stephen was but a boy, and that he was but human. A man’s great care is (or should be) to guard his reputation: a boy’s great care is to keep from becoming a laughing-stock. This is a bug-bear which haunts him (the boy) from the day when masculine apparel is first girded on him, and which prompts him to do many things that, to his elders, are foolish and incomprehensible. It is for this reason that a well-organized boy, however learned he may be, prefers to use simple words of Anglo-Saxon origin, when he knows he could make his meaning clearer by using Latin polysyllables.

But Steve’s disquieting speculations were interrupted by Pat, who whispered warily, “Is he gone?”

Now, Steve did not know that this is a polite expression, and he answered snappishly, “Yes, he has gone.”

This was good news to little Pat. Forgetting that he had just been accusing Stephen to Mr. Jackson, he began beseechingly: “Lemme out, Steve! Lemme out, that’s a good boy. I al’ays knowed you was a good boy, Steve, didn’t I? Lemme out now, and I’ll do anythin’ fur you.”

This reminded Stephen of the labor that lay before him. How was he to get hold of the rope? The one could not climb up the sides of the well; the other could not climb down; all the cords were bound on the ass.

However, Stephen searched his pockets carefully, and lighted on a new and strong fish-line, with a fish-hook affixed. The fish-line was not long enough to reach down to Pat; but by noosing the end to one of the handspikes that difficulty was removed. There was now direct communication between the two boys. Pat was rather fidgety when he saw the fish-hook dangling under his nose, but he caught it fast to the rope, which Stephen carefully and fearfully drew up.

If that fish line had parted, those boys and the writer would have been placed in a sorry plight.

The rope was no sooner made fast than Pat scrambled up it, caught up his shabby coat, and exercised his limbs of locomotion so nimbly that he was nearly out of sight before Steve could recover from his amazement. This was a whimsical way of manifesting gratitude!

“How he scampers!” Steve muttered. “What a pack of little wretches, and what a mean man Jackson is! I wanted to slide down into the well myself; and those boys know I agreed to let Pat do it on purpose to please him. Well, I’ve done with ragamuffins!—I say,” he bellowed to the nimble runaway, “you needn’t run so fast; I don’t want you: you’re no good, anyway.”

Pat knew that Stephen longed for his help; he knew that a boy, when left in the lurch, speaks somewhat as Stephen had spoken, and yet Pat hurried on.

Poor Pat! he was not aware that his unique and valued button ring, the fruit of several hours’ toil with boiling water, a broken-bladed knife, and a spoilt file, had been fractured in the well. Unconscious of his loss, he clapped his hands over his mouth, and bleated playfully and hideously.

Stephen now racked his brains to hit upon some feasible plan of taking the donkey out of the well. Suddenly a happy thought struck him. His eyes sparkled with joy. “My stars!” he exclaimed, “I see the very way to do it! I can manage it after all.”

Then he mused on Jackson’s behavior, and another thought occurred to him. “I suppose he believed I couldn’t get either of ’em out of the well. Yes, of course he did; and he thought I should have to go to the village for help. And then I wonder if he’d have set the magistrate and folks after me! Ten to one. Well, I can beat ’em all, and keep out of trouble, too.”

Yes, that was the point. If he had been necessitated to seek help, he would have been taught a wholesome lesson; but when his own precocity suggested a way out of the difficulty, he was only hardened in his mischievousness, and he admired his great cleverness.

Without further deliberation the deserted and frustrated avenger slid down the rope, took the halter and a few straps off the donkey, coiled them around his own neck, and then clambered up.

This was a foolhardy thing for him to do; for if the fastenings of the rope had given way, he and the donkey world have been left to their own resources. But the generality of boys delight in doing such things. With a careless “I’ll risk it,” they rush headlong into danger, day after day.

Then Steve set about carrying his plans into effect. He sidled up to the other donkey and chased it over the pasturage till the moon rose. This was weary work for him, but at length he caught the donkey, slipped the halter over its head, and led—or rather coaxed—it up to the well.

“Well, old fellow,” he said, addressing his first captive, “I didn’t make any preparations to haul you out, but so much the better. Now, keep your mouth shut, and don’t be afraid, and you’ll be kicking around this field before no time. Now, heave away, boys! Ho! Heave ’er!”

He then pitched on the two lightest planks, exerted all his remaining strength, and placed them so as to form a floor or platform, extending from the transverse bars of his engine to the curb of the well. Thus half the well’s mouth was covered.

Next, the donkey last caught was hitched to the rope, and by dint of entreaty, induced to draw its yoke-fellow out of the gloomy prison.

“Saved!” cried Stephen, in tragic accents, as he turned both donkeys loose. “Saved! And I have saved you!”

And then he fell to turning summersets, chuckling, and disporting himself like a noodle. “Oh! this is fun!” he said.

A heavy fall brought the boy to his senses; and without more ado he gathered up his belongings and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle,” as only a boy whose conscience is tranquillized can whistle it.

The would-be avenger had expended so much of his strength that he was not in a condition to attempt to replace the rest of the planks, or to carry home his beloved pulley.

“Mr. Jackson may arrange those planks himself,” he muttered. “As for the pulley—well,” with a last fond backward glance, “I suppose he’ll knock it up into kindling-wood.”

It was late when Stephen reached home that night. Notwithstanding his proneness to be mischievous and to play monkey tricks, he was free from deceit and he was not deficient in moral courage. As soon as he and his mother were alone, he made a clean breast of it, then walked off to bed, with tears in his eyes, but loving his mother better than ever.

Although Mr. Jackson, while returning through the field that night, should have precipitated himself into the half-open well, there to perish miserably, yet he did not. The writer does not thirst for the blood of his villains; but—lest he should be accounted utterly devoid of common sense—the following statement is offered, by way of consolation, for the punctilious readers perusal:—

Whilst replacing the planks, which were permeated with humidity, he contracted a catarrhal cold, which did not yield to the apothecary’s patent medicines till the next spring.

When Mr. Lawrence heard the particulars of Stephen’s prank, and the “motive,” he laughed heartily.

Of course the peace-officers did not gain or lose by the affair; and Steve observed oracularly, “I knew he was only fooling. He didn’t scare me a bit!”

It is not necessary to waste time in tracing Jackson’s career further—in fact, as he never annoyed our heroes again, he may as well be formally thrown overboard now.

It was hoped that this experience would have a wholesome and lasting effect on Stephen. Alas, no! Stephen Goodfellow was one of the many irrepressible incorrigibles that flourish in this country.

---

As the school was now closed for “summer holidays,” the boys were free to do whatever they pleased.

One bright forenoon the heroic six, full of merry jokes, set out on a stroll to the woods. Charles and Will led the way, and why they made for the woods will be seen further on.

“Now, boys,” said Charley, “wouldn’t it be fun if we should have a real adventure to-day? something romantic; something worth while—eh, Marmaduke?”

Marmaduke’s eyes flashed like a persecuted hero’s whose case appears hopeless. However, he did nothing desperate, he simply said, “Boys, some day or another we shall light on something romantic—something awful! I’ve always felt it. Then we will pry into the mystery until we unravel it.”

Will, Charles, and Stephen, furtively exchanged glances. If their designs should succeed, Marmaduke would have a mystery to pry into sooner than he bargained for.

Just as they entered the woods they heard voices; and on looking about they caught sight of three little boys sitting astride of a decayed log. One seemed to have a paper of raisins, from which he was helping himself and the other two.

“Hush!” Charley whispered. “They haven’t seen us yet; so hide behind the bushes, and I’ll play a pretty trick on them.”

Without the least hesitation, without looking to see whether they were sitting on grass or thorns, they crouched down. Charley “knew himself,” and the boys obeyed him promptly.

Seeing that they were all concealed, he advanced boldly towards the three small boys.

“Hollo, Tim!” he exclaimed. “What have you got there?”

“Raisins,” Tim answered laconically.

“Where did you get them?” was the next question.

“Maw sent me fur ’em.”

“Oh, I thought so. Now I can go to work,” Charley muttered, in a theatrical “aside.”

“What do you want of me, and what are you a-saying to yourself?” demanded Tim, becoming questioner in his turn.

“I’ll give you a whistle for one of them, Tim,” Charley said, so eagerly that the boys in hiding wondered. Why should such a boy as Charley wish to purchase a single raisin? Was this a mystery? It seemed so mysterious that they pricked up their ears, and impatiently waited for further developments.

Tim’s thoughts are unknown. He replied indifferently, “Well, if your whistle’s a good one, I guess I don’t mind; but I’ve give these here boys so many raisins that Maw’ll think that there new store-keeper cheats worse’n the old ones. Let’s see yer whistle, anyway.”

Charles turned his back to Tim, and searched his pockets for the whistle, a scrap of paper, and a forlorn lead pencil that had once done duty as the bullet of a popgun. Having found these articles, he scrawled a few words on the scrap of paper.

“Can’t you find the whistle?” Tim inquired unsuspectingly.

“I’m coming,” was the answer.

Then the gaping ambushed five saw him slip the battered pencil into his pocket, take the paper in one hand and the whistle in the other, and step briskly up to Tim.

Tim reached out the bag, and Charley ran his hand which secreted the paper far into it. Then he drew out his hand—empty.

“No, Tim,” he said, “I think you have given away enough already. But here’s the whistle, all the same. Now, run home, like a good boy.”

Young Tim tried his whistle somewhat doubtfully, for he was at a loss to know why it should be given to him for nothing. Big boys did not make a practice of throwing away good whistles on him, unless they looked for some return. Generosity so lavish astounded him.

But the first toot assured him of the soundness of the gift; a smile of pleasure flitted over his grimy face; and he exclaimed joyously, “Man! It’s bully, ain’t it?”

“Oh, it’s a good one,” Charley averred.

“I—I was afraid p’r’aps it was busted,” Tim acknowledged.

Then young Tim rose to his feet and wended his way homeward, piping melodiously on his whistle, unconscious of the bomb-shell hidden in the bag; while hard behind him, licking their daubed lips as they went, trotted the two parasitical boys who had been junketing on his mother’s raisins.

Charley, grinning and chuckling, hurried back to his comrades.

“I hope I’ve taught that thieving little sneak-thief a lesson he will remember,” he said, with a smile intended to be exceedingly moral.

“Why, what did you do? What on earth’s the matter? Tell us all about it,” cried a chorus of voices; “we could see something was up, but we didn’t know what.”

“Well, boys,” Charles began, “I have often caught that rascal feeding little boys, and big ones, too, from parcels of raisins, sugar, and other things; and I thought I would make him smart for it some day. So to-day, when I saw him at it again, I thought of writing something on a scrap of paper, and getting a chance to slip it into his bag. You saw me do that, perhaps. What I wrote was, ‘O, mother! please to forgive me! I stole your raisins and things, but I won’t do it no more.’ When his mother empties out the raisins, she will find that, and it will be enough for her. Then she’ll put two and two together, and then, most likely, she’ll put Tim and his skate-straps together. That is all, boys.”

“Good for you, Buffoon!” exclaimed Stephen, to whom this knavish trick was highly amusing. “Mr. Tim will ‘pay dear for his whistle’ this time—unless your confession should slip out of the bag!”

“No, I put it down nearly to the bottom,” Charley replied. “He won’t be likely to open his bag again, either, for he has eaten and given away about half of the raisins.”

“I say, boys,” said Stephen, “isn’t that what they call philanthropy?”

“What?” Charles asked eagerly.

“Teaching a boy that it’s wicked to steal.”

“No; it’s the vice of perfidy!” George replied, so promptly that a keen observer would have said, “This boy is impelled by envy; he wishes he had been guilty of the same vice.”

But George was in the right; Charley’s trick was inhumanly treacherous.

“Did you intend to take one of his raisins?” Jim faltered, a wolfish look in his eyes.

Charles’ lips curled with disdain; his nostrils dilated; virtuous indignation strove for utterance. But he knew that he could not look so injured that the boy would hang his head in shame; so he resolved to annihilate him by a single word. To gain time to hit on an expression sufficiently awful, he demanded threateningly:

“What do you mean, Sir?”

Jim’s nerves were always weak, and this jeering question so unstrung them that he spoke the first words that occurred to him. (By the way, the phrase was a favorite one of his, one that he used on all occasions; and according to the tone in which he said it, it implied either doubt, indifference, petulance, fear, or profanity!)

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” is what he said.

“You hadn’t better!” Stephen thundered with lowering brow.

The reason why Steve espoused Charley’s cause so readily was because the boys still teased him about the donkey; and he rejoiced to find that another—that other his schoolfellow Charles—could be guilty of the misdemeanor of playing tricks. Truly, the abusive adage, “Misery loves company,” is right.

“It is bad enough for the store-keeper to handle the poor woman’s raisins; and Charley’s fingers don’t look so clean as a store-keeper’s, even;” George observed tauntingly.

“I guess Charley’s fingers are cleaner than Tim’s” retorted Stephen, always eager to play the part of champion to some aggrieved wight, especially so now.

But Charles perceived that his joke was not appreciated as it should have been; and he turned beseechingly to Will, his firm upholder in all things. “Will,” he said, “what do you think about it? Did I do wrong?”

Thus appealed to, Will made answer: “Capital joke, Charley; but you have begun your career as a reformer rather early in life.”

This did not satisfy Charley, and he took to his last expedient.

When a renowned general becomes entangled in a snare which he himself has spread; when he is caricatured and lampooned in all the newspapers, and without a friend in all the world, he makes an impassioned and well-punctuated declamation in his defence, in which he sums up the difficulties that lay in his way so eloquently; sets forth the rightfulness of his cause so manfully; represents the disinterestedness of his actions so carefully; discourses on the purity of his designs so volubly; harrows up the feelings of the audience, and the disguised editors so subtly; exposes the fallacies under which his defamers labor so jocosely; and reiterates his asservations so persistingly, that all except the most malevolent and perverse are brought to coincide with his views.

Charles was now “on his defence.”

“‘The end justifies the means,’ you know. Now,—”

“That’s what the Jesuits profess, and they are—” George interrupted. But, not knowing exactly what the Jesuits are, he stopped short, and Charley went on without further interruption.

“Now, that Tim was a rascal, but this will reclaim him. He has been cheating his mother on a small scale for more than a year. She has sent him to all the different stores for her groceries, but with the same results. He is the only one she has to send, and he has a chance to steal at his leisure. Now, if I had informed her that her son does the cheating, what would have become of me? Ten to one, she would have called me a sneaking talebearer, and told me to march off home and get my father to belabor me. As it is, Tim will probably get the drubbing. There now, wasn’t my ‘confession’ plan just the thing? Of course it was. You boys must be blind, or crazy, or silly.”

No oratory here, gentle reader. But the speaker was only a boy; if he had been older and more experienced, he would not have omitted to remark, incidentally, that he had acted “on the impulse of the moment.”

However, his reasoning, especially the latter part of it, was conclusive. “Quite right;” said all the boys. Then, as time is very precious to a schoolboy during the holidays, Stephen added, “Now let us go on; we’ve fooled away too much time doing nothing.”

Will and Charles taking the lead, the explorers advanced deeper into the woods; and taking an obscure pathway, soon found themselves in a quarter scarcely known to some of the boys. Heaps of brush-wood blocked up the way, making their progress very slow. But this only exhilarated their adventurous spirit; and they tore through the brush with smiling contempt for sundry bruises and scratches.

All except George, whose mind was still exercised about Charley’s “vice,” and who took no interest in squeezing through underwood, and stumbling over heaps of loose and rough brush-wood.

“Look here, boys,” he said, “why should we overstrain our limbs and muscles here, when a little way to the north there is a capital spot to rest? We can learn nothing here, and by floundering about like top-heavy goblins we shall improve neither our minds, nor our morals, nor our garments. At any rate, I am going back; I am not going to make an Amazon of myself.”

Sooner or later, the most inattentive of readers will be struck with admiration at the artifice which Charles displays in working on the feelings of his comrades.

In this instance, though George had actually turned back, he paused irresolute on hearing Charles exclaim sarcastically, “George, I’m afraid you will never become an explorer. Why, if you only knew it, we are penetrating a jungle now! Think of that! We in a jungle!”

Though coaxing would not have influenced the sage, this happy expression did. He cast a sweeping glance in search of Charley’s “jungle,” and then went on with the others.

Charles was satisfied, for he knew that however much the boy might grumble, he would not turn back again.

A certain word George had spoken, excited Steve’s curiosity. False pride never restrained Stephen from asking for information, and he said eagerly, “George, what’s a namazon?”

George’s smiling face discovered that the right cord had been struck at last, and, always willing to enlighten the ignorant, he answered benignly, “Steve, an Amazon is a West African woman warrior, who fights instead of men. And she fights with a vengeance—harder than a sea-serpent that I read about the other day. Why, she wears a sword called a razor, and it’s so strong and heavy that she can chop off an elephant’s head at one blow with it!—At least” truth obliged him to add, “I guess she could, if she chose. And she will scale a rampart of briers and thorns,—no, brambles the book said,—of brambles, all in her bare feet, and come back all covered with blood and chunks of bramble, but with her arms full of skulls!”

Steve’s look of horror only encouraged George to make greater exertions. But he was forced to pause for want of breath, and his hearer inquired in alarm, “Where do they get the skulls? Do they kill folks for them?”

Now, it was very inconsiderate, very disrespectful, very wrong in Stephen to put such a question. George was wholly unprepared for it; and it rather befogged his loquacity. After a doubtful pause, he began blunderingly: “Why, as I told you, they scale a rampart of bri—brambles,—sixty feet high, sometimes—and come off with those skulls. I—I believe they are put there beforehand; and the feat is to pounce on them.—I mean, the feat is to scramble over the brambles barefooted. It is a valiant achievement!”

Then a bright idea occurred to him, and he continued impetuously, “Why, Steve, you must be crazy, crazy as an organ-grinder! You don’t know what a skull is; you don’t know a skull from a dead-head. Why, I’m astonished at you!”

“Oh, of course. I see what you mean now; yes, of course they do;” Stephen assented with alacrity.

“I might lend you my book about all these things,” George graciously observed.

“Oh, thank you!” said Stephen with sparkling eyes.

Meanwhile, the heroes had been pressing deeper and deeper into the “jungle,” and would soon be at their journey’s end. But at this critical juncture the sage’s evil genius again preyed upon his spirits, and he muttered with filial concern: “A boy’s first duty ought to be to take care of his clothes, and—”

“But it never is!” Steve broke in.

“—and here we are destroying ours!” the sage continued, disregarding Steve’s impertinent interruption.

“Never mind the ‘garments,’ George,” Charles replied. “Your old coat looks as if it might survive the frolics of a hurricane; so, ‘banish care and grim despair,’ as the second page of our new copy-book says.”

This was indiscreet in Charles. The aggrieved George was but a boy, and, naturally, he was angered. “Look here,” he exclaimed, “what is your object in dragging us through this dismal place? Where are we going? If you should lead the way to a python’s lair, should I be bound to tag blindly after you?”

This reasoning was forcible, and for a schoolboy, poetical. Will—knowing that their scheme would be disconcerted if George should turn back, and fearing that he would—bounded forward a little way, and then flung himself plump into a certain pile of brush.

“Oh!” he screamed. “Come here! Boys, hurry! Something rattles all around under me!”

The others quickly urged their way towards him, some in real, some in pretended alarm.

George now proved himself a hero. The vigour of his intellect overawed the others, and they made way for him respectfully. At length he was about to derive some advantage from the ponderous tomes whose pages his grimy thumbs had soiled so often.

“Yes,” he said, “I know just what you heard. Don’t be excited, Will; keep very cool. It’s a rattlesnake! The great naturalist says they skulk around brush-heaps and tangled bushes, ready to pounce on their prey. I know, for I’ve read all about it; and luckily, I am prepared for the worst. Now, where are you bitten, and I’ll cauterize it.”

And the speaker busied himself by stripping his pockets of their treasures, which he dropped on the ground at random.

Jim, however, did not view the matter so philosophically. At the bare mention of the word rattlesnake, he turned and tore wildly through the “jungle,” crying piteously: “Oh! I’ve got the chills! I’ve got the chills! the chills! the chills! awful chills!”

---

Meanwhile, Will stepped out of the pile of brushwood and said, somewhat foolishly, “Now, George, don’t be foolish; you know well enough there are no rattle-snakes in this part of the country. Put up your instruments of cauterization, and let us all take a squint under these ‘brambles.’”

Poor George looked so crestfallen that Will almost relented. “Didn’t you get bitten?” the former asked blankly.

“What could bite me, George!” Will asked mildly.

“Well, I don’t know what,” George said savagely, “But Charles Goodfellow declares this is a jungle; and we all know, I hope, that poisonous lizards, and reptiles, and centipedes, and tarantulas, and all hideous creatures, live in just such a place as this—I mean in jungles. So, what disturbed you in that brush-heap! Answer that question!—Botheration!” he continued furiously, “here you’ve led me into this horrible place, made fun of me, and contradicted me—you, who have no practical knowledge. And now, to cap it all, I’ve lost my jack-knife, the best jack-knife in these regions, and I got it only yesterday!”

Poor George! One thing after another had happened to irritate him, and he was now in a savage mood. In fact, he was really angry, and the boys had never seen him angry before.

Charles felt a pang in the region of his heart, and Stephen was very uneasy.

“Never mind George,” Will said soothingly. “I’ll help you to look for your knife as soon as we see what is under the brush.”

He stooped over the brush-heap, groping, and then said with awe, as he supposed: “Boys, here are bones! It was bones that rattled under me!—George,” conciliatingly, “what does that mean?”

“Well, I don’t care what it means. My knife is worth more than all the bones you can find in a whole summer; and I intend to look for it in spite of everything. You boys may squabble over those bones till—till—any time you choose.”

Charley was dismayed. George was too sullen to catch at the bait, and their little scheme seemed likely to end ingloriously. Was it for this that they had toiled and plotted?

But Marmaduke, who had hitherto held his tongue, now came to the front, saying eagerly, “Bones! Bones! Let me see!”

He rummaged among the branches, and while Will, Charles, and Stephen, crowded around him, George looked on “askance.”

“O-o-h!” gasped Marmaduke, “what a horrible discovery we have made! Bones! Bones of a mortal! Boys,” with emotion, “Some one was Foully Murdered Here.”

“O-o-h!” echoed all the boys, as in duty bound.

But Steve gave a horrible chuckle, and whispered to Charles, “It works already with him; and,” pointing his elbow at George, “he’ll come around.”

The pain in Charley’s heart was not very deep-seated, and it now made room for exultation. The searcher was left to his own musings, and the rest were absorbed in the discovery.

Marmaduke paused a moment, to realize the awfulness of the word murder; then, snatching up the branches, he nervously tossed them out of the way.

A little heap of white substances was disclosed which—to Marmaduke’s heated imagination—were all that remained of a human skeleton.

Now, the writer has so much respect for the feelings of his readers that he herewith warns them, in all honesty, that what is immediately to follow, borders upon the grisly; and that consequently it would be well for the queasy reader of fashionable fiction to skip the rest of this chapter and all of chapter the twelfth.

Marmaduke was now in his element; he felt somewhat as a philosopher does when a new theory in science bursts upon him; he was happy. All boyish bashfulness forsook him, and he began rapturously:—

“Yes, boys, we have made a great, an appalling, discovery! We have certainly stumbled on a dreadful mystery! It now remains for us to solve this great problem, and gain immortal renown. In the near future, I see us sitting in the courts of law, with the ferret-eyed reporters; the grim lawyers; the shrill-voiced foreman keeping order among the honest and eager jury; the gaping multitude; the venerable judge; and the quaking murderer, found at last, and his crime unearthed and fastened on him by us. Then the grand old judge, in solemn tones, will turn to us and say, “You are now called upon to give your conclusive evidence, and charge the crime—long hidden, but brought to light at last—upon the trembling, cringing wretch—this murderer!” Oh! what a proud day it will be for us! Now, boys, an unpleasant duty lies before us, and if any of you wish to withdraw, do so at once. As for me, I will not drop the matter till the mystery is cleared up, and the murderer gibbeted. But who ever wishes to take a bold part with me, must continue in it till justice is satisfied. Then together we shall reap the fruits of our zeal.”

This neat little speech amply repaid the boys for all the perils they had encountered in penetrating into Charley’s jungle. Their delight is beyond our description. Charley, Will, and Steve, exchanged winks most recklessly.

Marmaduke, however, paid no attention to them, but drew a scrap of paper and a lead-pencil, which he always carried, from his pocket.

“What are you going to do now?” Steve queried of the romance-stricken boy.

“I am going to make a memorandum of this affair,” was the answer.

“Where is Jim?” Will asked, thinking that youth would enjoy the scene.

“Oh,” said Steve, “his old and convenient disorder seized him when George spoke of rattle-snakes, and he skedaddled.”

“Yes,” supplemented George, who was recovering his temper, “there is a good deal of philosophy in his complaint; for, like most things cold, it vanishes away when heat is applied; and, to generate heat, Jim sets out on a run.”

“Good for you!” Charley said promptly, hoping to induce the boy to examine and pass an opinion on the bones.

But George still felt too sore—perhaps, too obstinate—to yield.

“Look here, Marmaduke,” he said, “how are you going to prove that somebody was murdered here? Perhaps he was gobbled up by an unprincipled and broken-down quadruped—say, a shipwrecked gorilla.”

“Yes,” chimed in Steve, “perhaps a devouring monster of a famished sea-cow fell on him, and gnawed him, and wallowed him around, and extinguished him!”

Marmaduke was now being jeered in his turn. Considering that he was only a boy, he put up with their banter with stoical unconcernedness; but his quivering lips and humid eyes betrayed that he felt it, and turning to Will, he said, “In such a case as this, you always find something to discover the guilty one,—a pet dog’s collar, a monogrammed metal tooth-pick, an old card case, a seal-ring, a gold watch-key, a book-mark, a—a—or something else.”

“Why, have you found anything?” Steve asked quickly.

No answer. Silence, in this instance, was peculiarly golden; more, it was sufficient.

“Then how do you know, and how are you going to prove it was murder?”

Then Marmaduke’s indignation was roused, and he scowled upon Stephen so malignantly that this worthy quailed, unable to bear up under that “steady gaze of calm contempt.”

Turning to Will and Charles, the persecuted boy thus explained himself: “Not long ago, I read in a story how an awful murder was cleared up, simply because a cast-off wig, that had fallen into the murderer’s pocket by accident, and belonged to nobody in particular, fell out again at the fatal moment, and proved the whole crime. You boys might read about such things from to-day till your hair turns gray; and you would find that some little trinket, some trifle, turns the evidence one way or the other, and decides the verdict. Why, where would the romance of romances be, if it wasn’t so?” excitedly. “I mean to hunt for that lost trinket when I get ready; it has been here all this time, and it isn’t going to disappear forever now.”

“How long has it been here?” asked George, laying stress on the word how.

“When we stumbled on this mystery,” pursued Marmaduke, too much absorbed to regard George’s incivilities, “it was about ten o’clock.”

Having made a note of this, he went on, “the scene was a tangled glade in a thick jungle.”

Another note.

“Fit scene for such a tragedy!” Charles commented.

“The bones were hidden under brush-wood, which I removed,” and again his pencil was heard to scribble a note.

We say, scribble. The boy intended to “polish” his notes at a more convenient season.

“I say,” interrupted Stephen, “it isn’t your place to take all these notes; you ought to inform a constable, or, a bailiff,—or, better still, a detective!”

Marmaduke scowled at him again, but held his peace.

“Oh, I see,” continued Stephen, bent on teasing the poor boy; “you’ll hand your notes over to some detective, so that he’ll see how clever you are.”

Then Marmaduke spoke. “Boys,” he said, “I’m astonished at your levity and indifference in such a case as this.”

With that, he laid down his pencil and paper, and again examined the bones, handling them with reverence, and muttering what he supposed to be their names.

For some time a fierce conflict had been raging in George’s mind—curiosity battling with wounded vanity. Which would triumph?

While Marmaduke mumbled, George took mental notes. Soon a broad grin spread over the latter’s face, and he said, “Look here, boys; Marmaduke has named five thigh-bones, and thirty-one ribs! I know, for I’ve kept count. Now, the skeleton of a common man has no business with so many thighs and ribs; and Marmaduke isn’t supposed to know the name of a bone as soon as he sees it. Now, I’ve studied into the matter, and I ought to know something about it. I’m just going to see them for myself.”

Curiosity had triumphed!

This disconcerted poor Marmaduke. He made room for George, and sat down beside Charles. A look of dismay appeared in his face, and he pondered deeply. “Boys,” he said, “did you ever hear that anybody was ever murdered in this neighborhood?”

“Never!” shouted all four in a breath.

“I don’t care; it is a skeleton!” doggedly. “I know as much about it as he does,” glaring at George, “and I will stick to it, it was a skeleton.”

“Whatever it was it’s not a skeleton now!” roared George.

Do not take alarm, gentle reader: this history is not the register of any squabbles among savants: the writer is too tender-hearted to inflict such a punishment on you.

George resumed: “That is a foolish conclusion; for there are no human bones here at all! Not a skull, nor a radius, nor a—, a—”

At this point Charley interrupted the osteologist by saying, “George, don’t tell off the parts of a skeleton with such disgusting gusto; have a little respect, even for bones.”

“Well, I will;” George assented—the more willingly because he found himself less versed in the matter than he had imagined. “But it was very foolish to think of murder. Boys, do you want to know what it is? I know; I’ve solved your mystery: I’ll reap all the glory!” he cried, so excited that he lost control of his voice.

“Well, what is it?” Will asked sharply, perhaps afraid that George had detected the fraud.

Groundless fear; George was quite as credulous as Marmaduke.

Wild with excitement, his voice rang out loud and discordant. He shouted, at the top of his voice, “Boys, it’s a fossil!”

“A what?” Charley demanded.

“A fossil! An extinct animal! A mastodon! A gyasticütûs! (If this word is new to the reader, let him raise his voice and pronounce it according to the accents.) Yes; here is a field for a geologist or naturalist; not for a humdrum, cigar-puffing, bejewelled detective!”

And the Sage’s form dilated with pride and complacency. His day had come. He could have it all his own way now; for what did the others know about geology?

Poor George! his imagination was as powerful as Marmaduke’s; but he could not equal him in oratory.

As for the boys, they were thunder-struck; this exceeded their utmost expectations.

Steve was the first to speak. “Don’t yell so loudly, George; there are no geologists near to hear you;” he said.

Then again the boys, Marmaduke excepted, huddled around the bones, and expressed unqualified astonishment.

“What will you do about it, George?” Will inquired.

“Travel them around the country for a show;” Marmaduke sneered.

But George was too much elated to regard such gross indignities. Let the envious little simpleton rave; hadn’t he read that every great man has his enemies and detractors? He would ignore the mean wretch and his insulting words.

But for all his philosophy, the words did rankle in his breast.

“Well, what will you do?” Will inquired again.

“Ship them to a geologist, I suppose;” George said jocosely.

“Excuse me, George,” Charles broke in, “but I always used to think they found those old mastodons under ground; and these bones are on the ground.”

“EH?”

“Yes; don’t they dig all those horrid old telegraph poles of bones out of the ground?”

George rose, looking very black and wretched. That important fact had escaped him. His castle in the air toppled down as Marmaduke’s had done, and all his grand ideas were buried in its ruins.

“Perhaps I’m wrong,” Charles continued; “but,” proudly, “I’ve read a little about such things, and I believe they come out of the ground. But you know better than I do, George; so, which way is it? Which of us is right?”

It was cruel for him to ask such a question. George, however, was not a boy obstinately to persist that he was right, when common sense said that he was not. In justice to the boy, it must be observed that, although he was fully aware of his own cleverness, he did not consider himself infallible, but was at all times open to reason. To be still more explicit, he was apt to change his opinions very abruptly.

“No, Charley,” he said, “you are right enough. But I’m astonished to think we should take those paltry bones for a fossil! Why—”

“I never did!” Marmaduke interrupted furiously.

“Why,” he continued, “of course not! A real fossil would be ashamed to look at such bones; they would be to him what a minnow’s bones are to ours. I—I didn’t think, boys; I know what a fossil is, of course.”

George was miserable if he fancied any one thought him ignorant in any matter; and he was about to give the natural history of the mastodon, when Steve diverted the train of his thoughts by asking, “If it ain’t a fossil, what is it?”

“Well, it’s part of the remains of some very rare animal, I should say,—a bison; or a wolverine; or a jackal; or—or——”

It is the needle that breaks the camel’s back. Will, Charles, and Stephen could suppress their laughter no longer; they shouted and guffawed like a desperate villain who fancies that he has married the heroine and lodged a bullet in the hero’s heart.

“What’s the matter?” George asked in astonishment.

Another roar of laughter was the only answer vouchsafed. Steve lay on the ground, and enjoyed the joke heartily; Charles and Will endeavoured to take it more moderately.

Then George’s suspicions were excited. “You boys are fooling me!” he cried angrily. “Why did you coax Marmaduke and me to look at these bones? Why did you make us speak about them? Why didn’t you have anything to say about it? Boys, why did we come here at all?”

After these direct questions an explanation could be delayed no longer. The three looked guilty and ceased from laughing. “We never coaxed you to look at them; and you arrived at your own conclusions. You know you did, George,” said Charles.

Will explained as follows: “George, we fixed those bones ourselves, on purpose to draw you and Marmaduke out. We gathered up a heap of bones of all kinds, from all over, and brought them here, and covered them up with boughs. Then we six came here to explore the jungle—we found them—and you did the rest.”

The victimized boys did not swoon away, but they were more or less exasperated. That was the worst feature in the “trick”—it provoked anger in George and Marmaduke, and lessened their faith in human nature.

“What a mean, hateful, nasty set of fellows!” was George’s natural comment. “They must be fond of prowling around bone-heaps; and handling them; and carrying them up and down the country; eh, Marmaduke? They ought to be told off—clapper-clawed—bastinadoed—soused in hot water! We’ll fix them some day; won’t we?”

“Only,” Steve observed, “we didn’t finger the bones as you two did; we put them into a basket, and then brought ’em here, and dumped ’em out—without once touching ’em! Therefore, I advise you both to lather and scrub your paws with all the soap you can find. Scrub ’em hard, boys, if you know what is good for ’em.”

“Yes,” put in Will, “it is polite to handle skeletons and fossils, but not vulgar bones like these.”

“Oh! what scurvy boys!” was all poor George could say.

As for Marmaduke, he held his tongue, being too sulky, too horrified, to do more than gurgle out a few dismal moans.

“Well, boys,” said Charley, “it will soon be dinnertime; so let us cover up these mysterious old bones, and start for home and the soap-barrel.”

But George was recovering his equilibrium, and he thirsted for revenge. A light that boded no good to his deceivers shone in his eyes; he was bent on mischief.

“Look here, boys,” he began, “how do you know these are the same bones you accumulated? We stumbled around in the woods just as it happened; we found ourselves here; and Will suddenly found himself floundering in this brush-heap. Can you prove this is the place you think it is?”

“It is not likely that there are bones under all these bushes, George;” said Charley. “Besides, we took notice where we were going, and we’ve often been here. I’m certain its the place.”

“No; you can’t be certain; absolutely certain;” George replied, so positively that Will, who lacked firmness, wavered, and helped George’s cause by saying, “Well, the place has a different look, I believe! But these must be the bones, surely!”

“It looks different, because we generally came in from the south;” Steve returned. “Any boy with two eyes isn’t going to get so far astray in these woods.”

“Well, what if it isn’t the place we think it is?” Will asked.

“Oh, you will have to give in that it’s murder,” Marmaduke said. “I knew it was murder all the time. How do you know that nobody was ever murdered here? You don’t know anything about bones; George is most likely right.”

“Don’t make a fool of yourself again, Marmaduke; let us go home,” Steve growled, and he had taken a step homeward, when a long and doleful cry, followed by a hideous and piercing scream, electrified all the boys.

They conjured up all sorts of horrors, and the bravest turned pale with fright. Suddenly the “glade” became gloomy and awful; bugbears lurked in the shadows; ghost stories flitted through their heads; the “Phantom Ship” loomed before them.

“Don’t talk about murder, boys; I can’t stand it so coolly as you can,” Will entreated, with a quavering voice that told of abject terror.

“Oh, what is the matter?” Steve gasped. “What could yell like that?”

At that instant another shriek, more appalling than the first, rang out, rose and fell in grating discord, and then died away in the distance.

It was sufficient; Charley himself believed that they had made a mistake, and had been desecrating a human skeleton. Was this the ghost of the murdered one, or was it the perpetrator of the deed?

Instinctively the demoralized heroes huddled together, and Marmaduke found comfort in whispering hoarsely, “Now the mystery is going to be solved. I knew it was mur—”

One more shriek! The ghost was very near them now, and its lungs were strong. But it labored under the disadvantage of a cracked voice; or perhaps it was not “in practice.” At all events, the sound was so wild, so awful, that they shuddered with horror—they felt their flesh crawl—cold chills ran down their back.

This is not exaggeration; the boys were not easily frightened; but the ghost—who was at an age at which the voice is subject to changeable and discordant utterance—was exerting himself to the utmost.

“I won’t budge, no matter what happens!” Steve declared heroically.

“No, we must stick by each other, boys,” Will added.

Once again the ghost found voice This time, however, it spoke—spoke in tones of fury. “Who dares to say there was not murder here!” was thundered forth. “Who dares to touch my bones! Let—him—be—ware!”

This was too much. With a yell of horror and dismay, four boys started to their feet and tore out of the “jungle,” morally certain that a band of furious demons was hard behind them.

“Its dangerous to stay,” Marmaduke said, “for that is poetry!”

Four boys fled; George lagged behind. “They’ve caught Jim’s disease!” he chuckled ecstatically. “I’ll teach ’em not to palm off old bones on me! Perhaps they’ll find that I can play a trick that knocks theirs all hollow!”

He performed a jig, and then set out in mad pursuit of his comrades.

We assign no reason for this act; but if the reader was ever a boy, he will understand.

George gave a yell of triumph; but it savoured so strongly of fear that Will, who had gained an open space, called out cheerily, “Don’t be afraid, George, if it’s you. Come straight ahead; here we are.”

“What on earth made such a rumpus?” demanded Stephen, already recovered from his fright.

“It must have been something; but of course we were not frightened;” said the others, whose fears the bright sunshine and the twittering birds had dispelled.

“The idea of saying I was afraid!” George roared. “I did that myself.”

“You made that noise?” gasped the four, in one breath.

“Yes, boys; I was the ghost;” George said complacently.

“And the murder—?” Marmaduke began.

“Never was!” George declared. “Boys, last night I was reading about ventriloquism; and I set to work and practised it. The man that wrote it said, ‘After five minutes’ practice, the veriest tyro will find himself able to rout a coward;’ and I guess he was right.”

“Botheration! we are sold!” Charles exclaimed, in surprise and mortification.

“Yes; you fooled me, and I fooled you all. We’re even now.”

Steve winced when the Sage again made reference to the learned ventriloquist’s weighty observation, and demanded indignantly, “Why didn’t you tell us all that before? Why didn’t you ventriloquism as we came along?”

“I was only waiting; I intended to do it before night,” George said honestly.

“You read too much, George;” Will commented sorrowfully. “We won’t try to fool you any more.”

“The worst of it is,” Charles said, with a droll smile, “is that one of us can’t make fun of another, for we all made fools of ourselves.”

“There’s Jim,” Steve suggested.

“So there is! Well, what about the murder?”

“It certainly is a skeleton,” Marmaduke said grimly.

“Well, to please you, let us call it an ‘open question,’” George, who was now in jubilant spirits, observed.

“Let us go back and look for the lost trinket; that will solve the problem;” Stephen proposed.

“Never mind the trinket, boys;” said Charley; “it will keep till another day. But give me a scrap of paper and a more respectable pencil than my own ruinous one, and I’ll write something worth while.”

Wonderingly, Marmaduke handed out the articles asked for, and Charley wrote as follows:—

Then, to prove his fearlessness, he retraced his steps to the bones, looking as brave as the hero of an orthodox love story, and pinned his notice to a scrubby tree hard by.

Tracking his way back to his schoolfellows, he said, “Boys, I’m hungry.”

Without more ado the heroes turned their faces homewards, each one except Marmaduke satisfied with his own exploits. Marmaduke jogged on ahead in sullen silence; and while the sage held forth, with schoolboy oratory, on anatomy, astronomy, geology, navigation, jugglery, osteology, whale-fishing, and ventriloquism, the other three amused themselves by carving baskets out of peach-stones, and wounding their index fingers in the hazardous attempt.

---

A few days later the boys gathered together and strolled down to the beach, hoping something there would turn up to amuse them.

Two or three schooners and a steamboat were moored at the wharf; but to-day they excited only a languid interest in the boys.

“If we could only go out on the lake,” Will murmured, “it would be fun.”

“Why, where should we go?” inquired one.

“Oh, just out on the lake for a mile or so; or perhaps we might round the point and have a swim in our swimming-place.”

“Well, then,” said Jim, always with an eye to safety and comfort, “why not get out your father’s boat? Wouldn’t it float us all? And it’s so safe!”

“Yes,” said Will, “it’s pretty safe—very safe in the boat-house. And the key of the boat-house is safer still, at home! That’s the way it goes, boys; and when I want a boat ride, I generally struggle around the best I can. It isn’t worth while to trudge home for it; because, most likely, we should find something else to do when we got there. But I think we can light on a craft of some sort if we scratch around a little.”

Although Will’s father owned a boat, the key of his boat-house was always kept at home; and poor Will was about as much benefited as are most boys whose fathers own boats, and ponies, and carriages.

“I hanker for a boat ride,” Charley said. “Let us take the punt.”

“The punt, of course!” Steve chimed in. “The punt is just what we want.”

“Oh,” groaned Jim, “the punt is dirty and worn out; and it leaks; and it tips over; and it won’t go; and an awful storm is going to come up!”

“Look here, boys,” the Sage began, “Jim’s half-way right about that punt; it’s vulgar! And besides, it isn’t so safe as it ought to be. Only the other day, I read about some boys that went out in a cockle-shell of a boat,—I suppose it meant a punt; only, as I told you, punt is very vulgar, too vulgar for this author, at any rate,—and all got drowned! And another thing; I’ve been reading about the weather lately, and I understand just how it goes now.”

And the Sage looked so knowing that it was difficult for the boys to suppress their laughter. He was now casting intelligent glances at the sky, the birds, the grasshoppers, the lake, and even the ground. Soon he spoke.

“Boys,” he said, as impressively as he knew how, “I’m saying nothing rashly, but deliberately and—and—correctly. I’ve observed the weather indicators, and a dreadful storm is coming up fast! A storm that will stun an equinoctial, and tear Germany all to pieces.”

And the meteorologist’s form swelled with science and satisfaction.

“Whereas, on account of these gloomy auguries, resolved: that we go home and hide in the cellar hatchway till the storm is over,” Charles commented.

“No, boys; I’m in earnest, and I don’t care to go out in the punt,” George said firmly.

“I want to inquire into this drowning affair,” Steve said, “Didn’t you read about it in a little gilt-edged story-book?”

“Well, yes, I did,” George reluctantly acknowledged. “But, what of that?”

“Only this, were they all bad boys?”

“Come to think, they were.”

“That accounts for it then. They always put those solemn tales in books for little boys that get sick, and can’t get out doors, to make ’em think that a sound boy is always bad, and that it’s better to be sick. But somehow the superintendent always make a muddle of it, and give all those books to little girls. My little sisters have got a big cigar box chock-full of ’em, endwise up, and I never got one!”

“Yes, I know them; each nine chapters and a preface long,” said Charley.

“They’re the ones,” said Steve.

“What do your sisters do with them?” Will asked.

“Oh, they mostly build houses with ’em on rainy days,” Steve answered. “Now, we are not bad boys—never were. We are a first-rate crew, so let us go. But to please you, George, I’ll go and ask that sailor about the weather. I guess he ought to know, if anybody’s going to.”

Without loss of time, Steve went up to a sailor a little way off, and inquired, “Bill, what sort of weather are we going to have to-day?”

“Weather,” echoed Bill, grinning good-humoredly. “Well, look out for a rough gale; pretty rough and pretty long. Yes, there’ll be an awful blow—a hurricane—a typhoon!” he added, remarking Steve’s dissatisfied looks, and mistaking their cause. “Why, who knows but that there’ll be a zephyr that’ll swoop the hold clean out of a vessel and carry a door-knob clean over a flag staff.”

Stephen appeared more dissatisfied than ever; and the jocose sailor, who wished to please him, was about to give a startling account of what the weather might be; but more than satisfied, Steve thanked him, and returned to the expectant five.

“Well, what does he say?” Will demanded.

Stephen dejectedly repeated what the sailor had told him.

George was not in a humor to say, “I told you so!” On the contrary, he was furious against the sailor. He allowed his indignation to boil for a few moments, and then exclaimed, haughtily, “What does that man know about the weather? Why, he doesn’t know any more about it than a caged dromedary. Why, he’s nothing but a lubber—a fresh-water sailor—a stone-boater—a—a—”

“And, besides,” chimed in Marmaduke, “that isn’t the way a genuine sailor talks. He must be some disguised—”

“Yes, of course it isn’t; of course he is;” George broke in. “He is some disguised vagabond, trying to humbug us fellows. Come along, boys; I’m going with you in that punt, through thick and thin, in the teeth of every lubberly sailor, and wishy-washy weather indicator, and high toned thunder-storm, that ever astonished anybody!”

This strikes the key-note to the Sage’s character.

But Stephen was angered. “See here, George,” he exclaimed, “that man is an honest sailor and a decent fellow, and you just let him alone!”

The boys, thinking time enough had been fooled away, then made a rush for the punt. This punt was an old derelict, heavy, unwieldy, full of chinks, and boasting of only two crazy poles, called “oars,” or “paddles,” or “sculls,” according to the humor of the wretch who gallanted them. No one could step into this craft without getting wet; and why it was kept there, or what use it was to the community, was unknown; for no one, except a few freckled and grimy street urchins, ever shoved off in it. Perhaps it was kept for them!

The six, however, had urged their way round the wharf in it.

“Come along, Jim!” Steve shouted, seeing that Timor lagged behind.

“Such a dirty boat to get into!” Jim objected. “And I’ve got my good clothes on, too!”

“Come, now, Jim, you and George are altogether too careful of your clothes. If they are so new and good, or so old and rotten, that you can’t go with us, then stay at home. Hurry up, you’ve got to go with us,” and Steve forced him in—an unwilling passenger.

And so the adventurous boys embarked in this dirty and dilapidated craft, with which Time, so to speak, had worked wonders.

“How are we to make the crazy thing go?” Will asked, when fairly afloat, looking around in vain for any motive power.

It is always thus with boys. Not till their own imprudence plunges them into difficulties, do they pause to consider what it all means, and what they had better do. When a boy is small he clambers upon the roof of his father’s barn, enjoys the perspective for one brief moment, and then ruminates as to how he shall get down. His mother sees him, and with tears in her eyes and dismay at her heart, tears out of the house, and exclaims, “Oh, Johnnie, why did you get up there?” Then the little innocent answers stoutly, “Well, ma, I reckoned if I could get up, I could get down again. Now, you jest watch, and I’ll climb down like a spider. Don’t be afraid, ma, it’s nice up here; I can see Mr. Morley’s shed,” (the object which bounds his view.) When older, he “volunteers;” girds on his uniform with swelling heart; breathes the word patriotism with lover-like tenderness,—and then! Ah! then he fears to confront his father.

“Botheration!” cried Stephen, “we’ve left those oars on shore! There they are; behind Reichter’s boat-house. Back her up, boys, and I’ll jump out and get ’em.”

Poor sea-farers! In their eagerness to be off they had “set sail” without the “oars.” After a great struggle, they succeeded in urging the punt back so that Steve could jump ashore. Then the dauntless young voyagers told off the crew, and struck out gallantly.

“Now, Tim,” said Stephen, “if you’ll take that old oyster-can, and bale out this vessel, you’ll feel so much at home that you’ll be happy; and bye-and-bye I’ll help you.”

“It has no business to leak,” Jim grumbled. “But I told you it did!” he added, triumphantly.

“Of course it does; what’s a boat, if it doesn’t leak?” Steve snorted.

On they went; drifting, paddling, and sculling; laughing and joking. It seemed so joyous and secure that even Timor lost his uneasiness. Before they had determined whither they were going, the abutments of the wharf were passed, and they were fairly out on the lake. The farther they went, the higher their spirits rose, and the more jocose they became. Not one of them troubled himself about a storm.

“Well, boys, we can round the point, and have our swim right along. Let us do it,” said Will.

“Yes, I haven’t had a swim in the lake for three weeks!” Jim solemnly declared, as he rested a few minutes from baling out the punt.

The others were duly astonished at this (we say it boldly) neglect of duty.

Steve, who was tugging lustily at his oar, called out to George, the helmsman: “Fetch her around, there, old fellow; brace about for the shore, will you? Don’t be so lubberly, now, or you’ll keel her over. Hug her up for the shore, I tell you!”

“Look here, Stephen Goodfellow, I can navigate this dingy without so many orders; so, let me alone!” the helmsman retorted, indignantly.

“Now, boys,” said Will, “if we are mariners, let us behave ourselves. A captain and his crew always act in harmony, like a drummer’s drum and a tooter’s horn.”

“Of course,” chimed in Charley. “They don’t wrangle like a couple of bumpkins of boys in their collarless shirt sleeves.”

“What’s a dingey?” asked Jim.

“I—I believe it isn’t in my dictionary; but it’s a good-for-nothing craft, that is always an eyesore to the noodle that harbors it,” said George.

The punt was headed for the beach; but a decided swell, which had hitherto been in their favor, was now against them, and progress was slow. By dint of exertion however, in the course of time, they grounded their craft at the water’s edge, and sprang out to enjoy their bath. The gloomy speculations about the weather were forgotten, and not one noticed the threatening clouds looming up in the west.

The old sailor had not trifled with them; a storm was brewing.

Although their swimming-place was somewhat difficult of approach, it was retired and delightful, the great resort of all the swimmers in the neighborhood. That was the only drawback; it was too much resorted to by swimmers. But to-day the boys had it all to themselves.

“Well,” said Marmaduke, as he plunged into the water, “we boys and the rest of the folks are acquainted with a good place to swim in, as the Frenchman would say.”

“Never mind the Frenchman now, Marmaduke;” replied Will; “English will float you through the world.”

Jim had hardly stepped into the water when he cried out, “Oh, boys, the water is too cold and nasty; I’m shi-i-ivering!”

“Well, then,” sang out Steve, whose head was bobbing up and down some thirty yards from the shore, “bundle on your clothes, and play the anchor to that punt. It’ll drift across the lake, if somebody doesn’t take charge of it.”

But it was cold and disagreeable, and their swimming was of short duration. They waded ashore with chattering teeth, and huddled on their clothes as quickly as their shivering limbs would permit.

“Boys, suppose that we go home by land?” Steve proposed. “It wouldn’t be so very far, and then it would be a change.”

“That’s a capital idea, Steve; but what would become of the dingey? We mus’n’t leave it here,” said Will.

“Then let us make off.”

Without delay the six took their places in the punt, and shoved off.

There was now not only a perceivable swell, but also a perceivable breeze. In a word, the scullers found that it was unnecessary to handle their sculls, for the punt drifted merrily seaward without a stroke from them.

“Look here, boys,” cried the Sage, prefacing his remarks, as usual, with his darling expression, “we could hardly make the shore a while ago; and now just see how fast we are drifting out! I don’t believe we could get back to our swimming place; let us try it.”

“Let us be glad that we are getting a boat-ride without work,” was Steve’s foolish comment.

But his fellow-voyagers considered the matter in a different light, and tried to back the oars. They could still do so, but only by putting forth all their strength. Their situation was now so critical that they turned pale with dread.

“O dear!” gasped Timor, too frightened to say more.

“Why didn’t we go home by land!” Steve ejaculated.

“Pity we didn’t do that,” Will said. “Before we could row ashore, the swell would be too much for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course it would,” George answered.

“And we’re almost too far from shore to swim to it,” Charles asked, rather than said.

“Couldn’t swim there without getting the cramps, Charley,” Will replied, in a hoarse whisper.

“Look to the west!” Jim cried in terror. “Oh, boys! I’ve got ’em! got the chills! dreadful chills! awful chills! O boys! we shall all be drowned! We’ll perish! We’ll be drownded! drownded to death! Oh! what a dreadful storm!”

All looked towards the west, and saw that a storm was almost upon them. The black clouds piling up were certainly ominous; the breeze was getting stiffer every minute; the lake was getting rougher.

“Well boys we’re caught!” Stephen said gravely. Poor boy! all his mirth had forsaken him.

But it was now convenient for George to remember that he had prognosticated a storm; and, forgetting the incident of the “disguised” sailor, he exclaimed, “Yes Steve, we’re in a tight place. But I was right about the storm, boys.”

Steve was too much flurried to remind the boy that he had arrived at a different conclusion, scouted the idea of a storm, and determined to accompany them.

“Well, boys,” said Marmaduke, “this is a storm at sea: let us enjoy it while it lasts.”

“No, Marmaduke, let us be thankful that it is not a storm at sea,” Will replied. “As for enjoying it, that would be pretty hard work. Don’t you know that we are in danger?”

“O dear! what will become of us!” Jim groaned.

The shock was wearing off now; and Charley found courage to ask, jocularly, “Is that all you have to say, Marmaduke? I expected something better from you.”

Steve put in promptly, though he was still very much discomposed: “Oh, Marmaduke’s mouth is full of words; he’s only puzzling which to say first.”

“Look here, boys,” said the Sage, “how far astray was I about the weather?”

“Very far, George; nearly as far as that miserable stone-boater,” Steve answered maliciously.

This nettled George, and he asked testily in a grum voice, “What about the little books now, Steve? Don’t you think they were right enough?”

“Well, George, it seems like it, surely enough,” Steve acknowledged.

“Don’t say spiteful things when we are in such danger,” Charles here interposed. “And besides,” he added, “we are all in the same scrape, and no one is to blame for it. So, let us lay our wise heads together, and try to save ourselves.”

---

The first shock had now passed away, and the foolhardy scullers were beginning to recover their spirits. Although each one was still almost quaking with dread, yet each one believed that they would be rescued; and each one—except, perhaps, Jim—had a theory of his own as to how it would be effected. They viewed the matter logically. To them, it did not seem possible that six clever boys, determined, true, and good, (the writer and the reader may not agree to this) could perish so near home. They searched their minds diligently, conscience helping them, and many little things that made them uneasy were remembered; still: they would be rescued, they knew it.

The punt was now a long way out on the lake; the point was passed; looking longingly towards home they could discern the vessels at anchor, the wharf, and several buildings in the village.

In the confusion of the moment, they had left off bailing out the ramshackle punt, in which there were, consequently, three or four inches of water. A dead fish and half a dozen emaciated fish-worms—abandoned, a few days before, by an amateur angler of ten years—were carried hither and thither over the bottom of the punt, adding to the ghastliness of the scene.

Jim was the first to discover the water washing over his boots. Here was a new source of distress. Forgetting the storm, which was still more or less in the distance, his attention was centred upon that water. To him, in his “good clothes,” it was more to be dreaded than the bellowing waves, or the approaching storm. Thus, gentle reader, we get an insight into the boy’s character.

“O dear!” he said piteously, “my feet are soaking wet in the bottom of this nasty boat; and I’m cold; and I’m catching cold; and I’ve got the chills.”

“Well, then, set on to your feet and bale her out,” Steve growled. “I guess we don’t want to drown in this old coal-slide of a punt.”

Heaving an agonizing sigh, Jim snatched up the floating oyster-can, and fell to work. Poor boy! his toil was monotonous and painful.

“Is it worth while to row?” Charley asked, not hopelessly, but speculatively.

“Perhaps not, but it will keep up our spirits, anyway,” Will said. “Steer it, George,” he added. “It would seem like giving up all hope, if we don’t do something to help ourselves.”

Foolish fellow! he could not realize that it was out of their power to help themselves.

“This is a sorry ending for our little trip, and things look pretty black for us,” George observed, “Charley, how do you suppose we can be rescued?”

Thus appealed to, Charles assumed an air of importance, and said knowingly, “If this wind should get much worse, we shall be driven away out into the lake, and perhaps lost; unless—” here he hesitated.

“Unless what?” Jim demanded, with much emotion.

“Well, a passing schooner might pick us up, but there is none in sight.”

This was his theory. Nothing would have pleased the young Argonaut more than to be picked up by a passing sailing-vessel; and for this reason, he was morally certain that, sooner or later, such would be the case. Why he chose to speak so doubtfully about it, is best known to himself. Probably the sharp young reader can guess.

“Or, they might send for us from home; but I can’t see anybody coming along in a life-boat,” Will said, giving his particular theory.

“Haven’t any life-boat to send; and I guess they won’t telegraph for one!” Steve exclaimed rudely.

“Oh, you mean fellow!” Jim broke in, apostrophizing unpoetic Stephen. “You made me come, and you’ve got to get me home!”

“The truth is, we may as well prepare for the worst!” George said, deliberately and with seeming sincerity. But the grin on his face belied his words. He was only waiting for a fit time to pronounce his opinion—the most extravagant of all.

“George, how long could a fellow live on the water without any food?” Steve inquired, not at all awed by George’s lugubrious asseveration.

“Oh, how long?” said George, so pleased to have an opportunity of drawing on his extensive and miscellaneous reading that he lost track of his own pet theory. “Well, boys, a shipwrecked sailor once lived twenty-two days without food; but he was a fat old fellow—a captain, I think he was. Now, in our case—”

“Don’t talk nonsense, George;” Will interrupted at this point. “We are not going to experiment in that way; for on the lake,” with significant emphasis, “we shall not have a chance to see how long we can live without food, as it’s either saving or drowning with us. Look at those clouds again. It will rain in a few minutes. But cheer up! I think we shall be safe at home within three hours; and then this storm will be an episode in our lives as long as we live. If we could only let the folks on shore know, they’d soon come along.”

“Yes, if we could open up communication with the people at home!” Charley sighed.

“Boys,” said Marmaduke, with great animation, “I can tell you how to do that; tie a handkerchief, or something else, to one of the sculls!”

“Good for you, Marmaduke!” Charles cried, with delight. “You are a genius!”

“Yes, Marmaduke, you’ve hit on the very thing!” said Steve. “Now, whose is the largest?—Mine is;” and two minutes later Steve’s handkerchief was fluttering as a flag.

“I—I was just thinking about that, too;” Jim stammered.

A hearty laugh—the first since they had left their swimming-place—burst from the boys at this.

The little white flag on the oar was romantic; it inspired hope in them; they became fearless, even merry. Each one was sufficiently susceptible of romance to place the greatest confidence in the saving powers of that little handkerchief. It was medicine to Jim’s troublesome disorder, while to Marmaduke it was everything. He sat bolt upright, devouring it with his eyes, his heart going at high pressure. Environed with romance, with danger on every side, he made an idol of the little square of linen, which, but for his sapience, would not have left its owner’s pocket. What did he care for danger? Though they should float for hours, this would eventually save them. Thus he sat, gazing eloquently and lovingly on the white flag.

Did we say white? Alas! it was not white! Two days previous to this, Steve had made it serve him for a towel.

Meanwhile, the breeze increased to a gale, and the punt was tossed about in a manner to make even Steve fidgety, while it made pigeon-hearted Jim draw groans expressive of unutterable agony. The sinking sun was hidden by black clouds; the storm was upon them. In fact, their situation was really becoming desperate.

“Why is it so dark, boys?” Jim articulated faintly.

“Why, surely enough, it’s so dusk, so hazy, that we can hardly see the harbor!” George said.

“My stars, boys, it’s an eclipse!” cried Steve, forgetting his peril in the excitement of his astounding discovery. “An eclipse! The down-rightest eclipse that ever was! George,” banteringly, “don’t you wish you’d brought in something about this eclipse when you were foretelling the weather!”

The Sage experienced some of the emotions of a huffish philosopher when floored by a hulking lout from the copper regions.

George’s words had directed Charley’s attention towards the harbor. “Oh! Look! look!” he cried. “They’re coming! coming at last!”

“Where? where?” cried the others eagerly, stretching over the gunwale of their crazy craft and peering into the darkness.

The water-loving boatmen soon descried a long-boat drawing towards them.

“Help at last!” Will ejaculated thankfully. “And it will reach us barely in time to save us.”

“The signal has done it, boys,” Marmaduke observed with complacency.

“Let us yell!” said Will.

How they shouted! Their pent-up woes found vent, and they shouted till hoarseness necessitated them to forbear.

But the manager of the signal had not shouted, and when the voices of the others finally died away in a discordant murmur, he said snappishly, “You needn’t yell like an hobomokko; this flag will guide them to us.”

“Yes; but it’s better to yell,” Steve panted. “In fact, I couldn’t help it!”

“I wish we could stop this punt till they come up with us,” Will said, “for we are drifting farther from them all the time,” sighing to hear the water plunk against the punt with remorseless and dreary monotony.

“Well, we can’t anchor; but they’re rowing hard and coming fast,” Charles replied.

“Will, it’s your fault that we came; you proposed it;” Jim said.

“That may be, Jim,” the standard-bearer replied; “but I think we all had a hand in it—except, of course, you. But I am the one who has saved you, and saved us all. This signal of distress has been sighted, and then immediately they made ready to rescue us,” and he looked triumphantly at the boys, defying a denial.

“Oh, yes; I know it’s all right; I ain’t afraid;” Jim said quickly.

Stephen spoke next. “How everybody will laugh at us!” he said, elaborating a dolorous sigh and putting on a hideous grimace.

Now that succor was at hand, this thought began to depress his mind.

The approaching long-boat was a fascinating sight to all, to Marmaduke especially. As it drew nearer, the latter suddenly and most unwarrantably struck the improvised flag and stuffed it into Stephen’s coat-pocket. Had he become ashamed of it? Could he be so base? No! no! but it was not needed now!

In good time the long-boat came within hailing distance.

“Hollo there, you lubbers!” a voice bellowed. “You’re a pretty lot of fellers, ain’t you?”

“Why didn’t he say, ‘Ship, ahoy!’ or ‘Boat, ahoy!’” Marmaduke murmured.

“You mean, why didn’t he say, ‘Punters, ahoy!’” Steve corrected.

George felt it incumbent on him to make some reply, so he called back feebly, “All right!”

Each boy now began to “feel like an idiot,” as Steve put it. Each one experienced the feeling that any boy, caught in a similar predicament, would experience. The writer has suffered in that way, and consequently knows how to pity those miserable boys.

The long-boat was soon alongside. It contained several men,—among them, Will’s and Jim’s father, overjoyed at this happy meeting,—and the sailor whom Steve had questioned concerning the weather appeared to be leader.

The rescue came about in this way: When the storm was seen approaching, the boys were found to be missing, and inquiries for them were at once instituted. For some time these were fruitless; but at length Mr. Lawrence, guessing shrewdly that they would be on the water at such a time as this, went down to the wharf, and came upon and interrogated the old sailor. “Well,” said the latter, “one of ’em asked me about the weather, and I expect they all went off on the lake, but I don’t know; I saw ’em poking around for a boat, I guess it was, and then I went into the hold of the schooner, and didn’t see ’em any more. We can overhaul them, Sir, but it will be a long and hard pull.”

