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Title: The Young Circus Rider - or, the Mystery of Robert Rudd
Author: Alger, Horatio, Jr., Jr.
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
[Illustration: ANAK ASTONISHES THE FARMER.]
_ATLANTIC SERIES._
THE
YOUNG CIRCUS RIDER;
THE MYSTERY OF ROBERT RUDD.
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY T. COATES & CO.
FAMOUS ALGER BOOKS.
=RAGGED DICK SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 6 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
RAGGED DICK.
FAME AND FORTUNE.
MARK THE MATCH BOY.
ROUGH AND READY.
BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY.
RUFUS AND ROSE.
=TATTERED TOM SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. FIRST
SERIES.
TATTERED TOM.
PAUL THE PEDDLER.
PHIL THE FIDDLER.
SLOW AND SURE.
=TATTERED TOM SERIES.= 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES.
JULIUS.
THE YOUNG OUTLAW.
SAM'S CHANCE.
THE TELEGRAPH BOY.
=CAMPAIGN SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols.
FRANK'S CAMPAIGN.
PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.
=LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
FIRST SERIES.
LUCK AND PLUCK.
SINK OR SWIM.
STRONG AND STEADY.
STRIVE AND SUCCEED.
=LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES.= 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES.
TRY AND TRUST.
BOUND TO RISE.
RISEN FROM THE RANKS.
HERBERT CARTER'S LEGACY.
=BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
BRAVE AND BOLD.
JACK'S WARD.
SHIFTING FOR HIMSELF.
WAIT AND HOPE.
=PACIFIC SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo.
THE YOUNG ADVENTURER.
THE YOUNG MINER.
THE YOUNG EXPLORERS.
BEN'S NUGGET.
=ATLANTIC SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols.
THE YOUNG CIRCUS RIDER.
DO AND DARE.
HECTOR'S INHERITANCE.
HELPING HIMSELF.
=WAY TO SUCCESS SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
BOB BURTON.
THE STORE BOY.
LUKE WALTON.
STRUGGLING UPWARD.
=NEW WORLD SERIES.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
DIGGING FOR GOLD.
FACING THE WORLD.
IN A NEW WORLD.
_=Other Volumes in Preparation.=_
COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY PORTER & COATES.
PREFACE.
As the Pacific Series, just completed, is devoted to stories of life
and adventure on the Pacific coast, the Atlantic Series, of which the
Young Circus Rider is the initial volume, will comprise stories located
nearer home. The author will feel at liberty, however, should the
exigencies of the plot require it, to change the scene temporarily to
other parts of the continent.
The fascinations which the circus has always exercised over the minds
of young people is so well known, that the author has felt justified
in selecting the hero of the present story from that class of public
performers who appeal so powerfully to the imagination of his young
readers. In order to prepare himself for his task, he has made
personal acquaintance with more than one hero of the ring, and has
sought to furnish an inside view of the life which he describes. He
hopes that the result may prove acceptable to the juvenile public in
whose behalf he is always glad to labor.
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
March 13, 1883.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. Anak, the Norwegian Giant 7
II. Anak's Exploits 15
III. The Wrath of Mr. Tarbox 24
IV. Mr. Tarbox Invokes the Majesty of the Law 32
V. Tarbox and the Constable go to the Circus 41
VI. Tarbox is Defeated 50
VII. The Evening Entertainment 59
VIII. A Scheming Nephew 68
IX. Two Boys on a Tramp 77
X. Trapped 85
XI. Dismay at the Home of Tarbox 94
XII. The Canvas Man 102
XIII. Catching a Thief 110
XIV. Chestnutwood 115
XV. A Compact 120
XVI. The Canvas Man 127
XVII. An Athletic Contest 136
XVIII. The Canvas Man finds a Bonanza 144
XIX. A Farce and a Tragedy 153
XX. The Amateur Detectives 162
XXI. Catching a Burglar 171
XXII. Robert Rudd Leaves the Circus 180
XXIII. What the Letter Contained 188
XXIV. Robert Meets his Employer 193
XXV. At Niagara Falls 198
XXVI. A Victim of Treachery 207
XXVII. Robert finds Himself in a Tight Place 216
XXVIII. Robert Subdues a Horse 225
XXIX. An Unpleasant Acquaintance 234
XXX. The Tree of Refuge 241
XXXI. Hercules—the Strong Man 247
XXXII. Fitzgerald's Disappointment 253
XXXIII. Fitzgerald Sees an Apparition 262
XXXIV. The Mystery of Robert Rudd is Solved 266
THE
STAR OF THE CIRCUS.
CHAPTER I.
ANAK, THE NORWEGIAN GIANT.
About three o'clock in the afternoon an oddly assorted couple walked
through the main street in the manufacturing town of Crampton. One
was a man of herculean proportions, fully seven and a half feet
high, but with a good-natured face that relieved the fears which he
might otherwise have inspired. The other was a boy of fifteen, tall
and slender, with a dark complexion and bright eyes. He found some
difficulty in keeping pace with his tall companion.
"You're going too fast for me, Anak," he said at last. "Remember, my
legs are not quite so long as yours."
The giant laughed—a deep, resonant and not unmusical laugh, and
answered: "I'm always forgetting that, Robert. I suppose I ought to
walk alone, for I can't find any one to match me."
"See how people are looking at us," continued the boy, glancing quickly
back. "There's an army of small boys following us."
"Do you want to see me scatter them?" asked Anak.
"Yes; it will be fun."
The burly giant turned, and assuming a terrific frown, ran back,
his long limbs carrying him on at remarkable speed. Instantly the
boys, with loud shouts of dismay, broke ranks and scattered in every
direction, not daring even to look over their shoulders.
Anak came back, laughing heartily.
"I wonder what the boys thought I would do to them," he said. "The fact
is, I like young people, and am always ready to take their parts; but
then, they don't know that. Did I look very alarming just now?"
"Yes," answered Robert; "if I hadn't known you, I might have run too."
"I don't know about that, Robert. No one can accuse you of want of
courage."
Robert smiled, and his dark face looked very attractive when he smiled.
"I am not afraid of horses," he said.
"No; you are the most daring bareback rider I ever knew."
"I don't think I ever was afraid of horses," continued the boy,
thoughtfully. "I can't remember the time when I was not used to them."
"How long have you been a bareback rider?" asked Anak.
"I think I commenced when I was nine years old."
"And now you are—how old?"
"Fifteen."
"You never told me how you came to join a circus, Robert."
"I was wandering about the country—tramping—without a friend, and
without any means of living, when a circus man offered to train me as a
rider. Anything was better than tramping, and I accepted—"
"And now you are
ROBERT RUDD,
THE BOY WONDER!
_The Best Bareback Rider in the World._"
"That's what the circus bills say," replied Robert, smiling. "Now let
me introduce you. Gentlemen and ladies," said the boy, waving his hand,
as if addressing an audience, "I have the pleasure of introducing to
you,
ANAK!
THE CELEBRATED NORWEGIAN GIANT!
_Eight feet in height, and weighing four hundred and twenty pounds,
who has been exhibited before all the crowned heads of Europe, and
is generally acknowledged to be the tallest giant in the world!_"
"Good for you, Robert!" said the giant, good naturedly. "You've got it
by heart, my boy."
"I want to ask you a favor, Anak," said Robert, slyly: "Speak a little
Norwegian; I want to know how it sounds."
"Oh go away with you! I don't know any more Norwegian than you do."
"How is that? You don't mean to say you've forgotten your native
language?"
"I never knew a bit of Norwegian, Rob, my boy; and as for native
language, I'm minded to tell you a secret."
"Go ahead!"
"I was born in Tipperary, and they didn't use to speak Norwegian there
when I was a boy."
"Then why do they call you a Norwegian?"
"It sounds better than Irish, you see."
"But haven't you ever been caught? Didn't you ever have a Norwegian
come up and try to talk to you in his own language?"
"Yes," said Anak, laughing, "and mighty embarrassing it was, too."
"What did you do?"
"Faith, I opened upon him in old Irish. You ought to have seen the
fellow stare. I shrugged my shoulders, and said I, 'You speak bad
Norwegian,' and the crowd believed me. He slunk away, and that's the
way I got over that."
"What's your real name, Anak?"
Anak looked about him guardedly, and finding that no one was within
earshot, he answered, "Tom O'Connor, but don't give me away, Robert!"
"I don't believe I could, Anak," said the boy, laughing.
Anak joined in the laugh, and Robert continued, "When did you get your
growth? I mean, how old were you?"
"I kept on growing till I was twenty-one. When I was sixteen I was six
feet high, and everybody thought I was through, but I kept on till I
reached seven and a half feet, and then was tall enough to show."
"How about that eight feet, Anak?"
"You must ask the manager. They always make giants taller than they
are. It's equal all round, and nobody's hurt. And now, Robert, I'm
going to ask you a question."
"What is it, Anak?"
"Do you expect always to be in this business?"
"Bareback riding, you mean? No, I hope not," said the boy, gravely.
"I hope not, too. It'll do for a time, and there isn't anything else
open to a big overgrown fellow like me, but you are a smart boy, and
there are plenty of chances for you to get into something else. You
never told me about when you were a little boy; can you remember as far
back?"
"Not much," answered the boy, soberly. "Sometimes I seem to remember a
fine house and grounds, and it seems as if I were riding on a beautiful
lawn, on a pony, with a servant at my side. But it is provoking that I
can't remember any more, and the whole seems dim, and melts away, and
it may be all imagination, after all."
"It may be all true, Robert. Was it in America, do you think, now?"
"That is more than I can tell. It may be all fancy."
"Have you any relations living?"
"Not that I know of," said the boy sadly; "I wish I had. I feel very
lonely sometimes, and there doesn't seem much to live for."
"You've plenty of friends, Rob—all of us like you."
"Yes, you all treat me well."
"You have always been a favorite in the circus, my lad."
"Yes; I never had anything to complain of except that my trainer was
sometimes a little rough. But it isn't as if I had somebody belonging
to me—a brother, or a cousin, at the least. Have you any relations,
Anak?"
"Yes, I've got any number of cousins, and my old mother's living, too,
bless her heart."
"In Norway?" asked Robert, slyly.
"Oh go away! they know no more about Norway than you do. It is in
Tipperary they all live. I've forty or fifty cousins at the least, and
I'll give you a half a dozen with pleasure, if it'll do you any good."
"I don't think they would answer my purpose, Anak," answered the boy,
smiling.
"Well, as I was sayin', Robert, I wouldn't stay with the circus always
if I was you."
"What else is there for me to do?"
"Wait and see. You're young yet."
"My education is very poor, you know, Anak."
"Can't you read and write?"
"Yes, but not much more. I should like to go to school for two years."
"Sure you look like a gentleman, and you'll be one some day, I
shouldn't wonder."
"Look there, Anak!" said the boy, suddenly; "there's a man who appears
to be in trouble."
As he spoke he pointed to the driver of a team, which seemed to have
settled in the mud, for it was now spring-time, and the roads were in
a bad condition. The driver was shouting frantically to the horse, who
was making desperate efforts to pull the wagon out of the mire, but
without success.
CHAPTER II.
ANAK'S EXPLOITS.
"What's the matter, my friend?" inquired Anak, addressing the driver of
the team.
The latter stared in amazement at the gigantic querist, but his trouble
overcame his surprise, and he answered, "You can see for yourself. My
wagon's mired and my horse is too lazy to draw it out."
"Indeed the poor beast is unable," said Anak.
"He can do it if he wants to," said the driver, angrily. "I'll see if I
can't persuade him," and he flourished a whip in a menacing manner.
"Hold there!" said Anak. "We'll see if we can't help him."
So saying he went round to the back of the wagon, and, seizing it in
his powerful hands, cried, "Now start your horse!"
The driver did so, and, with Anak's powerful help, the horse had small
difficulty in extricating the wagon from the mire.
"There, that's better than beating your horse," said Anak, stepping
once more to the side of the road.
"You're powerful strong, sir," said the teamster, respectfully,
surveying the colossal proportions of Anak.
"I ought to be, oughtn't I?" returned Anak.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you belong to the circus?"
"Yes, you'll find me there if you take the trouble to visit it."
"Are you the Norwegian giant?"
"That's what they call me," answered Anak, smiling.
"Well, at any rate, I'm obliged to you for helping me."
"And so is the horse, I'm thinking."
"Yes; you are as strong as a horse yourself," said the teamster,
admiringly.
"That is convenient sometimes, my friend."
The teamster drove on, and Anak and Robert also continued their walk.
"The manager doesn't like to have me show myself for nothing," said
Anak, "but I can't stay under canvas all day to oblige him. My health
requires me to walk out in the open air."
"Does it require you to walk so fast, Anak?"
"Excuse me, Robert; I'm always forgetting."
"The manager has less trouble in keeping Madame Leonora in," said Robert.
"That's true; she's too fat to walk much. She weighs more than I do,
though she's two feet shorter."
They had drawn out of the village, and got into the comparatively open
country among the farms. They were talking of one subject and another,
when suddenly their attention was drawn to a small boy who was running
towards them in terror and dismay.
"What's the matter?" asked Robert, his sympathy quickly aroused; "are
you hurt?"
"No," answered the boy, slackening his speed, "but Mr. Tarbox is going
to whip Jimmy."
"And who is Jimmy?"
"Jimmy's my brother."
"And what have you been doing?"
"We were only cutting across his lot, when he came out and chased us,
swearin' awful. I got away, but he's got poor Jimmy, and he's going to
horsewhip him," and the poor boy burst into terrified tears.
Robert afterwards learned that this Tarbox was a rough, tyrannical old
farmer, noted for his bad temper, who appeared to cherish a special
antipathy to boys. There was a footpath around his field, which
considerably lessened the distance to the main road for some of his
neighbors, but in the ugliness of his disposition he forbade it to be
used. Men he did not venture to attack, but woe betide the boy who
ventured to enter his enclosure.
"Where is this Tarbox and your brother?" asked Anak.
The boy pointed to a house and lot a little farther on.
"We wouldn't have gone across-lots," he explained, "but mother was
taken sick, and we got frightened and wanted to call the doctor as soon
as we could, and we thought we might do it for once."
"Did you tell this man Tarbox the reason you went across his field?"
asked Anak.
"Yes, but he said it was no excuse, and I am afraid he'll kill poor
Jimmy."
The little boy fell to weeping again.
"There they are!" said Robert.
In a field, just off the road, was a strong, brutal-looking man
deliberately engaged in tying a boy of twelve to a tree. The whip in
his hand showed what he intended to do afterwards. He might indeed have
dispensed with tying the boy, for he was quite unable to escape, but he
did it on the same principle that a cat plays with a mouse, to increase
the terror of the poor victim.
His back was turned, so that he did not see the approach of Anak and
the two boys.
This was what the new-comer heard as they approached:
"Oh, please don't whip me, Mr. Tarbox," pleaded the poor boy, in an
agony of apprehension.
"Then why did you come across my lot, you little rascal?"
"I was in a hurry to call the doctor, because mother was sick. Indeed
that was the only reason."
"I've got nothing to do with your sick mother," said Tarbox. "That was
no reason for coming across my field."
"I didn't hurt anything, sir; I just walked along the path."
"I'll larn you not to try it again, Jim Benton; I'm goin' to give you
as good a floggin' as ever you had. You can just tell the other boys
how it feels and mebbe they'll want to try it."
"Oh, please don't whip me! I ought to be goin' for a doctor. My mother
may die."
"She can die for all I care," said the brutal Tarbox. "Now I've got you
tied, and I'm goin' to give your jacket a good warmin'."
He raised the whip and was about to bring it down upon the shrinking
limbs of the poor boy, when he was startled by a deep, stern voice only
a rod behind him, "Don't touch that boy!"
Tarbox looked back and saw Anak striding towards him. He had not seen
him before, but he knew who he was, for he had seen the posters of the
circus. Though rather startled, he was not disposed to yield his victim
easily.
"Get out of my field!" he snarled; "you're trespassin'."
"I can't help it," said Anak; "I'm not going to see a brute like you
whip a poor child while I am here to defend him."
"You ain't, hey?" snarled Tarbox. "I've got the law on my side, and I'm
goin' to do it. Just you clear out, you two, or I'll have the law on
you."
He raised the whip, but did not get a chance to use it. Anak reached
him in one stride, snatched the whip from his hand and flung it into
the road; then, grasping the stalwart farmer by the collar, shook him
till his teeth chattered, with as much ease as Tarbox himself would
have handled the twelve-year-old boy.
"Perhaps you'll change your opinion now?" he said.
Tarbox was astonished and cowed. There wasn't a man in town that could
cope with him, yet he was but a child in the hands of the Norwegian
giant.
"I'll have the law of you!" he shrieked in furious anger.
"So you may, but first you've got to untie that boy."
"I won't!"
"You won't, hey?"
Again Anak seized him, and shook him vigorously in spite of his
struggles.
When he let him go, Tarbox, with an evil look, called, "Here, Bruiser!
come here, sir."
A large, wicked-looking bull-dog bounded over a stone wall, and rushed
forward evidently bent on mischief.
"Sik him!" he exclaimed, pointing to Anak.
"Is your dog's life insured?" asked Anak, calmly.
He waited till the dog was within a foot or two, aiming to attack his
leg; then he raised one of his powerful feet, aimed a tremendous kick
at Bruiser, and the dog was stretched senseless at his feet.
"It's your own fault," said Anak, turning to the farmer; "your dog is
probably dead. Now, untie that boy."
Tarbox by this time seemed thoroughly frightened. With dark, sullen
looks he obeyed the giant, and Jimmy, overjoyed to recover his freedom,
stretched his arms and legs.
"Now, go for the doctor as fast as you please," said Anak.
The two brothers quickly started on their errand, and Anak, turning to
Tarbox, said, "You miserable brute, if I ever hear of your attempting
to abuse a poor boy again, I'll travel five hundred miles if necessary
to kick you as I have kicked your dog. Go back to your house or I may
do it now."
Tarbox needed no second order. He was rather afraid that he too might
feel the weight of the giant's boot, and he hurried away. Safe in his
own yard, he shouted, "I'll have you punished for this, you big rascal!"
Anak only laughed.
"We may as well be going back, Robert," he said; "I don't want to get
into any more fights."
CHAPTER III.
THE WRATH OF MR. TARBOX.
Colman's Grand Combined Circus and Menagerie, with its line of showy
chariots, its collection of animals from all parts of the habitable
world, and its general array of wonders, had pitched its tent in a
large otherwise unoccupied lot in the eastern part of the town.
An immense tent, capable of containing six thousand spectators, had
been erected, and presented a picturesque appearance. All was hurry
and bustle in and around the circus tent. Crowds of staring urchins
were gathered as near as possible, on the chance of seeing something
of the wonders hidden by the canvas. I am afraid more boys played
truant on that day than had done so for many previous weeks, for to the
mind of the average school-boy there is nothing more seductive than a
travelling show.
Anak and Robert had been missed, for it was not often they absented
themselves so long, and it is possible that the heart of the manager
might have been stirred by apprehensions lest two of his greatest
attractions should have taken French leave and forsaken him on the eve
of battle.
When they were seen approaching, a boy smaller than Robert ran to meet
them.
This was Charlie Davis, also a bareback rider, but a year younger than
Robert, who performed an act with him.
"Where have you been, you two?" he asked. "I thought you'd run away?"
"If Anak ran away, it would take a fast runner to catch him," said
Robert. "No, we've been taking a walk."
"Why didn't you tell me? I should like to have gone, too."
"You're not much of a walker, you know, Charlie. Still you might have
helped us. We got into a fight."
"Where? Who did you fight with?" asked Charlie, his curiosity aroused.
"With a brutal old farmer, who had tied a boy to a tree, and was going
to flog him. You ought to have seen how Anak tamed him down. He just
took him by the collar, and shook him as a cat would a rat."
"What did he do?"
"He called his dog, a big, ugly brute, named Bruiser. Bruiser's funeral
will take place to-morrow."
"I wish I had been with you," said Charlie, in a tone of disappointment.
"If you had, I should have let you do the fighting," said Anak. "Well,
Charlie, how are things getting on?"
"Oh, everything is about ready. They've laid out the ring, and are
putting up the seats. The bearded lady's sick, and says she shan't
appear if she doesn't feel better. But they can spare her better than
they could us."
"I don't know," said Robert, smiling. "At any rate, we have harder work
to do than she, though we may not get as much money."
"And it isn't as good fun, either," remarked Charlie.
"That's true. Well, let us go in and see how things are going on."
Charlie Davis was a year younger and considerably smaller than Robert,
but his line of business was the same, and the two rode together well.
Young performers are always popular, and the two boys always received
their share of applause. Charlie had a more lively temperament than
Robert, and being a little fellow was a general favorite among the
other performers.
Leaving the circus for a time we will go back to Mr. Nathan Tarbox, who
had been so signally defeated in his plans of revenge upon his young
victim by Anak. As he entered the house he was met by Mrs. Tarbox, who
from the window had witnessed with dismay the conflict between her
husband and the Norwegian giant.
She was a tall, bony woman, not usually demonstrative, but she rushed
up to her husband on this occasion in a tremor of excitement and threw
her arms round his neck.
"Oh, Nathan!" she exclaimed, "I thought that monster would kill you. I
shook like a leaf when I saw you in his grasp."
"Quit your fooling," returned the affectionate husband. "Why didn't you
come out and help me?"
"How could I—a delicate woman like me?" asked Mrs. Tarbox,
reproachfully.
"I suppose you wouldn't have minded seeing me killed before your eyes,"
retorted Nathan with sarcasm; "you wasn't too delicate for that. I dare
say you'd like to be a widow."
"How can you talk so, Nathan? You hurt my feelings. Do be reasonable,
now. What could I do?"
"What could you do? I'll tell you what you could do. You could have
taken the frying-pan and laid it over his head. That's what you ought
to have done. Between us we could have managed the big brute."
"You know, Nathan, I couldn't have reached his head. Who is he? I never
saw such a monster before in all my born days."
"He's the Norwegian giant at the circus. If he hadn't been a giant I
could have managed him. There isn't a man in town but I can handle."
"Of course there isn't. What made him touch you?"
"It's all the fault of them bad Graham children that tramped across my
fields when I'd told 'em not to. I was goin' to give the biggest one
a lesson with a horsewhip, when that overgrown ruffian broke in and
seized me. I wish I had him tied to a tree just for five minutes," said
Tarbox, walking the room in his fury. "Big as he is I'd lash him till
he bellowed for mercy."
"That would be nice, Nathan dear," said Mrs. Tarbox, complacently.
"Nice, Mrs. Tarbox!" exclaimed her husband, turning the vials of his
anger upon her; "we might have done it, too, if you had had the courage
to come out and stand by your husband. You could have seized him from
behind, while I gave him a lashing. Instead of that you were standing
at the window smirking in your foolish way, I've no doubt. A pretty
wife you are!"
"O Nathan, I am sure you don't know what you are saying. You forget I
am a weak, delicate woman."
Though Mrs. Tarbox was tall, strong, gaunt and bony, she was accustomed
to consider herself delicate. It was fortunate that she was not so, and
that she was not particularly sensitive, or the brutal temper of her
husband would have worn upon her more than it did. She was fortunate in
being a silly woman. It saved her much mental suffering.
"You weak and delicate!" retorted her husband, contemptuously. "So is a
ostrich."
"Where's Bruiser? Why didn't you call him?"
Mrs. Tarbox had not witnessed the untimely fate of that amiable
quadruped.
At the mention of Bruiser her husband's wrath again overflowed.
"He's dead!" he shouted. "That brute killed him."
"How did he do it?" asked his wife, not without curiosity, for she knew
the bull-dog's strength.
"Kicked him to death! That's how he did it."
"He must be very strong," murmured Mrs. Tarbox. "Don't you think we
ought to erect a gravestone over Bruiser," she continued, "just as I
did over that sweet canary? A piece of board would do, you know."
"Perhaps you'd like to write some lines for it," remarked Mr. Tarbox,
sarcastically.
"I was thinking, Nathan, we could put something like this:
HERE LIES BRUISER!
Cut off in the flower of his youth—
Gone to meet old Towser!"
and Mrs. Tarbox looked up to her husband for his approval.
"Mrs. Tarbox," he said, "I believe you are the greatest fool in town.
Have you got any common sense?"
"Nathan, you shouldn't talk so to your wife," she answered, placidly.
"I only spoke for the best; of course, if you think of anything you
like better, I don't care."
"I have no time to think of epitaphs on dogs, Mrs. Tarbox. I've got
something more important to do. Do you know what I am going to do, Mrs.
Tarbox?"
"Change your shirt, perhaps," said his wife; "you forgot to do it this
morning."
Mr. Tarbox came near swearing.
"No," said he, "I'm going to have that brute arrested for assault and
battery, for trespassing on my grounds and killing my dog. That's what
I'm going to do."
"So I would, Nathan. I wonder you didn't think of it before."
"Then get supper ready, and I'll go round and get a warrant for his
arrest as quick as I get through."
CHAPTER IV.
MR. TARBOX INVOKES THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW.
Ezekiel Price, justice of the peace, generally known as Squire Price,
was just rising from his supper table when the one maid of all work,
Bridget, entered and said: "Mr. Price, old Tarbox is at the door and
wishes to see you."
"Old Tarbox!" repeated the squire in a tone of reproof. "Really, you
should speak more respectfully of Mr. Nathan Tarbox."
"Everybody calls him old Tarbox," said Bridget, "and he's the meanest
man in town."
"Let that pass," said the justice, using a pet phrase. "Tell him to
come in."
Mr. Tarbox immediately afterwards was ushered into the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Tarbox," said the squire, in a dignified tone.
"Good evenin', squire."
"All well at home, I trust, Mr. Tarbox."
"Oh yes," answered Tarbox, impatient to come to business. "I've come on
law business."
"Indeed!"
"I want justice!" continued the farmer, slapping the table energetically,
to the imminent hazard of a cup and saucer standing beside.
"If I can be of any service to you in my—ahem! judicial capacity, I of
course should consider it my duty to help you."
"I want a warrant for the arrest of a brute."
"Ahem! my powers do not extend to the arrest of brutes. They are
limited to human beings."
"You know what I mean—a brute on two legs, and mighty long ones, too."
"I cannot say I apprehend your meaning, Mr. Tarbox. Whom do you wish to
arrest, let me ask?"
"The Norwegian giant."
"The Norwegian giant!" repeated the squire in astonishment.
"Yes; the giant they've got at the show."
"What has he been doing?"
"What hasn't he been doing?" shouted Tarbox. "He came into my lot this
afternoon, seized me by the collar, nearly shook me to pieces, and
kicked my dog Bruiser to death."
Squire Price listened in undisguised amazement.
"Really," he said, "this was a high-handed outrage. Was he drunk?"
"No; he can't get off on no such plea as that. He was as sober as you
or I."
"Did he assign any reason for his extraordinary attack?"
"He was meddling in affairs that he had nothing to do with."
"What affairs?"
This was rather an embarrassing question to answer.
"The fact is, I caught Jimmy Graham and his brother cutting across my
lot—a clear case of trespass—and I was about to give Jimmy a lesson
when that brute interfered—"
"What sort of a lesson were you going to give him?" asked the squire,
shrewdly.
"Why, you see I had tied the boy to a tree, and was going to touch
him gently with a horsewhip, when in jumped this overgrown bully and
attacked me."