This clue was sufficient; a good glass was procured, and the boys were descried far out on the lake. Then a boat was manned in hot haste, and put off to the rescue.

“Well, younkers,” said the old sailor, “you must hurry up, for there’s no time to be idled away.” Then, with a sportive wink, (which the gloom made invisible) he added, “I guess you fellers will believe me next time I warn you to look out for blows.”

“Yes, boys, you’ve done a foolish thing, but your mothers will be so glad to see you that they’ll forgive you,” a good-natured sailor observed.

The transfer from the punt to the long-boat was soon made, and then one of the rescuers demanded, “What about this craft? Shall we cast it off, or tow it into harbor for another set of boys to drown in?”

But a practical man, who made it an established principle of his life never to lose anything that came in his way, passed his dictum that the punt must be preserved at all risks.

“Of course this will be a warning to all the boys,” he said, “and it would be a sin to lose a ship-shape craft like this. Just see how well it floated them! No boy is so wrong-headed that he won’t profit by experience.”

So, much to the chagrin of the boys, who now regarded the punt with deadly hatred, it was hitched to the long-boat, and the flotilla set sail for home.

“Speaking of experience,” spoke up a furrow-faced rower, who plied his oars lustily, “I never knew but one boy that profited by experience, and he never did it but once, when he couldn’t help himself, so to speak.”

“What are the details of the particulars, Tom?” asked one.

“Well, the boy went fishing with a tinker, against orders.”

“And he profited—?”

“’Cause he caught cold, and died of too much cough-syrup and remorse.”

“Boys,” said Mr. Lawrence, seriously, “you have risked your lives for a moment’s pleasure, and even yet we are in some peril. I do hope, I sincerely hope, that you will profit by this lesson.”

The boys turned pale. A second time they realized their danger, and they breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness for their deliverance.

“What were you doing to help yourselves?” Mr. Horner inquired.

“We were trying to steer the punt as well as we could,” Will answered.

“What?” cried the furrow-faced sailor in astonishment. “Steering? how? where? why? whew! where on earth were you steering to?”

“Well, we thought we’d keep it as straight as we could,” Will said, apologetically.

“Well,” gasped the sailor, not at all awed by the presence of Messrs. Lawrence and Horner, “that beats me! To think of a pack of noodles trying to save themselves by steering, when their craft is going the wrong way!”

To return to the punt. When Jim saw help approaching, he did not bale the punt so carefully; consequently, at the time of starting for home, there was considerable water in it. Fuller and fuller it became; not only did the water leak in through the cracks, but volumes of it poured in over the stern. When almost filled, the lumbering and water-soaked craft quivered a moment on the surface of the waters, then suddenly sank, snapped the rope by which it was tacked to the long-boat, and disappeared forever.

The practical man sighed meekly: the sailors grinned; the rescued heroes chuckled audibly.

So trifling an incident may seem a blot on these well-written pages, but it is related because it discovers the characteristics of boys.

Will and Jim, awed by the parental presence, said but little during the voyage homewards. Stephen, however,—whose spirits neither strange gentlemen, nor blustering seamen, nor chilling rains, nor raging seas, could damp,—soon recovered his sprightliness, and demanded:—

“Why didn’t you come for us in the steamboat there at the wharf? It would have taken so much less time to reach us.”

“The steamboat!” echoed a sailor, wondering more than ever at these boys. “Well, that beats all! A steamboat! You must be a goose! You live beside the lake, and I’ve seen you poking about the vessels and steamers, as smart and pert as a homeless peanut boy; and yet you ask me such a question! Don’t you know, from watching the engineers, how long it takes to get on a good head of steam? And, s’pose we had come for you in the steamboat—why, it would have knocked you and your ragamuffin’s punt endwise!”

Steve fetched a hollow and piteous sigh, and mumbled something about knowing something.

“Yes, of course; but if you had brought along a few gallons of oil,” suggested the sage, rejoicing in the opportunity afforded for holding up his knowledge, even in so hopeless a cause, “you could have calmed the water, stopped the steamer, and picked us up without any trouble.

“Exactly—if you had been worth a few gallons of oil!” was the crusty blue-jacket’s cutting reply.

“The life-boat is the right thing to go and save people in,” Marmaduke commented.

“Yes, of course it is;” the sage hastened to observe. “I only made the remark.”

“I think you are very remark-able boys,” put in Mr. Lawrence.

“What made you think we were on the lake?” Will inquired.

“I suppose you caught sight of my—our, I mean,—signal of distress?” Marmaduke said placidly.

“Your what? ‘Signal of distress?’ Well, that knocks everything else on head: that is most extraordinary!” the scandalized tar ejaculated.

Poor fellow! The boys’ observations and inquiries had kept him in a state of continual bewilderedness. It was he who had expressed his astonishment so huffishly every time.

“Yes,” rejoined Marmaduke, “the handkerchief on the oar. That brought you, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about any handkerchief on any oar; and you must be crazy to think we could see one in this darkness,” was the depressing answer. “But, to be sure,” the sailor added, “I did notice that a pole with a rag on it seemed to be lowered just before we came up to you; was that the signal?”

“Boys, I knew how fond you are of endangering your lives, and when you were nowhere to be found, I shrewdly suspected that you had found your way out into the storm—and surely enough, you had!” Mr. Lawrence explained.

“Marmaduke, don’t meddle with romance again!” Charles whispered.

“I never did like sailors, except in stories,” Marmaduke muttered; “they are always a mean and sneering set of fellows, except on the ocean.”

“I never knew such fellows,” muttered the sage; “I—I shouldn’t be surprised if they turn out to be ex-pirates!”

“I’ll bet they are!” said Steve, who took kindly to this brilliant idea. “Jim, I say, Jim,” he whispered slyly, “it’s too bad you’re in your good clothes; for you’ll have to change ’em for the old ones! Now, we can change for our best.”

“Let me row!” he said suddenly to the furrow-faced rower, so coaxingly that the row-locks creaked in sympathy.

“No, I came to save you, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t,” the man said roughly. “You did the punting; just leave me alone for the rowing.”

Poor Stephen! He longed to take a turn with the sailors in rowing, but this crushed him, and he was mute.

“They’re not a bit like sailors,” he mumbled to himself, drawing his water-soaked hat down over his gleaming eye-balls.

The men’s surliness, on this occasion, was because they were disgusted with the worthies whom they had come so far to save.

Soon afterwards they reached the wharf, where a knot of people had assembled to welcome them. A hearty hand-shaking followed, and then the six, mighty heroes, in their eyes, were marched off home in triumph.

At least six families were made happy and thankful that night, for the boys had had a narrow escape.

---

A few weeks later, the holidays, like all other good things, came to an end, and the six returned to school.

On the opening day a certain great man—great in his own estimation, at least—was to deliver a speech to the school children. This notable gentleman bristled with facts and figures; but, alas! he had acquired so much erudition that he had lost all sense of the fitness of things. Having learned all that is possible for one mortal to know, and yet live, he now made it his pursuit to journey through the country, delivering lectures at the different colleges, and sometimes, as in this instance, at the public schools. There was nothing wicked about this most peculiar man; but, with all his learning, he lacked one thing—practical wisdom.

He was of “slender bulk,”—that is, short and gaunt—saffron-faced, and had a pugilistic and threatening manner of poising himself while speaking, his hands, meantime, describing geometrical curves that were picturesque in the extreme. His eyes were sharp and prominent; his nose followed suit: and his cane, which was stout and elaborately ornamented, was worth, to descend to a hackneyed comparison, an emperor’s ransom.

He employed the same technical terms that he did when addressing the most polished audiences; and, for that reason, the younger children looked upon him as a sort of hero, while to George and Marmaduke he was a full-fledged demi-god. The former (George) listened attentively to the lecture, and took mental note of the big words, with a view to explain their import to his less learned schoolfellows, should an opportunity offer for doing so without too much ostentation. But, alas! poor youth, many words which were strange to him rolled glibly from the professors tongue.

Here we pause—not to make a “digression,” but a vulgar harangue.

The writer has the temerity to hazard the assertion that there might be, in some lone corner of the world, an English-speaking romancer, as familiar with a foreign language as with his own, who could write a tale about people speaking that language, and yet have his tale so purely and thoroughly English that the most neuralgic critic could not cavil or repine. But this is only a rash surmise, and is probably fanciful.

Or is it only those who have acquired a smattering of another language that are so eager to lug in words and phrases peculiar to that language?

When will the mediocre writer of English come to understand that his meanest, as well as his sublimest ideas, may be manifested with as much force in English as in any other language? Alas, never! Instead of saying “such a man is a sharper,” he says, “such a man is a chevalier d’industrie.” What could be more expressive than “he is a devil of a fellow?” And yet our learned penmen prefer to say, “he is uomo stupendo!” It is a notorious fact, that whatever language a writer is most conversant in, he draws upon oftenest. Happily, the reading public are not much bored with scraps from the Esquimau.

But, protests the reader, there are certain terms, and entire phrases, that are not yet Anglicized, but that are in everybody’s mouth.

Very true; against the proper use of such terms and phrases, in moderation, no objections can be raised.

Having thus prated nonsense enough to incur the deadly hatred of every sentimental scribbler to the weeklies of rural towns, this interesting argument may be dropped, particularly as it only heads up to the following observation:—

Our circumforaneous holderforth was one of those who cannot make a speech without “borrowing from the classics;” but (for the best of reasons, gentle reader) we kindly suppress his redundancies in that respect.

After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones began to speak of—hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly, he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of hydrophobia.

“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered immortality by their researches in that field.

“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make apparent the—But,” breaking off abruptly, “it is well that there should be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”

Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can you define hydrophobia for me?”

The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing. The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging—then, beseeching—then, mortified—then, irritated—then, wicked. Still the “little ones” maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being unintelligible to them.

He repeated his question; and George—who, although he did not wish to be ranked with the “little ones,” yet feared that the learned man might consider him equally ignorant if he did not speak—rose prepared to give a precise and lengthy definition.

This strikes the key-note to the Sages character.

But a mischievous little gum-chewer, who doubtless could have answered with tolerable correctness, if he had chosen to do so, forestalled him by shouting, at the top of his voice: “Burnt matches and water, Sir!”

Now, it is probable that the juveniles had a chaotic idea of the signification of the word, though unable to define it; and as the youngster just cited was generally correct in his answers, they jumped to the conclusion that he was correct this time; therefore, with a deafening shout, some fifty “little ones” yelled: “BURNT MATCHES and WATER, SIR!!!”

Poor Teacher Meadows! The emotions with which his bosom glowed, were written on his face; and he hitched uneasily in his seat, with that look of grave displeasure supposed to be peculiar to aggrieved persons.

The professor, probably seasoned to such rebuffs, soon recovered his equanimity, and turning to the older scholars, asked, “Cannot you give me a satisfactory answer? Come! Anyone! What is hydrophobia?”

Again an answer quivered on Georges lips; but now Charles forestalled him. Taking his cue from the gum-chewer, Charley said, “Excuse me, sir, but you addressed the little folk, and we, quite politely, left it for them to answer. We know what it means, sir. Hysterphostia is a sort of influenza that yellow dogs catch when they’re fed on too much picnic victuals and spoilt molasses. Then they’re turned loose, with tin cans on their tails, for policemen to shoot at; and everybody that sees them rushing along the street is sure to inhale quinine hyster—”

At this point the speaker’s voice was drowned by roars of laughter from the astonished and delighted boys and girls, and he sat down “amid thunders of applause.”

They, at least, appreciated his absurd reply, his pretended ignorance, and his unblushing effrontery in thus wantonly insulting the august professor. They had evidently taken a dislike to the scientific gentleman, who was altogether too knowing for them, and, idiot-like, rejoiced to see him thus grossly insulted.

The teacher looked stern and furious, and endeavored in vain to stop the hubbub. Was his noble patron to be thus shamefully treated by a mob of ignorant and good-for-nothing school-children, supposed to be under his training and control? Must not the offenders be made to smart for it?

The professor himself was electrified. However, he had too much self-respect to regard anything that a school-boy might say, and after shooting Charles a look of calm contempt, he resumed his discourse, and proceeded to enlighten Teacher Meadows’ brazen-faced blockheads. He spoke long and earnestly on all things relevant to canine madness, and mad dogs, and at length ventured to propose another question.

“What should you do,” he asked, “if a mad dog should burst into this apartment—his bloody eyes starting from their sockets—his mouth wide open, reeking with its lethal venom, and disclosing his cruel, hideous fangs—he himself dashing headlong hither and thither, in his ungovernable fury remorselessly laying low victim upon victim—we ourselves imprisoned here, utterly unable to extricate ourselves?—Ah! you may well shudder at the frightful picture! I forbear. But I repeat, what should you do? Boys and girls, listen:—

“All that is necessary is sufficient presence of mind, together with firm reliance on your nerves, and you will always be able to face and avert the most appalling dangers. And this is the precept that I wish to impress upon you: Strive to acquire the habit of self-reliance, for no habit is more important.”

“Yes, yes, boys and girls; mark that; always remember that precept;” good Teacher Meadows cried, rising from his seat, and smiling approval.

But the darkened intellect of the juveniles could not take in the weight of such a precept, and a faint murmur of resentment passed from mouth to mouth. In the momentary interruption that ensued, Steve, who sat near an outside door, rose and slipped out quietly. “I guess I’ll show the professor and the rest of the folks what a rabid canine is like!” he chuckled sardonically.

But the scene still lies within the school-house.

The professor was in earnest, and he certainly seemed capable of making personal application of his precepts, though, alas! he had never been put to the test!

“What should you do in such an emergency?” he again demanded.

But he did not wish for an answer, and now he had the goodness to tell the gaping children what he should do. “Without a moment’s deliberation,” he said, “I should, almost mechanically, muster my strength, and prepare to ward off the danger. Knife in hand, I should calmly await his murderous onslaught, and when almost upon me I should disarm his fury by ruthlessly stabbing him to the heart.”

To add force and illustration to his words, and to gain credit with his hearers, the orator whipped out of his pocket a treasure of a knife,—a knife, the possession of which would have shot a thrill of happiness through any understanding boy’s heart,—and brandished it wildly, yet gracefully, slaying myriads of imaginary mad dogs.

Certainly, he seemed master of the situation; but in an actual attack of a mad dog he might have experienced some difficulty in getting his knife out of his pocket, and opened, in time.

But where was the professor’s dignity? Why should he make himself ridiculous for the pastime of idiotic school-children?

Although his spirit revolted at the thought of thus sacrificing himself, yet his benevolence prompted him to do many strange things for the instruction of the ignorant; and on this occasion, he labored not to amuse, but to discipline them.

“Most magnanimous soul! most disinterested savant!” breaks in the reader, struck with admiration for our noble-minded professor.

But when an audible titter ran round the company, the philanthropist hastily pocketed his weapon. Not to be turned from his purpose, however, he resumed his discourse, and artfully harrowed up the feelings of his victims, pausing occasionally to pronounce, and amplify on, some wise and weighty precept.

Teacher Meadows nodded his approbation; the tired school-children became restless and thirsty; their feet went to sleep; they rolled their watery eyes pleadingly. Still the strong-lunged enthusiast continued to hold forth, seemingly taking a malicious pleasure in preying upon their emotions.

Suddenly a distracted boy beheld an object that utterly demoralized him. A piercing shriek of agony burst from his lips, and his eye-balls gleamed like those of an ambushed highwayman.

---

It is now in order to follow up giddy-headed Stephen, and see what mad plot had been hatched in his fertile brain.

By turning back a little way, the reader will find that that hero left the audience-chamber immediately after the professor had so vividly drawn the onslaught of an imaginary mad dog.

“It would serve the crazy old shouter right to test his courage,” he muttered. “What business have people to let such a man speak to chicken-hearted little young-muns, all full of weak nerves, and awful to bellow? He might scare some of ’em into fits! I know I’m fond of ‘boorish tricks,’ as George calls them; but if Charley can talk that way about hydrophobia and yellow dogs, I guess I can safely play this one nice little trick. Why, this would only be in the interests of common sense! And,” cheerfully, “how Jim would yell!!!”

Stephen’s mode of reasoning was exceedingly subtile—in fact, like the speech of the philosopher on whom he contemplated playing a trick, it is too subtile for our comprehension. But so long as it removed his scruples, he cared not a goose-quill what others might think.

“Now,” he said to himself, “let me strike out my plans. First is, to find my dog Tip; then, to white-wash him and paint him. But,” doubtfully, “I’m afraid I can’t get any white-wash or any paint. Anyway, it would be better and more natural if I could get him on the trail of some animal. Poor Tip! It’s too bad to treat him so; but then it won’t hurt him any, and if the professor keeps on working up their feelings, I guess there’ll be a stunning howl when Tip bounces into the room, the very picture of a ‘rabid canine’!”

If Steve had tarried a little longer in the school, and seen the professor as he flourished his murderous weapon, he would have thought better of having Tip play the mad dog.

Hurrying along through the school-grounds, he finally halted under a venerable and wide-spreading shade-tree, beloved by all the girls and boys of the school. There before him, rolled up in a ball, lay a vivacious-looking dog, sleeping soundly.

“Eh, Tip!” Steve said. “Good old boy! here you are, just as I hoped.”

At the first words the dog hopped up briskly, and began to caress his master, frisking and barking to express his delight, and disporting himself as only a pet dog can.

It is conjectured that our young readers may be curious to know what species of dog this was. Alas! it is impossible to inform them. Neither his master Stephen nor any other person in the village could affirm positively to what particular species Tip belonged, but all agreed that he was a dog of some sort. This much, however, is known concerning him: He was of medium size and of divers colors, black and white predominating, a universal favorite with all the heroes and heroines of this history.

“Eh, Tip, are you glad to see me? Shall we have some sport? What do you say to a run in the road?”

By way of answer, the dog seized his master’s pants with his sharp teeth, and tugged playfully at them, his way of angling for sport.

“I guess you’ll do, Tip. You’ve got lots of fun in you, if I can keep you going;” and Steve swung open the gate of the school-grounds and passed out with a chuckle, Tip hard at his heels.

Then this giddy-headed boy and his unsuspecting dog turned a corner of the fence, found themselves in a dusty and unfrequented lane, and prepared for action.

“Now, Tip,” said the young rascal, “if we can make you run up and down this lane till you get all covered with dust, and dirt, and slobber, our fortune’ll be made! Come on, Tip; we shan’t need any white-wash nor any paint. Eh, Tip?”

Going on a little farther, till they reached the river, this wicked boy incited his dog to plunge headlong into the water after sticks and stones. Then, returning to the lane, he urged the wet dog to course up and down in the midst of the dust—sometimes after sticks, sometimes after himself. The playful dog enjoyed the sport, and entered into it fully. Soon he presented a woful appearance, but Steve unpityingly spurred him on till he began to pant hard.

“Good!” cried he. “Pant away, Tip, and get yourself well covered with slobber. That’s it! Run, now,—fetch him, Tip; go for him. There, roll in the dust!”

Thus he continued, till the poor dog was fagged out. Then Stephen, even Stephen, relented, and thought seriously of giving up his proposed experiment.

But, ah! the reason was—

“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you run back to school, you’ll be too tired to scare them much, and if you walk back, you’ll lose most of your foam and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”

In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the distance from that place to the castellated school-house—Tip, meanwhile, recovering his strength and sportiveness.

On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat, which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.

“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment, apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.

Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon his assailant.

Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as: “Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”

Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have beheld the combat between them!

Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity, scampered away towards the school-house.

“Poor little Tip!” said Steve remorsefully, as he observed that his dog was reeking with dust, froth, wounds, and blood.

In a moment, however, Tip was up again and in hot pursuit of the persecuted feline, but, not wishing to risk another engagement, that redoubtable warrior found refuge somewhere about the school. Not so Tip. He dashed straight ahead, and made his way into the very room in which were all the school-children, together with Professor Rhadamanthus and Teacher Meadows.

Steve was close on the dogs heels; but on seeing this, he turned back and shot off in despair.

“Oh!” he groaned, “this is worse than I meant it to be! Every one’ll think that Tip is stark staring mad! O dear me! What shall I do! what shall I do!”

Tips arrival was most opportune. Thanks to the professor’s vivid imagery, all the scholars were perspiring with racking excitement, and so blood-stained an apparition as Tip could not fail to create a commotion. Tip still retained sufficient strength and agility to burst impetuously into the room, and the sudden appearance of an animated mass of slaver, wounds, and blood, was enough to unhinge the mind of any school boy in the Union.

There were more than one hundred boys in the school; more than forty had a stout jack-knife in their left-hand trowsers pocket; more than thirty had one in their right hand trowsers pocket; some five had both a penknife and a jack-knife about their person; about twenty phlegmatic and chuckle-headed cubs—who took only a languid interest in anything but peppermint candy, circus serpent-charmers, and noisy fireworks—had their jack-knives out, and were trying to while away the time by rounding off the sharp angles of their brand-new lesson-books. As for the others, they had lost their jack-knives on their way to school, and consequently had none. Alas, professor! your golden precept was lost on those youths! Not one, not one, drew his knife to “stab the beast to its heart.”

An awful yell of consternation smote upon the air, as the demoralized and panic-stricken boys and girls struggled to escape. The young ladies were too prudent to faint, but they screamed with a voice as shrill and discordant as their brothers’. It fared worst with the little girls, who were jostled about and shoved aside without ceremony. Not a spark of gallantry animated the bosom of those youths; each one strove to save himself, himself only, and took no thought for the weaker and less active girls. Rough and lubberly boys, in their struggle to escape, brutally trod hats and bonnets, books and slates, foot-stools and benches, and school-mates’ toes, under foot. Such commotion had never been known in that school. Suddenly a boy stepped heavily on the dog, and poor Tip howled so lustily that he was heard above all the tumult. This, of course, added to the panic, and a perfect Babel ensued.

Then, with a roar of horror and agony, a bouncing boy cried out that he was bitten!

What wonder that poor Tip should bite, when he was bedewed with grimy tears of honor, yanked this way and that way, stumbled over, jammed against desks, pelted now and then with a stone ink-bottle, and trampled nearly to death?

At length the apartment was cleared of all save a few. As it has been emphatically stated that most of the six were brimming with noble heroism, perhaps it would be better to say nothing about how they behaved. Let the reader imagine how he would behave under similar circumstances.

By the way, it was very rash and foolish in the writer to speak of their bravery at all; and it has cost him (or her) no little annoyance—instance chapter the eighth. In fact, on mature deliberation, the writer recants all that has been said of their bravery.

As Will was tearing out of the room,—it may be remarked incidentally that it happened he was almost the last to do so,—Tip hobbled past him to get out. Quick as thought, Will caught up a heavy chair, and brained him on the spot.

“There,” Will said joyously, “the danger is over now; the dog is dead.” On giving the dog closer examination, he exclaimed, in surprise: “Why, it’s Steve’s dog Tip! Poor Tip! Surely he wasn’t mad!”

Meanwhile, where was the great authority on all things in general, rabid canines in particular? Where was he with his knife?

At the first note of danger, he, being nearest the front-door, had leaped to his feet and ingloriously shown his heels; but not being so familiar with the internal arrangement of the building as he thought, he fell heavily down the four steps of the entry. The fall stunned him, and for a few minutes he lay insensible. Where was the wonderful knife that was to disarm the fury of all mad dogs? Alas! it was safe in his pocket!

Before the learned man could grapple with the situation and gather himself up, the horrified school children were swarming out of the door, and—over him! Awful magnate that he was, not one among them hesitated to make him a stepping-stone in this time of fancied danger. In fact, the next day an immoral boy was heard to say that the professor made a better door-step than speaker; “for,” as he phrased it, “we slid down over him at top speed, and got outside all the sooner.”

As for Teacher Meadows, he had perceived that the peroration was at hand; and when the dog appeared, he was carefully digesting an “extempore” little speech, in which he intended to express his gratitude to the learned man for the very lucid and forcible manner in which the absorbing topic of hydrophobia had been presented to the “students.” But the advent of the dog diverted the train of his thoughts, and his nice little speech was never made. After a vain attempt to stem the hubbub and find where the mad dog was, he followed the example set by the noble speaker, and hurried out of the school; for, though naturally brave, he saw that it was useless to remain.

Although the dog was slain, it was some time before the quaking children could be brought to understand that the danger past, and when at last their fears were quieted, it was found that a great many were missing—among them, the boy who had been bitten. What a startling report they spread in the village about that mad dog! As may be imagined, the strange orator’s name was so much mixed up in their incoherent and “artless” story, that most of the villagers laid all the blame of the affair on him.

Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made good his escape—without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first train for his home, in Boston.

There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of running the machinery of government.

Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.

Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.

But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on this mysterious affair?”

There was silence—unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!” or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with fear.

Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,” with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”

“Oh, the dog is dead? Well, let me see it; where is it?” Mr. Meadows said eagerly.

Will led the way to the place where Tip lay dead, and good Mr. Meadows vainly tried to determine whether the dog had been mad or not. Poor man! he was better versed in Latin verbs than in “lycanthropy.”

“Can any one explain this?” he again demanded. “I never before saw a dog in so pitiable and unnatural a condition, but as to his being mad—” and he stopped short, nodding his head in great perplexity.

“I guess I saw him first,” piped up the chubby hobbledehoy who had been the first to cry out in terror on the dog’s arrival. “I saw him bolt in through the winder.”

“You did not!” exclaimed another. “He came in through the door.”

“I know it; I only said I saw him bolt in through the winder,” screamed the first speaker, who was blissfully ignorant of syntactical constructions.

“Well?”—

“Well?” mockingly. “Don’t you wish you’d seen him bolt in, too?”

“Oh, you!” furiously.

“Stop that noise!” cried the teacher, authoritatively. “You must say, ‘burst in.’” Then, swelling with pettishness, he said vehemently, “I demand an explanation! Some one must know how and where this originated.”

“I can explain it—mostly,” said Jim (our Jim), stepping forward.

Poor Jim! It had fared hardly with him; for, besides having his weak mind nearly thrown off its balance, he had been clawed and pommelled cruelly in his struggles to escape, and was now suffering with an agonizing attack of his peculiar disease—“the chills.”

“You can explain it?” said Teacher Meadows. “Then, wherefore have you withheld your communication so long?”

He, at least, had profited by the professor’s discourse; he had caught that long-winded gentleman’s scholastic phraseology.

“I—I—was afraid to speak; I—I ain’t well;” Jim stammered.

“Pray begin your version of it,” said Mr. Meadows, with a weary look, that told of an aching head and a sore heart.

“Yes, Mr. Meadows,” Jim said hastily. “While Mr. Rhadamanthus was speaking, I saw Steve slip out of school and go to the far end of the grounds, where his dog was sleeping; and then they both got up and they went outside of the gates; but the fence hid them from me, and so I can’t tell you what they did outside of the gates.”

Here the narrator paused to take breath, and Teacher Meadows said, sharply, “Yes, very good; but why didn’t you pay attention to the speaker? Instead of idly gaping out of the window at a boy and his dog, why didn’t you listen to that spirited dissertation on hydrophobia, and assiduously take notes of the learned remarks? So distinguished a speaker may never visit our town again; and—”

“Yes, sir,” interrupted Jim, “but if I hadn’t looked out of the window, I shouldn’t have known how it all happened.”

Teacher Meadows was nonplussed. With a zigzag wave of the hand, he simply said, “Resume; I will not argue the point.”

Jim resumed. “I was sitting by the window, and I watched until they came back to the gates. They were too far away for me to see what they had been doing; but I watched, and pretty soon I seen Tip chasing a whopping big old striped used-up cat like—like—like—”

“Like what?” angrily asked the teacher.

Jim started, hesitated, and said, desperately, “I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Go on!” said the wearied listener, with a sinister frown.

“Yes, sir. Well, he caught the cat, and they had an awful fight! I expect Tip got used up in the fight, Mr. Meadows. Then the cat got away—then Tip chased after it towards the school—and then the next thing I knew, Tip was right in the school! That’s all I know about it, sir.”

“A most succinct relation, James,” commented Mr. Meadows, with a reckless disregard for the rules of grammar as regulated by logic in his octavo grammar. “But when you knew all about it, why didn’t you warn us in time? Then this misfortune would not have happened.”

“I—I was frightened myself, sir,” Jim acknowledged.

“Where was Stephen? You left him at the gate,” said the teacher.

“No, sir; I wasn’t with him; I didn’t do anything to him;” Jim said innocently.

“I guess he ran off after the fight,” ventured a boy.

“Here comes Steve now,” a scholar announced.

And a minute later the boy under discussion hove in sight, but so changed in appearance that he seemed another boy. Light-hearted and light-headed Steve was now a haggard, woebegone wretch, who looked as if his conscience had goaded him over the verge of frenzy. From a distance he had heard and seen the uproar at the school; and, far from felicitating himself on the “success” of his trick, he had undergone torments. In fact, the thought had been forced home to him that there is a higher purpose in life than that of playing coarse practical jokes, and that he had frightened the children more than even the orator, Mr. Rhadamanthus.

Yet the boy had at least one good quality; he was always ready to shoulder the blame of his misdoings, and he never tried to take refuge by telling a lie or by distorting the truth.

“Stephen Goodfellow,” began Mr. Meadows, severely, “let me hear you in your defence. According to all accounts, you alone are the guilty one; so give me your version of this scandalous affair.”

“Yes, sir; I did it all;” Steve said, meekly. “It was my dog Tip; but he wasn’t no madder than I was.”

“Then he must have been remarkably sane!” commented the teacher.

We need not weary the reader by detailing the trickster’s “version.” When he had rehearsed his story from beginning to end, Teacher Meadows said, in deliberate and awful tones that cut Steve to the quick, and fairly made his hair stand on end: “I have a few remarks to make, but I will not detain you long. Your ‘trick’ may have been strikingly novel and daring, the inspiration of a genius; but that it was dishonorable and brutal, unworthy of a citizen of this glorious republic, I presume no one will attempt to deny. You have created a great sensation in our peaceful little village, but what you have done will not redound to your credit; you have forfeited the esteem and friendship of your school-fellows; you have, I doubt not, mortally wounded the feelings of Professor Rhadamanthus, the great philosopher and able speaker, as well as cast opprobrium upon our school; you have terrorized the children, and even fatal results might have ensued; and by sequestering yourself from the scene of conflict, you have laid yourself open to the stigma of cowardliness. Though great harm has been done, I will not punish you, for the odium of this affair and the prickings of your conscience will be sufficient punishment. Your dog, the sportive Tip, is dead, as I suppose you know. You will acknowledge that no one except yourself is to be blamed for that. But one word more: I advise you all to hasten to your homes, to try to forget this shameful occurrence, and never to practice cowardly tricks.”

Steve did not know that Tip was dead, and he gave a convulsive gasp and then burst into a flood of tears, for he loved his dog. Poor fellow, his heart was so full of grief and remorse that his eyes mechanically pumped the tears cut of their reservoir. And that reproof! His former misdemeanors had generally been overlooked by the kind-hearted teacher, and this oratorical reproof stung him to the quick.

As for the teacher himself, his own eloquence had a wonderfully soothing effect on him. No one, except a few gaping, trembling school-children, was there to hear him, it is true; but for all that, he was pleased with his little speech, and—surprised at it! In fact, it did his headache as much good as an application of hartshorn and alcohol.

Fearing, perhaps, that the teacher might change his mind and re-open school, the juveniles set off for home at a round pace. Steve was not wholly avoided by the boys; on the contrary, several gathered round him, to condole with him or to blame him, as the case might be. Not a few envied him the “notoriety” to which he had attained.

“Well, Steve, are you a ‘citizen of this republic’ or not?” Charles anxiously inquired. “I couldn’t settle that point from what Mr. Meadows said.”

The unworthy citizen smiled mournfully, but said nothing.

“Steve,” Charley pursued, “I hope that between the phenomenon Mr. Prof. Rhadamanthus, yourself, and your dog, the ‘little ones,’ ‘big ones,’ and every one present, will have a tolerably clear idea of hydrophobia and mad dogs.”

“Please don’t speak of Tip, boys,” Steve said pleadingly.

“No, Steve, we won’t,” George replied. “But really, now,” he added, “I wasn’t so flurried as the rest of them; and I took it coolly; and I doubted all the time whether the dog was mad. You see, I’ve read a good deal on the subject lately, and he hadn’t the build of a dog that would go mad. Mad dogs always look—”

At this point the Sage was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which even Stephen joined feebly.

“Then, George, I suppose you understood that lecture?” Will asked.

“Y-e-s,” George said, with some hesitation.

“Steve, it was me that killed your dog;” Will said doubtfully. [Though the writer has heard hundreds of boys say, “it’s me,” “it’s him,” etc., he never knew but one boy to say, “it is I.” That boy did not say it because he knew it to be correct, but because necessity compelled him to do so. The phrase occurred in a sentence which he was reading.] “It was me that killed your dog; but I thought I was killing a mad dog at the time. I’m sorry for it, Steve.”

“No, Will; you did all right: I don’t blame you a bit;” Steve replied.

“Don’t!” said Marmaduke, softly. “Respect Steve’s grief, and talk about something else.”

The excitement in the village was appeased at last; but great indignation was felt towards Stephen when it became known that he was the author of it all.

The poor boy who had been bitten was in great terror, and his parents sent for the doctor in hot haste. That worthy—who had a theory of his own about hydrophobia, and was only waiting and longing for an opportunity to put it into practice—chipperly trod his way to the rescue with a case of surgical instruments, and was about to perform some horrible operation on the hapless youth, when the news came that the dog was not mad. Then he applied a soothing poultice to the bite, and wearily plodded his way back to his office, full of bitterness because he had not been able to try his little experiment.

The bitten boy, however, was of a malicious disposition, and he vowed to take dire revenge for the indignities heaped upon him.

Stephen’s position was not one to be envied. He was so thoroughly ashamed of himself that he latibulized in the house for four livelong days; and, for a boy of his restless disposition, that was unheard-of penance. What passed between him and his scandalized parents would not benefit or interest the reader, consequently it is not recorded here. He mustered his resolution and took to reading his sisters’ “little books,” which he had always abhorred and eschewed with the unreasonable and implacable hatred of boyhood, and gladdened his mother’s heart with his staidness and meekness. For one whole month he refrained from playing off or studying up any trick, and those most interested in him began to hope that his reformation in that respect was sincere.

Alas! such hopes were built on quicksands! His father, taking pity on the dogless boy, had bought him a frisky Newfoundland pup, which he cared for lovingly and almost idolized; and as the memory of poor Tip gradually faded from his mind, he forgot the many morals and precepts that had been held up to him by his well-meaning parents. In a merry moment Steve named this pup “Thomas Henry;” but as this provoked the laughter of his school-fellows, in sheer desperation he nicknamed it “Carlo.”

At the end of that one month, the street urchins got tired of teasing him about mad dogs, and he recovered his spirits and his love of mischief, and returned to his former pursuits with gusto. In a word, Stephen became himself again.

---

About this time a picnic was planned by the villagers, to be held in a grove beside the river. Everything was arranged beforehand, so that no hitch might occur; but, for all that, a hitch did occur, since seventeen plum-cakes and five hundred and nine tarts were baked. A fire was to be lighted on an “island” in the river, and another on the shore; and over those fires, something, no one could have told exactly what, was to be boiled. Boats were to be provided to ferry the picnickers to and from the said island. By the way, this pigmy island was prettily clothed with grass and flowers, and presented a fine appearance from the river; therefore, by the poetical, it was appropriately named “The Conservatory.” It was also roundish in shape, and therefore, from the vulgar, it received the unique nickname of “The Saucer.” Our heroes generally gave it the latter name.

The children of the school, of course, to be present in all their finery, with their elders in attendance, to keep them from destroying themselves.

Now, Stephen knew all the plans that had been formed, and it occurred to him that it would be a capital joke if he should take a bunch of fire-crackers along with him, and introduce it secretly into one of the two fires.

“Of course,” he said to himself, “I wouldn’t poke ’em in while any of the ladies or little youngsters were around; I’d do it while none but boys were there. No; for I don’t want to get mixed up in any more tricks!”

The longer Steve meditated this, the more determined he was to do it; for he had not yet learned that an action, harmless in itself, may lead to unpleasant, if not serious, results.

On the day before the picnic, he applied to a shop-keeper for the crackers. In vain; the “Glorious Fourth” was passed too long. “But, to accommodate you, I can get some in a few days, I suppose,” the shop-keeper said, with great benevolence. “How many bunches do you want?”

“No, I want them to-day, or not at all;” Steve said, as he turned to leave the shop.

But he did not give up hope yet. He thought of Will, and the next minute was on his way to see him. By what fatality was he sent there?

“Oh, yes, Steve; I happen to have a whole bunch of them;” said Will. “You see, I had more than I wanted last Fourth, so I was saving these, but you can have them all.”

“Yes,” said Stephen; “but I guess you’re the only boy I ever heard of that couldn’t fire off all his crackers. Why, I could make use of a barn-yard full of them!”

“So could I, Steve; but I scorched my hand, and had to stop firing them.”

“Yes, I remember it, Will; that’s the reason I came to you. But I don’t see why you didn’t fire ’em when your hand got well.” Then to himself: “Just like Will; wonder he didn’t scorch his head off.”

“Well, Steve, let us look for those same crackers,” said Will.

But they had been mislaid, and the two boys conducted the search almost at random. In length of time they came upon a little wooden box.

“Here they are, Steve!” Will exclaimed. “This is the very box I put them in; but I don’t know how they got here, among father’s guns. But then I wasn’t keeping track of them—in fact, I had forgotten that I had them till you spoke about them.”

“Thank you, Will!” said Steve, with a broad grin, as he took the box.

Then, with thumb and forefinger, he tried to open it, to take out the crackers and gloat over them. But he could not force it open. “What’s the matter with this box, Will?” he asked. “I can’t open it at all.”

“That’s queer,” said Will; “likely the lid has swollen. Well, take them, box and all, Steve; and if you break it in opening it, it won’t be any great loss.”

Steve mumbled a feeble remonstrance, but pocketed the box and turned to go.

“But what are you going to do with the fire-crackers?” Will suddenly asked, as a dread suspicion entered his mind.

Steve looked disconcerted, and said something like, “Oh, you’ll see.”

Now, when a boy falters and says, “you’ll see,” it is generally safe to infer that he is plotting mischief.

Will evidently thought so, for as Steve whisked out of the house and over the gate, he said to himself, “I believe Steve is working up some trick again. And to-morrow is the picnic! Well, Stunner, I’ll just keep an eye on you!”

On reaching home, Stephen found that he could not open the box without tearing it to pieces, and he decided that he would put the fire-crackers, box and all, into the fire.

“That’ll be the easiest way to open the pesky old box,” he said. “Of course the crackers won’t go off till it is burnt, but a rousing old fire will soon burn it.”

Having formed this determination, the boy’s mind was at rest. If, however, he had succeeded in opening the box, he would have found not fire-crackers, but gunpowder; for Will had made another blunder, and given him a box filled with powder. This box belonged to Mr. Lawrence; he having bought it a few days before, filled it with powder, and put it away among his guns. The reader now understands that it was not the box Will thought it was. The reason why Steve could not open it, was because the lid caught with a hidden spring.

If that box should be introduced into the fire, it would make more of a “stir” than fire-crackers, and give somebody a little employment in setting things to rights.

The next day was the picnic. The sun shone bright, and promised a peerless September day. This was agreeable; and the juveniles flocked to the scene in good time, with a hungry look in their eyes—a look that always plays over a boys visage when pursuing his way to a picnic, or “anniversary.” Stephen, of course, was there; full of animal spirits, and with the box straining the lining of his coat-pocket.

A fire was soon lighted on the island, but Steve did not find an opportunity to put his crackers into it so soon as he expected; for, warm as the day was, the little boys crowded eagerly around it, discovering their delight in exultant shouts, and heaping on more brush with never-ending amusement.

Steve idled about patiently a few minutes, and then determined to leave the island for awhile, till the youngsters had either sought some newer source of pleasure, or else burnt their fingers or scorched their garments.

Unknown to Steve, Will, who had guessed how and when the boy intended to use the fire-crackers, was watching him sharply. Will had also discovered the mistake that had been made, and consequently was all the more anxious to keep a watchful eye on Steve. He had planned, moreover, to turn the tables, and play a knavish trick of his own on incorrigible Stephen.

Mr. Lawrence had said to him, “Now, Will, seeing that Steve is preying on my valuables, you must make the best of it, and teach the idleheaded fellow a lesson. You may do whatever you please; but don’t let an explosion take place. The powder, I think, got damp the other day, and so it wouldn’t explode for some time—even if he should drop the box plump into the fire. In fact, unless he has succeeded in opening it, which is doubtful, he will probably put it into the fire. Let him do it; you can snatch it out again. If, on the other hand, he has forced the box open, both his trick and your trick will be spoiled. Perhaps that would be best. Now, Will, above all, do not frighten other people.”

It will be seen that Mr. Lawrence had guessed Steve’s intention. But he was wrong in permitting his son to meddle in the trick. The straightforward way would have been to tell Stephen what the box really held, and then he would have given it up directly.

No doubt, gentle reader, you are tired of these beggarly little “tricks.” But have patience a little longer, O reader, for when this last trick is finished, we shall wing our way along smoothly throughout the rest of the book without any tricks whatever.

When Will saw Stephen leave “Conservatory Isle” he thought himself at liberty to take his ease for awhile, and coolly taking possession of an unoccupied boat, rowed over to the shore.

While drifting along the shore, a spruce gentleman hailed him, and asked to be ferried across the river.

“Yes, sir,” said Will, placing the boat in a favorable position for the gentleman to enter it. He sprang in lightly, saying, “I’ve forgotten something over there: take me as fast as you can.”

In nervous haste to do his best, Will gave the boat a vigorous shove, and then looked his passenger full in the face. The latter also looked at Will. The recognition was mutual; for if Will recognized the peculiar features of the newspaper genius whom he had shot with poison in his youth, the newspaper genius likewise recognized the remarkably talented son of the lady who had been his hostess when he visited the neighborhood some years previously.

Letting his emotions get the better of his principles, the man uttered a cry of horror, mechanically rose to his feet, and fetched a random leap for the shore. But the motion that Will had communicated to the boat had placed it some distance from the shore, and the impetus of the leap adding to that distance, the leaper found himself in deep water, in the exact position the boat had occupied a moment before. Any boy at all acquainted with the navigation of boats, rafts, or anything floatable, can substantiate this.

Then the unfortunate man said something very wicked—too wicked, in fact, to be set down in a story like this. Then he struggled to reach the shore, but Will said, politely, “Don’t try to get ashore, sir, or you will get covered with mud. The best thing to do is to climb into the boat again; I’ll help you.”

This was clearly the wiser proceeding of the two, and the man, feeling very foolish, scrambled out of the water into the boat.

Bending a ferocious gaze on the innocent boatman, he asked roughly, “Can you row?”

Will proudly answered in the affirmative, and the disgusted picnicker—elaborating a dolorous sigh as he flirted his eyes over his tousled and mud-spattered garments, and experiencing an emotion of regret as he thought of a new cabinet photograph of himself, that was tucked away in his coat-tail pocket—said snappishly:—

“Then take me to some sheltered place where I can wring out my clothes a little, and afterwards I’ll find my way to the fire on the island. Can I get dry there in peace, and alone?”

“I think so, after a few minutes,” said Will, tugging stoutly at his oars.

“Well,” mused the dripping newspaper man, as he sat dejectedly in the boat, with his head resting on his disordered cravat, “I—I—was very foolish to jump overboard; but it is strange that I should encounter this wretch when I least expected it. Much amusement I shall have to-day, in these wet clothes. Well,” firmly, “I will never return to this village while this bane of my life inhabits it!”

After landing the luckless Mr. Sarjent at a sequestered spot, Will pointed his way back to the island, to look after Stephen. He arrived just in time. Steve and a choice band of his school-fellows were grouped about the fire, and the little folk had sought other quarters.

At first Will feared that he was too late; but he was reassured on seeing Stephen dodging around the fire, evidently trying to shove the box into it without being observed.

Keeping a vigilant look-out, Will soon had the pleasure of seeing Steve poke the box into the extreme edge of the fire.

“Good!” Will chuckled. “Pa was right—and so was I. I can snatch it out without any trouble, and then won’t Steve wonder what has become of it! Just wait till I play my little trick on him!”

As soon as Steve looked in another direction, Will sidled up to the fire, adroitly drew out the box, and slipped it into his pocket.

He had scarcely done so when Steve whirled around and saw him.

“Will!” he cried excitedly, “come away, or you’ll be burned!—The—the fire is very hot, you know,” he added, by way of explaining his solicitude.

“So it is,” Will assented, stepping back. To himself he added, “Poor Steve! you thought I should be blown up by the fire-crackers, did you? Well, it is a good thing you don’t know it is gunpowder, and it’s a good thing I am here to prevent a catastrophe!”

Stephen waited eagerly and anxiously for the supposed crackers to go off. He imagined that the boys would be struck with amazement and horror to see the fire suddenly snap, and hiss, and roar, and vomit forth ashes and coals. Then he would explain how it was done, and the boys would cheer, and laugh, and say, “That’s a bully trick, Steve!” And then they would saunter off, filled with admiration and envy, forced to admit that in originality and daring Steve had no equal in the county.

But as no explosion took place, Steve became uneasy. He was of a restless disposition, and a trifle was sufficient to make him fidgety. He had not observed that the box was fabricated of wood that would not readily take fire, and he expected to hear the crackers detonate almost immediately.

“Surely it ought to be burnt clear through by this time!” he mumbled to himself. “What in the world is the matter? O dear! I hope they will go off before the people come here to see to things! Why didn’t I at least see how thick the pesky box was!”

“Oh, come along, boys, there’s no fun here, and it’s as hot as pain-killer,” an owl-eyed booby exclaimed. “Come along, boys; let’s leave this here Saucer.”

The others coincided with him, and they were actually getting into an old boat, to punt their way across the river, when Steve said imploringly, “Oh, don’t go, boys! Stay just a little longer, and you’ll see sport.”

“‘See sport’?” sneered one. “Sho! I guess all the ‘sport’ you’ll see here, will be to see yourself sun-struck! No; it’s too hot here.”

And before the trick-player could give them a hint as to what the “sport” would be, he experienced the vexation of seeing them leave the island in a body! It was hard to be cheated thus! But the worst was yet to come. A man was descried rapidly drawing near the island, in a gay little boat decked in holiday attire. A few minutes later this man made the island, and Steve recognized Mr. Lawrence. Good man, he came to see that the powder was in safety.

Will, who was the only one left, except Steve, stepped into the boat as his father stepped out, and whispering, “All right, Pa,” rowed lightly away, with a wicked chuckle of triumph.

Mr. Lawrence inclined his head in token of approval, and edged his way up to Stephen. “Good morning, Stephen,” he said. “I see you have a fire lighted early in the day.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve quavered. “O dear!” he groaned, “if people are going to keep on coming here like this, the fire-crackers will go off right before them! And then,” drawing an abysmal sigh, “there would have to be an explanation.”

Mr. Lawrence walked round the fire two or three times—so close to it that poor Steve shuddered. “If they should go off now,” he groaned, “Mr. Lawrence would be scorched and hurt!”

Stephen became very uneasy. His heated imagination magnified the power of fire-crackers, and he feared that there would ultimately be a deafening explosion. Indeed, it seemed to him that they must be gaining strength with each succeeding minute.

“Well, Steve,” said Mr. Lawrence, familiarly and pleasantly, “I hear you are quite an expert in playing tricks. Your adventure with my donkeys, now, was amusing, it is true; but, Steve, if you would keep clear of such scrapes, it would be better for you. For instance, that experience with the dog—that must have been very distressing to you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve acknowledged; “it was.”

“But I am pleased to hear of your good behaviour since that time, and I hope that your reformation is real. I do not wish to vex you, Steve; I take the liberty of speaking to you thus because I know you are good at heart, and because you have always been a loyal friend to my son.”

Such “advice” had been dinned into the sufferer’s ears so incessantly lately that he had come to expect it and to endure it with fortitude. Still, he could not but see that Mr. Lawrence meant well, and he mumbled “Yes, sir,” very meekly.

But his mind was filled with great dread. “If they should pop off now,” he ruminated, “what would Mr. Lawrence think of me? He would think it was all my doings, of course, and that I am as bad a boy as ever! How mad he would be! Oh, why didn’t I leave those fire-crackers alone!”

“It is very warm on this island, Mr. Lawrence,” he said.

Mr. Lawrence, however, was in no humor to take hints from a school-boy, and he simply said, “So it is, Stephen. Why do you stay here, in solitude and misery? Why don’t you get up and enjoy yourself with the other boys? Surely you find no amusement in keeping up this useless little fire!”

Steve looked confused, but contrived to say, “It needs some one to watch the fire, sir; it might do a great deal of harm.”

“Oh, no, Stephen; it wouldn’t be any great loss if the fire should burn up the whole island, and all the brush and firewood piled up on it. It couldn’t spread any farther, of course. Come, come, Stephen; don’t make a martyr of yourself by staying here and broiling your face. The face looks better bronzed by the sun and the fresh air than by fire, anyway; though some ladies are not aware of it.”

“Yes, sir; but the fire might go out.”

“I wish it would, Steve; I wish it would; for no one would light it again. It was a downright shame to make a fire on this little gem of an island; but some picnickers have more romance than poetry. Well, I am going, anyway; good-bye.”

A good look at Steve’s face showed Mr. Lawrence that the graceless trickster desired to be left alone. “I think this will be a lesson to the poor boy,” he said in himself “for he is evidently suffering torments.”

Steve’s relief was great when he found himself alone. “Let me think how it was,” he muttered. “Will didn’t know where the box was. He found a box like his own, but was it the same? He didn’t open it, and I couldn’t; so perhaps there were no fire-crackers in it, after all!”

A gleam of hope shot through his wrung heart; but that gleam was soon effectually put out by this appalling thought:

“He found the box among his father’s guns—what if there is powder in it!”

He started up in horror. “But no,” he reflected, “if it had been powder, it would have exploded as soon as the box got hot, or on fire. Now, was Will playing a trick on me? No, for he didn’t know anything about it till I asked him for the fire-crackers; and I followed him around while he looked for the box. Oh, it must be some blunder of his.”

Steve could not shake off his doubts and fears, and his excited imagination conjured up all sorts of horrors.

He had just resolved to find the hateful box, or scatter the fire to the several winds, when a melancholy-looking individual, whose approach he had not perceived, landed on the island, made his way hurriedly to the fire, and sat down close beside it.

Stephen drew back in desperation, while the new-comer snatched up a stick and savagely stirred up the rather dull fire.

“Sir,” Stephen began hesitatingly, “don’t sit so close to the fire; you might get burnt.”

“Hold your tongue and let me alone, if you please! Can’t you see I’m all wet?” fiercely shouted the new-comer.

Stephen now observed that the man’s pants were clinging unnaturally close to his legs, as though he had been fording the river for scientific or other purposes, and that his entire appearance was woebegone. He waited a few minutes, and then ventured to accost the intruder again. “This is a miserable fire, sir,” he said, “and I think there is a good big bright one on shore.”

“Can’t you let me alone! There is no one here except you, and I must dry these clothes.”

“If it’s powder, I suppose it might explode yet, and he’d be killed or badly wounded,” Steve thought, in agony. “Shall I tell him? No, he would laugh at me, and take me for a downright fool. If he would only move away, I’d poke that fire till I was satisfied. What a day of suffering this has been for me! The women will soon be coming to the island—if it should explode then!”

Once more he warned the shivering picnicker. “Sir,” beseechingly, “it is dangerous to sit there; I—”

“Dangerous!” cried the stranger, his face showing surprise and contempt. “Do you take me for an ass, or are you one?” furiously. “A few years ago, I was very indulgent in my dealings with boys; but the more I see of this evil—this curse of civilization—the more impatient and exasperated I become. I don’t want to corrupt your morals, bub, or I would swear! But say one word more to me, throw out any more insinuations about this fire’s being dangerous, and I will begin the assassination of every boy under twenty by making you the first victim! So, be careful! I tell you, my patience is exhausted!”

Of course the reader recognizes the speaker as the man who jumped out of Will’s boat. But it will not be easy to recognize him as the polished gentleman who dined with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence in days gone by. Nevertheless, we assure the reader that we are positive he is the very same.

This murderous threat seemed to amuse and comfort Mr. Sarjent, but Steve quailed beneath it. “Shall I make a confidant of any one?” he asked himself. “Not of George, for he would investigate matters, and maybe get burnt. Charley would tell me the box holds some horrible, new-fangled explosive, that will stay in the fire a long time, and get stronger and stronger, and then go off like a blowed-up pirate, and tear this island out by the roots! Perhaps it is! Who knows? Perhaps its some terrible poison that will suddenly strike us all dead, or else make us all idiotic for life! Oh! I shall go crazy! Shall I speak to Will? I—I’d be ashamed to do that. Pshaw! I couldn’t speak to anybody, if I would, for there’s no one near, except him.”

Stephen’s brain was now in a whirl; the strain on his nerves was too great to last long.

---

Leaving the newspaper man and the player of tricks to their different trains of thought,—the former enveloped in steam arising from his pants, the latter environed with gloom, and doubt, and mute despair, arising from his own misdeeds,—we shall shift the scene to Will paddling away in his boat.

“I can safely leave Steve now, while I look up Charley and the other boys,” Will thought, as he plied his oars.

Charley was soon found, and Will told him all about Stephen and the fire-crackers. Charley, of course, was delighted with Will’s artifice; and together the two planned to torment poor Stephen still further. With the co-operation of the other boys, they determined to execute the following programme: First, to bury the gunpowder under a large stone, on the shore farthest from the picknickers, with a boy in charge to fire the train at the proper time; secondly, to lure Stephen into a boat, row him down past the “arsenal,”—the sounding name Charles gave to the place where the powder was to be buried,—and when the explosion took place, let him infer that a catastrophe was the upshot of his trick.

In fiendish atrocity, this little plot probably outherods anything ever planned by boys. Their only hopes of success was that Steve would prove an easy victim. But they need not have been afraid; they were destined to carry their scheme.

Truly, as the ancient Romans used to say, “Fortune favors the brave.” Only, the ancient Romans probably said it in Latin.

“We can do it, Will,” Charles said, confidently, “and it will do poor deluded and misguided Stunner a good turn, if it teaches him to leave tricks to you and me. All that is necessary is, to lay our plans well, keep Steve’s back to the place where the explosion will come from, and play our parts with sober and horrified faces. The hole in the ground will be gazed at and admired about the time the picnic folks get the feast spread, and our little game will sharpen our appetites like a whet-stone. Now, let us go and find George, and Jim, and Marmaduke, and go to work.”

These worthies were hunted out forthwith; and when the plot was unfolded to them, they signified their readiness to take part in so good a trick against Stephen.

Jim threatened to do his best; but, in his own mind, determined to keep at a safe distance when proceedings actually began, though he locked this wise determination in his breast—which was capacious enough, if not strong enough, to keep it.

“It won’t amount to much, boys,” George observed, “because, you know, wet gunpowder has lost most of its virtue.”

“Why, how’s that?” Charles demanded. “Where did you find out that? Why, gunpowder hasn’t any virtue, anyhow.”

“No, of course not, what has powder to do with virtue?” Will chimed in.

“I tell you it has; don’t contradict folks that know!” the sage indignantly retorted. “Don’t you remember, John Hoyt, on that island, wasn’t afraid of being blown up, because he knew the powder had lost its virtue?”

“Y-e-s,” Charles reluctantly assented, “but I never could understand how John knew that, when he’d always lived on that island, and never seen or heard of powder before.”

“I don’t understand that, either,” said George; “but John was right; he knew—or if he didn’t, the man that wrote the book did!”

That settled the question; the Sage had triumphed.

At length everything was arranged to the plotters’ satisfaction, and the Sage was detailed to fire the train.

“You won’t see much of the fun, George,” said Charles; “but you will understand the business. I never knew you to bungle anything; don’t bungle this.”

“You can’t expect much from wet gunpowder, but if you do your part as well as I intend to do mine, all right!” George replied with spirit.

They picked out a very good place to fire the powder, so far away from the scene of the picnic that no one would be likely to intrude on them.

“The boats are wanted very much just now,” said Will; “I wonder whether we can get one or not.”

Now, those boys knew that they were doing wrong, and the writer ventures to assert that they all cherished a secret hope that they would not succeed in carrying their little game.

But presently a bulky old gentleman (bulky is not used in contempt, but because it is well known that bulkiness and generosity are twin brothers), who owned a staunch little boat, told them to use his boat as much as they pleased. He did not suspect, however, that a party of dare-devil boys wanted it for their own exclusive use, but supposed that one or two of them purposed rowing indolent pleasure-seekers up and down the river. Had he guessed their nefarious designs, he would have moderated his generosity, and set out in quest of a peace-officer.

Thus put in possession, the four pulled stoutly for the island. They were in some doubt as to whether Steve would still be there, for not one dreamed that he had taken the matter so much to heart.

“Steve was a little uneasy when I left him,” said Will; “how do you suppose he feels about it now?”

“Oh!” said Charles, “he’s all right, I’ll wager. You may depend he hasn’t been moping over those fire-crackers all this time. No, he’s as lively as a baulky horse by this time; but our explosion will muddle his wits, all the same.”

“He’ll get his dander up when he finds it out,” Jim observed.

“I wonder if the boats are all gone, and he’s fast on the island,” Marmaduke speculated.

“Boys,” said Will, “if that wet and muddy fellow that I told you about, went back to the island, as he said he should, perhaps he has kept Steve from finding out that—”

“Pshaw! I tell you, Steve is all right!” Charles reiterated.

“Then, if the boy is all right, what is the use of our trick?” Will demanded. “We can’t scare him worthy a cent, if he’s all right.”

“I don’t make out what you’re driving at, Will. At first, you were eager to scare him; and now, you are talking in riddles.”

“I—I’m beginning to relent,” said Will, sheepishly.

“Well, we’ll see how he is, and settle that accordingly.”

“There they are!” said Marmaduke, sighting Steve and the ireful newspaper genius.

The boys recklessly waved their oars, and enthusiastically chorused a stentorian hollo.

Stephen, hearing his schoolfellows’ greeting, quickly turned round, and returned a faint, but joyous, hollo.

“How kind they are to come!” he said to himself. “Now, I guess it will be all serene; for they can soon tell me what to do. Well, the boys always were better to me than I deserved. I’ll tell them just how it is, and I don’t believe they’ll laugh at me a bit.”

“More boys!” groaned the steaming Mr. Sarjent. “More boys coming to torment me.”

The plotters soon landed, and crowded around Stephen.

“What a fire, Steve,” said Charley. “It smells as if you’d been burning a witch.”

“Come on, Steve,” said Will; “we’ve got a good boat, and we’re off for a cruise before they set the tables.”

Steve’s face brightened, then clouded, and he said, hopelessly, “I can’t go.”

“Can’t go?” echoed Charley. “Why, Stunner, what’s the matter with you? You look like a phantom, and here you sit, like an Indian idol; taking no exercise, having no fun, and doing nothing! Come now, you’ve got to go with us.”

“Charley,” Steve whispered, “don’t joke with me, nor make fun of me, for I can’t stand it. Charley, if you should have some old fire-crackers done up in a box, and you should put ’em into a fire, what do you suppose they would do?”

“Do?” said Charley. “Why, if they were old, as you say, they might be mildewed, for all you or I know, and burn up with the box, like so much solid wood—or else squib and hiss a little, and then go out.”

This novel and striking idea was too much for Steve’s fevered brain. Mildewed fire-crackers! His head swam; but with an effort he recovered himself, and flashed Charles such a look of gratitude that the plot came within an inch of crumbling into a woeful ruin.

“Poor fellow!” thought Charles. “Here he is fretting about those crackers yet! It is mean to play this trick on him, when he is so worried and excited. But then he is male-spirited, as my father says, and I know he would like to get hold of as good a trick himself.”

“Well, Steve, will you go?” Will asked impatiently.

“’Pon my word, I believe Steve has been afraid to get into a boat ever since we were out on the lake!” Jim exclaimed maliciously.

“Don’t stay on my account, bub,” sneered the man in the water-soaked garments. “I shall not be lonely without you.”

Stephen had been recovering his spirits ever since the boys arrived; and Jim’s taunt roused him to anger, while these last outrageous words stung him to the quick.

“Bub!” he repeated to himself. “That’s twice he called me bub! I can’t stand being called that; I never knew a boy that could. Botheration! I’ve a great mind to go with them, after all! They will treat me well, and not bother me, nor call me—no, I won’t say that horrid word again. Well, surely, whatever was in the box, is burnt up now!”

Seeing that Stephen still hesitated, Mr. Sarjent took in the situation, bent a gorgon look on him, and again acted the huffer. “I made a blood-curdling threat a while ago,” he said; “I see I shall have to put it into execution, or else you will have to leave. Go, all of you!”

“My stars, Timor! I’ll show you whether I’m afraid to get into that boat, or to do anything else!” Steve cried, in desperation.

Then he caught up a stick and thrust it into the fire here and there, in spite of the peevish and browbeating stranger’s remonstrances. Of course he saw nothing of the box. Though not quite satisfied,—for it was impossible to get entirely over his uneasiness so quickly,—he stopped with a sharp—

“Boys, I’ll go!”

Jim, as recorded above, had no burning desire to go with the boys; but, for all that, he found himself in the boat, and the boat on its way from the island. Then he became alarmed, but seeing no help for it, determined to make the best of it. Two facts are well-established: first, he who accuses another of cowardice is commonly a downright coward himself; second, no right-minded boy can be called a coward without doing some foolhardy thing to prove the contrary.

Poor Steve! The artful boys had quietly had him sit with his face towards the island, and he stole uneasy glances towards it, as if still fearing an explosion. By degrees he became calmer; the fresh, sparkling water revived him; and at length he became even merry. Yet his gaiety was more assumed than real, though the others did not know it. They were delighted with the success of their plot, and thought that he would be as pleased as anybody when the shock of the explosion should be over.

“Let me row,” he said suddenly.

“No, no!” Charles said hastily. “We are going to give you a free ride, Steve; so, sit where you are, with your back against the gunwale, and watch the picnickers.”

Steve complied with this request, little knowing why it was made.

The boat glided along smoothly and swiftly, and presently a bend in the river hid the island from sight, and soon afterwards the merry-makers. Stephen still lolled comfortably in the same position. But as the distance between them and the island increased, he became restless again.

They were now approaching the falls, and would soon be opposite to George and his mine—the “arsenal,” as Charley called it.

Charley was afraid that Stephen might ask embarrassing questions about the fire-crackers, or their course, and he kept up so lively a flow of conversation that the poor boy could not edge in a word.

It was downright cruelty to humbug the boy in this deliberate and underhand way, and we do not wish to palliate their guilt. The reader, however, must bear in mind that these boys are not the sinless and noble-hearted youths who generally figure in stories, but are at all times mischievous, though rarely cruel or wicked.