"Ahem! I begin to see. I hear that the Graham boys' mother was taken
sick this afternoon, and the boys were probably going for the doctor."
"So they said, but they had no right to go across my lot."
"It strikes me, Mr. Tarbox, they were excusable under the
circumstances."
"No, they were not; I have forbidden 'em time and again from goin'
across my field."
"There's a path, isn't there?"
"Yes, but it's my path."
"Did the boy attract the giant's attention by screaming?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mr. Tarbox, to be frank with you, I think it was very natural
for him to interfere in defence of a boy about to receive brutal
treatment."
"I hope you ain't goin' to take the side of lawbreakin', squire?"
"You say he seized you by the collar and shook you up, Mr. Tarbox?"
"Yes; he made the teeth chatter in my head till I thought they would
drop out."
"And he frightened you, did he?"
"Yes; I thought he was goin' to take my life," said Mr. Tarbox,
desiring to make the assault seem as aggravated as possible.
A mild smile played over the placid face of the squire, who was
evidently not impressed as he should have been by the recital of Mr.
Tarbox's wrongs.
"And then you called Bruiser, did you, Mr. Tarbox?"
"Yes."
"What did you expect Bruiser to do?"
"I wanted him to tear the giant to pieces. He was just makin' for his
legs when the brute drew back his foot and kicked him to death."
In his excitement Mr. Tarbox rose and paced the room.
Squire Price smiled again. It is to be feared he did not deplore, as he
should have done, the sad and untimely fate of the amiable bull-dog.
"Now, what do you want me to do, Mr. Tarbox?"
"I want a warrant for the arrest of this big scoundrel."
"For killing Bruiser? That appears to have been in self-defence."
"No; for assault and battery on me, Nathan Tarbox, a free-born American
citizen. It's come to a pretty pass if I am to be attacked and nearly
killed by a foreign Norwegian, who has come over to America to take the
bread from our own citizens."
"Well, I suppose I must give you what you desire, Mr. Tarbox, if you
insist upon it," said the squire.
"Of course I insist upon it. I'm not goin' to be trampled under foot by
a minion of a foreign power."
"Do you happen to know the giant's name?" asked the squire.
Mr. Tarbox scratched his head.
"I can't say I rightly remember his name. I think it's Enoch."
"Enoch! Very likely. That's a good Bible name. Just wait here a moment,
Mr. Tarbox, and I will make out an order of arrest."
The squire left the room and returned in five minutes with a paper duly
drawn up, directing any constable or police officer to apprehend the
giant known as Enoch, and produce before him to answer to a charge of
assault and battery on Nathan Tarbox, a citizen of Crampton. There was
more legal phraseology, but this was the purport of it.
"Thank you, squire," said Mr. Tarbox, in evident gratification, as he
deposited the valuable document which was to secure his revenge in the
right inside pocket of his coat.
"Who are you going to get to serve the warrant?" asked the squire.
"Sam Spriggins; he's the nearest constable."
"Very well," said the squire, with a peculiar smile.
"I'm going to have him arrested just as the evening performance is to
commence," said Mr. Tarbox, triumphantly; "that'll trouble him, and
probably they'll cut off his pay, but it'll serve him right."
After Mr. Tarbox left the squire had a quiet laugh, but as he did not
mention to any one what had aroused his mirth we are left to conjecture
what it was all about.
Nathan Tarbox proceeded at once to the house of Constable Spriggins, and
was lucky enough to find him at home. In fact, Mr. Spriggins was out in
his back yard, splitting some kindlings for use the next morning.
Sam Spriggins, who filled the high office of constable, was not a man
of imposing appearance, he was about five feet eight inches in height,
and had hair of a flaming red, and probably weighed about one hundred
and forty pounds. It was somehow suspected that Mr. Spriggins was not a
man of reckless bravery. He had never been employed to arrest desperate
criminals, and lawbreakers were not accustomed to quail before his
glance. In fact, Sam was more likely to be the one to quail. Why he had
been appointed constable was not very clear, but probably it came about
because no one else wanted the office.
"Good evening, Mr. Tarbox," said the constable, desisting from his
employment.
"Good evenin'. I've got some work for you to do."
"What is it?"
"I want you to make an arrest."
"Who's the party?" asked Sam, in a tone which betrayed some
apprehension.
"It's the Norwegian giant at the circus."
"Come now, Mr. Tarbox, you're joking," said Spriggins.
"Joking!" shouted Tarbox. "Do I look like joking? Why, this Enoch came
into my lot this afternoon and nearly killed me. It's an outrageous
case of assault and battery, and here's the warrant for his arrest duly
made out by Squire Price."
"Is he very large?" faltered the poor constable.
"Very large! He's eight or nine feet high," said Tarbox.
"Couldn't you call on some other constable?" pleaded Spriggins,
nervously. "You see, it's very inconvenient for me to leave my work."
"No; you're the man, and it's your legal duty to serve the warrant.
Besides, the other constable's out of town."
"When do you want the man arrested?" faltered Spriggins.
"I want you to go right over to the show with me now."
"Do—do you think he'll be violent?" asked the constable.
"I can't say," answered Tarbox. "Anyhow, the law is on your side, and
I'll go with you, and stand by you."
Sam Spriggins never in his life so deeply regretted that he had
accepted the office of constable.
CHAPTER V.
TARBOX AND THE CONSTABLE GO TO THE CIRCUS.
"I think I'll go in and bid my wife good-by," said the constable,
ruefully.
"What's the need of that?" asked Tarbox, impatiently.
"We don't know what may happen," said Spriggins, solemnly. "I'm ready
to do my duty by the gover'ment; but it's a risky business, arrestin' a
giant."
"Oh, well, be quick about it. I don't believe Mrs. Spriggins will mind."
This remark did not seem to encourage or soothe the constable, but he
made no remark. He went into the house, and Mrs. Spriggins followed him
when he came out.
"Nathan Tarbox," she said, "you're real mean to get my husband into
trouble."
"How have I got him into trouble," demanded Tarbox doggedly.
"You want to get him into a fight with a giant. He ain't fit to wrestle
with any one, bein' in poor health, least of all a giant."
"Ain't he a officer of the law? That's what I want to know," said
Tarbox.
"Why, yes."
"Then let him do his duty. I've put a warrant into his hands, and
Squire Price and I expect him to execute it."
"Suppose he's killed?" suggested Mrs. Spriggins.
Her husband looked nervous at the possibility hinted at, but Tarbox was
inexorable.
"Then you can be proud of his dyin' while doin' his duty. Come,
constable, I've no time to waste. Come along!"
"You're real mean!" ejaculated Mrs. Spriggins, tearfully.
Tarbox deigned no answer, but strode out of the yard, followed by the
reluctant constable.
Few words were said, but when they were half way to the circus grounds
a bright idea struck Spriggins.
"I say, Mr. Tarbox," he said, eagerly, "can't we compromise this thing?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You might authorize me to say to the giant in a friendly kind of way
that your feelin's are hurt, that it's probably all a misunderstandin',
and propose to make up."
"Spriggins, are you a fool? Do you think I'm goin' to compromise after
I've been shaken almost to pieces and my dog has been kicked to death?"
"He might agree to buy you a new dog, if it was properly set before
him."
"A new dog wouldn't make up for Bruiser. He scared all the children in
the neighborhood. I shan't see his like again. What I want is—revenge!"
"Why don't you lay for him then yourself, and not drag me into it?"
"Spriggins, I believe you're a coward—you're afraid of this Enoch."
"Who wouldn't be afraid of a man eight or nine feet high?"
"I ain't afraid of him," said Tarbox, stoutly. "I'll stand by you;
we'll face him together."
Seeing that there was no disposition to yield on the part of his
client, if I may so designate Mr. Tarbox, the constable continued on
his way, grasping the warrant in uneasy fingers.
It was some distance to the circus grounds, but the way seemed all
too short for Constable Spriggins, who felt like a man approaching an
enemy's battery.
At length they came in sight of the circus grounds. Around the big tent
were congregated a crowd of men and boys, and a stream of people was
already marching up to the box office to buy tickets, while hitched to
trees and posts were carriages and wagons of all descriptions which had
been employed to convey intending spectators from the town round about.
Nothing draws like a circus in the country, or perhaps we may add in
the city also.
"There's goin' to be a crowd," remarked the constable.
"Yes; fools and their money are soon parted. I never went to a circus
in all my life. It's all foolery."
"I went once when I was a boy, and I liked it. I little thought under
what circumstances I should make my second visit," said Spriggins,
ruefully.
"Circuses are wicked, in my opinion," said Tarbox. "I'd close 'em all
up if I could; we'll do what we can to stop this."
By this time they had got into the crowd at the entrance.
Instead of going up to the ticket office to purchase tickets they
passed on, and reached the doorway where stood a man to receive tickets.
"Where's your tickets?" demanded he of Spriggins and his companion.
Mr. Spriggins turned to Tarbox expecting him to explain.
"We don't need no tickets," said he in an impressive manner. "This man
is an officer of the law."
"No deadheads—no free list," said the ticket-taker shortly. "Stand
aside!"
"You don't understand me," said Tarbox. "This is Constable Spriggins,
and he demands admission in the name of the United States and the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts."
"The United States don't own this show, nor yet the State of
Massachusetts. Stand aside and let those who have tickets enter."
"It's no use," said the constable, rather relieved. "They won't let us
in."
"This officer wants to make an arrest in your building," said Tarbox,
trying again.
"Can't help it! He can't get in without a ticket."
"You see how 'tis," said Spriggins, cheerfully. "We can't get in."
"Force your way in!" said Tarbox, indignantly. "You've got the law on
your side."
This the constable positively refused to do.
"Then buy a ticket and go in. The State will pay you back."
"I've no call to do it, and I don't believe I'd get my money back."
"You refuse to do your duty, do you?"
"No I don't. I've tried, and I can't. You know how it is yourself."
Mr. Tarbox was nonplussed. He didn't like to give up his cherished
scheme of vengeance, yet how was he to carry it out?
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said; "I'll buy you a ticket, and
trust to the State to pay me."
"You can't collect it of me," said the constable, "even if the State
don't pay you. You can buy me a ticket if you want to."
But Tarbox was seized with a sudden suspicion. Spriggins might go
in and see the show at his expense, and leave his duty unperformed.
There was nothing to do but to go in with him, and that would involve
the purchase of two tickets, and the expenditure of an entire dollar,
which Tarbox, who was a close man, could not think of without mentally
groaning. Nevertheless, his soul thirsted for revenge, and it was clear
that revenge could not be had without expense.
"Spriggins," he said, "I'll buy two tickets, and we'll go in together."
The constable would have preferred to go in alone. He wanted to see the
show, and if he had been unaccompanied he could have done so without
any troublesome duties disturbing his enjoyment.
"Jest as you say," he answered, a little nervously.
Mr. Tarbox joined the line, and gradually worked his way to the ticket
office.
"A couple of tickets," he said, handing a dollar bill to the ticket
agent.
Two tickets were immediately passed to him, and he and the constable
entered the tent.
Opposed as he was to the circus, Tarbox could not forbear looking about
him with considerable curiosity. They were not yet in the main room,
but were in an outer lobby where were ranged the cages of animals. Mr.
Tarbox started as an African lion, whose cage he was passing, roared,
and he regarded with some apprehension the gratings of the cage.
"It's rather resky," he said. "Suppose the lions or tigers should break
out."
The constable trembled at the suggestion, but still seemed interested
in looking about him.
"Come, Mr. Tarbox," he said, "let's go and look at the elephants."
"Do you think I came here to see elephants?" he said, sternly.
"Constable, I call upon you to do your duty."
"How can I?" asked the constable; "I don't see the giant."
One of the canvas men happened to be passing, and Mr. Tarbox, rightly
concluding that he was connected with the show, asked, "Where's Enoch?"
"Enoch!" repeated the canvas man, staring; "I guess you're off. I don't
know any Enoch."
"I mean the Norwegian giant."
"Oh!" said the attendant, smiling. "You just follow round to the left,
and you'll see him. He's sittin' next to the fat lady."
"Constable," said Mr. Tarbox, grasping his companion by the arm, "we
are on the scent. Come along, and we'll see what the villain has to say
to the law."
CHAPTER VI.
TARBOX IS DEFEATED.
The performance had not commenced—indeed, half an hour would elapse
before the hour fixed—and several of the performers were to be seen
among the spectators about the cages of the animals. One of these
Tarbox recognized.
"Look at that boy!" he said, clutching the constable's arm.
He pointed to Robert Rudd and Charlie Davis, the two young riders, who
were walking together.
"What of him?" asked Spriggins.
"That's the young villain that was with Enoch."
Spriggins inwardly wished that the warrant was for Robert instead of
the giant.
"Why didn't you arrest him instead of the giant?" he asked.
"Perhaps I will yet, for he trespassed on my grounds; but it was Enoch
that shook me up and killed Bruiser. Look here, young feller," he
said, addressing Robert.
Robert turned and smiled as he recognized the farmer.
"Oh, it's you," he answered.
"Yes, it's me," answered Tarbox sternly. "Where is Enoch?"
"Who do you mean?"
"That overgrown brute that was with you this afternoon."
Charlie Davis asked a question in a low voice of Robert, and then
turning to Tarbox before Robert had a chance to answer him asked: "Do
you want to buy a dog, mister?"
"You're too small! I don't want a puppy!" answered Tarbox, scowling.
"Oh, you're too fresh!" answered Charlie, rather annoyed, particularly
as Robert laughed.
"Why don't you answer me, boy?" demanded Tarbox angrily.
"I will conduct you to my friend, the Norwegian giant," answered Robert
politely.
"Come along, Spriggins!" said Mr. Tarbox, pulling after him the
reluctant constable.
Spriggins would have enjoyed a leisurely examination of the Albino
sisters, the wild man from Borneo, the living skeleton, and the fat
lady, but none of them had attractions for Mr. Tarbox, whose soul was
fired by the desire for revenge. All too soon they reached the chair
where in massive dignity sat Anak, the Norwegian giant.
As Anak's eyes rested on the approaching visitors, he looked amused.
"I'm glad to see you, my friend," he called out, in the deep tones
natural to him, to Tarbox.
"And I'm glad to see you," said Tarbox, spitefully. "I came here
expressly to see you."
"You're very kind," said Anak. "Take a good look. There ain't so much
of me as there is of my friend, Mme. Leonora," with a wave of the hand
towards the fat lady; "but you can look at me as much as you want to."
"I shall soon see you in a prison cell," said Mr. Tarbox, sternly.
"Constable Spriggins, do your duty, sir."
Poor Spriggins gazed at the immense man before him, with his heart
gradually sinking down into his boots. Never in all his life had he
been placed in such an embarrassing position. What utter nonsense it
was for him to think of leading out such a monster by the collar. Why,
he couldn't begin to reach up to Anak's collar.
"Can't we compromise this thing?" he asked, faintly.
"No, we can't, Spriggins; I insist upon your doin' your duty."
"What do you want?" asked Anak, in some curiosity.
"Produce your warrant, Spriggins," said Tarbox.
The constable mechanically drew it out from his inside pocket.
Tarbox saw that he must take the initiative, and he was perfectly
willing to do so.
"Enoch," he said, "this man is an officer of the law. He has a warrant
for your arrest."
"For my arrest?" inquired Anak, opening his eyes in amazed surprise.
"Yes, for assault and battery on me, Nathan Tarbox, and the murder of
my dog, Bruiser. Such things can be done in Norway, p'r'aps, but they
ain't allowed in the State of Massachusetts. Spriggins, do your duty."
The constable looked at the giant uncomfortably, and edged away a
little.
"What!" said Anak, shaking his sides, "does he want to arrest me?"
"Yes," said Tarbox, grimly. "Spriggins, read the warrant."
"Read it yourself, Mr. Tarbox."
Tarbox did so with evident enjoyment, but Anak's enjoyment seemed no
less.
"Ho, ho, ho!" he shouted. "This is a joke!"
"You won't find it much of a joke," said Tarbox. "Come, Spriggins, do
your duty."
"Mr. Enoch," said the constable, in a trembling voice, "if you'll come
with me without making any fuss, I'll see that you are well treated."
"Suppose I don't?" said Anak.
Spriggins looked helplessly at Tarbox. That was a question he could not
answer.
"Then it'll be the worse for you," said Tarbox, who was always ready to
make up for his companion's deficiencies.
"Can't you wait till the performance is over?" asked the giant, smiling.
"To be sure," said Spriggins, quickly. "Anything to oblige."
"No," said Tarbox, decidedly. "The warrant must be served now. You have
no discretion."
"I'd like to oblige the gentleman," said the constable, who wanted to
avoid trouble and see the performance.
"You can't. It won't be allowed."
"What's the use of losing the benefit of our money, Mr. Tarbox?"
"That's my affair. I don't want to see the circus. I consider it a
wicked snare to lure souls to Satan."
"But I don't; you can go, you know," suggested Spriggins.
"No; I shall stay here to see that you do your duty."
"You have no charge over me," said the constable, with some spirit.
"All the same you need looking after. Enoch, if you defy the law you'll
find it the worse for you. This ain't Norway."
"No; we've got no such fools as you in Norway," retorted the giant.
"Tell me what you want."
Tarbox whispered to Spriggins.
The latter in a tremulous voice said, "Enoch, I arrest you in the name
of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and I require you to come with me
at once."
"Come and take me," said Anak, his broad face relaxing with a smile.
"What do you mean?" asked Tarbox, quickly.
"I mean that I shan't stir from this chair. My contract with this show
requires me to sit here. If the constable wants me, he must take me by
force. He needn't be afraid. If he can take me he may."
Even Tarbox looked rather nonplussed. Both he and Spriggins together
would have found it impossible to carry off a giant weighing over four
hundred pounds.
"You see, we'll have to give it up," said Spriggins, with evident
pleasure.
"You're glad of it!" said Tarbox, suspiciously. "You don't want to do
your duty."
"I've tried to do it, and it's no use," said the constable, with a
little show of spirit. "If I had the strength of a yoke of oxen, I
might do something; as it is, I can't."
"You'd better come quietly, Enoch," said Tarbox, his own courage
beginning to fail.
A crowd had collected about the two, and derisive smiles and remarks
greeted the lamentable failure of Tarbox's scheme of revenge.
"Get a wheelbarrow, mister," said a boy from a neighboring town.
"Hadn't you better try a derrick?" suggested a man beside him.
"You must be a lunatic!" said another.
"We'd better go, Mr. Tarbox," said Spriggins, uncomfortably.
"I won't stir," said Tarbox, looking around him with a scowl, "till I
see that warrant served. I wish I was a constable."
"It wouldn't be healthy for you, old man!" said Charlie Davis, who,
with Robert, had been drawn to the scene, and heard the colloquy.
"I'd make you healthy if I had you with me for a few minutes," said
Tarbox, scowling.
"Thank you; you're very kind, but my time is too valuable," said
Charlie.
"What is all this?" asked a voice of authority.
It was the voice of the manager, who had been attracted by the crowd as
he was going his rounds.
"The matter is that we've got a warrant for this man's arrest!" said
Tarbox, pointing to the giant.
"Show me your warrant!"
It was handed him.
He smiled as he read it, and handing it back, remarked, "Your warrant
is mere waste paper, gentlemen."
"Why is it?" asked Tarbox, defiantly.
"Because there is no such man as Enoch in this show."
"Isn't that his name?" asked Tarbox.
"No, it isn't. If you can find a man by that name you are welcome to
take him."
"Crushed again," remarked Charlie Davis, mockingly.
Tarbox made a grab for the boy's collar, but failed to secure him.
"Come along out, Spriggins," he said, in a tone of deep depression.
"You can go if you like," said the constable, independently; "I'm going
to stay and see the show."
CHAPTER VII.
THE EVENING ENTERTAINMENT.
Nathan Tarbox was not a liberal man. Indeed he had the reputation of
being very close-fisted and mean. Never had he been known to invite a
friend to a place of amusement, never had he been willing to incur the
expense of a dime for another. Yet here he had paid fifty cents for a
ticket of admission to the circus, and presented it to the constable.
We know, however, why he did this. He saw no other way of compassing
his revenge upon the giant who had so grievously offended him, and
revenge even outweighed money in his eyes.
Well, it had turned out a failure. In spite of the cowardice of
Spriggins something might have been accomplished, and at all events the
Norwegian might have been put in the attitude of a man defying the law,
which would have made the eventual penalty greater. But there had been
a ridiculous error in the warrant—an error for which he was compelled
to admit that he himself was responsible. Thus he was balked of his
vengeance, for the time being at least, and he was a dollar out of
pocket. That Spriggins should deliberately disobey him and stay to see
the show was aggravating. He would rather have thrown the money away.
"Goin' to stay and see the show!" repeated Tarbox, angrily. "You can't
do it, Spriggins."
"Why can't I?"
"I didn't buy you the ticket for no such purpose."
"Can't help that, Mr. Tarbox. I should be a fool to leave the show, now
I'm in, and my ticket paid for."
"Then, Mr. Spriggins, I shall expect you to repay me the fifty cents I
spent for your ticket."
"You must excuse me, Mr. Tarbox; you paid me in. I didn't ask you to,
but now I'm in I'm goin' to stay. I wouldn't have come to pay my own
ticket, for I'm a poor man, and I can't afford it."
"Do you think I can afford to throw away a dollar on two tickets?"
demanded the farmer, angrily.
"I should say you could if you wanted to. You're pretty well off, and if
I was as rich as you I wouldn't mind goin' to anything that comes round."
"You don't know anything about my circumstances. Besides I guess
they'll give me my money back, if I tell 'em how I was deceived into
buyin' tickets."
"Ask them, if you want to. If they'll do it, I'll go out."
The two made their way to the portal, and Tarbox said to the
ticket-taker: "I only came in on business; I didn't come to see the
show. I want to know if I can get my money back."
"Of course not," said that official.
"But I came in on business connected with the law."
"Can't help it! You've seen part of the show already; I saw you lookin'
at the curiosities."
"I wanted to arrest one of the curiosities," said Tarbox, indignantly.
"I wouldn't give two cents to see 'em all."
"Then if you're an enemy of the show, you can't expect any passes. Just
stand aside and let people pass."
Tarbox was utterly disgusted. He was baffled at every turn. If he only
had been concerned he would not have minded so much, but that Spriggins
should pass an evening of enjoyment at his expense rankled in his
breast.
"We'll go out anyhow," said he to the constable.
"You can do as you please, Mr. Tarbox. I'm goin' in to get a seat and
see the show."
"Your conduct is disgraceful, constable. You ain't fit for your
position."
"I shall do as I please," said Spriggins, independently. "If you choose
to let the show keep your money, and you get nothing for it, you may.
I ain't such a fool. They'd be glad if all would do the same. All they
want is the money."
This argument made an impression upon the farmer. As he couldn't get
his money back, it did seem worth while to get some value for it.
Besides, if the truth must be told, he had some curiosity to see the
performance. Never in all his life had he been to a circus, and he
always spoke of them as sinful; still he wanted to know what they were
like.
"I don't know but you're right, constable," he said. "I don't hold to
enconragin' such demoralizin' sights, but on the other hand I don't
want to do 'em a favor by makin' 'em a present of a dollar for a free
gift. I feel obliged to stay, situated as I am."
"That's the way to look at it," said the constable, gratified at the
change in his companion's sentiments. "Come and let's get seats, so we
can see what's goin' on."
He led the way and Tarbox followed him. They succeeded in obtaining
favorable seats, notwithstanding it was within five minutes of the time
for beginning the varied list of performances.
It must be admitted that Mr. Tarbox was interested, in spite of
himself, in the successive features of the entertainment. I do not
propose to describe them in detail. I advance to one in which one of
our characters takes part.
"Gentlemen and ladies," said the manager, "I will now introduce to
your notice Robert Rudd, the champion bareback rider of his age in the
world."
A horse was led into the ring, and Robert, dressed in tights and a
showy costume, bounded into the ring also.
The horse was started. He ran along by the side of it; then, laying
his hand upon the animal, vaulted upon his back. After riding round
the ring once or twice he rose to his feet and maintained his position
with perfect ease while the horse, stimulated by the crack of the whip,
galloped round the course.
"I declare, that beats all!" said Spriggins, who had never attended a
circus before.
"That's the boy that was with the giant," said Tarbox.
"Well, he's a smart rider. I never saw the beat of him."
Mr. Spriggins was destined to be still more astonished. Hoops were
brought and placed at regular intervals, covered with paper, and the
boy rider jumped through each in succession, landing again on the
horse's back.
"Did you ever see anything like it before, Mr. Tarbox?" asked the
constable.
"No, and I never want to again," said Tarbox, with a growl, though he
regarded the boy's performance with as eager curiosity as his companion.
"I think it's beautiful," said Spriggins; "I'm glad we come."
"I dare say you do, as long as I pay the bills," said Tarbox, in a
sarcastic voice.
"Don't you like it yourself?"
"I don't care anything for it. I only stayed because I didn't want the
show people to get the advantage of us."
Robert finished his act, and at his exit was greeted with a storm of
applause.
He was followed by the younger boy, Charlie Davis, who went through
a similar performance, and was received with similar favor. Young
performers generally win the favor of an audience, and their efforts to
please are received with considerable indulgence, though on the present
occasion this was not needed.
On two reserved seats sat an old gentleman whose seamed face and
bleached hair indicated advanced years. By his side sat a man of
thirty-five, with a dark face and keen, watchful black eyes, whose
expression was not likely to prepossess a stranger in his favor. The
lines about his mouth indicated a hard, selfish man, whose thoughts
were centred in himself.
This much by way of introduction. I need only add that the first
impressions likely to be formed of this man were the correct ones. To
the old man who sat at his side, and whom he regarded watchfully, he
bore the relation of nephew.
It was perhaps surprising to see at the circus a man as old as
Cornelius Richmond, for this was the name of the uncle, but he had
been persuaded by his nephew, Hugo, with whom he was travelling, to
attend, and, as the only alternative was an evening at a dull hotel,
he yielded. But during the first part of the performance he looked on
in a listless manner, not seeming interested. Hugo, who was younger,
appeared more attentive. But when Robert Rudd bounded into the ring,
the old man started, and leaning forward, said quickly, in a tone not
free from agitation, "Do you see that boy, Hugo?"
Hugo, too, seemed struck by the boy's appearance, but he answered with
studied indifference, "Yes, uncle, I see him. What of him?"
"Is he not the image of my dead son? Never have I seen such a
resemblance to what Julian was at his age!"
"My dear uncle," said Hugo, shrugging his shoulders, "I assure you that
it is all a fancy on your part. To me he looks very unlike my cousin."
"You don't remember him as I do, Hugo. If Julian's son were living, he
would look like that boy."
"Possibly, uncle," said Hugo, carelessly; "but as he is dead that
cannot interest us!"
While Robert was in the ring the old man followed him with a glance
almost painful in its eagerness.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SCHEMING NEPHEW.
When Robert left the ring, the old man sank back into his seat, and his
interest in the performance ceased. For some reason his nephew also was
anxious to leave the tent.
"Uncle," he said, "hadn't we better go back to the hotel? It will be
too fatiguing for you to remain here all the evening."
"Will that boy ride again?" asked Mr. Richmond, eagerly.
"No, he is not to appear again."
"Then I think I will go. As you say, I may feel fatigued."