As they neared the falls, Charles suddenly ceased to talk, and Steve seized the opportunity to ask eagerly, “Will, can you tell me what was in that box? I almost concluded that some mistake had been made, and that perhaps you had found it out since. Were they fire-crackers?”

Will answered hesitatingly, as though ashamed of himself: “Why, yes, Steve, sure enough, a mistake was made. This morning I discovered that instead of fire-crackers, I gave you a box of my father’s, full of wet gunpowder.”

Steve’s face blanched. Not being so learned as George, it seemed to him, in his present state of mind, that wet gunpowder must be more dangerous than any other kind.

“That’s why it didn’t go off; but, if it’s there, it will go off yet!” he muttered.

Will observed the look of dismay on the boy’s face, and said soothingly, “Pshaw, Steve! Don’t be frightened; wet gunpowder has no virtue; don’t trouble about it or the fire.”

Charles and Will, having thus eased their conscience, and Steve’s anxiety, felt that all the warning that duty required had been given; and unshipping their oars, let the boat drift with the stream—taking care, however, to keep close to the bank where George lurked in ambush.

But Stephen, in his awakened uneasiness, did not heed Will’s comforting remark, nor did he wonder how Will could know anything about what had been done with the box.

“Boys, we’re near the falls!” Jim cried, in terror. “Stop the boat!”

But this warning was disregarded, and Charley struck up “Yankee Doodle,” the signal agreed upon with George.

Stephen, of course, did not know what this meant; but Jim did, and he was oppressed with gloomy forebodings.

Mark this: Stephen faced the right bank of the river, while George was on the left bank. The island was hidden by a bend in the river. Consequently, if an explosion should take place, Stephen would naturally jump to the conclusion that it had taken place on the island.

The boat slowly but steadily neared the falls. It certainly would have been prudent to stop their downward course, but no one, except Jim, appeared to be aware of this. Charley whistled bravely, though he wondered why no sign came from George, whom the high bank, fringed with bushes, effectually concealed.

Then the archplotters themselves became uneasy; and concluding that the powder had no virtue whatever they shipped their oars in mournful silence.

What was George doing meanwhile? As soon as the boys left him, he set about digging his mine. “Now,” he mused, “I shall not be so foolish as Stephen; I shall pry the box open, and see what is in it. It may be only a paint box, for all I know.”

By means of his jack-knife he forced off the lid, and found that it was powder—genuine powder—perfectly dry. But alas! the tried and trusty business blade of his knife was snapped off short!

Now, as the reader knows, George was a philosopher, and he took his good fortune and mishap philosophically. “By the end of the week,” he said, “I may be sorry about this knife, but I can’t be now!”

Then, picking up and gloating over the box: “Dry as the sun! How capital! Won’t I make the most of it! But what a blundering family those Lawrences are! Even Mr. Lawrence himself has made a mistake; he thought the powder had got wet. Well, they beat all the folks to blunder that I ever saw; it must run in the family.”

With a chuckle of ineffable satisfaction, he sat down to map out his mode of procedure. “I understand how to make the most of good gunpowder,” he mused; “what fun it would be to have a loud explosion—one that would stun even Will and Charley! I can do it, and I will!”

He arose and began to work as only a boy whose mind is bent on mischief can work, gathering up heaps of stones and rubbish; that soiled his picnic clothes, almost beyond restoration. Then he laid the box of powder in the bottom of his mine, placed a heavy stone on the wrenched-off lid, and piled the accumulated stones and rubbish over it so scientifically that a warlike explosion would be a foregone conclusion. The “train” was very simple—only a little pile of chips, twigs, and shavings, and a cotton string that led down to the powder.

When he heard the signal, he set fire to the train; but it took the fire some time to burn its way down to the powder. In his anxiety to see whether it would ignite, he neglected to place sufficient space between himself and his mine; therefore—but the consequence may be guessed; it is sufficient to say that he was neither killed nor seriously wounded.

Charles and Will had taken only a few strokes with the oars, when suddenly a tremendous explosion took place. With a roar like that of St. George’s Dragon the mine had sprung, and a cloud of stones and sundry other things rushed up into the air, only to descend with fury on the surrounding regions. Its effects were startling. Charles and Will were wholly unprepared for such a finale, and their faces showed the liveliest amazement as they stared blankly at each other, struck dumb with consternation.

Before they had time to think, the stones came whistling down all around them—the larger ones striking the water with a heavy and sonorous thud—the smaller ones singing and hissing like bullets.

There was no help for it; they were obliged to sit still and take their chances. Jim screamed himself black in the face, while Marmaduke vainly attempted to realize grandeur or romance in their perilous situation. Poor Stephen! with a ghastly face he kept his seat, apparently unable to move or speak.

All excepting Stephen escaped injury. He, poor fellow, had his arm broken by a falling piece of stone. The boat, however, did not come off so well; two stones bored two large holes through the bottom of it.

The water poured in through these holes, and Jim, boohooing and fearing he knew not what, jumped overboard. This roused the two plotters, Charles and Will, and they shouted, “The oars are gone—we can’t row! Jump out and swim for the shore, or we’ll all be taken over! Come, Steve, don’t be frightened; don’t mind. We did it all, Steve; we did it, and George fired it.”

But Stephen’s brain was in a whirl, and he did not understand them.

“Save Jim! He’ll be too frightened to swim,” Will cried. “Steve and Marmaduke can swim well enough. Hurry! we’re near the falls!”

Will and Charles sprang out of the boat for Jim, grappled him, and, after a violent struggle with the current, towed him ashore, safe, but perilously near the brink of the falls. All three had nearly been swept over! Marmaduke joined them a moment later. They did not know that Stephen’s arm was broken, and believing that he was safe on shore above them, their first thought was for George.

“Oh! he must have been blown to atoms!” Will groaned.

His agony far exceeded Stephen’s on the island—in fact, the tables had been turned in an unlooked-for manner.

“Yes, we must see about him,” said Charles, with pale face and unsteady voice, a gnawing pain in the region of his heart—a sensation that is experienced only when a person is strongly moved.

Scrambling up the bank, they saw George—bruised and bleeding, but looking supremely happy—peering into a jagged hole in the ground.

“Hallo, George!” Will called out. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh, a little,” said George. “Yes,” he added, “I—I’m pretty sore.”

“We were afraid you were destroyed.”

“Well, I never thought of the stones flying about so; I only thought of the noise;” George avowed. “But,” with a self-satisfied smile, “how did you like it?”

“Like it?” said Charles. “Why, it was awful! I’d no idea that gunpowder is such strong stuff: this must have been pretty virtuous, after all!”

“Well, boys, I opened the box, and the powder was as dry as a bonfire. So I fixed things to make a noise; but I never thought the stones would shoot so—I mean, I knew it, of course; but I didn’t calculate for it. It was a fine sight, though, to see them shoot up into the air. How did it appear to you?”

“‘Appear!’ Well, the stones broke two holes through the boat!” Will growled. “But where is Steve? haven’t you seen him?”

“Seen him? No, where can he be? How did he take it, anyway?”

“I think he was very much frightened, he looked so queer,” said Charles. “Oh, boys! where is he? Perhaps he was hurt!”

Then they flew to the bank. But the most searching glances failed to discover either the boat or Stephen.

“Steve! Steve!” they shouted, in convulsive grief.

“Oh, who saw him last?” Will asked. “Was he in the boat, or swimming?”

No one could answer the question, and the boys’ pale faces betrayed how their conscience was reproaching them.

In truth, Stephen’s broken arm, together with the shock of the explosion, had rendered him helpless, and he had been swept over the falls in the boat.

It would be dramatic to break off here, leaving the reader a prey to fruitless inquiries as to Stephen’s fate, drop down among the hungry-eyed little picnickers in the grove that bordered the river, and give a glowing description of what was going on. But as this story has very little to do with the picnic, and as most readers would a little rather hear about Stephen, I will deliberately transgress the laws of romance, and tell how it fared with him.

The explosion was distinctly heard by the merry-makers, and the picnic broke up in confusion. Crowds of excited people were soon skirting the winding banks of the river, and Stephen was found and fished out of the water, more dead than alive. He was immediately taken to his home, and a surgeon was called in. The surgeon set the broken arm, and after examining the boy carefully, said that although severely bruised, he was not hurt internally. But Stephen’s sufferings were not over yet. The fright and the shock proved too much for him; fever set in; and it was long before he rejoined his school-fellows, and several months before he recovered his health and strength.

Mr. Lawrence, “a sadder and a wiser man,” blamed himself for having indirectly contributed to the disaster. He reproved his son in these words: “I must say, Will, that you and your companions showed a deplorable want of honor in your dealings with poor Stephen this day.”

The man in whose field the explosion had taken effect set up a howl of righteous indignation on seeing the “chasm” in the ground; and did not stop to consider that the youngsters had only altered the physical features of a little plot of stony and untilled ground by changing the position of a few ancient stones, and by removing a few others into the bed of the river.

The portly and benevolent old gentleman said sadly, as he gazed upon the wreck of his sometime gay little boat, “Well, it is now manifested that a boat cannot be taken over these falls without being shattered to flinders. But, of course, nothing can kill a modern boy; he is indestructible.”

The observing reader of this history will remark that whatever these boys meddled with generally came to a dishonorable end.

And the “reformers” themselves, what of them? Probably, in the whole United States there could not have been found three more miserable boys than Will, Charles, and George, as they trudged home that day from the scene of their exploits—the clothing of the first two uncomfortably wet—the frame of the other smarting with pain. But their forlorn and dilapidated appearance excited no pity from the horrified villagers.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, in despair, sent their son to his aunt Eleanor’s, to spend a few days, hoping that he would there reflect on the folly of his doings, and amend. He and the others suffered tenfold more shame than Stephen after the scandal about the “mad dog.”

Boys, listen to the moral of this unconscionably dreary chapter:

It is quite right and desirable that you should, under proper tuition, learn the uses and the usefulness of gunpowder; but, if you know of any trick in which it is to be an agent, think of Stephen, and hang back.

---

Perhaps no one will be able to take in the moral lurking in the following chapters—except, it may be, some atramental old critic, who can discern a “hidden meaning” where no meaning, “hidden” or otherwise, is intended. Our only hope of escape from such critics is that they will consider this story entirely beneath their notice, and so pass it by in silence and contempt.

Will was sent to his aunt’s. This would have been, perhaps, a wise proceeding, if his aunt had been a severe old maid—but she was not. She was, on the contrary, a loving and cheerful woman, with a mettlesome, rattle-headed, yet resolute, son, Will’s “Cousin Henry.”

Will’s rueful mien excited the compassion of the entire family to such an extent that they did their utmost to divert him. Cousin Henry, with a noble disregard of self, gave up his school for two weeks, and devoted himself wholly to Will’s services. The sequel was, the two were soon sworn bosom-friends, pledged to stand by each other to the close of life.

Now, as this Henry was a hare-brained sort of fellow, permitted to do as he pleased, it may readily be supposed that he and Will were not long in getting into trouble.

“Will, did you see my balloon when you were here last?” Henry asked one day.

“Balloon? No; can you make a balloon?” Will inquired, in some surprise.

“Of course I can. American boys can make or do anything. All we want is some tissue paper for the cover; whalebone or cane for the ribs; a piece of wire; and a piece of cotton batten dipped in alcohol to make the gas.”

“I never heard of such a balloon,” Will replied. “How do you make the gas?”

“Why, just set fire to the batten,—that will be fastened under the mouth of the balloon by a bit of wire, you know,—and that’ll soon make the gas. Then away it goes, like a rocket.”

“I should think it might set something on fire,” said Will.

“Well, let it set. There are fire-engines enough in the town to put it out,” Henry replied, with easy indifference. “But, Will,” he added, “don’t be afraid; I’ve rigged lots of them, and they never set anything on fire yet.”

Ah, Henry! You did not observe that your balloons were generally fabricated so fragilely that it was impossible for them to do any harm!

“Then let us make one!” Will rejoined with alacrity.

The cousins, without delay, repaired to Mrs. Mortimer’s apartments, to look for some of the things required. Henry rummaged in a careless way that quite shocked poor Will, and at last issued from the room, leaving everything in appalling disorder. Next, Mr. Mortimer’s valuables were overhauled, and last of all, the hero’s own.

“Now we’ve found everything we need, Will, even to the tools,” he said. “Let us go to work.”

“Won’t you straighten up things, Henry?” Will ventured to ask.

“Straighten! Creation, no! Don’t you know it’s fall house-cleaning time? I don’t fool away my time in straightening!” with virtuous indignation.

Choosing Henry’s room for a workshop, the two fell to work. Notwithstanding the fact that the science of aëronautics was entirely new to him, Will suggested so many improvements that Henry was both astonished and delighted.

“We shall have a famous balloon!” he exclaimed.

“Why shouldn’t it be as good as any you ever made?” Will asked mildly.

“Why, yes, of course; why shouldn’t it. I don’t see,” Henry answered, not at all disconcerted.

“Will, would you like to go with me to the Demon’s Cave some day?” he asked abruptly.

“I never heard of the ‘Demon’s Cave.’ Where is it, and what is the Demon?”

“Then I can tell you all about it while we work. The ‘demon,’ Will, isn’t a ‘what’ but a ‘who;’ and a terrible sort of a fellow he is. Everybody around these parts knows all about him; some foolish people are afraid of him, some even pretend that he is a ghost! Some people that ought to know better say he’s an escaped criminal; but,” in a positive tone, “my father always knows what he is talking about, and he says the poor fellow is more or less crazy. He lives in a queer sort of a cave, or hovel, or hole, in a bank of earth. I’ve heard lots of the boys say that there are several rooms inside; but they don’t know; how should they?”

“Did you ever see him?” Will asked eagerly.

“I never got a good look at him, because he stays denned up like a bear in winter; but one night, a long time ago, some of us boys went howling and yelling around his cave, and he came out at us and chased us like a hungry wolf. The boys ran away like velocipedes, and I—I ran too. The demon was as fierce as a humbugged pirate [Henry was fond of comparison], and he caught one boy, and mauled him like a Spanish blood-hound. That was the only time I ever saw the demon; but that was enough for me.”

Will became interested in the man, and he inquired: “What did he look like?”

“Look! How can I tell? I was only a little boy then, or I shouldn’t have ran away. Well, let me think. Will,” suddenly, “did you ever see a correct picture of Satan?”

“No!” Will said, with horror.

“Well, I have, and it wasn’t half so ugly as the demon. That’s enough to say about his looks, isn’t it? And his clothes! Why, Will, they set him off so well that he looked like a shipwrecked Turk, dressed up in a savage’s stolen spoil!”

Will endeavored to grasp the meaning of this, but Henry hurried on.

“Well, Will, at any rate, he lives there all alone, and has for years. Some folks say he has lots of money; and likely they are right, for what else can he live on?”

“Why, does he buy food at the market?” Will asked.

“No; didn’t I tell you that he keeps shut up like a nun in a coffin? They say a friend of his goes there every once in a while with victuals and things; and likely the demon pays him for them. All the boys say that he has a poultry-yard full of hens and chickens somewhere in his cave. I’ve heard, though, that he prowls around at night, and gets his living that way. Very likely a little of both; for he is often seen out in the night. For all you or I know, Will, he may have a chest full of gold, like a hermit in a story-book for little girls.”

“Then it’s a wonder he doesn’t get robbed,” Will observed.

“You’ve hit it, Will!” said Henry. “A whole gang of thieves broke into his cave once, so the story goes, thinking they would carry off his money, if he had any. But the demon was too clever for them. He hid himself in a dark corner, and frightened the robbers nearly to death. They rushed out of the cave like bumble-bees on a holiday.”

“And didn’t they steal anything?”

“They didn’t see anything to steal, Will. The demon had either put his treasures out of sight, or else he hadn’t any. But I don’t know whether the story is true or not; perhaps it is only a concocted one.”

“Why do the people let him stay there?” was Will’s next question. “Why don’t they take him out of his cave, and take care of him?”

“For several reasons. He is harmless when he is not molested; he lives there quietly, and likely wouldn’t leave his cave unless taken away by force; and no one likes to interfere with his affairs. Of course the people keep an eye on him, and won’t let him suffer.”

“Why do they call him ‘the Demon?’”

“Oh, that’s only a nickname he got. Didn’t you ever notice, Will, how people like to give outlandish nicknames? They’ll pick up the silliest old hunks they can find,—a man that doesn’t know enough to put on his own hat, even,—and ornament him with the name of some vanquished hero. Don’t you see, the ‘Demon of the Cave’ sounds pretty strong; it’s sure to make a stranger turn around and look over his left shoulder, as if he was afraid of himself. Yes, the people in this country like to give big nicknames; they nickname even the Evil One!”

“And doesn’t any person know where this man came from, nor who he is?”

“No, the people here don’t seem to know anything about him before he came to these parts; but there are all kinds of stories about him.”

“Poor fellow!” Will said, softly. “He must have a miserable life there, all alone. Does he have any fires in his cave?”

“Oh, yes; I believe he keeps a good fire all day long; but it must be cold there in winter. I think he gets his firewood prowling around in the night,—not that he steals, but he gathers up rubbish and old boards. They say he cooks his food nicely over his fire. There is a spring, or underground well, of some kind in his cave, so that he does not suffer from want of fresh water. But, Will, I could go on talking about him for hours. There are all kinds of stories about him, stories that would make you turn black and blue, and shiver all over. When we go to bed to-night, I’ll tell you some of the worst.”

“You can’t scare me that way, Henry; so you might as well tell them now.”

“Oh, well, they don’t amount to very much, anyway. All the boys say he’s a cannibal, and every few weeks he steals somebody, and eats him up. There was a man missed here once, Will, and he never came back again; so, of course, they say he was taken off by the demon. The man never came back again to say where he had been; and so the story got going, and it’s going yet. The boys say that sometimes he has awful fits of madness, and tears everybody that he meets all to pieces. Oh, there are lots of stories, Will; but if they don’t frighten you, what’s the good of telling them? They’ll scare some boys, though. There’s one little boy that goes to school that the boys make a habit of frightening very often, by saying that they’ll take him to the Demon’s Cave. Then he bellows, and rams his fists into his eyes, and punches ’em nearly out, and swears he’ll shoot all the boys when he gets big enough.”

“And do you tease him, too?” asked Will.

“No, Will; I don’t. I hate to see a boy with the nosebleed, and this little fellow bellows so hard, and pommels himself so much, that he nearly always gets it. You see, one attack of nosebleed doesn’t get rightly cured before another comes on.”

“I see,” said Will.

“Well, Will,” after a pause, “would you like to go and see this cave and the demon some day?”

“Yes, Henry, I should like nothing better;” Will said, with boyish eagerness. “How far away is it, and when shall we go?”

“Well, it’s about three or four miles from our house, and we can go to-morrow night, if it should be pleasant. I’ve always wanted to get inside of that cave, Will, to see whether any of the stories about it are true. We will get into it when we go, or perish on the spot, won’t we?”

Will was quite willing to go and see the place where the demon lived; but, “to beard the lion in his den!” that was asking too much; especially, as he had resolved not to get into any mischief during his stay at his aunt’s.

“Come, Will; you are the only boy I would ask to go with me. I’ve always wanted to go, but I could never find the right boy to have along. You are the very chap; you have nerve; you wouldn’t run away, if the demon should be in one of his fits of fury. And you would enjoy it; you would have it to think of and dream of when you were an old man!”

This last argument, not proving conclusive, Henry continued: “Just think how the boys would envy us! You could tell the boys at home, and make ’em jealous of us for life; and I could stir up the boys that I know, and make them so mad that they would chew India rubber and think it was gum!”

Will was only a boy, and he could, not withstand so seductive an argument. “Well, Henry,” he said slowly, “I’ll go.”

“Of course; you would always be sorry if you didn’t.”

Now that he had secured Will’s promise to go, he ventured to hint at the propriety of taking pistols.

“Pistols!” Will exclaimed, with horror. “Surely, we don’t want pistols! Why, we might as well turn highwaymen, and be done with it!”

But Henry was a year older than Will, accustomed to have his own way, and he would not yield to the boy’s entreaties. His stronger nature soon overruled Will’s scruples, and he consented to do whatever Henry thought best, though feeling ill at ease.

“Of course, Will, we don’t think of shooting at anything—not for all the world;—but the plan is to get behind an old tree near the cave, fire a pistol to draw the demon out, and then rush in while he is looking to see what made the noise. Don’t you see? Perhaps we shan’t need to fire a pistol at all; but it will be best to have them.”

“Why should we take more than one, and why should we put in a ball?” Will asked uneasily.

“One apiece, Will; and we must have both loaded, for we don’t know what might happen. Now, don’t be frightened; we won’t do any harm, nor break any laws; I know how to manage things too well for that.”

“I promised to keep out of mischief,” Will said, dolefully.

“I know it, Will; and I’m going to help you keep your promise. We can be very careful, and what fun it will be!”

“I’m afraid somebody will get shot,” mournfully replied the assistant balloonist. He was beginning to repent of his promises to Henry; and in his heart of heart he knew it would be extremely ridiculous, not to say wrong, for two hare-brained youths to set out on a nocturnal expedition, with loaded pistols.

---

The little balloon was now completed, and the demon and his affairs were forgotten. The balloon was rather clumsily constructed, it is true; but it promised to float well, and the cousins were enchanted with it. They bore it tenderly out into the back-yard, arranged it for flight, and were about to fire the prepared cotton batten, when Henry cried excitedly: “Wait, Will! Wait a minute! I’m going to fix a car under it! I see a little old straw-hat of the baby’s here in the yard, and I’ll just hitch it on for a car. Of course; what’s a balloon without a car?”

Henry hastened to do so, and the little bonnet was tied fast to the balloon, immediately under the gas-producing apparatus. Then he set fire to the batten; very soon the balloon quivered; and then up it rose, a really pretty sight. The boys shouted, cheered, and flung out their arms in wild delight.

It rushed up like a rocket—it flew along—it soared—it became smaller and smaller—the “car” took fire—the whole balloon blazed—it wavered—it fell headlong—it lit on the roof of a public building—it set it on fire!

The boys had watched its ascent with enthusiasm, cheering lustily; but when it took fire, their enthusiasm cooled, and in proportion as the balloon burned brighter, their hearts grew heavier. When it fell, their spirits fell with it. They grew sick with fear on seeing flames burst forth on the roof of the building, and looked at each other in utter helplessness. Henry was the first to collect himself, and he gave the alarm by shouting “Fire!” in thundering tones.

Several householders, Mrs. Mortimer among them, flew to their doors at the dreadful cry of fire, to see whether their own buildings were the ones menaced. The fire was soon pointed out; the fire-engines rushed gallantly to the rescue; the hoses were adjusted; and the firemen sprang to their work. The two boys got over their terror sufficiently to throng to the scene of action. To Henry it was a familiar sight; but to Will it was entirely new, and he enjoyed it, in spite of himself.

The fire was soon extinguished, and but little harm was done to the building. The whole affair, from the time when Henry attached the “car” to his balloon till the last spark was extinguished, took up only a few minutes.

As the cousins returned to the house, they felt that all was not over yet.

“That’s the worst thing, almost, that ever happened to me,” said Will.

“Never mind it, Will; its over now, and not much harm done. I wouldn’t let that trouble me a minute. We boys in the city, don’t count that as much; we’re used to all sorts of horrible things happening to us; we get hardened to it; we expect it. But it was all that dismal straw-hat; that did the mischief. If I hadn’t flung it into the back-yard the other day, our balloon might be soaring around yet! Well, it’s burnt up now, from stem to stern.”

“Yes, Henry; but it isn’t a very good way to keep out of mischief; it—it makes me feel very miserable. George would say we are incendiaries.”

“Who’s George? Somebody that is nobody, I guess. Well, at any rate, that isn’t the word. Giantize is a great deal better. To giantize, Will, is to eat like a giant; to do big things; to astonish the natives; to be a hero; to rescue captives. We’ll giantize to-morrow night when we rescue the man—if there is a man—in the Demon’s Cave. Some day, Will, I’ll take you to a bookstore, and show you a weekly paper with continued stories in it, and continual heroes in the stories. These heroes are very, very strong, and good, and brave, and handsome; and they make it a settled business to giantize.”

“Oh, I know what those papers are, Henry; I know a Mr. Horner that takes two or three of them; and he gets so excited over the stories that sometimes he can’t sleep at night. But his boy Jim—Timor we call him—is the biggest coward that ever ran away from a lapdog.”

The boys sat down to dinner with little appetite. Mr. Mortimer made inquiries about the fire, and they acknowledged their share in it. To say that Mr. Mortimer was vexed would hardly express the state of his feelings. In the afternoon a deputation of the City Fathers waited on him, and he and the two cousins were closeted with them some time. What passed between them was never made known; but as they took their departure one of them observed: “Yes, that makes it all right. Well, I never realized before that a straw-bonnet would set fire to a roof. I must tell my boys never to make balloons; or, at least, to make them without cars. By the way, what was it that you dipped in alcohol to make the gas?”

Will was too confused to make a reply. Not so Henry. “Cotton batten, sir, is what we used,” he said, “but a sponge is better still.”

After they had gone, he said to Will: “Now he’ll get himself into trouble! His boys are always trying experiments; and if he tells them about our balloon, they’ll go to work and make one that’ll set the whole place on fire! Oh, they’re awful boys! Only a few days ago they poisoned off a dog with some dangerous gas, and drove the house-keeper’s cat into hysteric fits. Why, Will, their mother can’t keep a tea-kettle three weeks before they swoop down on it; and turn on a full head of steam; and plug up the spout; and batten down the lid; and blow it all to nothing. Oh, that man will have his hands full of sorrow before long.”

“But what does their mother say about it? Surely, she doesn’t like to keep on buying new tea-kettles! And their father,—doesn’t he get mad?”

“Oh, as long as the boys don’t get hurt, their parents think they are smart; and they tell everybody that goes into the house that when the boys grow up, they will revolutionize chemistry and remodel the steam-engine.”

Then the two talked of exploits that they had achieved; adventures that had befallen them; and perils through which they had passed. Henry said that he had had the mumps, the measles, and the small-pox; Will said he had had the sore throat, the chicken-pox, seven boils, lots and lots of warts, and the measles, too. Henry said a circus horse once kicked him hard, and a circus monkey once stole his handkerchief; Will said he once shot a cat with his father’s gun, and it fled away and lived all winter with the bullet in its heart. Henry said that was nothing; he once shot a deer, and if somebody else hadn’t come along and killed it, he believed his ball would have killed it. Will said he could beat that, for he was nearly drowned once. Then Henry said he one day drank so much water that he nearly died; and the next day those smart boys that he had spoken of set him on fire, and scorched his coat till he couldn’t recognize it.

Then they talked of other things, and Will told his cousin all about his school-fellows. Then Henry again referred to the demon and his wickedness.

Judging by the performances of the last few hours, Henry would be a strange companion to visit the Demon’s Cave with, at night, and armed with loaded pistols, “ready,” as he phrased it, “to defend themselves in case of danger.”

---

It was morning. The cousins were standing in the commons. A crowd of people was assembled. In the centre of the inclosure a colossal balloon (do not smile, gentle reader) towered up into the air. Its manager, Prof. Ranteleau, was haranguing the people. In a few minutes he would ascend in his balloon—who wished to accompany him? He was an adept in the science of aëronautics, and would insure every one a safe, novel, and delightful voyage through the aërial regions. When they had sailed among the clouds to their satisfaction, he would return and descend on the common.

A few people said “good-bye” to their friends, and climbed into the car. The cousins did likewise. The fastenings were cast loose; the professor seated himself with a complacent smile; and with a great lurch the balloon began to ascend.

The people began to make poetical remarks upon the “sublimity,” the “immensity,” the “profundity” of the scene, before the car was fifty feet above the ground.

Will and Henry sat still and looked on; for to their untutored minds the scene did yet seem particularly sublime.

But the balloon rapidly gained in speed, and soon whirled its occupants along at an astonishing rate. Things below became more and more indistinct, and were gradually lost to view. Then the balloonists felt in their pockets for sundry barometers and thermometers; buttoned their over-coats up to their ears; and prepared to enjoy themselves.

The professor reached out his hand to adjust some part of the mechanism. But a valve refused to open, the bulky monster gave a great lurch forward, and he perceived that it had become unmanageable! His benign countenance assumed an air of woe, but he hoped that all was not yet lost. He was deceived.

Suddenly the balloon careened over, and sailed through the air in a horizontal position, very unpleasant to the balloonists. Striking a certain parallel of latitude, it circled round this world of ours like a beam of light. In vain the professor attempted to get control of the unwieldy monster. Dropping their barometers and thermometers, the unhappy æronauts clutched the sides of the car with an agonized grip. Nothing was now said about the “sublimity” of things below; for no one durst cast his eyes to the ground.

Soon they were circumnavigating the world in the twinkling of an eye; and the balloon increased in speed till it exceeded the wildest calculations made by man respecting motion. The wretched travelers of the sky could no longer maintain their hold, and were one by one flung from the fated balloon like missiles from a catapult. They went whirling through space with a rotary motion, like balls from a rifle; while, from a peculiarity in the way in which they were flung, they took a different course from that taken by the balloon, more downward and southward.

Thus the pedagogue’s question, whether anything can be discharged from a motive power in motion, is set at rest forever.

In spite of the awfulness of his situation, Will could not help pitying whatever obstacle they should bring up against, for there would be a frightful collision.

For the thirtieth time the Rocky Mountains rose before them, and a large man, built on the approved Dicken’s model, was shot from the balloon. To the spectator’s horror, he went right through one of the loftiest mountains, just below the limit of perpetual snow, tearing a hole eight feet in circumference through the solid rock. When the “hardy mountaineer” comes upon that hole, he will call it a “freak of nature,” and be at a loss to account for its usefulness. “Ah! he didn’t ought to come!” the professor managed to articulate. But he was not heard, for in an instant an ocean of ether rolled between him and his words.

One by one the unfortunates were hurled from the balloon, till out of thirteen only the professor and the two cousins remained. The monster circumnavigated the globe one hundred times; then quivered, hesitated, slackened its speed, and finally, taking a new start, it left the earth entirely behind, and swiftly drew near one of the planets. It redoubled its exertions, and soon exceeded its former velocity. The air became warmer and warmer, nearer and nearer they came to the planet. The professor determined to make one more effort to check their wild flight, and took his right hand from the support it clutched, to pull a rope leading to a valve.

That movement was fatal: the professor himself was shot out of the balloon. He, however, took an upward course. The balloon seemed to know that he was gone; and quivering with joy and relief, it once more assumed a perpendicular position. The boys relaxed their hold, and gladly stretched their stiffened limbs. But its velocity seemed only to increase.

Six seconds later, the boys felt an awful crash above them. The balloon had overtaken its latest projectile, the professor, and a great collision was the result. Then the gas coming from the professor’s throat, and the gas inside of the balloon, met; and an explosion that jarred the planet they were drawing near,—though it was still three thousand miles away,—took place.

The balloon immediately collapsed, and then a strange thing happened. Will dilated till he reached the dimensions of the last exhumed New Jersey fossil, and then a cry of pain broke from his lips. He opened his eyes.

A calm September sun was shining into the bedroom window; the birds were singing gayly outside; while down stairs he heard Henry’s merry laugh.

“A dream!” Will exclaimed, in great relief! “Only a dream. But it seemed more real than any dream I ever had! Oh, dear! Even in dreams I get into trouble! What will become of me next? Shall I always keep on making blunders? Shall I always get into disgrace, like an idiot or a bothersome dog?”

After a pause, he continued: “Well, I do feel a pain, sure enough! I suppose I ate too much pudding for dinner.”

In this observation he was partially correct. Boys, listen to this glorious precept: Never eat heartily when you feel as Will felt that afternoon.

“I wonder how a genuine balloon would behave itself?” Will mused, as he jumped out of bed. “Not much like Professor Ranteleau’s, surely. If I could see George, now, I guess he could tell me all about it. Perhaps Henry knows how it would be. Well, I don’t care for such dreams; they make me feel homesick. Poor Stephen! I wonder how he is this morning. Oh! Oh! this is the day for the visit to the Demon’s Cave!”

Having said that, he went down stairs in search of Henry.

---

The boys spent the day in suppressed excitement, not caring to engage in any amusement, but roaming about the house and making their “preparations.” After much wandering through the building, they gathered up everything they thought would be needful.

“It’s a great pity we haven’t more weapons,” Henry said. “Now, Will to go armed rightly, we should have revolvers, not pistols. Seven-shooters, with a box of cartridges apiece, would make us very formidable, and then we ought to have other weapons. Well, I’ve a compass, anyway; you must take it, Will, for you don’t know the way so well as I do. These pistols of mine are very good, for pistols; but after all, they are only pistols.”

Henry was wrong in being ashamed of his firearms. They were very neat and highly ornamented pocket-pistols, which his father had given to him some years before, under a promise not to use them till he should be old enough to do so with safety. He had strictly kept that promise.

There was nothing wrong with them; but Henry got out his father’s oil can, and the two boys toiled over them for upwards of an hour. The oil in the little can ran low, and a pile of greasy rags rose beside them; but when they at last desisted from their labors, a sweet smile of content lit up their grimy features, and unthinkingly they drew out their handkerchiefs.

“Oh!” cried Will with a look of dismay.

“Never mind,” said Henry, composedly. “Just keep yours, and I’ll keep mine, and they’ll make the very best kind of a slate-cloth, and when they get worn out for that, the ragman will buy them at a cent a pound. Now, Will, just look at these pistols; they are as clean as a snow-storm!”

This sublime comparison restored Will’s cheerfulness, and together they wended their way outside to wash.

“Will,” he said, “to show you how very careful I am, we won’t load this pair of pistols till just before we go. All the accidents you read about in the newspapers come from loaded pistols and revolvers lying around loose; so we’ll cheat fate, and not load them till the last minute. And,” he added, “to be still more careful, you may load them both yourself.”

But where Will was concerned, Fate was not to be cheated so easily; in fact, on this occasion, Henry was “only playing into her hands.”

For some reason, neither of the boys said anything to Mr. or Mrs. Mortimer about their intended expedition, wishing, according to their account, to have a “tale to tell” the next morning. Although they kept saying to each other that they would be doing nothing wrong, it is probable they feared Mr. Mortimer might think they would be better at home than at the Demon’s Cave. To do them justice, it must be stated that neither meditated doing any harm; they wished only to effect an entrance into the cave. They were certain that they would reach home by bedtime; and then, the affair being all over, they could narrate their adventures at their leisure. They were observing boys, and knew well enough that when they returned in triumph and safety, their little prank would be excused; and far from being blamed, they would be regarded with admiration—even lionized.

Yes, Will and Henry were wise in their day and generation.

In the morning Henry had said to his mother: “Ma, could you get supper earlier than usual to-night? Will and I want to go out about sundown. We’ll tell you all about it afterwards.”

Mrs. Mortimer supposed, of course, that everything was all right, and never thought of questioning them as to whither they were going. She, good soul, promised to get an early supper on purpose for them, and even proposed that they should take some eatables with them. The boys heartily agreed to this—not that they cared to eat on the way; but they thought it would become them, as armed heroes, to take along a knapsack of food.

When supper was announced the impatient knights-errant hastily ate it. Then Henry put some tempting sandwiches—the eatables his kind mother had prepared—into his satchel, or knapsack, and called to Will to get ready.

“Now, Will,” he said, as they flew up stairs to his room, “we must hurry like a train of cars behind time. It is getting late, and you must load the pistols as fast as you can, while I change my boots. Here is everything you want in this drawer, and you know just where to lay your hand on whatever you want.”

“Oh, yes,” said Will.

“See, Will, here’s a big jack-knife for you, and another for me. They’re the toughest and grittiest old fellows you ever saw; stick this one into your pocket.”

So they armed their persons with these formidable and bulky knives. Did they expect to kill anyone, or to be killed themselves?

Will felt no uneasiness about taking a pocket-knife, however big it might be; but he looked at the pistols with awe.

“You secured the compass before supper?” asked Henry.

“Yes.”

“Then don’t stand fooling, Will, but load the pistols.”

The sun had set, and the boys’ bedroom facing the east, it was somewhat dark within it. Will knew he must hurry, for it was getting late, and Henry would soon be ready. His old dread about taking the pistols returned, and his hand trembled with suppressed excitement as he snatched them up.

“I’ll load ’em,” he said desperately, “but I don’t like to do it.”

“Don’t be chicken-hearted at the last minute, Will; you know I rely on you to help me;” Henry called out, from the adjoining room.

“Never mind,” Will replied confusedly, as he opened the drawer of which Henry had spoken. There were many things in this drawer, arranged in excellent order, Henry thought; but to anyone else, everything seemed to be in appalling disorder, as though thrown into it at random. Boxes, strings, cords, fishhooks, slate-pencils, lead-pencils, discarded buttons; a glass ink-bottle that a blue-eyed girl had once given him for prompting her against the rules; a top that a dead brother had spun in days gone by; a diary that began with a grand flourish and ended miserably on the fifth page; and several other things, were stowed away in that drawer. If the reader wishes to know exactly what its contents were, let him look into the sanctum of such a boy as Henry.

Groping among these things, Will found his cousin’s powder-flask, poured a generous charge into the barrel of both pistols, and then rammed in a wad.

“Ready?” asked Henry, as he slipped on the second boot.

“Oh, yes; in a minute;” Will replied, becoming very much confused.

Fumbling in the drawer again, he drew out a box which he supposed held the bullets. Tearing off the lid without stopping to examine what the soft black balls really were, he dropped one into each barrel, and secured it with a wad.

Poor boy! Of course he had made a blunder, and mistaken artificial balls, that Henry had made for his little brothers pog-gun, for leaden bullets! These balls were made of tow, soaked in water, and then rounded into shape. They were excellent for a pop-gun, but rather out of place in a pistol.

Poor knights-errant! They were not armed even so well as Henry imagined. In case of an attack from the demon, all that they could rely on would be their jack-knives.

Unconscious of his mistake, Will observed, with a sigh of relief, “There, they’re loaded! I’m not much used to loading pistols, Henry; but I know better than to put the balls in first!”

“Then why didn’t you say so before?” Henry demanded, as he stepped into the room. “You are too nervous, Will; you ought to take things coolly, as I do. Of course the pistols are all right; but let me see them.”

Taking them up, he said, with an amused smile: “It’s pretty dark here, Will, but I think I could see the caps, if they were on!”

“Oh!” was all poor Will could say.

Henry hurried to his drawer, found his box of caps, and speedily remedied Will’s neglect. But he did not see the mistake Will had made about the balls.

Then each boy thrust a pistol into his coat pocket, and looked every inch a redoubtable hero.

“Never mind shutting up the drawer, Will; never mind doing anything;” Henry cried impatiently. “It is nearly a quarter to seven; so let us hurry, and we’ll swoop down on the demon just in the nick of time.”

As they passed out of the house, Henry’s little sister asked where they were going.

“Wait till we come back, Topsy, and we’ll have a whole story-book full of tales to tell you,” said Henry. “We are going to do something wonderful, and perhaps we’ll find something to bring back to you. Topsy, tell your baby brother that if we meet Jack the Giant Killer, we’ll smash his head for him.”

A minute later, the boys were fairly on their way to the cave.

“Henry, there is a question I want to ask you,” said Will, as they strode along. “It will be so late when we get home, and we shall be so tired; why didn’t we start early in the afternoon?”

“Ho! what a question! Why, Will, I’m astonished at you! What would be the fun in going in daylight? Don’t you see, night makes everything solemn and romantic, and spurs a fellow on to be very brave—so brave that he wouldn’t be afraid of the skeleton of a devil-fish. Will, do you ever read novels? stories? legends?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t the heroes do all their noble deeds at night? Villains and ruffians prowl around at night, and the heroes know that, and lay their plans to grapple them. Will, when different nations go to war, like two dogs over a bone, if they can only manage to do the fighting at night, they always do. And then what a battle there is.”

He held forth in this strain till he became almost eloquent; but wound up by saying, with great inconsistency, “Besides, it isn’t night at all; it’s only evening.”

To all this Will meekly assented.

“As for being tired,” Henry continued, with intense disgust, “you’re no true boy, Will, if you care a straw for that, when such sport is in view.”

“No, of course not!” Will hastily replied. But he asked himself whether his cousin had any of Marmaduke’s notions.

“Well,” after a pause, “I did have a reason for coming at this particular time. I know a good-natured fellow that comes along this way every evening with a team. I see him coming now; and he’ll give us a ride, as sure as our pistols are loaded. He’ll set us down not far from the cave, and that will be a great help; and, Will, if you are tired, ten to one we’ll get a ride going home!”

Will began to think his cousin was a strangely contrary boy.

Mr. Mortimer’s house stood in the suburbs of the town, which the boys had now left entirely behind. Eagerly they hurried on, but the teamster soon overtook them, and as Henry had said, he offered them a ride. As they rattled on over the dusty road, they felt that this world is very beautiful, after all; and that it is a fine thing to have a teamster for a friend.

When they left him they were within a quarter of a mile of their destination.

It was between two hills that they alighted, the road coming down one, crossing a bridge that spanned a little stream, and then going up another. The land on either side was low,—even marshy in places,—and used principally for pasturage. To the left of the road there were no banks; but to the right, for a long way up the stream, there were high and steep banks, with a wide valley between them. It was in one of these banks that the cave was situated.

The cousins ran across the road, and down into the valley, on their way to the demon’s abode. The teamster watched them as he drove along, and muttered: “So that’s where the rascals are going! Well, let ’em go; I reckon they’ll soon come howling back again, very much the worse for wear, and rather broken in wind!”

---

Will was about to follow the stream, but Henry called out to him, “Don’t go there, Will, for the ground is too soft after the rain. Besides, we must be careful; the demon may be prowling around; and he might see us. Let us follow this steep bank for a little way, and then we shall find a path leading right up to the top of it.”

It was a desert place, far from any habitation—a wilderness within sight of a town. High above them rose an almost perpendicular bank, of earth, not rock; while directly opposite rose a similar bank, nearly as high. Between these lay the pasture-land. Will and Henry were sensible of the desolation of the place; it fired their enthusiasm, and warmed their blood; and they peered into the shadows as though they imagined a whole band of demons lurked near, ready to spring upon them.

If they should be attacked, as Henry seemed to fear, so far from help, his pistols and pocket-knives would be frail weapons of defence.

They soon reached the path leading upwards, and began to ascend.

“Henry, wouldn’t it be better to go boldly up to the door of the cave, and knock?” Will asked. “Surely, the demon would let us in, and show us around; and if he should, of course, he would let us out again.”

“No, Will; that wouldn’t do at all. The demon never lets any one into his cave; and as I told you, the story runs that whoever he takes in never gets out again. If we should knock at his door he would be on his guard, and I doubt whether we should be able to get in at all. Besides, it wouldn’t be poetical to get in that way. No; we must entice him out, and then rush in like a whirlwind.”

“But how are we to get out again?”

“Now, Will, I don’t mean you when I say it; but that is a coward’s thought. I never troubled myself about that—in fact, I never let such an idea come into my head. If we had wanted to get in that way, we should have stayed down in the valley. By going around on the top of the hill, as we are, we can lay a trap that the demon will certainly fall into. You see, Will, if we want to get fun out of this expedition, we must have a plot. I don’t blame you for being nervous, Will; those trick-playing boys at your place have unsettled your nerves, and unstrung your faculties; but if you stay with me long enough, I’ll string them up till you are ready for anything.”

Will heaved a sigh, blinked painfully, and said, “Thank you!”

Henry resumed: “Yes, Will, I think we can safely leave that question till we get ready to go out. Some way will be found then, never fear. The main point is to get in; it will be easy enough to get out.”

“Let us stop a minute, and look around,” Will said, as they strode warily along on the brow of the hill.

“By all means, Will. Here,” stretching out his arms, and speaking with theatrical vehemence, “here is scenery! This is where the travelling photographers come to astonish themselves!”

A splendid view was obtained from this elevation; the country could be seen for a long distance, and glimpses were caught of three or four towns besides Henry’s.

But the writer seems to forget that he is not a school-girl writing a prize composition in description of some far distant and romantic land of which she, in her younger days, had learned a piece of poetry, difficult and tiresome, but studded with beautiful metaphors that fired her budding genius.

A great many dumb beasts, but no human beings, were in sight.

Henry soon broke the silence by saying, “Come, Will, we must go on.”

They hurried along on the brow of the long hill, conversing in low tones. Still no appearance of the demon. There was a well-beaten path, evidently worn by the demon himself, which they followed. After following this path for a few minutes, Henry suddenly stopped, and said in a hoarse whisper:

“Will, I think we are directly over the cave. Hush! Keep very still, and look out for danger; but be as collected as a desperado. We are two to one; so there is nothing to be afraid of. Now, Will, crouch down, and we’ll lay our plans right over the demon’s head. He can’t hear us, and I want to make everything clear to you. Don’t you see, Will, its a striking idea to plot and scheme over the very cave itself?”

“Yes, it’s just like outlaws,” said Will.

“Well, by going on a little farther, we shall find another path leading down this hill into the valley. We must take that path, so that we can come up to the cave from behind. The demon will never suspect any one of coming from that direction, and he will be trapped nicely. We can get behind the big old tree you see down there, and then fire! You see, Will, we had to come this roundabout way over his cave; it would never do to pass in front of it, and run the risk of being seen.”

Will saw, and admired Henry’s stratagem.

“It makes me think of Robinson Crusoe and his cave,” he whispered, as they rose and went on.

Soon they reached the path leading downwards, which they descended warily, and then found themselves once more in the valley. A few steps ahead was a monstrous old tree, lying flat on the ground, and jutting out towards the opposite bank; while farther along, round an angle, was the entrance into the cave. Any person behind that tree would be effectually hidden from that entrance; and, of course, that entrance would be hidden from him.

Henry’s plan was to fire, and then keep a sharp look-out over the tree till the demon should come out and place some distance between himself and his cave, looking for the cause of the loud noise. He imagined that what with the angle, the surrounding cliffs, and the echoes that would follow, it would be impossible for a person in the cave to tell the exact place from which the report came. When the demon should be at a safe distance from his cave, Henry and Will would dash into it.

Henry thought they would be perfectly safe; for would they not be protected on every side, except from the rear?

From the rear!

When they reached the foot of the hill, they paused and looked warily, even fearfully, up the valley. But it was fast getting dark, and they did not see a man who crouched against the cliff in time to escape observation.

He was the man commonly called the Demon.

The cousins turned and proceeded slowly and circumspectly toward their ambush, fearing every minute that the demon might appear in front of them. As they went they conversed in whispers. The man, or demon, followed so closely behind them that he heard every word; and yet so carefully did he tread that they were not aware of his presence. As will be seen, he gathered the whole plan of attack from their whispered conversation, and took his measures accordingly.

“Now, Will, we must settle the last details of our plot,” Henry said. “You may fire your pistol, Will, but I’ll keep my fire till I see whether we need it or not. I’ll climb the trunk of the tree, when we think it is safe, from your shoulder, and then pull you up. Of course we can jump from the tree to the ground, and then, to run for the cave!”

“But suppose the demon isn’t in his cave?”

“That’s just what we’re afraid of, Will, and we are only taking our chances. He ought to be in at this time of night, eating his supper and tormenting his captives—if he has any. He must be in! I feel that we haven’t come all the way here for nothing; I feel that we are in for a grand adventure! And what will the demon say when he finds two armed boys in his den!”

“Suppose he won’t come out when I fire? He may be too cute to rush out, and leave the door open, and straggle off.”

“Oh, do quit supposing! If he won’t come out, we will shove our way in. If he is a good old man, we must cheer him up, and help him; but if he is a wicked old knave, with captives and treasures, we must set them free, and plunder him for the National Treasury. Here we are at the tree, Will; get out your pistol ready to fire. No, wait! Let me take a look over the log, to see that he isn’t prowling around there.”

After much scrambling, Henry succeeded in climbing upon the tree. Will stood by, fumbling idly with the pistol. The demon, a few steps behind, pressed close against the cliff, and remained unseen.

“I don’t see anything of the demon,” Henry whispered, from the trunk of the tree. “Don’t fire till I slip down, because he might pop out quick, and see me. In a minute or two, I’ll venture up again.”

Before he had finished speaking he was on the ground; and, as bravely as a war-worn general, he said, in a higher key than Will’s proximity made necessary: “FIRE!”

Of course every accomplished story-teller, when he “gets into the thick of it,” must pause deliberately, and give prolix descriptions of people or places about whom or which the general reader cares next to nothing. It is unjust to the impatient, but powerless, reader; but it is the custom. We must plead guilty of this time-honored meanness, and seize the present opportune moment to introduce the demon as he appeared at that time.

He was a tall, powerful man, with light, active movements, worthy of a soldier. His features were regularly formed, and apparently he had once been a fine-looking man. Now, however, he was haggard and stooped from long-continued privations. His eyes had a ferocious glare,—not pleasant to beholders, but supposed to be an attribute of maniacs,—a suspicious look, as though he dreaded some enemy were lurking near, ready to spring upon him. In fact, his entire appearance showed that he was always on his guard. His long and intensely black hair waved about his shoulders in wild profusion; whilst his beard, likewise black, reached far down his breast. His clothing, old and tattered, was in keeping with his general appearance.

All taken together, he looked like a madman; and if Marmaduke could have seen him, he would have been in ecstacy, thinking that at last he had found one of Dickens’ monstrosities.

The “gentle reader” has not been kept in suspense very long, but the narrative may now resume its course.

The demon crept stealthily out of the shadow, and, unperceived by the boys, stole swiftly, but noiselessly, upon them. When Henry said “fire!” Will raised his pistol with a trembling hand, and cocked it, preparatory to firing into the air. But before he could do so, the demon sprang upon him, and the luckless boy found himself encircled by two long and powerful arms—an embrace anything but loving.

With a gasp of intense terror, he turned and saw by whom he was held. To his heated imagination, the demon appeared a monster.

Henry, also, turned around and saw him. With a cry of dismay, he threw up his arms, and struck the pistol, which still dangled in Will’s nerveless hand.

How it happened—whether Will unconsciously pulled the trigger, or whether the blow did it—can never be known; but with a stunning noise the pistol discharged its contents, and then fell to the ground.

To Will’s consternation, Henry staggered; flung his arms out wildly for support; gave a moan of pain or terror; and also fell, heavily. The charge had struck him somewhere—but where?

At this catastrophe, Will forgot that the demon’s arms encircled him, forgot everything but that he had shot his cousin Henry. A boy does not swoon away, or else he would have done so; but he was horror-stricken: the terrible word murder seemed to be hissed into his ears by unseen spirits, and he was unable to move or speak.

The demon, heaving a sigh, lifted him easily off his feet, and bore him away. Will made no resistance, for his brain was in too confused a state to perceive what was going on. His eyes were fixed on the prostrate form of Henry, and the demon strode on with him, following the length of the tree. Soon the end of the fallen tree was reached; and as the demon turned and walked towards his cave, Will caught a last look of Henry, who was still lying flat on the ground.

All this happened in a very short time, of course; for the demon paid no attention to the report of the pistol, but immediately marched off with our doughty hero.

The reader, unlike him, is aware that the pistol, though heavily loaded with powder, instead of a leaden bullet held a ball made of tow.

Will grew calmer, but offered no resistance to his captor.

The entrance of the cave was now disclosed. Before them an almost perpendicular cliff rose several feet towards the sky, twisting into strange shapes to the south, and on the north jutting out irregularly some distance westward, thus forming the angle spoken of before. Exactly in the centre there was an opening in which a strong and heavy door was hung. Two or three grated openings, which served for windows, were to be seen high above the door, and several feet apart.

The outside of the cave was somewhat formidable, as no doubt the demon wished it to be. What was the inside like?

Will did not care to know. Suddenly he put forth all his strength, and struggled manfully and furiously to break away from the demon. But the latter, without a word, folded his arms more tightly round him, and held him fast in a grip that put an end to all the poor boy’s hopes of escape.

Advancing with the would-be knight-errant, the demon arrived at the door of his cave; and manipulating some complicated contrivance which took the place of a lock, the secret of which was known only to himself, the door opened and captor and captive passed in.

So, this was the way in which Will was to gain admittance into the stronghold! A great improvement on Henry’s little plan!

A spacious apartment was disclosed, the floor bare, but the roof and sides covered with planks, to prevent the earth from crumbling in. It was very dark inside, as during the day but little light came in through the openings mentioned, during the night, none. A fire was struggling to burn in the middle of this dismal hole, but its feeble light only added to the gloom. Round the walls on benches and rude tables all sorts of things were lying; blankets, old clothes (our “recluse” had more than one suit), trays, bowls, some other kitchen utensils, even eatables, being grouped together in confusion, with a view to convenience rather than neatness. In fact, the demon seemed to take no pride, no interest, in the affairs of the household. In one corner a big pile of firewood proved that the occupant could make himself quite comfortable. In spite of all his misery, Will distinctly heard the cackling of hens and chickens, evidently the brood of which Henry had spoken, in another apartment.

The cave was now stifling from a horrible smoke arising from the smouldering fire. When the demon was present he blew away the smoke by means of a huge fan suspended from the ceiling; but it accumulated in his absence.

Although there were several bye-rooms, each one of which served its own purpose, this was the principal one—the one in which the demon lived.

Of course Will had no time to see what we have dimly outlined, for the demon hurriedly crossed this room and opened a door leading into another, much like it, excepting in its furniture. Here there were no rude benches or tables. A comfortable and even handsome bedstead stood against the wall, with a few sheets and quilts, and one old buffalo-robe, upon it. There was an attempt made at covering, or carpeting, the floor; and in one corner there was a crazy stove, or oven, clumsily built of refuse bricks. Above this stove there was a chimney, which managed to dispose of most of the smoke when a fire was lighted—that is, it took it into another and larger room.

This was the bedroom, in which the demon slept as peacefully as a knight in his moated castle.

Having thus, “by slow degrees, by fits and starts,” cooped Will up in the Demon’s Cave, description may rest awhile and the narrative may be resumed.

The demon laid our hero gently on the bed, and then, for the first time, he spoke to him. “Poor boy!” he said, in a not unpleasant tone. “Perhaps you did not wish to do me any harm, but I shall keep you here till—”

He stopped abruptly.

There was nothing threatening in this, yet Will trembled. His thoughts were doubtless of Henry.

The demon turned and left the room, fastening the door behind him. Then he left the cave, taking the precaution of fastening the outside door, also.

“There was another one,” he murmured; “I must see to him.”

Swiftly he retraced his steps round the tree, and arrived at the scene of conflict not more than five minutes after he had borne Will away. But Henry was nowhere to be found! He had vanished, leaving nothing, not even a drop of blood, behind him!

“Was there another?” the demon asked himself, dubiously. “What is it? Have I dreamed, or is this some new device of the enemy?”

Seeing the pistol which Will had discharged, he picked it up and returned to the cave, not making the slightest effort to look for the missing knight-errant.

Will remained inactive as long as the demon was near, but as soon as he heard him go out, he leaped off the bed and made a desperate attempt to open the door. He put forth all his strength—but in vain: the door was rock.

Then he groped about the room, to see if he could find some other means of escape. Again in vain—no outlet presented itself.

“I am a prisoner!” he groaned. “And what a terrible prison! But, oh! poor Henry! Was he dead? Have I killed him? Oh, this is too much!”

Then he recollected that his cousin had insisted that there were captives hidden away in the cave, and in a voice that—we grieve to say it, but truth is inexorable—quavered with fear, he shouted: “Is anyone hidden here?—Speak! Any captives here?”

His own voice mocked him, and he started back in terror.

Evidently, no captives there.

But Will was not comforted. Hobgoblins crawled over the floor, and ground their teeth under the bed—demons crowded round him and jabbered ominously—human skeletons rattled their dry bones horribly, and pointed their fingers jeeringly at him—his murdered cousin came to him, and looked him full in the face with a sad, reproachful smile.

Will could endure it no longer. With a cry of horror and agony he flung himself on the bed, and buried his face in the old buffalo-robe.

At that moment the Demon of the Cave returned and entered his dwelling.

This is a convenient, suitable, and orthodox place for the chapter to close; so let it close.

---

What had become of Henry?

The ball had struck him in a tender place; and not seriously hurt, but very much frightened, he fell headlong with a groan of—fear!

While the demon was carrying off Will he lay still and made use of his wits.

He reflected logically as follows: “Whatever Will loaded my pistols with, it certainly wasn’t a genuine bullet! So it would be useless for me to fire this pistol at the demon—useless—wicked—and against the laws!”

Gentle reader, mark that; read it carefully two or three times; muse on it; and remember that you yourself were once a boy—or, if not, your father was.

“Oh, how my side smarts! There’ll be a blister, surely!” Henry groaned. “Well, the best way to help Will will be to lie here perfectly still till the demon gets entirely out of sight, and then hop up and scramble away. Where shall I go? To the road? I must look for help somewhere, or Will may be killed! It won’t do to yell for help here, for no one except the demon could hear me. Yes, I must keep still a little while!”

As soon as the demon was well out of sight, Henry arose. But he found himself more bruised than he had thought.

“Now, to save Will—and myself,” he muttered. “What a capital idea,” he chuckled, as a happy thought struck him. “They think I’m dead, very likely, and so the demon won’t be on the watch for me! Of course; and if I can’t get help, I’ll swoop down on him and do the rescuing myself.”

As fast as he could he went back to the path, thinking to climb the hill and hurry to the road. A lingering fear that the demon might return and look for him lent speed to his feet, and he walked with long swift steps. In his generous heart he resolved to liberate Will at all hazards; and if he could devise no other means of doing so, he would return and “beard the lion in his den.”

When he reached the foot of the hill he chanced to look back, and saw a man standing by the tree. It was the demon, looking for him. To his intense relief, the man turned and went slowly back towards the cave.

“I am safe now,” he thought. “He won’t come to look for me again. But does he think I am dead, or carried off? Well, at any rate he will see me before long!”

Eagerly he turned to climb the hill, thinking meanwhile:—“Poor Will! No telling what that cruel demon may do with him! Oh, dear! we are both in a very bad scrape! O my pistols!—I must hurry!”

What with scrambling up hills and rushing down them, Henry’s limbs were already becoming stiff, and he found it hard work to climb. He succeeded, after making great and desperate struggles, in getting nearly to the top of the hill; when he took a false step, slipped, was thrown off his feet, and—in spite of all his efforts to save himself—slid headlong down to the very bottom. An avalanche of stones and dirt thundered down in his train.

A little mound of earth brought him to a standstill, and a cry of pain escaped his lips.

In spite of the pain he suffered, his first words were characteristic of him. “Well,” he said, grimly, “I’ve blotted out the demons path up that hill! His nice little path is now in ruins in this valley!”

But, with a groan of agony, he ejaculated: “Oh! my foot is broken all to pieces! Oh! O—o—h!”

For a little time it was difficult for him to keep from screaming with the pain.

As soon as he felt a little better, he took off his boot and stocking, and carefully examined the injured foot, muttering meanwhile between his groans: “Oh, I hope the demon didn’t hear that noise! How the stones rattled and thundered! If he heard, he will come rushing out to attack me, and I am not able to help myself a bit! Oh, what a catastrophe this is!”

Poor Henry! That time-honored accident, which, in romance, befalls all heroes of the chase, had befallen him. “He had sprained his ankle!”

Only, in this instance, no lovely huntress was to find him, and have him tenderly conveyed to her dwelling. No sporting companions were with him, hastily to construct a litter, and smuggle him into the castle of some incarcerated maiden, whom, making light of his suffering, he would release from her “turret prison;” and then, drawing the wicked jailer—her scheming, hunch-backed uncle—out of his concealment, he would fall upon him, and slay him, without mercy.

No; no love-marriage was fated to result from that adventure; Henry was to lie there all alone; and suffer.

It was sad, but our hero bore it patiently and philosophically. He believed that he should not be molested by the demon, and that was some consolation. But Will? Alas! All hope of rescuing him, so far as Henry was concerned, was at an end. That grieved him more than anything else.

Slowly the time wore away. As the demon did not come out again, Henry thought that the noise made by the falling stones had not been heard in the cave. He was full of anxious and remorseful thoughts for himself as well as for his cousin; and, much as he revolved the affair in his mind, he could hit upon no feasible plan of deliverance.

“If I had only told our folk where we were going,” he reflected, “they would hunt for us when they find us missing. But now they will be uneasy, and not know where on earth we are! No; they won’t have the slightest clue to track us! Oh, dear! What is going to become of us? How is this spree to end? What about my ankle? What on earth! Well, now are we to stay here all night? Will in the cave, and I here? ‘So near, and yet so far!’ My stars! I’ve read that in stories, but I never guessed what it meant! ‘So near, and yet so far!’ The man that wrote those words knew more than I ever shall, anyway! Oh! What will the demon do to poor Will?”

Henry could reason logically, and now, as well as his aching ankle would permit, he reviewed the whole scheme of visiting the Demon’s Cave. In the light he now had it seemed very foolish, whichever way he looked at it.

“It was a humbug,” he acknowledged to himself; “but after all it is just what all heroes do, and I don’t see why we should not have managed it better.”

His sprained ankle pained him intensely; he began to feel the effects of his involuntary ride down hill; the place where the “bullet” struck him smarted and itched in a manner to make him writhe. In a word, he was miserable in both body and mind.

He reverted to the scene of conflict! “What could have been wrong with that pistol?” he asked himself angrily. “Something struck me—but what? Certainly, not a bullet. My father says that a big dose of powder will drive almost anything hard and solid into the flesh. Now, this struck me, and hurt me; but it didn’t punch a hole through my vest. Well, if I could only unload this other pistol, I should know to a certainty.—What became of the pistol Will fired? If he carried it off with him, he may suddenly scare the demon out of his wits!—Now, I wonder whether Will loaded my pistols wrong on purpose!—Well, this is rum old sport, sitting here like a dying gladiator, and not able to turn over for fear of howling with pain! No; I can’t budge from this spot!—Botheration! I won’t take Will to see any more curiosities!—Surely, the demon won’t hurt him!”

Thus the boy continued, speaking disjointed sentences just as the spirit moved him.

As no help came to him, he, the irrepressible, began to despond. It seemed to him that Death only would come to his release. Suddenly, he thought of the glass ink bottle hidden behind “Robinson Crusoe” in his drawer. He dwelt on it for the space of three minutes, and then, between a sigh and a groan, he said: “I wish I knew whether she would care if I should die here—alone, and in pain! Would she be sorry, or would she go to school as light-hearted as ever, and let some other boy sharpen her pencil? I wonder whether she would borrow Johnny Jones’ history! Oh! how I despise that boy! I wish I could see him leave the country! I wish now that I had given her my history out and out; that would keep my memory green in her eyes.”

Now, as Henry seldom or never soared higher than comparison,—to make our meaning clearer, as he was not in the habit of apostrophizing his treasured glass ink-bottle as an animated being of the feminine gender,—we must conclude that the veil is lifted from a romance in his life.

Do not laugh at him, reader; his woes were actual. In fact, we venture to assert that every member of the sterner sex, from the age of sixteen or seventeen till he is happily married, if he has any feeling, any heart, any soul, suffers more or less acutely from jealousy of a rival, real or imaginary.

After a time the moon came out, and dimly lighted up the valley. Henry was not afraid of goblins; and in sheer desperation he resolved to wait doggedly till something should happen.

Notwithstanding all his woes, he began to feel hungry. Then he recollected that he had set out with a knapsack of sandwiches slung over his shoulder.

“It will amuse me, and turn my wandering thoughts into a different channel,” he muttered, as he felt for the knapsack.

Alas! In sliding down hill his knapsack had been torn into ribbons, so that the carefully prepared sandwiches were strewn along the hillside.

His thoughts were “turned into a different channel;” but he was not very much “amused.”

In this way, the time passed with Henry. He could not, or would not, make an effort to move from the heap of earth which had arrested his downward course.

Having thus disposed of him, how did it fare with Will?

When the demon re-entered the cave, he, according to his custom, fastened the door. Next he kindled a good fire on the smouldering coals of the old one; and then, having stepped up to the room where Will was a prisoner, he unlocked and opened the door and told him to come out. Will did so with alacrity.

The demon said no more, but pointed out a seat, and quietly prepared to get supper. He took a fat bird out of his pouch, and roasted it carefully over the fire. Then he fixed part of a chicken, a delicious fish, and sundry other eatables, each on a separate stick, where the fire would cook them. To Will’s astonishment, he suddenly appeared with a few slices of bread, which he put on a toaster and toasted while the other things were being cooked. Now, who ever read about a hermit that toasted bread?

By the way, the demon, like the writer in inditing these few chapters, had several “irons in the fire” at once.

When everything was ready, he set a table with the food thus prepared, and took a pan of skim-milk from a crazy cupboard built in the wall.

“Sit down and eat,” he said to Will; “I’ll speak with you afterwards.”

Will was in no humor to care about eating, and as it was yet early in the evening he was not hungry; but not liking to refuse the strange man’s hospitality, he sat down to the table and “ate like an emigrant,” as Henry would have phrased it. He afterwards told his friends that the “victuals were very good.”

After supper the demon cleared off the table and put everything in the room in far better order than it was when the hero was taken into it.

Up to this time scarcely a word had been spoken between them. Will was filled with dread that he had killed, or at least severely hurt, his cousin. He, of course, did not know that Henry was in full possession of his senses as he lay on the ground, nor that he was doing this only to disarm the demon. The wildest fears flashed through his brain; his sufferings were more intense than Stephen’s had been on the island. He blamed himself; he blamed Henry; he blamed the pistols; he blamed the demon. Yet he felt himself utterly unable to escape. And he was troubled on his own account. What did the demon intend to do with him? Why did he detain him there? These questions perplexed the boy; and not knowing what else to do, he tried hard to think it all a dream. But no; it could not be a dream, for in a dream there is never any smoke to make one sneeze. Then Henry’s wild tales about the demon’s cannibalism and cruelty recurred to him. Certainly, the demon’s look was forbidding—almost ferocious; but Will did not think him capable of torturing any one. He had too much good sense to think that the man would do him any harm; but still he feared him, and felt ill at ease in his presence.

He had had no particular desire to come on this wild-goose-chase, because he wished to keep out of mischief during his stay at his aunt’s. He was not so mercurial, whimsical, and romantic, as his cousin, and he had consented to go as much to please him as for any other reason.

“I think I shall have to get pa to shut me up, if I ever find my way back home,” he mused, in his despair. “No matter what I do, something always comes to grief. I thought surely it would be safe to fly a little balloon, when Henry had always done it. But no; it must come down, and set a building on fire! How is it that everything goes wrong with me? Am I a blockhead, or a fool? Oh dear! I get into worse scrapes every time; but this is the worst yet—this beats them all! If Henry and I survive this, I suppose we shall stumble into something that will finish us entirely! Now, I knew it was wrong to start with loaded pistols, and I didn’t want to do it. Then, why did I? I deserve all this misery for my foolishness. But poor Henry! It seems to me now that he must be alive. Oh! If I could only know!”

Then he began to wonder how it was that the demon had come upon them so suddenly. “He was there all at once,” Will said to himself, as he glanced furtively at the “recluse.” “Did he come from the cave, or the valley, or the bank, or a hollow in the tree, or the clouds? All I know is, he wasn’t anywhere near, till suddenly he had me in his arms! And Henry was as much surprised to see him as I was! Well, the man must be a wizard—or else a witch, or a humbug! If I could only get away!”

It has been shown that Henry reflected that no one would know where to look for them. The same appalling thought occurred to Will. But, like an inspiration, it came to him that the teamster who had given them a ride eyed them narrowly as they went up the valley.

“Now, if that teamster will only do us as good a turn as the sailor did when we paddled away in the punt,” he said to himself, “we may be saved yet!”

Boy-like, the hero pinned his faith on the teamster, and felt considerably happier. In fact, five minutes more, and he had settled it in his own mind that, sooner or later, they would be saved through him.

Some writers, with fiendish ingenuity, seem to set themselves deliberately to work to unstring the nerves of their weak-headed readers, so that they shall plunge headlong into unfortunate speculations, and be ruined.

But the writer of this history is actuated by no such motives. He, good soul, uses no guile with his readers, wishes to deprive no one of needful sleep, and would shrink with horror from tampering with any one’s business or intellect.

When the writer was a boy, he read a strong and exciting romance, written by a master-hand. There were no idle dissertations in it; every chapter, every paragraph, every sentence, every line, rang with meaning; and it was so forcibly written that it would captivate a stronger mind than his. He [your humble servant, “the writer,”] was not content with one perusal, but read it again, and then lent it to three other boys, who read it with equal avidity. When returned, he might have been tempted to read it for the third time; but, alas! those boys, in their eagerness to read, had apparently neglected to wash their hands; and had turned over the leaves so hurriedly that it was in a state of dilapidation.

The writer has nothing to say against that romance. He learned many things from it, and unhesitatingly pronounces it the best he ever read. It is still green in his memory—in fact, he looks back on it to-day with feelings of respect and admiration. But it distracted his thoughts from his lessons, and muddled his wits to such an extent that he fears sometimes they are muddled yet.

Behold the result. A reaction set in, and all preposterous romances, that one excepted, have become to him an abomination.

Hence outbursts like the one above.

---

We have strayed so far from our subject that the reader may be at a loss to take our original meaning. If so, when the boys are saved let him refer to Will’s soliloquy and what immediately follows, and light will burst upon him.

Will drew nearer the fire, and looked at the demon with wondering eyes, as every fifteen minutes or so he swung the huge fan suspended from the ceiling. This fan effectually cleared the apartment of smoke, but what became of the smoke was to Will an appalling mystery.

As time passed, and no relief came, Will’s uneasiness returned. His anxiety about Henry became intolerable; he could endure it no longer. Better even to anger the demon than sit in silence and suffer torments. When he went out, surely he must have seen Henry.

This hero was one of those extremely patient people who, lest they should incommode somebody else, will endure untold agony, when a simple question might set all their doubts and fears at rest.

“Sir,” he ventured to ask, “do you think he was badly hurt? Or—or—didn’t you go to look for him?”

The demon, who had been sitting beside the fire for the last half hour, with his head resting on his hands and his elbows supported by his knees, started violently. He had evidently been so deeply absorbed in thought that he had forgotten another was present.

“Ha!” he cried excitedly. “Ha! What is this?” (Madmen always say “ha!” generally twice.) Then, recovering himself, he added, “Yes, yes; I’m going to speak to you presently. What did you say just now?”

Will repeated his question.

“Ho! There was another with you, then!” he exclaimed. “I was afraid that I had been mistaken again. I am deceived so often that I don’t know when to believe even myself. Then there was another. But he had gone when I went out to see. Who was he?”

Will was thunder-struck. Could he rely on this strange man? If Henry had gone, he could not have been killed. But where could he be? Had he forsaken him, his cousin? No; he could not believe that Henry, so noble, brave, and true, could be guilty of such treachery. Then had he been found by some one, and taken away? If so, why did he not return with a band of men to save his cousin? In truth, Will was mystified. If he had known that the poor boy was near him, lying helpless on the ground, exposed to the cold night air, and moaning with pain, he would have thought their case a desperate one indeed.

At length he collected himself sufficiently to answer the demon’s question by giving his cousin’s name.

“And who are you?” asked the madman.

“William Lawrence.”

“Why did you two come here?” the demon asked abruptly.

This was an unexpected question; Will was not prepared to answer it. “To see the cave,” he said at last.

“Did you two come alone, or is some one else lurking near?”

“No, sir; we came entirely alone.”

“That is well. You did not come to do me any harm?”

Will thought he could safely say “no” to that.

After a pause the demon said slowly, as though he had settled it in his own mind: “You are a good little boy. I like you; you must stay with me; I want a fine little fellow like you to be with me all the time.”

Will was struck dumb with consternation. He could not appreciate the compliment thus paid him.

“No, sir,” he said imploringly, “I cannot stay here at all. You must let me out, and I must find my cousin and go home.”

“No, I cannot let you go! You shall live with me for the rest of my life. Sit down!” he cried, as Will started to his feet.

Then he darted to the door, and placed his back against it.

“But what would my parents say to that? They would never let me stay here,” Will protested.

Luckless boy! In his distress he knew not what to do or say.

“Parents? Have you parents?” the demon inquired.

“Certainly I have,” said Will, with great dignity.

“Then, why did they allow a little boy, you are only a boy, to come here at this time of night?”

Will could say nothing in his defence. He hung his head in confusion.

“Well, I shall keep you here till morning, at least. If I should let you go now, how do I know what you two might plot against me? No! Here you are; here you stay!”

Will was only a boy, and he did not consider that a strong man is seldom or never afraid of the machinations of school-boys, so he said earnestly: “If you let me out immediately, I promise that we will go: home as fast as possible.”

The demon continuing inexorable, the boy said desperately, “Sir, we have friends who will certainly come for us, if you do not let me out.”

“Say no more,” replied the demon, “for I cannot let you go. Listen: People take it into their heads sometimes to molest me, but I always come out all right! I teach them a lesson that they remember! Your punishment will be to remain till I choose to set you free.”

The horrible stories told by Henry again flashed through the prisoner’s mind, but he was not terrified. Looking intently at the demon, he fancied that instead of wickedness he saw playfulness in his eye.

“He is only trying to frighten me,” was Will’s thought.

The demon had moved back to the fire after making his last remark, and presently Will, seeing no other means of escape, sprang to his feet and rushed headlong towards the door. He had barely reached it when the demon was upon him. Once more two long and sinewy arms encircled the helpless boy, and he was borne struggling back to the fire.

“Treacherous boy!” cried the demon. “I’ll settle your fate in the morning; now you will have to be locked up in your room.”

Without another word he carried Will into the bedroom already described, and laid him upon the bed.

“Get in between the quilts, and you will be comfortable,” he said, as he turned to go.

Again the door was fastened, and again our blundering hero found himself a close prisoner in the demon’s bedroom.

His thoughts were far from being pleasant. “If I had had the cleverness of any other boy, I should not be here now,” he muttered. “By my own silly questions and answers I only made matters worse. Henry, Charley, George, or even Marmaduke, could have outwitted him easily; Steve would have made him a prisoner, ten to one, and escaped at his leisure. Oh! this is horrible! I must get away!”

He jumped lightly off the bed, and knelt before the door. By good fortune, he found a crack through which he could observe every movement made by the demon.

“Well, this is a good beginning!” he said, hopefully, “I shall watch till he goes to bed, and then try again.”

But the demon, with provoking composure, sat and dozed before his fire.

Time passed exceedingly slowly to poor Will. He thought it must be near the middle of the night, while it was not yet ten o’clock.

At length the madman arose and opened a concealed door in the wall. Then he lighted a candle, passed in, and shut the door softly behind him.

Will, like all boys, had a touch of the romantic, and he was delighted to see Henry’s suspicions verified. His spirits rose, and he chuckled joyously: “Well, it’s a regular robbers’ den, after all. Concealed doors and everything to match. If Henry is only alive, and I can get away, it won’t be so bad, after all! And now that he’s gone I guess I can manage it, after all!”

He waited a few minutes, and then began to fumble at his door. While in the outer room with the demon, he had taken notice of the way in which this door was fastened, and seen that it was by means of a heavy bolt on the outside. He had also observed that in the door, above the bolt, there seemed to be an opening, covered with a shingle that slid back and forth on the inside.

Feeling carefully for this shingle, he found it, took out a pin which held it fast, and shoved it back.

“The demon ain’t so careful as he wants to be!” Will said sagely. “Surely, here is a loophole of escape! I wish I could ease my feelings by heaping up big and meaning words, as Henry or George would do.”

He waited a few moments in some uneasiness, fearing that the demon might have heard him tampering with the lock; but as all remained quiet he put his hand through the opening, and shoved back the bolt.

The door opened, and Will stood in the outer room.

Having taken the precaution of shutting and bolting his door, he was warily drawing near the front door, when a strange sound proceeding from the demon’s hiding-place attracted his attention.

He heard the clink of money.

Will paused. “I’ll see what this means,” he said heroically, “but I’ll not run the risk of being captured. No; I’m too near freedom to throw away my chances just to see a crazy man finger his money.”

Picking up a stick from the smouldering fire, he softly approached the concealed door.

Poor boy! Experience should have taught him better than to play the Robber-Kitten—but when does experience profit a boy?

His usual luck befell him; he stumbled and fell prostrate with a crash.

The demon must have heard him, for he had barely regained his feet when, with a cry of dismay, the concealed door was flung open. On seeing Will, the demon did not stop to shut it, but darted upon him with fury. In his headlong course he struck against a stone and fell heavily.

Will waited to see him rise, and stood ready to defend himself. But the demon lay upon the floor immovable. His head had struck some hard substance, and he was insensible.

Presently Will went up to the demon. “Poor fellow!” he said compassionately, “he is badly hurt! His fall was serious; mine was only a stumble. I can’t go away and leave him in this state; I must help him.”

Tenderly he raised the powerless man, and exerting all his strength, he dragged him to a bench close by, and laid him on it. Then he saw that the demon’s head was severely hurt.

“Now, if he wakes up and finds me taking care of him, he won’t hurt me; so I shall go and get some water to bathe his head,” was Will’s next thought. “Henry said there was a spring, or water of some kind, in the cave, but there is certainly none in this room. Well, I must leave him and look for some.”

Snatching up a little pail, he hurried into the room which the demon had just left. Here he stopped a moment to look about. The room was very much like the two already described; there was a rude couch in it, but it was scantily furnished. The demon had evidently given up his “best bedroom” to Will.

Our hero’s wandering eyes soon rested on the most noticeable “chattel” in the room,—a large and strong box, the lid of which lay open. In this box there was a little pile of silver coins.

“Hello!” he said, “The demon has some money, after all! This is what he was jingling and counting, I suppose. Well, there’s no water here; I must go on.”

If Will had stopped to count the demon’s treasure, he would have found it a very modest fortune. In round numbers it amounted to only five dollars. ($5.00.)

A door stood open, leading from this room into a larger one.

“I’d better try this,” Will muttered. “It looks dark enough and big enough for a cavern, and there ought to be water in it, if anywhere.”

Having made his way into this apartment, Will found it to be spacious, but dark and desolate. A solitary lamp, which burned feebly, was of little avail in such darkness. After taking a few steps he heard the purling of water; and on reaching the spot he found a little stream of pure water, which doubtless emptied into the brook in the valley, running over the ground. He filled his pail and hurriedly retraced his steps, noticing several openings into the outer room, concealed there, but visible here.

“Well, this demon is a queer fellow!” he soliloquized, as he went along. “He seems to have all kinds of hiding-places here, that nobody knows about. Now, what in the world does he do with so many rooms, and why does he keep a light burning in this hole? Perhaps he keeps it burning all the time on account of the darkness. I don’t wonder he has money; it must take a fortune to live here, for it is just the same as living in a castle. Well, I’ve explored his secret regions till I’m tired of it; and I guess Henry was right when he said a band of robbers fitted it up for a menagerie.”

A minute later he was again with the demon, whom he found still insensible. Taking out his handkerchief, he bathed the man’s head gently, and did everything he could to restore consciousness. But all in vain.

“Oh, dear!” he cried, “I shall have to leave him and look for Henry. I’m sure Henry is alive, but I must find him, and then we can come here again and help the demon.”

He arose and left the cave.

The writer has a great deal of boldness in attempting to depict the emotions of his numerous heroes in their joys or sorrows; but he declines to say anything about the meeting of the cousins on this occasion. It was affecting in the extreme.

As time passed and the boys did not return, Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer became very uneasy. Being fully aware of their son’s recklessness, they did not know what danger he and Will might, even at that moment, be incurring. All day the two had been whispering mysteriously together, as though contriving some dark scheme; and perhaps, like Don Quixote and his squire, they had set out in quest of adventures.

“Why couldn’t they have said where they were going, anyway?” Mr. Mortimer growled impatiently.

Mrs. Mortimer was a woman who permitted her son to do very much as he pleased, never interfering with his plans of amusement as long as he kept within proper bounds.

“Henry said he would tell me all about it when he came back; and he seemed, to be in such a hurry that I didn’t like to question him,” she said mildly. “I—I think it must be all right.”

“Let us go up to the boys’ room,” Mr. Mortimer said; “perhaps we can find a clue to their whereabouts.”

They went up-stairs immediately. The cousins had not shut the drawer, and a single glance into it told that they had been loading pistols.

“Oh! this is horrible!” groaned Mr. Mortimer. “Wasn’t that boy Will sent here because he got into disgrace about gunpowder?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Mortimer said faintly.

“Yes; and now, after trying to destroy the boys in his own village, he has come here, to put an end to our Henry!” he continued fiercely. “Till he came, Henry’s balloons were all right, and I was proud of them; but see how he tampered with his model! Henry never dreamed of loading his pistols, and going out with them. Henry is full of life, I know; but this is all that boy’s doings.”

This was unjust to poor Will; but what parent would have laid the blame on his own son?

Seeing that his wife was ready to burst into tears, he moderated his anger, and said soothingly, “Oh, they’re all right, Nelly; Henry knows enough to keep out of danger, if Will doesn’t. But I can’t stand this suspense any longer; I’ll go out and hunt till I find them; and I’ll let you know as soon as I get on their track.”

As he went out of the house he muttered audibly: “Well, I must send word to this boy’s mother to keep him in leading-strings till he’s twenty-one. How easily we manage Henry! It’s all in management, of course; and if Mrs. Lawrence would do as well as her sister, Will would be a very good boy. As it is, he can’t behave himself even away from home; and now the two are deep in some horrible powder trick!”

How grieved Henry would have been if he could have heard his father speak slightingly of his elaborate plot as a “trick”!

Boys, here is another pretty precept, which you will do well to commit to memory: Never associate with those who are smarter than yourselves; for, if you do, you will be blamed equally with them when they lead you into mischief.

After many fruitless inquiries, Mr. Mortimer at length met with a youth who told him that about dark he had seen Henry and another boy riding off with a teamster. Mr. Mortimer felt relieved, and sent word to his wife; but for some time he could trace them no farther. At last, however, he found the very teamster,—he having returned to the city,—and from him he learnt where the boys probably were.

Having assembled a body of men, he set out for the cave forthwith, and reached it a few minutes after Will had joined Henry. A happy meeting took place, and tears of joy and thankfulness trickled down the cheeks of the knights-errant. Henry was tenderly carried to the road, and put into a vehicle in waiting.

Meanwhile, Will was speaking to Mr. Mortimer about the demon. He listened attentively; and seeing no better way of settling the matter, he determined to take the unfortunate man home with him. Then, after fastening up the cave against intruders, the entire party returned to town.

On the way, Henry and Will recounted their exploits glibly; the former nobly taking to himself all the blame, or heroism, the latter putting in a word now and then to enforce the others remarks. Poor boys! Now that the affair was over they wished to make the best of it. Mr. Mortimer listened patiently, and gradually it dawned upon him that his own son had planned this expedition to the cave. However, as long as Henry had done it, it must be all right. He did not reprove them for their foolishness; he was troubled about many things, and feared that his son’s injuries were more serious than they seemed.

When the cousins entered the town they found that there was something of a commotion among the people. Prominent citizens stopped Mr. Mortimer to express their congratulations, and to see the youths who had “bearded the lion in his den;” while the little street Arabs gave vent to their feelings by shouting, “Bully for you!” “Henry’s a bouncer!” “Up with yer hands, and off with yer hats; Henry’s the boy for to b-u-s-t um!”

“Will, I guess we’re heroes, after all!” Henry chuckled, “When I was suffering down there at the foot of the hill, I almost concluded that we’d made fools of ourselves; but this doesn’t seem like it!”

“Yes; but I wish they wouldn’t take so much notice of us.”

“Fiddle! Will, you ought to live in the city!”

The party moved on. A golden head leaned out of the upper window of a certain house which they were approaching; the beautiful blue eyes glanced anxiously up and down the street; a well-known voice—the voice of the girl who had given Henry a glass ink-bottle—asked timidly of a passer-by: “Have they found them yet?”

A certain boy—by name, the estimable Johnny Jones—was loitering near, blinking with sleep and jealousy; and he took it upon himself to answer jeeringly: “Found them? Oh, yes; they’ve found the heroes, and they’re carting them home in the wagon that’s just here.”

The golden head was drawn in quickly, but the window was not shut.

The heroes were so near that they heard all. Then again the street Arabs ran alongside; again they took up their cry.

Poor Johnny Jones! His envy, or jealousy, was almost too much for him.

And Henry?

His heart bounded with delight; he was supremely happy. To hear such words from her lips was ample recompense for all that he had suffered or might yet suffer.

It was nearly five years later; Henry was just twenty-one. He and a beautiful woman, dressed in bridal costume, were stepping into a railway carriage that was to take them to a steamer about to set sail for Europe.

“Will,” he said suddenly, “pull off your hat quick, and bow! I—I can’t; I’m too stiff.”

Wonderingly, and, alas! how awkwardly, Will raised his hat.

After they had passed the house Henry began to wonder what Johnny Jones had been doing there. Had he been talking to her? His eyes flashed fire; he was miserable.

Foolish boy, he was troubling himself needlessly. And if he had been more a philosopher, he would have known that Jonny Jones, in saying those few jeering words, had forever ruined his cause in the eyes of————.

When the cousins reached home, Henry’s remaining pistol was unloaded, and a hearty laugh followed; for all knew, of course, that both pistols must have been loaded alike.

Henceforth, he could have the pleasure of telling his school-mates that he had been “shot.” There was, however, one drawback: there was no wound to heal, and there would be no scar to show to doubters.

Henry was thoroughly warmed; his ankle was rubbed with sundry liniments and carefully bound up; and then the young adventurers were sent to bed.

“Well, Will, among other consolations there is this: we don’t sit up till ten minutes to twelve every night, do we?”

“No. And we did it, Henry, after all! I explored the whole cave, and I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow; I’m too tired now. Besides, we rescued the demon!”

This proves that the heroes had not profited by their sufferings.

Meantime, the people of the house had been taking care of the madman. Under their careful treatment he recovered sufficiently to be able to sit up and converse.

He also had a “tale to tell,” but deferred telling it till the next day; and by one o’clock the whole household was wrapped in slumber.

---

The exposure of that night brought on a severe attack of rheumatism, and the next day Henry was tossing about on his bed in agony. His sprained ankle also was very painful.

A doctor was sent for in haste; and under his treatment and Mrs. Mortimer’s watchful care, the boy recovered slowly.

Will was so grieved to see his cousin suffer that he almost fell sick himself; and he took up his stand at the bedside, so that he might attend to his slightest wish.

“I don’t mind being sick so much,” said Henry, as Will was peeling an orange for him, “because it proves that a fellow’s mother and—and—and friends care for him, and want him to get well; but, I don’t want the rheumatism, because it’s mostly old men and hardly used soldiers that suffer with it.”

“What should you like to have?” asked Will.

“Well, Will, I don’t mind telling you. Will, I’ve always had a hankering to be wounded so that it would leave an honorable scar—a scar that I could be proud of, you know.”

The morning after the rescue the demon had a totally different air. He no longer regarded strangers with suspicion, but frankly and promptly replied to all who spoke to him. His eyes were calm and benign, no longer having that “hunted look” which seemed so terrible. In a word, the demon was no longer a madman; “the blow on his head had restored his reason.”

In real life this is, we believe, an uncommon occurrence; but in romance it is becoming intolerably common. It is inserted in novels that are otherwise good; it haunts some writers like an evil spirit; it is tricked up in a new garb, sometimes, to throw the unsuspecting reader off his guard; but if it is there, sooner or later it will crop out—often when least expected, least desired.

In fact, whenever the practised reader picks up a tale in which a harmless maniac figures, his suspicions are at once aroused, and he flings it aside with a gesture of contempt.

Having called Mr. Mortimer to his side, the disenthralled man said, with a pleasant voice, “Sir, I do not know where I am, and I should like to ask you a few questions. Last night I was not in a humor to make inquiries, as I was so tired and weak; but this morning I am much better and stronger. May I ask your name?”

Mr. Mortimer was surprised at and pleased with the man’s improved appearance.

“I am happy to see that you are so much better, sir,” he said. “As to my name, it is Mortimer; may I, in turn, ask yours?”

“Certainly, sir; I am Richard Lawrence.”

Mr. Mortimer started. He perceived that the man who spoke was in full possession of his reason, quite as sane as he himself. In former years he had been intimately acquainted with Dick Lawrence; the story of the “mysterious disappearance” was familiar to him; and he thought that at last the mystery was to be solved.

He seized Lawrence’s hand and shook it heartily.

“Don’t you remember me, old friend?” he said. “Don’t you remember when you beat me in that race, so long ago? And besides, we are almost related to each other; for, as you surely remember, your brother and I married sisters.”

A long conversation followed between the two reunited friends. The events of other years were spoken of with peculiar pleasure, and Mr. Mortimer told his friend what had been taking place in the world of late years.

“Well, now, I had almost forgotten!” Mr. Mortimer suddenly exclaimed. “Your nephew Will is in this very house! You will remember him as a very little boy; and now he is a—a—now he is a great big boy. I must bring him in immediately.”

He hurried out of the room and soon returned with Will, saying apologetically, “You must excuse me, Will, but when two old friends meet, they forget that there are boys still in the world, and remember only that they were once boys themselves.” Then to his guest: “Mr. Lawrence, I have the pleasure of introducing your nephew Will, who is on a visit to my son. I think it is safe to say that you owe your deliverance to these hare-brained youths. You will hear graphic particulars of it afterwards.”

A happy meeting took place between uncle and nephew, the former being highly pleased with his new-found kinsman.

“Yes,” Mr. Mortimer resumed, “this is your nephew Will; a fine little fellow, who had a strange interview with you last night. Have you any recollection of it?”

“Not the slightest; so far as I know, I have not seen the boy since, since—when?”

“Ten years, uncle.”

“Then you know nothing about your life in the cave?” Mr. Mortimer asked.

“You are speaking in riddles, Mr. Mortimer.”

“My son, Will’s cousin, is ill to-day, or I should present him; for he, dear boy, was instrumental in your release,” the fond father observed, wishing that his son should receive due honor for his good deeds.

Mr. Lawrence was impatient to see his brother, but there were several matters to attend to before this could be done.

“There is a strange tale yet to be unfolded, Mr. Mortimer,” he said musingly. “I must visit the town where insanity first took hold of me. There are many things not clear to me; but I believe that by going there, I shall be enabled to unriddle the mystery. A foul wrong was done to me in that place, and I will have justice. As I intimated, I know absolutely nothing of what took place while I was insane; but I believe all that can be made clear by making diligent inquiries of people living in R——. Yes, I shall go to this place in a day or so; then take a run down to my brother’s; and come back just in time to go home with Will. But first of all, I shall visit the cave where I spent so many years; and you and my nephew must accompany me. I am full of curiosity to see the place, but I suppose I shall have to be piloted through it.”

A day or so afterwards Mr. Lawrence felt stronger, and the three set out to explore the cave. Will thought that he was going to the Demon’s Cave under very different circumstances, and sighed because Henry was unable to accompany them. But Henry was destined never to enter that cave.

When they arrived at the place, they perceived that some one was there before them, as the door stood open. As they passed in they heard a confused murmur of voices, together with whistling, singing, and hallooing. Evidently, the intruders were trying to keep up their spirits and intimidate any goblins that might be hovering near. A great fire was blazing in the old place, but the explorers seemed to be in the largest cave.

Suddenly the new-comers were heard, and a howl of horror came from the explorers.

“Oh, golly! It’s the demon or somethin’ else!” wailed one.

Then two wild and fearful eyes peered out through the concealed door, and a voice quavered: “N-o-o, it ain’t the demon; but I guess we’d better clear!”

Seven gaunt youths stole through the concealed door; glanced fearfully at the new-comers; and then broke and fled tumultuously out of the front entrance.

The two men smiled; the boy laughed.

“A boy is the same creature that he was when I was young,” Mr. Lawrence observed.

“They’re the very fellow’s that cheered us the other night,” said Will. “I guess they wanted to be ‘bouncers’ too.”

“Now, why in this world did the little rogues make a fire?” Mr. Mortimer queried.

“That question is easily answered,” said Mr. Lawrence. “When a boy comes upon a heap of wood, the temptation to kindle a fire, if he has any means of doing so, is too great for him to resist.”

“And you see nothing here that is familiar to you?” asked Mr. Mortimer.

“No; everything is strange to me; and I must apply to Will to lead the way.”

“Uncle, how queer it is that I should know more about your cave than you do!” said Will, grinning foolishly. “It doesn’t seem that you are the same man that picked me up and carried me off.”

“That’s because I’ve visited the tailor and the barber, Will.”

“Well, uncle, if I hadn’t been through the cave that night, we shouldn’t know anything about the money.”

“Money!” cried both men, in a breath.

“Yes,” Will replied. “I found a little pile of money, but so many queer things happened since that I forgot all about it. Come this way, uncle; it is in this room.”

“Your lost fortune!” Mr. Mortimer exclaimed.

“Perhaps,” sighed Uncle Dick.

“If those explorers have not enriched themselves with it!”

But the treasure was found untouched.

“Is this what you found?” cried Mr. Mortimer, with disgust. “This is intolerable—monstrous—outrageous! This—this—”

“No, I think it’s all right,” said Mr. Lawrence. “There is a mystery behind it, but when that mystery is cleared up, I think we shall find that this is all there is left.”

“I guess the boys didn’t see it,” Will observed, “or else they were afraid to meddle with it.”

“No,” said Uncle Dick, “a boy has more honesty than most people imagine. Well, Will, what there is, is yours. Take it, Will; it won’t fill more than one pocket; but I wish, for your sake, it were a fortune indeed.”

“If I hadn’t left these inside doors open, the boys wouldn’t have been able to explore these two rooms,” Will presently remarked. “Now, I wonder whether they found those hens and chickens! I didn’t, but I didn’t look for them.”

“‘Hens and chickens!’” growled Mr. Mortimer. “What’s the matter now, Will?”

“Why, Henry said the demon—I—I mean my uncle—had lots of hens and chickens here, and I heard them clucking several times while I was in the cave; but I never saw’ a scratch of them.”

“Perhaps the young explorers made away with them,” Uncle Dick suggested.

“No, uncle, they found their way here only because I had left the concealed doors open,” Will said. “I guess the hens are some place else.”

“We don’t know how many hidden chambers there may be here, nor what secrets they may hold,” Mr. Mortimer sighed despairingly.

“There can’t be many more,” Uncle Dick replied. “We’ll say there is one more apartment, in which my nephew’s hens are cooped up. Now, unless they set up a cackling, how are we to know where to look for them? I think we had better leave them to their fate. No! Will, listen! When we get back to town, speak about these hens incidentally to some little tobacco-chewer, and within an hour a force of would-be desperadoes will troop down to this cave, and liberate these hens or perish in the ruins of the general demolition!”

To economize time and space, to ease the reader’s anxiety, and to maintain the reputation of this history for exactness and solidity, it may here be stated that although Will set a band of street Arabs on the track of those miserable hens and chickens, they were never found, and the probability is that they are slowly becoming fossils.

The three then made a burning stave serve for a torch, and marched through the cavern in which Will had found the water. Then they returned and went into the “best bedroom.”

“I have a fancy that there is money buried here,—buried, or concealed in some article of furniture,” Mr. Mortimer observed.

“I doubt that,” said Uncle Dick. “Now, if your son were well, he and Will might come here and ransack every cavern. What a pity we interrupted those boys! They would have amused themselves here all day, and would certainly have found whatever there may be to find! Poor little fellows, their fun had just begun! Well, they will be back again, and then they are welcome to all the spoil they can carry away.”

Having fastened the outer door, the party returned to the city.

---

The next day Mr. Lawrence, leaving his nephew still with Henry, went to the town of which he had spoken. Here insanity had taken hold of him, and here he expected to unravel his mysteries.

The two boys laid their heads together, and arrived at the conclusion that the world is not hollow, after all; and that if they were not heroes yet, a few years would make them so.

“The stuff is in us, Will; all we have to do is to work it up.”

“Yes, Henry; and when you come to see me, the people in our neighborhood had better be prepared. There are no captives for us to rescue, but I guess you can hit on something good.”

“Why, Will,” said Henry, smiling his delight, “you are almost getting to be like any other boy! You—you talk sensibly. What has come over you?”

“Well, when I saw that good came from our journey to the cave, and that we rescued my uncle, I concluded that I had been wrong and you right. I guess it’s safe to play tricks with you, anyway; and——”

“‘Tricks!’” echoed Henry, scowling horribly.

“No, no!” Will hastily declared. “I—I—mean—Henry—Don’t be vexed, Henry; I meant stratagems!”

The affronted patient softened. “Yes, that is the word you meant, Will,” he said, “but you always ought to say what you mean. I always do; and so I never have to stumble, and correct myself, and appear as though I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Will’s eyes expressed a mild rebuke.

Henry was not fluent in making apologies; on this occasion he simply said, with a look of pain that spoke volumes in his behalf: “It’s in my left knee, Will; hand me that bottle, please.”

“Next time I venture on any more stratagems,—if I ever do venture on any more,—I’ll warn all the sailors and teamsters in the settlement, so that I can be rescued just in the nick of time,” Will Said good humoredly.

“Yes, as long as they didn’t follow too close at your heels, and spoil the fun. Well, Will, I knew I could cure you if you stayed with me long enough; but I didn’t expect to do it so soon.”

When the patient was easy Will read to him. The books that pleased them most were about mustached heroes who cruised in Polynesia, discovering “sea-girt isles” which Captain Cook and later navigators had missed, and which almost invariably held captive some ragged individual, who, after divers adventures with pirates and Chinamen, had finally succeeded in nailing $795,143 up in a mahogany coffin, only to be shipwrecked with it.

In after years Will looked back on those days spent with Henry as the pleasantest in his boyhood. He had no haunting dreams; got into no disgrace; and, except when he thought of poor Stephen, felt no reproaches of conscience.

One day the mother of the girl who had given Henry a glass ink-bottle came in to inquire personally after his health.

“I heard you were getting better, Henry, but I thought I should like to come and see for myself,” she said pleasantly.

“I wonder now if she didn’t hint to her mother to do this!” Henry thought to himself. “I believe she did; but I wish I knew. Why can’t folks tell the truth, anyway, and say right out how it is! How am I to find out! I know when she had a bad cold, I hinted till my mother went there to ask about her! Botheration! I will know!”

“It’s very good of you to take so much interest in me,” he ventured, slightly emphasizing the word you.

“Yes, Henry, when I saw the doctor call here twice yesterday I thought I must step in and see you.”

The boy was silenced, but not satisfied.

“I’ve brought a book for you, Henry, that I think you will like,” she said, taking a handsomely bound volume out of her reticule and laying it on a stand at Henry’s elbow.

He picked it up. “Her book!” he thought exultingly. “I know it’s hers, for I’ve heard her speak of it. She sent it to me! Of course she did. She sent it!”

Once more his heart bounded with ecstasy; once more he was supremely happy. The blood rushed to his face; his lips quivered; his hands trembled.

The visitor remarked this, and turning to Mrs. Mortimer said sympathetically, “Poor boy! How patiently he bears it!”

Then, stepping up to the bedside, she laid her hands on his head, kissed his forehead gently and affectionately, and asked softly, “Is the pain very bad, Henry?”

It seemed to Henry that his heart stood still.

“It is her mother,” he thought, “and she has kissed me!”

Their eyes met. A woman perceives many things intuitively; Henry’s secret was hers from that moment. For all answer she kissed him again. From that day the two were firm and true friends.

When Henry found himself alone he examined every leaf of that book carefully.

“She sent it,” he muttered, “and perhaps there is something written in it. She may have written, ‘I hope you will like this book, Henry;’ or, ‘This is the story we spoke of, Henry;’ or, ‘When will you be able to start to school again, Henry?’”

The observing reader will perceive that in each of those sentences the hero’s own name occurs. Henry was capable of strong feelings; in some respects he was a boy; in others, a man.

At last, at the top of a useless fly-leaf, he came upon two initial letters. They were not hers; they were not his. The writing was very bad; he could not recognize it. He did not consider that a book-seller often scrawls a cipher or two on the fly-leaves of his books. He was mystified.

Jealousy, however, soon suggested an explanation; jealousy pointed out that those characters were written by her, and that they stood for “J. J.”

Once more he was miserable.

He saw Johnny Jones in his true colors; saw all his defects, all his emptiness, all his insignificance, all his baseness. And yet he was jealous!

The lover very often feels his rival to be the most despicable person on the face of the earth; and yet, at the same instant, he fears that rival, despicable as he is, will steal away the heart of his beloved.

To a man whose thoughts never rise above the earth on which he walks, this may seem preposterous; but it is true, and may easily be explained—so easily, in fact, that the writer leaves it for some one who can do so more ably and clearly than himself.

It has been said that Henry was fated never to explore the Demon’s Cave. He never did.

The City Fathers, fearing, in their wisdom, that the cave might become the haunt of evil characters or the lair of some wild beast, convoked a council, and drew up a document which began and ended thus:

“Whereas, ...

“Resolved, that said cave be forthwith demolished.”

Then five men and two hundred and seventy-three or seventy-four boys fell to work upon it, and executed this command to the letter. The Demon’s Cave had served its purpose: it was no more.

The view from the opposite bank was marred; but the City Fathers knew that they had done their duty, and their conscience was easy.

After an absence of a week Uncle Dick returned to Mr. Mortimer’s. He had visited the little city; solved his mysteries; and been to see his brother.

He made himself comfortable in an easy chair, and while those interested in him listened attentively, he romanced as follows:—

“Several years ago, when I was still a young man, by prudent and lawful speculations I amassed a fortune. But I was not satisfied; I still wished for more; and one day when a stranger came to me with wonderful stories about making colossal fortunes in a far-off part of the world, I listened eagerly, and secretly resolved to settle my affairs and hasten away with him. I should need every dollar I possessed to embark in this scheme, the stranger told me; and the sooner I could get away, the sooner I should return to my native country a rich man.

“I kept my purpose hidden from my nearest friends, and got together all my money as secretly as possible. I was not to deposit this money in a bank, and draw it as I needed it; oh, no! I must pack it up snugly in a strong trunk, and take it all with me. This man, Black, advised me to ‘keep my own counsel to the very last;’ and I also knew that my people would oppose my taking up with an entire stranger, and embarking in such a wild-goose chase. Consequently he, and I, and the trunk of funds, stole away like criminals, leaving only a short note of farewell and explanation behind us. By the way, Mr. Mortimer, my brother tells me that he received no such note, and I must infer that Black found means to destroy it.

“I knew that I was acting dishonorably, but I excused my conduct to myself by thinking I should soon return in triumph, worth millions. At that date, enormous wealth was the summit of my ambitions; and it must come suddenly and easily; petty speculation had become tiresome to me, and I wished to wake up some morning and find myself a nabob.

“In a certain city—the place to which I went after leaving you—we halted, ‘to complete our arrangements,’ as my betrayer put it, if I remember rightly. Having entered a small and out-of-the-way building, which he called his own, probably correctly, I was assaulted by him and another villain who was unknown to me. I remember distinctly Black’s saying to this man, ‘Now, Bill, a heavy blow on his head, and he is dead. Then his trunk of money is ours!’ I started to my feet, but at that instant a furious blow was struck at my head, and I, poor fool, knew no more.

“My object in going to that city last week was to see whether I could learn what had happened to me from the time of that attempted murder till I appeared here as the ‘Demon of the Cave,’ In this I succeeded very well. It seems that the police were on these men’s track, and that they broke into the building just after I had been knocked down. The villains, Black and his accomplice, doubtless thought me dead, or else meant to deal another blow, but had not time. Their crime was bootless; for they were thrown into prison, tried in due time, and sent into penal servitude, where they are still.

“Then I was taken to an hospital; but as I had scarcely anything with me, except my clothes and my chest of money, no clue could be found to inform my friends of my whereabouts. So they kept me on there, within a few hundred miles of my home, and took the greatest care of me. The cruel blow on my head had taken away my reason, and all the doctors of the hospital could not restore it.

“What puzzles me is that my friends did not find me in process of time, as the whole affair was published in the newspapers. Well, I suppose they thought of me as being far away and that I could not possibly be the madman in K. Hospital. I never saw the account in the newspapers, and the description of the madman may not have tallied with the Uncle Dick of the country village.

“And now comes the most extraordinary part of my story. I was ill in the hospital for several weeks, and meanwhile the authorities took charge of my chest. It seems that I was aware my money was in it, and with all a maniac’s cunning I kept watch over it. One day, when my bodily health and strength were quite restored, both I and my chest of treasure were missing!

“So the story runs; but there I am bothered; there is mystery. From that day all is dark to me; all is a blank; and I can only speculate. I am left to suppose, then, that I made off with my chest of money; roamed over the country in search of a home; came upon the cave in this neighborhood; and established myself in it!

“Now, that is contrary to reason—in fact, it would require a powerful imagination to put any faith in such a cock-and-bull story.

“I have a notion that a great deal of my money was taken either by dishonest servants while in the hospital, or else by thieves after I left it; and I think even that I was robbed of the whole amount, and came upon some money in the cave. How could a lunatic make his way through the country with a chest of money, and not be molested? It is impossible. In fact, Mr. Mortimer, from the moment I left the hospital till I took up my abode in the cave, it is all a muddle to me. It may be explained some day; but it is all a muddle to me now.

“From inquiries I made in this place, I found that a dealer brought me supplies while I lived in the cave, and that I paid him for them. I hunted him out, and he told me he made my acquaintance through another man, when I first came here. He is a simple, honest, old man, incapable of cheating even a madman; and I am satisfied that he acted fairly with me, and had no hand in my coming to the cave.

“But who is the other? I believe the whole question hinges on that; and if we could meet with him, I would force the secret from him. The dealer affirms that he knows nothing about this man; he saw him only once; and then he told him (the dealer) to send supplies to an eccentric man who intended to live for a short time in what was then called simply, ‘The Cave.’ But, alas! it continued through ten years!

“While living in the cave, I am told that I was continually on the watch against robbers; which proves conclusively, I think, that people of that calling preyed upon me either before or after I left the hospital.

“Mr. Mortimer, as far as I can make it out, this is my story. It is not much, but I have made the best of it.” The next day Mr. Lawrence and his nephew set out for home. The long-lost man had, at length, after an absence of ten years, returned.

He lived with his brother, and for a few weeks, did nothing. Ten years in a cave had undermined his health, but as soon as his constitution regained its natural vigor, he went into business on his own account. At forty he found himself penniless, and obliged to begin life anew; ten years were as though they had not been, and he had summarily got rid of a fortune.

He was of a cheerful and hopeful disposition, and did not grieve about this; still, he could not help thinking what misery would have been spared if he had not trusted himself implicitly to a villain.

For the present Uncle Dick must sink into oblivion. He will be resuscitated, however, at the proper time.

Will was received by his parents with open arms. He had behaved nobly; he was a little hero. All the praise must be given to him, of course. Had he not rescued his uncle, alone and unaided? Had he not done all in his power to help that uncle when he lay helpless in his cave? Had he not stayed by him and tended him? Had he not explored the horrible place known as the Demons Cave? He had; he had done all this; and yet come off without a scratch!

Of course, Henry meant well, but he had no hand in rescuing Uncle Dick—he had not even entered the cave. Henry was a good, a manly little fellow, but in that affair he had been only a figure-head.

Will found that Stephen was recovering fast. His school-fellows crowded round him and listened eagerly while he dilated on his cousin’s and his own exploits. Now that the affair was happily over, he delighted in telling them about his “adventures” in the cave, and Marmaduke, especially, delighted in hearing them. To him, Henry was a mighty hero.

The affair with Stephen sobered the others for a time, and when the poor boy again appeared among them, nothing they could do for him was left undone. He was a martyr in their eyes, and they willingly left off their own sports to talk to him. Under these kind attentions, what wonder is it that the boy soon recovered his health, strength, and spirits?

The whole tribe of heroes kept clear of tricks and misdeeds till the following summer; but Will, of course, committed his diverting little blunders daily. But it would be foolish to chronicle them.

As for Henry, he recovered rapidly, and when Will and his uncle left he was a great deal better. He missed Will very much, but he did not suffer a relapse. He put his remaining pistol carefully away, vowing to load it himself, if he should be tempted to use it again. As for the one which Will discharged, it was lost the night of the expedition to the cave.

---

It is summer again. The six are enjoying themselves as usual, but are playing no tricks worthy of mention. Considering all things, it is surprising that they have kept out of mischief so long.

But the Sage was revolving a certain matter in his mind. He had been reading about Capt. Kidd the pirate, and the treasures he is said to have buried. He did not believe there were any such treasures,—at least, he thought he did not,—and to show how erroneous all those old traditions are, he resolved to make what he called an experiment.

“Look here, boys,” he said to his school-fellows, “wouldn’t it be capital to look for gold some day; some of Capt. Kidd’s gold, you know!”

“No, George, I guess we don’t know much about it; so go ahead and tell us,” Stephen replied.

“You’ve heard the stories about his buried treasures, of course. Well, let us follow the directions, and look for a stray treasure some night.”

“What directions?” Stephen asked. That day he seemed to be in a humor to persecute somebody.

“Why, the directions given in fortune-telling books for finding buried treasures,” George said good-humoredly. “I have a good necromancer’s book, and I have studied this thing all out. So, suppose we go to work and try it, just to prove how nonsensical all such stories are, and what a humbug necromancy is. Boys, it would be sport.”

“The very thing!” Charles exclaimed. “Now, tell us all about it.”

“Well, I’m glad some one can understand my meaning,” the Sage said smilingly. “We must go along the banks of some river at night, when the moon rises just as the sun sets. When the moon throws the person’s shadow four feet up into an evergreen, any evergreen tree, stop and say over some enchantment. Then shoot an arrow straight up into the air, and it will strike the water—at least it ought to strike it. Shoot another, and it ought to fall at your feet. Shoot one more, and it will light on the ground exactly over your treasure. But you must dig for it with paddles.”

“Paddles!” cried the boys.

“Yes, dig two feet with paddles, or the treasure will escape. Then you may take spades, or anything you choose, to dig with; and six feet down you’ll find it.”

“How wonderful!” Marmaduke exclaimed languidly.

“How foolish, you mean,” wise Will observed. “Really, George, I used to think you had more common sense. Who cares about paddles, and arrow’s, and necromancers, and moons, and shadow’s, and rivers, and—and—now, George, you know such tomfoolery isn’t worth listening to.”

“Of course I don’t believe it,” George replied earnestly; “I only want to expose it.”

Charles and Stephen had been whispering together and exchanging winks while the others were speaking, and the former now said, with feigned seriousness: “Certainly you don’t, George. It’s a likely story that a boy like you believes in a bald-headed, goggle-eyed, broken-nosed necromancer, that never washes his hands, nor blows his broken nose, nor combs his whiskers, nor cuts his toenails. No, George, you read too much science to believe in such a dilapidated ruin as a necromancer must be; but, as you say, it would be roaring fun to follow his directions. How right and praiseworthy to expose the superstitions of the wicked old necromancer! Boys, let us go, by all means!”

George looked at the speaker rather suspiciously; but seeing how grave and earnest he appeared, never guessed that he was laughing inwardly. He replied warmly, “You’re a true friend, Charley. You understand my motives, and see what little faith I put in the old necromancer. Now, boys, you must give in that we could get a great deal of amusement out of this. Honestly, couldn’t we?”

“It’ll be the best fun we’ve had yet!” Steve declared. “But doesn’t he give any more directions, George?”

“Oh, yes. There is a page of what you’re to do and say, and if we should conclude to make the experiment I’ll learn it, for you mustn’t take the book along with you.”

“Of course not,” Charles said promptly. “Well, you’ll go, won’t you, Will?”

“Wouldn’t miss going for anything!” Will replied with decision.

Without stopping to wonder at the sudden change in Will’s and Steve’s opinions, the sage continued, “According to the almanac, this is the very night for us to go, because the moon rises as the sun sets.”

“Exactly;” commented Stephen. “And the river is our river, of course. As for the evergreen, I know where there is a fine tall one near the river. We must start just at the right time to have the shadow according to the rule when we arrive at the evergreen. Now, boys, I’ll scare up a good bow and half a dozen arrows; and Charley, I’m sure, can bring a long-handled spade; and Will can supply us with an oar or two. If the book says anything else is needed, George, you must see to it, for you, of course, will be our leader.”

George gracefully acknowledged this tribute to his merit.

Jim now spoke for the first time. “But what has all this to do with Captain Kidd?” he asked.

Ever since Will’s experience in the cave he had been filled with lofty ideas, and now, in his wisdom, he thought this the first weighty remark that had been made.

George replied thus: “We don’t know of any other man that would be foolish enough to bury treasures, Jim, so let us suppose that we are looking for one of Kidd’s.—All in sport, of course.”

Will looked at the Sage with pity that was not akin to love, and observed, “Now, George, I haven’t been reading the history of Captain Kidd, as you have, but I know well enough that he never buried any money in these parts because it stands to reason he was never here! Perhaps he buried some along the sea-coast, but certainly none in this far-off wilderness—as it was then.”

This argument was irrefutable; the Sage was mute. With all his reading, all his knowledge, was he to be insulted thus?

In fact, he looked so woe-begone that Charles came to his relief, saying, “Never mind Mr. Kidd, boys; let us follow the necromancers orders blindly.”

All agreed to do this, and soon afterwards they separated.

All unknown to them, they had had a listener. The conversation had taken place in the school-grounds, and a great over-grown boy had seen them, and drawn near enough to hear every word. As a wood-pile was between him and the heroes, he escaped notice. This “great, hulking lubber,” as Charles called him, was the boy who had been bitten by Stephen’s dog several months before, and who, as was intimated, thirsted for revenge. Ever since that time he had dogged the six, in the vain hope of detecting them in some evil scheme.

He was a cowardly, treacherous boy, this Bob Herriman, or he would not have played the eaves-dropper on this occasion. He now resolved to precede the boys, hide himself in the evergreen, and do his best to torment them.

Most horrible revenge, truly!

“I’ll get there ahead of ’em,” he muttered, “and climb the tree Stepping Hen (the opprobrious nickname by which, in his anger, he privately knew Stephen) spoke of! I think I know the very tree. I’ll yell, perhaps, or scare ’em awful in some way, and if they do any harm to anything, I’ll tell on ’em! Oh! what fun!”

Then this embryo villain strutted away, with a mischievous look—a look that boded ill to the Sage’s experiment. He was an immoral boy, while Will and his companions were only boyish, and full of animal spirits.

The boys longed for night to come, as they imagined they could easily confute the vile and slovenly old necromancer’s errors, and find food for laughter. Some time before sunset they turned out in force, and mustered just below the falls. Everything that could possibly be made useful was on hand. George, poor boy, had freighted himself with a coil of heavy rope, but he bore up bravely, and strode onward without a groan.

When they were fairly started, Charles suddenly in-inquired of him: “What in the world have you brought that rope along for, George?”

“To draw the treasure home with,” was the somewhat startling answer, coolly given.

“The treasure!” Charles cried. “Why, I thought you ‘put no faith’ in that! and besides, you can’t draw gold and silver with a rope!”

“Don’t be foolish,” the Sage replied. “I believe in no treasure at all; but you must pretend to believe in it, or else you will never get it. As for taking it home with a rope, the book says it will be in a huge chest, bound with iron bands. Therefore, I bring this rope along to make the spirits believe I believe in their beliefs.”

Having made this logical explanation, the Sage panted for breath, but drew himself up proudly, and looked defiantly on his tormentor, crushing him beneath his eloquence and his aspect.

Charles finally uttered an “Oh!” of relief, and then the procession moved on.

As the sun sank lower and lower, the boys hastened more and more. Will had calculated the time very accurately, and said it was foolish to hurry; but his school-fellows were aware of his failing, and for fear he had made a mistake, they were too impatient to proceed leisurely.

Notwithstanding the ridicule which the boys cast upon George for his strict observance of all the “directions,” they did not wish to omit any of them in making the experiment. Accordingly, all were anxious to arrive at the evergreen just in time to have the moon throw a shadow on it four feet high.

And by some strange chance they did.

As soon as the tree came in sight, Steve exclaimed, “There it is, boys! The very same, identical, self-same tree!”

“Its very close to the water,” George growled, as he made a vain effort to ease his aching shoulders.

“It’s from two to five feet from the water,” Steve replied. “That’s plenty of room to go between it and the shore, and plenty of room to measure the fine shadow there will be.”

“Then we must draw cuts to see whether it’s the right evergreen, as the book says.”

This was done, and they found that this was the tree intended.

Again they marched on, and presently stood before the mystic tree.

The Sage halted, and threw down the coil of rope with a sigh of relief. “The coast is clear, boys,” he said, joyously. “There is no one here swimming, or out boating, or shooting squirrels, or——”

“Or fishing for water-snakes and crunching peppermint candy,” Steve put in, as a finale.

For a moment George looked vexed; but this was Stephen’s way, and he knew no insult was intended.

If the boys had known that this very evergreen, under which they stood, harbored an enemy, they would have acted differently. Bob Herriman had ensconced himself in this tree, and even while Steve spoke, he was trying to rub the gum off his hands and clothes, and glaring wickedly down at the heroic six and the equally heroic dog, Carlo.

“Well, boys,” George observed, “I must go on alone, with Steve close behind to measure my shadow. If we all go crowding along together, somebody will get shoved into the river.”

The wisdom of this was so apparent that the rest waited patiently while the other two went on.

George walked cautiously along the bank of the river, and when the rising moon threw a faint shadow of his figure on the bark of the evergreen, he halted. Stephen, however, stepped up so briskly and boldly, and so near the brink, that shovelfuls of loose earth rattled down into the water. When he reached George he whipped a homemade folding ruler out of his pocket, and applied it to the shadow.

“Just four feet!” he cried, excitedly.

George looked on complacently, and the boys in waiting, hearing Steve’s remark, uttered a shout of surprise and delight.

“Stop! stop!” George cried, angrily: “I cannot allow such a noise!”

A dead silence ensued. The four moved on till they had passed the tree, and then George and Stephen joined them.

“That tree is very thick up among the branches,” Jim observed.

“Never mind that,” Charles said. “Now, George, it’s time to go to work. Are you sure you know the verses?”

“What verses?” the Sage asked, indignantly.

“Why, the necromancer’s, of course.”

“You call it ‘verses,’ do you? Well, Charley, a boy generally does. But you should say ‘poetry.’ Now, this is genuine poetry—an ode, an—an——. Well, the book says it’s an Apostrophe, or Address to——”

“Fiddle-sticks! George, do you know it?”

The Sage made no answer, but, facing the river and the moon, he drew himself up proudly, and merely observing that he must have silence, cleared his throat for action.

The rest were all behind him, and so escaped notice. Then each one took out his handkerchief and dammed up that organ which is the seat of laughter. By this means they succeeded in choking back all their merriment, and behaved so well that poor George was highly gratified.

It must have been a comical sight to Bob Herriman in his tree. At all events, he gazed at the different actors with open mouth and ears, while the Sage delivered the following:

George hesitated, stammered, stopped! The necromancers rhymes were too much for his already overstocked brain. He made one more desperate effort, but Charles, with his habitual promptness, cut him short, shouting:

At this, the others tore out their handkerchiefs and laughed derisively.

George wheeled round quickly, and just in time to see five handkerchiefs shoved into as many pockets. He did not know what they had been doing with their handkerchiefs, but he was angry, and he said, snappishly: “Look here, if you boys can’t behave any better than that, you had better stay at home! I didn’t come here to amuse gigglers, and I won’t do it. No; I’ll stop right here; I won’t go on with the experiment.”

Charles knew’ that this was only an idle threat, but he said, hastily: “Now, George, you’re too old and too sensible to be vexed because we laugh at what is comical. To-morrow you’ll laugh yourself. And besides, what did we come here for? To rout the necromancer, or to be routed ourselves?”

“Of course; we came here to enjoy ourselves and have some fun,” chimed in Stephen.

“Yes, but you might behave yourselves,” the Sage growled. “Now, where was I? Oh, pshaw! it’s all a muddle! Only two or three more lines, and it would have been finished. Well,” brightening up, “perhaps the charm isn’t spoilt; and, Steve, hand me your bow and arrows.”

The boy still felt aggrieved, and he now fired furiously towards the sky.

The arrow rushed into the air, and came down a moment later, striking the water fairly.

The archer’s face beamed with smiles; he spoke. “Boys, that is as it should be; and when we get warmed up in this game, it will be sport.”

“It will certainly be warm work if we dig down six feet in this dirt,” Will growled.

The boys changed their positions before George shot the next arrow, and, as luck would have it, Will took his stand near a horrible, miry hole which had been scooped out by the river in a great overflow that very spring. He threw his paddles down carelessly, and fixed his eyes on the experimentalist.

That worthy now fitted another arrow to the bowstring, and after taking deliberate aim at a star overhead, he gravely “fired.”

Every head was bent to observe the arrow’s flight, and each one was prepared to spring aside if it should come down too close to him. Each one except Bob Herriman. He, poor wretch, had placed himself in so cramped a position that he could not see it fly.

Having made this clear to the reader, surely he will guess what happened.

The arrow descended fairly in the evergreen, struck a branch, glanced, and Mr. Bob received a stinging blow on the back of the head. He wriggled and nearly fell out of the tree. His mouth flew open, and a half-suppressed ejaculation escaped him.

The arrow then struck the ground in such a manner that it ran along it, and finally ceased its wanderings within a few feet of George.

“How strangely everything is fulfilled!” he said, with evident satisfaction.

The boys grinned—even Marmaduke was amused at the Sage’s behaviour.

“I believe that tree is inhabited,” Stephen remarked. “I’m sure there was a great rumpus in it when the arrow’ struck it, and I thought I heard a groan.”

“Go to grass, Stunner!” said Charles. “You don’t know a groan from a wasp’s nest.”

“I guess you’re about right, Charley;” Will added. “I guess George’s arrow smashed an ancient and worn out bird’s nest.”

Let it be understood that none of these boys were aware of Bob Herriman’s presence. They accompanied the Sage only to see to what extremes he would go, and to while away the time. But probably they had hopes that some unforeseen incident would happen to cause merriment.

Again George fired deliberately into the air, and again the arrow was narrowly watched. This time it came down so perilously near Stephen’s dog that Stephen was grievously offended.

But as this was the last arrow to be shot upward, and as all wished the proceedings to be continued, he was soon pacified.

George looked complacently at the arrow, and at last seemed ready to make use of the paddles and spade. With some pompousness he traced a circle round his arrow, and looked so important that the boys could hardly suppress their laughter. But it seemed to them, boys though they were, that practical George was out of his sphere.

“Now, William,” he said, “bring me those paddles of yours.”

Will smiled to hear himself addressed by his full name, and turned to pick them up.

Steve, still thinking about his dog’s narrow escape from injury, snarled: “Don’t William him, or he’ll make you wilt.”

“Stop!” the Sage shouted to Will, even as Steve spoke. “I forgot. It is necessary that an arrow should yet be shot.”

“As your grammar would say,” supplemented wicked Stephen.

The Sage took no notice of these jeering words, but continued: “Yes, I must shoot an arrow through the very middle of the evergreen.”

Bob Herriman, who could hear every word, now had reason to be alarmed. Up to this time he had looked on calmly, intending to keep still till the boys should be very much engrossed, and then terrify them all in some mysterious way—how, he had not yet determined. Now, however, he lost sight of everything except his own safety, and not stopping to collect himself, he gave vent to the most ear-piercing, heart-appalling howl, shriek, and roar, combined in one, that the boys had ever heard.

Boys, imagine a deep-chested lad of sixteen mechanically drawing in a full breath, and then suffering it to escape in one long cry of mortal terror.

---

The effect on the boys was startling.

In the confusion of the moment, George probably took it for one of his “sprites;” and he dropped Steve’s bow, stepped on it, and broke it.

Marmaduke felt that there must be something ghostly and necromantic in such a cry, coming, in the hush of evening, from a shapely evergreen that rose beside a rolling, moonlit river.

Jim was seized with a painful attack of his chills, and ran bellowing homewards.

Stephen, impetuous and heedless as ever, picked up a stone and threw it furiously into the tree.

The reader of fiction does not need to be told that “all this happened in an instant.”

Where the stone struck Mr. Herriman is not known; but with a crash he fell headlong to the ground, rolled over twice,—roaring, meantime, with rage, pain, and terror,—and before the thunderstruck boys could recover from their stupefaction, he had disappeared in the water.

Then Stephen, with great presence of mind, exclaimed: “Boys, I told you that tree was inhabited!”

“Save him! Save him! Whoever he is, save him!” Charles cried. “Get George’s rope, and throw it out to him!”

He and Stephen made a rush for it, and stumbled over each other, but finally managed to get all but a few inches of it into the water. There their rescuing ceased.

Mr. Herriman, whose feet touched bottom, floundered and sputtered about in the water like a madman. He could easily have made his way to the shore, but apparently he had lost his wits. Every other second he gave utterance to some pithy interjection. Doubtless he would have yelled continually; but every time he opened his mouth a small cupful of water and animalcules poured down his throat, and well-nigh choked him.

A panic seized upon the boys, and although chattering and gesticulating like monkeys, they were powerless to help him. And so Bob struggled in the river, in some danger of being drowned.

But a deliverer was at hand. Carlo awoke to what was going on, and, more sensible than the boys, plunged into the river, and an instant later was beside demoralized Bob. He caught first his coat, then his pants, then his coat again, Bob insanely striking him off each time.

The truth is, it galled the boy to be rescued by Tip’s successor.

The noble dog persevered in his efforts, however, and Bob, eventually seeing the folly of resisting, suffered himself to be towed to the bank.

Then the brave boys exerted themselves, and succeeded in hauling bewildered Robert Herriman on shore.

His first act betrayed his cowardly nature.

“Get out, you brute!” he said, and struck the gallant dog which had just saved him, and which stood by, wagging his tail to express his delight.

Then, with a jeering laugh at the dog’s low growl, he darted away from the now enraged boys.