There was a hack in waiting to convey them back to the hotel, for the
distance was too great for a feeble old man to walk.
When they reached the hotel, Mr. Richmond went at once to his chamber,
attended by his nephew.
"You had better go to bed at once, uncle," said Hugo, and he prepared
to leave the room.
"Stay a moment, Hugo. I want to speak to you," said the old man.
"Very well, uncle," and Hugo seated himself.
"The sight of that boy has affected me strangely, Hugo," said Mr.
Richmond. "He seems just what Julian was at his age."
"You said so before, uncle," said Hugo, in a tone of annoyance; "but I
assure you there is nothing in it. My eyes are better than yours, and I
could see no likeness."
"Suppose Julian's child were living," proceeded Mr. Richmond, not
heeding his nephew's last speech, "he would be about the age of that
boy."
"There are tens of thousands of boys about the same age, uncle," said
Hugo, flippantly.
"Yes, but they haven't his look," returned the old man, shrewdly.
"Really, uncle, you are troubling yourself to no purpose. The son of
Julian died when he was four years old, as Fitzgerald reported to us."
"He might be mistaken. If he only were!" exclaimed the old man, with
deep emotion. "How bright my few remaining years would be if I had
Julian's son with me!"
"No doubt. But he is dead, and we may as well give up all thoughts of
such a possibility. Besides, uncle, you have me, and I try to do all
I can for you. If I have failed, I deeply regret it," continued Hugo,
assuming a tone of sorrow.
"No, no; I have no fault to find with you, Hugo," said his uncle,
hastily. "You are devoted to me, as I am well aware; but you cannot be
to me what a son or a grandson might be."
"No, I suppose not," said Hugo, with a sneer which his uncle did not
detect. "But I am afraid, uncle, you will have to be content with my
humble services, however unacceptable they may be."
"Nay, Hugo, I do not mean to mortify you. I am truly grateful for your
devotion, and you will find it to be so when I am gone."
"You are a long time going!" thought Hugo, as his cold glance rested on
the trembling form of his uncle. "It is exasperating that you should
linger so, cutting me off perhaps for half a dozen years longer from
the enjoyment of the estate which is one day to be mine."
It was well that the old man could not read the thoughts of the man in
whom he placed so much confidence. He little knew the cold, crafty,
scheming character of the man who supplied to him the place of son and
grandson.
"If you have no more to say, uncle, I will leave you," said Hugo,
rising.
"I came near forgetting. I want you to find out all about that boy and
let me know. The manager boards at this hotel."
"Still harping on the boy!" muttered Hugo. "Very well, uncle, I will do
as you say."
"Thank you, Hugo. I shall feel more easy in mind when I have learned."
As Hugo left the room, he said to himself, "I will do as my uncle
requests, but for my own benefit, not his. Though I would not confess
it to him, the resemblance to my cousin is startling. I don't wonder
Uncle Cornelius noticed it. Can it be possible that Fitzgerald deceived
me, and that the boy is really alive, and is a bareback circus-rider?
He is capable of playing me false. If he has done so, I must at all
hazards prevent my uncle finding it out. The estate of Chestnutwood,
for which I have schemed so long, must be mine. The life of a frail
old man alone separates me from it now, but if this boy were found, then
I should sink back to my life of humble dependence. It shall never be!"
It was not yet 10 o'clock, and Hugo was in no mood for bed. He went
down-stairs and remained in the bar room till the return of the hotel
guests who were connected with the circus.
Towards 10.30, Mr. Coleman, proprietor of the circus, entered the
office of the hotel. He was in good spirits, for there had been a large
attendance at the first performance, and the prospects of a successful
season were flattering.
"Good evening, Mr. Coleman," said Hugo, approaching the manager, to
whom he had been introduced; "did your first performance pass off well?"
"It was immense, sir, immense! I am proud of Crampton! It has received
me royally," returned the manager, enthusiastically.
"I am glad to hear it. May I offer you a cigar?"
"Thank you, sir."
"You will find mine choicer than any you can procure here. I spent a
part of the evening at the tent."
"I hope you didn't get tired."
"Oh, no; that was not the cause of my coming away. The fact is, my
uncle, who was with me, became fatigued (he is a very old man), and I
felt obliged to come home with him. I should have been glad to stay
till the close."
"It's a pity you did. Coleman's circus, though I do say it myself, has
no superior on the road this season."
"I can easily believe it, sir. By the way, I was rather interested in
the bareback riding."
"It takes everywhere. I have two of the smartest boy riders in the
country."
"Where did you pick them up?" asked Hugo, with assumed carelessness.
"The younger one, Charlie Davis, comes from Canada."
"My attention was particularly attracted to the other."
"Robert Rudd?"
"Yes, if that is his name. How long has he been with you?"
"Two seasons. Before that he was with another smaller circus."
"How long has he been riding?"
"Ever since he was eight or nine years old. That boy is perfectly
fearless with horses. Not many grown men can ride as well. And that
isn't all! I could easily make a lion tamer of him if he were willing.
He has a wonderful power over the wild beasts. I believe he would go
into their cages and they wouldn't offer to harm him."
"My cousin Julian had a passion for horses," thought Hugo. "If this boy
were his son he would come honestly by his taste."
"You don't know how he came to adopt such a life, do you?" he asked.
"No; I believe the boy was alone in the world. I have heard him say he
was under the care of a man who called himself his uncle, but for whom
he does not seem to entertain any affection. Whether this man deserted
him, or he ran away from the man, I don't know. At any rate he fell
in with some men in our business, and a well-known rider, seeing that
the boy was quick and daring, offered to instruct him in his special
line. The boy accepted, and that is the way he drifted into the show
business."
"You say he has no relatives?"
"None that he knows of."
"Has he any education?"
"He can read and write, and I believe he knows something of arithmetic.
He is smart enough, if he ever got an opportunity, to learn. I am
selfish, however, and should not like to lose him, though I might
consent if he could better himself. You see, sir, although I am in the
show business myself, I don't consider it a very desirable career for
a boy to follow. I've got a boy of my own, but I have placed him at
boarding-school, and he shall never, with my permission, join a circus.
You'll think it strange, Mr. Richmond, but so far as I know, Henry has
never yet witnessed a circus performance."
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Coleman," said Hugo. "Then I offer you
another cigar."
"Thanks, but I never smoke but one just before going to bed. If you are
here to-morrow evening I shall be glad to offer you a ticket to the
show."
"Thank you, but I must get away to-morrow with my uncle."
As Hugo went up-stairs to his room he said to himself, "It is high time
we left the place, for the manager's story leads me to think this boy
may be my cousin's son after all. My uncle must never know or suspect
it, or my hopes of an inheritance are blasted."
The next morning when Hugo entered his uncle's apartment, according to
custom, the old man asked eagerly, "Did you learn anything about the
boy, Hugo?"
"Yes, uncle, I learned all about him. He was born in Montreal, and
his father and mother live there now. He sends them half his earnings
regularly. His name—that is, his real name—is Oliver Brown."
Mr. Richmond never thought of doubting the truth of this smoothly-told
fiction, but he was greatly disappointed. He sighed deeply, and when
Hugo proposed to continue their journey that day he made no objection.
CHAPTER IX.
TWO BOYS ON A TRAMP.
"Mr. Tarbox, where on earth have you been?" inquired his wife, when her
liege lord returned about 11.30 o'clock.
"I've been to the circus," said the farmer shortly.
"Oh, why didn't you take me, Nathan? I've always wanted to go to the
circus," said Mrs. Tarbox in a tone of disappointment.
"It isn't a fit place for you," said her husband.
"You went!" said his wife, significantly. "If it's a fit place for you,
why isn't it for me?"
"Do you think I went there for pleasure? You ought to know me better
than to suppose I would visit such a demoralizing spectacle for
amusement."
"Then why did you go?"
"I went to arrest that brute who kicked Bruiser to death and assaulted
me. That's why I went."
"Did he feel bad when you arrested him?" asked Mrs. Tarbox, with
natural curiosity.
"No; I had to defer it, for the warrant wasn't rightly made out."
"Dear me! Did it take all the evening?" asked his wife.
"Peace, woman! You ask too many questions," said Tarbox, who found it
rather difficult to explain matters.
"It must have been so nice to see the circus," murmured Mrs. Tarbox;
"but I am sure I should have been afraid of the giant."
"There was a fat woman," growled Tarbox, "who looked as silly as you
do. I dare say she wasn't, though."
"How funny you are. Nathan!" said his wife, who wasn't at all
sensitive. "How was she dressed?"
"How on earth should I know? She didn't wear a coat and pantaloons."
"It must take a sight of calico to make her a dress. How much does she
weigh?"
"Two tons, more or less," answered Tarbox.
"Good gracious!" ejaculated his simple-minded wife. "I never heard the
like. Do let me go to the circus, husband. I should so like to see her."
"You might never come back alive. There's lions, and tigers and wild
cats all around. They often break out of their cages and kill a dozen
people before they can be stopped."
Mrs. Tarbox turned pale and gave up her idea of going to the circus.
"You'd make a nice meal for a tiger. They're fond of bones," continued
the farmer, grimly.
"O, Nathan, don't say another word. I wouldn't go now if I could get in
for nothing."
The next day, after a consultation with Squire Price and the constable,
Mr. Tarbox concluded that it wouldn't be worth while to obtain a new
warrant for the arrest of the giant, as he had reason to believe that
Mr. Spriggins would go out of town to avoid serving it. It was hard
to give up his cherished scheme of vengeance, particularly as he had
already expended a dollar in vain; but there seemed no alternative.
"One thing I can do," he said to himself; "if I can get hold of that
boy that was with Enoch I'll give him a thrashing. He trespassed on
my grounds, and I saw him laugh when the brute kicked Bruiser. I can
manage him, anyway."
There was no afternoon performance at the circus except on Wednesday
and Saturday, and Robert and his friend Charlie Davis were at leisure.
"Let's go on a tramp, Charlie," said Robert, after they had eaten
dinner.
"I'm with you," said Charlie. "Where shall we go?"
"Oh, well, we'll go across the fields. Perhaps we'll go into the woods.
Anything for fun."
The two boys set out about two o'clock, and after reaching the borders
of the village took a path across the fields.
"I wish nuts were ripe, Rob," said Charlie. "We'd have a nice time
knocking them off the trees. Do you remember last fall up in Maine?"
"Yes, but it's June now, and we can't have any fun of that kind.
However, we can have a good time. Do you see those bars?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to vault over them."
"All right. I'll follow."
Robert ran swiftly, and cleared the bars without touching them. Charlie
followed, but, being a shorter boy, felt obliged to let his hand rest
on the upper bar. They were accustomed to springing from the ring upon
the backs of horses, and practice had made that easy to them which was
difficult for ordinary boys.
"I say, Charlie," said Robert, thoughtfully, as they subsided into a
walk, "what are you going to do when you are a man?"
"Ride, I suppose."
"In the circus?"
"Of course."
"I don't think I shall."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to be a circus rider all my life."
"I should think you would. Ain't you the Boy Wonder?"
"I shan't be the Boy Wonder when I'm twenty-five years old."
"You can't make so much money any other way."
"Perhaps not; but money isn't everything I think of. I would like to
get a better education and settle down to some regular business."
"There's more fun in circus riding," said Charlie, who was not as
thoughtful a boy as his companion.
"I don't see much fun in it," said Robert. "It is exciting, I know,
but it's dangerous. Any day, if your nerves are not steady, you are
likely to fall and break a limb, and then good-by to your riding."
"There's no use in thinking about that."
"I think there is. What could we do if we had to give up riding?"
"Oh, something would turn up," said Charlie, who was of an easy
disposition. "We might take tickets or keep the candy stand."
"That wouldn't be very good employment for a man. No, Charlie, I think
this will be my last season at circus riding."
"What will you do?"
"I am saving money so that, at the end of the season, I can have
something to keep me while I am looking round."
"You don't say so, Rob! How much have you saved up?"
"I've got about two hundred dollars saved up already."
Charlie whistled.
"I had no idea you were so rich," he said. "Why, I haven't got five
dollars."
"You might have. You are paid enough."
"Oh, it goes some way. I guess I'll begin to save, too."
"I wish you would. Then if you want to leave the circus at the end of
the season we'll go somewhere together, and look for a different kind
of work. We can take a room together in Boston or New York, eat at the
restaurants, and look for something."
"I don't know but I should like going to New York," said Charlie.
By this time they had reached the edge of the woods, and were probably
a mile or more from the town. There was no underbrush, but the trees
rose clear and erect, and presented a cool and pleasant prospect to
the boys, who had become warm with walking. So far as they knew,
they were alone, but in this they were mistaken. Mr. Tarbox had some
wood-land near by, and he had gone out to look at it, when, alike to
his surprise and gratification, his eyes rested on the two boys, whom
he at once recognized as belonging to the circus, having seen them ride
the evening before. He didn't care particularly for Charlie Davis, but
Robert Rudd had been with Anak when he inflicted upon him so mortifying
personal chastisement, and he looked upon the boy as an accomplice of
the man.
"That's the very boy I wanted to see," said Tarbox to himself, with a
cruel smile. "I can't manage that overgrown brute, but I can manage
him. I'll give the boy a lesson, and that'll be better than nothing."
Tarbox was naturally a tyrant and a bully, and, like most men of his
character, was delighted when he could get hold of a person of inferior
strength.
"Oh ho!" he said to himself, "the boy can't escape me now."
"Look here, boy," he said, in an impatient tone.
Robert turned quickly, and saw the frowning face of Tarbox.
CHAPTER X.
TRAPPED.
Robert foresaw that trouble was in store for him, as he had seen enough
of the farmer to understand his disposition. However, the boy was not
easily startled, nor was he of a nervous temperament. He looked calmly
at Tarbox and said: "Very well, sir, what do you want of me?"
"What do I want of you? I shouldn't think you'd need to be told. You
remember me, don't you?"
"Perfectly well," answered Robert.
"Perhaps you can remember where you saw me last?"
"In the circus last evening."
"No, I don't mean that—before that."
"In your own field, trying to whip a poor boy who was going to call the
doctor for his sick mother."
"Look here, boy," said Tarbox, reddening; "none of your impudence!"
"Did I tell the truth?" asked Robert quietly.
"Never mind whether you did or not. I ain't going to stand any of your
impudence. Where's that big brute Enoch?"
"If you mean Anak, I left him in the tent."
"He needn't think he can go round insulting and committing assault and
battery on his betters," said Tarbox.
"You can tell him that if you like, sir; I am not responsible for him."
"No, but you are responsible for trespassin' on my grounds."
"I would do it again if I saw you trying to flog a defenceless boy,"
said Robert, independently.
"You would, hey?" sneered Tarbox. "Well, now, you may change your
opinion on that subject before we part company."
"Come, Rob, let's be going," said Charlie Davis, who didn't find this
conversation interesting.
"You can go," said Tarbox; "I hav'nt anything ag'inst you; but this
boy's got to stay."
"What for?" asked Charlie.
"What for? He'll find out what for."
"If you touch him, I'll send Anak after you," said Charlie.
"You will, hey? So you are impudent, too. Well, I'll have to give you a
lesson, too."
Tarbox felt that it was time to commence business, and made a grab for
Robert's collar, but the boy was agile, and quickly dodging ran to one
side.
Charlie Davis laughed, which further annoyed and provoked Mr. Tarbox,
but the wrath of the farmer was chiefly directed against Robert, who
had witnessed his discomfiture at the hands of the Norwegian giant.
He therefore set out to catch the young circus-rider, but Robert was
fleet-footed, and led him a fruitless chase around trees, and Tarbox
was not able to get his hand on him. What annoyed the farmer especially
was that the boy did not seem at all frightened, and it appeared to be
no particular effort to him to elude his grasp.
Tarbox was of a dogged, determined disposition, and the more difficult
he found it to carry out his purpose the more resolved he was to
accomplish it. It would never do to yield to two boys, who both
together had less strength than he. It was different from encountering
Anak, who was a match for three ordinary men.
But Tarbox, in spite of his anger, and in spite of his superior
strength, was destined to come to grief.
He had not paid any special attention to the younger boy, being intent
upon capturing Robert. Charlie, taking advantage of this, picked up a
stout stick, which had apparently been cut for a cane and then thrown
aside, and took it up first with the intention of defending himself,
if necessary. But as Tarbox dashed by without noticing him, a new idea
came to Charlie, and thrusting out the stick so that it passed between
the legs of the pursuer, Tarbox was thrown violently to the ground, on
which he lay for a moment prostrate and bewildered.
"Climb that tree, Rob!" called out Charlie quickly.
Robert accepted the suggestion. He saw that no time was to be lost, and
with the quickness of a trained athlete made his way up the trunk and
into the branches of a tall tree near at hand, while Charlie with equal
quickness took refuge on another.
Tarbox fell with such violence that he was jarred and could not
immediately recover from the shock of his fall. When he did rise he
was more angry than ever. He looked for the two boys and saw what had
become of them. By this time Robert was at least twenty-five feet from
the ground.
"Come down here, you, sir!" said the farmer, his voice shaking with
passion.
"Thank you, sir," answered Robert coolly; "but at present I find it
more agreeable up here."
"Come down here, and I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had!"
"Your intentions are very kind, but the inducement isn't sufficient."
"If I hadn't fallen just as I did, I'd have had you by this time."
"That's just what I thought when I put the stick between your legs,"
called out Charlie Davis from another tree.
It may seem singular, but until then Tarbox had not understood how he
came to fall. He had an idea that he had tripped over the root of a
tree.
"Did you do that?" he asked wrathfully, turning to the smaller boy.
"Yes, I did."
"If I could catch you, you wouldn't get out of this wood alive."
"Then I'm glad you can't get me," said Charlie, looking unconcernedly
down upon his stalwart enemy.
"You're two of the worst boys I ever saw," proceeded the farmer,
wrathfully.
"And I'm sure you're the worst man I ever saw."
"What's your name?" asked Tarbox, abruptly.
"Charlie Davis; I'm sorry I haven't got my card with me, or I'd throw
it down to you."
"I'd like to have the bringing up of you."
"All right! Perhaps I'll appoint you my guardian."
"You're more impudent than the other one, though you ain't so big."
"Are you comin' down?" he inquired of Robert.
"Not at present."
"I won't stir from here till you do, if I have to stay all night."
This was not a cheerful reflection, for the two boys were expected
to be present and ride in the evening, and their absence would be
regretted, not only by the manager, but also by the public, with whom
they were favorites.
"I say, Rob," called out Charlie, "how fond he is of our company!"
"So it seems!" responded Robert, who was quite cool but rather annoyed
by the farmer's persistence.
"I only wish Bruiser were alive!" said Tarbox. "Then I'd know what to
do."
"What would you do?" asked Charlie.
"I'd leave him to guard you, and then I'd go home and get my gun."
"What for?"
"I'd soon bring you down if I had that," answered the farmer, grimly.
"If that's what you would do I'm glad old Bruiser's kicked the bucket,"
said Charlie.
"I never shall get such another dog!" said Tarbox, half to himself,
in a mournful voice. "Nobody dared to go across my ground when he was
alive."
"Was that the dog that Anak killed?" asked Charlie.
"Yes," answered Robert, briefly. "He was a vicious-looking brute and
deserved to die."
At that moment Tarbox chanced to notice the stick which had produced
his downfall, and a new idea came to him.
He picked it up, and breaking it in two seized one piece and flung it
with all his force at Robert.
The latter caught and flung it back, knocking off the farmer's hat.
Tarbox was naturally incensed, and began again to hurl the missile, but
anger disturbed his aim so that this time it went wide of the mark.
"I say, Robert," said Charlie, "this is interesting."
"I'm glad you find it so," answered Robert. "I can't say I enjoy it."
"You may just as well come down and take your thrashing now," said
Tarbox, "for you're sure to get it."
"If you're in a hurry to get home to supper, perhaps we'll wait for you
here," suggested Charlie, politely.
"Shut up, you saucebox! You won't have much appetite for supper!"
retorted Tarbox.
He sat down where he could have a full view of both trees, when
presently he heard Charlie call out in a terrified tone, "Rob, look
there! The tiger's got loose! See him coming this way! Can he climb
trees?"
Tarbox stopped to hear no more. He sprang to his feet, and without
waiting to bid the boys good-by he took to his heels and fled from the
wood, feeling that his life was in peril.
CHAPTER XI.
DISMAY AT THE HOME OF TARBOX.
Robert quickly understood that Tarbox was the victim of a practical
joke, and did his best to help it along. He had amused himself during
his connection with the circus in imitating the cries of wild beasts,
and now from his perch in the tree reproduced the howl of a wolf so
naturally that Tarbox, hearing it, and knowing no better, thought it
proceeded from the throat of the tiger. Of course he increased his
speed, expecting every moment that the dangerous animal would spring
upon him and tear him to pieces.
"If I only had my gun with me," he reflected in his dismay, "I might be
able to defend myself."
He lost his hat somewhere on the road, and breathless and hatless
entered his own back door, shutting and bolting it after him, and with
disordered look entered the sitting-room where his wife was seated, in
a comfortable chat with Mrs. Dunlap, a neighbor.
Tarbox sank into a rocking-chair, and, gasping, stared at the two
ladies.
"Good gracious, Nathan!" exclaimed his wife, in a flutter; "what on
earth has happened?"
"Was anything chasin' ye?" asked Mrs. Dunlap, unconsciously hitting the
mark.
"Yes," answered Tarbox, in a hollow voice.
"Was it the Norwegian giant?" inquired Mrs. Tarbox, apprehensively.
"Worse!" answered Tarbox, sententiously.
"Worse! Do tell. Good gracious, Nathan, I shall go into a fit if you
don't tell me right off what it was."
"It was a tiger!" answered her husband, impressively.
"A tiger!" exclaimed both ladies, startled and affrighted.
"Yes, I've had a narrow escape of my life."
"But where did he come from?" asked Mrs. Dunlap.
"Come from? Where should he come from except from the circus? He broke
loose and now he's prowling round, seeking whom he may devour.
"O heavens," exclaimed Mrs. Dunlap, terror-stricken, "and my innocent
children are out picking berries in the pasture."
"Tigers are fond of children," said Tarbox, whose hard nature found
pleasure in the dismay of the unhappy mother.
"I must go right home and send for the children," said the mother, in
an agony of apprehension.
"You may never live to get home," said Tarbox.
"Oh what shall I do?" said Mrs. Dunlap, wringing her hands. "Won't you
go home with me, Mr. Tarbox? I can't stay here with my poor children in
peril."
"No, I thank you. My life is worth something."
"You might take your gun, Nathan," said Mrs. Tarbox, who was stirred by
the grief of her friend.
"Oh yes," said Tarbox, sarcastically; "you're very ready to have your
husband's life exposed. You'd like to be a widow. Maybe you think I've
left you all my property."
"You know, Nathan, I never thought of that. I only thought of poor Mrs.
Dunlap. Think how sad it would be if Jimmy and Florence Ann were torn
to pieces by the terrible tiger."
There was a fresh outburst of grief from the stricken mother at the
heart-rending thought, but Mr. Tarbox was not moved.
"Mrs. Tarbox," said he, "if you want to see Mrs. Dunlap home you can
take the gun."
"Oh, I shouldn't das't to," said Mrs. Tarbox, hastily. "I—I shouldn't
know how to fire it."
"I think you'd be more likely to shoot Mrs. Dunlap than the tiger,"
said her husband, derisively.
"Where did you come across the—the monster, Nathan?" asked Mrs.
Tarbox, shuddering.
"In the woods. I heard him roar. I ran from there as fast as I could
come, expecting every minute he would spring upon me."
"Was there any one else in the wood?"
"Yes," answered Tarbox, smiling grimly. "There's two circus boys there.
They clumb into trees. I don't know whether tigers can climb or not. If
they can they've probably made mincemeat of the boys by this time."
"It's terrible!" said Mrs. Dunlap, shuddering. "Perhaps my innocent
darlings are in the clutches of the monster at this very moment."
And the unhappy lady went into a fit of hysterics, from which she was
brought to by a strong bottle of hartshorn held to her nose.
It so happened (happily for her) that her husband at this moment
knocked at the door. He had gone home to find something, and failing
had come to the house of his neighbor to inquire of his wife its
whereabouts. Great was his amazement to find his wife in such agitation.
"What's the matter?" he asked, looking about him.
"O Thomas, have you heard the terrible news?" said his wife.
"I haven't heard any terrible news," was the bewildered reply. "Is
anybody dead?"
"Our two poor innocent darlings may be dead by this time," sobbed his
wife.
"What does it all mean? Where are they?"
"Out in the berry pasture. The tiger may have caught them by this time."
"What tiger?"
"The one that's broken loose from the show."
"I just came from the tent, and they don't know anything there of any
tigers breaking loose. Who told you about it?"
"Mr. Tarbox. The tiger chased him all the way home from the woods."
"That is strange. Did you see him, Mr. Tarbox?"
"I heard him roar," answered Tarbox, "and he was close behind me all
the way."
"Are you sure it was a tiger?"
"No; it may have been a lion. Anyhow, it was some wild critter."
"O husband, do go after our poor children. And take Mr. Tarbox's gun. I
am sure he will lend it to you."
"I may need it myself," said Tarbox, doubtfully.
"Give me a stout stick, and I'll manage," said Mr. Dunlap, who was a
more courageous man than his neighbor. "Come along, wife."
"I—I hope, Mrs. Tarbox, we shall meet again," said Mrs. Dunlap, as she
kissed her friend a tearful good-by. "I don't feel sure, for we may
meet the terrible beasts."
"If you do," said Mrs. Tarbox, with tearful emotion, "I'll come to your
funeral."
Somehow this didn't seem to comfort Mrs. Dunlap much, for when they
were fairly out of the house she observed sharply, "That woman's a
fool!"
"You seem to like to call on her, Lucinda."
"That's only being neighborly. She has no heart or she wouldn't allude
so coolly to my funeral. But do let us be getting home as soon as you
can."
"I tell you what, Lucinda, I don't take any stock in this cock-and-bull
story of a tiger being loose. I heard nothing of it at the tent."
"But Mr. Tarbox said it chased him."
"Tarbox is a coward. But here are two boys coming; they belong to the
circus. I will ask them."
Robert and Charlie Davis were coming up the road. No sooner had their
enemy fled than they descended from the trees in whose branches they
had taken refuge, and started on their way home, laughing heartily at
the farmer's fright.
"I say, boys," said Mr. Dunlap, "don't you two boys belong to the
circus?"
"Yes, sir," answered Robert.
"What's this story I hear about a tiger having escaped from his cage?"
"Who told you?" asked Robert.
"Mr. Tarbox."
"Did he see him?"
"He said the tiger chased him all the way home."
Both boys burst into a fit of laughter, rather to the amazement of
Mr. Dunlap and his wife. Then they explained how the farmer had been
humbugged, and Mr. Dunlap shouted with merriment, for Tarbox was very
unpopular in that town, and no one would feel troubled at any deception
practised upon him.
"Then the children are safe?" said Mrs. Dunlap, with a sigh of relief.
"Don't you think I ought to go and tell Mr. Tarbox?"
"No; let Tarbox stay in the house, like a coward that he is, for fear
of the tiger. It's a good joke at his expense. That was a pretty smart
trick, boys."
"Old Tarbox will feel like murdering us if he ever finds out the
truth," said Charlie.
"He feels so now, so far as I am concerned," said Robert. "I am not
afraid of him."