He ran a few’ steps, then halting, he picked up a stone, and heaved it among the experimentalists.

“Take that for throwing stones at me!” he said derisively, as he took to his heels again. “Look out for your dog, Stepping Hen, and good-bye till I see you again,” he shouted as he ran.

This was more than human nature could bear. With fury in their eyes, and uttering a warwhoop that electrified the flying wretch, they all broke into a run and gave chase, determined to wreak dire vengeance on him.

Bob yelled fearfully,—well he might,—and redoubled his speed.

The pursuers were gaining on him, when a wild cry, a beseeching, almost despairing, appeal for help, reached their ears.

They stopped and stared vacantly at each other. The look each one put on seemed plainly to inquire, “What next?”

“It’s Will,” Charles said. “Where on earth is he?”

“Follow the sound,” the Sage said, philosophical as ever.

The pursuit was instantly given over, for all the boys bore Will too much love to neglect him. One and all, the four ran back to the scene of their late exploits, and Herriman escaped.

“Who saw Will last?” George asked anxiously.

“The last I saw of him,” said Steve, “was when you told him to bring the paddles.”

In fact, poor Will was so startled at Bob’s appalling cry that he had tumbled backwards into the pit. He and his paddles. In the confusion that ensued he was not missed, but was left to his own resources while the others were engaged in “rescuing” and dealing with Rob.

Unhappy boy, he found himself in narrow quarters. The hole was large at the top, but small at the bottom, and he was unable to climb out of it. Soon he found himself sinking into the horrible, sickening mire, which gave way beneath him.

He heard the shouts of his companions, and struggled manfully to save himself—and his paddles.

Why didn’t he cry out for help immediately? That is very easily explained.

Will got into trouble so often and made so many egregious blunders—which invariably provoked the laughter of others—that he had fallen into the habit of keeping as many of them secret as possible. He had a preternatural horror of being made a laughing-stock, and consequently, when he found himself out of sight in a pit, he was desirous to work his way out of it before he should be missed.

Besides, after his exploits in the cave, this experiment of the Sages was but ignoble pastime, and it would ill become him, the hero who had delivered and cured his insane uncle, to come to grief in this slimy hole.

He struggled heroically to gain dry land, but the more he struggled the deeper he sank in the mire. At last, hearing his comrades chasing some one, he concluded that he should have to cry out for help, or else be left to a horrible fate.

But it grieved him to think that he was not missed and searched for.

“Whatever is the matter, among so many there might be one to think of me,” he muttered, sadly. “Don’t I amount to a button, that they don’t miss me? Or is something awful going on?”

Then, with great reluctance, he shouted for help.

When the four gathered round the hole, they beheld its tenant with wonder.

“How in this world did you get down there?” Steve asked.

“Fell down,” Will said, laconically. “I knew there was a hole in these regions, and, botheration! I found it, and tumbled overboard into it! But say, what was all that row about?”

“So you’ve missed all the fun!” Charles said, pityingly.

Then the boys told him all that had happened.

“But why didn’t you yell for us to help you at first?” Steve asked.

“Why didn’t you miss me?” Will retorted, sourly.

The boys could not be blamed for this. Probably not more than ten minutes had elapsed from Bob’s first cry of terror till Will’s cry for help; and they had been very much excited and distressed all that time.

“This is no way to get Will out!” Charles said, angrily. “Stop talking, Steve, and bring George’s rope here.”

“George’s rope!” said Will. “That will be the very thing! Get it, Steve; you’re used to hauling donkeys out of pits, you know, so show us your skill.”

The boys laughed for a full minute, and Steve said, as he darted away for the rope, “Will, that’s blunder number ten thousand seven hundred and one for you.”

The rope was found, but it was wet from end to end. However, it proved more useful than when the boys attempted to rescue Herriman with it, and Will, with considerable detriment to his clothes, was pulled out of the hole—his paddles, too.

Although coated with disagreeable slime up to his watch pocket—which, by the way, contained fish-hooks instead of a watch—he took it coolly, as became a redoubtable hero.

In order to turn the conversation from himself, he said, hurriedly, “Now, go into details about Herriman, and then I must pack off home.”

Foolish boy, he need not have been alarmed; he was an object of pity rather than of laughter.

“We told you about Herriman,” growled Steve. “I wish I could have got my claw’s on that boy; I would have made him strain his voice and his muscles!”

“You had better go home this minute, Will,” Charles said, kindly. “As for Herriman, Steve, I guess he has strained his voice and his muscles and his joints enough already. Well, Will, I’ll go home with you, and tell all about Herriman as we journey along. Stephen, I suppose you will stay here to go on with the necromancy business, which was so meanly interrupted. Be sure to bring home Will’s paddles and everything else.”

“Yes, the necromancer must be routed,” Steve replied. “I’ll see to everything; good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Charles and Will, as they plodded off.

“I say, Will,” Charles said, with a grin, as soon as they were out of hearing, “I say, Will, by to-morrow I guess I’ll be the only one to see any fun in this business; for Jim ran howling away, Bob got the worst of it, you robbed the hole of much mud, Steve’s dog was insulted several times, and before Steve gets through with the Sage and Marmaduke, all three will be sick of it.”

Thus let them go.

The sport seemed to have lost much of its zest after all these interruptions and departures; but George and Stephen mended the bow as well as they could, and then the former, with due solemnity, shot an arrow through the tree lately occupied by Herriman.

If the complicated plot of this and the preceding chapter has not proved too great a strain on the reader’s memory, he will probably remember that the next thing to be done was to dig.

Marmaduke came up with the paddles, and tried to make a spade of one of them; but it rebounded and jarred his hand till it ached.

“Stop!” screamed the Sage. “You’ll spoil the charm! The sods must be raised with something sharp, of course. Boys,” solemnly, “they must be raised with a knife that has slain something!”

“Slain!” Marmaduke repeated, aghast.

“Yes; and I’ve brought along a knife that once killed a deer and a lion.”

“George, this is going a little too far; what business have you to tote around a hunter’s weapon?” Stephen inquired. “Why, if you had fallen into the river with that horrible knife hitched fast to you, you would have been ruined.”

“Don’t be jealous, Steve,” George said, sarcastically. “You know there isn’t a boy in the State that owns such a knife as this; you know it has a romantic history; you know my grandfather willed it to me; you know it once saved Seth Warner’s life; you know an old Turk once——”

“Yes,” interrupted Steve, “I know; I’ve heard you talk about that knife ever since I first knew you. But if you don’t look out, it will come to grief like all your other wonderful knives—you’ll lose it.—Well, never mind, George; I was only surprised to think you could bring along that keepsake—no, relic—to dig up sods! So,” mildly, “go on, George.”

George “went on,” and soon the sods were raised, and a circle of earth exposed. Then the paddles were used very laboriously, first by one and then by another. It was hard work, but at last a hole was scooped out, and Steve, in despair, took up the spade and dug with ease.

“How do you suppose Herriman came to be in that tree?” George asked.

“That’s a mystery,” Steve replied. “Likely he was prowling around, and saw us coming, and scrambled into the tree to hide himself. Well, I never hankered to make a squirrel of myself in an evergreen.”

“Let me dig,” George now said.

Stephen handed over the spade to him, and after a vigorous attack with it, with a thud that startled the three, he struck something very hard.

Visions of gold and precious stones flashed through their mind; George trembled with excitement; Marmaduke was in ecstacy; Steve was bewildered.

George stopped for a moment, panting and eager; then he turned to digging again—so furiously that the sweat streamed from every part of his body.

Not a word was spoken.

Dirt enough was soon removed to discover—what?

An iron-bound box!

Again the Sage paused. Although Steve was as much excited as the others, he thought this a fitting time to observe: “Well, George, we have exposed the necromancer’s fable, and it is getting late; so let us pack up and go home.”

“Go home?” echoed George. “Go home—without seeing what we have found?”

“Certainly. It can’t be a treasure, you know; because it isn’t six feet down in the ground!”

George was thunder-struck. But he soon rallied, and made answer: “Well, so many queer things have happened, perhaps the spirits got demoralized, and raised the box.”

“No they didn’t,” Steve retorted; “spirits never get demoralized. And besides, I’m ashamed of you, George, for staying here any longer. You know you don’t believe a single word of it,” with cutting irony. “So, let us do what the copy-book tells us, and make the most of time while we are young. Let us hurry home.”

Whilst this talk was going on, Marmaduke—much to the secret satisfaction of both boys—was busy, trying, by using the spade and paddles as levers, to get the iron-bound box out of the hole. Not finding it so heavy as he expected, he succeeded without much effort.

Now that it was out of the ground, George, Stephen, and Marmaduke, pounced on it, pried off the lid, and found—what?

A heap of mouldy old boots, a cracked cow-bell, a worn-out vest, several broken articles, a few door-knobs, a defaced copy of the Constitution, rusty nails, the works of a clock, the rudder of a toy ship, a heavy flat-iron, the head of a medieval image, rubbish, all sorts of things.

Steve, foolish boy, laughed till he was obliged to sit down. As for the other two, they were, to use a polite expression, “deeply chagrined.”

As soon as Steve recovered himself he said, “This is some of Crazy Tom’s work! Of course you two have heard of him; he used to live in these parts, and spent all his time gathering up all kinds of trash, and the boys say he buried it sometimes. Now I know that story is true. Oh! what a treasure we have found! Our fortune is made!”

George and Marmaduke were familiar with the legends respecting Crazy Tom, and they were mute.

“Oh dear,” groaned Steve, “we must get this box back into the hole, and shovel in the dirt, before we can go home.”

This proves that there was something good in Stephen, after all. A great many boys would have gone away, leaving everything in confusion.

“There might be something valuable in it,” Marmaduke suggested.

“Yes, of course,” Steve replied. “But I don’t know who’d want to rummage among all these disgusting old things.”

George and Marmaduke thought of the bones in the woods, and with one breath, both said, “No!”

“To be sure,” Steve continued, peering into the box, “if we could find some fellow that hadn’t any respect for himself, we might hire him to handle its contents, and separate the good from the bad. Now, I’ve a good mind to take out this——Roanwer!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Matter!” roared Steve, starting back. “My gracious! That box is inhabited with some awful looking grubs!”

Without further parley the lid was laid on, the box shoved into the hole, and the dirt shoveled in.

“Steve,” said George suddenly, “I believe you knew about this. Why were you all at once so eager to go, and why did you pick out this tree, and guess the box was Crazy Tom’s so quick?”

“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I came for the fun of it, that’s all. Now, didn’t you shoot all the arrows, and didn’t I do all I could to help you? Didn’t I work hard digging? Why did I know about where Crazy Tom buried his treasures? Why, George, are you losing your wits? Come, now, be sensible; and think it’s a great joke.”

George looked full in Stephen’s honest face, relented, and said desperately, “Well, I suppose it is very funny; but I’ve made an awful fool of myself.”

Everything except the big rope was taken home. It was enough for the Sage to carry it when in excellent spirits, unruffled temper, and fired with “enthusiasm.” Now, his spirits were broken,—for the time only,—his temper was soured, he himself was sore and weary, and the rope was “forgotten.”

The three wended their way homeward in a different frame of mind. Steve was so light of heart that he chuckled to himself and his dog, and swung his arms furiously. Marmaduke was uneasy about his lessons for the next day; George was glum and miserable, full of bitterness against necromancers, sprites, and Crazy Toms.

“I’ll never meddle with nonsense again,” he muttered, as he jogged on. “And as for Captain Kidd——”

From that day, he had another name—the Necromancer. It was not much used, however.

---

After that, George renounced all literature that treated of the magical arts, but his reading was as varied and extensive as ever. He carefully avoided the subject of necromancy, but when his companions referred to it, he put up with their jokes and cruel remarks about “iron-bound” “treasure-chests” with the calm indifference of a true philosopher.

Charles was mistaken in saying that he would be the only one to see any amusement in the affair after it was all over, for Stephen never tired of calling up George’s look of misery when the box was opened.

“Oh, if you and Will had only waited!” he often sighed to Charles.

Stephen almost forgot the insults heaped on himself and his dog during the earlier part of the evening, and as Bob Herriman prudently kept out of his sight for a few days, he almost forgave that wretch his wickedness.

One day he asked George if he might see the book of necromancy.

At first the Sage was inclined to be vexed at such a question; but finally, pointing upwards, he said, with a peculiar smile: “Well, Steve, I guess the smoke of it is up there. And now, don’t say any more about it, please.”

“George, that night we passed through an experience instead of an experiment;” Stephen replied solemnly, looking wondrous wise. “I promise not to bother you about it any more.”

Stephen kept his word religiously.

As for Will, strangely enough he took no cold, but was minus one suit of clothes.

Bob Herriman kept out of the boys sight for a few days. He had several very good reasons for doing so. In the first place, he was sore and stiff from many bruises; secondly, his cowardly nature dreaded meeting with the boys for whom he had lain in ambush, and whom he had exasperated beyond endurance; and thirdly, he wished to avoid Steve’s dog, which he now feared.

On account of this, the boy kept quiet near home, although his parents probably thought him at school. In these “holidays” he worked out a plan for revenge.

Revenge for what?

The only answer that can be given is that the boy was so vindictive in his nature that he wished to do the boys and the dog some injury—simply because he had fallen out of the evergreen; been humiliated, stunned, and hurt; had an unpleasant struggle in the water; and generally “got the worst of it,” as Charley put it.

At last he hit on a plan that pleased him greatly.

Suppose that, in order to lend variety, animation, and dignity to these pages, we forbear giving the details of his plot, and keep the reader in a state of mild suspense and wonder? Such a course would smooth our task, and not seriously disturb the readers peace of mind.

Although a raft has not been referred to specially as one of the attractions of the river, yet, for all that, an ill-made and disproportioned, but substantial and floatable one was moored a mile above the falls. Many hours had been spent by the boys in building and repairing this raft, and many times they had sailed proudly up and down the river on it. It was a source of great amusement to them all.

Some ten days after the adventure last narrated, Bob Herriman built a little “house,” which, seen from one end looked like a hen-coop, from the other like a dog kennel, while a stupid person behind might take it for a clumsy woodbox, another equally stupid person in front might take it for a modern home-made bee-hive. One end was three feet wide, the other three feet six inches. By laying a brick underneath it, its roof was level, with the spirit-level. By placing it on a perfectly smooth floor, without the brick underneath it, it rocked gently—just sufficiently, in fact, to lull a person to sleep. Briefly, Robert was not intended for a carpenter, and this “house”—which was almost worth its weight in nails—to be still further disproportioned, was much wider than it was long. Its width has already been given; its length was two feet and two, three, four and five inches. Its height was in exact proportion to its width and length. The door of a disused cupboard was brought into use, and once more did duty as a door.

Boys, exercise your ingenuity, and draw a correct picture of that “house.” It may help you to understand Bob’s plot.

Into this building its architect put several things which he thought would be needed to carry out his schemes successfully.

Every Saturday afternoon Stephen and his dog went swimming in the river. The other boys generally, but not always, swam with him. This was well-known to Herriman, and he took his measures accordingly.

The next Saturday Bob set out immediately after dinner, getting a boon companion of his to take his contrivance in a light waggon to the falls. This boy, whose thoughts never soared above the driving of his nag, asked no questions, and scarcely noticed the “house” or its contents. At the falls Bob set it down carefully, and then the two went their several ways—the youth with the waggon turning back and going to market, the plotter getting his building laboriously up the hill by the falls. The few people near stared at him in wonder, but said nothing.

When this wicked boy got his contrivance a few rods above the falls he stopped, took out of it and stowed away upon his person whatever water might damage, and then took an enormously long and very strong cord, which had hitherto been inside, and tied one end fast to a staple in what was supposed to be the roof of the “house.”

Having done this, he shoved the unwieldy thing into the river, and eyed it wistfully.

“No, it isn’t coming to pieces,” he exclaimed, joyfully, as he saw that his work bore the strain of floating in the water.

Then he grasped the rope—which will be described presently—and towed his invention—it was an invention—rapidly up the river.

Arrived at the raft, he fastened this thing (we don’t know what else to call it) firmly on it. Then was shown the beauty and usefulness of the staple spoken of. Bob ran a strong cord through it and through some of the many staples and rings which were planted in the raft.

You perceive, gentle reader, that this boy was much better at scheming than at building.

Then he loosened the rope from the—let us call it cage—from the cage, and tied it fast to a ring in one end of the raft. This rope, or cord, was new and strong, and was actually one thousand feet in length! Bob did not believe in doing things by halves—but he had another object in view when he procured the long rope. Excepting a few yards at the end made fast to the raft, it was as yet coiled up neatly. About the middle a heavy iron ring, or sinker, was attached.

Bob arranged everything to his satisfaction, and had just set the raft afloat and made it stationery with an anchor, in the form of a sharp stick, when he espied Stephen and Carlo coming for their customary bath. He himself was screened by friendly shrubs and trees, but Stephen was in plain sight.

All that he had to do was to remain quiet and keep the raft to its anchor, and Stephen, he felt assured, would not see him.

In this belief the crafty plotter was right. Stephen hurriedly undressed a few rods below him, and plunged headlong into the river, Carlo beside him. Carlo, however, seemed uneasy, as though he suspected the presence of an enemy.

Bob examined the raft to see that it was securely anchored, and then stepped lightly ashore, an old muzzle and some pieces of rope in his hands. Unobserved, he stole along behind the shrubs, trees, and ridges, till he gained a hollow which completely hid him from Stephen, and then he stopped. Probably no boy in the neighborhood knew the lay of the land better than Mr. Bob.

Suddenly, he uttered a cry like a squirrel’s, which produced the effect he thought it would.

Both Stephen and his dog, not far away, heard it. Steve immediately stopped swimming, and said, “Sic it, Carlo! Sic it! Fetch him out!”

Bob chuckled, again uttered the cry, and was rewarded by hearing Carlo flying towards him. “Now, to keep out of the dog’s sight till he gets into this hollow,” he muttered, suiting the action to the word. “If Steve should come, too,”—and he grew pale at the thought,—“I’ll get the worst of it! But Steve won’t come.”

In this conclusion Bob was quite right; for Stephen preferred a good bath to a doubtful chase after a squirrel. Besides, he could not hunt the squirrel without dressing himself; and before that could be done, Carlo would probably have caught it, or else have given up the pursuit. Therefore, Stephen wisely determined to enjoy his bath, and let his dog hunt alone.

Crafty Bob had considered all these points, and felt quite easy in his ambush. He was wise in his day and generation.

“Sic it!” Stephen cried again; and Carlo, with his nose bent to the ground, ran hither and thither, trying to get scent of the “squirrel.”

Bob gave another encouraging squeak, and the dog plunged through the shrubbery into the hollow.

He feared the dog, and knew the risks he was running; but revenge spurred him on, and he remained collected and resolute, while Carlo, quite surprised, was taken at a disadvantage.

They grapple with each other, almost human dog and almost brutal boy, have a severe struggle, and fight desperately; but in the end, Bob slips his muzzle over Carlo’s nose, fastens it, and then binds his feet with the cords and straps.

Bob is master of the situation.

Swiftly he dragged the helpless animal by the way he had come, till he arrived at the raft. It was the work of but a minute to haul it on board, tear up the “anchor,” and shove off. When fairly afloat, the door of the cage was opened, and Carlo ignominiously thrust in.

Thus the reader perceives that this mysterious cage was to do duty as a prison. Had not its manufacturer been perusing some of the “literature” of the present day when he contrived his plot? Only, he varied the stereotyped form by abducting an heroic dog instead of an heroic fool.

Stephen gave up his whole attention to the delightful and thoroughly boyish pastime of swimming. In all probability he thought no more of his dog, believing him to be in full pursuit of the “squirrel.” But Bob had no sooner got under way than Stephen spied him.

Contrary to all the laws which regulate the actions of the heroes of romance, he engaged in conversation with the depraved youth. A hero in a book would have looked the other way in dignified silence when such a wretch came in sight, but not so Steve.

“Hollo!” he called out. “Why, Bob, I haven’t seen you since the night you yelled so bravely, and fell overboard into this very river. Have you got the plasters off your bruises yet? You ought to be as tender as pounded beef-steak after all your tumbles that night.

“But I say,” in a quarrelsome tone, “what are you doing with our raft? That raft isn’t common property; it belongs to us.”

“Who is ‘us’?” asked Bob, mockingly.

Now that he was on the raft, all his impudence returned. He knew that he could work his way into deep water before Stephen could reach him; for, unlike most rafts built by boys, this one was managed with ease, and propelled with something like swiftness.

“Who is ‘us’?” Steve echoed in amazement. “You know well enough that that raft belongs to us four—Will, and me, and Charley, and George, and Marmaduke, and myself—”

Bob could not deny the justness of Steve’s claim on the raft, so he waived the question, and cut him short, saying derisively, “Steve, I reckon you’d better stop, if you can’t count straighter’n that.”

“Well, you have no right to use it,” Steve replied. “What are you doing here anyway? Are you spying on me again?”

“Where is your dog? I thought he always followed you,” Bob observed, oaring briskly away.

“Carlo? So he does. He went after a squirrel a minute ago. ’Pon my word,” as if the thought had just struck him, “it’s very strange that I don’t hear him bark! Now, what’s the matter! Carlo, Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.”

Bob had now floated the raft down stream into deep water, and with a burst of idiotic laughter, he swung it half-way around. Up to this time, that side of the cage which looked like a dog-kennel had been toward Stephen; but the side which looked like a hen-coop was now, in turn, presented to him.

The raft had drifted down so far that it was nearly opposite to Stephen; and now, for the first time, he beheld his beloved dog, bound and helpless, in the clutches of an enemy.

An agonized cry of astonishment and horror broke from his lips.

Bob’s revenge had begun, and like all approved villains, he was destined to have a short, but brilliant, career.

“Why don’t you swim out and save your dog, Stepping Hen?” he asked mockingly, well knowing that he could soon out-strip an ordinary swimmer.

“Oh, just wait till I catch you, you abominable sneak!” yelled Steve. “I ought to have taught you a lesson before! Oh dear! O-o-h! Carlo! C-a-r-l-o!”

But Carlo could only whine piteously.

“Stay where you are,” Bob yelled back, “and when I get across the river you’ll ‘see sport,’ as you said on the island, at the picnic.”

Lustily and swiftly this thirster for revenge worked his way across the stream, jeering at poor Stephen’s threats and entreaties. The raft grounded near the bank, and, the coil of rope in his hand, he jumped ashore, and shoved it off. Then, oh most humane action! he jumped on the raft again, opened the door of the cage, and cast off the cords and straps that bound Carlo’s feet, thus leaving the poor beast at liberty to struggle feebly in his narrow prison. Having made the door of the cage fast, he landed once more, this time, however, getting his feet very wet.

To set the dog free was evidently an after thought, or he would have done so before, and so have saved himself time, trouble and a wetting.

Meanwhile, poor Stephen danced excitedly about in the water, shouting and gesticulating wildly. In fact, the poor boy was at his wits’ end. He made several desperate efforts to swim after the “jolly young waterman,” but failed in each effort. He lacked George’s great self-possession, and allowed his anger to get the better of his judgment. Thus he acted, and there he remained, until his teeth chattered and his limbs turned into what is known familiarly to the boys as “goose-flesh.” Then he rushed out of the water, and pulled on his clothes promiscuously.

To the frantic boy’s horror, he next saw Bob running up the stream, along the bank whilst the raft, with the dog still on it, was drifting down the stream.

“The scoundrel!” Steve gasped. “Is he going to run away, and let my dog drift over the falls?”

Such was not the case. Bob’s left hand was toward Stephen, while in his right hand he carried and unwound as he ran, the coil of rope. No; Bob was only “paying out the cable.” But Stephen was too far off to see this.

This one thousand feet of cord, however, did not work so harmoniously as Bob had imagined it would; it became most mysteriously and provokingly entangled at every step. The sinker on the cord kept the greater part of it under water; and when Bob at last reached the end of it, and turned, he changed it from his right hand to his left hand, so that it was still out of Stephen’s sight.

Bob stood still a moment, puffing and perspiring, and the raft stopped drifting and pulled gently, very gently on the cord. Then he moved on slowly, and to Stephen on the opposite bank, there seemed to be no connection between him and the raft.

If Steve had looked narrowly, however, he would certainly have seen the cord coming out of the water in front of Bob; for, if a boy can see the string leading to his new kite when his mischievous brother is flying it nearly a quarter of a mile away,—mark this, we do not say that any one else could see it,—then surely, in spite of the distance between him and Bob, he could have seen what little of the cord there was in sight.

But Steve’s attention was centred upon the raft, where his dog was.

Let not the peruser of this work of fiction suppose that the raft was really one thousand feet below Bob. By no means; sundry loose knots, kinks, or snarls, shortened the distance greatly.

But it was undoubtedly a long way below him.

“Hollo, Stepping Hen!” Bob yelled. “Don’t you see that your raft and the dog are sailing towards the falls? Why don’t you stir around and save ’em?”

Stephen heard him distinctly, and it seemed to him that Carlo’s doom was sealed. He was now running madly up and down the margin of the river, in the vain hope of finding some craft on which he might set out in pursuit. But he could find nothing that would serve his turn.

Bob saw the boy’s dilemma, and like all orthodox villains, when successful in their wickedness, he could not conceal his delight. His powerful imagination saw a log in each broken twig, a huge boulder in each little stone, a frightful chasm in each slight depression in the ground; and he passed along by leaps that bore considerable resemblance to those of an Alpine hunter. He writhed his whole body, distorted his features, rolled his intensely blue eyes, hallooed, sang and uttered original and untranslatable interjections, expressive of triumph.

Such actions could not but be injurious to his system; but—fortunately for himself and the rest of the world,—as Bob afterwards invented and patented an ingenious saw-horse—they were to be of short continuance.

---

To Stephen’s intense relief, he now saw Charley and George coming towards him from the village. He welcomed them with feverish delight.

“Hollo, Steve!” Charlie shouted. “What performance is that on the other side of the river? Who has set our raft afloat, and what is that thing on it?”

A hoot of defiance came booming across the river from Bob. He still felt himself secure; and instead of one witness of his triumph, there would now be three.

Stephen ran to meet the new-comers, and told them all that he knew about the matter, not sparing the arch-villain.

Their expressions of hopelessness and anger exceeded even Stephen’s.

“Isn’t there anything we can float over on?” Charles asked.

“Not a thing. Do you suppose I’d be here if I could cross?” Steve retorted, angrily.

“Take it coolly, boys,” the Sage advised. “We are not going to let that Herriman have it all his own way; surely we can work some plan to outwit him.”

Bob looked on in ecstasy, and hallooed as barbarously as a wild Indian on the war-trail. His plans had succeeded in every particular—almost beyond his expectations. Why should he not rejoice and be merry?

This shifting of the scene from one bank of the river to the other is not conducive to the reader’s happiness or the writer’s reputation. It would be better to single out one party and let the other go.

After a critical examination of how matters stood, the Sage said abruptly, “Look here, boys; there is room for hope. In the first place, Bob and the raft are moving at the same rate; second place, he has a cord fastened to the raft, with the other end in his left hand—but it’s an enormously long cord; third place, Will crossed the river in the village, and he will soon be coming up on the other side. Now, look at Bob and the raft, and see for yourselves.”

But before he had finished speaking, Steve and Charley had descried the rope in Bob’s hand.

“Oh, George!” cried Stephen, “you are a philosopher!”

George was right about Will. A few minutes later, he was seen coming up on the other side of the river, and accompanied by Marmaduke and Jim.

Thus the whole band of heroes was assembling! Gentle reader, when that event takes place, you know that the villain’s downfall is at hand.

Stephen and Charles, beside themselves with delight, screamed to the three heroes to pounce on Bob and save Carlo.

The Sage—puffed up with pride at hearing himself called a philosopher by Stephen, who never flattered anybody—took another survey of affairs, and remarked: “Look here Steve, that raft is only drifting slowly, and by swimming out I could easily reach it, and then let Carlo free. The only objection to this plan is, that I should have to stay on the raft without my clothes on until I could get to them again. But there is no one to see me, and I don’t mind when Carlo’s fate hangs by a—a—tow-line. And by doing so, Will and the rest can chase Bob; for Bob will move nimbly somewhere in a minute or two.”

This striking idea took well with Charles and Stephen.

“Oh,” groaned the latter, “why didn’t I think of doing that before you came up!”

Will, Marmaduke, and Jim, hastened on, taking in the whole plot at a glance.

“Look out for Bob!” they heard from the three on the opposite bank. “See to Bob; we’ll take care of Carlo.”

Bob, however, had awakened to a sense of his danger. He saw Will, Marmaduke, and Jim, approaching; but not so soon as the boys across the river, as the intervening shrubs and inequalities in the ground obscured his view.

In all his nice little calculations he had not thought of, nor provided for, such a casualty as this. In the midst of his triumph why should three boys all at once come upon him? Why should they be coming up on his side of the river, when he had never known them to do so before?

But there was no time to be lost in idle speculation.

Should he fly? Then in which direction? To fly towards home seemed madness, for the three would have to be passed, and he knew well that at least one, Will, could outrun him. Or he might go up the river, as he would have a start in his favor. But he was already a long way from the village and his home; of course he would be pursued; and where would the pursuit end?

His wild behaviour now gave place to gravity, and his last exultant shout died away on his lips.

He considered a moment, and then rejected both these possible means of escape, and determined to take what seemed the only course left open to him. The raft was under his control—he would haul it up and sail away on it!

If Bob had been a boy of George’s sententious terseness, he would have said, “I can defy my enemies when I am on the raft.” If he had been a hero of romance: “So shall I balk my persecutors, and frustrate their evil designs.” But being neither, he simply said to himself, “I’ll mount the raft; and then let ’em sing and holler as much as they want to! And the dog will be under my thumb, too!”

If Bob had reflected a little longer, perhaps he would not have resorted to this extreme measure; for, although he would be at liberty to float whither he pleased, in reality he would be as much a prisoner as the dog. Five resolute boys and one willing-hearted candle-holder, Jim, would sooner or later contrive some plan to entrap him.

Not a little to the boys’ astonishment, he now began to draw the raft hastily towards him. He worked as though his life depended on his agility; and as the rope came in hand over hand, it fell in a loose coil at his feet. If the raft had caught on a snag or run into the bank, he would have been left in a sad predicament; for the faster he drew in the rope, the faster Will bounded towards him. It was a strange, exciting race—not a race for life, but a race between meanness and its inevitable punishment.

The three on the opposite bank could not at first guess Bob’s intention. George was undressing himself preparatory to swimming out to the raft; but this manœuvre caused him to desist, and with the other two he stood stupidly gazing at the plotter, eagerly awaiting further developments.

But when the truth dawned upon him, he cheered Will so heartily that all the boys, together with the squirrels and birds, took up the cry, and made the place ring again. In fact, there was danger that all this hubbub might draw on them the wrath of some peace-loving paterfamilias.

Bob had reason to fear that the boys would take dire vengeance if they should overhaul him, and he toiled worthy of a better cause. Yard after yard of the rope passed through his hands, but notwithstanding all his efforts, he saw that Will was gaining on him. Although at his wit send, he yet had the sagacity to pull steadily and not too fast—that might break the rope.

At last the raft was alongside; and having gathered up the folds of the rope,—which he durst not leave behind, because that would put it in the power of Will easily to secure boy, dog, and raft,—he made a desperate and final effort, and sprang almost at random.

At the time of the leap Will was almost upon him.

Bob sprang courageously, but wildly. Alas! “the best-laid schemes of mice and men—” the rest is not English.

The tangled rope in his hands proved his downfall; it coiled round his feet with a merciless grip, and he alighted on the raft in a sorry plight. There he lay, sprawling and struggling, a most ludicrous sight. The more he struggled to free himself, the more tightly he was encircled by the terrible coils. Boys, the youth who becomes entangled in one thousand feet of rope is to be pitied.

To add to his misery, shout after shout of laughter burst from the entire six. Their hour of triumph had, in its turn, come.

The impetus given to the raft carried it on a little farther, but Will soon reached it, sprang, and almost fell over struggling Robert. No need to make him a prisoner; both hands and feet were bound fast by the long rope.

Will’s first act was to liberate poor Carlo, and take off his muzzle.

Bob groaned and shivered, but the noble dog stretched himself and frisked about the raft, scarcely noticing him.

“Carlo, Carlo, come, Carlo,” Stephen called joyously.

Carlo plunged into the river and swam towards his master, who, half beside himself with exultation, cried: “Steer for this port, Will; and bring the prisoner.”

“All right!” Will shouted back, and put the raft to the bank to take on Marmaduke and Jim, who soon came up.

The raft sank low under the weight of the four, but still it floated them; and Will and Marmaduke took up the oars and began to work their way slowly across the stream. Jim sat on the cage and pretended to steer; but his eyes roved from the prisoner to the boys on the opposite bank, and then, by way of the oarsmen, back to the prisoner.

The hearts of the six beat loud with triumph; but poor Bob’s heart sank, and beat very faint. “Oh,” he gasped piteously from among the serpent-like coils of the rope, “Oh, let me go! For mercy’s sake, let me go! Don’t take me over to Stephen and his dog; and I’ll promise never to meddle with you boys any more.”

Will looked pityingly at the abject creature, but answered with firmness: “No, Bob, I must take you to Stephen. You have played a mean trick on him, and he must settle with you. But,” whispering in his ear, “I guess you’ll survive.”

---

Bob saw that it would be useless to crave further for mercy, and he remained sulky and silent; but Jim looked in vain to see him blubber. No; in everything except age Bob was an orthodox villain; and an orthodox villain never whimpers when his schemes topple about his ears. On account of his youth and inexperience, he had not provided himself with poison in the event of failure—nay, he did not even attempt to roll off the raft into the river.

“This is rather a home-made rabbit-house, eh, Will?” Marmaduke observed, inclining his head towards the cage.

“It’s kindy weak,” Jim chimed in. “It looks strong enough to hold me, but it keeps cracking every minute.”

“Hush!” breathed Will.

He had many fine qualities. Even at his early age, he could respect the feelings of a fallen foe.

“Hello there, Steve,” he said, as they drew near the group of three. “I killed Tip, but I’ve saved Carlo, so my mind is easy.”

The three returned Will’s grin of pleasure with a shout of applause. So eager were they to welcome the victors that they tore off their boots and stockings, rolled their pants nearly up to their knees, and waded out till the water was two or three inches above their knees. Youth manifests its enthusiasm very recklessly at times.

At this moment Will experienced some of the triumph of a conquering hero.

“Now, Bob,” Charles began, as they floated the raft into its harbor; “now, Bob, you will be tried by us for your misdoings.”

“He has surely had punishment enough; let him go;” said tender-hearted George, sitting down on the bank and looking pityingly at the wild-eyed captive.

“Yes, Steve; let him go; for how on earth can we punish him?” Will supplemented.

“No!” Charles said resolutely. “The boy who can float another boy’s dog over these falls is a scoundrel, and—”

“I never did!” Bob here put in.

“And,” continued Charles, “he ought to be court-martialed!”

Bob did not know what this meant; neither did Charles; the former looked awe-struck, the latter, wise and august.

Steve, however, added promptly: “Of course. His father must have court-plastered him the other night for his bruises; and now we must court-martial him for his wickedness.”

“Well,” said Marmaduke, seating himself with great composure, “I am going to be neutral.”

Poor boy, he thought “neutral” had an imposing look in his history, and he would seize this opportunity to illustrate its beauties.

With that, the entire six sat down in a circle around the raft. Charles and Stephen were resolved on punishment. Jim also. For some reason, George and Will were in favor of pardon.

“Well, boys,” said Will, “of course you can do what you like, but I believe I should let him go—box, and rope, and straps, and all. I perished poor Tip, but I’ve rescued Carlo, and I’m satisfied.”

No doubt Will thought this a very genteel expression. Not so Marmaduke: he sprang to his feet with a gesture of surprise, and said earnestly, “Oh, Will! perish is a neuter verb!”

Will flushed, and moved uneasily from right to left.

“What is all this nonsense about neuters and neutrals?” Steve asked, angrily. “What do we care about your neuters? Botheration, you boys have put off this trial long enough. But,” with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “tell us what a neuter verb is; and then, I hope, we may go on.”

Marmaduke was ill prepared for such a question, and he was never prompt in giving explanations. His face blanched, he sank dejectedly to the ground, took off his hat and toyed with it nervously; took out his handkerchief and feebly tried to blow his nose; looked appealingly at the Sage; and at last began, hesitatingly: “Well, hem, Steve, Stephen, I’m afraid I can hardly make it clear to you, because—because—well, you know, Stephen, you don’t understand grammar very well. Well, perish—but,” brightening and rising, “I’ll just illustrate it for you. Now, you see, I’m standing up. Well,” suiting the action to the word, “I sit down when I go to the ground; but,” suiting the action to the word, “I set down my hat—or you, or any other boy, or a thing, or a word in a book.”

Marmaduke put on his hat and picked up and pocketed his handkerchief with the air of a man who has triumphed.

“Yes,” Steve admitted, “you make it pretty plain, Marmaduke; but these neuter verbs, and conjunctions, and things, were always a muddle to me. But,” guilelessly, “tell me this, and then we must attend to Bob: Is it right to say, I sit myself down, or I set myself down?”

Poor Marmaduke! He was struck dumb; he had a new view of neuter verbs. A look of woe that would have melted a heart of stone passed over his face. He arose and took a seat where Steve could not see him, muttering confusedly: “A neuter verb can’t do anything, but active verbs do.”

Stephen chuckled: “I always knew those rules in the grammar wouldn’t work both ways.”

Charles and Will did not seem inclined to help Marmaduke out of his difficulty—probably they were as much puzzled as he. As for George, he was not at all disconcerted: when he understood a thing, he knew that he understood it. He looked on with supreme indifference, not thinking it worth while to give his views.

“See how Bob behaved himself the night of the experiment,” Charles observed, coming back to the matter in hand. “He will always be trying to do us some harm if we let him off this time.”

“Yes,” chimed in Steve, glancing at the helpless captive, who was still on the raft, “we let him go that night and see how he has rewarded us for our mercy!”

“You wouldn’t have let him escape if it hadn’t been for me;” Will corrected.

“We didn’t hunt him down the next day, as we might have done!” Steve rejoined, as though that settled the question.

“I hope we are hardly such a set of cold-blooded fellows as that!” George said. “And besides what great harm did he do that night?”

“Oh, you, George Andrews!” Stephen retorted wrathfully. “I suppose you think we’re harping on your performances that night, but we’re not.”

“You had better not, Stephen Goodfellow!” said George also becoming wrathful. “You promised that you wouldn’t speak of that to me again.”

It is a lamentable fact, hinted at in the outset of this history, that these heroes quarreled occasionally. When one of these differences took place, each one had the strange, boyish habit of calling the other by his christian name and surname. If you doubt this, fair reader, [she for whom this is written will understand,] be so good as to play the eavesdropper on two small and quarrelsome juveniles disputing about the color of an absent playmate’s marble.

“I’m not; I’m keeping my word;” Steve replied seriously. “But perhaps your mind is running on clemency, that bothered you so much the other day.”

“Perhaps yours is running on the term ‘Lynch law!’”

At this juncture neutral Marmaduke, who was beginning to recover his equanimity, and who doubtless felt spiteful towards Stephen, hopped up and declared, in the tone of a dictator rather than of a peacemaker: “Gentlemen, the jury have disagreed; the case is dismissed.”

“Marmaduke Fitzwilliams,” cried Charles, rising in his turn, “four or five boys don’t make a jury; you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lawyers would say, constitute a jury,” Marmaduke corrected.

“Well, let ’em say it; we are not lawyers;” Charles roared.

“It would not be acting politically to punish him ourselves,” the neutral one contended. “There is a whole court-house full of men in the village, that make it a business to punish people.”

Poor Marmaduke! He seemed to have a preternatural longing to figure in the courts of justice.

“Marmaduke,” George said musingly, “don’t you suppose you are out of your reckoning when you say ‘acting politically’?”

“Yes, what does ‘politically’ mean, any way?” Stephen inquired, thinking to ensnare the boy once more.

This time, however, Marmaduke answered without hesitation. “Why,” said he, “it’s an adverb, and adverbs always mean, in a manner—politically, in a political manner.”

Steve did not seem much enlightened, and Charles with a merry twinkle, asked, “Always?”

“Always!” firmly.

“Oh, then, politically ought to mean, in the manner of a policeman; abed, in the manner of a bedstead; and so on.”

Marmaduke looked aghast, and Charles the persecutor continued mercilessly: “Alongside, in the manner of a man who wears a long side.”

The neutral one was now quite discomfited, and he arose and stole back to his seat, trying to collect himself and make out what “in a manner” really signifies.

But Steve yelled after him: “And to go means in the manner of a goner.”

At this dreadful outrage it is a wonder that Words did not take to themselves a voice to howl in the offender’s ear: “We cannot all be adverbs!”

As for Marmaduke he was utterly demoralized.

“Whatever you do, boys, don’t leave Bob to stiffen in his coils on that raft,” Will meekly suggested.

Charles and Stephen were so eager to have some one side with them that they took it for granted that Will, for very weariness, was now in favor of punishment; and Stephen, on the spur of the moment, made this startling observation:

“Why not do with Bob as he did with my dog? He has got himself all in a jumble on the raft—let us give him a ride up and down the river. It will be good for his constitution.”

Strangely enough, this idea was favorably received by the boys. They laughed, and applauded Stephen.

“It would be a very light punishment,” he continued, pressing home his advantage. “Don’t you all agree to it? Come, Will, what is your opinion?”

“It was you Bob was molesting, Steve, and you must stir up your conscience to see what it says, and then go ahead,” Will answered. “You put it very mildly, but I suppose your meaning is, to cram Bob into Carlo’s prison, untangle the rope, and then float him around as he floated Carlo around.”

“Y-e-s,” Steve assented, somewhat discomposed at this plain statement of his views.

“I’m tired of all this,” George exclaimed, with a sigh. “Fire ahead, Steve, and do whatever you like.”

“Hurrah, then,” Charlie cried gladly, “let us give Bob an airing.”

At this instant Marmaduke again appeared before the boys, and opened his mouth to make some sage remark; but Stephen,—now all animation,—in tones whose cheerfulness took away the harshness of the words, silenced him, saying: “Stop your noise, Marmaduke. You’re a neuter verb, you know; and they mustn’t do anything.”

“Perhaps you ought to consult Bob himself,” Will suggested. “He might observe some valuable observations about his punishment.”

“Let the prisoner speak,” chimed in the irrepressible neutral one.

“Well, Bob,” said Charles languidly, “moisten your lips and tongue, and let us have your views. In the first place, what was your plot? What did you intend to do with Carlo?”

Bob scowled at the speaker and was silent. But finally, having thought bettor of it, he did as directed, and said, “I was only going to fool you fellers; I never meant to do more’n scare him,” looking at Stephen, “and then I was going to let his dog go. But,” sorrowfully, “you came along and spoilt it all.”

“Suppose Carlo had gone at your heels when you let him out of the box?” Charles asked.

Bob turned pale and muttered something in confusion.

“Well, what do you say about our turning the tables on you?” George asked.

“Nothin’,” the prisoner answered stoically, still playing the part of an orthodox villain. No; he, a boy of nearly seventeen years, would not again beg for mercy at the hands of his inferiors—in age; and he awaited his punishment with well-feigned indifference.

If the boys had been better versed in human nature, they would have known that this passive submission on his part boded evil to their future welfare.

Although Bob was acting like an orthodox villain, the six, in taking upon themselves to judge and punish him, were not acting like orthodox heroes. By no means. They were not the irreproachable youngsters who figure in octodecimo volumes. They all had an idea of the fitness of things; and all—even George and Will—thought it just and right that Bob should know, by actual experience, what Carlo’s feelings had been during his imprisonment.

---

The six judges arose, and stood before the culprit.

The cage was critically examined, and Steve seemed to find it very amusing to point out its defects. Bob was pestered with questions about it, but he maintained a sullen silence, submitting doggedly to the inevitable.

“We must put you into narrow quarters for a little while, Bob,” Stephen said good-humoredly, “and try to disentangle a few leagues of this good cord.”

Two of the heroes supported Bob while Steve freed him from the rope. The discomfited plotter was too stiff to make much resistance, yet when he found himself free he struggled nervously, but feebly, to break away from his tormentors. Then Jim, who was trying to make himself useful, threw open the door of the cage, and Charles and Stephen dumped him gently in.

Now, Bob had not built the cage for such a purpose; consequently, he did not sit comfortable in it—worse still, it threatened to burst asunder. But it did not.

His feet and legs were got inside somehow, but his head was mercifully left out, exposed to the sun and air. His hat had fallen off when he sprang upon the raft, and been taken over the falls; but George, more humane than the others, took off his own hat, and placed it firmly, but gently, on the exposed head.

Unknown to the soi-disant judges, the boy was wedged so fast in his cage that he was powerless to help himself. Thus he was virtually a prisoner in the very prison that he had prepared for another! This was turning the tables with a vengeance! This was poetical justice!

Poor little villain! He must have been in an exceedingly cramped and uneasy position; but his pride and his orthodoxy came to his relief, and he would not complain to the pitiless arbitrators of his fate.

“Look here, boys,” George cried, “if you are bound to punish him, you ought to kick out the end of that box, so that he could sit up straight, like a man, and be comfortable.”

“Yes, it is too bad,” Steve said pityingly. “But it will soon be over; and if we should go to tampering with the box, we might kick Bob in the stomach. Besides, Bob looks more forlorn than he is; and we have no business to destroy his boxes and things.—Now, where’s the rope, and then we will hurry through with it and let Bob out.”

About three hundred feet of the cord were disentangled, and once more the raft was set afloat with a prisoner on it.

In order to humble Bob still further, Steve intended to let Carlo carry the end of the rope in his mouth for a little way. But now he had not the heart to do it. As the raft floated along lazily, Steve essayed to give a shout of triumph, but it died away in his throat.

The dog, however, began to gambol, sneeze, and bark, in an extraordinary manner. During the trial he had been the only really neutral one, and now he seemed to enjoy himself more than any of the self-styled judges. Bob looked on in some uneasiness, but he need not have been alarmed, for the dog made no motion to swim out and attack him.

The boys did not exactly understand it, yet somehow they seemed to take no pleasure in floating Herriman down the stream; and instead of an exultant procession along the bank, they marched solemnly onward, hardly speaking, and each one becoming more and more ashamed of himself. George had a theory of his own about this, but he did not make it known.

Seeing that matters had gone so far, Steve and Charles did not wish to stop till Bob had had his ride; but they felt ill at ease, and their conscience almost persuaded them that they were in the wrong.

So with the entire five (Jim being, as the reader has doubtless divined, a mere supernumerary in this history, although he figures conspicuously once or twice.) From the moment they placed the boy in his cage they began to relent.

To any person coming upon them, this risible spectacle would have been presented: six boys marching gravely down the stream; some three hundred feet in advance a raft drifting lazily along; on said raft a box, from which protruded an enormous head,—large enough for a genius,—neatly covered with a now battered but once respectable—nay, fashionable—straw hat.

Thus the raft drifted till within a quarter of a mile of the falls. Then Stephen said, “Ever since I went over the falls I’ve felt too nervous to prowl around very near them; so let us pull her up stream now, and let Bob go when we get into port.”

All agreed to this, and the rope, which had hitherto been slack, was pulled taut. The raft stopped its downward course, and was drawn towards them—perhaps, half a foot.

Then something that might have been expected from the beginning happened.

The rope broke!

Unknown to them, the jagged edge of the raft had worn the rope all but in two while Bob was hauling the raft towards him. In this place it now parted.

There was consternation among the self-constituted punishers. In truth, it is impossible to describe their terror, anguish, and remorse. All through their own foolishness a fellow-creature was in imminent danger. To be swept over the falls in his helpless condition meant Death. And whatever was done must be done quickly.

The boys felt as guilty as criminals ought to feel.

“Bob,” Charles screamed, “climb out, and jump into the river, and swim!”

“Oh, he can’t! he can’t!” Will cried, seeing that Bob was struggling desperately and vainly to get out of the box.

“George,” Steve cried wildly, “you spoke about swimming to the raft while Carlo was on it—swim now! Quick!”

“Of course,” the Sage replied, still a philosopher, but a perturbed one. “Yes, of course, I’ll go.”

To add to the confusion, stunning screams now came from Bob. He forgot that he was a villain; all his orthodoxy and stoicism forsook him; and he again brought his stentorian lungs into play. Far from having impaired his lungs on the night of George’s “experiment,” he seemed only to have strengthened them; and now he howled and bellowed like a wounded giant.

Cannot this be explained logically? The age of the romancer’s younger villains ranges between twenty-seven and thirty-nine; while the age of older villains varies greatly among different authors, and, much to the reader’s sorrow, is not always given. From this it would seem that Bob was too young to set up for a knave.

In view of this, the reader, having more discernment than the writer, suggests the following: The only reason why Bob had taken it so coolly was because he knew the boys too well to fear any harm from them. Besides, he had heard all that was said during the “trial,” and he saw that the boys’ anger towards him had abated. But when he found that the raft was no longer under their control, he naturally became alarmed.

Yes, Bob again began to discharge atrocious and high-sounding interjections.

All the boys saw that George was more composed than they; and by mutual consent, he was left to plan a rescue. His coat had been off ever since he prepared to swim to Carlos relief; and now he stripped off the rest of his clothes, plunged into the river, and swam boldly for the imperilled boy.

He had, however, more self-confidence than self-possession; or he would have run down the bank till opposite to the raft, and so have gained time. He now swam as fast as possible; but the raft was some distance in advance, and steadily drawing nearer the falls.

The boys watched George anxiously, but were too demoralized to aid him in any way.

“Hello, you vagabonds!” was thundered behind them. “What does all this noise mean?”

The heroes were startled; and on turning, were appalled to see a burly rustic coming towards them at a round pace.

“Oh, dear,” groaned Will; “why does this fellow want to come here just at this time?”

“Oh, dear,” echoed Charles, Stephen, Marmaduke, and Jim.

“What does all this mean, you young villains?” roared the new-comer.

“A boy is floating over,” Marmaduke gasped.

“Well, do you mean to let him float? Why don’t you get up and save him? Oh, you awful boys! This is murder—parricide—manslaughter—abduction—gravitation—parsimony! What do you suppose the law’s going to say about this? It—it is un-con-sti-tu-tion-al!”

The five trembled—Jim exceedingly. In fact, he seemed on the point of betaking himself to flight.

“I say, I’ll persecute you all for litigation!” the new-comer next observed.

He was an ignorant, brutal man, an inhabitant of the village. In his boyhood he had been snubbed by old and young; and now, in his manhood, he took delight in bullying all the boys he met.

“George Andrews, there, is trying to save him,” Will said, pointing at the swimmer.

“Humph! much he’ll do!” growled the rustic. “Well, I’m going to set here (at this Marmaduke shuddered) till that boy is lost or saved. Its my duty to the Government, and I’ll do it if it takes all day.”

His duty to the Government, however, did not prompt him to take an active part in rescuing Bob, and he stretched himself along the bank and looked on with dogged composure.

George did not know of this man’s arrival. He swam bravely, but gained on the raft very slowly. His heart sank when he saw this, but he kept on hopefully, and just at the critical moment the raft grounded on a snag, and was held fast. Bob was saved! Not through human agency, however.

Bob ceased from howling, and George called out cheerily: “You are all right, Bob; and I’m—”

At that instant a little wave washed down his throat and effectually cut him short.

He had never swum so close to the falls, but he proceeded warily, and managed it so that the shock of striking the raft eased it off the snag. Then he scrambled on board, took up an oar, and for a full minute feared that the current would carry them both over. But the raft was brought under control, and slowly, very slowly, rescuer and rescued left their dangerous position.

“Bob, when we get a little farther up, I’ll try and get you out of that, and then we can go faster, if you will help.”

The joyful cries of the boys now attracted his attention, and, to his horror, he perceived that some person was with them.

“Oh, Bob,” he groaned, “who is that man on the bank?”

Bob peered in the direction indicated, and said, hesitatingly, “I—I guess it’s somebody else.”

“Now how mean!” George growled. “I can’t land till that fellow goes away; and here I am in a great hurry to get my clothes on, for fear a crowd should gather round us! Bob, did you ever moralize how it is crowds gather? Let anything happen, and a crowd is sure to come along to see how it will end.”

“No, I never morry-lice,” Bob replied, good-humoredly.

“Well,” said the Sage, fetching a great sigh, “I don’t know but that you are just as well off.”

One by one the five were now coming along the bank, each one looking pleased, yet crest-fallen.

“C-can we help you in any way, George?” Marmaduke asked.

George looked his indignation. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium, and said, frigidly, “If one or two of you would bring my clothes down here, and if the rest of you would stay up there with that man, to keep him from coming here, I should be very much obliged to you all.”

This was done, and George brought the raft to the bank and dressed, screened by three of his doughty school-fellows.

“I’ll see you all again,” shouted the law-abiding rustic. And he walked away, muttering learnedly about “burglarious incendiarism.”

George was soon dressed, and then he set about liberating Bob, who was still cooped up in his cage.

“I’m afraid this will have to be broken open,” George said.

“Break it, then!” said Bob, glaring fiendishly at his sometime darling contrivance.

The Sage, with the help of the other boys, then forced the top, or roof, off the cage; and Bob was again at large. Poor boy! he did not linger, nor make any threats, but after mumbling in George’s ear, “you’re the best of them all,” set forward at a business-like pace.

Then, at last, the boys got over their fright.

George was quite satisfied with himself, and he looked about him with a peaceful expression on his face that the others tried in vain to assume. But now and then he would glance furtively up and down the river, to the right and to the left.

“What are you looking for, George?” Steve finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I—I—well, its rather strange that a crowd doesn’t come. Now in all that you read, in newspapers or stories, a crowd always gathers.”

“Not generally in murders—in the stories,” Marmaduke corrected.

“Well, this is a pretty nice business!” Will said, ruefully. “I—I’m ashamed of myself!”

“So am I,” said Charles and Stephen.

“George, I couldn’t possibly have swum out and saved that boy,” Charles admitted, frankly. “My heart was beating like a——”

“Yes you could,” George interrupted, not wishing to receive more praise than he deserved.

“How is it that it turned out so badly?” Steve asked. “Bob used us very badly; and we got the worst of it when we punished him!”

“We ought to have been merciful, and let him go as soon as Will gave him up to us,” George commented. “That’s a good way to cure some people of meanness,” he added, in a “moralizing” mood.

“Well, now!” Steve ejaculated. “Jim has made off too! I guess he skedaddled while Mr. Reiter was around.”

“Yes; and Bob has left the spoils in our hands!” Will observed. “What shall we do with them?”

“They are not ours, but Bob won’t hanker for them,” Charley replied, jocosely. “Suppose we let the prison float over the falls, with the long rope dragging behind. Perhaps we should not be so melancholy doing that as we were when we made a floating battery of Bob.”

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Bravo! Well done! That’s just what we want! Now, we can sail up to our harbor on our raft, and tow this oriental bird-cage behind, and let it drift away whenever we choose.”

This felicitous expression was made by Stephen, of course.

This programme was carried out, and then the boys went home, feeling that they had had a little satisfaction from Herriman, after all.

Although a crowd refused to gather on the banks of the stream, yet the news of this exploit travelled throughout the village,—which established moralizing George’s theory,—and as each hero passed through his doors, a storm of righteous indignation burst over his devoted head; for very properly, honest parents were scandalized to find that their children could commit such atrocities.

Whether Bob still meditated vengeance is not known, as shortly after this occurrence, Mr. Herriman borrowed some of Mr. Horner’s romances, which so unhinged his mind that he turned gold-hunter,—or silver-hunter, he was not morally certain which,—and removed, with his family, to a far-off Territory, and the six heard of Bob no more.

Poor Bob! The horror of being swept over the falls made a deep, but not lasting, impression on his mind.

As for the six boys, they profited little by that lesson.

It would be wise to close this chapter here; but doubtless the reader is aware that the writer of this tale is not wise.

That night Marmaduke waded through the verb and adverb in five different grammars:—one, a dog’s-eared, battered, and soiled volume, which his father was supposed to have studied in his youth; another, a venerable ruin, which, tradition said, had been his grandfather’s; still another, his mother’s, whose bescribbled fly-leaves held the key to a long-buried and almost forgotten romance; his little brother’s “Elementary;” and his own “Logical and Comprehensive.”

What wonder is it that the poor boy went to bed with an aching head, feeling, like Stephen, that it is “all a muddle,” and that he did not understand it at all?

The object is not to ridicule the noble science of grammar, but to point the finger of scorn at those grammarians who suppose that children can understand that science; and also to check those juveniles who flatter themselves that they are perfect in it.

---

The summer holidays were again at hand. Before school closed, however, the head master, Mr. Meadows, intended to give a prize to the “student” who should write the best composition. Each one was at liberty to choose his or her own subject; and the whole six—except, perhaps, Steve and Jim—were resolved to do their best to win.

Of course this prize was to be given with due ceremony and parade. Still, it was not thought that any thing specially noteworthy would take place, and the affair would not be brought up except to show the mournful blunder made by Will.

A few days before this, the four most distinguished heroes—Will, Charles, Stephen, and George—assembled at their favorite resort, a mossy bank bordering the river. Here they hatched a horrible plot—a plot far exceeding in enormity and inhumanity the pitiful one contrived and executed by Bob on this same river a week or so before.

In order to show that these boys had no notion to what lengths their unchecked fancy might lead them, their whole conversation on this memorable occasion is given.

“Boys,” Charles began, “I wish we could plan some amusement for the holidays—something that would make it lively.”

“I think we have had enough of playing tricks,” Will said with disgust.

“We are older and wiser now than we used to be,” Charles replied, “and we should have more sense than to get ourselves into trouble any more.”

“What about Bob’s punishment?” asked George. “Didn’t we get into trouble enough then, and is that so very long ago?”

“Exceptions prove the rule!” Charles triumphantly retorted.

“Well, what is it that you mean to do?” Steve inquired lazily.

“Oh, I don’t know; nothing in particular;” Charles answered. “But let us lay our heads together, and plan something startling.”

“Very good; but who is the one to be startled?” the Sage asked. “According to all accounts, we boys have startled the inhabitants of this village quite enough. Only the other day I heard a good old lady say, in speaking of us, ‘Those awful boys! They carry consternation with them!’”

“Of course;” put in Steve. “And now that we’ve got our reputation up, we must keep it up. It would be very wrong for us to let our talents dwindle and rust away; so, Charley, if any new idea has come to you, let us know it.”

“You all know the old house away up this river?” Charles asked.

“Well, I guess we are acquainted with it,” Will replied. “But what about it? What could we do there?”

“It seems to me that it would be a good thing to go there and inspect it. I never went through it, but I should like to do that now. And when we get there, we should feel so romantic that we might hit on something—we might even lay a plot!”

“What would the owner say to us for inspecting his house?” George asked.

“Don’t you know that it has no owner?” Charley asked, in some surprise. “I’ve heard my father say that there has been a sign with ‘For Sale’ on it swinging there for twenty years. It’s such a crazy wreck that no person will rent it; and I guess by this time it is a heap of ruins, and not worth tearing down and carting away. There is only half an acre of ground belonging to it, and likely that is full of great weeds. The man who owns the place has more property, and he lets this go to ruin without remorse; but every year he comes along and picks the ten or twelve apples and pears off the old trees in the yard. He doesn’t care any more for it, and the house has been empty so long that it’s called ‘Nobody’s House.’ No one cares to live in such a place, so lonesome and gloomy, and with those ghostly fruit-trees and the neglected fence, all looking like spectres. In fact, there is a story that the place is haunted!”

“You seem to know all about it, Charley,” said Steve. “I’ve seen it a long way off, and I’ve heard that it is haunted, but that is all.”

“Yes, I asked pa to tell me about it, for I want to go and explore the place some day,” Charles replied. “And it seems to me that it would be fun for us all to go some day. What a hubbub there would be if we all got there together! And I’m certain the ‘owner’ wouldn’t care, if we tear the old ruin all to pieces.”

“That’s a good idea!” said Steve, with sparkling eyes.

“Don’t you see, we might even take up our quarters there, it’s so far out of the way,” Charles continued. “No one would come to molest us; for more people than you suppose, believe the house is haunted, and never go near it.”

“I see what you’re thinking of,” said Steve. “You mean to bring that old ghost back to life!”

“Well, that might be done for a little by-play, but that isn’t what I meant,” Charley returned. “I know that boys in stories try to raise a ghost or two sometimes, when everything else fails them, but it wouldn’t be a profitable business for us. We don’t want to copy after such vagabond heroes; let us strike out in another line.”

“Well, if you have laid any plot, tell us what it is,” Stephen said impatiently.

“Boys, I want to hatch a plot, with that shell of a house for our head-quarters; but I want your help, for I don’t know how to go to work. As I said before, I haven’t thought of any thing yet.”

“Don’t tell us what you ‘said before,’ Charley;” said Will. “It sounds too much like a lecturer reminding the people of what he has said, just as if he thought they didn’t pay attention enough to him to remember a word of his speech.”

“Well, boys, I have an idea at last,” Charles said slowly, after a long pause. “Let us persuade some one to go there, thinking a great villain has a prisoner there.”

“Pshaw! Who would believe that!” said George, contemptuously.

“Wait till we get everything arranged,” Charles rejoined grimly. “This is a good idea, George, and I can prove it to you. And now that I have thought of it, I am going to work it out. We might even compose a letter, begging for help, and seeming to come from some lonely prisoner in that house, guarded by jailers and villains, and afraid of being put to death.”

“I don’t know who would be foolish enough to be caught by such a letter,” George replied laughingly.

“Well, let us try it, anyway; and if we succeed it will be capital sport,” said Stephen, interested already in the scheme. “But who will be the victim, the fellow to be imposed on?” he asked suddenly. “Surely none of us, after what we have said, will be foolish enough to be trapped.”

“Hardly,” said Charles, with a smile. “But Marmaduke isn’t with us; let us make him the dupe.”

“Why single out Marmaduke?” asked Will.

“Well, the victim must be one of ourselves, and Marmaduke knows nothing about our plot, of course. And besides, he is so full of mysteries and romance that if he should get such a letter, he would believe every word in it, and be mad to plan a rescue. His notions about such things are so queer that it will do him good to be wakened up.”

“If Marmaduke is the one to be awakened,” George said, “I think your plan may succeed very well; because, poor fellow, he is always expecting to light on some prodigious mystery. I must give in, Charley, that it would be fun to drop such a letter some place where Marmaduke would be sure to find it, and then we could hide ourselves and see the result. How he would rave at the thought of rescuing a captive!”

“Doesn’t it seem to you, boys, that it would be rather a mean trick to play on anyone, especially on a schoolfellow?” Will asked.

“Certainly it seems mean,” Charles replied, “but it is only for fun, and Marmaduke would enjoy it at the time, and soon get over his anger when we explained everything. Of course, we will be and careful not to do anything too wicked.”

“Well, it is bad to stir up such a boys anger,” Will persisted.