CHAPTER XII.
THE CANVAS MAN.
When Mr. Tarbox came to understand how he had been hoaxed by the boys
he was furious, but his anger was ineffectual, for there seemed no way
in which he could retaliate. He had had his opportunity in the woods,
but that had passed, and was not likely to come again. Meanwhile he
found it hard to bear the jocose inquiries of his neighbors touching
his encounter with the "tiger."
For instance, the next day he met the constable in the street.
"How are you, Mr. Tarbox?" inquired Spriggins, smiling.
"Well enough," growled Tarbox, quickening his pace.
"I hear you had an adventure with a tiger yesterday," said the
constable, with a waggish smile.
"Suppose I did!" he snapped.
"Ho, ho! Were you very much frightened?" continued the constable.
"I wasn't half so much scared as you were when I wanted you to arrest
the giant."
It was the constable's turn to look embarrassed. "Who said I was
afraid?"
"It was enough to look at you," said Tarbox.
"Well, maybe I was a little flustered," admitted Spriggins. "Who
wouldn't be afraid of a man ten feet high? They do say, Tarbox, that
you did some pretty tall running, and there wasn't no tiger loose after
all."
And Mr. Constable indulged in a chuckle which irritated the farmer
intensely. He resolved to retaliate.
"Do you know where I am goin', Spriggins?" he asked.
"No."
"Then I'll tell you," answered Tarbox, with a malicious smile. "I'm
goin' to Squire Price to get another warrant for the arrest of
Anak—I've found out that that's his name—and I'm goin' to get you to
serve it."
The constable's countenance changed. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Tarbox," he
said.
"I understand my business, Spriggins, and I shall expect you to do
yours. I'll see you again in half an hour."
"I may not be at home; I expect I've got to go over to Medville."
"Then put it off. Your duty to the State is ahead of all private
business."
He went on his way leaving Mr. Spriggins in a very uneasy frame of
mind. When he went home to supper, he said to his wife: "Mrs. S., after
supper I'm going up into the attic, and if Nathan Tarbox comes round
and asks for me, you say that I'm out of town."
"But it wouldn't be true, Spriggins," replied his wife.
"I know it won't; but he wants me to arrest the giant, and it's as much
as my life is worth," answered the constable, desperately. "I don't
think I'm a coward, but I ain't a match for a giant."
The farmer, however, did not come round. He had only made the statement
to frighten Spriggins, and retaliate upon him for his joke about the
tiger.
In the afternoon Robert, while out for a walk, fell in with one
of the canvas men, a rough-looking fellow, named, or at least he
called himself, Carden. Canvas men, as may be inferred from the name,
are employed in putting up and taking down the circus tent, and
are generally an inferior set of men, not differing much from the
professional tramp. Robert, who, in spite of his asseverations, had
considerable self-respect and proper pride, never mingled much with
them, and for that reason was looked upon as "putting on airs." His
friend, Charlie Davis, was much more popular with them.
"Hallo, Robert," said Carden, familiarly.
The canvas man was smoking a short, dirty clay pipe, and would have
made an admirable model for a picture of a tramp.
"Hello, Carden!" said Robert, coolly.
"Walkin' for your health?" asked the canvas man, in the same
disagreeably familiar tone.
"Partly."
Carden was walking by his side, and Robert did not like the familiarity
which this would seem to imply.
"Pretty good town, this!" continued Carden, socially.
"Yes."
"Sorry I haven't another pipe to offer you, Robert, my boy."
"Thank you; I shouldn't use it."
"Don't mean to say you don't smoke, eh, Bob?"
"I don't smoke."
"That is, not a pipe—I dare say you wouldn't mind a cigar or
cigarette, now."
"I don't smoke at all now. I did once, but found it was injuring me,
and gave it up."
"Oh, it won't hurt you. I've smoked since I was a chap so
high"—indicating a point about three feet from the ground—"and I
ain't dead yet."
Robert did not reply to this, but looked around anxiously for some
pretext to leave his unwelcome companion.
Just then they passed a wayside saloon.
"Come in, Bob, and have a drink!" said Carden, laying his hand upon the
boy's shoulder. "It'll do you good to whet your whistle."
"No, thank you," said Robert, shrinking from the man's touch.
"Oh, don't be foolish. A little whiskey'll do you good."
"Thank you, I would rather not."
Meantime Carden was searching in his pocket for a silver coin, but his
search was fruitless.
"I say, Bob, I am out of tin. Come in and treat?"
"You must excuse me, Mr. Carden," said Robert, coldly.
"Come, don't be stingy! You get good pay, and can afford to stand
treat. We poor canvas men only have $15 a month."
"If this will do you any good," said Robert, producing a silver
quarter, "you are welcome to it."
"Thank you; you'd better come in, too."
Robert sacrificed the coin to regain his freedom, as Carden's entering
the saloon seemed to offer the only mode of release.
"What a stuck-up young jackanapes!" muttered Carden, as he entered the
saloon. "He thinks a deal of himself, and don't want to have nought to
do with me because I'm a poor canvas man. I doubt he's got a good deal
of money hid away somewhere, for he don't spend much. I heard Charlie
Davis say the other day Bob had $200."
Carden's eyes glittered with cupidity as the thought passed through his
mind.
"I'd like to get hold of it," he muttered to himself. "It would be a
fortune for a poor canvas man, and he wouldn't miss it, for he could
soon gain as much more. I wonder where he keeps it."
"It's the worst of the life I lead," said Robert to himself, as he
walked on, "that I am thrown into the company of such men as that. It
isn't because they are poor that I object to them, for I am not rich
myself; but a man needn't be low because he is poor and earning small
pay. I suppose Carden and the other canvas men think I am proud because
I don't seek their company, but they are mistaken. I have nothing in
common with them, except that we are all in the employ of the same
manager. Besides, I do talk with Madigan. He is a canvas man, but he
has had a good education and is fitted for something better, and only
takes up with this rather than be idle."
Half an hour after, Charlie Davis joined him.
"Rob," said Charlie, "I met Carden, just now. He was half drunk, and
pitching into you."
"He ought not, for I had just lent him a quarter."
"He said you were too proud to drink with him."
"That is true, though I wouldn't drink with one I had more respect for."
"He asked me where you kept your money. You'd better look out for him."
"I shall. I have no doubt he is capable of robbing me, and I would
rather spend my own money myself."
"I'm not afraid of his robbing me," said Charlie.
"No, I suppose not; but I wish you would save some of your money, so as
to have something worth stealing."
"Oh, I'll begin to save sometime."
It was perhaps the thought of this conversation that led Robert in the
evening after the entertainment was over, or rather after his part of
it was over, to walk round to one of the circus wagons, in which, in a
small closet, he kept some of his clothing and the whole of his money.
As he came up he saw in the darkness the crouching figure of a man
trying the lock of his compartment with one of a bunch of keys he held
in his hand.
CHAPTER XIII.
CATCHING A THIEF.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Robert, in a quick, imperious tone.
The man, like all who are engaged in a disreputable deed, started
suddenly and half rose from his crouching position, still holding the
keys in his hand. He did not answer immediately, probably because it
was rather difficult to decide what to say.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Robert, once more.
"None of your business!" answered the man, whose temper got the better
of his prudence.
"I should think it was my business, as you were trying to get at my
property."
"That's a lie!" said the man, sullenly.
As he spoke he stepped out of the wagon, and Robert recognized him as
the canvas man, Carden, introduced in the last chapter.
"It's the truth," said Robert firmly. "I know you, Carden, and I am not
much surprised. It won't do to try it again."
"I've a great mind to thrash you for your impudence!" growled Carden.
"I can defend myself," returned Robert, coolly, who had plenty of
courage.
Carden laughed derisively.
"What can you do?" he said. "You'd be like a baby in my grasp."
"I am not afraid of you," said Robert, with composure. "Don't come
around here again."
"I shall go where I please," said Carden, with the addition of an oath.
"And don't you go to telling tales of me, or I'll wring your neck."
Robert did not answer, but when Carden had slunk away, opened the
locker himself, and took out a wallet filled with bills.
"It is imprudent to leave so much money here," he reflected. "If I
hadn't come up just as I did, Carden would have got hold of it. What
shall I do with it?"
Robert felt that it would not do to carry it round with him, as that
would be about as imprudent as to leave it in the locker. He decided
after a little reflection upon leaving it with the manager of the
circus, in whom he had every confidence, and deservedly. He accordingly
sought Mr. Coleman after the entertainment was over.
"Well, Robert, what is it?" asked the manager, kindly.
"I have a favor to ask of you, sir."
"Very well; what is it?"
"I came near losing all my savings to-night. Will you take charge of
this wallet for me? I don't feel safe with it in my possession."
"Certainly, Robert. How much money have you here?"
"Two hundred dollars."
"Whew! You are rich. You say you came near losing it?"
"Yes, to-night."
"How was that?"
Robert detailed his visit to his locker, and his discovery of the
canvas man attempting to open it, but he mentioned no names.
"Which of the canvas men was it?" asked Mr. Coleman.
Robert hesitated.
"I don't want to get the man into trouble," he said.
"That does you credit, but if we have a thief with us it is important
that we should know it, for there are others whom he may try to rob."
From what he knew of Carden, Robert felt that the apprehension was very
well founded, and he saw that it was his duty to mention the name of
the thief.
"It was Carden," he answered.
"The very man I suspected," said the manager. "The other men are rough,
but he looks like a scoundrel. He came to me and begged for work, and
I engaged him, though I knew nothing about him. I shall see him in the
morning, and discharge him."
The manager did not forget. The next morning he summoned Carden, and
said, quietly, "Carden, you are no longer in my employ. I will pay you
to the end of the week, but I want you to leave now."
"What's that for?" growled the canvas man, looking ugly.
"It's on account of what happened last night," said the manager.
"Has that young fool been blabbing about me?"
"I have said nothing about any one."
"No, but I know Robert Rudd's been telling tales about me."
"He answered my questions, but said he didn't want to get you into
trouble."
"Of course not!" sneered Carden. "He's a nice boy, he is; the young
liar."
"You seem to know what he said," observed the manager, eying the man
keenly.
"I s'pose he said I was tryin' to rob him."
"He did, and I believed him."
"Then he lied!" said the man, fiercely. "He'll repent the day he told
tales about me."
"That will do, Carden," said the manager, quietly. "Here's your money."
Carden went off swearing. As he was leaving the grounds of the circus
he met Robert.
"You've been blabbing about me. I'll fix you," he said.
Robert made no reply, for he did not care to get into a dispute with
such a man.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHESTNUTWOOD.
We must now change the scene to a fine estate in the interior of New
York State, near one of the beautiful lakes which give such a charm to
the surrounding landscape.
The estate was a large one, laid out in the English style, with a fine
mansion centrally located and elegantly furnished. Surely the owner of
this fine domain was worthy of envy, and ought to have been happy.
Let us enter the breakfast room and make acquaintance with him.
There he sits in an easy-chair, a white-haired, shrunken old man, his
face deeply lined, and wearing a weary expression as if the world
afforded him little satisfaction.
It was the same old man whom we last saw in the circus at Crampton. He
had gone home with his nephew at once, having become weary of travel.
It was wise, perhaps; for he was old, and to the old rest is welcome.
His nephew sat near by with a daily paper in his hand, from which he
appeared to have been reading to his uncle.
"That will do, Hugo," said the old man. "I—I don't find any interest
in the paper this morning."
"How are you feeling, uncle—as well as usual?"
"Well in health—that is, as well as I can expect to feel, but my life
is empty. I have nothing to live for."
"Why don't you die then?" thought the nephew, but he did not express
his thought. On the contrary, he said, "Surely, uncle, you have much to
live for. You are rich, honored."
"But I have no one to love me, Hugo," said the old man, plaintively,
"no one of my own blood. My son is dead, and his son—do you know,
Hugo," he continued in a different voice, "I cannot get out of my mind
that boy we saw in the circus?"
Hugo shrugged his shoulder, but did not venture to express the
annoyance he felt.
"You mean the—the O'Connor boy," he said indifferently.
"O'Connor!" replied his uncle, in surprise. "You told me his name was
Oliver Brown."
"Did I?" said Hugo, flushing. "Oh, well, I had forgotten. The name
didn't impress me. I thought he was an Irish boy."
"You said he was born in Montreal, and that his parents lived there
now."
"Oh, well, no doubt you are right, uncle: you know I didn't take as
much interest in him as you—"
"True, Hugo; but surely you could detect the wonderful resemblance to
my son Julian."
"I can't say I did, uncle; but probably we looked at him with different
eyes."
"That was natural. How much do you think they pay him in the circus,
Hugo?"
"Really, uncle, I haven't the slightest idea. I never knew any circus
people. Four or five dollars a week, perhaps."
"I have been thinking, Hugo, I should like to have that boy live with
me."
"You can't be in earnest, uncle," said Hugo, very disagreeably
surprised.
"Why not? He may not be akin to me; but he looks like my dead son, and
for that resemblance I could come to love him. It would be a great
comfort to me to see him every day, and have him come in and out. He
might read to me, and so relieve you of some of your duties, Hugo."
"But I have never asked to be relieved of them, uncle," said Hugo,
bashfully.
"I know that, Hugo, but he would be company for us both. I want you
to go and bring him back with you. You can find out how much they pay
him at the circus, and offer him more to come here. I will give him a
chance to study, engage masters for him, and—"
"Make him your heir, I suppose," said Hugo to himself, with a dark
frown, which his uncle did not see; "not if I am able to prevent it.
My uncle must think I am a fool to bring into the house so dangerous
a rival. After waiting so many weary years for Chestnutwood, does he
think I am going to let it drift into the hands of an unknown boy
simply because he looks like my cousin Julian?"
These thoughts passed through the mind of Hugo Richmond, but it is
needless to say that he did not give utterance to them, or to anything
like them. His course was not to oppose strongly any whim of his uncle,
but to seemingly assent, and then oppose it secretly, while the old man
thought him to be promoting it.
Nevertheless Hugo was very much annoyed at the present caprice of his
uncle, as he chose to style it.
"I wish I had never gone into that circus," he reflected, with
annoyance. "Till then my uncle's mind was at rest, and he didn't
trouble himself with the thought that Julian's son might still be
alive. Now the mischief has been done, and the sight of that boy has
upset him and endangered my prospects. Who would have thought that such
a chance visit would have led to such results? Well, well, it is going
to give me some trouble, but I am master of the situation, and my uncle
shall never again set eyes on that boy if I can prevent it."
Hugo took his hat and went out to look after some laborers who were at
work in the rear of the lawn, when his attention was drawn to a rather
shabby-looking figure approaching the house.
CHAPTER XV.
A COMPACT.
Hugo stopped short, till the stranger should come up. He intended to
warn him off the grounds, as an intruder.
"Look here, my man," he said, with an air of authority, "are you aware
that these are private grounds?"
"I suppose they are," said the intruder, smiling.
Hugo was surprised to see that he showed no confusion or timidity, but
stood his ground boldly. The fellow's unconcern nettled him.
"Then, if you suppose they are," he said, sharply, "you must know
that you are trespassing. You can have no business here, and the best
course, if you wish to avoid trouble, is to turn about and gain the
highway as speedily as possible."
Hugo fancied that this would be sufficient to put the intruder to
flight, but he was mistaken.
"Who told you I had no business here?" he asked.
"Don't be impertinent! A man like you can have no business here unless
you wish to obtain a position as laborer, and we have no vacancy of
that kind."
The intruder held out his hands and said, quietly: "Do them look like
the hands of a laborer?"
Hugo glanced at them. They were as white and unsoiled by any of the
outward evidences of manual labor as his own. Yet the man was shabbily
dressed, and looked poor. Be that as it might, he had never been
accustomed to labor with his hands.
"No," answered Hugo, "but that isn't in your favor. However, I have no
further time to waste with you. Leave these grounds at once."
"Not until I have had some further conversation with you, Mr. Hugo
Richmond," said the visitor, regarding Hugo fixedly.
"Who are you?" demanded Hugo, abruptly. "You know my name, it seems.
Have I ever known you?"
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Fitzgerald."
"I aver that you are he," said Hugo, after a brief glance of scrutiny,
"though I should hardly have known you. I am glad you are come. I was
wishing particularly to see you."
Fitzgerald looked surprised. He had fancied that he would be an
unwelcome, perhaps a dreaded apparition, yet here was the man who he
had thought would be disturbed at his appearance actually expressing
his pleasure at meeting him.
"Then I am glad I came," he said. "I thought perhaps you would be sorry
to see me."
"So I should have been a week since. Now something has occurred which
makes a meeting between us desirable."
"Is your uncle dead?" asked the visitor, with eager interest.
"No, he is still living," returned Hugo, with a half unconscious sigh
of regret. "Walk with me to yonder summer-house. I must have some
serious conversation with you."
Fitzgerald followed, wondering considerably what Hugo had to say
to him, and the two sat down in a summer-house or rustic arbor at
some distance from the house, where there were not likely to be any
listeners to their speech.
When they were seated Hugo asked abruptly, "What did you do with
Julian's boy?"
Fitzgerald started in some surprise, and perhaps embarrassment, and
answered, "You know very well, Mr. Hugo. He died of scarlet fever."
"So you reported, and I was quite ready to accept the report without
inquiring into particulars. Now I have reason to doubt your statement."
"Oh, well, he may have died of something else," said Fitzgerald,
shrugging his shoulders. "As long as he died, I suppose it didn't
matter to you what was the nature of his disease?"
"Not if he were really dead."
"You don't doubt that, do you?"
"Yes, I do; moreover, I am quite convinced that it is false."
"Then you had better keep it to yourself," suggested Fitzgerald with
a cunning smile, "since the boy, if alive, would be his grandfather's
heir."
"But suppose his grandfather suspects he is living?"
"That would alter matters. But why should he suspect?"
"Fitzgerald, do you know where this boy is?" asked Hugo, searchingly.
"I don't even know that he is living. If you do you know more than I do
about him."
"You know, at least, that he did not die at the time you reported his
death."
"Well, I don't mind confessing as much as that."
"_You played me false!_" said Hugo, with angry bitterness.
"Suppose I did?" retorted Fitzgerald, defiantly. "That's better than to
kill an innocent boy, isn't it?"
"Hush!" exclaimed Hugo, in alarm. "Don't use such words. They might be
overheard."
"How do you know the boy is alive?" asked Fitzgerald, after a pause.
"I saw him myself within a week."
"Where?"
"At Crampton, in a circus performance; the boy was riding bareback in
the ring. He is called on the bills, 'The Boy Wonder,' and is a daring
and graceful rider. Julian was always fond of horses."
"What name does he bear?"
"Robert Rudd."
"Are you sure it is Julian's son?"
"As sure as I need be. He is the perfect image of my cousin at his age."
"The boy has no suspicion of his origin, I suppose?"
"Not the slightest."
"Then why need you be troubled?"
"Because my uncle was with me, and he, too, noticed the extraordinary
resemblance of the boy-rider to his son. Ever since he has been
restless, and now he insists upon my seeking out the boy, and bringing
him here to live with him."
Fitzgerald whistled.
"That would make a dark lookout for you, Mr. Hugo," he said.
"Of course it would. Besides, if the boy knew anything of his past
history, my uncle would be readily convinced that it was really his
grandson, and I would be set aside as the heir to Chestnutwood."
"I see."
"Now tell me, Fitzgerald, how does it happen that the boy has been
trained up to such a career?"
"I can't tell positively. I gave a tramp a sum of money to take charge
of him and carry him about, passing him off as his own son. I suppose
the man died and the boy fell in with some circus people, who saw that
they could make use of him."
"That seems plausible enough," said Hugo, thoughtfully. "At any rate
our concern is not with the past, but with the future. I suppose you
are not exactly prosperous?"
Fitzgerald drew a purse from his pocket, and extracted a twenty-five
cent coin.
"That is all the money I have," he answered.
"Do you feel like going into my employment again?"
"Yes."
"Then we will see if between us we cannot stave off this danger which
threatens my prospects."
There was a lengthened conference, into the particulars of which
we need not enter, stating only that Robert was the subject of it.
Fitzgerald left Chestnutwood that same evening, plentifully supplied
with money.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CANVAS MAN.
Carden, the canvas man, though discharged from the circus, did not
leave town. He hoped to be reinstated in his old position, and made
a personal appeal to the manager. But the latter returned a decided
negative.
"Don't I do my work well?" asked Carden.
"I have no fault to find with you on that score."
"Then why do you discharge me?"
"You know well enough."
"Is it because that boy Robert Rudd has lied about me?"
"Robert Rudd would not lie about anybody. I have perfect confidence in
him. As for you, Carden, you may as well make up your mind to leave the
town and seek employment elsewhere. As long as I am manager of this
circus I will never again employ you in any capacity."
Carden's face grew dark and lowering. He saw that the manager was in
earnest, and he said no more, but went away muttering something to
himself in a low voice which the manager could not understand.
"That is a bad fellow!" thought Mr. Coleman. "We are well rid of him.
He looks as if he could do something worse than steal."
Finding himself foiled in his attempt to regain his old place, Carden
felt still more incensed against the boy, whom he considered to be
the cause of his dismissal. He felt that it would be a satisfaction
to injure him in some way, and so revenge himself. For this purpose
he determined to remain in the town until the circus left. He secured
board, therefore, in the family of a farmer not far away, and spent his
days about the village and his evenings in some low drinking place.
One day as he was sauntering along the street, with a discontented
scowl upon his face, he came face to face with a well-dressed man, who
appeared to be a stranger in the place.
He would have passed him by without any other notice than a passing
glance, had not the stranger accosted him.
"A pleasant day, my friend," he said, affably.
"Who said I was your friend?" returned Carden, with a growl.
"I assumed it, since you have no reason to be my enemy," said the
other, not in the least put out by the roughness with which his
greeting was received.
"I don't know you, and I don't want to," continued Carden.
"Really, you are very frank," laughed the new acquaintance. "A trifle
rough, perhaps, but I like sincerity. You are no hypocrite, my friend."
"I should like to hear anybody call me so," said Carden, defiantly.
"I won't be the one at any rate. However, its dry talking in the
street. Suppose we go in here (they were just passing a drinking
saloon) and drink to our better acquaintance."
He could have said nothing better calculated to soften Carden's
asperity.
"I believe you're a trump, after all," said the canvas man, in a
changed tone.
"I hope you'll find me so. Well, come in."
Carden readily followed him into the saloon, and they sat down to a
table with a bottle and two glasses before them.
"Now, what's your game?" asked Carden, abruptly.
"My game?"
"Yes. I s'pose you wouldn't have stood treat if you hadn't wanted
something of me."
The stranger laughed.
"You are sharp," said he. "However, I don't mind confessing that
I am a stranger in the place and wanted company and possibly a
little information. Do you know anything about the circus—Coleman's
circus—which I see is showing here?"
"I ought to. I belong to it."
"Oh, you are connected with it."
"No. I'm not now. I was."
"So, you left them."
"Left them," repeated Carden with an oath. "I was kicked out."
"Indeed, my friend, I sympathize with you. May I ask in what capacity
you were employed?"
"I was a canvas man."
"Really, I don't want to meddle with what is none of my business, but
on what pretext were you discharged?"
Carden hardly liked to admit that he was suspected of theft, but his
wrongs were recent and he took a bitter satisfaction in dwelling upon
them. So he overcame his reluctance by degrees.
"It was all on account of that young rascal Robert Rudd," he said.
"Robert Rudd!" repeated the stranger, his face indicating strong
interest. "Who is he?"
"A bareback rider—a mere boy, whom I could twist round my finger."
"But I don't see how he could get you discharged."
"Then I'll tell you. He went to Coleman and told him that he found me
trying to unlock his closet and get at his property."
"Of course that was false?"
"Of course it was!" growled Carden. "But the manager believed him, and
bounced me."
"What could make the boy get up such a story?"
"He hated me; he treated me like a dog, and put on airs, just as if we
wasn't in the same business. He wouldn't drink with me when I asked
him."
"Then he is proud, is he?"
"Yes, but he hasn't anything to be proud of. He thinks himself a
gentleman, just because he can ride, and looks down on me as a poor
canvas man."
"He must be very disagreeable!"
"Of course he is, but the manager don't think so. He treats him as if
he was a prince."
"Do you know anything about this Robert Rudd?" asked the stranger,
thoughtfully. "Has he got parents living?"
"Not as I know of."
"How long has he been with the circus?"
"He has been riding ever since he was a small kid."
"Does he ride well?"
"Oh yes, he'll do," said Carden, with faint praise.
"I should think he would have been afraid to provoke you—a strong,
stout man like you," said the stranger meditatively, surveying the
strong frame and muscular arms of the ex-canvas man.
"He'll repent it yet," flamed up Carden, his resentment fired by these
artful words. "I don't mean to have any whipper-snapper like him get
the better of me."
"I can't say you are wrong, my friend, though I know nothing of the
matter further than you have told me. What are your plans? When were
you discharged?"
"Day before yesterday. Coleman told me to leave town, but I shan't. I
shall hang round here till I see some way of gettin' even with that
young rascal."
"It does seem hard that you should have had your means of living taken
away from you through the spite of a boy. He must have a very bad
disposition, this Robert Rudd."
"Yes," said Carden, in a voice which was becoming thick through his
frequent potations, for he was drinking two glasses or more to the
stranger's one. "I'm a poor man, and it's hard to be thrown out of
work."
"I suppose you haven't saved up much money, then?"
"Saved! What could I save out of fifteen dollars a month?"
"That is poor pay, certainly. Is this boy, Robert Rudd, well paid?"
"Well paid? He's got two hundred dollars saved up."
"You don't tell me so! That is a good deal for a boy. Where does he
keep it?"
"In his locker," answered Carden, an expression of cupidity sweeping
over his face.
This was not unnoticed by the stranger, who said to himself: "Unless I
am greatly mistaken, the boy was right in charging you with trying to
get at his hoard. I can read it in your face."
"You say he is a fine rider?" he said, changing the subject.
"Oh, yes; he's well enough."
"But if anything should startle the horse or frighten him, anything
unexpectedly, I mean, he would be in some danger of being thrown off,
wouldn't he?"
"That's so!" said Carden, as if a sudden idea had dawned upon his mind.
"It seems a dangerous business, this," said the stranger, carelessly.
"If, now, some malicious person should throw something at the horse
when he was in the ring, it might prove dangerous to the boy."
"So it would!" said Carden, eagerly.
"Well, my friend," said the stranger, rising, "I see we've drained the
bottle. Suppose we go out again."
When they emerged into the street, Fitzgerald, for it was he, shook
hands with the canvas man, and said: "Well, I must go back to the
hotel. I hope to meet you again, my friend."
"I think I've set things in train," thought Fitzgerald. "I will attend
the circus this evening."
CHAPTER XVII.
AN ATHLETIC CONTEST.
The two boy riders were taking their usual afternoon walk, when they
met Carden. The canvas man frowned, but his face seemed also to wear an
expression of triumphant malice, as if he could foresee some evil in
store for Robert.
"Did you notice how Carden looked, Robert?" asked Charlie.
"Not very pleasant. He hasn't forgotten me for detecting him in his
attempt to rob me."
"He looked as if he had heard of some bad luck for you."
"That must be your imagination, Charlie. I've had no bad luck."
"I wonder what makes Carden stay here now he is discharged from the
circus," said Charlie, thoughtfully.