“Let me improve on your plot,” Steve ventured to say. “Let us suppose that a beautiful French young lady was stolen by an enemy of her father’s and brought over to America, and imprisoned in ‘Nobody’s House.’ Let her write a wild appeal for help, which we will drop in Marmaduke’s path.”

“That’s going a little too far,” Charley said decidedly. “I shouldn’t like to meddle in such a desperate game as that.”

“Wouldn’t a French captive be apt to write a letter in her own language?” Will asked, as though he were overseeing that scheme.

“That would be the fun of it,” Stephen answered. “A letter in genuine French would draw a less romantic boy than Marmaduke.”

“Very true,” said George. “But could you write such a letter?”

“Of course not—Mr. Meadows himself couldn’t, perhaps. Ten to one, Marmaduke would think he could do it perfectly.”

“Marmaduke may be rather foolish,” said Charles, “but I doubt whether he would write such a letter, and then be imposed on by it!”

“Do you take me for a fool?” cried Stephen, with theatrical indignation. “Now, Will’s cousin Henry can scribble French like a supercargo, Will says—let us get him to do it.”

“The very thing!” cried Charles and George in a breath. “Come, Will, we are going to do this, and you must help us,” the former requested.

“I don’t like your ideas at all, boys,” Will replied, “but if you are bound to do it, why, I don’t want to be left out, and so I’ll write to Henry, and get him to come here. He spoke of coming soon when he wrote to me last; and now I’ll ask him to hurry along as soon as the holidays begin.”

“You’re a jewel, Will!” all three exclaimed in excitement.

“Oh, we’ll hatch a famous plot, won’t we, boys?” and Steve, the speaker, clawed the ground as though he were a demon or a hag.

“It’s my turn to suggest something now,” the Sage observed. “When Marmaduke sets out for the prison-house, we, of course must go with him. Let Henry and Stephen, or whoever we may think best, slip on in advance, and represent the prisoner and the fiendish villain when we arrive.”

A shout of acclamation greeted this new proposal.

“The plot is getting pretty thick,” said Steve. “And now, what about the ghost in the back-ground?”

“Oh, we might manage to have a ghost appear to Marmaduke, but we can attend to that afterwards,” Charles returned. “Now, Will,” he added, “its your turn to improve on our plot—what do you suggest?”

“I shall leave that for my cousin to do,” Will answered. “Unless I’m out of my reckoning, he will make improvements on the original plan that will astonish us all; for it is as natural for Henry to lay plots as it is for Steve to play tricks.”

“Yes, Henry will make great improvements,” Charles commented. “Well, now that it is settled that the thing is really to be, we must all vow to keep it to ourselves, because if any more boys get hold of it they will spoil everything.”

“Very true,” George observed. “Now, if we want our plot to work well, we must go to this old building and explore it thoroughly, from the cellar floor to the rafters. But our plot can’t come off till holidays begin, nor till Henry gets here and understands it, so there will be plenty of time.”

“If it is such a crazy old hulk,” Will said gravely, “ten to one something will give way, and bury us all under the ruins.”

“We must take our chances,” Steve said heroically.

“There is one great objection to all this,” Will continued. “This building is so far from our homes in the village.”

“Yes, that is too bad,” Steve sighed. “But we won’t mind that when we consider all the fun in store for us. Why not go to the place now? Eh? There’s lots of time, and we are so far on the way.”

“Hurrah!” cried the conspiring four. “Let us be off, as Steve says.”

They arose, and turned their faces up the river. The untenanted house which was to be the field of operations was two miles farther up the river, which flowed past it, but which, at that place, was so narrow that it would require a very wide stretch of imagination to call it anything else than a brook, or creek.

Stephen’s first proposal had been received, when fully explained, as so decided an improvement that he now suggested another addition to the plot. “Boys,” he said, “let us make a man of straw, or something, to look like a scarecrow, and then stow it away in the house a day or two before we do the rescuing. Then when Marmaduke and the rest of us arrive, we can seize on it as the villain, and hang it to a fruit tree. Marmaduke can be rescuing the prisoner at the time, and he’ll certainly think we are hanging the persecutor.”

“We will see about that afterwards,” said George.

“Marmaduke has been more or less a Frenchman in his ideas ever since the day he proudly wrote, ‘Nous a deux chiens,’ or in English, ‘We has two dogs,’” Charles observed, intending to be very sarcastic.

But he could not speak French well—in fact, he could not speak it at all. However, the others thought this must be a very weighty remark, and so they laughed approvingly.

Then Charles continued, as though he took a fatherly interest in the lad: “Perhaps this great conspiracy of ours may induce him to become a good American again.”

Will’s conscience was now at work, and he said as severely as he knew how: “It’s a shame to serve a boy of his notions such a boorish trick, and you boys needn’t flatter yourselves that such a performance will do him a bit of good. Let us explore the house as much as we please; but let us give up the intention of preying on him.”

“No!” cried the others, with fixed determination, “We have hit on this, and we’ll go through with it, if it makes our hair turn gray! Will, if you want to leave us, after all, why, go ahead; but you would be a very foolish fellow to do it. Come, now, give your reasons—what is there so very wicked and horrible in our plot?”

“I am not a moralist, boys, and so I can’t explain it. All that I know is, that it seems a mean thing to do. And, yes, I have a presentiment that something terrible will happen.”

“So have I, boys,” Steve chimed in. “I have the worst kind of a presentiment. But just to prove that presentiments are superstitions and nonsense, I’m bound to help Charley work out his plot.”

“Well, then,” said Will resignedly, “if you will do it, I promise to stick by you through thick and thin.”

“Then it’s settled, boys,” said Charles eagerly. “And whatever happens, we four will stick by each other, and hold on to our plot.”

“Yes,” commented the sage, bringing his learning into requisition, “we four are a cabal, a faction, a junto, a party of intriguers, a band of—”

“—Of good-for-nothing school-boys,” Charles said quickly, not wishing to be ranked as a greater personage than he was.

In due time the house was reached. It was a forlorn-looking building, truly, and in a solitary place; but it was hardly so dilapidated as Charles supposed. It was now old, uncared for, and weather beaten; but when new, had been a handsome and pleasant house, suitable for a small family. It was a story and a half in height, with four or five rooms on the first floor and as many on the second. If built in a less dreary, locality, it probably would never have been without a tenant. But the man who built this wayside dwelling must have had more means than brains.

Even the rough boys of the village shunned this place; consequently, after all these years, there was still here and there a whole pane of glass in almost every window-sash. As for the doors, the best of them had been taken away, and the two or three that remained, were, as may be supposed, worthless and useless.

The floor of the first story was still sound. Up the creaking stairs the plotters went recklessly, and found a state of even greater desolation than below. The rooms here had never been particularly elegant, and now they were filthy and horrible with accumulated dust, mould, and rubbish. The roof was full of holes, through which the water evidently streamed whenever it stormed. The roof was originally set off with two picturesque chimneys; but inexorable Time had already demolished one, and was playing havoc with the other.

Next they went to explore the cellar; but the earth had caved in and partially filled it up, and it was so dark and loathsome that even the hero Stephen hesitated to descend. Then, as the front door had been taken away and the entrance secured with boards, they crawled through a window, and once more gained the pure air.

All things considered, even a pirate would have shrunk from passing a night in this house. But a peaceable, home-keeping ghost, in search of a summer residence, could not have found a more suitable one than this. The parlor would have served him admirably for a bed-room, while the dining room could have been fitted up for a laboratory; and in case any chance comers should intrude on him, he could have buried himself in the cellar, where he would have been perfectly safe.

In fact, this was an excellent building for a ghost’s headquarters; but it would require unlimited faith in romance to believe it a likely place for a prison-house.

Evidently the plotters were dissatisfied with it, and Steve said disconsolately, “Well, such a rum old bomb-shell of a hole I never saw! I guess our plot will have to find other quarters, or else be given up.”

“Oh, we can come here and tinker it up,” Charles said hopefully.

“Yes, it’s bad enough; but it’s a good deal better than Charley seemed to think,” Will observed. “As Steve says, or means, it isn’t exactly the place that a French villain would choose for a prison, when the whole world is before him.”

“Did we decide how the Frenchman was to bring his prisoner from France to our sea-coast, and then on to this place?” George asked, beginning to have a just appreciation of the difficulties that lay before them.

“It will be safe to leave all that for my cousin to arrange,” Will said proudly. “He will make everything clear in the letter, I’m sure.”

“Of course he will,” Steve said promptly. “Now, I say, boys, there is one thing that puzzles me: this place is worth exploring and I should like nothing better than to ransack it again; but why have we never been here before?”

“Exactly;” chimed in the Sage, as another doubt arose in his mind. “Charley, if this place is really so worthless, and if it is free to all, why haven’t we been in the habit of coming here often, to fool away our time?”

Charley reflected a moment, and then said, boldly, “Well, if we look at it as a play-house, it’s too far gone for that; and if we look at it as a heap of romantic and interesting ruins, it isn’t gone far enough,—not destroyed or broken down enough, for that;—so why should we want to come here, except on account of our plot? There’s nothing else to draw us; and ten to one we should never have thought of coming here at all, if it hadn’t been for the plot. And as for being a place worth keeping up, I don’t know about that; but the man it belongs to doesn’t seem to think it is. Why, boys, we can have it all to ourselves; it will be just the place for our prison.”

“Well,” said Steve, “by the time we get it cleaned, and scoured, and, tinkered, and made respectable and ship-shape, we shall all be good housekeepers, and housemaids, and masons, and carpenters, and tinkers, and—and—. Boys,” suddenly, “we needn’t stand here staring in at this window, when we haven’t been through the garden yet.”

The yard, or garden, was then viewed, as suggested; and certainly it did not seem as though care or labor had been bestowed on it for many years. It was overrun with a growth of luxuriant weeds and thistles; and Charles,—the head plotter till Henry should arrive,—after escaping, by a hair’s breadth, from being swallowed up in an out-of-the-way and only partially covered old well, concluded that they had had glory enough for one day, and proposed that they should go home.

So the heroic four turned their faces homewards, and jogged on, plotting and exultant.

That night one of them was troubled with fitful and uneasy dreams, in which he saw Marmaduke struggle manfully with frightful monsters, fashioned of old clothes and villains; whilst hideous French whales soared overhead, winked their wicked eyes, and swore they would catch every boy and dismember him in the deserted and spectre-peopled house.

When the dreamer of this dream awoke, he muttered: “Well, this is a presentiment; but, to prove that presentiments are humbugs, I’ll go through with this plot of ours, if—”

Further comment is needless.

It is cruel in a romancer to anticipate, but sometimes it is necessary in order to make both ends meet. In this case, it is justifiable; therefore it may be said that as soon as the holidays began, frequent journeys were made to ‘Nobody’s House,’ and the sound of the hammer and the saw, together with strains of popular airs, rang out in its deserted chambers. The plotters worked with a will, and with the utmost disregard for the noxious vermin which abounded in their midst, and which they did not attempt to exterminate. Their efforts were rewarded; for the house was so transformed that the ghosts, who, in their heart of heart, they fancied inhabited it, would have failed to recognize it.

In the upper story a dangerous place was found, where a person might fall through the floor. This was marked out and avoided.

In this world everything proves useful one day or another; and this house, after lying idle all these years, after being a nuisance to its owner, a by-word in the community and a reproach to it, was at last to prove of the greatest usefulness to these boys and to the writer of this history.

It is now in order to return and chronicle the events that took place before the holidays opened.

---

Will was now at work on a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity.” That is the name he gave it,—but the name had nothing in common with the subject, “Socialism” would have been quite as appropriate,—and according to his views, he handled it in a graphic, original, and striking manner; and he was firmly convinced that he should make a very good thing of it.

Poor boy, it was too bad, after all the pains he took.

What was too bad?

This. The same evening on which he wrote out his composition for the last time, he sat up late and wrote to his cousin Henry, inviting him to come and pay them a visit in the holidays.

When this boy (Will) gave Stephen gunpowder instead of fire crackers, and again when he loaded Henry’s pistols with wads, his mistakes were glossed over, and he himself was laughed at, rather than blamed. But now the truth must be made known; he cannot be excused any longer. Right over his eyes, where the phrenologists locate order, there was a depression.

There, the secret is out, and the writer’s conscience is easy.

Boys, it is hard to have to deal with a hero who is not a paragon; but you must be indulgent, and we will do our best.

After finishing and directing the letter to his cousin, Will went to bed and slept peacefully, little dreaming of the thunderbolt which would soon burst over his head, and which he himself had prepared.

Next morning he found his writing materials strewn over his table in great confusion, and in a lazy, listless manner he set to work to put them to rights.

In order to keep his composition, or “essay,” perfectly clean, he intended to put it into an old envelope. Alas, poor boy, he made a blunder, as usual; and mistaking the composition for the letter, he thrust it into the envelope directed to Henry, which he sealed on the spot, and stowed away in his pocket. Then he put the letter into the old envelope and put it carefully away in his satchel.

Not one boy in fifty could possibly have made so egregious a blunder, but nothing else could be expected from Will.

On this eventful day, the “essays,” as Teacher Meadows saw fit to call them, were to be read, and the prize was to be delivered over to the “successful competitor.”

Full of his expected triumph, Will set out for school. He knew that his composition was good, and he could judge what the others’ would be. He was a little uneasy about George and Charles, but as for the rest—pshaw! the rest couldn’t write!

He imagined he saw his schoolmates watching him as he went home that evening with about the biggest book ever printed. He even heard their disappointed tones, and saw their sullen and envious looks, as he passed through the streets.

And that old lady who often cast admiring glances towards him—she would call next day and say, “Well, Mrs. Lawrence, your boy is just the smartest boy in the whole village.”

In a day or so Stephen would drop in and let him know what was said about it by the villagers in general, the schoolboys in particular.

And when his uncle and aunt heard the news, they would certainly be overjoyed, and send him (just what he wanted, of course) a monkey! As soon as it could be done, his father would buy him a little gun.

Full of these dreams, he went on, stopping at the post office to send, as he supposed, his letter to Henry.

Time wore away, and the hour for the “essays” to be read, came at last. Teacher Meadows took his seat, and they were laid on the desk before him. Good man, he himself would read them all, lest the “composers” should not do themselves justice.

Only a dozen or so had competed for the prize, but all these had done their best, and the handwriting was so plain that it was a pleasure to read it.

A few of the competitors’ parents and “well-wishers” were present, “to see justice done to all,” as they pleasantly put it. But they served only to increase the master’s pompousness and self-esteem, and the “essayists’” bashfulness and inquietude; while they themselves were surely neither very much instructed nor very much delighted.

In fact, the truth was probably forced home to the more intelligent of the audience, that schoolboys and schoolgirls who would soar to the pinnacle of fame by attempting to write beyond their capabilities, generally find themselves floundering about in the slough of ignominious failure.

Mr. Meadows certainly read the different compositions with great care and earnestness, and took as much pains with the worthless ones as with the tolerably good ones.

By some chance, Will’s was the last to be read, and dead silence was observed till it was finished.

Whenever a new idea had struck the boy, he had set it down without the slightest regard to consecutiveness; and if the same idea was afterwards seen in a different light, he had promptly expressed his views, though in the midst of a paragraph.

A mere handful of words had been sufficient for him on this occasion, and these were repeated with unwearied persistency. A schoolboy writing a letter excels in repetition, at least.

If either Mr. or Mrs. Lawrence had reviewed it for him it would not have been so incomprehensible.

The letter ran as follows:

---

Teacher Meadows read this remarkable letter as though uncertain whether he were asleep or awake. It would be difficult to describe the effect on the “audience.” They were not particularly emotional people, but this letter seemed to affect them strongly.

Poor Will! his cup of sorrow was full! The first words told him the mistake he had made, and he listened, with the anguish of despair, while Teacher Meadows read on remorselessly to the end. He could neither creep under his seat nor steal out of the apartment. He knew that every eye was fixed upon him—oh, what would people think! Once, when the letter was nearly finished, he ventured to glance towards some of his school-mates; but their faces were so full of anger, astonishment, and horror, that he hastily looked in another direction.

But in the midst of all this suffering, there was one consolation—his parents were unable to be present. He knew how grieved they would feel, and so he rejoiced at their absence, and bore his misery as patiently as he could.

And yet he was tortured almost beyond endurance. Oh, why had he written so freely about his school-fellows in this letter? Why had he written so disrespectfully about Mr. Meadows, who was always so kind to him?

Teacher Meadows, who scarcely ever spoke unkindly to his pupils, now said to the hero, in a constrained and harsh voice: “I cannot understand how any boy could think such a subject—say, rather, want of subject—and so free an expression of his views, could possibly win him the prize.”

In a low and faltering voice, Will said something about “a great mistake.”

“Oh, a mistake,” said Mr. Meadows. Then he added sarcastically: “That is too bad; for if your friend Henry had received this letter, he would have had a very vivid idea of your comrades’ characteristics and of your teacher’s incapacity.”

Then, remembering that others were present, he checked himself, and said more mildly, “Will, I am disappointed in you; I had formed a much better opinion of you. There, let it pass; I shall say no more about it.”

Poor boy, he was certainly to be pitied! Censure was to him intolerable; and censure before all these people! Truly, he was being punished for his carelessness.

After all, he had not said anything so very wicked about either teacher or school-fellows; and perhaps an impartial judge would have decided that, all things considered, the writer of such a letter deserved the prize. But Mr. Meadows’ judgment was biassed; he felt insulted; and he thought otherwise.

“But,” chuckles the astute reader, “surely Marmaduke could not be duped after that!” We beg your pardon, gentle reader; but if you think that, you are not skilled in the art of writing stories.

Marmaduke, also, was unable to attend school that day; and if you read the letter carefully once more, you will perceive that it is so vague and incoherent that no one except the four in the plot could make anything out of it. Those who heard it would not perceive that any great danger menaced Marmaduke; and even if they should warn him to be on his guard, he would hardly connect this letter with the one he was to receive in due time. No; Marmaduke would be as unsuspicious as ever, no matter how much he might be warned.

And thus it happened that Will’s muddled wits preserved the plot.

But the other boys! Ah, they had reason to feel aggrieved and insulted!

All except George were indignant at poor foolish Will. Mr. Meadows had decided that the odds were in favor of George, and, much to the chagrin of four ink-loving youths who knew they would win, he bore away the prize. He was a philosopher, but not a stoic, and now supreme content played over his visage. In fact, he felt so joyous and exultant that he could laugh at Will’s blunder.

Not so, the others. Out of sight and hearing of the people, they pounced on Will, (figuratively speaking,) and glared at him with the most ferocious and horrible expression of countenance that they could put on.

Even good-natured Charles was vexed to be thus openly criticized, and he said sullenly, “Well, Will, I guess you needn’t call our plot mean after this.”

Will heaved a sigh, but said nothing.

“Look here, boys,” the winner of the prize interposed; “suppose that one of us had been asked by a cousin a long way off to give an opinion of his school-fellows, would it have been as mild and as sincere as the one Will gave? I know that a great many boys would have said far meaner things than Will did; for, when a boy comes to speak of his school-fellows, he will hardly ever say a word in their praise. I’ve often wondered why it is,” musingly, “and I think sometimes a boy is a blockhead, anyway. Well, perhaps it isn’t so; perhaps I’m mistaken. Come, Charley; be just to poor Will.”

“Listen to the orator!” mockingly observed a defeated competitor [not one of the six]. “He talks as though he made it a business to study a ‘school-fellow’s’ habits!”

“The prize has made an oracle and a hero of him,” chimed in another, who probably felt that there was more or less truth in the Sage’s remarks.

“What’s the name of his prize, anyway?” queried still another defeated one, with considerable interest in his tones, but not deigning to glance towards the victor.

“Oh, it’s some mighty good book, I suppose;” answered the first speaker. “In fact, so good, that it’s bad!”

The four inky-fingered youths who knew they would win, thought this so comical that they laughed derisively.

George’s eyes flashed fire and his blood boiled, but he said, as calmly as he could, “I’ve often noticed that boys that guess at things hardly ever hit the mark. Now, your ideas about this prize are very wild; for it’s about a midshipman’s cruise round the world.”

The four defeated ones scowled at him, and one of them said, as he turned to go, “Well, boys, we might as well be off, for these fellows don’t care for us, they say.”

And they strode away, leaving the four plotters together.

It may not be pertinent to the subject to picture here so dark a side of life, but now the reader will understand why the six avoided the society of the other boys of the village, and clung to each other. Poor fellows, with all their faults, they were free from such jealous passions.

As soon as they found themselves alone, George said eagerly, “Come, Charles, don’t be too hard on Will.”

“Well, George, I don’t know but that you’re right in what you said,” Charles admitted; “but it was very unpleasant for us, and what will people think?”

“Pshaw! what do we care about that!” the Sage exclaimed contemptuously, hugging the prize to his bosom. “After all, I don’t know but that Will said more in favor of us than against us; and wasn’t it worse for him than for us? If he can bear it, we can.”

“George is quite right,” Stephen declared. “Will is more to be pitied than all of us put together.”

“I don’t want anybody’s pity,” Will said sourly.

“Marmaduke and Jim got it the worst,” said Steve. “The only thing that troubles me at all, is that our plot is spoiled;” in a doleful tone.

“Spoiled! How is it spoiled?” the Sage inquired. “Marmaduke wasn’t there to hear the letter, and no one else could make any sense out of it.—I—I mean,” he added quickly, “no one would know what it meant.”

“Well, how are we to patch it up again?” Charles asked uneasily.

“I think we had all better make up friends with Will this minute, and get him to write to his cousin again,” George said, smiling brightly.

Charles and Stephen were of the same opinion, but poor Will was in a bad humour, and he said sullenly, “I won’t write to him any more; so that you needn’t make up with me on that account.”

The boys were appalled. George’s words had revived hope in their breast, but now it seemed that their darling scheme must fail; for, without Henry to write the letter and help them forward, it would be only a humdrum affair; and unless Will would send for him, he perhaps would not come—or, if he should come, he would spend all his time with Will, and have nothing to do with them. Consequently, the three crowded round Will, made him so sensible of his own importance, and played their parts so well, that he finally smiled, relented, and promised to do any thing they wished.

“And you will write soon, won’t you?” Charles asked eagerly.

“Yes; I’ll write as soon as I can;” Will returned. “Say, boys,” anxiously, “do any of you know what Mr. Meadows did with my—my letter?”

“Yes; he kept it for a witness against you;” wickedly and promptly answered quick-witted Stephen.

“Jim is the next one for us to deal with,” said George; “and,” sighing profoundly, “there’s the rub!”

Then Charles, who had been reading a novel of the “intensely interesting” sort, said jocosely, “Perhaps we can buy his silence.”

“As the nervous old gentleman said when he gave a nickel to a little boy to stop his noise,” Steve subjoined.

“He will have to be soothed and let into our councils,” the Sage observed, “and perhaps it will be just as well, because we shall need more than five to manage our plot, and ‘the more, the merrier,’ you know.”

“I know something, too; I know that ‘too many cooks spoil the pudding,’” said Steve, in a tone of melancholy foreboding.

“Stephen Goodfellow, we are not cooks!” Charles retorted.

Soon afterward the plotters separated; Will, to go sorrowfully homeward; George, to hasten gladly to his parents and be congratulated on his success; Charles and Stephen to find, “soothe,” and let into their councils, the boy called Jim.

It is sufficient to say that Jim was overjoyed to take part in their plot, though vexed at them for having kept him in the dark so long, and at Will for having spoken of him as a “first-rate coward.”

Thus the bad effects of the exchanged composition were remedied, though mischief enough had been done by causing Teacher Meadows to have a bad opinion of Will. And Will, foolish boy, fancied that by this means he had been cheated out of the prize.

Perhaps it was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him, for, from that day forward, he cultivated order so assiduously and determinedly that in course of time he became more orderly than even George. He vowed to wreak dire vengeance on himself if such a mishap should ever again befall him, and it was noticed by his mother and schoolfellows that his ridiculous blunders were on the decrease. With all his belongings in perfect order, it was much easier to keep out of trouble; especially, as he was also more circumspect in all his movements than heretofore.

An additional advantage. Two bumps, one over each eye, took root, and grew, and grew, and continued to grow, till they bulged out exceedingly. Not knowing the cause of this, Will continued to cultivate order, and his bumps continued to grow and bulge out, till he became the most distinguished looking youth in the village.

Boys, never mind the bumps, but take the moral to heart, and if any of you are untidy, reform before your want of order exposes you to disgrace and pain, as Will’s did him.

---

On the next day Will wrote another letter to his cousin, in which he invited him to come and pay them a visit. He gave a rambling explanation of the “essay,”—which, he thought, would not only puzzle, but also astound, poor Henry—and avoided mentioning his school-fellows at all. In fact, he had resolved in his mind that hereafter, in writing letters, he would confine himself to the matter in hand, and not discourse on the virtues and vices, the wisdom and folly, of his school-fellows. As for the plot, he said simply that they had “a game on foot,” filling up his letter by giving an interesting record of the weather for the past month, and a touching account of a lump on his horse’s hind leg.

Will posted his letter with a light heart, feeling that his presentiments must have related to the exchanged composition, and that now all would be well.

In the eloquent words of sundry novelists: “It was well for him that he could not look into the future.”

The holidays had now begun, and, as was said above, the plotters spent a great part of their time in fitting up the deserted house, which was to be the scene of their comedy—or tragedy, as the event should prove.

Having done this, the plotters, Jim included, again assembled in solemn council, to deliberate on certain features of their plot. They wished to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with all the details, so that everything should work smoothly.

“Now, when Henry comes,” said Will, “we must meet him at the station, and keep him out of Marmaduke’s sight till he sees him in the ‘Wigwam’ as the captive. Marmaduke will be all unprepared, and will take him for the captive without a doubt.”

“Yes,” Charles assented; “but will Henry consent to be rigged out as a French captive?”

“Oh, he will have to do that,” said Will; “he will have to do whatever we tell him; and we shall have to do whatever he tells us. Oh, we shall work together just like a—a—like a—”

“Like the works of a clock,” suggested Steve, never at a loss for a simile, however inapt it might be.

“Well,” Charles observed, “let us make a being of straw, or old clothes, to look like a discomfited tramp in effigy, and then hang him out of a window up-stairs. Marmaduke will take it for the persecuting captor, of course. And besides, we shall want something to do while Henry and Marmaduke are rescuing each other. This is your idea, Steve,” he added, “and I give you all the credit for it.”

All the plotters were in favor of doing this, and so that question was settled.

Jim—who bore the plotters a grudge for not having acquainted him with their designs till forced to do so—was suddenly struck with a peculiarly “bright” idea. He said nothing to them, but chuckling grimly to himself, he muttered fiendishly: “It would serve ’em right, I guess, anyway!”

Stephen was suddenly struck with a horrible fear; he gasped faintly: “Boys!—say, boys! Oh, dear! Boys, won’t the French young lady be supposed to speak in her own language? And how could Marmaduke understand that?—that is, if Henry could speak it right along?”

The plotters were appalled. With consternation in every face, they stared at each other in utter hopelessness, whilst their beloved plot tottered on its foundations.

But presently the Sage, with his customary philosophy, came to the rescue. Said he: “Look here, boys, all that is necessary is to have the captor and the wicked jailers teach the beautiful captive to speak English, broken English, a little. Alas, it seems to me that this captive will be an endless trouble to us, and I think Henry will wish himself himself again. Yes, I shall be glad when its all over.”

“Never mind;” said Stephen. “Now, this broken English will settle that question; but, Will, can Henry speak broken—I mean cracked—English?”

“Of course he can,” said Will confidently; “he can do anything.”

The self-styled conspirators breathed freely, for their plot was now established on a firm foundation.

The work of fashioning a “being” progressed rapidly; and the day before Henry arrived they put the finishing touches to an object that was a monstrosity indeed. If the curious reader wishes to know what this object, or “being,” or monstrosity, looked like, let him turn to the picture of the fourth giant in his baby brother’s “handsomely illustrated” “Jack the Giant-Killer.” The resemblance between that giant and this “being” is striking.

Yes; they had hit upon their vocation at last; and if they should remove to the haunts of savages in the Polynesian islands, or in the unexplored regions of Africa, and set up in business as idol-makers, their fame and fortune would soon be an accomplished fact.

But this story drags already; so let it be sufficient to add that the “impostor,” as they fondly called it, was lovingly and secretly conveyed to the lone house, and hidden away till it should be needed.

Thus time passed with the plotters. They often had great difficulty in keeping all their movements and plans a secret from Marmaduke; more than once he came upon them in their journeys to and fro, and it was only by using the greatest tact that they prevented him from following them to the old building.

Poor Marmaduke! he was at a loss to know why the boys should act in so strange a manner. He would come upon them sometimes, seated, and talking earnestly; but the moment they caught sight of him, all were silent. At last he began to think that he had offended them in some way—how, he could not guess. However, the time when he should be rudely awakened was at hand.

Henry Mortimer, the boy-lover of the sweet little blue-eyed heroine, was somewhat surprised to receive through the post a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity;” but two days afterwards Will’s letter of explanation and invitation followed it, and then he was all eagerness to be off, as he anticipated having a delightful visit with his cousin and his aunt. But there were other reasons why he was glad to go away from home for a few days, or even weeks. His school, also, had closed for the holidays; and consequently, he saw but little of—(It must be tiresome to the reader to see the writer of this history continually using circumlocution in speaking of this little girl, but as there are private reasons why her name should not be made known, he [the helpless reader] will have to make the best of it.) Moreover, a handsome and clever youth, a first cousin of the little blue-eyed heroine’s, was spending the holidays at her parents’, with her elder brother; and Henry’s feverish imagination (poor boy, he was jealous as ever) immediately conjectured that he and she would fall in love with each other! To be sure they were first cousins; but Henry had latterly taken to the bad habit of reading English novels, and so he let his fears get the better of his judgment, and thought it only logical that she should eventually shake him off, and marry the cousin. As if to confirm his fears, he had seen her, the heroine who had given him the glass ink-bottle, walking down the side-walk, accompanied by the stalwart cousin. This had worked his jealous passions up to boiling heat, but feeling his utter helplessness, he had affected to be unconcerned; and now, to prove how little he cared, he would go away on a visit, and stay—well, perhaps he might stay two weeks.

Preparations were immediately begun, but it was hard for Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer to part with their son, if for only a short time. The “game on foot” hinted at in the letter troubled the latter—the more so, as she was aware of her son’s recklessness, and was firmly persuaded that her young nephew was totally devoid of common sense. But, at last, when the holidays were a week old, the redoubtable hero departed, with repeated warnings to keep out of danger, and to be very, very careful of himself, ringing in his ears.

The same day Will was delighted in two different ways. He received a telegram, directed to himself. Delight number one.

The telegram ran as follows:—

Delight number two.

Will hastened to inform his fellow-plotters of this good news, and joy reigned among them all.

The next morning came, and with it came Cousin Henry. Each one of the heroes, except Marmaduke, was at the depot to welcome him; each one was struck with his commanding appearance; each one thought what a beautiful heroine he would make. Proudly, but very awkwardly, Will introduced them to each other, and then proposed to his cousin that he should bind a handkerchief loosely over his head, so that it should partially conceal his features.

“What for?” asked Henry, with surprise. “I haven’t the tooth-ache, nor I’m not ashamed to be seen.”

“Yes, but there’s a boy here not in our plot; and if he should happen to see you, all would be spoiled,” Will pleaded.

“We might meet him, any minute, Henry, for he’s always prowling round at this time of day,” Stephen chimed in.

Stephen and Henry looked each other full in the face: congenial spirits met.

“Well,” said Henry resignedly, “go ahead, and trick me out as you please.” Then, a woe-begone look overspreading his face, he added: “There is no one here to know me, so that it makes no difference how I am trussed up.”

Ah! his heart was with the loved ones at home, and he cared little what these boys did with him.

But “tricked out” and “trussed up!” Those words took well with the simple village boys; they held their breath for admiration.

Then the cleanest handkerchief (which was Henry’s own) that could be found, was bound about his head, so as to flap over his mouth unpleasantly, and wanton in the sultry July breeze.

Needless precaution, for nothing was seen of Marmaduke.

Weary as Henry must have been after his long journey, he was hurried away to one of the boys’ retreats, in a retired quarter of Mr Lawrence’s garden. At first the boys were quite reserved, for Henry had been represented to them as a very extraordinary personage; but in the course of half an hour they became as well acquainted with him as if they had known him from the days of the plesiosaurus dolichodeirus.

For a full hour they talked almost at random; narrating their late adventures with Bob, touching gingerly upon Will’s last lamentable blunder, and giving a minute, but bewildering and disjointed, account of their darling scheme.

Then, after Henry had received confused notions of various matters, the party dispersed; and the poor boy was allowed to see his aunt and uncle, wash, partake of some food, and snatch a wink of sleep.

They had appointed to meet early in the afternoon, to discuss their plot in all its bearings, and to have Henry compose the vexatious letter; but he and Will spent a short but very pleasant time in each other’s company, and when the hour came for them to repair to the rendezvous, the former had grasped the boys’ idea, and mapped out his own course.

To say that Henry was delighted with this plot, would be to do him gross injustice—in fact, to speak out boldly, since yesterday the writer has racked his brains in a vain endeavor to hit upon some single adjective that would adequately describe the boy’s ecstasy.

---

“Here we are!” Steve joyously exclaimed, as the last one of the plotters arrived at the rendezvous in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. “And now, then, let us go to work.”

“Are you perfectly sure this Marmaduke will believe the letter is genuine, and fly to the rescue?” Henry asked dubiously.

“He would believe anything, Henry,” Charles rejoined “And the more romantic the letter is, the more he will believe it.”

“Why,” said Steve, “I shouldn’t be surprised if he falls in love when he meets you all tricked up—tricked out—as a heroine!”

Henry smiled grimly, but said nothing.

“Oh, no,” said George dogmatically. “Henry’s eyes are blue, and so are Marmaduke’s; and you know—at least, I’ve often read—that people alike in that respect seldom fall in love with each other.”

Oh, how indignant Henry was! Who was this impertinent little boy, who had opinions (and such opinions!) on all topics?

“Are you in the habit of reading love-stories?” he asked curiously.

“No,” said the Sage slowly, “I’ve never read many genuine love-stories; I don’t care much for them; they’re not solid enough.”

“You’ll see the day when you’ll care to read nothing else,” said Henry, melodramatically.

Perceiving that the plotters were looking at him intently, he said hurriedly, for he did not wish these boys to guess his secret, “You haven’t told me yet when the plot is to come off.”

“We never settled that ourselves; but if to-morrow evening is pleasant, let us go then,” said Will.

“We have had so many unfortunate expeditions in the night that I think we had better set some other time,” the Sage observed.

“The evening is the time, of course;” said Henry decisively. “We can take care of ourselves, I think, if we try. To-morrow forenoon I must disguise myself and go and see this old house with some of you; and then, as we are coming back, if the rest of you could come up with Marmaduke, I could hide, and look on while he ‘finds’ the letter. Have you settled that point yet?”

“Yes,” said Charles, “we planned to fix the letter in a bottle, and fling it into the river a few rods above him. The river, you know, flows past the house; so that when he reads the letter he’ll think the prisoner threw the concern into the river, and that it floated down. Marmaduke will think that is romance itself.”

“I understand,” Henry commented; “and when we write the letter we can say something to that effect. Now, what do you say to mixing up a priest in the plot?”

“A priest?” they asked, at a loss to guess his intent.

“Yes, a poor old priest, that found out the villain in his capturing schemes, and had to be seized and brought along, or else made away with.

“I—I don’t—see why,” Charles stammered.

“Will tells me that Marmaduke is to suppose I’m the captive, and that I’m to be dressed accordingly,” Henry said lazily. “Now, if you boys can’t see what I mean, keep your eyes and ears open, and when the time comes, there will be so much the more sport for you.”

The plotters did not see what Henry was driving at; but, thinking it must be an “improvement” that had suggested itself to him, they were content to wait.

“Now, we must all swear that none of us will laugh, no matter how droll things may be,” Will observed.

Henry could never be guilty of such a misdemeanor. He was a boy who could do and say the most absurdly ridiculous things without the slightest smile on his face; and the others had tolerable control over their facial muscles.

“Don’t be too hard on Marmaduke, Henry;” said Charles, still at a loss to conjecture to what use the imaginary priest was to be put, and beginning to fear that some great danger menaced hapless Marmaduke.

“I will be careful,” Henry replied.

“About the letter—let us write it,” Steve cried, impatiently.

“I have the materials to write it in the rough,” said Henry. “To-night I shall polish it, and write it off on French note paper, and to-morrow I shall hand it over to you.”

“Make the letter very strong,” Charles suggested. “The more extraordinary and whimsical it is, the more poor deluded Marmaduke will be delighted. Poor fellow, if it is hard to make it out, he will stammer over it till his face and hands get damp with sweat.”

“Doesn’t he understand French very well?” Henry asked.

“None of us do,” Charles dolefully acknowledged.

“Well, is he in the habit of wandering through the dictionary?”

“I—don’t—know,” said Charles, wondering what Henry was driving at now.

“Well, then, I will run the risk,” said the master-plotter, like the hero he was.

Not allowing the curious boys to ask any questions, he continued: “As you don’t understand French very well, I must read the letter carefully to you to-morrow, for it would be jolly fun if none of you could make it out. Well, fire ahead, and I’ll write; but after I polish it, your letter may be very different from the original draft.”

With that he produced pencil and paper, and then slowly, like a blood-thirsty author hatching his plot, a draught was made of the letter; each particular, as it occurred to the boys, being set down at random. When finished, it was, like Will’s letter, so incoherent that it would give a person a headache to read it. But in their own room that night Henry wrote and “polished,” whilst Will looked for words and phrases in his dictionary. They worked long and carefully, and about midnight the letter was transcribed for the last time; and with dizzy head and heavy, blinking eyes, poor Henry tumbled into bed, saying, drowsily, “I have portentous ap—apprehensions that by—by to-morrow night—I shall need—need some—some Cayenne pepper mixture.”

But he slept long and well, and felt himself again the next morning.

We give the letter in French, just as Henry wrote it. This is not done because of a morbid love of writing something in a foreign language—which seems to be so strong in some people, whether they understand it or not—but because of three very good reasons: First, to show the length to which the boys went in carrying out their plot; secondly, to give the good-natured reader an insight into Henry’s character—for a man is best known by his writings; thirdly, because it is a well-known fact that intelligent youths who are studying a foreign language have an eager desire to read, or attempt to read, whatever they can find in that language; and it is well to gratify such healthy desires.

After holding forth in this strain, perhaps it will be as well to observe, that the youth who expects to perfect himself in French by a careful perusal of this letter will be most bitterly deceived.

One word more: Henry, and Henry only, is responsible for this letter, therefore all the praise must be given to him. But is it reasonable to suppose that the French Academy will survive the publication of this letter?

The envelope enclosing the letter bore the following superscription:

“A celui qui trouvera: Lisez le contenu de cette lettre sans délai!”

“To the finder: Read the contents of this letter without delay!” as Henry read it to the boys.

That is good; that is orthodox.

The letter ran as follows:

This is the letter as Henry wrote it. Lest the reader should not be able to make out this “langue incomparable” as rendered by him, we give the translation which he gave to his admiring fellow-plotters next morning.

If Henry had been an authorized translator, he would have exerted himself and made the translation entirely different from the original; as he was only a school-boy, he gave a close, but not excellent, rendering of it; and by employing the past tense instead of the present, all sublimity was lost. In fact, like everything else translated into English, it did not equal the original.

In the whole of this letter not a single reference is made to the beings of Mythology, to the state of affairs in France, to the goblins of the Hartz Mountains, to Macaulay’s New Zealander, nor to our own Pilgrim Fathers! This neglect is intolerable; but remembering that Henry was only a boy, we must judge him with leniency, and give him credit for writing in a straightforward and business-like style.

The boys listened with rapt attention while Henry read this letter. To them, it was grand, sublime, awful; and from that moment Henry was looked on as a superior being, as far above ordinary mortals as an average American citizen is above any “crowned head” in Europe.

Their admiration was graciously acknowledged by Henry. But he made several innovations, some of which took the embryo villains by surprise. In their wildest dreams they had never soared so high as to think of giving the imprisoned one a title—and Henry had made her a duke’s heiress! Ah! they were not so well acquainted with the ways of the world and the laws of romance as Henry.

But perhaps what pleased the plotters more than anything was the liberal use made of notes of exclamation. Charles counted them carefully, and reported their number to the gaping boys. The more the better, in this case, at all events, thought Steve. Poor innocent! he did not know that villainy and notes of exclamation go hand in hand.

---

“I must have a copy of that letter;” Charles declared, emphatically.

“Yes; as a lesson in French, it’s worth from twenty to thirty of Mr. Meadows’,” Stephen chimed in.

He, however, had no great desire to obtain a copy and buzz over it. (Steve always buzzed when he “studied.”)

“I don’t doubt that Marmaduke will believe in it,” Henry said, with pardonable conceit in his own production; “but the question is, will he act on it? I know if I should come upon such a petition, I should let somebody else do the rescuing, and fly the other way as if I were pursued by—”

“A demon!” Steve interposed, grinning foolishly.

“No,” continued Henry, “by worse than a demon—by an algebra!”

Stephen hated the study of algebra—hated it with deadly hatred; hence he smiled in sympathy.

“Yes,” Charles commented, “most boys would be apt to run away; but Marmaduke isn’t like most boys.”

“Henry, there is one point I don’t quite understand,” George observed. “Why do you say in the letter, ‘if you cannot rescue me, send this letter to my father’? Suppose that Marmaduke should take it into his head to send it! Then—then—”

“Well, George, I put that in to make the letter seem less like a fable. Don’t you know that a person in trouble would naturally say or write something to that effect; and besides, right under that I wrote, ‘perhaps my father is dead.’ Therefore, he will hardly send the appeal off to France; but if he speaks of it, use your wits and persuade him to hurry to the rescue.”

The plotters held their breath for admiration, and their honor for Henry increased. To them he was a wiser and greater being than any of the grave heroes who figured in their dog’s-eared, mutilated histories—wiser than the great Solon—deeper than the emissaries of Mephistopheles—more learned than—than—but here their well of eloquence ran dry, and they could not express themselves further.

Will was quite happy now; his cousin had come; the plot was well under way; the genius who was to direct it was admired, honored, reverenced. It was glory enough for him to have such a phenomenon for a near relative.

But George was bold enough to point out another irregularity. Said he: “Look here, Henry, we didn’t give any account of the journey from the coast to the prison! Marmaduke is very particular to have little things explained; and that is passed by.”

“George, don’t be foolish;” Will returned angrily. “Henry couldn’t explain everything; and the letter is long enough as it is.”

“Of course; no one can improve on it;” Charles declared.

“Leave that to Marmaduke,” said Steve. “His imagination will soon find the ways and means.”

“Yes,” chimed in Charles, “his imagination will supply all defects—but there are none. The letter is perfect perfection.”

“That about ‘the general’ is a happy thought,” Stephen remarked. “Marmaduke will snatch at that like a hungry hawk.”

“Yes, I changed your draft a good deal, and added new points,” Henry observed. “But it is greatly improved by them, I think,” he added complacently.

Alas! Henry was beginning to have a very good opinion of himself. Two days before he was not aware that he was so clever.

But the Sage, actuated by—what? seemed determined to criticize the letter still further. “Henry,” said he, poring over the letter with knitted brows, “Henry, near the end you have written, ‘if the reader is not able to make this out,’ and so on. Henry,” smiling pleasantly, “I didn’t know you were an Irishman before, but that sounds like it!”

Henry was about to reply, but Charles took up the defence, saying: “George, give me that letter; you do nothing but find fault with it. Don’t you see that Marmaduke will take that passage as a piece of refined French na—nave—knavery! Botheration! You know the word I mean, Henry.”

“Naïveté?” Henry suggested.

“Yes, that’s it. Marmaduke will take it for na-a-a-a—. Yes; for that;” he concluded, gulping down a sob, and becoming somewhat flushed and perturbed.

“Charley, listen to a little sound advice,” Henry said, with the air of a great philosopher. “In the first place, that isn’t the right word in the right place. Second place, never speak in a foreign language, nor whisper even a syllable of it, till you know it, and not then, unless you are learning it, or unless it is necessary. Some people who can write their address in French strike out in print in the village ‘Weekly’ with half-a-dozen meaningless words, that they themselves don’t understand. But the printer, who knows even less, and cares for no one’s feelings, always makes an interesting muddle of it all. So, Charley, take warning and steer clear of such nonsense. English is the best, as long as you are where it is spoken.”

All looked admiringly at the oracle, Charley by no means angry at being thus reproved.

“How did you manage to get the pretty French names?” Jim asked, innocently enough.

Will scowled at the boy, but Henry answered readily: “They are not real names, Jim; only common nouns. I relied on Marmaduke’s ignorance of French to bring in some rather uncommon words instead of names. Besides, I didn’t know of any names long enough, and grand enough, and sonorous enough, to suit the occasion; but still, some of these words may be family names for all I know or care. First name, Sauterelle, a grasshopper; second name, Hirondelle, a swallow; Patronymic, de la Chaloupe, of the longboat. Now Bélître Scélérat really means Atrocious Scoundrel; but Scheming Scoundrel sounds better in English—it has a true poetic ring. Of course, boys, when he finds the letter and you help him to make it out, you will read the words as they are in the letter, not as I have explained them.”

The plotters’ admiration knew no bounds. The substitution of nouns for names was, in their eyes, the very acme of wit; and Henry was no longer an ordinary hero, but a veritable demi-god.

How learned this boy must be, and how ignorant they must seem to him! In fact, this so worked on the feelings of one boy (it is immaterial which one, gentle reader,—no, we defy you to guess which boy it was) that, in order to demonstrate he, at least, knew the difference between nouns and names, he laughed so hard, so monotonously, and so patiently, that long-headed Henry perceived the cause, and was, very rightly, disgusted.

“Well, boys,” said Henry, “I haven’t seen the prison-house yet, and if you will bundle me up in your disguises, we’ll set out for it, ‘The Wigwam of the Seven Sleepers,’ as George says Stephen calls it, and arrange everything as it should be and is to be.”

At this time they were in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. Will ran to the house and soon came back with a headgear which Charles compared to a Russian Jew’s turban, but Henry said it looked like a knight-errant’s sun-bonnet. Then Steve, not wishing to be outdone, said it was one of Father Time’s cast-off nightcaps. Then, having fitted it, whatever it may have been, to Henry’s head, and pinned it fast to his coat collar,—he had first changed coats with George, and turned his neck-tie wrong side out,—the plotters declared that he was admirably disguised, and they set forward in high spirits. However well Henry might plot, they were not adepts in the art of disguising; and this strange garb, far from concealing Henry’s features, served only to attract the attention of passers-by.

But they had not gone far when Henry pulled his Scotch cap out of his pocket and put it forcibly on his head. Then Charles mildly suggested that if a handkerchief were tied so as to pass over one eye, Henry might stroll through the streets of his native city without danger of being recognized.

“Well,” Henry said, reluctantly, “if you can tie it to give me the appearance of a wounded soldier, go ahead; but if it makes me look like an old woman sick with the neuralgia, I’ll—I’ll—no, you mus’n’t.”

A handkerchief had no sooner been tied over Henry’s eye so as to suit all concerned, than it occurred to Stephen that one amendment more was needful to make the disguise complete.

“Your ears are peculiar, Henry,” he said, “and very pretty. Now, Marmaduke always notices people’s ears,—at least, I guess he does,—so let me pull the flaps of the sun-bonnet clear over them.”

But good-natured Henry was only human,—or perhaps if his ears were so pretty, and somebody else had said they were, he did not wish to hide them,—and now he turned his one blazing eye full upon the boy, and said, almost fiercely: “Stephen, let me alone! I can barely manage to work my way along the road, as it is! Don’t you know, Steve,” he added mildly, “that it is hard enough for a fellow to get along in this world with all his five senses in full play?”

“It is too bad for Henry to go all the way there and back twice in one day,” Charles kindly observed. “Couldn’t we manage it for him to go only once, say in the afternoon, and then wait till Marmaduke and the rest come on?”

“No; I want to go now, with you all;” Henry said, firmly. “Suppose that I should take a pailful of supper with me, and not go till the afternoon—what if Marmaduke shouldn’t come, after all! Something might happen, you know, that he could not or would not come; and then,” putting on a comical smile, “I should have to stay in that dreadful haunted house for who knows how long?”

“Yes, it is better for Henry to get familiar with the old ruin while we are with him—I mean, it is better for us to go with him,” Will said. “Then to-night, about half an hour before Marmaduke and the rest of us start, he and Stephen will leave in advance of us, with a bundle of disguises and lanterns; so that when we, the rescuers, arrive, the place will be lighted and the captive clothed properly.”

“And the priest shaved,” Steve chimed in.

“Exactly,” Henry commented. “And, Steve, I can meanwhile drill you to act the part of a priest, shaved or not shaved. Don’t fret about the extra travelling, boys,” he added; “for if my boots dilapidate while I’m here, I’ll add them to the pile of rubbish in ‘Nobody’s House,’ and patronize one of your shoemakers.”

In due time the plotters arrived before the house. It was no longer the grim wreck described to the reader at the time the boys first visited it. No; thanks to their industry and ingenuity it was in much better repair; and, yes, it looked very much like—like a prison?—no! very much like a gigantic hen-coup.

“Why,” Henry cried in pleased surprise, “I wasn’t so far out of the way after all when I ventured to write about its being fortified equal to a fortress! But say, boys, where did you get the iron bars for the windows?”

“Irons!” Charles echoed, in ecstasy. “If you take ’em for iron bars, Marmaduke certainly will! No, Henry; no iron there; nothing but painted laths nailed on. We had two good reasons for putting on those laths; first, because in nailing up a crack every pane of glass left shivered itself all to flinders, and therefore the empty window-frames had to be hidden; and next, we put them there to make the place look like a grated prison.”

“And they do;” declared Henry, stripping off his “disguise” and heaving a sigh of relief.

“Yes, and they made me nail on all their laths,” said Stephen, “because I was foolish enough to say I could straddle a window-sill and whittle out a steamboat, or do anything else. You see that top window to the right?—Well, I was sitting there, struggling to drive an obstinate nail, when suddenly I pitched head over heels down to the ground!”

“Hurt yourself?” Henry inquired.

“No-o-o; but their hammer disappeared and lost itself ever since!” Steve chuckled.

“Stephen wouldn’t consider that he was in a post of honor,” Charles observed, “and when the hammer could not be found, he said, ‘serves you right.’”

“I guess you would have said it, too, if you had had your best coat-pocket and flap torn off on a nail that YOU pretended to drive!” Stephen wrathfully retorted.

“What? Did you have an encounter with a nail in your way down?” Henry inquired.

“I did.”

“Steve didn’t tell us about all those losses,” Charles commented; “but he said he was going home, and he went.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard about the coat-pocket,” the Sage observed.

“Hurrah! where did you make the acquaintance of this awful door!” Henry exclaimed. “It—it looks like the door of a castle in the air.”

“No, Henry, it’s too strong for that,” Will corrected. “That door used to be our raft; but we had to make a door, and there was nothing else to make it of; so we hauled it up stream, pounced on it, and tore it all to pieces.”

This was too true. The gallant old raft, which had served so useful a purpose as a source of amusement, had been sacrificed by the remorseless plotters to fill up the gap in the front doorway. But they, in their eagerness to further their daring scheme, would not have hesitated to destroy anything to which they could lay claim.

“It was too bad to waste a good raft on this old hen-house,” Henry observed.

“Oh, a prison without a door would be rather too much for even Marmaduke;” Will replied. “And the timbers of the raft are here yet, and we can build it over again next week.”

“Henry,” said Stephen, who had quite recovered his equilibrium, “it is in front of this door that the sentries do the patrolling, and ground their muskets, and——and——what else do sentries do, George?”

“Will,” said Henry, grimly, as his eyes roved over the yard, or orchard, “I guess it would need several pretty smart and nimble sentries to prevent any one from escaping from this ‘inclosure.’”

Then they opened the door and passed in. By the way, there was something very remarkable about that door—so remarkable, in fact, that the writer, who has had great experience in the building of playhouses (don’t look for this word in a dictionary, O foreigner, but ask any little boy to interpret it for you,) here pauses to note it. Though made by boys, it not only played smoothly on its hinges, but even entered the door-case, and admitted of being fastened!

“It must have cost you fellows a good deal to fit up this old hulk,” Henry remarked, as the boys showed him proudly through the house.

“Cost!” Stephen exclaimed warmly. “I should think it did cost! Besides that hammer that I lost, an old worn-out axe perished somewhere around here, after Will had hewed a pair of new boots all to pieces while dressing the new door. Among the five of us, we’ve worn out two suits of clothes, and made three hats ashamed of themselves, just since we started to tinker up this prison house. I’ve used all the salve and plaster in our house, and the day before you came I got another cut. That reminds me, Henry, when Will hewed his new boots he cut his big toe nearly clean off—come here, and I’ll show you the bloody mark.”

“Never mind,” said Henry. “I’ve just noticed, Steve, that the doors and walls and windows are thick with bloody gore.”

“Well, it’s all ours,” Stephen declared. “We’ve broken a band-box full of old tools and things, and destroyed all our jack-knives. We have used heaps of nails, and—and—all sorts of things. Henry, we have suffered!”

Really, in heroism and fortitude these boys equalled the ancient Spartans; for they would have encountered any danger, undergone any hardship, to secure the success of their plot. Yes, they toiled as if they had a better cause in view.

The “Imposter” was next unearthed. It excited Henry’s liveliest admiration; and Steve said, as they deposited it in its hiding-place, “we’ll make it hot for you to-night, you old Atrocious Scoundrel, you!”

“Why, this is Mr. Atrocious Scoundrel, isn’t he, boys?” Henry said, beaming with delight.

“Of course he is,” the rest answered promptly.

But hold! Did not the letter state that this personage was away from home, that is from the prison? Surely, here was an oversight! Here was a quicksand! In good truth, the plot was too much for those boys to manage, and it had turned their brain.

It had turned their brain. Mark that, gentle reader, for it may help you to understand what is to follow shortly.

A guilty look was on Jim’s face whilst the boys spoke thus, but it escaped their notice. No, they did not suspect that there was treachery in the camp—least of all, that Jim was the traitor.

Then Henry donned his various “disguises,” and the little band of little plotters set out for the village. But Henry had not taken fifteen steps when he stumbled headlong over a submerged wheel-barrow (submerged in dense grass and rank weeds, gentle reader) and fell heavily.

“What the mischief!” he ejaculated. “Is this a demoralized sentinel, or a trap set by the hobgoblins?”

“It’s a wheel-barrow, Henry,” Will explained, “that belongs to this place.”

“Oh it belongs here, does it?” Henry asked, struggling to rise.

“Yes, it’s a fixture, Henry, a fixture;” piped up Steve, who had stumbled upon this word in a time-worn document a few days before.

Then Henry essayed to trundle it out of the way; but its wheel howled so piteously for grease that he desisted, saying in disgust, “Why this is as rusty and as worthless as an heir-loom.”

“Oh, we mostly turn it upside down and straighten nails on it,” Steve said, deprecatingly.

“Now,” said Henry, as they strode on, “when you rescuers come, I shall be just behind the front door, and Stephen will be in another room or up-stairs.”

“All right,” replied one of them.

As they were proceeding towards home, Will suddenly espied Marmaduke walking leisurely up the river. Although they had prepared for such a contingency they did not expect it. Did they put faith in their “disguise,” and advance calmly to meet him? Not for one moment! Instantly the greatest consternation prevailed, and they stopped and stared at each other in blank hopelessness.

“Oh, this is awful!” groaned Charles. “Our—plot—”

“Is ruined!” Steve gasped.

“O dear!” sighed Will. “Henry, do—do you suppose—”

Marmaduke continued to advance, and presently he hailed them.

Then Will lost all control of himself, and cried wildly: “Oh, Henry, we must run for it!”

“Yes, Henry; unblind your eye, and run!” Steve counselled.

The Sage, who had just hit upon a stratagem to get out of the difficulty, endeavored to restore order. But he was too late, as usual; and so, seeing that the boys were bent on flight, he had sufficient presence of mind to shout: “Split, boys, split; so that when Marma—”

But Henry had already torn off the handkerchief, and he and the other demoralized plotters were flying as though pursued by a regiment of light-armed Bélître Scélérats.

When Will and his relative gained the security of their own chamber, the latter said frankly: “Well, there is a lot of nice fellows here, and I like them well.”

“Yes,” said Will, “but you haven’t seen Marmaduke yet!”

“Will, I never ran away from anybody before—and this fellow is only a harmless and innocent schoolboy!”

---

Early in the afternoon, according to agreement, the boys betook themselves to the banks of the stream. Here Marmaduke was to be entrapped. Henry, with his peculiar “disguises” still about him was securely hidden in a tree, from which he would be able to see and hear the whole performance.

Charles had spent the noon in making himself tolerably familiar with the letter, which he now had in a bottle in his pocket. The others were gathered round the tree which was Henry’s hiding-place. Stephen was not with them, he having gone to look for the victim and induce him to come to the river.

Just as the plotters were beginning to fear that Marmaduke would not come, after all, he and Stephen appeared, striding along towards them. They were then all excitement, knowing that if their plot succeeded it would be now or never. Charles quietly moved a few rods farther up the river, and concealed himself behind a convenient bush.

At this the enraptured reader is heard to mutter that along that extraordinary river all the bushes seem to grow just where they will be most convenient.

“Hello, Marmaduke! how are you?” Will asked, in friendly tones.

“Hello, then! Boys, I’m vexed; how is it that you shun me, and run away like shooting stars whenever you see me?”

“Well, old fellow, let us make up friends, and have no more hard feelings,” Stephen said cheerfully.

Marmaduke did not know why there should ever have been any “hard feelings;” but, not wishing to press the matter, he heaved a sigh of relief, heartily said “all right,” and sat down among them.

Then they were at a loss to know what to talk about. But finally Will hit upon the topic of mowing-machines, and then each one was called upon to give his views. Then the conversation flagged, and for full five minutes there was silence, during which Marmaduke tranquilly pared his nails, while the plotters looked at each other in growing uneasiness. Where could Charley be? Why didn’t he fling the bottled letter into the river?

“Boys, what are your plans for the holidays?” Marmaduke suddenly inquired.

At that instant a faint splash, the bottle striking the water, was heard by Jim.

“There it is!” he blurted out.

The plotters knew what he meant, though the dupe certainly did not. Nevertheless, it seemed to them that such blunders must be put down; and accordingly they bent their brows, and cast such annihilating glances at the offender that he quailed, and felt decidedly “chilly.”

Will arose and said, “Let us stroll up a little way.”

All cheerfully agreed to this proposal, though Marmaduke probably thought that by “stroll” Will meant a tramp of perhaps three or four miles. They had taken only a few steps when all except Marmaduke saw the bottle floating lazily along. The question was, how should they draw his attention to it without arousing suspicion?

Stephen was equal to the emergency. Stooping, he picked up a smooth stone, gave it a legerdemain fling, and it shot forward, performing all sorts of whimsical gyrations. As Stephen had foreseen, all the boys, Marmaduke included, observed every movement of the stone from the instant it left his hand. Then he repeated his trick with a second stone, and lo! the second stone fetched up very close to the bottle! In order to keep up appearances and carry out the deceit, he was about to cut a geometrical curve with still another stone, when Marmaduke exclaimed, “Boys, what is that floating down stream! It looks like a bottle.”

Crafty Stephen! His ruse was entirely successful.

“It is a bottle!” Jim cried, in intense excitement. “A bottle! A floating bottle! Isn’t that very strange, boys?”

“Yes, it’s rather curious, but it isn’t a natural phenomenon, so don’t make so much stir about it,” Will said, fearing that Jim might overdo the matter. “I’ll strip off my clothes and swim after it, boys, unless some of you would like to take a plunge into the water.”

“Let us go out on our raft; that would be the proper way to get it!” declared ceremonious Marmaduke, not knowing that the raft had been turned to better account. “Come; the raft isn’t much farther up; let us get it out, and we can soon overtake the bottle.”

Ah, plotters! your troubles were beginning already!

“Pshaw!” cried Stephen, in seeming disgust. “It would be a loss of time to go up stream to sail after a wayfaring bottle like that. But we must get it, of course.——Now, hello, who is this fellow whistling and paddling on a home-made punt across over from the other shore down towards us? ’Pon my word, it’s Charley, without his clothes on! No; they’re strapped over his shoulders. Well, this is funnier than Jim’s wonderful bottle!”

Stephen’s astonishment was not feigned, for the boys had not planned how Charles was to rejoin them after setting the bottle afloat, and his sudden appearance in this guise was a great surprise to them all.

On Marmaduke’s arrival, Charles had paddled across the river on a stout plank, launching the bottled letter on his way, and drifted down by the opposite bank till abreast of the boys. Then, having turned his rude canoe, he struck out for them boldly; and the inference was that the boy, being on the right bank of the river and seeing his comrades on the left bank, had hit upon this semi-savage means to join them. Thus Marmaduke never suspected that there was any connection between Charley and the floating bottle.

But Jim felt insulted at Stephen’s last words, and he muttered sullenly: “’Taint my bottle! I never put it there!”

“You look like an alligator, Charley;” Marmaduke hallooed. “Where do you come from?”

“Oh, I’ve been prowling around,” Charles shouted back.

“There’s an old bottle about opposite us,” Stephen yelled; “heave ahead and bring it here; we want to see what it means.”

“The raft would be the best to get it,” Marmaduke murmured.

Ah! if he could have known that the plank bestridden by Charley was the foundation timber of their late raft!

“You see that our plot is working!” Stephen mumbled in the Sage’s ear. “He will believe it all!”

Charles directed his barge to the mysterious bottle, seized it, and then worked his way to his companions on the bank. While he unstrapped and huddled on his clothes the bottle was passed from one to another.

Marmaduke, who had hitherto taken only a languid interest in the matter, exclaimed feverishly, on seeing that the bottle held a paper, “Give it to me! It’s mine, because I saw it first!”

In a trice he had the paper out, and was endeavoring to make out its contents. As these have already been given, it would be only a wanton waste of time and foolscap for the reader to reperuse them with Marmaduke. It might afford a hard-hearted reader considerable amusement to hear his absurd interpretations, but it is both unwise and immoral to laugh at the mistakes and the ignorance of others. It is sufficient, therefore, to say that the great difference between Henry’s style and the style of teacher Meadows’ Method bewildered the young student.

Charles waited impatiently to read for him, while the rest moved down the river and took up their stand under the old tree in which Henry was ensconced.

Marmaduke and Charles soon followed, and presently the latter ventured to say, “Perhaps I could help you, Marmaduke.”

“No you couldn’t; it’s French, and I understand French just as well as you do,” was the ungracious answer.

“Oh, is it? Well, perhaps if we should put our heads together we might be able to decipher it; for,” he added, truthfully enough, “I’ve taken a great interest in French lately, and studied it tremendously. But, say, how did French get into that bottle?”