"I suppose he can stay here as cheap as anywhere," said Robert. "I
don't trouble myself about him or his plans."
"He is your enemy, Rob. He may try to do you some harm."
"I will be on my guard, but I won't worry myself about it."
They came to an open field, where half a dozen boys were engaged in
athletic sports. There was soon to be a picnic, and prizes had been
offered for the best running, leaping and vaulting, and these boys were
engaged in practising for the grand contest.
"Let us stop and look at them," said Charlie.
"Very well," answered his friend.
So they took up a position about fifty feet away and regarded the
contestants with interest.
Their presence was noticed by the boys, who at once recognized them as
circus riders.
"Let us invite them to join us," said Frank Perry, a boy of sixteen.
"Yes," chimed in several others.
"I object," said Ronald Percy, stiffly. "My father wouldn't care to
have me associate with circus performers."
Ronald was the son of a rich manufacturer, and was generally
considered snobbish by his companions. At any rate he presumed greatly
upon his "blue blood" and his father's wealth, and attempted to be very
exclusive. It certainly was nothing to the discredit of his father that
he had worked his way up to his present position from the position of
a poor factory boy, but it might have led Ronald to reflect upon the
folly of his personal pretensions. But his mother claimed to be of
"genteel" family, and had imbued the boy with her own notions.
"What's the objection, if they are circus performers?" asked Sidney
Grey, who might really have claimed aristocratic lineage if he had so
desired.
"Do you consider circus performers fit company for you?" asked Ronald,
superciliously.
"Yes, if they behave themselves like gentlemen; and these two look as
well bred as we are."
"Of course they do," said Frank Perry. "Let us have them here."
This seemed to be the general wish, and Ronald's protest went for
nothing.
Sidney Grey left the group of boys and walked towards where Robert and
Charlie were standing. He was a slender boy with a frank, pleasant
face which prepossessed a stranger in his favor at first sight.
"Won't you join us?" he asked. "We are practising for the picnic next
Saturday. There are to be some prizes offered for running, vaulting,
and so on."
"Thank you," answered Robert. "I will join you with pleasure."
"So will I," said Charlie, "but I am afraid I might beat you all in
jumping."
"We will take the risk," said Sydney, smiling.
"We are just going to have some leaping, and will give you a chance.
Perhaps it is lucky you won't be at the picnic."
Sidney returned to his friends, followed by the two circus boys.
The trial about to commence was a standing jump. The two rivals for
superiority were Sidney and Ronald. They were of about the same size,
and seemed, so far as appearance went, very well matched. Probably
there was nothing, save his family and position, of which Ronald was
more proud than of his jumping, and he looked forward complacently to
the trial which was now about to take place.
"Will you try first?" asked Sidney of Robert.
"No, thank you; I will wait to the end."
"Won't you?" he next asked of Charlie Davis.
"I don't mind," answered Charlie, readily.
Charlie was small of his age, and was not likely to be a very
formidable competitor. He made a jump which proved to be a little less
than five feet, and was not bad for a boy of his size who was not
accustomed to this kind of exercise.
"There, boys, beat that if you can," he said, of course in fun.
The boys smiled and the trial continued.
It is unnecessary to chronicle each jump. Sidney Grey came up at last
and jumped six feet and three inches.
"Very well, Sidney," said one of his friends. "I don't believe that
will be beat."
"I do," said Ronald, emphatically. "I haven't tried yet."
"Take your turn, then," said Sidney, good-naturedly. "I shouldn't be
surprised if you beat me."
Ronald appeared to be of the same opinion, and it turned out that his
expectations were fulfilled. He gathered himself up for a tremendous
effort, and cleared six feet four inches.
"Good!" said Sidney, not disturbed by his rival's success. "If you jump
like this next Saturday you will carry off the prize."
"I've beat you all," said Ronald, triumphantly.
"Not quite all," said Sidney. "There's one here who hasn't jumped yet,"
pointing to Robert.
"Oh well, he can try if he wants to," said Ronald, superciliously,
looking as if he thought it didn't matter much whether he did or not.
"Your name is Robert, isn't it?" said Sidney.
"Yes."
"Then, Robert, you will have the honor of closing this contest."
Under ordinary circumstances Robert would not have cared to win, but he
had chanced to overhear Ronald's objections to associating with circus
performers, and had noticed the airs of superiority which he assumed,
and he thought he would like to take down his pride a little. His
training had given him unusual strength and elasticity of limb, and he
was better prepared than any of the other boys to excel in a contest of
this kind.
He took the position which had been marked as the starting point, and
standing for a moment motionless, made a sudden spring forward, and the
result was regarded with admiring astonishment.
"Six feet and eight inches!" declared Sidney, after measuring. "You are
the champion, Robert. None of us can come up with you."
The face of Ronald was an interesting study. He was astonished and
mortified. He couldn't bear to have his record surpassed.
"It wan't a fair leap," he said with chagrin. "He stood too far
forward."
"No, he didn't," answered, Sidney; "I noticed how he stood myself."
"If you like, I will jump again," said Robert quietly, turning to
Ronald.
"That will be fairer," said Ronald, hoping Robert would the second time
fall short of his own mark.
Again Robert took his place, and would not jump till Ronald himself had
declared that he was in the right place. Then, making an extra effort,
he cleared six feet and nine inches.
"You didn't make much by your doubting, Ronald," said Frank Perry.
"Are you satisfied now?"
"I didn't bargain to jump against a circus boy," said Ronald, sullenly.
"That won't affect your chances at the picnic," said Sidney. "Robert
won't be there."
"Nor I," said Charlie Davis.
"We are not much afraid of you, Charlie," said Sidney, smiling.
"Oh, I didn't half try!" said Charlie.
"It's lucky for us you didn't," said Sidney.
Ronald walked off in disgust, but Robert and Charlie remained with
their new friends, whom they found pleasant and companionable. That was
the last of the contests, but a game of ball was got up, in which the
two circus boys joined.
When they were ready to part Sidney said, in a friendly way, "I am glad
to have made your acquaintance. Come and see me to-morrow afternoon if
you feel like it. I should like to ask you something of your life and
adventures, for I suppose you have had adventures."
"Thank you; I will come," answered Robert.
But circumstances arose which prevented his keeping his engagement.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CANVAS MAN FINDS A BONANZA.
Fitzgerald had put a new idea into the head of the canvas man—an idea
which the man's unscrupulous and cruel nature readily welcomed and
adopted. It was with malicious satisfaction that he thought it over,
and considered how he should carry it out.
There was, however one circumstance that interfered with his
cheerfulness—the want of money. He had never been a saving man, and
now that he was discharged, and without an income, his fortunes were
at a low ebb. He foresaw that after carrying out his purpose it would
be necessary for him to leave Crampton, but as his purse contained but
seventy-five cents it did not seem possible to go far unless he walked.
"If I had only got that boy's $200, I should be all right," he said to
himself. "It would have been better for him and for me, too, for in
that case I wouldn't do him any harm."
[Illustration: THE ACCIDENT IN THE RING.]
Carden had no friends of whom he could ask a loan with any hope of
success—in fact, it is doubtful whether he had any friends at all.
While in this perplexity he chanced to recall a conversation he had
heard some days before in a billiard saloon. It ran thus:
"Yes, Tarbox has more money than any farmer in town. He is mean and
close-fisted, and so spends next to nothing. Of course when that is
kept up year after year a man can't help getting rich."
"Where does he invest his money—in savings banks?"
"No, he is afraid of them. He is of a suspicious nature, and I
shouldn't wonder if he follows the example of an old uncle of his who
died twenty years ago."
"How is that?"
"Why, the old man lived in a miserable way in a poor hut, and after he
died it was found that he had secreted large sums in various places in
and about the hut. I don't know how many thousand dollars."
"Did Nathan Tarbox inherit any of his uncle's money?"
"Yes, he came in for a third of it."
"You think he hides his money in the same way?"
"I think it very probable. Of course it is very silly, for he gets no
interest, and he is really in more danger of losing it than if it were
earning dividends of interest in some good bank. However, that's the
man's nature."
In his necessity Carden recalled this conversation, and, having no
conscientious scruples, he pondered how he should turn it to account.
"If I could find one of the farmer's hiding-places for his money," he
thought, "I might make a good thing out of it. The money isn't doing
him any good. I might as well have it."
He mechanically took his way towards the Tarbox farm, impelled by a
faint hope that he might hear or see something to his advantage.
Now it chanced that at some distance from the farm-house was an old
barn, which had been built by the farmer's father, and which was still
used, though a newer one had been built nearer the house.
From the street, towards the close of the afternoon, Carden saw Mr.
Tarbox taking his way towards this old barn, and out of curiosity he
jumped over the stone wall and followed him.
"I wonder if it would do any good to ask him to lend me five dollars?"
thought the canvas man. "I might tell him I had been discharged through
the influence of Anak and the boy, and he has reason to hate both. At
any rate it won't do any harm to try. So I'll follow him cautiously,
and see if I can accomplish anything."
Mr. Tarbox did not perceive that he was followed. He went by a
well-worn path to the old barn, and, opening a small door at the side,
went in.
Carden came up presently and peered in through a crack of the door. The
crack was narrow, but still wide enough to enable him to see what was
going on within.
Carden was actuated at first by mere curiosity, but his curiosity
speedily gave place to deep interest when he saw Tarbox lift a trap
door and prepare to descend into the barn cellar.
"What is he going to do, I wonder?" thought the canvas man.
He was disappointed to find that the farmer and his operations were
concealed from him, as, though he could see the trap door, he could
not look down into the cellar. Of course it was possible to enter the
barn and look down, but this would be too venturesome, and, if he were
observed it would be hard to explain his curiosity in any satisfactory
manner.
However, it occurred to the eager looker-on that it might be possible
for him to look down into the barn cellar through some crevice near the
bottom of the barn. No sooner had the idea come into his mind than he
discovered exactly such an opening as he desired. He lost no time in
throwing himself flat upon the ground, and putting his eye to a round
hole—once a knot hole.
Now his curiosity was gratified. Through this loop-hole he saw the
farmer with a small spade in his hand, which he appeared to keep
permanently under the barn, digging at a particular spot in the
northeast corner, only a few feet from the ladder beneath the trap-door.
Carden's heart beat high at this sight. It naturally recalled to him
the conversation he had heard in the billiard saloon, and putting the
two together he jumped to the conclusion that Tarbox had come to this
out-of-the-way spot to visit one of his hoards—perhaps to add to it.
"If it should be so," he muttered to himself, "then I am in luck. It
won't be my fault if I don't borrow a good sum without the farmer
knowing anything about it. Let me see what he is doing."
He glued his eyes persistently to the loop-hole, and watched with an
anxious eagerness which can be surmised the movements of the miserly
farmer.
Tarbox did not need to dig long. Presently he threw aside his spade,
and getting on his knees began to fumble with his hands in the cavity
he had made.
He drew up a round wooden box, such as housewives often use to keep
saleratus or other supplies in, about the size of a market box of
strawberries. Probably it was one he had taken from the pantry without
his wife's observation, for Tarbox was a man who could keep a secret
from his wife, at any rate when it related to money.
When Carden saw this box produced his suspicions were increased almost
to certainties, and he waited with breathless anxiety till Tarbox
should open it.
This the farmer did not long delay doing, and the unseen witness was
rewarded for his watching in seeing that the box was more than half
full of silver and gold. The silver preponderated, but a few gold coins
were mixed with them.
Carden felt like a hungry man favored with the sight of a rich repast,
and his eyes glittered with cupidity. He would like to have made his
way at once to the cellar, throttled the farmer and seized the box,
but that would have been very imprudent. Tarbox was a powerful man,
and he would have fought desperately for the money that was so dear to
him. Besides, even had Carden secured the box, he could have hardly
got away in the afternoon without being observed. No, he must curb his
impatience, and defer his visit to a more seasonable time.
"I can do it to-night," he muttered to himself, "after the performance
is over. Then I will get out of town as soon as I can. I wonder how
much money there is there."
This was a fruitful and pleasing subject of contemplation, and occupied
his thoughts as he hurriedly left the barn and made his way to the high
road.
He went to his boarding-place, made his small possessions in the way of
clothing into a bundle, and regarded it with satisfaction.
"To-night I will leave Crampton forever," he said. "After all, I shall
be in fair luck, even if I did get kicked out from the circus."
There was one thing, however, that he did not take into the account.
He had acted as a spy upon the unsuspecting farmer, and so became the
possessor of a valuable secret. It didn't occur to him that possibly he
in turn might have attracted observation, and that his movements might
have been watched.
It chanced that Charlie Davis was strolling out alone, and had seen
Carden enter Mr. Tarbox's field and make his way to the barn.
"What can Carden be going there for?" thought Charlie. "I'll watch him."
Charlie had also seen Mr. Tarbox, and he was not slow in concluding
that Carden, for some reason which he could not at once guess, was
watching him.
"What in the world can Carden be looking at?" he thought. "There can't
be anything to steal in that old barn. At any rate he's up to some
mischief, I'll bet a hat. I'll tell—let me see—I'll tell Anak, and
ask what he thinks about it."
It was 6 o'clock when Charlie returned to the circus tent, and he
broached the subject at once to the Norwegian giant.
Anak was a shrewd fellow, and he guessed the truth.
"There's something valuable there on which Carden has some designs, but
he isn't likely to do anything till late to-night. Meet me after the
performance, and we'll take a stroll over that way."
CHAPTER XIX.
A FARCE AND A TRAGEDY.
The circus was nearing the close of its stay in Crampton. Of course,
though it was a large town, it was not large enough to warrant the
show in staying so long, but for the large number of visitors who were
attracted from neighboring towns. Both by rail and by carriages of all
sorts, from farmers' wagons to top buggies and carryalls, hundreds of
people flocked to see the wonders it contained. Many a young heart
was stirred with ambition to pursue the noble profession of circus
performers, considering that the circus clown was as illustrious a
personage, not perhaps as the President of the United States, but at
least as a member of the Cabinet, or a Congressman. The time would come
of course when these admiring youngsters would learn that the halo
which invested the circus performer was unreal, but, for the time
being, any one connected with the circus was a great, illustrious and
envied personage.
One day Robert Rudd and Charlie Davis were standing outside the tent,
near the lemonade stand, when a boy of sixteen or seventeen, clad in
rustic attire and "with hayseed in his hair," approached them, and,
though evidently somewhat awed by the idea that he was standing in the
presence of two circus performers, ventured to ask:
"Do you two belong to the circus?"
"Yes," answered Robert.
"You bet we do," said Charlie, vivaciously. "The circus would have to
shut up shop but for us."
Robert smiled, but the visitor didn't. He was too much in earnest.
"I seen you ridin' last evenin'," he said, next.
"Then you were at the performance?"
"Yes; I told dad I wanted to go, and he let me have the money I earned
weedin' corn, tho' he said I better keep it to buy somethin' useful."
"I hope you enjoyed the evening," said Robert, courteously.
"It was splendid! I don't see how you fellows can ride so."
"It's all in the training."
"How long have you been a circus actor?" asked the young rustic.
"Five or six years; I began when I was very small."
"I began as soon as I could walk," said Charlie, who liked to romance a
little when he had an opportunity.
"You don't say so?"
"Fact!" asserted Charlie.
"Did you ride on a hoss then?"
"No, I rode on a Newfoundland dog. When I got older I tried a pony. Now
Rob and I are the champion boy-riders of Europe and America."
"Speak for yourself, Charlie," said Robert, smiling. "I don't make any
such claims."
"Oh, well, don't be discouraged. You'll ride as well as I do some time."
"You flatter me," said Robert.
"I say, do you think there's any chance for me to learn the business?"
asked the country boy, lowering his voice, in an anxious tone.
"What line do you want to take up?" asked Robert.
"Is there any line?" asked the boy, not understanding.
"I mean, do you want to be a rider, a clown, an acrobat, or what?"
"I'd like to ride like you two."
"I am afraid you are rather large to begin," said Robert, surveying
the boy's large hands and feet, and his height, at least three inches
greater than his own.
"Am I too big?" asked the boy, disappointed.
"No, you're not," said Charlie. "Why, I could teach you myself."
"I wish you would. I'd like goin' round with a circus better than
working for dad on the farm. Do you fellow's get paid big wages?"
"Of course we do," answered Charlie. "I get fifty dollars a week, board
and travelling expenses."
"Fifty dollars a week!" gasped the country boy, expanding his eyes in
astonishment.
"Yes, you see we're first-class performers."
"I couldn't get but a dollar and a half a week and board workin' on a
farm," answered the country boy.
"What's your name?" asked Charlie, abruptly.
"Jotham Sprague."
"That wouldn't do for the stage; you'd have to take a better name."
"I'd take any name; fact is, I don't like Jotham myself."
"It isn't romantic enough," said Charlie. "The manager wouldn't have
anybody of that name. It sounds too countrified."
"What sort of a name would do?" asked the boy.
"Lorenzo Leon would do pretty well."
"That's splendid!" said Jotham, admiringly.
"You see, it would look well on the bills. The famous bareback rider.
Lorenzo Leon, who has just been imported from his native Italy at large
expense, will perform some of his wonderful feats in the ring."
"I'd like that first rate," said Jotham, "only I ain't from Italy."
"No matter; no one will know that. Now, if you want to come in and take
a lesson I'll give you one."
"How much will you charge?" asked Jotham, eager but cautious.
"Oh, I won't charge you anything. I'll do it out of friendship. Come
in, Rob."
"No, Charlie, not just now."
Robert suspected that Charlie meditated a practical joke, and did not
care to take part in it.
They entered the tent—it was in the middle of the forenoon—and
Charlie went to his friend the clown, and whispered a few words.
"So the young gentleman wants to take a lesson in riding, does he?" he
asked.
"Yes," answered Jotham, eagerly, "if you have no objection."
"We'll do it for you as a favor," said the clown. "What's your name,
young man?"
Jotham was about to answer correctly, when Charlie broke in—"His name
is Lorenzo Leon, from Italy."
The clown grinned.
"A very fine name!" he answered. "Bring out the Andalusian steed."
An attendant led out the trick mule, which, meekly enough, walked round
the ring.
"Can you ride that?" asked the clown.
"Oh, yes, I can ride a bigger hoss than that."
"Mount, then, and away!"
Charlie held the mule, which stood very quiet and demure, while the
boy was getting on. But no sooner was the boy on his back than he
lifted his ears and dashed round the ring in such a lively way, making
sudden turns and curves, that Jotham was soon clinging to him as pale
as a sheet, with his arms closely clasped about the mule's neck, in
momentary expectation of being thrown off. At this most critical point
the clown shouted, "Now get up and stand on his back!"
Instead of doing this Jotham roared, "Stop him; take me off," in an
extremity of terror.
At a signal the mule threw up his hind legs and the rider measured his
length, more frightened than hurt, on the sawdust.
As he picked himself up Charlie came up to him.
"Have another lesson, Lorenzo!"
"I guess I'll go back to farmin'," answered Jotham, picking himself up
and finding to his relief that none of his limbs were broken.
"Oh, nonsense! Try it again!"
"No, I guess not; I never would make a rider," and the boy left the
tent completely cured of his wish to be a rider. He had received a
rough but a wholesome lesson.
In the evening the performance began at the usual time. There was no
change in the bill, and everything was expected to go on as usual.
In due time Robert came out for his equestrian act. In the course
of it he had to jump through a hoop and over a banner. While he was
doing this, suddenly a stone, as large as a base ball, hurled from the
spectators' seats, struck the horse, and he swerved. The result was
that Robert, instead of lighting on his back, fell to the ground in
such a way that he turned his ankle, while the horse dashed by.
He was picked up, his face pale with the pain in his ankle, and was
helped from the ring by some of the attendants.
"Shame! Shame! Lynch him!" rose from fifty indignant spectators.
"Where's the man that threw the stone?"
But no one knew, except one. In one of the rear seats sat Carden, the
discharged canvas man, smiling with malignant triumph at the mischief
he had done.
"I said I'd be even with him," he muttered. "I hope he's badly hurt."
Among the spectators were Sidney Grey and his father, Dr. Grey, a
skilful physician. Both hurried to the ring.
"Are you much hurt, Robert?" asked Sidney, anxiously.
"I am in considerable pain, but I don't think I am seriously hurt,"
said Robert, attempting to smile.
"I will take the boy to my house," said Dr. Grey to the manager. "I am
a physician, and I will see that he receives every attention."
"Thank you, doctor, I accept your offer gratefully," said Mr. Coleman.
"I am attached to the boy, and I will bear all his expenses."
"There will be none, while he is at my house," said the doctor. "My son
has taken a liking to young Rudd, and he will be a welcome guest."
When the performance was over, Carden left the tent stealthily. He
had work to do that night. He bent his steps towards the house of Mr.
Tarbox.
CHAPTER XX.
THE AMATEUR DETECTIVES.
When it was found that Robert was not seriously hurt there was a
general feeling of relief among his circus friends, for the boy
rider was a great favorite. Though he was somewhat reserved he was
always polite, affable, and ready to be of assistance to any of his
associates. He was sometimes called "the little gentleman," and was
generally supposed to have sprung from a good family, though even to
himself his birth was a secret.
Among those who inquired anxiously for him were Charlie Davis and the
Norwegian giant.
"He has sprained his ankle slightly," said Dr. Grey. "It will require
a week or two of perfect rest, perhaps more. Indeed it will not do for
him to ride again this season."
"Are you sure of that, doctor?" asked the manager.
"I am positive that it would be most imprudent."
"I asked because it cuts off the boy from earning money."
"There need be no trouble on that score. He can stay at my house as
long as he likes, and it will cost him nothing."
"You are very kind, Dr. Grey. However, the boy is not without funds. I
have two hundred dollars of his in my possession, and before I leave
town I will hand it to him or you, as this accident will part us for
the remainder of the season."
"Give it to him, then. I am glad he has been so provident."
Dr. Grey and Sidney obtained a carriage, and Robert was taken home to
the doctor's comfortable and even luxurious dwelling, for, besides
having had an extensive practice for years, he had married a lady with
a fortune. Leaving Robert there in good hands, we return to the circus.
As soon as the entertainment was over, Charlie and Anak, remembering
their engagement, bent their steps towards the house of Mr. Tarbox.
They were detained, however, for fifteen minutes or more before being
able to depart, and this gave Carden an opportunity to get at work.
"Have you seen Carden this evening, Charlie?" asked Anak.
"Yes; he was at the circus."
"I wonder whether it was he that threw the rock?" said Anak, suddenly.
"I shouldn't wonder. I didn't think of it before."
"He could have no other object in coming to the show. He had seen it
plenty of times. Besides, his money must have been low."
"Perhaps he got in for nothing," suggested Charlie.
"Go and ask."
Charlie, upon inquiring at the ticket-office, found that Carden had
tried to obtain a pass on the score of his former connection with the
circus, but without success, as the manager had left orders that he was
not to be admitted, except on the same footing with others.
"He grumbled some, but finally bought a ticket," added the
ticket-seller. "I wondered at it, for there was nothing new to him."
"He must have been the one who fired the rock at poor Robert's
horse—the villain!" said Anak, gravely. "We know he had a spite
against the boy."
"I'd like to fire a rock at him!" said Charlie, impetuously.
"He may get into trouble yet," said Anak. "Let us go along."
"Shall we go to the house and speak to Mr. Tarbox?" asked Charlie.
"Yes, for he will know where to look for him."
"I wonder what he will say when he sees you? Bet he'll be scared."
"We'll soon let him understand that we came for his good."
Mr. Tarbox was just about retiring, or rather he was making the usual
preparations—bringing in kindling wood from the shed, raking out the
fire, etc.—when a knock was heard at the outer door.
In the Tarbox household such a thing as a visitor at half-past 10
o'clock in the evening was absolutely unknown.
"Who can it be, Nathan?" asked Mrs. Tarbox, in a flutter.
"How do I know?" returned her husband in the usual polite tone in which
he was accustomed to address his wife.
"Suppose it should be burglars?" suggested Mrs. Tarbox, nervously.
"They'd be very likely to knock at the door, wouldn't they, you goose!"
said her husband. "That's exactly what they always do, isn't it?"
The knock was repeated.
"Go to the door, Mrs. Tarbox."
"Oh mercy, Nathan, I couldn't. I might be killed."
"Give me the lamp, then, you fool!"
Mrs. Tarbox readily gave her husband the lamp, and he strode to the
door.
When he opened it, and his inquiring glance fell on the towering form
of Anak, it must be admitted that Mr. Tarbox himself felt nervous. He
made a movement to close the door, but Anak thrust in his huge foot,
and this made the effort impossible.
"What do you want?" demanded Tarbox, his calmness not quite undisturbed.
"We come on important business," said Anak, in his deep voice.
"Then you might have come at a better time," said Tarbox, his fears
dissipated and his ill-temper returning. "It is time all honest persons
were abed."
"So it is, Mr. Tarbox," answered Anak, "but I am afraid there is one
dishonest person that is wide awake."
"What do you mean?" demanded Tarbox, with a vague suspicion that the
remark might be made at his expense.
"Is there anything of value concealed under the barn yonder?" asked
Anak, pointing to the one already referred to in a former chapter.
"Why do you ask?" queried the farmer, turning pale, and eying the
questioner with suspicion.
"Because a man who has been discharged from our show—a canvas man,
named Carden—was seen by Charlie here prowling about the barn this
afternoon, and trying to look under it through a crack."
Now Tarbox turned pale in earnest.
"It must have been when I was there," he said.
"Very likely; were you under it?"
"Ye-es," answered the farmer.
"Then he was watching you. You know best whether he was likely to see
anything that could be of service to him."
"Is he there now?" asked Tarbox, agitated.
"I should not be at all surprised."
"He may be robbing me at this moment," said Tarbox, wildly.
"Then there is something hidden under the barn?"
"Ye-es. What shall I do? Is he armed? Is he a strong man?"
"No matter whether he is or not. I'm middling strong myself," said the
giant, with a laugh. "Get your hat, and I'll go with you, and we'll see
if we can't defeat him and his plans."
"I'll go, too," added Charlie, in an important tone.
"You alone are able to frighten him, Charlie," said Anak, aroused.
Tarbox got his hat and led the way hurriedly towards the barn. Before
they reached there a sudden suspicion entered his mind and he stopped
short.
"How do I know but this is a trick?" he said, nervously. "You may be
intending to rob me yourself."
"Make your mind easy, Mr. Tarbox!" said Anak. "We don't do business in
that way."
"You are my enemy," said Tarbox.
"Not at all. You have done me no harm. You were meaning to arrest me,
to be sure, but you didn't, and I have no hard feelings against you. I
will do you a good turn if you will let me, especially as this Carden
is a bad fellow. He tried to kill Robert Rudd, to-night."
"What, the boy rider?"
"Yes. Robert caught him stealing, or trying to steal, from his locker,
and this led to his discharge. He threw a rock at the boy's horse, and
he was thrown."
At another time Tarbox might possibly have felt rejoiced that the boy
against whom he himself felt a spite had met with an accident, but now
he felt too anxious about his own property to concern himself about
other matters.
By this time they had reached the solitary barn.
Charlie got down on his knees and peered through the same crevice which
Carden had used in the afternoon.
"He's there!" he exclaimed in excitement, "and he's got a lighted
candle."
"What is he doing?" asked Tarbox in agitation.
"He's digging."
"He will steal my money!" ejaculated Tarbox in dismay. "There's between
three and four hundred dollars hidden there."
"Rather a queer savings bank, Mr. Tarbox!" said Anak, dryly.
CHAPTER XXI.
CATCHING A BURGLAR.
Carden had not the least suspicion that he was observed. The Tarbox
farm-house stood rather aloof from the village, and the barn, as we
have already stated, was at some distance from the house. He worked
away calmly, feeling that there was no danger of his being interfered
with.
At last he reached the box, and stooping lifted it complacently.
Mr. Tarbox became very much agitated when he saw his hoard in the
possession of the burglar.
"Can't we get at him?" he asked of Anak in an agitated whisper.
"No," whispered Anak. "Our best plan is to wait for him, and seize him
as he leaves the barn."
"But he will have my money."
"Of course he will. We will catch him with the stolen property in his
possession."
"But it isn't safe for him to have it."
"It won't be safe for him, I'm thinking," said Anak, dryly. "Don't you
see if we reveal ourselves now he will blow out the candle and remain
where he is, and we can't catch him in the dark. Ten to one he'll get
off with the money."
Tarbox saw that the giant was right. In spite of his agitation, he
couldn't help remarking that Anak spoke English with remarkable
ease—for a Norwegian, and he said so.
Anak laughed.
"Oh well," he said, "it's a good while since I was in Norway."
"Don't speak so loud, you two," said Charlie Davis, whose eye was glued
to the crevice. "He'll hear you."
"The boy is right," said Anak.
"Is he coming this way yet?" asked Tarbox, eagerly.
"Not yet; he is sitting down, counting the money."
Tarbox groaned.
"I—I'd like to choke him—the thief!" he muttered.
"Can't you find a better savings bank, friend Tarbox?" said Anak.
"I'm afraid of savings banks. They break sometimes," answered the
farmer.
"At any rate the money would be safer there than here, and you would
get interest for it besides. But for us, or rather for Charlie here,
who watched that rascal this afternoon, you'd have had to bid a long
good-by to your money."
"He's got through counting it," said Charlie, who was still watching,
"and he's putting it in his pocket."
"I shall never see it again!" murmured Tarbox, sadly.
"Oh, yes you will—we've got the man as secure as a rat in a rat-trap.
He'll have to come out this way, won't he?"
"Yes, he'll have to come up through the trap-door."
"If he hadn't the money, it would be well to fasten down the trap-door,
and keep him locked up there for the night. As it is, we shall have to
secure him, and carry him to the station-house ourselves."
"We might put him back under the barn after we've taken the money from
him," suggested Charlie Davis.
"He may have matches with him," said Anak, "and in that case he might
set the barn on fire out of revenge. He's an ugly customer, that
Carden, and is capable of anything."
"No, no, let him go!" said Tarbox, alarmed at the suggestion of losing
his barn by fire. "Take the money from him and send him off."
"No, no; we won't let him off so easy," said Anak. "There's another
matter we must inquire into. We must find out whether he is the man
that threw the rock at Robert's horse to-night. If so, he must be
punished for that."
Meanwhile, and this conversation took a much briefer time than may
be imagined, Carden had ascended the ladder, emerged through the
trap-door, which he had left open when he went down, and, with his
ill-gotten booty stowed away in his pockets, had reached the small door
by which he entered. He came out quite unconscious of danger, when he
felt a strong hand at his collar, and his startled look fell upon the
giant and his two companions.
"What's all this?" he asked, in affected bravado. "Let go of me, Anak."
"You villain!" exclaimed the farmer, furiously; "give me back my
money."
"Your money, old potato digger!" returned Carden. "Who's got your
money?"
"You have."
"It's a lie. How could I get hold of your money?"
"What have you been doing in the barn?" asked Anak.
"Lying down on the hay, if you must know," returned Carden. "I got
turned out of my boarding-place because I couldn't pay my board, and I
thought Old Turnip-Top here wouldn't mind my getting a free bed lying
on his hay."
"That's a lie," said Tarbox, in excitement; "you've got my money in
your pocket—three or four hundred dollars."
"Where did I get hold of it? Do you keep money in your barn?" sneered
the canvas man.
"Carden, it's no use pretending ignorance; you found out that our
friend here had money concealed under the barn floor—Charlie saw you
spying this afternoon—and you thought to-night would be a good chance
to secure it."
"So that boy blabbed about me, did he?" said Carden, with an evil
glance at Charlie. "He'd best look out, or I'll serve him as I did—"
Here he stopped short; but Charlie finished his sentence for him.
"As you did Rob to-night," he added; "that's what you mean."
"I don't know what you mean," said the canvas man, finding he had said
too much.
"You know well enough!" said Anak, sternly, for he liked Robert, and
was incensed against the man who had tried to do him such grievous
harm. "You know well enough what the boy means; you were seen in the
tent this evening, and it was you who threw the rock at Robert Rudd's
horse."
"You can't prove it, and it's a lie!" said Carden, defiantly.
"Make him give up the money," said the farmer, impatiently, for he
cared nothing for Carden's attempt to injure our hero.
"I'll give it up if you'll let me go," said the canvas man.
"You're not in a position to make terms," said Anak. "We promise
nothing."
"Then you won't get it," he returned, doggedly.
"We won't, eh?"
Anak, for he was the speaker, threw him down, and held his hands and
feet as in a vise, while Tarbox, at his invitation, thrust his hands
into the thief's pocket and drew out the gold and silver coins by
handfuls.
Carden ground his teeth, but he felt that resistance was vain. He was a
strong man, but Anak had the strength of three ordinary men, and he was
disposed to exert his strength to the utmost on this occasion, not only
because he was opposed to dishonesty, but because he had in his grasp
the man who had assaulted Robert.
"Have you got it all, Mr. Tarbox?" asked Anak.
"Wait and I will count it," answered the farmer.
"Some of the money was mine," growled Carden.
"Was it? How much?"
"Ten dollars," answered the canvas man, after a moment's thought.
"That's too thin, Carden, and doesn't tally with your first story. You
said you laid down on the hay in the barn because you had no money and
were turned out of your boarding-house."
"Oh, you're too smart," muttered the baffled thief.
"I think we shall prove too smart for you to-night. Well, Mr. Tarbox,
how about the money?"
"It's twenty-five cents short," said Tarbox, disturbed.
"Oh, well, if you have come as near it as that you are lucky. Now let
us be going."
"But I don't want to leave it here; some one may find it."
"You would be ruined if you didn't find it," said Anak, contemptuously.
"Will you let me up now?" asked Carden.
"Yes, I will let you up, but I won't let you go."
"Then I will lie here."
"If you can."
Despite his resistance Anak lifted him on his shoulders and bore him
off as easily as an ordinary man would carry a boy three years old.
"What are you going to do with me?" asked the canvas man.
"Deliver you over to the authorities," answered Anak; and this he did,
despite the alternate prayers and menaces of his captive.
My young readers will be pleased to hear that Carden passed the night
in the station-house and was arraigned for trial the next day before
the court, which was then in session.
"I'm much obleeged to you," Tarbox had the grace to say as they parted.
"And you won't have me arrested for trespass and assault, Mr. Tarbox?"
said Anak, laughing.
"No; you've done me a good service to-night."
"Take my advice and put your money in the bank to-morrow," said Anak.
Tarbox did so; not only the money which had so narrowly escaped being
stolen, but his other hoards were collected and carried to the nearest
savings bank, which was undoubtedly a wise act on the part of the
farmer.
CHAPTER XXII.
ROBERT RUDD LEAVES THE CIRCUS.
A week passed, and Robert Rudd was still the guest of Dr. Grey. The
circus had left town, and so the boy-rider was separated from his
professional companions. Though he was not as much attached to circus
life as some, it was his means of making a livelihood, and had been
for some years, and yielded him a considerably larger income than a
boy of his age was likely to earn in any other way. Now, it imparts a
pleasant feeling of independence to earn one's living, and the pleasure
is heightened when not only a living is earned, but there is a chance
to lay up money besides.
When Robert was apprised of the approaching departure of the circus he
went to Dr. Grey.
"Dr. Grey," he said, "don't you think it will be safe for me to go back
to the circus?"
"Yes; it will be safe to go back to it, but not to ride."
"How soon can I ride, do you think?"
"Your ankle will be weak for some time to come; not too weak for
ordinary exercise, but not strong enough for bareback riding."
"In that case," said Robert, with some feeling of disappointment,
"there would be no advantage in going back this season. I suppose I
could ride next season."
"Undoubtedly, if you desire it," said the doctor, pointedly.
"Do you intend to travel with the circus when you are a man?" asked
Sidney.
"Not if I can find some other employment at which I can make a fair
living," answered Robert. "I don t care much for it, but at present it
pays me better than anything else."
"That is not the most important consideration, my lad," said the doctor.
"No; but at present I cannot afford to leave it."
"Why can't you stay with me all winter?" asked Sidney, eagerly. "I
should like your company very much."
"Thank you, Sidney; you are a true friend."
"I second my boy's invitation," said the doctor, cordially.
"Thank you, also," said Robert, gratefully. "I feel your kindness the
more because I have no claims upon you."
"Then you will stay?" said Sidney, eagerly.
"What would Ronald Percy say if you adopted me as a companion?" asked
Robert, with a smile.
"I don't care what. I would ten times rather have you for a friend than
he."
"Thank you, Sidney. You are not prejudiced against me because I am a
circus boy."
"Why should I be? If you were rough and coarse, I shouldn't fancy you,
whether you were a circus boy or not, but I consider you much more of a
gentleman than Ronald Percy," said Sidney, warmly.
"I appreciate your good opinion, Sidney, but as to remaining here all
winter, though I should enjoy it on many accounts, I would not like to
be dependent even upon so good friends while I am able to earn my own
living. If there were anything your father had for me to do it would
make a difference."
"I must see if I can think of anything," said Dr. Grey. "I am afraid I
couldn't delegate any of my medical duties to you. I fear my patients
would not repose confidence in so young a doctor."
So the circus kept on its way, and Robert remained for a time at
the house of the physician. Those who know the characteristics of
society in a country village will not be surprised to learn that the
introduction of a circus boy into his family led many to wonder at and
criticise Dr. Grey. Prominent among the critics was Ronald Percy and
his family.
"Really," said Mrs. Percy, a shallow woman, who made large pretensions
to fashion and position, "I can't understand what Dr. Grey can be
thinking of, to admit a low circus boy into his house. We don't know
what associates the boy has had in the past, but he must be coarse and
ill-bred, and surely he is not a fit companion for Sidney Grey. I hope
my Ronald won't get intimate with him."
"You may be sure I won't, ma," said Ronald. "I wouldn't demean myself
by taking notice of him. When Sidney wanted to invite him to join in
our games I opposed it."
"You, Ronald, can always be relied upon to feel like a gentleman," said
his mother, complacently. "Thank heaven! he hasn't any liking for low
company."
"I am told the boy is very gentlemanly," said Mrs. Frost, a woman very
different from Mrs. Percy.
Mrs. Percy shrugged her shoulders.
"That is absurd, of course," she answered. "Gentlemanly behavior isn't
picked up in circuses. I told the doctor so, but he is very eccentric,
and he wouldn't listen to anything against his new favorite."
"That must be rather awkward for you, as Ronald and Sidney are so much
together."
"I have requested Ronald not to go to the doctor's so much while that
boy is staying there. I feel that it is due to our position not to
allow him to form such intimacies."
Nevertheless, when Sidney Grey got up a little party in honor of his
guest, and invited Ronald among others, the young aristocrat did not
decline, but presented himself promptly, notwithstanding his mother's
objection to the company of the young circus rider.
Among the twenty boys and girls who assembled in the drawing-room of
Dr. Grey there was not one more quiet in manner or gentlemanly in
bearing than Robert Rudd.
"I wonder where the boy has picked up his high-bred manner?" thought
the doctor. "It must be natural to him."
This was the case. Robert had not been placed in circumstances
favorable to the formation of a polished manner, but it was innate and
instinctive.
At a pause during the evening Sidney said, "Robert, can't you do
something to entertain the company?"
"Would you like to see a little juggling?" asked Robert.
"Oh, yes!" cried several. Even Ronald Percy looked interested. Still he
could not help sneering a little.
"Did you do that at the circus?" he asked.
"No," answered Robert, quietly. "I am not a professional magician, but
we had a professor of magic with us at one time, who took the trouble
to show me a few simple tricks, and these I am ready to perform at the
request of Sidney."
"You couldn't please me or the company better," said Sidney, eagerly.
"I shall have to ask you for a few articles," said Robert.
"Anything in the house is at your service, Rob."
So for half an hour Robert amused the company with a few tricks, which
he did exceedingly well, for it was a characteristic of our young
hero to be thorough in all he did. It is unnecessary to enumerate his
tricks, or to describe the interest which the young company manifested.
It is enough to say that when he had finished he had established
himself in the good graces of every one present except Ronald, who,
though as much interested as the rest, was unwilling to admit it.
"We are very much obliged to you, Robert," said Sidney, warmly. "You
are a capital magician."
"I would advise you to go into that business," said Ronald, with his
usual sneer. "I am told it pays very well, and it isn't as low as the
circus."
"I shall confine myself to performing for the gratification of my
friends," said Robert, coolly, ignoring the impertinence of Ronald.
"Can't you do anything more for us, Robert?" asked Sidney. "Do you
sing?"
"A little," was the unexpected reply; "that is, I can sing some of the
popular melodies."
"Pray do."
"If any one will play the accompaniment."
A young girl was found to do this, and Robert sang in a clear, musical
voice several popular favorites, which appeared to please no less than
his magical efforts.
"Really, Robert," said Mrs. Grey, "you are remarkably well fitted to
please a company of young people. We are very much obliged to you."
"I am glad to have it in my power to do something in return for your
kindness, Mrs. Grey."
"The boy may belong to the circus," thought Mrs. Grey, "but I should be
glad if my son were as accomplished, while I could not desire him to be
any more refined."
Ronald was secretly surprised, and not over well pleased at Robert's
popularity. He found himself in a minority of one in his sneering
attempts to decry him.
At the end of a week, when Robert was beginning to consider seriously
what employment he should follow in place of the one he had been
compelled to abandon, he received a letter through the mail which
equally surprised and pleased him.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED.
The letter, which was directed in a bold hand to Robert Rudd, care of
Dr. Grey, ran thus:
"ROBERT RUDD: I understand that you have left the circus on
account of the accident you met with recently, and I presume that
you have not yet found anything else to do. I chanced to be at
Crampton and saw you perform, and was favorably impressed by your
appearance. I am about to make a journey to the West, and need the
services of a boy or young man to assist me in writing and serve
me in other ways, and I feel disposed to employ you, if you would
like to accept the engagement. I cannot offer you as high pay as
you probably received at the circus, but am ready to pay your
travelling expenses and pay you five dollars per week.
"Be kind enough to let me know at once whether you will accept my
offer, or rather, if you are favorably disposed, come at once to
New York and call upon me at the St. Nicholas Hotel. You will find
me in room No. 35. I would suggest that the sooner you can come to
me the better.
"Yours truly,
"JOHN FITZGERALD."
Robert read this letter with mingled surprise and gratification. It
was pleasant to think he would soon be employed and earning his own
livelihood, and he could have thought of no engagement more likely to
suit him.
"What is your letter about, Robert?" asked Sidney.
"Read it for yourself, Sidney," said Robert, passing it to him. "What
do you think of it?" he asked, later.
"I think it is a splendid chance. I wouldn't mind having such an offer
myself."
"I think I am in luck," said Robert, complacently.
"Then you mean to accept it?"
"Certainly; I should be very foolish if I did not. I have been
wondering what I could get to do, and this comes just in the nick of
time."
"I am almost sorry the offer has come to you, Robert. I had been
expecting you would stay with me a considerable time."
"I should be sure to enjoy it if I was willing to be idle, but I have
an independent spirit, and I prefer to earn my own living. I will come
back and visit you some time if you will let me."
"Let you! I shall quarrel with you if you don't. Perhaps, however, you
would prefer to visit Ronald Percy."
"I will wait at any rate till I receive an invitation," answered
Robert, smiling, for he did not feel in the least sensitive about the
malicious contempt which Ronald professed to feel for him.
"When will you start, Robert?"
"To-morrow morning. Mr. Fitzgerald seems to be in a hurry, and there is
no good reason for delay. My foot is well enough for all ordinary use,
though it would give out if I should attempt riding."
When Dr. Grey was shown the letter Robert had received, he looked
puzzled.
"Certainly the chance seems to be a good one," he said, "and doubtless
it will be well to accept it. It is certainly a remarkable piece of
luck."
"So I consider it," said Robert.
"I mean, that it is like the events in a story that you should have
such a chance offer from an absolute stranger, just as you stand in
need of it. I should like to see this Mr. Fitzgerald," he continued,
thoughtfully.
"I think I heard that there was a man of that name staying at the hotel
about a week since," said Sidney.
"He says he was present when Robert met with his accident."
"Then it is probably the same one. Then you have decided to accept, my
boy?"
"Yes, sir; I shall go to New York to-morrow."
"It may be as well. But one thing I want to say: if the engagement
doesn't prove satisfactory, or you are ever again thrown upon your own
resources, come back to us and you will have a cordial welcome."
"Yes, Rob, you may be sure of that," said Sidney, eagerly.
"You are both very kind to me," returned Robert, gratefully, "and I
will take you at your word. By the way, Dr. Grey, I want to ask you a
favor."
"It is granted as soon as asked, my boy."
"It is only to keep the two hundred dollars I have saved up for the
present. It will be safer in your hands than mine, and I shan't need
it, as all my expenses are to be paid by my new employer, and five
dollars a week besides."
"I will keep it for you if you desire."
"Thank you; if I had it I might have it stolen from me, and besides it
would make me uncomfortable to feel that I had so much money about me."
"I see you are prudent. I have one good reason for keeping it, as you
will one day come back and reclaim it."
The next morning Robert started for New York.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ROBERT MEETS HIS EMPLOYER.
Robert Rudd had been in New York more than once, and he therefore had
no difficulty in finding out the fine hotel on Broadway known as the
St. Nicholas.
He entered it, and, walking up to the desk, inquired, "Is Mr. John
Fitzgerald staying here?"
"Yes," answered the clerk. "Do you wish to see him?"
"If you please."
"Then write your name on a card and I will send it up."
Robert did so.
"See if No. 35 is in," said the clerk, calling a hall boy, and handing
him the card.
In five minutes the hall boy came back, saying: "Mr. Fitzgerald wants
the young gentleman to come up."
Robert followed him to a room on the third floor and knocked at the
door.
"Come in," was heard from the interior.
On entering Robert looked with some curiosity at the solitary occupant
of the room, who was to be his future employer. He saw a tall,
dark-complexioned man neatly dressed in a suit which appeared to be
new, since it had not lost its first gloss.
Fitzgerald, for it was he, rose promptly, and advanced to meet Robert
with an air of great cordiality.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Rudd," he said, extending his hand. "You
were perhaps surprised to receive my letter."
"I was still more pleased," answered Robert, politely.
"I am glad to hear it, since it gives me the assurance that you regard
my offer favorably."
"Yes sir, I could not well do otherwise. It is of a tempting character.
I am only surprised that you should make me such an offer, knowing so
little of me."
"Perhaps I know more of you than you imagine," said Fitzgerald to
himself, with a peculiar look which, however, Robert did not notice.
"I judge of persons quickly!" he said aloud, "and when first I saw you
in the ring it occurred to me that you were just the young person I
should like to have travel with me. Of course, I didn't dream then that
there was any possibility of my securing you, for I was not prepared to
pay a sum as large as you were doubtless paid at the circus. However,
when you were injured by the dastardly trick of some scoundrel, and I
subsequently learned that you would be unable to ride for the remainder
of the season, it occurred to me that perhaps you would accept my
proposal."
"I am very glad to do so, and I am very much obliged to you for giving
me such a chance. Do you think I can fulfil the duties of the post?"
"Oh, I should think so. Favor me by writing a line or two from this
newspaper. I wish to judge of your handwriting."
There were writing materials on the table, and Robert complied with the
request.
Though not a handsome writer, he wrote a plain and legible hand, and
with considerable readiness.
Fitzgerald scanned it hastily, and said, "Oh, that will suit me very
well."
"Do you think I shall be competent to do all you desire?"
"I feel sure of it. You have travelled considerably, I presume?"
"Yes, with the circus."
"Precisely. Then you know something about hotels, trains, etc. A boy
who had always lived at home would not suit me so well. Where is your
luggage?"
"I have only a gripsack—I mean valise—with me."
"That is better. Travellers should not be encumbered with too much
baggage. It is a great nuisance. Where is it?"
"I left it below."
"You can bring it up to my room. I won't hire a room for you, for I
intend to start this very night for the West by a night train from the
Grand Central depot. That won't be too sudden for you, will it?"
"O no, sir; I am entirely at your service. I have nothing to detain me
in New York."
"Go down and get your valise and bring it up here, and I will give you
my instructions."
"The boy has walked into the trap," said Fitzgerald, thoughtfully,
when Robert left him. "He is a fine boy, and seems a thorough little
gentleman in spite of the way in which he has been brought up. It is a
pity to harm him, but my interests and that scoundrel Hugo's require
it."
CHAPTER XXV.
AT NIAGARA FALLS.
Robert and his new employer started the same morning on their western
trip. From the first Robert was haunted by the thought that he had seen
Fitzgerald somewhere before. The man's features looked familiar to him,
but he had no associations, or could recall none, connected with him.
Fitzgerald, however, who remembered very well his past connection with
the boy, was afraid that he would succeed in remembering him, and grew
uneasy when he saw Robert's bright, expressive eyes fixed upon him.
"You seem interested in my appearance," he said, dryly.
Robert answered quickly: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald, for
staring at you. Somehow your features looked familiar to me, and I was
trying to think whether I had ever met you before."
"Very possibly you may have seen me, for I have been something of a
traveller," answered his employer; "but we never knew each other. I
should have remembered you."
"Very like I may have seen you at some place where we gave an
entertainment," said Robert.
"I was at Crampton, you know."
"I mean longer ago than that. I have a queer feeling as if some time
you were connected with me in some way," said Robert, thoughtfully.
Fitzgerald was secretly uneasy. If Robert's recollections should become
clearer, and he should come to suspect the truth, then good-by to his
plans, for the boy would of course be on his guard. His ingenuity came
to his aid.
"It is more likely," he said, in an apparently indifferent tone,
"that I resemble some such person. The fact is," he added with a
forced laugh, "I once came near falling a victim to my unfortunate
resemblance to a rascal. I was arrested on suspicion of being a forger
or something of the sort, because I looked like the real culprit. Of
course the truth came out, but not until I had been subjected to some
inconvenience."
This explanation seemed satisfactory to Robert, who gave up his
scrutiny of his employer, convinced that he had been deluded by a
fancied or real resemblance.
They made a day's stop at Buffalo, and went from there to Niagara
Falls, which Robert had never before seen. He naturally derived a rare
enjoyment from the sight of the great cataract. He was hurried away
from the falls by Fitzgerald in consequence of a conversation which the
boy had with a stranger, which grievously alarmed his employer.
This is how it happened:
Robert and Fitzgerald were on Goat Island. Our hero was looking
earnestly at the mighty cataract, and did not observe that a stranger
was looking earnestly at him. Fitzgerald had strayed to a little
distance, and was not within earshot.
Robert was roused from his revery by a tap upon the shoulder.
Turning he saw a man of forty-five, well dressed, and apparently a man
of position.
"Did you wish to speak to me, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes," answered the stranger. "You will, perhaps, think me curious if I
ask your name?"
"My name is Robert Rudd."
Robert thought it probable that the stranger had seen him riding
somewhere, and recognized him from this, though he could not call him
by name. But the name seemed to tell the inquirer nothing. On the
contrary, he appeared to be disappointed.
"I suppose I am mistaken, then," he said, apologetically; "but I can
only say in apology for my curiosity, that you bear a remarkable
resemblance to an old school-mate of mine."
"Who was he?" asked Robert, eagerly.
It must be borne in mind that the boy knew nothing of his own family,
and earnestly desired, though he never expected, to solve the mystery
of his birth.
"His name was Julian Richmond. Are you, by chance, related to him?"
"Not that I know of," answered Robert, soberly. "Would you mind telling
me something about him?"
Rather wondering at our hero's curiosity in regard to a man of whom he
had never before heard, the stranger answered, "Certainly, if you would
like to hear. Julian and I were school-fellows together in Albany,
where I live now. His father, old Cornelius Richmond, was a rich man.
I believe he is still living on a fine estate along the Hudson. When
we grew up the Richmonds moved away and I lost sight of them. I heard,
however, that Julian went out West and married. A coldness sprang up
between him and his father, for what reason I don't know. I don't know
whether they were ever reconciled. At any rate, poor Julian died, as
I some time after heard, leaving his father childless. If you were
Julian's son you could not look more like him."
Robert listened to this communication with intense interest. Could it
be that this Julian Richmond was his father? It was the first clew of
any kind that he had ever found, and he repeated over to himself the
names of Julian and Cornelius Richmond, determined to remember them,
and some time to make further inquiries.
Meanwhile Fitzgerald, turning, noticed that Robert was conversing
with a stranger. Though he was far from suspecting that an important
secret has been revealed to the boy, he was naturally of a cautious
temperament, and he thought it imprudent to allow Robert to become
intimate with any one, lest possibly when he disappeared he might be
suspected of having had some agency in the affair. He therefore walked
up rapidly to where the two were conversing.
"Robert," he called, when two rods distant.
Robert obeyed the summons.
"I think we will go back to the hotel. I have something to do before
leaving Niagara, and there is not much time."
"O, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Robert, eagerly, "that gentleman tells me I
look very much like an old school-mate of his."
Fitzgerald was instantly alarmed. He knew, for Hugo had told him,
that the boy bore a wonderful resemblance to his dead father, and, of
course, that father must have old friends and acquaintances who would
see the resemblance and possibly betray it to the boy.
"Is there anything so remarkable in that?" he asked. "Probably there
are hundreds of people whom you resemble."
"But he said I looked as if I might be this man's son," continued
Robert.
"Did he mention the name of this old school-mate?" inquired Fitzgerald,
alarmed.
"Yes; he said his name was Julian Richmond."
If Robert had been watching the countenance of his employer he
would have seen a sudden look of dismay which might have roused his
suspicions, but he was taking a last look at the great cataract.
"Very likely!" said Fitzgerald, after a slight pause. "I have been told
plenty of times that I looked like this one and that one."
"But you know your family, and I do not. I have no knowledge of who
my father was, and so I hoped that I might hear something that would
reveal it to me. May I ask the gentleman his name? I might like to—"
"No," answered Fitzgerald, with an abrupt harshness that made Robert
survey him in astonishment. "You are too old to be so childish. I have
no time to lose. Come at once with me to the hotel."
"It wouldn't take a minute."
"Do you hear what I say?" said his employer, angrily.
Robert was too proud to make any further request. He was puzzled at
the extraordinary manner of Fitzgerald, for which there seemed no
occasion. It was the first time that his new employer had spoken to him
harshly, and he was unable to account for it. He did not press the
request, being unwilling to subject himself to any further rudeness.
Had he known how important that inquiry was, he would have made it at
all hazards. As it was, his curiosity had been excited, but he had no
suspicion that he was already on the threshold of the secret which had
always been withheld from him.