“Let me alone; I understand French;” Marmaduke growled, becoming more and more bewildered. But at last, after ten minutes’ unceasing study of the letter, he turned so dizzy that he was fain to give it up in despair. “Here, read it, if you can,” he said, handing it to Charles. “All I can make out is that it speaks of nobles, and steamboats, and castles, and anchors, and priests, and sailors, and an English king’s yacht, and America, and pumpers, and—and—castles, and—and General Somebody—.”

Charles had made himself tolerably familiar with the letter, but he could not yet read it very readily. However, his memory served him well, and he managed to get the main points. But after all the time and learning Henry had squandered on the letter, it was too bad that it should be “murdered” thus. Marmaduke listened eagerly, too much absorbed to wonder how it was that Charles could read so much better than he. As for the other auditors, to all appearance they were at first more startled than even Marmaduke.

“Well, boys,” said he, as Charles folded the letter, and wriggled uneasily in his damp clothes, “well, boys, you jeered at me about the bones, but at last we have stumbled upon romance! Here is something mysterious!

“Boys, let us solve the mystery! If we were only gallant knights of old, what glorious deeds we should perform!”

The speaker strutted up and down as pompously as a schoolboy can, while the plotters exchanged villainous winks, and glanced eloquently at the boy in the tree.

“Read that again!” was the command, and Charles dutifully obeyed, the dupe listening as eagerly as at first. The others made no remarks, but endeavoured to look grave and horror-stricken, while the master-plotter overhead was highly entertained.

“Oh, the monstrous villain! How durst he steal away a French noble’s daughter?” Marmaduke exclaimed vehemently. “And she, the heroine, how bravely she endures her lot! What a heroine!”

“Well, what shall we do about it?” Will asked, anxious that Marmaduke himself should propose going to the rescue. Foolish plotters! they supposed he would strike in with their views without any demur!

“Why, we must send it to our Government; it is a fit subject for our new President to deal with. There will be negotiations about it between France and America; we shall become known all over the world as the finders of the letter; and finally the illustrious prisoner will be delivered with great pomp. Yes, boys, we must write to Washington immediately.”

The plotters were appalled. Marmaduke was rather too romantic. He viewed the matter too solemnly.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Charles said quietly, as though it made little difference to him what steps Marmaduke might take, “I hardly think that would be the best way, Marmaduke, because, as you say, there would be negotiations between the two countries, and the imprisoned lady might remain a hopeless captive a long time before the business could be settled and herself set free. We are too chivalrous to let her pine away in solitude; and besides, by rescuing her ourselves our renown would be increased millions!”

These words, (especially the last dozen of them), so sonorous, so eloquent, so logical, had a telling effect on Marmaduke.

“You are right!” he exclaimed. “Yes, my brave companions, we will to the rescue! We may revive the days of chivalry! Now, who will dare to go with me?”

Then those wicked plotters laboured to suppress a burst of laughter, and declared that they would all “dare” to accompany him on his hazardous expedition.

Henry in the tree looked on in wonder. “What sort of a boy was this! He talks like a sixty-year-older!” he muttered; “well, I didn’t expect him to bring on the heroics till he met me as ‘Sauterelle,’ O dear! this limb isn’t so comfortable as it used to be.”

“Oh, what a glorious day this will be for us!” the enraptured one continued. “The emperor will dub us all knights! I must have that letter, Charley; but read it again first.”

Charley did so, but the letter was growing decidedly monotonous to him.

“Boys,” said Marmaduke musingly, “it seems to me that there are hardly interjections enough in it—no expressive ones at all, and, you know, a good Frenchman never says anything without several strong interjections and expletives.”

“If she was a French soldier, that would be quite right,” Charles admitted carefully. “But, she is the daughter of a noble duke.”

“If she were,” Marmaduke corrected, triumphing even in defeat. But he was open to reason, and said no more about interjections.

From time to time every boy except Marmaduke was irresistibly tempted to shoot a cheering glance toward Henry; but whenever this worthy could catch an offender’s eye through the leafy branches, he scowled so horribly that the offender instantly beheld something very attractive down the river.

“Now then, let us draw our conclusions,” said Marmaduke; “first, where can this prison be?”

“The letter says up this stream,” the Sage returned. “I—I guess perhaps it must be ‘Nobody’s House.’”

“That place! George, you are getting very crazy to say that! Well, we shall see as we go up the river; for, of course, as soon as we see the prison we shall know it’s the prison. Now, boys, see what an interesting fact is given us. The letter is dated July 10th, yesterday; therefore it has been floating only one day! How fast the current has swept it along!”

The boys had paid no attention to the date that Henry affixed to the letter, but they did not think the velocity very great.

“But, boys, there are some things strange in this;” Marmaduke observed. “In fact, there is one thing very strange—yes, very strange.”

The plotters, Henry included, quaked with fear. Was their ingenious scheme, the much-loved plot, which had cost so much “blood and treasure,” to come to nought? Had Marmaduke detected some flaw in the letter which had escaped their notice? Were they about to be unmasked in all their wickedness?

O plotters, your scheme, which was based and reared on fraud, was to proceed successful to the end.

“Wh-what is wrong?” Charley asked, with a quavering voice, his lips of that “ashy hue” which good romancers delight in introducing.

“Why,” Marmaduke began, “don’t you observe, sometimes the writer addresses the finder distantly in the third person, and then again familiarly and imploringly in the second person! Now, that is ridiculous. Grammar says not to mix the second and third persons together in writing; use either the one or the other.”

At this, Henry crammed the strings of his headgear, together with his fingers, far into his capacious mouth, and forgot that the limb on which he roosted was no longer comfortable; whilst the others heaved an audible sigh of relief, perceiving that Marmaduke, instead of wishing to find fault with the letter, wished only to display his great knowledge of things and people in general, grammar in particular.

But the plotters, one and all, had been in ignorance of this gross insult to grammar. Whether Henry had not been aware of the rule as quoted by Marmaduke, or whether he had been too sleepy to observe it, is an open question. It is stated (he stated it himself, of course, for no one heard him), however, that he muttered in his throat: “Certainly, this Marmaduke is no boy at all! His language is too far-fetched for a Yankee boy. Yes; he is some stunted old crack-brained dwarf of sixty!”

As soon as Charley could collect himself sufficiently he replied in these words: “I presume that the captive was in too disturbed a state of mind to pay particular attention to such minor matters as grammar. And besides, her grammars were probably at home in France, for likely she didn’t go aboard with a satchel of school-books in her hand. Now, the person considered most was evidently the person who should fly to the rescue.”

“Don’t treat her woes so lightly,” Marmaduke said angrily, beginning to suspect that the boys were making fun of him.

“That ghost story is queer; what do you think of it?” asked Will, anxious to have the grammarian’s opinion of that.

“Well, you know the French are a more excitable and romantic race than we are,” was the answer. “In her solitude and misery perhaps she fancies that ghosts are hovering near, for all French people have a powerful imagination.”

Ah! the boy overhead was gifted with a more powerful imagination than any one believed.

“Or,” continued Marmaduke, recollecting what he had read in a book at home, “or, who knows but that it is some trick of Scélérat’s to terrify her? Perhaps the monster thinks to drive her distracted!”

“Perhaps he does,” sighed Steve.

“Marmaduke, how do you suppose Bélître Scélérat managed to transport the prisoners from his yacht to this prison?” George had the curiosity to ask.

The deceived one ruminated a moment and then said sagely: “Well, as modern Frenchmen are so perfectly at home in balloons, for all we know they came that way. It would not take long, and the authorities could not overhaul them.”

“The very thing!” cried delighted Stephen. “And when we go to the rescue we can capture the balloon, if it is still there! Yes, I’ve heard before that Frenchmen love balloons.”

“Stephen,” shouted Marmaduke, “you have no finer feelings.”

“Well, let us hurry to the rescue!” Charles said impatiently. “Come, when shall we go?”

“I am to be your leader in this, because I take more real interest in the prisoner than any of you,” Marmaduke returned. “Yes, I must be the favored one to restore her to freedom. As to when the rescue can be made, I can’t possibly complete my arrangements till next week.”

The boys stared blankly, knowing that it would never do to defer the “rescue” till the next week. Marmaduke would certainly detect the imposture before that time.

Charles, however, soon recovered his equanimity, and said calmly: “That would be very wrong, for don’t you know the writer says she shall go mad if not rescued immediately? And she urges the finders to come this week, as Bélître Scélérat will be away. We are only boys, of course; but we are pretty lively boys, and more than a match for all his jailers.”

“Yes; but I want to meet this very man, this Scélérat.”

“O dear!” groaned Will, “if he is so anxious to meet the Atrocious, I’m afraid he’ll pounce on the ‘impostor’ as we go to hang it!”

Poor Will! The plot had quite turned his brain!

“Try chivalry again,” Stephen whispered to Charles.

“Well, we are too chivalrous to put off the rescue, only because one of us wishes to encounter this Bélître Scélérat,” cunning Charley observed. “At least,” he added, “I hope we are too chivalrous—in France they would be.”

In his hands chivalry was a mighty lever, one by which foolish Marmaduke could be turned, and made to act as they saw fit.

“Well, then, let us go this evening,” Marmaduke answered.

The plotters were delighted. By skilful management their would-be leader proved very tractable.

Will, who had hitherto held his peace, now exclaimed with unfeigned enthusiasm, “How eagerly Sauterelle will welcome us!”

A grievous frown darkened the champion’s brow. Confronting Will, he thundered: “How dare you boys speak of her in that way?—her, the daughter of one of France’s proudest nobles! When it is necessary to mention her name, speak of her as the Lady de la Chaloupe.”

Henry did not know whether to feel complimented or not. He was slowly forming a very unfavorable opinion of Marmaduke, not knowing that the boy was now in his element, and hardly responsible for his actions. When nothing mysterious occurred to arouse him, Marmaduke was very much like any other boy; but let him stumble upon a mystery, and he was entirely changed.

But Stephen, fearing that Marmaduke did not yet sufficiently realize the magnificence of the duke’s genealogy and title, said excitedly, “That Duke Chalopsky is the descendant of a whole gang of peers, and lords, and such people, just like any other duke; isn’t he Marmaduke?”

Will trembled and whispered, “Hush!”

The deceived knight-errant felt insulted, and asked, haughtily, “What do you know about it, Stephen Goodfellow?”

Stephen quaked, but finally answered meekly, very meekly, “Oh, I’ve studied about dukes that ran back to the Conquest of something or other, and so I thought likely he did.”

The Conquest! Marmaduke’s face brightened; he smiled; he spoke. “O-o-h, Stephen!” he said, “your notions of history are as much a muddle as all your other notions! But I haven’t time to enlighten you now. Now, boys,” he continued, affably, “let us take a lesson from Will and his cousin when they set out to hunt the demon. We must not carry firearms, but we must go armed with pikes and sabres.”

“Where shall we procure ‘pikes and sabres?’” Steve, no longer confused, but smarting and angry, sarcastically asked. “I can’t imagine, unless we carve ’em out of broomsticks and staves, and such ‘pikes and sabres’ don’t amount to much. So, let us go to the rescue armed like the dusty warriors of the forest—with hatchets, and bows, and George’s grandfather’s great knife, and slings, and levers, and catapults, and arrows.”

Steve probably meant dusky warriors. However, either expression is correct.

Marmaduke very properly paid no attention to Steve’s insulting suggestions, but condescended to ask, “How many jailers do you suppose there will be?”

“There were to be three, weren’t there, boys?” Will blunderingly replied to him, and asked of the others.

“Why, how do you know?” Marmaduke asked in surprise. “The letter says nothing about the number of jailers; so, how can you tell? What do you mean, anyway, Will?”

Will looked so disconcerted that Marmaduke, although his faith in Sauterelle was still unshaken, began to suspect that the boys were trying to impose on him in some way.

At this crisis the traitor Jim grinned, and said, “Well, you fellows needn’t make faces at me after this! Will has said worse than I did.”

Let it not be supposed that Jim’s treachery lay in seeking to overthrow the plot. By no means; he rejoiced in it, and spoke as he did only to revenge himself on the others for scowling at him so wickedly, as related in the beginning of this chapter. Such was Jim, who could bear malice for a long time; while the others, although they might be very angry for a few minutes, soon subdued their passions, and never “nursed their wrath.”

And yet these unguarded words nearly made an end of the entire plot. It was now in real danger; again it tottered on its foundation. Only the greatest tact and presence of mind could save it from utter destruction.

Charles was the one to avert such a disaster, and he said jokingly, as though the salvation of the plot did not depend on him: “Here are two extraordinary juveniles; one thinks because a white man in his school-book was captured by Indians and guarded by three jailers, every captive is bound to have just three! The other thinks because a boy makes a face at him he is brewing some great wickedness!”

It was not so much the words he said as the nonchalant way in which he said them. The happy boldness of acknowledging that somebody had “made faces” at Jim disarmed Marmaduke, and for the time, at least, his suspicions were allayed.

Will had too much sense to be offended at being thus ridiculed. If he had answered back sharply, a quarrel would certainly have ensued, and then the plot would as certainly have been blown up. As for Jim, though sulky and wrathful, he also held his peace.

---

The plot was saved; but the plotters saw that a great deal of immoral scheming was required to keep it up, and that, after all, it was a volcano which might at any moment—not exactly “hurl them to destruction,” but tear itself to pieces.

The time and place of meeting were then appointed, and all the boys departed for their respective homes; all excepting Will and Stephen, who lingered to escort Henry.

As soon as the homeward-bound party was out of sight, the latter slid down from his perch, stretched himself with many a groan, and readjusted the knight-errant’s sun-bonnet, as, the plot being now so near completion, he was very anxious to take every precaution.

“Well,” he growled, “it took you a mighty long time to arrange matters; and that tree is the most abominably uncomfortable and hard-hearted tree that I ever saw. Boys,” dolefully, “I don’t like this hiding around in strayed forest trees, and it is a good thing you persuaded him not to wait till next week, for I couldn’t have kept out of his sight so long.”

“Well, what do you think of him!” Will asked eagerly.

“Oh, he is as much like a musket as a boy,” Henry replied indifferently. “But,” with some show of interest, “what did he mean by wanting to sail out on the raft, just to get the bottle?”

“Oh,” said Will, “Marmaduke thinks if it is worth while to do anything, it is worth while to do it with great ceremony. If the raft had been where he supposed it was, and if we had let him alone, he would have spent half an hour floating around after the bottle, and very likely have got as wet as if he had gone in swimming for it with his clothes on!”

After digesting this explanation, Henry proposed that they also should go home. Will and Stephen were agreed, and the trio slunk off towards the village as fearfully as if a minion of the law were in hot pursuit. Now that their plot was an accomplished fact, it would be very unfortunate if they should be caught napping.

After supper Henry was joined by Stephen, and the two archplotters set out for “Nobody’s House” in the most exuberant spirits. Already Henry felt a little tired, (let it be remembered that he had not yet recovered from the effects of the preceding day’s journey,) and he was obliged to get Stephen to carry a mysterious-looking bundle which he had brought away from his aunt’s. This bundle contained the fantastic “disguise” in which Henry was to figure as Sauterelle.

From the tender age of two years, Stephen had been a regular attendant of picnics, where he had imbibed many extravagant notions, and arrived at a very boyish and extremely absurd conclusion respecting lovers. According to his views, a lover is a young man, who, after perfuming his handkerchief and smearing his head with hair-oil, escorts a young lady to a picnic, breaks her parasol, fails to provide ice-cream enough, and finally sees her escorted home under the protection of his hated rival.

“Henry,” he said, as they hurried on, “I saw Marmaduke tricked out for the rescue, and, he didn’t mean me to find it out, but I did; he had put hair-oil on his head, and, as he had no scent, on his handkerchief, too! Henry, I was so—so—”

“Demoralized?”

“That’s the word, Henry. I was so demoralized that I said, without thinking: ‘why, Marmaduke,’ said I, ‘you look more like a genuine lover than any boy I ever saw!’”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Nothing; but he looked so insulted and heart-broken that I apologized, and told him he was a bully boy, and I always was a fool, anyway. Well, Henry, when he comes to the rescue, things will be lively, according to that, eh?”

“Well, Steve, I once cured a brave boy of his bravery, and if I don’t cure this fellow of his romance and credulousness, I shall at least make awful fools of us both.”

“How did you cure a boy of being brave?” Stephen asked eagerly, regarding Henry with respect and admiration.

But here the writer remorselessly shifts the scene to the others.

As soon after the departure of Henry and Stephen as was prudent, the “brave men” who were to be the rescuers—Will, Charles, George, Jim, and the heroic “leader,” Marmaduke—assembled and set out for the rendezvous, armed very much as Stephen had suggested.

Visions of figuring on future battle-fields of Europe as Marshal Marmaduke Fitz-Williams flitted through the hero’s brain, and he strove to deport himself with as martial an air as possible. But such an air hardly ever sits easy on a school-boy’s shoulders.

“Comrades,” he began, using, as far as he knew how, the identical phraseology of a French soldier when addressing his companions in arms, “comrades, we are embarking in a hazardous undertaking, but the nobleness of our work will spur us on to deeds of victory. It is a noble deed that we are called on to perform—the release of a daughter of one of the potentates of earth! Let this thought inspire us with enthusiasm! Let us fly to the rescue, fixed in the resolution to win or die! We shall warrior like the doughty knights of old!”

Poor hero! he had yet to learn that warrior is not used in that way. His eloquence, however, was entirely lost on his hearers, it being too grandiloquent for even the Sage to appreciate; and like many another orator, he but “wasted his sweetness on the desert air.”

“Fellow-soldiers,” he continued, “I will use my influence to procure your promotion, and you will all one day be renowned generals of the empire.”

Alas! about the time the speaker took to singing love-songs and reading love-stories that empire was disrupted!

“That about the emperor’s wanting one more general was a good stroke, eh, Will?” Charles whispered.

It would be foreign from the purpose to record all Marmaduke’s bombastic speeches as he and his fellows marched to the field of battle. Let it be taken for granted that in due time they drew up before the fortress.

Marmaduke reconnoitred the grim old building with its grated windows and formidable door, and soon decided that here was the prison, though it was patent to all that he was disappointed, having expected greater things—having, in short, expected to see a structure bearing more or less resemblance to the Bastile itself.

Marmaduke screened himself behind the dilapidated fence, and called out, in commanding tones: “Hist! I call a halt!”

As his troops had already halted, they sat down, thinking that if Henry and Stephen were not yet prepared to receive them this delay would be in their favour.

“Corporal James Horner, do you perceive a sentinel on guard before the prison?” the would-be commander asked.

“Corporal Horner,” who could not see that part of the prison so well as the questioner himself, was struck with awe, and answered timidly, “No, sir, I don’t see nobody.”

“Sir to me! You would do better to call me General.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim returned, feeling his terrible chills creeping on.

“Lieutenant Lawrence,” said the young general, “keep order among your forces! Positively, no straggling!”

The newly-made lieutenant executed his superior’s orders promptly and effectually. “If he keeps on at this rate,” he whispered to George, “there will be fun enough to last for a year! Oh, if Henry and Steve were only here to enjoy it!”

“Silence in the ranks!” roared the general. “Commodore Charles Growler, I call a council of war.”

This was too much for the more deeply read George, and he cut short the general’s programme, saying: “A commodore commands a squadron of ships. There are no ships here that I know of—only a squad of boys.”

The general was nonplussed. He even felt inclined to dismiss this arrogant fellow from the service; but fears of encountering a swarm of armed jailers induced him not to dismiss so good a warrior as the Sage was known to be. So, after deliberating a moment, he said, meekly enough, “Boys, we are only losing time here. Let us make a charge, and burst the door open, and then we can fight our way right on.”

Burst open the door! Then indeed the timbers of their raft would be destroyed! But this was no time to reason with Marmaduke, and they consented to the sacrifice cheerfully.

Charles very readily came upon what had once been a pump; and after great and violent efforts the corporals, lieutenants, commodores, generals, etc., succeeded in raising it to their shoulders; and then, with soldier-like disregard for the hideous grubs which nestled on it, they marched, with martial tread, to force an entrance into the prison.

“This will do instead of a genuine ram,” the general observed deprecatingly. “Such people as we are often have to resort to various shifts to do what they wish to do.”

“So do boys,” Charles commented sarcastically, but without a smile.

“Charge!” cried the general valiantly, when about thirty feet from the door.

A blind rush was made; but barely five steps had been taken when the general, who of course led, tripped over a stone, and the entire “squad” fell headlong, the “ram” and its grisly inhabitants descending on their backs with a cruel thud.

Of course no bones were broken, gentle reader, for it is impossible to kill a hero, and, as a general rule, impossible to hurt one. And all these were heroes.

Yet much of their enthusiasm escaped with the “ohs!” that started from each pair of lips.

“Such little accidents are disheartening,” the general gasped, as he struggled to his feet; “but we are above letting them deter us from our duty. Charge again! Only, be more careful.”

As he alone was blamable for the mishap, this advice was superfluous.

The ram was shouldered again, somewhat reluctantly; a furious charge was made; and the ram was brought against the “blood-bought” door with considerable force. A peal of thunder ensued, and the nowise strong door was shattered, fatally. Truly, this was effecting an entrance in warlike style.

But a catastrophe might have been the result. Henry was seated in the hall, not aware that the besiegers were at hand, and little dreaming that they intended to force an entrance. When the door was suddenly burst open, he was started into action in an unlooked for manner—the flying timbers striking his crazy chair so forcibly that it gave way, flinging him headlong to the floor.

More startled than hurt, Henry sprang to his feet, and recognizing Will and some of the others, shrieked, in accents unmistakably English: “Saved! Saved!”

The appearance presented by the rescued one was superlatively ridiculous. None of the boys had seen him attired in this disguise, and they were thunder-struck at the metamorphosis. Even Marmaduke stared aghast at the sight he beheld.

In a spirit of mischief Stephen had clothed Henry thus, saying, “Poor Marmaduke; he’ll never know; he’ll think you’re dressed up in the height of fashion. But he will think that Paris fashions, in crossing the seas, lose much of their beauty; and while your costume is all right, other people’s must be all wrong!”

As a hoodlum boy would have put it: He looked like all possessed!

---

Kings, ghosts, sea-nymphs, heroes, heroines, all beings, are made to act and speak in romance just as the exigencies of the plot demand; and yet it is intimated, in the same breath, that “it is all quite natural, just as it would be in real life!” In this story every one certainly acts as the writer pleases, but, so far as he knows, these boys behave as like boys under similar circumstances would behave. In this chapter, however, there is an exception, where a change from nature is necessary; and without a moment’s hesitation, they are made to throw off all restraint, and talk and act as befits the occasion. In a word, the boys are here no longer boys, but the noble beings of romance.

We do not pretend that any boys would carry on a conversation in their high-swelling strains, the narrative being couched under such strains for a particular and well-meant purpose. The object being, throughout the story, to cast ridicule on all sorts of things, this freedom to write in whatever style is most pertinent to the matter under discussion is our prerogative, and we use it. In short, we act here on the principle, that a writer should be hampered by no conventionalities or restrictions that interfere with the plan of his story.

It seems to be a well-established principle, that love cannot be expressed in romance except in a poetic form. We do not believe this holds good in real life, yet, wishing this story to be accounted a romance, we have thought it well to abide by the rule in this instance. After a short deliberation, we have decided to write their passionate colloquy as though it were only prose; but the intelligent reader can easily read it as verse—in fact, if he chooses, he can set it all to music.

After digesting this preamble in connection with what goes before, the reader of mature years, if not entirely witless, will be able to grasp our meaning and discern our motive—or motives, for in this chapter the aim is to kill several birds with one stone. But the boys—for whom, after all, the story is written principally—had better skip this turgid preamble, because a boy always likes to believe a story is more or less true, and we should be grossly insulted if any one should insinuate that this story is true.

Considered in this light, the chapter appears to be only a piece of foolishness, after all. But, in a measure, it may be considered logically also. For instance, there seems to be a “vein of reason” running through it all, and if the reader is on the watch, he will see that this “vein of reason” crops out frequently. After this preamble it opens very rationally.

“Considered logically,” says the reader, “how could this Henry, a veritable lover, stoop to play the fool, as he did? How could he do this, if he had any respect for his passion, or for the one whom he loved?”

Considered logically, gentle reader, Henry was a boy; his heart was sore from fancied slights; he was desperate; it occurred to him that, placed as he was, he might “view the question from the other side!” Furthermore, although he and Stephen had conspired to torment Marmaduke, it is plain that almost everything he said, he said extempore.

As for Marmaduke, he had no sisters, was scarcely ever in the society of young ladies, and knew nothing of their ways.

“These are but sorry excuses,” sighs the reader, “unworthy of even a school-boy!”

Very true. But they are the best that we can trump up, and therefore it would be better for you to consider this chapter as founded on the opposite of reason and logic.

Marmaduke was anxious that he alone should be recognized as the liberator, for he wished to receive all the glory of rescuing the captive. With that intent he pressed nearer Sauterelle, directing his followers, by an imperious wave of the hand, to disperse in search of the enemy, and, when found, to give them battle.

Interpreted into language, that command would have run: Hound down the mercenary crew, and spare them not! Their evil deeds have brought this fate upon their heads!

The avenging party understood this, and, thirsting for blood and glory, they hurled themselves out of the apartment, whilst Marmaduke turned his attention to the captive. He saw gratitude, admiration, even reverence, in the two blue eyes that looked at him. No fear of not being acknowledged as the rescuer-in-chief: Henry would acknowledge him, and him only.

“Ah, my deliverer!” he cried, in so-called French; “you have come to rescue me, to restore me to freedom! You have found my appeal for help, and these brave men are your followers?”

Marmaduke tried hard to understand this, but was obliged to ask if the conversation could not be carried on in English.

“Yes, yes, I can speak English,” came the reply. “The good priest has taught me English.”

At that instant a fierce combat was heard in an adjoining room, and horrisonous cries of rage and terror filled the whole building. The hero knew at once that his followers had encountered, and were waging deadly contest with, the wicked jailers, and his heart swelled with emotion.

He was right; his followers had drawn their home-made weapons, and while Charles, Steve, and Jim, personated these wicked jailers, Will and George personated the gallant liberators. Having had a rehearsal a few days previous, they now fought easily and systematically, and with such heroism and fury that victory must inevitably perch upon their standard. But, after all (and in this they were quite right), they fought as much with their lungs as with their arms, so that the din was tremendous. For full five minutes the combat raged without abatement. The gray light coming in through the open doorway cast a greenish and peculiar hue over our hero’s grand face, and he stood stock-still, collected but voiceless; while the other, wholly unprepared for such an uproar, longed to thrust his fingers into his ears, and pitied himself with all his heart as he thought of the racking headache that must soon seize him.

But finally they vanquished the enemy, and all except Stephen, who had not yet turned priest, rushed into the presence of the hero and heroine, shouting wildly: “Routed! Worsted! Slain!”

“All? Are all slain? And is the battle past?”

“All; one and all; and we have won.”

“And so my freedom comes to me again!” cried Sauterelle. “And I am free, free as the birds, for all his evil schemes are baffled now!”

Then, as was right on such an occasion, Sauterelle sank at our hero’s feet, and began in the “bursting heart” style, without which no such scene ought to be drawn: “Oh, my deliverer, accept my thanks! Through you I thus am freed! through you I once again shall see dear France,—dear France, that land of heroes!—Heroes? Ah! all are heroes here, in this, the land of liberty! Oh, gallant men, you have done well!”

“Ah, yes, ’tis for the brave to battle for the fair in every land,” our hero said, as though he, too, had fought.

Sauterelle still kneeled before our hero, expecting to be lifted up. But an immense, pyramidal head-dress, many inches high, which only Steve could construct, towered upwards till almost on a level with our hero’s eyes, bewildering him.

“Noble American, this is a rescue worthy of a prince!” Sauterelle cried, suddenly rising and grasping our hero’s hands in a bear-like grip.

“Your ladyship—”

“No, no! My title here is but an empty sound, so call me simply Sauterelle.”

“Sau-ter-elle Hi-ron-delle. What sweet and pretty names!” our hero murmured softly, as Sauterelle let go his hands.

“What is the name of him who sets me free?”

“Fitz-Williams is my name; my first name, Marmaduke.”

Our hero’s followers, still hot, exhausted, and bruised, but not particularly blood-stained, now rose and stole away, and presently another great uproar was heard from them. They had seized the impostor and were carrying it, or him, roughly along.

“Here is the great chief villain and arch-plotter of them all! Here is Bélître Scélérat himself!” they roared.

“Bélître Scélérat? How comes he here? I understood that he was far away,” our hero said, much puzzled.

They paused in doubt and consternation. Then a flash of reason penetrated to their darkened intellect, and dimly conscious that some one had plotted too much, or not enough, they started into action and pressed tumultuously on with their captive.

“Oh, for a sword, that I might pierce the monster’s heart!” our hero sighed, but sighed in vain.

At that instant, Steve, now the priest, passed pompously through the room, and catching our hero’s last words, replied: “No, no! Soil not thy hands with such a perjured wretch, nor soil thy sword. These soldiers here should pierce his ears, not thee,” wilfully mistaking the word heart for ears—or perhaps he did not understand English so well as his pupil. “Brave men, go forth and hang this captured knave from some great height, and leave him there to crumble into dust.”

Our hero’s blood-thirsty followers lugged Bélître Scélérat out of the room and up the stairs with a haste that proved how well and strongly he was made, and remorselessly prepared to consign him to his ignominious fate.

Then our hero and heroine again broke out into their poetry, the latter saying, “And now, my freedom is achieved. Ah me! I almost now regret that we should leave these shores, this land of blessèd liberty, and travel back alone to our loved France! Ah, in my hour of triumph am I sad? Yes, woe is me, I am!—Oh, Marmaduke, there is no need of this! The priest is here, the bridegroom and the bride! Oh Marmaduke, there is no cause why I should go alone. Ah, thou wilt soon be mine, and I shall soon be thine! Thy husband,—wife, I mean. Oh, Marmaduke, dear Marmaduke!”

As Sauterelle ran on in this strain our hero grew pale and sick with dismay. Was he to be made a sacrifice of thus? Must the rescue of necessity lead to this? Oh, it was too awful!

“A beauty here that would befit a queen; and, yes, I feel love springing in my heart! But should I marry? I, a boy, and this, the daughter of a duke? Oh, that it might be so! As I have said, the French are more excitable than we. But am I not the rescuer-in-chief? In such a case as this, what should I do?”

A triumphant shout of sated vengeance now rang through the building. Bélître Scélérat was securely fastened, not exactly hanged, out of an upper window. A minute later the executioners came clattering noisily down stairs, then filed respectfully past our hero and heroine into another room, and took up a position where they were screened, but from which they could see and hear all that was going on. This action on their part was more conformable to human nature than to the laws of romance or the dignity of heroes.

A sidelong glance disclosed the fact that our hero’s face was of the hue of polished marble, and that large tears of heartfelt emotion were starting from his eyes, while other tears were welling from the pores of his neck and forehead.

“Père Tortenson, Père Tortenson,” cried Sauterelle. “Is he not here? Then go, some one, to look for him, and bring him here to me. The marriage may take place without delay.”

“Dear Sauterelle,” our hero said, “I feel I love thee well indeed, but yet I may not marry thee. Thy friend, thy humble servant, guide, and helper, I will ever be; thy husband—ah!”

Our hero’s grammar says mine and thine are used only in solemn style. Our hero and heroine were aware of this—they were but paying tribute to the solemnity of the occasion.

“No! say not that! You own that you love me as I love thee. What is there then to come between us and our happiness? Is it, alas! my title and my rank? Think not of them; they shall be nought to us. My Marmaduke, I’d lay them all aside for thee. Or what is it? Speak, Marmaduke; I wait to hear thee speak.”

“Alas, dear Sauterelle,—if really I may call thee so,—I am not worthy thee. It is indeed thy title and thy rank. How couldst thou wed a non-commissioned officer like me?”

“Perhaps you are the kidnapped heir of some great English lord.”

“Oh, could it be? Oh, would it were! Then I thy equal—Oh, say not that! No; do not torture me.”

“I understand it now,—my love is not returned,—you do not care for me.”

“Love thee! Indeed I love thee well—love thee, as boy never loved before—love thee, as I ne’er can love again!”

“Oh, Marmaduke! dear Marmaduke! you cause me joy. My Marmaduke, I’ll call again the priest.”

“Thy father!—No, no! I dare not meet thy father!”

“Dread not my father’s ire. He loves his child; his child loves thee. Ah, thou art all mine own, for all that thou hast urged is but a paper wall.”

“Dear Sauterelle, I must admit I love thee well. To be thine own—oh, joy! But no; it cannot be. I have no wealth, no heritage at all. A wife is far from me.”

“Wealth? What is wealth to me? Wealth is an idle word—non-entity—a gin—a snare—a clap-trap. How should we live? Let no such thoughts occur to thee. Though wealth is nought, ’tis true, my father hath it, and thou couldst have enough to live as princes live.”

“‘Alas,’ you said, ‘perhaps my father lives no more.’”

“Ah, then am I his heir, and all his riches ours. Oh, Marmaduke, why should you longer hesitate to take this step, or longer pause for foolish whims? Then call again the priest. Why loiters he?”

But our hero was not yet sensible of the duty that devolved upon him—he did not yet fully realize his position—he still hung back—and his poetical objections having been one by one confuted, he now had the excess of baseness to offer another.

“Alas, I know not well thy foreign tongue. How couldst thou hear me always in my rough tongue, when thine, so sweet, so soft, so beautiful—”

“No! speak not so!” cried Sauterelle. “I will not hear thee speak so! Oh, slander not the language that is thine. And, ah!—thou art a ready youth, I see it in thine eye,—how sweet the task of teaching thee my polished mode of thought and speech! But yet, even as it is, we can converse quite easily! Père Tortenson, the time for marrying is here.”

“Ah, that is truth!” our hero cried. “You speak my English quite as well as I!”

Then, in a rational moment, he said rationally, “As you have said, dear Sauterelle, we love each other well; but being still so young, so very young, we must not think of marriage yet a while. ’Tis hard to part with thee,—our lot is doubly hard,—but fate is ever merciless. Farewell, my love, we part.”

He tore himself away, as though he would have fled.

“’Tis true that we are young,” said Sauterelle. “Our hearts are warm and young, not chilled and seared with age and woe. To leave me? No! it shall not be! Thou must not go!”

“To love is either happiness or pain; to love, and to be loved again,—oh, this is ecstasy!”

“Oh, Marmaduke, you thrill my heart with joy!”

“Alas, dear Sauterelle, that love and duty should thus clash! But, oh, I must not marry thee; I am so far beneath thee. Dear Sauterelle, thou wilt return to France and be the wife of some great prince, while I, alas! shall wear my life away in hopelessness and grief. And yet, oh Sauterelle, I love thee so! I love thee so! I fear I yet shall yield to love, forgetting duty.”

Then Charles stepped out of his lurking-place, and said respectfully:

“Forgive me, sir, that I should speak to you, but duty is not always what it seems. How can this helpless one return to France alone! A priest at hand, a marriage, sir, is duty in this case. Your father’s house is near—live there till Duke Chaloupe hears of this rescue and this marriage. Then Duke Chaloupe will send us funds for all to go to France.”

“Oh, would that I could think that you are right! I should no longer hesitate.”

Then, forgetting himself and his position, he fell back on prose. “Why should not Lady Sauterelle and the priest return? Are there no hoards of jewels and treasure here in this building, that would pay the passage, at least? Scélérat, perhaps, has millions buried here, which can be found.”

“No he hasn’t,” said Will, thrusting his head into the room. “Not a cent. What did you expect the captive to do after the rescue? What were your ideas on that point?”

“Alas,” groaned Marmaduke, “I had none! I never thought what any of us would do immediately after the rescue; my thoughts were far ahead in the future. Oh, if I had only sent that letter to the Government!”

At that moment a person with majestic mien strode into the room, saying, “I come, I come; who calls Père Tortenson? Is it a marriage, lovely Sauterelle? If so, quite right. Who is the honored bridegroom?”

As Marmaduke’s chivalric notions of right and wrong still admonished him not to enter into marriage with a person of noble birth, he had the uprightness to resist the feelings of his heart once more, though it cost him a hard struggle to do so.

Then the other, casting on a tragic air, said, “Alas for the decay of chivalry! In the old days it was not thus. Then no weak whim of fancied right e’er came between two loving hearts.”

Charles whispered to our hero’s followers, and then, having stepped into the room, they chorused, their voices, attuned by war and conquest, filling the place with harmony: “Your duty, sir, is very plain, and we are grieved that we should have to point it out: a marriage, as you are. A few years hence, and you will be the mighty king of some great land.”

Then Marmaduke shone forth in all his native nobleness. He reverently took Sauterelle’s hand in his own, but before giving the word to the priest he chanted: “In rank, in ti-tle, and in birth; in rich-es, age, and clime; in all things, thou surpassest me, O lovely Sauterelle.”

“Yea, even in height!” chimed in Père Tortenson.

“Proceed, sir priest,” said Marmaduke.

---

The plot was now, they supposed, at an end. It would be as well to consider its framers as boys again.

Henry did not wish to prolong the scene, and he whispered to Will: “This is as far as I dare go; but try to think of something—anything—to keep up the fun a little longer.”

Stephen pretended to be fumbling in the pockets of his robe. Turning to the Sage, he whispered imploringly, “Oh, George, can’t you ‘ventriloquism’ a little—ever so little?”

“The ghost!” George muttered. “Let us bring in the ghost!”

“The ghost? My stars! we never settled how that was to be done!” Steve said blankly.

“Oh, Steve, I wish you were free to play the spectre!” Will sighed. “What was it that we intended the ghost to do, anyway?”

“Oh, my gracious, I don’t know; I’m all a muddle!”

But the moments were slipping away very fast. Marmaduke heard their mutterings, though he did not understand them, and he was becoming uneasy.

“Proceed with the ceremony,” he repeated.

---

But the tables were to be turned in a startling and wholly unlooked-for manner. The boys had had their day of imposing on simple Marmaduke; and now, in their turn, they were destined to suffer acutely from uneasiness and remorse for several hours.

Such a sentence always finds a place in romances at certain conjunctures, and, if judiciously worded, reflects great credit on the romancer. But the reader cannot always perceive the beauty of such a sentence, and therefore it would be showing more respect for his feelings to follow our Jim.

This hero had slipped away from his companions shortly before Stephen at last appeared as priest. Being only a figure-head on this occasion, his absence or presence did not concern them in the least, and he was suffered to slip out of the backdoor without comment.

He wished to make his way into the upper story without going up the stairs, as to do that it would be necessary to pass the hero and heroine. However, being well-acquainted with the building, and knowing how to climb, he easily made his way into the upper story from the rear. Then he stole noiselessly across the gloomy chamber, and felt his way to the window, where the “imposter,” Bélître Scélérat, hung in state.

It is a fundamental principle that villains, when about to perpetrate their dark crimes, should express their wicked thoughts in “hurried whispers.” This is very foolish on the part of the villains; but it is not easy to see how novels could be written if it were otherwise. Of course the romancers do not always overhear these “hurried whispers,” but the walls in the vicinity have ears, and probably the romancers get at them in that way.

“Now, then,” muttered Jim, “I’ll teach ’em better than to leave me out of their plots till they have to let me in. Charley and Steve intend to come along for this to-morrow, do they, and take it away, and float it burning down the river? I’ll bet they won’t! I’ll burn it all to smoke and ashes now, as it hangs on its pins, and serve ’em right!”

“Hum, this is Jim’s treachery!” sneers the reader. “I was led to expect something better; I am disappointed.”

Gentle reader, if you are a faithful peruser of novels, you must have a great fund of patience. Draw, then, on that fund, and more of Jim’s designs will presently be unfolded. Draw on your imagination, also; for his treachery was never fully made known.

Suiting the action to the word, Jim fumbled in his pocket and took out a bunch of matches, which he had put there for this very purpose. He knew he was doing wrong, and his hand trembled as he struck a light. He knew that his terrible disease might seize him at any moment; and so, fearing to stay longer where he was, he hastily applied the light to the spectral figure, and turned to steal away.

The inflammable material of Bélître Scélérat’s clothes instantly caught fire, and he himself was soon ablaze.

“Now to run and tell Marmaduke he is fooled,” Jim muttered.

In this way, poor simpleton, he thought to ease his conscience! But the “still small voice” will be deceived by no such flimsy excuses.

“Then to yell ‘Fire!’—Oh, if any ghost should be up here, now,—if there are such things as ghosts,—this is the place for them! Now, to get away.——Ow! Ow! Ouowh!”

The cause of these unmusical yells from Jim was that he heard hasty footsteps issuing from a room to the left, and then a ghost-like figure appeared in the flaring light of the burning impostor.

Jim had almost expected to encounter something horrible, and when this apparition hove in sight his terror was all the more intense.

Setting up horrisonous howls, that would have been a credit to Bob Herriman himself, he forgot all about the dangerous place in the floor,—which, as has been said, the explorers discovered, carefully marked out, and avoided,—and rushed blindly upon it. A groan, a trembling, and it gave way beneath him with the crash of an earthquake.

Marmaduke had just given the word to the priest for the second time, when a succession of frightful howls and yells of agony struck their ears, and a moment later a blinding cloud of dust, plaster, and splinters, pervaded the apartment.

Jim, a scratched and woe-begone object, also fell.

Thus the plotters’ little difficulty was obviated; thus a ghost came to them.

But that was not all. It so happened (rather, of course it happened) that Sauterelle and the general were in the course of the faller.

Before any of the demoralized plotters could think what was the matter, or even think at all, Jim dropped heavily downward, and his feet caught in the rescued one’s outlandish headdress. It was rudely torn off, and Henry’s aching head received so violent a wrench that he could have roared with the pain.

Although Jim’s fall was not stopped, its course was deflected, and his head and body were thrown furiously into Marmaduke’s and Stephen’s arms. He thus escaped with sundry painful bruises, owing perhaps his life to the accident of striking Henry’s headdress and being thrown upon Marmaduke and Stephen.

These two, also, were stunned and slightly hurt; and a pair of unique goggles, that Steve wore as a partial disguise, went the way of the hammer, the axe, and the band-box full of rusty tools.

Confusion reigned for a few moments; but as soon as the general could think at all, his thoughts reverted to Sauterelle.

“Oh, where is Lady Sauterelle?” he cried.

He flew to Henry’s side, to behold—oh what?

Henry had seized his opportunity to strip off his disguise, and now stood revealed in coat, vest, and pants—a very boy-like boy.

The plotters, somewhat recovered from their surprise, and seeing that no one was much the worse for the fright, saw the dupe’s look of horror and consternation, and could restrain themselves no longer. The long pent-up laughter burst from each mouth in one deafening roar. This was what they had plotted for, and it had come.

With a tragic and truly pathetic air, Marmaduke threw up his hands, cried, in piteous tones, that the plotters will remember till their last hour, “I am betrayed!” and fled out of the house like a madman.

For the first time the boys felt heartily ashamed of themselves. They all ran out to call him back and beg his forgiveness, and discovered what they would have known before, if they had not been so engrossed with Jim’s fall and Henry’s unmasking.

The building was on fire and burning furiously! Though it was not five minutes since Jim struck his match, the fire had gained too great a hold to be extinguished.

Jim was appalled. Nothing was further from his thoughts than the burning of the prison-house; though a little reflection would have shown him that a figure fashioned of greasy clothes, and stuffed with rags, straw, shavings, and sundry valuables that slipped in unawares, could not burn within a few inches of a wooden building without setting it on fire.

“Fire! fire!” yelled the heroes, hardly knowing whether to be delighted or otherwise at the prospect of such a bon-fire.

In the excitement of the moment the search after Marmaduke was given up.

“Are—are we all out, or is somebody burnt up?” Will asked, wildly, but with rare presence of mind.

“Oh, boys, I did it, but I didn’t mean to burn the house,” Jim confessed. “All I wanted was to burn your impostor, and tell Marmaduke the truth, and—Ou! ou! ou! ou!” he shrieked. “There it is again! ou, ou!” and the boy with the chills took to his heels.

Jim practised running: on this occasion he was soon out of sight.

The rest looked in the direction pointed out by Jim, and beheld a figure in white gliding towards them. Was it a ghost, or some one wrapped up in a sheet, so foolish as to play the part of a ghost?

“Oh, dear;” gasped Steve, “what is going to happen next?”

All the boys were wrought up to a pitch of great excitement, and were more terrified than they cared to acknowledge. Henry’s thoughts reverted to his Greek history and Nemesis.

But after a moment the Sage observed, with his habitual philosophy, “Well, if it’s the ghost that inhabited that house, he is wise in seeking other quarters, for it will soon be nothing but red-hot ashes.”

Then, afraid that Henry might think him weak enough to believe in ghosts, he added, hastily, “Of course, you know, boys, that there are no such creatures as ghosts; only—”

At this juncture the speaker broke off abruptly, and whatever information he had to impart was lost. The apparition was now quite close to the boys, and as the last words left George’s lips, it flung off something very much like a sheet, and exclaimed, in a voice quite as human as ghostly:

“Well, young gentlemen, since you hesitate to take me for a supernatural being, I shall reveal myself to you.”

“Do it, then,” said Steve, in street Arab style. “Do it, for we must be off to look for a comrade.”

“This to me!” cried the new-comer, angrily. “I’d have you know that I am Benjamin Stolz.”

“Oh, horrors!” groaned Steve. “It’s the man that owns ‘Nobody’s House.’”

Mr. Stolz spoke again. (By the way, his full name was Benjamin Franklin Stolz.) Laying aside the bantering tones in which he first addressed them, he spoke fiercely:

“Young men, I want to know who owns that burning house?”

“The one straight ahead of us?” Will asked, as if they were in the midst of a burning city, with buildings on fire on every side.

Mr. Stolz stooped, picked up a small stone, and flung it towards the fire, saying, “That is the building I have reference to, unhappy youth. If you can’t see it yet, I will carry you up to it. I repeat, who is supposed to own that place?”

“I am to blame for all this, Mr. Stolz,” Charles had the courage to say. “I persuaded the boys to come and make use of it; but I thought it was so useless, and had been left idle so many years, that no one valued it. I beg pardon, Mr. Stolz.”

Stolz hesitated. The boy’s willingness to receive all the blame touched him. “He is a fine little fellow,” he said to himself, “but now that I have started this I must go through it.”

Charles gained, rather than lost, by his confession, yet he did not escape punishment. Perhaps he did not expect that.

“Well,” began Mr. Stolz, “think twice, or even four or five times, before you plan to ‘make use of’ the property of others again. When I choose to burn down my establishments, I shall do it myself, and not call in schoolboys to do it for me. Did any of you ever hear what the law says about burning a man’s house? Law, and the newspapers, and insurance agents, call it incendiarism. Judges and juries call incendiarism a very nefarious occupation. Now, don’t wait to see the walls collapse—begone! all of you! To-morrow I shall send a writ of summons to each of you! Begone! Good night.”

Having discharged his horrible threat about the writ of summons, Stolz turned and strode towards the blazing and roaring fire, a very odd smile on his lips.

The “incendiaries” did not see that smile, and they stood staring at his retreating figure, speechless and hopeless. This was the end of their plot! Ah, its growth had been difficult and uneven—its end was sublimely tragical!

Not one of them had accused Jim of firing the building, though, from his own confession, each one knew that Jim only was guilty of the deed. However, they deserve no praise for this, since they were all so utterly confounded that not one of them remembered it. But as Mr. Stolz was the ghost that caused Jim’s panic, flight, and fall, he must certainly have known all about it, and consequently it was better that they should hold their peace.

After a solemn silence, Stephen asked faintly, “Boys, what’s a writ of summons? Isn’t it something awful?”

The Sage brightened and answered him thus: “Yes, Steve, it is a dreadful instrument of justice to deliver culprits up to the fury of Law—to trial, punishment, and torture.”

Steve, who had a very vague notion of what the word instrument means, instantly thought of thumb-screws, racks, and divers other engines of torture, that our “chivalrous” forefathers were so ingenious as to invent and so diabolical as to use.

“Boys,” said Charles, “we are in a worse scrape than ever before. It would be an awful thing if we should be sent to prison! Oh, it would kill my mother! Henry, do you really think Stolz could send us to prison?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry, in a mournful voice, little above a whisper.

“Look here, boys,” spoke the Sage, with his time-honored phraseology, “we have lost track of Marmaduke altogether. We must find out what has become of him.”

“O dear, if he is missing, I shall not care to live!” Henry declared sincerely. “Where do you suppose he is, boys? Is he a boy to take such a thing very much to heart?”

“I’m afraid he is,” Will acknowledged. “He takes everything so seriously that this will be almost too much for him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Henry asked bitterly.

With wildly beating hearts the little band began to search for the missing one, calling him imploringly by name and begging his forgiveness. The search was continued till Henry became so completely exhausted that he could no longer drag himself along; and then it was incumbent on the others to take him home.

As they drew near the village, one of them proposed to stop at Marmaduke’s home and inquire after him, in the faint hope that he might be there. The others agreed to this, but with little hope of receiving a favorable answer.

“Is Marmaduke at home?” Charles asked timidly, as Mr. Fitz-Williams opened the door.

“No, he is not,” came the answer, “and we are very uneasy about him.”

The plotters did not explain themselves, but turned away, more heart-sick than before. Suppose that he should wander off, and be found dead some time afterwards, would not they be held guilty? Would not they be goaded by remorse to the end of their days? Or suppose that he should follow the slighted schoolboy’s bent, run away to sea, and never be heard of again for twenty years.

Stephen was so distressed that he actually said to his fellow-sufferers: “Boys, if he would only come back, I wouldn’t tease him about getting married. I intended to tease him about it for months; but I won’t now, if he will only come back; I won’t, not a bit!”

Stephen was a boy of boys; and for him to say that was to express his contrition in the strongest possible terms.

---

The discomfited plotters were forced into a confession of all their deeds for the past few days, and a party headed by Mr. Fitz-Williams set out to scour the country for the missing boy. Then, contrite and woebegone, the evildoers slunk into their respective homes, there to receive what punishment their outraged parents should see fit to inflict.

It is not best to enter into details; it would be too harrowing. It is sufficient to say that when their weary heads at length sought their pillows, sleep refused to come to their relief, and such a night of torture few of them ever passed.

“If it wouldn’t make us appear guiltier than we are,” Henry said, with feverishly bright eyes, “you and I would pack up, too, Will, and run away, and travel all around the world.”

As Henry did not deign to state how this might be accomplished, we are left to infer that he had an idea of a flying-machine in his mind.

Stephen and Charles wore out the night in wondering what they should do with themselves if sent to prison. The former resolved that he would undermine the prison foundations with his jack-knife, and make his escape to Robinson Crusoe’s island.

“There I shall spend my life,” he sighed heroically, “thinking of Marmaduke. Robinson lived alone twenty-eight years; I’m only sixteen, I shall probably live alone about sixty years, if the cannibals don’t catch me and eat me up.”

Poor dreamer! He was not sufficiently well versed in geography to know that Robinson Crusoe’s island is not now so desirable a place to play the hermit in as it was in the seventeenth century.

George, who was of an inquisitive disposition, finally left his bed, broke into the lumber-room of his ancestral home, and after diligent search, found a bulky tome, which, years before, had been consigned to that dreary region as being more learned than intelligible. This tome was entitled “Every Man his own Lawyer.”

With this prize he returned to his bedroom, muttering, “Now I shall see just what the law can do to us boys, and all about the whole business, and what we ought to do and say.”

After an hour’s careful study of this neglected “Mine of Wealth,” the Sage let it slip out of his hands, and tumbled into bed again, muttering: “Yes, one of us is guilty of the crime of arson. That is very clear. All of us are liable to be sent to prison. That is pretty clear. As I make it out, the sentence ranges between six months and a hundred years. Which will the judge conclude we deserve, six or one hundred? Oh, well, it will be hideous to live in a prison at all, for there will be no books there!”

According to the Sage’s notions, the worst fate that could possibly overtake him would be to be deprived of his books.

“But, O dear,” he pursued, “I should be willing to give up all my books if Marmaduke could be found.”

Morning dawned on the reformed plotters with mocking serenity. There could be no enjoyment for them while such a cloud of mystery hung over their companion’s fate.

The searchers were not so successful on this occasion as when they used to rove over land and sea for Will and his companions; not the slightest clew to Marmaduke’s whereabouts being found.

The news of the preceding day’s doings was already known throughout the neighborhood, and the boys were spoken of in no flattering terms. Those villagers whose phraseology was refined, called them “whimsical juveniles, wise beyond their years;” while those villagers whose phraseology was terse and expressive, brutally gave them Greek and Japanese nick-names for the Evil One.

As the hour of dinner approached, a grim-visaged man, who looked like the descendant of a long line of executioners and muleteers, so grave and stern were his features, called on each one of the five boys who had had an interview with Mr. Stolz, and delivered to each one a formidable envelope that bore the impress of the Law, and a single glance at which was sufficient to freeze one’s blood. Having done this, the “minion of the law,” as the terrified boys supposed he was, left the village at a round pace, looking less and less grave with every step. Reader, this person was a bosom-friend of B. F. Stolz’s, disguised with a lawyer’s neck-tie, hat, and cane, or cudgel.

Fearfully the awe-inspiring seals were broken, and the legal missives were found to run as follows:

This Stolz was a remarkable man—almost a genius. Professionally a farmer, he was wholly taken up with the pastime of playing practical jokes. No subject, no person, was too exalted to escape him; and, as his letter proves, he stooped to play off his tricks on even boys! In this instance he had actually spied on them, and let them make free with his house, intending to electrify them as a hobgoblin when they should have worked themselves up to a proper pitch of excitement.

But, like every one else concerned in this scheme, he himself was a sufferer.

The boys were relieved. No more haunting fears of being sent to penitentiary; no more ingenious speculations as to how they should occupy themselves there. Better than all else, they had news of Marmaduke.

When Marmaduke discovered the imposition, and fled, he was almost beside himself with grief, horror, and anger. It seemed to him that boys who could deliberately contrive and execute so base a scheme must be exceedingly depraved—cruel, and lost to all sense of honor. It seemed to him, in short, that they were worse than they were. After having been duped so completely by them, he could not endure the thought of ever seeing them again, and so resolved to abandon his country.

Poor Marmaduke! He was of a sensitive temperament, and believed that his heartless school-fellows would ridicule him for evermore.

He wandered on till he came to a large and empty barn, and then it occurred to him that it would be proper for him, as an exile, to take up his quarters in it for a short time. He reasoned, also, that if he should be looked for, it would be well to keep hidden till the search was over, when he could continue his flight towards the sea-coast, or any other place, in peace and safety.

“I am resolved that they shall not take me,” he said in himself, “for I could not survive another attack from those boys. No, I shall wander off to some happy land, where my merit will be appreciated. Then I shall set to work, become rich and famous, and after long years have passed I shall return for a few days to my insulting countrymen, a great man! Then people that think it is hardly worth while to say ‘good-day’ to me now, will be glad to catch a glimpse of me from behind a window-curtain; and that horrible old woman that says I look a little like her son, the carter, will discover that the Governor of the State looks just like me! Then those boys—they will be men then—will remember that I used to be Marmaduke, that they used to sit in the same seat with me, and that they used to study out of my books sometimes; and they will come around me, humble and cringing, and try to get me to recognize them. But I won’t recognize them—by even a look or a turn!”

Full of his future triumph and of his most original manner of slighting his persecutors, Marmaduke effected an entry into the old barn in a very burglarious way, not at all compatible with his dignity. To speak plainly, he picked the lock with a pair of tweezers, which he had used a few hours previous for a different, a very different purpose.

Here he spent the night, dozing, fuming against his school-fellows, and speculating on his future glory; while his nearly distracted parent was dragging ponds, snappishly replying to the impertinent questions of curious old women, sending little boys and big men hither and thither on a fool’s errand, and goading sleepy knights of the telegraph almost to frenzy.

Next morning as Mr. Stolz was passing the old barn, he fancied he heard strange sounds within. He slid off his horse, warily drew near, and looking through a knot-hole, discovered the missing boy lying on the floor, holding quiet converse with himself, as he matured his plans for the future.

Stolz hurried back to his horse, almost beside himself with laughter, and thinking that the boys’ plot was most sublimely ridiculous.

Just as the dreamer was in the midst of composing an elaborate letter of farewell to his mother, his sterner parent appeared on the scene, and poor Marmaduke’s trip to “some happy land” was postponed indefinitely.

Strange as it may at first seem, Marmaduke was more pleased to return home than he cared to acknowledge. Life as an exile in a gloomy old barn was decidedly monotonous; and his curiosity as to who the prisoner represented by Sauterelle could be, was becoming excited. It was a mystery which he must fathom.

His poor mother and his remorseful companions welcomed him with heart-felt joy; and twenty-four hours after he and Henry first met, they were debating—with considerable constraint, it is true—whether there is more fun in fishing with a spear than with a pole and line.

Such is life—among school-boys.

What effect did this have on the tricksters, in a moral point of view? Only a slight one, certainly not a lasting one. Though shocked and conscience-smitten for a time, they were soon as reckless and perverse as ever; and the lesson their suffering should have taught them was unheeded.

Considering the leniency with which Mr. Stolz treated them, they should have felt grateful towards him. On the contrary, whenever this practical joker hove in sight on his goggle-eyed old charger, instead of advancing to touch their hats to him respectfully, they regarded him with such deep-seated rancour that they invariably jumped over the handiest fence, and strolled off somewhere through the fields.

The gossiping villagers had a new subject of comment, and they took delight in jeering at the “French lords,” as they insultingly called the ex-plotters. For that reason it was dangerous, as long as the holidays lasted, to say anything to them about France or Frenchmen; and Stephen fell into such a habit of looking furious that his left eye was permanently injured.

As for Henry, he became so home-sick and heart-sick that, after a visit of only ten days, he packed his valise and returned.

---

Perhaps the reader may think that while the seven heroes were together, instead of packing Henry, the seventh (observe the comma immediately after Henry; observe, also, that it is not written Henry VII.), off home, it would have been better to relate a few more of their exploits. Not so. In imposing on Marmaduke, each one was guilty of a breach of trust, so that it would not be right to have them appear with such a stain on their reputation. As for Jim, he premeditated villainy; and in good romances no villain can long be regarded as a hero—unless he happens to be a highwayman, and it would be preposterous to attempt to have Jim play the highwayman. Now, the intention is to write this story on a moral basis; therefore, a few years are suffered to elapse, and they are supposed to reform in that time.

Marmaduke did no wrong, so that his history might be continued, without doubt. But this story could not go on, unless all the boys, Jim included, were in it.

Suppose, therefore, that six years have passed since the burning of “Nobody’s House.” The boys, now men, are still alive, and in good health and spirits. How they have spent those six years is not difficult to imagine. All of them regularly attended school till they were big and awkward, when most of them were sent to a university, to complete their education.

It was originally the intention to relate some thrilling incidents that took place while they were students; but being too lazy to collect sufficient scientific facts to do so with effect, that intention was reluctantly given up.

Gentle reader, if you are ever at a loss for something to sigh about, just think what you have missed in not reading how four sophomores barely escaped blowing themselves and a leaky steamboat up into the clouds, fancying that they understood the theory of working a steam-engine. To torture you still further, imagine, also, a scene in which a learned professor’s “focus cannon” mysteriously, unadvisedly, and to the heroes’ amazement and horror, shot a ball into a pair of glass globes, which the affectionate students were about to present to him.

It was autumn; and the seven young men, heroes still, were preparing to journey far northward, to hunt deer, or whatever else their bullets might chance to strike.

Will and Henry prevailed on Uncle Dick to accompany them—greatly to the satisfaction of the elders, who fondly hoped he would keep a fatherly eye on the reckless hunters, and prevent them from destroying themselves.

Fully equipped, the party of eight set out for the “happy hunting grounds,” firm in the resolution to kill all the game still remaining in the great northwest. If plenty of ammunition and fire-arms would avail, then certainly they should bring home a great supply of animal food.

But whether the fourfooted creatures of the forest were forewarned that a band of mighty hunters was on the war-trail, and fled from their sylvan haunts, or whether they obstinately remained, and bade defiance to the Nimrods’ balls, is a mooted point, which the intensely interested reader may set at rest as he pleases.

Having arrived at the outskirts of a growing settlement, close to a genuine forest, the eight hunters fell to work, and soon built an uncomfortable and unsafe little shanty.

“This will be life in earnest,” Charles observed joyously.

The young ladies of his native village politely spoke of him as “Mr. Growler;” but his moustache was still so white that we should not be justified in so honoring him.

“Yes; this is the artless life our forefathers lived;” said Marmaduke, poetical as ever.

“No,” corrected Stephen, “our forefathers didn’t range through the forest with Castile soap in their bundles and charms dangling on their watch chains.”

“Come, now, considering that you smuggled the soap into Marmaduke’s pack, you are rather hard on him,” said Will.

“Oh, I smuggled it there for my own use as well as for his,” Stephen explained.

This proves that Steve was as fond as ever of monkey tricks.

Of course the hunters were to depend on what they killed in the chase for food; and so, as soon as they were fairly settled, Will and Henry set out to shoot something that would make a delicious stew for dinner.

All at once a strange, shadowy form was espied by Will, lurking in the edge of the wood; and without a moment’s hesitation he raised his gun and fired. Now, at home, Will was considered an excellent marksman; therefore, Henry, who was beside him, was not surprised to see that, whatever the animal might be, it was stone dead.

They hurried to the fallen prey, and were almost as much disappointed as the small boy is when he finds that his fish-hook has captured a demonstrative crab instead of a good-natured chub.

“Well,” the destroyer said, with a grim smile, “I have done what Steve has often tried to do, but never did—I have slain a grimalkin!”

“Cats have no business to prowl around here, and they deserve to be shot, though we haven’t come all this distance to shoot them,” Henry said peevishly. “But let us hide this hoary fellow; for if Steve should hear of it, he might be tempted to box it up and send it home as your first deer.”

It would not be worth while to give the weary and fruitless tramp the cousins took; it is sufficient to say that they shot nothing that a civilized cook would take pride in preparing for the table. At last Henry was fortunate enough to disable a brace of woodcocks, and after an exciting chase they secured them, and then returned to their quarters.

Next morning the entire party went hunting, resolved to kill something. They penetrated far into the forest, talking as freely as if they were in a desert or on the ocean. Consequently, they did not see much game.

“Hist!” Mr. Lawrence suddenly exclaimed. “What enormous beast is that yonder?”

“It’s a bear?” Will cried with rapture. “A genuine bear!”

“Are there bears here, in this part of the world?” Jim asked uneasily. “Did we come to hunt bears?”

“Of course we did; of course there are;” Henry said with disgust. “Jim, I wish our good old professor could have you among his students. There would be virgin soil, and you would make an apt student, I am sure.”

“Yes, it is a bear,” George said emphatically. “A large bear, and probably a ferocious one. There is the true bearish head, thick and heavy; the cropped ears; the thick snout; and the long shaggy coat. It is larger than even the one in the museum, isn’t it, Henry?”

Henry thought it was.

“I see the very place to plant a fatal shot,” George hinted.

“Plant it, then,” Steve growled.

George, eager to slay the monster, fired quickly.