Robert was proud, and his proud spirit rebelled against his employer's
rudeness; but he was not in a position to break with him. He had taken
no money with him, and was of course dependent upon Fitzgerald. He was
hundreds of miles away from his good friends the Greys, and it was the
part of prudence not to manifest the resentment he felt. If he had had
in his pocket the two hundred dollars which belonged to him he might
have acted differently. As it was, he preserved a dignified silence.
Fitzgerald, on arriving at the hotel, made arrangements to leave at
once. When they were fairly on their way he changed his manner, became
conciliatory and affable, and apparently endeavored to make Robert
forget his harsh words.
"I suppose he spoke hastily," thought Robert. "He could not know how
important it seemed to me to make any inquiries about my family. At any
rate, I know the gentleman lives in Albany, and some day I will hunt
him up."
CHAPTER XXVI.
A VICTIM OF TREACHERY.
Arrived in Chicago, Fitzgerald put up at the Sherman House, and of
course Robert accompanied him.
Our hero was a little puzzled to understand why he had been engaged.
Little or nothing was given him to do. Once or twice he had been
employed to buy tickets, or go on small errands, but his office seemed
to be a sinecure. This would have suited many boys, but Robert was
a boy of active temperament, and felt happier to be employed. I may
remark here that, in general, nothing is worse for a boy than to be
absolutely unemployed, for it is as true as the old proverb expresses
itself, that "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."
One day Robert ventured to remark to his employer, "I am afraid, Mr.
Fitzgerald, I am not earning my wages; I am quite ready to do more."
"That isn't your fault, Robert," said Fitzgerald. "It is true, while
we are travelling I don't find much to do; but when we get to our
destination I shall keep you more busy."
"I am glad of that," said Robert, "for I feel better to be employed."
"I believe I have never said anything about the object of my journey,"
Fitzgerald continued.
"No, sir."
"I am employed by certain New York parties to look after land and
mining investments at the West. I shall have to visit several places,
and there will be more or less writing to do, in which I shall employ
you. By the way" (they were now in the hotel at Chicago), "I will
dictate a letter to you now."
"Very well, sir."
Robert took out writing materials and Fitzgerald dictated the following:
"_Ashley Robinson, Esq., 549 Broadway, New
York_:
"DEAR SIR: I am not quite sure as to the tenor of my instructions
from you. Do I understand that I am empowered to sell your land
without further communication with you, or do you wish me to
apprise you of any offer I may receive? My own impression is that
you ought not to accept less than $5000 for it, as it is sure to
increase in value. Please write me at once.
"Yours truly,
"JOHN FITZGERALD."
"It is done," said Robert.
"You may go out and mail it. I should prefer that you would take it to
the post-office yourself, as it will go quicker than if you mailed it
in the hotel, or put it in one of the street boxes. Any one will tell
you where the post-office is."
Robert went out, well pleased to have something to do, and mailed the
letter at the city post-office, as directed.
Fitzgerald laughed to himself after the boy went out.
"The boy little suspects that that is a bogus letter, and that there is
no such person as Ashley Robinson in New York. If there is, I haven't
the honor of knowing him. It was rather a happy idea of mine, as the
boy's suspicion will not be so easily aroused if he thinks I am engaged
in a legitimate business journey. Well, well, I shall be glad when the
job is accomplished, for it isn't overmuch to my taste. That villain
Hugo might find it to his mind. It is a pity that such fellows should
succeed in feathering their nests and getting all the good things of
this life. When this work is done, I shall have a hold upon him, and
it won't be my fault if I don't make him pay handsomely for doing his
dirty work for him."
Presently Robert returned.
"Did you mail the letter?" asked his employer.
"Yes, sir."
"That is well, for it was an important one."
"You forgot to tell your correspondent where to write you," said
Robert, to whom the omission had occurred as he was returning.
Fitzgerald was for a moment embarrassed, but he was a man of ready wit.
"Oh, he will know," he answered; "he will address me at the town where
his land is located."
This seemed a plausible explanation, and Robert said no more.
They walked to the railroad station with their valises in hand.
On the way rather a rough-looking man accosted Fitzgerald.
"Why, Fitz, old fellow, how did you drop down here?"
Fitzgerald flushed, and answered hurriedly—
"I came by cars from New York."
"I don't mean that. What's your lay, and who have you got with you?"
"Excuse me, Brandon, I am in a hurry," Fitzgerald answered,
uncomfortably.
Brandon whistled.
"Something mysterious, eh?" he said.
"Not at all, but you must excuse me."
It seemed peculiar to Robert, who had seen considerable of the world,
that a reputable business man should be addressed in the terms employed
by Brandon, and he looked his surprise.
"That man is an acquaintance I stumbled across in one of my business
journeys," explained Fitzgerald when they passed on, "and he assumed
undue familiarity. A man stumbles across some strange acquaintances;
I prefer to steer clear of such parties, but it is sometimes hard to
shake them off."
"He seemed very well acquainted," thought Robert, but he said nothing.
In fact he was considerably at a loss what to think of his employer,
who chose to say very little of his past history. He felt that he
should not care to remain long with him, but for the present there
seemed no objection to fill up the remainder of the season in his
employ.
From Chicago Robert and his employer travelled northwest, till they
entered the State of Minnesota. Here, somewhat to Robert's surprise,
they left the cars at a small town, which I will call Florence, and
registered at a small hotel, which I will call the Dearborn House.
Probably our hero looked surprised, and Fitzgerald volunteered an
explanation.
"It is here where Mr. Robertson's land is located," he said.
"I thought it was Mr. Robinson—Ashley Robinson," said Robert.
"To be sure," returned Fitzgerald, rather disconcerted, for he had
forgotten the name he had extemporized in Chicago; "I am always making
mistakes about names. I have to enter everything in my diary."
The morning after, Robert chanced to pick up a piece of paper just
outside his employer's door. As there seemed to be writing upon it he
picked it up, thinking that it might be of some importance.
On the scrap of paper there was a name which immediately arrested
Robert's interest—the name of Hugo Richmond.
"Richmond," repeated Robert, in surprise. "Why, that is the name of
the man I was said so strongly to resemble. Is it possible that Mr.
Fitzgerald knows him?"
Then he bethought himself that Richmond was not an uncommon name and
there was no necessary connection between Hugo Richmond and the Julian
Richmond whom he resembled. Still the discovery of this paper made him
thoughtful. He would have liked to question his employer, but felt
instinctively aware that it would do no good. Besides, from the manner
in which he had found the paper, it would seem as if he were trying to
spy out his master's affairs.
"Robert," said Fitzgerald, after breakfast, "let us go out and take a
walk."
"With pleasure," answered the boy, politely.
"I am going out to take a look at Mr. Robinson's land," said Fitzgerald.
"Has he much?"
"Oh, yes; he owns a quarter section, which he took up some years since
at the government's price—a dollar and a quarter an acre. It must be
worth a good deal more now."
"I suppose he wants to sell?"
"Yes. He lives so far away that he can't well look after it. Besides,
by selling now he can make a large profit."
"Do you think you can sell it readily, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Yes; I have written to a land speculator to meet me here to-morrow. I
think I can drive a bargain with him. I shall make a good commission
myself on the sale."
"I am glad of it," said Robert, politely.
They left the road, and went across the fields over the level,
prairie-like land. In the distance was a deserted cabin, which appeared
to be partially burned.
"Are you going to that cabin?" asked our hero.
"Yes," answered his employer. "That cabin is on Mr. Robinson's land."
"Did he build it?"
[Illustration: ROBERT THROWN INTO THE DISUSED WELL.]
"No; it was built by a squatter, who took advantage of the owner being
a non-resident, and made himself at home here, without leave or
license. The cabin had not been erected long, however, before it caught
fire and was partially burned."
"Does any one live there now?"
"No."
The two kept on their way till they reached the deserted cabin.
A rod or two distant was an open well, which seemed, as well as the
cabin, to be disused.
"The squatter seems to have dug a well," said Robert.
"Yes; I wonder whether it is deep," said Fitzgerald.
Naturally Robert advanced till he stood on the brink of the well. An
instant later and he was pushed violently forward and fell into the
yawning pit.
"That disposes of him forever!" said Fitzgerald, and turning, he fled
swiftly from the spot, leaving the victim of his treachery to his fate.
CHAPTER XXVII.
ROBERT FINDS HIMSELF IN A TIGHT PLACE.
The action of Fitzgerald was so rapid and unexpected that Robert was
unable to protect himself in any way. He fell, but mechanically,
as he had seen trapeze performers do in the circus when falling,
he held himself erect, with his hands at his sides, and dropped in
that position into three feet of water at the bottom of the well.
Fortunately for him the depth of the well was not great, about fifteen
feet, and he sustained no injury to his limbs, the water, moreover,
breaking the force of the descent.
Still, when unexpectedly he found himself at the bottom of the well,
his situation was by no means pleasant.
"What could have induced Mr. Fitzgerald to push me in?" he asked
himself in a bewildered way. "What possible object could he have in
doing it?"
That his employer did push him he couldn't doubt, for he felt the
push, which was a forcible one. Yet it seemed so causeless, so utterly
without an object, that he was tempted to doubt the testimony of his
senses. To the reader, of course, it is perfectly clear, but we have
sources of information that Robert had not.
He was not a boy to give up, though it certainly looked hopeless
to attempt to get out. Had the well been at the East it would have
been walled in on all sides by rocks, but stones of any size are not
numerous in many parts of the West, and this had originally been
boarded, but some of the boards had disappeared.
"It isn't very deep," thought Robert, "but how in the world am I to get
out?"
He made several attempts, but they were all futile. Things began to
look serious, for the house was deserted, and probably very few persons
came that way.
While in a state of painful anxiety he heard, faintly, a boy whistle.
The sound became more distinct as if the boy were approaching, and hope
was kindled in our hero's breast.
"If I could only attract his attention," he thought.
He shouted as loud as he could, but the sound was partially lost before
it reached the surface of the well. Still it attracted the attention of
Fred Lathrop, the boy who was whistling, who stopped to listen.
"Where did that sound come from?" he thought.
It was repeated, and this time he could distinguish the word "Help!"
"By gracious, it comes from the well!" he said to himself. "Who can be
down there?"
He drew near and looked down. It was darker near the bottom, but he
could descry Robert, who was looking up.
"Who's there?" asked Fred.
"It's I—a boy. Help me up!"
"How did you get down there?"
"Help me out and I'll tell you."
"I don't see how I am to do it," said Fred, after a pause.
"Isn't there a rope round about there somewhere?"
"The old well-rope used to be coiled up in a corner of the house; I
don't know whether it's there now."
"Look—will you?"
Fred needed no second request. He went to the house and was fortunate
enough to find the rope. He brought it with him to the edge of the well.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed.
"Throw one end to me."
This was done.
"Now, do you think you can pull hard enough to draw me out? I will help
myself with my feet."
"I am afraid I'm not strong enough."
"Suppose you try," said Robert, who didn't like to give up the hope of
an immediate escape.
"Stop, there's my brother-in-law coming across the fields," said Fred,
eagerly. "He will help me."
"Mr. Davis!" he cried, "come here and help me."
"What are you up to, Fred?" inquired the young man addressed. "Are you
fishing in the well?"
"Yes; I am fishing—for a boy," responded Fred.
"Are you gone crazy?"
"No; come here and look for yourself."
Davis did so, and was sensible enough to understand, though very much
surprised, that it would be best to postpone his inquiries till the boy
was rescued.
"Give me hold of the rope!" he said. "Now, you boy down there, can you
give a good, firm grip?"
"Try me and see."
"If you let it slip through your fingers you will fall back and hurt
yourself."
"I won't let it slip. Keep firm hold yourself."
It was not altogether an easy task, and Robert was rubbed unpleasantly
against the sides of the well; but at length victory crowned the
efforts of the three, and our hero, his clothes looking none the better
for his immersion in the water, and his contact with the sides of the
well gave him a decided tramp-like appearance.
"Well, here you are!" said Mr. Davis. "How did you get into the well?
Did you fall in?"
"I was pushed in," answered Robert.
"Pushed in!" repeated Fred and his brother-in-law in concert.
"Yes."
"Who pushed you in?"
"My employer—the man I was travelling with."
"What made him do it?"
"That is more than I can tell."
"Was he angry with you?"
"There had been no quarrel nor disagreement, and I supposed we were
excellent friends."
"I wouldn't fancy such a friend," said Fred, dryly.
"The man must have had some motive," said Mr. Davis, who was a young
lawyer.
"I can't think of any. I think he may have been insane," said Robert,
to whom this had occurred as a possible solution of the problem.
"How long had you been with him?"
"Only about a week. He proposed to me to take a walk this morning, and
brought me here."
"Your clothes look the worse for the fall," said Fred.
"Yes, I look like a tramp," answered Robert, glancing down at his wet
and muddy clothes with disgust. "I've got another suit at the hotel,
unless Mr. Fitzgerald has carried off my valise. I don't much like
going back there in this trim."
"You needn't," said Fred. "Come home with me. You are about my size;
I will lend you one of my suits, while yours is being cleansed and
dried."
"Thank you!" said Robert, relieved; "you are very kind. And what will
your mother say when she sees you bringing such a looking tramp home
with you?"
"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Fred. "Mother will understand
it. She'll see that even if you do look like a tramp you're not a
professional."
"That's just what I am," responded Robert, smiling. "I am a
professional—circus rider."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Fred, with something of interest. "Are
you a bareback rider?"
"Yes."
"We've got a horse in the barn. Won't you try riding on him?"
"Oh, the horse has to be trained as well as the rider: I can't perform
on a horse that has never been in the ring."
"Then how did you happen to be with this man that served you such a
trick?"
Robert explained.
Quarter of an hour's walk brought them to a substantial farm-house
occupied by Fred's family. He introduced Robert to his mother—a
pleasant-faced lady, who received our hero cordially, especially after
she had been informed of the manner in which he had been treated by his
employer.
Fred took Robert up to his own bedroom, where he placed one of his own
suits at his disposal. The soiled suit was taken down-stairs, where it
was first dried by the fire and afterwards brushed clean till it once
more assumed the respectable look which rightfully belonged to it.
Meanwhile Fred went round to the hotel to ascertain whether Fitzgerald
had made his appearance.
He ascertained that he had returned and reported that the boy had gone
on to the next town, where he was to join him. He paid the bill of
both, took both valises and drove to the nearest railway station.
"He's taken French leave!" said Fred. "He evidently never expects to
see you again."
"He may be disappointed in that," said Robert, quietly; "I may appear
to him when he least expects it. I intend to find out if I can what was
his object in throwing me into the well."
"That's where I'm with you!" said Fred. "I wouldn't let him go
unpunished for such an outrage."
When Robert came to reflect upon his situation, however, he felt
embarrassed. His bills, of course, had been paid by Fitzgerald, and he
had not yet received any wages. The consequence was, that while he was
nearly two thousand miles distant from his starting-point, he had but
a dollar and a half in his pocket. He might, to be sure, write to Dr.
Grey for a portion of his savings, but it would take some time for the
remittance to arrive.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ROBERT SUBDUES A HORSE.
Robert somehow had an objection to sending to Dr. Grey for money,
though the money was his own. It seemed like a confession of failure,
and he did not care to write what sort of an accident had befallen him,
since it would involve long explanations. Therefore, though he had but
a dollar and a half left, he decided to set out on his way home; that
is, towards the East, trusting to luck to get along. Though this was,
perhaps rash, it was not so rash in Robert's case as it would have
been in the case of an average boy, for he had been accustomed to earn
his own living and possessed some talents and accomplishments which he
could turn to account.
He took leave of his good friends, the Lathrops, without betraying
to them his condition, or they would have insisted upon giving him
substantial aid. As it was, Mrs. Lathrop insisted upon preparing, with
her own hands, a substantial lunch, which in due time Robert found very
acceptable.
He set out on his journey on foot. His small capital would not allow
him to travel in any other way. His clothes had been dried and pressed,
and he presented a neat appearance, so that he was not likely to be
taken for a tramp, though in his earlier days he had travelled in that
character.
He walked in a leisurely way during the forenoon, and about noon sat
down under a tree and ate his lunch. It was a plentiful one, but
Robert, whose appetite had been sharpened by his walk, did full justice
to it. In fact he ate it all.
"There's no particular hurry," he thought; "I may as well lie here for
awhile and rest during the heat of the day."
It was not quite 2 o'clock when he was roused from a revery by hearing
carriage wheels. He looked up and saw a lady in a four-wheel carriage,
drawn by a horse who was inclined to be fractious. The lady driver was
evidently anxious, for she pulled the reins frantically, and called
out, "Whoa! you sir! Why don't you behave? Oh dear, what shall I do?"
The horse shook his head, pranced, backed, and was evidently prepared
to make trouble, much to the discomfort and alarm of the lady.
"Oh, dear! I wish I hadn't come alone!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think
Prince would behave so. It's lucky if I don't get my neck broken!"
The horse was quite aware that he was master of the situation, and
that his driver had lost her presence of mind, and, with a perversity
which we sometimes see in horses, made up his mind to act as badly as
possible.
So occupied was the lady that she did not see the boy, who sat under
a tree by the roadside, nor suspected that in him she was to find a
deliverer.
If there was any one accustomed to horses, and utterly without fear
of them, it was Robert, as may be supposed from the nature of his
training. He sprang to his feet when he perceived the situation, and,
running forward, took off his hat, and asked politely, "Can I be of any
service to you, madam?"
"Can you drive horses?" asked the lady, doubtfully.
Robert smiled.
"I'm used to them," he answered.
"Then won't you get in and drive for me? Prince is acting very badly
to-day."
Robert did not wait for the carriage to stop, but with his usual
activity clambered in, and was at the lady's side in an instant.
"Now," he said, "let me take the reins."
"If you are sure that you can drive," said Miss Stafford, doubtfully.
"You shall see for yourself," answered Robert, confidently.
He held the reins with a firm hand. The horse, though immediately
sensible that there was a new hand at the helm, if I may speak
figuratively, wasn't quite ready to yield.
Seeing that he was still fractious, Robert took the whip and brought it
down smartly on the horse's flanks.
"Oh, what are you doing?" asked the lady in alarm. "Prince will run
away with us!"
"Let him try it," said Robert, his eyes flashing. "If I can't subdue
him, I'll sell out to some one that can!"
This was a boy's expression, but his confident manner served to
reassure Miss Stafford, though Prince did really undertake to run. The
road, however, was good, there were no carriages to encounter, and
Robert gave him his head, holding the reins, however, in a strong, firm
grasp.
"I never rode so fast in my life!" said Miss Stafford nervously, as
they flew over the road. "Don't let us tip over."
"No, ma'am, I won't."
After a while Prince slackened his speed. It was rather a warm day,
and he found that it was not quite so good fun running as he found it
when he felt that his driver was frightened—now the least sign of
fractiousness was instantly followed by a smart stroke of the whip.
"I believe you do understand horses," said Miss Stafford at length.
"It's my business to understand them," answered Robert.
"You ain't a—jockey, are you?" asked the lady.
"No; I have been a circus-rider."
"You don't say so!" ejaculated the lady. "You can't jump through hoops
and all them things, can you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You are not with a circus now, are you?"
Robert explained that he had left circus life for a time, but had been
thrown out of employment unexpectedly.
"I am going to a birthday party of a little niece of mine," said Miss
Stafford. "She is twelve years old to-day. There will be twenty or
thirty boys and girls there. I wish you could do something to amuse
them. It would make us all the more welcome."
"I am a little of a magician," said Robert. "If you think they would
like to see some tricks—"
"The very thing!" exclaimed Miss Stafford, enthusiastically. "They are
all fond of tricks. Where did you learn?"
When Miss Stafford was informed that Robert had learned of a real
magician, that is of a professor of magic, she was very much pleased.
"I will engage you, then," she said, "for the afternoon and evening.
When I say engage you, I mean I will pay you for your trouble."
"Oh, I won't charge anything," said Robert.
"But you must!" said the lady positively. "Louisa Stafford never allows
any one to work for nothing. Besides you have perhaps prevented Prince
here from breaking my neck. I certainly won't be mean enough to make
you work for nothing. I warrant you are not over-provided with money."
"Well, no," answered Robert, smiling. "I can't say I am. I have only
a dollar and a half here, though I have some money in the hands of a
friend at the East."
"And how far are you expecting to travel?"
"To New York."
"To New York—almost two thousand miles—on a dollar and a half!
Goodness gracious, what a wild idea!"
"Oh, I expect to find something to do on the way, and if I don't I
shall meet with good friends."
"A dollar and a half! I never heard of such a thing!" reiterated Miss
Stafford.
Miss Louisa Stafford was a rich and kind-hearted maiden lady, who,
unlike many of her class, was very fond of young people and a great
favorite with them. No gathering of her nephews or nieces was
considered complete without the presence of Aunt Louisa, who was sure
in every way to promote the happiness of the young company. She was
delighted to secure in Robert one who could so materially help her,
and inwardly resolved to reward him well for his services.
They drove up to a large house with a broad lawn, shaded by fine trees,
under which were assembled a merry crowd of young people. When Miss
Stafford's carriage was espied there was a rush to greet her.
"How are you all, children?" she said, heartily. "Oh; I see you are
looking at this young gentleman with me. Well, he has saved my life."
"Saved your life!" exclaimed the children in chorus.
"Yes, Prince undertook to run away with and upset me, but Master
Robert, here (she had inquired his name), subdued him, and here I am. I
have taken the liberty to invite Professor Rudd to join our party."
"Professor Rudd!" repeated the children, bewildered.
"Yes; this young gentleman is a professor of magic, and he will perform
some tricks this evening. This afternoon I expect you to be polite to
him, and invite him to join your games."
This all were very ready to do, for Robert was good-looking and
gentlemanly in appearance, and soon made himself a general favorite.
Supper was served between five and six o'clock, and early in the
evening Robert appeared as a magician. He had quite a variety of
tricks and illustrations, and this part of the programme gave great
satisfaction.
The next morning (for Miss Stafford and Robert also passed the night in
the hospitable mansion) when our young hero was ready to start out on
his journey, Miss Stafford, put in his hand a sealed envelope.
"Don't open this," she said, "till you have gone at least a mile."
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN UNPLEASANT ACQUAINTANCE.
Robert felt curious to learn what was in the letter, but faithfully
carried out the wishes of Miss Stafford, and did not open it till he
was more than a mile away.
On opening it, to his surprise he found inclosed two $10 bills, with
the following words written in pencil:
"MY YOUNG FRIEND ROBERT: I desire you to accept the inclosed and
hope you will find it of use. You needn't hesitate, for it comes
from a crusty old maid who has more than her share of this world's
goods, and likes to do a little good as she goes along in life,
instead of saving up thousands for heirs who might squander it.
Accept my good wishes and thanks beside for the service you have
done me in taming a perverse brute, and when you are again in this
vicinity be sure to call on your friend,
"LOUISA STAFFORD."
"The old lady's a trump!" exclaimed Robert warmly. "There isn't one in
a thousand that would be so generous. This is a regular windfall to me
as I am situated now. Now I shan't be obliged to send to Dr. Grey for
part of my savings."
Robert continued on his way with a light heart, for it is wonderfully
cheering to think that one has money enough to pay for rest and food at
the close of the day. Our young hero decided that he would not walk all
the way to the East, but would on the day following take the cars at
any convenient station.
Pursuing his journey, he came to a portion of the road which ran
through the primeval forests, he felt it to be rather a relief, for the
morning was well advanced, and the sun began to make him uncomfortably
warm. He soon had occasion to learn that to be warm is not the most
undesirable thing that can happen to a traveller.
Half a mile from the entrance of the wood he saw sitting on the fallen
trunk of a tree a rough-looking fellow, whose face looked even more
repulsive than usual from a short black beard which appeared to be of
a week's growth. He looked like what he was—a tramp, who was so from
choice, even more than from necessity.
"What an ill-looking fellow!" thought Robert.
The man looked up, and scanned the boy curiously.
"Hallo, young chap!" he said.
"Hallo!" returned Robert.
"Have you got any tobacco about you?" inquired the tramp.
"No, I never use it."
"Then have you a cigar? That will do just as well."
"No; I don't smoke at all."
"Oh, you are an innocent baby!" said the man, with a sneer of
disappointment.
Robert did not think it necessary to reply, but was moving on, being
anxious to get away from so undesirable a companion as soon as possible.
"Stop a minute, boy—don't be in such a hurry," said the man.
"If you have anything to say to me I will listen," said Robert, coldly.
"You will, will you? You're mighty accommodatin'! Where are you goin'?"
"Straight ahead!"
[Illustration: ROBERT AND THE TRAMP.]
"Any fool would know that. That isn't an answer."
"Why do you wish to know?" retorted Robert.
"That's my business!" said the tramp, his repulsive features assuming
an ugly expression. "You'd better answer my question."
Robert thought on the whole it would be prudent to avoid trouble by
keeping on as good terms as possible with the man.
"I can't tell you," he said, "for I don't know myself. I expect to keep
on till I get to New York."
"That's where I'm goin'! Suppose we keep company," said the man with a
grin.
"We can keep company for the present, if you wish," answered Robert,
trying to repress his disgust.
"Look here, young fellow! Have you got any money?" asked the tramp with
a sidelong glance.
Robert was not surprised at this inquiry, for he had expected it, but
in spite of his courage it alarmed him, for he could see that he was no
match in physical strength for this ill-looking man.
"A little!" he answered.
"How much?"
"That's my business," answered Robert, provoked. "I don't ask how much
money you've got."
"I haven't a cent," said the tramp, "but," he added, significantly,
"I'm going to have some soon."
The look which accompanied this declaration made it evident what he
meant, and Robert looked about to see what chance he had of escape
if the worst came to the worst. As to surrendering the $20 for which
he had been indebted to the generosity of Miss Stratton, he had no
intention of doing it, unless it should be absolutely necessary.
"I have nothing to do with your affairs," said Robert. "If you'll let
me know which way you are going, I'll go the other way."
"Will you so? No, boy, you don't get rid of me so easily. We're goin'
the same way. If you want to leave you can, but you must hand over your
money first."
"Are you a thief, then?" demanded Robert, quickly.
"No; and you'd better not call me so. I'm only goin' to borrer your
money; I'll give you my note for it," returned the tramp with a cunning
grin.
"I decline to lend," said Robert stoutly.
"Look here, my young chicken!" said the man in a menacing tone. Ain't
you crowin' rather too loud for a bantem? Do you know who I am?"
"No, but I can guess."
"Guess, then?"
"You're a man whose company I do not like."
The tramp laughed. Instead of offending, the reply appeared to amuse
him.
"That's true enough, I reckon. Well, I'm a man that don't stand no
nonsense. I want your money."
He advanced towards Robert in a menacing manner, and our hero, who had
been looking about him, jumped aside nimbly, and seizing the branch of
a tree swung himself up into the branches, before his companion clearly
understood his intention.
"Oh, that's your game, is it?" he said, angrily. "It won't do!"
He darted forward, but Robert bad been too quick for him, and was
already out of reach. He was light and agile by nature, and his
training in the ring had helped to make him more so.
"So you think you've escaped me, do you?" he demanded with an oath.
Robert did not answer, but looked calmly down upon him from the tree.
"Come down at once!"
"Thank you; I'd rather stay here," said our hero calmly.
Without a word the tramp made an effort to follow Robert up the tree.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE TREE OF REFUGE.
The tramp was stout and clumsily made, and although he was strongly
made he was not agile. Moreover, the branch by which Robert had helped
himself upward was over six feet from the ground, and had only been
reached by a leap. The trunk of the tree was large in circumference,
and afforded no facilities for climbing. The efforts of the pursuer,
therefore, were vain.
"Come down!" he shouted, peremptorily.
"I have already said that I am very comfortable here," answered Robert.
"Do you mean to defy me?"
"I don't wish to have anything to do with you."
"I wish I had a pistol!" muttered the tramp. "I'd soon have you down
then."
Robert was devoutly thankful that he was not provided with such a
weapon. He felt relieved by the discovery, for it had occurred to him
as possible, and in that event he would have had to make a virtue of
necessity and come down.
"Why didn't I lay hold of the boy when I had him beside me?" thought
the disappointed tramp. "Who would have thought he could have sprung up
like that?"
He determined to try once more what he could accomplish by threats.
"Look here, boy, if you know what's best for yourself, you'll come
down!" he cried, furiously.
"I think it's best for me to remain up here," said Robert.
"When you come down I'll wring your neck, you little rascal!"
"That isn't much inducement for me to come down," said Robert, coolly.
"If you come down within five minutes and hand over your money, I'll
let you go without doing you any harm."
"That's very kind of you, but I need it myself."
Robert's coolness incensed the tramp, who would have felt more
satisfaction if his intended victim had exhibited terror.
Robert was reminded of the scene in the woods at Crampton, where Mr.
Tarbox had besieged Charlie Davis and himself, and the trick by which
they had then escaped. This would not work now, and indeed it didn't
seem clear how he was to escape at all. There was nothing but to remain
up in the tree, and try to tire out the patience of the thievish tramp.
Twenty minutes passed. They passed slowly for Robert, but they also
passed slowly for his besieger, who was in a hurry to get possession of
the boy's money, and feared some one might come along to whom he could
appeal for help. If he had known that Robert had twenty dollars in his
pocket his eagerness would have increased.
"Are you coming down?" he demanded, looking up in the tree fiercely.
"When you are gone away," answered the boy, composedly.
"If you wait much longer I'll murder you when you do come down. You may
think I won't do it, but I'm savage enough to do anything."
"I don't doubt it at all," said our hero.
"I might tell you of how I've served other persons who trifled with me."
"Do!" replied Robert. "It'll take up the time."
"No," answered the tramp, suspiciously. "I don't care to have you
inform against me, but I want you to remember that I am a desperate
man."
"I'll take it for granted. I don't want to fall into the hands of such
a man."
The tramp hunted about for a stone to throw at the boy, but in that
part of the West stones are not as plenty as in New England, and his
kind intentions were frustrated.
"Perhaps you think I'll go away after a while," he said presently,
"but that's where you make a mistake. I will stay here all night, if
necessary."
He looked as if he would really carry out his threat, and Robert, it
must be admitted, in spite of his coolness of demeanor, began to feel
anxious.
"What an obstinate ruffian!" he thought. "If he keeps his word, it will
be decidedly uncomfortable for me."
"Will no one come along?"
That was the thought that kept recurring to him. It seemed to offer the
only means of escape.
At last he heard wheels, and was thankful. So did the tramp, and felt
uneasy. But when the carriage came along it turned out to contain a
woman and young boy. It would do no good to hail them, for they could
not help him, and the tramp might be led to attack and rob them. So
Robert was constrained to let the carriage pass, and to find himself
once more in solitude with the tramp.
"You did well not to speak," said the latter, grimly. "If you had I
would have robbed her, too."
"Just what I thought," returned Robert. "That seems to be your
business."
"Don't be impudent, boy!"
"Isn't it the truth?"
"Come down and you'll find out."
"I know well enough already."
Another half hour passed, and no one came by. At last the two heard a
sound and a man whistling; the same seemed approaching.
"I hope it's a strong, able-bodied man," thought Robert.
When at length the man came in sight, a great tide of joy swept over
him. It was the very man whose presence he would have desired above
all others. It was Hercules, who had at one time been employed in the
same circus with himself, to perform feats of strength.
CHAPTER XXXI.
HERCULES—THE STRONG MAN.
"Hercules!" cried Robert, joyfully, from his perch in the tree.
Hercules paused and looked about in surprise, for he saw no one except
an ill-looking tramp, who, he was sure, had not spoken to him. He
thought he recognized the voice, but was not certain.
"Who is it calls me?" he asked. "Where are you?"
"Here, in this tree."
Then Hercules espied our hero and recognized him.
"Robert Rudd," he cried, in mingled surprise and joy.
"Yes, it is I."
"What are you doing here? I had no idea of seeing you here."
"Nor I you; but I am glad you came along."
"Why are you up there?"
"Because the gentleman below insists upon my giving him my money, and I
have a use for it myself."
"Ha!" said Hercules, eying the besieging force narrowly. "Well, he
looks like a thief and a scoundrel."
Meantime, as may readily be imagined, the tramp had been busily
scanning him. Now the appearance of Hercules was very deceptive. He was
not a man of large, powerful frame—indeed he did not look as strong as
the tramp; but his sinews were of iron and his muscles were immense,
but these were concealed by his clothing. Only in the ring, when he
performed his feats of strength, were they displayed to advantage. The
tramp was not a classical scholar, or the name Hercules might have told
him something. As it were he really thought himself the more powerful
man of the two, and it came into his mind that he might as well enlarge
his schemes of plunder and force this new acquaintance to pay tribute
as well as the boy whom he was besieging.
"You call me a thief and a scoundrel, do you?" he said, flaming up in
fierce wrath.
"Yes, I do," returned Hercules, eying him coolly.
"How dare you do it?"
"Why shouldn't I?" said Hercules, contemptuously. "Didn't you mean to
rob this boy if I hadn't come along?"
"I will do it yet, but I have business with you first."
"What kind of business?"
"Empty your pockets, and don't be long about it," said the tramp,
approaching Hercules menacingly.
It had never occurred to Robert that the tramp would attempt anything
so absurd as to attack the professional champion, whose name was famous
for strength, and when he saw that such was his intention he laughed
aloud in amazement.
"Don't crow, young rooster!" cried the tramp, angrily. "I'll tackle
your friend first; your turn will come by and by."
"Oh, you want to have a tussle with me, do you?" said Hercules, eying
the other with a smile of amusement.
"Yes, I'll finish you up in short order," said the tramp, boastfully.
"Don't be afraid, Hercules!" cried Robert, with a laugh.
"I'll try not to. So you want me to hand over my money, do you?" he
said.
"Yes; and you'd better be quick about it, too," growled the tramp.
"Suppose I don't?"
"Then I'll whip you till you can't stand."
"This is better than any circus I ever attended," said Robert,
delighted.
"He'll think it's a circus before he gets through," said Hercules,
significantly. "Well, my ill-looking friend, I must inform you in the
outset that you are taking a good deal of trouble for a very little. My
stock of money is very low."
"I don't care; you can hand over what you've got."
"Or fight for it?"
"Yes," growled the tramp.
"I think I'll fight—a little friendly encounter. It's the custom to
shake hands first; will you do it?"
The tramp extended his hand, which Hercules at once grasped with such
an iron pressure that the tramp fairly danced and howled with pain,
while the veins swelled upon his forehead.
"Let go!" he yelled.
Hercules released his hand with a laugh.
"It's only a small lesson, my friend. Do you want my money now?"
"Who are you?" asked the tramp, with the addition of an oath.
"I am Hercules, the strong man. You made a mistake when you tackled me."
"I'm off, then," said the tramp.
"Not quite yet. You need a further lesson."
So saying, Hercules seized the tramp suddenly, raised him aloft, threw
him up in the air, and then hurled him to the distance of a couple of
rods, where he lay stunned for a minute or two.
"Now clear out!" said Hercules sternly, as the rascal rose to his feet
and limped off. "I would give you in charge if it were not too much
trouble. Never let me set eyes on you again!"
"I won't if I can help it," muttered the tramp as he slunk away.
"Now, Robert, come down from the tree, and tell me all about yourself."
Robert told his story, and asked Hercules for similar information.
"I've been to see a sister who lives near here," he said, "and now am
on my way back to North's circus, where I am engaged."
"Where are they?"
"At Athens."
"How far off is that?"
"Only ten miles."
"Is there anything for me?" asked Robert, eagerly. "I want to work my
way back to the East."
"They've got a rider—but I forgot, your doctor won't let you ride. If
you don't mind selling at the lemonade stand, there'll be a chance.
They've sent off the boy that worked for them the first of the season.
Young Ajax is with the circus, and others whom you know."
"I'll go."
The same night the two friends joined North's circus, and set out on a
leisurely return to the East.
CHAPTER XXXII.
FITZGERALD'S DISAPPOINTMENT.
We must now go back to Chestnutwood, where the old man, Cornelius
Richmond, though blessed with a large share of the gifts of fortune,
was passing his declining years in loneliness, with no one of his
kindred near him except his nephew, Hugo. For years Hugo had been
his constant companion; in manner, at least, he had been devoted to
his uncle, yet the old man had never been drawn to him. Sometimes he
reproached himself because he could not feel more warmly towards his
nephew.
"Hugo seems devoted to me," he said to himself. "Why is it that I
cannot thoroughly like him? It must be because my heart is in the grave
of my son Julian. Ah, if only his son were living, that I might have my
grandson with me. That boy whom I saw riding in the circus—I could
get to love him for his resemblance to my son; but Hugo tells me he has
lost all traces of him."
The simple old man little suspected that his crafty nephew had taken
effectual means to prevent his ever seeing any more of this boy,
towards whom he felt a yearning affection, for which we can account,
though he could not. Indeed, he was not a man to suspect guile of any
one, being in himself so guileless, and he really thought that Hugo's
attentions were dictated by genuine affection, instead of selfish
scheming for his uncle's wealth.
"You have heard nothing more about the boy, Hugo?" he asked one morning.
"No, uncle," answered Hugo, suppressing an expression of impatience.
"It is strange."
"I am afraid you would be disappointed in him, even if we could find
him, and bring him here, Uncle Cornelius."
"No, I should not be disappointed, for I should not expect too much.
It would be a pleasure to look upon the boy's face, and think my lost
Julian was again before me."
"The old fool!" muttered Hugo under his breath. "Will he never quit
harping on that boy?"
"You must remember that he has been brought up in a circus, amid
very objectionable associations, uncle," he said aloud. "What can be
expected under such circumstances?"
"What is his name?"
"His circus name is Robert Rudd."
The old man repeated it softly to himself.
The same day he sent for a lawyer, and professed his intention to
modify his will.
Hugo was alarmed.
"Can he be going to leave anything to that boy?" he asked himself.
He would have liked to have asked his uncle, but only contrived to
hint a question, to which the old man replied evasively. In reality,
he had appended a codicil to his will, bequeathing the sum of ten
thousand dollars "to the young circus rider, generally known as Robert
Rudd," and did not like to mention it to Hugo lest the latter should
remonstrate with him, and the old man felt too weak to argue.
"There will be enough left for Hugo," he said to himself. "Ten
thousand dollars is but a small part of my property."
"It is very lucky," thought Hugo, "that I made arrangements with
Fitzgerald to dispose of the boy, in case my uncle has done anything
foolish in his will. It will save litigation and trouble."
He looked at the old man—frail, feeble, apparently on the verge of
the grave—and reflected with impatience that as he looked now he had
looked for five years past. His hold on life was tenacious.
"Good heavens! He may live for five or ten years yet!" thought Hugo.
"He looks as if a breath would blow him away; yet he encumbers the
earth year after year, holding one in a detestable slavery to his whims
and caprices. I shall be an old man myself, or almost one, before
Chestnutwood falls into my possession; but when it does"—and his
eye flashed with hopeful anticipation, and he walked with a prouder
gait—"when it does I will live!"
One day Hugo was just getting ready for a solitary walk when the
servant announced, "A gentleman to see you, sir."
"A gentleman? What name?" asked Hugo.
"He said his name was Fitzgerald, sir."
"Fitzgerald?" exclaimed Hugo, his voice betraying the excitement he
felt. "Tell him I will be with him at once."
He entered the drawing-room, and Fitzgerald arose from a sofa on which
he had seated himself.
"Ah! Fitzgerald!" said Hugo, with assumed indifference.
"Yes, it is I. I have—"
"Hush! I am about to take a walk about the place. You can join me, and
whatever you have to say, you can say more freely as we walk."
"Very well, sir; it is immaterial to me."
Hugo took his hat, and the two sauntered along the broad walk till they
reached a point at some distance from the mansion.
"Mr. Fitzgerald, what have you got to tell me?" asked Hugo eagerly.
"The boy won't trouble you any more," answered Fitzgerald,
sententiously.
"You mean—the circus rider?"
"Certainly; your young cousin."
"Hush!" said Hugo, angerly. "How dare you call him my cousin?"
"Because he was your cousin," said the other firmly. "He stood between
you and the property, and that is why you wanted me to put him out of
the way."
"I won't discuss that matter just now—I will simply ask you if you
mean to assure me that the boy is dead?"
"Yes."
"You can swear it?"
"Of course. He is at the bottom of a well in a distant Western State,
unless he has been fished out."
"He must have been very careless to fall in, whoever he was," said Hugo.
"Very much so!" said Fitzgerald mockingly.
"Well," said Hugo, philosophically, "he'd probably have met with a
violent death anyway. This bareback riding is dangerous."
"So it is; I saw him thrown from his horse in the ring at Crampton."
"Indeed! Was he hurt?"
"Sprained his ankle—that was all. He had to retire from the ring for
the season. Then I offered him an engagement to travel with me to the
West."
"Indeed! Very kind of you!" said Hugo, indifferently. "Well, shall we
go back to the house?"
"Go back to the house!" repeated Fitzgerald, surprised. "Why, we
haven't transacted our business."
"Our business! Why, what business have I with you?"
"I want pay for my work," answered Fitzgerald sharply.
"Your work! Really, I don't remember to have employed you," said Hugo
with languid indifference.
"Can he mean to go back on his promise?" Fitzgerald asked himself
uncomfortably.
"You promised me $2000 down when I had done this job, and $3000 more
when you came into your inheritance," he said quickly.
Hugo, who was a man of consummate meanness, could not bear to part with
so large a sum of money. Now that he had obtained all that he desired,
and believed that his young cousin, the only possible obstacle between
him and his uncle's wealth, was out of the way, he thought he might
safely repudiate the bargain, and send off Fitzgerald penniless, or at
any rate with a trifle.
"You seem to be dreaming, or romancing," he said coldly.
"Do you mean to say you did not promise me the money?" he demanded
passionately.
"I never did; of course not. I have never had any dealings with you."
Fitzgerald clenched his hand together until the nails entered the
flesh. Had he committed a detestable crime for nothing?
"Look here, Mr. Hugo Richmond," he said, passionately. "This won't do!
You are not going to use me and then throw me off. Pay me this money,
or I will report you."
"You had better reflect before you try it," said Hugo, composedly.
"I shall accuse you of black-mail, and your charge would never be
believed."
"Wouldn't it? You may find yourself bitterly mistaken."
"You must remember that in charging yourself with murder you will run
the risk of the hangman's rope. Even if the charge could do me any harm
you would probably lose your own life."
This was no doubt true, and Fitzgerald stared at the man who had
tempted him to a crime and now threatened him with the consequences
while he held back the reward, with stupefaction.
"You see your plan won't work," said Hugo, smoothly.
"I believe you are a fiend incarnate!" exclaimed Fitzgerald, feeling
baffled and defeated.
"Really, I don't much care what you think of me."
"Do you mean to send me away penniless?" asked Fitzgerald, hoarsely.
"No, I will take pity on your necessities and give you fifty dollars.
I don't recognize any claims you may pretend to have on me, but I will
help you so far."
"Give me the fifty dollars, then!" said Fitzgerald, sullenly.
Hugo drew from his wallet five ten-dollar bills, and handed them to his
companion.
"Now," said he, "I must wish you good morning. Don't come in my way
again!"
As Hugo walked back to the house Fitzgerald looked after him.
"This will prove a bad morning's work for you, Mr. Hugo Richmond!" he
muttered.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
FITZGERALD SEES AN APPARITION.
A month later North's circus had come as far on its Eastern trip as
Syracuse. Robert Rudd was still with it, and again was employed in
his old business of riding. The young rider regularly employed was
sick, and feeling that his ankle had become strong enough, Robert had
volunteered to take his place.
It so happened that Fitzgerald found himself in Syracuse at this
time. Fortune had smiled upon him. He had carried the fifty dollars
he received from Hugo Richmond to the gaming-table, and contrary to
the usual fortune in such cases had won steadily till he had a fund of
ten times the amount. Ordinarily he would have kept on, but now he had
a definite object in view, and this was to revenge himself upon his
faithless employer.
"Why was I such a fool as to harm the boy?" he had asked himself more
than once. "The cunning villain schemed to get me into his power, and
he has done so. I do not dare to expose him, because in so doing I
should risk my own life. Why did I not send him out of the country
merely, and then claim the reward?"
But the past could not be recalled, and though Fitzgerald heartily
wished the boy alive, he always thought of him as lying dead at the
bottom of a well in a far Western State. His busy brain was trying
to contrive some plan of revenge, when he chanced to see a poster of
North's circus. Robert's name was not on the bill, as he was only a
substitute, not the regular rider.
The performance had commenced when Fitzgerald entered.
He looked on with languid indifference till the time came for Robert to
enter the ring.
When Fitzgerald saw the boy, whom he supposed to be dead, riding in
the ring, he was as much startled as if he had seen some one arise
from the dead. Could he be deceived? No. There could be no such close
resemblances between two boys as between the rider and Robert Rudd.
"Yes, it is he!" decided Fitzgerald, and his heart was filled with
gladness. As we know, the gladness had a selfish source, but he was
certainly overjoyed to think that the boy was alive and well.
Robert went through his usual act with his usual grace, and never
suspected that his would-be murderer was looking on.
When the performance was over, Fitzgerald lingered near the tents till
he saw Robert come out. It was rather embarrassing to disclose himself
to the boy, who had so nearly fallen a victim to his violence, but it
must be done.
"Robert! Robert Rudd!" he said, touching the boy on the arm.
Robert turned, and his face became stern when he saw at his side the
man who had tried to murder him.
"You villain!" he said. "How have you the face to show yourself to me?"
"Because," answered Fitzgerald, "I am prepared to make atonement for
the injury I did you. No one can be more delighted to see you than I."
"How can I trust you after what has passed?" asked Robert,
suspiciously.
"Don't trust me till I show myself worthy of trust. I am prepared to do
more for you than any man living."
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose that I tell you who you are, that I restore you to your
relatives, that I secure for you the inheritance of a large estate,
would you consider that I am making atonement for my offence?"
"Can you do this?" asked Robert, eagerly.
"I can," answered Fitzgerald.
"What are your terms, for I suppose that you do not work for nothing?"
"I stipulate nothing. When I have succeeded and you come to your own I
will trust to your generosity. If that seems strange to you, I don't
mind telling you that I have a selfish motive. I wish to revenge myself
upon the man who occupies your place, and whom you will disinherit."
"Will you give me fuller information?" asked Robert. "Will you let me
know who I am and how I came to lose my home?"
"Yes; I am prepared to tell you all. Come to the hotel where I am
staying, and after you have heard me we will concert together plans for
reinstating you."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE MYSTERY OF ROBERT RUDD IS SOLVED.
Hugo Richmond was in good spirits. All seemed working in his favor. He
had got rid of Robert, the rightful heir, and escaped paying Fitzgerald
the money he had agreed to pay him. Now his uncle, whose feeble hold on
life had so long kept him from the coveted inheritance, seemed getting
weaker and weaker every day. He was not positively sick, but he was
sad and despondent; his appetite had failed, and he was more thin and
shadowy than ever.
The wicked nephew could hardly conceal his exultation as he looked on
the feeble old man, and calculated how few weeks he probably had to
live.
"Yes," he said to himself, "Chestnutwood will soon be mine. And
then—then I will take care to be repaid for the slavery of the last
eight years."
Old Mr. Richmond could not read the nephew's heart, nor did he suspect
his baseness. He thought him sincerely devoted to his interests.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," announced the servant, interrupting one
of Hugo's day dreams.
"Who is it?"
"I don't know, sir; but I think he has been here before."
When Hugo entered the drawing-room and saw Fitzgerald, he stopped short
with a frown.
"You here?" he said.
"Yes, I am here," answered the other proudly.
"You might as well have stayed away. If you think you can levy any
black-mail you are mistaken."
"I expect nothing of the kind."
"Probably you don't want any money?" said Hugo, sneering.
"Not from you," answered Fitzgerald, eying him steadily.
"You don't want money?" exclaimed Hugo, in genuine surprise.
"No, though I have no doubt you would be very glad to give me a large
sum."
"You are quite mistaken. I suspect you are drunk."
"That is where you are mistaken."
"What is your object in coming, then? Is this a friendly call?" asked
Hugo, with an evident sneer.
"Well, perhaps it may be so considered; I came to give you a friendly
warning."
"A warning?"
"Yes."
"I really can't conceive how I can need any warning from you. What is
your warning?"
"I warn you to leave the country as soon as it is in your power."
Hugo laughed scornfully.
"Thank you for nothing," he said; "why should I leave the country?"
"Because you will otherwise be charged with instigating the murder of
your cousin, known as Robert Rudd."
"Humph! No one will credit it. Besides, you will have to admit that you
killed him."
"You are mistaken again. He is not dead."
"Not dead?" echoed Hugo, turning pale and sinking into a seat.
"No, he is as much alive as you or I, but I am prepared to swear that
you hired me to kill him."
"Villain! you deceived me!" exclaimed Hugo, furiously.
"I feel less a villain than if I had compassed the boy's death."
Hugo reflected a moment. A gulf seemed to open before him, and just
as his uncle was nearing death all his schemes seemed in danger of
failure. This must be prevented at all hazards.
"Fitzgerald!" he said, in an altered tone, "this thing can yet be
arranged. You have gained an advantage over me, I grant, and I am
prepared to make it worth your while to keep this thing hushed up. What
are your terms?"
"Why should I name terms when you have once treacherously gone back on
your word?"
"I will not do so again."
"Do you want me to kill the boy?"
"No! Let him live, but never let him suspect who he is."
"And for this you will give me—how much?"
"Five thousand dollars!" answered Hugo, after a brief pause.
"It is a good sum, but your uncle's property amounts to a quarter of a
million, at least."
"Nothing like it," answered Hugo, hurriedly. "Besides, he is likely to
leave a large part to charitable institutions."
"Not if you can prevent it," thought Fitzgerald.
"It is useless!" he said aloud. "I am not to be bought."
"What, then, do you require?" asked Hugo, desperately.
"I require you to leave the country, and acknowledge Robert Rudd as
your cousin."
"Never!" said Hugo, fiercely.
"Very well!" said Fitzgerald, rising.
"What are you going to do?" asked Hugo, anxiously.
"To leave you to your fate! Within a few hours you will be arrested on
a charge of complicity in an attempted murder."
"Stay!" exclaimed Hugo, now thoroughly alarmed. "How far has this gone?
Surely you have not revealed anything to Robert Rudd?
"Everything," answered Fitzgerald, laconically.
"To any one else?"
"Yes, to a lawyer, who is possessed of all the evidence in the case,
and is prepared to communicate all to your uncle!"
"Is this true?" asked Hugo, pale with dismay.
"You can believe it or not. I have only this to say, that you had
better go with me to the hotel where your cousin and his lawyer are now
staying, and assure yourself whether we are in earnest."
"Suppose I grant your demands and acknowledge the boy?"
"Then you will be suffered to go where you please unharmed."
"I will go with you."
Hugo accompanied Fitzgerald to the hotel, had a private interview with
the lawyer, and decided that opposition was useless. He took care,
however, to feather his own nest by appropriating a large amount of
government bonds belonging to his uncle, which, in addition to his
pickings and stealings for eight years past, provided him with a
competency. The theft could not be proved, for he alone had the charge
of his uncle's affairs. With his ill-gotten gains he sailed for Europe,
where he is now residing.
The joy of Cornelius Richmond when his grandson was restored to him can
be imagined. It seemed to bring him back from the grave and restore
his strength. A tutor was at once engaged to remedy Robert Rudd's—now
Robert Richmond's—defective education, and money was actually lavished
upon him by his doting grandfather. But Robert stood the test of
prosperity as he had stood the test of adversity. He remained the same
frank, manly, self-respecting boy, and was not drawn into squandering
his money in policy or dissipation. But he delighted to help those of
his former associates who were unfortunate and needed assistance—for
instance, a trapeze performer, who having fractured a leg by a fall
from the trapeze, was left in want with a wife and four young children
dependent upon his exertions. For months Robert allowed him $10 a week,
and was heartily glad that his grandfather's liberality allowed him
also to be liberal.
Our hero rejoiced the heart of his old friend Anak by the gift of
a handsome gold watch, and he also remembered others who had been
kind to him. He has sent an invitation to Sidney Grey to visit him
at Chestnutwood, and has requested Squire Grey to transfer the $200
entrusted to him to his son. He had intended to offer a home to Charlie
Davis, his associate rider, but Charlie had already attracted the
attention of a gentleman, who had offered to adopt him at the close of
the present season. My readers may be interested to know that Master
Charlie is this very summer travelling with a circus through the New
England States and Canada. Having lamed his foot, he, too, is engaged
for the time being in selling prize packages and candy, but will
probably retire from professional life in October. Hundreds of the
boys who read this story will probably see him at some time during the
season.
Robert is busily employed in remedying the deficiencies in his
education, and is already entrusted with a large part of the business
connected with the management of his grandfather's property. From the
latter has been concealed Hugo's wicked attempt to make away with
Robert, as it would shock the old man and affect him injuriously. But
he seldom inquires for his nephew, to whom he was never much attached.
He is quite content with the company of his grandson. There are few
who know that Robert Richmond, the heir of Chestnut wood, was once
ROBERT RUDD,
THE BOY WONDER!
The Best Bareback Rider in the World.
THE
FAMOUS
CASTLEMON
BOOKS.
BY
HARRY
CASTLEMON.
[Illustration: Specimen Cover of the Gunboat Series.]
No author of the present day has become a greater favorite with boys
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Horatio Alger, Jr., has attained distinction as one of the most popular
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6 vols., 12mo. Fully illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed
in colors. In box $7 50
=Camping Out.= As recorded by "Kit" 1 25
=Left on Labrador=; or The Cruise of the Schooner
Yacht "Curfew." As recorded by "Wash" 1 25
=Off to the Geysers=; or, The Young Yachters in Iceland.
As recorded by "Wade" 1 25
=Lynx Hunting.= From Notes by the author of
"Camping Out" 1 25
=Fox Hunting.= As recorded by "Raed" 1 25
=On the Amazon=; or, The Cruise of the "Rambler."
As recorded by "Wash" 1 25
By J. T. Trowbridge.
These stories will rank among the best of Mr. Trowbridge's books
for the young—and he has written some of the best of our juvenile
literature.
=JACK HAZARD SERIES.= By J. T. Trowbridge.
6 vols., 12mo. Fully Illustrated. Cloth, extra, printed
in colors. In box $7 50
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Young Circus Rider - or, the Mystery of Robert Rudd" ***
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