The smoke cleared away, and there lay the bear, in exactly the same position.

“It is stone-dead, surely enough!” Will said, as though surprised.

“No; I fancied I saw it move a little,” Mr. Lawrence said.

“Then let us all fire a round of balls into it,” Steve suggested.

“I won’t have it riddled with shot!” George said angrily. “I saw just where to hit it, and I hit it there, and it’s dead.”

But his wish was disregarded, and some of the hunters cowardly fired. Then they advanced cautiously, still fearing that the bear might have life enough in him to give battle. But the “bearish head” was not raised; the “thick snout” was not dilated.

Steve, who was ahead, suddenly gasped out a plaintive “Oh.” Then the others also saw. The sun shone through the trees, and left a peculiar shadow on the grass and brushwood. That was the bear.

“Let us clap this bear into the museum,” Stephen presently observed.

The disgusted hunters concluded to separate, and meet at a certain time and place, if they didn’t get lost or eaten up.

Will wandered off alone, and shot scores of useful birds and animals—not useful to him, as a hunter, but useful in the economy of nature. But after one shot had been thus thrown away, a yell of anger and terror rang through the forest, and with his heart beating time to his footsteps, Will hurried in the direction of that yell.

He soon came up to a man, sitting on a fallen tree, distorting his features, and nursing his finger in his mouth, with a gurgling noise, peculiar to a sobbing school-boy trying to soothe the pain inflicted by a hasty-tempered wasp.

“Hello, there!” cried this man. “Did you shoot that bullet?”

“Yes, I have just discharged my gun,” Will answered. “Did—did it hit you, sir? If so, I am extremely sorry, for, I assure you, I had no intention—”

“That’ll do!” broke in the wounded man, removing his finger for a moment. “It is plain enough that you are no hunter,” contemptuously. “A genuine hunter doesn’t go cracking around like a boy with a pop-gun, nor talk like as if he was writing to the post-master general. But, I say, do you know what you have done? You have smashed my little finger!”

“What? Are you really hurt? Did the ball strike your finger?”

“Of course it did,” angrily; “and it’ll be the dearest bullet you ever bought! I tell you, I’m sick of having city chaps tearing through our woods, and scaring the deer and things, and if they keep it up much longer, the whole population’ll be shot off. Oh, cracky, but my finger smarts! I was never shot before.”

“Let me see your wound,” Will said.

But the “child of nature” showed no disposition to let Will examine his injured member, and Will was both amused and relieved to hear him make the following observation: “No, it ain’t so much the finger that troubles me; it’ll soon heal; but I had a bully good silver ring on it, that I found in an old dust-heap, and that there bullet has busted it.”

Then the shooter stepped up to the rustic, saying: “Come, I must see your finger. If it is badly hurt I will bind it up for you; I have the materials all ready in my pockets.”

“Well, you are quite right in carrying rags, and salve, and thread, and pins, and soft cotton, and strings, and such trash, always stuffed in your pockets, for you look like as if you might blow your head off any minute,” the wounded man insultingly said, as he got a nearer view of Will.

Without further delay he submitted his finger to Will’s examination. Will presently observed: “I think your strong silver ring saved the finger, if not the entire hand, from a severe wound, as the bullet struck its ornamental carvings and then glanced. In a day or so your finger will be as sound as ever. Well, I’m sorry I hurt you, but I must be off. Good-day.”

“Now, just wait a minute,” said the man with the silver ring. “You don’t know how much I think of a good ring. I’m a very affectionate feller, and as there’s nothing else for me to take to, I think a heap of a good ring. And this one’s ruined and busted now. It may be ever so long before I can get as good a one—and you made fun of it, too! I say, what did you say about ‘carvings.’”

“But the ring saved your hand,” Will persisted.

“I don’t say nothing about that; but your bullet has spoilt my ring, and I mean to have the worth of it. Do you understand that? I ask for the worth of it.”

“Certainly; how much is your ring worth?”

“Eh? Well, I don’t know; it was a pretty valuable ring. How high will you go?”

Poor Will was becoming tired. He longed to leave the barbarian’s company, and was fumbling in his pocket for a small gold piece that was there, when a rustling in the underwood drew his attention.

“Wumblers! There’ll be another bullet here next! Whoop! here comes another hunter full drive! Oh! cracky, there’s buck after him! Lemme see your gun, and I’ll show you how to knock ’em over.”

This was quite true. Romantic Marmaduke had stumbled on the fresh track of a deer, and following on, had soon come up with it.

So much he freely confessed to his inquiring fellow-hunters. But how the deer came to give chase—whether he showed the white feather at the critical moment, or whether he chanted poetry to the hunted creature, and so infuriated it past endurance—is a question which he could not, or would not, answer.

Will’s heart beat fast. Here was a large deer within range of his rifle. If he should kill it on the spot he would achieve a valiant deed, as well as put an end to Marmaduke’s ignominious flight.

“Lemme see you gun,” the man said eagerly.

Will did not choose to comply with his request, but levelled his rifle at the approaching animal, and fired.

While hunting the last two days, he had suffered so many disappointments that he himself was perhaps somewhat surprised to see the deer plunge forward and gasp out his life in a short but awful agony.

“Good for you, old feller; you can shoot some, after all!” the forester ejaculated.

Marmaduke stopped his flight, saw Will, heaved a sigh, and said pathetically, “It is hard to see the noble beast cut off in all his pride and strength.”

“Yes, but better than to suffer from his fury, I hope;” Will replied. “But how under the sun did the chase begin?” he asked, glancing from his rifle to the deer with intense satisfaction.

But the chased one was reticent on that point, as stated above; and to evade an answer, he turned to the man with the marred silver ring, and asked, “What gentleman is this?”

“What was it you said about cutting up the buck, just now, stranger?” this gentleman eagerly inquired. “If you’re going to cut him up, I’ll help you; and for my share I’ll take a haunch.”

Alas! Though forest-born and familiar with woodland scenes and noble deer, this man had not a poetic soul, and he interpreted Marmaduke’s beautiful apostrophe as a wish that the deer should be cut up!

“Your share! What have you to do with it?” Marmaduke inquired, coming down to the things of this world with startling abruptness.

“Well, this here feller went and shot me; and I’m going to help you cut up your deer; and for all my trouble and suffering I only ask for a haunch. I’ll have it, too!” determinedly.

---

Marmaduke now demanded and received a brief explanation of affairs.

Seeing a way out of the difficulty, he pointed obliquely over the injured man’s shoulder, and said, “Will, there is a plump and sweet partridge in that tree;—no, lower down;—further on;—hadn’t you better shoot it for him?”

After a moment’s deliberation the man who loved a good silver ring agreed to be satisfied with the partridge.

Yet an evil smile curved his lips—a smile that foreboded mischief to something—perhaps to the partridge.

Will had no sooner fired than a howl of awful agony burst from the man’s lips, and having spread his huge hands over the region where the ignorant suppose their vitals are situated, he bowed his body downwards, and there passed over his face a look of suffering that, in sublime tragedy, almost equalled the frightful spasms so graphically portrayed in our patent medicine almanacs.

Almost—nothing can quite come up to the patent medicine almanacs in that respect.

With a voice that was appalling in its unrestrained vehemence, he fell to delivering hideous ecphoneses,—too hideous, in fact, to be repeated here,—and then gasped faintly, “You’ve done it now!”

Poor Will! He was nearly crazed with grief.

“Oh!” he groaned, “have I killed him? Have I taken a fellow-creature’s life? Has my hastiness at last had a fatal result?”

“Oh,” Marmaduke murmured, “how could Will’s ball glance so as to enter that man’s body?”

For several seconds the two unlucky hunters stood perfectly still, held to the spot by devouring horror and anguish.

During this time, the forester seemed to be undergoing exquisite pain; but presently, with an effort worthy of a hero, he struggled to an erect posture, and said, with a faltering tongue: “Young men—perhaps—I’m, I’m gone.—I—can’t blame—you, sir;—a man—can’t tell—how his ball—may glance.—Go,—both of you,—go—and get a—doctor.—Bring a—doctor—you,” to Will; “and you—” to Marmaduke, “go east—from—from here—half a-mile—to my—father’s.—I—I—can stay—alone.”

“Poor, poor fellow,” said Will, with tears in his eyes. “Can you stay here alone and suffer till we come back?”

“Yes,” groaned the wounded man. “I can—stay-till—the other—fellow—finds my—father.—It won’t—be long.”

“Let me at least see your wound before I go,” Will entreated. “Perhaps I could ease you, or even save your life.”

“Go! oh go!” urged the wounded man. “I’ll—hold out—if you are—quick.”

Then the two hunters strode sorrowfully away in their different directions—Will with a vague notion that the nearest surgeon lived several miles to the south—Marmaduke thinking that the “peasants” of his country are a hardy and noble race.

They were barely out of sight on their errands of mercy when a change most magical came over the sufferer’s face. Two minutes before, and his features wore the tortured look of an invalid “before taking our prescription;” now they wore the happy smirk of a convalescent, relieved from all pain, “after taking our prescription.”

Then, villain-like, he muttered: “I hardly expected to make so much out of the two fools—a whole deer! That’s striking it pretty rich! I don’t shoot a deer in a month; but this is just as good, for I can make off with this one at my leisure. Well, I reckoned that little ‘wound’ would work.”

A horrible chuckle escaped from his lips, he sprang to his feet as sound in health as a person could expect to be, walked up to Will’s deer, and coolly began to drag it away into the depths of the forest. All that part of the forest was known to him, and he soon dragged his prey into a place of concealment where its rightful owners would hardly find it.

“There,” he muttered, “I guess I have dragged the old feller far enough. He’s safe enough here till I can take him home. Now, they haven’t been gone long, and if they keep on, they may get lost; and it’s mean to have ’em get lost on a fool’s errand. Perhaps this’ll bring ’em back on a keen run. How they will hunt for me and the deer!”

As the thief spoke he retraced his steps a little way, discharged a pistol concealed on his person, and then slunk back to his hiding-place. Yes, he was so humane that he did not wish the two deluded hunters to bring succor to a man who did not need it.

The report of his pistol had the desired effect. Both Will and Marmaduke heard it; and fearing that the poor wretch was attacked by some foe, human or otherwise, they hastened back to the scene of bruises and wounds, meanness and trickery.

Of course they found nothing, and, although they were heroes, they were unable to track the knave to his hiding-place. Will was furious. He had felt so grieved at having wounded a fellow-creature; so proud, a moment before, of having been the first to kill a deer; and now he naturally and correctly concluded that the “wound” was a mere ruse on the rogue’s part, in order the more surely to get possession of the deer.

“Will, I took the fellow to be a very fair example of our peasants; an honest, ingenuous and hardy forester. How bitterly I am deceived.”

Will replied: “Well, I took the fellow for a hypocrite and a downright knave from the first. It isn’t so much the deer,—though that is really a great loss for me,—but the depravity that the man has shown, that grieves me. And I was just going to give him a new dollar gold piece to squander his affection on! But, Marmaduke,” with a flash of his old jovialness, “don’t talk about peasants and peasantry, for free America knows no such word. Marmaduke, I’m afraid your trip to Europe in the summer filled your mind with some ridiculous notions. Shake them off, and be yourself again.”

“Well, Will, you are in the right. Now, suppose that we look for the partridge, for I believe your ball killed it.”

“No, Marmaduke. I missed it, for I saw it fly away untouched, just as that man doubled himself up and began to howl.”

“Then you took it for granted that he received the ball?”

“Yes. Well, it is useless to remain here, so let us hurry on to the trysting-place, due west, if we want to meet the others. But if I don’t unearth that wretch to-morrow, it will be because—because his ill-gotten deer poisons him!”

Having taken this dreadful resolution, the two set off for the rendezvous, where they arrived just in time to meet with the other hunters.

“Ho!” cried Steve, when he observed Will’s gloomy looks. “Ho, old fellow! your face indicates a moody mood.”

“Well,” snarled Will, “have you shot some school-boy’s grammar, and read it through?”

Then he narrated his encounter with the man in the forest.

It was received with plaintive cries of astonishment, anger, and horror.

“Well, Will,” said Steve after the first paroxysms of rage had subsided, “I gather two morals—morals full of instruction, too—from your narrative.”

As no one inquired what these “morals” might be, the speaker was obliged to resume his discourse rather awkwardly. But no one could cow Steve into silence.

“Yes, boys; two morals——”

A pause—in vain.

“Two morals, I say. In the first place, when you are in a forest like this, always protect the fourth member of the left paw with a sculptured silver ring. In the second place, never fire at a partridge when a jewelled rustic occupies a log some thirty feet southeast of your left ear, as Marmaduke hints this one did. It is as dangerous as a nest of hornets on the North Pole.”

“Don’t be so atrocious,” said Charles. “In my mind’s eye, I can look back eight years or so, and see a battered-knuckled urchin called Steve Goodfellow, wriggling on a bench in a certain Sunday School, and turning idly round and round a beautiful silver ring, that adorned first one and then another of his fingers.”

Steve sat down so suddenly that he burst the paper collar around his neck. However, he took no notice of this, but changed the subject and diverted the boys’ attention by saying: “I say, Will and Marmaduke, George, as well as you, has had disappointments to-day. I shouldn’t relate this little anecdote, if George hadn’t given me permission; because it would be too mean for even me, and that is saying a good deal. O dear! I’m sorry, boys; but I can’t help it!”

“Well, Steve, there is one thing in your favor,” Charles said soothingly. “You always confine what you are pleased to call your meanness to us boys; and we can survive it all—in fact, we expect it from you, old fellow.”

“Thank you, Charley; you can see below the surface, and see just how heavily and guiltily my great heart beats when I attempt to insult over you boys. But now for my anecdote. George and I meet in a ‘bowery glade.’ Though we glare wickedly round in search of prey, I see nothing but Nature’s loveliness. George espies a phenomenon high up in a monster of the forest, ‘an old primeval giant,’ whose branching top fanned the blue sky. In other words, he espies something queer, perched high in a grand old fir. It is large; it is strange; it moves. ‘It is a creature of the air,’ thinks George. ‘It is! It is a bird new to science! Oh, what pleasing discovery do I make? Am I about to cover myself with glory? I am! I feel it in my inmost heart, my heart of heart. Steve,’ he continues, ‘I know my destiny—the pursuit of science. My fate is now marked out; I shall write ornithologies! Now I must shoot this percher down; I cannot climb to catch it, though more’s the pity.’ O boys, it was, alas! a bird’s nest! A great big bird’s nest! And when he fired, it was no more. This is my mournful tale: this is my anecdote.”

“Steve, don’t relate any more such anecdotes,” said Charles, “or you will burst your ‘great heart’ as you have burst your paper collar.”

“Steve, did George tell you how you might relate that incident?” Will asked suspiciously. “But, Steve,” he added gravely, “be good enough to tell me what you have shot to-day to make you so merry.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Steve replied grimly. “I shot the barrel of my gun all to pieces.”

“What?” Will asked, at a loss to take Steve’s meaning.

“In other words,” Mr. Lawrence said, “Stephen overcharged his gun, and it burst—burst with a vengeance.”

“It seems to me that a good many things have burst, or failed to burst, to-day,” George muttered.

Then they proceeded to their camp,—as Marmaduke loved to call the miserable shanty that barely afforded them shelter,—affecting to carry their guns and their almost empty game-bags as though they were veteran hunters.

Each one was thinking about the deer which was rightfully Will’s, and each one felt that the affair was not over yet.

---

It is with some real reluctance that the scene with the forester is introduced, because romancers take altogether too much delight in parading villainy; but at one time this scene seemed, in a measure, to be necessary to the construction of this story. Afterwards the writer had not the moral courage to leave it out.

Most readers can remember that in almost all novels that they have read, (excepting, of course, the “intensely interesting” ones,) there was at least one chapter which, taken by itself, seemed tiresome and useless; but which, woven in skilfully, and taken in connection with the whole, was necessary to the perfection of the novel.

After writing these two paragraphs, in order to disarm all hostile criticism, we shall imagine a conscientious reader’s referring to this chapter, after he has carefully perused the entire story, and saying, with a horrible fear that his usual insight into things has forsaken him: “Well, I can’t see the particular need and worth of this chapter,” while we furnish this consoling information—“Neither can we!”

Now, carpers, if you can apprehend the meaning of all this, draw out your engines and bring them into play.

Another point: Let not the conscientious reader rack his brains in a vain endeavor to discover what particular “follies,” or “foibles,” are attacked in this chapter, for the writer himself does not know; though he is morally certain that he has not written these two chapters just to injure the trade in silver rings.

---

Next morning the mighty Nimrods breakfasted, in imagination, on their deer; and then struck out into the forest, resolved to unearth the rogue who had gulled poor Will.

But soon the fickle hunters concluded to secure the services of an officer of the law, and on reaching the edge of the forest they were directed where to find such a person.

They came up with this man in his orchard, but whether he was gathering apples or only eating them they could not guess. He listened patiently to the story of their wrongs (they did not give it exactly as it happened, but they did not falsify it at all), and then told them that they might go on with their hunt and not trouble their heads about it further, for he would soon overhaul the villain.

The hunters lingered irresolutely, but the man seemed to know his own business best, and with a peremptory “good day” he scrambled into a patriarchal apple-tree, and fell to shaking down his apples so recklessly and disrespectfully that they thought it prudent to withdraw.

“I will catch the rascal myself, after all,” Will declared.

“Yes, let us penetrate far into this old forest,” Marmaduke added. “If we explore its length and breadth, perhaps we shall find some trace of our game.”

“Perhaps, if we set to work in earnest, we shall be more successful hunting for man than we have been for beast,” the young man who used to be called the Sage observed.

With that the hunters struck out boldly.

“Boys,” said Charles, (they still used the familiar appellation of former years,) “did any of you ever read a romance in which a scout figured as the hero, or in which the hero sometimes played the part of a scout, or spy?”

“I have,” said two or three.

“Well, how did they go about it?” Charles asked.

“Oh,” said Stephen, who took it upon himself to answer, “they always wore leather breeches, moccasins, and shot-belts; they always struck the trail at once, smoked the chiefs’ peace-pipe, and slew the common Indians; they always followed their trade alone,—or if they had a mate, both went alone,—and chewed home-made tobacco with the few tusks still left them; they always tomahawked deserters, other people’s spies, or scouts, and wild-cats; and finally, they always found out secrets that got them into trouble, but lived to receive a gold snuff-box on the occasion of the hero’s wedding. What they did with the gold snuff-box I don’t know; for there the romancer, being too much exhausted to write ‘The End,’ which has six letters, always wrote ‘Finis,’ which has only five.”

“Thank you, Steve,” said Charles. “But according to that, it is hopeless for us to act the orthodox spy, so we shall have to go on blindly and take our chances.”

And they did go on blindly—so blindly, that five hours later, when hunger began to show her hand, they perceived that they were lost! Lost in a vast forest, which, for all they knew, was infested with robbers!

“It is strange that we have not travelled in a circle,” George mused. “You all know, of course, that when a man loses his way, it is a fundamental principle that he should travel in a circle.”

“Well, if we keep on diligently, probably we shall have the pleasure of finding that we are travelling in a circle,” Charles commented.

“I tell you what it is, boys;” Steve said, making use of an expression that had left his lips at least once daily since his twelfth year; “I tell you what it is, boys; now that we are lost, let us make the most of it. I have had a hankering to get lost ever since I cried myself to sleep over the mournful tale of the ‘Babes in the Woods;’ and now I am going to enjoy the novel sensation of being lost! Hurrah!”

And in the exuberance of his spirits careless Steve plucked off his hat and flung it aloft so adroitly that it caught in a tree and dangled there tantalizingly, quite out of his reach. However, a ball from Charles’s rifle induced it to fall.

“That is the most useful thing I have shot, Steve,” he confessed dejectedly; “and if it had been a thing of life, I should have terminated that life,” pointing to a ghastly hole in the crown of the hat.

“Don’t be so much moved, Steve,” George observed; “for you may fare worse than even the ‘Babes in the Woods.’ Poor little creatures, they died happy, at least.”

“Oh,” said Marmaduke, also delighted to think he was actually lost, “we can live very well for a few days in this magnificent old forest. We can, of course, procure all the animal food we shall need, together with roots, herbs, and berries—no, it’s too late for berries. A man can live on fish, fruit, and roots, without injury to his system; and in a few days we shall find our way out, or else be rescued by others.”

“Very good,” said Will; “but where are we to catch the fishes?”

“Oh,” Steve said promptly, “Marmaduke bases his argument on the supposition that whenever a hunter gets lost, he and a ‘pure stream,’ stocked with fish, presently fall into each other’s arms.”

“Speaking of rescue,” said Charles, “many a poor lost hunter is rescued from his sufferings by wild beasts that devour him.”

“It is sheer nonsense to talk of becoming lost here,” Will declared dogmatically, “because this forest is not extensive enough for any sensible man to remain lost in it for any great length of time. I see daylight to the north, now; though where we are is more, I must acknowledge, than I can tell.”

“My compass persists that that light comes from the west,” Stephen soon said; “but of course, Will, you are too sensible a man to get lost or make such a mistake, therefore my compass has become demoralized.”

Will took out his compass, looked at it very hard, and then pocketed it with a sigh.

The hunters moved towards the light, and soon found themselves in a clearing of some extent. A strong log-hut stood in the centre of this clearing, and divers emblems of civilization and occupation were strewed around it. What seemed most strange, to even the most inattentive of the hunters, was certain implements which are seldom seen in the midst of a forest. These were such implements as are used in the construction of railroads.

“Hello!” yelled Steve, glancing at all these implements, “hello! we have stumbled on a new railroad, have we? Well, we ought to be able to find our way out now pretty easily; for railroads don’t spring up in wildernesses.”

“Yes, we are just within the woods; outside we shall find the railroad and civilization,” Will returned. “Well, I don’t see much romance in getting lost for an hour or so.”

“Hello, what is this?” Steve cried suddenly. “Here is a neat little tube, something like a cartridge. Now, is it a cartridge?”

“Be careful, Steve,” Will cautioned. “There is no knowing what dangerous things may be lying about here. I remember, when I was a pretty little boy, my father told me horrible stories about gun-cotton. He made it out to be a frightful explosive, in order to deter me from meddling with things strange to me. Now, perhaps—”

But at this point the prudent one was interrupted by a shout of laughter from Charles. “Will,” he said, “what do you mean by ‘a pretty little boy?’ Do you mean, when you were a handsome, though diminutive, urchin, or simply, when you were rather small?”

George now drew on his knowledge, and prepared to enlighten them. “Gun-cotton, boys,” he said, “is a composition which con—”

Doubtless George would have given a very lucid explanation of the nature and virtues of gun-cotton; but at this point, Steve, who still held the little “tube,” said impatiently, “Now, what do I care about gun-cotton? There is no cotton here, and as for a gun—go to grass! This tube can be made to fit the blunt end of my pencil, very neatly; and what is more, it shall be put there.”

“Why, Steve, I didn’t give you credit for being so sensible,” Henry observed. “I didn’t believe you were studious enough to carry a pencil.”

“Oh,” Charles ingeniously replied, “Steve doesn’t carry a pencil for studious purposes; I doubt whether he ever takes notes; but whenever he finds a clean and smooth surface,—such as a new shingle or a solid fence built of newly planed boards,—he draws his name, or a mythological figure, or the Phantom Ship, on it, with dazzling flourishes.”

“Draws his name, eh?” asked Henry.

“Exactly.”

“Well,” sighed Steve, “it is one of the few things I can do well.”

With that he took out his penknife.

He was not the only one that had found one of the little tubes. For some minutes Jim had been silently filling his coat pocket with them, intending to take them home. It is not easy for us to guess his object in doing this, but perhaps the poor fellow, despairing of shooting anything, wished to bear away some trophy, or souvenir, of this hunt.

George, seeing all this, and that his proffered explanation was contemptuously rejected, resolved to make an “analysis;” but, acting on the spur of the moment, he went about it in a very puerile way. He set one of the mysterious little tubes on a flat stone, then seized a smaller stone, and prepared to grind his particular tube to powder.

Truly, here was Genius laboring under difficulties! Here was a scientific philosopher endeavoring to solve the appalling mystery by utterly annihilating a tube! But his hand was so unsteady with the awfulness of the revelations he was about to make that (fortunately for him) his first blow overshot the mark, and he paused before aiming a second.

Meanwhile Mr. Lawrence, Charles, and Will, expostulated in vain. Henry, not dreaming of danger, looked on with great curiosity, and was almost tempted to examine some of the mysterious little tubes for himself.

All this happened simultaneously? Certainly. Just as George struck his fruitless blow, Steve began to carve out the ornament for his pencil.

Reader, do not look upon this scene as savoring of levity. This incident is true in every particular, a party of would-be hunters having experimented with little cartridge-like tubes just as our heroes did here. The story as told by them is the same in substance with this, though, of course, we have touched it up a little here and there.

Having thus kept the reader in suspense long enough, it is now in order to return to Stephen. He had barely begun to “dig out the stuff,” as he phrased it, when a loud report startled the eight hunters. Steve’s tube had exploded with more violence than any fire-cracker he ever handled.

Appalled, his penknife fell unheeded, and he gazed at the others with a silly, bewildered, and horrified expression of countenance, that at any other time would have provoked a roar of laughter.

George’s second blow was never struck, but springing to his feet, he fixed his eyes on Will with a look of extreme horror.

Will’s actions, in fact, attracted the attention of all. As soon as the tube exploded he sprang high into the air, and then fell to bounding about like a harlequin or a piece of black rubber, shouting frantically: “Oh, my head’s off! my head’s off! my head’s off!”

His head was certainly not off, though blood was streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh, Will,” groaned Steve in agony, “what is the matter? Oh, Will, speak! Have I killed you?”

“My head’s off! My head’s off!” was Will’s only answer.

“Nonsense! your head is all right!” Uncle Dick said sharply.

But now Will struck another note, groaned “Oh, my knee!” and fell down in a swoon. Foolish fellow, he had danced till his knee slipped out of joint.

(N.B.—O youth, let this be a warning against dancing.)

Mr. Lawrence and George anxiously bent over him; and, for the first time, Charles and Stephen looked at each other.

“Your face!” shrieked Steve.

“Your fingers!” gasped Charles.

Then poor Steve perceived that his thumb and first and second fingers were shattered. It was a sickening sight, and he now felt a severe pain in them.

From his fingers Stephen again looked at Charles. Several small pieces of the metal had pierced the flesh around the eyes, making painful, but very slight, wounds.

At that instant Jim set up his peculiar cry of terror. Poor wretch, his terror and his mode of expressing it still clung to him; but it was a hundred times more ridiculous in the man than in the boy. The explosion (if it may be called so) and Will’s amusing performance, cut short by his sad accident, had kept him quiet up to this time, but now he broke out into loud and plaintive cries. This time, however, he was not a prey to “the chills.”

“Oh, boys,” he wailed, “I have some of them—a lot of them—in my pocket! Oh, boys, they will explode there! They will explode and tear us all to pieces!” And here his voice increased in volume, and rose higher and higher, faster than even the scale of C. “Help me, some one, for I can’t get ’em out!—Oh! I explode!”

“Console yourself, Jim,” Henry laughed; “I’ll help you to disgorge them.”

“Have you any about you?” Jim quavered.

“No,” said Henry; and with that he took the explosive little tubes out of Timor’s pocket.

“Boys, Mr. Lawrence, I know now what these horrible, cartridge-like tubes are,” George here observed. “They are dynamite—a new explosive, very useful to fire other explosives, I believe. I have read about them lately, but I never saw one before, and don’t know much about their properties, except that—”

“George,” Steve interrupted, “if you had told us all this ten minutes ago, you would have spared us much annoyance and suffering. Excuse me, George, but this has roiled my emotions more than anything that ever happened. Yes, you have knowledge of sundry curious and useful facts, I admit; but that knowledge is not turned to account till the mischief is done. Some day, when you see me all torn to pieces, you will discover that what I took for a pretty music-box was an infernal machine; and then you will chuckle over your profundity, but I shall not hear you.”

“Well, they had no business to leave dynamites scattered about so loosely,” Charles said, his eyes tingling just enough to make him surly.

“Had we any business to meddle with them?” George growled.

“Oh,” sighed Will, now revived, “I’m afraid I made an egregious fool of myself; and I was probably the least hurt of all. Some pieces entered my ears, cheek, and neck;—an ordinary hurt for a little boy;—but through my foolishness I have disjointed my knee!”

Marmaduke now joined them. He had taken the affair most unconcernedly, and strolled off to make a reconnaissance.

“Boys,” he began, “we are within four or five rods of a railroad, surely enough; and we have been meddling with the company’s dynamite. But if we had observed the notice on the other side of the little log-hut, or store-house, we should certainly have been more careful; for there, on the door, is written, in red-chalky letters, ‘Powder Magazine.’”

“Marmaduke, it seems to me that your style is not so pure as of yore,” Steve grinned, in spite of his pain. “The animals in this forest have corrupted it. ‘Red-chalky-letters,’ forsooth!”

“I found, also,” Marmaduke continued, passing by Stephen’s taunt, “that the shortest route to a surgeon’s is due east, through the forest. We can easily reach him by following our compasses.”

“Did you inquire of some one outside?” George asked.

“Yes, George, I had a talk with a man there. Now, Steve and Will must have their hurts dressed as soon as may be; so let us start. Will will have to be carried, of course.”

Steve shuddered. The name surgeon had an unpleasant sound; it grated his ears. Then he perceived that Marmaduke had been caring for his comfort, and his conscience was stung with remorse. Acting on the impulse of his better nature, he strode up to Marmaduke, grasped his hand, and murmured: “Old fellow, you must forgive me, and not mind anything I say; for I don’t mean it, I assure you. It is too bad for me to be continually jeering at you in particular, Marmaduke, and from to-day I will try not to do it again.”

Notwithstanding Steve’s protestation that he did not mean what he said, Marmaduke saw he was in earnest now, and replied: “Say no more about it, Steve, for each of us has his little peculiarities. Now, sit down here, beside me and I’ll bind up your hurt for you.”

Then the two sat down together, and Marmaduke took off the handkerchief which Stephen had hastily and clumsily wound round his thumb and fingers. Abused Marmaduke had many gentle ways, and now he tore the handkerchief into strips, and as neatly and carefully as a woman could have done it, bound up each hurt separate, Steve awkwardly trying to help him.

This incident of binding up his hurts so kindly touched Stephen’s heart, and from that day the two have been firm friends. Stephen is now Marmaduke’s sworn defender; and if any person brings up the latter’s romantic notions with a view to make him appear ridiculous, Stephen will say something so sarcastic that the aggressor will wince and immediately speak of something else.

Meanwhile the others were taking care of Charles and Will.

---

Reader, do not turn faint with disgust at these heart-rending details, nor imagine that the writer is a half-reclaimed desparado all the way from “bleeding Kansas;” for this is just as it happened to those hunters in the flesh. But if he ever attempts to narrate a true story again, he will tone it down as well as touch it up.

“Let us be thankful that it is no worse,” Mr. Lawrence said. “We have had a narrow escape; for if Steve’s tube hadn’t exploded immediately, George would certainly have struck his, and then we might all have been hurled into eternity.”

“Do you think Steve will lose his thumb and fingers?” George asked, faintly.

“Oh, I hope not!” Uncle Dick said, fervently. Then dolefully: “I am afraid I shall have a heavy account to settle when I see your parents again.”

Then the sound hunters framed a rude litter, and laid Will on it gently. George and Henry were to take turns with Mr. Lawrence and Marmaduke in carrying him. And then the little procession passed solemnly through the woods, with but little of that sprightliness which had hitherto characterized the party.

“I think this hunt will last me for a lifetime,” Will groaned.

“I am afraid you will feel the effects of your hurt all the rest of your life,” Uncle Dick sorrowfully rejoined.

“There is one consolation,” said Steve, who was walking with his well arm linked in Marmaduke’s. “Next time we see a ‘dynamite’ we shall know what it is, and probably I shall not care to make a plaything of one again.”

After a weary march due east, they came to a small cleared space, in which stood a miserable hut. A faint line of smoke was curling out of the roof, but no person was in sight.

“Now, this isn’t another powder magazine,” said Steve; “therefore it must be a ‘wayside hut.’ My wounds have made me thirsty, of course, and we can probably get a drink here, whether any one is in or not, so I am going in.”

The others, also, felt thirsty; and Charles was advancing to knock at the door, when Steve softly called him back.

“Now, Charley,” he said, “I haven’t read romances for nothing, and if there’s villainy any where in this forest, it’s here. Of course you’ve all read that villains have what is called a ‘peculiar knock?’”

“Yes,” whispered four out of the seven.

“Well, I’m going to give a ‘peculiar knock’ on that door, with my sound hand, and you must mark the effect it has. You needn’t grasp your weapons; but just keep your eyes and ears open. Then will you do whatever I ask?”

“We will,” they said, smiling at Steve’s whim.

Then the man who had not read romances for nothing stole softly to the door, and knocked in a peculiar manner.

Without a moment’s hesitation, a voice within said, “Well done!”

Steve faced the others and winked furiously, while he reasoned rapidly to this effect: “Evidently, here is a nest of knaves. The fellow on the inside thinks his mate is in danger, and knocks to know whether it is safe for him to enter.”

Then the voice within asked uneasily, “Jim?”

“Will,” said Marmaduke, leaning over the litter, “we are certainly on the track of the man who stole your deer!”

“Oh, I had forgotten all about the deer,” Will groaned.

Steve started, but collected himself in a moment, and whispered to Jim, “Come along Jim; this fellow wants to see you. Now be as bold as a lion; blow your nose like a trumpet; and observe: ‘By the great dog-star, it’s Jim; lemme in.’”

Jim managed to do this; but he basely muttered that he wasn’t brought up for a circus clown.

“Then come in; the door isn’t locked;” the voice within said harshly, but unhesitatingly.

Stephen flung open the door and strode proudly into the hut, closely followed by the others. One scantily furnished room, in a corner of which a man lay on a bed, was disclosed. This man’s look of alarm at this sudden entrance filled Steve with exultation.

“What does all this mean? What do you want?” the occupant of the bed demanded.

“A glass of water,” said Steve.

“Well, you can get a dish here, and there is a spring outside,” with an air of great relief.

“Is this the man?” Steve asked of Marmaduke.

Marmaduke sadly shook his head.

“I am very low with the small-pox,” said the unknown, “and those of you who have not had it, nor have not been exposed to it, had better hurry out into the open air.”

This was said quietly—apparently sincerely.

The hunters were struck with horror. It seemed as though a chain of misfortunes, that would eventually lead them to destruction, was slowly closing around them. Small-pox! Exposed to that loathsome disease! They grew sick with fear!

“Was it for this we went hunting?” Charles groaned.

For a few moments the hunters lost all presence of mind; they neglected to rush out of doors; they forgot that the sick man seemed wrapped in suspicion; they forgot that they had gained admittance by stratagem; Steve forgot that he was playing the hero.

A cry of horror from Jim roused them from their torpor.

“What a fool I am!” cried Henry, “I had the small-pox when I was a little boy; and now, to prove or disprove this fellow’s statement, I will run the risk of taking it again. The rest of you may leave the room or not, just as fear, or curiosity, or thirst, or anything else, moves you. I believe, however, that there is not the least danger of infection.”

“No, no; come out!” Mr. Lawrence entreated, not wishing to be responsible for any more calamities. “Come out, Henry, and leave the man alone.”

“Believe me, Mr. Lawrence, I run no risk,” Henry declared. “I shall——”

“Ha!” shrieked the sick man. “Lawrence? Did you say Law—”

He stopped abruptly. But it was too late; he had betrayed himself.

“Yes, my man; I said Lawrence;” Henry said, excitedly. “Come, now, explain yourself. Say no more about small-pox—we are not to be deceived by any such pretence.”

The sick man looked Uncle Dick full in the face; groaned; shuddered; covered his face with the bed clothes; and then, villain-like, fell to muttering.

After these actions, Jim himself was not afraid.

“Mr. Lawrence, Will, all of you,” Henry said hoarsely, “I think your mystery is about to be unriddled at last. This man can evidently furnish the missing link in your history. He is either the secret enemy or an accomplice of his.” Uncle Dick trembled. After all these years was the mystery to be solved at last?

Stephen’s hurt and Will’s knee were forgotten in the eagerness to hear what this man had to say. All were familiar with Uncle Dick’s story, as far as he knew it himself, and consequently all were eager to have the mysterious part explained. The entire eight assembled round the bedside.

After much inane muttering the sick man uncovered his head, and asked faintly, “Are you Richard Lawrence?”

“I am.”

“Were you insane at one time, and do you remember Hiram Monk?”

“Yes, I was insane, but I know nothing of what happened then.”

“Well, I will confess all to you. Mr. Lawrence, I have suffered in all these three years—suffered from the agony of remorse.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Dick, with a rising inflection.

“I will keep my secret no longer. But who are all these young men?” glancing at the hunters.

“They are friends, who may hear your story,” Uncle Dick said.

“To begin with, I am indeed sick, but I have not the small pox. That was’ a mere ruse to get rid of disagreeable callers.”

At this Steve looked complacent, and Henry looked triumphant; the one pleased with his stratagem, the other pleased with his sagacity.

At that very instant quick steps were heard outside, and then a “peculiar knock” was given on the door, which, prudently or imprudently, Steve had shut.

“It is a man who lives with me,” Hiram Monk said to the hunters. “We shall be interrupted for a few minutes, but then I will go on.” Then aloud: “You may as well come in, Jim.”

If this was intended as a warning to flee, it was not heeded, for the door opened, and a man whom Will and Marmaduke recognized as the rogue who on the previous day had feigned a mortal wound in order to steal their deer, strode into the hut.

On seeing the hut full of armed men, he sank down hopelessly, delivered a few choice ecphoneses, and then exclaimed: “Caught at last! Well, I might ’a’ known it would come sooner or later. They have set the law on my track, and all these fellows will help ’em. Law behind, and what on earth in front!—I say, fellows, who are you?”

“Hunters,” Henry said laconicly.

Then the new-comer recognized Will and Marmaduke, and ejaculated, “Oh, I see; yesterday my ring was ruined, and now I’m ruined!”

The officer of the law, whose nonchalance had provoked the hunters in the forenoon, was indeed behind, and soon he, also, entered the hut, which was now filled.

“Just like a romance,” Steve muttered. “All the characters, good and bad, most unaccountably meet, and then a general smash up takes place, after which the good march off in one direction, to felicity, and the bad in another, to infelicity—unless they shoot themselves. Now, I hope Hiram and Jim won’t shoot themselves!”

“Jim Horniss,” said the officer, “I am empowered to arrest you.”

“I surrender,” the captured one said sullenly. “You ought to have arrested me before. I’d give back the deer, if I could; but I sold it last night, and that’s the last of it.”

“That will do,” the officer said severely.

Up to this time the writer has studiously masked his ignorance by invariably speaking of this man as an officer of the law. It seems fated, however, that his ignorance should sooner or later be manifested; and now he declares that he is so utterly ignorant of Law, in all its forms, that he does not know what that man was—he knows only that he was an officer of the law. But for the benefit of those who are still more ignorant, it may be stated that he is almost positive the man was neither a juryman, nor a conveyancer, nor a plaintiff.

The hunters now held a short conversation, and it was decided that Mr. Lawrence and Henry should stay to hear what Hiram Monk had to say for himself, but that the others should go on with Will and Steve to the surgeon’s.

The officer of the law thought it might be necessary for him to stay in his official capacity, and so he took a seat and listened, while he fixed his eyes on Jim Horniss.

And the confession he heard was worth listening to.

The hut was soon cleared of all save the five; and the six first introduced to the reader were again together, and on their way to the surgeon’s.

“Well,” said Will, “it seems I have lost my deer; but I have the comforting thought of knowing that the rascal will receive the punishment he deserves.”

“How strange it all is,” said Marmaduke, “that your uncle should stumble on the solution of his mystery when he least expected it; and that you could not find the thief when you looked for him, but as soon as you quit, we made straight for his house.”

“No,” Steve corrected good-humoredly, “that isn’t it; but as soon as I took to playing the part of a hero of romance, ‘events came on us with the rush of a whirlwind.’”

---

Leaving the wounded and the unwounded hunters to pursue their way through the forest, we shall return to the hut and over-hear Hiram Monk’s long-delayed confession.

As soon as the door was shut on the six hunters, he began. His face was turned towards Mr. Lawrence, but his eyes were fixed on his pillow, which was hidden by the coverlet; and his punctuation was so precise, his style so eloquent and sublime, and his story so methodical, complicated, and tragical, that once or twice a horrible suspicion that he was reading the entire confession out of a novel concealed in the bed, flashed across Mr. Lawrence’s mind.

If this dreadful thought should occur to the reader, he can mentally insert the confession in double quotation marks.

We are too humane to inflict the whole confession on the long-suffering reader; this abridged version of it will be quite sufficient, as it contains the main points.

The villain’s story was ended; and Uncle Dick, Henry, the officer of the law, and Jim Horniss, fetched a sigh of relief.

They felt extremely sorry for the sick man who had confessed so eloquently and prolixly; but Mr. Lawrence was not so “tortured” with pity as to plead for his release from punishment. In fact, he had nothing to say against the law’s taking its course with him. However, he spoke kindly.

“Mr. Monk,” he said, “I forgive you freely, for it was my own foolishness that led me into your power. As for the money, it seemed fated that it should melt away, and to-day not one cent of it remains. I am glad to see you in a better frame of mind, sir; but I must leave you now to see how it fares with my nephew. Come, Henry.”

“And your story?” asked the confessor, with a curious and eager air.

“Excuse me, Mr. Monk,” said Uncle Dick; “but my story would seem prosaic, exceedingly prosaic, after yours. Good day.”

And he and Henry brutally strode out of the hut, leaving the ex-villain “tortured” with curiosity.

Thus those two villains, Hiram Monk and Jim Horniss, pass out of this tale.

If the reader thinks it worth while, he can turn back to the twenty-second chapter, and compare the story which Mr. Lawrence told Mr. Mortimer with the story narrated by Monk in this chapter. But seriously, gentle reader, it is hardly worth while to compare the two. Time is too precious to be fooled away in trying to comprehend the plots and mysteries put forth in certain romances.

Mr. Lawrence and Henry hurried on in the direction taken by their fellow-hunters an hour before.

“Mr. Lawrence,” said Henry, “I think I shall never go hunting again; I consider it a wicked waste of gunpowder and shoe-leather.”

“Yes, for a company of heedless innocents, who know little or nothing about fire-arms, and still less about the habits of animals, it is all a piece of foolishness;” Mr. Lawrence replied. “For those who are prudent enough to keep out of danger, who can understand and enjoy hunting and trapping, and go about it systematically, it is all very well.”

Parents and guardians, accept this as a warning—not that your sons, or wards, will clear up any appalling mystery by going hunting, but that they will be far more likely to destroy themselves than to return burdened with game.

---

To the heart-felt joy of the entire party, the surgeon declared that, by taking great care, Steve would not lose his thumb and fingers, though they might be stiff and mis-shaped for life.

As to Will’s knee, that was really a serious matter, and he would probably suffer more or less with it to his dying day. This was appalling to poor Will, who was so fond of physical exertion, but he bore it as bravely as he could.

As for the cuts made by the flying pieces, the surgeon regarded them with unutterable disdain. “A schoolboy,” he said, “would chuckle over such hurts, and make the most of them while they lasted; but he wouldn’t degrade himself by bellowing—unless his sister happened to dress them with vitriol. But if a piece had entered an eye, now, there would have been a tale to tell.”

And yet those hurts, slight as they were, had frightened Will so much that he had injured himself for life.

After all their wounds had been dressed, the Nimrods wended their way back to their humble cabin, still carrying Will, of course. As they went along they naturally conversed. Seeing that it is their last conversation, we deliberately inflict the whole of it on the hapless reader. However, the hapless reader cannot be forced to read it all.

“Let us have a little light on the subject, as the bloody-minded king said when he dropped a blazing lucifer on the head of a disorderly noble of his,” Steve observed, as they left the surgeon’s.

“What are you driving at now, Steve?” Charles inquired.

“The confession made by Monk, if Mr. Lawrence has no objections.”

“Certainly;” said uncle Dick. “Henry, you can give it better than I can; do so.”

“I wish, with all my heart, that I had taken it down,” said Henry, “for I consider it the best thing I ever heard. That man is a born romancer; but he wasted his talents keeping the records of his hospital, and afterwards dodging the ‘minions’ and his own conscience. However, I’ll give it as well as I can.”

The six, who had not heard it, listened attentively—even Will ceased to moan, in his eagerness to hear every word.

“What an extraordinary story!” cried Steve. “I hope he didn’t devise it for our amusement, as he devised his fiction about the small-pox!” he added grimly.

“Oh, he was very solemn about it,” Henry asserted.

“Didn’t Mr. Lawrence get back any of his lost fortune?” Marmaduke asked. “Surely he should have! Why, there is no moral at all in such a story as that!”

“Even so, Marmaduke; Hiram Monk made a grave mistake when he suffered the remainder of the fortune to be ingulfed in the ‘muddy waters’ of the Mississippi. He should have swelled it to millions, and then buried it near the first parallel of latitude, so many degrees northeast by southwest. When he confessed to Mr. Lawrence to-day, he should have given him a chart of the hiding-place, and in three months from this date we should have set out on the war-trail. After having annihilated several boat-loads of cannibals, and scuttled a pirate or so by way of recreation, we should have found the treasure just ten minutes after somebody else had lugged it off. But of course we should have come up with this somebody, had a sharp struggle, and lugged off the treasure in our turn. Then we should have returned, worth seven millions, a tame native, and an ugly monkey, apiece. But, alas! I don’t take kindly to that kind of romance any more, Marmaduke; I don’t pine to shed the blood of villains, cannibals, and pirates.”

So spoke Charles. A few hours before, and Steve would have said it, or something like it; but now Steve was looking very grave, and seemed already to pounce on Charles for speaking so.

“Charley,” he growled, “you talk as if we read Dime Novels; and I’m sure I don’t, if you do.”

Charley winced, but could not hit upon a cutting retort.

“What Charley says is very good,” Marmaduke, unmoved, replied; “but I don’t see why a whole fortune should be utterly lost, nor why Mr. Lawrence should spend ten years in idleness without some compensation. I hope you haven’t let Monk escape!” he cried, turning to Henry with such genuine alarm that the whole party broke into a laugh.

Even Steve forgot himself and joined in the laugh, Marmaduke’s expression of horror being so very ludicrous.

But he checked himself in a moment, and turned fiercely upon Charles: “Charles Growler, I am astonished at you! We do not know Marmaduke’s thoughts; we cannot judge him by ourselves. By nature, he is of a finer organism than we, and he sees things in a different light. Some day, when he is a poet among poets, he will hold us poor shallow creatures up to ridicule in some majestic and spirit-stirring satire.”

Stephen was in earnest now, but the others were not accustomed to this sort of thing from him, and thinking he meant to be only unusually sarcastic, their laughter broke forth again; and while Charles laughed uproariously, Henry said severely—so severely that Steve was almost desperate: “You ought not to be so personal in your remarks; you ought to have a little respect for another’s feelings.”

Marmaduke remembered the promise Stephen had made on the log, and he now looked at him reproachfully, thinking, with the rest, that Steve was jeering at him.

Poor misunderstood boy! He knew not how to explain himself. This was the first time he had had occasion to play the champion to Marmaduke, and he was making an egregious fool of himself.

“Oh, you stupid fellows!” he roared. “I’m taking his part; and I mean to take it after this, for he is the best fellow in the world.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Henry said heartily. “As for Hiram Monk, like all worn out villains, he is anxious that the Law should care for him; and the officer who secured Jim Horniss will secure him, also. As for the confession, let us make the most of it as it is; for we can’t make it either better or worse if we stay here till we shoot another deer.”

“Well, boys, what about going home?” George asked.

“If you are ready to go, I’m morally certain I am,” said Steve.

Now that the subject was broached, the others were willing to acknowledge that they had had enough of hunting, and would gladly go home. Charles, however, thought it would be more decorous to offer some plausible excuse for returning so quickly, and so he said, “Yes, boys, I must go immediately; I have business that calls me home imperatively.”

“‘Business?’ What ‘business?’” Steve asked in great perplexity.

He knew that Charley did not yet earn his own living at home; he knew, also, that Charley was not learning to play on the violin; hence his curiosity.

Charles was not prepared for such a question. He wanted, actually, craved for, a glass of lemonade and one of his mother’s pumpkin pies; but this seemed so flimsy an excuse that he hesitated to say so. He stammered; his cheeks flushed; and at last he said, desperately, “Well, boys, I should like to see how these cuts look in the mirror!”

Will, who shrewdly suspected what Charles was thinking of, said softly, in French—which he understood better now than he did six years before—with a faint attempt at a smile, “And in the eyes of that dear little girl.”

“This is a great change in our plans,” Henry observed. “We intended to stay three weeks; and now, at the end of three days, we are disgusted and homesick.”

It was evident that Steve had something on his mind, and he now asked, inquisitively: “Should you like to go home, Henry?”

“Stephen, I am going home immediately—even if Will and I have to go alone.”

Stephen was about to make a sententious observation; but he checked himself abruptly, and his voice died away in one long, guttural, and untranslatable interjection.

The day before, Stephen had come upon Henry alone in the depths of the forest, leaning against a tree, and whistling as though his heart would break—whistling passionately, yet tenderly—whistling as only a lover can whistle a love-song. Yet it was not a love-song that Henry was whistling, but a piece of instrumental music,—“La Fille de Madame Angot,” by Charles Godfrey,—the first piece that, some three or four years before, he had ever heard his blue-eyed sweetheart play; and the last piece that, in memory of those old days, she had played for him before he set out to go hunting.

Steve had stolen softly away, feeling that the person who could whistle that waltz as Henry whistled it, did not wish to be disturbed. He now refrained from making his observation, and said to himself: “Well, now, I feel just about as happy as if I had said what I wanted to say! Only, it was so good!”

“Of course; that’s just what we should have thought of first,” said Charles, beginning where Henry left off. “Will must be taken home this very night—that is, a start for home must be made this very night. We will go with him, of course; for we don’t want to stay and hunt alone.”

“Of course,” chorused the others, not wishing to hunt “alone.”

“Shall we buy some deer of regular hunters?” Jim meekly suggested. “Every one will laugh at us if we go home without even a bird.”

Steve answered him: “No! If we can’t shoot a deer to take home, we had better go empty-handed. And besides, we can buy deer nearer home than this. As for birds, I didn’t know that amateur hunters take home birds as an evidence of their skill—unless they happen to shoot an eagle. As for the laugh, why, I tell you, we shall be worshipped as wounded heroes!”

“Perhaps, as stupid blunderers!” George said, testily.

For the first time, George’s whole skin troubled him. He had not received even a scratch; while all the others had some hurt, bruise, or mark, as a memento of this hunt. Even Jim had not escaped, a vicious hornet having inhumanly stung his nose.

They were now drawing near the place where they supposed their cabin stood. But everything seemed strange—very strange.

“Are we lost again?” was the cry that burst from Will’s lips.

“Not lost, but burnt out!” Steve exclaimed. “Yes, boys, we are burnt out of house and home! Now, in such a case, who is going to stay here and hunt? Why, our bitterest enemies wouldn’t expect it of us! Hurrah! But,” he added, gravely, “I’m afraid I’m reconciled to this disaster!”

“I think we all are,” Charles said, with a hideous grin.

“Now, I want to know how and why that shanty caught fire?” Will ejaculated.

By this time the hunters had reached the spot lately occupied by their cabin, and they now stood around the pile of still smoking ruins, with probably “mingled emotions.”

“You cooked the few morsels we had for breakfast, Will; therefore you ought to be responsible for this,” Henry observed.

“O—h!” groaned Will, “so I am! I didn’t put the fire entirely out this morning, and I forgot a box of matches on the hearth—the homemade hearth. They have met!”

“At first I grieved that our hovel was so small,” said Charles; “but now I’m glad it was, or else the fire might have gone into the forest.”

“And burnt us alive!” Steve said, with a shudder. Then he left Marmaduke, bent over the sufferer on the litter, and whispered in his ear: “Will, as soon as ever we reach home, I intend to deliver you over to Mr. B. F. Stolz!”

Having discharged this horrible threat, Steve returned to Marmaduke, muttering: “A hunter has no business to build a shanty to live in; he ought to pitch a tent, if it’s nothing but a parasol on a fish-pole.”

“What about this fellow’s bumps?” chuckles the reader.

It is very ungracious in the reader, after all our kindness towards him, to throw out such insinuations, and we refuse to give him any other explanation or satisfaction than this: Will’s bumps were not so prominent as usual that day.

George now spoke. “Look here, boys; stop your foolishness and listen to me. Didn’t we leave some valuables in that building? Where are they now?”

“Oh!” gasped the others, in one breath.

“Where are they now?” George roared again.

As no one seemed to know, he continued: “Well, I’m going to look for the wreck of my fowling-piece.” And he set his feet together, and deliberately leaped into the midst of the smouldering ruins.

He alighted on his feet, but they gave way beneath him; he staggered, and then fell heavily, at full length.

The hunters were alarmed. Was he hurt?

“George!—George!” they shrieked. “Oh, George!”

“Well, what’s the matter?” he growled, as he struggled to his feet.

“Oh, George, come out,” Charles pleaded. “You must be hurt.”

“Am I?” George cried, wildly, hopefully. “Am I hurt, I say?”

“You will probably have a black eye,” Mr. Lawrence sorrowfully observed, as the explorer emerged from the cinders.

“Am I much bruised?” he asked, turning to Stephen, certain that that worthy would do him justice. “Am I, Steve? I don’t feel hurt or bruised a bit.”

Quick-witted Steve saw what was going on in the questioner’s mind, and replied, promptly: “Bruised? Why, you’re a frightful object—a vagabond scare-crow! You must be wounded from your Scotch cap to the toe of your left boot. You’ve secured not only an exceedingly black eye, but also a swelled cheek, a protuberant forehead, a stiff neck, a singed chin, a sprained wrist, and, for all I know, a cracked skull! Why, George, you’re a total wreck! The folks at home will think that we took you for some wild beast, and that each of us fired at you and hit you.”

The Sage turned away with a happy smile on his lips.

“Surely,” he soliloquised, “Steve wouldn’t go so far if there isn’t something wrong. But I hope there is no danger of a black eye!”

Then aloud, and cheerfully: “Yes, boys, let us go home.”

Do not imagine, gentle reader, that this hunter fell purposely. He was not so foolish as that; but when he did have a fall, he wished to profit by it. Still, he could see neither romance nor poetry in gaining nothing but a black eye.

It is worse than useless to prolong their conversation, so here it closes.

The hunters felt somewhat crest-fallen when they found that the fire had consumed almost everything left in the cabin. However, they packed their remaining effects in some new boxes, and then set out for home in pretty good spirits. They arrived safe, and were welcomed as wounded heroes, as Steve had foretold.

For the consolation of those readers who have an antipathy to mutilated heroes, it may be stated that Stephen’s hurts healed, leaving no other bad effects than ugly scars.

For the consolation of conscientious readers, it may be stated that Hiram Monk and Jim Horniss were tried by law, and sentenced to the punishment they deserved. If a learned lawyer should be beguiled into reading this story, he might know what punishment those wretches deserved—he might even guess at what punishment they received.

But the majesty of the law is possessed of a fickle mind.

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Some novels, like an endless chain, seem to have neither beginning nor end; others, while they give every little incident with wearisome minuteness, stop suddenly when they come to the colophon, pause in doubt and trepidation, and finally conclude with two or three sentences of sententious brevity, in which the word marriage occurs at least once. The writer of this history, like all right-minded scribes, becomes disgusted when the last difficulty is surmounted, but yet has sufficient moral power to devote a whole chapter (though a short one) to the conclusion. Gentle reader, you ought to be indulgent to one who has such self-abnegation—such firmness of purpose—such greatness of mind.

This story draws to an end for several reasons: first, there is no great affinity between schoolboys, for whom it professes to be written, and volumes seventy-nine chapters in length; secondly, if the reader is not tired of it, the writer begins to be; thirdly, a story dies a natural death as soon as its writer unriddles, or attempts to unriddle, its mysteries; fourthly (and this is perhaps the strongest reason of all), there is nothing more to be written.

If there are other reasons why the story should be brought to an end, they concern the writer, not the reader, and therefore need not be specified. But in case the reader should care to hear what became of those boys, the writer graciously spins out a few pages more.

Naturally they married, observes the reader who is familiar with works of fiction. Certainly; every one of them married.

Marmaduke fell desperately in love; and, as was evinced when he rescued Sauterelle, he was a man who could love passionately and for ever. He married the object of his choice, of course. By the way, she was actually a French heiress—at least, her papa was a Frenchman teaching French in one of our colleges, and on the wedding-day he gave her the magnificent dowry of five hundred dollars, the accumulated savings of very many years.

Charles married the young lady referred to incidentally in the last chapter. All the heroes were present at his wedding; and their enthusiasm ran so high that they clubbed together, and bought the happy pair a marvel of a clock, that indicated not only the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and centuries, but was furnished, also, with a brass band,—which thundered forth “Yankee Doodle,” “Hail Columbia,” and “Home, Sweet Home,”—a regiment of well-dressed negroes, an ear-piercing gong, and “all the latest improvements.”

Charles and his pretty little wife tolerated this nuisance exactly three days, and then the former proposed the following resolution: “That clock runs just one year after being wound, and the boys wound it up tight when they brought it here and set it up. If we let it alone till it runs down, we shall be as mad as the man that made it. I used to delight in “Yankee Doodle,” but now I abominate it! We can keep the handsomest darkey in remembrance of the boys’ mistaken kindness,—rather, in remembrance of the horrible fate they prepared for us,—but the clock’s doom is sealed. I will immolate it this very evening; and the street boys may make off with its broken remains.”

It is hardly worth while to go on and describe the wedding-feast of each of the heroes. Turn to the last page of any novel whatsoever, and you will find an account quite as applicable to this case as to the original of a hero’s marriage.

Will continues to commit his ridiculous blunders as of yore; but they are not quite so ridiculous as those narrated in this tale, for he has learned to keep a strict watch over himself. But, notwithstanding that, notwithstanding his bumps, notwithstanding that he is now a man, he will occasionally unstring the nerves of some weak-headed person by an unseemly act.

Stephen still takes delight in playing off his practical jokes. He often gets into trouble by this means, but it is not in his nature to profit by experience.

George is a man, wise and learned in his own estimation. He sends scientific treatises to the leading journals sometimes, but, alas! it generally results in their being declined. But George does not value time and postage-stamps so highly as he should, consequently he still persists in harassing the editors with his manuscripts. He is very dispassionate in his choice of subjects, writing with equal impartiality and enthusiasm about astronomy, geology, philosophy, aëronautics, and philology. Probably that is the reason why he does not succeed. If he should take up a single science and devote all his energies to it, his name might eventually become known to every school-boy in the land.

The less said about Timor, the better. Any boy who will attempt to hide from a June thunder-storm by skulking under his bed, can never become a man. He may grow up to man’s estate, doubtless; but he will be nothing but a big, overgrown coward.

Bear this in mind, O parent; and if you should ever catch your little son skulking in the aforementioned place while the lightning is playing over the vault of heaven, fall on him, drag him out by the coat-collar, and hoist him on the gate-post, that he may see how beautiful and marvellous the lightning is.

Henry is a man, in every sense of the word. He has a good head for business, and in a few years will, in all probability, become a rich man—which, in good romances, is the main point.

Marmaduke never became a poet, as Steve fondly prophesied. But he is probably the most orthodox antiquary in the United States. He may safely be consulted on whatever relates to antiquities, as his information is unlimited, and his home one great museum of curiosities and monstrosities. To be sure, there are some hideous and repulsive objects in his cabinets—objects which a child would shudder to pass in broad daylight—but his home is the resort of profound, but absent-minded and whimsical, antiquaries from all parts. He and his wife live a quiet and happy life, pitied contemptuously by the ignorant, but honored and respected by those who know them best. He is not so romantic as formerly, his experience with “Sauterelle” having shaken his faith in romance and mystery so much that he afterwards transferred his attention to antiquities, leaving romance and mystery for the novelists and detectives to deal with. He is undeniably a genius, and, much to Steve’s joy, a thorough American.

Reader, it is utterly impossible for the writer to inform you of the occupation of all the others—in fact, he is not morally certain that he did right in making an antiquary of Marmaduke. Take the matter into your own hands, and think in what business those boys would succeed best. If you can tell, good—very good; the writer is spared the trouble.

Therefore: Each reader is at liberty to make what he pleases of Will, Charles, George, Stephen, Jim, and Henry. There is, however, this proviso: Do not think of Charles as an ambassador to Persia; of Steve, as the “proprietor” of a pea-nut stand; of Jim, as a reader of ghost-stories at midnight. Do not think of one of them as a future candidate for the presidency.

Something has been said of Steve’s calligraphic propensities. But he never made his fortune with his pencil; he did little more than while away an idle hour.

“Ah,” sighs the conscientious reader, “were those boys not reformed? Did the faults of their boyhood cling to them in their manhood?”

Yes; they clung to them. It was originally the intention to reform them, one and all; but insurmountable difficulties lay in the way. In the first place, nothing short of a frightful, perhaps fatal, catastrophe could have a lasting effect on them; and it is unpleasant to deal with catastrophes. Consequently, they are suffered to live on, their ways not amended. But the writer is as grieved at their follies, or faults, as you are, gentle reader.

After a careful and critical perusal of this composition,—which the writer is conceited enough boldly to call “tale,” “story,” and “history,” and indirectly to call “romance” and “novel,”—the reader may inquire, vaguely: “Who is supposed to be the hero of it, anyway?”

The writer does not resent this as an insult, but replies calmly that he does not know. In the beginning, it was designed that Will should be the hero-in-chief, but it soon became manifest that that was a mistaken idea. Will is, at best, a shabby hero, not half so noble as the gamins in the fable, who stopped stoning the frogs when the frogs reasoned them out of it.

In point of religion, Will is probably the best of all, though each one is sound in his belief. George does not permit his scientific hobbies to shake his faith in God or man; and if the reader imagines he detects profane levity in the course of this book, he is mistaken, for nothing of the sort is intended.

We do not inform possible inquirers what church these worthies attended, or whether each one attended a different church. We do not disclose with which political party they sided, but it may be taken for granted that they were not all Republicans nor all Democrats.

There is a motive for this reticence—a very base and significant motive. That motive is—policy!

To return to Will. He endeavored to live up to the precept enforced in the following lines:

The disgusted reader, if he has persevered to the end, tumbles this volume into an out-of-the-way corner, fetches a yawn of intense relief, and mutters, “Good-bye to that self-styled writer, with his Wegotism and his ‘demoralized’ heroes, who are always ‘chuckling’ over their atrocities; and who are a set of noodles, anyway; always quaking with fear, overwhelmed with consternation, or shuddering with horror—and all for nothing.”

 

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Transcriber’s Note:

A large number of printing errors have been corrected without note.

Use of hyphens, e.g. schoolboy/school-boy, is variable.